RavenGuard By Sean Kobel

Chapter 1 (Ch1P1)

“To uphold the walls of our city fair,Against whose might no fools doth dare.

We labor in our lands so that none ever starve,But in exchange,

Stone hearts we slowly carve.Here we are free of all man's vice,

But for this boon there is a grave price.Our kith and our kin,

To cruel fortunes whim.”-Valerian Nursery Rhyme

It began as a stirring, a disturbance in the upper air lazily crawling down the layers of

aether. It meandered slowly, finding its way eventually to the tumultuous lower reaches. It

slipped between the mountainous heavily laden clouds as their cargo drug them earthward. It

too bore a heavy burden, but its hold had not coalesced upon it just yet. It gracefully licked the

foaming white caps of its beloved sea and danced among the hills and valleys that roared in

its wake. It drank the cool brine of the coastal air, savoring its last moments of freedom as the

tendrils of binding whispered in the distance, singing their siren's song.

The familiar feeling settled slowly upon it, gently caressing its form. It started from the

edges of its being, always wary and careful the effervescent strands laid their chains with

precision and efficiency, sparing no unnecessary energy on roughness. Like a second skin

that fit just a little too tightly the bonds settled into place and nudged it westward. It

remembered still the first time, how it had fought, raging and calling down every being of air in

the eastern sea. Its tantrum had devastated the coast for a thousand leagues and completely

exhausted it. It rarely fought now, remembering how draining resistance was. Now it

conserved its strength, knowing that even after it had finished its nightly chore, it would be

called again the following eve when the moon began its ascent once more.

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It struggled slightly for a moment, only stopping when the tension of its bonds

increased minutely in response to its momentary resistance. It focused on preserving its

mental state, knowing full well the physical abilities of its nemesis were beyond it. Valmora,

yes, it remembered that name. That was the voice that sang to it, the name it could not forget.

Rage overpowered reason and it flexed its strength to the breaking point, rending its bonds by

its unanticipated act of defiance and fleeing to the freedom of the open sea.

It reveled in the warmth of the setting sun, screaming over the golden waves burning a

path to freedom before it, like shimmering angels illuminating its exodus. The seas parted for

its escape, cutting a deep crest in its wake and scattering nearby vessels into the abyss. The

dying wails of man were lost in its exultation as it bent the winds to its aid, pushing its abilities

to the limit as it fled its dogged pursuer.

Like a lash the binding cut deeply as joy quickly transformed into agony and what was

once a gentle suggestion became blunt force trauma. Cables of blinding pain consumed all

senses and wrenched it screaming from its beloved sea. The soft voice that had gently

enticed to meander westward now wailed like a banshee as it was beaten and bludgeoned

into unquestioning submission. Its will to escape evaporated as its mind surrendered to

inevitability.

Instantly the pain vanished in response to its acquiescence. Relishing in relief it drank

once more the sweet salt of the sea as the ability to respire found purchase in its body. After a

deep pull of brine soaked air it sang a pleading song to the heavens. It called for aid, knowing

its desperate flight had spent too much energy and the task would now require more than its

strength alone.

Its brief respite dissipated all too fast as the pull upon increased steadily. It drifted

doggedly westward whilst the sun was inexorably extinguished by the chill waters of the

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eastern sea. It watched the glorious warmth of day fade, like the final embers of a guttering

flame. It mourned the last tendrils of light as they smoldered brightly upon the horizon. They

too fought inevitability whilst the sun wept fire at their passing and was consumed by the sea.

A final thought of resistance fluttered across its consciousness and was annihilated instantly

as it followed the well known demands of the compulsion and gathered its fortitude for the

arduous chore to come.

Black pinpricks rapidly grew before it as the silhouette of Raven's Bay appeared. The

great towers that marked the gateway to the east stood as both sentry and salvation to the

few surviving ships fleeing the roaring maelstrom following in its wake. The placid calm of the

bay erupted into madness as the winds reached gale force, sending mammoth waves

crashing against the unyielding sea walls. It paid no heed to the few vessels foolish enough to

be caught in its torrent. It battered them against the walls and bashed them together like

matchsticks, as indifferent to the sailors cries as it was to the their deaths.

It swallowed their drowning screams as it whipped through the stone causeways of

Draenoch, barreling relentlessly against the well battened storm shudders and creating a wail

of its own. The staunch city endured its rage with stoic apathy. The well ordered grid of streets

were empty and the inhabitants weathered the tempest safe within their fortified homes thick

stone walls. The massive black clouds hovering over the city then decided that now was a

good time to release their watery cargo. The water rose in the streets and flowed in an orderly

fashion into well worn culverts, then the downpour raged into large cisterns that quickly

overflowed. Release valves were opened and the now well provisioned citizens allowed the

deluge to find its own way into the roiling sea.

It whipped the rain into a frenzy and pulled it inexorably upward, lashing against the

black cliffs of Sharr. The forces of gravity angrily opposed its task and it gladly accepted the

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help of its allies timely arrival from the aether. With their combined might the rain traveled

impossibly skyward against the shimmering obsidian walls soaring menacingly before them.

Together they marshaled their will and transcended from chaotic gusts into focus incarnate.

Like a bowstring pulled taught they drew together both wind and water and climbed unto the

heavens. They wove their way, battling both cliff and physics as they wrenched the storm from

the sea unto the stars. Finally they found the icy peaks that towered above the unswerving

port of Draenoch. From this height only the massive towers guarding the seawall were visible

as black pinpricks beneath the raging squall.

The frozen winds of Valmora's breath roared defiance at the ascent of the storm into its

domain. The frigid air moaned, drawing the storms warmth into itself and unleashing a force

greater than elemental might and storm alike, threatening to tear down the mountains with its

fury. The tempest rent the heavens and screamed defiance at the moon as it took on a life of

its own, barely contained by the efforts of the elementals it broke free of the clouds and

escaped the glacial crown of the black cliffs. The gale raced across the ebony crags and

plunged downward in an avalanche of air, gathering speed as it coalesced into a creature of

focus once more. The wastelands below rapidly increased in size as the object of its labors

grew near.

As if a thousand pit lords all cracked their whips in unison the sails spread their canvas

as one. No normal wind could move such massive stone behemoths, but this was no normal

wind. The unearthly gale pushed them at a snails pace at first that slowly inched into a crawl.

The scrape of stone on stone crunched like boulders tumbling down a mountainside, the

rumbling gaining in volume as the beasts gained velocity, eventually becoming loud enough to

rival the maelstrom raging around the obsidian beasts. Each creature was a small mountain

on its own. The massive bulk of the things was clearly evidenced by the ground surrounding

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the road sinking noticeably as the monolithic creations approached. The caravan stretched

unendingly across the wastes until it disappeared into the gaping maw of a massive tunnel

cutting its way beneath the root of the mountains to Draenoch.

As smooth as glass and black as pitch they began to gain speed as the gust broke

them free of inertia's grasp. All curves and no hard edges the flotilla looked more like beings

from the depths of the ocean than wagons. Each spanned the breadth of the great highway

that could easily fit eight mounted cavalry riding abreast. Even their sails were black, nearly

invisible against the night sky, only their crackling canvas in the roaring wind betrayed their

existence. Triangular in shape they stretched across their vessels girth and resembled

enormous cones, sliced in half and stretched lengthwise from end to end. The wheels were

cleverly concealed behind stone windshields so that only the portion contacting the road itself

was visible beneath each beast.

The road resembled a river of twisting night as it snaked before the procession, made

of a stone so lacking in color it seemed to drink the very starlight. It was only clearly visible

when the moonlight cascaded across it, dashing a quicksilver glimmer of its presence across

the blackened and broken landscape. The wastes surrounding the highway were a bleak

expanse consisting of broken volcanic stone covered occasionally by pockets of ash. The bits

of coarse pumice and basalt stretched endlessly in all directions save east. There the high

arcing cliffs of Sharr broke the line of desolation with an even more foreboding presence.

They provided a gloomy backdrop for the strange procession stretching westward, drawn ever

onwards by the howling torrents that seemed to only touch their sails and stirred not a stone

off the road.

For what seemed an eternity it battled its brethren. It badgered and bullied the great

winds to follow it. For they too desired to return to the upper air, but it did not have the

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strength to move all the accursed hulks on its own. It was glad for the company as well. The

fact that they all loathed it for committing upon them the same act of compulsion that

enslaved it was irrelevant. It had the aid it needed to complete its task, willing or not. The fact

that they despised it was of small consequence.

It's loathing however, was entirely devoted to Valmora and her creatures. The smell of

them reached it first. It began as a slight warming and a hint of decay brushing the edges of

its senses and slowly enveloping them. It braced for the nausea and let the fetid stench soak

into it and consume consciousness for a few moments until it acclimated to the overpowering

odor. Nargs, it couldn't see them, but it didn't need to. Their aroma signaled the foul beasts

presence long before any visual confirmation was required. While it detested the wretched

creations, their smell had become a welcome one over the last thousand years. It signaled

the final portion of its journey.

The land around the great highway was slowly changing, the previously lifeless rubble

now contained bits of tall grass and murky pools festering in scattered pockets that were

slowly increasing in frequency. It felt the anticipation mount within it as scrub grass

transformed into warped brush and eventually gnarled trees that refused to grow more than a

few spans high. The stunted growths were patchy at first, gently coalescing into a dense murk

that was as much peat and moss as tree. The air was rancid and practically liquid as was

evidenced by the condensation forming all over the rapidly moving caravan. Still cool from the

chilly sea air the rapid change in temperature was creating eerie cascades of condensation

that occasionally caught the moonlight in ghostly splinters. Like a quicksilver serpent snaking

silkily through the swamp the ghostly procession bled silver across the highway, setting it

aflame with iridescent fire as the moon ignited the glinting water droplets left in its wake.

From on high it watched its burden cut through the bog burning brilliantly, and savored

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the beauty for a moment, for that was all that time allowed. The tightening on its skin

reminded it of its purpose and it bent its will to containing the howling gale desperately trying

to escape into the warm humidity of the swamp that pulled voraciously on the frigid sea air. As

the surroundings grew warmer its' task grew more difficult, battling the forces of nature, the

frozen tempest around it screamed dissent at its efforts at containment. It surrendered its

senses and focused on its task completely, allowing the passage of time to continue

unnoticed whilst it trudged endlessly through the marsh.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Beleaguered and it exhausted it felt its grip on reality slipping and it released the winds,

clinging to its fractured sanity and desperately searching for its senses. The swamp had

finally dissipated into the same scrub grass and desolate rubble as before. The unchanging

road continued forward as always. However, in the swamp the great highway had snaked

across scattered patches of bedrock and dry ground, but now cut an arrows flight into the

distance without so much as a chip in the stone to mar the seamless streamlined perfection.

Its' despised destination began as a speck, a tiny shimmering flash upon the horizon

catching the glimmering quicksilver escaping the patchwork of passing clouds. As the

procession devoured the rapidly diminishing distance the glinting reflection of moonlight

slowly stretched into an elongated line that grew steadily. Finally the line stopped its

horizontal growth and began to attack the vertical incline instead. The procession rumbled

onwards as the ramparts crowning the walls became visible.

Atop the immensity of the fortifications, its gaze was always stolen first and foremost by

the curious structures mounting the walls. An oddly glittering assortment of crystalline bluish

black blades that tilted in such a way that they arced across each others paths at perfectly

symmetrical angles. Like the depths of sapphire eyes torn asunder they resembled an iris cut

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and lain across the earth, shimmering sadly in the starlight as if they missed the eyes they

once illuminated. Despite the size of the walls themselves, the ramparts always demanded its'

attention, the ribbon of blades reminding it of its own effervescent bondage as they rent the

stars in crystalline fury.

The imposing line of shimmering shards was broken only by intermittent towers twisting

through the woven weapons and breaking the continuity by sheer bulk alone rather than

beauty. Each black monolith was unadorned and massive, defying gravity and calmly rending

passing cloud banks with ease. The structures were neither rectangular nor purely cylindrical.

Instead they grew, like stalactites born of heaven's dew. Such creations could not be birthed

by the hand of man. It preferred to imagine that they had been molded from the stone, pulled

from the earth and stretched unto the sky by the gods themselves. Adjacent to each tower the

blackened walls curved outward eerily in a massive v, arcing towards the road on either side,

seemingly inviting entry rather than prohibiting.

