Beginning Chapters from GD to WA
You wake to the sounds of trumpets and marching. Father left the window open last night. Begrudgingly you stumble out of bed towards the waking world. The sun blinding and hot you wipe the summer off your brow. Today is a special day. The Water Festival marks the summer solstice. A parade right below snaking through streets and alleys. It has only just begun, a day of loud music, over fried food, and animals leaving droppings at the doorstep as they dance and perform. Jugglers showing their skills with flames and knives somehow never managing to cut themselves. Legions of bards all singing the same songs for as far as the eye could see. People came from all over the country to participate in the city’s Water Festival. Weeks of overcrowded stores, inns, and bathhouses. Everyone here for one event, but not the right event. Today is your name day.
One point in your life you wanted to participate in the Festival. Riding the elephants dressed in ornately painted cloth throwing your favorite colored dyed powder. Tasting the chilled meats from the north and the fried sweets from the south, the festival offered exotic foods from all across the coast. Spend the entire day with the entire city celebrating your name day. From the docks, all the way to the king’s castle, passing through every ward Mother told you not to go to. The northern ward with all their large houses with rooves that touch the sky where people attend parties dressed in masks and dance together not caring what ward they come from or what their fathers do for work. But beyond the houses that do not touch their neighbors is something more. Something that makes your heart flutter when someone mentions its existence, pulling you in its direction. Somewhere you did not have to hide your face in embarrassment. The Wizard’s Tower.
You shut the window hard, but it does not keep out the joy of the paraders on the street, the cracks and broken glass no doubt contributing to that. Mother says it is about time you work with Father at the ships. “People traveling do not care much for those tying ships and moving cargo,” she said over last night’s supper. “Magic is for those who let their mind wander all day, be useful.” Her words sting as you look around the room. Scattered about are drawings of places and people from history books. Bards sing loud into the night, and most times their stories drift into your room from across the street.
“Are you awake up there?” Father calls as tears wet your cheeks. His loud footsteps lumbering up the creaking steps bringing dread with every footfall. “You know what today is?” Dread now replaced with frustration as you know what he is going to ask of you today. How can you refuse? From the moment you were born things were laid out clear as the water in the city’s glass fountain. The docks were the best outcome, the Wizard’s Tower a fantasy never to be realized.
Father’s footfalls growing louder you know you do not have much time. The pit in your stomach growing you dart for your closet. It is not hard to find your cloak as there are not many articles of clothing hung in it. Musty and mud-covered you throw the cloak over yourself pulling the hood over your head it slightly catching on your horns. Running to the window throwing it open soaking the room in bright sunlight. Wincing at the light and scouting the road below you see a passing cart is approaching. A few steps back will give enough of a start.
“Sorry,” you say wiping away the last shred of regret.
Sprinting the few steps to the window you dive through it, landing lightly into the cart below startling the performers resting their legs sat in it. Without a second thought, you hop the side sliding between people dancing and shouting. The smell of ale and waste filling the air. People all around you, bumping and pushing you left and right. These many people were not meant to be on this street. You hear Father call your name but know he can not see you in the sea of bodies. Swallowing the guilt you enter the flow of the parade.
It is not long before the house is out of sight. Winding through alleys and streets you are quickly lost in the festivities. Many of these streets are foreign, and each bringing a new wonder. A ship built to look like it crashed into the top of an inn. A regal building with more windows than could be counted before the view was swallowed by the mass of people. A hilled and grassy area walled off from the parade with gigantic iron gates. Beyond them, you can see rows of grave markers. The festival brought by the city’s square where a madhouse was constructed. Covering most of the square this impossibly large attraction had walls that were cut wrong and angled poorly but on purpose. A large pipe organ sat outside the madhouse, it’s music sad and disturbing contrast to the harps and trumpets of the parade. It’s a player a twisted and greying woman with hands far larger than yours. Something danced around her feet. She turns and spots you staring and smiles a horrible smile of pointed and yellowed teeth. The parade swallows you back into its flow.
