—————-

« Keep one hand on my armor; keep the other in front of you. » Fenni phrased it as advice, though Relan knew it was an order as she slowly stood, using the Keyen as a guide.  Her fingers slowly sifted through his thick fur to find the metal and leather, though it seemed oddly cold.  Or was it just that her fingers were so cold? « Do not use my eyes as a guide, and keep yours shut.  Do not speak, and make no quick movements.  Do you understand, Relan? »

« Fenni, what’s going on? »

« Do you understand? » He pressed.

« Yes, but—» Again he spoke aloud, his language somewhere between a growl and words.  For Relan, it was almost painful to keep her eyes tightly shut, to not see with whom, or what, her kru’shan was conversing.

« What in the seven hells is going on? » She shouted at him, biting her lip and grabbing tight onto his scruff.

« I—I’m sorry, Relan, » he began, « I can’t tell you. » He paused. « They won’t let me. » The Keyen language was passed for a few more seconds above her head, before the leaves around the rustled, and Fenni slowly began to move forward.  « All that they will let me say is, ‘by the Treatise of the Twelve, all who track with the Great Keyens will not be harmed.  They also say by not traveling by river, we cannot freely leave until we are escorted back to human lands. Step up: roots. » Stepping over a root curl just in time, Relan cautiously asked while at the same time knowing Fenni would give no real answer,

« ‘Human’ lands? »

« Many other creatures inhabit these lands, Relan, some far older, others—younger.  Most don’t want others to know they exist.  Humans have a habit of—» He stopped suddenly, anxiety leaking through a shield he was putting up between them.

« Fenni, what are you doing? »

« They don’t want us to talk anymore.  I’m sorry, Relan. From here on out, we walk silent. And hold tight, we might have far to go, » he warned, suddenly picking up his pace to a darting trot.

-           -           -           -           -

Caspian followed Ish’s guardian down a narrow but well-traveled foot path deep inside the hidden grove. Only a little ways in, the Ghost stopped and gestured for the half-blood to continue, alone. Suspicious, he passed beneath the long shadows of two large, stone pillars, one sunken deep in the loam and tilted a little overhead. As though the pillars were a gateway, smaller red-marked, white stones spread in a circle around, and Caspian felt a curious chill as he passed through, but did not let it take his attention.  He could hear voices, angry voices, deep inside.

“…brought an Ayenroki with you? You let him live?” An outraged voice demanded at a near hiss. The half-blood stopped in his tracks, letting his weight settle on the moist ground silently.

“They are sworn to destroy us, Ish!” A different voice snarled. “How could you even think to let him leave here alive?”  A more familiar voice forced itself over the others,

“Shall I have had him killed the moment I discovered what he was?  Now, when Rilketh steals our children and sends them back to kill us? We need allies!” Caspian frowned when another interjected,

“The Ayenroki would never become our allies, Ish, and you know it.”

“I will not accept that!  I will not accept that our debt to our ancestors—our children—will never be paid.” Ish spoke with a fury to quiet everyone else.  “We all will be forfeit unless we survive, and we won’t if the Empire has its way.   I will not have the weight of failing all who have come before on my shoulders.  This curse must end!”  Ish did not wait to see if her words, however much she proclaimed to dislike them, had any impact.  She stormed silently from the circle, walking past Caspian as he stepped silently into the deep shadows, her eyes glowing sullenly red from the light of the moons.  She paused a second, her gaze raking over him and the surrounding trail, before leaving.

Wondering if she knew he had been there the whole time, Caspian stepped back onto the trail after a moment, and continued down to where he had overheard the Ghosts talking.  He knew there could be no more waiting, not if he wanted to get back in time, or alive. Not bothering to fake respect or supplication, he confidently paced down the trail, quickly coming to a small clearing of short, soft grass.  Eleven women talking quietly, angrily, among themselves, immediately noticed his entrance.  Not giving them the time to make the first move, he strode into the center of the circle and said to ruffle them,

“I am Caspian. Why was I summoned?”  He wasn’t too surprised when the ire rose.

“The Ayenroki,” one muttered, her short, striped hair bristling.  From her clothes and pale skin, the half-blood supposed she came from the north.  Wondering if her attitude was colder than the climate to which she was accustomed, he replied,

“Yes. The Ayenroki.  What do you want?”

“Ish was the one who sent for you, not us,” another snarled as they moved around him in a circle, all taller than him, gazes studying every inch of him as they glared down.  He kept his face impassive, fingering the hilts of his swords.  The movement did not go unnoticed.

