Some Snippets from The World: Yeola-Camay

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Re: Some Snippets from The World: Yeola-Camay

Post by elemtilas »

Bitter Cider and Sweet: Sing Ye Bards and Scops! The Day of New Year is Upon Us!

Today is indeed a day to celebrate! For it is the Yare Namedeyand...

Yare Namdeyand is the day upon which the scholars and philosophers of the ancient Collegium of Yllem gather to open the Enumeration of Years and read from it the name by which the forthcoming year is to be known. Since that takes all of about ten minutes, the said scholars and philosophers have turned the whole thing into a "working session" of the college, filled with the readings of scholarly works, discussions, debates, big lunches, concerts of music and even bigger dinners.

In the common calendar of the Eastlands, this event falls upon the third day of Twixtmath. It also refers, somewhat informally, to the actual day of the new year itself, for it is on that day that the year is actually given its name. Formal proclamations of the Collegium are drawn up and despatched to all the lands around so that all folk will know by what name to call the forthcoming new year. And on the day, it's customary in the realms of Werrefolk at least for the monarch to make a speech or meditation of some kind on the New Year's name and the direction that the realm should take.

Everyone awaits the words of the Auntimoanian Empress, especially in these interesting times!

So far so good. Only, the eldest scholars, whose task it is to open the Enumeration have seen a thing unseen in all the long years of the Collegium. A year with two names! And while many years have been given names as ungothroughsome as ink, this year's names both appear ominous and foreboding.

It is with some trepidation and excitement that the doom is officially read out: ". . . the day being the 10th of Newyear (25th of Yastermath); the fifth year of the reign of Yesseraê Wilunnô, in the 2021st year of the Fifth Age of Man, being the 2107th year of the Pesqas Zodiacal Era in the Pwerncas Hipparchian Age in the ninth Age of Stars which hight Calior, the ninth Age of Stars having been born 4208 years ago when the Torras zodiacal era, the Nimbullas Hipparchian Age and the Xora Age of Stars passed away. By these Presents, spoke before the Empress in Parliament and now in Parliament Circus, shall all Men and Denê know the old year of Crownèd Death has passed into the bosom of History and shall clepe the new year that comes that of the Woody Rood & Crossed Wands."
Last edited by elemtilas on 30 Apr 2021 01:17, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: Some Snippets from The World: Yeola-Camay

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Bitter Cider and Sweet: The Sacrifice

The chamber was dark at last and the air was cool and still. Starlight, dim red and bright white, shimmered through the tall windows. A dull, faint clank rang out like a gong in the darkness. The Tana boy lying on the floor shifted slightly and the heavy bronze legging and it short chain attached him to the smooth stone floor by a hammered pin. He was naked and had no means of straightening the pin or removing the legging. He long ago forgot how long he’d been in this place, and though he’d tried, several time, to sing the chain apart, it was strongly made and thaumically hardened. His skill was singing to trees and he loved their lush, vegetative response to his enchantments.

The Tana sighed. His nature was no match for toughened bronze. His ankle chafed at the fetters and his leg pulled uselessly at the chain. The sound of the clinking chain was his constant reminder that here he was a slave. He waggles his knees to and fro momentarily, thinking: No, not really a slave. Slaves among Werrefolk do things at their masters’ bidding. All I do is stand chained to the floor, a target for the students to aim at. I think I am here more furniture than slave. But t least he could stretch out his long wings and his arms and legs in this place. In the dim light he could see the small shelf on the far wall. It was a torture to see the three things neatly piled up there after all this long time: the folded cloth was his racca, which his mother and sistermother had woven for him; and on top of that were his crhroasayan, a knife made from skymetal; and lastly his utwande, no more than a switch of polished urang wood. He’d only been learning how to use it for about a year when he was captured and all that he had with him was taken by the Werres. At least they hadn’t nicked his knife! Skymetal was exceedingly rare and not many knives were ever made from the stuff. That was a treasure no one had bothered to crack open!

He smiled to the stars that he could see through the windows. These few hours of darkness were the only times of peace he had enjoyed in all the years he was here. He often thought about the friends that had left him behind. He was sure they knew he’d saved them by duping the Guards into chasing after him when it was the other two they were really after. He wondered what their lives were like and if they ever thought of him. He smiled, just knowing that his best mates didn’t have to suffer the torment with him. That was enough. The slave was content.

Though contentment is not the same thing as happiness. And the happiness of a star filled night was dashed of a sudden. A faint scraping sound brought him out of his reverie and in an instant he was crouching, listening for another clue as to the meaning of the sound, waiting for whatever, or whoever, was come visiting him. Whoever, most likely.

Soft footfalls were approaching from the far end of the long chamber, slow, measured. Someone was trying to sneak up on him. He could make out the heartshadow of a person. The figure was tall and powerfully built. Almost as tall as himself. The figure was wingless. A Werre, that was certain. As it drew nigh, he began to recognise the shape the shadow cast within his mind and in his heart. He didn’t like the shape. He knew who it was.

“Bearclaw,” said the Tana slave. “I know it’s you. What do you want here. Didn’t you get enough practice on me earlier today? You know you missed more often than you hit me?” The stings of the practice sessions lingered ever in his body. The students weren’t really supposed to use powerful castings on him, as his sole purpose was to stand as a living target. Most of them couldn’t anyway, but several tried. Bearclaw was one of them. He was one of the older students, pretty good at slashing charms, and what he lacked in skill and knowledge he simply made up for with violence. The big Werreish boy paused, then grunted. He never said much, and when he did try to communicate, it was usually nothing more than to growl threateningly at a fellow student. The Werre no longer tried to mask his presence, and his thumping footsteps closed the gap quickly.

A faint motion, a shade of movement to the left caused the Tana to send out his fist. The crisp smack of his fist on the uncovered arm of the Werre, followed by a stifled yelp, confirmed that he’d blocked a cheap shot. Werres surely knew by now that Denê could see well in the darkness, even if they made up stories and never bothered to find out what they could actually see. But Werres were also stupid in a way. They always pretended that what they wanted to see was what was real; and what was real wasn’t what was really there.

Bearclaw snarled and reached out quickly, grabbing the Tana slave.

He yelped with suprise and horror mixed. “Let go—!” He yowled. “What!? Don’t touch me th—!”

The surprise of the sudden and vigorous attack had shocked him so much he stumbled backwards, only to be tripped up by the short length of the chain. He nearly fell, but with a speed he’d never thought possible with such a solid Werre, Bearclaw was behind him!, caught him as he fell, never letting go of him.

The Tana had no defense against this kind of attack. It was unthinkable. It was — something cool and smooth began tracing the line of his spine. He stiffened, his eyes wide with horror, unable to move. He could only hope it was a knife. The pain and the ecstasy mixed in his thumping heart were too much to bear! He snarled and yowled. The Werre laughed slowly and deeply but still said nothing. A heavy glass vessel of some kind was placed before him, between his legs, and Bearclaw’s thick hand and arm made its way slowly up along his belly and chest and to his neck. He squeezed the Tana’s neck with all his strength. He tried to cry out, but his throat was crushed. He tried to fight, to squirm away somehow, but his body gave up and his mind began to wander into strange and horrible places. He could only endure the attack and hope it would end soon.

It did not end soon enough, and the slave’s mind reeled with what was happening to him; his heart felt pierced and his spirit weakened. After a long struggle, the darkling chamber went black. And he began to wander in a place of despair.

The pain in the Tana’s ankle awoke him, reviving him suddenly. He felt exhausted. He knew that a great energy had been taken from him. His body felt the heat drained from him and was now cool as the stones he was laying on. As he opened his eyes, he could see that the stars had whirled their nightly course but a short distance. He hadn’t been unconscious long. The hulking shape of Bearclaw sat hunched over between his feet, leering. He seemed like a monster lurking. He spoke then. The first words the boy had ever heard the fellow say.

“Huhh! You put up too much of a struggle, pigeon boy.”

Struggle? He couldn’t even remember fighting back! He noted with satisfaction that one of the Werre’s eyes was swollen shut and his lip was torn open. There were scratches on his arms and hands that had obviously bled profusely. He could only hope that the eye was broken open and useless.

Bearclaw lifted up the heavy glass vial to the dim light. It was dark and even a Tana couldn’t see well enough in the dark to make out what was in it. The boy turned his head to the side. Shamed. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t say anything. He knew what the bottle was full of, though he had no idea to what unthinkable purposes a Werre would put its contents.

“Hahh! What’s in here is worth a fortune! Especially from the likes of you, crow head! I know what you are, and I’ve studied the lore.” He touched the Tana’s calf and thigh, his head cocked weirdly. “Believe me, boy. This shan’t be our first encounter.”

“You vile...!” the Tana began, but with a suddenness that again surprised him, the Werre had cast his black cloak over him, clenched his leg and flipped him over onto his belly. He threw his arms out to cushion the fall and he tried to push the big Werre away with his wings. He felt a searing pain deep inside him, and his whole body moved with the power of the thrust. Not once, but several times! It felt like he was being stabbed, the pain was so sharp and intense. Over and over! His arms and wings shivered, and his body convulsed. Somehow he knew he was not being stabbed.

Suddenly a commanding voice tore through the cool air of the chamber. A brilliant flash of red heat and light punched into the Werre, sending him flying into the far wall. “You’re disgusting, you big oaf! This one’s not for you to play with! It’s mine! ALL. MINE. Understand? Now take your milk bottle and get gone before I sear that stupid brain of yours inside your own head!”

Another powerful shock of magic lifted the Tana up into the air, more gently than Bearclaw’s shoving him about, but the fetters dug somewhat into his ankle again. He found himself flipped onto his back again. His head cracked onto the stone, and though it pained him he wasn’t seriously hurt by it.

What now! he thought. He lifted himself up onto his elbows, but his vision was obscured by his hair falling over his eyes. He could see the wand held firmly and pointed straight at his heart. He recognised the wand. He shook his head, and the mane of midnight black hair fell aside. He looked up. Niyâre. She was the most powerful of the students, and she knew it. He groaned. “Not again! Niyâre! You were just here last night! What do you want this time?”

“You should be more grateful for my visits, crowbrain. Am I not the only one here who loves you? Am I not the only woman who brings you pleasure?”

He turned his face away from her, but she bent forward and flicked her wand up to his cheek and forced him to face her. “You disgust me! Pleasure? Love?” He spat in her face. “You don’t know the meaning! You are filthy and vile! Just get away from me!” Niyâre showed no hint of being angry. She only straightened up and wiped the spit from her cheek on the dark hem of her cloak. She smiled benignly.

The cloak fell from her shoulders, and she sank down onto his legs, straddling them. The aim of her wand never faltered and her glare never lessened. Her words were tender, but her gaze spoke only of hatred. “You know very well what I want. You see, I too know what you are, and I also have studied the lore. Unlike our other friend, the stupid one, the one who doesn’t know which way to even point a wand without casting a hex up his own nose, I know how to get it from you and how to use it.” She lowered her wand at last, tracing the lines of his chest and belly. She smiled. Or rather, she bared her sharpened teeth like a hunting beast. She touched him with the wand. He felt as if he’d been struck and thrown across a wide meadow.

She attacked, smiling as she did so. “Is that not sweet, my love? Just relax yourself. Give me what I want! I will go away when you do — eventually!” She licked her teeth and narrowed her eyes. Quickly, her eyes rolled back in her head and she began to yowl ferociously.

The Tana’s body shivered and his fists clenched. The war within his spirit and within his mind raged again. Again, the shame burned him. Almost as hot as his heart. Why could he not defend himself from these attacks!? He knew that they would never dare attack a fully grown Tana wielding a weapon and a wand. Not even their most powerful wandsmen could hope to defeat a Tana dwimcaster! But he knew that he was no dwimcaster, and no warrior either. He was a slave, a piece of equipment, and had spent the remainder of his childhood and youth chained to the floor of this very chamber. The living target of the Werreish students of wizardry. The victim of Niyâre and her cronies.

He called out once and Niyâre thought it might be a name. She howled with glee: “Woahh! Are you seriously calling someone else’s name!?” She paused for a moment, but never let him go. If anything, she grasped him more frimly. “Who is that you’re calling to? Your boy ‘friend’? I’ve seen how you budgieboys snog each other and paw at each other! Hah! It’s a wonder you don’t get along better with Barebrains! That one would like nothing more than to snog your beautiful face! Or was it your little titless childhood sweetheart?” Niyâre paused suddenly, looked down at her own chest and laughed, almost merrily. She winked in the dim light. Then her eyes flashed and she snarled: “Does she remind you of me? The way you cried out, I’d better not remind you of her!” And with that, she grabbed hold of the soft fur on his chest and redoubled her attack.

The boy turned his head, tears rolling from his eyes. His eyes crossed and his whole body shuddered. He roared as she stole what she wanted from him, and he could not stop her from doing it.

He heard her laugh, and he opened his eyes into slits.

“Why are you crying?” she asked, gently. Her smile broadened and she arched her back and rubbed her long belly as if to stretch after some difficult sport. “You roared joyously enough — and long enough!” He couldn’t remember making any sound. Niyâre sniffed and she drew her cloak around her again. Then she crouched and leaned over her victim. “Really. You refuse to cry out when the students pummel you with magic. You refuse to complain when the lecturers demonstrate how best to inflict pain. Yet you always cry when we’re together, and I give you only pleasure? Why is that, my love?”

The boy opened his eyes and looked defiantly into those of the Werre. “You are vile! I weep not for myself, but for you!” he shouted. He sighed. Softly, he said: “your bright eyes used to dance and your heart was once warm. You weren’t like the others. I could see into you then, as I can see into you now. But anymore your eyes are dead and your heart is black and cold. All is shadow around you, darker than your cloak. You have slain yourself because of what you do to me. You keep hurting me! All of you! You couldn’t do that to me if we fought fair! I do not cry when you throw your magic at me — that’s nothing against what you do to me in the darkness!”

“You liar!” She caught a brief movement of deeper shadow moving in the darkness beyond. Something deep inside her was perturbed, and she failed to follow through on the punch she was about throw. She felt a strange kind of weakness, but she crammed the feeling down deep. She brought her wand descending in an arc and pressed it hard onto his breastbone so that she was sure it must hurt. “I could kill you with a thought!” She snorted, but said nothing more.

In stead, she stood quickly, glaring down at him. She had what she wanted. She aimed a kick at his injured foot and the pain made him yelp.

He closed his eyes again and wept bitterly, drawing his legs up into a fetal position, bringing his wings over his body.

Niyâre turned and left the chamber, her cloak floating behind her naked body.

