# The Corrlands - a lurker's story hour (Updated 1/8/3)



## Torx (Jan 6, 2003)

Forgive me the faults of this story hour - I am new to it and fictional storywriting period.  This is based on characters and stories from my world of the Corrlands and from several years and different groups of playing.

I've chosen to do the story hour in short story format, with no preamble or explanation (learn as ya go).  Feedback is of course appreciated.

Well I'll get right to it I suppose.  Here are the first two chapters, posted this Fifth of January, 2003.


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## Torx (Jan 6, 2003)

*Prologue*

Although Atolcus felt the need to sigh, he didn’t dare.  He was alone, as was his habit out of a great dislike for most people, and normally sighing was Atolcus’ preferred way of showing his displeasure.  However, he forbad himself from making any kind of unnecessary noise while on a job.

	Allessandros had really outdone himself this time.  Lifting a priceless suit of armor from one of the Robes would be impossible for most.  At the very least, one of the rogue mages should be here to handle it, as magic was their forte, not Atolcus’.  The only magic he consigned himself to deal with lay within his trusted blade, Fleet.  The two foot sword made the most of Atolcus’ lightning quick speed and augmented it, allowing two strokes to his enemies’ one.  Not that he expected to have use Fleet tonight, but it was nice to know it was by his side, ready for use.

	He felt ready to sigh again as he remembered that he would have to employ more magic tonight.  The rogue just hoped that Jorunst wouldn’t double-cross him, or rather, didn’t dare double-cross him.  Three of Jorunst’s baubles sat ready in one of Atolcus’ two pouches, along with a folding grapple and his set of lock picks.

	Atolcus wore his best thieving attire, a one piece jumpsuit made of expensive Liwiric cotton.  The jumpsuit was dyed black and Atolcus’ face was covered in thieves’ black.  The rogue did not have the average small thief’s build.  Instead, Atolcus was taller, yet still remained agile, limber, and lissome.  He sported a villain’s nose, one promising regality and torture all in one snout.  His hair was closely cropped, both to avoid catching on something during a jape and to avoid discarding evidence for the Robes or clerics to use against him.

	It was just getting dark, still a quarter hour before the sun slipped low enough beyond the horizon for his task to truly be possible.  The thief was crouched on a rooftop of some important nobleman, whose name Atolcus could hardly be bothered with learning.  All that was important was that the sorcerer, Norti of the Green, keep his abode opposite the wide street in one of the upper noble quarters of Anaria.  The sting of salt threatened to cause Atolcus to sneeze as it reached his nose, but his great force of will kept the sneeze suppressed.  Atolcus hated bringing himself this close to the Bay; the acrid smell of saltwater cut into his nose and always forced a fever out of him shortly thereafter.  But a job with a payout this large and the challenge of earning that payoff brought Atolcus to this rooftop, near a short cliff overlooking the famed Bay of the Coin.

	Allessandros, Atolcus’ fence and contact to the rogue’s guild of the Menairi, had given the thief an opportunity he knew would not be passed up.  The famed rogue was to find his way into Norti’s manor and acquire a suit of special armor.  What the armor did was of no concern to Atolcus; the challenge of getting to it was what interested him most.  Norti of the Green was rumored to have recently obtained this suit of magical armor last week, and he had reportedly already foiled an attempt by a rival guild to steal it.  Atolcus could only guess at the wards that were set up around the armor; hopefully when the time came, he would be able to defeat it.

	The sun’s last rays finally disappeared from the sky as night began to rule.  The moon had only been waxing for a couple days, therefore it allowed Atolcus enough light to see what he was doing while it foiled the casual attempt for others to observe him.  He fished one of Jorunst’s baubles out of his pouch and studied it for a moment.  It was small, as it easily fit into the palm of his hand, and was shaped like a cylinder.  Remembering the sorcerer’s instructions he backed up several steps and quickly threw the item at his feet.  The cylinder dissolved with a silent puff of smoke.  Atolcus took his cue and sprinted toward the edge of the rooftop.  His final step caught the edge of the roof, and he pushed with all of his might, hopefully vaulting himself to the opposite rooftop forty feet away.

	The jump only lasted seconds, but to Atolcus the time seemed to stretch out indefinitely.  The rush of wind against his open face only fed his excitement.  The arrival at the magus’ rooftop came a little unexpectedly, but Atolcus managed to turn his landing into a calculated tumble.  Coming to a stop halfway across the roof, Atolcus took a moment to glance back in awe at the distance he just managed to travel.

	His demeanor once again turning professional, Atolcus scanned the dark rooftop again, as he had many times from across the street.  He quickly scampered over to one of the five rooftop windows that adorned the mighty manor.  Reaching into his pouch again, he brought forth his treasured set of lock picks.  Atolcus smiled as he prepared himself to begin picking the lock on the window, something he was much more familiar with. Yet, frown forced its way upon his lips as he carefully brought the picks away from the lock.