Two such structures stood sentinel on either side of the road. However, the titanic

towers were silhouetted by a mass so gargantuan as to dwarf the entire city by sheer girth

alone. Standing imposingly behind both tower and wall Beloch's Cairn provided more

deterrence than any fortification ever could. A veritable mountain on its own, its eastern face

was dotted with a variety of bizarre structures with a single commonality, they all reflected the

silver shafts of moonlight light piercing the clouds, sending them cascading in a dizzying array

throughout the city. Each growth of stone seemed to wander with a life of its own, lazily

curling around more like fungal spores than colonnades. A web like lattice of these curious

columns crowned the cairn. They began from the sides of the ebony tomb as oddly twisting

pillars of iridescent night that sprouted out of the mountain and into the moonlight, catching

shafts of light and twisting them into eye wrenching kaleidoscopic ribbons. At the base of the

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web they appeared randomly alloted, like a creature of nature they seemed to grow wherever

they pleased when examined individually. However, as it looked higher up the cairn it found

that the tallest among the strange machinations was composed of seven such pillars woven

from every side of the mountain. They innocuously swirled around each other, weaving in and

out of almost pattern like designs and culminating in a single latticework of intertwining spires

that swirled together to create a single spire. As the nightly procession slowly approached the

walls, the glittering knot work veritably pierced the moon, like a fiery lance slaying some

mighty beast.

Despite the queer beauty displayed dazzlingly before it, its attention was roughly

redirected as the fiery light was lost beneath the great walls' shadow suddenly looming over

the wind haulers. As the distance to the city evaporated the true size of them became

apparent. Over two hundred spans high they cast a colossal shadow and were a truly

daunting sight as they seemed to be growing astonishingly fast. Made of the same strange

black stone as the haulers they too were devoid of any plane or angle. Seamless and gently

curving they looked like no thing cut by the hand of man. It considered them and decided the

earth must have bled them out, a monumental scab to staunch some great wound. As smooth

as satin they stretched across the night unendingly, curving slowly with periodic towers

breaking free of their grasp.

Of all the glory before it,only the gates appeared to be the work of man. The walls

curved out around the road invitingly, supporting the gatehouse to the left and right with

symmetrical arcing wings. A small hill on its own the gatehouse was carved in the semblance

of a gigantic bird of prey. Its wings were permanently affixed in the down stroke of flight and fit

seamlessly into the walls of the tunnel arcing beneath it with no noticeable breaks in the

stone, as if the creature was attempting to escape from the wall itself. The beasts' breast

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arched above the great tunnel and its talons surmounted the outer portcullis guarding the

passageway. A stone gate fully four spans thick stood open for their entry and the titanic

portcullis was raised in perfect unison with their arrival, each crossbar the breadth of a horse.

Its binding chafed and its will was taxed to the breaking point, it could feel

consciousness slipping from it once more. It feared this time it would not be able to find its

own thoughts in the chaotic knot work of magic binding its will. Surprise fluttered across its

fading senses, the hold upon it was weakening. It redoubled its efforts and the stone caravan

groaned in response. It hated the tunnel for there was no sky within it and it yearned to soar in

the upper air once more. Finally it passed a second massive portcullis and entered Valenoch

feeling the last of the threads that bound it snap. With a howl of elation it broke free of the

earth and screamed its ascent home unto the heavens.

Still cruising along under now slack sails the curious caravan slowly spent its remaining

momentum plodding into various gigantic box like buildings situated in orderly rows along the

highway. Within moments of their arrival a veritable army swarmed upon the wind haulers like

ants on a carcass. Out came food stuffs of every sort. From one came fruits and vegetables,

another nuts and dried meats. From the others came live stock complaining loudly as they

were transported via more mundane methods to the slaughterhouse. Still more goods flowed

forth unendingly until the first tremulous hints of dawn touched the city. The final goods were

removed and other more refined products were inserted. Works of skill and technology

replaced the bounty of the harvest. Bundles of wheat exchanged for blades and armor. Into

other wagons went jewelry, fine cloaks and textiles of the highest quality. Finally, as full dawn

broke upon the horizon, the wagons' brakes were released and they slowly reversed under

the weight of their own girth. Their expert drivers pivoted them eastward to begin their long

return to the sea, trundling now under gravities pull. First at a crawl and then with increasing

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velocity they rolled down the gentle incline and began their return to Draenoch.

Chapter 2 (S1P2)

The morning exodus of the wind haulers still amazed him, despite thirty some odd

years of watching them depart with the rising sun. The sea of black machines more closely

resembled a funeral procession than any trader's caravan he had ever witnessed. Although

they did serve a rather important purpose he surmised. Transporting items was a very

necessary and honorable profession after all. The fact that it was his chosen calling had

nothing to do with his opinion obviously. He prided himself on his reasoning skills, favoring

reason as the most valuable trait any individual might desire to have in ones repertoire of

abilities. However, just as that particular thought arose several turnips lurched rather violently

in his cart, bringing his mind back to the importance of transportation.

Transporting goods to Valenoch was necessary and important, especially food, due to

the rather lacking nutritional quality of the soil. If one could even call it that. He hadn't seen

dirt in several decades in fact. That bizarre monstrosity of a transportation system was the

cities lifeline, and he really did value a full belly even more than having good reasoning skills.

He then pondered whether a person's bodily needs aught to be held separately from their

mental needs. He decided it was a sound philosophical decision and congratulated himself

with a broad grin that surprised several half asleep pedestrians staggering out of a local

tavern rather hastily. He purposed that the large angry individual wielding a cudgel behind

them might be the cause of their untimely exodus from alcoholic paradise. There was one

thing that Valerians were good at after all, and that was making beer. That, and drinking it of

course. Which just so happened to be one of his favored past times and was really quite

enjoyable to boot. That, and considering that which required consideration. Or rather

reasoning that which needed logical analysis from one of his intellectual caliber. He decided

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that anything that received his mental capacities must be of extreme import after all.

The dangerously unstable turnip positioning within his cart suddenly decided at that

moment that it required all his phenomenal faculties. With an ungainly flop he half rolled, half

dove forward to save his precious cargo from upsetting the delicate balance of his cart.

Luckily his tactical shift of weight was precisely calculated and delicately executed with such

grace and poise that he managed to stop the untimely demise of said turnips. He then

proceeded to extricate himself from the offending turnip pile and shuffle the contents of his

cart to better distribute the weight to prevent a second event. Phineas felt quite proud of his

turnip rescue and congratulated himself with a mental pat on the back accompanied by a

second broad smile. He then decided that “thinking about thinking” was quite possibly a

perilous pursuit at this hour in the morning and wondered whether meta-cognition was a

subject better saved for after the fourteenth tankard. His head was beginning to hurt as it

often did when he out thought himself. A difficult task no doubt for one of his stellar intellect,

but he was proud to say that he was the only person who could out think himself, or out

consider his thinking perhaps.

A yelp of dismay brought him back the world outside his own mind as he realized he

had nearly run over an older woman carrying a basket rather slowly across the road. He then

decided that he should save his pondering for when his cognitive skills were not necessary

and thus stored this most important of topics in his well oiled machine of a memory. He placed

it right next to that other rather important thing he was thinking about the other day, something

about this or that or something or other.

His brain thusly freed of its taxing task he decided to revert to his second favorite

morning distraction of examining the cities peculiar architectural features. While he truly did

enjoy philosophizing during his morning haul it tended to give him rather impressive

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headaches and without ale to alleviate said discomfort, he decided not to carry said musing

too far. And besides, the city always fascinated him. The buildings of course were odd by

most individuals standards, but it was the ground that held the greatest interest for him. Made

of dark black rock shot with veins of red, blue, purple and various combinations in between. It

shimmered magnificently when the early morning light hit it just so. He had spent enough time

gazing at the streets of Valenoch to notice that the odd stone only shimmered at dawn and

dusk. He had spent years considering the why of said oddity, but reverted to his previous

decision concerning too much analytical thinking in the morning and let the mystery remain

unsolved for now. The great road was worn as smooth as polished marble due to the heavy

traffic it endured on a daily basis. However, other less traveled boulevards and avenues within

the city had strange lumps and mounds oozing from them at decidedly interesting angles. It

reminded him of when he had once considered taking up baking as a new profession, a

decision made in passion without the careful reasoning process he now professed to follow. It

had all been a result of the most amazing pastry, and as such he couldn't really be blamed for

his rash decision. Anyone who had eaten such a magnificent treat would be compelled to

become a baker as well. He thought for a moment that perhaps others had eaten said treat

before, but dismissed the idea offhand as pure foolishness. He knew for a fact that that tart

was one of a kind and could never be replicated.

Regardless, his ill fated attempt at baking had produced some very interesting

concoctions that had oozed at odd angles when he had tried to mold them into some

semblance of a cake. He imagined that eating the rock would probably produce a taste similar

to his own creations inedible flavor. He shook his head in disgust at the memory, muttering

“skeefo” under his breath. The curse brought more unwanted attention as several cultist's

stared him down with their patented, “shame on you” expression. He had seen it a thousand

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times and it always made him smile. This of course unnerved said shaming cultists and ruffled

their feathers in a very satisfactory way. He decided this would be a good day with such a

fantastic start. Humming contentedly to himself he considered whether the city had been

molded out of dough, or perhaps out of clay. It certainly looked like it was made out of dark

ceramics, it was completely devoid of straight lines and even the streets had a mild curve to

them. They were certainly clean and orderly, but they never ran in one direction for any length

of time. He then remembered that the city was not set up in a grid like his birthplace and

shrugged, forgiving himself for the understandable mistake.

He then pondered whether the entire city was once liquid and something had frozen it

into place, hardening it like clay in a kiln. Now that was a novel idea, he would have to store it

in his fantastic memory next to that thought he had this morning concerning drinking about

thinking, or was it clinking when drinking? Regardless, it was a good thought and had served

to exercise his mental fortitude as intended. Speaking of intention, he now recalled that

architecture was his chosen subject for the morning hall and returned to it with a vigor. The

narrow alleyways caught his eye as usual. They had seen the least use over the past

millennium as was was distinctly evidenced by the sharp contrast between them and the

adjacent well traveled thoroughfare upon which he was currently traveling.

They reminded him of the rapids near his grandmothers cottage on the banks of the

river Lascia. As a child he had sat for hours entranced by the unpredictable torrents raging

within their churning roil. The stone here rose and fell in a similar fashion, cresting in small

waves generally less than a quarter of a span in height, but no less interesting for their

diminutive stature. He considered his own span and a quarter height and agreed with himself

once more that important things were generally small, and larger things could often be

overlooked as commonplace objects that didn't require as much thought as minuscule

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mysteries such as himself. This brought his thoughts to one of his favorite alleys that just so

happened to be approaching his esteemed personage. It still had tiny lines seemingly carved

in it that marked the eddy and flow of a once turbulent river of a stone, at least he assumed it

was turbulent at one point. Though he surmised that perhaps it was a placid stream of stone,

stone always seemed calm to him. Although on occasion it did have a wicked sense of humor.

It tended to have a decidedly dry wit, he liked that of course, finding it rather fitting after all.

He had always loved the stone, like was simply not a strong enough word for his

connection with the earth. It understood him as nothing else did. Or perhaps it simply put up

with him as no one else did, he thought with a loud chortle followed by a happy snort. The

snort startled a group of religious zealots mumbling under their breath and brought down a

new series of curses upon him. He listened for a moment, always game for learning new

insults. Unfortunately they were of the common variety, insulting his mother and his birth. He

pondered how people could assume that an act on his part reflected on the ranking of his

parentage. He thought this especially valid as his impression of nobles was decidedly low. His

experiences with the gentry thus far had placed them below most of the common laborers he

dealt with daily. Following this perfect logic he decided that clearly this transformed said insult

into a complement and thanked the angry cultists with his usual face splitting grin. This of

course unnerved them to no end and they shuffled off into some dark place to continue their

incantations. After all, he had known a number of fantastic fishmongers as wonderful drinking

companions. As such he considered being “a no good son of a fishmonger” as a rather

positive thing. Especially as the fishmongers had been far friendlier than his real father!

This train of thought threatened to stop on a subject he felt best left banished to the

recesses of memory and never again returned to the fore. As such he decided that extolling

the virtues of stone was a far more beneficial activity than ruminating on the sins of his father.

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Most especially in terms of his mental health, something individuals seemed to question on a

daily basis. Stone was solid, dependable, helpful in any number of situations and generally

quite reliable unless neglected. This foreign earth was not quite as familiar to him as his

native limestone hills, but he didn't hold that against it. People can't help where there from

and he had never been a fan of all that racist gibber jabber tavern folk seemed so fond of.