The Tana remained curled on the floor, his fitful sleep as tormented as his waking hours.
Last edited by elemtilas on 30 Apr 2021 01:28, edited 2 times in total.
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Re: Some Snippets from The World: Yeola-Camay

Post by elemtilas »

Bitter Cider and Sweet: The Battle of Crossed Wands

Loud sounds slowly penetrated his battered mind. He awoke, but remained still, listening. He wondered! The students were in the brightly lit chamber, practicing their dwimmer craft. Yet no one had kicked him awake to begin target practice. He could hear Niyâre’s voice. She was guiding some younger students in the art of casting magic. She was so difficult to figure out: she could be so gentle and nurturing with the young students, tough with the more wayward; and yet with him she was cold, almost cruel. He could hear the powerful smacks as her hexes crashed into the stone wall, followed by the spanks and skinks of the younglings’ attempts.

He tensed as he heard Yorval’s voice. While he felt a deep grief and a bitter hatred for Niyâre, he absolutely loathed Yorval. Niyâre taught her charges how to attack and cause pain, but also to heal and always with a purpose, and never to great excess. Yorval on the other wing, taught no such restraint. He was surely a bully when he was younger. Now, he was simply evil. There was no other word.

“Hoy! You two! In the middle now: fighting stances!” Yorval all but shoved the two youngsters out onto the floor, where they were told to fight each other. Their relatively weak hexes snapped and cracked around them, and some even hit their target! One poor boy was struck several times by blows to his feet, which caused him to trip over his robes and fall. Yorval patted the winner on the shoulder, but the loser he hauled up by his arm and tossed him towards the far wall. “Stand up! Stand up and take your punishment!”

The boy cowered, but eventually stood, shaking with fear. “You lost because you refused to fight hard or dirty enough. Those Denê feather brains who are itching to start a war with us will not care if you don’t fight hard or fight dirty. They’re the dirtiest fighters of all!” he screamed.

Then he just thrust his wand at the poor student and twisted it, causing an excruciating pain in the small boy’s fingernail. His piping screams of pain filled the practice hall and Yorval laughed maniacally all the while.

The slave had had enough. “Yorval!” He called out. “Why don’t you try that on someone who can actually fight back instead of bullying young boys!”

The ploy worked. Yorval stopped his attack on the student, saying: “Shut it, vulture breath!” He turned and with the same ferocity thrust his wand towards the Tana’s body. He cried out with the pain of the attack, but nothing he could do would stop the pain. But at least the poor child would no longer have to suffer at Yorval’s hand.

Yorval closed the distance between them quickly, shouting all the way. “Alright you lot! Form up now! We’re going to practice toasting some chestnuts today! Time to show this lazy beast how strong you really are.” Yorval snarled, barking out his orders.

Before he could prepare, the heavy boot on Yorval’s foot came swinging back and then up like an expert streetballer’s kick and crashed into his already painful ankle. He was expecting a crotch smacker, but this was much worse! The heavy leather connected with his exposed shin, and also drove the metal of the fetters hard and deep into the bones of his foot. He was sure he felt his shin bone crack and his foot was on fire.

Yorval cackled. Then aimed his wand at the Tana’s crotch and yanked it back with a gleeful laugh until it felt like his insides would twist into a knot. He fell to his knees, sure he was going to retch. “Get up, beast! And I’ll consider letting you go.”

“Yorval!! Stop that!” The Tana struggled to get up. The voice that spoke was new. He’d never heard it before. It was sweet and innocent in this place of torture. He looked up. One of the younger students broke away from the group, gracefully pacing the distance to the center of the hall. Her face seemed familiar, like that of someone he knew, though much younger. She stood before Yorval like a warrior from an ancient tale facing a mighty beast. “He is not an animal!”

“Well, it’s not a person, child, so who cares?” The fact that Yorval didn’t immediately punish the disobedient child piqued the Tana slave’s interest. Who could she be to exercise such impunity? A sister? He dreaded the next thought — Yorval’s daughter? He considered the thought that even monstrous Werres must occasionally produce graceful children.

“Yorval! He’s almost —” The voice of the young girl paused, seemingly considering what it was saying. More firmly this time, having made a decision, she continued: “he’s a person! I don’t like it when you do that to people. Just call him by his name and order him to rise. He’s chained. What’s he going to do? Run away? He’s just like the house slaves. Only he’s a Tana slave. He should be treated like a person, at least.”

The boy stood there in the middle of the chamber, his aching leg momentarily forgotten as he gaped openly at the Werre youngling. He thought for a moment he could see her clearly, could truly see her heart as her spirit shone out for a brief moment as she flung her robes back. He’d never heard any Werre say such words before and wondered what this could mean. He never knew any Werre to be so open to a Tana’s heartsight.

Yorval screwed his face up in confusion. Clearly this child had spoken something utterly alien and confounding to him. “What? Its name? I ... it doesn’t have a name! Issiy! Now you hush girl, before your Mam hears of this talk.”

Issiy, he thought. What a strange name for a Werre...but then so is Niyâre... His thought wandered back to the night before as he confronted Niyâre. He had once been able to see her as clearly. Could it be that Werreish younglings were like Denê in that ability to be truly seen? His thoughts were diverted then by a mighty crash as the huge wooden doors at the far end of the hall swung open and bounced off the walls. Indistinct figures, all tall, stood in the light of the doorway. The Tana boy hopped around on his good foot, his left, to get a better look. Suddenly his heart leapt!

Winged people!? The light of their spirits blazed in his pain wracked and cobwebbed mind, burning off the dust of years. Could it be? Denê! In this place...?

Yorval turned to face the invaders and grabbed Issiy by her robes. She yelped with surprise but he paid no attention. He shoved her behind him, and she slid over to the slave’s binding chain. Her head smacked against the heavy ring set into the stone floor. He knelt down to tend to her, taking her bleeding scalp in his hands. As he did so, he marvelled at Yorval. He had never known the Werre to utter a kind word or do anything other than violence. What was it about this child that made him so protective?

Issiy looked up into the slave’s face as he cradled her head in his hands. She could feel a warmth and a tender power from him. Her head stopped throbbing. And then the warriors were upon them! For some strange reason, she felt no fear in their presence. One of them knelt quickly before them. Although he held a wand in his left hand, he reached down to the slave’s ankle fetters with his right and the metal began to dance and deform, its shape shifting and reforming as she watched. He never looked at either of them, and only when the chain and the heavy ring had disappeared under his hand, only to be replaced by a plaque in the shape of a beautiful multihued red bronze tree set into the very stone, did he glance down to the floor. He smiled briefly, looked up into her eyes and winked. And then dashed off to the battle again. Issiy could hardly tear her eyes away from the delicate beauty of the bark, the intricacies of the veins of each leaf. She felt as if she could put her face to the tree and dive into the world in which it existed

But before she could think further, the slave had stood and scooped her up into he arms. He brought her over against the wall where there would be a little safety.
Last edited by elemtilas on 30 Apr 2021 01:29, edited 2 times in total.
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Re: Some Snippets from The World: Yeola-Camay

Post by elemtilas »

Bitter Cider and Sweet: Battle of Crossed Hearts

Shouts and yelling broke out among the older tutors and the teachers who were present. Somehow, the school was under attack! And all was chaos among the Werres as the winged warriors began their assault right away, focusing on the more powerful Werreish wizards. Though it seemed as the defenders tried to kill the invaders, they were unable to make any solid hits, and their hexes smacked against the ancient stonework, echoing around the chamber. The attackers sought only to stun and sequester.

Two, though, remained by the door as the others burst in. The shorter one closed the doors and barred them. A shout rang out, a clear voice. It spoke of a wand attack in the green market. Yorval snarled in response. A wave of clear light as of sunlight on shimmering water rolled smoothly across the floor, spilling into the chamber. Werreish students and tutors alike were overcome, scattered, pushed up against the wall. Only Niyâre withstood the first onslaught, remaining standing. But even she was pushed against the wall where she crouched down in wonder at this curious magic. Several youngling students sat in terror between her and the slave, who still cradled Issiy in his arm.

“Issiy!” she called. “Issiy! Get over here!” Niyâre’s voice sounded harsh, but the little girl seemed strangely unmoved by it.

The Denê remaining by the doors after the others had swept in and secured the Werrefolk now advanced. Yorval roared: “What is the meaning of this? Who let these dogs into this place?” The taller figure ran towards Yorval, and the other, a youth, almost of age by the looks of him remained a little way behind. The Tana slave boy could scarcely believe what he was seeing! How could this be? After all these years? But the taller figure had not noticed him. He charged straight towards Yorval, his eyes fixed upon the Werre as if they were the only two people in the world. And as he did, he swept his right hand around in a broad arc, and a dome of shimmering clear solid air flowed down and surrounded them, like a great dome of living glass.

A duelling sphere! That’s what this was. Old memories began to flood back into the slave’s mind. Memories from the time before, when he was not yet a slave, not yet a mere piece of equipment for the use of others. Yorval was alone with the two newcomers. He knew that anyone outside who tried to break in would be stunned and thrown back into the wall with vehement force. And also that whoever was inside the sphere was expected to fight his way out, or else be carried out dead after it dissipated. Niyâre tried to get closer to to Issiy, but the edge of the dome came too close to the wall and she was unable to reach them. The Tana boy chanced to look up, and saw for the first time in Niyâre's face genuine anxiety. But what was she afraid of here?

“You!” The taller of the two Denê growled. “You attacked Arcay; and now you will atone! Fight me, you coward, and not a defenseless girl! Here in the thaumodrome: your wand against mine. No one can help you, no one can help me. Come on!” he said. His intense gaze boring into Yorval’s own, he teased the Werre with his wand. “Let’s play a little game, shall we?”

The sound of the voice brought the Tana hack from his consideration of Niyâre and Issiy. He knew that voice. Somehow. Though not that voice as it sounded to him then.

“Ah yes! I seem to recall, now,” replied Yorval, regaining his composure slowly. “The titless wonderdog out shopping for lettuces or some such. Not much to cut, I admit. Anyway, we were just out for a little fun.” He licked his teeth. His words and demeanor projected an easy confidence, but his voice, the Tana noted, belied a sudden terror. And it struck the Tana then how much Niyâre reminded him of Yorval. Could those vile creatures be related? And then there was the young girl child. Issiy — Issiy. It struck him too how much she resembled Niyâre. Can she be a young sister, or ... something else? How did she seem to escape being so evil as the other two, or was she just too young yet...? The ways of Werrekind were ever a mystery to the Tana. Yorval continued: “I should have aimed for that medicine ball she had shoved inside her belly. Now that would have been fun to see splash out onto the pavement.”

Their duel began in earnest. Yorval roared curse after curse, his wand glowing and blazing with the raw power he threw along its length. Most of his attacks flew wide. He wasn’t concentrating. The Tana warrior was able to dodge them easily. Though a few hexes managed to hit home. But while the Tana was thrown down several times, and a thin slash crossed the left side of his chest, he got the better of the Werre. He came advancing from the edge of the dome, his wand dancing, seeming to force his opponent’s wand to avoid the place where the Tana was standing.

The Tana growled at last, reached out with his right hand and drew Yorval towards him through the air. The leather of his heavy boots scraped loudly upon the stones in the quiet hall as he tried desperately to halt his own motion. He grabbed the Werre’s left wrist with his right hand and, turning it sharply, jammed his own wand into the other’s left hand, into Yorval’s thenar. With a slight twist, a grating and grinding sound could be heard coming from within the skin of his hand. The fingers seemed to twist and crack and the joints popped and snapped! His whole hand flitted about, twisting back and forth in opposite directions like so many scuffling rats in an alley! The Werre screeched as he watched his own fingers twist about and his hand folded over on itself and spasmed back into place. It was as if every bone within were grinding itself against the others, painfully milling themselves into ever smaller chunks and then even tinier chips and then at last into a mash of bone meal and blood. Yorval howled, almost collapsing, but eventually pulled his hand away. What kind of magic was this!?

Yorval brought his wand up, unwilling to yield. He flung it against the Tana warrior in a rage of raw power. Intense waves of bright and dark energies flowed in a chaotic whirlwind that, if he possessed the self control, could be a devastating attack. The bright wand wielding warrior turned on Yorval and sent blast after blast towards him in return. Each one, struck with the precision and power of an accomplished wandsman. Ponderous bombardons and thundering firelances. Slashes and stabs of searing ruddy light. Yorval, having expended so much effort in his wasted display of raw power, fought back as best he could, but a bully’s hexes and unfocused attacks do little good against those of a trained and practiced wand warrior.

The newly freed slave was certain now he knew who this avenging angel was. It has been so long ... could he have forgotten me? he thought. I know I haven’t forgotten him!

The Tana warrior slashed with his wand, ripping his opponent’s wand from his hand, sending it clattering over towards the figures crouched along the wall. It sliced through the clear dome and landed near the slave. His heart raced, and he smiled as he’d not smiled in years! Yorval looked around as the wand was torn from his hand, but seeing it was lost, he turned back and was focused on the warrior. The young girl heard the wand clatter to the floor, but couldn’t see where it went.

Although Issiy wasn’t sure where it landed, a third witness did. Niyâre's familiar voice called out from beyond the limb of the thaumodrome: “Issiy! Issy! Get Yorval’s wand! It landed somewhere by that chickenboy’s legs! Do what you have to!”

Niyâre was right. Where it went was right between the boy’s legs. He turned away from the intensity of the duel, and saw that Issy, the younger Werreish student had shifted her position. She was standing now, looking at him. She had her own wand in her hand. Niyâre kept yelling at her: “Kill him! Hurt him! Knock him out! You know how to do that! Do something before he attacks you! Before he rapes you or steals you to be his slave!”

Her words so startled him that his whole body flinched and he looked over towards Niyâre quizzically. His look changed to one of pity and disgust. “Rape? Slavery? What do you call what you’ve done to me?” He was about to reach down to the stone floor and at that moment the Werre girl crouched down, facing him. She studied him calmly. He was least expecting her to answer him, but that exactly what she did.

“I’d call it very bad business, Tana boy.” She sat before him, her back to the dramatic duel. Lowering her own wand, she tucked it into the pocket of her long skirts and Niyâre screamed in rage. She nodded to the wand lying on the floor between them, indicating the Tana boy should take it.

He did just that. It didn’t feel as polished or as straight as his own wand had been, but it would do. He smiled again, touched the end of it to the dented bronze fetter that still remained brazed around his shin and drew a wiggly line along the thick bronze of it. It broke apart easily.