	Back in his pouch again, his right hand brought forth another one of Jorunst’s magic stones.  This one had no unique shape to it, just a simple blue stone.  He simply threw it straight up and stared as the stone stopped in midair, a mere foot from where it had left his hand.  He then turned his attention again to the lock and was amazed to see that it was glowing blue.  Switching strategies, he took the glass cutters from his lock pick set.  Securing a rubber cup to one of the panes of glass with one hand, he used the other to cut an oval into the glass with his cutters.  A quick tap and a tug and the glass was removed, to be placed aside the rogue as he put their tools back in their proper resting places.

	Atolcus next brought out his grappling hook and swiftly tied to it one end of his black silk rope.  Fashioning the grapple neatly a corner of the roof, Atolcus squirmed his way through the opening in the window and dropped silently to the floor, the magic stone following him all the way.

	Though the hallway was filled with plush tapestries, sitting desks, and display tables holding all sorts of untold valuables, the thief took it all in with barely a notice.  Making his comfortable yet dangerous living in Anaria, City of the Nobles, he was accustomed to seeing the riches that used to adorn nobles’ homes on a daily basis.  That night, he had larger quarry in mind.

	After he estimated his location in the manor, based on a crude map he was privy to glance at, he turned to his right, following the large hallway past four doors before stopping at a fifth, again to his right.  The door itself was no more spectacular than the rest of the doors along the hallway, made out of simple cherry, gilded with platinum at the edges.  Behind this door, however, was Atolcus’ goal.

	The stone hovering at his shoulder warned him to stop by showing him the blue lines that horizontally lanced across the door entryway, and completely covering the knob.  As the assumed magic lines were perhaps each a foot and a half apart, Atolcus dared a peek in between two of them, so that he might better examine how they were made.  The rogue found he was in luck as the lines did not touch the door, in fact they were a few inches in front of it, starting just beyond the door knob.

	Disbelieving the simple luck he was finding, he studied the door for a few more minutes before reaching between and behind the lines to turn the knob and give the door a bit of a push.  Atolcus was immediately rewarded with a bombardment of more blue lines emanating from within the room.  In the center of the room was a stand supporting a suit of mail while blue lines darted from every corner of the room to meet it.  There were about twenty of the now detested blue lines converging on the mail, each of them meeting in the center torso of the suit.

	Atolcus all but smiled.  The door stopped perpendicular from the entryway, as Atolcus had planned.  He backed up several steps and ran for the entryway, jumping a body length before he reached it.  His body straightened from years of toning and practice as he gracefully leapt through the doorway and between the blue lines, which did not even come close to touching him.

	Carefully, Atolcus found a spot where he could stand safe from the magical blue lines.  As he got up to his feet, his right hand found the third trinket from his pouch.  It was a ball the size of his fist, made of a rough volcanic stone.  Finally having a chance to study his target, Atolcus carefully peered at the suit of mail.  At the doorway, he first thought it constructed of plates, but now he realized that it was a very fine chain.  There were arcane markings all over it, painted in a rusty red.  The markings seemed to shift iridescently as his eyes grazed passed.  If it would not hinder his chosen trade, he would consider wearing this fine suit of armor.

	Recalling Jorunst’s instructions yet again, he took the sphere into both hands and placed it at eye level between himself and the mail.  He applied pressure equally with his hands and ball began to shrink.  He peered past the ball in amazement as the armor shrank as well.  Atolcus pushed on the ball until his palms touched each other, the magic then expired.  The thief reached down and grabbed the suit of armor, now half the size of his hand.  He sneered as he placed the miniature suit into his second pouch, the one that had laid empty on his left side just for this purpose.

	Atolcus turned around and jumped through the entryway again.  Only upon reaching the hallway did he realize that he couldn’t safely shut the door from where he stood.  Atolcus shrugged slightly as he turned and scurried his way back to where his rope waited for him.  He climbed the rope and squeezed his body through the narrow window opening.

	Grabbing his grapple from its securing location, he moved to one of the other sides of the rooftop and placed it on this side of the roof.  He threw his rope down the side of the manor and scaled down as quietly as he could manage.  Once Atolcus reached the ground safely, he tugged three times on his rope and activated the release on the grapple.  The teeth reversed themselves and the grapple fell harmlessly to the ground.

	After Atolcus set himself to coiling the rope and replacing the grapple into his pouch he took to the off into the street.  He adopted a casual demeanor, walking at a normal pace, even nodding to a couple passing by on his way downhill toward the common area of the town.  Anaria was strictly segmented off, and only with proper paperwork could one hope to venture into one of the noble quarters.  Even though Atolcus possessed a doctored form of these papers, they were not necessary to leave the area of the manors.

