Wind-Swept

Oh, the wind, the wind... She loved how it felt, arching across her shoulders and down her back, twisting cool fingers into her hair, smoothing worries off of her brow and sliding a frisky caress up her ankle.

If she jumped, would the wind catch her? Would it be strong enough to float her to the Earth, leaving her splashing playfully in the waters far below? Would it feel like flying? Behind closed eyes, she imagined it, gliding through the air, hair blown back, scarf slipping free and flitting behind her, winding through the air like an eel.

As she imagined the laughter slipping free from her, it did so, the sound ringing out over the falls and their pounding, brutal waters. She was knee-deep in pushy, eager flows that whispered in burbling chirps for her to jump, jump, jump! She could imagine it, as vivid as reality, behind eyelids flickering and fluttering; she could feel herself melting and molding into the waters and down, down she would go -

"Hey! Hey, don't jump!" Some stranger's voice rang out behind her, shattering the gleaming images that danced in her mind.

She opened her eyes and looked down. The waterfall roared below her, and the white foam reminded her of an open maw. Goodness, she was high!

"Hey!" The sound was accompanied by sloshing now. She lowered her arms from their akimbo at her sides. The whispering waters receded to mere currents, and the yearning dissolved like footprints in sand. Slowly turning, she peered at the stranger who was quickly slogging closer.

He was unremarkable at first glance - peasant's clothing on a peasant's body, spray making his hair cling to his head in a wormy mop. His face was screwed up in a grimace as he struggled to meet her where she stood, at the tip top edge of a waterfall. He had quite a ways to go.

"What are you doing?" She called out, head tilted to the side.

The more she watched him, the more details sparkled and gleamed on him. She noticed that he was strong - the clothing, wet from his travel into danger, clung to corded muscles. His hair, though sopping wet, shimmered with color in the sun like a raven's wing. He had markings on his face that she did not understand but they fascinated her. The clothing, too, was no mere peasant's clothing. She liked how many pockets it had. She could tell. The ones past the stranger's knees were bloated and floating from the water's wild attempts to drag them down.

"I'm - " He stopped, blinking to look at her face. She was now grinning broadly. "I was... trying to help you?"

She snickered. At the sound, he scowled, but that just made her laugh even more. Her wild grin spread, and she raised her hands to contain the expression on her face. Her odd confidence wavered but for a moment when he cocked his head at her revealed hands.

Where five human fingers would have been, there were three, almost birdlike talons, dark-tipped and sharp. They extended from rough hide, like oiled leather that covered her wrists and faded into pale freckled skin at her elbows.

She dropped her hands back to her sides, nervously twisting the claws into her clothing. Her rough spun tunic was torn short past her waist and cinched with a leather belt, but the sleeves were shorn at the elbows as if left unfinished. Her trousers were obviously cut for a man, and she very obviously didn't care.

The Stranger stood knee-deep in flowing river-water, staring at her with annoyance bordering on bemusement. He let out an exasperated sigh and pushed sopping hair from his eyes. She giggled when she noticed that his teeth were sharp, and his eyes were not human. This was good - Humans made her nervous. Because of what she was, of course.

"You... don't need help. Do you." He crossed his arms.

She took a great breath and barked another laugh. He just looked to funny, standing there! Delighted by the new face, she decided she should speak with them. So, she hopped in place to spin and face him. Her foot slipped and she wobbled on the other, throwing her arms out like wings, nervous energy crackling at her fingertips, literally, and as her heart thudded into her throat, and her smile twisted dreamily into the image of her falling, falling, falling -

The Stranger caught her hand and pulled her off of the edge. Somehow he had made it however far to snatch her from a potentially catastrophic fall. She blinked, snapped out of her reverie by foreign strength, and the first thing she noticed was that his hair curled a bit around his face, and one strand was stuck in the fine jet hairs angled at the tip of his chin. "Oh!"

He smirked at the expression on her face - no doubt perplexed more then it was frightened.

She bit her bottom lip and looked up at him from under her lashes, cheeks pink. "...Well, maybe a little help?"

He helped her back to shore, sopping wet and grumbling as she giggled through 'eeps' and 'oops'. She was not themost graceful of creatures, and these stones were slick. Once they made it back to the rocky bank, she rung out the bottom of her shirt. WHen she glanced over, she saw him deflating the water-filled pockets one by one. She tittered, one talon on her lips in delight.

"So. Who are YOU, then?" He asked.

She tightened the scarf around her head, tongue pressed between her teeth and poking out ever-so-slightly as she focused on the knot. Talons were better for taking knots apart, not making them.

"Me?"

He rolled his eyes, a half smirk still sparkling with river water on his face. "No, the waterfall."

