The Great Planeshift Story Challenge! Stories Thread

[Caraick]

Here it is! The Story submissions for the contest!

The first thing I'll do is to ask the moderators to please, please, please LOCK this thread, and keep any unwanted comments out.


If you have a comment to post about the stories, put it here, in the Rules and Comments thread here: http://www.hydlaaplaza.com/smf/index.php?topic=40403.0

The stories have been posted here in random order, and another big thank-you goes to all of the Authors. You all did a fine job, thank you so much for sharing your work.

[Caraick]

A Groffel Tale
By: Jilata


Drip, drop, drip, drop... Water drops fell into the puddle in front of a small groffel, drawing circles on its surface. ...drip, drop...
The puddle would grow, like memories grow as time goes by...
The groffel laid down to rest his aching bones. He dropped his head onto his front legs, continuing to watch the water surface.
...drip, drop... It was all he could see then, with his fading eyesight. ...drip, drop, drip, drop...
The passing time had clouded his sight. His once so fine nose had gotten close to being useless as well. Time had left him with little more than some aching bones.
...drip, drop, drip, drop... The raindrops falling into the puddles were an endless song of nature... A song he liked, even thought he never liked water itself. ...drip, drop...
When would she come? Would she come this time?
...drip, drop... A picture from his memory appeared on the surface of the puddle and grew bigger until it filled his whole view...

Drip, drop, drip, drop... The groffel sat at the open door and waited patiently. ...drip, drop, drip, drop...
He watched the rain from his dry place scanning the air with his nose all the time.
...drip, drop... He knew she would come. She always did when it rained... His ears jerked forward and his nose twitched as he took a long, deep breath... drip, drop...
Wasn't that her smell? He listened carefully.
...drip, drop... drip, drop... pitter... drip, drop... patter... drip... patter, pitter-patter...
Joyful excitement rushed through the small body and made it shake lightly. He stood up, no longer patient: She was coming!
...pitter-patter, pitter-patter... The splashing sound of feet running through puddles was his favorite sound: Because it meant that she was arriving. ...pitter-patter...
His claws carved more scratches into the wood of the floor. “Come! Come!” He called for her with his whistles.
...pitter-patter... There! First only a silhouette. Then her contour got more defined until her green body was clearly visible. He jumped joyfully at the doorstep, without placing a paw outside.
Laughter soon became mixed with panting. She reached the door, picked him up and threw him into the air, calling his name.
Finally! Finally she was here! He gleefully whistled, filled with joy.
She caught him and embraced him, murmuring sweet words to him.
Her scent was all he could smell, her voice all he could hear, her hands, arms and body all he could feel. She was the only thing he could perceive then.
The rain made no sound, the wet earth had no scent. Forgotten were the hours waiting for her return.
He stretched his neck to lick some water drops off her chin. She giggled at the light touch of his tongue and petted him while she stepped into the house. This was his happiness: Surrounded by her smell, knowing she would stay a bit with him.

Drip, drop... drip, drop... The memory faded and left the groffel with a deep sadness. ...drip, drop...
Those times had been over already... He didn't have that overflowing power of his youth. He had become old...
..drip... drop... The rain got lighter. He whimpered lightly: She wasn't coming anymore. ...drip...
He didn't know why she stopped visiting.
...drop... The rain went away and with it left his last hope that she would come this time. He closed his eyes, too tired and sad to keep them open.
A last sigh left his lungs, at the same time his soul left his body. But he still stood there, next to his corpse, not willing to leave. Not yet. Not before he saw her a last time. At least one last time...

But he was pulled away by a force which made his resistance useless.
And suddenly she was there, her arms wide open, laughing happily at him. He whistled joyfully and jumped towards her, his body as young and light as it used to be.
He didn't look back to the living realm anymore. She was here. That was all he needed: His beloved friend! He left with her, to not be separated from her anymore.

[Caraick]

My Number is...
By: Mariana


It's the fire that I hate, that I loath, that I dream about at night with the pillows and sheets tossed in such a terribly devastating disarray as I envision its greedy fingers stretching towards my face. They'll tell you it's not a living thing, that it's inanimate and that it can never bode ill will towards another, it is merely a force of nature. But they lie, I know they do. The fire was alive when I watched it. And I watched it with my back seared into the planks of the walls already ravaged by its relentless, ravenous hunger. I watched through a veil of smoke and flame as it stretched across the rooms, voracious and depraved in its cruelty. It wrapped its arms around them like a lover, and I had to watch as it clawed at their clothing and their eyes and their skin. I had to see them throw their heads back in agony and run about in frantic motions, arms beating at their sides, trapped in a raging inferno and unable to escape. Fire doesn't just like to give the dead things life. It doesn't just creep into the empty cracks and fissures of the fallen logs and rotting leaves. Oh no, I know the truth. What it really hungers for is living flesh; to scorch through it as a sculptor molds clay into the pattern they desire. Except fire does not want to create beauty. It wants to devastate and to leave gnarled and writhing, to leave behind nothing but an empty black husk with missing eyes and grinning teeth.

I drug myself on hands and knees. The floorboards crackled beneath my touch, caving in, sending cinders up to blind my eyes. I pressed my body against the door, and I could hear their screams echoing in my head like a chaotic chorus. The wall crumbled and it should have crushed me. Gods, how I wish it had crushed me and ended me there. Perhaps I could have wandered in the death realm with my family till the end of my days, till the Dark Lady's kingdom sucked the power from my muscles, the life from my blood, the marrow from my bones. That end would have been sweet as honeysuckle, I would have welcomed death with open arms and raucous laughter.

But I did not die. I stumbled away from the burning house and collapsed in the snow, sinking deep into it. The cold was a knife; it sunk into my steaming flesh and made a home inside my heart. I could not cry, I could feel nothing. I was numb as I lay there in the icy blanket, watching the roof of the house collapse and the walls fall in with a crash, crash, crash. The cacophony reverberated in my chest. The strong beams fell in as though performing a well-practiced dance. Conductor, arms held out to the instruments, now this, and that, and follow the rhythm. The fire lapped with desperation at what remained until there was nothing left behind but so much black ash and tinder. Then it destroyed itself, fizzled out as though it never was, leaving nothing but those deviously innocent looking embers that glowed softly upon the ground.

My breath fogged the night air with cloudy crystals. I raised my hand and stared at the morphed, hideous flesh for the first time. Red, weeping flesh, already showing the craggy evidence of the fire's crooked fingers. My gaze followed the extent of the damage down to my body. Bits of clothing clung to my skin, and I peeled it away from where the cloth had melded with this now cracked carapace that had become me. I felt like my mind was cracking as well. I could feel it splinter beneath the weight of what had happened. It could not grasp the devastation it had just witnessed. It needed something to blame, something to point an accusing finger at. It needed evil to pursue with valorous intent, something to wreak vengeance upon.

But no one had done this except the fire.


Two.

It was months before I killed myself the first time. It's quite funny how incredibly fragile and delicate life is. How easily it can be forced out of the body. Simple as one artery severed just so, one organ malfunctioning for mere minutes, one thick piece of twine wrapped round the neck and held there for so long...

All it took was a simple draft of clear, thick liquid, and I awoke upon the threshold of Dakkru's door. I meandered my way past the entrance and onto the rocky face of the twisted path. I could feel nothing there either, and despite my dying, my skin remained ruined beneath my clothing like a perverted memento. My tongue felt stuck to the roof of my mouth, perhaps the residual leftovers of the sappy substance that had allowed me to be here. I opened my mouth and drank deeply of the stale air, filling my lungs and cupping my hands to my lips. And I screamed.

“WHERE ARE YOU?”

My voice bounced off of the walls and from the depths of the canyon below my feet. It came back to me and repeated my query, mocking me.

Where are you? Where are you? Where are you little girl?

I walked until my feet ached within my worn leather shoes. The soles slapped the stones in a staccato flop with every step that I took.  The hissing of the strange flying creatures followed me, their beady red eyes glaring at me with fury at my trespassing, their talons flexing and groping in the darkness. I counted my footfalls in my head to keep me calm, one two, one two, following the path that wound farther and farther into nothingness. My lips formed these numbers, one two, one two, again and again, wordlessly mouthing them as I stared down at the ground to keep from acknowledging whatever hideous atrocities I might see if I raised my eyes to glimpse my surroundings.

How ironic that soon numbers would become the very thing that tormented me, yet in this moment, they kept me from losing my mind.

I rounded a corner down into a narrow path, and I let my palms drag along the jagged walls. I saw the purple light throbbing like the pulse of a large beast's heart then, dancing upon the wall to my right. I watched it in confusion, thoughtlessly, before I turned my head towards the doorway that was leaking this ethereal glow. My feet stumbled their way into the room and I gazed upon Her blasted crystal for the first time, my eyes reflecting the light it generated like mirrors in the dark.

The voice that spoke to me was more of a hum than a whisper. It traced with the barest of breaths over my mind, rather than gently tapping my eardrums so that I could hear. It was eerily childlike and strangely soothing, that voice, but I know that the softness in it was a lie. I would grow to hate it. I think I hated it even then, as it spoke to me, because I knew the moment it stated its request that I was going to become something that all rational beings would hate.

“It's your family that you want, child,” Dakkru said softly. The dark crystal thumped and shimmered in time to her words. “But I grow lonely, oh so lonely, down in this place. The people do not appreciate all that I do for them up above, and I wish more could come and see my glorious domain. One hundred lives for the four you seek. Bring me one hundred, and I shall set them free.”

My voice squeaked past dry lips, past a tight throat. I used my tongue to try and deliver some moisture to them and raised my voice, but even then I could barely manage to  utter my reply.

“One hundred?”

“One hundred lives, dear. I'm certain you can count that high, though I admit, judging by your size perhaps that math is a tad too advanced for you. One hundred lives, I do not care how you do it. A slit to the throat, a poison in the beer, perhaps even something more elaborate once you become a bit more creative. Your number is one hundred.”

I felt the chill spread out into my limbs then, colder than anything I'd ever felt before. I was small, barely past childhood at the time. Even if I wanted to agree to the outlandish request, how could one such as me kill one hundred people all alone? And even if I could manage that, what would become of me after it was all said and done? Even if I managed not to be caught and thrown into the glorious crystal above, my soul would be tarnished like oil leaking into water. I would never be the same. My family would look upon me and raise shaking fingers to gaping mouths, saying monster, monster, monster.

My head dipped once, twice, a mechanical motion. Even as logic raved against passion, I knew then what my answer must be. I could not leave them down in this damned place. I could not let them dwindle into nothingness until their carcasses collapsed in devastated dilapidation. I had no choice. I must do as this goddess demanded.

I agreed to soak my hands with blood.
I agreed to become as relentless and cruel as any fire.
I agreed to let this evil pump into my veins and layer my emotions in stone.

My number is one hundred.

Three.

The first life was the worst one to take. I remember the way I sobbed, begging him to stop struggling against my thin, boney hold. I surely would have failed if I'd not selected such a weak and sickly target; the old beggar hobbling amidst the alleyways and sending rats skittering away from his stench. I kept my body gripped onto his as a leach latches to its host. I cut off the supply of air to his lungs and had to listen with my ear right by his mouth as he gasped again, and again. One, two, three, four...

He stopped breathing. He went limp and his eyes rolled back in his head to stare up at me as if he wanted to say hello. He toppled forward and I heard one of his arms snap beneath him sickeningly as it took the brunt force of his weight. The bone pierced through some of his skin and he lay beneath me upon the cold unforgiving ground, neck twisted at an awkward angle, eyes boring holes with their haunting emptiness.