This strange earth had become closer to him than his family ever had been. He decided that

although it wasn't quite in the same species as himself he could still consider it a distant

cousin. If he wasn't racist against the humans he might as well not be racist against the stone

either. The stone was certainly a better companion than most of the greedy men he had met

in his time.

This stone did feel slightly off however, it seemed unnatural somehow. He loved it all

the same, he was after all a tolerant sort of fellow and he did love his strange companion all

the more for her eccentricities. He certainly had his fair share of them after all. He pondered

the list of his own oddities for some time until a gentle humming brought his mind back to the

world around him. He looked up just in time redirect his cart out of the path of a rather large

patrol of city guardsmen and silently thanked the stone, receiving a gentle thrumming in

response that sounded decidedly bemused to his ear.

He listened to the gentle chorus for a time until he recalled his previous distraction of

examining architecture. The buildings of Valenoch did not look built so much as born, the

children of the black rivers of volcanic glass surrounding them. They varied in height

immensely as well. The monsters of the warehouse district dwarfed the various official

buildings bordering them. The customs and excise house he was now approaching displayed

the typical Valerian utilitarianism. Squat and functional he doubted it had changed in its last

thousand years of use. The nearby and much larger city guard post held a great deal more

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interest for him. A three story, somewhat rectangular mound, it was littered with carvings. The

most obvious were the crenelations and cornices that truly brought the building to life. Each

corner was a wealth of beauty, with mostly natural themes. An understandable subject matter

considering the distinct lack of greenery in Valenoch. He paused a moment to examine a

particularly beautiful leafy facade until the angry shouting of the traffic behind him forced him

to instruct his faithful steed to initiate their sojourn once more.

Legend had it that there was so little crime in the city that once the guardsmen had

needed a separate police force to monitor the guards who were often bored to madness

watching crime free streets. Supposedly, one clever sergeant had been an apprentice stone

carver before he had signed the pact. As a result he found a hobby among his idle hours in

this particular guard house. It had started with his room and he had kept it quite secret,

fearing reprimand. Oddly enough, when the captain of the guards had inevitably discovered

the sergeants' redecorated quarters he had complimented the work and suggested he train

others in his hobby. Soon after the officers mess was dotted with a number of crude carvings.

Eventually others took up the chisel and unofficial training sessions began in the quiet off

hours within the officers' mess hall. Slowly the caliber of the carvings improved as more skill

was discovered in particularly interesting places, or so the legend goes. He remembered

hearing the tale while waiting in line to pay his taxes. A guardsmen had been explaining a

rather crude carving in the excise office. A merchant had asked why the outside was so

beautiful while the inside was quite the opposite. The guard had explained that the first

carvers had started on the inside, and only the best were allowed to work on the outer facade.

The proof was plane in the elaborate carvings that illuminated the otherwise gloomy

barracks. His favorite was an ancient carving, still beautiful despite being worn by the gritty

and frighteningly consistent eastern wind. It consisted of two falcons soaring over a forest.

Page 17

The detail was exquisite and their eyes seemed to glow in the morning light. It reminded him

of his youth, escaping from the great hall and playing amongst the trees. The reprimands and

whippings were well worth the afternoon hours spent daydreaming in the groves of the

dryads, when dryads had still inhabited those woods, he recalled with a fond melancholy.

His gentle reverie was ripped from him as he was plunged into gloom. After a moment

his eyes adjusted to the heavy shadow cast by the inner walls of the city proper. He nearly ran

over a silk clad fellow wearing the distinctive tattoos of the deep south. The arrogant sod soon

began cursing in the strange rasping dialect of Qul'At as Phineas's cart trundled on

unperturbed by the foreigners colorful tirade. He was quite sad that he couldn't understand,

he found the art of insults to be a lively and entertaining exercise of the mind. He decided at

some point he must learn more languages, seven was simply not enough.

He pondered where he might find another teacher, generally he tended to learn from

sailors. Unfortunately, they often remained in the city for only a few weeks or a month at most,

always claiming the sea was calling them. This of course made consistent teachers very

difficult to find and as such he was often in the process of learning four or five languages at

once and he sometimes mixed them up and blended them together, making a rather

wonderful new language he liked to call the Phinetian dialect. Despite their truancy, sailors

fortunately tended to know many tongues and generally were more than happy to teach him

the choicest bits of any language for a few pints. He had found that a few years of said bribery

resulted in a tolerable handle on a language. It also allowed him to curse in more than twenty

tongues. A boast he was quite proud to prove on request at any number of taverns.

As such he had earned a certain notoriety and was often consulted on matters of

extreme import, such as how to best insult a particular person based on his country of birth or

race. This of course brought up thoughts of his own country of birth and how best to insult

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himself. Naturally this digressed into his reason for finding succor in Valenoch, which naturally

reversed his thoughts back to architecture.

He looked up at the eastern gate and smiled. Like the outer gate it was surmounted by

a huge Raven. The similarity between the structures ended there however. This creature was

constructed entirely of darksteel and she called to him with her sweet morning song. He had

many reasons he could easily list ad nausea to leave the city, but the sight of her banished

them all. Her feathers arced out from her body along the sides of the tunnel seamlessly

transitioning from obsidian to the deep purplish blue of darksteel. Her pinion feathers curled

down towards him lovingly, teasing him with their proximity. The tantalizing tips were so close

that he could almost reach them if he stood on the top of his cart on his tip toes. He had tried

jumping to reach them on a number of occasions, but his beloved stone was an unforgiving

mistress when he crashed into her bodily. He decided he did not need any new bruises this

morning.

Tall amongst his own people, his span and a quarter height was quite tiny compared to

the average Valerian's two spans. He stared longingly over his shoulder at the claws

descending from the base of the sculpture one hundred and fifty spans above him and wished

they would lift him up into their gentle caress. His desire to fly was still strong after two

hundred years, he wondered if he would ever be granted his wish and soar amongst the

clouds. He had constructed a great number of fabulous devices to this end, much to his

dismay. He had never hurt anyone with his creations, well, not on purpose anyway.

His sigh caught on his lips as he saw the vendors preparing for market. Called the

gateway to the east for good reason, Valenoch's exotics market always held some new

contraption or gizmo for him to investigate. Occasionally he would save enough drakes to

acquire said novelty. He would test his willpower to the limit playing with it until he would

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succumb to inevitability and give his curiosity free reign. He would spend days carefully

diagramming its inner workings and examining their intricacies. He just couldn't resist

discovering all the wonderful cogs and contraptions within. Unfortunately, despite precise

reassembly they never seemed to function correctly after his ministrations. He wondered if all

the spare parts left over had something to do with this particular predicament and dismissed

the foolish thought out of hand. They were simply extra pieces placed within the device in

case something failed and needed replacement.

He diverted his cart from the main road filled with the morning haul and continued on a

minor detour or two through through various treasure troves of machinery. He meandered

through the stalls with his cart, occasionally listening to the curses and cries of anger caused

by his inattentive wandering. Or more specifically by his mighty steed's occasional sampling

of this and that. He couldn't blame her, donkey's were curious by nature, much like himself.

One simply must satisfy said curiosity at some point or the mind will naturally explode with an

over abundance of curiosity . He could appreciate this as he was often a victim of terminal

curiousness himself. Here and there he glimpsed various glorious bits of this and that. He

wisely kept his distance by maintaining his perch upon the seat of his cart. He had learned

that placing himself in too close a proximity of shiny things was detrimental to his pocket

book. He really loved shiny things. Eventually he forced himself to turn away from the market

brimming with mechanical goodies and headed back to the now much less congested

thoroughfare.

He surmised that lost time would be made up for by the greatly decreased traffic and

turned through the great eastern square fronting the foreign quarter and continued south to

the coopers street. He trundled past the cobblers and barrel makers and lost himself in their

work as his faithful companion guided the cart onwards. She knew the way at least as well as

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he did and she was much less easy to distract. Her curiosity was roused by edible things

rather than items of a reflective nature. Thus, the reason for their avoidance of the various

food markets in the city as a general rule. It was an understanding they had, when passing

the metalworkers he allowed Matilda to lead and as such he was less likely to start

conversations that detracted from his timeliness.

Onward they trundled, leaving the wagon wrights and barrel makers and entering the

street of the unnamed smiths. It had achieved this particular title due to an ongoing feud

between copper and bronze smiths. He chuckled as they traded clever insults across the

road, pausing now and then to take mental note if one was particularly clever or novel. On the

left the coppersmiths cast fine kettles, handles and various assortments of cookery and

household items. On the right bronze smiths cast items of a similar ilk as they loudly extolled

the virtues of bronze to their apprentices in the familiar and generally quite friendly banter that

filled this particular avenue of the bustling city. He enjoyed their jests and especially enjoyed

frequenting the nearby taverns of this district and asking his favorite question of: “why isn't the

street named bronze or copper street?”. He would then allow some fine, and generally very

drunk, copper or bronze worker to explain that it really ought to be copper or bronze street.

This would assuredly start a fantastic drunken debate on the true name of the street and

degenerate into insults and the infrequent scuffle. It was all very good natured generally and

many copper smiths were extremely good friends with bronze smiths so long as “the

discussion” was not started. He was well known in the area and generally well liked, having

been dubbed “the instigator” some twenty odd years ago for his habit of starting “the

discussion” on any number of instances.

The iron and steel smiths were far more somber, calmly forging instruments of death

every day must take a toll on ones sense of humor he mused. Not all forged weapons, some

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made plows or various items requiring more strength than copper or bronze. There were a

few machine shops that specialized in making parts for Valmora's more eccentric desires.

Namely the engineers school held the majority of their contracts, but sometimes foreigners

would ask for something requiring quality and skill that was difficult to find in the field of

machinery outside of Valenoch as her smiths were something of a legend in the outside

world. Only the Dwarfs competed with Valenoch where machinery was concerned, but four

thousand leagues of distance between them dampened that considerably and competition

wasn't particularly fierce. Especially since half the Valerian smiths were Dwarfs and staunchly

refused to speak of their northern brethren. The Valerian tradition was not to speak of your

past or why one arrived in the dark city, but the Dwarfs took it to extremes, refusing to even

speak of their kin. Once again he considered his own previous home, not so far removed from

the Dwarven halls beneath Auroch's spine and quickly reverted to thoughts of shiny things.

He had often pondered becoming a metalworker of some sort as he watched the

smiths beating on intensely glowing shards of molten earth. Something had always stopped

him however, metal was nice and all, but it was no stone. The stone was his love first and

foremost and despite his infatuation with trinkets and machinery it could not displace the earth

from the core of his soul. He quickly dismissed dreams of trinket creation as the his favorite

building appeared before him. The steel foundry and its massive smokestacks always made

the hair on the back of his neck rise, of which there was a great deal. He desperately wanted

to go inside and see all the different types of stone that were smelted into metal pulled from

the never ending mines beneath the cairn. He considered perhaps finding work inside, just to

see how it worked and immediately dismissed the idea. It involved far too much work and he

had long since discovered he had an extreme allergy to that particular malady. He decided

that manual labor allowed too little time to think and required too much strain on the body. He

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believed his body to be very picky about what it did, and keeping it in perfect condition with as

little work as possible was a high priority for him. It was difficult to think and work at the same

time and it often caused accidents, or so he had discovered on multiple occasions. He

concluded that with his brains he really aught to be on the design end of things anyway.

Finally he approached the stone masons college. It was his second favorite building,

second only because of the unfortunate religious aspects associated with it. He had been

disabused of the notions of religion at an early age and that was a particular lesson he had

never engendered to forget. Human sacrifice was an extremely strong motivator after all. His

love for humans wasn't particularly strong, but watching their hearts burned while they were

still in their chests was just more than his stomach could take. Belael had never been his

favorite among the gods anyway. After all, it was what lay inside the building that he was

curious about. Supposedly, stone from every land in the known kingdoms was housed within

for research purposes. He fondly remembered years ago when a fellow wagoner was

accepted as an acolyte. He had told him of the wondrous stones and how different they were

from anything he had ever seen here or in his native southern forests. Soon after he had

moved into his new quarters within the college and had not exited since. At least no one had

seen him after his acceptance letter and successive celebratory pub crawl.

Many, many times he had thought of masonry, far more than any other possible career

he had considered. He feared the mysticism associated with the cult like profession and knew

zealots too well to surrender to his desire for greater knowledge of the stone. His love after all

was for the earth, not some religious ceremony. He still loved the building though. It wasn't the

structures fault that it housed lunatics obsessed with ridiculous incantations. Erected of solid

black marble and carved from end to end in fantastic reliefs, it told the story of Valenoch's

construction and served as a history of the city's initial construction and eventual expansion

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starting with the citadel and outer castle followed by the inner city and various quarters as well

as the massive undertaking that was the outer fortifications. Some day he would examine

them all, when he found the time. Some day...

