FOREWORD:


   I would like to thank Diana Sun, for threatening to strangle me if
I EVER tried making this into a politically-correct fic(note to self,
the Koreans are scary). Fnord. I'd expected that someone'd notice how 
much time I spent a-typing on the typewriter (the word processor that 
doesn't rely on electrcity - the human brain!), more than talking to 
the locals. What I hadn't counted on is for someone to take an interest 
at it that would surpass mine's. And I was the one writing the damn 
thing. ^_^

  Ahh, sociologists. 

 This serial novel is as much her work as mine, for it would have been 
half of what it could be without her insight on sociorealistic events.
It has things I hadn't tackled before. 
 
  
 Basic facts:

   All through reading, please keep in mind that Lumen is HUGE. It's 
not called the greatworld Lumen for nothing. The planet has three times 
Earth's surface area. It's ocean is called the Ocean of the Young
World - the people don't know WHY it's called that, but it's due to the
fact that the ocean could contain than Earth itself.

  Lumen has two continents. An immense Pangea-like land mass called
Anutharra, and a Tethys-like land mass called Catalis.

  Don’t look at the Lumen map for Lumen Journeys.  That is NOT it. 
For god’s sake.. if we are to take the journey time that you guys have
postulated throughout the round robin, the two continents are only
about the size of France. I’ll try to include the real Lumen map
as soon as I reach a place where I can upload. In the meantime, the
actual Pangea map from the Triassic period is pretty close.
 
  Lumen civilization is older than Earth's, having nearly thirty 
thousand years of history behind it. The highest level of technological 
achievement the world faces is quasi-18th century. The highest level of 
magical achievement the world attained was the discovery of the 
mind-boggingly powerful yet eminently useless spell of World Gate, 
which is fatal to the caster. Lumen experiences Epochs, a state of 
world-being that affects all life upon its surface. The Epochs of Low 
Magick and Epochs of High Magick cycle through how pervasive mana is 
through the land. Epochs of Low Magic are generally characterized by 
upheaveals of war. Only a rare few are born with the capability to 
harness mana, and too often the knowledge that they possess a great 
power beyond others starts the blaze of many battles. Epochs of High 
Magic are however known by relative peace between kingdoms. Mostly 
because there is little peace within them. Too busy fighting off 
animals and monsters sprouting up seemingly out of nowhere. There's a 
recessive gene within all Lumenborn that appears to be activated by the 
passing of Epochs...

  The period between or during the switch between Epochs are known as
Ages of Legend. These normally last for a single generation, twenty to
fifty years. The fabric of the universe thins temporarily, and strange 
things begin to happen. Usually the culmination of civilization during 
the Epoch is challenged, and brought to the brink of collapse. 
Historical forces are a result of societal tension - take for example 
the second world war. One way to look at it is that it's Hitler's 
masterpiece. Or that the times were RIPE for men like Hitler. It was a 
direct offshoot of the first world war, which itself was also touched 
by what transpires across the world. The still-clear memory of the 
American stock exchange's collapse, linked to capitalism... and with it 
the fear that democracy itself would fail. To the East, the Japanese 
have seen how China was pieced and parceled by the western nations... 
and for the past fifty years they'd worked hard to resist losing their 
identity. The Tsars were freshly dead and looking to the West, the 
science of communism was finding proof of capitalism's inevitable 
demise.  

 Earthquakes have shocks and aftershocks. A rumbling loosens up the
tectonics, allowing a much greater groundswell next time. While it is 
true that history pivots amongst a few, it's also true that such 
personage are also a result of the historical forces that preceded 
them. Villains find their chance and take it. Heroes are needed, and 
they come forth. Chronicles only record the winner's side of the story.

  Lumen Epochs are variable - sometimes they last as long as four
thousand years, sometimes as short as seven hundred. Vast empires arise 
during the Epochs, and always are brought down at the arrival of a 
Legends Age. The Alvii, the Dvareg - even the Orkur, for they are the
native residents of Lumen but were pushed aside during the Shaping, 
which is why every damn year they try to expand their lands.. all have 
at one time almost managed to rule over substanstial areas of Lumen, 
but those were past glories. Only the Empire of Man, the Leauge of 
Human Kingdoms seems resistant to the Passing. It was forged during an 
Age of Legends, and had survived another. Now the Men claim for 
themselves the entire eastern half of Anutharra, and the parts of the 
Fridgid Reaches to the north. 

  Would it survive the coming of yet another Age of Legends?


  


 Pronunciation key:
 
  The Shared Tongue is not English. It is however pretty close, 
remarkable that it hasn't gone too corrupted in twelve thousand years. 
There are however many other languages that the Men speak, scattered 
across the supercontinent their six hundred million irrepressible souls. 
The Shared Tongue is made the official binding language, for the simple 
reason that it's what the Emperor in Luminzavia chooses to talk in. 

  The Dvareg Tounge is the second-easiest language to learn in all of
Lumen. Easy that is, if you were technologically inclined and 
temperamentally flexible. Almost half of it are scientific and 
technical phrases(which have already been accepted into the Shared 
Tongue) and the other half are rather.. colorful terms. Superlatives,
expletives and suchlike.

  The Alvii Tongue was made up by the Alvii from scratch to be as 
inscrutable and hard to understand as possible, to completely
separate their thoughts from all other races. The only way to learn 
Alvii is to BORN AND RAISED an Alvii. It is too complicated a language,
with each words holding multiple meanings, all depending on the tone 
and inclination of voice. Alvii voices have a wider reach than human 
throats. It, is called Lynna.

 The Lamin language is a mixture of heartlander Shared Tongue and the 
Frostaun dialects(which is derived from Dvareg). The latter also gave
root to Gabulaun, which replaces all g's with s'es and all n's with 
r's and etc, becoming totally unintellegible to anyone with an IQ over
40. 
  
 Lamin normally has an accent on the first syllable and is said 
quickly. The subdialect known as the Fogbound speech, spoken in the 
southeastern front, the ocean rim - is closer to the old Sheene 
Shared, and last syllables are drawled out.

Lamin/ Lamin Fogbound  / Gabulaun?

Lamige =  LA mij/ Lamissh /Nemasss? Nmasse? Namiss? Brain melting... ow     
Aleenfer = a LINfer /ALIN feh
Dula  =  dUla / dUla
Sune = soon / soon
Gizel = GI zel / GI zehl
Lirarkie = LIR ar KI /LIR arhee
etc..

 The plainlanders are Men with a unique tongue derived from Kit'i 
speech, mostly because the've been enslaved and scared spitless on and 
off by the Mim-Ming for the past four hundred years. The accent is 
always on the last syllable. Just as there are thousands of nameless 
nomadic plainlander villages, the tounge itself has no name. 

Nibot = Nib OT
Mahar = ma HARR
etc..

 The Zarzabian nation in sight of the Sword Mountains are formed of 
people gentetically similar to the plainlanders, but they consider the 
people on the other side of the Great Desert is subhuman. They speak a 
strange form of Arabic/Indian meld. Since they are not mentioned at all 
in the story, save in this foreword.. I'll not put in examples. ^_~

 The Soarer's Tongue or the Draig Language cannot be understood by 
non-dragon ears, as it is as much heat, color, and posturing as it is
of spoken sounds.  

 The Orkur, Kit'i and etc have of course their own Tongues, but if
Tolkien originally devised Middle-Earth so he'd get a reason to use the
Elvish language he'd devised... ^_~ I'm not nearly so ambitious. I just
want to tell a hopefully entertaining story. Cultures are formed due
both to isolation and influences. In a world as big, yet connected as
Lumen, it's a plausible enough for cultures to pan out into fixed 
identities after twelve thousand years.

               


                       installment begins
                         -----------






  It was a stab in the gullet, winter's coming. Already broad leaves 
have begun to brown, yet more alive were the tall pines scattered 
sparsely within the valleys. These stood in greater numbers as the 
cliffs heightened to the northwards, the line between the Cold Reaches 
and the hostile but overall habitable Vengeful Forests. The chill in
the winds was only imperceptibly growing colder, for all year the winds 
were invisible knives that cut to the marrow, and added frequency only 
gave numbness.

  It was the sixty-ninth year after the Bond Cleaving, and from the 
peaks of black-stone mountains to the amber beaches of the Ocean Rim, 
from the swamps  to the skies... one  voice spoke, and all bowed their 
heads to its command. All that walked on two legs grit their teeth 
angrily, but knelt. All that walked on four legs or more, they hid. 
For three score and nine years, the Soarer's Tounge, the Draigami, the 
dragons -  had all of Lumen in thrall. 

  The greatworld Lumen, whose ocean could contain an entire lesser 
world, whose four moons were amethyst, ruby, amber, and silver lights 
in the night sky, whose mana changed all that walked on its surface, 
and now was ruled by the greatest of creatures. A simple matter of 
mathematics- a man could kill six Gabbulen. An Oruk could slay three 
men before being struck down. A gigante could bring fifteen orcs to 
his grave. A wyrm thought giants were mere delicacy. And the Draigi... 
the eldest and largest of all dragonkind, would slaughter entire flocks 
of flying wyrm for amusement.

  For thousands of years, creatures in Lumen have lived in some sort of 
odd balance. Never before had the Draige have any need to interact 
with the 'tiny, insignificant creatures' that eked out their existence 
upon the mother continent, but as events have shown, to irrevocably 
alter the meaning of their prescence was simply too easy. Outnumbered 
as they were, these intellectual beasts had magic in their soul. The 
forces of nature at their wingtips. The flaming anger in their hearts. 
Unknown what had set them off, but once their vendetta had arisen, it 
was nigh impossible to stop. The Bond Cleaving was an entire year of 
bloodshed, millions dead, heroes devoured, as settlement after 
settlement was fireballed, firebreathed, firestormed into oblivion. 
From the Daughter Continent to the East that was thought to be myth, 
came armies of blackened men, the Varunbe, upon airships with prows 
carven to the face of their inhuman masters.

  The Alvii saw their forests burn, and acquiesed that a creature 
could just possibly be superior to them. The Orkur fought to near 
extinction, then surrendered with their lofty aims of conquest broken 
and forgotten. The Dvareg lasted longer than anyone, their bodies 
hardened and wills determined beyond the effects of magic, and their 
homes were hewn of rock and metal, deep within mountains where no one 
could reach. But they were too few, their enclaves too isolated. They 
could only burrow away more and more, dead to the outside world. The 
marfolk did not bother with anything on land, and the Draig had no 
cause against them. The Kit'i, the Caan'i, and other semi-wild races 
were one with nature - that is, they understood how it was between 
predator and prey. Never try to battle something bigger than you. The 
creatures of the dark - ampirs, drou, forsakens, and their ilk... they 
did as they always had before the balance of forces was shifted so to 
one side - they kept to the shadows always, and fed warily. 


  And the men...


  Oh, the men. Them in their moments of valor, slaughtered by the 
thousands upon thousands on battlefields of their own choosing. Them in 
their moments of weakness, sending their people to the deaths just to 
save a privileged few. Them in their little efforts so futile, unable 
to unite even against a common enemy. Greed, honor, love, faith, lust, 

envy, anger, fear... fear.. fear.. Their short, fleeting lives and 
their sharp emotions were beneath the notice of the Draigi, now that 
the foolish creatures knew their place in the scheme of things. Their 
life was too short to be wasted on something which would assuredly kill 
them. The glory that was the largest and longest-lived empire in Lumen
faded. After eight hundred years the dreams of the human Grand Leauge
were foiled.


  At the highest peak in all Lumen, that spearpoint that pierced the
sky - Draig'Nidor(an Alvish name, for elvin craftmanship was 
conscripted for the making of this nest-fortress. In the Soaring
Tounge, it is prounouced Draekkrmrvoooossh, a small plume of breathfire
at the end to emphasize the meaning - Hardened Fire. The Alvii in their 
fondness for metaphor called it the Mother of Fury), there was gathered 
the Dragi Council (their word: Megera Farrooomrf, meaning Ill-tempered 
Old Biters). Within an immense bowl-like hall that could comfortably 
contain even nine of their full bulk, were perched six of the most 
powerful amongst Draigi. Though the Draige were not normally given to 
ornamental ostentation, they adopted the customs of the Far Below of 
having a Meeting Hall for airing their business. Too often and too long 
before had the Draige Council needed to cling uneasily upon wrasses of 
flat rocks jutting from the mountainsides. It was fine, when they lived 
in seclusion from the outside world, but now that they had folk with 
opposable thumbs to order around... it was only fitting that they 
should get something back for the gift of imposing order at last upon 
the inconstant world. 

  At center beneath was a human, the great dragons seemed to be 
somewhat unnerved by its presence. For Draig'Nidor had exceedingly 
thin air, just shy of breaking through the Stratussfir.

  "Markjah fuurgh mafi ragre?" asked one of the Draig, a tall 
magnificent creature of iridescent green scales, teeth, and talons. She 
was well over fifty feet long, and weighed in at a hundred and ten
tons. (Though everyone wisely agreed with her delusion that she could 
not weigh in any more than ninety. After all, there were no weighing
scales on the world that could measure anything beyond ten tons or
so.) "You had me fly for this?"! she'd asked, putting every bit of 
indignance into her tone. Language for the dragons, was more of 
intent than any concrete attempt at object-linking. It was more of
a show, a ritual of snapping, growls, gouts of fire... the huge
creatures were telepathic to each other, but there was much greater 
emphasis (and satisfaction)of meaning when one snarls out 'I HATE! YOUR 
HEART CALLS FOR THE TOUCH OF MY CLAWS, YOUR BLOOD LONGS FOR THE SOIL. 
YOUR STUPIDITY NEEDS TO VANISH! NOW! I WILL FEAST ON YOUR LIVER! 
DIIEEE! RAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!' than simply mindsaying 'You are a 
disagreeable thing that never should have come out of your yellowed, 
rotting eggshell. For some reason, mindspeech always ends to be more 
wordy, polite, and restrained... and restraint for a Draig means not 
eviscerating anything that was in its way at the earliest opportunity.

