The worst laid plans of Hags and Witches

Leaving the glaring adventurers standing far below, as she spirals upwards through the night rain, Megarna scowls in irritation. Mallophor and Danté had been right, there had been no sign of the Elven Archer; Arowe. Worse, whoever this Dwarven War-priest replacement was, if left unchecked, he was surely going to become an ongoing problem. 

None of Viccissa’s prediction's had ever mentioned a Dwarf or Cleric being involved, and her new augur recruit; Kasandra, could only recently, give even the vaguest of information. It was as if he’d been maliciously thrown into the established flow of fate, like a large rock tossed into the stream of destiny, disrupting its proper path and, potentially, altering its final destination.

What did this mean to her Mistress’s; Hetzabah’s carefully conceived plans? What did it mean to her Mistress’s Master; Zartak’s endgame?!

On a more personal note, Megarna coldly considers how a Clerics involvement might negatively affect the quarter-century old trap she’d laid for the traitoress’s son; Fortu… 

Although, she hadn’t even known his name back then.

Suddenly reversing her frown, the old Witch cackles loudly.

“It matters not, I did as my Mistress; Hetzabah commanded and gave the Gladiator one more, final, final, final chance. The next time we meet will certainly mean his death and the deaths of all of his associates. Viccissa’s cage can remain just a… Dead end.”

(S)Elf Abuse

The Older Grey-Elf; Tamerlane, finally finishes his lengthy explanation, to his recently returned son, before falling silent.

“So you understand now, when I came to see your Mother's people that century-and-a-half ago, we were trying to recruit the High-Elves into attacking Theranthor. The Demon Prince, or so we thought, was semi-permanently dealt with and we’d spent the last hundred years secretly undermining the great Blue Dragon’s support and power. The Grey are more thinkers than fighters though, and we couldn’t do it alone.”

Sitting across from his Grey Elf Father, Arowe pushes his glass of wine away from him. It’s a fine, dry white, but it currently tastes like vinegar in his mouth.

“You tried to recruit the High-Elves to attack the Dragon for you, after actively defending her from them? No wonder you were thrown out of Glendorne’. It wasn’t just the man I thought was my Father who despised your people. Pretty much everyone I knew growing up in Glendorne spoke angrily about the treacherous Grey. ‘Worse than the Drow’ they’d say! Everyone except my Mother, and now, after meeting you, I fully understand why.”

Tamerlane has the grace to place his glass down, unfinished.

“There’s a greater reason why your people… Your Mother’s people hate us. We didn’t just align ourselves with Theranthor, we actively protected her. We fortified her body with our spells. We bolstered her lightning breath with our enchantments. We defended her from all attacks… Even when those attacks were from the other Elven races. She HAD to live long enough to destroy Zartak’s material plane form and drive his essence back to the Nine hells!”

Arowe finds himself scowling. He hadn’t realised until he’d arrived at the mountaintop city of Falutin, how much prejudice against the Grey Elves had permeated his Sylvan heart.

“There HAD to have been a better way?!”

Tamerlane just shakes his head.

“You’ve seen the Tapestry. We had no choice. If the High Elves hadn’t tried to attack her directly while Zartak was still active on this plane, we wouldn’t have been forced to counter-attack them in Theranthor’s defence.”

Arowe bristles.

“It was years before I was born, but I heard the stories. Your people killed hundreds of my people! Uncles, Aunts and Cousins!”

It’s Tamerlane’s turn to get angry.

“Your people?! You’re not ‘Your people’. You’re half ‘My people’. They attacked us! Killed us! I am sorry for all the deaths… On both sides. Unlike the Orcs and the Humans, there are too few of us to spare in unnecessary battles.”

Arowe nods as he calms himself down.

“My Mother used to say that it was a consequence of our long lifespans; Elven children are few and far between.”

Tamerlane mirrors Arowe’s nod.

“Exactly right. Your Mother was always clever… for a High-Elf. That was why, as a race, we had to be practical in our decisions.”

Despite the unconscious but obvious insult aimed at his Mother and the High-elves in general, Arowe smiles ironically at his Father’s assertion.

“Your ‘practical’ decision has come back to haunt you now though, hasn’t it?”

Tamerlane’s grey eyes cast downward, just for a moment.

“Unfortunately, despite our plan succeeding and the Great Dragon; Theranthor defeating the Demon Prince in their final battle. It has made us enemy number two on Zartak’s hit list. Only the relentless Orcan hordes angered him more. It’s almost certainly why he’s using them as meat puppets now to herald his return.”

Grayeux Tapestry

Standing in the large, magically illuminated circular room, side by side with his newly discovered Grey-Elf Father, Arowe examines the section of the vast tapestry indicated. The whole tableau is about eight feet tall but is sewn into a hoop-like circle, covering everything except the single entrance. From start to finish, the mostly monochrome tableau must stretch out over several hundred yards.

“What is this place?”

Tamerlane places a reassuring hand on his son’s well-muscled, bow-strengthened shoulder.

“This chamber is called ‘The Circle of Time’. The tapestry was woven by a group of our women over a millennia ago. Women obsessed with their task… Possessed by it, some say. It shows the history… And future of my…of our people.”

Arowe draws his keen eyes back to the tapestry.

“So what exactly is it that I’m looking at?”

Tamerlane tilts his elegant, silver haired head to one side.

“Do you not recognise your pink shirted self?”

