Original Submissions
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A Figure in the Alleyway by Koala
Added on Jul 18, 2006Scene: On Hathor's way -next to the headless templar statue-, the dirty and old way leading into the dark corners of the 'Rinth. Plot: Our character is very angry with a Templar who killed a 'Rinthi teen, who was loyal to him.
Scene: On Hathor's way -next to the headless templar statue-, the dirty and old way leading into the dark corners of the 'Rinth.
Plot: Our character is very angry with a Templar who killed a 'Rinthi teen, who was loyal to him.
---The scar-faced, bulky man glances along the alleyway, then slowly strides along the crumbling, dirty road.
---You think:
"Fecking Templars! They think they know everything about this krath-damn city..."---Grunting, the scar-faced, bulky man approaches to the headless templar statue.
---Looking at the headless statue, raising his clenched fist upwards, you exlaim in sirihish:
"Bah! What the Drov are you doing here!---You think:
"Killing one of my kind for fun... You fecking bastard..."---As his chest is moving up and down with a sudden anger, the scar-faced, bulky man starts turning around the headless templar statue, cursing out loud.
---Coming out from an old building, a few dark hooded figures appears at the corner of the crumbling road, looking at the scar-faced, bulky man.
---Pointing his gloved index finger at the gathering cloaked people, you shout in sirihish:
"You! Listen carefully... Today they made a mistake... A terrible mistake and I will make sure that they will suffer the consequences of this."---You shout in sirihish:
"I swear that the ones who made you suffer, will suffer at my hands... Now, remember and tell to the others what I tell you here today."---While the cloaked figures were shooting blank expressions to each other, the scar-faced, bulky man finishes his sentence and pauses for a while.
---Starting out loud, lowering his hand, pointing his feet with his gloved index finger, you shout in sirihish:
"I stand here, with my axe."---Raising his head towards the ruined buildings, his voice is even higher, you shout in sirihish:
"If you wanna face."---Turning around himself slowly, his dark gaze landing down to the newly arrived folk at the opposite corner of the alleway, you shout in sirihish:
"Come here and show your face."---His voice echoing between ruined buildings, shadows moving slowly around, you shout in sirihish:
"Know my name if you can not dare to face."---Standing alone, in the middle of trash piles and ruined buildings, some long tailed rats fleeing from corner to corner, you shout:
"It's Scarface."---The scar-faced, bulky man adjusts your grey kank shell shield, then reaches up to the hilt of your obsidian-bladed battle axe and firmly grabs it with your grey-veined, black gloves.
---You unsling an obsidian-bladed battle axe from your back.
---As the scar-faced, bulky man is observing his surrounding with his dark eyes, the quiet murmur coming from the gathered people slowly fades away.
---The scar-faced, bulky man sets your obsidian-bladed battle axe over his right shoulder and approaches to the group, then speaks directly to their eyes.
---Rolling your obsidian-bladed battle axe over his right shoulder, you shout in sirihish:
"Templars talk much showing their fancypants."---Some people dispatching from the group, keeping the distance with the scar-faced, bulky man, you shout in sirihish:
"If they had courage to walk in the alleys."---Stopping at short distance from the remaining people, gesturing the headless templar statue with your obsidian-bladed battle axe, you shout in sirihish:
"They would meet my axe, getting their heads."---The scar-faced, bulky man joins to the laugther breaking out from the crowd, resting your obsidian-bladed battle axe back to his right shoulder.
---After silencing the crowd, raising your grey-veined black gloves up to the air, you shout in sirihish:
"Now... Go back were you come from and tell to others that Scarface will be here to protect you from those -fecking- Templars..."---While another laugther breaking through the gathered crowd, whispers travelling along, the scar-faced, bulky man turns toward the crumbling, dirty road, heading north.
Scene: On Hathor's way -next to the headless templar statue-, the dirty and old way leading into the dark corners of the 'Rinth.
Plot: Our character is very angry with a Templar who killed a 'Rinthi teen, who was loyal to him.
---The scar-faced, bulky man glances along the alleyway, then slowly...
Continue Reading...Krathi Vengeance by Biscuits
Added on Jul 18, 2006A Krathi and his companion in the wastes, laying waste to a Kadian convoy at a whim...
The Loss by TheBlackKnight
Added on Jul 18, 2006A story of an old man, haunted by his childhood decisions.
“The Loss”
Sit and stay a while for I have a tale.
A tale you might learn something from,
Something about love, life and yourself this night.
For this tale is about a young boy.
A boy, his name matters not, who was born years and years ago, in a land far, far from here.
Born with talents and gifts you see, and some banished him, some hated him, but others did not others saw his kindness and embraced it.
For he was born with the ability to heal, to revive, to rejuvenate the body and spirit,
And this boy used those talents to help as many as he could, but soon his life changed
And changed it did, for he fell in love, in love with a girl. A girl so kind and so beautiful few could match it.
Their love was pure, their love was kind, and special, for what young couple’s love is not.
For years they loved, and soon where brought together by their parents’ wishes. Not long after that their love grew for they had a new addition to the family. But there was something lurking, something hidden in the shadows, in the depths. For the boy had learned more, had learned not only to heal, but to harm, and soon vowed that he would use this power to free all his people from tyranny, from hatred. But little did the boy know that the further he pushed, the more power he tried to conquer the more it would conquer him.
Quietly the night fell over the couple and their child as it always had for years. The darkness rising over their home in a smooth gentle embrace. And suddenly lightning falls from the sky, slamming into their house, and in a flash, their child is gone. Gone like the wind, gone like the desert sands after a storm, gone gone gone. Awakening the young boy, who was now a man, and realizing what had just happened, quickly rushed for the door. Hoping, crying, wailing, they stood at the door for hours, but the man knew, the man understood. It was HE who took their child, and HE alone could bring the boy back. Pulling his partner from his arms, he gather his clothing and made for the door, striding slowly quietly into the darkness of the night, he walked, walked until sunrise, until his heart no longer felt the tug of his own child. The sun rose, and lighted the way, lighting the desert, and suddenly as quickly as it had risen, it left again, leaving the man in darkness. And there stood the boy before him, the boy he once was, and the boy he had given birth to all the same, standing naked, holding nothing but a single sharp dagger in his had. As quick as the desert winds he strikes, stabbing forward at his very own father, stabbing for his heart, for his life to take it from him, but there was nothing there, nothing but the sands, the wind, for his father was gone years ago and all that was left was the boy, the child. After a few moments, the child was startled and jostled heavily as if being shaken by some outside force. After a few moments, he awakened, in a small elegant room apparently inside a manor in some city. But that was not all; he was clad in silks, in beautiful flowing silks as soft as any in the known world. As he peered, a cold sweat dripping from his brow, heart pounding heavily in his chest, he soon realized it was northing more than a phantom, a nightmare, sent by Drov to torment the now elderly man for all that he his childhood choices, and all his childhood losses.
“The Loss”
Sit and stay a while for I have a tale.
A tale you might learn something from,
Something about love, life and yourself this night.
For this tale is about a young boy.
A boy, his name matters not, who was born years and years ago, in a land far, far from here.
Born with...
Continue Reading...A Tuluki Quest by Yume
Added on Jul 14, 2006Of the Tuluki Faithfuls Eunoli and Aeneas, the slave Adrina, and Corporals Xathan and Vaashir of the legion.
Rukkian in the Sands by Biscuits
Added on Jul 12, 2006Portrait of a Rukkian standing in the sands
An obsidian dagger by Goodbit
Added on Jul 12, 2006A sharp delight that's sure to surprise!
Armageddon banner by Northlander
Added on Jul 10, 2006Fashioned it in -04 for the black background of topmudsites.com. Uses our logo, and words from the old banner.
Boopsie by davien
Added on Jul 1, 2006For old time's sake - the original flamer templar.
Junior Advisor by Briar
Added on Jun 28, 2006Junior Advisor Diarev Salarr
Arabet by Briar
Added on Jun 28, 2006With a twirl of silk and a flicker of her paper fans, this Arabet girl fires the beat of the drums and the hearts of her audience.
Psi vs Mek - Celebrity Deathmatch! by davien
Added on Jun 16, 2006Psionicist attempting to dominate an immature mekillot.
Obsidian Dice by Goodbit
Added on Jun 13, 2006This is a 3d model of a pair of obsidian dice.
Armageddon Logo 3d by Goodbit
Added on Jun 13, 20063d rendering of the Armageddon logo, set in a desert environment.
Backstabbed by Goodbit
Added on Jun 13, 2006A haggard looking assassin admires his latest handiwork.
The Gladiator - Chapter 1 by Djarjak
Added on Jun 7, 2006Djarjak, mul gladiator slave is introduced
The rumbling noise of a thousand people is only a distant murmur here. Clay and stone surrounds Djarjak, the dried grasses strewn here and there are a privilege he has only recently been given. Yet, he is far from the breeding pens and the work stalls where he began. Now he has a room. His Room. Ownership: not something often given to the owned. And, above, the crowds shout his name.
Taking the set of flimsy sticks he has been allowed to practice with in his hands, he begins to dance. Slowly at first, the muscles on his back begin to limber with the activity. Flexibility as important as strength, clarity of mind even moreso, he lets his thoughts drift and loosen with his limbs.
A soft knock comes at the door. Djarjak does not know how long it has been since he began the dancing. Sweat drips slowly from his hairless brow, the torchlight trailing down from the bone-meshed bars above. He looks to the door and lowers his weapons from a posture of practice into that of defense. "Who goes?"
"It's me, Hest" squeaks a voice from the other side of the stone and wood slab. "We need help."
Djarjak grimaces, his face darkened by the artificial twilight."Who is it?"
"Tjan."
"Tjan? Tjan is dead." Small fingers peek around the edge of the door, and the mousy thief's face peers in from the gloom.
The thief shakes his head, "No. Escaped. They caught him. He's hurt pretty badly. Vark needs your help with him."
"Where?"
"The lows. Dunbrek's."
Djarjak nods his head, slinging the sticks over his shoulders in the criss-cross leather sling, and walks into the corridor.
Hest shambles along in front of Djarjak, the thief's leg permanently lamed by a fight with a dujat. Now he hides in the corners of the pits to avoid being thrown into the arena again. Cowardly. But he hides well. It draws an odd sort of respect from the other criminals and the slaves. Even the gladiators have a grudging appreciation of it, but it is not a point of respect. It is they who must risk their hides in the arena instead.
As they walk, the ceiling slopes downward. Shouts from eager gamblers and bloodthirsty laborers wax and wane in a lusty crescendo growing ever more distant beneath the increasing layers of stone. The torchlight flickers blandly off the roughly hewn sandstone and grows dimmer as the air grows warmer and becomes stifling with moisture.
The lows are where the animals are kept. The smell of gortok and gwoshi and blood mingles with dung and sweat. Grunting and hissing noises here and there reveal sign of some darker denizens.
The unruly gladiators are kept here.
Djarjak shudders in spite of himself. 'He who does not obey is deprived the glory of the Highlord.'
There are always rumors.
The overseers seldom watch the lows. Food and water is not provided here. Those who wish to survive must travel for it, or bargain. It is the arena within the arena, where a man will barter his soul to a devil only to have it eaten for his trouble.
It is the only place for slaves to go to avoid the attention of the servants to the King.
A dark shadow passes overhead. Hest and the mul gladiator press themselves hurriedly against the wall as the footsteps rattle on the bone grid ceiling. The silhouette of a human slaver in a sandcloth aba walks stiffly between the hidden slaves and the torches. Djarjak doesn't dare a breath. Quickly, the man passes, yet it is only after a slow count of thirty that the two allow themselves to move from below.
As they peel themselves away from the wall, a voice sounds nearby. "Harrumm. Slack, there, then, letting the spear-chuckers see you."
Djarjak unsheathes the sticks quickly and without thinking, a low growl coming from his throat. Hest lets out a yelp of surprise and leaps behind Djarjak's bulk.
With a grating chuckle, a tall and spidery figure strolls out of the darkness ahead. "Wary, little mul..." smiling,the figure's angular head then swivels on spindly-thin shoulders tos tare at the little thief with almost insectoid intensity, "and...Hest."
"Blast it all, Dunbrek!" Djarjak slaps his sticks against the stone with a dull thwack. "How do you do that?"
"Do what, little mul? Perhaps your eyes only go dim with age, humm?" The wide-set silvery green eyes blink in a picture of innocence from the hatchet-face.
Djarjak growls again, muttering, "Dirty breed."