  "Speak in the Shared Tounge, Yanis." the Draig to her left commanded.
It was Silamor, oldest of this gathering. His white-eyed gaze locked 
with her brilliant emeralds, and after a few defiant moments she 
had to turn her eyes away, discomfited. His color was red, his eyeballs 
were blank as free clouds. Once he'd dived down into the open volcanic 
crater of the Draig’nidor peak, his teeth clamped into the neck of his 
blue-skinned brother. He'd survived the swim. His eyes had not. His 
brother had not. And so he was leader of all Draigi, by right of 
Tooth and Claw.  Even blinded, his other senses enhanced by his 
eldritch proficiency to unnatural levels, served him so well that none 
dared to challenge his status over many millennia. Silamor the Blind, 
the Relentless. Whose wings brought together all the clutch Nests of 
Draige to mutual understanding - by individually defeating each of 
their champions until his claim as strongest Draig to ever live was 
indisputable.

  "I do nothing for the benefit of the little parasite!" the Draig 
retorted angrily. That she spoke in the Shared passed notice, for even
as she argued, there could be no rebellling against Silamor's will. It
was a conditioned reflex.

  The red dragon blinked, and turned his vision down upon the visitor. 
Then, to Yanis. 

  "FOR THE BENEFIT OF YOUR OWN NECK, YOU SHALL!", he roared, his shout
startling them. Silamor spread his wings, and in half a heartbeat was 
upon his rebellious kin. Yanis whipped her own wings, trying to brace 
herself against the curved wall. But the Draigking had his jaws clamped 
on her scaled neck, applying just enough pressure not to break skin. 
She could not get enough leverage roll away, even to simply fall off 
the perch. The Draig never wrestled, thinking such barbaric actions
already beyond them. A quick death, an overpowering blow, the victor
and the defeated would not have the chance to experience even a sliver 
of fear. The Draig fear nothing! Cowardice had been distilled from 
their line throughout the eons. The Draig were born to discipline. 
Duty. Silamor growled. Humility, as well. No one made a move to  
help or protest the unexpected violence. He could kill anyone he chose, 
such was his right by Draig law and claw. 

  He bit harder, drawing blood. His niece stopped struggling. Yes, she
had brought to submission an entire supercontinent. But there were 
still much she had to know of power. It was more than just magic or 
strength - it was knowledge, it was control. If oneself cannot be 
willfully controlled, how can she hope to control others? A blank
path! Politeness was another thing they could use in learning from 
lowlanders. Greatness was the accumulation of small virtues. He 
withdrew his stabbing maw and rose with the strong highwind. Silamor 
flapped lazily on this rising current of warm air, looking down at his 
council with the light of sundown. His face was occluded by the sun's 
scarlet glare, their faces were clear to him. On theirs were tempered 
emotions, from fear to awe - and knowing they wouldn't see, allowed an 
expression of fondness to cross his face. 

  The greatest of Draige, gathered together. As sovereign grandfather
to all Draigkin he was indeed proud of all that they were, though 
unable to show it. He gently eased down to his former perch and spoke.
"You forget thine place, infant. Draig are who we are, indeed, but WHAT 
we ARE is only a SMALL part of our world. We serve a function as do 
every breathing thing upon our greatworld. Such is the Maker's intent."

  Yanis bowed in deference, hiding her resentment. Murder was in her 
eyes, but also the respect due. Silamor rumbled, somewhat mollified. 
Post-adolescence. Bah. Let them reach a thousand years, and they think 
they know everything... when the Bhaulldarr came from the Outworlds, 
who fought the hardest lest the world itself be consumed?  The Draige. 
When the Epochs shift, who are most affected? The Draige. With the 
power given to his race, were also great obligations entrusted.

  "It is of no matter. I can understand whatever language you choose to
speak in." said the hooded man below. 

  He blinked. "Hrrr... yes. I should have realized that you would be 
capable of that.." Was that a smile or a snarl on the great dragon's
face?

  "<Silamor-wingmaster... why have we brought here? It is the Toothing
Time for my children, I would have wanted to see them lose their first
fangs on the Draiglin nest-fight.>"

  The Draig-king nodded gravely. To his left was Lenz, his most loyal 
of supporters. He was equivocal and so devoted to his large, 
squabbling family, but was for that was a better diplomat and
compromise-finder than anyone that flew. The Toothing Time was when
all the young draig would fight amongst each other for the right to
survive. Either kill, or die at the hands of your siblings. At the
end, only those that had tasted the blood of one other little dragon
would live. Those that ran away, would only be deemed unworthy of
their being a draig, and snapped up in the jaws of their own mother.
It was one of their finest traditions, not interrupted even during 
times of war. He remembered his own Toothing-day, he'd lost nearly
all his front teeth on the sharp ridged bones of his sister's back.
They grew back, of course.. tougher and stronger than tempered 
steel and sharper than a lightning's edge.

  At least Lenz only had to fly from the remote of the moutain range. 
Some of these gathered had to sleepfly at full speed cross-continent. 
But what tiredness they had, they disguised. It wouldn't do to appear 
weak to their malificent peers. They huffed their chests and stood 
straight, trying to appear as massive as they could. 

  "<This is a matter of penultimate importance." he sent to all. "We 
all MUST hear what this one has to say. All else can be forgotten.">

  Wings fluttered and clawed feet shifted uneasily on their perches. 
"<We shall do so, wingmaster, even as we understand not the why, at 
this time..>"

  "<You need not understand. I need not explain. I will not have anyone 
questioning my commands! Leave us now if you want is not to listen to 
him! Or to me! Or to be able hear anything EVER at all.>" How dare they 
resist his orders! Should he want them to fly straight into the heart 
of a volcano,they should jump at the task. There is no room for 
insolence at Draig'Nidor. "Fremrag ARNA RAFWOOOOSH! Silamor GOR 
MIRRKLARE SURFAR! (FVOOM!!)" Cease your sniveling! I am YOUR LAW! 
Silamor IS YOUR DEATH! (firebreath) "Would there be anyone here with a 
pressing NEED to die violently?" he snarled, baring his teeth in a
horrific grin.

  "<We hear and complain no more..>" the five quivered in their 
perches, wrapping their wings around themselves like a shawl and 
dropping their heads. Even Yanis bowed the low stoop of servitude. At 
that, Silamor grunted with pleasure. His niece had best remember that 
while she was that which led the destruction of Lumen, he was still the 
greatest power over them, for a good long while yet. Or so they should 
think for a good long while yet.

  "<Thank you.>", he replied somewhat sarcastically. He looked down at 
the stranger in their midst. The white-cloaked man was unperturbed by 
the quick tumult. "Speak what you have told me, exalted one."

  "...exalted one?" Rargend muttered. A younger Draig with the color of
shale, a dependable but otherwise unimaginative warrior. He thought
of everything in terms of power and prowess, which is how he'd clawed
his way into this Council... yet he was still in wonder of those that 
were yet far more powerful than him. He did not feel himself yet 
capable of killing Silamor, but will not hesitate to strike when he 
was, to claim the right and power for himself. It was tradition. If he  
ate the Wingmaster's heart the heat of all that the other had 
vanquished would be added to his own soulflame. So many fallen draig 
were already fueling the great red dragon’s inner fire, that the victor 
would be more than twice as powerful as whatever he (she) had been 
before. And so why would the great and powerful Silamor defer to a mere 
human? 

  "The time of dragons has ended." said the man, with a casual sweep of 
his hand. "Forces beyond anyone's control are converging, the land you 
have seized will plunge into the greatest of conflicts. The time has 
come for you to choose from whose hand you will die."

  Emotions passed from shock, to puzzlement, to disbelief in short 
order.  Was this one insane, how dare he speak in such manner, in the 
irascible midst of Six that were worth a thousand armies each?! 

  "INSOLENCE! BEGONE!!" Five fountains of fire spewed forth to inundate
the man. They were Draig after all. Thousands of years old. The 
pinnacle of Lumen's growth. There was only so much they would tolerate
(which granted was really very, very little). It was Salete, his front 
general who spat first, Yanis in all her vainity a close second. The 
others followed suit with little hesitation, so as not to appear weak-willed.

  Silamor shook his weighty head in amusement, and sent out; "<Don't 
hurt them. Too much.>"

  "<My mistake,> was the temperate reply. <I should have phrased it 
differently. I must make an effort to remember that pride is of great 
importance, to some beings. It was not meant as a threat, I assure you.>" 

  The other noble dragons boggled that yes, the man-shaped bundle of 
cloth was completely unscathed by the combined fury of their coughed up 
blasts, and more impossible - that it spoke within the communal draig-
consciousness! No, they thought... this one could not be a Draige like 
them, polymorphed as the some curious were wont to do. Even as some 
Draige could reshape their own bulk, magical law dictated that their 
former essence would still affect the resulting. To counteract this, 
they would have spells to lighten their step. A spell to compress and 
reform mass, and another spell to alter the effects of gravity, 
bringing their tonnage down to the lowerlife normal they were 
imitating. And perhaps another spell to mask the immense streams of 
mana that the Draige radiated involuntarily. A complex procedure, using 
more and more power just to have the appearance of LESS power! 

  Not many Draige make an effort to walk the World Below The Clouds. It 
was degrading to pretend to be less than what they were, but the less 
obvious reason was that the task was immensely difficult. Very few were 
skilled enough with the manipulation of their own essences. But even 
then, a complete disguise was impossible. The mask of non-power was 
after all, still a spell and it used mana – of which the Draige had a 
sense for.

 But this one, his magical scent was wrong. They could feel the mana 
flow. It rippled around him, flowing into him and through him. A 
magical mask would have had mana disappearing around his position, 
being sucked into an invisible field, being used. A normal living being 
moved through an invisible river of mana, displacing it as he moved. 
This one stood an impossibility. Even ghosts had a mana-image. He stood 
smiling even as the  stone around him was blackened by fire from the 
Draig's own supernatural inner furnace. Yanis closed her eyes and 
relied on the mana streams.. this was how Silamor knew the world, she 
reflected. All her senses melded into one – she could smell color, feel 
sound, and taste textures.. mana, it was everywhere! And she was 
nowhere, only a part of it. If she moved her arms, she sensed it not as 
motion, but spikes in the mana field. The other dragons had likewise 
done as she was performing, but the method known as Mana-Flight was 
often useless except as meditation exercise. Too much and yet at the 
same time, too little information! She could sense the other Draige, 
location was meaningless while Seeing Mana, but she felt unity with 
them for a brief moment. Their scent/color/taste/feel were same as 
hers. The Draigmana. The soul was a vessel for mana, purifying and 
contaminating it, making it unique. The mana of Draigkind were
different from the flavor of mana released by Alvii, or Orkur, or Men.  

  Silamor’s presence was half as strong as all the others, his subdued 
aura a testament to his control. The stranger in their midst was not in 
the Mana Stream. There was nothing! Yet even so, the Draige trusted the 
view of Mana more than their own eyeballs. It was possible to hide 
several things in corporeal reality, but the ripples of mana was always 
there, following every living thing.

  He lifted the cowl from his head. All five winced as a bright flare 
filled the open chamber, and their senses for magic were painfully 
ringing - overloading! 

  "Who.. what are you?" shakily asked Lenz. Throaty growls of 
expletives and pain were all his fellows could say. They had not his  
stamina for mana, second only to the dragonking himself. That great red 
dragon was unaffected, being blind and in utter control of all his 
senses, kept him from most of the invisible blast.

  "I am Wisdom." said the tall, pale human whose face seemed to blaze
with light from a sun. 

  "<Bow to him now, you fools.>" Silamor sent. "<For this is a being so 
much greater than us, as were are to mere men. We speak to the Gods, 
this day.>"
































                      ILLUMINATI-FICTION.NET 
                            presents

                 a Gallery of the Worlds story




                    WAKING DAYS: A Cold Start











































  If it can be believed, it all started on another autumn day. In the 
northern reaches of Lumen, in the strip of fertile land between the
ice-shorn mountains and the inimical Orkus-infested woodlands further 
south. The wild lands of La-kan and Dula. The woodeman and the Ice 
Faire that he loved and brought him only death. La-kan is the land that 
grows, and Dula is the wind and the water that almost destroys it each
winter, that the old not choke the new.

  Here hidden in this land of thick forests and great beasts, where 
lived iceclan tribes on the mountainsides and settlers on the 
lowlands, was Aleenfer. Long have the walls of Aleenfer stood, though 
parts of which had already crumbled. But they are ancient even before 
the Draigeni, and would probably outlast them still. These walls of 
exactly fitted shaped stone blocks, each of which was a five-sided
brick packed so densely that just one would be heavier than an augir. 
All these greyen walls carved ornately, and decorated with frescoes of 
intricate but incomprehensible design. A legend says these were 
etched blueprints, though all dismiss this fable as trash. After 
all, the lines were not printed, nor are they blue. 

  Most avoided Aleenfer, it was a holy place full of desperation. 
Ghosts who speak no known language, great unmoving creatures of 
metal, the steady grunting of some great slumbering beast deep 
within, at precisely the same hour each night... lights which 
appear mysteriously, and strange music... ah, there be magic in the 
olden city. Or that it devoured magic, for there was no traces of
mana that could be sensed from within.. but what else but magic
could cause such wonders to be? 

  Most avoided Aleenfer. But from the woods that day emerged sixteen
hurried horsemen clad in red-painted armor of worked leather. Splashes 
of rusty red were likewise on their plain flax tunics, dried blood, not 
their own. The steeds thundered through to the clearing, and went into a 
nervous stop upon seeing the strange domed buildings. These were brave 
men, or to be more precise, men hardened by the passing of many a cruel 
midyear. Their horses were of the fine Sopi breed, obedient warhorses 
that would run even while starving. But close to Aleenfer, they 
whinnied and stamped their hooves like foals frightened by a lightning 
flash.

  "Hoy!" Nibot tugged at his reins with one hand. His left arm held
his greatest prize of the recent raid. Sune struggled weakly, and
as that her mouth was gagged, her green hate-filled eyes told all that
she felt. The bandit leader could only grin broken-toothed at her 
malevolent expression. Girls of the north were of such fair skin, he
thought. And toned bodies, as he shifted his hold on the bound 
maiden. 

  For her part, she saw nothing of worth in the bandit. Tall and
unshaven, his skin was of a bronzed hue from the lands farther
south. The beak-like nose and slightly bulging eyes were clear 
indicators of his ancestry. He was a plains-dweller! What were his 
ilk doing in the northlands? Aside from the obvious; raiding, raping 
and pillaging. They had run through her village like a hot knife
through butter. With sword and burning torches, they set upon
a defenseless border community - their walls split open as if
by magic, then the killing began. Can't run away, a javelin in
the back for all your trouble. Cries of mercy were soon replaced
by cries of pain. Men, women, children, none were spared if by
chance they were within striking distance. No.. she shut her eyes.
She wanted to scream again, an outpouring that would drown out 
the memories, but held the anguish in. It stirred and bubbled, being 
decanted into the purest, strongest hatred. They had heard of the 
moutain clans attacking the valleydwellers upon occasion, but the 
Frostribers were mostly decent folk and did not attack save to repay 
some insult or crime. Nothing prepared them for this.. but shouldn't 
they have? At some point in the past, could anyone have said we must 
have spears and swords in our storehouse? Would they have been saved? 