“He wields swords.  He must be Ayenroki.  No Ghost would dare, not unless they were taken by the Empire.”

“I was not,” he unquestionably stated.

“Yet you bear the mark of a tsen’a vesh,” the pale Ghost pressed again, her mouth stretching into a snarl, “and wear the uniform of an Elite.”

“I don’t have the time to stand here and answer questions about my allegiance!” He suddenly roared.  Using his fist to accentuate, he thundered, “I am an Ayenroki!  I fight with a krandesh! Since the fall of the North I have fought against the Empire!  If you can’t accept that, than Ish is right—your time is over.”  If air could crackle without lightning, Caspian knew it would have then. He continued,

“In the last war, it was the Ayenroki who turned the tide of battle.  Before we joined, nearly all of these lands were held by Rilketh, and since that war, we have kept ourselves separate from the world.  The Isles do not even know what is happening here.  Shi’li has already fallen.  Other lands will follow, and then when you have hidden in your last forest, your last cave, you too will be overrun.  You have no choice but to make allies, and you have no choice but to do so through me.”

Unnoticed during his tirade, another Ghost, a thin, older scout, had come into the circle of the red-marked, white stones.  Talking with one of the eleven women, he turned behind him and growled something low.  From out of the shadows, a tall, shaggy beast paced forward, eyes glowing golden beneath curled horns and armor creaking softly amidst the shaking of leaves above. Their eyes met, and instantly the animal’s narrowed.  Without warning, it bared its fangs and lowered its head, charging forward with a snarl.

Caught off guard, Caspian did not even have time to pull his swords before the beast was on top of him, fangs snapping for his neck.  Dwarfed beneath it, the half-blood’s arms barely shielded his face as he swore, mind racing for a way to fight back.  But almost immediately the animal was dragged off of him, digging its paws in the ground to try to rush forward despite the combined pull of seven of the eleven Ghosts.  Its mouth contorted, forcing out growls that nearly sounded like words, and to Caspian’s amazement, the Ghosts answered with growls of their own.

Warily regaining his feet, the half-blood backed away, pulling out his swords even as the women glared at him.  Soon, the beast calmed down, a soft growl still emanating continuously from its throat.  The Ghosts quickly released it from their holds, and panting slightly, it turned its gaze to them.

——

In the time it took the U’hano to travel back to the nearby Needle, five pale moons shadowed by the golden sun hung in the background, all low and swollen on the clear horizon.  The time of destruction comes once again, she thought as she dragged herself up the set of stairs around the perfectly circular, thin and tall building.  Hundreds of white stairs led to the Needle, and already people had ventured out to sit on the drying stone.

U’hano looked up from her feet as she stepped into the shadow of the Needle, and a man, a somewhat familiar man, awaited her on the stairs.  He sat on the highest, pale step, elbows resting with the majority of his weight behind him, and a sword lying across his knees, perfectly balanced.  She had never expected to see him again, nor had she ever wanted him to return.  She thought about just passing the man by, ignoring his presence, but a dark curiosity managed to worm its way into her thoughts.  She crossed her arms.

“What do you want?” U’hano demanded of the still form while her dark eyes pleaded to the nearly cleared-heavens that their meeting would be quick and painless.  She trudged up the last of the stairs, holding her long, soaked skirts up above her strong ankles as she stepped, until she was nearly level with a man best left to her past.  The warrior did not bother himself to answer her; he instead cast his calm, unnerving eyes out over the now-tranquil waters of the Bay of Storms, a sight U’hano took for granted.

A flock of small, yellow sea birds wheeled in the skies and, suddenly changing direction and intent, they headed towards a small out cropping of wet rock to roost.  The ever-hungry maelstrom swept up the tides, pulling anchored ships with strong eddies far across the bay where there was flotsam and jetsam enough to satiate its immense appetite.  The water near the gaping maw was smooth, unnaturally so, almost like the non-texture of a forming wave unable crest. Its glass-green depths would always be a mystery, where the cool water of the ocean rushed down to vanish, never appearing again.  A white city clung softly to the gently sloping cliffs where green vegetation was found crawling off of high balconies and domed roofs naturally, as if it belonged and was not a pest.  Stained glass was a common sight in many windows, and in the light of early afternoon, the wide boulevards seemed paved with molten pearl.  The people were small, brightly-colored specks in the distance, aimlessly wandering through a city the likes of which would amaze even the richest of kings.  Shi’li was a paradise on earth, one fragilely held safe by the Stormrunners.  As he studied the panoramic view wordlessly, listlessly, U’hano took her first real look at the man she hadn’t seen in ten years:

