Image by Gemini
Luarca
A shape stirred in the darkness, awakened after years of slumber by its spies returning from the north. Milky white eyes opened, seeing everything, even in the absolute blackness of its cavernous home, hundreds of feet underground. It shifted its great bulk, tentacles atop its snake-like head twitching, spreading its awareness outward, seeking its kindred. The little lizards that other races called the Ssythe—it–he, no longer really resembled them. Was it even a “he”? It seemed like centuries since such trivialities had mattered.
The smell of death permeated the stale air. Blood leaked into its gruesome home from bodies ritually sacrificed in its name. Such a pitiful trickle of power compared to the one it sought. Visions swarmed its mind from multiple perspectives at once: the present, the past. Winged thralls danced in the skies and darkened the trees. The elder soul walked free, no longer protected by those dreaded ancients of bark and earth. To have such power there for the taking—the path to true immortality. The lord of the unseen licked its lipless face with a forked tongue in anticipation.
The waiting was finally over. Only a sliver of the twin’s power, but it was there: vengeance, hunger, pain. It remembered when the druids had returned the soul to this realm—hunger, pain, and a baby crying. The machinations of the pawns of Primythera were not hidden from Luarca, the crawler in the deep. A sinuous body contorted, and scales rippled, causing the earth to shake. Eight clawed limbs began pulling the creature toward the surface, passing enormous caves filled with a vast wealth of precious metals. Useless, except as rewards for minions. Yes, wealth—that was how things were accomplished in the human world. Tendrils of a deranged but insidious mind reached out to the faithful and began to issue instructions.
The earth continued to tremble and give way before the forty-foot-long reptilian monstrosity. Those above cried out in ecstasy and terror in equal measure. Siama Luarca, lord of the unseen, crawler of the deep, nightweaver, the elder Ssythe abomination human mythology referred to as the Blood Wretch, slowly made its way into the light once again.
Beldere
“Have you delved the auguries recently my son?” Master Adenide’s elderly face was severe but not unkindly, like a general whose countenance was stained by a life of violence but now held a precious new grandchild.
“Yes” Beldere was fidgeting, having trouble finding the inner peace that normally came so easily. It was more than the nervous regard for a respected elder, it was an apprehension for the difficult questions to come.
“And what have you seen?” The old priest relaxed on a cushioned chair made of polished and lacquered oak. The grotto of whispers was a modestly appointed great hall with four attached cabins in the shade of a small grove of young elderwoods. Everyone in the village was welcome to come in search of healing or wisdom, and the master and two acolytes provided all they could without asking for repayment of any kind. The quality of the crafted furniture, however, was a testament to the villagers’ appreciation.
“Violence.” Beldere started, and then stopped himself not knowing where or how to begin. The one word seemed to be enough, however, as his mentor took a deep breath and seemed to stare inward for a long moment.
“Where do you see yourself?”
“In the middle of everything,” Beldere could not keep the catch from his voice as he relived the visions, “standing atop a pile of bodies, with…him, or dying underneath… feeling the suffocating death crushing my body, my soul.” He was sobbing now, wiping his face on his robe in a most undignified manner, like a child. Taking deep breaths, the young man embraced the fear and despair and then observed it from the outside, clearing his mind temporarily from the burdens of his emotions. “How can someone so isolated have so many enemies?”
“He has something that the powerful want. He doesn’t understand, but you need to. An elder soul is a powerful component in a ritual that can create a divine spark. The soul of Isubane will be even more sought out because of how he died.” The old priest stopped to let the younger man absorb the knowledge and reach the proper conclusions.
“You believe his soul absorbed aspects of Isulas and Isuna as they mingled between the veils.”
“I certainly believe it is possible. Beings approaching ascension would sense that spark as it entered our realm. It’s one of the reasons the gods do not lightly send avatars, as even they have predators seeking a path forward.”
Beldere digested this for a moment. “There is more to it though, it’s not all about him.”
