Fingers tightly gripping the thick bark, she hears the noise she’s been waiting for. The wagon is lumbering down Thieve’s Highway with naught but a whipping boy fitted with clothes half his size and a sickly looking merchant. As is often the case, they’d decided on taking a shortcut through Fraxwood Pass to skip paying taxes to the Kingdom. “I can sympathise with that,” Macy whispers. “Stinking kingdom men and their heavy purses.” Usually, she’d let them pass – she wasn’t one to pilfer the poor or get mixed in a thief’s business. However, this pair were not ferrying the usual type of goods. No, she’d been tracking these two for days now; they were much more nefarious than that. As the wagon passes below, Macy looses her grip and falls silently through the trees, towards the wagon, and into darkness…
“Ha, not a chance!” Gabriel roars with laughter. “If you can lift that onto the cart I’ll eat your Ma’s straw hat for breakfast!” Blake chuckles to himself; he’d lifted twice this weight when he was half Gabriel’s age. He’d always been stronger than other lads. His Pa, the tribe leader, had told him from a young age that it’d be best if Blake hid his strength, acting as if he could lift what others could so that he was seen as ‘just another lazy lad’, to quote the old man. Pa said he’d explain when Blake was older, that it’d all be clear one day. A month ago, while bringing in the herd of sheep from a pending storm, he was run down by a stampede of bison, scared by that same storm he’d dared to weather. Pa was buried where he lay. Shaking his head, bringing his thoughts back to the present, Blake eyes Gabriel. He is torn between lifting the barrel that would take at least three men to roll onto the tray, and therefore watching Gabriel stomach a 30-year-old straw hat, or breaking a promise to his father by revealing his true strength to the tribe. Blake tucks his fingers into the small grooves under the metal strapping holding the barrel together, bends his knees and strains upwards as the world spun black…
A drop of sweat falls free from her chin. She’s been holding her draw on the Fennec for 3 minutes now, waiting for her mate to appear so as to claim twice the bounty. The wind will change any minute now – it always did this time of year. As if by the power of her thought she feels the wind still, then stop, then start again, blowing from her ankles, up her back, and over her head directly towards her target. She knows she has moments until her scent is caught and her prey lost, so she pulls in a breath, makes her aim steady, and lets loose as she falls into blackness… Awaking with a start, she looks down to see her legs crossed under her, as was their way of sitting. She then hears a cry call out from behind her. “Majesty, what would you have us do?” She turns around to see who had called and is struck by a vast army, HER vast army, arrayed in armor behind her. Not just her army it would seem, but even the peasants that tend to their crops are lined in ranks awaiting orders. As she begins to ask her officers if they know what is going on, she feels a dark presence appear before her; a foreboding grows within her as she hears moans of terror drift from her army. She turns back around to see a dark figure standing not 10 paces from her. He reaches out his arm, which grows in tendrils towards her. She’s transfixed: she cannot move, cannot scream out, as this figure’s corporeal fingers wrap themselves around her mind. “You have been chosen, Evy bintNobel, to fight for my pleasure. Bring me the largest tribute from all the armies of this land and I will grant you and your army passage back to your homeworld. Fail and you shall all perish.” Evy looks up. The figure is gone but the foreboding yet remains. She knows that failure is not an option. She will find these other kingdoms and recover a tribute from them no matter the cost, for what price could be higher than the obliteration of her people? Jaw set, she turns to her commanding officer to ready for war…
It felt like millions of shards of ice on her bare arms, forehead, and cheeks, as she closes her eyes, relishing the feeling. It meant freedom, it meant she was alive. Swinging like a hinge off the rope tied to the bow she yells behind her, “Faster, you motherless sons of a seahorse! We’ve got a storm to catch!” While most men fled from the ferocity of a summer storm, Chloe wills herself and her crew towards it – eager in the knowledge that the chaos at the centre of this storm is not caused by the convergence of two winds, but by something far less mundane: a creature of mythical proportions, with fangs and talons to rival any whaler’s spear and eyes that glinted of savagery. They would enter this storm, they would find this beast, the likes of which few had seen and even fewer had survived, and they would make an end to its torment of the seaside villages in the West. The wind grew sharper, the waves ever bigger, as they crashed upon the decks, sending spray in all directions. Faster still, her crew pressed on, riding the waves like a feral horse of the tundra being bucked up and down and tossed port and starboard across the waves. Chloe laughs with glee – never did she feel so alive as when passing through the sides of a storm. Suddenly, she noticed a silver shimmer to port. She turned her gaze to see the crest of a giant wave, half the size of her ship, arching flat up in a wall, building to crash down 200 feet to starboard. She turned to shout to the till to point the ship port, as the silver shimmer that had first drawn her eyes swam up through the wall and, as if through a pane of glass, shattered out of the wave, spiraling downwards towards the prow, spiraling downwards jaws wide directly at Chloe. Instincts kicking in, Chloe dives towards the stern of the ship and into blackness…