I darted away from him and fell to my knees, my tears staining my cheeks as I relieved my stomach of what little contents it had. My tiny fingers curled around the stones and I had the urge to smash them to bits with them, to break them for this transgression that I'd been forced to commit. I heaved again, and again, until I slumped down in exhaustion in this puddle of my own vomit and sobbed openly, staring up at the azure sky that glowed with brightness to mock my darkness.

My body twitched with erratic spasms upon the ground for a long while. The beggar's corpse was long gone by the time I'd pushed myself to my knees and roughly wiped the snot and tears from my face. I staggered to my feet as though I was intoxicated and sagged against the wall.

That was the first real crack in the foundation of everything that I had been. The innocence and wide-eyed contentment of the child I was was being torn away from me. It left me bare and empty. Empty and waiting to be filled with something else, something that I cannot name. I only know that then, my old self died, and the new self was forced to assert itself with malicious intent. I thrust myself away from the wall and strode from the alley, my eyes fixed straight ahead and my fists clenched tightly at my sides.

My number is one.

Four.

It is strange how easily a person can change. Kind to evil is, what I would tend to believe, the true transformation that takes precedence in society to be. There is simply not enough good to prove otherwise. If there is, I've not seen it. I've only seen how the land is laid out so that certain individuals are loved. The pretty ones with lovely eyes and noses that fit just right upon a perfectly formed face. The effervescent ones that always know just what words to say to make those around them laugh or feel at ease. The intelligent ones that awe and astound the mind with their complex and intriguing thoughts.

But ah, the outcasts. So many of them there are; those that do not fit into the stereotypical norms that define these strategic and stubborn societal strains. They are like a stain upon a well-planned tapestry; a missed line of threading inside the intricately woven pattern. And as such, they are hated by the artist, by the rest of the people wandering about in their daily lives. I feel compassion for them. They have become my targets, because, though most of them have done nothing truly wrong, it is amazing how forgiving or forgetful the masses can be when one of them experiences an unpleasant accident.

Oh, brilliant dance. Wonderful facade. Lovely and glorious and glamorous play. One only needs to walk into a room and look for a few moments before they can spot them. The shady one there in the corner, with his hood drawn over a face that is riddled with scars, his trembling lips nursing heavy liquor. That one, over there, sitting all alone at a table with sad eyes and a broken heart, her hands shaking as they grip her glass. And yet another, right there, leaning, looking over the railing at those gathered but too afraid or perhaps unable to make the connection that he seeks. So he is forced merely to watch, and to be forever, forever alone. One, two, three, like me.

I like to think that they receive a bit of a break from these vices when I kill them. And I don't do it with cruelty, oh no. I am very kind and gracious. I am quick and nimble and assured. Sometimes, I bet they don't even know what hit them. One moment they are fine and breathing, the next, dead, a sack of potatoes smacking against the floor and then a lost soul left to wander the Realm for a undisclosed amount of time. I tell myself this to make me feel better, but what terrifies me as I move from city to city is that slowly, oh so slowly...

I am beginning to believe it is true.

My number is thirty.

Five.

Someone save me. Someone show me that there is something left, a tiny little sliver of salvation, a small smidgeon of grace. Silence the voices in my head and scream and shout in harsh whispers. Tell them that they are wrong, that what they say is not true. I cannot fight against them much longer. I cannot force them into the corners and batter them with arguments against their accusations. What's the matter, Rye? Can't stand looking in the mirror? Can you see the decay as it spreads up from your scars and envelopes your spirit?

But worse is the growing nonchalance about the entire thing. The increasing level of callous uncaring. The side of me that is beginning to kill and maim without a second thought as to the wrongness of the deed. Before it was simply a niggling, but now I feel myself becoming contaminated by it, body and soul.

I am losing the last vestiges of my humanity. I am no longer capable of feeling anything, truly feeling anything, anymore. I am a massive hollow cavern wrapped in sweet caresses and flirtatious smiles. Enjoy what you see, dear brothers and sisters, for if you delve deeper you shall face something darker than the deepest crevasse of the death realm. I do not understand what stuff holds me up and keeps me walking. I feel like a moving vehicle of bone and blood and skin, but what is the spark that keeps me alive? What is the thing that fuels my desires, my motivations?

Only my goal is left with me now. I've been scraped clean of everything else. My identity lies in tattered ruins around my feet, flung into the proverbial abyss of what is right and what is wrong, and what lays in between.

There is no longer any black and white for me. There is no dark and there is no light. There is only the gray, the petrifying greyness of dispassion. Lo and behold, I have become that little snippet of nothingness that you experience right after you die and before the Dark Lady whisks you off to be hammered and molded back to wholeness. I am that putrid stench that assails your senses when you stumble upon the rotting body of some unfortunate being long dead.

Do not look long, for surely what lay beneath will scald your thoughts with travesty.

My number is forty six.

Six.

My mind and body are honed for this. I feel no remorse and no chagrin for what I must do. It is merely a part of life, as sure as drinking water or breathing air. As sure as the crystal will cycle, so I must kill for the freedom of my family. My guilt corroded at my purpose; my shame squelched my noble intent. So I crammed it down into the smallest crevice of my consciousness to eliminate its effects. There was no use for it that would help me carry out my assignment. For surely there is nothing more righteous than laying down the lives of others for your friends. Or was it laying down your own life?

I've almost lost track a few times. I've never experienced such plain, bald panic before. I had to go through them all meticulously in my head, reliving every little detail in vivid first person perspective:
Thirty six, drowned in the pool of stealth, forty three, strangled with a leather belt, fifty five, pushed from the eagle bridge...

I've taken to drawing their images, the way I saw them before I killed them. I draw their pictures and label them with the names I've given them, sometimes I rhyme them with their allotted number just so I can more easily keep track of what I have done and what is still left to come. Their faces are branded forever in my mind, reminders that used to torment me, but now I see them almost as kin, forced into this morbid series of events by my own hand.

I can only spend so long within each city before people grow suspicious. It is a blessing that my appearance is so unassuming. They see the lovely girl with the delicate chin and brilliant eyes. They see the slender girl with generous locks to frame a dainty face and pink, smiling lips. I find it ironic that their own stereotypes often become the end of them. They do not suspect that my level of depravity can hide behind so slight and guiltless a form. Nevertheless, even a blind man can smell a fire if he's left long enough so that the fumes reach his nostrils. So on and on I travel, ever upwards, spiraling towards the sky so that I can drag more down to the depths with me.

My number is seventy four.

Seven.

I've reached the end of my grueling journey. Sometimes my hands tremble when I write, and I do not know why. My writing has become a part of me, and though I know this journal will be my doom if I ever lose it, I cannot bring myself to throw it away. I cannot bring myself to destroy it. It is the only evidence I have that what I do is not because I am truly wicked. I only do what is right. I only do what I must. Perhaps after this is all through, somehow, I can find redemption. Perhaps the deepest part of me still has something inside that could be salvaged amongst the reeking refuse of my own soul. I count the things that I have done right in my life, and I feel as though I cannot even label a number high enough to match the fingers on my hand. One. Two. Three. Forever damned ye be.

So many lives, and so many years. I began as a child, and now I am a woman with a heart as cold and lifeless as any void. I am near the end of it all, and I ponder what I shall be when I am through. I've no skill beyond this impure motivation to exterminate. When I have finally finished what I set out to do, when I finally shake my fist in Dakkru's face and jab my finger towards that final soul that I sent into Her realm, and when I can finally glimpse my family once again, what will become of me? I already know that they shall flee in horror from me; the hideous creature that devoured their sweet little girl that they remembered with smiling eyes and dimpling cheeks. They shall not know me, and I shall sneer at them for their weakness.

There is nothing left inside of me that is good. I now only carry out this mission because there is nothing left for me in this world. I am the faceless body that personifies death. I have no individuality, nothing that I can claim as my own any longer. Death has sunk its tendrils into my entire being; it permeates throughout my very core. It is all that I dream about, and all that I see, and the ultimate end to everything that lives or moves or breathes.

Yet despite it all, here I stand before the precipice, before the edge, where I shall make my final leap and offer up my final sacrifice to the goddess I serve and the goddess I loath. I bend the knee to do Her bidding and curse Her name beneath my breath.

I shall finish it here in Hydlaa. I shall perhaps begin with that slight looking klyros to my right, I would relish the chance to kill a red way mage. Perhaps with that nolthrir to my left, she seems so happy and smiling, with a funny little amulet of Xiosia hanging from her neck no less. Dakkru would like that. Or maybe even that menki in the corner, yes, that one right there. A clamod with a crystal way staff betwixt his paws, I believe I could beguile him into following me. Best set to work, little girl, before they truly see, before they see the darkness infesting thee.

Ah, there is my candidate, lucky lad. Why don't we sit and have a chat over some brew, don't worry, I'll be nice and gentle when I deliver you unto oblivion. Yes, note this warm expression upon my face, this divinely fictitious visage. Come closer, and I shall whisper things that make you feel wanted and loved and secure, fill you with the lyrics of a broken bird that suffers just as you.

It'll be too late for you when you realize the canary is really a snake.

My number is ninety three.

MY NUMBER IS SEVEN.

[Caraick]

Confessions of a Clamod, Part II
By: Miomo

PDF Illustration: http://goo.gl/jicgt


Miomai Lashing died twice in her lifetime. The first was brutal; the second, subtle.

--

Miomai knelt in the tall grass to investigate a rare flower she had come upon, while her brother lazily fished in the pond. Bright yellow eyes took in the beauty of it. Deep violet petals spread out from a black, button-shaped stigma.  She closed her eyes to focus her sense of smell and smiled pleasantly at its sweet scent. The young clamod sniffed a second time and wrinkled her nose upon smelling something decidedly not sweet, and not coming from the flower. That is when she felt the ground rumble and heard a loud "thump."

The fenki turned her head towards the sound and saw an ulbernaut dashing towards her. "Thump thump, thump" went it's pounding feet on the ground. "Ah! An ulbernaut!" she screeched, scrambling to her feet. The poor girl was too late to escape it's vicious claws as the first one tore into her side, shooting pain into her like she'd never felt before. "M-Miomo, RUN!" she half yelled and half choked the words out, her last, selfless act before being silenced by the ulbernaut's second claw coming down through the top of her skull.  "Thunk" went the sound of it, like thrusting a knife into a melon. Just as soon as her searing pain began, so did it end. She collapsed in a heap with blood pouring out of her head and trickling around the the corners of her eyes, staining those yellow irises pink. Yellow eyes that would never see the light of the crystal again.

--

Miomai awoke in the Death Realm with a sudden gasp for air, only to be met with the cold dank atmosphere that stuck to her lungs like a thick pea soup. Her heart pounded out of her chest and her muscles thrashed as she fought an imaginary ulbernaut still rendering her limb from limb in her mind. A few moments pass and she realizes she's no longer in that grassy meadow, fighting to keep alive; she's already dead. She smacks her paws off of her head as if that will help her fight the demon still stalking her, but to no avail. Even sitting up and hugging her knees to her chest doesn't help ward off the fear of some bogeyman hiding in the shadows.

A tumult of emotions roiled in her: the shock of her brutal death, the fear of this unfamiliar place, the loneliness of this utter solitude. Poor Miomai remained sitting there for what seemed like ages, rocking back and forth and staring at the stone floor blankly. The dim light of the underworld hid those normally bright, yellow eyes in shadow. It was the high-pitched shriek of a carakas assailing her ears that finally snapped her into the present moment, and brought awareness of her surroundings.