“Good, you do indeed show wisdom beyond your years. Isubane’s plight is but the tip of Mecre’s problems. Dark events encroach upon us. The Grulken attack in numbers greater than ever recorded, and they are organized. The Ssythe are amassing in the southern isles for unknown reasons. The druids on Mecre’s council report more unexplained breaches in the veils, beings that should not be able to come through are somehow doing so. I believe we are coming to that convergence of events which prompted the rebirth of Mecre Everborn. Primythera does not take direct interest unless something cataclysmic is on the horizon.” It had been thirteen hundred years since the planet spirit had summoned the Everborn, and that had been a war that encompassed the known world, where gods rose and fell, entire species were wiped out and the geography of the planet itself was changed.
Why me? I didn’t want this! Was what Beldere felt like saying, but he knew questioning the wisdom of Neador or Primythera was useless. They saw things in a different perspective than mortals. Divine plans might take several lifetimes to come to fruition and a mortal would likely never fully comprehend their part. I am a pawn, a small piece in a much greater plan. I must have faith. The young priest did not have to say anything, he simply sighed in resignation.
“I see you understand my son.” The old man smiled in a tired, and wry manner which radiated empathy. “You have my congratulations, and my sympathy.”
Chatwick
The night before had included one of the best meals and best nights’ sleep of his life. The meal was better than festival fare, with a whole leg of roast goose, potatoes, carrots, and bread. Then, they had given him his own room with a soft, clean bed, thin under-blankets called sheets, a warm odor-free blanket with no holes or stains, and best of all, no younger sister tossing and turning beside him. This morning was a different story. After their sumptuous breakfast of eggs, sausage, and buttered toast, his sister had been sent off to school. Chatwick, however, had been sent off to someone called an assessor, who quizzed him on various subjects, including reading and writing, and pronounced him “adequate.” Then, the assessor proceeded to poke and prod him with a variety of arcane instruments to determine if he had any ailments or injuries. Chatwick had assured the scholarly young man that the nice priest of Neador had healed him of every injury or ailment he had ever had, and even some he hadn’t known about. The scholarly young man had assured Chatwick that all armsmen needed to undergo a yearly evaluation so they could be utilized efficiently and given every opportunity to advance their skills. Chatwick wasn’t sure what that meant, and since his head conjured up visions both ominous and reassuring, he decided to let it go and save it for later thought.
Almost immediately after being pronounced healthy and reasonably educated, he was issued a short sword and a leather jerkin and shown to the practice area, where the big noble boys had apparently already been since before sunrise. Here, he discovered that his new master and his dour friend were relentless in the pursuit of the martial arts. Seleger led him through a series of warm-up exercises that left the thin pig farmer gasping for air. A dozen feet away, Catwright was thrashing the local soldiers one after the other, and they kept coming! As if it was some kind of privilege to get cut open and have their bones broken by a kid half their age. The priest was there as well, healing the wounds as fast as they came, a sad look on his face, as if he’d rather be anywhere else.
Chatwick took his turn sparring as well and discovered it was a lot harder than it looked. They mostly just talked to him about where to place his feet and how to hold the sword. No one really hit him except to batter his clumsily held weapon or slap him lightly with the flat of a blade. They were actually encouraging and nice for the most part, something he had not expected from adults, much less soldiers. Catwright avoided him, as if the newly minted squire was not worth the time of such a peerless warrior. He mostly squared up with Seleger, who patiently instructed and corrected as if he had been doing this his entire life.
“Why aren’t you thrashing me?” Chatwick finally gasped as he bent over, hands on his knees. He was exhausted, and they hadn’t even been at it an hour. He wasn’t lazy or unfit compared to other kids he went to school with, but he couldn’t even lift his arms anymore.
“What do you mean?” Seleger was grinning at him with that winsome, knowing smile that was simultaneously endearing and condescending. “You look pretty roughed up to me.”
“I mean like that,” he pointed to where Catwright had just stepped inside a slow swing and shattered a man’s jaw with the pommel of his sword.
“Oh, you’re not ready for that,” Seleger laughed. “Those men have been doing this for years! They have a soldier’s alchemical conditioning, which makes their bones stronger and helps them heal and recover faster.”
“But you and Cat can’t be much older than me.”