	Atolcus expected to be stopped at the gate to be asked a few simple questions.  So he had prepared a brief account meant to mislead the guards into believing he served as a release of sorts for a particular noblewoman.  The guard dropped a knowing look and a sneer and the thief shared with him that sneer, only for different reasons.

	After the guardhouse was cleared, Atolcus slightly quickened his pace, for now surely Norti would notice the missing armor and cast divination spells to discern its location.  He must part with the suit as soon as possible.  Allessandros had set up a meeting immediately following the heist at The Nobles’ Due, a public tavern set up in the Lower Quarter.  The rogue cut through a few alleys to shorten the path, and to control anyone who happened to follow him from the guardhouse, perhaps thinking his pouch was little heavier for the trip.

	Confident that no one was following him, Atolcus finally found his way to the Nobles’ Due, pushing open the door to allow him entry.  The Due was mostly empty that night, not terribly uncommon for the establishment.  In a city renowned for its nobles, unfortunately that meant a large portion of the common folk were servants who couldn’t afford to spend their hard-earned wages on watered-down ale.  Travelers seemed to be thinning up as well, and Atolcus was glad he wasn’t in the tavern business.

	There were a few patrons however, and a pair of men were making enough noise to have convinced the rogue that the place was filled to capacity.  There were perhaps half a dozen men in the room, enough so that the single barmaid, an old dwarven wench with no beard, but whiskers enough to rival a rat, could take care of the entire place.  The dwarf eyed Atolcus as he stepped in, seeming to take all of the man in and processing what she saw in less than an eye blink.

	Atolcus instinctively started toward the back corner table, but changed direction as he saw something he didn’t agree with.  A figure sat at the table Allessandros was supposed to meet him at, but it was most definitely not the fence.  This figure seemed cloaked in shadow; in fact seemed entirely comprised of it, as if it had a cloak made of darkness that stretched all around it.  Atolcus thought he saw two eyes of darkness peer at him.  He didn’t like being looked at like that.

	The thief casually spun on his heel and put a hand to the exit to make his way out.

_Come back and sit._

	Atolcus tried not to outwardly display that he had just heard a voice in his head.  The voice sounded like his own, as if he was trying to bluff himself out of a tough situation.  Atolcus was inclined to listen to his own voice.

	The rogue attempted to make his second turn again look casual and swiftly took a seat at a table near the door, positioning himself so that he could look at the shadowy figure without making it appear as if he was trying to look.  He stopped the barmaid at her next pass and ordered ale.  As she walked away to presumably fill his order he heard the voice again.

_No.  Sit over here._

	The voice meant sit in the corner.  Atolcus knew it meant that.

	Atolcus stood up, depositing the chair back in its place.  He rested his left hand deliberately on his sword pommel as he walked toward the table.  He didn’t dare take his eye off the shadow figure.

	“I won fair as Laether!  Now pay me my silver!”  The sudden yell from one of the boisterous men only proceeded the inevitable punching that ensued.  Atolcus couldn’t help but turn and glance at the fracas that was beginning to get underway between the two men.  One, apparently the man who felt he was cheated out of his silver in some anonymous dice game, grabbed the second man by his collar and punched him across the face.  The second man fell to the floor quickly in what Atolcus recognized as a feint.  As the first man knelt down to pick him up, the second picked up a fallen mug of ale and thrust its contents into the others face, temporarily blinding him.  He took the opportunity to shuffle his way out the door.  Predictably, the cheated man took pursuit.

	Atolcus had almost forgotten why he was here, and turned his head to remedy the situation.  He was shocked to find that the shadowy figure had been replaced by a standard commoner in servant’s livery.  He was plain and haggard looking, though Atolcus could discern that this man worked for no one.  This man in no way resembled the mysterious figure who had sat there only moments before.

	“Please, have a seat.”  The voice was the same as the voice in Atolcus’ head: his voice.  One similarity.
Atolcus did as he was asked and took a seat across from the stranger.

	“Do you have the armor?”  The man was blunt with the question, with no edge of uncertainty underlying his voice.  The man knew he had the armor already, of that, Atolcus was sure.

	“I’m not wearing my armor right now, I’m off guard duty.”  Atolcus felt it was always best to lie first, those in his trade could understand.  “Who are you, citizen?”

	“I am nothing, if not a friend.  A lifetime companion, if you please, Atolcus.”  The way the man spoke with such confidence unnerved the rogue.  He was used to having men lie and cheat through conversations with him, but this man’s unwavering surety in what he was saying did nothing to put Atolcus at ease.