Many new scars adorned his body, a frame devoid of any softness and weaned of any rest or comfort.  Sun-tanned wrinkles found home mostly along his mouth and brown eyes, and they extended deeply into a face that was too young for such harshness.  His clothing was wet and went unnoticed, as if such discomforts had become familiar.  It looked as if he had spent hours upon the white stair, oblivious of the weather that had raged around him so soon ago.  Toffee hair, nearly bleached blond by the bright sun, hung in thick tendrils of damp lengths too long to be deemed civilized, and too short to be purposeful.  He looked strong to say the least, hardened by trial and weather, but most of all, he looked tired.

U’hano sighed and squeezed rainwater from her layers of mauve, diaphanous skirts before sitting down beside him on the white stair.   After paying the same respect to her wavy, waist-length black hair, the Stormrunner asked again,

“What do you want, Caspian?”  Again he did answer, but from the narrowing of his brown eyes, U’hano knew now it was not the water he looked at; it was his homeland that his eyes searched for, far across the waters.  She crossed her long legs and pulled her skirts modestly over her calves after taking off her waterlogged sandals and tossing them casually to her side.

“You know,” he began, his voice rough “I can almost see the cliffs towering above the sea, and the forests far above.  I can remember racing across the bridges between Isles and basking under the sun, but I will never call it home.”  He smiled ruefully, and paused, cleaning the rainwater from his sword across he knees until it shone in the golden light.  There was an odd, companionable silence between them for a few minutes as together they watched life return to normal for the rest of the world in the absence of threatening weather.

“Did you find what you were searching for?” The dark-skinned Stormrunner asked as she leaned her chin on her hand, her eyes searching the half-blood’s clean-cut face and previous animosity somewhat forgotten.

“No, but I did find something else.” U’hano waited for him to continue, but Caspian declined, and the Stormrunner did not push.  From their short time together almost ten years ago, she knew he was not a man to be pushed.  However curious she was, she waited, turning her own gaze to where the warrior looked.  Another storm brewed on the horizon, far enough out that it still might miss the large cove, but even through the immense distance, the Stormrunner could see the flashes of lightning.  Her skin tingled, sensitive to the touch of the storm, any storm, and she yearned to let loose her hidden power once again.  She wanted to let her restraints go, to absorb the lightning and wind, to call it down whimsically wherever her fancy desired, but resisted.  U’hano quickly began a topic to get her own mind away from the fatal attraction,

“So, what ever happened to that little boy?”  The question grabbed his attention, and then threw it back into his troubled past.  He had not had time to think about the dark-haired, blue-eyed little warrior in years, and only recently had come to wonder the same question.  He turned towards U’hano, suddenly very intense and entirely in the moment,

“That’s what I’m here to find out,” he answered.  In the light of the sun and moons, the warrior’s eyes reminded U’hano of the color of tea left too long to steep, thick and dingy, yet full of hidden flavor and depth.  They both looked away from each other at the same time, he to his unsheathed sword, and she to the empty stairs around her.  Again they sat in silence as he fingered his straight blade, turning it at different angles to shine beams of light in random directions.  His sudden words startled U’hano out of a shallow reverie as she enjoyed the warm sun on her face and was loosely braiding her hair,

“Can you take me back there,” the Stormrunner stiffened, “like you did before?” He phrased it as if she had already agreed, and without a trace of humility, something she very much wanted from him.  U’hano abruptly stood, and crossed her arms again.  Her hair was free in the leeward breeze as she demanded in the heat of smoldering anger,

“How do you have the nerve to ask that?!”  She nearly called down lightning on top of him; she wanted to see his skin crisp to a flimsy blackness.  Even the memory of their last, long encounter made her pucker her lips tartly as if a sour taste had invaded her mouth.  Instead of slapping him across the face, she focused on straightening her layered, sleek skirts, which had nearly been ruined by the salt in the wind and air.  She was not a child allowed to react with unbridled emotions, nor was she an indebted apprentice whose skills could be bought and sold at the whim of her master; she was a Stormrunner, and if it killed her, she would act like one.  She composed her delicate features, and Caspian chuckled at the haughty expression on her face.