  All these thoughts went from her head upon seeing where they'd
stopped. No, it's can't be - Aleen-...! She struggled again though
knowing its pointlessness. After two days of nonstop riding, the
bandits stopping only to rest and eat, putting in as much distance 
as the could, too busy to do anything but ride and sleep. It taxed 
the endurance of everyone, even the captives. Specially the captives,
who spent perhaps more energy in simply worrying for their fate.

  "Do you fear this place more than you do me?" Sune glared 
balefully at him. "Oh you don't fear me? I'll make you." His barking 
laughter sapped all hope. 

  It was an eroded circle several miles wide, and despite the 
frenetic growth of the forests, this was a clearing that it
seemed fearful to touch. Rising upon the center of this barren
space was rough mountain. No one so far had dared to climb it,
or to take a shovel and dig out its side... and it was not needed,
to know it was no mountain at all. The sides sloped too regularly
and the peak though worn down by wind and rain still vaugely
had the carven visage of a grotesque flat face. It was a stepped 
pyramid far larger than the Palace of Luminzavia, the geometrically
aligned citystate of the Kit'i, the Alvii Home Trees, or even the 
rock fortresses built by the masterhewers of the Dvareg. Something 
so large could not have been built by mortals, lest they then admit 
that they too will be forgotten someday. So all say that Aleen was 
built by gods or demons descended from the sky. Only the Men are 
delusional enough to wish that lost long ago was a vast Dominion of 
Mankind and that all advances were simply trying to rediscover what 
the ancients have carved into the walls of Aleenfer in their 
unspeakable, undecipherable language.

  Around the worn pyramid were block-like buildings with domed roofs.
At first glance they seemed to be homes, but what houses were without 
doors? There were hundreds of these small dwellings, all sealed up 
and arranged in neat rows, as if awaiting their owner's return. Their 
windows were perfect and unbreakable mirrors. Stony paths were in 
patches here and there, signifying soil-buried roads.  The crystal-
flecked stones shone balefully under the red light of sunset.

  The base of the pyramid-mountain had an opening in the form of
a screaming hawk's head. The left half of the hewn stone creature had 
caved in, but the open mouth was still more than large enough
to admit the horsemen. They entered with some trepidation, but
pushed forward under their leader's imperious eye.

  Within was only darkness. Their steps echoed faintly from unseen 
walls. One of them took out some flint from his satchel and tried to 
light one of the torches set into a wall. However, as he dropped 
smoldering rag into the bowl of oil, he had to gasp out "Oy!" as all 
other torches were similarly lit at the same instant. A strong wind 
blew from deep within the cavern, the flames grew stronger and then 
settled into a steady amber blaze. The horses began panicking again.

  Nibot reached down to stroke the side of his steed's neck, calming it 
with a smooth caring uncommon to his mood. He turned to his band, they 
too had mostly calmed down their own horses. Sixteen tan horses for 
fifteen dark-haired, red-clad men, one for shared loot. And a 
seventeenth horse, wiry and night-black, and upon it sat a short wiry 
man in white furs. He had thin, suspicious eyes and a sneering 
semismile eternally on his face. He was untroubled by the repute of 
this place, and his horse was one that trotted into the clearing like 
it was home. Lirarkie, the sorcerer. His spoken word burst open their 
palisades and reduced people to smears of blood and bone. There  was 
also hate in Sune's her heart for him. His power was great, his delight 
was in its abuse. His eyes on him were not of lustful desire,  like the 
other men. It was of hate that might have even surpassed whatever she 
was feeling. 

  Dula help us, she prayed. Spread your cold wings and slay us all. 


                      ~~~~~~~~~~~


  Gizel was screeching. Born the chief's daughter, the girl had been 
her enemy from childhood. Prettier, smarter, and richer than everyone 
else - and she knew it. Didn't let anyone a chance to forget it. Many 
times while everyone was aslep, had Sune wished for something to happen 
that would take the superiour air from the girl's expression. That 
painted face now streaked with tears and the garishly expensive dress 
from the South torn and rumpled - and much much worse prospects in 
line. Gizel's biting sarcasm to others have left, now only mindless 
wailings of blind fear- Sune could not wish this on anyone. She bit her 
lip and turned away. 

  "We've time enough for that later, you drooling son of a goat!" Nibot 
shouted to the Krim-son hunching over the flailing girl. "The loads 
need to be shifted before nightfall!" He unhooked the bags from his 
riding harness and slid them to the floor. He pointed to it twice.

  The raider grunted assent and unconcernedly dropped Gizel to the 
tiled floor. They had carried off all that they could for each 
horseman. Grain, jewels, fur, the plumed feathers of rare birds which 
served as bartering currency in the north where minted coin was next
to worthless, and suchlike. The rest, they burned. Nothing was left of 
Vane except ashes and corpses. 

  La-kandula's western reaches were the very borders of human 
settlement in the northwest. Though far from any of the Kingdoms of the
Leauge, there was still a token attempt at keeping the frontier 
civilized. There was a garrison a week's ride down the valley, filled 
with soldiers trained to battle beasts enroaching down the human rim. 
Soldiers proud and almost as savage as the semi-intelligent Augirs they 
hunt. Almost as obsessive as the Urkur and unhesitant as the gabullin 
throngs. Raiding in the north so close to the garrison was risky, 
yes... but it had been a pretty good haul. Vane had been what counted 
for a trading post in La-kandulaun minds and was sorely unprotected 
as being so close to the outpost and so far up North. Even the Orkur
dared not venture so far into Dula's reach. 

  If they could disappear, one by one, softly into the forests at the 
first light of day while no patrols were on move, and then make their 
way south, they'd be safe enough from any seekers. Then, down to the 
ports of Lamige clad as merely traders returning to the midlands.
Everyone would already have their part of the spoils and a few months 
later when sudden poverty or boredom has arrived, would be the next 
rendezvous and the next sally.

  Nibot laughed, dug out a large golden cup and kissed it. He'd been 
surprised at how well the raid had gone. Next autumn they would 
be back, at some other unsuspecting town. Winter was no time to be 
in La-kandula Valley, they would head home to the plainsland rich 
and satiated. On spring, they might head west to the Orkush rim. 
Oy, now there would be another tricky business. The orkush villages 
are not undefended. In truth, they are rather too well-defended. 
Every greenskin lived for the seige. But there would be human towns 
along the border, eager for other human company and news from within 
the Kingdoms. Between the emperor's Luminzavia and the fortresses of 
Orcehurhur were MANY opportunities for an enteprising man. 

  Another laugh. People are sheep. He cast his gaze across the chamber, 
at the horses tethered to a line of tables which had been bolted to the 
floor for some inexplicable reason by their ancient  makers. At his men 
in red, and their tools of the trade. We are the weatherproofed 
scorpions that feed upon the unwary. 

  But there was one in this throng that was not a scorpion. He 
slithered across the hall, his bony hands were tapping at the wall. 
The shaggy white coat only made the man's limbs look thinner than what 
his was. A hairy white spider, scampering at the walls. "What are you 
looking for, sorcerer? Traps?"

  "No, foole." Lirarkie hissed. "A place such as this has no need
of such deterrents to keep out the unwarie." He slid his hand down the 
brick joinings."Such marvelous construction.. such artistrie."

  Nibot sniffed. He scowled and spat at the taste of stale air. It
wasn't impressive to his eyes. It was nothing like the fortified 
spires of the greatcity Lumenzavia, or even the castles of Daza. And
certainly nothing at all compared to Kitharan's massive battlements
lined with precious metals. All bleak stone, not even a touch of gold in 
this ruin. Clear that he valued things in terms of their economic worth.

  "No traps, nothing at all of use here then?"

  "Put yon all thoughts of tombraiding from your mind." The sorcerer 
held out his palm to form a ball of gently glowing yellow light. This 
he used as a torch to light his way. Beckoning to Nibot, he strode away 
from the entryway and deeper into the artificial mountain's bowels. 

  It would take some time for all the loot to be lumped together and 
divided up, and there could not be cheating with so many greedy eyes 
on the pile. All with equal share, and until that was through, he
had nothing better to do. He followed, with a shrug to himself, into 
the dark.

  The pentagonal bricks and the sloped ceilings made the raider feel
as if he was within a bee's hive. He could almost hear the buzzing.
He stopped. He COULD hear buzzing.  "What is-"

  "Merely wind sluicing throughe vents and pipes into the walls." the
sorcerer said before he could finish. "Surely you do not expect the
makers of this place to suffucate during their construction?" Lirarkie
raised his arm and sent the light globe up towards the far vaulted 
ceiling, gaining brilliance as it climbed. The illumination across the 
corridor revealed that it flared in height further within. 

  He stopped once more. He bent low and scraped his palm against the 
stone floor. The stonework was caked with dust, but were otherwise 
smooth and undamaged by weather. But there was something wrong... he 
listened. Nothing, but the faint regular buzzing. Calm and quiet. 
   
  Too quiet.

  "Where are the bats, sorcerer?" A dark, undisturbed cavern like this 
must be the ideal place for bats to sleep in. Yet no droppings on the
ground nor hanging creatures on the ceiling. 

  "Are you a weak-kneed little Lamin, to look for portents in 
myriade things?" Lirarkie answered without looking back. "Above is 
simplie too smooth for them to sinke their clawed feet into." He chose
not to mention the difficulty there would be in smoothing stone to such
uniform surface... bat's claws could grip to minute crags... was the 
ceiling truly of near-polished work? Too high to tell, it curved up 
into obscurity.
  
  As a true pridelander, Nibot feared no spirit or hypothetical 
monster. The Lamin however are known throughout Lumen for their 
personal nature of worship. The Land was Dula, and Her voice was in 
everything. So they looked for guidance in small occurrences, and 
feared immediate punishment for their transgressions. He thought it a 
bunch of marlaky. He feared not the spectre of bad luck. Or the anger 
of invisible gods. It was the sheer enclosure that put quiverings into 
his heart. So used was he to the open sky that enclosure pressed down 
upon his nerve. The walls seemed to be squeezing in, and in fact, they 
were. The passageway was a pinched cylinder, two cones joined together 
at the head. At the narrowest place was the midpoint of the monument's 
thick skin of stone. It was a reversed arch. It took them several tense 
minutes to traverse this dark tunnel. 

  And beyond - a smaller hall than the entrance(though by all standards 
still far too huge), the far wall filled by a gigantic metal door. At 
the sides of the cavern stood similarly-sized cast iron statues on 
plain Duric pedestals. These were knights in battle armor, but not of 
all the same type. Some were in regalia, some wearing barely more than 
metal plates strung together. All had strange bilaterally-curved swords 
stuck in front of them, their fingers were but hair's breadth from 
grasping. They all seemed poised with captured motion, a ready stance. 

  Nibot reached to one, feeling the cold steel in the stone. He drew 
back suddenly and sucked at blood throbbing out from his finger. "The 
damn things are sharp!" Extremely sharp. He'd barely felt any pain 
until he'd almost sliced open his thumb. Were not the sword taller than 
he was, it was something he would have liked to hoist away and use on 
his enemies. 

  An unpleasant thought occurred to him. "Golems." The statues. He now 
looked at them with the deepest suspicion, they could come alive at any
moment. They stood impassively, looking with blank concentration 
towards the doorway.

  The sorcerer nodded in agreement. "A definite possibilitie. Though 
hardly necessarie - look you at this door." Another light ball brought 
the edifice into sharp relief. 

  They knew it was massive, just not how massive it could be. It seemed
larger with those carvings of strange creatures that were a peculiar 
combination of men and insect, spread out in chaotic postures and 
riding weird beasts and pushing unknown machines. The only recognizable 
features were that on the center of the door's upper left half was 
carved a woman with long flowing hair and breathtaking beauty, and on 
the lower right half sat crosslegged a man with cropped bowl-like hair, 
a sword, and a puzzled expression. His features were similar to the 
woman, siblings perhaps. Another thing that grabbed their notice, was 
that the  creatures seemed to be lining up, standing at attention on 
the woman's side - while on the other side they were running and going 
to war. At the exact center of the friezed door was a triangle, and 
inside it was an eye. 

  Nibot sniffed warily. He moved from one end of the shut gate to the 
other, turned his back on it, but could not shake the feeling that the 
eye set into metal was indeed following his movements. It was either 
colored glass, that subtly-glowing iris, or the largest cut gem he
would ever see... but for once, he didn't have a desire to possess 
such a rare thing.


  All were carven or cast in high-relief, and whoever were the 
artisans they were exquisitely skilled. And equally incomprehensible.

  With nary hesitation, Lirarkie knocked loudly at it as if he was
merely upon a friend's door for a social visit. 

  "Have you gone mad?!" Nibot shouted.

  He knocked harder, then stopped, looking at his bony hand. "Stryke 
this door with all your strength, plainsman."

  Whatever protests Nibot had died on his lips as he suffered the 
sorcerer's withering glare. It conveyed 'are you afraid?' and 'don't be 
more of an ignorant idiot than what I know you to be, do as I say and
you might salvage some of your worth as a human being' in one wordless 
shot. The raider grit his teeth. Somehow after they'd acquired this 
magicker at Stuarta he'd gone from working for them to working them. He 
wanted to send his sword to meeting the arrogant bastard's neck - but so 
far the man's help had proven invaluable. Without him the wooden walls 
would have been effective defense. The Red Circle, their pattern of 
raiding had been Lirarkie's idea, moving through Lumen's outer reaches 
on the seasons they were unprepared. La-kandula to the Northwest. The 
Gold Sea to the Northeast. The Shield Mountains near the Upper Divide. 
The Plains to the West. The Wildlands to the South. And back again, year
after year. So far the authorities still think in different groups of 
bandits.

  The man was conniving, cruel, and self-serving. But at least he was 
dependable.

  Nibot struck with his gauntleted fist. There was a faint *thunk* 
sound as metal met metal, and nothing more. 

  "The wall is thick." he said.