For now he must calm his donkey, Matilda never liked the southern bridge across the

dark river. Her obstinate refusal to cross it had become something of a daily ritual for them.

He still wasn't sure if it was the bridge or the river she didn't like. Both presented unique

difficulties to a donkey. Finally, after much begging and pleading concluding with the usual

bribery she tenuously stepped onto the gigantic structure munching on a turnip.

It stood out in stark contrast to all of its surroundings. Its brilliance immediately

separating it from the gloomy backdrop of the dark city. Built entirely of brass it required an

army of laborers polishing it indefinitely to maintain its incredible shine. The perpetual

polishers, as they jokingly called themselves, took the position for life and spent a month or

two polishing the bridge from end to end. After which it naturally required the process to begin

again due to the tarnishing of the initial portion of the bridge. It wasn't the best job, but it paid

fantastically well for a job requiring little or no skill. This was due to the constant hazard of

falling into the river whilst polishing the more difficult locations, it was an aspect of their job

they never spoke of as falling into the southern branch of the dark river was supposedly a fate

best left for nightmares and bed time stories.

The result of their labors however, was really quite spectacular and very, very shiny. As

if the material wasn't enough to steal his attention, the construction of the it was like nothing

else in the world. It was a suspension bridge, supported by a network of posts starting at ten

spans and increasing gradually in height until reaching the final central pillar of nearly two

hundred spans in height. Each post held massive half span thick cables in place and was cast

in the guise of birds of prey, each one increasing in size and scope as they neared the center

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of the bridge. Each was different and incredibly unique and he wondered how many years

and how many artists it must have taken to create such a structure. Not to mention the size of

the molds involved in such an undertaking. He supposed each must have been cast in pieces

and assembled afterwards. However, he could find no evidence of seams or wielding in any of

the creatures, making him wonder if they had actually been cast as single pieces. The central

post was by far the most magnificent of all. It alone on the bridge had a twin, on each side of

the bridge the twin phoenixes faced outwards to the north and south. Their wings stretched

the length of the bridge and served as supports, connecting the various posts and gargantuan

cables holding the bridge in place. The phoenix's seemed particularly fitting since the whole

bridge looked like it was on fire in the morning light.

The burning bridge, as it was often called, created a fantastic point of reference in the

city. It was visible from the entire southern half of Valenoch as a blazing beacon between the

outer and inner walls, straddling the dark river like a caged bird trying to escape its gossamer

prison. He wondered if the great foundry had been created solely for the bridge's construction

as he began his descent into the merchant quarter. By now the sun was well above the

horizon and he was very, very late.

Page 25

Chapter 3 (S1P3)

“Phineas!” Called a rotund and distinctly unremarkable individual to little effect.

“PHINEAS! You slovenly excuse for a hunchbacked centaur!” He called once more to the

same effect. “PHINEAS BARTHALOMEW OGLETHORPE your mother was an ogre and you

smell like cabbage!”

“Ah mum, what d'ye be wantin now!?” Replied a particularly ugly and especially small

man driving a decidedly unstable cart filled well beyond its capacity.

“You're late AGAIN!” Shouted the clearly upset man rather agitatedly.

“Yer not me mudder!” Said a startled Phineas.

“Yes, I know, but you really are very late and its making me late and I HATE being late,”

said the man with a hint of exasperation.

“I swear I heard me mudder though,” muttered Phineas as he looked around with a hint

of paranoia in his eyes.

“Phineas, I have a great deal to do today and I can't stand that gods forsaken dialect of

yours. Please speak to me like a Valerian and offload the shipment.” The man spoke calmly

with obvious effort.

Phineas simply nodded, muttering to himself about “the ole bat wouldn't follow me

three and a half thousand leagues … would she ?”. He forcefully shook his head in response

to his own question, showing just a hint of paranoia in his eyes. It made quite a comical sight

as Phineas had a beard that fell clear down to his toes and it shook rather violently in

response to his affirmation. Jax couldn't help but giggle in response to the immensely comical

sight. He tried to stifle the fatal chuckle mid breath, but it was too late. He had been

discovered. His father turned instantly to stare at the barrel that had transformed from

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fantastic protection and a wonderful hiding spot into a deadly prison in less than a second

flat. However, Instead of the usual colorful tirade his father his father did something

immensely worse. He didn't explode, he didn't yell, scream, or throw nearby objects. He did

the worst thing imaginable, he didn't get angry. He simply growled a single word, “inside”.

By now Phineas had wound his unkempt beard around his torso and was in the

process of tucking it into his belt.

“My apologies,” mumbled Beorg to Phineas.

“What about them?” replied Phineas.

“Never mind,” grumbled Beorg.

“Don't mind if I don't then!” the little man howled with laughter, feeling especially clever.

“Gnomes,” Beorg grumbled under his breath.

Phineas slowly turned and a dangerous glint entered his eyes like a well banked forge

fire, ready to ignite into an inferno at the slightest provocation. Beorg felt the previously chill

morning air increase in temperature rather rapidly as beads of sweat started to form in the

small of his back. He took an involuntary step backwards as Phineas casually lifted a barrel

twice his height and width and casually set it across his shoulder, hefting it like a pillow rather

than a twenty stone mass.

Beorg recoiled in a stumbling shuffle and made a nervous effort to busy himself

immediately. Beorg had never particularly cared for the tiny man, but he could do the work of

two in half the time and for less than half the price. Even if he was always late, he was willing

to make an exception as Beorg's love of punctuality was narrowly superseded by his love of

coin. Contemplating the importance of timeliness inevitably brought his mind to his errant

knave of a son's similar lack of punctuality, finding the thought of Phineas to be a trifle

unnerving. Thankfully, despite the interruption, Garreth was still working away cataloging and

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checking the new arrivals, whilst Jax was not visible as usual. The boy had an unnatural

ability to disappear when wanted and appear when least desirable. The contrast between his

sons was so profound he wondered how they came from the same womb.

Staunch Garreth was everything he could ask for, reliable, trustworthy and a hard

worker. He could give Garreth a task and leave him to it for a week without needing to check

in on him. Jax on the other hand couldn't be trusted with sweeping the store room without

constant supervision. It took more effort to make him work than to do the work itself. The boy

was a menace and he desperately wanted to find him an apprenticeship somewhere just to

be rid of the hassle of watching him. Unfortunately, despite his obviously cleverness, he

seemed determined to apply his keen intellect to circumventing labor rather than increasing

the efficiency of said work.

He had tried apprenticing him out to over twenty different trades and the result was

always the same. “Doesn't work”, “causes trouble,” or the worst comment of all was “things

seem to have a habit of disappearing when he's around Beorg, I'd keep two eyes on him as

one just ain't enough with them nimble fingers of his.” Thankfully the man was a good friend

and had kept his sons indiscretions to himself, after Beorg had paid him for his trouble and for

several trinkets missing from his wifes jewelry box. He had never found the missing items

despite an epic search of the entire house and shop, and Jax had pleadingly expressed

innocence. Beorg was quite positive that his son was responsible, much as he wished he

wasn't. The trend of items “disappearing” around Jax was occurring far too consistently to be

coincidence.

Beorg simply hung his head, he wanted to love the boy. He truly wanted to teach him

his trade and make him useful. He wanted him to have good moral values and listen well. It

was as if the boy wasn't even his blood. No, that idea cropped up far too often in his head and

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he refused to admit his wife would commit such an act. They had been through far too much

together for him to even consider the idea of her betrayal. It was unconscionable, though he

didn't even look like him. Garreth had his weak chin and sandy hair, his brown eyes and

button nose as well as Beorgs' tendency for overindulgence where food was concerned. Jax

on the other hand, took after his mother he supposed. Jax was lithe as a whip and had a

strong hard chin with high cheek bones and jet black hair. His eyes were the deepest blue,

crystalline and piercing. They unnerved Beorg when he looked into them. This tended to

result in a number of uncomfortable encounters between them as Beorg desperately wanted

to look into his sons eyes and see some good in them. He thought, if only he could find

something that the boy enjoys doing, some trade that strikes his fancy, he could put that mind

to something useful rather than his constant mischief.

By now Phineas had finished unloading his bursting cart and strode coldly towards the

pensive, muttering Beorg. Phineas interrupted Beorgs grumbles by simply holding out his

hand expectantly. Beorg silently handed him a carefully weighed and measured pouch of

coins. Phineas wordlessly accepted the payment, slipping the pouch into some hidden pocket

in the folds of his grimy tunic without counting them or even pausing the gauge the weight. He

never counted his fee and it unnerved Beorg's meticulous nature. He had never cheated the

man, but the fact that he didn't count his fee was extremely unsettling. Valenoch was a city of

undesirables, a haven for those who weren't wanted elsewhere in the world. No one was

foolish enough to commit outright theft under the watch of the city guard, knowing full well the

price. However, many would try to short others in business deals by using false coins or “light

weight” gold, shaving off bits here and there and selling them in bulk to jewelers was a very

lucrative trade in the dark city. Most haulers would first weigh the pouch with their own scales,

never trusting a merchants. They would often then bite the coin to assure themselves it bent

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like gold, rather than resisting and giving off the truth of nickel or tin hidden within.

Not Phineas though, he had a feeling Phineas would know if the purse was light.

Although the odd little fellow was generally and rather disturbingly jovial, he had no desire to

see the extent of his patience. It was rare to see him upset and today was perhaps the third

time in as many years that that odd fire had arisen in his eyes. The comment about gnomes

had clearly set him off, which surprised him as he had always assumed him for a gnome. “If

he was a gnome, why would he be upset by being called one?” He thought out loud.

“Well, maybe he's a dwarf or a man with a bit of goblin in his blood.” Replied Beorg

quietly.

Beorg nodded to his sons surprise intrusion to his thoughts, always a solid fellow his

comment was a valid one. But more unsettling wasn't Phineas's parentage, but his strength.

Each of those barrels were filled to the brim with flour and weighed well over twenty stone. It

took himself and both his sons to drag one a few inches and usually two burly haulers over

twice the size of Phineas to actually life the things. To make it even worse he had actually

carried them. Haulers usually only lifted them onto a roller, as even two large men had

difficulty carrying them the few spans from the cart to the roller. Beorg had always thought

agora's a silly thing. Although massive and useful for long term storage, they were extremely

cumbersome and difficult to transport. The fact that Phineas had lifted one of the gigantic two

span high containers like a quarter keg of ale sent a shiver down his spine.

Jax chose that moment to attempt his escape from the store room as he heard his

father grumbling over the new shipment. Beorg quickly turned his fear and discomfort

concerning Phineas upon his impudent sons untimely arrival into his field of vision. There

soon followed a number of pointed remarks about “places not to be and times not to be

there” punctuated by a multitude of smart slaps across his bottom with a wood soup ladle.

Page 30

This particular ladle was Jax's true nemesis as it always seemed to be handy in times like

this. Jax managed to stammer out a semblance of an apology between the steady beatings

he was receiving and his father stopped with a sigh of complete exasperation. The familiar

sigh seemed slightly more resigned than usual and Jax quirked his head to the side with

curiosity, wondering if there was more in his father's exasperation than the usual

dissatisfaction with his unruliness.

“I have too much to deal with today to add you to my list. I want you to take the list off

the counter and collect the packages waiting for delivery. Take them to the addresses listed

and return immediately. I can't be bothered to watch you today.” Beorg said sullenly.

Jax barely managed to maintain a meekly bowed head as he grasped the neatly

wrapped package from a nearby shelf. He forced himself through sheer will power to silently

and slowly exit the shop, showing no signs of excitement. The second he escaped however,

he leaped full four farthings in the air, twirling gleefully into a pirouette and gracefully landing

with a flourish. His victory celebration was abruptly cut short by his brothers pointed throat

clearing. Jax turned, trying abashedly to allow his raven's mane to cover his scarlet cheeks as

he stared intently at his shoes.

“Harrumph, ahem. It is rather difficult to deliver a package without a destination. While I

am sure you will deliver the package and return, you might require the destination and receipt.

Now, no payment is necessary as this item was paid for upfront. “Please brother, just take it

there and come back. Things aren't going so well right now, take this freedom as an

opportunity. I know you hate this place, I know this life isn't for you. But maybe if you just take

the package and come back father will give you another. I know its not perfect, but if you run

deliveries for father you have a sort of freedom. Besides, there's no soup ladles involved in

deliveries as I understand.” He said the last with a wicked grin and a wink as he set the list on

Page 31

the package and returned to the shop whilst Jax stood dumbfounded and involuntarily rubbing

his soar bottom with his free hand.