"That's the Forever-Fall." She nodded.

"I meant you. YOU. What is YOUR name?"

Her grin returned, and she bowed at the waist. "Delighted to meet you strange-stranger! You may call me the wind!"

"I'm not calling you that." Expression flat, one eyebrow raised.

She groaned, face turned into a pout for about two seconds, before her mood swung again and she shrugged gaily.

"Then you may call me Neria."

Awake

He opened his eyes.

A muddled confusion overcame him; gravity was ephemeral, vision was a black canvas, his body was pinpricks of discomfort. Had he opened his eyes? It looked the same when he blinked. Maybe now they were actually closed? He exercised this over and over until he noticed a difference.

A crack. There was a thin, white crack just at the very bottom of his sight. He wondered if he could touch it? He  began the exploration of that thing called 'movement.' He had hands, and fingers, and elbows which he kept knocking. He realized his knees, too, were awkward and incredibly in the way.

He couldn't move very much at all. Something was in the way. And the more he thought about the restrictions, the more uneasy he became.

What if this is it? What if this is all I get to do, everything I see is darkness and a smear of light, what if I never see my own hands or face or legs, what if, what if, what if....

The more these thoughts raced over his mind, the more he banged and thudded in his cubicle, and the more he did, the louder he became, and the more furious he banged and pounded and clawed at his encasement. Until -

Until the whole front side of whatever he lay in exploded outward, showering him with bits of dried splintery wood. There was momentum that came with the outstretched arms, balled up fists at the ends of them, crashing through his prison. It pulled him upwards, along with a long, sucking breath inhaled through dusty lungs.

He frantically brushed at his face and his chest and arms, shaking with the unknown rush of new life.

Sort of.

The light outside of his old grave was dim - twilight, full moon, stars lighting the open air. He blinked slowly, though felt no need to keep his eyes safe from the dry winds that tugged at his clothing. A moment of terrified and curious reflection overcame him, as if he was speaking to himself from far away.

I am fucked. But I have no idea why. And who the hell am I to BE fucked, anyway? No really, who am I? I know things - pointless useful things, like language, and up and down and breathing and eating and math and shoe size and that I like hats - but I have no idea who I am. No idea. 

He looked down at his hands. He knew he was a he. He glanced around. He made sure he was a he after seeing that there was no one else around. Then he felt silly. He had no idea why he should feel silly. He felt like his world was spinning on an awkward axis, throwing common knowledge at him intermingled with the blank, empty void of where HE used to be.

He let himself flop back down into his coffin.

It was a coffin.

He immediately sat back up, pulling himself clumsily out of said coffin, and spilling out onto the floor which was a lot farther away than he thought it was. He ended up face down on hard, smooth stone, and surrounded by the scraping of dried leaves blowing across the tile. There was a door open behind him. Thick pillars hid the rest of the world except for this one little room.

It took him a minute to work his legs right. And when he finally did get to his feet, he started to dust himself off and tidy himself up to distract himself from the thought that he couldn't feel how cold it was, or that falling almost four feet onto his face didn't even hurt, or that he had punched the lid off of a coffin to escape it. 

"No, you stop that. Stop freaking out." His voice came without obstacle, as if coming from a breathing, bleeding, salivating being. There was no gust of dust, cough, or black ooze, no feral growl or snarl instead of words, just... his voice.

That was ok. He could deal with that. And though he did not feel the need to breathe (which unnerved him a great deal,) he took the time to take a nice, deep, soothing breath.

"Ok. Ok. You aren't dead. You aren't really dead. You're just... you're just sort of dead. Half dead? Ugh." He shook his head. He ran his hands through his tawny hair. It was not white and dead and falling out. His fingernails weren't three feet long and cracked. His skin felt like it was all there on his face. He had eyelids....

Exasperated, he turned back to the coffin. He walked around it slowly, looking for some sort of plaque or something. There was nothing. It was a black coffin, elevated on a pedestal at the center of a pillared mausoleum in the middle of frickin' no where, and he was alone, with no memories of how he got there.

There was something inside the coffin though. When he plucked it out, it made him smile. He spun the fedora between his hands and in the same fluid motion he placed it rakishly upon his head, flicking the front brim of the dashing accessory.

"Whelp. Nothin' for it, 'spose. I'm sure it'll come back to me." His smile faltered for a fraction before he turned with comical resolution to the open door. "Forget it. It's fine. This is fine." He passed through the door and into the new night, and though he had no idea what strange, deserted suburban area he had emerged from, he did discover something.