“I’m glad you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” she responded tartly, glaring down her nose at him.  She remembered when they had first met, though a small tinge of absurdity managed to sneak up upon her at the memory she was no longer forced to live through, the dislocation from the past enough to strain the anger.  She had been a lost girl of fourteen on the streets of Shi’li, confused and just coming to the apex of her power that had suddenly arrived without warning, as it did to a few select children across the land.  He had been a fatigued, bloody man without patience or propriety.  At sword point, she led him to her master’s house, where a bargain was struck: the master’s life, for the skills of his student for two days of the warrior’s choosing. U’hano was wrested away, fearing she would die before the day was out, or worse.  Instead, she was forced into a journey with a warrior and a little boy, a journey that made her the woman she was at present, respected and powerful.

She glared at him, “What even makes you think that I can bring you safely there again?”  She pointed out to the horizon where five swollen moons hugged low the point where water touched sky.  “By the end of this week it will take three Stormrunners to do what I just did!” She held up three graceful fingers with painted nails of a natural color. “One more week, and it will take ten!”  She didn’t bother to count for him, and he calmly absorbed her outrage with a single raised eyebrow.  He left her to cool down for a moment before standing and sheathing his sword.

“That’s why I must go tonight.”  U’hano nearly choked on her tongue, but she never got a chance to answer his first question.

“Is this man bothering you, Stormrunner?”  A quiet voice asked from behind her, closer to the Needle though still many stairs above U’hano herself.  Her head whipped around to angrily find the source and order him away, but when her almond-shaped eyes viewed the shape of the High Master Dun Li’aylo, she nearly panicked.

It’s the weekend, when I’m supposed to post story extras and stuff. Trying to keep up with that. Those of you not interested in this, come back on Monday. I’m working on slew of informative articles that ought to be right up your alley (collectives, adding PW to ad chains, world pages, website extras like chat boxes, and a discussion about webcomic title images).

Part of the reason I’m taking a hiatus from The War of Winds this month is so I can focus on editing the novel that the comic is based on. Here’s a snippet from Chapter 7: Lesser Evils, and the corresponding comic pages.  The “lesser evils” title refers to many things, but mainly about past and present choices that 3 characters (Vrin, Ravar and Mersnai) have made.  I would of course welcome thoughts on what you think those decisions were, but I think the hints I laid down in this chapter were too vague yet. A sharp mind ought to be able to connect the dots, however.

I find it amazing how much my writing style has changed over the years. The original version of this chapter was written in 2003 or so. At the time, I was heavily into The Wheel of Time by Robert Jordan, obviously a maximalist fantasy work. I now am much more minimalist, preferring to hint at rather than be explicit. Minimalism also makes everything MUCH shorter, and the few descriptions I use stick out much more. I still love WoT though, that’s for damn sure. I also have quite the fondness for em-dashes. I find they replicate speech patterns much truer than more traditional methods.

Also, a note about Ravar’s syntax: Ayenroki try never to use contractions. When they slip up and use them, it’s supposed to be a very big faux paus. Ravar loosens up as you get to know him, but at this point he’s still pretty rigid.

—-

(Corresponding to these 2 pages: 1, 2)

“Where is the thief?” he asked again, growing vexed. Her arms twitched as he increased the level of pain she felt; he frowned. She should not have been able to twitch.

In a voice different than the one she had previously spoken with—deeper, more guttural—she replied, “You’re not very good at this, are you, half-man?”  Ravar felt his hackles rise at the sound of the voice, though he could not reason why. “A real Rrah’ashī Master could reach into this mind and pull out the thought he wanted. But you…” the voice trailed off, chuckling darkly. “You rely on brute force and pain, child of the destroyers.”

“You seek to mock me, human?” the half-man snarled.  “That is unwise, considering your position.”

“Mock you? I speak only truth, Ravar. An interesting—true—name, that,” the voice mused. “Said the same, front as reverse. Did anyone ever tell you what that meant? Half a name, mirrored on itself?” The Ayenroki felt his mouth go dry as the voice continued, answering its own question, “It means you are only half, half-man.” She paused, then smirked, still not looking at him with the rolled back eyes. “I made a joke.”

“Do not try to play with me,” Ravar warned, narrowing his eyes.  He felt his alignment slipping, and righted himself.  The voice grunted as the Ayenroki straightened the fingers on Vrin’s forehead, as though rotating a very small, very sharp, invisible knife.  “Who are you?”