"Yes, little mul," he nods, "But only half of me. Half of me is half of you. All of us pointy-ears. Pointy-ears, pointy-ears, pointy-ears, harrumm... But you are late. Come."
Setting off in long strides, the almost seven foot tall half-elf assassin strides further into the heat and dark as Djarjak and Hest grudgingly follow.
Dunbrek's cell is a large one, spread with woven mats that few doubt are stolen. Lanterns light the place, and a small chest sits in one corner. Bargains with demons have kept the place intact, and few would risk what awaits them to contest it.
A short, human woman with ratty-blonde hair wearing the torn robes of an ex-pleasure slave bends over a figure lying on the floor. As they enter, she looks up to them, her face grimed and solemnly set.
Hest smiles to her and stammers a bit. "H-hello, Vark. I b-brought him, like you asked."
Her face lightens slightly and her lips curl as she nods. "Thank you. But there is little time. I will need your aid, Djarjak, if you will give it."
Djarjak, his skin dark brown in the torchlight, makes his way to the cot where a mangled figure lies twisted into an impossible shape. The woman turns to look at the figure as she says, "His bones will need to be re-set before I can deal with the rest of his wounds. I need you to help me set them. I'll show you how."
The mul nods, his expression becoming bland as his eyes glaze, and reaches out to grab a leg.
Later, as they walk, Hest says, "they say he made it to the desert, Djarjak." The thief looks up at him and wrings his hands. "Say there's others out there."
Djarjak continues to walk, not looking at the pale little man walking beside him.
"They say Tektolnes can't reach some places, that he..."
"Hisssh!" He turns on Hest with a feral look in his eye. "Don't say such things. You know that they know. They always know!" The mul looks around quickly and walks with a renewed pace.
The thief looks around himself with widened eyes and then stares at the floor with a frown. "What if they're right,Djar?"
Djarjak shrugs his huge shoulders. "Then may we all live to find that place."
Overhead, they do not hear footsteps, and Overseer Teoman Borsail of the jade cross grins in the shadows between torches.
...
Leaping from the depths of sleep and grabbing at his side, Djarjak wakes again from the dream of the bahamet to the sound of raucous laughter from above.
"Time to fight, Djarjak. Wake up!" A soldier with the clawed wooden rod standard to all slave handlers grins at him between the bone mesh. "Today you fight the dune demon. Look, they even brought sand in for you..." a grainy handful of sand filters down into his eyes and mouth, making him sputter.
"Bastards," he croaks, and leaps towards the bars above, gripping them and shaking them violently.
Above, the soldier makes a tsking noise and steps on the mul's fingers, the bone spikes in his boots making Djarjak grimace in pain. "None of that, mul. We will have you moved to the lows and out of your comfortable little home, eh? Now, get up. It is time to fight."
Falling to the floor, Djarjak clutches his bleeding and shredded fingers to his chest and presses out of the door.
A clattering behind him signifies that the claw is retracting, and soon, the footsteps overhead begin following him to the gate.
The great doors of iron-banded hardwood which compose gladiators gate swing open, leaving him to squint in the brilliantly bright light. The claw comes down thrusting him forward, and he falls to his hands and knees outside the gate.
"Behold citizens of Allanak! Blood for Tektolnes!" The crowd's cheers rise to a bloodthirsty height of madness as the overseer shouts an introduction to the fight. "Djarjak, prized fighter of Borsail will take on the feared mass of three anakore!"
Three? Three! Djarjak frowns, beginning to feel genuine fear as he checks the weapon rack: a stone dagger and a primitive obsidian spear. He briefly laments not having his fighting sticks and turns, but the doors are closed behind him.
"Let the fights begin!"
Underneath him, the sand trembles as the beast-gate opens its maw. He sees nothing emerge and contemplates a lunge for the open door, when it begins to close. Quickly, he leaps to the weapon rack and retrieves the tools he has been allowed for the fight.
The spear is thin obsidian, too light to be much good. The dagger is flaky at best. Sharpened too many times by a chipper, it was once perhaps a short-sword judging by the hilt. Grim odds, someone must be punishing him.
Without giving Djarjak further time to contemplate, twin arms with claws almost doubling their length launch out of the ground on either side of him. Sand sprays in all directions, and some of it gets in his eyes. Blinking furiously, he grabs the weapon rack and pulls hard, vaulting himself over the top and out of the way of the demon.
"Bakh!" the spear has fallen and rests just behind the domed head peeking with beady-eyes from beneath the sand. This is not going to go well.
The rumbling noise of a thousand people is only a distant murmur here. Clay and stone surrounds Djarjak, the dried grasses strewn here and there are a privilege he has only recently been given. Yet, he is far from the breeding pens and the work stalls where he began. Now he has a room. His...
Continue Reading...Quirris by Briar
Added on Apr 24, 2006A young northern woman and a somewhat large quirri.
A Monologue by Travis
Added on Mar 26, 2006Zalanthan fatalism at it's finest.
Originally composed and performed by Jalaya Orlani of Konviwedu Circle
Oh what is art? I must enquire...
A flavored word, or lyric fire?
A high burlesque, or sorrowed note,
A fiddle bowed, or poem wrote?
The answer drifts upon the air..
Like Cenyr's glass: it's source is rare.
The question be, to those who see,
is why our art doth set us free.
Each rhythmic beat that comes from here,
escapes our hearts without a fear.
And travels far to spread the word,
of life, and love, and loss unheard.
The journey ends where it began,
from far and wide across the sand.
Behind it all there is no more,
until it's all been done before.
And when it has at last been said...
we all will lie forgotten, dead.Originally composed and performed by Jalaya Orlani of Konviwedu Circle
Oh what is art? I must enquire...
A flavored word, or lyric fire?
A high burlesque, or sorrowed note,
A fiddle bowed, or poem wrote?
The answer drifts upon the air..
Like Cenyr's glass: it's source is rare.
The question be, to...
Continue Reading...Northern Tale, A by Proxie
Added on Mar 25, 2006A brief glimpse into the life of a Tuluki noble's child following her mother's death and during the Occupation.
I was a young child when my mother was killed, until that day sheltered and protected by my mother's position and wealth, paraded as a showpiece with my brothers when the occasion required. I remember a late night, being grabbed up, the scent of blood heavy on the air. Taking me past her shrouded body as my brothers and I were removed from Silverwood by a back way. They wouldn't let us look, I found out later, the elves had taken her head as a trophy. My mother's men had sad faces, some the reddened eyes of grief, while we rode, seated before them on ratlons, the silver and blue cloaks enfolding us. The night was cold. My teeth chattered. We traveled a winding route, to lead off any who might follow.
They stopped at the Pyramid. Spoke to Brooks, hushed tones, a brief argument. Where were we to go? The threat was still heavy in the air, the runners could have been just beyond the light's edge. He came, looked at each of us, laid a hand on my cheek. The Precentor's name was mentioned, and then we were riding again. Wind fast, dawn breaking, to the northeast, to Tenneshi. Father's family. Turned over to them, to our relations, clothes on our backs, other things being packed up and brought. My brothers, Thadrian and Tarquin, and I, Nuala, finally tucked into a nursery, silken sheets cool on our weary bodies. And we never heard her name again in open conversation. Vivienne Reynolte was dead.
Years later, the Occupation. Another night, the uneasiness thick on the air, our lessons interrupted by chaos in the yard. Luirs had fallen, had betrayed, had fallen, none were certain. The Nakkis were coming, with their army of magicks and black soldiers. We rushed to the nursery, stripped off our silks, our jewelry, our fine boots, slaves brought coarse cloth that chafed my skin. Sandals that bit and didn't fit properly. Numut dye to hide our protected flesh. We wanted to fight the barbarians, wanted to fight for our north, burning hatred for those who had hired mother's death still nurtured.
Set aside by the guardsmen, girding themselves for battle, jaws set in the line of men not coming home. We must survive, the blood of the nobles, to hide, to not suffer the fate that Reynolte was facing; the full army at their gates, murdering, raping all that moved. Magicks twisting flesh and bone, sand and stone, driving the Gol itself mad with it's taint. For the northlands they rode that day, for the northlands, my brothers and I, and the other Tenneshi young hid. We joined households for a time, never too long, moving to another before the overseers caught us. Some were caught. Some were tortured, some died. Younglings to old, those of noble blood who were caught faced the southerner's wrath full on.
And we kept our lineage strong, we kept it as pure as possible. I married with a cousin, had my family, always in hiding, always in fear. My brothers took wives, in secret as well, we produced our next generation of blood. My brother's oldest daughter fell, slain by the Borsails as they captured her for breeding. She did not let them take her. Our friends, shelterers, protectors died for us. Their names will never be forgotten by me. Today, an old woman, I write this tale for those who can someday read it. This week I hide in the depths of my beloved city, and I bid whoever finds this to read it to those beneath them. The blood of Tuluk lives on, eagerly awaiting the day when we find victory.
I was a young child when my mother was killed, until that day sheltered and protected by my mother's position and wealth, paraded as a showpiece with my brothers when the occasion required. I remember a late night, being grabbed up, the scent of blood heavy on the air. Taking me past her...
Continue Reading...Shield Wall Sunrise by HaiWolfe
Added on Mar 17, 2006Mighty Suk-Krath rises over the top of the Shield Wall, bathing the land in a crimson haze.
Rocky Badlands by HaiWolfe
Added on Mar 17, 2006Dusk washes over the knife-edged canyons of the Tablelands.
Scrublands by HaiWolfe
Added on Mar 17, 2006Scrublands at the base of a low, red sandstone shelf.
Goudra sketch by HaiWolfe
Added on Mar 17, 2006Pencil sketch of a goudra in the scrub.
Three Times To Hold Your Tongue by Methyas Groot
Added on Mar 17, 2006A original Tuluki drinking song.
There are times to be boisterous, and times to be loud,
times to be noisy, and bellowing proud.
But sometimes, when difficult traps have been sprung,
it's better for you to hold onto your tongue.
A compliment spoken can go a long way,
in pleasing His Chosen, with little delay.
"His Light! That is fabulous silk that you wear!":
will summon a smile, if with zeal you declare.
But if ever you come upon -two- of His blessed,
who each claim to model the trendiest vest,
and on you the badge of the judge is bestowed...
Do not be a fool. Just keep your mouth closed.
A story can brighten the bleakest of days,
if clever the subject, and witty the phrase
The best ones hold listeners captive and still,
and bring to their hearts insurmountable thrill.
But if for a Master some day you present,
and what you have crafted makes him discontent,
be silent and show that you have understood,
for any retort will do more harm than good.
There's little that's better than falling in love,
to find that one person who fits like a glove.
"My sweet, of death I am no longer afraid.."
Will probably end up in you getting laid.
And then there are those of us, I must confide,
who need to have various flings on the side.
But when it's your true love's own outpost you maim,
for fucking krath's sake...try and say the right name!
So now that you know of the power of prose,
perhaps you'll think twice about how you compose.
Just never forget, if you fall in a rut...
The best thing to do is to keep your mouth shut.There are times to be boisterous, and times to be loud,
times to be noisy, and bellowing proud.
But sometimes, when difficult traps have been sprung,
it's better for you to hold onto your tongue.
A compliment spoken can go a long way,
in pleasing His Chosen, with little delay.
"His Light! That is...
Continue Reading...Nomad
CHAPTER 2 - Surviving the Wastes, The by Cogato
Added on Feb 9, 2006Further adventures of the nomad as he survives the waste.
The terrain that lay before the nomad was challenging to cross atop a mount, much less on foot. Elios knew that he only had enough water to last him a few days at most in this dry landscape. He was traveling northward with swift strides of his long legs and he keenly felt the weight of the two tandu-leather skins of water in the pack on his back. Of course he knew that his legs would tire more quickly with the heavy pack laden with the water. He also knew that if the Pah was dry when he reached it he would die without the water he carried now. He decided it was worth the burden.
Suk-Krath, the horrible burning ball of crimson light that was the Zalanthan sun rained down its heat upon the desert this day just as fiercely as it had ever other day in the eons past. Though the origin of its name had been lost long ago with writing being outlawed to the common man by the Highlords of the city states, it was worshiped as the giver and the taker by more than one tribal culture. Every man, woman, and child knew that the great ball of light could steal your life away just as swiftly the sharp tip of a blade. Many was the caravan that came to ruin, entire parties of travelers dehydrated and dead in the wastes due to underestimating the power that the sun dictated. Elios had lived his entire thirty three and some odd years in the wastes though, and if any man stood a chance of surviving the days of travel ahead this half-elf surely did.