She shuddered in surprise, and quickly turned to look where the sound had come from. All she could see was stone: stone walls, stone steps and cold, gritty stone floors. She was in the middle of a narrow, erratic hallway, the unevenness of which could have been mistaken for a dark cave in Yliakum if not for the sticky air replete with the smell of death. The pounding in her heart subsided when no other sounds were heard. Slowly, she stretched out her legs and attempted to stand up. Her cramped muscles failed her and as she stumbled, Miomai put her paw on the stone wall to catch herself. That fenki's mind was still dull to her situation, and could not reason an action to take. Instead, she leaned against the wall. It was cold like the floor, but less gritty.

The black-furred fenki's eyes roamed across the opposite wall of the passageway, and a small, oblong object on the floor caught her attention. With as much thought as she had put into anything thus far, Miomai walked over and bent down to find that it was a diamond shard, about as long as her middle finger and twice as fat. She picked it up and looked it over curiously. The diamond shard reminded her of the chalk used to write on the boards in school. With that recognition, the pupil put her piece of chalk against the rough board of the Death Realm wall and dragged it down, etching a line. The faintest smile spread across an otherwise blank face, and she etched a few more lines and curves, eventually writing a word:

Miomai

The clamod stood back and admired her engraving. It was missing something and she knew what. To the beginning she added:

I am Miomai

Standing back once more, she nodded, and proceeded to carve more words into the rock:

and this is my story.

Miomai told of her death by ulbernaut claws, providing every minute detail, for she could not forget it. When she finished, she reread it all and carefully traced those character strokes that were too light. This was to be her ultimate work, so she needed to get it right. The Death Realm writer completed that task and continued writing, putting onto the wall what her mind was forming.

Where is everybody? Where is my brother? Is he alright? Where's mom and pops? Xiosia, where are you? I bet they're all worried about me. I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay.

She repeated those two words exactly 7776 times, covering the walls of her narrow hallway. How ironic that the obsession which was to convince her of that fact was the very counterexample of it!

Which direction will I go? The diamond decides.

A quick spin of the diamond shard on the floor revealed to her the answer, and she drew an arrow to her right. Thus began Miomai's long and listless wander through the Death Realm.

--

The Death Realm is enormous. Far larger than Yliakum. Its intricate pathways intertwine like the braided tail of a rivnak. It was as though the whole realm was created for the sole purpose of driving one mad. In one tiny, far-off corner of the underworld, Miomai wandered around, with the vaguest sense of trying to find an exit. She walked slowly, just putting one foot in front of another, step after dreary step, hour after hour, day after day. Weeks turned into months, and only Dakkru knows how long she traveled. There is no way to tell the passage of time. No crystal that grows light and dark. No hunger to tell the passing of mealtime. Not even any physical fatigue to make one sleepy. The only way to know how long you've been there is to ask someone who has recently died what day it is in Yliakum.

That is, if there is someone to ask. But for Miomai, there was no one. Not a single soul ever crossed her path, not a creature, not a denizen of this realm. This was the sealed-off and neglected part of Dakkru's world, one of the places you hear about in stories. "So-and-so's cousin got lost in the Death Realm and never returned." And there she was, the poor, lonely fenki, lost herself. In life, she was never alone, and always had her parents, her brother, her extended family and her friends to interact with. Even strangers were friendly in that peaceful town, and quickly befriended her after a few moments of her beaming smile and bright yellow eyes.

She struggled mightily against the stark void of loneliness. She invented an imaginary friend to keep her company. His name was Impune, and she gave him a complete story, detailing where he came from, what he was doing here in the Death Realm, and so on. This mental exercise occupied her time for a little while, but it could not keep the despair of solitude away forever. The end of every imaginary session resulted in her looking around for her friend, or anyone, and finding only herself. She felt that tiny bit more drained each time. The Death Realm was eating away at her, and making her one with it: nihil.

The depressed fenki stopped at the edge of a precipice and looked into the impenetrable blackness. Miomai had been past ledges, bluffs and cliffs before, but this time was different. She was standing on a rusted metal grating, a straight path she had followed to this point for miles. Impune was not there to occupy her mind. Hardly any thought at all had entered her mind in the past hours or days. A total ennui had taken hold of her, and she had kept in motion only because to stop was to make a decision, to actually care. There was nothing left to care about, everything had trickled out of her like blood oozing out of a festering wound.

That desiccated husk of a fenki hesitated for a moment, and tears welled up in her eyes as she realized her level of hopelessness. With the slightest bending at the waist, she pitched forward into the abyss. Her tears flew upwards as she fell and tumbled slowly, and for an instant the thought crossed her mind that she would spend eternity suspended in nothing. Only an instant was needed however for her thought to be squashed, along with the rest of her fragile body as it dashed against the hard bottom of the Death Realm. In only one instant more she was right back on that ledge, her feet firmly planted on the grating, and her eyes looking back out into the darkness.

She threw herself off again, and again she reappeared on the grating. A third time, and a fourth, the directionless fenki cast into the void. One hundred times, one thousand times, five thousand, three hundred and eighty four times she tossed her body into the black tar. The clamod jumped off so many times that the last metal rung was rubbed of its rust by her feet. Why did she stop at all? One can argue that all things come to an end. Certainly, no discernible thought came to her to stop, and yet she did. She sat down on the edge, and dangled her legs off of it. Miomai had become completely withdrawn, and disassociated with everything. Conscious thought ceased then. Her heart kept beating and her breath, though shallow, continued its cycle, and even her brain continued to register sensory stimuli, though there was very little. But that grey matter between her ears no longer did anything with it. The physical body was healthy, but the soul had departed.

Miomai's corporeality was all that was left, and I know now that she finally died then; it was a timeless war of attrition within herself. Just as one could not measure the time she had spend in that languorous plodding, neither could one estimate her time in a near-catatonic state. Only that it wasn't interminable.

A white light appeared in front of her, grew in brightness and size, and took form. Slowly, the form solidified into the Goddess Dakkru. The fenki was too far gone to react to Her presence, and stared blankly as though she were looking right through Her. Her mind registered the Goddess' beautiful, powder-blue tinted porcelain skin, Her eyes with green halos for irises, those glossy black lips and that glorious headdress of crystal shards, but she did nothing. The Goddess floated there in front of the tiny fenki, and smiled at her. Gently, She reached out Her right hand, and touched the clamod's forehead with Her index finger. A sharp fingernail pierced her flesh, and a single drop of blood ran down and dripped off of her brow. "Awaken," bellowed the childish voice of Dakkru, and then She faded from view. Dakkru left a singular vision for the young fenki: a narrow crevice in a stone wall that she had past once before.

The fenki blinked her eyes a few times, and her breathing deepened. She looked around, as if there was anything to look at, though that did not matter to her. She knew what she must do, where she must go. She had a purpose, finally, after countless cycles without one. The reborn fenki rose to her feet, cackled maniacally, and somersaulted backwards a few times before turning and bounding off with an energetic vibrance she had never before displayed while in the underworld.

--

That lively fenki was not Miomai. She had died and I rose like a phoenix from the ashes of her burned out mind. I was given her body, but I stole her name. Her memories, too, are mine, but they are like a story I've read once. I feel for the protagonist, even sometimes empathize with her, but I know that her story was written before I was born, and the Author had already determined the outcome. It has taken me nearly a cycle to realize that we are different, and to come to grips with who I am, and who she was. I am a daughter of Dakkru, born of Her touch, given life by Her spark. She was the daughter of Jengh and Katta Lashing, and twin sister to Miomo.

For nearly a cycle, I clung to her memories as if they were mine. I've dishonored her life by falsely appropriating it. I've taken on her interests and desires, her abilities and deficiences. No longer. I will start anew, and make of this life what Dakkru wishes of me. I will expound Her virtues, and do Her bidding when She asks, without question. I will prostrate myself before Her regularly, and celebrate Her holy days. Born of Her image, I will mirror Her in everything I do. I will lead the pious to Her domain, and teach them Her words. This is who I am.

Lazarene, daughter of Dakkru

[Caraick]

Enter Icerra 9, 10, &11
By: Aramara

Post I of II

The awakening was pain. Aramara gasped and coughed in fits as her lungs acclimated  themselves to breathing once again. The blood vessels throughout her body throbbed as her heart palpitated, pumping waves upon waves of blood through hardened arteries  before settling into its normal rhythm. Muscles went through series of spasms as they were saturated with freshly oxygenated blood. All her organs, once dead and inactive, now burst with life and began to function. Electric impulses triggered in her brain, firing neurons in chain reactions that spread like waves down her spinal chord and the myriad branches of nerves across her being. In return, sensory information flooded in, overwhelming the rebooted greymatter, making it impossible for her to focus. The world was simultaneously over-amplified and diminished. An overbearing high pitched ringing drowned out her hearing as blurred vision came online. Thoughts of self awareness reemerged in the fenki's consciousness, memories old and new sparked within her mind, whispering her name in soft echoes, "Aramara, I am."

The young fenki's body convulsed and twisted against something cold, flat, and hard.  Her eyes widened and dilated, franticly grasping for something to focus on, something to hold, but there was only darkness. Through the cacophony of inner voices she heard a shout from without, muffled through the distance of dim awareness. With all her will and might, Aramara turned her head towards the source of outside stimulation. Through a darkened doorway emerged a light, a fire lit torch. The flames danced in her vision, filling her with a melodic peace and calm. A new voice, soothing, sang from the flames, "I am with you. There is no reason to be afraid. This is Life." This message of reassurance repeated in Aramara's mind in harmony with the flickering light. The spasms eased their hold on her body as she now found her guide; her breathing became steady and relaxed. 

Dark figures in heavy hooded cloaks filled the room, but she took no notice. Her eyes and attention were locked on the Flames of the torches they carried. Ancient Spirits filled the chamber's void with radiance and color, creating a wall of light between her and the material world. She was dimly aware of her body being lifted from its resting place and being brought into an adjoining chamber, filled with a different kind of light, one that almost blinded her with its brilliance. She closed her eyes and turned away from the source, a crystal rock brimming with magical energies. It was then she noticed she was being carried in the arms of one of the hooded figures. His cloak was of a soft, comforting material and she clung to it instinctively. The arms lowered her onto a pillowy surface, but she kept her paws clutched to the robes of her porter. The Spirits of Flame who had gathered to receive her reduced their presence, receded into distances beyond spatial dimensions. It was once again Aramara felt alone, afraid. She kept her eyes held shut tight, claws still dug into the velvety cloak.  An outside voice spoke to her, deep yet reassuring, close yet muffled and distant through her dulled senses. She opened her eyes and peered upwards to see the weathered features of an aged Ylian woman, silvery locks of hair loosely dangling over eyes the color of sand, a curious dark tattoo running the course down the right side of her face. The woman pulled her hood back to reveal her face fully in the crystal light and offered the fenki child a friendly smile, "Hello young one," she whispered, "Welcome back to the land of the living."

* * *

Aramara sat wide eyed on the dirt floor, facing the door. The screams and moans of pain coming from behind the closed, heavy, oaken door  were not new to Aramara, for her mother was a healer and had many lives brought to her in need of saving, even in the short duration of Aramara's life. What was new to her, and what had her sitting on the floor in terrified shock, was knowing that those screams she was now hearing were coming from her mother. 