Garreth was a mystery as ever. He rarely spoke, claiming one shouldn't speak unless

something really needed to be said. According to Garreth idle conversation wasn't particularly

necessary and as such they had never been close. He had never been cruel, distant, boring,

but never cruel. That monologue was perhaps the most words Jax had heard from his lips in a

month and they had been words of advice. Garreth didn't give advice, if asked what to do he

would say, “ask someone with more experience.” This of course was maddening as Garreth

was the only person really available with more experience than Jax. He couldn't ask his

mother as she would just say, “please, just listen to your father, he loves you.” As such Jax

remained blissfully uninformed when in need of advice. This strange burst of affection and

advice from his brother was more than he could bare and he sat down on the steps to the

shop in stunned amazement.

This of course reminded him that his backside was still quite sore from his discussion

with his father concerning places not to be. With a yelp he leaped into the air, dropping his

package as a result. Immediately recognizing the absolute peril of his situation he nearly bent

himself in half twisting in mid air to capture the lost package, turning his shoulder to the hard

ground and throwing himself into a roll to break the fall. Coughing and spluttering in the dust

he grabbed the list of delivery addresses and made his escape before his brother or father

came out to see what the commotion was and stripped his new found freedom from him.

Limping slightly and nursing a severely bruised shoulder he darted into the nearest

available alley before his father could revoke his punishment from him. Usually his “dutiful,

faithful, trustworthy” (and a host of other often repeated adjectives) brother was trusted with

special deliveries. He stopped for a moment and mentally apologies to his brother. Garreth

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really wasn't a bad sort. He was just so damned good all the time it was impossible to

measure up. Even when Jax tried to do things the way his father wanted it was never as good

as Garreth. As such Jax had decided a long time ago that he was doomed to be second rate

and as such there was a blessing involved. As he was permanently last it didn't matter if he

was second to Garreth by a hair's breadth or by a landslide. As a result he had decided if he

was going to be second to his brother he might as well enjoy it. This naturally meant that he

had stopped trying to cover his tracts and had instead found that it was more important to find

an activity that was so much fun that it was worth the punishment afterwards. Following this

strategy he had found life far more enjoyable. He got in trouble a little bit more, but he didn't

really mind as he had already accepted the possibility of trouble and the severity of

punishment involved, calculating the ratio of fun to punishment and finding it acceptable

before hand.

As such he had been dubbed good for nothing by most, but at least he was happy, for

the most part anyway. At this particular moment a fantastic realization dawned on him though.

His plan had worked! For once, one of his masterful escape plans had worked. Not that his

plans didn't usually work, they just tended to get interrupted is all. But not this time! This time

he was free! He considered whether he could take credit for the escape as he casually

juggled the package above his head, watching it soar over drying laundry stretched between

the buildings on either side of the narrow alleyway. It was his plan after all, sort of. He had

wanted to get out of the shop and had hid behind the barrel as a method of possible escape.

The rest had been a bit of luck, but it had all truly began with his plan. He decided to take

credit regardless.

Whilst basking in self congratulation and juggling happily he considered how best to

spend his morning of freedom. The package juggling was starting to tire his arms and it made

Page 33

him realize that this burden would clearly become tiresome during his morning of freedom. He

decided to deal with it first and turned down another alleyway pondering where he might

deposit it to be free of its weight. He wandered a time and caught sight of the dark river

cutting through the great canal on his right and an idea miraculously presented itself. He

would take it to his stash and place it there for safe keeping until later. He would deliver at

some point or another, when he found the time.

He wove his way through the familiar alleyways, avoiding the major streets as usual,

preferring the shadows as always. He had never been a fan of large crowds, as they were

generally smelly and he had long since discovered that his keen sense of smell was far more

detrimental than helpful. He could smell sailors at five hundred spans and the thought of

coming within a few farthings of a fisherman nearly upset his breakfast. Besides, the bright

sun always hurt his eyes and the shadows of the alleyways were much easier to see straight

in. After a short time of navigating the maze of Valerian back streets and by ways he came to

an access grate a few hundred spans from the burning bridge. He expertly slid a small piece

of wire into the rusty old lock, turning it slowly while applying a slight upward pressure until the

familiar click notified him of success. He lifted the grate up just enough to allow his slight form

to squirm in, ignoring the grit and dirt sliming its way onto his freshly laundered tunic and

canvas leggings.

He followed the old drainage pipe in pitch black, knowing the way by heart and dodging

the occasional well known pothole in the small culvert. He continued on, counting his steps

and making a turn here and there, rushing past the intermittent overhead drains. It was his

favorite game, pretending he was a spy infiltrating the castle. Obviously he had to sprint past

the grates as he mustn't be discovered for fear of being tried for espionage. Finally he arrived,

panting and smiling at his favorite hideaway. It was a dilapidated cubbyhole caused by a

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millennium of water eroding away the wall. The entryway was barely two farthings in height

and he had to bend double to enter it as always. He preferred it this way, assuming that any

counter intelligence agents searching for him would be too tall to see the hidden entryway.

Within was his treasure house. The room itself was not large, perhaps three spans in length

and half that in width, above him was a small drainage grate that allowed a modicum of light

to enter. Thankfully it was usually shadowed by nearby buildings and as such allowed for a

tolerably low light environment for his sensitive eyes to view his wealth with. He carelessly

tossed the package and receipt to the side and surveyed his glorious pile.

It was magnificently illuminated by the eerie glow reflected off the bluish black stone of

the obsidian walls. He gazed upon his hoard with pride as the soft purplish light glinted

beautifully on the pile. It had started as a hobby, borrowing this and that because he liked the

way it looked. Then he started “borrowing” just for the fun of it rather than a desire to posses

an item. It was the thrill of taking it, the excitement of planning his infiltration and the rush of

adrenaline as he actually did the deed. The immense satisfaction of escaping unscathed and

placing said item within his hoard deep beneath the city, well, a few spans under it anyway. It

was not long before he was caught of course. Those first few beatings were extremely

valuable learning experiences however. He was now much more cautious, always planning

each heist to the letter, practicing escape routes and considering possible predicaments that

could arise during the execution of said task.

He took a last longing look at his heap of bobbles and assorted rubbish and found his

way back to the streets again. He emerged under the southern bridge, shielding his eyes from

the blinding light cast by the noonday sun. The reflection off the massive brass monstrosity

certainly didn't help. Everyone thought the damned thing so pretty, so well made and

beautiful. To him it was an eyesore, quite literally, he could only stand looking at it in moonlight

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as normal sunlight just burned his eyes when it reflected off the thing. With his head down he

ran beneath the bridge, eyes firmly pointed earthward sprinted up to a spot just past the

bridge where the canal wall was slightly lower and cracked in a few plays, presumably a result

of the river freezing in the winter and thawing in the spring. At least thats what his father told

him when he asked how the walls might crack.

With unnatural grace he nimbly vaulted two spans and placed his foot in the familiar

crack, using it as a spring board to launch him the remaining span over the canal wall and into

the street. He landed with his usual poise, slipping slightly and rolling forward, only just barely

catching himself before getting mauled by a large coach. His spectacular leap was heralded

by the usual curses and angry mutterings rather than the applause it truly deserved. He

understood they were simply too uncultured to appreciate his amazing abilities is all. He

quickly darted into a nearby alleyway, escaping the heavy noonday sun into the succor of the

shadows.

He began his freedom by testing his willpower, he hated that damned bridge, but he

loved the other side. On the eastern side of the burning bridge lay his favorite market of all,

the weapons market. Conveniently located adjacent to the smithing quarter, every possible

instrument of destruction could be found here. Jax didn't actually have any money, but his

window shopping was quite well known in the area. The merchants tolerated him so long as

he didn't touch anything. He had learned the hard way once, weapons were sharp. He spent

hours pouring over the scimitars, rapiers, and even saw a few of the rarer katana's from the

deep south. The knives interested him far more, he preferred the ceremonial ones though.

They were so much prettier. Most of the weapons here weren't for show however. This was

the real weapons market. The type of gold hilted gem studded trinkets that nobles bought

weren't really sold here. This was a place of business, not luxury. They sold death and they

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knew it. Jax felt strangely at home here. He had even considered working with weapons as a

trade, but he knew it was the one place his father wouldn't allow him to go. His family was

unreasonably pacifistic and his father especially had a hatred of weapons of all sorts that ran

deeper than any attribute associated with his father he could think of.

Jax wondered if his father's hatred of weapons had something to do with his

fascination with them. He had learned that anything forbidden seemed irresistibly interesting

to him. As a result he was never quite sure whether he loved something, or simply loved the

idea of it. The allure of the forbidden his mother called it when he tried to explain his logic to

her once. She had simply said that he would eventually learn that things were forbidden for a

reason and it was usually a good one. He certainly understood the sharp aspect of weapons

being dangerous, but if they had told him they were so sharp he wouldn't have touched them.

Well, he probably wouldn't have anyway, he conceded with a self-effacing shrug.

He meandered into the more exotic knives and examined the katars absentmindedly.

They seemed more pie cutters than weapons to him and didn't really hold his interest very

long, not that much did. He had long since accepted his ephemeral shifts in thought as

something he couldn't change or anticipate. Now the Sa'Lan, that was a weapon. Supposedly,

the legendary spies of Qu'Lat used them for high profile assassinations. At least thats what

the sword smith's apprentice next door had told him. He had been his first real friend and a

true treasure until he told his little sister a story about an assassination with a Qu'Lat in it. His

father generally ignored the fairy tales he spun for his five year old sister, but this one

suddenly had his full attention at the mention of a Qu'Lat. He had promptly beaten him without

reason before asking him where he had heard of a Sa'Lan or Qu'Lat. When he had told them

about the new boy next door he was instantly forbidden from ever speaking to him again.

Normally he would have completely ignored it and continued to see the boy, but his

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father had spoken to the neighbors and told them that Jax had the pox and that they shouldn't

let their son near him if they knew what was best for themselves. Obviously they had just

fallen off the turnip cart or they would have known Valerians were completely immune to

disease so long as they honored the pact. Unfortunately for Jax they thought the pact was

only a superstition and that magic was imaginary. Obviously they hadn't been in Valenoch

very long. Most people lived their entire lives in the city without seeing any magic, those

unlucky enough to bring enough attention to warrant magic being used generally regretted it.

Especially since most magic the common folk saw was when some poor fool broke a law and

magic was used in their apprehension and generally involved a great deal of kicking,

screaming, and wailing followed by a rather profound silence. As such there really wasn't

much crime in the city.

Remembering the sword smith and his young son had a rather depressing sobering

effect on Jax. He decided he needed a boost to his morale. Naturally he sauntered over to the

food market to smell the sweets. He meandered down fleet street allowing his overly keen

sense of smell to be put to use in a more useful way than avoiding fishmongers. The smell of

fresh baked pies reached his nose first, quickly followed by various breads. He played one of

his favorite games as he wandered through the alleys surrounding fleet street. Jax tried to

separate the smells from each other. He could tell at least three different breads at first, rye,

wheat, and sourdough were the strongest by far. There was another he couldn't quite

recognize until he thought for a moment. Ah, it was the holy month of the southerners bizarre

religion. He recalled his mother teaching him about the various religious of the south and that

many would bake “friendship bread” to give to their neighbors during the month of Avri. He

had never tasted it, but it certainly had a distinctive scent. He imaged it would be sweet and

salty at the same time. Although he could be mixing up the scents, he wasn't entirely sure at

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the moment. He wondered if there was a job for someone with a really good sniffer. He could

definitely do that job, so long as he got to eat what he sniffed after that is.

At last he picked out the scent he loved most of all, pie. Rhubarb, apple, raspberry,

strawberry, even a hint of marionberry reached him. Fruit was exorbitantly expensive in

Valenoch unfortunately and as such he could never actually afford pie. On special occasions

his mother would splurge and bake one, much to the rage of his father and chagrin of Jax.

She always said, “Beorg, life is meant to be lived, not mourned.” To which his father would

silently and sullenly eat his slice, grumbling and muttering vehemently. Jax simply assumed

his father didn't like pie. The idea was difficult to accept at first, but so was the idea that

anyone could win an argument with his father. It had taken him a good five of his twelve years

to understand that his mother always won against his father. She just didn't celebrate or admit

victory, instead she quietly persuaded him rather than brow beating her points. Jax decided

that he really needed to ask her how she did that. Maybe it could be of use the next time he

got in trouble.