The young child looked at the ease with which he’d done the magic. The slave who had done no such magic in all the time she had heard tell of him, broke through strong bronze as easily as she could slice paper with a knife. She knew Werrekind had to work so hard just to make anything magical happen, and even among these elite students, few made it look so easy. She spoke quietly, so only he could hear: “Ma — I mean, Niyâre can do that.” The child paused. She waggled her knees together, biting her lower lip with her teeth. Even more quietly she said: “she’s not feeble like the other Werres. Neither am I.”

Something moved the Tana boy to speak to her: “Um...Issiy? If you please young one, can, can you get those things from that shelf up above? They’re mine, I should like them back.” He indicated the small shelf on the wall to his left. She seemed startled by the request, but nodded in compliance. As she stood, her robes fell from around her neck and as she walked over to the shelf, the Tana noticed that there were two jagged scars on her back, between her shoulders. He wouldn’t have noticed had the skin of her back not been raised like a healed wound.

Niyâre was in a rage, just out of reach of the Tana and the child. She howled: “Issiy! What are you doing? Don’t touch those things! Issiy!”

Issiy paid no heed and walked back, giving the things to the boy. He pushed Yorval’s wand into her hands. “Here you can have that back.” He smiled broadly at her as he picked up his own wand. He stood up, a little unsteadily. She thought she could see a bright aura whip around the Tana boy for a moment before fading. She wondered at that.

“Issiy,” he said as he tied the old racca around his waist, knotting it at the left hip. “Issiy,” he said as he sat again. “Why do you have scars on your back?”

She straightened perceptibly and looked frightened; “I — I mustn’t say!” she whispered. “Mam says not to or she’ll rip my arms off too!” She smiled, too cunningly by half, the boy thought. She looked into his eyes, as if willing him to understand.

He drew a breath. “Issiy, did you Mam tear something off of your back?”

She still looked uneasy, but darted a quick glance towards Niyâre who was now watching the duel play out again, and nodded slowly. “I mustn’t say...” Her eyes looked into his, flicked towards Niyâre and then back to his. “But Mam made me pluck the feathers after she tore them off.”

He wasn’t sure where this was going to lead, but he knew deep down something was not right. And then it struck him! He looked up, examining her closely. She didn’t flinch from him. She just squatted on the floor in the midst of the chaos. She examined him closely in return. Yes, she reminded him of Niyâre, but as he looked more closely ... he remembered what he had seen years ago in Niyâre herself! He could see Issiy’s heart, he could feel what she felt. Then the sensation left him and all he could see was a young Werre sitting calmly before him, her knees drawn up under her chin. The thought passed through his mind then that Issiy reminded him of someone else, too. Someone he had not seen in many years. She continued to look at him. She leaned back and began to waggle her knees back and forth. He knew she was thinking deeply. Wait. He knew that, but how? Obviously! He knew that because he did that same lean back and waggle the knees when he was pondering something. “I saw it too, you know. I don’t understand what I saw. It was too much! But I think I saw ... you. Um. Inside you, not just outside you?”

“Issiy...” he began. “Issiy, what are you?”

The child blinked several times, not quite sure what the question even meant. She waggled her knees together again, lost in thought.

A very strange thing happened just then. A small hand found his and grasped it. Issiy had stood again, then curled up happily at his left side. He looked down at her. Issiy was holding his hand in hers, giving him her brightest smile.

* * *

Several loud blasts reminded them that the duel was still in full go. The boy noticed that Yorval had a second wand he’d secreted somewhere and was giving his opponent a pretty good fight after all. He was a bully and a scrapper, and wasn’t about to give up if there was any chance of winning. Or cracking your opponent’s nuts and running away before he could chase you down. His attacks showed no sense of tactic or planning. He just blasted random attacks of shapeless magic. Some hits struck hard and the Tana warrior was thrown back, but most either hit too softly or missed entirely, where they crackled against the thaumodrome’s clear wall. His defensive skills were fair, though, and he was able to thwart or divert many of the Tana warrior’s attacks.

The contest seemed to go on for a long time. Yorval was powerful, but unskilled and untutored. His attacks lacked all discipline and his defenses never followed through. The taller of the two warriors progressively beat Yorval back and down, until by now, they were fighting over the very spot where the broken fetters lay, in the center of the hall.

“Issiy!” the voice whispered. Niyâre. “Get away from that! I told you to take Yorval’s wand, not help this crowhead escape!”

Issiy didn’t move, but she began to shiver. He put his arm around her shoulder and his wing around all of her. “Leave her be, Niyâre. Anyway, she’s already got Yorval’s wand, so just drop it.”

“You shush. I’m not addressing you. I’m addressing my dear little ... sister.” She spat the last word out in a curious fashion.

The boy stood, looking from Issiy to Niyâre. Issiy buried herself in his side, fingering the feathers of his left wing. “Don’t lie, girl. She’s not your dear little sister,” he said with a savage snarl. “You‘re the one who ripped out her wings and you’re her —” He stopped dead, his eyes wide and mouth hanging open.

He looked down at Issiy, whose arms were now around his waist. Then he looked back to Niyâre. “I ... she ... you ...!” He could barely think of the words, let alone get them past his own tongue. “You’re her Ma, Niyâre.”

“Yes, very observant, ravenbrain.”

He felt the little girl’s fists tighten. “MA! Call him by his name! You’re almost as bad as Uncle Yorval!”

He was taken aback, but Niyâre remained unfazed. “You don’t even know my name, Niyâre. You call me ravenbrain and pigeonshit and slavebird and everything else but my name! You never even asked me!”

“Psh. I know your name, pigeonpoop. There’s no reason to call you by it, is there?” she retorted angrily. “But just so you’ll be satisfied — RUPAC! — I know your name.”

They were interrupted as many hexes and spells bounced off each other explosively. Yorval was bloodied and battered. The two fighters almost careened into them they were so near the dome’s wall.

He turned back to Niyâre. “How did you know?”

She smiled savagely, baring her teeth again. Her teeth were — interesting. Though her front teeth were carved into sharp points, her canines were long. Much longer than any Werre’s ought to be. “You are mine, Tana boy,” she spat. “You always have been. Is it not I alone who love you here?” He felt Issiy’s arms tighten again around his waist. “I claimed you for my own long ago, and I have fought off all the others who wanted you as well. Including shit for brains Bearclaw.”

Issiy broke away from Rupac and strode toward the wall where her mother stood. “You are nòt the only one! Not the only one who loves him! I ...” She stopped, whether because of her mother’s glare or some inner turmoil Rupac didn’t understand remained unclear.

“Wait,” said Rupac, looking at the child in wonder. “Niyâre, all these years. You’ve come into this room. You’ve shagged me as often as you wanted! You hurt me!” he shouted. He grasped the wand in his left hand, and would have shoved it into Niyâre's face to release all the pent up anger in him if it weren’t for the sudden yip from Issiy. What power she has!, this little one! he thought. At last he could only sigh. He lowered his wand, and caught a fleeting glimpse of a dark shape, a shadow among the shadows cast by the duelling wizards as it fled away. He whispered: “Issiy — Issiy is my daughter. Niyâre: Issiy is our daughter. Why did you do nothing? You didn’t tell her? You didn’t even tell me?”

“What was I supposed to say? ‘Your Da is the training mannequin owned by the school so the students can practice their hexing?’ Don’t be daft. Anyway: have I not always told you that you were my own? That I alone loved you here? Did you not once think that my eyes danced, that you could see my heart? Did you not realise that my eyes only danced when they saw you?”

Niyâre wept.
Last edited by elemtilas on 30 Apr 2021 01:31, edited 3 times in total.
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Re: Some Snippets from The World: Yeola-Camay

Post by elemtilas »

Bitter Cider and Sweet: A Voice from the Past

In that moment, several things happened all at once.

The Tana warrior at last found his opportunity and he took it. As Yorval was preparing to cast a deadly hex, he stepped aside, slipping momentarily into the Other Place, and Yorval swung his wand wide, wondering at his opponent’s sudden disappearance. It took him a moment to register that his enemy hadn’t actually disappeared — if he concentrated and looked carefully, he could see the winged figure wavering in and out of his vision, as if he were both nearby and very distant at the same time. For the longest while, he seemed not to move at all! Then the warrior appeared to at one and the same time, amble leisurely around the still figure of the Werre while also rushing towards him. It was in that eternal moment that Rupac thought he saw the warrior notice him, and he thought he saw a glint of recognition. Could it be? After all this time? Lorreg? But in a blink, the warrior stepped aside again, reappearing unexpectedly some way beyond Yorval’s left. From there he sent a jet of red fire against his opponent. Yorval screeched with pain and Issiy yelped with fright. Even Rupac was surprised by the heat and force of it, so close were they to the action now. He held Issiy close and they backed as far away from the fighting as they could.

For the first time, the younger warrior, who hadn’t done any fighting that Rupac ever saw spoke up: “Lorreg! Lorreg! We’re not here to kill anyone! We’re here to teach this bastard a lesson! He can’t learn anything from you if you incinerate him!”

The fire gushing from Lorreg’s wand instantly subsided, taking the oppressive heat with it and leaving behind unharmed flesh. He had not completed the hex. Yorval collapsed, gasping for breath, still convinced that his flesh had melted away, that he was in the middle of a furnace. He dropped his second wand, and it rolled a short distance away as he collapsed to a sitting position. He leaned forward, hands on the cool stone floor and panted.

The great dome of clear, shimmering light dissipated as instantly as it had been raised. Perhaps Yorval’s resignation signaled the duel’s end. Quicker than lightning, Issiy broke from Rupac's embrace, dashed over to the fallen wizard and grabbed his wand. She stepped away from him carefully, avoiding his grasp and his foul temper. But though Yorval looked up at her scornfully, he made no move to come after her. She backed into Rupac and pressed herself into her Da’s body, staring down Yorval, never breaking eye contact.

At last he came back to himself. “Give it back, you little bitch! Both of them! Them are mine!” Yorval tried to thrust his hand towards Lorreg, but nothing would happen. There was no magic in his bare hands. The dome reappeared as suddenly as it had dissipated! Not cavernous and clear as a fountain, but red tinged, veiled and baleful — Rupac noted that Lorreg was outside the dome! Who could have erected it? He noted that he and Niyâre were both inside, at the edge. Yorval was in the middle. There Werre could just about blast random jets of raw power: he was surely incapable of creating such a construct of magic. He looked towards Niyâre. For the first time ever, she seemed absolutely terrified.

A low growl caused him to turn back. It was Issiy. She ignored Yorval’s commands as he continued to rage on. But her jaw was set. She had a wand in each hand now, both of Yorval’s. She advanced slowly.

Rupac only had a moment to react! He saw that Issiy’s own wand was lying on the floor. With a terribly certainly he knew that she was going to attack him and horrible as Yorval was, he would be defenseless against her incandescent ire. A movement to the side caught his fully attention then — Niyâre had raised her wand! Was she aiming at Yorval? Or would she attack Issiy? He made his choice: “Niyâre!” And with a quick gesture of his left hand, he sent the thick hardwood wand careening through the air. It knocked squarely onto Niyâre's fingers, and her own blast of magic was sent wide, a brilliant flash connecting with the dome where it exploded into blinding flashes of lightning that were earthed all around its perimeter. There was no way to help Yorval, he knew.

With a terrible force Issiy brought the two wands up and gouts of brilliant, turbulent air blew from the ends, whisked Yorval high up into the air and flung him up right through the dome and against and into the far wall. All was silent as the raging storm within the dome immediately disappeared. Yorval’s body had been sliced as it tore through the magic of the dome, his bloodied corpse pushed into the living stone of the high wall far beyond.

Gentle streams of blood and deliquescent bits of Yorval dripped merrily upon the distant flagstones as if a cool mountain spring had opened up in the wall. Issiy smiled, tapping the wands together as she nodded her head to some inner music.

Rupac was about to speak, but it was Issiy who broke the silence. She looked over to Niyâre, who was kneeling now, nursing her broken fingers. “He won’t touch either of us ever again.” She tucked the wands into the knots that held her wrap at her waist. As she looked up at the rivulets of blood on the wall, Issiy shivered. She thought she could see faint grey shadows flee across the stonework, but she turned, sobbing into Rupac’s chest.

* * *

“Ru — Rupac!?” shouted the older warrior. Lorreg. “I never thought to see you ... !” Rupac’s heart was filled to overflowing by what was happening, meeting Issiy and being rescued by Lorreg.

“Lorreg! Come on! We need to go now — all of us.” shouted the younger warrior. He was amazed by what he’d witnessed in this strange hall of magic and wondered how the child could do those things. “How did you do that, youngling? You must be... !”

But neither got a chance to finish, for just at that moment, a number of older wizards came rushing into the chamber! Somehow, it became known that an invasion of the school had taken place. They wasted no time blasting the entire hall with hexes and curses of every description. The Denê warriors turned to engage the reprisal but they were too few to both fight back, keep an eye on their prisoners and protect the younger students from harm all at the same time.

Within a few moments, they found themselves in the midst of a fight on two fronts, as the tutors and older students sought to join the fray. Those that still had wands began the fight in earnest, while those without sought to hamper the Denê by physical means. The Wand Brothers focused on the tutors and students, stunning many, while Lorreg and Isheltay faced the incoming masters. Issiy stood with Rupac, facing them. He was able to stun or confound a few of them, but Issiy’s wild magic tripped up and tossed many more about.

Following close behind the masters, came a contingent of the school’s guardsmen, the cowards armed with bows. They remained behind the masters, firing towards the wand warriors across the hall. Now there certainly were too many to fight! As the masters pressed forward, one of the warriors near the only remaining path of escape shouted to Lorreg that it really was time to leave.

Lorreg shouted to Isheltay: “Go! Get Rupac! I am right behind you!” He continued to block the masters’ way as Isheltay ran towards Rupac and Issiy.

“Heyo! Here, lean on my shoulder, friend! I’ve got to get you out of here! Come young friend, you too!” Isheltay half led, half dragged Rupac towards the door. Not wanting to be left out, Issiy helped push Rupac while occasionally firing off bit of raw enchantment towards the confuddled masters. Her heart was thumping with fear and excitement mixed: so many strange things had just happened to her, she wasn’t at all sure how to make sense of it all. Why had the Tana slave asked her what was she? He knew she was a girl...but what else could he have meant? And why was this strange young Tana calling her a friend? All the other Denê were fighting the Werreish folk. Why didn’t they just stun her like they did the other younglings?

Issiy looked around for her mother; and she found her. She caught Niyâre's eyes as the woman raised her own wand towards Rupac’s back. “NO! Ma! Stop! Don’t hurt Da!” Niyâre's aim held firm as her own daughter looked back towards her. Issiy wasn’t certain if it was the dust or the steam or the tears that clouded her vision so, but her mother appeared so dark. So veiled. Hadn’t her Da said that of her as well?