By the time late afternoon fell upon the traveler Elios had put many miles between himself and the ravine where the braxat and Arrow lay dead. The sandstorm had relented a bit by now and he was not leaning all of his weight against the blowing wind when he walked to keep from being blow over now. Though travel had become a bit less taxing on his spindly legs Elios did not intend to spend a night out on the open desert in the blinding sandstorm, it would hide any beasts that came upon him in the darkness. He knew of an outcropping of stone just a few more miles ahead that would shield him from the brunt of the storm and offer him at least some crude walls for protection in the night. Elios trudged on and just as the last rays of the descending sun were leaving the western horizon he stood before the rock outcropping.
This outcropping was really more of a series of boulders that happened to rest in a rough semi-circle to give the appearance at a distant of a low wall. Most of them were made of brittle red and yellow sandstone that the ferocious wind was constantly reshaping but a few were solid granite. They were head high and leaned together in a fashion that would allow Elios to squeeze in beneath the break at their base where they did not touch. Elios moved up to the tiny cave and peered inside it making sure that no other creatures had decided to call this den, rare in this area home for the night. In a few seconds Elios was sliding into the narrow cubby formed by the leaning and piled boulders feet first. The den was just deep enough to accommodate his full lanky height and he bent his knees up just slightly so his hair did not stick out of the holes opening. Luckily Elios was not bothered by closed in spaces otherwise he could not have managed this refuge for the night. It was just wide and broad enough to keep from rubbing the tip of his angular nose and the sides of his shoulders. For a long while Elios lay silent within the den, even after the last rays of Suk-Krath had departed leaving him in darkness. Only the grating sound of the wind outside of his hole could be heard and eventually, feeling safe that he wasn't being tracked, the weary traveler drifted off to sleep.
Elios was awake long before dawn came. Dreams of Arrow falling over the cliffs edge and tumbling down toward him, its many eyes pleading with him for help in despair had plagued his night. He had awoken in a cold sweat if there was such a thing in the desert and had not slept the last few hours of darkness before the sun rise. He cursed himself once and again silently as he lay there in the dark den awake. He surely did lament his fallen friend but he also knew that he was lucky to have survived the encounter that came about due to his own carelessness. He should have never left arrow behind for the small gains that the durrit would have offered even if he had caught up to and killed it. The pelt and claws could not even be sold to replace the value of his mount, much less the deep friendship he held with Arrow. Elios had fell victim to the 'Wall Dweller Greed' as his people, The Followers of Vrianne, called it. He had let the gain of coin cloud his good judgment and for this act of selfish greed Vrianne had taken back the friend she had given him.
When the rays of the crimson sun did break the horizon the sandstorm that had plagued the land for the past week had finally died down to a strong breeze. The hot northern wind blew Elios's long yellow hair out behind him as he trotted along. He tried to go in a straight line as much as he could but ever so often he would have to go as far as two or three miles out of his way to circumvent a gorge or mesa. The farther north he traveled the more the land began to rise and fall into great spires of red sandstone. Mesas of yellow and red stone jutted up out of the sandy earth with un-scaleable cliff faces that spanned for miles in all directions. The going here was slow and tedious as Elios had to climb up and down more than one canyon or cliff wall that he simply could not take the time go around. By mid day he had barely made a few miles of progress from where he had slept the night before. With the difficult terrain and heat to drain his strength Elios found himself drinking half of one of his two leather water skins while he stood atop one low mesa. He peered off toward the distant northern horizon and without the usual constant sandstorms Elios could see and marked in his mind the faint grayish haze of the Shield Wall in the distance.
The Shield Wall was a series of solid stone mountains that spanned almost the entire Known World and bisected the hemispheres of the northern and southern deserts. The southern deserts held the most desolate wastes on the face of Zalanthas, miles upon miles of empty dunes that held no life. Though almost directly in the center of this wasteland the city state of Allanak stood. Ruled by the sorcerer king and self proclaimed Highlord Tektolnes. The templars that did the Highlord's bidding watched over the people with an iron fist, keeping them sufficiently suppressed and controlled. On the northern side of the mountain range the land was still arid and dangerous, but the Shield Wall afforded the lands of Gol Krathu some protection from the always shifting dunes of the south. The region held many types of dry and hardy plant life compared to the south and a great forest of agafari and baobab tress even stood, somehow managing to survive in the sandy earth. The grasslands to the northeast were likewise abundant in animal life compared to the south and the people of Tuluk erected their city state directly in the middle of these two geographical planes. The people of Tuluk were no less suppressed than the southern people, likewise having the knowledge of literacy outlawed to them and the Sun King Muk Utep ruling from his great ivory pyramid with the aid of his own templarate. Though out of both the Sun King's and the Highlord's rule there sat a small village atop the shield wall half way between the two great city states known as Luir's Outpost and it was a haven to any travelers in the area. This was where Elios had to get to before his supplies ran out if he hoped to survive.
The Shield Wall was a series of solid stone mountains that spanned almost the entire Known World and bisected the hemispheres of the northern and southern deserts. The southern deserts held the most desolate wastes on the face of Zalanthas, miles upon miles of empty dunes that held no life. Though almost directly in the center of this wasteland the city state of Allanak stood. Ruled by the sorcerer king and self proclaimed Highlord Tektolnes. The templars that did the Highlord's bidding watched over the people with an iron fist, keeping them sufficiently suppressed and controlled. On the northern side of the mountain range the land was still arid and dangerous, but the Shield Wall afforded the lands of Gol Krathu some protection from the always shifting dunes of the south. The region held many types of dry and hardy plant life compared to the south and a great forest of agafari and baobab tress even stood, somehow managing to survive in the sandy earth. The grasslands to the northeast were likewise abundant in animal life compared to the south and the people of Tuluk erected their city state directly in the middle of these two geographical planes. The people of Tuluk were no less suppressed than the southern people, likewise having the knowledge of literacy outlawed to them and the Sun King Muk Utep ruling from his great ivory pyramid with the aid of his own templarate. Though out of both the Sun King's and the Highlord's rule there sat a small village atop the shield wall half way between the two great city states known as Luir's Outpost and it was a haven to any travelers in the area. This was where Elios had to get to before his supplies ran out if he hoped to survive.
Elios climbed down the opposite side of the mesa and continued northward. He had picked out the clearest path he could discern to get to the Shield Wall and beyond that to the Pah which still was a day and a half away if his trip went uneventful. By early afternoon Elios smiled faintly to himself as he moved along, weaving past the mesas he had marked in his mind that would guide him on his mental path. He decided it was worth the extra effort to climb the mesa and pick his path when late afternoon came around and he had covered twice the ground he had in the first half of the day. He hadn't eaten in a few days and his stomach soon reminded him of that fact. He stopped at the base of a large grey pillar of stone protruding up through the sand and sat in the scant amount of shade offered by the pillar to eat a few bits of dried meat from his belt pouch. Within a few moments of chewing and breathing heavily Elios stood and wiped some sweat from his brow with the back of a sandcloth sleeve before starting off at his swift pace once more.
By nightfall Elios could easily make out the defining peaks of the Shield Wall in the distance. The growing clarity of that mountain range spurred Elios to move onward even in the darkness. He normally wouldn't have risked traveling in the dark even with the absence of the storms, but Lirathu the white moon and Jihae the red moon graced the night with their light and he could see well enough he decided. By the come of dawn the weary traveler stood with the arm of the Shield Wall to his east instead of to his north. Sweat beaded down his face as he stood atop a short dune, peering down toward a green dot in the distance marking the Pah'.
The Abi'li Pah as it was known by the many tribal elves that called the surrounding desert home was a rare and beautiful sight for any Zalanthan to behold, it was an oasis. The dense growth of stout trees surrounding the shallow pool of muddy water offered valuable shade to any passing traveler. Though often enough the pool was dry and only damp soil marked where the pool sometimes was. Today was no exception to the rule fore as Elios came out on the other side of the dense trees he saw what he had feared, the pool was in fact going through a dry time. Elios squatted down for a moment and cursed his luck as he ran a hand through the still damp soil in the very bottom of the shallow hole. He had been depending on refilling his water supply here and being on his way, but now he knew he would be sorely pressed to make the rest of the journey to Luir's Outpost on the water he had. Just as Elios started to stand some movement at the nearby tree line to his right caught his eye and he spun about, his hands reaching for the hilts protruding from his beltline.
A pair of slanted light-grey eyes peered out toward Elios as a tall lanky hooded figure made its way into view from the foliage. Elios was a bit startled at first but seeing the desert elf in full view now he decided it best to try and get clear without a fight, he was on the tribal elf's self-proclaimed land after all. Tribal elves were known to be volatile at best especially when dealing with anyone that wasn't an elf. That went double if you were on their land standing in one of their water holes. The elf and Elios stood quietly peering toward one another for many uncomfortable moments though both of them appeared relaxed with their arms at their sides. Finally the elf spoke, 'You are a long way from home, mud blood'. Elios did not reply, he spoke the elf's language allundean well enough but an idea occurred to him before he spoke and he just stood watching the elf blankly. The elf frowned visibly toward Elios for many long moments then said something in a language Elios did not understand. Still, Elios stood silently at the bottom of the hole. The elf eyed Elios up and down for several moments, then scowled and turned on a heel in the sand, starting off at a swift sprint. All elves were natural runners, but desert elves were known for it even more so than for their bad tempers. By the time Elios had walked slowly to the upper lip of the empty pool the elf was already a dot several hundred yards off and moving north with all speed. Elios knew that the rest of his trip had best be a quick one fore desert elves shared everything with their tribe mates, even the joy of a kill.
Elios began to hastily make his way east from the oasis. He had intended to go north to the Dol Takar road then head east to the North road before he headed to Luirs. That wasn't happening this day since the tribal elf had went off in that direction and surely would be coming back this way soon with his kin in tow. Elios did not fancy the thought of meeting on the path with the fearsomely territorial folk. He had no choice but to follow the arm of the Shield Wall to his south until he reached the point where it met up with the main run of the mountain range. From there he would have to climb the sheer rock face, travel across its top and move down its other side where the North Road would be waiting. This was a more direct path for sure and would be much faster. But for anyone who ever laid eyes on the sheer rock face of the Shield Wall, brittle and always being shaped by the wind, the idea of climbing the barrier was daunting at the least.
Elios ran on sweat beading down his face and from his body to drench his sandcloth garb with moisture. Ever so often Elios peered back over his shoulder expecting to see tall tribal folk closing the gap on him fast. But when Elios reached rock face of the main range of the Shield Wall, looming overhead and into the sky for hundreds of yards, he had seen no sign of the desert elves. Dark green eyes stared up at the rock face, wisps of sand being blown from it's crags by the wind. This would be a difficult climb indeed and Elios saw no ledge to afford his already weary body a rest once he got on the wall. He could not rest here at its base with a tribe of tribal elves no doubt closing on him quickly though and so he moved to the wall, reaching up toward the first handhold he saw available. As he began to pull himself up the sandstone crumbled away in his grasp. This would be a difficult climb indeed.
A few hours later Elios was over halfway up the rock face being a skilled climber but his arms were shaking with the strain of supporting his weight. He glanced down toward the ground a couple hundred yards below and he groaned lightly, knowing there was only one way to go now and that was up. Before he brought his gaze back up to the wall above him he spotted three dots on the western horizon moving quickly toward him. He did not take time to consider if the elves would come up the wall after him he just hoped they did not carry longbows. Elios climbed another ten feet then peered back to take in the progress of his pursuers and they were no longer dots on the horizon, the agile and swift runners were already in clear sight and one of them was pulling a bow from his shoulder as he ran. Elios grunted and began to pull himself up the wall as fast as his worn out arms and legs would propel him. Another fifteen feet up the wall and Elios heard the faint sounds of a voice below but he could not make out what was being said at this distance and with the wind whipping about his body as it was. What was being said did not matter to Elios at the time though he just wanted to get to the top the lip of the wall a hundred feet above and he wanted to get there fast. He peered down again and he noticed the form of a tall hooded figured with a bow drawn taught.