Ahead you spot an elephant dressed in flowing red silks lined with golden stitching. Its hard dark skin painted with symbols and designs in red. You rush toward it. Catching up to it you reach to touch the exotic beast, feeling the silks and admiring it in its strange beauty. The rider grabs your hand and looks with a warming smile of golden teeth, his hat wine-colored and wide to shield from the sun. He pulls you up with ease. Now on the back of the elephant, you can see the sea of people in the parade stretches much farther than you imagined. The sky filled with banners and kites. All of various animals and creatures of legend. The buildings around are much nicer and much better maintained than the houses from your ward. You breathe in allowing the sweet air filled with the scents of perfumes and fresh vegetables to fill your lungs. Standing up is no issue as you use your tail to balance. You let the hood fall from your head and bask in the afternoon heat.
Dancers below you twirl in ribbons of all colors. Impossibly tall men walk on wooden pegs dressed in makeup. Stout people with long beards are ringing anvils on moving carts showing their strengths. The parade makes another turn towards the setting sun and you see it. In the distant rooftops, you see the tower’s pointed peak. Its purple shingles standing out against the browns and greys of the noble’s houses. The elephant rider notices your awestruck face and nudges your attention. Looking down below a curled mustache his golden smile shines. He takes his floppy hat off and plops it firmly on your head. “Go,” he says in an unfamiliar accent.
Without a second thought, you spring from the elephant clasping his hat on your head so it does not fall. Shoving past the dancers you barrel toward the tower. Faster than your legs have ever carried you you blur past curious faces. People covered in light skin, people head to toe covered in fur, dark-skinned pointed eared people all looking at you curiously as you race past them. The loud songs of heroes defeating demons and gods and the music from finely crafted instruments forgotten in your haste. The small pain from your nightly fast twinging slightly but not enough to slow you down. The tower growing as you near it you forge a path through the crowd.
Finally, there it was. Set far away from any nearby building its massive spire dominates the sky. A number of large steps lead up to its massive wooden doors. Purple shingles gleaming over its sprawling roof. It was called a tower, but that only made up one portion of its majesty. The lower building was said to have more wings than were visible from the outside, of which there were four. Out of the center of the building the spire rose. Narrowing then widening at the top to house what was most likely the head mage’s quarters. A spiraling staircase lined the outside of the tower and lead directly into the room at the top. The building had chimneys uncountable all steaming with the smoke of various colors. Its windows were all painted glass depicting events of history not dissimilar to your drawings, all brought to you in dreams.
Catching your breath and taking in the view the parade shuffles behind you. Something in you yearns to walk through those wooden doors. Gathering yourself and looking around to see if anyone is watching you take your first step forward to your new life.
The ground shakes, violently. Almost knocking you off balance, your tail catching you. Crys from behind as horses fall and valuables crash to the ground. Looking around the parade has stopped everyone hovering low to the ground shielding their heads as bricks of older buildings begin to fall from their spots onto them. The tower doors swing open and a grey-bearded thin man with an incredibly worried face stumbles out of the threshold and falls downs the stairs as the ground continues to churn. A continuous cracking noise rings through the city. Like glass breaking over and over. A cloud has formed in the clear sky. Directly above you and the tower. Unworldly and billowing with darkness seemingly seeping the light from the sky. The sound of brick crunching adds to the glass sounds. You see the walls of the tower begin to move inward. Slowly, against the will of the bricks and wood, the walls buckle and slide inward. A blinding blue light streaks out from the cracks in the tower walls as more form.
Bracing yourself against the shaking ground you try to step forward, but something is halting you. You look to see the bearded man laying on the ground broken with his arm stretched toward you, faint purple specks of dust coming from his hand. Wiping the tears from your eyes you can see these specks surrounding the entire collapsing building. And before you can utter a cry the blue lights glow bright and fill your ears with a loud clang drawing blood from them. In the loud daze, the tower collapses downward, the building inside itself. A blur of dust and a ring of blue light burst outward from the wreckage knocking you prone and bursting the window panes of every nearby building.
The ground stills and you clear the dust from your throat. As the dust settles the cloud dissipates bringing back the warm glow of the sunlight to the tower, or what was the tower. Now laying in its scorched foundation are a handful of bricks. No windows, no tower, no grey-bearded tall man. Through teary eyes, you race to the center of the blast zone, nothing to stop you this time. You curse the sky in confusion and drop to your knees sobbing. A pain touches the deepest part of your mind and makes you cry in pain.
“Bring the tree.”