The night was inky black. The only light in the main room where she sat were a few randomly placed candles and the low red glow of embers in the hearth. Torchlight from the adjoining room which served as her mother's clinic flickered from under the door, along with the agonizing screams, the shouts of her father and the priest. Even though the air outside was frigid, the house was warm, the smell of blood in the air.
The screaming and shouting grew to a fevered maximum. Aramara put her paws over her ears and lowered her head to the floor, herself crying and screaming in fear. Then the room adjacent grew quiet, although Aramara did not notice right away and continued her fearful whimpering. Soft murmurs muffled by the thickness of the door and earthen walls followed by a desperate wail from her mother, "Oh Gods! Not again!" was her sob. 

Aramara lifted her head and once again watched the door before her as silence was the only answer to her mother's desperate prayer. The dead silence hung in the air only momentarily before the mutterings emerging from behind became excitable once again, a shout and her mother's painful groans  and cries resounded. Then there was a new sound, it was a sound of pain and fear as well, but it was small, fragile. The tone of the other voices changed dramatically from panic to joy. Aramara's ears flicked up as the new sound reached them. She lifted herself onto her feet, head tilted, wringing her tiny paws together. The tiny cries continued to wail, but the other voices became soft, encouraging. Aramara's wide eyes watched the door anxiously. 

The whole house now was a hushed quiet. The small, terrified cries lessened and lessened until there was finally peaceful silence. Aramara had returned to sitting, her mind turned to wandering when the door finally opened. She lifted her eyes to see Father Akame, the elven priest, holding in his arms a dark, lifeless bundle. He smiled at her quickly, softly in reassurance, but his face was grim and he hurried by towards the door. 

"Aramara?" It was her fathers voice, low and pious. She turned her head away from watching the priest depart with the dark bundle to see her father standing in the doorway, backlit by the wavering torchlight, gently holding another, small bundle. "Aramara... come say hello to your sister, Icerra."

* * *

Icerra franticly paced back and forth along the edge of the bluff behind Harnquists forge. The sharp smell of smelting ores wafted up to her nostrils, compounding with the twisted tangle of knots that was her stomach. She stopped short once or twice, gauntleted paws resting heavily on her knees, quick shallow breaths of nervous anticipation. With no alleviation of her fears, she lifted her head, stood erect and scanned the surrounding plaza area for the crazy clamod. She needed to know. She needed to know if this was the real Miomai or some imposter as she feared. Icerra had her axe. The Corpse would come to get it. Only the REAL Corpse would kill to get it back. It was the only thing Icerra was certain of. It was the only test she could devise.

How she had come to this point, like many things, Icerra had blocked from her mind. A person of sound mind may lose their memories over time, letting them fade into the noise of their past. That doesn't make the events less real, nor ever completely forgotten. Every event can be seen like a statue erected on a vast plane, as one travels away from the statue, its details become less and less clear, its silhouette diminishing until it is indistinguishable from its surroundings. That's a person of sound mind. Icerra encased the events of her past in huge blocks of concrete and spent her time painting her own world on their outer surface.
As busy as she was blocking out reality, Icerra barely noticed a figure approach her on the bluff. It was the Ylian Teshia, who had let Icerra join her guild when her only reason for doing so was to hurt Miomai. After all the hours of spying and eavesdropping on her guildmates, Icerra had felt a fondness and trust grow within her for the young mother. She made a small inclination of a bow towards Teshia who then tilted her head curiously, smiling faintly "Looking for something?"

The question tore Icerra away from her frantic delusions, she hesitated to think on it long, answering quite lazily, "uhh... no.. not really," she scratched her helm, which she was prone to do, "Kinda just waitin'."
Teshia blinked, as if confused at what could bring Icerra to pace back and forth if not looking for something, but then nods a bit "Oh... anyone in particular?"

Icerra had no intention of letting Teshia know what she was truly waiting for and why. Her eyes drifted off across the plaza, her mind racing through all the names of people she could be waiting for instead, but no one came to mind. She went with, "Errr.. no...nobody"

Teshia nodded a bit, and stepped pointedly out of the way "Well, don't let me keep you from waiting then."
Icerra made the same inclination of a nod from before, only this time more pronounced. She acknowledged the space Teshia cleared for her and continued her pacing  along the edge of the bluff.

Teshia watched curiously for a moment, frowning thoughtfully.  Icerra made a few laps before stopping before her again,  "You ain't gone crazy... have ya?"

The Ylian arched a brow slightly, lips twitching "Not that I am aware of. Certainly not as crazy as I've been..."
Icerra rested her chin in a paw frowning, seriously contemplating Teshia's answer. The whole world was going crazy around her, she thought.  It seemed everyone she knew was or had been under control of some spell. Even her self. She quickly put the thought out of her mind

Teshia replied quietly "I'm not a threat to you, if that's why you ask." Something in her answer seemed to put a bit more focus on the "you" than absolutely necessary.

The kore's mind reeled in rejection of her own distant memories, franticly filling the void with her own constructed reality, and didn't pay much attention to Teshia's veiled cue. She raised her eyes and looked to the ylian before her with a fresh question, "You ever been controlled by someone?"
Teshia frowned, seeming to think for a moment "Twice... that I am aware of."

Icerra tilted her head at her answer, eyes drifting away during her own reconstruction of her own memories, before meeting Teshia's amber orbs again, "What was that like?"

Teshia shrugged lightly, "The first time... it was painful. The way he gained control, and the things he did while he had it. The second, I don't even remember. I only know it happened because when I woke up, I was being held down, and apparently had been attacking people."

No matter how hard she tried to bury it, the memory kept rising to the surface. Images of a fire, her sister, a knife, the Dermorian mage screaming in agony, falling to the ground, blood leaking from his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. Icerra scratched her helm and gazed upward, eyes squinting even though the crystal had only just begun to wax.  "It was just a dream," she kept telling herself, "just a crazy dream."

Teshia merely regarded Icerra calmly "Why do you ask?"

Icerra kept her eyes squinted at the quickening crystal, hanging out of reach, far on the domed ceiling above. She stood that way for an uncomfortable amount of time before Teshia's question registered, "Huh? oh... Miomai.... she ain't Miomai."

A slight nod, "I've noticed."

Her eyes now lowered to her own feet, Icerra's forgotten nightmare now replaced with concern for her nemesis, "So... you think sum'n's controllin' her?"

"Perhaps... or perhaps something is no longer controlling her.... Either way, she is not the same fenki she was before. Have you asked Miomo how she was before she died?"

"Uhhh, nuh uh."

"Seems he would know how she used to be... whether she is now acting like she did before, or whether she is acting entirely different."

Icerra stood for a moment with her jaw hanging slightly open before answering, "Uhh... he's missing."
Teshia blinked "He's what?"

The young kore scratched her chin thinking, "Yeah... my sister went out lookin' fer 'im," before looking at Teshia with a sudden realization, "She's missing too..."

The Ylian woman frowned softly "That explains why Aramara hasn't been seen much lately. I didn't know... DO they have any idea where they went? or why?"

Icerra frowned too, seemingly deeply conflicted, "Uhh... Miomai knows..."

With a furrowing brow, Teshia replied quietly, almost to herself "I hope they are alright..." She looked up and speaks a bit louder "Is she not telling?"

Icerra's voice began to rise in slight panic, "Iunno... we... she..."

Teshia frowned softly at the kore, and made what is intended to be a calming sound, "Shhh... it's alright. Forget I asked."

Icerra quieted down, but her eyes shifted back in forth in worry.

Assuming many things, but not about to voice them aloud, Teshia gave Icerra a soft look. She stated quietly "If you need anything from me, Caraick, or the guild.. just let us know."

Icerra's perturbance distracted her from Teshia's offer, without answering, so much as aknowledging the Ylian was still there, she began pacing again

Teshia tilted her head, watching Icerra, but not interrupting. After a moment or two watching the young, troubled fenki, she slipped away quietly.

Icerra was still pacing back and forth along the edge of the bluff when she just so happened to raise her eyes to see Miomai standing on the bluff opposite the road to the arena, waving her paw in the air.

"Whad'ya want?" Icerra shouted across the way.

"Just to talk!" was Miomai's reply.

Icerra crossed her arms over her steel breastplate defiantly, she raised her chin over her shoulder, "Then talk!"

"This is shouting!", and indeed, they were shouting at each other across the road, "Could you come over hear please?"

Icerra glared at the clamod, "Why can't YOU come over HERE? Yer the one tha wants ta talk!"

Miomai stood stunned, watching this fenki who had been nothing but a thorn in her side lately. Feeling quite foolish, she relinquished, "I don't know how."

Oddly enough, at that very moment, a klyros climbed onto the bluff Miomai stood upon, and crossed over to Icerra's side using the tiny ledge along the overhang of the arena tunnel. Both fenki watched with wide eyes as he continued to climb up the mountain. Icerra shouted back, "Now you know!"

Icerra stood with her arms folded over her breastplate, looking out from beneath her oversized helm as Miomai crossed over the tiny ledge to her bluff. Miomai approached Icerra cautiously. She spread her arms out to her sides in an effort to appear non-threatening.

"Well!? Talk!" Icerra continued to shout.

"Icerra, if you want to make mischief, you're certainly going about it the wrong way."

"I don't know whatchoo talkin' about."

Miomai smiled, "Oh, come now. You enjoy tormenting others. I can see the look in your eyes."

"What could this witch see in her eyes? Was it true? Did she LIKE hurting others?" Icerra wouldn't allow herself to think on it too long, her posture became defiant before Miomai, "So?"

"So, of all the citizens of this 'fine' city, you choose me. Probably the only one who would help you raize the town."

Icerra frowned in an ugly, menacing fashion. She didn't choose Miomai, Miomai chose her. It was Miomai who attacked her at their first meeting. It was Miomai who constantly terrorized her with black magic. And just when she thought they were becoming friends, it was Miomai who betrayed her over Kelan. She spit and then raised her chin, "How'm I tormentin' you?"

Miomai placed her paws on the back of her head, "Oh, I don't know, maybe the several attempts on my life, or how about that little trinket of mine, you know, the axe? Oh, and the fact that you tell everyone I'm not me."

As if taking a physical blow, Icerra breathed sharply in, her gauntleted paws balled up into fists, her shoulders raised. She muttered between clenched teeth, "You don' think you deserve it?"

Miomai lowered her paws to her side slowly, watching Icerra's threatening display. "You think I do?" she asked.

Icerra nodded slowly, but the movement was not noticeable beneath her helm. She otherwise left the question hanging in the air.

"Hmmm? Speak up, I can't hear you."

"You want yer axe back?"

"In the very least."

This was it. This was the whole purpose of this encounter. Icerra had Miomai's axe. Only the real Miomai would kill her for it. "Tell me why."

Miomai sighed, "Dakkru gave me a commandment, and that weapon."

Icerra lifted her chin but kept her eyes on Miomai as she spoke.

"She wants me to cleave you into tiny pieces and dispers them all over Ylikaum." she said lightheartedly with a smile.

Icerra knew this wasn't the truth she was looking for. Her mind raced for a way to further test this creature in her rival's body. "You gotta do sum'n you want it back."

"Fine. What do you want me to do?"

"I want everyone to think Mariana killed Caraick."

"Someone killed Caraick?" Miomai asked and frowned.

Icerra lifted her chin higher, stood up a little straighter, "Doesn't matter... I want everyone to think she did... I don't care how you do it, when it happens, you'll get yer axe back"

Miomai narrowed her eyes on Icerra and crossed her arms, contemplating the offer. Icerra's tail swished back and forth with poise.

"Sounds fair to me," Miomai replied after a moment of thinking it over.

