[Fantasy Fic] Blood of Kings

[Eleas]

To grant the request of those who wanted me to translate the story, I finished the first part. Here it is. I'd like reader comments, since this story took a lot of work, not just to write but to translate as well.

That said, on with the story!



Chapter One


The smoke lay heavy upon the air, and spruce twigs crackled and hissed. It was damp in here, stifling from the acrid smoke. Moisture ran down rocky walls, rivulets that gleamed like sweat in the firelight.

The guardians of the marklord kept to the cave entrance, frightened as they were of what they didn’t understand, the cowardly wretches. Cirilz of Kavarc suppressed his smile. Was it not according to the natural order of things that a real man did what his dogs could not?

The flames reared, winding their tongues along the coarse stone, licked at it hungrily. The handsome young lord remained immobile, did not stretch out, did not by any expression show his discomfort with the heat and the foul air. His silver-fashioned peregrine gleamed against a sable jacket and held the crimson cloak together. In every inch he embodied the nobleman he was. And waited.

On the floor, the old man sat crouched. So still was his appearance that he easily could, in darkness, have passed for a formation of rock. Yet the glow of the fires banished all shadow to a flickering existence at the far corners of this hall, and gave Cirilz a clearer picture of the old man.

Thin he was, squat, for all the world firmly rooted to the cold stone. His legs were crossed. And even though the cold seeped through the lord’s fur-lined boots, the ancient made no sign of noticing it, or even of being alive. His gray beard was a dirty, tangled bush, as was the thick hair that encircled his head. Small of frame was he, with deeply sunken eyes and withered features. His complexion was a nut brown color and very tough. He was dressed solely in a loincloth made from some kind of coarse fabric. Cirilz had initially offered to grant him clothes as a price for what he wanted, but the old man had rejected that suggestion in quite an unambiguous way, and Cirilz would have to content himself with that.

Another of his line and birth would certainly have felt it strange, almost sickened, to be forced to show their respect for such a filthy and revolting beast, but Cirilz was wiser than that. Since those days when he had first searched his tenebrous lore from yellowing parchment he realized, or rather experienced a glimpse of, the powers that lay behind the world that to other people seemed so mundane. He knew enough to see how meaningless a creature’s outer shell was, compared to the things all true men had in common, that which truly had meaning.

Power. Cirilz wielded it, by his position and his intellect, keener than the most well-honed edge. Yet other paths were there that lead toward power, some difficult to perceive but, if his studies did not exaggerate, perhaps yet more potent. He had heard about the weave of reality and of those that embroidered it in patterns of their own choosing, of dead men rising, of will-breakers and consuming fire. And he had looked for these weavers, these wizards, enchanters, whatever name one would give them. Many he found, after long discourse or shorter persuasion, to be simple charlatans and tricksters. Yet the rumors flourished, and some pointed toward the east. Eastward, past fields and into untamed country. And these rumors said one thing. They said, In a cave without name there sits a man without eyes, and the paths that he walks lead beyond.

Those words were unchanged, wherever on Cirilz’ lands the tale was told, and they were always spoken with a kind of whispered fear. And when he tracked the rumors to those sheepherder villages that lay scattered across the wild lands near the borders of his domain, there he found something more.

When one of the villagers lay dying, when life seemed close to its end and no help was to be found, it would happen that a relative or lover set out toward an unvisited gorge. The one that pursued this journey would never return, but without fail, the dying one would recover in mere days after. It had taken time, a long time, for Cirilz’ spies to coax the information from the villagers; the people here were distrustful of strangers and did not lightly betray their secrets, even when offered pure gold.

Hard had he worked to reach this cold cave, and as he was a patient man and no fool, he waited for the old man to answer.

Cold crept along his legs. The skin was first to stiffen, a sensation followed by the faint shiver that grew until he thought the bones of his foot would surely burst from within. When finally his muscular contractions had given way to a remote numbness, something changed in the air. That which a heartbeat ago had been cool and smoky air was now something else, something charged. Cirilz suddenly felt as if he were surrounded by a circle of spear tips, all aiming for his heart.

Whispering words sprang from dry lips. After a while, Cirilz realized that what he had wished for had been granted him. The voice, still belonging to the same man but older and unaccountably frightening, spoke, and its words were meant for him.

“Vainly voyaged, Cirilz peregrine,
to the call of lore long lost.
Dark it beckons, dim and distant promised path without return.
That is granted, this is given,
all that was within thy blood.
Seek the starling, sow thine seed,
of blood thus mingled fruit will form.
Vainly ventured, Cirilz peregrine,
men all molder, dwindle, die.”

The silence returned and the oppressive atmosphere in the cave slowly eased off. The marklord stood unmoving, absorbed in reflection. His lips moved, barely noticeably, as he read the stanzas to himself, one by one. For he knew that he had been given something, something valuable, which he could never let himself forget.





The lament of bronze bells sounded over Jhamalo Gedonia. The spring sun stood high in the sky, and out on the streets meltwater drizzled from the roofs in glittering curtains. It was a beautiful day, a shimmering day. Every color seemed brighter, clearer, richer. On the roofs birds flocked, just come home from warmer climes. They sat quietly and did not move. It was starlings, and along the streets it was whispered that they were come to attend the wake of their sister, for whom the bells now rang. Ghanima of Cirilz’ house, who once came from the line of starlings, was dead.

In the house silence reigned. The barely audible tolling of the bells could not pierce it; their music seemed distant and beyond all meaning. The servants in their garbs of mourning carefully kept away from their masters. All were dejected, for there were few in the house who had anything but good things to say about their young housemistress, even when alone.

The door to the bedchamber was barred, and no one, not even the marklord’s sister, had dared approach it. For hours Cirilz had sat on his chair without moving. The marklord leaned forward, his black swell of hair disheveled, his face tense and harrowed. His eyes rested upon the bed and the girl that lay upon it.

She was so beautiful. Had he really not seen it before now? Every time he had neglected her, those nights when he had left her by herself, the harsh commands he had given her, those he now remembered. She had acquiesced to his every proclamation, she had furthered his ambitions without protest, given him that key to power of which the seer had spoken.

A child’s cry, distant, reached him, and he closed his eyes. They burned with sudden pain. The child was his now, and from that moment he first saw her there was no doubt he had attained his goal. He had been given to shape something that was not wholly of this world. Despite what happened, he should be pleased.

She had obeyed him so completely, so perfectly. She had never failed him. She had even given the child the name of Cirilz’ mother, Thizara. She had loved her child, a love that he had seen and been amazed by, as it was even stronger than those ties that ran between her and the marklord. He had been amazed, and aware of the danger. Thizara belonged to him, and she could not be allowed to return her mother’s love with her own. Cirilz’ gift could only have one shaper, and his beautiful wife had become a threat. Why, why couldn’t she have left the young one alone?