RITH
Travel showed on Rith’s hard face. The wagon ride had not been an easy one, and his traveling companions were hardly making it easier. Sat a few feet to his right, was a soft man clearly of dwarven decent. Smells of wine and cheap ale emanated from him and coated his brown curly beard. The dwarf was drunk for the majority of their unfortunately long journey and had on several occasions taken it upon himself to question the armor and shield that sit between himself and Rith.
“Wow! This shield is mighty fine, I am certain this is of dwarven make,” He stuttered between drunken hiccups.
“Watch yourself, dwarf.” Rith snapped. “I bear no ill will for you, but do not test my limits, our ancestors did not break bread together.”
“Ha!” the dwarf patted his wide stomach and bellowed a laugh, smacking Rith hard on the shoulder. “You can come to stay with me whenever you want! We shall change history. A dwarf and a Dragonborne living under the same roof, the bards will sing of our accomplishments,” and with that the dwarf saw the scowl of bronzed scales forming on Rith’s face, lightning licking Rith’s tongue in a warning. The dwarf quickly realized he pushed too far and went back to his wineskin.
The other two travelers had only joined on the last day’s journey. They were young, very obviously together. One tall and thin like a spear, the other just as tall but with long blonde hair. Both wore elaborate head jewelry on their foreheads reaching back over their pointed ears. Pale skin meant they had traveled from the north, but Rith knew why they were on this wagon. They were well equipped with ornate weapons, a longsword and a hammer, clearly out to prove something. The short time with them Rith had deduced that they were traveling to Steve in search of higher training, something about a family friend being wrongfully imprisoned. Rith wished them well on their quest, but he had his own.
His shield bore the sigil of and called upon the aid of Nagard, a new and personal god. Rith was charged with a terrible crime but sought the wisdom of his Bronze heritage. A voice spoke to him from within and above. The only voice to understand it was not his fault the egg was stolen, and he truly did not know its location. He was told to ride to Steve, there he would be led to his path of redemption. In his exile, he was allowed to take his belongings and with him, he took his shield and greatsword. The greatsword a family sword meant to be inlaid with stones and gems ornate, but an ancestor had sold them long ago. On his month journey, Rith had traded for paints and dyes to express his devotion to this new god spending many nights listening within until he finally was shown a sigil.
“By Her grace!” The elves said in unison as they looked ahead.
Cresting over a mighty hill their view of Steve was great. What was once a simple hunting lodge is now a fully formed city. Trees had been cleared to make expansions around the center walls and streets. Rith looked on in awe of the city’s ability to hide so plainly in the mountain’s foothills. Farms stretched out from the city almost to where the wagon was rolling. Rith started to collect his things.
Steve was another half hour ride but the excitement was making Rith anxious. Approaching the outer gates a sweet but sour smell rose from a small mote that had been dug around the outermost knee-high city wall. The road was becoming increasingly busy. Rith counted twenty different types of weapons all held by different races and twice as many guards. The gates were simple but sturdy, even his lightning would have trouble penetrating the thick stone walls and heavy steel doors. Entering the gates Rith was hit with a wave of joy seeing to the east a sparring arena with young children being taught by a hardy looking dwarf wielding two greatswords defending against multiple attackers. Sounds of laughter accompanied the neighing of horses in the nearby stables. Buildings the size of Dragons lined the streets all with colorful bricks and rooves. To the west, a large tower spiraled toward the sky with an ever-present crackling of lightning above it. Nearby a shooting gallery of lizardfolk and dwarves side by side showing their skills in archery.
It was a short walk from the stable where the wagonmaster had dropped them off to the center of Steve. A stretch of paved brick streets mocking jousting (lane.) On either side shops, inns, and carts with fresh foods and wines. An elaborate fountain in the center of the streets was carved from the most polished marble, depicting seven brave adventurers all smiling while looking over Steve. Just before it was a massive rock slab, several meters tall etched with strange runes of a language Rith did not understand, all glowing a slightly bluish hue. The end of the streets met at the hunting lodge that was the beginning of the city. But Rith was most interested in the Oaktree dominating the city’s center. A tree so massive he had seen if from their vantage point on the road a few hours before, larger than any Oaktree he had ever seen in any forest he had traveled through. It seemed to radiate a feeling of joy and happiness as children danced around it and people read beneath it.