Grafiti. All over the outside of this mausoleum. He read it, after taking a moment to decipher the font, and when he figured it out, he couldn't help himself. Doubled over, arms around his ribs, he laughed, sucking in air he didn't need just so he could pretend he was alive. He dashed pretend tears from the corners of his eyes and nodded. Among a many-layered war of obscenities and arguments, done in bright swirling colors read:

You Don't Know JACK

"You know what? Neither do I." He tipped his hat at the crypt, turned on his heel and meandered down the street. The first person he met would get a firm handshake and the following introduction.

"Hey there. Nice to meet ya. I'm Jack."

Escape!

The manacles dropped to the floor; click, clatter, clang. The loss of them hurt, physically ached in his bones, like he had been growing around them this whole time. The skin around his wrists was red and raw, scar upon scar upon newly worn flesh. It was a wonder, a beautiful moment in time, unbelievable.

Though his blood pounded in his pointed ears, and though the riotous noise in the other room ebbed and surged like waves on a cliffside, and though he knew he had to go, he stared. He stared at the lack of those manacles for longer then he should have. It's almost like I can breathe again, He thought, knowing he had to run, but being unable to look away.

There was a crash, a loud one, from the other room. It rocked him out of his revelation. He pocketed the key in his pants and cast his eyes about the room. He had nothing but the clothes he wore as possessions, a necklace bound to him from his father, and the key in his pocket.

His scant quarters were barren, save for the now discarded manacles and his pallet. His door was half shrouded by a thick curtain and nothing else. His masters did not expect him to leave. He wouldn't have been able to before, the spellwork on the shackles making it impossible to go anywhere but where he was told to go.

He could taste his heartbeat as he approached the curtain. Each footfall felt heavier now, weighed down by terror and doubt. Is this some trick? Was the key a trap? Was this whole thing some elaborate charade? Would they be standing there, past that doorway?

Then, in a fleeting moment, he was past the curtain, as if it had never mattered before. No one waited, lurking with cruel smiles. With that border having fallen around him, the rest crumbled and he was running. He knew the way out - he knew all the ways out, every passage, every door every window. A Minor torment, to know how to escape but being unable to. He'd endured worse, could endure far worse if he was caught. As the noise receded behind him, he ran faster. He ducked around corners, hid behind statuary and shadows to avoid being spotted.

And then he was free. Out the door with the two lion heads, down the hall, and over the threshold. Not only free of the keep and it's ruthless overlord, but free of the Hellscape, free of the whole realm! The shimmering tingle of the portal washed over his skin as he emerged, whole and unscathed, in a whole new world.

Giddy, ludicrous laughter hissed past chapped lips. His vision clouded, hands on knees, panting for breath in the twilight. Twilight! His knees gave out entirely, and he let himself fall into the tall grass. The moon was overhead, and it was full of light. He pushed hair out of his face, roping it over his horns. Bruises on his face still stung, and his wrists burned, but the air was so clean and clear!

He held his hands up to look at them. He had six pewter rings to his name, each useless and empty enchantments he could now fill, the bindings upon him gone at last.

Tools do only what they are told. Slaves do only as they are commanded. You are both, and as such my property. Your father has no use for a half-breed whelp. There is no place for you among your mother's whimpering kinsmen. Therefore, you are from nothing, and to nothing you will return.

His master's - former master's - voice echoed down the vast chambers of his mind. He ran his hands over his face, deep breaths in and out to soothe the panicked hysteria that his laughter had become.

Who am I? He thought. I had a name. I know I did.... He blinked, gazing once again up at the moon, a single long ago memory floating to the surface of his tumultuous mind. A woman's face, a human woman with brown hair and green eyes and a smile, a smile for him. She said something with love in her voice before the memory quietly drifted off.

"I am Zephyrius."

The Madness

Picture this;

I'm 32. I'm going to work, it's a totally normal day. My car starts on the second try, there's some moron going 30 miles an hour in the left lane, and when I finally get in, I have to park all the way on the left next to the dumpster from hell.

Fine. Whatever. It's Tuesday, and I don't expect anything else.

I put my beanie on to cover the tattoo I have on the side of my head because my Boss is a mix of old-timey Republican that still can't stand it when they cuss in songs, and yet has the nerve to make inappropriate passes at every temp employee under the age of 20.

I keep the piercings in because you know what? Fuck 'em.

SO I get in; I clock in two minutes after 8am and trudge to my little corner of the lab. I assemble eye-glasses. Correction; I used to and hence I still know how to assemble eye glasses. I'm sitting there, drilling holes in lenses to glue on the super trendy floating bridges and legs, applying trendy magnets so that those trendy sun glass-covers can be applied. I do this for four hours.