“Who am I?” the voice repeated. “Ayenroki, you chose the wrong head in which to muck around.”  Ravar’s fingers, mere tools of physical alignment, jerked as something pushed against him-something he could neither see nor sense, but it existed nonetheless. He felt his fingers slowly turn clockwise, and despite how he strained, they would not straighten. Vrin’s hands raised themselves up as though pulled by invisible threads, every muscle and fiber in the arms starkly showing, flexed and strained, beneath pale skin.  Even in the darkness, Ravar could see the rows of scars that stretched vertically down both wrists, thick and white scars that stood out against the shadow-scars that should have killed. “Get out of it, now.”  Her lips were pulled back to reveal her teeth, held by bloodless gums.  The force that pushed against his ashī strengthened further, testing.

Ravar narrowed his eyes, confused.  Holding to his tenuous alignment, he asked again, “Who are you?”

“I am but one,” she replied, the joints of her fingers popping and clicking as she clenched and unclenched her hands. Her body seemed pressed against the wall by a force larger than Ravar himself, something invisible.

“That was not what I asked, Vrin,” he growled.

“You may think you know my name, I know your name, Ravar.”  Her mouth grinned, completely incongruent to the strain her body showed. A bead of sweat ran down the contour of her cheek, passing rolled-back eyes and catching on the edge of her lip.  The Ayenroki glanced down at the sensation of heat on his chest as saw his kireken, his crystal talisman, glowing a muted red like a nearly doused coal. It had never done that before. “You’re still in this head, Ayenroki,” the voice brought his eyes back up.  “It’s not a place you want to be.”

Ravar felt himself growing frustrated. “I do not care for your games! Tell me where Talon is!”

The woman sighed, unfazed by the anger in his voice.  “You are not welcome here, bastard child of two forms. Leave!” she hissed, baring teeth. “And do it skillfully. I will be very unhappy with you if you damage this mind.  Hurting her, or trying to kill her, would not serve your well.”

“Kill you?” Ravar growled, finally releasing the hold on her mind and instead snatching a wrist, “I have no need to kill you.  It looks like you have already tried enough.” He tossed her scarred forearm down, withdrawing all that he had done. Vrin dropped to the floor limply, a tangle of confused, shaking, limbs. “You are unnatural, whatever you are. From one second the next, you are different. It disgusts me,” the Ayenroki spat. “Slesseneġ.”

Those who read the comic should be aware on some level that the comic is the adaptation of the novel, which I am currently editing.  I say “should” because I blather on about it a lot.  At 25 chapters and over 500 pages (that’s single spaced, mind you :P) editing it is…torture. BUT! This is the revised version of chapter one, and I’m seriously thinking about redoing the comic chapter to match it. It contains far more clues than the original, and makes far more sense come the current chapter (Chapter 7.)  I’ve currently only edited up to the middle of Chapter 6, but I’m working my way up.

—

10 Years Later

Chapter 1 – Bad Decisions

Domain South:  Continent of Gan-go, in the city of Goranga.

Talon crouched at the ready on a thick branch of a tall, hardwood tree.  His back was braced against the smooth-barked trunk, and one hand rested lightly on a bough above.  An empty satchel hung across one shoulder, carefully tucked behind an arm so that it would not hinder him when he moved.  A knife was hidden in the folds of a blue sash at his waist, easily accessible. In his clothes of dark gray, Talon knew he was invisible to everyone who walked below him in the Upper City of Goranga, even despite the light of two small moons. He grinned. This is going to be too easy.

He tightened the fastenings of his boots and readied himself for a quick, silent dash down the length of the limb. It was a staggering height at which he rested, but he knew the danger of dwelling on the danger.  He knew he had to visualize the straight line to his goal, and realize the bough was wide enough to walk, never mind the three-story fall to a cobblestone street. He breathed lightly, and the night air was exhilarating compared to the sticky heat of a Gan-gonian spring day. Able to hear his own heart beating with excitement, he dashed.

In three long seconds he arrived at the end, not pausing for even an instant when the limb forked into smaller branches that were not strong enough to bear his weight. He leapt, using the wooden recoil to give him extra distance, and landed with a roll on a gently-sloped, tiled roof.  From there it was only a quick jaunt to the peak and a slide down the other side, right onto a small terrace of wrought-iron grate. As it had been the past two nights, the bubbled, glass doors were cracked open to allow a cooling breeze.  No sound came from within.  Talon checked his exit, a simple drop to a ledge overhang, and then another drop to the ground. From there, a sprint to the cover of shadows across a wide street and then back to the rooftops.

Simple entrance, simple exit, never panic: Talon’s only three rules of survival.  He used the excuse of a strong breeze to help test the smoothness of the hinges of the terrace door; they were silent, and he pushed them wide enough to let his body slide through. Crouching down to the side, he let his eyes grow accustomed to the dark inside, waiting impatiently as he made out the form of a wide, canopy bed, draped in white linen, bookshelves stacked to the brim, leather covers worn with use, and a vanity table, on top of which rested a small, open, chest.