	“How did you know my name?  Did Allessandros tell you?”  Atolcus couldn’t believe he lapsed like that.  Dropping his fence’s name could get him killed.

	“I know all about you, Atolcus.”  The man rolled his eyes.  He seemed to be bored as his eyes then wandered the room, focusing on nothing.  “Would you like me to tell you about yourself?  Let’s see then.  You were born Atolcus Nomanus. Your mother, Lilyo, died of complications during childbirth, while your father, Urtalli, was killed when you were twelve by a pack of muggers.  Taking to the streets of the Lower Quarter, you eventually became a low-ranked member of the Menairi thieves’ guild.  As your natural talents surfaced and your skills improved, you left full-time membership to assume a private thieving trade.  You kept contact with your fence Allessandros, as he gives you some of the most difficult jobs the guild is made aware of.  You tend not to keep the money you steal and earn, and spend it quickly on whores and bribes, giving the rest away to the guild or the church of Seldaht.”  At the last part he turned his head and spat to the ground.  His eyes regained focus and settled on the thief, a little smirk on his face belying the bored act.

	Atolcus could barely believe what he was hearing.  Nobody knew this much about him, as he kept his identity secret even from those he trusted.  “What do you want from me?”

	“Well didn’t you figure it out yet?  I am the benefactor who hired you to steal that armor.”  The man seemed entirely too smug about this fact.

	Atolcus didn’t allow himself a sigh in relief.  He had to exude confidence.  “The price is still a thousand.”

	“Oh, I won’t be paying for the armor.  Simply because I am not going to be the one who keeps it.  You are.”

	“No, I don’t steal for myself, I steal for the money.”  Atolcus was struggling to keep his composure.  “I don’t want the armor.”  His words betrayed his true feeling about the beautiful suit and the reason for him taking the job.

	The man seemed up to the challenge.  “You want the armor.  You want it without even knowing what it can do for you.  I can see it in your eyes.  It won’t hamper your skills; it won’t hurt them at all.  You will be able to change your appearance as well, alter your clothing to appear however you see fit.  I want you to keep the armor.”

	Atolcus seemed thunderstruck, and then he caught on.  His eyes narrowed.  “What do you want in return for all of this?”

	The man simply replied, “Vanskelighet.”

	Atolcus was feeling incredulous, “What?”

	“Have you ever thought about the gods outside of the gods?”  The man paused momentarily to view the lack of movement in Atolcus’ lips before continuing.  “There are gods beyond the gods of this world.”  He paused again to turn and spit.  “The other gods are looking for a way into this world, but they need your help.  You, my friend, are going to be the first priest of the new order.  The order of Loki.”

	“But . . .”

	“But first we need to get you a proper horse.”


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## Torx (Jan 6, 2003)

*Chapter 1 - A Departure From History*

“It is from history that we gain our perspective.  Erudition in this manner begetting Kapah will aid the young scholar in future decisions and endeavors.”  The historian’s speech droned on, beckoning boredom.

Emeric li Kasostar stared blankly past his instructor into the sophisticated wilderness.  A Lacosa wren perched daintily on a branch just beyond the reaches of the gazebo Emeric and the teacher shared.  The wren, normally a timid bird, dared to serenade Emeric’s lesson, supplementing the tedious speech about the history of the Corrlands, the elves, and their kingdom of Kaso.  The bird’s song was sweet, nearly matching Tisil, Emeric’s favorite bard, and his flute playing.  _Nearly._

The sole heir to the throne of Kaso, Emeric cut a dashing figure.  He had always placed more stock in fashion than in history.  He wore a black V-neck shirt with lace abounding the wrists and neck.  He wore black leather riding pants, though he had not ridden a horse in several years.  To contrast, he wore a green belt made from dyed and preserved spotted apple leaves.  He had sandy brown hair, falling loosely to graze his shoulders.  A bad habit had Emeric perpetually tucking hair behind his elven ears.  His chin was slight, his eyes doe-like.  It was often jested beyond his hearing that he could charm the hooves off a deer, but elven maidens fell to his looks just as easily.

Emeric sat within the boughs of an old maple.  Here the tree had been asked to form a seating area which Emeric found to his liking.  A succinct gazebo had been constructed overhead so that Emeric could be bored daily by his numerous instructors of the arts.  He was forced to endure lessons in history, language, and etiquette.  Emeric wore a curt grimace at the thought of Professor Lergas arriving shortly to teach proper protocol for greeting Däkk dwarves in their halls.  Emeric decided he would need to avoid the rest of his lessons for the day.

Lithe as the Lacosa wren, Emeric stood up, took four long strides, and leapt from the maple branches.  Twenty feet below the gazebo, Emeric tumbled as he landed, rolling to avoid injury.  He sprung from his crouch into a full run, seeking the imperceptible border of the elven city.  Emeric darted amongst the trees and houses of his home city.  Nimbly shunning notice, Emeric paused and hid at any noise or happenstance.