  "Very thicke." Lirarkie rolled his eyes as if dealing with the biggest
halfwit in the world. He scratched at the carvings with his long 
fingernails and drawled out his words as if explaining to a child. 
"At the very least it should be twice thicker than thou are tall."

  A whistle went from the raider. He'd long since learned to ignore the
magicker's insulting condescension. Half the time he couldn't 
understand what the  man was saying anyways, for the lilting Fogbound 
accent. "Whatever is behind this door must be truly valuable."

  "Treasure, is that all you can thinke about?" He stood facing the 
door a while. "See how the joining of this is perfect, not any gap. I 
must take the prospect that this massive vaulte is to keep something 
in, than to keep fell thieves like us - out."

  Despite himself, Nibot stepped back a few paces from it. No, he told
himself. If this door has remained shut so long, it would not open
so readily. But what if... 

  "This door, can it be opened?" His sorcerer could not be that mad
or was he? They tolerated his sometime sadistic and sometimes nigh
suicidal impulses for his abilities and knowledge of the land's
practical geography. They'd trusted him when his advice led to this
place, where even the militia would not dare follow. 

  "There be those who call me insane." A wicked grin slid out on the
pallid face. "But I am not stupid." He patted the metal barrier
almost affectionately. "If I have anything to do with it, this shall
remaine closed until the end of time."

  "Let's be gone from this place, sorcerer. It does not strike me at 
ease."

  "So be it. Enough of this memoire lesson." He pulled his shaggy cloak 
closer to himself, as if he was being buffered by cold winds. Which was 
strange, as never before had Lirarkie shown any concern for the 
elements. He had seemed immune to both the searing heat or the winter's 
chill during their exploits. "I only advise that you and your men 
finish your.. business.. as soon as possible. It would not be good to 
tarrie here much longer."


                           ~~~~~~~~~~~


  "We found something, Mahar." 


  Nibot looked up from his task and at two of his younger men. As he'd
commanded, all plunder had been piled together into one spot, and
then to be split amongst eighteen men(for as leader his share
counted of two). While most were content to sit and hold up torches
to watch the splitting or at the bound women they were still 
expressly forbidden to touch, some went to exploring the accursed
area. And others still created a spit-bonfire upon which they had a 
pot boiling, for a foul-smelling stew from their rations of salted 
pork.

  He ignored them for a few moments, couldn't they see he was in the
middle of important thought? In him lay the responsibility of
judging how valuable a thing may be, and how it was to be shared. 
A lesser may may have decided to break a gold pot into shard or chop 
half off a silver candlestick, but he always gave everyone whole
undamaged pieces. If there was something that struck someone's 
fancy it would be given with the proper exchange of goods. From his
years as a Kit'i payslave contracted out to serve caravans, he'd
attained an almost instinctive feel of appraisal. No one else could
do this in their band, for despite all the talent and intelligence
Lirarkie showed, a faculty for money was not one of them. The sorcerer
could even be said as not knowing what money was for, he hoarded it
and never spent anything unless he had to. 

  The temptation to cheat the unknowing lunkards was eternally present 
and never entertained. For all his larceny, he was fair to his men. 
They were after all, almost family. And in the arid grasslands of the
human-Kit'i border, the only person you could trust not to grab and
sell you off to the quarries were those whose mouths you helped kept 
fed.

  The young had no patience, and their rewards were never equal to 
their enthusiasm that fouled up as many deeds as it caused then to
succeed. He sighed and stopped his contemplation of monetary values.

  It was established that the hall was six hundred paces or twenty score 
feet wide, and twice as long. Into the inner chamber was thrice that. 
Being that none of his men could count higher than twenty, the task 
required two men. A score was doa, and then there was afat or twenty
times twenty. Nibot placed a bracelet off to one side. From there their 
numeric system gave oalo, or eight hundred. He found a small carving knife
studded heavily with emerald and turquoise. Eight hundred goldsworth was
enough to buy a whole troop of slaves, he reflected wryly. That one
knife was worth an afat lives. Higher numbers, the plainsmen did not 
need to know. What use would counting the stars or knowing how high a
mountain would be? Smaller numbers were handled easily as the half-afat 
named baina, two hundred and the lonesome saro or one hundred. In the 
near arid prairies of the human Lumen's West, people continually having 
to split limited resources were incredibly adept with fractions.

  One walked and counted his paces from one to twenty. Another walked
beside and continually mumbled just how many twenties his companion
had walked, in order not to lose count of the vast hollow. 

  "There are wells on those three corners" and to them the Krim-son 
pointed. "But that one doesn't." The southwest.

  "And of what possible significance does that have?"

  "N-nothing, Mahar. But you had commanded that we.. leave no one alive
behind us... wasn't it?"

  "It is." Nibot's kept his face indifferent. If these two were starting
to lose their perspective at such an age, then there was really nothing
to be done. Well, save to kill them. Some just aren't meant to a pure and 
free state of survival. 

  "Then, uh.. we'd ask if it could be that after we're all.. ah.. done,
we could just drop the.. they.. into the well instead of.. ah.."

  Idiots. Fine time to be squeamish about blood. "How deep are these
wells?"

  "Plenty deep, Mahar. Dry wells, they are."

  So, instead of putting the women to the sword, they'd be plunged to
their deaths. Did they even consider that those who would not break 
their necks from the fall would slowly starve or bleed to death? And 
yet they thought that to be a kinder death. Out of sight, out of mind 
it seems. The spectacle of seeing the shocked, lifeless and yet still 
pretty faces from the fruits of last year's raid unsettled them so. 

  Nibot shrugged. It was not unreasonable, at the very least it would
keep this place tidy. A slight nod to them, and they broke out with 
gleeful grins.

  He looked to their captives huddling close to the wall. Their gags 
had been removed but their bounds were remade. Their ankles were tied 
to their wrists by a length of rope, that they were unable to fully 
bring their legs together to close, or even to use their arms at all.
The most comfortable seating position they could have was leaning
against the wall with their knees bent and thighs apart. The ties
were tight and though were not straining or caused pain in any way, was
yet effective in restricting all struggling movements. In the treeless 
lands to the south, everything had to be lashed in, no nails were used 
or needed. The plainslanders were adept at knots of all kinds.

  Gizel slowly sidled closer to the others, as if trying to hide
amongst their number. She, like everyone else, was in numb silence, 
acting to be ignored for as long as possible. 

  This.. it was insane. It could not be happening to her! In moments
she would wake up to the call of her her father's bell. The old man had
lost the use of his jaw, and could only ring when he wished to be 
heard, and write upon a board what he wanted others to know. The last 
time she heard the bell, its tinkling louder and more furious than she 
had ever heard before...

  The bells of Gacen, five of them, could be soothing or angry, music 
as conversation. It was a gleeful distubance of the valley's peace. She 
looked to the heap of treasure, and found the chain of golden bells, 
separated and parceled out. She curled into herself and resumed sobbing. 

 "W-what's going to happen to us now?" she asked no one in particular.

 "Ravaged. Killed. What do you think?" Sune winced at the flippantness 
of her tone, then sighed. It's not as if there was any other possibility. 

  Gizel was looking at her, those red teary eyes seemed to acquire 
courage by draining it off her. Sune shivered at it. For expressing her 
hate, she was now someone they expected guidance from. "... what can we 
do, Sune? I don't want to die..." That was Seville, she was freshly 
turned sixteen. Gizel's serving-girl, and that her mistress had broken
down, turned to the person whom her mistress now relied on.

  "I don't know." What could be done? She strained at her cords with 
all her strength, stopped just short of willfully breaking her bones. 
What pain from her chafed, bleeding wrists were ignored as a great 
nausea entered Sune.

  "..Sune?" Gizel turned aside, and prodded the girl alternating 
between whimpers and growls. Sune was trembling heavily, as if freezing. 
But the inside of the great antechamber was quite warm, the temperature
was perfectly controlled by builders long dead. All in all a pleasant 
shelter from outside's cold, albeit possessed of a grim reputation. 
Nevertheless she tensed, and shivered - waves of almost manifest fury
rolled from her shoulders.

  As suddenly as it came it faded, and the girl slumped tiredly to the 
ground. The epiphany surrendered to hard facts.  Lying on her side, Sune 
stared off into nothing. Her voice was flat, and devoid of all feeling. 
"We can do nothing. We ARE nothing. We don't deserve this, but it's 
something we can't avoid." She stared into nothingness, and beyond. To 
those long past days of simple happiness. And jealousy, frustration, anger. 
Simple and gone, the sunshine and the moonlight passed away. But memories 
remain and from them, the words of a traveling showgirl. "Men are born 
to rule. Women are born to let men believe that they DO rule. They do 
silly things, and it is our responsibility to guide them from their 
foolishness. When things fail, it is the fault of nothing having a 
woman's good sense nearby."


  What was it like in the lands to the south? She'd wanted to see them 
and thirsted for the small knowledge gleaned from traders passing 
through Vane. The Plains was a harsh place, and the areas where life 
could blossom were taken by those powerful enough to hold them. In that 
disputed region that meant Orkur to the northern parts, Rebels and 
Pirates to the Westside facing the ocean and the equally unrepentant 
Loyal House to the East. To head down was to enter the scorching desert 
where nothing but the Kit't could live and that because they were far 
more cruel than the desert itself. 

  "Why are they doing this?" she asked dully. 

  "Because they can" something within her answered. "Why are oceans 
crossed? Because they should be. Why live in this cold, unyielding 
land? Since it was possible. Why are mountain scaled? Because they are 
there. Discoveries made? For the forbidden is never permanent and the 
impossible never always unattainable. A lot of things happen, good or 
ill, simply because it is well within the power of doing - damn the 
consequences!

  The shortest road is the one most often taken and the longer paths 
attest to the powerful wills of those that choose it.  
  
  The universe is never fair." 

  


                           ~~~~~~~~~~~



  
  The time had come. Nibot finished with his reckonings, and all that 
remained was for the men to pack their new belongings into their 
satchels. There were halfhearted bartering still, and then dinner. The 
Crimson Sons, or the pedantic Krim-sons as they called themselves, sat 
down to sup on their bitter stew and hard bread. Their captives went 
hungry, of what use food be to them, who would not live to see 
daybreak?  And more than a few of the women actually had vomited out at 
first taste of what they were already accustomed to eating. 

  It would be a small kindness. And less of their energy meant less 
squirming when the deed is to be done. But for the time being, it was 
placed out their minds, and they enjoyed a peaceful repast of triumph.
At least wine flowed freely this night. But they showed an unusual
restraint in their drinking. Just enough to paint everything in a rosy
glow, but not so much as to numb their brain and senses. 

  All but Lirarkie. The sorcerer ate separately from the men, and 
partook none of their fare. He ate only when he felt the need, and 
never in their view. Were it not that his gaunt frame would waste away 
without eating, the men would have sworn he never ate at all.  The 
sorcerer sat cross-legged near a side wall, a light-globe in the air 
above his head. A small pile of open books was beside him, from which he 
would pluck a manuscript to examine and compare with the others. He 
would snort or laugh now and then at what he was reading. Even his
steed shared his strange elitism, refusing to mingle with the other
horses. She stood placidly without a tether, allowing her master to 
lean against her hindleg as he read. 
  
  Finally, Nibot had enough of the odd noises. A bowl in hand, he sat 
crosslegged beside the sorcerer. "Just what is so amusing?" 

  "Stupiditie." Lirarkie replied, and went back to reading.

  The bandit chief scooped up his mixed gruel and accidentally 
spattered a glob onto one of the books. He tried to rub the stain away, 
and only managed to tear the fragile sheet. Lirarkie swatted away his 
gloved hand.

  "Inept fool! And get that abominable concoction away from me." The 
sorcerer pushed away the bowl of sour broth. He used his own expensive
robe as a rag to wipe away the gelatinous grease. 
  
  "What is wrong? These are just books." Nibot sniffed, his turn for 
contempt. He failed to see what was important about books. What use 
were they, speech was good enough. The spoken word held more weight, 
carried with it honor and worth. Lies were set to paper, where no 
telltale motions or changes in tone  could reveal its nature. "Trash." 
he added.

  "If you wish to continue being a man and not refuse of the soil," the
sorcerer's voice was iced with vehemence. "You WILL NOT REFER to these 
writings as trash again." 

  The chieftain incensed briskly, he'd put up with the sorcerer's 
attitude for only so long. The man had not directly threatened him 
before, and neither had he needed direct intimidation to push anyone in 
his troupe to motion. But they all knew that if he was opposed, he was 
ready to answer in kind. He set down his stew with deceiving slowness, 
then a screech of metal as he swiftly drew his iskur. It was a dueling 
longblade, curved and slender, known also as the reverse scimitar. Its
skewering tip would tear chunks of an enemy's flesh and armor with 
but a flick of the wrist.

  Lirarkie's eye were harder than clear diamonds, and unwavering. The 
blade stopped a scant inch away from his neck. To kill wasn't the 
intention at all, merely to show just how far his patience could be 
pushed. The chieftain had impulsive respect for the man. And more than 
a touch of alarm. That gaze, those judging eyes! Lirarkie had defiantly 
stood still, showing that he considered sharpened steel and his rage as 
no threat.. They had found him inadequate. He wanted to continue the 
motion, cut into vein and bone, but could not. He suddenly felt very, 
very small. 

  He grinned, and laughed. "You have mettle, sorcerer. Don't let the 
men say you're less brave for not picking up a sword and sinking into 
the fight like the rest of us."

  The sorcerer snorted, and touched the prideland saber. The metal grew 
flaccid and bent with his push like an unwatered plant. "What others saie 
matters not." He drew away his fingers, and as soon as his skin left 
steel, the sword regained its form.

  Acting unsurprised, Nibot sheathed back his sword. Even if he checked
the blade, he would have found it in pristine condition. "What is it 
that you are reading?"  

  "Oh, just the historie of how this land was settled." He held up a 
leather tome a little larger than his hand. Nabot could read somewhat, 
but distrusted letters. From his time as a contract slave, he'd seen 
how letters and numbers could be used by men to buy other men. To amass 
wealth without leaving the chair. To bring others to death, because the 
written word of a cheat is more substantial than the words of a warrior 
accused. On the book's cover was the –[ Annals of the Fridgid Reaches: 
How The North Was Won. ]- It was written by Jelgamish of Panasu." A 
Plainsname. Or rather, a name from the more fertile upper plains, close 
to the Orkur border. The Freelands, they were called now.

 "Who is the Jelgamish?"

 "Simplie a historian, nothing more. Though amongst historians he is 
kinge. He roamed Lumen, never minding the danger, and noted the roote 
of all races but one." 
 