Talon felt his heart jump at the thought of how much money could be inside the chest, but did not move fast; he knew better.  Speed led to clumsy mistakes, bumps in the night that woke up light sleepers, and most of all, getting caught. Thieves in Gan-go quickly learned to be good at what they did, and thieves of fortune who did not learn fast enough found that the punishment of being skinned alive too high a price to pay for the rare reward of gold.  Talon however, like most thieves in Goranga, was a thief of necessity. He was broke. He was hungry. His sister would most likely throttle him if she found out. Doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun while I’m at it.

The thief traveled towards the open chest first, stopping suddenly when he felt a sneeze coming. Swearing inwardly, he stifled it as his eyes watered and burned. Another came, and he caught it in his throat, bearing scratchy tingle silently. In a thin beam of moonlight that made it through the open doors, the thief realized the entire room was filled with dust, as though no one had lived there for years. That’s impossible! I just saw her two days ago!

He could remember her clearly. Her hair had been such a light blonde it seemed white, and she was tall-elegant-which was why he had bothered to come back the second night…and the third.   Someone lives here! Talon growled to himself, stifling another sneeze in the back of his throat.  He moved to the canopy bed to confirm someone indeed slept inside, but stopped himself. Money first, he remembered. Curiosity later.

With a frown, Talon moved to the desk across the room.  His fingers found the open chest and gently felt around inside it.  Suddenly he grinned, discovering that, as he thought, it was filled with coins.  He took the first out slowly, sure to make no noise, and noted it was oddly wide and heavy. He shrugged, and one by one he took enough to fill his hand, gently placing each coin in a padded pocket in his satchel. He made himself stop at nine, wanting to take more, but cautious lest he be weighed down, discovered too soon, or simply make too much noise.

Talon turned away then, knowing that with even so little coin he would have enough to live comfortably for at least a month, and headed towards the foot of the bed. His fingers found a break in the gauze netting and silently pulled it back, just enough that he could see inside with the moonlight behind him.  Beneath a thin layer of red, silken sheets, he could see the outline of a woman’s body. Curiosity temporarily satisfied, he turned to leave, but something made him pause: the body, under the blanket, it was not breathing.

Despite himself, the thief felt a shock. He had seen plenty of dead bodies before, victims of muggings or starvation, but if somehow he were tracked back to the lady’s house, he could be blamed.  He closed the curtain, and moved to the top of the bed, pulling the veil away for a closer look. The woman was on her side, facing him, though her hair covered her face. Talon waited for a long moment, watching for the rise of her chest as the swearing in his mind grew louder. You need to get out of here, Talon, an objective part of his mind advised.

But there was something else. As dread grabbed hold of his belly, the thief reached out and moved the hair draped over the face, revealing a wound across the woman’s neck.  There was no blood, but it looked fresh, more like a burn than a knife slash. The skin around it was puckered and pink, as though it had had time to heal-belying the look of the burn. Talon moved the hair more, revealing her face. He felt the blood rush from his head, and his skin grow cold. It was the same lady he had seen before, that much he could tell from the resemblance, but…it can’t be. She looks ancient!

The woman before him was aged, weak. The bones of her face were stark beneath slack skin, and her silver hair was limp, thin and ragged as old thread. Even as he watched, Talon swore the body seemed to decay before him. Her skin was so thin it was translucent, and the veins beneath were blue.  The thief took half a step back, unable to contain his disgust.  The stench of rot clung to his nostrils, worming its way to his stomach.  He put a hand to his mouth, quelling the urge to not only gag, but also leave.

There was something in the woman’s hand.

It was small, but from the way her fingers clenched it, it was something dear, something valuable. He could not see what it was-only that it was thin and circular, and tied to a leather cord.  He reached for it, and as his fingers grazed her hand, the woman’s body shuddered, releasing a breath. Her eyes fluttered open for a second before closing.  They were gray and milky, blind with cataracts and age. Winds, she’s still alive?

Talon waited for a shriek, a murmur, for the woman to awaken fully at his presence, but she merely groaned as though in pain.  You should get out of here, Talon, he told himself again even as he reached for what was in her hand a second time.  She tensed, breathing shallowly, but did not wake as he carefully peeled her gnarled fingers back one by one. Finally, the ring-though it was far too large and flat to wear on a finger, it was the only word to describe it-rested limply on her palm. Ignoring the voice in his head that shouted at him to leave the thing, he took hold of the ring.