Amidst his escape from tedium, Emeric pondered what his mother would say once receiving word of her son shirking his lessons yet again.  His mother was, of course, the Queen of the Kaso, and his “impetuousness” reflected poorly on her.  Queen Anista Kasostar had always raised him unfairly.  She forced on him the horrific lessons.  She rarely let him study what he truly enjoyed: soldiering.  His mother also refused to allow him to court the many noble elf maidens beckoning his attention.  Emeric considered it vastly unjust on all accounts.

By all regards, he was now a man: the kingdom just celebrating his 111th birthday.  He should now be able to make his own decisions and not be countermanded by his mother.  “Who cares about the Gods and the Corr anyways?”  Emeric dared speak aloud since he knew he was out of even elven hear shot by now.  He paused to take a look up at the trees, to determine his location after the sprint.  To the Southeast he located his spotted apple tree.

The tree was not unique in the forest, he knew, but it was rare.  He had prized it for the past sixty years, from the day he planted the seed that grew into his tree.  This was his spot of the forest, his place of solace, his Unicorn Glade.  He knew the Unicorns had left Kaso long ago, but he imagined they would visit his tree if they still frolicked under the canopy.  He also euphemistically referred to his spotted apple as the Unicorn Glade to his mother or anyone else who asks where he spends his time out in the Kasonian Forest.

Emeric approached the spotted apple and paused reverently in front of the sixty year old tree.  He placed his hands before him and the tree, palms together, fingers facing skyward.  He moved his hands upward, spreading his fingers and eventually his palms apart as he did so – a silent prayer to Kome, the Forestmaiden.  He then knelt by a nearby bush and retrieved his satchel.  Emeric pulled from within Gist, his trusty rapier.

Steward Fuery had bequeathed Gist upon Prince Emeric li Kasostar on his 99th birthday, the traditional date to receive one’s life weapon.  Queen Anista did not approve, hoping for a smaller, less lethal weapon for her young son.  Still, Gist was a glorious weapon.  The pommel was shaped like the apex of a fountain, the water-metal rushing downward to protect the hand of the wielder.  Gist’s blade was thin, flexible, sharp, and exceeded the balance of any other rapier Emeric had used.

Gazing at his favorite sword, Emeric decided that perhaps his lessons were not over for the day.  He freed Gist from its scabbard and began practicing moves he had learned from the captain of the Star Guardians, Hituun Marin.  Emeric’s style was predominately offensive, as the rapier does not much of a parrying edge.  Yet, his moves were graceful, one maneuver flowing to the next as a waterfall gives water to a pool.

Emeric practiced his twirling offense past the point sweat gathered on his brow and his right arm, the wielder of Gist, grew tired.  He practiced until he noted the presence of others at the Unicorn Glade.  He aimed Gist to his side, turned and tumbled, bringing the point up to meet the defenseless throat of the intruder.  The point stayed there, hovering as Emeric’s eyes met those of Steward Fuery’s.

“Greetings, O Star of Kaso.  Forgive me if I forgo the traditional greeting bow.”  The Steward’s voice was dry and mocking.  Besides his statement, he did not seem to notice Gist’s point nearly touching his flesh.

Emeric was angered with the intrusion into his sacred Unicorn Glade.  He demanded, “What are you doing here?”

“The Queen beseeched me to find you.  Professor Marxon was quite perturbed as to your apparent disregard for the significance of the Minotaur Invasions.”  Fuery’s gaze had still not wavered from Emeric’s.  Nor did the point of Gist waver from the Steward’s throat.  Emeric’s anger was too hot.  “Please, lower your blade, I beg of you.”

Emeric complied with the request.  “Now that you’ve found me Fuery, what would you ask of me?”

Steward Fuery ki Orban was not a young elf.  Emeric was unsure as to the number of centuries Fuery carried, but he would wager it was above five at least.  Fuery did not strike an imposing stature.  Instead, he bent slightly over an oak staff and wore brown robes seemingly woven from the earth of the Kaso itself.  He wore a seven-pointed star around his neck, denoting his status as Steward of Kaso.  His position required him to oversee many of the mundane tasks not fit for royalty, but still necessary to ensure the proper operation of a kingdom.  The Steward was handpicked by Emeric’s grandfather, King Pioril Kasostar, and he would have ruled the throne upon Pioril’s death had not Emeric’s mother, Anista come of age two days prior.  Fuery’s eyes spoke of the volumes of intelligence housed behind.

Fuery finally broke the stalemate of gazes and began to stroll around the Unicorn Glade, hands behind his back.  “I’m curious to discover what vexes my Prince, so that I may repair his injuries.  I’m afraid he has been acting like a human.”