Even though Niyâre had wept during the confrontation, a darkness held fast to her heart. She could feel it fluttering, like a dying thing trapped for ages in strong fetters. Had she not aimed her wand at her own beloved daughter, the child of her own beloved? She tried to stop herself from doing what she was doing. She groaned and shook violently, as if waging some fierce inner war, but it was as if her hand grasped her wand and her arm lifted it to aim at her lover’s back at the command of a will not her own. She screamed within her mind but found she had no more control over what her body did than she did over anyone else’s. Her hand twisted and with a grimace of disgust thrust the wand towards Rupac. The will within her that was not her own did not care that Issiy was running at Rupac’s back and was now staring back towards her in terror. She turned then, making a flying leap up onto Rupac’s neck, which toppled him and Isheltay into a tangled heap of arms and wings and legs.

Niyâre watched as a brilliant gout of bright blue tinged transviolet lightning roared from the end of her wand. She stared in disbelief as the energy flew towards its target. She marvelled as she watched her own daughter scream at her, fight to save the person her disentangled body was seeking to kill, risk her own young life for the boy she loved. Niyâre collapsed as the energy seared over the heads of the falling Denê. It blasted its way into the wall beyond where it dissipated in a shock that cracked the ancient stonework, causing it to groan and rumble under the stress.

Issiy wept as she watched her mother fall to the hard floor. She saw her level her wand at her own chest. A violent blast of brilliant white light crossed the gap, and Niyâre fell motionless, still gripping her wand. Issiy cried out for her mother, but Isheltay grasped her by the hair and shoved her back down: he saw what was come flying in the air.

Isheltay caught sight of Lorreg, still fighting the remaining masters. Lorreg was preparing to cast a killing hex on them. He yelled a last time “NO! Lorreg! —” Lorreg turned just in time to see the arrow slam into Isheltay’s right side, to see where his young friend falls with a whimper. Lorreg is torn. His glare and expression terrify the Werreish wizards, for in his ire they can see him almost fully revealed and the majesty and power of his true form terrify them. They turned away then to flee; and as they did so, they crashed into the archers behind them. Lorreg sprinted back to see to Isheltay. As he was running, something caught his eye, something about the strange still figure of Niyâre. Torn again, he turned quickly and paused just long enough to catch her up and bring her along with him.

The delay cost Lorreg much. For, as the archers took aim again, their arrows flew helterskelter across the hall. So much for aim! But even a volley of ill aimed arrows can wreak much hurt. He saw that most of his companions were now safely out of the doorway, and several of the tutors that had chased after them were sent flying back into the hall riding bursts of radiant magic. Lorreg knew he could never get his injured charges out through the door and it would be too dangerous to call any of his warriors back to help. Even as the last flight of arrows began their downard arc, he made his choice: he shoved the strange gilr ahead of him and he dove amid the pile of his friends. The arrows fell. Several found youngling students or tutors that had gotten in the way of the illflying birds of prey.

Lorreg took three arrows for Isheltay, Rupac and the strange wingless girls. As the searing pain tore through his body, he spread his wings over them all and brought them all and with a mighty act of will brought them all into the Other Place from which they could find safety.

As suddenly as the great battle began, all was silent again in the great hall. The masters looked around: many of their number lay injured, stunned and dumbfounded by the Denê warriors, yet none were killed. The only dead in the entire room were the children and their tutors that the guardsmen had shot with their long arrows. They marvelled that the Denê had killed no one.

One of the older wand wizards stepped into the center of the chamber. “Hm!” he said, scuffing the floor with his long toed slipper, wiping away the dust and burn marks from the duel. “I wonder. This tree here: didn’t there used to be a heavy brass ring set into the floor? I certainly recall old Master Tipplestaff used to tie up monsters and barbarians for us to practice on.”
Last edited by elemtilas on 30 Apr 2021 01:32, edited 3 times in total.
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Re: Some Snippets from The World: Yeola-Camay

Post by elemtilas »

Bitter Cider and Sweet: The Magisters

“What are we going to do?” asked the Chancellor of the Exchequer. “We’ve all heard the report, even if her high majesty has not!” The First Magister shot the Chancellor a withering glare, but he rambled on anyway. “This, this strange fascination she has with that female wizard... Surely the Empress has been bewitched!”

“Calm yourself!” said the First Magister, much more forcefully than usual, which several of the high ranking magisters noted. “Peace! I need a moment to think!”

“Well, don’t take too long about it,” said Lady Justice. “We have to have a reply — no, an explanation — well and properly rehearsed before four of the clock! She’ll be expecting...”

“Yes, I know what she’ll be expecting. We all know,” replied the First Magister, more subdued this time.

What the Empress wanted was to see another demonstration of magic. This time without the bunglers and the dilettantes. She just wanted that mysteriously beautiful and powerful wizard. The one that had cleaned up after the greatest wizards in all the Empire and shown them to be charlatans. Or worse: showed them to be inept.

“The problem as I see it,” said the Magister of Policies and Writs, “is that she’s gone. Bloody well disappeared.”

The First Magister focused his scathing glare towards the recalcitrantly unmovable Policies and Writs master. “Thank you ever so much, Magister Obvious. But of course, she’s gone! Problem is, we don’t know where!”

“Really, First Magister? Did we not all hear the reports the master wizards sent this day?”

“What are you getting at, Moreling?” It was unusual for the First Magister to address anyone by name. The Magister of Policies and Writs remained entirely unfazed. He also held his peace. “Well man? Out with it!” screeched the First Magister.

“Is it not obvious? Did not the masters say that they saw one of the Denê fall with his wings outspread onto several others, after which they all disappeared?”

The First Magister let out an exasperated sigh, but before he could say anything in reply, his adversary continued: “She is now certainly within the world of the Denê who inhabit the Empire. And who among us Werrefolk know the nature and extent of their hidden realms? They do not allow us to walk within their realm, though they freely come into our realm whenever they please!”

The First Magister collapsed into the Throne of Delight, one of her high majesty’s least used thrones, as it presided over a theatre the performances of which she utterly despised. He sat in hunched silence for a long while and the other high magisters of the realm considered what to do. Not that they cared much about the First Magister’s predicament: to a one, they were all curious to watch the First Magister’s entire political career be incinerated by the white hot glare of The Empress when she inevitably discovered what had actually happened. And that would come soon enough: the Empress of Auntimoany can not be put off for very long! The only question, in the minds of the sharpest among them, was how to improve their own political position in light of what appeared to be a most interesting and disgraceful fall from power.

After some deliberation, they determined on a plan to bring in the next best thing. Lady Justice suggested just bringing in the second best student. “Just make sure she’s a pretty girl. Oh, and clean her up first!”

But the First Magister had learned something of the better students at the school and asked Justice: “Which one should we invite, the sadist or the psychopath?”

The other magisters smiled at each other, seeing a possible way out: “Why not bring them both?” said Exchequer. The Empress has gone quite mad — ah, er — well, anyway, she should get along well enough with such wizards! And surely Justice can spare a few penitents deserving of an early snuffing?” The Chancellor bowed courteously towards his friendly rival.

The lady bowed graciously in response. Perhaps a way could be found to not only navigate the present crisis successfully, but also see to it that the First Magister be brought down a couple notches. She herself, for example, would make a fine First Magister! She sniffed derisively, yet delicately when she thought about her true rival. Ensuring that penitents spent their long sentences in as much agony as possible was certainly a fulfilling career, and taking a personal interest in some of the more recalcitrant has its rewards, but she was certain also that it would not do to be forever remembered only as the magister whose crowning achievement was the introduction of the Elektrodrome as a bold and modern form of criminal penitence.

* * *

The First Magister’s plan was enacted and the summons went out to the head master to come immediately to the Chamber of Stars with one, or perhaps two most accomplished older female students. Upon entering the spacious hall, the Empress and the high magisters were waiting, along with a number of penitents tied up to a scaffold along the wall. Guards awaited in the shadows, eager to see some real magic for a change.

The Empress, however, as of yet unaware of her magisters’ plot, enquired of the Head Master: “Lady Master Wizard! Master Ulfier, I am most displeased! I see before me only two unlikely students of your school! That one is plain and looks frightened, like she’s about to leak her bladder on the floor and that one looks as stupid as a block of lead! Where, I ask: where is the beautiful wizard who you sent before me not long since? The one called Niyâre?” She said the name gently, almost tenderly; yet she slammed the iron knob on the bottom end of her state staff onto the stone set into the floor of the dais with such power and force that its thunderous boom startled all the visitors, and even the magisters felt ill at ease. A faint hissing, dripping sound could be heard arising from the floor at the feet of the first student.

The Empress remained calm, smiling wickedly at the poor girl as if to say, did I not know you would widdle all over my floor?

Head Master Ulfier. unaware of the plots and politics of court stiffened noticeably. Not one to be accused, even by the Empress, said in curt reply: “I do not understand, lady queen!”

“And how is that so, lady master wizard?”

“All the events of this day were written to you, sealed by my myself and the other master wizards; and I personally entrusted our report to your — well him!” She pointed out the First Magister. “The Firm Mugglewump, isn’t that right, sir? Anyway, we made quite clear...”

“First Magister, if you please, woman! Mugglewump indeed! And for your information,” he shouted, stepping between the Empress and the Head Master, “the Empress is not in the least bit interested in your base accusations and excuses! Bring forth this wizard Niyâre or be gone!”

“Be gone? You dare order me to be gone before the Empress, you tiny brained twitmouse!” She withdrew her wand from her sash, and immediately the guards turned from most interested spectators into proper guards again, on the watch for the least hint of a threat to her high majesty. “I shall turn you into something — unnatural — you toad eyed mugglewump!”

But before she could draw her wand back, the Empress began to laugh! Merrily as few had ever heard her laugh before. She took in the woman staring down the First Magister, marking her a potential ally. Considering also any potential threat.

“Now, First Magister!” she crooned. “Let us hear what the Head Master has to say. I am certain it will be most instructive!” The First Magister hated when the Empress used words like “instructive” out of context. Nothing good could come of it, and now he had to think fast before either the plot was revealed or the other magisters could convince her high majesty of their own innocence.

“Indeed!” huffed Head Master Ulier, ramming her wand back into her sash. “Our report was very clear, lady queen! The school was attacked! Attacked I say, by powerful raven headed Denê wizards. They attacked a class of tutors and students! Surely they would have wreaked much havoc had not the other masters and the guardsmen not intervened. A small number of students died in the melée, an unfortunate mishap. But as I reported, we made clear that three students who were known to be present during the attack have disappeared, a brother and two sisters. Yorval, a promising young fellow. Bit of a sadist, but a dab hand with the hexing! And his sisters, or half sisters anyway, one very young, just beginning to learn the thaumic arts and the second, none other than Niyâre herself! No trace of any of them could be found. Not even their wands.”

The Head Master sighed and shook her head. But before any of the others could speak, she continued: “Lady queen, the plain truth is, your high mugglewump here ordered us to bring in our next most promising students. We were told to make sure they were pretty girls, and were to clean them up before presenting them. We were not told why. We were only told that you already knew everything and wished to see more of our students perform. However, if these two are not to your liking...”

After a brief pause, the Empress, raised her hand gently: “No need, Lady Head Master. You may go. You have done your duty most admirably.”

Ulier and her students bowed deeply as Yesseraê rose and returned the greeting courteously. She sat again upon the Throne of Divine Thought, saying nothing. The wizards departed, and the door closed softly behind them.

Yesseraê knew to count to four before acting.

... one ...

... two ...

... three ...

... four ...

“My lady — !” She smiled inwardly. These old logs were so predictable. The First Magister had begun what was undoubtedly a well rehearsed speech carefully designed to cast blame far and wide, on everyone but himself. But before he get more than the two words in, one of the lesser magisters interrupted most energetically. Lord Hummetydumm or somesuch.

“Hush you!” The Empress noted the severe breach of court protocol. This actually caused the First Magister to stop talking. She was delighted, and said nothing. A speechless First Magister was a novelty not to be missed. “That wizard was right! You’re a lousy old mugglewump! You told us all that our beloved queen knows everything. That’s what you said, too. You said: the young tart knows everything she needs to know about this disastrous affair.”

The First Magister roared, but Yesseraê rose suddenly and strode down from the dais, heading straight for the First Magister! To the consternation of many magisters (and, truth be told, the delight more), she laid hands on the First Magister! She grasped him by the collar of his robe, taking a handful of the costly cloth and also the heavy gold of his state torc. “Guards! Guards! Unhand me, lady! I am First Magister!” But the guards made no move to act against their Empress. It was a thing unheard of for a monarch to lay hands on a high magister of the bureaucracy. The others took note of the subtle change in the chamber’s atmosphere, though several could only stare in wonder. Only a few could just make out the shadow of the future as it unfolded into the present.

“Parliament House, seven of the clock!” she growled. “Let every House be present!” As she turned, Yesseraê slipped the torc from the First Magister’s neck, letting it fall with brilliant clang into the stone floor. The door behind the throne closed behind her, leaving the hall in stunned silence. Without taking any further notice of the magisters, the corporal ordered his guardsmen to take the penitents and march them from the hall.

The magisters filed out by ones and twos, whispering quietly, wondering. Only the highest were left then. The First Magister had said nothing all the while. He was, perhaps for the first time in his long life, utterly unsure what to do next. Visibly shaken, he straightened the pince nez that rested upon his long nose. He looked down and began to stoop, reaching for the fallen torc. As his fingers neared the dull reddish gold, they seemed to hesitate of their own volition.

A voice spoke then, almost tenderly: “I wouldn’t if I were you.” He looked up. It was Lady Justice. He had always loathed the old toad, and now he hated her all the more for the gentle caution she spoke. She too turned and left the hall, never seeing whether he heeded her advice or not. He knew, after all, that she was right. The old Emperor himself, now three and twenty years agone had placed the torc around his neck. Only a monarch can bestow — or remove — such a badge of high office.

His fingers opened towards the gold.
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Re: Some Snippets from The World: Yeola-Camay

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Bitter Cider and Sweet: The Healing and the Unhealed

Rupac stretched in the early morning sun. These first days of freedom had done much to revive him, and the last years of his life, he felt certain, would fade into sad memory as he took up a new life among his friends and kin again. The house of healing was just as he’d remembered it! Hadn’t he and Lorreg and Vârro and the rest of the gang been in here often enough with scrapes and gouges and broken wings plenty of times! Nadara was still the chief healer and she was as feisty as ever. At least she didn’t roll her eyes and tsk-tsk scoldingly when saw his injured leg. She must have seen from the look of him that he’d been through much sorrow.