The question lacked meaning. Reality was all that mattered. He had wed Ghanima for carefully weighed reasons, and even though he had had nothing against her appearance or against fulfilling his matrimonial duties, marriage was still just a stage in his search for power. He had never allowed anything to stand between him and his goals, and the wine she had drunk that evening he had poured himself. It seemed so long ago, a lifetime, an eternity.

Then, after she had fallen asleep, he had watched her. So peaceful was her face that his eyes dimmed. He did not understand what was happening, he lost control, the throat constricting. But his path was already fixed and he knew inside of him somewhere that if he had been given the choice again he would not change it.

And so, as the stars grew clearer upon the sky, Cirilz peregrine lay and watched his love die. Her breath, soft as a caress, stilled, and her face was pale and lovely on the embroidered pillow. And vulnerable, as he recalled, and very young. Cold slowly crept along his body and stole away sensation – it seemed someone had left a shutter open. Outside a bird was singing, in low tones that soon fell into silence.

Cirilz opened his eyes again, heard the faraway wailing of the child, felt nothing within himself anymore. His playing about with love was over, he had what he had wished for, he could now continue his ascension toward completeness, toward dominion over the land. His child he would have to teach obedience, but he had neither the time nor the knowledge to instruct her in the mystical chimeras she would need. However he had had foresight enough to find a mystic willing to accept a student in secrecy.

He gave a last thought to his daughter as he rose up. She was so unlike her mother, but already he could see how her face began assuming those features that he would never forget. Where her mother had had raven locks, the girl’s hair was fair, and neither Cirilz’ nor Ghanima’s family had ever seen green eyes.

Cirilz watched his wife without expression. She had loved her little devil child, with not a thought on how strange the girl was. Not even the time when invisible hands had thrown toys across the room dampened her feelings. Cirilz thought of Thizara, of how her green eyes had seemed to glitter in the shadows of the nursery. He would not make Ghanimas mistake. To love such a one was to invite ruin. Thizara was a resource, his to form. To do this he could not use her love; it was too hot and too fleeting, it could far too easily transform into something else.

No, he could not trust in love as a guardian for the girl, and neither could he trust simple loyalty. He would teach her fear, fear and obedience. Only then could she serve his purpose.


(To be continued)

[Dalton]

This is very good.

[D.Turtle]

Nice - though not that easy to understand (which is a good thing if done right - which you so far have).

For example what exactly did that old guy in the cave give him? (Rhetorical Question, don't answer :p )

[Eleas]

This is very good.

Thanks, bud.

Nice - though not that easy to understand (which is a good thing if done right - which you so far have).

Thank you.

For example what exactly did that old guy in the cave give him? (Rhetorical Question, don't answer :p )

But I will. It was a weapon.

oooh, don't you just love the mystery?

[Dalton]

This is very good.

Thanks, bud.

Don't think I didn't see that, Jaina.

[Eleas]

Allright. Sorry about the wait, translating this story turned out to be tougher than I thought. I'm still not quite satisfied with all of it, but I guess that's the bane of Those Who Write.

Anyway, here goes.


Chapter Two

Winter held the city in its merciless grasp. Murderous cold swept in from the sea, whose waves reared like dark mountains to throw themselves against the rocky shore. The larger ships were all tethered; dinghies and rafts all lay pulled up on the beach, rocking to and fro in the gale. Out there the cold ruled, and no man freely chose to challenge its dominion.

Inside the chamber, however, there was warmth, despite the bare stone walls. The room was richly decorated – the furniture consisted of beautifully carved wood articles, on which bronze candelabras stood. A bed dominated one corner, and its covers were of the finest wool. Yet all that this extravagance succeeded in doing was to emphasize what lay behind. The floor, where it wasn’t covered by the splendid crimson rug, was stomped earth, the fireplace with its merrily glowing flame no more than a hewn-out hole in the wall. The ceiling was covered in spider web, and windows were not to be found. The chamber, however gilded it might be, was a cage, and its owner knew this.

Over the sounds of the fire, above crackling and clicking, sounded a child’s voice. Her voice was high yet light, the tone contemplative, the words intoned with a noticeable rhythm.

“…earth to bring, water to mold, wind to grant speed, fire to temper. Powers, hear me, let my spirit claim this shell.” The voice was calm, almost lethargic. “By the Dragon, the Spider, by Singer and Weaver, may my words be made flesh.” Only the murmurs of the fire followed her words, and she said no more.

The child reclined in the great armchair that stood against wall. So small was her form that she, even though her legs were pulled up, didn’t fill more than half of it. She balanced a clay bowl on one of her knees, and watched as thick gray smoke curled ceilingward from it.

She watched the smoke with a dreaming, remote gaze. The short hair framed her eyes, is fell soft as dandelion down over her slender neck. The girl was slight and slim, fragile as a nestling. She sat quite still while the smoke undulated before her eyes.

A snort was heard from the room’s other inhabitant, followed by a sigh. The old man rose unsteadily from his stool and adopted a resigned expression. He groped for his staff, swept his cloak tighter around himself. The firelight played on the mystical signs embroidered in the cloth and granted them momentary life.

The man stomped the floor determinedly, eliciting no reaction whatsoever from his young student. Again he sighed, and mumbled to himself an incantation for extended patience. How he, Hacar the Mystic, the greatest wizard in Jhamalo Gedonia, had deserved this fate was beyond his comprehension.

“Thizara?” he asked quietly, convinced it would not amount to anything.

The girl gave no sign of answering. She appeared far away, and Hacar gently lifted away the smoking bowl from her limp grasp. There were mystic decoctions in the bowl that burned like fire, and he did not wish for the girl to spill it over herself with a sudden movement. If Hacar feared anything, it was that the lass would hurt herself while under his tutelage.

He bent over her, and noted to himself how her chest did not move, that she wasn’t breathing. Black magic and deviltry. However much he himself trafficked with wizardry, this was something he had never learned about, never mastered. He knew, by some means he could not explain, that Thizaras strangenesses weren’t like his own. She was unnatural in a way he could not understand.

Yet again he wondered whether he might have been wiser to leave the city so long ago, that day when the messenger had offered him service with the marklord. But the abundance of coins that the messenger had brought with him had even been enough to dull Hacar the Powerful’s senses and lead him from the light, and he had laughed as he accepted the assignment as teacher in Cirilz’ house. What a fool he had been.

He was drawn from his self pity by the girl’s movement. A
weak gasp was heard – air drawn sharply drawn into her lungs. Thizara, daughter of Cirilz, leaned on her knees and shut her eyes tightly, and her slight body shuddered.

Hacar put on a determined expression and looked down at the girl.

