#stormsveil

[chroniclesoftherealm-blog]

Arsene Jaal heard them first...

I heard them first.

Snarling breath and heavy limbs, some dragging their tools of slaughter with the sharp, high sound of incoming screams. Others opted to carry their weapons with more dignity, but the thumps of their feet gave them away. Those were the older ones, the slower but stronger ones. The fresh ones were more lithe of foot and more in control of their limbs. But their breath, that dragging, labored sound of one trying to catch their breath as if something was caught in their throat, gave them away.

Then there was the smell.

The fresher ones smelled of afterbirth and burning oak (and other scents to cover their unique, pungent aroma), of burnt clothes, sage, fresh cadavers. They were the first to cause alarm, the first to strike.

To be expected, Aldens were the first line to fall. Blue became purple in splatters, showers, from slow, fallen pools. The ones who could fight did so, valiantly, but it was when they made the mistake of tearing off the veiling cover of the Fresh that they would cringe in terror from their twisted, henious visage. Just enough to catch a blade to the temple, or a pick, or a hammer. The Fresh carried small, quick weapons and decimated the first line of defenders. Aye, the Fresh moved with remarkable intelligence, for just as Aldens were ambushed with Corsin like swiftness, it was then screams of horror came from the Corsin tower.

I watched them climb the stone walls with a spider's grace and swiftness, with a predator's intent. Some had clawed weapons, others used picks, and others just used their twisted claws to dig into the stone as they breached the walls of the outer towers of the elite and homes of the fortunate. They caused panic, with panic comes the high screech of women to alert all, and then... the Old moved with new vigor. Knight Commanders barked orders, Aldens went running with clanging weapons and shields. Rangers turned a late, pink and orange afternoon sky near black with torrents of arrows from above. Corsins, the ones that could escape, fled like rodents into the sewers they thought Aldens didn't know about (well, I did). And the Royals..?

Delayed. A fatal mistake for most of them. Which cost Alden lives for we are meant to protect Royals until our last breath. The last breath was used to swing a sword, and that carried into a Royal's throat to either scream or beg before it was taken by Old, gory pikes and hammers.

Where was I? Watching and listening... What were they..? Not human, they didn't smell like displaced Spirits or Shadows nor did they look like Elves... They looked like... vengeance. As the air filled with smoke and smelled of piles of fresh corpses.

-Arsene Jaal, Alden Knight

[chroniclesoftherealm-blog]

"It's hope, it's a plan."- Jordan Fenn

I don't exactly remember leaving the city. I remember tearing out in a panic with my drum and not much else; I remember calling my brother’s name through the chaos of the terrified crowds, and hearing nothing back. I remember smoke and flame, the sound of crashing rock on wood, steel on steel. But beyond that, it's mostly a blur, and my first clear memory is moving at a gallop on horseback down one of the streets beyond the destroyed walls. I don't know whose horse it was. Whoever it was, I don't think they've got any use for it anymore.

To tell the truth, I'm not all that fussed about the city. A place is a place, nothing more, and no matter where you are, there's always a market for good music and stolen secrets. But Durance is missing, and I’ve got nothing but the clothes on my back and little hope of recovering what I left behind. My only hope is to go forward, to keep moving. There's whispered word among those in red that Illyria has secured lodging for us at some Ranger castle deep in the forests. Among my adopted family I'll be safe again; of that, at least, I’m certain.

It’s hope, it’s a plan. It doesn't sate the gnawing grief in my chest, but it’s something…

I lost the horse to exhaustion just outside the Stronghold; I'm walking the last few miles on foot, near to toppling myself. Just as I turn into the long path that leads to the castle, a voice sounds behind me, a shout just as exhausted as I feel.

“Is that my sister?”

Durance lives. My brother lives. And quite abruptly, the despair fades, and I know everything will be all right.

[chroniclesoftherealm-blog]

Sell a secret?

The following is a direct account from Ranger Higgindinn who was present at Stronghold during the siege of Storm's Veil...

...As Higgindinn wandered the halls of Stronghold, a shadowed figure beckoned her.

"Sell a secret?" Higgindinn didn't answer, but turned and walked away.

Again, in a corridor, the shadowed figure appeared once more. "I'll buy a secret from you, songbird."

Higgindinn replied, "Sir, I have no secrets. What do you want to know? My favorite color?"

"If it's a secret," the shadowed figure replied. Higgindinn refused again and walked away.

Again - the figure appeared on the stair. He lifted the coin. Higgindinn shook her head slightly and he replied, "I'll have to double the price for you, songbird."

At the end of the evening, during the dance, Higgindinn finally approached the cloaked figure. "Why do you want my secret? I am no one."

At the resurrection of Coo, a group had gathered. Higgindinn was there to observe. All of a sudden, the shadow who had escaped and caused a comotion, appeared amongst the crowd.

"Where is the little songbird?" the figured asked.

He smiled at her in the dark, lifting up a coin.

"Your favorite color..."

"Sir, at what cost?"

"You'll be able to come to Stronghold whenever you wish..."

"It is my home."

"It will not always be safe."

For whatever reason, Higgindinn felt a strange pull, as though she was being told what to say. And with that, she uttered her favorite color.