The pain of the arrow striking Elios in the back seemed faint to him and he continued to pull himself up the rock face, adrenaline coursing his veins and pushing him forward. Another arrow was loosed but it came in short and skipped audibly off the stone a few feet below where Elios now clung to the side of the cliff. Elios never took his gaze off of his destination the lip of the wall was just a few more yards above him. He reached for his next handhold and an arrow grazed the side of his face before striking the wall just over his head, chipping away some of the sandstone wall so that dust fell painfully into his eyes. He continued forward anyways and a couple yards later he was pulling himself up over the lip of the wall. He rolled onto his side panting heavily but was more than elated that he had escaped the clutches of the elves. Even if they started climbing now he would be half way to Luir's Outpost by the time they reached the top of the wall and far out of their reach. He kept rolling on his side to lay on his back and fires ignited in his senses when the pain of the arrowhead digging a bit deeper into his shoulder blade got a hold of him. He sat up slowly and winced as he pulled off is pack only to notice two more arrows lodged securely into the pack its self. He reached over his shoulder with a single hand to assess the damage and found that the entire arrowhead hadn't even made its way into his flesh. Luckily, desert elves aren't known so much for their brawn and their spindly arms keep them from being able to pull the more powerful longbows that would have put Elios well within lethal range even as high up as he was. He pulled the two arrows from the outside of his pack and picked up the slightly bloody one, noted that they were fine quality and slid them into the quiver over his shoulder. Elios drank the last half of his final waterskin then and rose to his feet, pulling his pack onto his back once more as he stood. It was less than a day's travel to Luir's Outpost and he did not intend to have any more mishaps on this less than fortunate trip.
Luck was with the traveler for the first time in many days and he had no falls while descending other side of the Shield Wall. He came onto the North Road weary and exhausted and he wished he had saved some of the water he had finished off back atop the wall. Luir's Outpost was less than half a day's travel to the south though and the going on the reasonably well maintained road was easy in comparison to the dunes. The horrible burning sun still beat down upon him and the pain in his shoulder didn't relent as he traveled with his pack on his back, but he was a seasoned traveler had seen worse situations in his past. As he walked he put his mind off of his horribly biting thirst and instead spent his time recalling the many travels he had undertaken in the name of his deity Vrianne atop his recently fallen friend Arrow. He recalled the countless weeks that would have been spent in solitude if not for the silent company of his mount while out living in the wastes. Elios was a half-elf and as with most half-elves he was not accepted by the vast majority of the 'civilized world'. He was an abomination in the eyes of most people who lived within the walls and so instead of taking their scorn and misdirected hatred Elios preferred to spend his life in the solitude of the desert. But, since he had come across Arrow he had not been entirely alone anymore. A wild and young kank when they first met on the grasslands south of Tuluk Arrow did not take to Elios' form of taming at first. Elios ended up on the sand and almost trampled more than once while trying to turn the wild bug into a decent beast for riding. In time Arrow become more accustom to having the nomad on his back and even more accustom the blue fruits the rider fed it from time to time. In a matter of a couple of months Elios was sleeping curled up on the grassy earth of the northern plains against the bug and Arrow came to take comfort in having the rider near. The silent love and friendship that Elios and Arrow had for one another could not be tested or broken, both were alone without the other and both had nowhere else to go.
Now Elios was alone again for the first time in years and he searched his thoughts for exactly how he was going to come about another mount. He needed one to continue to make supply runs for the Kuraci but at the same time he was never very keen on riding a wall bred bug. He found that wall bred mounts, even inix and sunback weren't as hardy or dependable as one tamed from the wild. He decided after a few hours on the path walking in the heat though that at this point any beast would do if it didn't throw him every couple of feet. He would pick the best of the mounts he could afford in Luir's Outpost when he reached it and be on his way to the village of Redstorm East to pick up his spice haul and get it back to the Kuraci. The trip would take several weeks and would put him through gith lands, the southern wastes, and near the perilous Sea of Silt. He did not look forward to the trip but he made most of his coins off of runs this way for the different merchant Houses of the cities and he had not made one in some time. By the time the crimson sun was setting in the west Elios was making his way up an incline in the white stone road toward a pair of tall gates. The walls of the outpost had several towers rising up from their tops and paths beyond and a few dun-clad guards stood watching the steady flow of traffic through the gates. Elios pulled his hood up around his features and quietly moved through the throng of patrons into the post.
The terrain that lay before the nomad was challenging to cross atop a mount, much less on foot. Elios knew that he only had enough water to last him a few days at most in this dry landscape. He was traveling northward with swift strides of his long legs and he keenly felt the weight of the two...
Continue Reading...Reaper, The by The7DeadlyVenomz
Added on Jan 4, 2006History of the Reaper, as told by the Historian of Tektolnes.
Author's note:This story is based in both legends and personal knowledge of the killer known as the Reaper. The most important portions of this story did happen, but some sections are a result of my observation of the killer's character and demeanor throughout his history.
In no way do I mean disrespect to the Reaper nor do I seek to judge his motivations. He is what he is. The Reaper is not a man who acts without reason and purpose, and even his daily routines are carried out with an almost unerring calculation.
No one knows now where the Reaper is. It is rumored that he died years ago under the command of a Sergeant Bindoe, in the terrible battle known as the Great War, where the Northern and Southern king-gods clashed for the second time. The southern forces were ultimately thrown out of their forty year occupation of the Northern lands, and the Glorious Highlord Tektolnes suffered a great loss of soldiers, both high ranking and not.
Though the Reaper never officially served the Highlord, it is known that he carried out a number of killings for the God-King. His rank as a sub-human prevented him from truly joining the ranks of the Dragon, but his effectiveness and loyalty were never questioned, and he emerged as one of the most dangerous and yet under-estimated and unknown men in the history of the world.
The Reaper is truly one of the Highlord's greatest losses. This story is only a brief peek into the world of the Reaper. I intend to write a full manuscript at a later time, but at present, I am occupied in the copy of tomes from Steinal. These old books are priceless and are beginning to decompose, and the process of preserving them is crucial.
The full chronicles of the Reaper will have to wait until a later time.
Templar Signus Kinar - Historian of Tektolnes
The Reaper drew near the hallway which led to the Templar's room. He moved with confidence, his senses primed even here in this safe house. No place was truly safe, but the barracks of the templarate of Tektolnes was as close as it was possible to be. Here, no one died but who the templars deigned, and though it had happened before, the act of fouling one's own holy quarters was looked upon with disgust.
The Reaper was the only person in these halls who was not a human. Sub-humans were not accepted into the ranks of the Militia, other than the valuable half-giants, and certainly not into the ranks of the templarate. The Reaper was tolerated solely because of who he was.
No one truly noticed the dwarf, his manner of passage and air of belonging there blinding them to his race or identity. As always, when in public, or when any place where he might be noticed, he wore his mask and cloak.
The mask was an ugly thing, created from the skull of a gith. The back of the skull and the lower jaw had been removed, and the bone was dyed a dull black. On the forehead, a simple, blood red sickle was painted. His cloak was a similarly simple affair, blood red in color and unadorned but for faint black filigree, which served as trim for the cuffs and the hem of the garment.
The Reaper approached the doorway of the Templar's chambers. He glanced about, then listened for a moment. On the other side of the stone door, he could hear two voices. One was the Templar. The other was someone else, and the Reaper did not recognize the voice. This disturbed him, and he stood still, considering turning and leaving.
The thought was extremely brief. As always, the Reaper's mind worked in a simple and coherent manner, and he knew as soon as he heard the voice which he did not recognize that he would go in. He lifted his hand, wrapped in black leather and graced with the claws of an anakore, and knocked shortly upon the door.
The door was opened from the other side by someone he did not recognize, and he knew that this was the voice which he had heard. Sitting in the middle of the room was the Templar, seated at a large marble desk. The top of the desk was covered with various tomes and papers, some quills and ink, and a few sculptures; one a stone thing depicting a Templar in full robes, a ball of light, brought to life by a red ruby stone, clasped in the nad of the tiny figure, aloft and menacing, the other a simple obsidian and jade cross, serving as a paperweight. There were also a few assorted figurines: a mantis in death, a mul and a dwarf locked in combat, and an obsidian dragon, perched atop a metal city.
"Reaper. Come in." The Templar motioned to a chair opposite him, made of wood and black and jade streaked leather. "We'll talk."
The Reaper looked up at the man who had opened the door. The man was a soldier, clad in the garb of the Militia, and a captian by the insignia he wore. He was a hulking creature, tanned darkly, and wore heavy obsidian armor, marked with jade engravings. Across his back hung a huge warsword. He nodded shortly at the Reaper as he looked down at the dwarf, but the Reaper did not nod back. He simply proceeded into the scantily appointed room and took the seat indicated by the Templar.
"This is Captain Rillian, Reaper, and he was just leaving. We will speak in private." The Templar did not say this as a fact, but rather an order. The Captain bowed to the Templar and moved out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. The door clapped hard, the sound of stone on stone, and the sound echoed dully in the room.
The Reaper sat quietly in the wooden chair, his feet dangling above the black floor. His eyes studied the Templar without disguise, observing his hawkish features and his thinning hair, which still retained a glimmer of its former reddish color. The Templar wore the robes of the Red, and it was rumored that he would be next to be awarded the robes of the Black.
After a moment of rifling through his desktop of papers and books futilely, the Templar looked over the desk at the Reaper. He could understand why people who had seen the dwarf felt off-balance. The gruesome death's head where the face should be, the blood red cloak, the unadorned black leather armor, all combined to create an imposing figure, despite the Reaper's short stature. The Templar could call a hundred soldiers right now and this sub-human would be dead, but even he always felt secretly uneasy. A person simply was forced to admit their mortality in the face of this short killer. He had often thought that perhaps this was the Reaper's most useful gift, the way he made people feel off-balance. And it seemed so unintentional on the part of the Reaper.
The Templar swallowed and cleared his throat, easing himself back against the back of his own chair. The Reaper had not bowed to him upon entering. Such insolence was only tolerated because the Templar still had use for the Reaper. The Templar believed that the Reaper's time would soon come to an end. Even now, he had a killer training. Given a few more years, perhaps he would be the equal of the Reaper.
The silence in the room was stifling. The Reaper and the Templar both sat, studying one another. The Reaper did not stir, his clawed hands on his knees. The Templar watched the Reaper in turn. The best way to end these sorts of uncomfortable moments is to speak, and so the Templar did so. "Reaper, I've a task for you. There has been yet another outrage from the magicker Sethose. As you know, I've not been able to obtain his location, and the one time that he was sighted, twenty of the Highlord's soldiers died. I will not have this again."
"I have been awaiting your return from the North. Is the Yargay dead?" the Templar concluded. He sat forward, eyeing the Reaper and clasping his hands before him.
The Reaper's deep voice rolled like distant thunder from under the death's head mask. "Yes, he is." Then he was silent again, watching the Templar.
The Templar smiled, allowing a brief feeling of joy to occupy histhoughts. The Yargay had been a northern warchief, a man who had felt it his personal mission to cleanse the world of the wide-spread Allanaki presence. He had gleaned a small party of zealots from his tribe, the Ankar Dol, and these zealots had taken to the sands. From Tuluk to Luir's to Allanak itself, the warchief had led his followers on a bloody, astonishingly successful series of hit-and-run raids. He had been astonishingly elusive, and would show up anywhere he pleased, striking hard and fleeing. The man had seemed invincible.
But he was dead now. "And his men, the Sand's Own, as they called themselves, what of them?" the Templar asked the Reaper.
"They are also dead, Lord Templar," said the Reaper in a cold, deep deadpan. His claw-graced hands remained where they had the entire time, upon his black-leathered knees.
"Good, good. It is good that you do so well, Reaper. The Highlord is always grateful."
"Of course he is."
The Templar started to frown, but he knew the insolence had not been intentional. He carried on, mindful of the dwarf's impatience. Such foolishness could be tolerated when one was in private. Besides, the use of the dwarf was crucial, for the moment, at least.
"This Sethose, he will need to die, and soon. The Highlord is displeased with our inability to discover him. Although we can, of course, track him to the ends of the world, from the canyons to the Sea itself, it is looked upon more favorably to use others. So I charge you with this."
"He will die."
The Templar did not question the Reaper. He knew that he would not have to. So he only nodded. "Very good. Do you need any information on this man?"
"Where was he seen last?"
The Templar rifled through his cluttered desk again, finally pulling forth a thin leather notebook forth. He opened the book and scanned the pages, utilizing a skill that only those of noble blood possessed legally. Finally he came to the page he desired and stopped, reading down it quickly.
"South-east of Luir's some distance, near the old Conclave establishment. Do you know where that is?" he asked the Reaper, looking up from the words upon the page.
"Yes. There is nothing else of note?"