So long had he lived chained to the hall of magic’s floor that he knew nothing of what was going on outside. He heard bits and snatches as folk went about their business. The mad Empress of the Werres — he had thought there was an Emperor. The increasing hostility of the Werres towards the Denê — that was no surprise. He had felt their ire upon his body daily. The forthcoming of the Hidden Queen — that had excited everyone, and also cast a shadow of gloom. Surely her being stirred to action portended a great change forthcoming in all the lands of the East! But he couldn’t yet go out and discover more. He desired only to watch over Issiy as she was healed of her many hurts.

And wasn’t Issiy a wonder!, and a favourite among the healers. It was surely a grief that she had never lived among Denê all her life, but she was sure to be completely healed in body and spirit and very quickly at that. She was most surprised to learn that her spirit body had remembered the shape and location of her wings, and was delighted as the healer tasked with her restoration pressed his hands here and there so that she could feel them upon her back again!

He heard folk stirring within. Issiy was excited to carry on with her task of exercising her ravaged wing stumps. The healer sat behind her, sometimes pulling at the air by her shoulders or else pushing. “Feel my hands against your wings, young one! Close your eyes to the world and see with your wings! When I push, you push against me! When I pull, you pull against me! The stronger your spirit and your mind know the place of your wings, the quicker and stronger they will grow!”

Some of the other kids came to see the new girl. A few wept because she didn’t have any wings; one boy teased her because of it. “What happened wingless girl? Did the physicks steal you away and pluck you?”

“No!” she cried. The boy got a surprise as she twisted about, and the wind of her phantom wing blew cold through his body. He shivered. She stared him down. He relented, smiling shyly. She no longer feared telling what happened. She got right into his face and retorted: “We lived among Werrefolk, little boy. My Mam had to tear me wings off so I wouldn’t be taken up by the physicks. Just as her own wings had been taken off!” His eyes widened with wonder and terror in equal parts. She smiled and grabbed his left wing and spun him around. “Would you like to know what it feels like?” The boy squealed and shrieked as she pulled him this way and that by his wing arms, making horrible crunching and crackling noises into his ear. The other kids were naturally delighted!

Niyâre though was a different story. She crouched huddled up in the farthest corner. The dark shadows had been driven from within her heart, but still her body quaked and she wept in despair. Her hands would often try to fend off things that everyone around was certain were not really there, even those who could see what was unseen . She moaned and cried. Arrane, the healer tasked with her care would often sit by her. Whenever and however he tried to comfort her, she would recoil in horror or disgust or collapse in a fit of shaking and weeping.

“I fear for this girl, Rupac. Her heart is dying. Things, dark things, have been gnawing at her heart for so long. Like worms they were. Her life must have been a torment that perhaps we shall never be privy to. But I fear more for your baby: he is not quite ready to be born. I have seen him and I believe he has been within her for nearly ten months, and if she dies, he will die too. Her body is as hale as can be for having refused food and drink since coming here; but her spirit body is collapsing within her! I can do nothing. I think the last hope for your son will be for you to try and comfort her. The soulmenders have seen the things she has done to you and to others. I have only sensed the shadows that haunt her. It is no wonder she writhes in hopelessness. But hope she must have if either or only one of them is to survive! You must reach out to her — you must find her wherever it is she is wandering and bring her back.”

Rupac didn’t know how to heal or soothe a broken spirit, but he sat down at Niyâre's side all the same. She looked up and saw him there. She turned away from him, sobbing and shaking. He managed to get her to lie upon a warm fur anyway, and he lay down at her back, draping his right wing over her body. He smoothed her hair and stroked her arm and her chest. Eventually she stopped sobbing and fell into a dark and tortured sleep.
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Re: Some Snippets from The World: Yeola-Camay

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Bitter Cider and Sweet: Niyâre

All was dark, as if a ferocious storm of cloud had blotted the black starry sky from her sight. All around her was ruin. Toppled grey stone and grey, broken and charred timber. The baleful light of fires illumined the city with weird red shadows and the subdued cries and pitiful moans of the displaced, the injured and the dying rose all around her. Dark shapes, shadows, perhaps, flitted between trees and dark alleyways. Black things followed her, leaping from her sight when she turned her head. As she walked, she saw some mothers breaking their children’s wings, twisting and snapping them until the children shrieked with agony. Others pulled the babies from their sisters’ wombs, snapping their necks with soft, delicate crunches. She turned away and saw little girls, their backs bleeding, plucking feathers from their own lifeless wings. Niyâre could not remain here. She sought for a way out of this crowded place of woe. Cold hands seemed to push her from behind, tug at her hands. She felt burned. They led her only deeper into the crowded place, their overlong and thin dark white fingers elegantly introduced her to the moaning crowd.

Her hands! She lifted them up and looked. They were blackened and scaly. She could smell the drying blood upon them. She tried to clean them on her wrap, but she found herself naked and the blood smeared on her thighs. She broke from the cold grip and began to run, searching for a fountain or grotto where she could wash her self.

She heard water flowing! Around the corner she ran towards the sound. Shadows parted before her and there was the fountain, its dark grey stone cold. The twin waters would be refreshing! She grasped the stone ledge, leaned forward and drank deeply. The water was strangely warm. She thrust her hands into the flow and tried to wash. The water was dark, and things swam in it. She looked up: carved deep upon the stone was the figure of a winged woman — a Tana girl. Her belly was distended and the water flowed from between her legs. Birth water and dead & broken babies flowed commingled from the girl’s sheath. She spat it out but the waters clung to her arms and ran down her breast, turning bloody and staining her pale skin. She turned to the other stream of water, seeking to wash the filth from her lips and her hands. This water too was hot, and she looked up. Carved deep upon the stone was the figure of a winged man — a Tana boy. His gaze was turned to his mate at the other side of the fountain. The waters flowed from his bone. The water splashed upon her head and face, rolling down her neck and back, and it burned her.

Niyâre ran through the night, trying to escape the monochrome grey of the ruined city. Shadows and fell shapes pursued her. She dodged into the ruins of a stone walled church. It had long been ruined and the war outside seems to have left it in peace. The grass growing upon the stone floor was cool and soft, but wrong. She rubbed her eyes and paused for a rest in a tall curved place, a broken flat stone was there. It was white and silver and the light of the high Moon filtered through the ragged clouds, inviting her to rest. She closed her eyes and slept. She dreamt that her eyes saw differently, and how weird that was! She wondered what it could even mean to see differently. But before she work out the riddle, things were stirring.

She awoke with a start! The dark things fled to the corners of the space as she opened her eyes. She saw around her shapes in the darkness. Grey and light black and dark white, they stood before and around her. They said nothing. They only waited. She heard a scraping sound behind her and turned around. The moonlight spilled onto the high stone wall. Dust and bits of debris began to flake from the wall. Fingers protruded, then a hand and lastly a face! It was Yorval, but ... he was dead already! She screamed and the figures around her stirred, wailing, almost tenderly, inaudibly. Yorval, still dripping dark, thick red blood and minced flesh, could only croak, his hands reached down towards her, trying to grasp at her. His voice spoke words horrible and painful to hear. Her ears stabbed with pain as the incomprehensible words fell upon her like gobs of congealed blood mingled with shredded organ meat. Niyâre turned again and now the shapes became people. Rotting corpses, newly dead liches. Their faces were contorted, but she recognised them. Werres and Denê alike. Their wounds gaped as they showed them to her. Menacing voices spoke, close to her right ear.

you can find no hope in this place halfling — the power of this place is broken and there is no peace for you here

The voices were many, yet spoke in accord. A terrible whisper. The dark shapes and the shadows walked among her dead victims. Cold hands held her arms and legs; caressed her engorged breasts and her distended belly. She screamed, and with an effort broke from their grasp and ran again. Their talons raked her skin and she bled, her flesh sloughing from her bones. Out into the darkness under cold white stars and a black night sky she ran.

She ran and she could hear a quiet rustling sound far behind her; and a deep mirthless laughter from even further away. She leapt over a low stone wall and found herself in a necropolis. The crowded mausoleums and temples lined the narrow lanes. She could hear the creak of bronze hinges opening, the crackle crumble of cement being dislodged and the moan of stone door seals being shifted as death came to life around her.

A voice spoke out. A living voice! Niyâre could discern no sensible words, but she headed towards it, feeling strangely drawn. Standing upon a flat altar were two figures, two Denê. One was a boy and his wings were dark and long and his feathers gleamed in the bright light of the Moon. The other was a girl and her wings were shorter. Their faces seemed familiar to her — she was sure she recognised the girl. She was sure she could put a name to the beautiful face if only she could rest a minute and think! The boy too looked familiar, like she had known him all his life. The couple turned towards each other and in the place of death began to mate. Before they were done, the girl’s belly had swollen and a young child soon stood between them. A girl. And they mated again and the girl’s belly swelled a second time and soon enough another young child stood between them. A boy.

And then she knew! She could put a name to the tall boy with the long gleaming feathers in his dark black wings! She tried to speak it.

lies — pay no heed

She turned away for a moment. It must have been a phantom.

“Ma!” cried the little girl suddenly! Niyâre turned abck and looked up and there were only the two children and the tall boy. She found herself surrounded again by the dark shapes of her dead. They whispered to her, revealing dark secrets and black forms walked among them and they too whispered to her. They told her the truth: they must have because she could recall everything they said about her.

The voices from the stone altar sounded ever more distant. “Ma! Come with us!” the two children called to her. The tall boy stretched out his left hand. It was open, beckoning to her. His eyes wept. She thought she could feel something in her heart. Something about that boy.

lies — all lies!

The whispering voices spoke clearly, as if they were next to her.

they are phantoms — they do not exist in your world — to follow them is folly — to follow is to die

In an instant, bright light entered the necropolis, moved among the decaying graves. Voices called out. The dead shapes surrounded her! They overwhelmed her! She fell but sought to regain her feet and she fought to remember why she wanted to get up so badly. She managed to clamber up onto the smooth altar stone. The voices were right. No one was here. There were no children. No tall boy with long black wings. It was all a lie. Only the dark shapes and the shadows that veiled the painful light. She was afraid and ran as hard as she could from the voices and the light alike! She thought she could hear laughter. The light must have been tormenting her.

She fled into the soothing darkness. The rustling as of long dead and dry leaves followed in her wake.

She ran through the ravaged city. Everywhere was tumbled stone, old & worn and black and broken trees, grey and desiccated. But her feet found their nimble grace and she leapt the obstacles easily. She exulted at the feel of the breeze rushing over her body as she ran. For a brief moment her heart leapt and she wondered at a strange sight: was that a blue flower tucked among green leaves and tendrils? Strange in this dark place of grey shades and hues of black and white. She skidded to a stop and turned back to examine the wonder.

false vision — you deceive yourself

But she couldn’t locate the strange flower. She must have been making it up. She looked up into the sky and saw only the black Sun and the grey clouds racing overhead. She looked at the earth and saw only withered and hoary weeds and dark white and dull stones. She looked upon her body and saw only her rotting breasts, parted to reveal gangrenous ribs and a withered heart; her round belly had deflated as her baby’s water leaked through the wounds in her side.

Her heart sank as she came at last to the crossing of two broad avenues. She stopped short when she saw there a statue. A traffic cop. Its tall cap with City Badge at a smart angle still stood proudly in the middle of the rubble littered way. She picked her way forward and saw a figure emerge from the shadows of the statue. A curious shape: his long wings were pallid and the edge feathers were white, and white were his hands and face and deep and dark were his eyes, like gleaming and translucent black diamonds. All else was veiled by a cloth wrapped around his body and his head. His argentine skin was radiant under the black night sky full of black stars.

“Don’t go down that way!” the boy cried. “That road is for me.” He opened the garment. Niyâre could see then that he revealed a long arrow thrust deep into his right chest. His death wound. The thick and red blood, congealing and aromatic, smeared down his side, his thigh and calf, pooled at his foot. “Your way lies back! Those who love you await you there!”

Love ... ?

lies again lies — look around you at the dead — what is love?

Niyâre was frightened by the voices whispering into her ears and she turned and fled! The pale winged boy called out to her, but his voice faded as she ran pell mell down the broad way. The cool wind was in her hair again and caressed her body and the gibbering of the dead was behind her now. She had but to run, she knew, and she would be free of them!

As she ran onward, meadows replaced the fallen stonework of the ruined city. Dark under the brilliance of a million black stars, the fields lay fallow and dead. She saw to one side people gathered. Dozens of Denê — the two strange children she saw just a while ago. They were tall now and grown beautiful. They had spouses and children and kin and friends of their own, and they were all weeping as they beckoned to her to come to them. Her gaze turned towards them. Perhaps...


She ran on in terror.

A small boy sat by the curbstone. In his hand was a tiny blue flower. He smiled, holding out the flower.

falsehood — phantom visions that only serve to torment thee — free yourself of the false visions

The road before her, its once broad paving stones now given way to graded dirt, ran down now with a long gentle slope to a shallow ford. Beyond was veiled in deep fog that rode upon the river. A boy came running through the meadow, much faster than she could run! Would he attack her? She turned her head quickly: he leapt the curb and was pounding along the road now! Try to kill her? She turned again and she could see him clearly. It was the beautiful tall boy with the beautiful children that had beckoned to her. Would he rape her? Force her to make his babies? Force her to... But why was he chasing her? She turned a third time: his eyes were weeping. Sad eyes that had known little happiness. She knew those eyes, she knew the face and the whole body of the boy that followed after her. He was close now.


The fog was just ahead. How could the phantom know her name? The voice was in her ear, striving with the other voices. Her heart throbbed with fear.

“Niyâre! No, don’t go in there!”

She glanced to her left. He was there, matching her stride for stride. Their wings touched briefly, his shoulder grazed hers as they ran on forever. For a moment she wondered. Have I not always loved him? The strange thought came as she redoubled her effort. Wasn’t it all a lie? But which was the lie, and which was the truth?

“Niyâre! I can’t follow you there — come back with me!”

She turned a third time. She was unsure what to think. The boy had suddenly stopped running, his trembling hands outstretched. His long black wings were lowered in defeat; he was sobbing. It was all a lie. Wasn’t it? She slowed, torn between turning back and running from her attacker. And the fog surrounded her. Niyâre heard a word through the fog: love......!
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Re: Some Snippets from The World: Yeola-Camay

Post by elemtilas »

Bitter Cider and Sweet: Iriay

The healers laid out Lorreg and Isheltay on thick mats upon the floor of the round chamber deep under the houses of healing. No windows were here and only two doors, the door of rebirth and the door of parting. Small chambers opened into either side and there were several braziers lit warming the place comfortably. They were naked and recently washed of the blood they had spilt. Already the dreamcasters were singing, their gentle voices entering and filling the warriors’ ears, calming their minds and bodies. Their hearts slumbered and their lungs took a nap. The singing of the dreamcasters was powerful medicine. Their song could stop a rampaging oliphant and lull it into deep slumber where it could roam the Dreamscape in peace.