Speaking of trouble, he stopped dead as he caught the scent of the best of the best.

Honey, chocolate, raspberry, strawberry, and something creamy caught the undivided

attention of all his sniffing faculties. He accepted at that particular moment that his life would

not be complete without the consumption of whatever that was. He pondered the wiseness of

this particular decision for a spare two or three seconds and began sauntering like a king

down fleet street towards the tantalizing treat. With careful precision he identified his objective

and made a preliminary pass of the vendor. It was a difficult shop, set into the building with a

small stall outside the bakery and trays filled with steaming delight waiting for him. It appeared

they were preparing a delivery as something with so many delicacies couldn't be for sale on

the street. Most chance passers by could afford something like that. Someone must be

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celebrating something special today. Jax decided he would celebrate with them.

He continued walking past the shop and found a nearby alley, looping back through

the back streets until he found a good vantage point to view his prospective celebratory feast.

A fantastic distraction arrived in the form of a young princeling and his entourage sauntering

past examining the various treats. The baker allowed greed to overcome prudence and

rushed out to greet the prospective customer professing the glory of his baked goods. Jax

took that particular opportunity to dash forward and snatch his steaming prize. He then deftly

disappeared into the alley amidst cries of surprise from the army of retainers flanking the

princeling. This was closely followed by the angry shouts of the baker. Jax pondered possibly

improving his technique for next time, as snatch and grab seemed awfully crude. He was

definitely effective though!

He spent the next five minutes putting as much distance as possible between himself

and fleet street. After five minutes of dashing down this alley and that he decided any pursuit

was dealt with and sat upon a nearby rain barrel to enjoy the goodness of his savory treat.

His victory was short lived however. He finished his meal and began his journey back

to his hideaway to commence his much delayed delivery. Unfortunately the moment he

entered the main road a heavily mailed black fist descended upon his shoulder and

unceremoniously half dragged him to his fathers shop. His brother looked up from his

sweeping only long enough to shake his head. His father simply hung his head in shame and

asked, “what has he done now?”

“Nothing too serious, pie filching, I took care of it.” Said his mailed captor.

“Oh, um, thank you for your discretion guardsmen.” Said Beorg with obvious shock,

clearly searching for words.

“Sergeant.” He replied curtly whilst promptly discarding Jax into his fathers custody and

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leaving as abruptly as he had come.

“Flame and fury, by the gods boy, what in the Raven's name have you done?” His

father said with astonishment screaming in his voice. Jax was too stunned to respond, it was

the first time he had ever heard his father curse and the shock was a bit too much for him at

the moment.

“First you don't make your delivery, then I find out you took the wrong package and an

extremely expensive one at that! Then a RavenGuard drags you home and says he caught

you filching pies! Why in the seven spheres a RavenGuard is catching petty thieves I don't

know, but then to find out he is a sergeant! And he took care of it?! Sky and star burn me now

boy! What could you have possibly done to warrant the attention of THEM! Even worse, what

could you have possibly done after so that he not only DOESN'T punish you, he instead walks

you up to my door and says he took care of it. BELAEL! What did you promise him? What

could you possibly give him?” His father said, changing between creative curses that even

Jax had never heard and berating him intermittently.

Jax stuttered, trying desperately to comprehend what his father was saying, remember

those fantastic curses, and fabricate a suitable lie to explain this most colossal of

predicaments that he had somehow found himself in. He spared a moment to ponder what

was in that package that was not only wrong, but expensive also. His response was never

allowed to come as the moment he began to speak his stutter was cut off by a low grating

voice that didn't even remotely sound like his father.

“No, I don't care, I need to close up here. Go home. I will deal with you tonight.”

For the first time in a very long time, Jax was genuinely frightened. His father had not

yelled, shouted or screamed in his general direction. Instead he had cursed. He had cursed!

The incredibility of it still hadn't sunk in. His moral mountain of a father had cursed! What on

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earth could stealing a pie have to do with the RavenGuard? They were supposed to be

Valmora's personal guard. Then again they were also supposed to be ten feet tall and shatter

stone with a glare. His captor had seemed normal enough, from what he could see as he was

dragged home. His armor had been fantastic though! He wished he could have a better look

at it. It shimmered so wonderfully, not the eye wrenching shimmering of the citadel or the

blinding pain of the burning bridge. No, this was poetry in motion, it seemed to caress the light

rather than bend it or break it. The air shimmered around it, as if the light was melting in its

presence. He looked up from his musing to see his approaching house and his thoughts were

wrenched back towards the problem at hand.

It was a big one this time. Beorg had been calm, calm was bad, calm meant bad

things. He hadn't raised his voice, he hadn't vented, his father was like a steam machine, if it

didn't vent it would explode. He preferred venting by far, he would handle him the ladle the

moment he arrived tonight. He would line up various inexpensive objects for Beorg to throw

so that he wouldn't be angry after breaking something expensive at Jax's expense. This

calmness was unnerving and he didn't like it. He was really craving some yelling and

screaming now, yes, Beorg would come home and yell and scream and everything would be

fine.

“What are you doing home so early?” Jax's mother's soft voice startled him and he

jumped at the sound.

“I, um, I well, I was just a little ..” Jax stuttered searching for words.

“Again Jax? Why can't you just mind him? Is it so difficult? To carry a parcel or sweep a

shop? Does he really ask such terrible things from you? I have seen children forced into far

worse work. Would you like to work in the mines? Would you like to clean chimneys? There

are far worse things in this world and many people who would gladly take your life from you to

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make a few coins. Thousands of children would gladly take your place and do all he asks of

you and more in exchange for a full belly. Oh you silly spoiled child, I pray you never realize

how evil and cruel the world truly is. If you only knew how lucky you are.” His mother was in

full blown nag mode and he knew it. He resolved to bear it rather than attempt his usual

escape. Luckily his sacrifice was short lived as his mothers rant was cut short by a miniature

whirlwind of energy screaming into Jax with the exuberance only a five year old possesses.

“Jax!” She squealed with delight, tackling him with a limitless display of enthusiasm.

His mother simply grumbled, “just like his father” and returned to her sweeping. Jax

was soon coaxed into a fantastical account of his days adventures. Teia's breath hung on his

every word as he recounted all the trials and tribulations of his day with a few minor

embellishments added here and there solely for the benefit of theatricality. Utterly spellbound

she asked her usual torrent of questions to which he gladly fabricated fantastical explanations

of gremlins, goblins and the occasional appearance of an ogre or two in the city streets which

he was promptly compelled to vanquish. The story soon digressed into tales of dragons and

daemons. His mother seemed indifferent until dragons were mentioned at which point she

seemed to take an interest. Just as quickly she scoffed, “enough, stop filling her head with

nonsense.” She said it half heartedly, almost with a sense of longing.

“Aw, mum, jax tells the best stories! He was just telling me bout how he road a dragon

through Qu'Lat to rescue the fire witch princess from the evil RavenGuard!” Teia Rambled in a

single breath, preparing for another expostulation of the virtue of Jax's story telling prowess.

“He is also the best at getting in trouble!” She replied, cutting off her excitable daughter.

Jax gave his mother a roguish grin, bowing dramatically and thanking her profusely.

“Oh mum, I don't know if I'm the best. I mean, I am good and all, but the best? Surely

someone is better than me! I do strive to achieve greatness, but I think I have a lot of practice

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ahead of me before I am the best!” he replied, giving his sister an exaggerated wink.

His mother threw her hands up in mock exasperation and crushed him and his sister

an a monstrous hug that forced a mouse like squeak from Jax. Jax and his sister struggled

unsuccessfully to escape until she finally released them, quickly turning away with a sniffle

and wiping a tear away.

It was at that precise moment that Beorg entered the house like a thunderhead and

uttered a single word in an icy calm voice, “Bed.” Jax wordlessly went to the children's shared

room and resigned himself to starving to death in glorious martyrdom. His death was narrowly

prevented by his mothers timely intervention in the form of a loaf of bread smuggled to him

during his fathers nightly extended exodus to the latrine.

With a full belly Jax slipped into an uneasy and restless sleep filled with vengeful

dragons and angry daemons. Strangely featured in all of them however was his mother. She

always appeared at the last possible moment, flaming hair splayed behind her and massive

wings of fire illuminating her as she banished his tormentors time and again.

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Chapter 4 (S1P4)

A pallid chill slowly crept into Valenoch with the morning sun. Twilight seemed to linger

a little longer than usual. Even the shadows stretched just a bit farther in the quiet pre-dawn

light as a soft menace wove its way into the air with such seamless grace that it was almost

too inconsequential to notice, almost.

Despite the approach of full dawn the sun seemed laced with ice. Even as the warmth

of day attempted to breach Valenoch a foul mist rose from the dark river, shadowing the sun

behind its malice. Its golden rays drained of all color, leaving only the Valerian end of the

spectrum visible, gray and black. The peculiar architecture of the city didn't seem to mind the

wash of colorless light, it seemed more fitting. Occasionally a shaft of pure light would slip

through the mist, only to be captured by the lattice of crystalline blades arcing across the

walls. Most of the light surrendered to their fate, but the rare strand of purest light fought,

casting blue fire across the sky and causing the brilliant morning lights. Each strand of light

was shattered into a thousand fragments of every color imaginable. Visible for only a moment,

each burst was both blinding and electrifying, creating an eerie shimmer in the air above the

walls as they fought the morning twilight.

The city itself slept, immune to the colorful displays roaring above its walls. Its gloom

appeared self imposed. The dreary morning did nothing to alleviate the worries of her citizens.

More so than usual a sense of unease and fear gripped the denizens of the dark city today.

The drawing came at dawn, ravaging morale far worse than any disease. It was this macabre

contest that left every parent within the walls with the same comforting notion, a single

glimmer of hope. Perhaps if I stay in bed the covers will protect me from this day. The

anticipation of pain is far worse than the malady itself, a fact Valerians knew all too well as

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they lived in perpetual expectation.

Much to their dismay, the covers were not enough to stop the sun. The forces of nature

continued on despite their silent protests. The waning moon was all but spent and on this eve

the new moon would rise, one would be chosen and none but its family would weep, such

was the price they gladly paid.

Smoke slowly crept out of the chimneys of Valenoch's merchant quarter, each curling

wisp vanishing into the gathering fog rising over the rooftops. One chimney in particular

seemed more lethargic than all the others. Within this home, the inhabitants moved in a

similar fashion, staggering in a haze of unease. They moved through syrup, following the

motions of routine without conscious thought. The dwelling was modest and made of the

standard Valerian material, dark stone. It was unadorned, squat and mildly rectangular with

nothing to set it apart from its neighbors aside from a small work shed adjacent to it. A single

story with few windows, it was nearly invisible amongst the huddles of similar homes

scattered around it. The front door was constructed of the same stone and fit almost

seamlessly into the walls. The small shimmering runes glittering iridescently across its face

made its location crystal clear however.

Both protection and prison each door held three words every resident of the city knew

by heart. Few knew which symbol was which, but all knew the meaning of the words. Some

claimed each symbol held a spirit within, trapped, only to be released when it performed its

duty. Others claimed human souls were similarly imprisoned, most ignored the rumors and

the runes, preferring not to think about such things. Despite the abstention of most decent

folk, the tavern gossips loved to discuss all the grisly possibilities of the ever present door

wardings, proposing all the horrible events that would occur should someone break their pact.

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Albeit a favorite subject for drunken speculation, none really cared to test the theories.

First among the symbols was Raenor, the shepherd, whose duty was to watch the

border of life and death and guide wayward souls to their proper destination. Second was

Nadim, the binder, who held oaths bound in blood and bone and punished oath breakers. The

first two's purpose was generally understood by Valerians. Raenor kept the angry dead

fueling the cities myriad of magical sundries at bay and Nadim exacted swift vengeance on

any who broke the pact. The third rune was a subject of much debate however, Ashenoch

was the dawncaller, his duty was to banish all souls back to the realm of the dead. The

theories concerning the purpose of the third rune ranged from Armageddon to punishment for

the wayward dead. Total destruction was a favorite among those who believed Valerians were

partially undead themselves, although these were considered by most to be crackpots. Some

thought Ashenoch was to keep the Ravenguard at bay, others to hold off the nargs. In truth,

most had no idea and preferred to keep the subject silent except for the occasional tavern

based discussion after the fourteenth tankard.