The Templar shook his head. "No. he did not fight, but faded away. Three units of our troops were headed out that way to escort a supply of Red Storm grain."
The Reaper nodded, a motion that looked less than human with the mask in place. "That is all I need then. I will return in three weeks or less with his head." He stood without preamble, sliding from the chair to the floor.
The Templar only nodded, watching the dwarf. The Reaper turned after giving a short bow of the head and walked to the door. He opened it. Outside, the Captain stood, fiddling with his cloak. He looked up as the Reaper emerged, then moved into the room as the Templar called his name.
The Reaper walked down the hall quietly, and when the Captain looked back after the dwarf, it took him a moment to spot him.
The Templar sighed and rose from the desk, straightening his red robes. "I despise that creature, yet his utility demands that he be kept alive. One day, we will train one of our own, and we will not need a dwarf to do our work. One day, I hope to see them all enslaved again."
The Captain grunted. "That is the Reaper then? He is...unnerving."
The Templar glanced at Captain Rillian. "For you, Captain. But one day, you will see that he is just a man. There is nothing supernatural to him, like the rumors seek to establish. He bleeds like any other man. Sit down. We have some things to go over."
The Reaper moved down the street known as Caravan Way. The road was busy with wagons and commoners, animals and people of all the four major races, and the black-cloaked soldiers of the Allanaki Militia. Tribal elves, regarded with suspicion even by their city kin, dashed at insane gaits through the crowded streets, and half-giants loomed here and there, looking about in their curious way or going about tasks with unerring solidarity. Dwarves, clad in the armors of various Houses or in the garb of the desert, trudged along, their short stature often hiding them among the more prevalent humans and elves.
The insects known as kanks carried their riders through the streets of the stone city in halting gait, and war beetles, inix and even sunback lizards could also be seen, their riders able to survey the street from a more advantageous point. Hulking mekillots, trained from birth to perform their tasks, pulled wagonsladen with gypsy wares, grain, meat, and all manners of stuffs through the seething mass of humanity. The streets of Allanak in the late afternoon resembled an overturned ant nest, all disorder and confusion.
Through it all the Reaper stalked, unnoticed and unhindered. While most were coming in for shelter from the impending Zalanthan night, he was leaving. He liked the solitude of the wilderness, the quietness of it all, and the ever looming presence of danger. He hated mounts, but he was forced to utilize one now, for even on kankback Luir's Outpost lay nearly three days away.
So he entered the stables just off of Caravan Way. The half-giant stablehand led his black kank from the stables, after he had presented the proper ticket and amount of coin. The hulking creature did not bother to even think of the little person's odd appearance, and lumbered off on his feeding duty. The Reaper draped his packs over the kank's back and mounted the creature.
The Reaper rode from the gates just as the soldiers were closing it. Behind him, as he faced the dimming red desert, he could hear the call, "Close the gates." He sighed and looked up at the sky. There was a storm coming, and the desert lay in silent homage to its impending arrival.
As he gazed over the sandy dunes before him, he could see nothing moving. Grunting shortly to himself, he passed under the giant iron dragon perched over the gates to Allanak and turned the black kank to the north-east, his cloak's loose folds snapping in the rising wind as the insect moved over the loose ground.
The Regular named Karl stood at the southern gates of Luir's Outpost, the infamous headquarters of the Kuraci Merchant House. Once the hideaway of the Dragon's right hand man, Luir, so it was rumored, the ancient stone edifice stood on the crest of the Shield Wall, its imposing black walls and sharp spires creating a vision against the sunset.
Karl's heart swelled with pride every time he looked at the Outpost so. Even with the vile Allanaki presence, the Outpost was splendid, in a deadly way. Looking over at the Militia soldier who stood at the gates with him, Karl could see that even this barbarian was impressed. No one could deny the sheer dominating presence of the Outpost.
The sun was setting and the white moon was high in the sky now, with the red moon following closely, as though the two minor bodies were racing one another. Karl's relief would be here soon, and he could go to the Storm's Eye and drink a couple of ales, and maybe even get that serving girl into bed. Shali was her name, and a beauty no less. Dark, raven hair, and skin like the sand itself in color. Huge breasts, wide hips, and a behind that made Karl think of things other than swords. Green eyes, and lips so full...
Karl almost missed the motion of the Allanaki soldier who had been admiring the profile of the Outpost with him earlier. He saw a black and jade swirl from the corner of his eye and turned, casting his gaze on the soldier, whose features were unseen beneath the heavy black helm almost all Allanaki soldiers wore. The soldier was questioning a dwarf who had entered the gates.
The dwarf was unremarkable. He wore a dusty sand colored aba, and his leathers were worn. A spear hung on his back, and he held the reins to a black kank. His skin was black, and his eyes shielded by a pair of worn sunslits. He looked the part of a hunter, or a mercenary. There were plenty of his type here in Luir's.
"I have just come in from the sands, hunting," the dwarf said. There was a odd quality in his voice that sent a shiver down Karl's spine. If the Soldier felt the same, the helm hid his reaction.
"Yeah? You look unfamiliar...and your kank is unusual," said the soldier, his voice reedy and dust ridden. He adjusted his hand on the hilt of the sword at his waist as he looked at the black-shelled kank; to Karl, the motion seemed to be a nervous one.
"I am a hunter. Sometimes these sands cast forth anomalies. I was fortunate enough to capture one of those. I am not from here, at any rate. I am from Red Storm, where your grain is grown. I assure you, I will not be here long. But night approaches, and I wish to rest in a civilized place for a while." The dwarf glanced at Karl, and though he could not see the eyes, he felt unsettled. He made his way to the soldier and the dwarf, straightening his dun colored cloak in an attempt to appear important.
"We do get hunters who are not from around here," Karl told the soldier. "You are new here, but surely even in the great city of Allanak, there are those you do not know."
The soldier looked irritated and waved his hand in a dismissive fashion. "Yeah, yeah, that's so. But I was interested in his kank...the insect's unusual." The soldier turned back to the place where the dwarf was. Karl did as well, snorting softly.
The dwarf was gone. The Allanaki soldier looked around for a while and then shrugged, and Karl's relief came shortly thereafter. Banil was the Kuraci's name, and he clapped Karl on the back with a chuckle, telling him that Shali was in the inn even now...
Life was a circle, thought the Reaper, as he sat atop a dune in the desert, just west of the Salt Flats. Luir's was a day and a half behind him now, and the desert, eternal and imposing, was his and the wildlife's alone. He munched idly on a dry strip of chalton meat, and sipped sparingly from his leather waterskin. His black kank sat beside him, feeding on the grass pellets that the Reaper reserved as feed for the insect.
Far away, treading over the desolate saltlands, wild mekillots could be seen, monsters who could wipe an entire division of unwary Byn mercenaries. Most of the huge lizards were a ruddy red, monstrous creatures with thick necks and mouth full of sharp teeth, Their prey crawled along the same saltflats, huge ugly worms with no conceivable purpose but to feed the mekillots.
Perhaps half a mile away, in a valley between the dune the Reaper sat upon and another smaller dune, a small lizard with shimmering skin gave a shrill squall of pleasure as it snared the scorpion it had been stalking. Vultures circled overhead, ugly creatures with bald necks and heads and cruel curved beaks. They transcribed listless circles in the red sky, searching the waste for a newly dead creature. A variety of other animals, some small, some large, stalked the dunes all around the Reaper, carrying on with their life as their kind had done forever.
Yes, life was a circle, reasoned the Reaper, as he watched all of this. The strong preyed upon the weak, and the weak in turn preyed upon the strong. The strong preyed through force, and the weak through guile and deceit.
He took the jozhal as an example: the little lizard fed upon the small insects of the desert. He in turn was hunted by hunters with two legs and four alike, but survived through sheer trickery. The scorpion the Reaper had just watch the lizard kill had fallen prey, but other scorpions had stung other lizards, then used them as food. Everything came about in a time.
The Reaper, however, seemed to be above the circle of life. Yes, he had once been prey. He did not tell the Templar who he worked for this, but he knew that the man had tried to have him killed even as he sent him out on a mission the first time, long ago. After the Reaper had killed the target, a woman named Doria, three men had ambushed him on the way back to Allanak.
He remembered the event like it was yesterday. The single, vibrating thump in his heart as the men had approached, like ghosts from the sands on the horizon. There had been silence, and the killers had not made demands. The Reaper likewise knew what they were there to do. So there had been a brief moment before the influx of sheer violence, and the killers had circled one another, sizing each other up.
The Templar had underestimated the Reaper, of course, for the dwarf had escaped the ambush, killing one of the men and seriously wounding another. Perhaps it had been a test, perhaps an actual attempt to end his breath. But that event had taught the dwarf a valuable lesson. Trust is hard earned. There had been other attempts, or the rumors of such, but there were no one who even knew who the Reaper was, much less anyone capable of nearing him unawares.
In a way, he understood the devious elves. They set tests for anyone whom they felt they might even wish to trust. But the Reaper did not. He did not want to trust anyone. He was a loner. To him, trust was a weakness reserved for the mundane population, not for a killer who lived by wits and skill alone.
The Reaper knew that he had a touch of the arcane in him. He did not have to try to invoke it. It simply worked of its own accord. He had turned minds without a word, by thinking. He could see magickers who twisted the very fabric of reality itself to hide, and he had a sense of danger before there even was such. His dwarven heritage made him naturally semi-resistant to magick and poison alike, but he had come from the womb nearly invulnerable to such, so strong was his blood.
His touch was something that the Reaper did not think of often. He preferred to keep that portion of himself hidden away, even from himself. As a child, he had known what he would do even before he was ten. He had discovered his focus after he had attended his first hunting trip. The joy he had experienced while assisting his father had been unparalleled. The two raiders who had tried to rob them on the way back to the farm had been even more exquisite to kill.
He pulled the sickles from their black sheaths at his belt and examined them. They had not seen blood in nearly two weeks now. He loved and trusted the weapons. They could lop the head from a man or lance through leather armor or through a gap in bone gear like a needle, piercing the heart or some other vital organ. He pulled a black stone from his packs, rough and created for the purpose of honing the thin obsidian weapons. He had once been promised a set of black iron sickles by the Templar when he had first entered the Highlord's service, but that had been some seven years ago. He did not expect to see them between now and the day he died.
He glanced up as he sharpened his weapons, scanning the barren desertscape. There, to the north, moving through the sands, was a lone figure. He could tell by the way the air around the figure shimmered that the person was a magicker. But his eyes were sharp, and he could also tell that it was not the man he had been sent to kill.
The Reaper was not one to kill for no reason. He knew that unreasonable murder was regrettable, but the bloody act gave him pleasure, and so the path of a killer was his excuse to continue killing without moral objections. He bore no being hate, for hate made one irrational. The Reaper was a logical creature, and he refused to dilute it by allowing emotional outbursts or even thoughts. He remembered the way his father and mother had reacted after he had come to this realization. He had not been back to the farm since.
He pulled his hood back, rubbing his bald head as he watched the faraway figure. He knew the magicker could or had not seen him, and in fact, was going the other way. He pulled his hood in place again, then sheathed the sickles in their separate sheaths. He put the stone away and the meat and water, then picked the mask up from its position on the sand beside him. He placed the thing over his face, covering his features, tying it about his head. Then he stood up and looked out over the waste, his stout form small against the desolation.
He mounted the black kank and secured his saddlebags, then clicked to the insect and guided it down the slippery dune. To the south lay the village of Red Storm East. It was several days away from where he was now, and he was positive that in that time, he would find the defiler's hideaway. It could not be the Conclave...
The morning was hot and early, the unrelenting sun rising and breaking through the night's sandstorm with violent quickness. Despite this, Krath was too late to greet the Reaper, for the killer was already moving, guiding the black kank over the sands, which had turned from reddish dunes to brown and white slopes and rises. To the west, the Salt Flats lay out of sight, while to the east, the imposing natural walls which marked the end of the known world could be seen as a dim line across the horizon.
The Reaper had been out in the sands for nearly three days. Tonight, he hoped to be in Red Storm East, and carry out his search for the defiler from there. It was a known fact that the persons of Red Storm hated magickers, and any sightings would more than likely be critical information. He had no doubt that the farmers and silt sailors of the seaside grain growing community would assist him with information if it was possible.
He had passed the Conclave a day ago. It had been silent but for the mysterious thudding that sounded like the boom of long dead drums. It was popularly held that the Conclave's compound was locked up tightly, by unknown forces and means. For the Reaper however, it was not, and so as he had entered by his side way, he had lurked for nearly an hour, going through the dry and dusty halls and rooms. As he had traversed the old structure's rooms, making certain that no one was present, the thudding had pounded into his head, its source unknown and unfindable. He had finally left, the undead drums pounding in his head still.