Looking again, Arowe’s eyebrows shoot up at the rare splash of colour.

“Yes, that’s me and my friends, but I’ve never fought those weird six-legged panther creatures before…”

And looking further along.

“And I’ve never crossed a river on a burning barge either!”

His, recently reunited with, Father nods. 

“These battles were fated to happen and yet, somehow they didn’t… At least not to you. You were never meant to come here. We were never meant to have met and yet, for some unknown reason, the future’s been disrupted.”

Slightly confused, Arowe pulls a quizzical expression.

“Is that what the first Grey Elf meant when he said ‘I shouldn’t be here’?”

The older, Grey Elf nods. 

“You being here disrupts the grand scheme of what’s meant to happen and what’s not. Although I am glad of this chance to see you, I fear your presence, in a place you were never destined to see, will have long term ramifications on both the Grey Elves and the future of Fissa.”

Running to the end of the tapestry, Arowe comes to the final scene; A huge demon leading a vast army of red-eyed Orcs.

“Do we win?”

Tamerlane unhurriedly catches up.

“As you can see, the tapestry’s predictions are coming to an end, and for the first time in a millennium, we literally have no idea what’s going to happen.”

Not Small - Father Away

Sitting in his oddly perfect but dull chamber, Arowe is startled by a sharp knock from outside. Despite the general condescension he’s received from the Grey Elves, they’ve treated him… cordially… mostly, and he’s felt safe at least. Rather than being a prisoner, the lock on his private chamber door is, reassuringly, on the inside.

Standing up, Arowe walks slowly to the barred entrance and slides back the bolt, before drawing open the door. Outside, he finds himself eye to eye with a thin but handsome Grey Elf, perhaps an inch taller and a century or so older than himself.

“It’s gratifying to see you inherited both my height and your Mother’s beauty.”

Arowe takes a step back further into his room. He’d come all this way, primarily to enlist the Grey Elves into the coming war, but also to discover his true ancestry. He hadn’t expected to meet the man so quickly though and felt somewhat unprepared.

“You’re my real Father?”

Looking the Grey-Elven man up and down, Arowe takes in the slender but athletic frame and well defined jawline. It’s like gazing into an unfunhouse mirror, where the colour and joy had been almost completely drained out of the reflection.

After a long pause, in which both men assess each-other, the Grey Elf claiming to be his Father, speaks.

“Look at us. Look at you. Can there be any doubt? Despite your name and title, your bloodline is as much Grey than High.”

Arowe instinctively moves forward to hug the tall Elf in front of him but stops short, as the other Elf’s response isn’t inviting. Instead, he gestures for his… Father to come in and sit down.

“Why was I not told of this before? Why didn’t you claim me? Why did I have to endure the contempt of my… High Elf… Father…”

Arowe falters.

“I’m sorry. This is quite unsettling. I don’t seem to have the vocabulary needed.”

The slightly older Grey Elf reaches out his fine boned hand and places it reassuringly onto his son’s.

“No, I’m the one who should be sorry. Allow me to fill in a few of the blanks. My name is Tamerlane, and the last time I saw your Mother; Lissomny, was the day you were born.”

Another uncomfortable silence settles over the two men, until Arowe eventually breaks it.

“Why?”

Tamerlane sighs.

“I was an ambassador for my people, looking to recruit the High Elves to our cause, but when I was introduced to your Mother, I was instantly smitten. As you know though, romantic relationships between our species is forbidden. That said, Lissomny and I would have braved the prejudice if the High Elf council hadn’t decided to break ties with the Grey. Not just break off diplomatic relations but to outright condemn us. I was driven out of Glendorne and your Mother, as a High-born Elf of the city, had no choice but to remain.”

Arowe takes in the story with a puzzled look.

“But you said you saw me when I was born?”

Tamerlane continues.

“I secretly stayed in communication with your Mother but she’d already settled on a practical plan moving forward. Despite my objections, she married a grasping minor High Elf noble, to give you a chance of a good life. I think she hoped that your Grey heritage wouldn’t present itself quite so obviously though.”

The handsome Grey Elf falls silent again for a moment.

“I slipped into the city unseen and made it to your Mother’s bedchamber. You were asleep in the cradle next to her. She let me hold you but insisted that her plan was the correct one and she was already married. Was this… Filligren not even a little good to you?”

Arowe twists his mouth, trying to find something kind to say about the cruel and petty man who he’d thought had been his Father. Tamerlane spares him the grief though.

“Lissomny assured me that it was all for the best, but I see now that I should have fought harder for you. Fought harder to be in your life. I’m so sorry… my son.”

(S)Elf Respect

Standing in the austere stone hall, waiting to be received by the Elder Lord’s of Falutin, Arowe fusses with the now frayed cuffs and collar of his (long passed its best) pink shirt. Despite his extremely long lifespan, he’s never been the most patient of Elves.

He’d only arrived at the Grey Elven fortress a day ago but he’s already been surprised by what he’s seen and experienced.

After spending his youth physically looking down on all his Elven peers and then, as he grew older and taller, his elders, Arowe is amazed to find himself of a ‘normal’ height in this Elven stronghold. Even the women are only a few inches shorter by average. Their style and manner however are decidedly different from his own upbringing. His flamboyant pink shirt, despite being dulled by months of hard travelling, is still garish compared to the, well-tailored but deadly dull, design of their clothes. In fairness though, the Grey Elves’ pale skin, silver hair and flat personalities match their dress sense seamlessly.