“What’s with the beeswax, Curio? I couldn’t help but notice the small lump on the shelf.” Iriay narrowed her eyes at her older brother. His left eyebrow lifted in response. “Is this decision about my inexperience?”


“Or is it about your own prowess?”


“Or is about me being a girl after all!”

“IRIAY! You’re radiating again! Just whisht and hear me out!” Curio said, trying to calm his younger sister down after their argument over who should heal which of the injured warriors. “Iriay, you can be so hot hearted about these things. Such emotional flaring will be your undoing!”

“Okay! — Okay, then why did you counter my decision to take the deadlier wounds, if you think I am capable?” she asked.

“Are you certain that’s what I did, sis? Are you sure that was my motivation?” he replied calmly.

“Well?” she retorted. “Three arrows right to the chest and two of them flying right to the heart! I call that deadly!”

Curio paused for a moment before answering. Iriay stood with her hands on her hips, waiting impatiently.

“Uhazh-le-Lamena. That’s where a boy who’s dying...” he began, but she cut him off tersely.

“Hih! So it is about me being a girl! I know what that is. Do you think I can’t heal him just because...?”

“IRIAY! I know you can’t handle it! You’re a girl! You’re not supposed to handle it!” Curio’s voice was raised higher than he would have liked, but he was determined not to be tripped up. He paused again. “Iriay, have you ever experienced Uhazh-le-Lamena before?” She snorted, but lowered her eyes all the same. She turned her head quickly, no. “Iriay, let me start this way: you noted the warrior with the three arrows in his side; but what did you notice about the other boy?”

She thought for a moment. “Well, he’s only got the one arrow wound. I could have handled that wound years ago!”

He smiled and shook his head slightly. Such a hot heart! Always seeking to rush ahead when a cooler spirit might serve better. “Ah. Did you notice how the three arrows rise and fall with the one warrior’s breaths? All of the points lie embedded within his flesh. The other fellow, the one you dismiss as easy... Did you not notice how the arrow doesn’t move when he breathes? Or the slight gurgly sound he makes? Make no mistake Iriay! Although the dreamcasters have made him somewhat comfortable, his body is struggling.” Curio paused again, looking deeply into his sister’s eyes. He reached over to the shelf and picked up the bit of beeswax. He rolled it between his palms, softening it. He hummed briefly, absorbed in the warm softness as it formed within his hands.

“I think,” he began after a moment; “very much that he will enter uhazh sooner rather than later. His body is dying. Slowly. I have seen girls react to it, and I’m sure you have at least heard stories. It is part of being a girl to react that way to a dying boy. I countered your decision because I believe that not only is his wound much worse than the other’s, but also that you are quite capable of healing his hurts. I also believe that there is a powerful magic that occurs when the bodies and spirits of the female and the male join and ...”

“Wh—” she began. “Wait, you want me become pregnant off of him!? I know there’s healing properties, but, Curio—!”

“Iriay, it is inevitable! You know what Uhazh-le-Lamena is, but you do not yet know the power it shall wield over you! You shall mate with the warrior in his dying moments, and more than likely, yes, you will bear his last child. This is not something you — or any girl — is capable of avoiding. If I had allowed you to have your will, you would not be able to restrain yourself; you would not accomplish the other warrior’s healing; you would fight me until you alone could mount the dying boy; your thoughts would not accord with healing! Can you see now why I chose as I did? There is an alternative, however...”

Curio let the suggestion of an alternative path trail away. He was certain that Iriay would not go for it, but she needed to understand.

Iriay thought about what her brother said. She hadn’t even considered the complications of engaging in uhazh. If his wound was as complex as Curio surmised, she knew she would not have much time to work. The idea of mating with a dying boy while trying to dislodge a deadly weapon and heal his hurts would be a tricky balance; she set her wings firmly and began to plan out her actions. She felt determined to accomplish the tasks set before her.

“Right!” said Curio. “I can see the answer in your heart! Now ... open wide!” Iriay did as she was told, and Curio broke off a piece of beeswax, balanced it on his left thumb and rubbed it into the flesh behind Iriay’s upper teeth, covering the tiny openings that would soon be the cause of trouble. “Just as stopping up the ears of Evalixar’s companions didn’t really keep them from hearing the song of the celestials, neither will this beeswax cure you of the inevitable. My dearest little sister! My hope is only this: that the wax will give you enough time to do what you have to do, before you do what you must do.”

* * *

The deepseers were preparing. They were twins, two boys. Very rare among Denê kind, and they were wise in their arts and venerable even among the greatest of healers in all the great east of the world. Caraw and Araw were their names. They were meditating, attuning their outer as well as their inner senses to the job before them. Still deep in meditation, they came out of one of the chambers; leaving their raccas behind, they stood naked before the feet of their charges. They looked first at the boys’ wounds, the shape and length of the arrows and how deeply they may have bitten. Caraw knelt at Lorreg’s feet, closing his eyes, while his brother worked on the other warrior. The true examination would begin. He placed his palms against Lorreg’s soles. He could feel the seven rivers of bloods and waters flowing through his body, some weaker and some stronger. Caraw was interested only in the two bloods of life, the deep red and the dark red. These were the weakest and if Lorreg’s wounds could not be found and could not be repaired, then he would die.

He stood with Lorreg’s body to his right. Keeping his feet straight, he turned his torso to face the injured Tana. He placed his cupped left hand to the side of his left breast, palm outward, and his right hand, the thumb touching the second and third fingers, extended downward by his right hip. His left winghand also was raised, while his right reached down to touch Lorreg. He began to walk slowly around Lorreg’s body, the eyes of his physical body closed, the eyes of his spiritual body open and keenly seeing everything. The song of the dreamcasters was in his ears, but he would not sleep. After the long slow circuit, Caraw stood again at Lorreg’s feet, and he knelt down, contemplating what he had seen.

After a long time, he moved towards Lorreg’s right side. Kneeling by his flank, his knees between the three long dark arrows that bit deeply into his body, he crossed his wings behind him and gently laid his hands upon the boy’s body. The first and second fingers of each hand were crossed, while the others were spread out. Again, closing his eyes, Caraw drew his hands along the cool skin. Lorreg’s body was damp with sweat. Time was running short, but there was no way this could be done quickly. His hands deftly ran up from the belly to the shoulder and back down again, from his side over to his breastbone as Caraw’s body swayed back and forth to accommodate. He bent forward then, pressing his nose and his lips to the skin and his hands over the boy’s chest, he watched as the heart beat and the lungs breathed and the rivers of blood flowed.

Lastly, Caraw laid down on Lorreg’s left side, away from the injuries. He slid his right hand under Lorreg’s body and placed his left over top. His right wing was spread behind him and his left reached up and folded over their bodies. With his fingers spread wide, he sought again for the three arrows that pierced Lorreg’s chest. He could see them as plainly inside the boy’s body as Lorreg himself could see them flying through the air before they struck. And at last, Caraw lay back, exhausted. But he knew he could not yet rest. He must meet with the woundmaster and show him what he must do to save Lorreg’s life. He rose with a deep sigh, saw that Araw was no longer in the chamber. The other warrior, Isheltay, had but the one wound. Hopefully his healing would be swift; he held out little hope for Lorreg.

As he stood and stretched his aching body, he went in to the chamber of the woundmasters. There, he saw Araw was already lying on his side upon a low bed of comfortable furs. Iriay was a young girl — well, thought Araw, I’ve seen more than nine hundred summers! her two hundred make her seem quite young indeed! — but already prodigiously skilled. She was lying behind Araw, almost as if to comfort him. Her wings were draped behind her body and her arms circled the deepseer’s chest, her hands clasped over his heart. Curio, the other woundmaster would soon do the same to him. He nodded and bowed to his friend who smiled in return. Together they would lie in repose, dreaming the same dream and Caraw would lead Curio through the arrow ravaged body that lay in the main chamber.

And Curio could see what Caraw saw. The lowest of the three arrows bit into Lorreg’s side, impaling his liver and nearly severed his guleic body from the other organs that arose up from the kidney. This was of little concern, as there were no streams of humour associated with several of these structures. He could live with it separated. His gut, though, had been torn in three places, not easy to find and the juices from it would poison him soon. There was already some injury to the walls of his body because of the poison. He would die from the shock even if his other wounds were healed first, unless he were very strong of body and will indeed.

The second arrow buried itself deep within the warrior’s right lung. Curio saw how the lung hung limp and useless, for the wound had deflated it. It was a shredded and tattered mess and his chest was full of blood. A strong Tana could survive such a wound, even if the arrow were removed by hand, but the healing would be long and difficult for both the victim and the healer.

Worst of all was the third arrow. It too pierced the boy’s upper chest, but its course suggested to Caraw that the bronze tip of it had bounced off the second arrowhead, sending it upwards where it now rested against his faintly beating heart. The tip of it rested near the great arch of his blood river and if he moved, the sharpened tip could easily slice into the tough membranes of the vessel and his heart could be cut open. This was a killing wound, and Curio wondered that the boy had even survived this long after being carried back to the houses of healing from wherever his mad adventure had taken him.

* * *

Iriay watched for a moment as Curio and Caraw dreamed the same dream. Araw, exhausted by rom the ordeal, was asleep before she stepped out into the chamber of healing. The low chanting of the dreamcasters washed over her as she surveyed the damage done to the two warriors. She slowly paced around her charge, observing him carefully. She could see that Curio was right: the boy was struggling. Even more now that so much time had passed. After the meditation and the dreaming, she was utterly unsure how much time had passed in this deep place. Perhaps many days had come and gone in the world above. Or perhaps only a bright afternoon. She knew only that she must work swiftly and surely if the boy were to survive. She stood at his feet for a moment, her hands clasped before her heart.

The tingling sensation she felt before a healing work began to spread along the rivers of her physical and her spiritual body. It was difficult to tell where the sensation arose from. Curio said it arose from the heart first and then the seat of the physical mind. She thought that was odd, after all, did not the sensation clearly arise from deep within her belly, along either flank? Boys were strangers in so many ways. With a sudden knowledge, Iriay understood now why Curio insisted she take on the yellow and white haired warrior: it was not that boys were so strange and so different from girls, it was rather that their fundamental compatibility, the essential union of male and female, was so profoundly and powerfully curative. His hope was not so much that she could heal the wounds done to his body, but that she could envelope him and restore the life that was waning: that she could cure him of death. The thought of it almost overwhelmed her.

With the realisation came an intense warmth. She could feel every river of energy throbbing and churning within her now. This would be the deepest healing any Tana was capable of, and of the woundmasters she alone was capable of this work. She straightened then, brought her hands down over her breasts to her belly. Yes, the centers were here, and suddenly she felt the thrumming chaos of the rivers attune themselves to one another. She was in balance. She closed her eyes, though even with them closed, she could see perfectly: the bright forms of the dreamcasters and the dappled flows of life and energy flowing between them and their charges; walls mean nothing to the eyes of the spirit and she could see Curio and Caraw dreaming the same dream; far above, she could see all the Denê living around, the splendour of their true forms revealed awed her, from the quirky dancing of the young children to the majesty of the eldest, whose might outshone even the Sun at noon; and beyond she could see the shadows and blurred outlines of the Werrefolk and the Houndmen, even the occasional radiance of a visiting Teyor, the richness of colour and depth of hue of all these strands interwoven into life’s tapestry; and more, she could see the radiance of Yeola, the powerful lines of force emanating from her own belly deep within the world, that rose from the center, intertwined with those of Camay; two worlds dancing as one world and beyond even them, many more worlds dancing with Sharro their mother.

She was ready to begin.

Iriay spread her wings, she could feel her long wild hair and her feathers lifted and quivering in a gale of wind that did not blow in the world. She felt her feet lift from the cool stone of the floor. She wasn’t sure if she were flying or floating or simply kneeling down over the warrior’s body. Her hands touched the floor to either side of the warrior’s shoulders, the tip of her nose touched his. She began to sing to him, her lips brushing his. She pressed her breasts to his chest, their nipples touching and fire passed between them. She continued her song of healing, telling of cool waters and soothing balms, of arrows being drawn from wounds and back to the bowstring. Her hands pressed down onto his shoulders, followed the length of his arms to his outstretched hands. Her fingers interlaced with his.

She saw the chaos of the rivers of his own body as from a distance above. Like rivers flowing towards one another, smashing into each other, their waters and their rolling stones fighting for dominance, punching through each other and changing course. She felt the imbalance and knew it could not remain so for long.

Iriay pressed her long belly to that of the warrior, her feet slid down along his legs, and she pressed the tops of her feet around the soles of his own. She sang of warm earth and cool streams flowing over tired toes and the wonders of children running. The gale of wind that she had felt passing through her body before now surrounded them, pressing them close. Her short wings found the curving shape his longer wings and they flew up forever, as one. She sang again of arrows sliding out of wounds and of the careful weaving of the finest silken cloths and of the most delicate tendrils of flesh, severed end finding severed end as all along the trail of destruction, the hard fibres of bone knit themselves together again and the tough walls of the heart reunited. She sang of spinning wheels and spiders, of spindleworls and distaves, the dyeing cloth on the line and of the webs of the attercop, dyed with the brilliant gems of the morning dew as they dance under the Sun of the newly created day.

She plunged her own order into the chaos of the warrior’s dying body. A name came to her — Isheltay. The chaos and the order mingled then and for a moment the splendour of the universe shattered and was subdued. Her heart found his and both faltered. Iriay and Isheltay plunged towards death and darkness together. Her lungs breathed with his, struggled with his, and she felt the pain in her own chest, that of the dying boy whose blood congealed within his lungs and stopped the breath from ever reaching them.

Iriay struggled to find balance again and remain in control, to find the light within the darkness and then to create of them undarkness. She had to work fast now. She knew she couldn’t delay. She straightened a little and brought him into her body. As if to make curret, she closed the little pouch above her clitoris over the end of his penis. She hadn’t made curret with a boy since she was quite young. She felt the soothing warmth of their union and it warred with the agony she felt in her chest, along her spine, in her throat and in her sacrum and all along her spine.