Even a day later, his ears still throbbed dully, but it was going away. Dawn had died by the time he brought his kank up a dune and pulled it to a halt. Something was going on to the west. He looked out over the dunes, his cold eyes narrowing behind the frozen grimace of his mask. A massive mekillot loomed in the dunes nearly three leagues away, thrashing violently. The Reaper squinted and frowned. The mekillot was more than twenty miles from its territory. He wondered what the giant lizard was doing so far from its own lands. One could wander, of course, but generally, the lizards did not do so unless greatly agitated. Perhaps the monster was even now bearing down on a party of ignorant hunters.
The Reaper shrugged and clicked to the black kank, turning it away from the speck in the distance and heading towards the south. The Killer had no time to investigate, nor the desire to do so. He had survived for a long time by simply existing, allowing all but his prey to do so as well without help or hindrance. The mekillot would live or die alone. He had moved perhaps twenty feet when he pulled the insect to such an abrupt halt that the normally docile creature protested with an irritable clicking of its mandibles.
The desert had gone silent. City folk would swear that but for the winds, the desert was always silent. This was not so. One who spent any amount of time in the sands could hear the speech of nature, the sound of growth, and the comfortable language of death and life. But that familiar sound was gone right now. The desert was silent, and not even the light wind, which blew from the west, made much more noise than a whisper.
The Reaper cocked his head, holding both him and his insect almost completely still. He pushed his hood back from his head, revealing his smooth, bald black head. His faintly pointed ears took in every sound available. He listened so hard that he even heard his insect's heartbeat.
There it was again. A barking laughter. The Reaper's red eyes narrowed, and his head turned. The faint breeze brought the sound of the mekillot to his ears, and he could hear it dying. And something else came to his ears. The laughter of jakhals.
The Reaper did some quick reasoning as the sun beat down upon him, burning the sands about him in its daily manner. The only regular place jakhals were to be found was deep in the Canyons of Waste. That was west of Allanak, and some distance at that. For jakhals to be this far up north only meant one thing. The killer pulled his hood up with a frantic and fast motion.
He whirled the black insect under him and prodded the creature to a run, urging it down the brown dune he had been on. Sand sprayed up behind the insect's legs as it covered the leagues in a rapid skitter. As he rode, the killer tightened the straps on the small black shield he used on his right arm, and made certain that his crescent killing tools were loose in their sheaths. His blood red cloak flared and rode up, sweeping from around his frame and up over his shoulders like unnatural wings as he rode into the oncoming breeze.
To the west, ahead of him, less than two miles away, the mekillot was dying. He watched the monster crash to the ground, writhing in its death throes. Its ruddy hide was spotted with darker red, and he knew that the creature's lifeblood was leaking from its massive form. And around the dying lizard, he could see a pack of black lizards, miniscule side by side with the mekillot's bulk. Then he saw a looming humanoid, and he cursed and pulled the reins hard, bringing the kank up around and behind a dune, out of sight of the pack of hunting jakhals.
He came from off the kank, bringing it to its knees so that it could rest. He hobbled the insect and bared a sickle. Dropping to his belly, he worked his way around the side of the dune, staying low to the ground. Overhead, cast as profiles against the red of the Zalanthan sky, seven vultures circled, marking the place of the dying mekillot. And the sounds of barking laughter reached his sharp ears, along with the death rattles of the giant lizard.
He crested the dune on his belly, dragging his short body through the white and brown sands. Below him, he counted nine of the vicious lizards who were still alive, though a few were wounded, and eleven of their comrades dead about the gigantic corpse of the mekillot. The looming humanoid he had seen was a braxat, uncharacteristically clad in several pieces of heavy armor and wielding a massive warhammer. And even this massive shelled humanoid was small next to the corpse of the mekillot.
The killer groaned to himself. He disliked half-giants because of their lack of cause. But the primal braxat were even worse, for not only did they lack the childish intelligence of a half-giant, but they were much more aggressive and single-minded. One was not likely to be able to be distracted as a half-giant might be, nor could they be reasoned with.
He watched as the jakhals tore the flesh from the dead mekillot, and grunted as the braxat produced several huge canvas sacks, walking about and collecting the meat. The teamwork was exceedingly odd. Braxat did not have the intelligence to work magick, and yet, there were the unnatural jakhals. Natural jakhals were of a different color, not much different from that of a jozhal. This only produced one logical answer. Both were working for another.
It was late afternoon by the time the hunters finished with their task and the Reaper crept back to his kank. He throat was parched, and he quickly consumed a few swallows of precious water. Then he mounted up, pulling the black insect back into the shadows of the dune. He watched as the jakhals and the braxat passed his location and moved towards the east. He waited for a half hour before allowing himself to ease from the shade of the dune. Even as deadly as he was, he did not want to face a horde of jakhals and a braxat together. So he waited until they were gone.
He picked up the trail, and over the next three hours, he followed it relentlessly. It was late at night when he reached the trail's end. Ahead of him, the cliffs which marked the end of the known world loomed above him. He frowned, looking up at the face of the cliff. All around him, the deadly desert spread, but here at the foot of the cliffs, chunks of rocks from landslides over eons of time lay embedded in the white and brown sands.
There. Crude stairs, carved into the very cliffside itself, crawled up the side of the natural stone walls, and disappeared in the darkness of the one moon night. But the white moon relentlessly forced its light down through the heavy dust in the air, and a darkness darker than the darkness which marked the presence of the walls themselves marked the entrance to a cave, some fifty feet above the ground.
The Reaper was not comfortable with entering the cave with night approaching. This defiler, Sethose, was known for his deeds in the dark of night, and the Reaper held it to reason that if the man was more familiar with the night, that it was best to work during the day, despite that the cave itself might be dark regardless. He had no idea how far back the cave ranged, or what was up there. He only knew that the trail the heavily-laden braxat and the jakhals had laid ended here, and so it also held to reason that this defiler dwelt within. Typically, defilers did not share territory, and since the jakhals that he had seen could only be conjured up by a defiler, to the best of his knowledge, the sorcerer he was to kill must dwell within.
He elected to spend the night at the base of the cliff, and to climb the steps in the morning, when he could see. He hobbled his kank and unpacked his saddlebags. From them he produced several herbs and began to brew a mixture in a small wooden cup with a bit of water from his supply. When the mixture was thick and only marred by the most minute specks of herbs, he produced his sickles and coated them in the syrupy liquid, then brought forth the five black skull-hilted knives from the baldric about his torso and coated them as well.
These he laid aside to dry in the warm night air, then delved into the saddlebags again. He pulled a quiver of ten bolts and a small black crossbow forth. The bow he strapped to his belt. The solid bone bolts he dipped into the remainder of the mixture, tipping the cup to gain the most of the syrup. Then he laid the bolts aside to dry, alongside the sickles and throwing knives.
The cup he washed out and placed back in his bags. Then he brought forth some chalton jerky and several travel cakes. He sat silently in the sands, cross-legged, and ate and drank as the night wore on about him. In the distance, the desert sang its unending song, the howl of the wind and the cries of night creatures a symphony in the darkness.
The moon was on the horizon, seeking solitude, and the red moon was rising across the world, when the killer picked up his weapons and began to stow them. He slid the sickles into their sheaths again, then his quiver of bolts, minus one, on the other side of his laden belt. The free bolt he loaded into the crossbow, but he did not wind the weapon. He replaced the ranged weapon on his belt and slid the five knives into his baldric.
The Reaper sat back down, his eyes on the cave before him, and removed his mask, letting the cool breeze strike his features. His mind drifted even as his senses remained primed. His memories carried him back a number of years, before he had become who he was.
He was only twenty-three then, his body bursting with energy, his mind with childish notions. Yet even then, he had been in love with death for nearly thirteen years. There was never to be another thing to replace it. But there was something very close, in those days.
He had been hunting men for nearly five years by then, collecting bounties and heads. There was enough killing then to satisfy his cravings, before the actual bloodlust had taken hold of him. He had put no thought to having children or a mate, but he had his natural male urges, and had entertained them any number of times.
One took his fancy as no other had. She had been a Bynner, in the Scorpion Unit, and she was almost twice his age. She was slim for a dwarf, yet more than an equal for any human female in stoutness. Her structure was defined as though she had been sculpted from a rock, and she was no whore. It was not her powerful frame that overwhelmed his senses though, nor her playful streak, rare in a dwarf. He had fallen in love with her eyes. They were blue, but they almost glowed, they had been so bright. Against the sandy brown of her skin, they had shone like jewels. His time with her had been so short. It was almost unthinkable, to have cast his life away as he had, his family and all, and yet to have this stranger whom he only saw in the Gaj Tavern capture his heart. Her name had been K'jay, and she had taken a liking to him as well. After a month and three days, they had made love.
He had spent three bounties of obsidian on a room and dinner for her, a vast expenditure for the frugal Reaper. After they had eaten the dinner of nobles and aides, rare meat from a bahamet and wine from the North's finest vineyards, they made love for long hours on a bed covered with fur from an animal the killer had never recognized. When they came, it was seconds apart, and they lay together, the cool breeze easing in the lone window and wafting over their naked, sweating forms as they lay intertwined.
In the morning, K' jay had risen, walking to the window and looking down upon the street from their second floor room. The rising sun profiled her powerful body as it crept up in the ruddy sky to announce the beginning of another day. She had turned half-way, one of her firm, large-nippled breasts visible, and smiled at him, her brilliant blue eyes flashing, before she collected her Byn wear. She had dressed, and he had lain silent upon the bed, gathering her in, watching her fluid motions.
Even now, years later, he remembered her whispered promise before she left the room. She had bitten his ear roughly and then, as softly as a feather, had murmured, "You are mine, Thunderstone, and I am yours." Then she had left and he had smiled, and his mind had eased, and his bloodlust had almost seemed to disappear. He never saw her again. When she did not come to the tavern that night, he asked the Sergeant who had been her superior officer where she was. During a mission that day, the veteran mercenary said, in the sands to the south of the city, K' jay had died to a gith's spear. They had not brought her body with them, the officer said when the Reaper pressed. There had been no time. For all he knew, the wildlife was consuming it even now.
The boy that would become the Reaper drew a dagger and cut the officer's throat there in the Gaj, in front of everyone, and then left and disappeared into the streets. He had left the city under the cover of night and rode out to where the battle had taken place. There, miraculously, lay K' jay's naked body, untouched, surrounded by three ravaged gith corpses.
He buried her there, under the twin moons' gaze, and promised her that he would never love another. Then he had risen as the sun had done the same, and disappeared for six years before returning as the Reaper.
The sun was rising again now, and he watched the first ray of light creep over the distant horizon. Soon it would be time to enter the cave. He forced his mind to the present. He replaced the mask on his face and tied the silk cord which held it on. He got to his feet and checked his gear once more. Then he moved towards the stairs, visible now in the light of Krath's burgeoning wrath.
Something made him halt. To the north, still a league away, two figures were approaching, moving with purpose across the sands and following the line of the sheer stone walls. Beneath the bone mask, the Reaper's brow furrowed, and he tuned his senses in that direction. Everything about them seemed ordinary enough. But one never knew, and the killer did not want to face danger from two separate angles. He forced himself back to his kank, glancing up at the cave entrance, and sat, waiting.
One was a human, a giant black man named Chable. The other was an very short elf, tanned and scarred and slender even for his kind, and his name was Kry. They both loped across the sands without need of kank, their belongings strapped across their backs. They wore desert colored sandcloth, and the elf carried a long barbed spear, while the big man wore a large two-handed battleaxe on top of his pack. They had been a pair for ten or more years, and spent their days searching for treasure. As far as they knew, they had covered much of the known world, but the elf Kry often spoke of finding new and undiscovered things.
Chable would chuckle and make light of Kry's ambitions, but the ambition of stealing long lost treasure from undiscovered tombs and cities appealed to him as much as it did the elf. Perhaps this is why they made such a good team.
The elf, as all elves do, despised the concept of using a mount for his journeys, and years ago Chable, when he had discovered that the elf could outdistance his beloved yellow kank, had abandoned the insect and taken to his feet as well. It had not gone well at first, but he had gotten to the point where he could sprint as fast as the elf could jog. He was always looking for a new challenge and, the elf warned him, this concept of ever matching an elf in running across the desert was as unwinnable a situation as he had ever come across. Chable would always chuckle and gasp and keep running.