He’d also worked out that the sniggering cry of ‘Hey-boy’ wasn’t a call to attention, but actually an insult term aimed at his mixed Elven heritage; Half High and half Grey. For whatever reason, Elven species interbreeding with other Elven species was viewed with more than a certain level of measured scorn. What was the phrase he’d heard repeatedly in older childhood, when members of the other Elven races visited Glendorne?

‘Keep your hands to yourselves, when you’re with the other types of Elves.’

Eventually, the overly large, double doors swing open and a silent underling ushers him into the hall of the Grey Elders.

Walking in, Arowe senses their judging eyes boring down upon him and he feels, every inch, the half-breed his ‘adoptive’ Father despised so much.

Arowe finds himself standing alone, centre stage in some sort of brightly lit court, with a circle of five austere Grey Elves seated high above, literally and metaphorically looking down on him.

After the servant backs out and closes the large doors behind him, a steady voice rings down from one of them.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Squinting up through the spotlights, Arowe attempts to identify the speaker of that odd opening statement and braves an answer.

“I was sent by Estrid of the Fey. She told me that my Father… My real Father might be here. She also said that your help will be vital in the coming demonic invasion.”

Another voice barks out from above. A woman this time.

“You are young, but perhaps old enough to remember the Great Dragon’s reign. As a member of the High Elves, you’ll probably have a strong opinion on the choice the Grey made in supporting Theranthor.”

Arowe nods. His Father… Adoptive Father; Filigren had hated the Grey Elves, ‘Blood traitors’  he’d called them. They’d actually petitioned the High Elves to join the ancient Dragon; Theranthor in battle against the Demon; Zartak. While all the other Elven races were fighting both enemies on two fronts, the Grey went out of their way to protect the Blue tyrant and in turn, they were protected by her.

Yet another voice joins the conversation.

“Yes, we aided the great and evil Blue Dragon. I think it wouldn’t be too arrogant to say that we actively and effectively turned the tide of the war in her favour.

Arowe has heard the argument before. The Grey had apparently sent emissaries to all the Elven races, asking them to side with the Great Blue Dragon, but all of them, from the Wood to the High, even to the shadowy Drow, refused. A choice between two monstrous tyrants, wasn’t a choice they could stomach. True Elves could never be willing slaves!

A forth voice calls out.

“It wasn’t just the other races of Elves we approached. We petitioned the Dwarves and Gnomes too. All the long lived races. You see, as long lived as we are, we could afford to be patient, to outlive and outlast our opponents, and as phenomenally long lived as a Dragon is, they are still, ultimately, mortal. We could just wait, the already ancient; Theranthor out. Zartak on the other claw was… is an everlasting, immortal Demon…”

Calling up from his small stage, Arowe sneers.

“So you just chose the lesser of two evils?”

Finally the fifth voice rings out, but this one sounds slightly different. Male but with a hint of emotion… Pride?

“Exactly. We chose the pragmatic path, we chose to stand with the evil that could… that would die. A tyrant that we, as a people, as the long lived Grey, could survive!”

Son of a Witch!

Quickly rereading Fortu’s letter while the others prepare to move on, Rifkin feels the high quality parchment between his sensitive thumb and fingers.

‘My Darling Little One,
I’m so sorry that I couldn’t be there for you.
I’m sorry that I missed sharing in your laughter or comforting you when you cried.
I’m sorry that my selfish choices made life hard for you.
Know though, that you were born from love and that love is everlasting.
If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, follow the map and come find me.
Once there, light one of the candles.
There is much I need to tell you.
Love,
Your Mother;
Viccissa.’

Carefully refolding the paper along its original crease-lines, the Bard places the letter gently back in the compartment on top of the silver music box. Alongside the equally well preserved map showing the location of Viccissa’s apparent grave and under the four magical (presumably ‘speak to the dead) candles.

If it’s to be believed, the letter raises a few concerning questions. 

Firstly the three digit code: 142. How did she know his name would end up as two numerals pronounced together and why did she think that he’d somehow remember that her pet name for him was ‘Little one’?

Rifkin smiles at the pragmatistic Liga Bur’s no-nonsense suggestion. The Halfling always surprises him with his cool head and often brutal rational. No wonder the powerful Druid; Thornberg chose him back in the Fey lands. If two sequential numbers were known, the remaining options were only one to ten.

Brilliant!

Secondly, what important information could Fortu’s mother possibly have to impart on her son, a quarter of a century after her death?

And thirdly, why would her old ‘Den-mother’; Megarna bother sharing this information? By the tone of Megarna’s voice, when she delivered the silver box, there was no love lost between them. It even sounded like they’d hated each-other!

If Fortu decided to visit his Mother’s burial site now though, it would take him a month or so to get there… 

He’d effectively be taken off the board and his fighting skills that had proven themselves vital, especially after the loss of the Elven Archer; Arowe and Liga Bur’s transformation from Ranger to Druid.

Banaal and Liga Bur had been wise to take precautions though. A silver music box from Fortu’s infancy, just happens to turn up at the (almost) exact time and place as this mysterious Viccissa predicted?

Rifkin gently closes the lid and the heart-shaped clasp clicks back into place. Instinctively testing a theory, he tries to reopen it but, just as before, the heart resists. Only Fortu was ‘allowed’ to open the box.