Then it happens. I hear something big fall, and second hand boss man starts shouting for the big ass-hole boss, and everyone else is peering over to the noise from their collective cubbies. I ignore it, because hey, it's a big lab and shit happens. But when the scream rips out I can't ignore it, you know?

I duck out of my little corner and see this blood spray, like cinematic, like gushing blood spray.

At first I think it MUST be some sort of dye, maybe the stuff they use to coat the really fancy Raybans with that cool metallic sunset color, you know?

But then everyone around me starts to Freak. Out. And then Sandy - the sweet lady with the boufont hair that brings in squash and turnips and shit for everyone from her home garden on Mondays, comes tearing out from behind the lens grinders. She had blood all down the front of her shirt, and she throws herself - literally THROWS herself at Bob.

Jeanine makes a run for the door, Dan and Pete try to help Bob, and there's more blood splatter, and now there's screaming from behind the lens grinders, and no one has even looked in my direction yet.

I think to myself  - NO WAY no one has called the police yet. Therefore, I think it's about time I go home.

So I get my shit, and for whatever survival-instinct reason I pick up a screwdriver. And you're thinking right now that it is a normal screw driver, like it's a Phillips head, one with the red handle, like six inches long, made for a toolbox kind of screwdriver. No. I mean a jeweler's screwdriver, where the whole thing is like the length of your hand, and the tip is small enough to get those itty bitty shitty screws you use on watched and - duh - glasses. It's freakin tiny.

I'm half way to the door when I lose my shit.

See there's this girl I was totally crushing on - 100% straight - but she was always super nice to me at lunch, and would always ask me things like "whatcha readin'?" or "do you shave the sides of your head yourself?" and "Do you think I would look good in a mohawk?" Sweet as hell. Boyfriend is a douchebag.

Anyway, she's pinned under douche-boss when I pass by and she's kicking and screaming, and this creep literally has his teeth in her shoulder and he's CHEWING on it, and then I sort of think I had a mental break.

It wasn't really until later that I really remember what happened. Long story short, I was pretty good at using that damned screwdriver to wreak havoc on some zombies. You would think I'd lose it, or it would get stuck, but no, you see the cool thing was that it was SO thin, that it was rather more effective than anything else I could have picked. Quick in and out to the brain, bam, dead. Again.

Anyway.

So that's how I ended up here in the apocalypse. I fought my way out of my job and got in the car with an infected babe who I had to dump two days later in exchange for some sort of Literature major with self-esteem issues and a cheerleader with separation anxiety.

And of course, the Hobo.

You know, I used to think I was pretty... useless. Well, not practically; I mean I can open my own damn pickle jars, and I can change my tires and do my own bills, but I'll be honest and admit I had no marketable skills in the civilized world. And yeah, things were pretty shitty at first; trying to call friends, seeing people you knew turn into crazy, hungry, flesh eating monsters. Losing family, housemates, neighbors...

But you know what is equal parts amazing and fucked up? It's been like 2 whole years since then. Government collapse, unstable pockets of humanity scrounging off the bones of the recent past, hordes of shambling monsters that are all really grimy and stinky now, stumbling across some really fun people who made it just as well as you did. It paints this whole Romero picture of grief and depression, and hopelessness...

But there's a bright side too. No more student loans, for one thing. No car payments, no rent, no phone bills - hell, no money at all. And I actually GOT to beat the hell out of my shit-eating old boss without repercussion. I can shop wherever I want, drive whatever I want, and YouTube was still up and running long enough to teach me all he essentials. My less marketable skills became my veritable bread and butter.

In other words, I totally got used to it.

And I gatta say - the end of the world suits me just fine.

Ulivani

Listen well, children. I have an age-old tale to tell you this day.


Two hundred years ago, the lands of Vazparlee were whole. Our six great countries thrived here, content within the spheres of our influence, and unwilling or uncaring enough to see beyond our own shores.

We did not care to know if anything else existed past the vastness of the surrounding sea. And in our careless neglect, we overlooked the signs. For surely there were signs, lost to time as they may be. Perhaps a shipwreck boasting colors and sails we did not know washed ashore - perhaps strange sights on the horizon.

And then the Plague Years came. Our scribes tell us it was ten long years of poor harvest and decay in the fields. And within those long years, they came. The dead came to Vazparlee.

They arrived on the Lost Islands without warning - dozens of black ships, stinking of death. And while each of us suffered alone within our own borders, Kultainen was ravaged. It was not until the islands had been totally decimated and the kingdom on it's deathbed that we awoke and took notice of this plight.

At first, those far from the battle - the mighty dwarves of Barreak and the pirates of Isula Labirintu - thought they could not be touched. That Kultainen, the most glorious of us, would be able to afford an army strong enough to repel any aggressor. At first we thought that no force would be able to take all of Vazparlee, never in a hundred years.