Both of them saw the short figure beside the black kank as they moved towards the location that Kry had scouted out. Chable huffed and glanced over at the elf, but Kry kept running, shrugging back. Neither bothered with words when they were running. They had been together so long that they could read each other's movements.
The sun had managed to pull itself halfway up when they came to the foot of the cliff where the cave stood. Chable came to a halt next to the wall and bent over, catching his breath, while Kry loped towards the cloaked dwarf in an unassuming gait, nodding amiably.
"Ho, traveler," the elf said as he came up to the stranger. "What brings you out this way? Just heading out from your camp?" Kry looked about as he said this, and noticed that there was no campsite. He sized the short man up and glanced out over the dunes, checking for traps.
"No," came the voice of the dwarf, rumbling like thunder from under the mask secreting his face. "If you are looking for trouble, it is wise for you to look elsewhere. You will die on these sands if you force your acts here."
The elf stepped back, his hands raised, and glanced sidelong at Chable, who was still bent over. "Nothing like that, traveler. Just trying be friendly and all. No reason for violence."
He motioned around the desert. "Just what are you doing out this way?" The short man pointed upwards.
"I have come for the man in there. You should go your way."
Chable had managed to catch his breath by now, and overheard the stranger as he came up by Kry. He looked up at the cave entrance and then glanced at Kry. "Ain't nobody up there, lad," he told the cloaked dwarf. "Just an empty cave. My mate here done been up there before. Just a big empty cave." It was a lie, but if the short man had come for treasure, it just might discourage him. For some reason, the big man did not like the idea of facing the dwarf, and he could tell that Kry did not either from the way he kept shifting his stance and looking out over the endless dunes.
The dwarf shrugged. "Then I am going up to kill the man whom I think is there. When I leave, you may return unhindered."
The scarred elf squinted, eyeing the masked dwarf. "Just who is up there?"
"The sorcerer Sethose."
Chable looked up that the cave in alarm, then frowned. "Uh...n...Kry, did you see anything odd? Like, something that probably shouldn't have been there?"
Kry looked up at the cave and then at the dwarf. "Hmm. All you want is the magicker's head?" he asked, ignoring Chable and watching the silent dwarf.
The dwarf nodded but did not respond. Chable tapped his friend's shoulder with a thick finger. "Why don't we let him go on in and do whatever he does, then we can go in later? I don't like the idea of facing any sort of magick. 'Member Stockal? That was not fun!"
Kry glanced over at the big black man. "What if we go with him? Then he can't take what we want, and if we can help him kill a magicker, then more power to us."
Chable gaped at the elf. "Krath no! I ain't going toe to toe with no jakhals and odd monsters! Go if you want, but when you don't come back, I'm selling that gold coin and keeping the sid fer myself!"
Kry shrugged and turned back to the dwarf. "Do you want help?" he asked, watching the cloaked dwarf. "My name's Kry, and this big lummox here is Chable. If there's magick up there, like you says there is, then you shouldn't mind an extra arm or two. I ain't bad with the spear, and ain't nobody swing an axe better than Chable here."
"Kankfucker!" raged the giant human. "Said I ain't going. All that woodoo stuff is for the insane."
The elf tried to reason with Chable, waving his arms in an animated fashion, as he did whenever he was exasperated. "Look, you slow-footed human. If he goes in without us, he can snatch the treasure or he could die, and then we would have to face the damned magicker alone. If we go in with him, we can make sure he don't steal any of the treasure and make sure that he finds his man. It's a must-go either way!"
Chable threw up his own hands, grumbling. "Fuck you and your thinking, Kry, you gaj-lovin', death hunting longear. Dear Whira, why do I take up with these sorts of idiots?" he mumbled to himself, beseeching the sky, but he pulled the hefty battleaxe from his pack and began giving it a once over.
The dwarf shrugged. "Come as you will then." And he turned and moved towards the steps, baring a sickle and tightening the straps of his shield.
Kry glanced at his partner and sprinted up the stairs, coming up directly behind the dwarf, who took the stairs one at a time, purpose in his step. The elf checked his own gear as he followed the dwarf, glancing back to see Chable lumbering up the stairs with the massive axe over his left shoulder and a dark scowl knitting his brow. The elf snickered.
"Kry, you and your friend are an odd couple," the dwarf commented without looking back.
"You ain't too common yourself, friend," countered the elf. "Not every person I run into wants to go hunting magickers. What's your name?"
"If you ever know my name, it will be just before you die."
The elf growled in irritation. "You are astoundingly confident, stranger. You're about to go into a cave you think belongs to a magicker...no, wait...a sorcerer even, and you got two folks you don't know but what might want to kill you, and all you have to say is slick jibes and kankshit." He chuckled. "Better be glad we need you, or we'd be testing your confidence right now, buddy."
The dwarf stopped so abruptly that the elf almost ran into him. The dwarf turned on the narrow stairway and stared at the elf for a long moment. Behind Kry, Chable had finally caught up. The black man blinked down at the dwarf.
"And you would be dead. I am the Reaper," said the dwarf, and the killer turned and began ascending the stairs again. Behind him, the elf looked at Chable with wide eyes and then hurried to catch up to the dwarf.
"Heard of ya, but never thought I'd meet you, man," said the elf as he caught up to the killer. "I thought you were a story mothers told their kids to scare them to sleep. But wait, how do I know you really are the Reaper, and didn't just say that to scare me?"
The dwarf took the last step and stood on the brink of the cave. "You will know or you will not. I do not care," he said, staring into the darkness beyond. "Now, will one of you carry the torch?"
The Reaper frowned as he pushed into the caverns which lay beyond the deceptively simple cave entrance. The trio had been in the dry tunnels for an hour now, but it was still cool down here, far away from the volatile heat of Krath. The elf was the one carrying the torch, which was guttering. It was almost time to cast it away and light another.
The killer was surprised to be frank. They had encountered nothing as they had pushed into the aimless, beehive-like maze, trudging ever eastwards. He had expected at least face a small-scale assault by this time, but there was none to be had. Behind him, the two explorers were whispering in low voices about the annoying lack of treasure to be found thus far.
They pushed on for another hour through the endless tunnels before the killer called a rest. He could hear the big man rasping for breath, his grunts echoing through the thin air. The big man groaned in relief and sank to his knees, and the elf sat down beside him. The Reaper sat across from the duo and crossed his legs, closing his eyes.
The two newcomers seemed to be reasonably intelligent, and he had not felt the urge to kill them that he usually felt when meeting newcomers. The elf was the brains of the team, while the man provided the brawn. He knew the elf was suitably impressed, while the human didn't really care. He knew that the two would likely try to kill him after Sethose was dead, and he began to even now plan for when that happened.
Kry's voice broke his thoughts, and he opened his eyes, eyeing the elf from behind the facade of the death's head mask. "So, tell us, Reaper, are all those stories true, like when you took on a whole raiding party of escaped muls and killed them all in hand to hand combat?" the elf asked, his amber eyes prying.
"I did not kill them in hand to hand combat."
"Oh..." and the elf seemed to be at a lose for another subject. But the human had a question, and his rich voice, a tenor which would have been demanded in any troupe of bards that the Reaper had ever heard, rolled forth, bouncing from the walls of the tunnels.
"What are we supposed to be expecting in these tunnels, Reaper? You ever killed a magicker before? What, giant worms, dragons, what?"
The Reaper looked at the man and shrugged. "Many things are possible. Living statues of stone and metal, packs of black jakhals, walking and fighting skeletons...many things. You must be prepared for anything, at anytime. Sorcerers are not chained by the typical laws of nature."
The big man tilted his head and cast his brown eyes upon the Reaper's masked face. "Then why do you think that you can kill him?" "I am the Reaper," answered the dwarf simply. "Despite all of the chains that this magick-worker can break, there is one that he can never sever. That is the chain of blood. When it leaves his body, he will die, and all of the chains that are broken will relink themselves."
Kry smirked. "If he don't kill you first." The elf studied the killer in the flickering light of the bone torch. "Why do you travel alone? It's dangerous for folks to be traveling alone nowadays, with all the gith and such. Then there are the Blackmoon and other raiders. Do you have no friends?"
"I have none, and desire no friend."
"You always been that way?"
"Always is a long time. I once had friends, before I was the Reaper. Now I do not."
Kry grimaced and glanced at Chable. "Well," he told the Reaper. "I suppose that you do not need any. But I and Chable here, we intend you no harm. If what you say is true, then we won't tell anyone about you. You'll get your man, we'll get our gold, and all will be well."
"When the sorcerer is vanquished, I will leave and go my way, and you will go yours. You will never see me again. And do not be fearful of telling others of me. I want the fools to know that death is coming."
The elf snickered and rose. "As you like, Master Reaper." He looked around as Chable rose beside him, hefting the giant battleaxe. The killer did not rise, and sat looking off into the darkness, his _expression hidden behind the gruesome death's head mask.
Chable looked down at the dwarf and frowned, looking off into the same direction. "What's the problem, lad? You see something?"
The killer held one hand up, the finger extended, and stared silently into the passageway. Suddenly he rolled to his feet. "Arm yourselves," he said, freeing his sickles and tossing his shield aside. "We are about to have company."
Kry dropped the dim torch and pulled his spear from his back. As he brought the weapon to bear on the tunnel, a odd clattering sound reached his ears, and then a band of reanimated skeletons were among the trio, moving spryly and wielding great swords and hammers. They were a motley crew, the dead remains of dwarves and elves and humans, but the reanimated bones fought with a deadly relentlessness.
Chable hacked the head from one and blocked the blow from another, but the beheaded skeleton kept coming, swinging its weapon blindly and furiously. Kry sprang into the midst of three of the creatures, stabbing and smashing the blunt end of his weapon into the skulls of the monsters.
The Reaper dashed forward, sweeping up a dropped hammer and sheathing his sickles. Then he was among the walking bones in a rage, the undead weapon falling among their ranks like the hammer of some long dead god. Bones shattered, weapons flew, and in the end the two travelers and the killer stood amidst a heap of shattered skulls and ground bone.
Kry glanced at the dwarf. "Uh, Master Reaper," he said, motioning to the killer's arm. "Shall I bind that for you?" As he spoke, he pulled a clay jar of some foul scented balm and a pair of bandages from his belt.
The Reaper considered the elf for some time before finally unlacing the sleeve on his left arm. One of the skeletons had managed to lay a blade on the dwarf, despite his speed. He watched silently as the elf applied the amber-colored balm to the shallow wound, then bound the wound with the bandages and secured them. Then the Reaper laced his sleeve up again.
The killer moved away without a word, dropping the hammer and pulling his sickles forth again, after strapping his dropped shield to his back. He moved into the darkness of the tunnel from whence the skeleton unit had appeared. Kry scooped up the torch and scurried after the cloaked dwarf, Chable hot on his heels.
As Kry caught up to the dwarf, Chable ambling blindly behind him, the Reaper spoke, his bass voice low and brooding. "We are close. One should be watchful."
The elf nodded and dropped back some, relaying the news to the big black man. Chable grumbled but nodded, and together, the three explorers moved deeper into the caverns.
Sethose had lived longer than most of the world's population. The stick thin, hawk-nosed human was one hundred and thirty-eight years old, nearly half a lifetime longer than most dwarves lived. Until the last two years, he had lived in solitude, his powers his only solstice. For a while, he had a female elven slave. He had amused himself with her company for many years before she died of old age.
He did not crave human contact, and this recent rash of personal appearances was not his cup of ginka wine, but it was necessary. He knew that he had perhaps a few more decades of life, but he wanted more. It was his hope that his power would attract the attention of one of the God-Kings. If he could draw one of them out, then he could perhaps discover the secrets of their eternal lives. Then he could kill them all and rule the world himself. He had been perfecting his plan for the last seventy five years. He did not intend to fail.
He glanced over at the huge black rat that scampered up onto the arm of his stone throne. The rodent was as big as a baby gortok, and its fur was sleek and well-kept, unlike its city brethren. He frowned as the rat chittered.
"Oh?" he grated, stroking the rat's fur. "The skeletons did not halt their progress. Very well, then let the gates of Drov open for the fools. I'll not be thwarted by a trio of ignorant, ambitious glory-seekers." He waved his hands, mumbling several words, and the very rock of the floor before Sethose shifted and spewed forth six bulky hunched beings, with eyes of onyx and skin the grey of the granite which had birthed them.