Another mystery. Did the Witches manage to open it? Did they know what the letter said? Did they perhaps tamper with it in some way?

It’s all so unlikely, and yet he’d heard plenty of stories in his travels about witches foreseeing the future in knucklebones and chicken blood. There’d even been a mad woman in his own home village, who swore she could tell your fortune just by looking at tea-leaves!

Could this Viccissa see the future? Could she have passed this gift down to her son? Fortu’s fevered dreams did seem to often lead him to truths he shouldn’t rationally know. Almost like he himself was a… a…

A Fortune teller?

…

A Fortu.. ne teller!

Rifkin gasps as he almost drops the precious silver music box.

“It can’t be!?”

Half-Casters

Of all the races of Fissa, from the Elves, Orcs, Dwarves and Halflings etcetera, the Humans are the ones most prone to mix their bloodlines with other creatures. Half-Orcs, Half-Elves, even the Half-Dwarven; Dueregar! 

It also isn’t just the bipedal creatures of the world. Beasts and monsters also found their way into Humanity’s gene-pool. The reasons were varied and the couplings were often brutal and uninvited but regardless, they sometimes managed to produce mixed-breed offspring.

Most of these couplings resulted in freakish abominations but, depending on the other parent, sometimes they resulted in marvels. The most famous of these rare combinations are Humans with Dragons. Just a drop of Dragon blood running through a Human’s veins, opens up the possibility of reality-bending Sorcerous powers. Spellcasting ability without the need to spend decades studying or relying on dusty old books. 

A lesser known combination though, also gives rise to magical talent and knowledge. If your bloodline has been infected by that of Fiends, then magic comes easier, but usually of the dark variety. The blood from evil Demons and Devils usually comes with equally dark thoughts and feelings. Rather than Sorcerers, this dark blood, in the female line, gives rise to Witches!

As for the unfortunate male descendants, they’re generally far less ‘blessed’. Their blood legacy is often just uncontrollable rage, omni-directional hatred and rabid self-destructiveness. They rail against the world and everyone in it, without ever understanding the root cause of their own dark motivations. Only the strongest of them, the most righteous, have any hope of overcoming their… unnatural nature.

Bitter Sweet Lullaby

 

Sitting alone on his bed in the Knot wave inn, illuminated only by the light of a dimmed lantern, Fortu cradles the silver music box on his lap and listens to the gentle tune until it winds down to silence.

The Witch; Megarna had teased him with information about his mother and tried to use it to distract him from his mission for Lord Urdurel. He’d distrusted the woman when he’d first met her pretending to be a fortune teller back in Scarborough and he trusted her even less now.

Still, she’d been surprisingly bold, considering her age and obvious frailty. It’s almost as if she’d wanted him to strike her down…

A knock on the door announces Rifkin’s presence before he enters their shared room, giving him time to wipe his eyes.

Fortu only recognises the artfully crafted music box from his dream, but the music? It stirs up something deep inside of him; Comfort, warmth… Love.

Could these three raised relief portraits truly be of him as a baby, his wild haired, gypsy mother and his handsome father?

Finaghan Begins Again

Lounging in the back-room of the (formerly secret) bar, his feet still casually up on the desk, the head of the Stowanian Thieves’ guild, watches the Dwarf, the Halfling, the demi-Elf and the armoured Human walk back up the wooden stairs and out of his (now compromised) hideout.

It had taken Finaghan decades of lying and scheming to claw his way up to being named head of the Cottis Thieves’ guild. Dante’s recent splinter group of Assassins though, had rapidly become a painful thorn in his side. A thorn that the four Adventurers had kindly volunteered to tweeze out for him. Not just offered, but paid him fifty gold pieces for the privilege!

A paltry sum considering, but the feeble bribe still tickled him.

Dante had always been… difficult, arrogant, always chaffing against his authority, but with the resurgence of the Witches, his attitude had shifted into something much more… condescending. It hadn’t been long before the older man had poached a large slew of his Thieves’ guild minions for his competitive Assassins’ guild. Nearly a quarter of his members!

A loss in number that had greatly diminished his influence and the guilds’ power. Mostly though, it was a personal and professional slight that Finaghan couldn’t let stand.

Allowing Fortu and his adventurer friends to take care of this… problem, also overcame the sanction against guilds working openly against other guilds.

Finaghan smiles. Losing a lowly lookout and having to establish a new base of operations, is a small price to pay for getting rid of ‘old-man’ Dante. With him gone, most of his traitorous ex-Thieves’ guild members will come cringing and scurrying back.

He might even allow them to rejoin… after a certain amount of grovelling and an additional ‘buy-back-in’ fee.

Shouting over to one of his trusted barmen, Finaghan calls out.

“Bring over a fresh bottle of rum. The best we have; I feel like pre-celebrating a certain forthcoming victory!”

Bitter but Better

‘Old man’ Dante had trained in isolation for decades; angry and unfulfilled. Years ago, after a stellar start in the Assassins guild, under instruction of the Witches and more experienced Assassins, he’d been promised power and the freedom to inflict pain whenever and wherever he went. He cared nothing for the head hag; Hetzabah’s plans to take over Lord Urdurel’s kingdom, as long as he could torture and kill whoever he wanted to.

Although still very young at the time, he was a gifted sadist and there, for a change, his overtly psychopathic tendencies were a blessing rather than a ‘problem’. Then, just when it was getting really good, it all fell apart. 