Emeric took that as a blunt way of calling him young and impetuous.  Not that Emeric would know, never have met a human.  He still read the remark as an insult though.  “It is you that lurks about like a human, Fuery!  And you know what troubles me.  It’s my mother, and how she always treats me like a child.  She continues to forbid me from even training in this.”  Emeric held up Gist for Fuery to see.

Yet Fuery’s eyes appeared only to look at the spotted apple.  “Emeric, you have always been as if you were my own son.  You have not had a father to care for you as I have.  That’s why it pains me to see you as I do now.”  His eyes looked toward Emeric’s, pain clearly evident.

“What are you driving at, Fuery?”

“It is this, my Prince!  Look at you, stealing away from your lessons, clearly defying your mother’s wishes.  You are restless, and it serves Kaso not.”

Emeric was dumbfounded.  No one had ever spoken to him like this.  Subterfuge and veils were the way of the court, not direct candor.  He was drawn to Fuery’s remarks.  “What would you have me do?”

“You have never been outside of Kaso, have you?”  Emeric shook his head.  “I doubt you’ve stepped one stride passed your precious glade here.  Yet I sense the adventure brewing in you, young Kasostar.  Your mother had it too when she was your age.”

Emeric’s eyes widened in shock.  His mother had always been stuffy and dreary.  He didn’t even learn to ride a horse until he was fifty, for his mother’s fears of him falling and splitting his skull.  Perhaps it was because he never had a father, she felt she needed to be both loving mother and strict authoritarian with him.  Perhaps it was because her grip on the kingdom wasn’t as strong as she hoped, and she practiced on him.  Whatever the reason, Emeric could not imagine his mother feeling as restive as he had his entire life.

Emeric needed more information, “What about Mother?  What did she do when she was my age?”

Fuery’s eyes sparkled; Emeric assumed it was from tears for his regard.  “She left for a few years, much to your grandfather’s chagrin.  When she returned, she was carrying you in her arms: her infant son.”

That spoke against all his mother had ever told him.  She claimed he was a miracle birth, granted upon her by Kome herself.  _A fatherless pregnancy?  What a fool I’ve been!_  Of course Anista had gone and gotten herself pregnant.  That explains her doting nature.

Emeric spoke without contemplating what his words truly meant, “I won’t be as irresponsible when I leave.”

“Of course you won’t, my Prince.  Where will you go to?”

Emeric had never thought practically about leaving the Kasonian Forest.  Of course he had dreamed of being outside of his mother’s clutches, but where to go?  Such thoughts had never reached consideration.  “I’m not quite sure, Fuery.  Have you any suggestions?”

“If I might allow myself, may I suggest Bayport?  It is only a hundred leagues to the south, through friendly terrain and territory.  I have friends there who could make your acquaintance.  The city is enormous, and it would be easy for the Prince to travel incognito.”

A hundred leagues?  “That is a long way to travel.  How will I ever make it?”  Emeric blanched at the thought of such a long journey.  However, the mystique offered by Bayport intrigued the young Kasostar.  The largest and most diverse city in all the Corrlands, Bayport proffered much for the eager eyes of the Prince.

“I could make a gift to you of my horse, Terras.  I have him tied a thousand paces downwind.  You could make your leave tonight.  I have in his saddlebags travel clothing and rations for a week.”  Emeric gave the Steward an incredulous look.  “I was anticipating a long search for you.  But if you are to leave, you must make haste!  The Star Guardians are also instructed to find you.  You must be quick and stealthy in order to escape their alertness.”

Emeric was never slow to make up his mind.  He sheathed Gist and gathered his satchel, containing the rest of his important belongings.  He grasped Fuery’s forearm in an embrace of brotherhood, not formality.  The Steward returned the embrace and bid his Prince farewell.


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## pogre (Jan 6, 2003)

At the risk of treading on your eloquent prose, I wanted to jump in here and say I'm enjoying it. I just hope at least somebody in the party has a living Mom


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## Torx (Jan 9, 2003)

Zjin detested his Orange Robes.  He consciously hated them every moment he could spare.

“The smock they deign call Robes!” Zjin muttered forcefully to himself.  He disagreed with the way the melon orange looked on his skin.  He hailed from the western marshes of Mashora – nearly the entire span of the continent away.  That area of the Corrlands receives more sun than any other, save perhaps the Crystal Plains, and as a result its inhabitants sport tan complexions naturally.  Zjin’s was darker than most of his kin.