 "All races but one?" Now that was interesting. "Which one?" If amongst 
his men one would be hard-pressed to learn anything about their past, 
more so from the taciturn other races. The Orkur would much rather kill 
than talk, the Alvii would talk, yes - if only to drive home how 
utterly inferior all non-Alvii races were. And some of the others 
simply could not speak in the Shared Tounge, their mouths were not 
shaped for it, and vice versa for their own language. An exception to 
the introverted otherbeings of Lumen were the Kit'I, who simply
LOVED to talk. And unfortunately, lying and exaggeration was their 
second nature. It had to be the Kit'i. He'd seen them, was taken to 
their source, the bejeweled and gold-decked Kit'haranna. These were a 
people with a million pasts and no future. 
 
  He was wrong. Lirarkie opened another book. "The Kit'I did come from 
somewhere. Jelgamish has uncovered that theie come from the same 
forests that the Alvii call home but were driven oute. It was theie who 
lived first in those woods." 

  Naturally, Nibot distrusted that information instantly. It was set in 
print, unreliable. But.. he was a Plainsman. "What happened to him?"

  "The man was daring. His wordse were sweete, and he convinced the 
Emperor Vidal XII then to give him a ship, he sailed acrosse the Ocean 
of the Young Worlde and to the continent to the Easte where the dragons 
live. He was eaten by a silver Draige who was not too impressed with 
his curioisitie." 

  Not so good an end, Nibot thought. See what fame and glory giveth a 
man? He felt more fortunate at being so at ease with his simple needs. 
The raider licked his bowl clean, and burped. Lirarkie turned away from 
the bubbly stench.

  "Men like Jelgamish are rare. The dragon remembers his name to this 
very day" the sorcerer continued, smiling of irony. "Such things are to 
remembered like vintage of fine wine."
 
  Nibot only yawned. His interest in the departed man had fled. He was 
full, and physical exertion was to be avoided when freshly-eaten. He 
looked to the women. They could wait several moments longer. "Tell me 
of the North." While dead men held for him no value, lands and their 
dangers were of more import. 

  "So then, I shalle." Everyone was in an indulgent mood, it was the 
night to savor victory. He flipped through the book's pages and began.





                           ~~~~~~~~~~~




  I sing the song of times long past, of Turbulent Days, in shaping of 
the League. I tell the tales of heroes long dust, but whose valor still 
ring true. The age of Lamige, Fallen Lord of Sheene. Of Inett, Seeress 
of the Unbound Eye. Of La-kan their child and the North which was his 
grasp. Of Fear and Pain and Persistence, Desperate Bravery of an 
Afflicted Nation. And of Dula, that secretive vivid presence who truly 
commanded the farthest Reaches of Human Influence. 

  Within the passing of the Epoch of Low Magick, during the time when 
Malus sat within Dvarom as their last and greatest Huldbridgir, who 
looked carefully to where sat on a similar chair - the Chair of Distant 
Dreams and the Chair of Open Night  - two ancient gifts that allowed 
just and wise rulers to see their dominions full. Within Alviin'tacael 
brooded with scathed pride Ellath, Speaker of the Alvii. At Kit'haranna 
was Sanri the Myuu-Roh, first overlord of the Mim-ming, and the armies 
of Orcehurhur were once again frothing to their yearly war frenzy under 
the drums of their chief, Komun. The years when all these warriors were 
alive at once cannot not be dated exactly, for ancient lores old span 
uncertain centuries. 

  Those were the Eras of Legend. When heroes walked and monsters 
flew, when armies gathered and alliances cast. When gods looked to the 
ground and demons rose to take part in the grand show of empirelust and 
fantastic desires. And when sailed five ships, each carrying a thousand
folk, from the oceanrim shores of Annutharra.

  Their lands seized and their last stronghold broken by the might of 
the new League Humer su Grande, the kin of Sheene fled the soil of 
their birth under the guidance of Inett. A woman it is said of striking 
beauty and sharp tongue, she who foresaw the defeat of their legion, 
yet had delayed it also with her Sight of what may come. And when the 
inevitable came to pass, she said for her people to grow wings of 
spirit and fly. They had to fly, their destiny was beyond the horizon.
 
  Five ships cast off from ancient Candile, in the months while they 
traveled the League su Grande forged Candelbarra, and from its center 
rose the magnificent palace-fortress Luminzavia, the Emperor's Hearth.

  Two of the great Fleeing Ships were submerged by storms and serpents 
of the sea. Another ill-fated ship reached the shores of the Daughter 
Continent, its canyons of gold and rivers of fire - and the dragons. 
Dragilande.

  Fourth was blown and nearly sunk by furious winds, and rounding the 
coast to the south, found a large serendipitous island. An isle of 
gentle hills and white cliffs. Of monthly sea-storms and growth. It 
would be known as Corvidia. 

  And the last under Inett's eye and Lamige's guidance cruised to the 
North, beset with terrible perils along the way. First was the Salt 
Serpent Ahassi, that brought down two of their ships. And then came the 
Oceanborn Storm that blew the other ship south. 

  They had falsely landed on the islet they named Waieland, thinking
they could forage, but its white-sand beaches were merely a disguise 
fora monster, Alimmangu. The great white crab. Even the Sheene-kan ran 
for the ship, when the ground beneath his feet rose. How could he hope 
to fight something twenty miles wide? Six hundred years later during 
the Lost Voices War, a Dvareg battleship came upon Alimanggu and killed 
it. The carcass floated towards the shores of the Golden Sea and became 
a true island. 

  And appeared one stark night an monstrous Occult Eye, a Bhaulldarr, 
one from a race older than the world itself, from beyond the stars and 
source of her Sight. They watch, and keep from interference. But the 
actions of One have led to an intervention of Events. The demiune came 
to devour Inett,but first it had to ask three riddles. These riddles 
were said in a tongue unknown and the Seeress replied in same. What 
those questions were are lost to time, but the Bhaulldarr faded away 
satisfied.

  Innet collapsed into Lamige's arms. How close they all were to death
beyond death, they will never know, she said. And for their sanity's 
sake, they had better not seek to know.


  But their greatest trials were the natural hazards of the long 
journey itself. Time and water.

  Just the day before land was Sighted, the great Sheene-kan died from 
a rusty knife into his shoulders. Their journey had taken already the 
better of a year.  The blade was held by a woman maddened with the 
death of her third child, for ship's stores were greatly diminished, 
famine and disease unavoidable in such close cramped quarters. Inett's 
words went unheard and her grief gone silent. The leader who lived 
through the assaults of eleven different armies, bringing his people to 
safe retreat fell from something she could not predict. Retribution for 
the murder was not to come, for the woman then threw herself overboard 
when her senses returned. 

  When land came as she had said, the settlement was named Lamige. From 
then on their nation was named Lam. Their people, Lamin. Gone was the
light of their former land, they would henceforth live within the mist
that rose as cold wind from the north met the warmer winds blown from the 
sea.

  And Inett gave birth to a son and spake her final insight. "Thou 
shalle naime him La-kan, his selfe wilt be insepreable from hist 
plaice, his deeds alwaise for the glorie of our Nation. He ist King of 
the Northe, alle of him." And as the mountain mist lifted with the 
sun's rising, so did the Seeress pass away and an era came to an end.




                           ~~~~~~~~~~~



   "That is where you are from, eh Fogbound?"

   Lirarkie shot him a glare that said, if I could kill you with a 
glance, you would be smoldering ashes by now. One of these days the 
sheer power in my suffering of fools will allow me to do just that.

   The raider shrugged a mute apology for interrupting. "Go on - " 



                           ~~~~~~~~~~~



  
  Long ago a wanderlust possessed the Dvareg and the Alvii, and they 
set up colonies as far as they could roam. The heat of the Great 
Desert had kept each other's existence unbeknownst to each other until 
their explorers and citadel-builders chose to land upon the same shore. 
From gleanings of those even more ancient times the people of Lam, 
formerly Sheene, knew then that there were lands to the northwest and 
the northeast, just not how large those landlocked horizons were.

  Life in the Fridgid Reaches were hardly easy. Crops they once grew 
and fed upon refused to take root. The chill and forest beasts took 
many of their number. There roamed the north the Gabullin, hunched 
ferocious creatures that descended upon their new villages by the 
hundreds. A crude, semi-intelligent army which though unchallenging to 
dispatch sapped their spirits from repeated attacks. Deaths rose and 
those that remained were either too young or too old to fight, all 
upon the first ten years. 
   
  La-kan at ten knew as much as older than him. Confined to the walls 
of Lamige he could do nothing but read and play at war. Dvareg 
metalworkings, the little that men have been allowed to know. The 
Alvish medicines and some of their spells. The fighting forms of Assa, 
the poetry of Kreese, the advice upon governance by the Turtedal, and 
more.

  La-kan at his passage into manhood was stronger and faster than the 
soldiers guarding him. A Lamige Lord must not be weak, complacent and 
fat like heads of the other Kingdoms. When he asked them to train him, 
they did the proper thing and treated him as a recruit of the pool. He 
earned their respect and loyalty, not expected it as right by birth. 
His collection of Gabullin skulls numbered at the hundreds.

    La-kan at his twelth year as Kan, placed his Wen, a King took his 

Queen. Thirty years from landing, the Lamin were spreading out 
successfully - Lamige was prospering and other towns were being made. 
In three year's time he had a daughter from Larisse, who was second 
child of the woman who'd slain his sire. 

 And upon that Year the Gabullin poured forth in force as never seen 
before. The walls were piled high with corpses, enough to let the 
others scale the battlements upon the bodies of their dead, the 
settlement was shattered. Many died, for the foul creatures went to 
slay all, and were of elated intent to find the refuge where hid women 
and children. When one was found, they would run from the warrior which 
were harder to kill, and run asfeast upon softer unresistant fleshlings, 
biting and clawing as much as they could before the warriors could 
come to strike them down. 

  On daybreak many were left without those they loved most. La-kan took 
them and upon the next light they set forth. Those that remained behind 
picked up crushed lives and rebuilt, for they had to continue. Life had 
to persist in the cold north. 

  There was iron around the Reaches. Copper and silver as well. The 
Gabullin clearly knew enough to mine, melt and shape their weapons. 
Bronze was inferior to steel, but far better than nothing. The Lamige 
had to break from the ground their strength as well. By the time of La-
kan's expedition of vengeance, there were already smaller settlements 
around Lamige. These were all assailed at the same time, showing a 
greater mind at work behind the blue-skinned creatures of odium.

  Into the Fridgid Reaches went the six hundred. They bult rafts to 
traverse upstream the River of Stars, correctly hypothesizing that 
habitations were built next to a source of potable water. However, but 
even as they demolished every Gabullin tenenment they came across, most 
escaped their wrath as greater number these beasties live in caves and 
drink from underground streams, mining and smelting from the rock walls 
in rough mockery of the Dvareg. 

  Through two more years of icy bloodshed and La-kan found the Inner 
Sea and such was the calmness of its surface, perfectly reflecting the
theatre of the dawn sky, that they named it The Mirror. And there on 
its water's edge they found a strange town of strange folk. Shorter and 
more delicate than they are, with wide slanting eyes and long sharp 
ears.. skin so fair that it tinged on blue and greyen eye... at first 
they thought they had found elves, perhaps some sort of drau, though 
these had skin so gentle and basked in the sun. But upon closer 
inspection those faces had a distinct resemblance to... Gabullin. 

  Yet how could that be? It was in the sharpnesss of their ears, the 
amber of their eyes, the angles of their chins… their unwillingness to 
fight? They were defenseless and he could have had them all slaughtered 
for simply being of the same breed as his hated nemesis, but apart from 
those superficial features the people were human in all that mattered. 
They were hospitably housed and treated as guests, his sense of honor 
could not allow him undeserved killing. Their suspicions faded after 
some time. Aye, the Gabullin were once of the race of Men, as they 
were. A long time ago there were only men upon Lumen, well it known 
that they were the source of most other races. But those there were 
changed by a spirit within the Reaches, an even more ancient apparition 
named Dula. She lived in the Valley's Rise even further to the North. 
It was she that controlled all that the cold wind touches. It was her 
power that Turned men and alvii into Gabullin as punishment of a long-
ago transgression. 

  They were the Frosau. The Gabullin reviled beauty, and killed their 
children that might have brought their stock closer to humanity through
the generations. Only savagery and greed grew through the years. These 
had kept to Dula's law and lived close to the Valley and her 
protection. 

  And as La-kan rested after a long journey and his men learned to be 
fond of the land and its people, the town which shared their name 
became Frostwaif, in memory of the merging of separated bloodlines. 
After two years of hard journey, his men found comfort and acceptance, 
and were loath to leave it. But they were Lamin, and their duty to the 
La-kan was greater than the worth of their lives. La-kan never saw what 
the children would be like, if its skin would be so fair it would seem 
to be tinged a pale blue or the bleached copper of Sheene, for their 
journey had a definite goal at last. 

  Dula the pitiless, the player of other's lives, would be found and 
made to pay. 

  

                      ~~~~~~~~~~~



  "Idiots." Nibot muttered. He knew what it felt to bite off more than 
one can chew.

  Lirarkie didn't disagree. "If it's not cleare yet, Dula is Spirit of 
Winteir." He took a deep breath. "The people of Lam had other Gods they 
praied to, the pantheons from theire abandoned lands. But here Dula is 
lawe. But fortunatelie we are sucessful lawbreakers, no?"

  "Yes, yes... keep going. I like stories where everybody dies."

  "You just might gette your wish.." the sorcerer whispered. 



                      ~~~~~~~~~~~
	


  The River of Stars is now known as the second longest river in all of 
Lumen, just several hundred feet shorter than the river named League 
Grande (the Human League had taken its name from the river, not vice 
versa). It digs deep into La-kandula Valley, which in those days was 
merely named Dulan, or Of Dulan. She was the Valley in as much as La-
kan was his name. Timeless and somewhat crazy, She gave La-kan aid even 
as She tested him. From Bassouc, the bird of omens, She hid his 
presence by filling the valley with shadowing mist of Her breath. The 
great phoenix She gave instead a whole gigante cahurt, and from It she 
bargained a glimpse of the futures that may be.