After Hetzabah successfully duped the still mourning Lord Urdurel into a quick second marriage, the Assassins working under Megarna had an extremely good year, but then the hag became overconfident in her control over Urdurel. After the birth of her son; Briefadel, Hetzabah ordered her Assassins to murder his teenage daughter, Lamenta to clear the line of ascension. Lord Urdurel loved his daughter and her death unclouded his mind just enough to throw off her thrall. He then sent hundreds of his men after her and all of her minions.

The Witches who weren’t captured and killed; scattered to the neighbouring lands. The same happened to the Assassins. Everything was lost. All of Dante’s masters were killed or gone, leaving him to fend for himself. Find work for himself and join the lesser Thieves’ guild. He had been forced to secretly train himself in the Assassin arts. It hadn’t been easy and learning the hidden tricks, skills and spells of his original order had been near impossible. He’d spent years researching when he could have been, should have been, out there killing.

Still, fifty years later, Megarna had finally reformed her coven and recruited all the wannabe Assassins her underlings could find. Young, poorly trained, eager idiots mostly but it did, at least, give him the chance to train/torment a host of willing fools and show off his hard earned skills, whilst simultaneously creating a new Assassins’ guild. It also, finally and ironically, enabled him to use his covert, decades won, shadowy abilities out in the open.

The Knot Wave Inn

The austere seeming tavern owner and bar manageress; Miss Smith (Stevie to her friends) watches the seven men leave after an early breakfast. The Captain of their small guard post; Lynchin, had paid for everything in advance; Dinner, drinks, board and breakfast, as apparently, these men were on an important mission for Lord Urdurel himself.

Who were these strange men? The three soldiers were identical triplets. Extremely unusual but not unheard of, especially in this region of Fissa. The neighbouring kingdom of Agentia was as famous for the twins in its royal family as it was for the silver in its mountains. The other four though; a well presented War-priest Dwarf, the roughest, toughest looking Halfling that she’d ever seen, a barely Elf-touched Bard and the darkly-armoured Human. She’d been surprised when Fortu had come down for dinner sans his Platemail. He was much younger than she’d first assumed. Tall, strong and handsome, despite the scars, but somehow… still innocent. Without his black lenses, there’d been kindness in his blue/grey eyes.

Stevie shakes her head, making her short bobbed, grey hair shimmy.

‘Innocent’? That made no sense. From the rumours she’d heard, he’d been a gladiator from overseas. A trained killer from birth and now a merciless, mercenary sell-sword.

Perhaps it’s her old poetic heart? Perhaps it’s just that she’d spent her entire life surrounded by contented, soft-spoken fisherfolk beside the Mar-Gin river with a plentiful, all-year-round supply of fish. Ziner is a blessed place. Beautiful and peaceful. A town that, because of the fifty-year destroyed bridge/boarder crossing, has been sheltered from violence, even through Lord Urdurel’s decades long wars against the bordering realms.

Looking up, Stevie realises that the seven men are already gone and far out of sight, but she calls out to them anyway.

“May the gods of mercy, shelter and protect you.”

Second and Third Among Equals

Hustling down the stone steps of the austere tower, expensive robes held up in their wizened hands, the two old men scowl at each other before Lord Dunning whispers.

“Do you see how he dismissed us when important secrets were about to be revealed?”

Equally disgruntled, Lord Kruger hisses back.

“He tells us we’re his equals but as soon as that letter from the Fey was drawn out, we were immediately excluded.”

Pulling his fellow Lord into a side chamber, Dunning quietly shuts the door behind them and glances around to confirm that they’re alone.

“Excluded? Expelled is what you mean. Whatever’s in those barrels, it has to be very important.”

Lord Kruger nods in agreement.

“Certainly more important than mere wine.”

The two elderly sub-leaders fall silent for a moment before Lord Kruger speaks again. His voice still kept low.

“I’m beginning to suspect that Lord Urdurel has no intention of naming either of us as his successor.”

It’s Lord Dunning’s turn to nod sagely.

“I think you may be right. After fourty years of promises. After fourty years of him saying that one of us will be promoted to ‘High Lord of all Stowan’, the man still lives! Not just lives but has refused to officially name me as his successor.”

Lord Kruger snaps to his full, unarched height.

“Refused to name ONE of us as his successor.”

Lord Dunning manages to hide his sneering reaction but still manages to respond.

“Yes, yes. That’s what I meant to say.”

Both men had led large factions of the country against Lord Urdurel after Lady Hetzabah had been cast out. The Capital had been decimated by him when the disguised Hag had claimed a seat at his side. Their causes had been just and Stown had teetered on civil war. It was only Lord Urdurel’s promise to form a triad high council and announce one of them leader on his death or retirement, that prevented it.

The two Lords had only been in their thirties then; a good decade and a half younger than Urdurel and the negotiations had been born from genuine repentance and the fact that he now had no deserving heirs still alive to inherit his title and no living heirs that actually deserved it. It was a reasonable pact.

Now though, as Lords Dunning and Kruger assess each other, they have to accept that they are heading towards their own final days with no expectation to outlive their stubborn, age defying ruler.

Recovering somewhat, Lord Dunning carefully forms the sentence in his mouth before he lets it out.

“I believe this triad has gone on long enough. I think that Lord Urdurel should be forced to ‘step down’ before this war against his mad son actually begins.”

Lord Kruger smiles.