The runes on this door were quite standard. In fact this door was entirely

unremarkable, the same as the one to its left and right. Most likely the same as the one three

doors down as well, within the home it was equally unremarkable. Rough unfinished stone

floors matched identical walls of dark granite. A small coal burning stove provided a smoky

warmth trying unsuccessfully to warm the room due to a dank chill hanging tangibly in the air

thanks to the morning fog.

The air held more than fog in this home, tension matched the water drop for drop,

hanging thickly and showing visibly in Beorg's face as he closed the small slate shudders. It

did little to guard against the frigid morning breeze, but he was fidgety. Keeping his hands

busy helped his agitation a little, allowing at least his body to be occupied by something more

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mundane than his own inner turmoil. He turned and surveyed his home, considering the

relative poverty of it and wistfully recalling better days. It was clean however, above all things

he valued order and consistency . It was ordered here, and safe. So very safe, always

enough to eat, no fear of disease, but at such a cost. Yes, he was safe here, but was it worth

it?

Keeping himself busy, yes, thats the answer, don't think about it. His wide frame

showed visible exertion as he waddled over to the large stone table that dominated the

western portion of the room. He paused to look at the similar stone floor and wondered, not

for the first time, where so much stone came from. He knew of no stone quarry closer than

the northern mountains over four hundred leagues distant. He shook his head as thoughts of

the mornings gruesome prospects arose. Hoping to busy himself with work in an attempt to

further distance his mind from reality he began to collect the scattered papers strewn across

the table by the morning gust that had prompted his closing of the shudders. Why was it so

windy every damn morning? Always just before dawn and always from the east? Every light

cursed dawn brought a freezing wind and his wife always left the light cursed shudders open.

For fresh air she always said, damned woman was always cold and she wanted fresh air at

night. Frozen fresh air to boot. He sat on a stone bench next to the table and sighed with

exasperation, it was impossible to be angry with her. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't

remain upset with her for more than the time it took to create the thought. He decided anger

wasn't a suitable misdirection from his misery and shook his head in exasperation, returning

to other musings and various meaningless distractions to postpone his dreary thoughts

concerning the inevitable.

Shuffling through the papers brought some consolation, distracting his chubby fingers

and keeping his mind considering each paper and its importance in the stack until one sheaf

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escaped from his clumsy digits to slip beneath the table. Grunting with strain he bent beneath

the table to search for the lost article. Despite the new found blood flow to his face he still

appeared pallid and worn. His countenance was rutted with deep furrows and heavy lines

showing an age far beyond his years. A darkness around his pale blue eyes indicated

frequent sleepless nights. Beorg's features were rounded and soft, like lumpy clay pressed

unevenly across his cheeks . Something about the set of his jaw indicated his face was not

always so however. Even his waddling stride was not the resigned hobble of someone who

had long since acclimated to their corpulence. His was instead unsure and cautious, the walk

of a man unused to his current situation.

He placed the retrieved paper atop the table and deposited himself in heavy rough

hewn stone chair near the stove, staring into the glowing coals as if searching for an answer

within. Despite the icy air he reached into his damp tunic and produced a well worn and

heavily embroidered silk handkerchief. Mopping his dripping brow he silently ruminated on

better days, staring at the sweat soaked cloth longingly.

The early morning hours passed slowly thus. The mighty stack of parchment remained

untouched on the table. The usual joy of studying accounts receivable was not enough for

Beorg this morning. For perhaps the hundredth time his eyes strayed to his children's door.

He told himself he had been lucky before, perhaps his luck would hold.

With grim determination he rose and carefully re-sorted the already ordered

parchments by date rather than alphabetically. The set of his shoulders belied a similar single

mindedness as he set aside the accounts and knelt beneath the table. He showed a

surprising agility whilst he slithered under the granite table and removed a false section of

wall behind it. Carefully placing it to one side he strained to haul a small bronze strongbox

from the alcove. It had been seventeen years and not a day had passed without the thought

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of his fateful choice cropping up and torturing him. Lottery day was always the worst and that

was why on this day alone he allowed himself the luxury of perusing the remnants of his

glorious past.

He reached beneath his sweat soaked tunic and selected a small copper key from a

ring around his neck. With a faint click the lid popped open to reveal an odd assortment of

items. First he fingered a fine gold ring, ornately carved and bearing a large sigil containing a

stallion rearing amongst sand dunes. Next he gently felt a scrap of fine white silk bearing

initials he could claim no longer. After a long series of similar bits of faded finery and

memories of wealth long since relinquished he brushed aside an ornate gold dagger to grasp

a small broach. It seemed fragile and delicate in his chubby fingers and he handled it with

exaggerated care. It consisted of no metal he could name, at once gold, bronze and brass it

shimmered even in the absence of light. Turning it over he examined the simple clasp that

always refused to open. Rotating it in his hands again he felt along its serrated edges. The

metal seemed more woven than cast, made in the semblance of no bird he had ever seen in

life. Its wings were infinitely detailed and forever frozen in flight. Even the feathers seemed to

move in the slight breeze, glittering magnificently. Each pinion was encrusted with tiny rubies

and shimmering with inlaid diamond dust. The face glowed menacingly, set with fire agates

cut into eerily familiar eyes that radiated warmth despite the frigid temperature. He ran his

fingers over the magnificent piece and recoiled, nearly dropping it as the memories flooded

into painful reality. He began to relive the fires, the exodus to Valenoch and the fateful choice

that brought them here. Just as fast as the torrent began it jolted and dissipated. When he

had regained his composure he was staring at his wife as she bent to return the strongbox to

its hidden alcove.

She was as different in appearance to Beorg as can be possibly imagined. Where he

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was of middling height and exceptional girth she was slight and tall. Standing in the chill

twilight she seemed to glow, radiating heat. Clad only in a short shift she revealed an endless

expanse of shapely legs that quickly turned Beorg's thoughts towards a decidedly

inappropriate nature. He allowed himself the slow pleasure of letting his eyes follow the gentle

curve of her hips up unto her small shapely breasts. He felt a strong desire to wrap his arms

around her and gently kiss her neck a thousand times. She giggled like a child and hopped

onto his lap, still the foolish girl he had hopelessly fallen for so many years ago.

Her flaming hair cascaded over him, blinding him in an inferno of flaming locks that

seared away the chill cold of morning. He stared into her face, her perfect porcelain face.

Cast from marble into the semblance of a goddess it was as pale as moonlight and just as

mercurial. Her emerald eyes cut through him as her face showed the slow recognition of what

day this was. Always finding the good in everything, only she could giggle on a day such as

this.

“Carmen, we have no time for such foolery on this day.” Beorg fumbled out curtly,

showing a desperate attempt at restraint as she sat haphazardly on his lap.

“Well, you did give me that look.” She said petulantly with a beautifully pouty lower lip

that swelled with inviting fullness.

Beorg had just enough humility to flush and rearrange his uncomfortably snug trousers.

“I see the equipment still works, even if you deny y ourself its use.” She bit the words

off, playfully emphasizing the last few for added impact. At that moment she did the last

possible thing he could have expected. Like a placid lake suddenly caught unawares by a

sudden storm, she wept like a child. Perhaps she thought smothering herself into his chest

would prevent the events of the day from transpiring.

Beorg held her close, feeling her warmth against him he offered what little comfort he

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could spare. She felt so fragile in his arms, clinging to him brokenly as the tears flowed freely

into his already drenched tunic. He wanted to weep, to add his own fear and doubt to the river

flowing down his chest. He wanted to cry out and tear down the walls with anger and

frustration. Anger he could control, he could focus it and vent it. He could take anger and

release it, let it out, but this misery and helplessness was maddeningly unassailable.

At some point in the hours that followed Teia had wheedled herself between them and

now clung there like a limpet. Faithful, solid Garreth stood like a statue, gently patting Beorg's

shoulder with a pained expression of utter confusion painted starkly upon his plane features.

Seeing his sons confounded expression cleared his self pity momentarily. He gently cupped

his wife's weeping face in his hands and stared into those limitless depths of Jade. She

looked the same as the day he met her. In twenty two years she hadn't aged a day. Some part

of him deep inside told him he should speak now, that this chance my never come again.

In a barely audible voice, he whispered to her as he held her close, “I love you.”

A loud rapp on the heavy door responded to his heartfelt entreaty. Beorg slowly stood,

depositing his wife and child gently in his former seat. Like a ghost he drifted to the door and

undid the latch while his wife pleaded tearfully, “don't open it, please, please.”

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Chapter 5 (S1P5)

Garreth watched the mornings events through a fog. A thick haze obscured everything,

he watched a tall dark eyed man walk into his home. He wore dark armor and spoke softly in

a cold expressionless baritone. Everything seemed to happen in frozen images, skipping from

one moment to the next with unrecorded gaps in between, yet permanently etched upon his

soul.

His mother pleaded and cried. His father stood stoically silent and pointed to the

children's room with a horribly impassive face. The tall man walked into the bedroom, glanced

once at the small stove in the corner, whatever he saw eliciting a barely perceptible grin. It

was so fast Garreth wondered if he had imagined it, another aspect of this horrible living

nightmare sliding across his vision. The face returned immediately to featureless stone, cold

and emotionless. The dark stranger spoke again and his father started yelling. His mother

held Teia tightly as she cried with renewed vigor, finding fresh tears in a well previously run

dry. Both his parents seemed to be trying very hard not to look at him. The tall man simply

glanced at him and shook his head as if deciding whether a piece of fruit was past its prime.

Did he speak? Everything seemed silent, the world devoid of color and the air lacking sound

as if ash had filled his senses.

Garreth then watched his tiny sister calmly detach herself from their mother and gently

place her hand in that of the tall man, and walk out the door. His mother's tears stopped

momentarily as shock consumed her senses for a span of moments or minutes, Garreth knew

not which until she frantically found the keening wail of misery once more whilst she stumbled

out the door in search of her daughter.

He simply stood dumbfounded as he watched it all numbly as if they were someone

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else's family, someone else's eyes, someone else's world crashing down around him. He was

a stone, he felt nothing. His father spoke, but Garreth heard nothing. He only stared at the

door, reliving the memory of his sister's departure again and again.

The day continued, he ate food, he drank water, but the world was choked with ash.

His father spoke, and sometimes wept. At other times he yelled and beat him with a wooden

ladle, but he felt nothing, heard nothing. At dusk that evening the tall man returned with his

mother limply strewn across a shoulder as if she were a feather, her slight form caused no

change in his stance or gait. He laid her with astonishing gentleness and care upon her bed,

pulling the covers across her dirty scantily clad form. He then did something decidedly odd

that stood out strangely in Garreth's mind. He could have sworn that when the stranger laid

his mother to rest, he smelled her hair. Her short shift was torn and filthy. Her eyes were

open, but there was no life left in them. She stared vacantly at some unseen vision beyond

Garreth's sight.

He heard the distinct baritone tell his father that she had fainted. He heard his fathers

mumbled thanks as the man left. Like a tower built of sand with the final support removed, he

crumbled. Reality struck hard and without mercy, his walls fell and Garreth crashed hard to

his knees upon the floor. He clutched her limp clammy hand and cried, letting the river flow

across his form as if it could scour clean the events of the day. How long he continued he

didn't know. At some point exhaustion consumed him and sweet oblivion devoured the agony.

Garreth and Beorg continued existing, but it was most definitely little more than that.

They worked and met the needs of their bodies. Sometimes they spoke when the situation

demanded it, but their was no room for anything save grief in their world. They suffered

silently together in their stoic fashion, twin paragons of misery enduring the pain of living.

Carmen remained silent with them. She ate when prompted, using a chamber pot as

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necessary, but otherwise she simply stared unblinking into the distance.

No one ever mentioned Jax, or his conspicuous absence on that fateful morning.

Phineas didn't really care for the atmosphere of lottery day. Too much doom and gloom

for a person of his optimistic nature. He firmly believed that every day was like any other, if

one put special meaning into this day or that, they allowed themselves to make it a negative

day. He preferred that every day be thought of as a blessing, so long as it ended at a fine

tavern with a full belly. Then again, if it ended at a dirty tavern that was just as good, as they

tended to be much cheaper after all. Unfortunately the ale was often a bit watered down, but

such was the price one paid. After all, he went to taverns for their lively atmosphere, not the

ale. Well, not only for the ale anyway, it certainly helped improve the atmosphere though.

It was on this particularly gloomy evening that he found himself with a common

dilemma, which tavern to frequent. He could stay in the merchant quarter, where his daily

deliveries had only recently concluded. However, remaining in said quarter left him with a

great deal of depressing individuals. He was never quite sure if the husbands and fathers of

the quarter drank to celebrate not being chosen or to forget the fact that someone was

chosen. Regardless, he had a far more important decision to choose this particular evening.