Though his wounds were healed, Isheltay was rapidly failing. She felt this. His heart pounded then fluttered then stopped and started again in rapid turns, and Iriay’s heart too pounded and fluttered. His lungs heaved and his chest rose and fell in powerful convulsions. She found that she could not concentrate on the thick clots of blood that now clogged both of his lungs. Why was it she could so deftly knit together his torn lung and his cleft heart, yet she had no power over his own blood as it slowly snuffed the life out of him? Suddenly her mouth felt dry and irritated. She swallowed something — the bit of beeswax!

With the suddenness of a storm raging in from the Ocean, she stood powerless within her own body. The air suddenly filled with the sweetest, most alluring scents Iriay had ever dreamed possible. Her jaw hung open slightly and her lips curled back. The visions of the deep universe dancing in harmony, the knowledge of all things living, the long preparation for the work of healing, all was swept from Iriay’s mind. She was her own self again. Isheltay’s body was as cool and sweaty as hers was warm and sweaty. She found herself crouched over Isheltay. He was the source of the enticing aroma: he was dying and the scent of his dying drove every thought of duty, every thought of healing from her mind. She heard herself roar like a wild beast. Like a savage monster rampaging through the old stories.

She breathed heavily, taking in gulps of the sweet fragrance. Her song of healing turned into a primal moan and she shifted her posture. She brought Isheltay deep into her own body, as deep as she could and she held him firmly. She pressed her hands onto his chest and rocked, gazing into the depths of his brilliant violet eyes. Isheltay knew he was dying, that she was sure of. She could see that much plainly in his eyes. There was no sense that he wanted her to stop, to find some way to rescue him from this moment. Her heart found his and she knew in that moment the power he had over her. A last dance between their united bodies and spirits: she could feel in those last moments of his life a stirring deep within her belly. It wasn’t the source of healing this time, but of a kind. It was the source of life. She had felt it before when she danced with her living spouse. She had wanted it, and so had he and their spirits twined about one another in the beautiful dance of making a new life. But now, this was different. She had not wanted this to happen, rather she needed it to happen, as much as this boy. Deep within her heart she knew while he had no say in the matter, her body and her soul would willingly accept Isheltay’s need as her own. She felt the life pass from Isheltay and into Iriay. He would nourish what was living within her.

Isheltay’s mouth hung open, but no sound came from it. No howl of pleasure, no ragged breathing. She howled and drew deep breaths for them both. His back arched in time with hers and while Iriay straightened up, lifting her wings towards the sky she let out a powerful scream of joy mingled with ecstasy and sorrow. Isheltay’s body slowly became limp; Iriay shook her wild hair and her fists opened and closed convulsively. Isheltay’s back relaxed and his hands stopped quivering; Iriay arched her back and thumped her breasts with her fists, letting out one last yowl of pure happiness. She sat back on his thighs, letting Isheltay go. Iriay sneezed. Several times in quick succession. She felt dizzy and giddy and sneezy all at once. She wanted to laugh, and then to cry. But instead, she simply fell forward.

As she slowly awoke from her faint, she could hear the song of the dreamcaster and after she blinked her eyes a few times, she watched Curio at work. Isheltay’s dreamcaster had already left. She didn’t know when, but she knew there hadn’t been any reason for him to remain. Her brother knelt at the other boy’s side, his wings draped over the warrior’s legs and the dreamcaster alike. A bloodless arrow lay at the warrior’s side, as if carelessly tossed to the floor. His head was bowed and his hands flew over the injuries like a mighty toothed raptor seeking after its prey, his fingers forming complex shapes and dancing as those of a flautist over her instrument. Not for the first time she wondered at how strange and different boys were. This kind of healing seemed strange to her. Yet as he chanted, his song too was one of healing waters and soothing balms, of arrows flying back to the string, of attercops and fine linens on the loom. She knew the healing would be the same.

She noticed something closer to her eye. A little lump. She drew her head back a little and focused. It was Isheltay’s nipple. She realised then that she had fallen asleep with her head on his chest. It had before been a deep rich red, as of fine clay. Now it was pallid. He no longer struggled: his heart was silent within the halls of his breast and the battle just to live had been as lost, though well fought. She tilted her head and gazed into his beautiful violet eyes, but they were empty now. She sat up then, stretched her wings and her toes. Suddenly she realised the air in the chamber was cool and fresh. There was no sign of the sweet and enticing fragrance there was before. She stood up, wondering if that were a dream only or if it were real. She went back into the woundmasters’ chamber at the near side of the hall. There, on a little shelf, Iriay saw a ball of beeswax, and she remembered ... well, she remembered something.

She picked it up and rolled it between her palms as she sat down on the low bed, her wings stretched out to either side. Right, she remembered healing the warrior. She remembered the arrow disengaging from the bone of his spine, how close the tip was to his blood river, how it slid easily from his wounded lung. She remembered the bit about the attercops and the weaving of silk and how she was able to sing his ravaged tissues back together. She remembered leaving a scar. Boys always like to show off scars. She gazed down at her naked body idly. Why was she so warm, though? The braziers in the hall and in the preparation chambers kept the place comfortable, but Iriay really felt very warm.

Her hair was a tangled mess, but there was nothing surprising about that. There were white hairs and yellow woven deep into her own raven black locks and there were green and blue and white feathers sticking out of her raven black wings. She wondered. The ball of beeswax slipped from her hands and dropped onto her belly, where it rolled into her lap. It struck her then like a gut punch. She picked up the wax and examined it. Curio had spoken to her of many things. Uhazh-le-Lamena. Why was there no memory? She stood up suddenly and went back out into the main chamber. She had to know. Her toes kicked against something smooth on the floor. She stooped to pick the thing up. It was a long, bloodless arrow. The one that had pierced the warrior’s side.

Curio was still at work, she noted. Two bloodless arrows now lay haphazardly on the floor near the warrior’s side. It appeared to Iriay that the third, the lowest one, would be out soon enough. She looked down at her own charge. Isheltay. She remembered the name — but, nothing else yet. His body lay still. There was a small well healed scar on his right chest; the bone of his penis was erect; his arms lay akimbo, resting on the soft mat. She knelt down at his side. There were raven black feathers mixed in with his own white and yellow feathers; there were long strands of raven black hair woven in with his yellow and white and tawny hair. Isheltay’s gem like violet eyes still gazed tenderly at Iriay.

Memory flooded back and with a yelp she jumped up and ran weeping back into the chamber where she flopped down onto the bed. She wished she had not gone back out to see. Perhaps it would have been best to leave the boy and wait until he was taken out of the door of parting. But she had chosen to remember, to know, and now her dance with Uhazh-le-Lamena, making love with the giver of life out of death, would be in her dreams for ever. She would know Isheltay, her new mate, only as the boy with the brilliant violet eyes that looked on her tenderly as her gave her his life, and as the boy with the dead violet eyes that stared into her heart long after his own had died.

For long Iriay cried with grief. Her hands stroked her breasts and her sides, as she tried to comfort herself. She stroked her flanks and her belly. And suddenly she stopped. She blinked through the tears in wonder. She turned her hands parallel to her uterine horns, deep within. She felt the long length of them. She knew she had eight ovaries. Her breath caught, and new memory flooded into her mind. She recalled the moments of ecstasy, and she laughed, wondering how silly her face must have looked or how very like a beast she must have seemed yowling and thumping her breasts with pure joy.

Yes, it was there! She slowly rubbed either side of her belly. There was life — no wait! She felt one side only with either hand, then both. She smiled and her heart sang. There were two new lives! Girls, she thought. She would bear twins. Iriay closed her eyes and rubbed her belly lovingly. Coram, her own mate, would be overjoyed to receive the new lives. She hadn’t made babies in quite a while, and thought how it would bring new balance to her own life again. She sighed and began humming to herself, to her babies.

“Heh-heh!” Iriay heard the quiet laughter. Coming out of her reverie, she opened her eyes in the soft warm glow of the braziers. She was still in the house of healing. Curio was leaning in the door, his arms crossed, three bloodless arrows clasped in his left hand.

“You rascal! How long have you been standing there!?” she asked pertly.

He smiled broadly, looking his little sister up and down. “Long enough! Long enough, anyway, to know that you accomplished not only admirable healing but exceptional love this day.”

Iriay blinked. “What—?”

“I had a look at the other warrior when I’d finished with mine. You healed him. Perfectly. And I’m proud of your skill! You even left him a nasty looking scar. That was a nice touch! I wish I’d thought of that for my own fellow.”

“But, Curio, there was so much blood! I failed! I couldn’t heal him at the last. The blood, it was all inside him! He couldn’t breathe, and then, and then ...” she faltered as the fresh memories arose.

“Uhazh-le-Lamena. You’ve met him, and have just now danced with him.” Curio paused, looking into his sister’s eyes and her heart. He saw there the heavy burden of sorrow, knew that she was about to take into her heart the perils of blame for the boy’s death. He shook his head and walked over to the bed. Sitting down next to Iriay, he laid aside the arrows and took her hand into his. “Little one, do not blame yourself! That way lies danger beyond sorrow. There was nothing you could do about the blood, not after you had begun the healing. There was no way to know how bad it had become since Araw looked into him; then, there was still a chance, perhaps, but healing came too late to help him.” He picked up the ball of beeswax from where it had been cast aside. He held it up to her. “And do not forget the other thing I spoke of. The boy had a great power over you. Even if storm or hail or vicious tempest should blow all round you; even if the Ocean were to rise up and swallow you both; even if enemies surrounded you with their weapons: still you would dance with him; still you would mate while they stabbed you and broke your bones. If they dragged you away, you would fight with tooth and nail until last drops of your blood dripped from your own dying body and with your own last breath to go back to him. You would die with him. No, you are a girl and you could do no more. He gave you life, and you accepted it. That is all either of you could do.”
Last edited by elemtilas on 30 Apr 2021 01:13, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: Some Snippets from The World: Yeola-Camay

Post by elemtilas »

Bitter Cider and Sweet: Love Lost and Love Found

Rupac sat in the shade of one the broad uddon trees. A number of comfortable seats had been grown into its mighty trunk, as well as a spiraling stair that led up to a platform nestled among the broad limbs growing from the tree’s high crown. That was one of his favourite places to wait, as a kid, when one of his friends needed to be tended by a healer. Now he was waiting as Issiy’s wings were growing back; already there were downy feathers on the lengthening stumps and she was doing well trying to exercise them. He was also visiting Lorreg along with the rest of the gang. They were mourning Isheltay’s death, and were mourning Niyâre with him, but there was still plenty of catching up in their talk!

Their talk also turned to what was going on in the Werreish city beyond: the attack on Arcay, Werres learning magic for real, the increases in attacks on Denê all over the Empire. It felt like the Empress of Werres really wanted to start a war with the Denê. Rupac remained silent through much of their talk, since he really knew so little about what was going on since he and his friends were young boys.

“You know, Rupac,” said Muncco; “what with Lorreg and me and Vârro going up to see the Great Queen tomorrow, you should come along!” Rupac’s jaw dropped. “It’ll be like old times!”

“What, me!?” he cried. “I don’t know anything...”

“That’s what you say, Rupac,” replied Muncco. “Seems to me, you know quite a lot. Werreish wizards and so forth. Probably on heart name basis with most of them.” He winked. Although there were many hurts they could see plainly in their friend, it felt very like Rupac had never been lost to them.

“He’s right, you know,” said Vârro. “You’ve seen what they can do. Or felt it, rather! That’s the main reason we’re going, because she wants to know what we’re going to be up against.”

After a while, Rupac nodded agreement. “Okay, I’ll go with you. But I think my Issiy should come along. After all, she grew up in that school; she can probably speak of things I can’t.”

“That’s settled then! The Wandbrothers — and their Little Sister! — will go see the queen. They fell silent for a long moment, just enjoying being together.

“I just hate all this talk of war,” began Lorreg. “I hope that our queen can talk some sense into that crazy queen the Werres have. She seems dangerous to me. And with Arcay being pregnant, and now there’s Isheltay’s little one, too, that kind of danger is just unbearable.”

“How did that come about, anyway?” asked Vârro. “That bit about Isheltay’s little one? I only caught a bit of the story, but none of the details.”

“Well, I went to visit Tireleid, figuring she’d want to know what happened; and Arcay came along. It was a long talk, and I could tell she was proud to hear what he’d done during the battle. And then — then she closed her eyes and began to chant something. I couldn’t catch the words, but Arcay knew. She’d had dream of her baby growing up in a war and the hard times that are sure to come. It broke my heart to hear it! Anyway, the girls talked for a long while, and I went out into the garden to think. It was well after midnight when they came out of the house, too. They were hand in hand and seemed quite cheerful. But girls can be strange that way: their griefs and worries only strengthened their resolve. So, out they come and Arcay says that they’ve joined each other as sisters; I’ll be mate to Tireleid as well and they’ll be sister-mother to each other’s little ones, and that I’m going to be Tireleid’s little one’s daddy!”

“Good on you!” cried Muncco. “About time you found yourself another girl! Never understood how a boy can get along with just one girl. We’re made for two girls, after all. Well, most of us, I suppose. Me and Marsay and Liriay, we were made for each other — we’re like peas in a pod!”

“Hey now! It’s only me and Isillio!” cried Vârro. “Anyway, the three of you are more like mixed nuts in a bowl.” Vârro narrowed his eyes theatrically at Muncco. Lorreg could only laugh, and Rupac joined in the merriment.

“Well, you see friend,” retorted Muncco; “You couldn’t handle another mate.” He poked Vârro in the chest. “That girl of yours is more than enough — ! Whisht now.” Muncco looked up, lowering his voice to a low whisper. “Rupac, it’s looking like you’re in for a serious conversation. Your Issiy’s got that look on her face.” He nodded to the others and they went over to the another part of the garden to continue their chat; but not so far away that they couldn’t listen in!

* * *

“Da,” Issiy said slowly, watching as her daddy’s friends walked off, laughing. Her new friends had given her a racca and a maccay of silk, a matching wrap to go around her waist and a kind of cravat with a short decorative lozenge in the front and two long pieces that drape over her shoulders. Issiy wore the lozenge over her right shoulder and had figured out how to wind the two long bits around her left arm, tying the ends around her wrist. Rupac wondered how he could have ever thought this girl was a Werreish child. She seemed to have grown so much in the time they had been home! They had also placed a headband over her dark hair which was decorated with feathers they took from their own wings, and that trailed down her back. Rupac noted that there were already dark, downy feathers growing between the stumps that now sprouted from her shoulder blades. He smiled, but she seemed troubled. She doodled in the dirt of the garden with her toes.