“Young lady,” he angrily began, “I am your teacher, and you will listen to me! Had you merely meant your incantation the Powers would have granted it. Instead you presume to mock both them and me, to fall asleep, yes, even in the unnatural fashion you practice!” The old man shook a gnarled fist. “I would not have been surprised if the Highest had decided to strike you to the ground for your impertinence!”

The girl looked up at him, and the fire danced in her eyes.

“You only think that,” she mumbled, and turned her gaze away, “because you are stupid and talk rubbish, Shael always says so.”

“What?” Hacar the Magician could not believe his ears. That
impudent little girl-child had just dared question his knowledge. She had spit him in the face, and worse than that was the complete indulgence with which she had regarded him. Suddenly furious, he took a step forward and raised his hand to strike.

“My deepest apology for interruption your lessons, master Hacar,” spoke marklord Cirilz’ voice from the shadows around the door. A cold smile rested on his lips as he strode closer toward the startled mystic, who seemed close to fainting. The man’s hand was still held high, as if he couldn’t decide whether to lay hand on the marklord’s daughter.

The marklord’s steps slowed the closer he came to his daughter. She gazed up at him, held her arms tightly clasped about her legs. He noted her sudden attention with pleasure; she knew to show him obedience where she merely tolerated her teachers. In one way this was a good thing – she would obey his words, not those of some half-mad old trickster – but she would have to learn as well. Without knowledge she would remain a weapon without edge; fair to look upon, but useless for her true purpose.

So Cirilz came to a crouch and let his gloved hand close around the girl’s chin. Slowly he spoke, and his eyes burned deeper into hers with each word.

“Daughter of my blood, I care not what you think about that oldster and his drivel. Mock him to yourself if it pleases you, let your thought run away from him if you so wish, and I will have no reason for annoyance.” His grasp tightened about her cheeks, and she let out a weak, sleepy whimper. “But he is here to instruct you, for which I have paid him. Thus you will henceforth obey this mystic and listen attentively to his lessons, little bird, or I will snap your neck, do you understand that?”

Only now could be seen a trace of any emotion over Thizara’s face, and the old mystic looked on in frightened silence to see her open her mouth to answer.

“Y-yes, father... I promise.”

His hand slowly relaxed his grip around her cheeks, and then he gave her an almost gentle pat on the head. “Good girl,” he said, and rose, “we get along so well.”

Without hurrying, the marklord turned toward Hacar, and his smile dried up. Hacar took an involuntary step backward. He was frightened now, more frightened than he had ever been before, he remembered the stories about what had happened to the girl’s former teacher when he had ventured to touch his student in a way that only a lover should, and he shivered as if ill. Cirilz’ face was cold and still as a cliff face, and the purposeful way in which he worked toward Hacar made the old man stumble backward.

“Try to understand me correctly now, my friend,” Cirilz said soberly, “there are limits to the knowledge I wish the girl to learn. And she is my daughter, after all. Let her partake of all the superstition you dabble in, so long as she from these can glean some small seed of truth.”

“Lord,” the old man protested strainedly, fumbling for his usual grandiose phrases, “I will teach her the deepest of secrets...”

Without batting an eye, Cirilz slammed his hand deep into Hacars stomach. The old man gave as thin wheezing sound and crumpled on the rug. Above him towered Cirilz, ever calm.

“Hacar the Wizard, do not think to put fear in me with your hocus pocus. You could not frighten a simple farm hand.” The old man drew breath to protest, but the marklord kicked him hard in the belly, and the unformed sentence left his lips as a choked sob. “Why do you think I chose you for my purposes, Hacar Conjurer? Think! You can read texts and have knowledge of the Black Arts, even if most of your ideas are made up of ignorance and superstition. But you are too dull of mind to turn the girl against me, and too cowardly to try. You are my hound, and that you will remain.

Cirilz turned from the trembling, blubbering heap at his feet, turned from his daughter who in her couch emptily gazed at the air before her. He looked down at his gloved hands. Fear. Fear was what would bind his daughter tighter to him. He disliked having to engage in simple brawling, but both Thizara and her teacher had begun to show the signs of disobedience, and such could not be tolerated. Perhaps he would even find himself forced to sacrifice Hacar for the sake of the girl, but that did not constitute any great loss in the end. There was certainly no lack of old drunkards in Jhamalo Gedonia.

Cirilz nodded to himself. And in a sweep of cloth and shadow he left the chamber, pursued by the sobbing of an old man.





And days, months, years passed, and the girl studied and learned, and Cirilz found himself contented. She was still small, frail, and prone to strange behaviors. But as she obediently studied and payed heed to her teacher, he let it lie. For what he wanted was results, and in that regard Thizara did not disappoint him; every day she made progress, and it seemed almost as if she understood more the more difficult and peculiar the lessons grew. Strange it was still, but he was proud of his project, for at last Thizara began to aquiesce. Surely she would in time grow up completely and leave recalcitrance and disobedience behind her.

Then came the time of the Renewal, this highest of Cirefalian festivals. That the marklord was to host a banquet might concievably be thought strange for those familiar of the Cirefalian mind’s love of money, but this was Renewal, when Cirefalian diligence and perseverance was lain aside. And no one could doubt Cirilz’ wealth when he had so much coin to spend, could they?

The chandeliers swayed as they rose toward the vaulted ceiling. Tabestries billowed in the draft from the open gates, the heavy scent of grilled meat and fried mushroom gave way for fresh sea air. Through the halls strode the marklord like a hunting cat through a djungle, wary, dangerous, beautiful; the draft played with the deep red fabric of the cloak, and his otherwise black attire contrasted with the pallor of his face. Royal was his appearance, cold and noble and yet at the same time so hard, so implacable, as if something had frozen to ice within him long ago. And shadowed by the cloak that swept out like blood-dipped wings his daughter followed, in a dress as ethereal and pale as mist. Her hair, golden blond and long, was made up in a complicated braid, and she wore rings of silver on both hands. She was fourteen years old, this spring.

The sun had reached high outside, and the light that spilled in through the gates was warm and inviting. Still the cold of winter lingered in the hall, and servants shivered and slapped themselves to keep warm when they found the time. Cirilz watched over them, and Thizara followed him in silence.

Finally they reached the great hall. Oak gates, thick as the marklord’s wrist, had been thrown open and latched to the wall. Through the opening great tables could be glimpsed, flaring firepans, crystal goblets that twinkled in the gloom. The marklord bent over his daughter and spoke to her in low tones.

“Now, daughter, mind what I told you. I have young sir Dzirin in my palm, he will do anything I bid. And so shall you, too, is that not so?”

“Yes, father.” The girl’s gaze was on the paved floor. Cirilz made his voice milder. Despite everything he was not heartless, and Thizara had served him well.

“Daughter, Dzirin Mezinor is not a bad man. He is wealthy, he will honor you as is your due, and he will neither beat you often nor without cause. You still have a long life ahead of you. Be glad.”