But then, Kultainen the Golden fell. And the hordes of filth turned their gaze to Kruna. Small, elegant country that it was, nestled at the very North of us. Peaceful. And also taken.

It was then that we in Endochora knew things must change. It took us twenty years to finally realize the danger that this force posed. So we sent out our messengers. Small, quick dragons with riders took ledgers and proposals and tactics all across Vazparlee in a desperate attempt to stop the tide of death slowly creeping across the land.

But things developed slowly. And the force crawled on. Thirty years. Forty. And then Fifty. The second generation of warriors was born into these times, where their rulers stayed awake at night with the fear that these black armies would come clawing at their doors. They tried catapults, erected ballast and hired mages. The Battles in Kultainen raged and spread West across the Aizmirst, finally drawing the eyes of the warriors of Tukul Tuhan.

Twenty more years drifted by. Those born into battle grew hard and strong. The borders of Endochora were breached and streams of undead filtered down through the mountains. They began to fan Southwest around the Sisimeri. We sent more dragons with willing riders to request aid from the dwarves in the safety of their Peninsula, and also to the pirates in their archipelago.

We struggled through 85 years of brutality and strife. And we do not know who the first child was, or how he managed to do it - but one day, flying over the battlefield was a dragon. Not the small, spritely drakes who carried our messages, but one of the goliaths from the mountains, and upon his back was a young child.

This was where the tide of war changed. Our people rallied behind his great beast, and soon more joined their ranks, and over the next 15 years we drove the dead back and off of our shores, the grim nemesis behind their unholy designs was felled in battle and out lands were our own again.

But as such a great cost. 100 years of war, three generations of suffering.

Even now, 100 years later, the Aizmirst is unclaimed. Forgotten. Kultainen is a grim shadow of its former glory, and none have heard word past the River now known as Veri Vesi - Blood Water. Kruna lays shrouded in gloom and rests undisturbed, out of everence or fear. Or both.

Endochora, Barreak, Tukul Tuhan, and Isula Labirintu worked hard to rebiuld. Borders were reforged and the Ulivani Accords were signed, in the shadow of a great ruin of what was once he grand city of Ulivani.

These accords pledged peace and cooperation from all the countries - even Kultainen was present, though poor lost Kruna was not.

Over time the Accords have been called upon to help solve disputes over leadership, forge truces and trusts between families, and most importantly, forge a great keep for the breeding, training and riding of dragons and their riders.

Vouno Drakou was finished almost 50 years ago, and has been a beacon of trust and hope for all of Vazparlee.

So. Since you have been accepted, I suggest you get to packing. You wouldn't want to miss the Dragon bonding, would you?