Icerra crossed her arms across her chestplate again, "Good."

Miomai strolled over, spit in her paw and held it out to Icerra.

"Oh... nuh uh!" Icerra laughed. She held out one of her gauntleted paws in the manner of the original clamod, "Kiss it."

Miomai smiled sweetly at Icerra and took her paw gently at first. Just as she wass about to bend over to kiss Icerra's paw, she grabbed her arm tightly and pulled Icerra towards her quickly in an attempt to yank her off balance. Her paws went quickly to one of her daggers.

Icerra fell forward with a quick jerky flail, her helm flying off her head behind her. She landed on her back behind Miomai, laughing wildly. THIS, this IS the real Miomai.

Miomai immediately sprungs on top of Icerra, trying to pin her to the ground.

The young kore continued laughing, not putting up any resistance.

"You think this is funny?" the clamod asked, while grabbing Icerra's arms to pull them around behind her.
Icerra's laughter quieted down as she waited for Miomai's blade. It didn't come as immediately as she had hoped. "Wait... this mean you ain't gonna do it?"

Miomai started laughing now "You're catching on...eventually." She dug her knees into Icerra's back and wrested hold onto her wrists as tightly as possible. "Now we're going to do this my way."

Icerra grimaced at the hold, but still did not resist much. Doubt was once again taking over her mind. If this impostor wouldn't kill her, she would wait to see just what fake Miomai's way was.

"Now the sooner you give me back my axe, the more fingers you will live with." The clamod shifted her weight to keep one arm pinned back while she held the other at the wrist and pressed her sharp dagger to Icerra's pinky finger.

Icerra grew silent and limp in Miomai's arms. Her reasoning became convoluted. She couldn't give up the axe. Not until Miomai had killed her.

Her body jolted and stiffened as the dagger bladed severed flesh and bone, her head jerked back grimacing, all of her teeth bared. A sharp breath in, a small wimper, and her body went limp once again.
"Nothing, Icerra? Not a clue to where the axe may be? You've got nine more." Miomai tossed the pinky finger off to the side.

Icerra breathed heavily for a pause, then, in a subdued voice, "You ain't gonna kill me?"

"Now what's the fun in that? And let you get your fingers back?"

Icerra sat, staring forward, lower jaw jutted forward. The pain of losing a finger wasn't helping her think straight. "Ok..."

"Okay?" the clamod asked and placed the dagger on Icerra's ring finger.

Icerra gulped, "Nah... I got yer axe."

"Where is it, in your pack?"

"You gotta tell me why." Icerra's voice became sad, pleading.

Miomai laughed and moved her dagger to sever Icerra's ring finger. "I guess you don't understand the situation."

Icerra glanced back to get as good a look at Miomai's face as she can, her eyes if anything, were sad, as if she really didn't understand the situation.

"You sure are stubborn," the clamod said and tossed the second finger off by the first. "You see, Dakkru gave me a command. And I'm simply obeying. Nothing personal, but you've just gotten in the way. Really I didn't want to do this, but you leave me no choice. If you would just give me back my axe, I would leave you and you can go on your merry way. What do you say Icerra, hmmm?" Her dagger moved on to Icerra's middle finger.

Icerra's watched her finger fall into the grass, and along with it, her newly acquired, never been used ring of familiar. She hung her head, mostly out of shame of failure. She failed her nemesis, her arch-rival, her friend. Now this impostor will have her axe and steal her destiny. "Ok, you can have it"

Miomai smiled, "Finally you understand. And just for that I'm going to kill you now." She took the dagger and  cut through Icerra's throat. "I'm very sorry I have to do this, but I don't know any Crystal Way to replace your fingers. But Mother Dakkru will put them back for you."

Icerra fell forward, jugular slit. Between the choking, gurgling sounds, came a laugh, as Icerra died now knowing she made the right decision.

[Caraick]

Enter Icerra 9, 10, & 11
Post II of II

* * *

Father Akame stepped lightly through the brightly colored autumn forest which was his home. Beside him, his newest companion, the young fenki Aramara. She had been staying with him for a few months now, already had grown acclimated to his home, and was progressing quickly through her studies. Today, thought the good priest, they would take a break from study and work and play a little game. He carried with him an ornately carved wooden case. She carried two ceramic mugs of hot tinga tea, sweetened with ruqua nectar.
They entered into a small clearing within the wood with three tree stumps lined neatly in a row. Father Akame sat the wooden case on the middle stump, he and the fenki took their seats across from each other. Aramara passed him his mug of tea, which he took from her with a bow of his head and sipped from gratefully. The autumn air was as crisp as the dry colored leaves beneath their feet, and the warmth of the tea was invigorating.

With a few clicks, Father Akame opened the case, revealing the game board and pieces. The board was a simple grid with strange symbols and characters arranged in each block. He explained to Aramara that these figures were ancient Dermorian symbols of natural features of the land, rivers, lakes, streams, forests, hills, mountains, valleys, and each came with its own benefits and drawbacks. The game pieces were two opposing sides, one dark, one light, carved out of ulbernaut ivory and deep onyx. The Father set the pieces on opposite sides of the board and clarified the rules to Aramara.

"You see, my child, the world is divided into such opposing forces. When such forces meet, one will be canceled out, such as the light cancels the dark, and the dark cancels the light. This is the domain of Xiosia, for she is Balance and Harmony. When one side completely cancels out the other, an imbalance is reached and the world will begin to unravel. Xiosia, in her infinite wisdom, keeps the world together by sewing in a new thread to replace the one that was lost. There is a time and a place for everything child, all things serve a purpose. When a force is removed from this world, it is never gone for long. Something new will rise up, take up the mantle, and continue in its name. Thus, the game will continue to be played, even after I have won."

He smiled as he took out Aramara's last piece on the board and winning the round. But Aramara was not smiling. She was looking at the board but it was clear to him her thoughts were on his words. He frowned and was about to offer another round when she quickly raised her eyes to him, her head tilted in that strange Enkidukai way. There was something unsettiling in her words, in the way she spoke, not as if asking a question, but as if making a declaration.

"Just as I will take up your mantle when you fall, Father."

With that, the young fenki began setting up her pieces for the next round.

* * *

Icerra walked aimlessly through the Death Realm for hours, her fingers nowhere to be found. She didn't understand it. She had done everything right, right? She had given the axe back to Miomai, had proven that it was the real Miomai. Why then would the Goddess Miomai served not at least reward her with her fingers back?

So she wandered, over scattered bones of abominable beasts, rusted walkways, fallen ruins, frequently taking breaks to stare out into the endless black expanse, waiting for her fingers to materialize out of the nothingness. But nothing ever came.

Her long and crooked path eventually lead her to the Citadel in the heart of the realm. Something called to her and she made her way inside the carved out temple. She paced back and forth along the cold marble steps of the cathedral until she had tired herself out. She dropped to her knees and for the first time in her life, fell into prayer.

When she awoke, Icerra felt a small weight around her neck. She looked down and found she was wearing a strange and eerie necklace about her, a thin chord of tefusang leather strung with six beads, the individual bones of her fingers.

Icerra laughed wildly, her laughter carrying through the dark halls of the citadel, echoed into the infinite obscurity beyond. The Lady in the Dark had rewarded her after all, had given her a sign, had called her into her service. They way for her was shown, her path illuminated. She found herself faced with the portal back to the living realm, her task waiting on the other side. Six souls. Dakkru demanded six souls for her fingers back.

* * *

It was a quiet night in Gugrontid, and Zalya Alamor sat staring sleepily into the fireplace of the Stonehead Tavern. Not much business tonight, and at that she couldn't help but be pleased. She was still recovering from the injuries sustained from her former lover, Caraick. She had sent a note for him and was awaiting his arrival, but the warmth of the fire was calling her towards sleep. She wasn't aware of the lightfooted young kore who had entered the tavern and stood on the bench behind her, scoping her out. "You still hurt?"

Zalya yawned and sat up, rubbing her neck. She jumped at hearing Icerra's voice, turned around to look at her wide eyed. Her surprise faded as she realized who it was, the strange kore from the night before, who had come in, wrecked the place, and left. She caught her breath, "Godess, don't scare me like that!"
Icerra watched Zalya's reaction closely, studying how she moved, what state she was in. Her face revealed no hint of anything other than concentration.

Zalya wasn't in much better shape then the day before. Suddenly the pain of turning around so quickly kicked in. She grabbed at her ribs gently, and moaned, "No I'm still hurt. Thanks for your concern..."
Icerra stood motionless yet her eyes narrowed at the word 'concern'. A small grin tugged at the corners of her lips. She knelt down on the bench, placing her front paws down and leaning her face close to Zalya's, "Yes. I'm here to help you," she said in a voice approaching a whisper.

With a hint of uncertainty and fear on her face, Zalya looked at Icerra, "What?" she simply asked, trying to keep her expression straight.

Icerra sat back upright on her hind haunches, placing her hands on her hips. Her voice became louder, more cheerful, "I'm here to help you." Her right paw unbuckled the falchion off her hip and she held it before her, running her left middle and pointer fingers along its razor edge.

Zalya's fear became consideribly more visible, but Icerra took no notice. She tried to move backwards away from the young fenki and blade but the fire place blocked the way. She stuttered out "I- I'll be okay, just put that away..."

As Zalya scooted backwards, Icerra stood upright, her head tilting at the injured clamod's failed retreat. She raised the blade above her head and screamed loud enough, just in case Zalya didn't hear the first two times, "I'M HERE TO HELP YOU!"

Zalya merely screamed back in response, trying to curl up into a ball to protect herself, but her wounds don't allow her to get vary far. Icerra brought her arm and falchion down in a practiced arc, leading with her hips, she struck for Zalya's neck. Zalya's flailing arms do little to protect her. The blade digs deep into her throat.

A voice sounded behind her as she followed through her blow, "Is there a reason why you have a weapon drawn while you look at Zalya, Icerra?" The voice was Herihi's, and yes, there was a reason, she wanted her dead.

At that moment, Caraick walked in, staff in one paw, and Zalya's note in the other. He paused at seeing the curious scene, however.

Herihi shouted, "Back of Icerra! Or I'll turn you into char!"

Zalya's screams turned to a desperate gargling as she started to fade into the Death Realm.

Caraick let the note drift from his paw to the floor. He stepped nearer, his staff point beginning to snap and crackle loudly with energy, "Icerra, back!"

Icerra turned to see the two approaching, her blade dripping with Zalya's blood, without hesitation, she took off for the door.

"What have you done Icerra!" Herihi shouted after her.

Caraick raised his staff, as though to try and heal Zalya, but her body faded far too fast for his scope of skill. He glanced over at Icerra as she ran past him, then back to Herihi, eyes narrowing. Icerra made it through the door and into the inky black of night.

* * *

Kelan was a sweet natured Dermorian, who had a habit of having no real direction. He also had the misfortune of getting tangled up like a ball of yarn between two demented fenkis. He rounded the corner into the plaza, from who knows where. From out of the dark shadows of night, Icerra lightly stepped up behind him, "Hey."

She turned her head as if conflicted by something, her past affection for this elf in conflict with her actions in the immediate future, "Kelan... err..."

Kelan turned, surprised to see Icerra again after their two previous encounters, "Icerra ?"

Icerra's body tensed up at her name and she gulped, "Kelan... do you like me?"

Kelan was unsure how to act, "eh.... Icerra,.....why? You never act around me like a friend!"