The instant the flesh of his fingers touched the metal, Talon knew he should have listened to himself.  The old woman reared up in agony, her back arched close to breaking as she screamed, and though she ran out of her shallow breath in only a second, still she continued with a hoarse, guttural groan.  The wound on her neck burst open, no longer half-healed but fresh and raw, dripping blood-spraying it-an arm’s length away as Talon stumbled backwards.  He felt hot droplets land on his face, and swiped them away with his sleeve before he could think about what they felt like.  The woman turned to him then, one claw-like hand grasping the wound at her throat as blood bubbled through her fingers, and the other reaching out to the thief.  Her eyes, though unseeing, unspeaking, shouted at him nonetheless.  A second later, she fell limply, finally dead.

Talon felt something burning in his left palm like a coal and looked to it.  What he saw terrified him as much as the woman. In the moonlight, he could see his palm was covered in blood. The ring was embedding itself in his flesh, sinking deeper beneath the callused skin.  Swearing, he regained his feet, digging into the workings of his own hand in vain.  The pain was excruciating, and chills ran up his spine as cold sweat beaded on his forehead.  Blood pooled beneath his fingernails, and pawing the slippery mess of his hand, the thief could only bare his teeth at the futility and the pain.  He gasped and finally made himself stop, ripping a piece of the red silk from the coverlets and wrapping his palm.

“By the Four Winds,” he swore, tying the silk tight. “What the hell is going on?” Breathing far too fast, the thief found he could not leave the room fast enough.  The edges of his vision were dark as if he were about to pass out. He stumbled through the balcony doors, and with one leg stretched over the wrought-iron guardrail, he yelled in fright when a hand on his shoulder grabbed him back.

“What have you done?” a voice snarled in his ear.

The thief tried to turn, tried to see his assailant as he was dragged backwards, but the grip on his shoulder was too strong.  All he could tell was that it was a man, a very tall, very strong, man.  Talon did not hesitate as he reached for his knife, drawing it from his sash to stab backwards twice.  The hand released after a painful grunt, and hot with fear, the thief thought only of escape. He leapt over the guard-rail, landing awkwardly on the ledge below only to fall immediately to the ground. He landed in a rough hedge, rolled out of it, and raced away.

He did not look back, not as he dashed through the expensive gardens of private mansions, scaling the stone walls that separated them.  He did not look back as he crossed his own trails, confusing anyone who may be tracking him. The burning on his palm began to fade, and with it his fear of what had happened. No one was following him.  He was safe.

He made his way back to the rooftops, and then finally, back to the Lower City-where the slums and the shadows felt like home.  He paused on the wide, flat roof beneath streaming moonlight and looked at his hand. The wrapping was too tight, and it was annoying him.  Curiously, he felt his fear and disgust fade as he untied the silk and let it fall.  The skin of his palm was whole and unmarked, without sign of a wound.

Why had he wrapped it in the first place, he wondered?

He let the silk fall, and he did not notice as the wind blew it away. The events of the night were distant, growing dim.

Where was he?

Talon ran a hand through his hair.   He was confused, and could not remember why.

I’m hungry, he thought.

Well, I said I would post excerpts here, so here one is. For the first excerpt, I chose the introductory chapter for Relan and Fen Aya Zen. I figured this would be popular-ish due to Not Alone. I’m not going to include a spoiler warning here mostly because it’s obvious how Not Alone is going to work out. I’ve already said both characters appear in the comic rather soon, so it’s obvious they at least LIVE. Enjoy, but please note this chapter has not been edited since writing it…oh…2 years ago. :3 I’m probably going to take out some of the detail, as I wrote this in a slightly maximalist stage.

Here’s an old sketch of the two also:

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Chapter 10 – Face to Face – part III

Domain West: Ci’Endis: Seshen’a Tsa

The leaves softly crunched beneath Relan’s doeskin boots as she tightened the single bracer on her right wrist, trying to pull it back into place with her teeth. With a soft grunt at her failure, she sat lightly down on one of the many furred, moss-lathered rocks next to her, a boulder that had been warming in the streams of golden sunlight since the red dawn.  After admiring the great trees that surrounded her in an ageless beauty, born down with the weight of spider-webbed vines and leaves the size of a man’s head, Relan relaxed slightly, taking a deep breath of the jungle air.  The magnificence of the Seshen’a Tsa, the Forest of Stones, would never cease to amaze her, but the stones hid secrets, deadly secrets, and Relan refused to be caught unawares.  To do so would mean her death.