She howls across the frozen tundra, not 15 yards ahead. Half the size of a horse, yet able to outpace one with ease the wolf plunges forward into the night towards Isabel. Isabel holds her ground knowing to turn her back is death. A smile creeps across her face, she knows this enemy well. As the wolf draws ever closer she adjusts her feet to instigate the roll that will take her safely to the side of the wolf’s final lunge enabling her to slice the wolf from stern to haunch while still keeping her head. The wolf, now only feet away, feints to the left then dives to the right, attempting to take Isabel from the side. Not the direct lunge she had been expecting Isabel spins on her heels, easy to do in the slippery ice, and jumps backward kicking her legs out in front of her as the wolf lunges in. The wolf’s teeth find only the flat of Isabels furlined boots as they’re slammed hard into her jaw. She lets out a whimper of pain, Isabel rushes in, arms now firmly around the wolves next exclaiming “Oh Aerwin I’m sorry was that too hard? I wasn’t expecting you to feint, that was incredibly thoughtful of you!”. Aerwin nuzzles in to assure Isabel that she wasn’t hurt too baddly. They’d practiced this way since child and pup, Aerwin being a gift to her from some far off prince for her future hand in marriage, a day she dreaded, drawing closer and closer. Having to leave the land she’d always known for another far away, it was too much to even consider. Rising to her feet she dusts the snow from off her jacket “The sun is rising Aerwin, let’s get back before the minister notices we’re gone!”. Taking a step towards the bright yellow sun she descends into darkness…
Sneaking across the rooftop, he spots the Queen below. She would never usually leave her palace without her guards. Tonight she’d slipped out, seemingly unaware of the imminent threat to her life. He thought she would have known, that she would have considered her actions over the past few months and how they would surely lead to an assassination attempt. Yet here she was, cloaked in an acolyte priestess’ robe in the vain hope she would go unnoticed on this dreary, moonless night. He stalks out of sight, in the shadows far above the firelit alleys below, following the negligent Queen, waiting for the perfect moment to leap from his perch and sail swiftly down to land on his prey: a crushing, swift blow that he had used many times before rolling off and into a run to escape into the night. The Queen continues on straight, then hurries down a side alley to wherever her night escapades may take her. Of course, this was the moment he had been waiting for. Silent as a stone, without hesitation, he leaps, falling through the air to land on the Queen. Jordyn had not been born into royalty. In fact, her life was such that many likened it to the sagas written by the great author Odesian. Being born into poverty and delivered as a babe to the doorstep of Melton monastery, she had studied under them for 17 years until she stole the heart of a Prince who then became King – only for him to die the following year from the flux. What most did not know about Jordyn was that her training in the monastery had been anything but mundane. During her days she was the regal Queen the world knew and loved, but her nights were partitioned into 4 quarters: Sleep, Zircrta, Mircrta & finally meditation. This had been her ritual since the age of 4; tonight a few would see what this combination proffered. She was aware an assassination attempt would be made on her life – she was not one to let the details of that attempt be handled by its origin, so instead, her own plans were made and here she found herself down a dark side alley at the culmination of her plans. It was a hot night, the cloud cover acting as a blanket to keep in the warmth of the day. She has her fan in hand as she walks, cooling her face with the slight breeze. As she walks, she slides 2 metal darts from out of each side of the fan and, without hesitation, flicks one to the shadowed corner on her left, the other to her right, while simultaneously stopping her stride and taking a step backward. She counts to three. 1. A cloaked figure falls from the shadow to her left. 2. Another from the shadow to her right. 3. An assassin who has been too confident in his abilities meets his demise on the cobblestones in front of her. Her darts had been tipped with a sleeping potion concocted by a palace wizard. She had hoped to interrogate 3 or 4 members of this order – 2 would have to do. Blowing a loud whistle, she calls her guards who come thundering out of a nearby tavern. She marks the sleeping assassins for containment. Turning to walk back to the palace she steps into blackness…