Icerra stood with her paws clenched in fists, her head turned facing the ground beside her, her inner conflict made apparent by the glisten in her eyes, "I want... I want you to like me Kelan... I want to help you... I want to save you."

"Puhh, I can understand that you want me to like you. But how do you want to help me? and I didn't know I was unsafe," said Kelan, growing visibly worried.

Her voice grown weak, quiet, Icerra met Kelan's eyes, "The same way Miomai saved me."

"Miomai saved you?" Kelan repeated slowly. He gulped, "Why and how?"

Icerra clenched her paws into fists again. She opens her left paw and stared at it briefly. Lifting her head to scan the area around them, she spotted Mariana nearby in the plaza. She turned back to Kelan and asked in a near whisper, "Can we go to someplace... quiet?"

Kelan looked around confused, "Eh, OK Icerra," but didn't really want to leave the plaza. Such was the nature of the Dermorian.

"Come on" she ordered almost begrudgingly. She turned and walked away, head hung low, shoulders tight, fists clenched, dragging her feet.

She lead him around the buildings outlining the plaza to a grove of trees at the back of the Laanx Cathedral. She stopped among the trees and looked around, it was quiet, dark, "Here."

Kelan looked around and nodded, "Yes, alone and quiet."

Icerra gulped, still looking tense, unsure. She looked Kelan in the eyes, "You know Dakkru?"

Kelan inhaled deeply, "Yes, I know Dakkru, but I don't like to be around there"

Tears began to fill Icerra's eyes, but she shut them and quickly and turned her head to hide her hurt from Kelan. After she overcame the pain she continued, "Miomai sent me there... she saved me..." She raised her left paw to play with the finger bones strung about her neck, "Now I'm supposed ta save people... I need ta send people to Dakkru." Suddenly, she met Kelan's eyes with a frozen stare, "You will go to her for me?"

Kelan stepped back in a bit of panic, "I don't want to go there. Icerra why...?"

Icerra's body tensed again as she buried her past emotions for this elf. Her right paw unbuckled the falchion from her hip, unable to bring herself to look at Kelan, "Please... Kelan... please don't make this hard."

Kelan raised his arms to try to protect himself. His voice grew raspy, "No, you said you want me to be your friend, don't do this," he begged and stepped back again.

Running the first two fingers of her left paw along the falchions razor edge, Icerra stepped forward in time with his step back, "It'll only hurt for a bit... then... then you won't feel a thing... and when ya come back.... you'll be my friend" she said as if convincing herself as well. She suddenly met Kelan's eyes and charged at him, holding the falchion tight at her side, the tip of her blade aimed for his gut.

Kelan quickly took another stepped back, turned and tried to run away, but stumbled over a stone and fell to the ground. Icerra stopped herself short as Kelan dodged and used her crouching position to leap behind Kelan where he fell, wrapping her left arm around his front and placing her falchion's edge at his throat. Out of breath, Kelan shivered "Icerra, please don't...." but he was not able to say more.

Icerra tried to calm him down, "Shhh..." she whispered softly, "ain't nuthin' ta fear." She kissed the top of his head and with a quick pull of her arm sliced open his throat.

Kelan's eyes opened wide. The only sound in the night was the wind blowing cold and his death rattle. Icerra stood over Kelan as he lay dying. One of the finger bones on her necklace vanished. She raised her left paw, which had all of its fingers, and smiled.

* * *

Sacho sat across from Mariana, patiently listening, as he is prone to do. She was talking to him and Qile of a grave situation witch had just recently arisen. Aramara's younger sister, Icerra, was ruthlessly killing people. Her first victim was a patient of his, Zalya, who was already severely injured. When she appeared back from the Death Realm, her state was no better. As Mariana spoke, a small shadow silhouette appeared in the tavern's entrance door. A young fenki in breastplate and horned helm, Icerra. "I have been looking for you Icerra."

"And there's the woman of the hour. Many people have been looking for this one," Qile agreed.
Icerra walked out of the late afternoon heat into the coolness of the tavern, glancing at all the enki about with a mild shrug. She turned to Sacho and cooly asks, "You want sum'n'?"

At the table across from him, Mariana turned her head and flicked her ears towards Icerra. She arched a brow at the fenki curiously and turned her torso in her chair to get a clearer view of the her. "Hello, Icerra," she said in greeting.

Speaking softly, yet more firmly then normal, Sacho answered, "Yes, I do, but am I pleased I didn't find you as quickly as I had wished."

Icerra stood with her paws hanging at her hips, left pinky and ring finger held stiff and unmoving. Her eyes narrowed at Sacho, not sure if she was supposed to take his words as a threat, "What's that 'sposedta mean?"

"Many things, Icerra. Still, let's allow Mariana and this other fenki finish speaking first."

Always keen, Mariana's eyes shifted to Icerra's immobile fingers with curiosity, observing their position and posture. She raised a soft brow at the fenki, keeping her gaze locked on the mentioned members, "Is something wrong with your paw, Icerra?"

Icerra looked down at her left paw and back to Mariana. She answered with confidence, "Not fer long."

Sacho showed little reaction if any. Icerra had walked into a tavern full of stoics. With a polite nod to him, Qile finished, "Name's Qile, and I've said all I need to, tabei . Thank you."

Sacho looked to Qile for a moment. "Nice to met you, Qile. If you haven't heard before I am Sacho."

Icerra's eyes shifted between Mariana and Qile, waiting to see what else they had to say. Mariana arched a brow. She raised her paw and beckoned to Icerra. "May I take a look?" She asked, smiling gently.

Icerra considered Mariana through narrowed eyes for a moment, shrugged and walked forward, offering her paw for the familiar fenki to examine. Sacho too shifted his eyes over to focus on Icerra's paw. Qile moved to leave the table, and Icerra looked her up and down as Mariana took her paw. She was sizing her up.

Mariana gently slipped her gauntlets off and took a soft hold of Icerra's paw. She ran her thumb over Icerra's pinkie and ring finger curiously, feeling for breakages. She looked up at Icerra as she worked, then back down at the paw, moving to bend the different ligaments and assess the amount of damage. Sacho continued to watch this as he spoke to Icerra. "May I ask what happened to your paw?"

Icerra's left paw had nothing visibly wrong with it. In fact, the fingers were only missing in her mind. Happily too, because the first joint of each had grown back. She didn't seem to notice Mariana's touch until she reached her bottom knuckle of her pinky. She glanced at Sacho, "Easy... Miomai cut my fingers off."

"And why would she do that?"

Still inspecting, curious, unsure, Mariana held the paw up and slowly brought her fingers down, interlocking them with Icerra's. "Mm," she said, as if she was already aware of this fact, "But I see your fingers now, Icerra. They're re-attached. Are you saying you cannot see them?"

Icerra answered Sacho first, "Cuz I had her axe." She turned to Mariana, her eyes widen a bit at her statement, she countered as if informing Mariana of the truth, "They's comin' back, but they ain't all there."

Mariana shook her head from side to side and said with utter certainty, "No, Icerra." She took a gentle hold of her pinkie between her thumb and index finger, wiggling it a bit, "They're there. Right here. I can see them right now."

Icerra stared at Mariana's fingers, wondering why she's pantomiming wiggling a finger that was not there. "Yer crazy" is all she had to say.

Then, Sacho spoke up, "Icerra what line of work are you in?"

Mariana slowly let her eyes rove over towards Sacho, a worried expression on her face. She released Icerra's paw and made no more attempts to drag the poor kore back to reality. Sacho noticed Mariana's glance, "You can see how I thought there may be a connection."

Icerra stood a bit upright, proud, and answered Sacho, not paying much attention to the glances he exchanged with Mariana, "I save people."

Mariana shook her head. Her eyes seemed to state that she'd like to talk about things later, and she moved them skyward and back, indicating the roof of the tavern. She turned her head back to Icerra. "I think maybe you've convinced yourself..." she started, then paused, surprised into silence by Icerra's statement.

Sacho's expression changes slightly as if he was suppressing some emotion. "And how do you go about doing that?"

Icerra smiled eagerly at Sacho, happy to have the opportunity to demonstrate and gain another piece of herself, "I'll show ya!" Her right paw began unbuckling the falchion from her hip.

Mariana narrows her eyes slightly. "You really shouldn't draw weapons in the city, Icerra. The guards don't appreciate it." Not that Icerra cared what the guards appreciated.

Sacho's left paw went quickly down to the left saber on his belt. "Why don't we speak a bit more before you show me."

Icerra withdrew her weapon, running the middle and forefinger of her left paw down its razor edge, smiling at her reflection in the blade. She frowned at Sacho but obliged to his request and buckled the weapon back on her hip. Sacho's paw remained on his saber for the time being. "So you kill people. Would you mind explain how that helps them?"

Mariana turned her head to Icerra, her paw curled casually around the metal holder of the candle, the fingers angled inwards. The tiny flame that danced on the wick seems to be moving somewhat erratically, though she showed no interest in it nor any sign that she is intentionally doing this. Her focus was on Icerra.
"Err... cuz I show them the truth, that their ain't nuthin' to be afraid of," She answered Sacho half truthfully. The full truth was, she wasn't helping anyone but herself.

"You do know that I am a healer, correct? I would like to know how having a person's ribs broken helps them or shows them anything but pain?" Sacho asked, his temper beginning to show.

Icerra tilted her head and looked at Sacho incredulously, "I ain't broke nobody's ribs."

"Did you not kill a fenki by the name of Zalya, who currently is a patient of mine?"

Mariana kept her paw locked around the candle. "When you killed Zalya, Icerra, you sent her to the death realm. She experienced more harm than recovery, and is still struggling with a nearly crushed ribcage. Your actions didn't help her, you see. You've hurt her, and it's been extraordinarily difficult to mend." She flicked her eyes to Sacho and subtly shakes her head, then brings her gaze back to Icerra. Strangely, her expression holds a soft concern, and the candle flame dies down before it ignites again.

Sacho watched Icerra carefully as she frowned and scratched her helm, "Too bad. She didn't accept Dakkru's help."

"Don't ever do that again to her, Icerra," Sacho spoke coldly.

Mariana, upon hearing Icerra's flippant reply, seemed to grow a bit colder as well towards the fenki. Her fingers moved to tighten around the base of the candle, "Not all will follow your belief in Dakkru, Icerra. You cannot force it upon them, and you most CERTAINLY cannot kill them for it."

Icerra tilted her head at the two sitting before her and wondered, "who are these enki to tell ME what to do," but, astonishingly, she kept it to herself.

Suddenly, Mariana rose from her chair and moved around Icerra, circling her in quick precise motions, "What do you admire most about a person, Icerra? Is it power? Fearlessness? Courage? Are these the traits you wish to possess, to impose?" She brought herself to a stop behind the fenki, arms dangling in a loose fashion at her sides, yet strangely in a way that made them seem to be at the ready for something. Sacho, in response, repositioned himself in his chair as to get ready to stand, watching Mariana and Icerra carefully.

Icerra turned to face Mariana, a smile tugging at her lips as she watched her grow in emotion, "I don't know whatchoo talkin' 'bout" she said with smile fully formed.

Mariana kept her visage oddly and eerily impassive. She dragged an armored foot across the wooden floor, one plate-steel toe scuffing the worn surface with the fluid motion. "There is a line between right and wrong, Icerra. You must learn to filter through that line. You must learn that what you believe is right, may not always be right. Now I ask again. What is it you admire most....power? And what is it you want to eradicate within others....is it fear?"

Icerra looked down at the line, back up to Mariana, and back down at the line again, her face now drawn tight. She pointed down at where the imaginary line is on the floor and answered, "That."