Sisters

The night echoed with the cries of loosed arrows and the roar of flames. Smoke was thickly entwined among the brush and leaf of the forest, making it hard to discern just where one was fleeing to or from. As if infected by the hate that was plaguing the sacred wood of KaiRael, the trees themselves lashed out in anger at those who raced through their rows.
“Keep running!” Starlett cried, turning to help her sister back to her feet.
Deluna looked so tired. Tears had left their marks down her pale cheeks, and her dark hair was wound and twisted behind her like an angry Brier. Deluna looked at her sister with wide, sad eyes, more green then the leaves and grasses of their home.
“Why? Why is this happening, Star?” She pleaded, struggling to her feet, and clasping Starlett’s hand - talons to talons.
Starlett looked to their hands then, in that moment. She and her sister called them hands - for they grasped, held and felt like hands to them, the MaelKai. But to humans... to humans they were claws, talons, twisted things, mistakes of the Gods. Instead of five soft fingers, they had three strong, bird-like talons, bound by almost scaled and cherry-wood colored skin. This skin stretched over their arms up to their elbows, where from there it smoothed to fair human complexion. Starlett had never seen anything wrong with how they looked, not until now.
“I do not know, Deluna. Come!” Starlett insisted, her own long black waves of hair loose about her shoulders, snagging and pulling on branches that reached out to stop them as they ran.
Deluna was slowing. Starlett kept casting worried glances over their shoulders, back to where the men were, with their swords and arrows. An aching sorrow filled her chest as she ran, reliving the moments before their flight, watching their brothers fall.
Starlett and her kin were MaelKai. Guardians of the forest of KaiRael, the last creations of their God - the Father of all of us, the light, the divine; Therus. With his last life’s blood, MaelKai were brought into the world, and for many, many years they were accepted as such, beloved and revered...
But something had happened. Among the humans who used to smile at their approach were those who had sown seeds of hate. Those were the ones who claimed Starlett and her brethren to be abominations to Therus, and that they must be brought to divine justice.
Starlett had never seen these men, but her brothers had warned each of them of their existence, and of the presence of a growing darkness. And so, they had confined themselves to the wood, content to be where they were. Happy in their separation from humanity if only because it kept the humans happy.
Starlett had contemplated their accusations days ago, while reflecting in prayer. She knew that the growing darkness was that of Lornaus, the son of Therus who struck down his father. The MaelKai had many names for him - Dark One, Lord of Whispers, Shadow King, Ghost Son, the list was lengthy, but each name was true to Lornaus’ form and function. Their belief was acceptance - for there cannot be good without evil, and Lornaus’ evil only validated their beliefs, hard as it was to accept...
Deluna stumbled again, crying out as she fell. Starlett quickly went to her side, pulling her back to her feet. 
“Sister, please, keep running. They told us to run -” Starlett began pleadingly. 
“Our brothers are dead, Star!” Deluna cried, fresh tears on her cheeks, and anger in her eyes. “How can we run? Why should we? We should fight them!”
Starlett gripped Deluna by the shoulders and locked her in a stare. For all the fear in her heart at that moment, she knew that of the two of them she was calm. She would try to share this with Deluna. Her sister was frantic, talons curled into fists, the crackle of tiniest lightning racing across the sooty scale of her arms. Starlett could not let her get lost in her anger.
“Because we must survive.” Starlett began. “If we fight now, we die. We must live, Deluna. Come!” 
Deluna set her chin and nodded in understanding, using Starlett as a crutch through the rough underbrush. They were gasping from the thinning smoke, struggling past now unfamiliar places in the forest they had called home for generations. Where once they knew every ancient limb and root, now there were monstrous tentacles and arms grasping and hindering them.
But Starlett ran on, leading Deluna with rigid determination lining the elegant grace in her jaw. Her blue eyes, watering and red-rimmed with the smoke, were hardened with fear. They ran for what seemed like an age, the smoke thinning and thinning more as they got farther and farther from their fallen brothers and sisters. 
Finally, Deluna pulled herself free. Starlett stumbled and almost fell, and Deluna grasped hold of the nearest tree, shaking and gasping. 
“I cannot, Star. I need to rest, please.” Deluna pleaded, eyes squeezed shut and lips trembling.
Starlett nodded dumbly, swaying over to another, slender tree within her arm’s reach. She put her forehead against the smooth bark and tried to breathe. All she needed was a moment to clear her head and she could think. Deluna was her responsibility now, Starlett had to keep her safe, take her somewhere where they wouldn’t find them. They would have to hide for a while, lay low until the fires stopped and the people overcame their madness...
“...Star?” Deluna whispered, its harsh urgency cutting through Starlett’s thoughts.
Starlett opened her eyes. “Yes, sister?” She whispered back.
“It is... so quiet here... isn’t it?” 
Starlett blinked away the dryness in her eyes and turned her head to peer past the slender tree she was pressed against. She saw the thinning smoke, hanging like mist in the air. The wind had long since ceased, stunned into stillness by the actions of men. Starlett could smell nothing but smoke and ash, so she kept her breaths slow and shallow. 
Starlett heard silence. Biting silence. 
They had run far enough from the flames and the fighting that she could no longer hear it. Not even distant shouting could be heard over the roaring in her ears. 
It was far too quiet. 
“Deluna, we must keep going.” Starlett whispered. She slowly pushed herself from the tree and turned to face her sister - when she saw the glint of steel just behind them, lurking in the shadows of the smoke. 
“Deluna run! Now!” Starlett shouted, lunging forward to yank Deluna from her resting pose. As she did so, the deadly shaft of a crossbow bolt thunk-ed into the bark of the tree that Deluna had been leaning on moments before. Without waiting to see what other horrors awaited them, Starlett pushed Deluna ahead, exhaling with the effort, and willing her sister to carry on. That thought, that will, poured out through the softness of her palms and the tips of her claws in a blink of shimmering blue, a visible transference of energy. Something Starlett had done thousands of times before only in play.
Deluna gasped and lurched forward, diving into the brush ahead of Starlett with a new found urgency. Starlett let her go, turning instead to face the unseen aggressor that dared shoot steel at them.
This aggressor did not remain unseen for long however - as if the Gods wished for Starlett to see the truth, the mists parted, allowing the sight of several men. They were all armed, one of them was pulling back the string on a crossbow with a dark scowl on his youthful face.
He barely seemed a day over twenty. 
“Why are you doing this?” Starlett pleaded, talons gleaming with the brilliant blue energy that was always flowing within her and her siblings. 
Another man, an older man with a great mustache shook his head angrily and spat upon the ground between them. “Don’t listen te anythin’ she says, boys. She’ll bewitch ye in a blink, and we’d ne’er get our reward fer bringin in her hide.”
“My Hide?” Starlett repeated, aghast. She stepped away from the men, who eyed her now with suspicion and hate. “But we have done nothing to deserve this!” 
The men glanced warily at each other and the big man once again chimed in, the ring of his blade echoing in Starlett’s head as he drew it and approached. “C’mon boys. We’ll take this one, then get aft’r the runt that ran off.”
Starlett felt her eyes clouding and brimming with tears as she raised her claws in defense. The man with the sword and the mustache hesitated, but unknowing the implications of such a light, continued his gait.
“Stay away from us! Please!” Starlett cried out desperately, taking another, and another step away from the men who slowly drew nearer.
She could taste the fear choking her, it was metallic and dry. She felt it course down her arms and fuel the blue flames that licked along her talons, casting the eerie shadows in the smoke about her. It was as if this light she made cast the men in a new light. She could see now, the greed in their eyes, the nervous fidgeting of their hands on their weapons. The quick darting of their eyes from each other and around the tiny glade. Starlett could see their doubt and their resolve in equal measure, and their fear; almost as palpable a fear as the one that lodged in Starlett’s throat. 
The blue light also showed her that they fully intended to kill her and her sister without question. And that would not do. They did not heed her plea to leave them alone, she would have to make them leave. 
“Go Away!” She shouted, throwing her arms out before her as if pushing them away via the air that drifted between them. With that simple movement she released the tension that had wound itself up her arms, the blue flame expanding and cracking out towards the men like an angry lightning bolt. It struck the ground at the big man’s feet, and he was sent sprawling through the brush, disappearing into the smoke. 
Two other men who had been close to him also flew back into the trees. One sharp, sickening crack reverberating down Starlett’s spine as the crossbowman hit the trunk of a great tree with tremendous force, and he made no movement when his body landed. 
Starlett could not stay. She did not want to face the results of her actions, she could not. It was not her place to fight or destroy... she was a cleric of Therus, one of his beloved daughters. The only killing she ever did was to hunt, and even then, infrequently. Those tasks were left to her brothers...