“Yes, I believe you’re right. If Lord Urdurel were to ‘step down’, Sir Briefadel will have no reason to come here seeking revenge.”

Lord Dunning smiles in response.

“I’m glad, that after these last forty years, we’re finally in full accord.”

Gift wrap

Returning to Cottis, not just once but twice in the last few months, has been a bitter-sweet experience. Banaal had spent over ten years of his formative years here and had strong memories of Lord Urdurel and Lady Dulcetta, although from a child’s perspective.

His memories of Lamenta though were much stronger. From when she was a baby until, though about six years younger, she’d stood taller than him. They’d been inseparable best friends throughout the decade he’d spent in the Human lands. She was bright, warm and full of life and he had loved and protected her as if she’d been his little sister. Even now, he still can’t quite believe she’s dead. Not just dead but fifty-years interred in the dark, cold earth.

Lord Urdurel, though much older now, had welcomed him back with open arms and immediately shared his knowledge of the vile Hetzabah’s escape and the strange band of adventurers pursuing her. He’d then asked him to seek out these adventurers and bring them back to him.

A task he was more than happy to accept.

Now though, after successfully completing that mission, he stands alone in his luxurious and secure room in the castle and admires his reflection in the full-length mirror.

As a reward, Lord Urdurel had given him a cloak of sorts. A long cape-like wrap, so delicate it’s barely there at all. A wrap so fine, it looks more like a gossamer spider’s web draped over his broad shoulders.

This cobweb cloak though doesn’t tear to the touch. Instead it tears through the ethereal plane and allows its wearer to weave between them.

This gift of Lord Urdurel’s; a gift literally off of his own back, is probably worth more than all the gold that Banaal’s ever seen. 

Probably double that! Triple!! 

And despite that, considering the cloaks subtle power and who they’re going to eventually face, he thinks that its original cost, whatever it was, may yet prove to be a bargain!

An Eye for a Lie

Twenty mounted soldiers surround the hidden shack, waiting for Lord Urdurel and Captain Aglet to come back out with their prisoner. It’s taken them over a month to track her down to this forest hideaway, but finally the elusive ‘Queen’ Hetzabah has been cornered.

The soldiers smile grimly to each-other. Her assassins have been killed or driven off and she’s finally trapped and defenceless. A single woman alone against two fully armoured and vengeful knights.

A few minutes pass before the wooden door is wrenched open from the inside and Lord Urdurel staggers out, clutching his, now empty, left eye socket, blood gushing through the gaps between his gauntletted fingers!

Two of the soldiers quickly dismount to aid their liege, as Captain Aglet also lurches out of the shack, face ashen..

“She wasn’t as she appeared! She deceived us all!! She’s a monster; a demon from the deepest pits of Hell!!!”

The Sergeant of the group, drops from his saddle, rushes to the open door, long-sword raised and peers in.

“She’s gone! Where did she go? How in the nine hells could she have escaped us?!”

The Traitorous Grey

With a final embrace, the quiet and slender Dryad; Sitka, whispers a soft goodbye to the tall Elf, her greenish lips, mere inches from his pink and pointed ear.

“Farewell handsome Arowe. It’s been my honour to be your guide but, sadly, I’ve taken you as far through the green path as I’m able. You must travel the remainder of your journey on foot and alone.”

Arowe allows the sweet and beautiful Fey creature to hold him and enjoy his warmth for a few more moments before disentangling himself from her cool, willowy limbs.

Taking a step away from her, he watches as Sitka Merges back into the thick oak-tree and disappears, fully aware that he’ll probably never see her again.

Turning around, Arowe looks to the South. The forest has thinned out enough, that he can see, high in the distance, the fabled mountains of Falutin. Home to the haughty and universally loathed; Grey Elves. And potentially the location of his real Father…

His mind, unbidden, dredges up memories of his childhood. His loving Mother; Lissomny and his… supposed Father. Now that the truth has been revealed to him, Filigren’s cruel behaviour makes a great deal more sense. The absence of warmth or kindness. The lack of concern in regard to his future or happiness. He wasn’t his Father though and, despite never admitting it aloud, somehow he always suspected the truth.

The realisation doesn’t make Arowe angry though. He’s had several days now to process and rationalise it and, rather than upsetting, it’s liberating. The man he’d always thought was his Father was mean spirited and petty. A cruel and narcissistic man that he’d always been slightly ashamed of.
 
Arowe did remember some of his opines regarding the Grey Elves though. He’d always hated them and he hadn’t been an outlier in that sentiment. His view was shared, pretty much universally and especially by all the High Elves of Glendorne.

Well over a century ago, when the ancient, female Blue Dragon; Theranthor was losing the battle against the Demon Prince; Zartak, the Elder Council of the Grey Elves petitioned and willingly joined forces with the evil Dragon to aid her in the war against the legions of the Demon.

While all the other races of Fissa were fighting, fleeing or simply being crushed under the heels of the Dragon or the Demon, the Grey Elves chose a side and turned the tide of the campaign in Theranthor’s favour.

After the bloodiest of battles, the thirty-year war was finally over and, against all odds, Zartak was banished back to his prison in Hell? The Dragon Empress then ruled over almost the entirety of Fissa for over a century. A dark century, where all the races, except the favoured Grey Elves, suffered under Theranthor’s cruel reign.

Inhaling the cool forest air around him, Arowe wraps his magical cloak tightly around himself and strides forward, towards the harsh, bleak mountains and potentially, his real, but still unknown, Father.