Sacho silently stood and moved behind Icerra. Mariana shook her head in a very imperceptible way, a signal meant only for Sacho. "You want to eradicate the difference, the line between black and white, the space between what is right and what is wrong. Is that it, Icerra? Is that what you're saying you want?"

Sacho made no reaction to Mariana's signal, as Icerra's eyes wander about in thought, missing the gesture completely. Finally she arrived at a conclusion and nodded her head, "Yeah. That's right."

Mariana turned suddenly on her heel. "Come with me, please, Icerra," she said to the fenki, glancing over her shoulder, "If you would be so kind, to the arena, with me. Will you do that?"

"Uhh, uh huh."

Sacho glanced over at Qile, who was now in the corner speaking with Myaj for a moment and then to Mariana. "Don't kill her Mariana. There would be no point in that at the present."

Mariana simply smirked in response to Sacho, and moved towards the Arena.

Icerra followed her out of the tavern, down the steps and into the plaza. Maybe it was her focus and determination that kept Mariana from noticing Aramara standing by the smithy, but Icerra couldn't miss her sister for the world. She  shouted her name upon seeing her, "Ara!"

Aramara was with an old, hobbled menki who Icerra had never seen before. She didn't pause to wonder who this menki might be nor whether or not her sister was successful in finding Miomo, instead Icerra shoved past the ancient menki without much regard and wrapped her arms tightly around her sister. The old enkidukol fell backwards and nearly lost his balance. "Hey, mind your manners child."

Aramara was taken by surprise by Icerra, "Oh!" but laughed and returned the hug, "Hello sis, it's good to see you!"

Leans on his cane, the old enkidukol peered at the two fenki in an embrace for a few moment before realizing another fenki had approached. He turned and smiled at her, "There are more enkidukai in Hydlaa than in Ojaveda it seems."

Icerra held on tightly to her sister before letting go, taking a step back and looking at her, "I gotta go, Mariana wants ta kill me."

Aramara smiled at the grey menki but quickly became concerned by her sister's words, "What? Why? Where is she?"

"Family troubles? This reminds me of one time when my sister-in-law got into some problems..." the menki began recounting one of his many stories.

From behind, Sacho walked up to Aramara. "Icerra has been killing a number of people lately. At least one of them became very injured from those actions." he informed her.

Icerra turned her head at the old menki and gave him a curious once over. Upon hearing Sacho she shot him an icy glare. Sacho simply returned a warm friendly smile. Aramara turned to look at Sacho behind her, still reeling from Icerra's words, she blinked and turned back towards her sister, "This can't be... this is too soon."

The old menki spoke up, "A murderous sister? You know what they do to murderers, don't you?" he balanced on his two feet and pointed his cane at the crystal, "You get a one-way pterosaur trip right up there."

Icerra laughed with joy at the thought. The grey enkidukol put his cane back down to rest on it again. Aramara took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly, she glanced at the hobbled menki and nodded. "I don't plan on letting that happen" she said to him while pulling a large ancient tome from her bag of holding.
Icerra's eyes grew wide at the book in her sister's paws. "What's that?" she asked with fear in her voice, "Magicks?"

"What are you going to do about it? The Octarchy can be difficult to persuade otherwise, especially if there is evidence. This reminds me of one time when Poya and I went before a magistrate on a land dispute..." the old menki began to rattle off again.

Sacho raised an eye brow at Icerra's reaction. By this time, Mariana had noticed Icerra hadn't made it to the arena and came back to look for her. She moved up quietly and folded her arms across her chest in a casual motion. She rocked back on her heels and let her eyes move over those gathered, lingering on the old menki, as he was a bit novel.

A fanciful dressed groffel had approached Aramara with a notice, but she ignored  it as she thumbed through the pages of the ancient tome. She stopped about halfway through and raised her eyes towards her sister, "I'm sorry Icerra, but this has to be done."

She lowered her eyes again and read from the tome, "Peri Mentalis Dura Neonatum!"

Mariana peered at the tome in Aramara's paws curiously, her fingers tap-tapping at her bracers in a sort of tic. She glanced questioningly at Sacho, then back at the akkaio as she spoke the strange words.
An orb of azure light appeared around Icerra and she screamed franticly as it collapsed around her skull. It dissipated and her eyes rolled back into her head. She collapsed into a furry, armored heap on the ground, motionless save for her breathing.

* * *

Aramara carefully made her way into the burnt out shell that was Kada-El's tavern. It had been several months since the crystal had gone dark, and the air was frigid cold. She had seen the waters of the Great Sea boiling and rising quickly, flooding the level of Land's End. Earthquakes and resulting landslides were common throughout the land, the rumbling, tremendous crashing of stalactites falling from the Dome replaced the once peaceful sounds of birds in the sky. The world around her was dying, and the reason, her younger sister, sat staring into the cold, empty fireplace below.

The air around her shimmered with heat, and the snow gathered on her shoulders and fur instantly sublimed into vapor, only to freeze and fall again elsewhere in the land. She bowed her head and prayed for the souls long trapped under the fallen charred timbers. "Mariana..." she thought to herself, "my dear friend, whatever drove you to such madness?"

She stepped over broken tables and chairs, trying not to disturb the silent peace of the dead, and carefully descended what was left of the stairs to the lower level. There she found her sister, in silent prayer to her Dark Goddess. "Hello Icerra."

Icerra addressed her without bothering to look, "Hello Sis... are you really here, or are you just messin' with my mind again?"

"I am exactly where I need to be."

Aramara had an infuriating habit of always speaking the truth and simultaneously never divulging wanted information. Icerra clenched her paws, a reminder that she was still missing her pinky, no matter how many people she had killed. "How many fingers do you have?" asked her sister in a half mocking tone, as if she could read her mind, feel the anger she was feeling.

"Shut up. It'll all be over soon Sis... and I'll show you I was right."

"You don't have to prove anything to me Icerra."

At this, Icerra hopped to her feet and quickly turned on her heel to face her sister, but Aramara had vanished. "It doesn't matter!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, "You can't escape it! I'll show you! I'll show you the Truth! This is all a dream! Only Dakkru is real!" Her voice echoed through the dead and blackened town, through shattered windows and incinerated beams, streets littered with rubble.

In the distance, the armies of the Dark Witch Miomai were making their final stand against the Dragon Travosh. Filled with determination, Icerra left the ruined tavern for the last time. Her pterosaur was waiting outside and she mounted, spurring him to flight. Flame and shadow scattered along the fields below. The battle was beginning. The dream was coming to an end.

[Caraick]

Slayer of Bugs
By: Rhateru


To be read aloud in an overly excited and dramatic voice

   Silently steadying his weapon of choice, the Dermorian charged at his most monstrous victim yet: the terrifying common insect! Careful and sly (he didn't even trip running over!), he stared down his prey with a fierce glare, nostrils flaring in anger. He raised the fearsome blade up into the sky, and with a mighty swing, brought the butter knife down upon his enemy!
   Only this was not an easy opponent, and the insect must have dodged with all the speed of a racing Rivnak, for the weapon had missed! Wiping the sweat off his brow after the practice swing, the Dermorian once again readied his knife with strong determination. In a single powerful blow that must have shaken the whole of Yliakum itself, he sliced the horrible monster right in half!
   Rhateru, the slayer of bugs, was to be feared by every insect remaining on all seven levels! He had the power to kill them all, annihilating their entire population in but one day if he so wished! But no, with his pure, kind heart, he would accept only that they cower before him and obey his supreme rule! Why, Rhateru must be the bravest knight ever to have lived and ever to live!

[Caraick]

The End of All Things
By: Tessra


It was the most perfect of desolate days.  Late in the season, the wind whipped through the trees and the very last of the leaves lost their feeble battle to cling to life.  One by one they fell, until a swirling whirlwind of oranges, browns and reds rustled over the ground.  The grass was brittle and dead along the road, crunching under the boots that slowly crossed.  Where the grass had given way entirely to a dirt path, little plumes of dust kicked up and clouded. 

A cloaked figure moved haltingly down the road.  At first glance, the old woman was hunched over, back bowed.  She leaned heavily on a worn wooden staff.  Only one hand was visible underneath the thick winter wool cloak and what could be seen of it was knotted and gnarled.  The fingers barely managed to close about the staff, her nails digging carefully into a series of words carved into the wood.  The wind tore violently at her cloak, and as the hood fell back her face was exposed.

Once high cheekbones rested under sunken eyes and carved a ledge over hollowed cheeks.  Lips thinned by the years barely contrasted the lines of her face, and a milky hue clouded her eyes, obscuring their color and leaving little doubt that the woman would be almost completely blind.  Her hair was thin and as grey as the clouds threatening to blanket the land with snow.  It curled about her face in wisps that escaped the loose braid it was supposed to be held in.

The woman paused, breath rattling in her chest as she panted and ground the staff heavily into the dirt.  Her eyes misted once and she croaked softly into the lonely day "I'm almost there…"  No one answered her, of course.   This was a journey she made alone, and had every cycle for the last fifteen.  Each time she did, her children fussed and chided.  She was too old, too frail, the roads were too dangerous, Goddess forbid the Ochtarchy find out, at least take one of the mounts.  The list of reasons why she shouldn't seemed endless, and vaguely, she was aware they thought her senile, but the ache between her breasts would not abate and she did what she must.

Having rested all she dared, she sighed deeply, and began to lumber on.  She was bent almost double by the time she reached her destination.  The wood was a wild place, where few ventured; certainly none of the guard.

As she raised her eyes, she gazed through the fog of her blindness to remember.  This wood was dense with trees, full of wide reaching branches draped heavily with vines.  The vines seemed to have minds and thoughts, and they covered anything that couldn't run from their tendrils.  The outer reaches might suffer from the cold of winter, but deep within the depths, there was an eternal realm of green.  If one walked far enough through the trees and vines, they would find a small circle, a sheltered bower.  Beneath those trees moss seemed to always blanket the ground, and many a night in her youth had been spent on that blanket; so many of those nights with him…

So dense was the wood, and so poor her eyesight, she did not notice the trio following her from far behind. 

She inhaled weakly, the pungent scent of dirt and vegetative decay bringing her back to the present with a reminder of Xiosia's balance.  Reaching up with her arthritic fingers, she unclasped her cloak and let the snowy wool fall to the ground.  Beneath it, paled skin and well-worn clothes seemed to blend into one another.  She wore a tunic that was most likely black at one time, but the years faded the fabric into threadbare grey.  Beneath it, a long skirt loosely draped her hips.  The entire ensemble was belted tightly, showing the remnants of a once desirable figure, now shrunken and broken.

Carefully, she bent down to unlace her boots.  Stepping from them, she let her toes sink into the loam.  It took some minutes, but she unlaced a pouch from her belt, and clinging tightly to the staff, she began to make her way through the wood to their clearing.  Stepping under a heavy curtain of vines, she emerged onto the soft moss.  She paused.  Had she been been able to see, her eyes would have been dazzled by the green glow that was the only light penetrating the heavy foliage.  It surrounded everything in the little clearing, a place untouched by the winter threatening the outer lands. 

As she could not, she made her way slowly across the moss, dropping the staff at her feet.  She held her hands outstretched, stopping when they brushed against the dusty surface of a stone monument.  Her breath rushed in, and her throat caught as her fingertips walked over the aged rock.  Fifteen cycles this stone had stood by itself at the chosen head of the clearing.  The stone was cold to the touch, not enough light entered the clearing to warm it, and a few vines had braved the sides of it, seeming to wrap their tendrils around it in a natural embrace.  She brushed weakly at them, pulling them aside until the words carved into it were visible once more. 