Searing heat roars across her face as she turns her head to look for another crevice to support her weight. The rope tied around her waist, underneath and around her legs then up her back, is secured to another anchor point in the craggy wall of the volcano. 200 feet below her lies a turbulent sea of orangey red lava – hard to look at directly, yet a sight that had led most new Thraktorians to suffer several hours of temporary blindness from the sheer beauty of it. Thrak was one of the hardest critters to kill, let alone capture. Yet here she was. Hazel, the daughter of Chieftain Yton of Brakon, 140 feet down a volcano’s mouth, trying to bag a beast half her size to complete the last phase of her trials. The Brakon were a resourceful people; they had to be, for on the volcanic planes of Brak there was not much forage to be had. Thrak were kept and bred as a source of food, however, a constant new supply of Thrak were required as interbreeding only worked to the 5th generation. And so the Thraktorians were born, their role in the tribe highly esteemed and well remunerated, yet only the bravest, or some would say the most foolish, would take it on. Their job was to ensure the continued breeding of the Thrak, which meant continuous visits down one of the three active volcano tubes to bring back new mates. At the age of 18, all Brakons had three choices: they could live as a thrall to the Chieftain, who would slot them in wherever the clan needed them most, they could become a Thraktorian, or they could take the pilgrimage away from this land to our long-lost brothers and sisters in Ymlie. No one had ever returned from that pilgrimage. Hazel did not have a choice in her path. As the daughter of a chieftain with no son, she must show that she was worthy to rule in his place. Finding the crevice, she re-secures her harness to the wall. The cave in the side of the volcanic tube now lying mere feet below her. Instead of searching for another crevice, she decides to scale down into the cave using the rope. Landing on the small ledge, she unclamps her harness and pins it to the wall. These caves had never fully been scouted; no-one knew how far they went. A few brave souls had ventured to find out. The only information we got back was the half-words we could make out from their screams deeper down the maze. At first we thought they were shouting for their mothers, then we realized they were shouting about a mother – until their cries were cut off. We required the Thrak as a food source, however, we let them mate, we let them brood. It only served our purposes better. Lost in her musing, Hazel didn’t hear the sound of the Thrak creeping up to her from the tunnel to the left until it was almost upon her. Leaping back, she realized her error too late and fell into darkness…
Koa’s is a little longer, this is because he continues on from where all the other 7 finish. You get to see the complete (relatively) picture.
How long had it been? Hours? Half a day? It was hard to tell when the day passed to night and back again while on guard at Ataria; it was a duty that the whole clan shared. When Koa was young he and his cousin would run through the network of caves, exploring deeper and deeper, as all young children did. They’d report their findings and hand newly drawn maps back to the clan mapper to be cataloged or cross-referenced with the last kids’ maps who ran those passages. The main reason for the mapping was to find new sources of goroldioa. Water and live-stock we have in abundance, but the vivid green moss served as much-needed nutrients for those living in the dark of the cave system. It was Koa and Winnie-Mae’s turn to serve as guards to Ataria, a cave entrance that none had been allowed to enter for longer than anyone in the clan could remember. Nobody knew what lay down the passage, only that it was a ritual for it to be guarded at all times, with no light, against entry or exit – no one knew which.
The sound of footsteps approaches from the dark in front of them, the scent of hot goro & goat soup drifts on the slow-moving stale air towards them. Their mid-meal, the only real way to tell the time when on duty. As the footsteps draw closer Koa notices something strange: he can see Oj’s silhouette! A barely visible opaque green shines against her skin. Pivoting towards the Ataria, he sees the side of Winnie-Mae’s face staring in shock at him. From deep within the Ataria, a low hum begins to build. “Oj!” shouts Koa. “Run back to the clan and inform them of what’s happening! Tell them to bring all the Gerlaria now!” As Oj’s footsteps disappear in a sprint, Koa takes a step into the Ataria. “What are you doing!” Winnie-Mae whispers harshly to Koa, gripping his arm tight. “We need to check this out – can you hear that humming noise?” Koa replies, not looking at Winnie-Mae, simply gazing straight ahead into the ever glowing green light emanating from the turn of the tunnel ahead. “I don’t hear anything!” she asserts. “We should wait here.” Shaking off her hand, Koa continues his stride forward. “No, I can feel it. This cannot wait Winnie-Mae.” Stride turning to lope, he enters the Ataria, rounding the corner into a cavern that no man or woman has entered for ages past. Looking down at his feet as he feels them sifting into the dust of eons, he notices the ground is no longer rubble and rock but that of a red/green marble. The green in the marble is glowing, pulsing even. His eyes follow that pulse up as it empties itself into a massive green stone in the center of the room. The humming continues to build in his mind, growing more and more intense. He stumbles towards the stone, instinctively reaching out to it. Mere inches from the stone he hears a voice from behind. “Koa! Stop!” Winnie-Mae shouts. “What are you doing?” Koa turns his head towards Winnie-Mae, entirely unsure of what it was that he was doing. Winnie-Mae stares into his face, instinctively recoiling from the green glowing orbs where his eyes used to be. Looking past his face and to his arm, still outstretched, she notices a tendril of green light, what looks like a flame, reaching out from the stone. Before she can shout another warning, the flame latches itself to Koa. Koa vanishes from sight…