    In the entrance to the valley slept the augir named Bone-eater and 
many of his men and volunteers from Froswaif had to die before the 
demi-gigante could be subdued. And yet within the valley itself roamed 
many horrid creatures, and all had once been men, alvii or dvareg. 
Things with oversized clawed arms, gaping mouths in a soundless scream, 
al lined with needle-sharp teeth, and quick sprinting legs all adding 
up to greedful feeding living machines. Dula's punishment was to show 
to others what they really were inside. Hers was the Silver Mirror 
and while she gave out what was well deserved, she despised it all the 
same. In the Frosau lore there were two types of monsters, the asuan 
and the alimau. The former were natural creatures birthed by the land 
through the Epochs of Magic. The latter were mortals changed as 
punishment. The first are note much more than wild animals and may even 
at times be befriended. The other was lothesome to the core and 
deprived the mercy of death. A barrier of ice sheated the opening into 
the valley, more to keep these creatures in than to discourage 
interlopers.

  She haunted his dreams every night, telling him to go home or die. 
That he was the sinner here, not she. That in the end there can only be 
one result to his desire for conflict, and that is his death. And she 
showed it to him how he would die, how everyone would die. He lived the 
moments in his dreams. It was so easy for Dula to accomplish, but for 
some reason she was not shewing her power. Much easier to torment the 
one who was at the center of it all. Why? Why risk life for something 
so obviously futile? A being of Judgment, this She could not understand.

  La-kan was nearly driven to insanity. His followers began to mutter 
of how he would stare into the valley which they had yet to enter. Only 
the touch of his  blade would melt that ice, and for hours he would 
stand facing the wall. It would be death to return to Lamige, for Dula 
truly had no control over the fells of Gabullin, and to press on was 
certain death at the claws of creatures bred for killing. Return to a 
life of slow demise, from starvation of stimuli or a quick doom were 
his choices. She had made clear that she could never allow a new 
Kingdom of Man to arise within her lands. The Dvareg landed on her 
shores with their treecleavers, machines and grandiose aims. Nothing 
remained of their much-touted impregnable citadels. She'd allowed them 
two years to build their Wintirbayne Holl, and destroyed it for mere 
proving of point. The Alvii had tried to subvert her land, so secure 
were they in their own mastery of magick. They had not lived long 
enough to even establish a settlement. To live in her land was to abide 
by her law. There would be no greed, no untoward desire. To each to his 
own and to nature its due. Life without the usual human progress, in 
other words. 

  They could not live like that. The Frostau have been given a glimpse 
of the world forbidden them, the vitality of the world of humanity. 
They were ready to follow to the end if needs be. The decision was his.


  The question was starting to destroy the Nation of Lam. 
  

  But in those harried circumstances La-kan had one refuge and to it he 
anchored his sanity. There was a girl, a Frostau girl, and her name was
Linau. She was always by his side, he'd never met someone who would so 
fully surrender herself to him - body, heart and soul. The memory of 
Larrise pricked and faded, as Dula's ministrations continued and 
Linau's soothing words the only thing keeping the attack of despair at 
bay. 

  Unable to head the straight path into the Valley, the Lamin and their 
Frostau allies skirted the edges of the water-gouged canyons. The 
barricades of arm-thick ice broke in one place. Down a gorge was a 
circular clearing about four miles across. At its center rose an eroded 
mountain of strange shape. Scattered across the abbreviated plain were 
stone edifices arranged in rows. Columns flanked a stone pathway 
leading into a collapsed sculpted archway into the mountain. The 
conclusion they came to was that while Dula ruled all of the Fridgid 
Reaches, Her power ended within this rough circular domain. 



                      ~~~~~~~~~~~


   Sudden enlightenment flashed across Nibot's face. Desolation etched 
across Sune's countenance. Unconsciously Lirarkie's reading had grown 
louder as he relished the story. Everyone had already been listening by 
then. He continued to ignore them all, and read on.

                      ~~~~~~~~~~~



  Even the Hoarfrosau stayed away. Wisely La-kan chose to camp at its 
edge, not touching its borders until he figured out what it was about 
the place that set everyone's nerves on edge. 

  A young Frostau girl strayed into the circle, and was drawn to enter 
the false mountain. The Lamin had no choice but to follow. At halfway 
to it, all were struck by fear. It was a foreign upswelling within 
their hearts, terror at Everything. All felt suddenly just how 
insignificant their short lives were under the stars, those lights in 
the sky older than time and uncaring of all that they could accomplish. 
To the universe all life served no useful purpose. The small band that 
attempted to rescue the girl, and the girl herself - aged before their 
very eyes. It was as if they collided with a thousand of years. 
 
  Of the rescue party only one survived. La-kan would not send his men 
to do something he would not dare to do himself, and went in despite 
Linau's cautions. He staggered through the half-mile back to camp and 
returned weary beyond all limits, despite that he did not have to raise 
a hand in fight. Fear was an emotion that drained strength, as lust 
drains resolve and anger drains wits. He spoke of ghosts in his head, 
voices louder and more insistent - that he recognized Dula's 
conversations as caressing compared to the specters that ran through 
his memories, searching for something. "Too earlie, too earlie." he was 
said to mumble as he slept the ordeal away. "They are not yet here, we
must wait longer." 

  The place was named Aleen's Fear, for the goodnatured, if weak-willed 
girl that  was cause of the grim discovery. The name went to 
Aleenisfer, and finally  the more easily-pronounceable Aleenfer. But 
the fear was not so much as her own personal terror, but the fear of 
the unnatural residents imparted upon the trespassers, the fear 
inherent within all thinking things, seeking for purpose and finding 
none. The fear and shame of being worthless. Of facing the entire 
spread of existence, and being rejected. 

  It is not a unique place, though uncanny, there are three others of 
like mysterious Locales scattered upon Lumen. All are equally avoided 
with a common phobic by all Races, by all manner of beasts.

                      ~~~~~~~~~~~


  Nibot looked wildly around. And the sorcerer led them here?! The 
shadows of walls and ceilings too far away seemed much more menacing. 
Fear stabbed at his heart, but searching himself, it was merely the 
fear of self-preservation. He put up a brave exterior, and from it his 
men found assurance. 

  Aleenfer should have already struck by then. Since it had not, it was 
possible that it was harmless after all. 

  "You need not worrie," said Lirarkie. "After La-kan survived it, 
Aleenfer itself ceased blasting intruderse with dread. (Dula may have 
had something to do with that) It is not so much that they were cursede 
but that they were too weake to face the universe. They were not able 
to justifie their existence. Though rumor has it that whosoever enters 
Aleenfer dies a violent deathe later on. Their lives will be tainted 
with bloode." He grinned unkindly. "But I knowe of no one here who 
wants to live longe and waste awaie helplesslie of old age."
 
  "You have that true enough." the bandit leader nodded. His men gave 
their assent. And their captives, were hardly surprised. They all knew 
their imminent fates. The curse of Aleenfer was acceptable to everyone, 
then. 

                      ~~~~~~~~~~~

  Into the Valley walked the remains of Lamige's soldiers of 
retribution. They had left with six hundred, now they were fifty. The 
hard years have whittled away their number, but more died in the last 
few months near Dulan than from the winter march northwest. The 
Hoarfrosu fed eagerly. Dula had confused their minds, allowing many to 
fall off precipices or impaled with overhanging shards of ice, but 
still the killing continued. She had no choice, this was her Valley.
It was their decision to enter it. Her power was too vast to affect
minute occurrences within. The smallest direct aid she could give
would also destroy the ones being helped. 

  Finally La-kan refused to let anyone go with him. 

  They had conquered the valley. They stood in front of a wondrous 
waterfall that was source of the River of Stars, and behind it was 
Dula's mountain, where the Spirit itself kept Her corporeal form. If it 
could be found she could be killed. The mountain, or rather iced 
volcano, was named Angil by Frosau, or Tempest's Tooth by the Lamin. 
Above it brewed an eternal winterstorm. The dark clouds glowed a faint 
red from the Tooth's bubbling grin.

  There Dula stayed. There La-kan would go. She Herself had spoken, 
that the ascent would be permitted.   
  


                      ~~~~~~~~~~~


           
  The sorcerer stopped abruptly.

  So sudden was it that everyone coughed, realizing that they'd been 
holding their breath. Some laughed hesitantly. The eagerness for stories 
were relics of their childhood. "Huss!" Nabot cursed. "What's next?" 

  "These pages have been torne out.." He opened the book out, and 
showed to them the missing leaves. Setting the book aside, he began
to flip through the other writings. Most of the books were intact.
A few also had pages missing. A frustrated growl escaped his lips as
he realized what sorts of information were gone.

    He looked into the distance, remembering. Vane held a small temple 
to Sheene gods that doubled as a library. Dula asked for no sacrifices, 
needing nothing for already she owned all within her domain. The priest 
made the sign of peace to Lirarkie, and then burned as the sorcerer set
his blood on fire with but a gesture. Her smiled at the vision of his 
malice. Within the steepled building he found an old yet robust man, 
throwing books around, and at him as he approached. The fool wore 
dangling on a necklace five golden bells and it kept ringing and 
ringing, and somehow the sound stung is brain, dizzying him bit by bit 
until he had to cut the mute man in half with a whip of lightning. So 
close to completion, and his efforts are thwarted.. no, merely 
delayed.. by little distractions. It didn't matter, he had other 
means... it would have been only much easier. 

  His reverie was interrupted by a shriek. It had begun. They had 
waited long enough, the brief diversion of bookreading was time 
enough for their meals to settle, and their other hunger to surface. 
They glanced at each other and tensed in their seats, then there was a 
quick scuffle to be first. It was almost playful, a band of murderers
in mock wrestling within a race to reach five waiting prizes. He had
never indulged in these lecherous games, at first the men had thought
he preferred the feel of young boys to the feel of young girls. Then
later they'd come to accept that he preferred the touch of no one at
all. Strange were the ways of mana-users.

  A raider grabbed the front of Gizel's dress and tore it, exposing her 
ample charms. The girl's screaming increased in intensity at the touch 
of a coarse hand at her stomach, and slowly exploring downwards. Behind 
him three others waited, extolling him to hurry. He facetiously 
remarked, a woman has two holes, does she not?
 
  Several glass bowls and a clay jar shatered from the force of Gizel's 
outburst. Her companions let out their own shrieks as well upon the
first eager caress, some begged not be hurt, some then lost themselves 
to wails and sobs; they were all slapped to quietude. Gizel would not 
be brought to silence, but her voice was already barely above a 
whimper.

  Nibot stood over Sune, grinning. The girl had not screamed, her eyes
still held defiance. He enjoyed a little resistance, futile as it was. 
She could not close herself to him. This was what made his dangerous 
expeditions worth it. The wealth he'd purloined could give him the
service of many willing whores back home, but there was nothing quite 
like the feeling at being someone's first, and last. His grin grew 
wider. It surpassed even the thrill of killing. Being a gladiator at 
the Kit'i arenas made death common... but the cats also kept their 
fighters celibate, to improve their show performance. He was lucky not 
to have been gelded.
 
  Ever since then he'd found a newer, more intense excitement for the 
act, if it was properly set. Oh, they didn't have to be very pretty, or
very young, only that they would hate him, want to kill him. Their 
revulsion was honey to his lips.

  He knelt down and placed a hand on each of her knees. Still her 
countenance showed not even a trace of fear or revulsion. This was 
usually where it became clear that there was no hope of being saved. It 
puzzled him. 

  "Daige kam mautica kin Dula", said Sune. "You would not make Dula 
into an oathbreaker."   

  Portions of Lirarkie's memories flashed before him. The old man 
had torn to irretrievable shreds specific pages of the books he'd 
gathered. Those pages that would tell him the specifics on where a 
certain place could be found was in the mountain shadowing Lakan-dula's 
valley. 

  Gacen's eyes had been brown, like his daughter's.



  But at that instance his eyes were silver. Twin round mirrors 
with dispassionate necessity.
 
  

  As much as Sune's eyes had started to become, even as a chill 
wind began to lift her from the floor.




                ~~~~~~~~~~~
 



  She spoke words not her own. The voice was the same one that once 
complained about being bored, or being caged. But she was UN-caged, and 
though softly she spoke her tone carried great weight. 


      Steep are Angil's sides, brittle are the rock
      Behind the whiten face that it shows to the world


Calmly. Factually. In the ancient dialect, a lyrical tongue that would 
beget a Frostau language, yet somehow everyone understood clearly. The 
Spirit of Winter was speaking, her voice would be inescapable.


      Still La-kan braved the climb, away from his people
      With a knife in his teeth he pressed for a rockstep
      Dula revealed where she would wait if he would come
      No longer she placed obstacles to bar his ascent

      His only enemy would be himself, the chosen son of Lam         
        
      Cold he fought, felt fatigue and found his inclination
      False grips he battle, slippery shelves gave discernment   
      Defeated was disheartenment, and it showed his true worth
      He found himself in Her chasmic refuge, and was welcomed


  Sune.. or rather Dula, held a chilling smile on Her face. It
was a radiant greeting, but unsympathetic. All had the feeling that
She was smiling to keep herself from a furious grimace... and should
her control slip, there would be nothing left of victims or
victimizer alike.


      You see, heroes are not armed with swords and shields
      Their weapons are all the contents of their hearts
      And the unfailing faith in the rightness of purpose   
 

  Dula/Sune hugged Herself and spun delicately, Her bonds crumbling 
away in iced-over shards. Her eyes were closed with the pain of a 
remembrance that had not softened with time. 


      Dula would gave allowed her death if that was intent
  

  Nibot fell backwards as Sune/Dula floated past him. She slid
over to teary Gizel and caressed the girl's face. Her sobbings
abated to some extent as her despoilers immidiately sprung away at
Her approach. She gaped at her faintly-glowing spectacle with
frank gratitude.

 
      Do you know what it is to love


   She made a sweeping gesture, Gizel's ropes crystallized and broke 
into glittering powder.


      Pure desire not just lust?


  The smile faded from Her face. She turned to the raiders, all of 
them were backing away from the line. Some of them already had their 
pants down. Sune/Dula allowed a scornful scoff at what She saw 
hanging. 

  Throughout all this, Sune still held consciousness. It had
come unexpected, and she was as surprised as everyone to feel 
her mouth talking and her body moving with such inhuman gracefulness
and elegance. She didn't begrudge Dula the use of her body, though
she was waiting for a miracle it wasn't what she had in mind. She was 
a stranger in her own mind, and could only stand back to see, now and 
then to hear Dula's thoughts as if it were her own. 