"Love and Light, Forever Entwined" was etched deeply into the stone, above a name and date.  She bent forwards, using the stone to lower herself to the ground, and her knees sunk in the moss that mounded before it.  Her eyes closed and she pressed her withered cheek to the carvings.  No tears fell, the time for tears was long passed.  Instead, she simply curled herself atop the moss, holding the stone, not caring for the awkwardness of the position.  Her voice was soft, broken as she whispered.

"I didn't know if I would make it back this cycle.  Your son didn't want to let me out of the house, I had to creep out at night.  What parent ever has to sneak away from their child?  He's still so much like you.  Stubborn as a rivnak, but so smart and brave.  He had his first grandcub this year, I wish you could see her.  She has your eyes… "

She rambled on for hours, telling the stone the events of the past cycle, as well as her tired mind could recall them.  Periodically during the telling, she would doze off, leaning against the monument.  She never noticed as the three followers moved closer, one of them holding her boots, another with her cloak folded over his arm.  Her ears were too weak to hear their approach, her eyes too dim to see them standing so far away.  She simply continued to speak, pouring out her heart to the unresponsive stone. 

Across the clearing, two old enkidukai males, and a female of the same age quietly watched.  The fenki, and one of the menki stood next to each other, clothed in cream.  Their tunics folded many times at the lapels, and were belted into soft leathers.  Their fur was a soft grey, almost white at the tips of their ears and muzzles, but their eyes were identical sapphire orbs as they watched the pathetic scene.  They both looked tired, well into the autumn of their own lives, but they made this journey every cycle just as she did.  She leaned against his arm as she always did, and as always, they would never let her know they watched.

Standing a bit away, his clothing dark where theirs was light, the second menki looked much younger.  His fur was still inky dark, and his eyes were a deep honey gold.  He draped his black tunic with a leather vest, and a thick cloak covered his shoulders.  He looked identical in features to the other menki, enough to be his son, but the look in his eyes showed a weariness far beyond his years.  His eyes never left the old woman, but he spoke quietly to the other enkidukai.  "How long must we stay here, brother?"  Unlike the others, this was the first time he had watched this scene, and disparagement colored his voice. 

His brother and sister both turned, looking sharply at him "Until she is finished."

The darker brother snarled slightly, lip curling in disgust "Why must we?  She could talk to that rock for hours.  You both know as well as I do, that he's not in that stone.  Father isn't listening to her.  Father isn't coming back!"

The fenki frowned, crossing the space to slap her brother sharply across the face.  "Shhh!  She might hear you."  All three of the enkidukai looked across the clearing, two of them sighing in relief as they saw the woman still talking quietly to the stone.  Her weary voice barely carried over the distance, and three dark ears flickered as the words floated.

"…and nothing's changed with him.  He's still so handsome, but never was a normal boy.  I don't think I'll be able to do anything.  I wanted to help him… but..."

The lighter-garbed brother and sister turned to glare at their brother "That's you, she's talking about.  Whatever you've gotten into, we can see it's not right.  She's worried, Zet, we all are."

Zetlir folded his ears back and replied icily "No one asked for your concern."  For all that he looked like his father, his eyes and his stance were identical to his mother's.  His chin was just slightly tipped above level, and his eyes were slightly narrowed in unmistakable annoyance. 

Sarian glared at him, and started to reply, but Ehalan grabbed hold of his arm and pointed towards their mother.  The woman had lifted the pouch, and pulling back the laces, let a roll of cloth fall from it.  She took the roll, and carefully unfolded a gleaming knife from it.  Even from their distance, the enkidukai could see a gleam of crystal energies from the weapon.  She held it tenderly, and ran her fingertips over the runes and markings etched into the handle.  It was not the first weapon she had given Caraick, but it was certainly the one that held the most meaning for them.  She kissed the flat of the blade and set it down to dig with her hands into the moss before the stone.  She spoke quietly as she dug, and continued to whisper until the hole was deep enough to bury the knife.

"I know how much you love this one.  I want you to keep it with you.  It's just not right for you not to have a Spellweave."  She continued to murmur softly, a litany of her husband's praises, and a look of utter adoration on her weathered features as she covered the blade. 

Zetlir gave his brother and sister a dry look.  "She's lost her mind.  This is what you thought was so important that I needed to come with you this time?"  Ehalan frowned and shook her head, waving a hand at the scene before them. 

"Look at her, Zetlir.  She does this every cycle, without fail.  Nothing stops her, not wars, famine, plagues, nothing.  She's your mother, and she's here for your father."  But no matter what words were said, Zetlir simply sneered at them.  He turned to walk away, but Sarian followed him, and the two squared off. 

"It's well and good for you not to care; you never did, Zet, but she's here, and we need you with us."  Sarian heard his words, and thought how feeble his point was, at least until he saw the flash of bitterness masking some unknown expression in his brother's eyes. 

The fenki's ear flickered once.  With the escalation in volume of her brothers, she glanced worriedly at their mother.  It wouldn't do for her to realize they were here.  For the past fifteen cycles, since the day their father died, she and Sarian had secretly followed their mother into this wilderness to visit his tomb.  They might not have understood the journey, in fact, it was a certainty that they didn't, but they had always followed her, always watching over her.  It was something Zetlir had refused to do, until now, and she didn't even bother to guess at his motives.  She simply knew he didn't understand their mother's actions anymore than they did. 

No one really knew anything about Zetlir's personal life.  He guarded it carefully from his siblings and more so from his mother, but it was rather clear that he made few attachments to anyone. 

Sarian's wife had passed on to true death some ten years back, and while he still spoke fondly of her, they had followed the decrees and deposited her body into the Well.  He made a trip to the Well sometimes, but for the most part, he did not cling to her memory this way.  Ehalan had seen him in the company of a pretty widow.  She knew he had loved his wife, but he continued his life without her. 

"…started dueling this year.  All of them with daggers."  The old woman's voice was growing weaker, exhaustion was clear on her face and she closed her eyes for a moment, pausing.  "I try to help them some, I watch and tell them to move.  To always move more.  No matter how much they think they are moving, they can move more, just like you said…" 

The fenki frowned as she looked at her mother, and heard her words.  Their mother had never stopped living her life, but it was almost as if Caraick had never left her for how she spoke of him.  While she might not admit it to anyone but herself, Ehalan knew she could not see herself doing what her mother was doing now.  Then again, she also didn't have a husband or man in her life that she would mourn so. 

She sighed and turned back to the menki "Would you two shut up?"  The two brothers growled softly and faced her.  She gave them a narrow look and pointed to where their mother had slumped against the stone.  Zetlir's ear flickered once in annoyance, and the three heard her clearly for a moment.

"I'll see you soon, I love you, more than anything my light."  Her voice trailed off, and she smiled, resting her cheek against the stone.  Her cubs watched her for a long moment, waiting for her to rise again.  For fifteen cycles Sarian and Ehalan had heard those words.  She would always tell their father how she loved him, and then she would push herself up from the ground, and make the trek back to the city.  The quiet stretched out, the moments lingered until the lighter siblings shared a glance.   

Zetlir's ear flicked again.  "What is she doing now?  Can't you just go wake her up and carry her home?  She'll never be able to make that walk."  He took a few rapid steps closer, and the other siblings rushed forwards to grab hold of his arms, whispering vehemently a warning not to wake her, but it made no difference to the woman lying there.   No action they could have taken would have mattered; the woman was beyond noticing. 

Zetlir pulled away from his siblings, and closed the distance to his mother's side.  He dropped to his knees and caught her by the shoulder, shaking her roughly.  "Woman!  Old woman, wake up!"  His siblings rushed forwards, trying to halt his actions, but her head dropped back and he released her abruptly, backing away.  The three cubs gasped collectively, Ehalan moving forwards to cradle her mother's head in her lap.  She smoothed the thinning hair back, and ran her paw slowly over the skin as thin as the finest parchment.  "Momma…momma… wake up…" 

The darker brother stumbled back, a look of horror mingled with anguish flashed in his eyes, hastily masked with anger.  He opened his mouth to speak, but no matter how he tried, no words came out.  He licked his lips, before closing them and simply shaking his head.  Sarian stepped beside him, one paw firmly grasping his shoulder.  He merely watched as Ehalan continued to rock their mother's body, her own shoulders curling over the frail form. 
 
A soft sob slipped from the fenki, breaking the stillness, and causing Zetlir to break from his shock.  He tore himself away from his brother, and despite their cries, he turned and disappeared into the forest. 

Sarian knelt down beside his sister, and gently took his mother's hand.  He lifted the frail bones and held her hand to his cheek.  "Mom…"  He whispered softly, and closed his eyes.  Whatever thoughts passed in their minds, they kept them to themselves.  He looked up after a moment, and met his sister's gaze.  He slowly lowered his mother's hand, and wrapped his arms about his sister.  For a moment, they shared the most selfish emotion, and sought solace from the grief in each other's arms.  She cried freely on his shoulder until he sighed and stiffened up.  Always the one to soldier on, always strong like his father, Sarian rose and took his sister's paws to help her up to her feet.     

With a last look back, he two trudged away, tired and saddened.  Sarian took up his father's staff, and leaned heavily on it, one arm about his sister's shoulders.  He hugged her gently to his side, before tugging her along with him from the clearing.  "Come on, we'll go get the mounts, and take her back…"  His jaw tightened, and he swallowed once.  Beside him, his sister said nothing, tears dampening the fur of her cheeks.  She merely nodded and followed him from the wood.

As silence crept back into the clearing, a darkness seemed to settle over the moss and the woman's body.  Footsteps barely made a sound as the dark one crossed the clearing.  He paused at the bare feet of the dead woman, and looked down at her.  Her face showed many things.  Age, worry and care lingered in the deepest lines, but the smile that curved her lips seemed to belay it all.  Death was not something she had feared.  They had no way of knowing where one went when the death was permanent, but if Caraick had gone there, she would willingly follow him.  It was that hope that gave her serenity as she lay limp on the mossy ground.

He looked down at his mother for a long silent moment, anger flashing in his eyes.  His voice was harsh as he whispered "You weren't supposed to die, old woman.  You weren't supposed to leave."  His voice rose, pain and anger leeching into the words as he screamed.  "How dare you leave me?" 

He turned sharply on his heel, black boots leaving a gouge in the soft moss as he stalked to the edge of the clearing.  The memory of his brother and sister's sorrow and intentions whispered through his mind "… take her back to the well…"  He froze, and clenched his paws tightly, head bowed. 

A cry of rage ripped from him as he turned again to the body and flung out his arm.  A ball of fire erupted towards the corpse, surrounding the body in flames of every shade of red and orange.  He took three long strides closer and raised his second arm, an enormous hand of sand and rock rising from the ground to hold the burning figure in it's palm.  He clapped his paws together, clasping them tightly; the earthen fingers closed, crushing the body and fire together.  Rapidly twisting his paws, his magic shaped and formed the fist until it glowed red-hot with the fire from within.  He flung out his arms one final time, a flash of light filling the clearing with a glow as bright as the crystal.  As it subsided, he dropped to his paws and knees, panting into the charred remains of the moss.  He whispered softly, his voice cracked "No, brother… you won't." 

He pushed himself up to his feet, and walked from the clearing, not looking back.

The stone monument that had stood solitary for years was no longer alone.  Beside it, another stone now stood, carved into its surface a name, and date, and the words "The Light of His Life."