Zjin’s tone neared “creamy chocolate” as he called it.  He stood taller than most Mashorans and took long strides with his gangling legs.  His hair had been stricken white (whether by magic or by mundane means, Zjin refused to divulge) and he wore it long.  But his most striking feature belonged in his stare.  Peering above a short, stubby nose were two orbs of midnight, irises that appeared to be devoured by their pupils.  Strangely enough, Zjin promised to perform a similar feat on Master Peirhonus.

The Orange Robe was storming through the halls of the great Academy of Magisi.  Its simplistic style hid the true power that lay within its walls.  Some of the greatest masters who practiced the craft of magic tutored at the Academy.  Here, every great sorcerer since the time of the Corr had studied – save the Renegades (but they can’t be called great).

Zjin hated it.  He hated the Academy more than he hated his Orange Robe, not that he’d dare admit the fact within its walls.  Zjin had spent over twenty years in the Academy, most of his adult life, and had only recently been raised from the rank of Yellow to Orange.  It would be a crowning achievement for most: the culmination of years of hard work, study, and dreams.  But for Zjin, it was only a step; though he saw it as a barrier.

Zjin had his Talent “discovered” at the ripe age of six.  It was a year past the date his Talent manifested, but his remote location caused the grejals’ delay.  He didn’t receive his Brown Robes at the Academy until he was nearly seven – making him two years older than most of the other Browns.  This, combined with his Mashoran tendencies, and the fact his Talent blazed bright with the potential for Purple, caused Zjin to bully the other Robes.  Despite his Talent and skill, he was held back.  At least, Zjin saw it that way.

Finally, Zjin came to the room he sought out.  Without pausing save to rap the door thrice quickly with his knuckles, Zjin blundered into his Master’s room.  The room was spacious, yet conservative in décor.  Shelves filled with books of numerous languages lined every walls space.  Tiny baubles and figurines spread out on small nightstands and in front of the books.

Peirhonus of the Green sat at his desk solemnly.  He had been previously studying a large tome folded out in front of him, but as Zjin disturbed his office, he moved his eyes – and only his eyes, his head was still angled downward – and leveled his gaze toward Zjin.  This nearly stopped Zjin in his tracks.

“Master,” Zjin bowed sardonically, there was no love lost between teacher and pupil.  “How could I have been assigned to the Ser’lan Compound?  There is no way I can advance to Red if I serve there!”

“It is a great honor to monitor the Ser’lan,” Master Peirhonus reminded Zjin.  “Dutiful service to the prophets has earned many a Robe a graduation.”

“Perhaps you could send me out as a _grejal_.  That’s where I could do the most good.  I can perform the _grejislis_ very well.”  Zjin referred to the process in which a five-year old was tested for the Talent.  Those who were found to possess the Talent above a certain level were brought to Magisi.  Those who did not come to the Academy were destroyed.

“No, Zjin.  You cannot advance in the Robes by just hauling in trophies from monsters you have slain.  Don’t think I don’t know what you’re after.”  It was true.  Zjin had no interest in becoming a _grejal_.  He was looking for the opportunity to get out into the world again.  Any time the younger Robes had been granted a sabbatical, Zjin seized the opportunity to “hunt” with his bodyguard, Morghan.  The pair brought numerous monster carcasses back to Magisi, in an effort to boost Zjin’s prestige.

“Then I am to baby-sit a doddering old fool who will never again see the light of the Cayme?  Does that mean I will never see the sun again as well?”  Zjin neared whining, but he was calculating.  The right amount of pressure in the right places would earn Zjin leave to earn his name and propel him through the upper ranks of the Robes of Magisi.

“Mind your place!  Hold your tongue when you speak with your superior!  You will do as you are told.  You are assigned to,” Peirhonus looks down at a sheet of parchment on his desk quickly, “Romus of the Ser’lan.  You will monitor him to the best of your abilities.  If he goes into a prophecy you are to activate the recording device and immediately notify Ygarno of the Blue, so that he might interpret the prophecy.  Under no circumstances are you to listen to or try to interpret the prophecy yourself.  Do you understand me, young Orange?”  Peirhonus’ eyes garnered a fire Zjin had not kindled before.

“Yes, Master,” Zjin replied.  Though his reply was a bit strained, Zjin carried a grudging new respect for his Master.  He now knew the limits of Peirhonus and would analyze how to best utilize those limits later.

Zjin granted himself leave from the suppressing room and made his way to the entrance of the Academy.  The Grand Foyer nested dozens of bustling Whites, eager to greet, help, and act courier for any Robes, bodyguards, or guests of the Academy.  Zjin barely gave them a notice.  He had shirked his Foyer duties as a White.

His sandaled feet touched the frozen tundra on which the city of Magisi stood and Zjin was instantly chilled.  The Compound of the Ser’lan was nearly opposite the Academy.  “It’s not even Hastlon and it’s already freezing before sundown.”  Zjin spat a curse to Conord, god of winter, and added one to Damerk, god of the night, for good measure.