"There are some explorers nearby who wish to die," he addressed the elementals. "Ensure that they do so." The living rocks nodded with an odd grating sound and ambled away with thick steps into the darkness of the hallway beyond the sorcerer's chambers.
"But what idiot sends out a group to only test his guests' talents? Let it not be said that I was a man who did not believe in overkill," the sorcerer said to the big black rat, and he motioned to one side of his throne. The braying laughter of jakhals filled the room. He only glanced at them, and they loped off into the same darkness that had swallowed the elementals.
As they disappeared, a dull thud reached his ears, signaling the arrival of the braxat called Brixx. The hulking creature moved into the sorcerer's cavernous chambers, bending his head to enter. He came to a stop before the sharp-eyed old man.
"Brixx, we have visitors. Please make sure that my hospitality is not remembered," said the old man, peering up into the dull eyes of the sub-human. The shelled braxat grinned crookedly and shrugged a shoulder, clapping the head of the huge warhammer he carried against his meaty palm.
"Shore nuf, Lord Mashter. Brixx be the general you wanting," the hulking thing said, then turned, bending his head again as he moved into the darkness.
Sethose smiled subtly to himself and petted his rat, returning his mind to the task so many years in the making.
They had gone deeper into the tunnels, and Kry was wondering just how close they really were to the sorcerer's lair when a roar ripped through the caverns. Chable stopped and brought his axe to bear, and Kry dropped the torch and whipped out his spear. But the killer moved on, leaving them both in the darkness. Kry cursed and scoped up the torch again, hurrying after the dwarf.
He was about to ask the dwarf in no uncertain terms why he had left them, but the dwarf stopped in his tracks so fast that the elf almost ran him over. Then the killer dropped into the crouch of a stalker, his left arm flickering and reappearing with a small black crossbow readied. His bass voice echoed through the tunnel. "Give me light, and keep it steady."
Kry did as ordered, looking around and seeing nothing. Chable did not see anything either, and said so pointedly. The song of flying crossbow bolts greeted his words, and there were five distinct thumps, and then the Reaper came to his feet. He put the crossbow away and produced his sickles again, then nodded shortly and said, "We can proceed now."
They had gone only five cords into the darkness when Kry saw what the Reaper had seen. Embedded in the eye of a black jakhal, a short bolt protruded. As they moved on, he saw four more of the dead lizards, a bolt in a vital part of each corpse. He grimaced as he stalked through the tunnels, following the killer. "How did you know they were there?"
"I saw them," said the Reaper, and he came to another halt, holding up a hand for silence. Then he turned his head towards what seemed to be a solid portion of the tunnel, his _expression hidden. "We are not alone."
Kry looked about curiously, his amber eyes seeking out the source of the killer's distress. Chable poked at a piece of the wall, his heavy brow furrowed. "What's thi..." he started, then grunted in abject surprise as a hand with three fingers formed from the solid stone and gripped his wrist. The giant human jumped and tried to jerk free, but the powerful grip was unescapable. Kry stared, unable to move, and watched as a humanoid form struggled to free itself from the tunnel's walls.
"That is an earth bound elemental." The killer spoke as he moved past the elf, and in his left hand was a spike of solid diamond rock, while in his other hand was a small mallet. Chable jerked futilely as the dwarf approached, trying to free himself from the grip of the creature. But the dwarf placed the diamond on the elemental's wrist and brought the small mallet back and forth once, sending the sharp tip of the spike into the stone limb and shattering it.
Chable leaped back as the creature howled and drew back into the wall, and he checked his bruised wrist. The Reaper pocketed the small hammer and nail, then looked around. "I do not think he would only send one," he said, and even as he spoke, the stone beneath them trembled and belched as though the mountain was undergoing an earthquake, sending small stones down from the ceiling. From the cracks ran molten rock, and this liquid stone formed into thick bodied, lumbering stone monsters, six of them. One was missing a hand.
Chable swore and swung his axe hard from shoulder to hip, but the bone weapon's blade bounced from the skin of the monster and cracked. Kry did not even try to attack. He backed away until his back met solid stone wall, torch held high, and watched as the creatures slowly advanced.
The killer brought his hand from his cloak's interior pocket, and in it was held a pale pink glass globe of misty air. He hurled the fragile ball to the floor, and it shattered in a shower of thin shards with a musical sound. The mist worked its way up from the floor in what seemed to Kry like eons, but in reality was only several seconds. One of the elementals had struck Chable by then, and the big man lay unconscious on the floor with four of the creatures circling him.
As the mist reached them, they simply faded away, as though they had melted. The chamber was still, and the mist worked its way into the darkness, wafting out of sight with the invisible air currents. Kry stared at the Reaper, but the killer only looked around for a moment and said, "See to your man." Then he sat down cross-legged and closed his eyes, the sickles lain in his lap.
Brixx was one of the most intelligent braxat alive. That said, he was still dense. What he lacked in intelligence however, he more than made up for in pure power and ferocity and iron will. He had come to serve Sethose almost twenty years ago, and though the braxat was aging, he was still a fearsome foe.
He did not think in terms of right and wrong, but rather in terms of good and bad. Good for him was eating as much as he wanted and having a special warhammer made just for him and servants to rub his feet and shine his shell. Bad was walking around in the canyons and fighting other braxat for the next measly meal and arguing with his mate and raising a bunch of screaming, whining, irritant tykes. Brixx hated every single one of his thirteen children.
Right now, the hulking creature was supposed to find some little people and step on them several times, then go back and get his shell polished. Then he could probably sit down and have a huge meal, then sleep for a while. So Brixx kept his pack of ten jakhals on course, following the powerful lizards through the cramped tunnels of the Master's domain.
The jakhals were giving voice now, in that laughing sound that made the braxat think of his children, and he knew that his quarry was nearby. So he came around the first corner and let his jackals free, drawing his hammer from his belt and readying the polished stone-headed weapon with loving care. He clattered in his shoddy, custom-made armor as he came around the second corner, roaring with battle glee.
Brixx was dense, but he was not too dense to stop and gape. Five of his jakhals were fighting tooth and claw with a very thin little man and a small thick little man. The other five were advancing on a very short man with a skull on his face. The very short man with a skull on his face's left and right hands flashed five times, and four of Brixx's jakhals stumbled to the ground, with tiny sharp things in them. The last one died with two moves of the very short man with the skull on his face's hands, which held a pair of little curved things that looked like one of the moons when they were very new or very old.
The other two had dispatched two of his jakhals, and the very short man was moving to help them. Brixx roared again, his rumbling rage rolling through the tunnels. Then he charged forward, sweeping his warhammer around in a violent blow. He caught the very short man in the side and knocked him from his feet, sending him through the air and into a wall with a thud. Then he moved to help his two jakhals, roaring at the top of his voice and swinging his hammer at the small thick little man.
The enraged braxat didn't see the Reaper struggle to his feet, his head in his hands, staggering for a moment before reaching under his cloak and retrieving his crossbow. With blood seeping from his left nostril, the killer loaded the small weapon and took aim at the back of the shelled monster's neck.
Brixx stopped in midswing, ignoring the very thin little man's stabs at his knees, and swatted the back of his neck. Something had stung him. He looked down at the two little people in front of him and started to swing his hammer again, then roared in anger as he was stung again. He swatted at his neck futily, trying to locate the little stinger thingies. Twice more he was stung, and he wobbled, almost falling, muttering irritably.
The little people he had been fighting had killed all of his jackals now, and were just watching him. The small thick little man was waving a broken axe around like he owned the world, and Brixx grinned to himself. As soon as he figured out where these little stinger things were coming from and killed them, he was going to show the small thick little man what for. He finally felt something and yanked out the little thing. It almost looked like a little very thin person's sharp things, but it didn't have a knob of stone at the end, and it didn't have the same kind of feathery things at the other end. It did have his blood on it though.
He had turned around now, and he saw that the very short man with a skull on his face was up again, surprisingly. In his hand was a funny looking tool, and he was walking towards Brixx. Brixx managed to raise his warhammer and look fierce.
"Who you is?" he roared at the very short man with a skull on his face. Brixx was very proud to be able to speak in the little folk's language. He would be by Sethose's right hand when the Lord Master was ruling the world. Then he would get his shell polished all day, and he would have slave mates that he could kick in the head instead of arguing with.
Something was wrong with his eyes, and he rubbed at them with one hand and his neck with the other, dropping his special hammer. He would get it in a bit. He felt like going to sleep. But he figured that he would step on these little folks first, then go to sleep. Otherwise, Sethose might not be happy. But his eyes felt so damned heavy.
The last thing the braxat named Brixx heard before the poison took him was the cold voice of his killer. "I am the Reaper." And Brixx thought to himself that the very short man with the skull on his face sounded like that noise in the sky when the Lord Master made big sand storms.
Chable was nursing a broken right arm and sitting on the braxat's shelled back, and Kry could not stop the pounding of his head nor quell the blood which still crept from the wound in his side. Despite his injury, the big black man was pumping his axe with his good hand, grinning like a child, and the elf had to smirk up at him. He understood what the big human was feeling. This whole journey had put fear in him like he had never experienced, not even in the arenas of Allanak, but by Krath, winning felt good.
The killer was forcing himself into a painful position, and Kry heard a loud pop echo through the cavern as the dwarf grunted. Chable looked down from atop the braxat and asked the dwarf what the sound had been.
"The sound of my arm snapping back into its socket," said the Reaper, and there were two more pops before the dwarf finally managed to attain his feet.
Kry grimaced and started to rise, holding the bandage to his side. Chable had splinted his arm with two bones from the body of one of the jackals, and he slid from the dead braxat's back too, hefting his axe. But the killer shook his head.
"You two have done very well, but I will go from here along. It is not very far. If you do not see me in half an hour, it will be wise to leave as swiftly as is possible." The killer winced and grabbed his wrist and twisted, and Kry heard a grinding sound. "I will see you both later."
Then he went from corpse to corpse, pulling his knives free and sliding them back in the baldric. The fifth was shattered against the wall it had struck when it had missed the target. The killer left that one where it was and then glanced at the bolts embedded in the dead braxat's neck, shaking his head to himself.
The Reaper was loading his crossbow with the last bolt in his quiver as he stalked away into the darkness, his steps reminding Kry of something calculating and predatorial.
Sethose was lost in the recital of a spell when the news reached his ears.He had recently discovered an ancient spell that drained the very life from servants, but the spell was incomplete, and he had been working on the completion of the enchantment for nearly two months. But the rat's chittering broke his concentration.
Sethose listened in a vast amount of irritation as the rat chittered, understanding everything the rat was trying to tell him. "What!" the old sorcerer screeched? "Brixx is dead? And the jakhals, and the elementals? What are these people who have come into my lair? And who is the Reaper?" He reached down and grabbed the rodent up, shaking it.
But the animal did not have the time to respond, for a cold voice that sent chills down Sethose's spine did instead. "I am the Reaper."
The sorcerer started and spun on his heel, spending the black rat's life in a spell to protect himself, but the force shield came too late, for even as the last word came from his lips a black bolt found his right eye and emerged from the back of his skull. The sorcerer saw only the killer's black death's head mask as the force shield flared around him and the darkness came to claim him.
Author's note:Sethose was never heard from again after the Reaper was assigned to kill him. Chable was a northern lumberjack by trade, and Kry an escaped ex-gladiator from the arenas of Allanak. Although Kry was caught two years after the War and reassigned to the arena where he died in his third match, Chable disappeared and his whereabouts are not known, though it is likely that he may still be in the North, working his trade.
A large transaction is recorded in the records of Nenyuk's bookkeepers between House Kurac and an unidentified second party. Although the second party is unknown, it occurred less than a week after the killing of Sethose. The man was a giant black-skinned human with a huge gold-gilded axe in his possession.
As I have said before, the Reaper has not been seen since the Great War. The events chronicled in this story happened less than a year before the Rebellion in the North occurred, and the Reaper was considered to be near the peak of his career at this time. It is known that he was used to scout various rebel camps, and his use was primary in preventing Southern causalities.
If he was truly used as a common soldier in the field, then the error was a terrible one. He was far more effective as a lone killer, but it is likely that the battlefield itself, though rankling his cautious nature, would have evoked some pleasure, and the assignment would have been accepted.
Templar Signus Kinar - Historian of TektolnesAuthor's note:
This story is based in both legends and personal knowledge of the killer known as the Reaper. The most important portions of this story did happen, but some sections are a result of my observation of the killer's character and demeanor throughout his history.
In no way do I...
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