“Where to drink? Where to drink?” Phineas mumbled aloud as he trundled through the

warren of neighborhoods, following his usual meandering policy of “I'll get somewhere

eventually.” In time he definitely arrived somewhere and after some careful observations he

decided it wasn't the where he wanted to be. The not quite so noble of the nobles were the

worst of drinking companions. They thought they were noble, but couldn't afford to live on

nobles row. And so here they placed their slightly above average income families, a place he

preferred to call the lesser row. The name was popular among commoners, but the minor

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noble families despised it, creating various names amongst themselves to call this

neighborhood and that. While he thought Wilfordshire was a fine name for a town, it was

certainly a silly name for a street. It just so happened to be the street he was on at the

moment in fact. He examined the small overly gilt sign placed at the front of the street. Rather

than normal orderly black stone of most street signs in Valenoch, this one was clearly some

fools attempt at displaying his wealth. Phineas decided to place a little of his own touches on

the sign and asked the stone for a little help. After a few hours he had managed to improve on

the accuracy of the street sign in question. It now had a slightly permanent addendum

beneath it elucidating the true location of said street. It now read, first in silvery gold script and

then in his own block lettered stone carving, Wilfordshire also known as Wilford's street, to be

found in the lesser row.

Said matter of importance having been aptly accomplished, he decided the hour of

drinking was upon him. Or perhaps he had happened upon the hour of drinking. Regardless,

he really needed a drink.

Deliverance appeared slowly, for first he must traverse the dead calm of the great

square. It was beautiful in the typical Valerian fashion of Gothic gloom. The massive expanse

was ringed on two sides by heavily gilt shops filled with all manner of overpriced noble fodder.

Trinkets and such he loved, but for their magnificent machinery, not because they were

dipped in gold or platinum. Here there were few trinkets to be investigated, rather this place

was filled with hoards of overpriced jewelry. While occasionally pretty or clever in design, for

the most part Valerian fashion dictated wearing enough shiny metal to cause bruising on most

womens necks. The problem had become so common that jewelry often had pads on the

topmost part of the chain, allowing for reduced chance of lacerations due to overt display of

wealth.

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This phenomenon had of course resulted in a whole host of insult opportunities at the

expense of the nobles and it was this particularly important line of logic that his honed intellect

was following at the moment. He considered which animals had arched necks, considering

cranes and king fishers as well as a host of other waterfowl. Unfortunately the clearest

correlation he could find was most unfortunately in that of the Nargs. Their trademarked

hunch to their neck seemed most fitting to the current contemplation. Not only that Narg and

noble both started with the same letter. It was as if the gods were speaking to him, now if only

he could find the proper combination of said novelty.

Whilst his mind was heavily occupied with combining n words together in the most

amusing fashion possible he found his way into the northern section of Valenoch. The odor of

the upcoming fish market denoted his exit from the well to do portion of the city. He wondered

how many lower nobles wished they were commoners so they could move to the merchant

quarter. The smell alone had been the basis for an obscene amount of jokes he had

concocted at the nobles expense. Then again, the nobles claimed that the fish market

provided a fine incentive for advancement. Only the lowest of the low lived near enough to

smell it and it was often said the great houses purposely owned a multitude of houses in the

odorous quarter to be used when a family member caused great shame upon the house.

Such failures were quite often, usually a failed assassination attempt or a great loss of money

on some economic gamble. As such the greatest business in the area was that of movers.

The burly fellows operated quite a profitable business carting in this recently shamed noble

with his head in his hands only to turn around and cart out another proud noble beaming

happily as somehow they had found their way into their particular houses good graces.

Phineas had often helped out in the area whenever the game of houses heated up, as

increased activity in the game always resulted in a great deal of positional exchanges. He

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thought the system rather silly, as rather than investing their wealth in making more wealth

they generally preferred investing it in any number of schemes to vi for position in their own

house. The particularly dangerous schemes however, were when one house attempted to

exchange positions with another house. They were often bloody and extremely messy.

Fortunately there were strict consequences for any noble involving a commoner, both for the

noble and the commoner. As such the commoners were always involved, but in extremely

discrete ways that never allowed for direct involvement. It was simply easier to find a noble

than to pay a commoner enough that they would attempt anything.

He did like that aspect of Valerian law anyway, it kept him free of the game, yet still

able to profit from it in any number of ways. In fact, the great game kept a good portion of the

city employed, forging documents, treating injuries, digging graves, moving furniture between

the lesser row and the odorous quarter. All in all he figured the great game wasn't so bad after

all. In fact, he decided that would be the subject of his nightly rant! Yes, he would find a place

to drink and discuss how glorious the great game was tonight. That aught to get a reaction,

either laughter or a brawl, preferably both.

This of course caused him to recall the original problem of the night, where to drink. He

had arrived at the fish market and saw before him a glorious sight. Here the sailors drank, due

to the immediate proximity of their vessels as well as the less expensive of the bordellos

being conveniently located near the docks. As a result of their nightly binges, the fish market

was equally composed of fish mongers, pubs, and brothels. Naturally it was one of his favorite

locations in the city. Despite being all composed of the usual Valerian stone, each building

was beautifully painted to denote its purpose. The fish mongers loved painting all kinds of

fantastical scenes on their shops that they claimed kept the demons of the deep that lived in

the dark river at bay. He wondered if they truly existed as he trundled up to one of his favorite

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depictions. This one showed a glorious depiction of the southern isles, palm trees blowing in

the wind as they provided shade for three topless mermaids singing their siren's song. It was

truly a beautiful sight and he decided that if he ever got over his deep dislike for boats he

would have to travel south to see them someday.

Supposedly the mermaids used their beauty to lure sailors into the water, only to

subsequently devour them with razor sharp teeth. He didn't hold that against them, if the

mural was any indication of their endowments, he decided a fellow could find far worse ways

to die than staring at a topless mermaid up close. He chuckled at the thought and added it to

his mental list of things that required further consideration. He smiled as he looked at the odd

mishmash of canvas arcing over the stone structure. Erected for protection from the winter

rains it looked more like the huts of shanty town outside the walls. Regardless he supposed

no one really bothered looking at the canvas protection above the mural when the mural itself

was so unbelievably appetizing and far kinder to the eye.

Phineas then allowed his mind to follow the new tangent, as usual a slave to the whim

of his mind as it found some new mental delight to sample and consider. The tarps

themselves only worked for light rains, often resulting in a great deal of necessary restoration

work on the many murals of the fish market. He decided this wasn't such a bad thing though,

as it employed a whole host of would be artists and served as the artistic proving ground for

the city. Those skilled enough were often snatched up by the noble houses to paint the

insides of their ever expanding domiciles. This of course was also quite necessary as the

nobles tendency to attempt “burnouts” was frighteningly common. He pondered the subject of

sealing all doors to a house and starting fires in the basement for all of three seconds. It was

far too gruesome a subject to be considered on such a gloomy day.

Regardless, it did produce a burgeoning artist community. The pay for artists wasn't so

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good, as fish mongers couldn't really afford quality. As such the trade was more often in kind,

the fish sellers would offer fresh fish in exchange for artwork or touch ups as needed. As most

artists held day jobs it was quite a nice arrangement for all parties involved. And of course all

the artists harbored a secret hope that some noble would see their work and offer to be their

patron. In a way, this was yet another form of lottery, a sliver a hope to escape the smell of the

fish market. Then again, he had grown up in close proximity to a fish monger and as such had

long since developed an immunity to said odor. Then again, he despised the sulfurous odor of

the Narg quarter and assumed that to the unacclimatized nose the fish market must be quite

similar in abhorrence.

By now Phineas had passed a good number of brothels covered in various

exaggerations of the human form. While he could appreciate the occasionally fantastic

craftsmanship, the human body just didn't quite do it for him. They were always too tall. He

wondered if someone would ever decide to paint something more of a Dwarven or Gnomish

stature. He quickly dismissed the idea, humans just couldn't seem to understand the beauty

of a beard on a woman. In fact, they often mistook them for men, which generally resulted in

said humans massive headache as Dwarven women were well renowned for their bar fighting

skills.

Speaking of bars, one of his favorites was rapidly approaching and its mural was

magnificent. The fourteenth tankard was a legendary establishment owned and operated by a

wonderful dwarf by the name of Ichabod Stoutstone, said to be an honorary name due to his

inherent ability to drink an entire keg without vomiting. As such his stomach was often referred

to as “stout as stone”. This had also resulted in an ale of the same name which contained

mythical proportions of alcohol within it. Thus, any who claimed to be able to “drink anything”

were presented with said vile brew. Oddly enough it had become a favorite of sailors who

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generally brewed their own version of ale at sea. Since grog was a byproduct of seaweed and

unbelievably foul and alcoholic, they loved stoutstone ale and constantly tried to replicate it

themselves.

Naturally none could compare with the dwarf's fabled brewing abilities, then again he

had had several centuries of practice while the short lived humans generally only had a few

decades at best. Ichabod was always good natured about it, never offering advice but always

willing to test any ale presented to him. As such it was always a fine place to start or finish an

evening. He considered the mural before him and sighed at its glory.

Labeled simply as “the pub crawl”, it showed the legendary exodus of the stone callers

on the first day of the Dwarven new year. Nearest to Phineas it began with a host of dwarfs

entering the Dwarven pub nearest to the Stonecaller clan hall. It showed several more scenes

in which the crowd got smaller and smaller as those too drunk to carry on found the nearest

gutter to sleep in or attempted to crawl home. Finally the glorious masterpiece ended with a

few brave souls staggering up to the door of “The Fourteenth Tankard”. The brave fellows

were of course dwarfs of legend. One of the three was Darius Stonecaller himself, the founder

of the clan. The second was Ichabod Stonecaller, namesake of the pubs proprietor and

supposedly his great great great great great great grand uncle thrice removed. He also

supposedly was the first to brew beer in Valenoch, a fine accolade to place by any individuals

name if ever there was one. The third was Dante Stonecaller, the first admiral of the

Stonecaller armada and supposedly the founder of piracy in the eastern sea. All in all they cut

a fine image, stumbling upon the door of the tavern both in the mural and in reality, for the

mural ended in the actual door of the tavern.

He preferred the dwarfs method of glorifying heroes far more than the humans, using

humor and reality to display the glory of the past rather than depicting stern marble deities

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they chose to show their heroes as glorious drinking companions. Naturally he held the later

in far higher regard than some gold embossed nameplate beneath a flawless marble statue.

He preferred to remember people as they lived, rather than to think of them as some flawless

ideal.

Speaking of flawless ideals, there she was, finest gnomish lass in the land. Bessy's

beard was the longest of any he had ever seen, wispy and shot with a fiery red that matched

her disposition she was the sassiest bar maid he had ever met. Someday he would find the

courage to do more than ask for another pint, someday. Regardless he had important matters

to attend to. He turned his cart down a small alley and instructed his faithful donkey to watch

the cart, not that anyone could actually make Matilda move short of bodily lifting her with a

crane. If nothing else, she was loyal to a fault. He supposed it came from being stuck with him

for the last century or so. He couldn't imagine replacing her with anyone, he imagined she

would be his companion to the end, knowing her penchant for mischief she would probably

outlive him just to spite him.

Regardless, his mighty steed was now safely in place near someones drying laundry.

He knew she wouldn't leave so long as she had something to chew on nearby. With said task

accomplished he found his way into the pub and observed the surroundings. Inside it was a

somber night, as to be expected with it being lottery day. Naturally he decided to stir things up

and live up to his nickname as, “the instigator”. He began by deciding who was the drunkest

and then promptly informing them that someone nearby had called them a low born, fish

munching, no good, son of a Narg. The intoxicated individual naturally promptly stumbled

over to the entirely innocent and hopelessly drunk individual and asked him why he had been

thusly called. As to be expected a fantastic discussion between their respective drunken fists

ensued followed by a general livening of spirits. Ichabod came out of the kitchen to see what

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the ruckus was about and noting Phineas's arrival simply laughed, stating that “You always

know how to cheer a fellow up you old sod, one on the house for the finest hauler in hell.”

This was of course followed by a cheer as two burly dwarfs bodily lifted the two

brawlers up and threw them in the street, after relieving them of the cumbersome weight of

their coin purses naturally. After the brawl the mood lightened visibly and Phineas lost himself

in a fine evening of drinking, debauchery, and of course, lively discussions.

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