“Well, yes, but again, we’ve been doing this for years, and we have augmentations as well, even more than most of the soldiers.”
“How is Cat so good? He’s even faster than you.” Chatwick stopped for a moment, considering the wisdom of his words. “No, yeah… I mean, he is, isn’t he?”
Seleger was still laughing. “Yes, he has a gift, plus he’s been doing this nonstop since he was old enough to stand.”
“Will I be able to fight like that someday?”
“You are not expected to fight like that, unless you become a knight in your own right. Your task is to stay alive and distract the enemy until I can get there.” Seleger beckoned the younger boy to follow, and they proceeded to a locked cabinet. Producing a key, the older boy unlocked the doors and retrieved a small corked vial of brownish liquid. “We call this liquid vigor,” he said. “We use it for beginning soldiers since it loses its effectiveness after a while. It’s not a true tempering drought, but it will help you recover faster, give you energy, and repair your muscles so you can get back to training again.”
Chatwick took the proffered vial, and though he knew it cost more than a half dozen healthy piglets, he downed it all without hesitation. This was his life now, and if these two older boys were the new standard, he had a lot of catching up to do. Within seconds, energy filled his body, and his aching muscles felt enlarged and strong. Seleger then took him through some basic instruction in a variety of smaller weapons, including knives and daggers, which Chatwick found he had a much better grasp of.
He was thankful at first that combat training was only the first three hours of the day, until he was shown to the other classrooms. He received detailed instruction on the subjects of history, etiquette, tactics, science, and magic. Some of the discussions were actually pretty interesting, but after his sip of vigor started to wear off, he could barely keep his eyes open. The classes were taught by old soldiers or scholars, and in most cases, he was in the class with only two or three other students. Everyone gave him so much attention; it was stifling compared to what he was used to. Unfortunately, he found it impossible to catch a nap. He barely had a chance to relieve himself after mid-meal before he was off to another class. At one point, he walked past a stable where a boy was mucking away happily and actually felt a twinge of jealousy. I need to get my head right!
By dinner time, he had his own pack filled with more books than he had seen in his life, and he was encouraged to study them in his room, which had its own desk and a shelf for said books. He talked to his sister at dinner to find that she had been fitted for three new dresses and only had to attend two classes all day. She’d had a grand time playing with some of the other children around the estate. After dinner, he spread out his bound and printed treasures upon the desk until it was covered. Feeling tired but studious, he opened up some of the other books and spread them upon his bed. where he promptly fell asleep atop them.
Seleger
Something was off with his friend. He acted nice enough and had the same mannerisms and all, but he was more guarded, more withdrawn. Seleger mentioned it to his father that first night after dinner and received a nod in response.
“He seems a lot older,” his father said. “Keep an eye on him. I heard they pushed him hard the last couple of years. That young priest looks like he’s seen his share of trauma as well.” Beldere did seem more withdrawn, now that Seleger thought about it. Well, it makes sense, he was there as well, elbow deep in the blood and guts.
The next morning, Catwright went to the training grounds with a will. It seemed like he had to prove himself to every able-bodied soldier there. Seleger had to practically pull him away for mid-meal, and when Cat wanted to go back right after, Seleger had finally had enough.
“Why do you need to go back? You’ve already beaten down every soldier in the barracks.”
The other boy paused for a long moment and sighed deeply. “What would you like to do?” Now Seleger smiled.
“We’re going to the tavern for a turn at the war table!”
“Don’t you have a war table in the manor?”
“Yes, however, here at our lovely home you will not find ladies of ill repute in their cups. Oh, and the games at Giblin’s place are much more interesting.” Seleger smiled again as Cat shrugged his shoulders in defeat. “Who knows, maybe you can start a fight! All your Sapphire Company and mercenary friends are sure to be there.” Cat showed a smile that was obviously forced, and Seleger tried not to take it personally. He would show his friend a good time if it killed him.
Giblin’s tavern was a relatively isolated two-story building on the southeastern edge of town. When Cat inquired as to why it was so far from the barracks, Seleger replied that old Giblin wanted to be as far from the manor and the grove as he could possibly be, and yet still be in town. Cat shrugged again, as if this made perfect sense. The bottom floor was quite literally overflowing with patrons, some of whom were already sleeping off their first round on the lawn outside. Seleger laughed loudly, “It’s barely an hour past midday, this is going to be great!”