Its name was Omentra, Its origins, unknown – even to itself. There were 5 like it, that they knew of. 3, including themself, that were left. It had named itself, of course, for there was no other to do such. Yet over the millennia of its existence, it had been given many names: The Chaos God, Despair Incarnate (although he was far from carnate), and Void Bringer. It did not see itself as such. To itself, it was the sacrifice. It was born into a universe of such unimaginable beauty, a beauty that had no contrast, and due to that lack of contrast, the inhabitants had no understanding of its beauty, no appreciation for what they had. They went about their lives as their livestock. Eating and mating out of necessity rather than any form of desire. An offspring lost being of equally emotional consequence as a chick falling from a tree. The wheel of life continued and turned, but what was the point of it all? Omentra determined itself to bring purpose: it would bring passion, it would bring enlightenment, and it would bring meaning to this universe. And so it had. For millennia past it had shown them what it was to suffer loss, and through this suffering bloomed love. It had shown them what it was to feel hunger, and through this hunger bloomed craving. It had shown them what came from standing idle, and now their minds raced to advance their position. One day, far into the future, it knew that through his persecution he would form a people that would shed their mortal coils and come to challenge its very own existence. It relished the day.
From deep within itself it feels a humming start. Instantly alert, it flies from its throne room to its antechamber, a room comprised of 2 doors and a stone: a door to enter its antechamber, a door to enter its throne room, and a stone now glowing bright green and thrumming with power. Omentra feels excitement grow within. It had been 387 years since this portal was last activated. It waits patiently in front of the stone to see who will appear, to see which tribe or empire has decided it is time to reinstate their pact. A young man appears before Omentra, 6’6″, broad shouldered. The green glow slowly fades from his eyes as he stares up at the dark, hooded creature towering 5 feet above his head. Jumping backward, his back slapping against a solid, smooth surface, he exclaims, “Who are you?” He is unable to hide his trepidation as his bowels threaten to loosen. “You may call me Omentra. And what is your name, young one?” “Koa,” he croaks out, in almost a whisper. “Well Koa, you have traveled far from your land. Are you ready to reinstate the pact of your forefathers?” “I, I don’t know anything about a pact. I was in a cavern and, and ahh then I was here.” Looking around him, Koa could see this room was no ordinary place. He had never been outside the cave, never been into any houses or palaces, but had seen them on parchments. He knew they were constructed of wood, stone, or metal, but this place… it was as if he could see through the walls into a glow worm’s cave. Small and large lights speckled to all sides in a circle around him, behind some type of see-through wall. He looks down and is startled to find that below him was the same: it was as if he stood on air made of blackness. Omentra sounded before him, “So your travels here were unintended then. Surprising, but this has happened before. You were called to this place, but it was not the pact that called you. Without the pact I have no use for you, however, your timing is quite advantageous. I have just finished summoning seven of the eight tributes and it would seem the portal, or as you call it ‘Ataria’ has chosen your clan as the eighth. Koa, you shall lead your people against the other 7 armies. Should you succeed, you will be returned to your homeworld and your caves. Should you fail, well let’s just say you will not need to worry about anything ever again…”
Koa closes his eyes, not believing what he was hearing, not understanding what he was seeing. When he opens them he is in the entrance of a cave, looking out over a vast land he has not seen before. He feels a hand rest on his shoulder. Turning to his right, he looks into the eyes of Winnie-Mae. “I really wish you’d listened to me,” she replies in answer to his stare. “You’ve sure got some explaining to do as to how we all got here, fully armored from the Gerlaria down to the flockmen.” “Winnie-Mae, I’m not sure where to start, but I’ve got an idea of where it’s going to end and it may not be pretty,” Koa sighs. Realisation dawns on Koa then. He had grown up with Winnie-Mae, known her all his life, yet now, in the face of imminent death, he realises he’d really miss Winnie-Mae if they didn’t make it through this. She was the best friend he’d ever had, a part of him almost, and to lose her would be to lose himself. He turned and faced the horizon. Omentra smiled from his throne.