The Spiral blocked the direct route to the Compound, forcing Zjin to circumvent the marvel.  The structure consisted of two intertwining towers, each gyrating about the other five times before joining at the apex, nearly four hundred feet above Zjin’s head.  The Spiral is also called the Gift from Ealare, goddess of magic, as it was among many of the gifts showered upon the Corr, chosen of the gods back before any of the current races existed.  To date, it is the only edifice of its type to survive from that era.

Of all the features in Magisi, Zjin never complained or tired of the Spiral.  He would routinely visit the temple to Ealare, Base of the Spiral, named for its location.  Constructed in the large gap between the trunks of the towers, the Base was the best place to view the physical manifestation of Ealare’s wisdom and might.  Zjin cared not for such things, but he sat there nonetheless.

A bout of mirth spoiled Zjin’s silent reverie.  The Orange peered to his left to discover the nature of the laughter.  Several bodyguards – mercenaries – were having a drinking contest in the Clockwork Inn.  Zjin smiled and spoke to himself, “Master Peirhonus didn’t specify _when_ I had to report to the Compound.”  Satisfied with his justification, the sorcerer veered into the inn.

The Clockwork Inn was famous in Magisi mostly for its non-Robed patronage.  The multitudes of commoners and bodyguards found it safe to relax out of the sight of the Robes of Magisi.  The inn itself was fashioned as one large clockwork machine, culminating in the 13-hour clock in the common room.

He was greeted by the smell of pancake batter and strong alcohol and the raucous nature of the inn’s patrons.  The center of the frivolity was a Rartugan Zjin recognized.  Corath of the Bone Bear Clan was obviously in the throes of inebriation.  Zjin took a seat in the back corner and conjured himself some ale (he didn’t bother with paying).  He wore a brutal smile as he observed Corath.

Corath was enormous, even for a Rartugan.  He wore no shirt, only a desert bearskin loincloth.  Leather straps supported two great axes to his hips and one on his back.  His skin, like all Rartugans, was tinted purple, from the generations spent in the Crystal Plains.  But no one dared to mock his skin here.

Corath had just finished downing his sixth glass since Zjin had entered the Clockwork, his opponents long since succumbing to unconsciousness.  Corath paid them no heed and no mind.

Zjin leaned to a fellow tavern mate, “What’s he drinking, anyways?”

“Grog,” was the simple, awe-filled response.

Grog was perhaps the most potent drink in all the Corrlands, putting even Däkk spirits to shame.  Who knows what the original recipe was, but now grog is perpetuated by the fermented urine of those who have partook of its splendor.  Corath chose then, in fact, to make his contribution to the Clockwork Inn’s winery as his peed on the floor.  Small grates were incorporated into the floor of most taverns that served grog, designed to funnel the donations back into finished product.

Corath, having finished relieving himself, drank his tenth and final drink, slamming it down on the table to a large round of cheers.  Copper and silver were piled liberally on tables as losers surrendered their money to winning bettors.  Corath grinned stupidly, and triumphantly surveyed the room.

“Zjin!” The huge barbarian stood up so fast he sent both his chair and his head spinning.  The Rartugan lumbered over to Zjin’s corner and grabbed the sorcerer up in a warm hug.

“Ugh, you reek of grog, and . . . oh!  You’ve stained my Robe!”  Zjin complained just for show, he truly enjoyed the company of the big brute.

“I hear you assigned to Ser’lan,” Corath’s speech was disjointed, he still did not speak the common tongue proficiently.  This led many to underestimate his intelligence.  When it came to battle with the barbarian, this mistake often proved deadly.

“How did you hear that?”

“I assigned to Ser’lan too.  Bodyguard to Romus.  Me and Haakon.”  Zjin was unfamiliar to the reference, but he was overjoyed to hear that his entertainment would at least increase at the Compound.

“That’s great to hear, Corath!  Now you and I can have drinking games all day long!”

“No, I not drink on work.  It is bad for the job.  But arm wrestle?”  Zjin blanched at the idea, Corath’s arms were as thick as Zjin’s head.

“No, maybe some other time, my friend.  I was just about to go over to the Compound right now to meet the Ser’lan.  Did you want to join me?”  Zjin guessed the barbarian wouldn’t leave his drunken debauchery, but he offered nonetheless.

“Yeah!  Corath show you defenses of the Compound.  They fry you into crystal dust if you not careful.”  Corath’s eyes began to glaze over as the grog was close to hitting home.

“Okay, now would be a great time for you to show me those defenses, considering your condition,” Zjinn said with a wink as Corath fell out of consciousness and onto the floor.  He continued, “Oh well, might as well wait until he’s conscious.  I wouldn’t want to be fried into dust.”


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