She laid at her feet lay a silver-wooded staff nearly as tall a she, and tight, leather wraps encircled the areas where her hand usually rested.  Up its length were a series of engravings, shallow crevasses in the light wood that chronicled her past, her present, and perhaps, her future.  Near the top end, the numeral “three” stood boldly out on the hub, three rings, one inside of the other, just touching at the bottom.  Next to it, climbing vertically, was her name in the same alphabet, and after, her title of Na’shan. Interspersed between, and sometimes in, the carvings were many indentations, forceful dents whose origin could only be from its use as a weapon on its travels.  The woman focused on tightening the straps of her bracer, cautious lest it become too loose during battle and foil her hands.  Relan unconsciously flickered her long, loose hair behind an ear, unaware of its annoying nature in her current struggle as it glowed auburn in the late evening light.  A wide ring of tooled, golden metal gleamed brightly in the misty air of the Seshen’a Tsa, the only real symbol of rank she chose to wear.  The ear cuff proclaimed her to be a protector of the borderlands, a self-professed outcast of cities, and half of a Shan pairing.

A sound tickled the ear she had just freed, and she stilled, slowly sinking off the small boulder to pick up her staff with her left hand.  Brown eyes tinged with green picked her surroundings apart with a trained ferocity, skipping over nothing, and yet, focusing on nothing.  Relan had learned early that putting one’s attention in only a single place meant being oblivious to everywhere else.  A small stream gurgled behind her, and a bird flew overhead, squawking loudly.  The wind blew and the great trees rustled, dropping a few leaves in a quiet, unobtrusive, lazy way.  A twig snapped, and her head whipped to the right, searching the area behind the many, clustered rocks, but deep shadows hid any forms.  Her eyes suddenly shadowed over, a passing flicker of doubt, and she whirled around, her staff at ready.

An enormous beast stood only a body-length behind her, one wide paw above the ground, ready to slowly release its mass to the earth.  Its fur was of a dark, reddish hue that faded first to a light, and then to dark gray in stripes, and a large, curled tail stood prominently white over a wide back.  It wore an odd harness, a metal skeleton that wrapped around the thick neck, underneath a bearish, barrel chest and then around the strong back.  Chain-linked armor filled in the spaces not covered by the harness, and it effectively protected the beast’s vitals from harm. The body shape most closely matched that of a wolf, though its bulk would overshadow two wolves, and a pair of curled horns proudly adorned its immense head.  Neither it nor Relan moved.

Suddenly, it pounced, and Relan brought up her staff as giant forepaws landed on her chest and pushed her to the ground.  She used the momentum to flip the beast behind her, and she then rolled to the left just as a dripping, fanged mouth lunged for her neck, barely missing.  A tendril of hot drool landed on her cheek, and she flinched, but did not pause to wipe it away.  On the ground, she flipped her legs around and tripped the wolf-like creature before it could regain equilibrium from the unsuccessful attack.   It fell heavily to the soft earth, digging a deep trench with its strong muzzle, and coughed as soil invaded a mouth used only to raw, bloody meat.

Neither fighter moved for a moment, until a rich laugh disturbed the aged silence of trees and growing plants.  Relan rolled on the ground, laughing at the beast whose tongue rolled disgustedly in and out of its large, fanged mouth in a clear show of distaste. She had to hold in her sides as laughing cramps became only a slight hindrance to her humor.  The animal moved into a more dignified position, large head arrogantly high and forepaws extended in front rather than embarrassingly behind.  It growled low when Relan refused to stop, but the sound only encouraged the woman to laugh louder.  Finally, her sides worn out and tears leaking from her eyes, she levered herself up with the help of a nearby rock, still chuckling.

“You deserved that, Fenni.”  He seemed to grumble as a clod of moss fell from the roof of his mouth and golden-red eyes scrunched in distaste.  “And I’m not sorry in the slightest.”  To prove her point, she kicked some leaf litter at him, aiming for his shoulders. Her eyes squinted as she held in her mirth in a late, vain attempt to soothe her companion’s sore feelings.  Fen Aya Zen’s eyes narrowed and he sent a thought to her, though it was more of an idea and less of words,

« You’re getting faster. »

She grinned, and the beast did not flinch at her bared fangs.  He had long ago become familiar with human ways, and he instead grinned back, black dirt marring a sinister smile. « For a human anyways, right? »