A Matter of Wife and Death

Head buried in his hands, Lord Urdurel weeps for only the third time in his life. The first time he was just fourteen, watching his parents slaughtered. The second time at forty-seven, when his beloved first wife; Dulcetta died of a mystery illness and now at forty-nine.

Lamenta is dead. His daughter. The last remaining light in his life.

Looking up at Commander Aglet, his blue eyes burning with tears and anger, his mind finally clears.

Dulcetta’s mysterious death, Hetzabah’s sudden appearance, Briefadel’s birth and Lamenta’s murder… it was all connected. Now, in this moment of clarity, it all becomes obvious; Hetzabah had just used him to gain power for herself and her mewing baby boy but it was Dulcetta and Lamenta who’d paid the ultimate price.

“What do you mean, ‘Hetzabah’s left the castle?’. Send a couple of your men to her chambers and drag her to me!”

Castilian Aglet steels himself before responding.

“We went to her chamber immediately after you discovered her halving of Lady Lamenta’s guard but she’d already left in a hurry. Such a hurry that she’d abandoned your infant son in the arms of his wet-nurse.”

Lord Urdurel stops at this news. His son; Briefadel. He’d strangely felt nothing but resentment when Hetzabah became pregnant immediately on their wedding night and he felt nothing for the boy now. Still, he was an innocent and not responsible for his Mother’s crimes.

His eyes suddenly dry and his voice icy, he gives a new order.

“Select a squad of your twenty best men and have them join me, fully armed, in the courtyard. I’m going to find her myself and make her pay for every atrocity she’s committed against me and our people.”

Marriage Vows

Eleven months pregnant but still tall (by High-Elven standards) and elegant, Lissomny calls to her chambermaids to have her second-cousin Filigren granted entry to her private chambers.

“Have you read the documents I had couriered to you? Do you agree to these terms?”

The shorter elf sneers in response.

“A marriage of convenience. I gain a sizable share of your wealth and my family name is elevated back into the upper echelons of Glendorian society. What’s not to understand?”

Lissomny Sighs. 

“And in exchange, you marry me and promise to claim this child as your own and never reveal their true origin?”

Filigren scowls. 

“Yes, yes, I’ll pretend your half-cast brat is mine but when his true heritage is eventually revealed and this charade is finally over, I’ll still expect you to continue financing my, soon to be lavish, lifestyle.”

Lissomny sighs again. 

“Unlike you, I’m an Elf of my word but, if my son ever does discover the truth and I find out that it was you who told him or were behind it in any way, there will be nowhere for you to hide and I will have you killed.”

For the first time since entering Lissomny’s chamber, Filigren’s sour expression pales.

“I swear, if and when the time finally comes, it’ll not’ve been me who told your mongrel son the awful truth.”

Innocence Lost

Lamenta’s beloved and kind-hearted mother, Lady Dulcetta had died at just thirty-three years of age. As cruel fate would have it, precisely the same age as Lord Urdurel had been when they’d first met and fallen in love. Since her death though, everything had changed dramatically for the worse.

Life in a cage, no matter how gilded, is mere existence. Since her Mother’s premature death, her Father, Lord Urdurel had cut her off from everything and everyone she’d known, except for her Mother’s now, long-in-the-fang, deer-hound; Belvedere. Her Father treated her as if she were suddenly too delicate to face the world, as if she were made of the fragilest crystal. A situation that had only grown more wretched since her Father suddenly remarried a woman with obvious evil intent, even though he seemed completely incapable of seeing it. He was infatuated with his dark-locked and voluptuous new bride, to the point that he hadn’t even seemed that interested in her newborn half-brother; Briefadel.

Lord Urdurel, under the thrall of Hetzabah, had returned to his warring ways, blind to the objections of his advisors or the suffering of his own people.

Lady Lamenta’s life had been reduced down to that of little more than a prisoner, kept hidden away in her dead Mother’s tower under lock and key. She was sixteen now but there was nothing sweet about her situation.

The Commander of the guard; Captain Aglet had recently halved her protection detail, on the instructions of her step-mother but then immediately reinstated it, on the orders of her suspicious Father, with twice the number of men as before. He’d even stationed an armed guard immediately outside her bedroom chamber door. 

This was the second week and there was a change in soldiers. Her new door guard; Padrik, was fair-haired, fresh-faced and handsome, perhaps only a year or two older than herself. Even though she knew he was instructed to keep his eyes to himself, she couldn’t help teasing him with glimpses of a bare ankle or an, accidentally revealed, shoulder.

That night though, something was wrong. She’d changed into her nightgown and stepped over the multiple, concentric, magical protection circles etched around her Mother’s old bed and wriggled under the silk sheets. With her big, old dog lying at her feet, her dreams were no longer haunted by evil witches or giant, shadowy horses, but Lamenta still felt a cold wave of anxiety in her stomach as Belvedere abruptly twitched awake and started to growl. 

Slipping quietly out of bed and heading to the iron caged balcony, she thought of the young man standing guard just outside her door. She knew he wasn’t allowed to leave his post but she needed someone close. Then, in the darkness of the walled garden below, she saw a flash of a steel blade and could hear someone beginning to scale the wall. The balcony was protected and her windows were barred but certain magics could easily overcome mundane iron, no matter how thick.