“Da,” she began again. Her eyes widened cutely whenever she said that. Rupac thought perhaps it was because their relationship was so new. He knew only that his heart swelled when she called him Da just as much as when he called her Nima, daughter. “Sometimes, when I talk about Mam, it seems like you ... darken? Like when a cloud passes over? Um. Do you not like it when I talk about her? I love her so. I just want you to know.”

Rupac's heart broke to hear her say this and he stretched out his arms towards his daughter. She held his hands. He looked into her pale eyes, his heart looked into hers. It wondered him how swiftly and how very deeply he had fallen in love with this little girl of his! “Issiy,” he began; “let me tell you something of a story. This wont be easy to talk about, but I think you'll understand! You see, I've known Niyâre, your Mam, as two different girls almost. And now ... now that she died, I know her so differently again from the other ways I've known her. I — I’m still trying to work it out.

“When I was young, I went on an adventure with my best mates,” he tipped his wing towards where Lorreg and the others had gone. “And I got into some trouble with the guards of the place we had snuck into. They sent me into slavery as punishment and I bounced from place to place until the wizards bought me. They never told me to do anything, they just put my things on that shelf where you got them and bound me to the floor.

“When I met Niyâre, I thought I'd never seen such a beautiful girl! She was right, Nima! Her eyes danced and I could see her heart, and my own was moved, though I could hardly understand how or why that should be so. I saw her several times, as she was practicing magic with the others. It was hard to tell, with all the magic hitting me, but I began to think maybe she missed striking me on purpose. I couldn’t ask her of course, but it always seemed that her aim was off. Otherwise, she always seemed to be so powerful! She often tutored the younger students.

“One night she came into the hall. Others had come in before, and had hurt me. I was afraid she would do the same. But she didn't. Um. She claimed me. I didn’t understand what she meant. She put her foot on my chest and pushed me to the ground. I love you, she said and you are mine! She was happy and she laughed, then she left.

“I didn’t understand it then, but I was hurt less often than before. She rarely spoke to me. Except when we made you!” Issiy looked up into Rupac's eyes, hers wide with wonder. Her Mam had never spoken of these things to her. “She stayed with me a long while that night and for a few nights after. I felt really happy with her, even though we were just lying on the floor together.

“Then she didn’t come back for a very long time. I wondered why that might be. I thought maybe she was gone to a different school or maybe she finished and would come back no more. The attacks started again, and got worse. I wondered that she must have been protecting me somehow. And now I thought maybe she abandoned me. She had said she loved me and now she left me to be hurt again. Some of the girls who tormented me said that Niyâre was to marry some fellow, that they knew what she had done and that she left me to them to do whatever they wanted. They tortured me all the more.

“Issiy, I started to hate her. It really felt wrong, but I didn’t know how else to feel. Then she came back as suddenly as she had left! But she was changed, Issiy. She seemed to dim, much more than when a cloud passes over. In time her heart became dark. I didn’t know what to make of it. She didn’t start protecting me again, and she often hurt me badly when she practiced. She broke my heart! After a while, she came in the night, but her words were hard and cruel. She called me — well, you’ve heard the names she called me. She would kick me and force me to do things I didn’t want to do.

Issiy began to weep, and her tears dropped onto the soil of the garden. “I’m sorry Issiy, I don’t want to hurt you, but that was the truth. And then, as harsh as her words were to me, one time, not so long ago, she came into the hall again. I had been attacked by one of the students, and she nearly killed him. I could barely hope that she would protect me again, so I asked what she wanted. She said what she had told me so long ago. That she loved me, and that I was hers, and wasn’t that enough? That night, we made another baby: your little brother.” Issiy wept openly now, and tears fell from Rupac’s eyes to see her so moved.

He sighed deeply then, now recalling his last memories of Niyâre. “But little Nima, listen to this. The healer tried to help your Mam, but her heart was so ... broken. I don’t think I know a word for it! He said that only I would be able to bring her back, and so I embraced her and followed after her in her dreams. Issiy my sweetpea, I thought I had been tormented all those years, but when I saw what was in her heart, things so horrible and so sorrowful — things she kept hidden from you, things that she was forced to do in order to protect you. My heart shattered to learn these things. Some people discovered what you were. A Tana child, and they figured that she must also be a Tana girl. They threatened to harm you, little heart, if she wouldn’t do their bidding. She had to choose between protecting me and protecting you. I can’t blame her for her choice, and I would do the same!

“I won’t say the dark things I saw. I don’t want to see them anymore, and I don’t want them to weigh on your heart. I know now how deeply she loves you, and also how fiercely she really did love me. I know that now. She just couldn’t tell me or show me. And I know the choices she had to make shattered her heart.

“I did all I could to call her back to us. I followed her to the very end. Our son followed after her, and you as well! And your children in their turn beckoned to her, begging her to come home with us. I tried to call to her, to grab her, but horrible things fought me off.

“Issiy, we were there with her, in a beautiful and enchanted land! I know I don’t have the words to tell you, for I’m certain I was truly seeing ... colours! So vivid and bright was the world, and I do not understand why she should shun it and seek to escape it. I wasn’t able to bring her back, and she ran straight into darkness. The last thing I could do was shout after her — Niyâre! I love you! And then she was gone.”

Issiy looked up at Rupac through her tears. She pressed herself to his body and hugged him fiercely. “I’m sorry Da! I didn’t know those things. I didn’t know what I said would hurt you so!”

Rupac smiled and tousled her hair. “Sweetpea, don’t even trouble yourself about it! I know you love your Mam; and I do too. It’s just that, well, it has been difficult for me to understand all the things that have happened and all the things that I have seen. Let’s put it this way, Issiy: I want to remember everything about your Mam; and I want to hear everything you have to tell me about her! I don’t care when you want to tell me or what you want to say. I need to hear it! I don’t want for either of us to forget her.”

* * *

Rupac smiled again as Issiy beamed. He stretched his wing arms up and brought the wingtips over in front of him. He carefully selected one long feather from each wing and plucked it out. It stung so, and he gritted his teeth theatrically. Issiy squealed, but then laughed when he tickled her tummy with the feathers. He turned her around and tied the feathers on to the end of her headband. He turned her around again and kissed her brow. She reached behind her neck and caught up the string of feathers dangling from her head band. She squeaked as she examined the new additions.

“Cool. Wait til the others see this! I'm going to show Nicco and Silay and Arralay and Nicco and the other Nicco and Yerris and Nimay and Nicco...” she said happily.

“Wait a moment! Issiy, how many Niccos do you know?” he asked

“Oh! Well...” she tilted her head to one side and tucked her finger into the space where her long canine teeth would one day grow in. Clearly there would be a long enumeration of all the Niccos that had befriended her. She began whispering names, counting them on her toes, and then her fingers. She hung her mouth open and every now and then he saw her tongue move from one tooth to another. Her tongue deftly slid all the way around her upper teeth and about a third of the way around the lower teeth. Then she straightened smartly and declaimed: “all told I've met at least three dozen and a half other kids, and eleven of them are Niccos! But there're also three Niccoys, and I think I might have counted two or three Niccos twice. I think they introduced themselves twice. Boys are silly. Anyway, when I see everyone, I’ll count them properly!

“But!” she exclaimed: “there's one Nicco I think likes me a lot. He's got a lot of dark blue and light blue and deep blue and yellow and violet and whiteviolet and deepviolet and tawny, oh! and, and at least sixteen different hues of green feathers in his wings!” Her eyes widened excitedly. Rupac felt lost at blue, even though he thought he could just barely see the colour in his mind. His focus shifted back to Issiy. “He teased me when we met!” She narrowed her eye, her left fist resting on her hip: “He called me a wingless girl. Hmh. But I told him how my first wings got ripped out and that I’m growing new wings and then I spun him around and grabbed his wings and asked him if he'd like to know what it feels like, and he started squeaking! The other kids laughed, but Nicco just smiled. I think he's shy.”

Issiy collapsed into Rupac's belly and he wrapped his arms around her tenderly. He laughed and kissed the top of her dark head. He wondered again what whiteviolet and sixteen hues of green could possibly mean — could it be? Perhaps that is exactly what he had seen in Niyâre's deathdream? Rupac sighed. “They called me Nicco, too, when I was your age!” he said at last. She smiled as he held her tightly to him.
Last edited by elemtilas on 30 Apr 2021 01:35, edited 3 times in total.
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Re: Some Snippets from The World: Yeola-Camay

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Bitter Cider and Sweet: Sweet Cider

Rupac rocked Issiy back and forth. His eyes were closed and his chin rested on her warm hair and the Sun was warm on his face; and his entire world consisted of that warmth and he wished never to leave it. A shadow passed before him. A cloud perhaps.

“Heyo!” Issiy said. “I’m Issiy. This is my Da!”

Rupac opened his eyes. A beautiful girl stood before them. She smiled broadly at Issiy and folded her hands before her lower breasts, greeting them with a nod. She tucked one finger behind her long canine tooth and examined the two of them closely for some time. Rupac wasn’t sure quite what to make of her. Her hair was deep red, shaggy and wild and there was a rather fetching streak of blackred along her scalp; her eyes were keen and intelligent, and Rupac thought she probably knew things no one else did. The lower part of her right wing had been broken off, and was now being regrown. Her neck, shoulders and arms were covered with maranderi, intricate designs of leaves and vines and flowers, tendrils of which twined between her four breasts. She wore several thick raccas of differing lengths and patterns and they were a bit tattery around the edges and dusty as with long travel or exciting adventure and most curiously of all, on her feet she wore heavy boots of thick leather. She nodded to herself, as if coming to some deep conclusion.

She smiled again, her eyes widened and she said, rather forcefully and clearly, to Rupac: “Today is the day the bitter cider turned sweet.” She waited a moment, but said no more as if what she did say were somehow self-explanatory. Issiy looked up at Rupac quizzically.

“Umm—” he said.

The girl only smiled broadly again. She bowed deeply, with a fetching sweep of her wings. “Issiy Accollenima,” she said sweetly as she nodded to the little girl. Glancing up to Rupac, she said: “Her eyes closed, the girl sees clearly.” Issiy’s eyes widened as she was thus greeted by a new name. The girl turned to go on her way, but paused. She half turned, tilting her left wing aside so that Rupac could see her profile. She flicked her wing hand in the direction where his friends still sat. “My brother will tell you. When the time is right.” She smiled as she turned away.

The girl skipped away out of the garden, her hair bouncing merrily across her back.
Last edited by elemtilas on 30 Apr 2021 01:27, edited 2 times in total.
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Re: Some Snippets from The World: Yeola-Camay

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For anyone who's read this last little story, thank you! I wanted to try some narrative worldbuilding, where the focus is on aspects of the world itself as experienced by people living it. And this story from a dream seemed like a good way to work on that. To that end, I'd like to invite any questions or comments or criticisms.

Was it successful in showing the World, rather than just telling? Would you be interested in seeing more of this kind of writing?
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Re: Some Snippets from The World: Yeola-Camay

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They're not terribly well known to most inhabitants of either of the Twinworlds, but the upper polar caps (N & S) of each planet are known to be skyrealms, so called in apposition to the vast landrealms that sprawl across the surface of the planet. (The lower polar caps, known only the inhabitants of the Uttermost Deeps of the planet, currently point roughly sunward at galactic noon.) These skyrealms are large, perhaps subcontinent sized masses of rock & earth that lazily rotate some distance above the polar Oceans. Natural philosophers speculate that they somehow regulate and enhance the thaumo-magneto-gravitic fields generated deep within each planet and also harmonise the fields that surround the Twinworlds. These skyrealms are essentially small disc worlds that exist above the round world below.

There are islands in the Ocean of Congealed Waters - the northern polar ocean - that lie below the northern skyrealm. One might think that such lands would find themselves in perpetual darkness, but this isn't the case. At such high latitudes, the Sun rarely rises much above the horizon. This keeps the mighty polar forests happy; though any astrologers that venture so far north will find a dark starshade that blots the heavenly skies far above. This doesn't seem to bother the Rime Yotuns that live up in the far north. The weird weather caused by the interaction of the skyrealm's undermountains produces some eerie ghostlights and there are brilliant gems whose crystal structures are excited to phosphorescence by the wisps of wanlight. They have their own kind of astrology based on the stars of the earth above.

Red leaved yruois and bluegreen leaved resueia trees predominate this stretch of the Edge as their deep roots cling to the rock & soil while their great feathery leaves dangle from trunks that reach towards the sea far below. Between them are ishia, lariyaias & luria vines & plants that also choose to hang over the Edge.

Watching us, perhaps wondering how it is we've flown up from the dark & tumultuous Ocean, is an Iriun, one of the winged folk that inhabit the Skyrealm.

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Re: Some Snippets from The World: Yeola-Camay

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When is Sepctober?

Some philosophers, in particular Diemme of Mensis, hold that this particular month never comes, because it does not exist. Having carefully researched the great Book of Days and cross checked with all known calendrical systems, they declare that Sepctober is a foolish aberration devised by a foolish time waster.

On the contrary, says, Kalendricus of Seclorion: given that months such as quinctilis and octember refer to their numerical order within the system of the year; therefore it stands to reason the sepctober refers to the seven eighths month, commencing upon the 319th day of the year. When Diemme heard this simple refutation, he was said to have grown most irate and in his haste countered with a demand to know how many days the 7/8th month had? “Or,” he quipped, “are all the days in ‘Sepctober’ 7/8 of a day long?” To this, Kalendricus is said to have retorted, “ask me next Sepctober, and I’ll tell you!” Diemme was wroth, but never did ask about the month of Sepctober again.

Ultraquista of Pycleas avers, however, that Sepctober refers to the old eight month calendar of the Odd & Old Order of the Octangle, a most venerable society of gentle folk of learning and quality, whose year they divided into eight months of 45 and 2/3 days. The organisation was said to have ended in schism when the Strict Calendrists insisted that each month ought to begin upon the sixteenth hour of the 46th day, whilst the Lax Calendrists chose to opt for a kind of leap day scheme where every three months, they’d add two days and at the end of the year, they’d add one day. This, of course, left a remainder of a third of the day, which some argued happened at night, and so didn’t matter because everyone was sleeping, whereas others argued that it would come back to haunt them if they didn’t fix it. As a compromise, the L.C.s added an extra leap day every three years, so everything would even out.

Problems began to arise, however, when it became clear that Yeola-Camay’s year is actually a wee slice of a day longer than either camp had promulgated in their original Charter. Their garters having been revealed as too short, the Strict and Lax Calendrists opted to engage in a judicial duel to settle the matter. The duel was cancelled because neither party could settle on a date, due to conflicts of calendar, and the Guild of Time Mongers and Measurers declared that both the original and revised Charters were to be suspended pending.
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