Several people called out to them as they entered. Seleger recognized almost everyone in the building, and the crowd made way for the two boys with loud, jovial greetings and a shrill, joking, “Throw them out, they’re too young!” from Gemma. Tankards were waiting for them at the bar, but it took a bit longer to get spots at the war table. There were several teams waiting for a turn when the two boys approached. Not afraid of a challenge, Seleger charmed the competitors within a few short minutes, and with a few words and promises of free beverages, they were allowed to jump the line and have a game in time for the second round of drinks.
The table was a raised stone platform roughly eight feet long and four feet wide, and upon the surface were what at first appeared to be children’s toys, but were actually detailed miniatures representing groups of soldiers with various capabilities. Each miniature had a combat value, and the players would select a number of miniatures which added up to a certain number, usually four or five hundred, and then face off against one another in a game of strategy. A yardstick was used to measure distance, and small six-sided square dice were used to resolve issues of chance. A game could last hours or be over in minutes, depending on skills, chance, alliances, and levels of inebriation.
So many people wanted to play that they ended up creating four teams of two for the first round, with Catwright and Seleger splitting their force, each controlling half of their pieces independently. The game lasted less than an hour before Olivia and Jarod, the reigning champions, handily won after cornering Seleger’s routed unit in a ravine where he surrendered.
“I thought you were good at this?” Cat goaded.
“I am, well, better than you at least.” Seleger gestured to the board.
“I’m pretty sure everyone allied against me,” Cat stated matter-of-factly. Seleger had to concede the point. Catwright had been set upon by all three opponents before they ever attacked each other. That’s what he got for beating them all bloody.
Not giving up, Seleger towed Catwright along with him to socialize with the fairer sex. In his vast and varied experience, nothing cheered the suffering soul of a melancholy young man like the casual affections of a buxom young maiden. Perhaps the only superior cure was the ravenous attention of the not-so-maidenly sort. Behind the tavern, a partially fenced-in porch area held several wooden tables with chairs, along with a more sturdy set of tables dedicated to games of strength and coordination. Green vines with purple and yellow flowers covered the three walls, inside and out. In this sacred green area open to nature, the town leaf burners could partake of their vice without offending or accidentally sharing their experience with those inside.
Without hesitation, Seleger pulled out two chairs from a table where three women sat, immersed in a tri-color cloud of herbal smoke. He took a seat and beckoned Cat to sit as well. “Selya, Emmy, Bristol,” he gave them his best smile, “I’d like you to meet my friend Catwright.” The girls were young, well, a few years older than him, but pretty and so delightfully different. Selya with long dark hair and wide eyes, Emmy with her more mousy, innocent look, and Bristol with her open, challenging face and large… voice. He did love variety.
Selya’s eyes widened slightly, Emmy smiled shyly, and Bristol pointed and shouted, “Oi! I know you, my papi said he got his jaw broke by some kid from the Ironwoods this morning! That’s him, Catwright Itshisbane!” Seleger wasn’t sure if she mispronounced the name intentionally or if she were already burned, toasted, smoked? The terminology for their particular version of herbal impairment may have escaped him, but Bristol’s comment induced a round of excited chatter. Selya seemed to know every obscure rumor about Cat’s grandfather, and Emmy pouted about how it was such a shame she was already promised to the miller’s son. Catwright’s face was bright red, and it wasn’t from the brew.
All Cat managed during the conversation was a quiet “Um, hello,” and it struck Seleger that the other boy had never been around girls outside of a combat training exercise. Even then, those few women had been at least five years older. All at once, it struck Seleger. His friend was newly freed from a life so structured he almost never made his own decisions other than how to maim someone. Cat had no direction and, worse, no social skills. A bout of sympathy washed over the young lordling as he saw Catwright increase his rate of consumption to alleviate his awkwardness. This was a big problem, and Seleger was just the champion to solve it!
The Upgrade Blog 