“I am glad, father,” the girl whispered obediently. Cirilz heard the undertone in her voice, but did not care too much about it. He had done what he could to make sure that the girl would live in safety until she was needed. He would have preferred in if she could have stayed with him, but that would have raised too many questions – if he had this beautiful daughter, why would he not marry her off? Politically it would have drawn too much attention. No, this was the better way – and adding to that his daughter would now have a better life than many others, even if she did not know it at the moment.

A servant materialized at the marklord’s elbow and announced the arrival of the first guests. Cirilz smiled a pale smile, as was his custom, and swept out to meet his likes. Alliances were to be knit, lords defamed, power redistributed. There was much to do.

(to be continued)

[Eleas]

Ok, despite the less than overwhelming feedback I've got (not to whine here, but it's the bread and butter of fiction writers) I'm going for the conclusion. At last, I've finished the two last chapters. Enjoy.

Chapter Three


When the evening had grown late, as the scent of roast meat and smoke hung heavy and the tones of the harp seemed distant, Dzirin Mezinor remained at his place by the table. Many a guest had left, either for home or the local pleasure houses, but to Dzirin the evening was not yet over. The red wine that filled his glass was magnificent, the food was excellent, the entertainment beyond compare.

But beyond all this something else drew him; a mystique, a sort of alluring mystery, a lovely riddle whose answer he sought. Dzirin loved mysteries; the search for knowledge was what had first led him to the marklord. How fitting it was that the most attractive of all secrets wore the guise of that one’s beautiful daughter.

No, beautiful she wasn’t, Dzirin corrected himself. For that, she was too young. Yet perhaps there was a kind of slumbering beauty inside her, something that had not yet come to bloom. At the moment she was rather pretty, with her endearing smile and eyes that seemed somewhere between sadness and reverie.

A riddle. Thizara, she had introduced herself, and her voice had reminded him of a flute, high and almost inaudibly soft. He had scrutinized her slight form, countenance, the blond hair that so clearly contrasted from that of anyone else in the hall.

Was she in truth Cirefalian born? Dzirin knew better than to ask her father; to disclose any such would have been a slight against the honor of the whole family. But on the other hand, he had met the mother, and saw her in shape of the girl’s head; to that came her father’s features, like those of a bird of prey, could be seen around her eyes, milder certainly, but clearly visible if one knew where to look. Of that the girl was the daughter of Cirilz and Ghanima he was certain. Where her divergent features had come from was just like the rest of her: a mystery.

Despite the fact that the girl was seven years younger than he was, Dzirin had not felt that he stood before a child. He had addressed her as if he had spoken to anyone else, and conquered the girl’s shyness with patience and kindness. When the girl had finally gathered courage to answer Dzirin’s questions his amazement grew, for after a while, when her studies became the subject of their discussion, their conversation took a peculiar turn. She spoke of things he had earlier only heard of in fragments or fairy tales, and in her words they seemed ordinary things. Slowly he began to realize what the marklord was planning for his daughter, and he stifled triumphant laughter as he saw how he could wield these plans for his own purposes.

Dzirin already knew what the marklord wished, and he was greatly pleased with it. He would gladly accept Thizara’s hand – the girl seemed obedient and respectful, and he was forced to admit to himself that she had charmed him. But he realized that his control over the girl would make him indispensable to Cirilz Peregrine for all future, and considering how dangerous the man was, this was nothing to scoff at.

He inclined himself toward the girl, who looked up at him with a cat’s stare.

“Young mistress, will you accompany me to the garden?”

Her almost instantaneous nod put a faint, unknowing smile on his lips.





They slid out the doors and left the banquet behind. The garden was silent and cold, and frost glittered in the light of the moon. Thizara moved beside him, and moonlight set her garments and silver ornaments aglow. At times she glanced at him, at the tall man that was so strangely near her. They wandered through the garden, where white flowers had just began their bloom and the trees stood bare and gray. Marble statues towered here and there, and moonlight shone from above. None of them appeared to feel the need to talk, and therefore the quiet lasted. He was the first to break it.

“It is cold here, but the chill is biting. Are you cold, young mistress?”

Thizara nodded faintly, not answering, and wordlessly he swept his cloak about her shoulders. The girl appeared to stiffen for a moment, but then leaned into his arms.

“...thank you.”

“When I was small, my father used to travel to our hunting castle in Tamzhak. The stars were so clear there that you could see them all.” He smiled out in the darkness. “One of them fell before me. Seldom have I turned my eyes to the night sky thereafter.”

“A sea of stars.” Her voice was dreamy and somewhat distant. The words roused a slumbering memory somewhere within Dzirin, but he shrugged it off and nodded. Now their steps had brought them to the railing that surrounded the canal. There they stood for a moment, glancing at each other, and their breath came in tiny clouds.

“Your sister was here, mistress Thizara.”

Thizara didn’t answer at once. Then... “I was small when we met last time. Her, I don’t remember that well.”

“Mezinor House is close to her home,” he said in a low voice.

“Mezinor House? Where you live...?” She looked uncertain.

“Close and good for visiting her, whenever you should wish, when finally we are wed husband and wife.”

Slowly, she turned away from him, and said nothing more.

“Mistress Thizara?”

The girl gave a small nod, her face in shadow.

“Will you not look at me?” Dzirin did not know why he asked the question, it came suddenly and without his thinking of it, shaped by some intangible emotion. But perhaps it was the right thing to say, for Thizara turned her face to him again. Her eyes gleamed green and clear as jewels in the dark, and the lips trembled.

Confused, Dzirin looked at her. When first he had come here, he had expected to marry the daughter of a marklord. He had visualized her as a haughty, cunning, demanding young lady, a naïve business partner with whom he would have to bargain. He had not imagined this quiet girl with secrets from past ages. And strangely enough he felt surprised.

“Girl, what oppresses you?”

“Girl?” Her eyes flashed for a moment, before they again grew remote, sad. “When we are... wed, is that what you will call me?”

“I will call you my wife,” he answered quietly, somewhat perplexed, “and honor you above all else.”

She seemed almost glad at his words, perhaps because he so clearly meant them, and scrutinized him in silence. After a few moments, Dzirin almost began to feel a vague sense of unease at her stare, so searching was it.

“That might be nice,” she shyly whispered, and again watched him with that dreaming stare. He felt his hand being pressed, softly, and the strange sense of relief that welled up inside him puzzled him. “Come,” Thizara went on, smiling a wan smile, “let us go back before you freeze to death.”







It was midnight in the house of Cirilz. The halls were deserted and gloom ruled them, for the lights had all burnt out, the servants all gone back to their houses. None had taken any notice of that frail girl that, half-sleeping, had been leaning against the high back of her chair, as if were it a throne for a pale princess.