Paralysed with fear, she tightly clutches her loyal hound in fear and calls out.

“Guard! Guard!”

Almost immediately, Lamenta sees the shadow of her young protector fall across the frosted glass panels of her bedchamber door and she hears him whisper…

“My Lady?”

Then, before she can reply, another shadow looms up behind him on the other side of her bedroom door, followed immediately by the splatter of Padrik’s dark arterial blood across the glass. 

This is when the sixteen-year-old Lady Lamenta screams, 

Despite his advanced age, the boney but still pony-sized Belvedere stands bravely, fangs bared and hackles raised, between his young Mistress and the door, but when the two black-clad Assassins pass like smoke through the, still locked, barrier, there’s nothing the dog can do beyond dying by their wickedly curved blades.

Lasting barely a few moments longer than her slaughtered dog, despite her pleading, Lamenta‘s pitiful screams are quickly silenced by the merciless killers.

The kind-hearted and innocent young woman’s last words are…

“Father!”

Dulcetta’s Decidedly Deadly Dreams

Happiness is ever elusive and always fleeting and the joy that King Urdurel felt, although sublime, was dependent, absolutely, on the love he felt for his young wife; Dulcetta and consequently, on the love she openly returned to him.

From the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, he was a changed man. No longer driven by the need for conquest, his raging heart had been instantly quelled to the point of conciliation with those nations he’d so recently waged war upon.

Despite giving up his rightfully earned, battle-won and blood soaked title, the now; Lord Urdurel maintained his castle stronghold in Cottis and still retained power over Stowan and the surrounding conquered kingdoms but now they flourished under his newly benevolent stewardship. 

Then though, after the birth of their perfect daughter and fifteen years of joy and peace, beautiful Dulcetta fell suddenly ill. It was subtle at first, just fractious sleep and fevered dreams. 

She sought solace in her daily horse rides, walking her loyal hound; Belvedere and spending time with her beloved daughter; Lamenta, but nothing soothed her tortured soul, and then, over the next few months, it became worse. Much worse.

Paranoia, violent outbursts and self-harm. She’d awake in the night, drenched in sweat and screaming, as if pursued by black-hearted hags in her terrifying nightmares. 

Despite all Lord Urdurel could do, all the healers, priests and sorcerers he drafted in to help, his beloved wife lost her mind and her enfeebled, frail body soon followed.

After just a few months of failing health and mental anguish, all that was left of Dulcetta, was her grieving fourteen-year-old daughter and a husband, broken and overcome with rage anew.

The Fifteen Year Onslaught

Sitting tall in the saddle atop his large, heavily barded and well trained warhorse, King Urdurel glances sidelong across the first rank of his armoured lancers. They face the opposing army flanked by hundreds of loyal foot-soldiers and archers. This was to be the last battle in his decade-and-a-half campaign. Five of the six kingdoms along his border had already fallen but this final one had proven to be the most resistant.

After each battle, each victory, King Urdurel offered the best of the vanquished a place at his side. All they had to do was swear absolute fealty to him and, when offered the headsman’s axe as the alternative, most did. And so, with each triumph, his army grew considerably larger and more powerful.

Leading his opposition, less than a thousand yards away across the valley, two figures, armoured in the silver their land is renowned for, stand beside the large tent displaying their colours. Two figures of about the same age as King Urdurel was when he killed King Vagitus. A young man and a young woman. Twins. Their army is impressive and large enough to offer a real challenge to his own armed forces. King Urdurel was confident of a victory, but the lay of the land offered no strategic advantage to either side and, regardless of tactics, hundreds, if not thousands of men would die this day.

Much to King Urdurel’s surprise though, the twins mount their horses and, riding under a white flag, without guards, gallop toward him.

Intrigued rather than intimidated, the Stowanian army part before them and, once dismounted, escort them to King Urdurel’s own command tent.

Inside, King Urdurel receives them with only two of his most trusted captains for protection.

The two nobles remove their plumed, silver helmets in the kind of coordinated motion only twins are capable of. They’re both tall and beautiful, with pale blond hair and eyes as blue as sapphires. It’s the young man who speaks first but King Urdurel can hardly drag his gaze away from the young woman. A woman barely half his age.

“King Urdurel, we are here to broker a peace between our Kingdoms.”

King Urdurel laughs.

“Peace? I don’t want peace. I want to see your parents’ heads on spikes. I want to see your skull crushed beneath my iron heel. I want all the fabled silver in your land transferred to my own coffers.”

Then the young woman takes her turn.

“Our parents are dead. My twin brother and I now lead our people and we would not have them die on this field. Take our silver, make our realm a vassal state and rule over us, but don’t let your bloodlust go any further.”

King Urdurel stops laughing.

“Why should I do that? What assurances would I have that you wouldn’t just plot against me from your position of safety?”

It’s the young queen who responds again, her voice sweet but firm.

“You leave my brother; Lucius here to govern in your name and I will submit to you as your prisoner. If my brother makes a move against you, no matter how seemingly insignificant or subtle, you can have my head.”

Taking her in, from her delicate features to her slender but obviously shapely frame under her ornate armour, King Urdurel stops, amazed with himself that he’s actually considering her proposition.

“What is your name?”

The beautiful young woman, sensing a glimmer of hope, smiles faintly for the first time. A smile so warm, so disarming, that King Urdurel’s heart seems to stop mid- beat within his chest.

“My name? My name is Dulcetta.”