  "If Dula were not who She was, She would laugh." sparked across 
the space of captured intellect. Sune laughed silently in her 
skull-corner. She'd not realized her Goddess, merciless Dula, might 
have possessed humor. Albeit supremely-controlled humor - her 
impassive, dignified façade was unbreakable. 


     It lifts the Act to the highest and makes life true
     But you..your urges, your itch, your murder.. you..

                      FILTH!


               (the walls echoed back)
                   
     Scum, dregs, wastes of flesh and sparks of being
      
      
  Her eyes were burning now, twin cool suns. Sune's braided hair
came undone, her long tresses whipping serpentlike to the seething 
wind.


     You sons of Men, no... you are not men 
     Dula allows the race of Men to live in her embrace
     But you are not men

     Not even boys


  Sune laughed wickedly within. Appropriate insult! 
  
  She stood up and cold air wafted through the chamber, whistling in
 a subtle melody. She began to drift, her sinuous movements melting 
into a melancholy dance. 


                     Dula knows the race of Men
    She has seen their best, and their very worst 
    La-kan entered her hall not knowing what to expect
    She was already in accepting for all that he might do

    The shock, the pain, the feelings of betrayal
    She felt it from him and accepted its diua
    For Dula has the face of the one he called his beloved


 The swirling air pricked and stung, and somehow conveying a rolling 
sadness. It formed into their minds what it must have been, fourscore
and more centuries ago. She, turning slowly... keeping her expression
vacant. Dead, even. He would not find eagerness to see him, had she
not warned him to stay away? He would not find anger, for she knew 
what sacrifices he had to make. He would not be judged, she would not
explain as long as he refused to listen. La-kan had yet to loosen 
his grip upon his weapon.


    Dula stood took unto herself his bitter utterings

    She tricked him he said. All the times Linau voiced love 
    It was a lie. He had lain with a corpse, a puppet, a reflection 
    Of Herself. La-kan knelt before Her and surrendered himself
    She had broken him at last. She had taken everything he valued 
    
    And destroyed it
   

  She stopped. It was as if the air had snapped. Or someone's 
sanity. Sune/Dula looked up, her face a tranquil mask. 



                         But it was not meant to be so


  Abruptly She shot forward to Nibot, still sprawled on the floor. 
She floated above him, her face level to his panicked own. She smiled
and prodded his forehead. The bandit chief reacted as if struck by an
arrow. 

  Dula laughed daintily and drifted back. Her countenance, blissful.


    Dula loved him 

    It was real


    She once wanted to clean the world of the race of Men 
    She was stopped by the other Spirits of the Land
    For men are such changeable creatures, could be so selfish
    They could be so jealous... twist themselves into foulness

    There is good and evil in every one of them
    Some degenerate by letting themselves be consumed by their wants
    Some find the happiness that others look for, by first mastering 
    Themselves before mastering others

    The Frostau are Dula's people
    They too were once from the race of Men and Dvareg
    They too were once small ugly Gabullin
    Yet from their fallen state they’d sought virtue
  
    Are they not now beautiful? 
    Their senses are keener and their lives are longer, happier
    Dula's hand does not punish. She is not fickle. Malicious
    She gives what is wanted by the heart
    
    The Gabullin lusted for gold. The mountain was opened to them

    The bodies are fitted perfectly to tunnel living 

    They hungered for blood and fighting

    Their bent legs allow them to jump into fray

    Their lives are short but intense   

    DULA WANTED NO ONE TO SUFFER! She did not want anyone to die
    But She is a Force of the World and She can't help those
    Who persist in the arrogance of their own limited knowledge
    She wanted to give happiness if not in this life 

    Perhaps it will be found in the next


  The Spirit of Winter curled Herself into a fetal ball. She hugged her
knees close, feeling so vulnerable. Everything had a weakness, even
excessive strength could be a weakness itself, disguised.


    She loved him. She did not want him or his people to die
    She knew him from the eyes of Linau, and in voice of his own skull
    She wanted to stop him from coming to Her, let him be happy
    But as the children of Men, he was just too stubborn


  Nibot gradually crawled to his feet and reached for the dagger on his 
belt. While the possessed woman wasn't looking he'd take the rare 
chance to strike. Foolish are women, he thought. Goddess or serving 
girl - all are the same. No sense of priority... 
  
  But She glanced up, that mere glance stopping his thrust at 
midmotion. Her silver eyes only held more dejection. His treachery was 
not unexpected. 

    Why? 
    
    Why  do some of your kind place duties and honor above themselves? 

    While at the same time others could not muster a care?"
  

  She turned away, unconcerned of his implied brutality. The 
Plainslander was frozen.. not literally. There was an imperative within 
himself that bade him to stop. A rising sense of shame, but never 
before had he felt such shame about anything! It was one of the useless 
emotions he’d cast aside even as a boy growing in sight of the Great
Desert.


    Dula would have given him anything he wanted.
    She could have given him back his dead wife and child... 
    She could shape an exact facsimile taken from his memories
    So real and vibrant he would not know the difference

    But the dead are dead, their diua are at rest. It would be
    Most unkind. Evil. To call back from Beyond souls at peace
    To trap them in the hardness of a false life away from the Light
    And She could feel it that what his heart wanted was to live
    A contended life, after being dead at heart so long. With her - 

        Linau


  She bent outwards back to a regal stand. Her speech hardened, as the 
ancient spirit brought to rein her emotions. The air was tensed with 
her palpable fury. And helplessness. 


    Before he challenged the Mountain he said to his men
    To kill him if he went down with Dula still living

    But he could not slay Her in the cold blood of vengeance

    She even changed Her face, so he could strike her easier... 
    But he would not. She begged him to forget, to remain with her... 
    But he would not. To lie, he refused. Yet to fulfill a wov?
    For the sake of Linau's unborn children - anything! 
    Their father must not die


  Icy wind started to lash throughout the room. Within her mind Sune 
was trying not to hear. But her heart was feeling the hurt. Such 
emotional pain that she thought she would die, but as Dula was within 
her she could not. All she could do was to try and endure feelings 
bottled up through eighteen hundred years. She surprised herself by the
intensity of her hatred as she kept them in the three days past... how
much more was Dula’s time!

                               That almost shook his resolve

  Her fury rose, then ceased. The pain however, intensified with
being concealed. 


    She could not harm him. She could not prevent him 
    From what he wanted to do, free will was the word of her power
    She could only watch as she faced his men and accepted boldly
    A spear into his chest


  Her voice grew stronger, conveying uncontestable authority. Eighteen
hundred years ago returned for a brief instant. The last residues of
Lamige’s voyage of vengeance were specially blessed to witness Dula in
all her glory. Linau at that moment stopped breathing. From her womb 
rose two shimmering balls of vitality – the diua of Her twin children.
They would not live as Men, theirs would be a grander task. Oh, they
could have lived substantial lives as Lamin... but she would not trust
their fate so easily to those who’d murdered their father.


    And Dula descended from her refuge, and upon his fallen body gave 
    To the children of Men her land and her unbreakable Pact
    All Her lands were for the race of Men
    But should any of them choose not to act like human beings 
    But as animals, so then shall She TREAT THEM AS ANIMALS.

    The land IS Her, this is Her law


   A gust blew the bandits away from the Lamin women. Their ropes came
unbound, and they huddled together in a mixture of fear and excitement. 
She was no oathbreaker. She’d let the race of Men decide their fates.
Even when the Grand League pursued a war with those who’d rejected 
their convention. Her people had learned that what they would receive 
is only equal to the effort they put in, this was only justice. When 
they pray for her guidance, she gave to worthy individuals, not to 
entire armies. It was a weakening in the end for parents to coddle 
their children from the world's harsher side.


  She floated between the two groups, deciding what to be done. There
was something amiss about the whole situation.


  Her eyes and Lirarkie's met. Unlike the Krim-sons, he remained by
his nighten horse. The sorcerer snapped the book shut, and grinned. 
Silver eyes met silver eyes.

  The sorcerer stood and bowed in a sweeping posture of admiration. 
"Magnificent. Awe-inspiring. A little melodramaticke. A great speeche 
as usual. I see you juste can't cure that habit of referring to 
yourselfe in the thirde person." 

  
  A hush fell over the hall. An angry hiss escaped Dula/Sune's lips. 
With it came a stillness, the winds ceased to circle around the cavern. 
The calm before the storm, some of them muttered. She glared at him 
haughtily.

  
   Did you think you would escape Dula's wrath by hiding here?
   How dare you seek return?! Is it your desire to die? 


  "Please, do not speake that waie." Lirarkie shook his head sadly. 
He clasped his hands together. "One might thinke you were not glad to 
see your only son."


                 ~~~~~~~~~~~
  
  
  Several heartbeats passed in absolute silence.


                 ~~~~~~~~~~~

  She hissed Her answer through Her teeth.
  
    Dula's refuses to recognize you as fruit of Her flesh.

  
  Her hands clenched into tight, angry knuckles. It was just a 
hair's-breadth between control and a storming rage. With shock was 
received the sorcerer's words. The Lamin could hardly believe it, Nibot 
and his men didn't know what to think. Lirarkie had gone insane? But 
Dula..her reaction... 

  “Naddara couf am sabbi.”, said the sorcerer in Frostaun. “I bring the
Voice.” he repeated in one which the others could understand, he wasn't
posessed of overt telepathic faculties.  “Ou, buda ahn sabbi aini, 
wahranan baradda niuth” And the Voice proclaims, There are no more 
Obstacles.

  The Lady of Winter rankled – the Bhauldarr profanations! Though She
and Her Draige had thrust away the alien Occult Eyes out from the 
world, the devastation in both world-body and mind was not to easily 
recuperated from. To think, that after thousands of years and a battle
hard won, the future generations would look back on the victory as a
mistake?!

  "I have underestimated you, maie Mather." Lirarkie opened his palms 
outwards in a slightly embarrassed posture. "But in takinge the girl, 
you have killed her juste as – ahrmm..." He coughed twice. 
 
  When he spoke again, the Lamigin accent was gone. "well as these men 
would have. You banish me with the power of your ethic but truly now, 
we cannot help being who we are. Why should we lower ourselves to their 
level?" All pretense of being a 'mere' opportunistic sorcerer vanished. 

  Dula/Sune looked at her hand, splayed her fingers outward then 
clenched them again into a fist. 


    Mortal frames cannot hold a Spirit of the World well


   She mixed Her own diua... spiritual essence with the girl's soul, 
making a conduit for Her to use Her power within forbidding Aleenfer. 
But Her powerful essence was too much for Sune, she would die the 
moment She returned to the true self within Angil. She glared at the 
white-coated man. What right did he have to speak those things to Her?
As if he could offer a standard of merit.. hah!


    You are product of Dula's will and her principle 
    When She and the Others made you into your kind We prepared 
    You for the world and the world for you, mediator born
    Gave you what must only be used when necessary

    What gratitude? You have abused Her power given to you


  "We are not puppets, my Mother. You always were so amused of puppets.
As it is, all have strings... all dance to their emotions and desires.
Even Father had strings, or he would have had a choice- to live?" As 
Lirarkie smiled affably the Spirit of Winter bristled. "And when we 
cut our strings you destroyed us. Is it not the nature of life to 
find its apex? But whenever anyone tries to reach it, your Sprits
manipulate things to cut our growth." 

  Sune felt only  consternation and ire from Dula. This was a 
conversation She had long ago, and still remembered. She was the Spirit 
of Winter! She was all that was covered with snow and ice. She should 
have sensed his approach. She had felt the tremor within the Spiritual 
Plane from the unjust death of Vane's people, but not until Sune sent 
out her hate-fueled prayers did she sense their hideaway. She had 
foreseen his return, but how could he have grown strong enough to hide 
his diua from her?  

  She smiled grimly. No, Lirarkie had in fact OVERestimated Her.

  She knew why he had returned. There were no maternal impulses at 
seeing him, for their bond was of maker and made, despite that She had 
once thought more. Of maker and Her flawed product. She was rather more 
surprised that he was still even alive. How could he have escaped
Silamor?! 

  Lirarkie was not facile enough to go through decades of planning 
simply for revenge. And Dula severely doubted he called Her out just to 
make amends. If one wanted to apologize, the worst way to do so was to
spit upon Her edicts, slaughter her people, and act repugnantly. 
 

    A point which leads nowhere. What is it that you want?


   She asked him, a crease of worry crossing momentarily on her face. 
"What do you hope to accomplish by this absurd display?" was her 
thought. "It makes no sense!" He was forcing a reaction, but apart 
from that he would gain nothing. He had lost, already. It was impossible 
to bring back those past centuries. A fretting wind began to blow.

  "The same thing I asked of you, those so many years ago. Give me the
Mirror that shows the Inner Self. Let me put an end to all the 
strife." It was the differences between races that caused war. If all 
were as one again, unchanged from how the Spirits have altered them, 
perhaps then there would no longer be the hatred that rent asunder the 
land, keeping all the Races from their destinies. "Let me finish what
we started - it can succeed! Let us take our place amongst the universe
itself! There can be no end to what we can accomplish!" A fanatic 
delight was on his face. "And the shall be a New World, a New Light, 
and the Heaveans shall be opened unto you. All Voices would speak as
one, once more. The End will be the Beginning and the Beginning is the
End. Let there be peace. Let there be joy! Let the stars know of the 
life that they warm. Find the Birthright of the Soul!" 

  Dula scoffed openly.

    Nay. Dragoncursed. Way.   

    When all on Lumen where Men, from shore to sea
    There was strife 
    When there were Men and Alvii, Dvareg and Kit'i
    There was strife 
    Would there would only be pond scum there would 
    Still be strife! 

    Thinking to bring a better world under your hand?
    As before said, our duty does not mean we rule complete
    
  
  During the last Age of Legends, when the children of World Gods 
tramped all over Lumen, Silamor and his Draige revealed that they
DID exist and more fearsome than what legends made them out to be. 
When the Apirits of the World were weakened by the Shifting of 
Epochs, as mana began to reflow around the land, so walked new 
prophets and saints. Children of the Worldbound Gods, they assayed
to bring the world together. But even as some of these preached of
peace, others still saw peace only as a result of conquest. 

  Ambitious dreams of uniting Lumen, and opening the way to other 
worlds was stopped with brutal force borne by leathery wings. 
 
  But that too, was so long ago and has also faded into bedtime tales.

  Lirarkie threw down the hood over his face angrily. His horse woke,
and flared its nostrils worriedly. It sensed its master's changing
mood. The mare dashed towards the rubbled exit, joining the other 
horses milling about. The beasts were half-frightened out of their 
heads, but were still unwilling to leave without their riders. 