She blinked, slowly sat up, looked about herself with newly woken eyes. At some point her future husband seemed to have left her side. The rim of his crystal goblet gleamed weakly in a thin moonbeam that had found its way through the window, and somewhere farther away by the wall, a fire pan sputtered.

“I was told that you behaved in a fitting manner this evening, daughter. Is it so?”

Thizara jumped from surprise. Her father stood by the door diagonally behind her. In his hand was a lantern, and its mild rays gave his black garb a warmer tone than earlier. Dazed with sleep, the girl came to her feet and unsteadily stood at the end of the table.

“Well? Did he find you fair, little Thizara?” Cirilz demanded.

“I don’t know, father,” she said in a pitiful voice. “But he was nice. I think he enjoyed talking to me.”

“Well, then,” he said in a satisfied tone, “that was very well done.” He took a few steps toward her, and then stopped. “Come now, girl, this is no place for you to sleep.”

Mutely she rose and allowed him to guide her away through the corridor. Within her, she felt uncertain. She did not understand why the marklord himself chose to bring her to her room when a servant could just as easily have done so, and as ever the fear of her father rested beneath the surface, ready to blossom into full panic.

“So, girl.” The marklord’s voice echoed faintly from the corridor walls. “Tell me, what did the two of you speak about, you and young master Mezinor?”

Thizara lowered her gaze and, after a moment, answered. “He asked me about my studies... and then we spoke of Zhanna.”

The marklord nodded in satisfaction, and his thin smile resurfaced. It was obvious to him that the girl had been touched by the handsome young nobleman, and she would certainly not have too many objections to wedding him when the time came.

He was, of course, required to instruct Dzirin in the need for Thizara to receive additional instruction. As of yet, she could only read and write Falian and the Asharine tongue, but her fool of a teacher had insisted that the Ancient Tongue would give her great ability to steep herself in forgotten arts. In this case, Cirilz was almost inclined to agree with the old man.

He was so deeply immersed in his considerations that, at first, he didn’t hear Thizara’s words.

“Father?”

He turned around, for she had halted a few steps behind him.

“There’s a knife on the floor, father.”

Cirilz walked up to his daughter and saw that it was so. In a side passage gleamed a knife upon the gray tiling, its blade stained.

The marklord’s eyes narrowed and he fingered his sword hilt. “Blood,” he stated without expression, and looked about. “Daughter, stay behind me. Tonight, we have uninvited guests.”

A scraping sound was heard, followed by a crash that resounded in the corridor. Cirilz strode toward one of the doors, the one that stood slightly ajar. The marklord’s broadsword gleamed in his hand, and his gaze was wary. His expression made it plain from where the Peregrines had taken their name.

He threw the door wide open and took a swift step inside, with the sword poised to strike. Here lay yet another corridor, this one with a wooden floor, where the lighting was better, for torches still guttered along the walls. On the floor at the marklord’s feet were three of his servants. Their bodies sprawled over one other. Torchlight lent their shadows ghostly life, and gleamed off the growing pool of dark fluid in which they lay. Cirilz quietly doubted it was wine.

A gasp sounded behind him, and he turned to Thizara with a cold stare that silenced her. Her appearance showed that she was shaken, perhaps even hysterical. A hard slap across the cheek seemed to wake her from the shock, and she cringed away from him in remembered fear. A rivulet of blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.

The clatter of weapons came from around the bend of the corridor. Cirilz sneaked closer inside, quiet as a whisper. With the sword he had few equals in this city, this he knew, and where his guards ever where he could not wait for them. One of the ones fighting should be on his side, and if this was the case he could not afford to wait for him to fall.

He stepped around the corridor’s end and remained standing. The light of the moon fell in through windows set into the walls; its pale rays illuminated the thick tapestries on the opposite side and made silver embroidery glow like witchfire. Near the middle of the corridor, two men fought each other with drawn swords. A third lay unmoving beside one of the many alcoves that divided the tapestries.

Cirilz carefully advanced, his senses stretched to the breaking point, he could hear Thizara’s light footfall and feel the fury with which the two men battled. One of them staggered backwards, and his opponent rushed to make the kill. Cirilz’ lantern must have warned him, however, as he twisted around and swept away the marklord’s cut with a smile that lit up the gloom.

“You!” Cirilz called.

“I,” the man confirmed with a mocking half-bow. “My father finally decided to reclaim our birthright.” They began circling each other, while the wounded crawled backwards. The moonlight suddenly grew clearer, and by its light Cirilz could see that it was Dzirin. The marklord’s sword flickered and his gaze turned hard and void of pity.

“Your birthright?” Cirilz laughed coldly and took a step closer, feinted, cut. His blade sliced through flesh and twisted a scream from the other. “The birthright that awaited you was death, and that is what I will now give you.”

“Your guards have been silenced,” hissed the assassin back, “there is none to help you now.”

Without warning, Cirilz broke his own rhythm and pressed the man backward with a series of attacks that only moonlight made visible. His steps and cuts seemed relaxed, almost indolent. Behind him he heard shuffling sounds, probably Thizara, seeking to help Dzirin. “Help I do not need. But, my friend,” Cirilz added kindly, “who will help you?”

It was the widening of his opponent’s eyes that allowed Cirilz to interpret the sounds behind him so as to avoid death. He pivoted, swinging the oil lantern, which missed the other assassin by a handswith. The lamp struck a tapestry and shattered utterly, and oil washed over the fabric, as Cirilz retreated.

Now, the roles were reversed. The marklord was a skilled fencer, but not so skilled as to be able to stand against two experienced warriors. With his dagger in his left hand and the broadsword in his right he was still a formidable foe, and none of the two gave sign of wanting to rush him head-on. Instead, they began slow and methodical attempts to maneuver around him so they could attack him from two sides. They ignored Dzirin Mezinor, whose life now left him, and the girl Thizara, lying unconscious by a stone pillar further away. Even the shaft of fire that had risen along the wall with such unnatural speed had to stand aside for this battle, for straying attention would only invite death.

The interplay was like a game, deadly exciting, where the smallest misstep could be the last. Cirilz maneuvered watchfully and concentratedly, as did the other two. Occasionally he would assail one enemy with a series of lightning-quick probes, before he just as quickly withdrew. The two murderers, in turn, conducted their own coordinated attacks, but so far Cirilz had managed to avoid being surrounded and slain.

The flames hungrily groped higher; the whole tapestry was now ablaze. The moonlight paled in comparison to their flickering dance, the low crackling now grown into a murderous roar. Strips of the cloth began curling back, bent towards the hall, fell in a rain of sparks on the cold floor. The ceiling was pierced, a bonfire that sought its way between planks and stone. One of the black-garbed attackers cast a quick look toward the inferno, and worry was stamped across his face.

Cirilz chose that precise moment to strike. His dagger glinted in the air and revolved once before piercing the assassin’s throat. The man emitted a gurgling sound, but did not fall. With raised weapon he rushed for the marklord, who lithely stepped aside and dispatched him with a deep cut that laid his stomach wide open.