The Scarred Warrior

CHAPTER ONE: Mercenaries

Miras washed her hands in the creek beside their resting horses. Her hands gently smoothed the crystalline waters over her scars, and as in every time she did this ritual, she prayed to Araia for them to be washed away. Sometimes, if she closed her eyes, dipping her hands into the chill waters, she could almost imagine the pain returning to her; how the flames splashed up her arms, scalded the sensitive area about her shoulders and chest, and singed the fair flesh of her face and neck. Miras could remember how her throat tore from the screams and cries.

“Time to go, Miras.” Her master’s voice came to her over the splashing brook and gently caressed her ears.

Nodding solemnly, she cupped her hands and took one last sip of the refreshing clarity. His voice always chased away the visions of fire. His voice always soothed her anger. And she would follow his voice until the day she died.

Miras got to her feet, fluid as a cat, and cast her eyes about the small glen like a falcon searching for prey. It was clear. They could move on.

“Do not you trust me yet, Miras? It’s safe to move on.” The voice once again chimed.

She nodded sheepishly, immediately coy.

“Nonsense.”

A hand fell onto her shoulder from behind, rested there and then pulled some of her stray black locks from her neck. Miras felt her shoulders relaxing from the barest touch from him. She did not see his face, not at this moment, but even in her mind it played the same effect on her. The grace of his elegant features, skin smoothed back and pulled into two pointed ears. Glimmering topaz for eyes, cherry blossom for lips, long fingers with the strength of a vice. Beauty and strength, wisdom and whimsy…

“I trust your eyes more than mine at this point, Miras. Allow me to at least poke fun at you out of jealousy of your skills?”

Miras found herself smiling, just the corner of her mouth quirking upwards at the notion. But when she heard him start to come around towards his horse, she immediately became stoic.

“As you wish, Juris.” Her voice croaked out. The damage had been done years ago, and though she had lived with the jibes and teasing all her life, only in his presence did she feel lessened. She detested the grinding, gravel scraping sound of her voice.

Miras took to checking the straps on her horse. As it was every time, she kept sneaking glances over to his. She was pleased to see him doing the same – making sure his two slender blades were still secure by the saddle bags; their supplies were undamaged from their hard ride.

But as with every time, she also found herself glancing at him.

Most Midlanders would have flat out called him an Elf, unknowing of the slight that name carried with it. Midlanders, most of them grossly uneducated, simply meant it as another word for Fae; unknowing that the word had been ignited and spread by demons to get under their enemies’ skins. True Elves were pygmy sized, skeletal thin, mischievous little sprites that had a penchant for ladies undergarments and causing marital problems. Fae were divine creatures, created by Risael and Araia working as one. One could see the insult.