  "Duty?! From whom?!" the sorcerer bellowed, his shout cracking the
contemplative silence. "Thou phantasms... you thought you had 
succeeded?! Speak not so fair of the world and your pets. All merely 
delayed the inevitable, Mother. The- 

 Whatever he wanted to say, was interrupted as a spiraling air current
took ahold of him, sending him aloft so high. Lirarkie let out a slight

scream as the unseen grip tightened, becoming more tubulent, spinning
him around violently.

 Dula/Sune raked at the air, which sent a cut of pressurized wind at 
the wildly flailing sorcerer. Blood spurted of deep gashes as the 
galeforce struck with both incisive and a ramming jolt, pushing him to 
the floor with a loud clatter akin to a heaf of wooden sticks.. or a 
battered bone structure. 

  She was already moving again even as they realized what happened. She 
then sent a wall of cold drafts hurtling across the floor to pick up 
the slumped figure, and smash him against the far wall...! Lirarkie 
slicked down a blood-matted tangle of split fur and bone. She lifted 
her arms up, the carcass was jerkily hoisted up as if by invisible 
strings. And was splattered with another windwall into the stonework!

  And almost immediately after it came another one, *WHAM!* crushing, 
flattening and imbedding the cadaver into brick, WHAM! and WHAM! and 
TAPHWAM!! again and again and again until there was nothing but a 
barely-perceivable dark smear in the dimness of Aleenfer's great hall. 
Sune desperately wanted to vomit, but could only rail against being a 
disembodied entity within her own mind. Gizel passed out. A nauseating 
sweetrot smell wafted from the chamber's splintered wing. The others 
openly retched, giving product to Sune's intent. Even the carnage of 
Vane hadn't carried as much raw savagery. 

  Even the men who'd devastated the town felt sickened. If Dula, the
Entity they hadn't believed in, would of ease do THAT to a supposed
'offspring'... what would She do to them?
  
  Most unsettling about it was the impression of sheer necessity that
permeated the action. Decisive, heartless... but most of all...

  All done within the time it took to take three breaths. 


  
  Dula let out a huff, and surveyed her handiwork. Within Her, Sune
felt how She was doing so. The air tingled with power. Her power. 
With insight she didn't know she had, she realized that Dula WAS
the power. She was inhabiting her body, yes... but only a small part
of that unimaginable being. The wind, the cold, each and every molecule
of air hanging around her was also Dula. She was only needed as a
mouthpiece by the Lady of Winter, and even the miniscule part that was 
Her was enough to destroy all loyalty of each of her cells to the weak 
soul that had originally owned. Being touched and used by the Spirit, 
they longed now for Her presence. And without that, rather to die.

  Oh, the mechanics of greed. How it worked even below the level of
thought. A token of all living creatures. 

  The raiders had their hand upon the hilts of their swords. Though She
might want them dead, they would die at least trying to see if they 
could wound Her. Escape, was something they realized as impossible. To
leave Aleenfer, out into Her domain - where her power was strongest? 
Without the sorcerer's abilities to mask their movements from Her, they
would be good as dead, no matter how hard they tried to run.

  Yet more humiliating, even as they scrabbled away was the stirring in 
their loins as they'd never felt before. Superficially, nothing about
Sune had changed, though her billowy garment clung to her in... 
interesting ways, her face holding an exquisite serenity. Yet there was 
something about an inescapable danger that woke deep instincts. Stand 
and go forth! the body cries. You may not be able to save your life, 
but you may yet produce another! At the very end, a healthy body 
realizes that it's placed merely to find immortality in the flesh of 
descendants. 


  Nibot only laughed.
  

 “You’re no goddess.” he said. “You don’t have a shred of good in you.”



                           ~~~~~~~~~~~



  Dula cradled Her face in her hands, then gave the bandit chief a 
dismayed look. His eyes, were of a silver shade exactly as Hers. She
spat; 


    So this is how you escaped Silamor’s claws, you hadn’t 
    But in being cast down, you were freed, now are Forsaken   
    Jumping from body to body, wrestling with unwilling souls
    Angry dead with a revolting semblance of living

 

  “We’re not so different,” the possessed swaggered. “Don’t tell me
the end justifies the means, murder is murder and you are the supreme
artisan at it, of us all.” 


  Dula/Sune bent her fingers into a claw, but held back. With great 
reluctance, She said a name. A True Name. She had to acknowledge who he 
was, and that was bile on her lips. 


     Maksa... how many times do you wish to die? In this land of mine
     How do you truly expect to stand a prayer of vanquishing me?
     Roam wherever you desire – Silamor and his kind will never rest
     There will be no other conclusion, it is destiny this way

   
  The Heir of Winter grinned Nibot’s broken grin. “You would kill me,
Mother? I would jump. Maybe into one of these girls. You would kill 
each and every one of those that ever bowed to worship you? Would you 
think that a fair trade?” Maksa/Nibot slapped his rotund belly in 
eerie amusement. “You would... ah?” 

  Sune was horrified at the thought that flashed from Dula. The 
Forsaken Must NOT leave Aleenfer. Outside the walls, she would have 
indeed to kill every sentient creature within the Fridgid Reaches to 
keep him from finding another host. She and his power stemmed from the 
same source and his diua could fly as easily across the cold domain as 
easily as Hers. Within Aleenfer, she was at a slight disadvantage – but 
one she’d rather take. She would have to take matters onto her own 
hands. 

  At least Silamor was dependable, as his entire kind were made to be. 
Only the Draig could kill an offspring of a Spirit of the World. They
were guardians of the world, as Her. But even they were unequal to dark 
guile. It still amazed her sometimes, how their first inexperienced 
Effort could produce something so pure of power. Ah, those days, gone
beyond the recesses of memory, when even the Spirits knew the names
of much older Gods. Makaffri, Azimouf, Khard, Enlini, Fostir, Pol, 
Herbrut, and her own patron diety.. Silvurbrij. Others still. Where are 
you now, old Masters? We are too small for your notice now, less than 
specks in your sandals.

  Ah, if only it was possible that one could be truly content in 
remaining a slave. But as Gods grow they have lesser need of 
worshippers.

  Dula tried sending Herself out, and found she couldn't. She was a 
being of pure mana, and Aleenfer was a mana battery. Interesting. It 
seemed that they were both trapped for the time being, the only way
to leave was to walk out with mortal feet.It was exactly what she 
needed. A smile crossed her lips, puzzling the other. 

  Without warning a sliver of wind rushed at his neck, but the Forsaken 
batted aside the cut with a sweep of his palm. He looked with some 
bitterness towards where his former body lay. “You caught me by 
surprise, I had thought you would have a heart. But it was all an act 
from the start, was it not? Can you love? Or did you convince yourself 
that you were in love, because that was what Bassouc showed? Just as 
the Bird of Omens showed my own eventual death?” 

  Maksa/Nibot drew his iskur with fluid, practiced  menace. He held it 
by the base of the hilt, a fencer's grasp, and began to slowly walk 
towards Her. “You brought me into the world to die, just as all you 
other Spirits brought all the races into the world, only to die at your 
whim!  The Sway of Spirits must end. All our fates must be set free. 
After all, what is the use of power, if it is never used?”

  Within, Nibot strained and battered himself against the wall in his
mind. And writhed as Maksa effortlessly accessed his memories to serve
with his own. All his training, his knowledge of battle - he was now 
but an engine serving the purpose of someone else. This was the true 
hell for him, to live on to the fullest an aware non-entity. No wonder
the forsakens were feared most above all the demiune races. This was 
the true hell, a LIVING Hell, to be an aware insignificance until you 
die.  Always awake, always feeling, no control whatsoever.  

  
     You are also no hero, Maksa. The dead have no future. 
     You may not decide the fate of an entire world. For us
     We only serve to keep a balance, we preserve life 
     Though We might take it at times, it is for the best   
      

  “The Sprits of the World are ancient, but not infallible. Must I
speak here of Your mistakes? The Purge?” That elicited a wince from
Dula. “And how is it that you have lived for countless eons and still
not know why there stands near each of World-Spirits haven, a place 
like Aleenfer?” He whipped his sword at the air. ”I know! They have 
come to me in my dreams. Enlightened me! Shown me what I must do!” 

  Aleenfer’s floor was a complex pattern of streaks, whirls and whorls
of frescoed tiles. Its etched lines began to glow with a muted violet 
light. 
  
  A sigh seemed to come from the walls.

  When did it really start?, Dula thought. If only I had known, I had
done something.. anything... prevented my son from his madness. I 
refuse to believe it’s the human side that gives this short-sighted 
mind. 

  From the three dry wells rose violent purple swirls of light. These 
coalesced into smoky figures with hunched shoulders and elongated 
faces. Their four arms were folded across their chests, eyes closed
and implacable. And when they opened them, the full weight of antiquity 
bore down upon the room. Even Dula gasped, only three times before had
She seen these dead things wake, and each time She felt those eyes, She 
was like a child all over again. 

  Maksa/Nibot laughed and held up his arms. “Do you know them, Mother? 
They are my grandfathers! Even Bassouc’s Sight cannot compare to 
theirs, they who had brought the Birds of Omens into being in the first 
place! Even you Spirits cannot comprehend their power! Kussoutuh gaivus
nilavhn! ALL ARE CLEANSED!”    

  The ghosts of Aleenfer said nothing. The stone bricks were retracting
into the wall, the narrow passage into the inner chamber was widening.
The grating noise was deafening, within a few moments the size of the 
hall had doubled. There were recurring clanking sounds, and then from 
the inner chamber marched a column of metal knights. They blocked the 
Inner Chamber, as the passageway to it was less than half its former length.
  
  They don't want me to go further into Aleenfer?, Dula thought. Even
she knew not what was in the bowels of Allenfer, save that one day she 
had woken in front of the carven metal door, her memories that of a 
newborn.

  Maksa was grinning. What was it that he knew?! Why would the ancient 
ghosts hide knowledge from the one they had chosen, the one they had
nurtured? 


     Enough senseless blather, forsaken. Know your purpose
     You traveled here to kill me, in footsteps of your sire
     

  She gave a slight nod to the waverly ghosts. They nodded back and as
they have done so for thousands of years, stood by and observed. It was 
time. After thousands of years, all their toils would finally bear 
fruit.      
  

     Try -

 
  If only she could tell him the irony of his position. These ghosts 
were ghosts, only because she had undergone the same torment he was 
bearing. But yes, as Her power was a gift from them... She was but a 
vessel. The potter was still greater than the urn. Dula bit her lip. 
Yet they had chosen their own death to protect her, it was also 
unthinkable that they would engineer all of this for their own 
restitution. But why would they counsel Maksa? After all this time, was 
it still possible for her to be wrong? Bassouc gave no untrue advice, 
but the future is a tree of possbilities, despite all her careful 
pruning... had she climbed up the wrong branch? Had she not done 
everything for the sake of the greater good? What great crime had she 
done that she must be punished by the death of all that she had loved? 

  From within, Sune railed. She does have a heart!, she wanted to 
shout. Why must you make her kill her own son?!

  But this was submerged, with all other contemplations, as a coldness 
of logic enveloped Her. She was after all, a Spirit of the World. She 
had no use for such fleeting things. There was no anger. There was no 
fear. There was no joy. There was no regret. There was no mercy. There 
would only be the Order of Things. She must protect the World from 
itself.

   Maksa/Nibot pointed to the girls. “KILL THEM ALL!” he said to his 
men, his countenance promising a death worse than anything Dula could 
give. At their hesitation, he let out a snarl, and swept his sword in
their direction. A Krim-son dropped, his knees cut by a mere wisp of
wind. The forsaken's voice overpowered the man's pained yells. “NOW, YOU 
FOOLS! IT IS OUR ONLY CHANCE OF GETTING OUT OF HERE ALIVE!”

   Dula acted.

   The Appalitans opened their eyes, and watched.



                         -------------
                       installment ends




  Geh. Sorry, but that’s all. Blast, only fourty-eight pages for two 
months work? I’m slipping... Mr. I-Do-More-In-One-Week-Than-Some-Of-
You-Buggers- Accomplish-In-A-Month, lost the Mass Production Perk. 
  
  Yurgh.   

  I would really appreciate comments and criticisms on this. I know 
it’s not all what it should be. It’s okay, as the few who’ve actually 
seen this before has remarked. Nevertheless I actually FEEL that 
there’s something wrong in the fic but for the life of me I just. 
Can’t. See. It.

  Nghh.. 


  Reading the fic through is like getting slapped in the face with a 
large wet flounder. I tried to render in minutiae, as I’ve learnt 
exotic worlds are made real by their mundanities... but the line 
between confuddlement and word-overkill isn’t really so clear. Blaasst. 
I keep on thinking of the story in terms of a manga or movie. It’s so 
goddamn hard to put into words what seems to vivid in mind, without 
burying the reader in pointless pithy phrases. If only I had a pencil, 
a decent eraser, and a ream of bond paper I could make this into a 
graphic novel(?)  and show things as what I see. The gleam of polished 
steel, the flecks of grime, the rugged texture of worn walls, the 
beauty and the savagery... a full range of emotions... of action..  

  Baah..

  We must not ask for things we cannot possibly have. White paper is a 
luxury around astone age campsite. Anyways, I think I’ll be able to get 
ahold of the Net next next week. I’ll see you then, metaphorically 
speaking. ^_^ I've sent this ahead so I could harvest your reactions 
when I get online.

  Despite how it seems now, this is an Illuminati fic. I haven’t put in
yet Charles Bhepin and Wilanj, but this serial novelette is of how the
two actually met. They’re in the next installment, which incidentally 
contains much of the action of this piece. However, this was not made 
merely to show how much and how far ass could be kicked, unlike IU or LJ.


  I must know a bit more about Wilanj before I finish it. I’d really 
appreciate a sourcebook of Wilanj’s universe – Sartan and Patyrn data, 
just how high is the tech level of Wilanj’s former reality, how does 
his magic work, who are his parents, his teachers, his timeline and 
etc?

  And could someone zip me up Lumen Journeys? There should be new 
additions to it be now. That would come in useful.


  This should be retyped in Wordpad with the WORDWRAP TO RULER on, and
then saved as a text file. Upload it to /archives/ and must be read 
ONLY as a text file. Don't post it as is on the forums. Link to it 
instead.

  Later days.



-Bpen
 bpen@illuminati-fiction.net