The marklord’s motion continued up and around, for he knew that the other surely had to be attacking his unprotected back with his sword. He was almost right.

Cirilz had a moment to realize what had happened before the assassin’s blocking movement locked his sword and pushed it aside. The other hand, previously empty, now held a dagger, glinting in the ruddy light.

Still, the marklord was not defeated. The attacker’s thrust arrested an inch from Cirilz’ midriff, and gloved fingers held the murderer’s wrist like a vise. Their swords clattered to the floor, and a wilder, more animalistic melee began.

Beams groaned. Heat roared. Blood soiled marble. The murderer was very strong, and hate blazed in his eyes. They knew each other, the two, their families had plotted for a long time, each having sought to wrest power to itself and from the other. Now they struggled, strength against strength, and Cirilz felt himself slowly forcing the knife back.

He awarded himself a small smile at the other, who stiffened. The knife’s path once again came to a stop. Then, its path turned, rapidly, and in a moment’s epiphany, Cirilz realized that it was over.

Cirilz Peregrine, marklord of Kavarc, took two steps backward. His body felt suddenly heavy, his movements jerky. Feeling had departed his upper body, cold seeped into his chest, he wanted to breathe but something was in the way. When he coughed, blood spattered over the floor.

The murderer smiled down at his rival. It had taken time, so much time, and he had almost feared the Peregrine would escape death, but in the end he was just a man, and his luck had now run out. The man regarded the red spot that slowly grew on Cirilz’ breast. His lips stretched in a grin. Cirilz was dying, he could see that, and the world around paled at the sight of the family’s hated rival. Now he was crushed, fallen, lying in his own blood. The black-clad man laughed to himself, low, triumphant.

His laughter died, and a sudden chill took him. Abruptly, he saw the flames around himself, realized the danger he was in, and when he turned, his only thought was of escape, for there was still a way past the fire.

But before him stood a small girl. Her braids had unraveled and the flaxen hair billowed in the shuddering winds of the fire. Fire was everywhere, she seemed surrounded at all sides, in a sea of flames that had not yet devoured them both. It was the intense glow that first made him doubt the witness of his eyes, but he could see shapes in the firelight, faces, hands. Terror grasped at him when he felt their gazes lock on him, when the girl’s lips curved in the suggestion of a smile.

A shout of terror escaped him. The man turned and ran, past his enemy, past all the collapsed, burning debris. The windowsills were radiantly ablaze, but he did not care about that, because he wanted to flee, away from what awaited him in the fiery heart of the house.

With no thought of how high he was above the ground, he crouched to throw himself through the window pane. A hideous cracking sound came from the ceiling, it seemed to suffuse his being. He felt a powerful blow to his shoulders that stunned him, and when boulders and burning wood came crashing from above to bury him utterly, his last thought was on how beautiful it was.




He felt the heat of the stone beneath him, but his body was heavy with a chill that no fire might banish. Still he found the strength to open his eyes, for he was Cirilz of Kavarc, and he would let himself be conquered by no one, not even his own body. His groping hands found the raised edges of the parquet floor, and he tensed his muscles, pulled. Slowly, methodically, he started moving. The wood was slick with his blood and that made it easier.

The fire was everywhere. Flames thrust ceilingward, coiled about pillar, and the light was blinding. Cirilz’ eyes teared, but he stubbornly fought on between the flickers and the gusts. With jerky movements he looked around for a way out, but the flames closed in about him and he felt a peculiar longing for their warmth, for the cold that spread through him brought a faint dread. He blinked away tears from stinging eyes, and the flames reared before him. When again they nodded, it was Thizara’s face that he saw past the wall of fire, mere steps away. The ring that hung from her ear glittered in the light, and he clearly saw that its sign no longer was the peregrine. Where the fires had touched it, the earring was black as soot.

He looked into her eyes as she stood there. The marklord’s blood ran slower now, and he would soon be entirely empty, yet he could not tear his gaze away from his daughter. Inferno’s light made her seem yet paler than earlier, and he could see her eyes, half closed, as if he was already far away. And while his heartbeats grew slower one by one, he seemed to see her eyes reflecting them, glittering in green, a pulse following his own. Cirilz of Kavarc, son of peregrines, all that was what he was, and now he would die. So was this, then, his life, what he had reached, what he had reached, what he had attained? Was it really over? The question echoed within his head.

And still, when he saw the expression with which his daughter regarded him, he rather asked if what he saw in her face was loathing or regret, love or guilt.

Then the flames rose to the darkness, and Cirilz’ himself rose to join them.

[Eleas]

Chapter Four - Epilogue

In the outlying lands of Caserion, among tall trees and long overgrown fields, four men watchfully made their way through thick vegetation. The autumn winds swept over them and tore at their clothes and cloaks. Despite the raw climate they kept a good pace, and did not speak among themselves.

The first of them was hunched and looked unkempt, with a brush-like beard that looked as if it hadn’t been combed in years. His bare skull bore wide scars from the plague, and his eyes glowered at trees and bushes. From his belt hung the long dagger that the Cirefalians call radard, and despite his clumsy appearance, the man’s steps were almost devoid of sound.

The second carried a suit of armor, all metal, plates that covered torso and arms. His long, drooping moustache had grown unchecked, as had his brown hair. An ax was in his hand, and he gripped it close to the head, ready to clasp the handle the instant it was necessary.

The third one was tall and gangly, with a fixed grin that more seemed to stem from paralysis than joy. His hair was white and stood out in all directions. His hand held a bow in its hard grasp. The eyes radiated malice and hatred.

The last man walked behind the others with long, lithe strides. Tall of stature, well proportioned and flawless was his figure, his clothes and appearance that of a nobleman, perhaps a knight. He also had a weapon, however – a gigantic sword slung across his back, a shield behind it, and the company’s second long dagger in a sheath at his hip. His gaze rested on their backs with a sort of amused tolerance.

Darkness fell eventually. They no longer traversed any path, which slowed them somewhat; still, they were experienced woodsmen and had a direction firmly fixed. It was easy to find the way when ones only goal was to quickly disappear.

They ascended a hill, whose steep incline was a muddle of boulders and thick roots. The evening mist was a curtain of droplets that gave the tree-trunks a glistening aspect. Overhead, tattered clouds raced toward the last dim remnants of the setting sun.

The foremost man stiffened where he stood atop the hill; his form was visible only as a featureless silhouette against the heavens. He raised his hand for the others to halt. For a moment he regarded something the others could not see, whereupon he made his way down toward them again.

“Yes?” said the well-dressed man. He gestured impatiently with one hand. The gnarled man spat at the ground in answer.

“Saw something on the other side, Dzerdan. Maybe an animal, but could be man.”