An ‘elf’ was a slang term for a half-Fae, commenting on their lack of grace among their higher born brethren. The careless way in which it was flung around irked a great many of their kind. Miras also took insult to the use of this word, regardless of her rather plain human heritage.

Juris was a half-Fae. But Miras did not care nor did she know that he was looked down upon by his Fae cousins. She did not know that he yearned for acceptance among them, though she knew sometimes he was sad because of it. She truly believed that no more beautiful creature existed.

But that was not why she loved him.

Miras pulled herself into the saddle, and once she was perched, she checked her weapon.

It was the offspring of a quarterstaff and a machete, half boasting the stoutest wood, and springing forth from a hilt mid length was its long, vicious blade, thicker and wider than a long sword, curving ever so slightly. The entire weapon was no longer than a quarterstaff, but it weighed at least four times more. It was Darksteel with a full tang, well balanced and most of all, it had been a gift. She had been able to name her first weapon.

“And how is Shokra this lovely afternoon?” Juris commented, eyes moving towards her weapon in acknowledgment.

Miras looked up and found herself caught in his eyes. His head was cocked to the side, and his simply brown hair was carelessly hanging in his face. Most of it was back in his usual braid, but there were always strands in the front that did not agree.

Miras liked those strands. Though she deigns not ever hope to match him in form or function, they made him seem more mortal to her. And the tiny voice, long since pushed to the background of her mind whispered that tiny imperfections such as those made him that much more attainable as well.

“She is well.” Miras replied shortly, tugging on the straps one more time. Shokra would find time to be wielded – but not today.

“Really? Because Falnir and Taelin miss her sting.” His grin was contagious, and Miras allowed herself a small smile. “Remind me to get thwomped by you once we get back to town. Shall we?”

Miras nodded, and nudged her horse forward. Juris came up beside her, and the rest of their ride to town was silent. Miras liked sharing the silence with him. She liked to think he enjoyed it as well.

It was a lot better than being chased by bandits. Granted, now they were nothing without their leader, but they would still be pestering the townsfolk until the Silver Spears got up off their arses. At least now they would not be organized enough to stage any singular attacks on farms or ranches.

Juris and Miras had been hired by a Lord Balton, a landowner whose outlying properties had been raided several times. This gentleman had garnered a good amount of information through his own channels, and because the Silver Spears only operated through their piddling little boards, he had sent for a private contractor; someone who could dispatch a bandit leader without inciting too much trouble and it would help if he could pick off as many of the bandits themselves, too.

Juris had apparently, been top of his list.

Juris was a great Magician. He knew many things, carried a great number of books within the confines of a bag that seemed to hold anything and everything. He had told Miras that he had fashioned this bag himself, and it is in fact a portal to a room far away where he keeps all his books and possessions. He wears a great many charms on his sash and around his neck – one or two in his hair as well. But unlike other Magicians, whose tricks are mainly for showmanship and displays of intricacy – Juris liked to brag that his spells were made for practicality’s sake alone, and packed quite a wallop regardless of their simplicity.

Long were the nights when he stayed up fussing with tiny threads of light in the air. Twirling his fingers like dancers and threading invisible needles with his murmurings. Miras could not count how many times she had stayed awake with eyes open barely enough just to see his little light shows. He would draw sigils in the air with gold and silver wisps and move them about as if they lay on a table and not suspended in front of him in mid air.

Now, Miras did not know a great deal about magic, but she had heard from others (And Juris of course) that her master was quite good. He even bore an Iron Scroll, a pendant that said he belonged to a special order of Mages and Wizards. She was unsure as to the specific significance of the coin-sized Iron charm, but it did seem to get them in to places a whole lot easier than her methods did. At least, in some situations.

Miras’ simple upbringing did not allow for education on such matters. She was certainly aware that there were those who could do magic, had even met a few. But in the temple of Risael, it had been simple and precise. Miras learned her letters and numbers in Trade, and other such common knowledge. Certain plants she could mix into light salves to prevent infection, she knew how to clean weapons and shoot a bow, naturally.

However, after her accident, the Priestesses of Risael had seen it fit to send her to another temple down the coast. And so from the time she was 14 Summers until 22, she worshiped at the temple of Orzane, being seen by Risael as blessed.

Miras had not seen that as a blessing.

The priests were hard on her. They treated her as any soldier, training her ruthlessly in any weapon until one chose her. And when one did, her Shokra, she was trained even more harshly until she could swing it and hit her target with her eyes closed.