"Brown."

He dropped the coin in her palm. And Higgindinn felt as though she had lost something by gaining the coin, something in her soul felt lost. She took it to Erie - who said, "Let's turn it into something good. To the fountain?"

They ran to the fountain where Higgindinn made a wish, and threw the coin into the bubbling waters. But residuals of the feeling that had darkened Higgindinn's wandering heart still remained...

[chroniclesoftherealm-blog]

Jahian Mincer, the first spirit killer to survive

I write this tale to you as it was told to me by my father, Maester Morivo.

There are many ways to kill a human- a knife through his heart, a poison down her throat, or simply suffocation by a goose-feathered pillow. This list of options is so endless that a sadistic maniac’s mind could spend hours just revelling in the possibilities. But killing spirits is a challenge all its own and very few humans survive the process…

It was in the decade of the Belzen empire that the first successful spirit murder occurred and the killer lived just long enough for Arcanist maesters to extract the tale I relay to you now. His name was Jahian Mincer, a distant cousin of the high Corsin family and much more devious in desire. Where the Corsins do possess certain “skills” all their own (see: thievery, assassination, black market dealings), Jahian desired a darker ability that could only be accessed by becoming a disciple of the Arcanists. You see- Jahian wanted to murder without trace, overthrow his own Corsin family, and become known as Jahian, Shadow Assassin of Amelor. But like so many before him and so many to come, his ambitious overreached his abilities.

He travelled from his modest family estate in the south to Storm’s Veil where he sought out the great High Sorcerer and Oracle of Varyia, Vaer Dargoth in the Holy Temple of the Arcane. Vaer granted Jahian audience and while he found his anger and hatred deep enough to access dark magic, he could find no compassion, empathy, or love in his being leaving him without the possibility and use of light magic. Like all things, magic can only exist in balance and without it, Jahian was dismissed immediately from the temple.

Furious, Jahian posted up at a local tavern where he begun to drink himself into a livid state, when a strange man saddled up next to him. By this time the potency of Jahian’s drink had made him an open book and when asked what his business was in Storm’s Veil, Jahian admitted to seeking the power to kill without a trace. A smile crept across the strange man’s face.

“I think I can help you” said the strange man, “that is, if you’re willing to do me a little favour in return. I have an enemy- a little sister of sorts- staying in the inn just above this tavern. Her blood is, shall we say- not of humankind- which means that killing her will be no easy task. Luckily for you I’ve got a liquid charm that will save you from the horrors of the murder.”

Jahian grew nervous. He had never killed anything that was “not of humankind” and he’d heard the terrible stories. You see, spirits can only be killed by fire. Once a spirit is set aflame, the human who did the deed feels the same pain, terror, and agony felt by the burning spirit. No one survives the torture- all spirit killers have gone mad in the agony of the act and have ended their lives on the spot. But Jahian wanted what he wanted, was admittedly a little drunk, and believed he would be protected by the charm the strange man offered him.

“I’ll do it” Jahian responded.

“Drink of this cup and you shall not perish in the act” said the strange man. Jahian was certain the cup was not there a moment ago, but he drank anyway. As the tart wine hit his throat, time shifted and Jahian found himself in a bedroom of the inn, torch in hand, staring at a sleeping straw-hired girl in front of him. She could not have been more than six years in age. For a brief moment, Jahian hesitated but nothing would stop him from acheiving his dreams and he pressed the fire to her nightgown. There was a rush of hellish heat, first felt by the girl and then felt by Jahian himself. A cacophony of agonizing screeches poured out onto the streets of Storm’s Veil. And within seconds hair singed into crisp ash, skin pulled away from bone revealing their skeletal infrastructure, and they writhed around the room like two unwieldy lightning bolts both in panicked desperation for relief.

It took forty-five seconds for the spirit girl to meet her end, although the horror of the moment felt like it lasted a lifetime. As soon she released her final breath, Jahian was released of her pain. He lay upon the floor of the inn, unable to move, unable to think, and unable to remember his own name or why he was in that room in the first place. As night lingered, he swore he heard laughter echo in the tavern below as he lay in stillness, his mind rattling like an orchestra of tuneless chaos.

When his sleepless night was over and morning came, he picked himself off the ground and tried to leave the inn but nothing was familiar to him anymore. He was a stranger in this busy city and in short time found himself at the only place he vaguely recognized- the Holy Temple of the Arcane. There was something familiar about this place as if he’d been there many times before, but before he could reach the temple doors he lost consciousness upon the steps.

Waking up, he found himself in an underground laboratory with machinery hooked up to temples, his heart, and his feet. Hooded maesters moved slowly about the room as time marched on. Days became weeks. Weeks became months. No one ever visited him, he never left the machine, and his name never returned.

One morning as he opened his eyes he swore he heard laughter in the hallways and one of the young maesters remarking to his peers, “His mind has completely failed him. In his sleep you can hear him saying I am the shadow assassin of Amelor.” Their laughter faded as they disappeared down the corridor and left him to his infinite insanity.

My father was one of the maesters that studied Jahian Mincer and I, Clarynda Shallowhisp, believe this account to be truth. Killing spirits is dangerous business. Now half-spirits are another story for another time…