“The rest of us stay here,” Dzerdan decided. “You, Utman, you go and look closer. If you can get us meat, try not to frighten it away.”

Without giving any reply, Utman once again set off and made his way up the slope, while the others relieved themselves of their baggage. The silence hung heavy over the group – the man with the axe glared suspiciously at his fellow travelers, Dzerdan seemed ever amused, while the white-haired man’s grin widened and he began rocking gently to and fro.

Soon enough, a shape detached from the gathering gloom. Very soon, Utman’s form was clearly recognizable, some sort of bundle lying slung across one shoulder. No, upon closer inspection its was obvious that it was no bundle, but rather a body.

“Excellent,” the white-haired man chuckled in a broken voice. “What did you say, Dzerdan, don’t we have meat now? Young, tender?” He stared maniacally at the pale-haired shape that limply hung in Utman’s arms.

“Shut your mouth, Tozirc,” Dzerdan replied tranquilly. The two laid down the unconscious figure on the ground before them, after which he turned to the scout. “What happened?”

“Knocked ‘er out,” Utman grunted in answer. “All alone, she never saw me coming.”

Dzerdan regarded their prey. “What is a little girl doing all alone out in these woods?”

“Don’t know. Seemed right daft, she did, talking to herself in night and darkness.”

The last in the company to speak since their stop, the one in armor, did so now. His deep voice carried a pronounced accent. “We could ask the girl. She should know if she’s seen any more of the leader’s men.”

Tozirc favored the words with a derisive smile. “Someone else, out here? As things went for our side, I doubt there’s anyone left. Would be best if we take her here and now and leave her to the foxes. She looks juicy.” If possible, Tozirc’s smile grew yet more rigid at the words. The other did not answer, but his expression clearly showed the disgust he felt.

“Enough, Tozirc. Vomar is right.” Dzerdan smoothed out his resplendent jacket with one hand. “Pleasure can wait until afterward, when she’s told us what she knows.” His hand rested gently on his sword hilt, seemingly by chance, but the others instantly grew quiet, for they knew the man’s reputation, and, worse, they knew him. He had killed before, and for less cause. “Look here. She has an earring, as is customary among our people. Vomar, what does the inscription say?”

The quiet man bent over the girl for a few moments. Then, he rose and shook his head.

“Oh well.” Dzerdan leaned back on a rock. “We wait.”

The girl’s eyes slowly cracked open. Four robbers stared down at her slight form where she lay between them. Dzerdan smiled winningly and knelt before her.

“Cirza’s peace this evening, young lady.” His voice was like honey. “What is a girl like you doing all alone out here?”

The girl turned toward the voice, a slightly clumsy movement. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, and then, softly, she spoke.

“...hello...”

“And hello to you as well,” Dzerdan replied, smiling at her, obviously unfazed by her reaction. “Do you live here?” The girl smiled slightly back at him, watched her surroundings with a thoughtful stare.

“Father lives here...” she said in a somewhat vague tone, which then grew troubled. “Where is Marnan? We spoke...”

“You are alone now,” was Dzerdan’s bland answer, and deep within his friendly gaze, something nasty stirred. “But we wish to meet your father, I and my friends. We are wanderers and both tired and hungry, we seek shelter for the night.”

“Oh,” the girl murmured. When Dzerdan pulled her up from the ground she made no move to resist. Neither did she appear to notice the stares of the men, or even Tozirc’s hideous grin.

“Well then, girl, what is your name?”

“Thizara.” Dzerdan sketched a small bow in answer.

“Thizara, what a lovely name. I am Dzerdan. Will you bring us to your home?”

She nodded solemnly.

“Come...”





They neared the first stone pillars in mounting disbelief. The girl’s strides were slow and she had brought them down into a hollow where the trees grew high and close, and the air seemed thick, stifling.

“Thizara, was that your name?” Dzerdan asked in a kindly tone. The girl nodded slowly. “Is it far to go?”

“No,” she replied gently, “...we have arrived...”

Without warning, his grip around her shoulders grew hard as steel and he towered over her. “You crazy wench,” he hissed scornfully, “if you think to hide your travelmates from me, you are mistaken.” A hard shove landed her in Tozirc’s arms, and that one tittered contentedly at the sound of Dzerdan’s voice. “But I care not if you are alone. We can certainly find some use for your warm little body, regardless.”

The girl lowered her gaze to the ground. She murmured something inaudible while Dzerdan drew his radard and advanced upon her. Grasping her hair, he harshly drew her head back and exposed her throat. Her empty expression brought a smile to his face.

“...oh...” the girl murmured without rancor. She seemed surprisingly calm, but was probably in shock; her tone was as one sleeping. “Was it you that Marnan told me about... the guests that were to come?” Dzerdan’s knife halted a moment in the process of slitting the fabric of her dress.

“The guests?” He laughed with genuine amusement. “Girl, you are mad. We take what we will, we kill those that would stop us and we bed their women.”

She looked at him with a peculiar intensity and he suddenly found himself silent.

“Warriors... escaped from your service.” The girl’s eyes turned serious. “Father will be angry...”

The first blow struck her across the cheek. Dzerdan’s fist still grasped the dagger, but even without this additional weight he was a strong man; her frail form slipped out of Tozirc’s hands and fell to the ground among the pale flowers. This time, Dzerdan walked up to her to kick her, hard, in the side. She coughed, curling in upon herself weakly. Vomar took a step forward uncertainly, but looked at his leader and stopped.

“Pain is such an amusing, wondrous toy,” Dzerdan said informatively. “I have found that it sooner or later ever gives me what I wish.” The girl coughed wetly, a crimson spray upon the grass. “And now, little Thizara, before we give you what all whores deserve, you will tell me where to find this father of yours.”

The girl writhed and coughed up some blood. Her lips moved weakly.

“...he calls me his beloved daughter... father will... will be... so angry... so angry...”

Dzerdan raised his foot to deliver yet another kick.

And horror erupted.

Tozirc staggered backward, away from his leader, screaming. Dzerdan stood motionless, staring down at his own body. His face, moments ago so handsome, now twisted by an animal fear of death and by the dark blood that now coursed from his skin. It gushed from the nose in a red cascade, welled from the mouth and strangled his building cry to a gurgling, trickled out from behind the wildly staring eyes. The rich clothes darkened in a moment. Then he fell backward, ever wailing, as a cut tree falls.

With staring eyes, Vomar backed a few steps, then began running, away from the group, away from the girl, away from whatever hellish thing had ever befallen the others. Branches whipped his armor’s plates, and he clenched the axe in his grip. Over there, he saw an opening between the trees. It was dark, perhaps just a hollow, but even if it was, he could hide there until the danger had passed... perhaps.

Utman did not hesitate in his escape. He had left the place before Dzerdan’s body hit the ground; none of them had been good friends, and all that had kept them together was the tall robber knight, who had united them in fear of his cruel pleasures. He did not mourn the others; he would probably do almost as well alone...

Suddenly, he gave a roar of pain. He felt as if clawing fingers had bored into him just below his shoulder blades, as if they twisted and tore into his flesh. He staggered on, almost crashed into a tree. Again, the pain gripped him, almost bringing him to his knees. He spat out blood and dimly realized he had bit through his lip. Then, pain came again, intensely, more powerfully, and now he did fall to his knees beside a small pond. The pain was ripping him to pieces... it came in thrusts now, whiplashes. Pain became his world.

He screamed, and then, with an abrupt jerk, his heart ceased beating.





She came walking toward the opening with stumbling steps, and it gaped at her like a dark mouth. The girl was pale and her eyes half closed, and she could hardly stand on her legs. Her ancient garb was stained by earth and by blood. More dead than alive she looked to be. Yet her eyes behind the squinting eyelids were strangely clear. They stared at the entrance, and caught a small movement within.

A man she had seen a few moments before stepped out into the starlight, a man armored in iron, his axe still resting in his hand. The face was in shadow, but Thizara could see clearly how his eyes glimmered with a soft, bluish flame. The shape raised its free arm and made a small motion.

“...Brendel’thor undach’ga’tan...” the girl murmured unsteadily.

“...daughter, come to me. Your flame gutters.” Vomar’s voice was not the same. It was deeper now, in some ways empty, with an indefinably older ring to it.

Step after step she approached, reached the threshold. The masonry was withered and furrowed, well hid for the unknowing, but she knew it well, and leaned on Vomar as he took hold of her, supported her and gently brought her before her, into the darkness. A ray of light from above glittered on her earring, whose face was no longer blackened.

“...father. I am cold, father.”

“Daughter, my daughter. In my realm, you will live for ever.”


The End


"...where is their memory, where did they go?
who still remembers their soul-fire's glow?
Cairn-stones are crumbling, time passes slow,
grass growing tall on the barrow."
--Danarthene dirge (translated)

[Pendragon]

Good work! Im insprired!

[The Duchess of Zeon]

Ahh, Jaina, you are a masterful storyteller. I'm serious when I say that - This was brilliant writing, absolutely brilliant. You should consider trying to get something published. I have a friend who's been published in several 'zines and so on; maybe I should get her to see this and she can give you advice on how to go about that.

I found a very, very few translation errors throughout the entire work - Nothing major, this is an incredible job for someone who learned English as a second language. Would you like me to send you a version with them marked so you can note them and improve your skills thereof?

[Mark S]

Incredible. Truly great.

[The Duchess of Zeon]

Incidently, Jaina - This must be reinforced - You are a genius. Real and extreme talent. Let me say that again. This is really, very, very good. Write more.

[Crown]

Just read Chapter 1, and I must say very well indeed.

[Captain tycho]

Pretty good.
Certainly better than anything I write....

[Crown]

Okay ripped off, I have stopped at chapter 2, and haven't read the last two chapters. If you ever feel like posting them I assure you that you will have at least one dedicated reader!

[The Duchess of Zeon]

Ah, the last two chapters have been posted.

[Eleas]

Ahh, Jaina, you are a masterful storyteller. I'm serious when I say that - This was brilliant writing, absolutely brilliant. You should consider trying to get something published. I have a friend who's been published in several 'zines and so on; maybe I should get her to see this and she can give you advice on how to go about that.

Thank you. I can't readily express what I feel when reading your words, and "thank you" seems woefully inadequate. But thank you.

I found a very, very few translation errors throughout the entire work - Nothing major, this is an incredible job for someone who learned English as a second language. Would you like me to send you a version with them marked so you can note them and improve your skills thereof?

I would love that. Especially idioms are a bitch to write; so far, all thesaurii I've found that deal with idioms also deal with Pay-Pal.

Anyway, as spelling tips are worth a lot to me, I would dearly appreciate them.

[Eleas]

MarkS:
Thank you. Seeing what you write, I can only mention the word "mutual admiration club" and let it go at that.

Marina:
Again, my most humble gratefulnes. With such encouragement, how could I not want to write more?

Crown:
If there's any problem accessing the story, for any reason, just ask and I'll provide the full story as a Word doc. Dedicated readers must be preserved, if not necessarily in embalming fluid.

Tycho:
Thanks a lot, man. I will now have to check out your fiction so that it does not present an overhanging threat to my stories.

[Mark S]

MarkS:
Thank you. Seeing what you write, I can only mention the word "mutual admiration club" and let it go at that.

This writing makes the rest of us look like chumps.

[Crown]

Just so there is no misunderstanding, I have read Chapter 1 and Chapter 2, now if I understand correctly you have skipped a few chapters and posted Chapters 3 & 4 which are the end... Are there any more chapters in between? If so I would love to read them! This is great stuff, I feel like a dick for not getting to this fic earlier!

[Eleas]

Just so there is no misunderstanding, I have read Chapter 1 and Chapter 2, now if I understand correctly you have skipped a few chapters and posted Chapters 3 & 4 which are the end... Are there any more chapters in between? If so I would love to read them! This is great stuff, I feel like a dick for not getting to this fic earlier!

Ah, I see what you mean. No, the entirety of it was four chapters. I simply meant that I would post the chapters even if I didn't get any feedback (which I happened to get, in spades - thanks a bunch, guys!)

Of course, Thizara's story isn't really concluded until our RPG campaign is done. She's been through a lot during those three months of in-game time, and I sometimes wonder if it'll one day be too much for her. Time will tell, I guess.

[Crown]

Ahhhh! Well in that case I had better continue reading eh?

[Crown]

OMG THAT WAS DA *BOMB*!

[Eleas]

OMG THAT WAS DA *BOMB*!

Thank you. I'm very happy to hear you liked it, because even though I have to write in order to remain sane (and as anyone who knows me will cheerfully attest, I obviously do not write enough), it's hugely gratifying to know there are people around who actually read and like it.

And since enough of you seem interested in what I have to offer, I have begun work on another story, the first chapter of which will "air"... tomorrow, or just about. It's a scifi story this time, and I hope that will work for you as well. It's certainly closer to the SD.net theme.

[Crown]

OMG THAT WAS DA *BOMB*!

Thank you. I'm very happy to hear you liked it, because even though I have to write in order to remain sane (and as anyone who knows me will cheerfully attest, I obviously do not write enough), it's hugely gratifying to know there are people around who actually read and like it.

And since enough of you seem interested in what I have to offer, I have begun work on another story, the first chapter of which will "air"... tomorrow, or just about. It's a scifi story this time, and I hope that will work for you as well. It's certainly closer to the SD.net theme.

I call them as I see them, and that was just an outstanding piece of work. I eagerly await your new fic.