“Which way to the clerics?” Rith asked a guard twice the size of him carrying a log on its shoulder. The gentle giant simply pointed to the northwestern path leading away from the town square and patted Rith slightly on the head.
Many people spoke of the god of Steve, created in desperation and devotion. Never seen but always present watching over the budding city. Rith heard rumors of the cathedral ward and its inclusivity. Of its gothic spires and bright colors, and of the clerics said to spin holy and magic as easily as walking or talking. Maybe, he thought, there would be someone with some knowledge or information on Nagard.
Filfae
The Stolen Tankard was a welcome relief for Filfae. Large rooms filled with tables and plenty of people filling their stomachs at them. The loud noise of partying and celebration was an easy diversion for her to slink into a seat in the corner of the farthest room just behind the swinging door to the kitchen. The barmaidens had not noticed her slip in an hour passed and no one had bothered her. This table a perfect line of sight overlooking the town’s square.
Filfae’s dark purple-hued skin would not draw attention in Steve. This city was a melting pot of migrants, ex-slaves, and people trying to prove their worth and slay dragons and demons. Steve was a free city, but a surface city. Filfae despised having to shield her eyes from the sun’s light during the day and kept traveling by night. Though the front gates had not been how she arrived in Steve.
Still feeling the effects of magical instant transportation, Filfae finally called the attention of a barmaiden.
“Oh my,” the slender scaled woman said with a surprised look holding dirty glasses in her hands and some wrapped in her long tail. “I did not see you there! I hope you have not been waiting long, it’s so busy tonight and we are missing some of our workers. Out up to no good, I am certain. New workers are always so flakey. Look at me getting carried away, what can I get you, my dear?”
“Just a Kraken’s Ale,” Filfae replied trying desperately to suppress her visual disinterest in the lizardfolk’s work situation. She tossed a silver piece into the air and with the expertise, it landed in the barmaiden’s apron pocket.
Magical transportation has a way of exhausting you to the core. The twisting and pulling on your being seems to last a lifetime through an endless cylindrical void of color, but then before you know it, you snap to another place with not a moment gone by. Steve’s meeting stone was no exception. It is said to be linked to hundreds of cities around the world, and Filfae could see every passing moment a new face coming through the stone. A stout smithy, a long-limbed wolf standing on two legs, a pack of kobolds dressed in the colors of Steve all from different places with different lives and different reasons to be in this city. The wonder of how such a magical construct could work eluded Filfae as she had failed most of her magical learnings as a child, preferring to hide in the shadows with real arrows at her side and a very real bow in her hand.
She sat watching the stone with such an intensity that she did not notice the maiden bring her requested ale. The smell of the sweet Kraken Ale drifted to her nose and broke her concentration. “I am safe here,” she whispered, reassuring herself. The drink brought a much-needed warmth back into Filfae’s blood. Her self was exhausted from the portal journey, but her body was exhausted from the fight that led to her using it. Through sips of the hot ale, she kept a close watch on the meeting stone.
Filfae came to be in Steve from a city far, far under the surface. A place where light does not reach but comes from the floral life and magic users trying to replicate the luminescence. Her city was ancient and built before some species in Steve were created by people still governing it thousands of years later. She was young, the silver still vibrant like moonlight, and was still training to become what so many in her family line had done before her. Her people worshipped a mighty spider goddess, and she was meant to lead people to their goddess. That meant risking her life for something she was not even certain of its existence and learning magics she condemned. Filfae held no goodwill for surface dwellers, but they did not deserve to die so she may rise in social standing.
Just the night before she had been at an altar, surrounded by her family, hunched over a dying human whose throat was slit, but not by her knife. Their eyes locked as she watched the last light of his being leave him, hearing the chanting in her own ancient tongue assaulting her mind from all around. Her chest burned and knew what was about to come. Sacrifice was one of her first memories, she tried to fight the being inside her trying to escape, but the words pulled it out. Eight black and twisted legs poked themselves from her chest causing her to rear back in pain, the legs searching and hungry.
As one found the altar and the warm corpse the others pulled Filfae towards it. She could not bear to look, but her eyes met the dead man’s and filled her with a rage nothing else had. “NO!” She shouted gripping the knife in her hand hard, rage fueling the strength needed to slice through all eight hard legs sending them spiraling to the ground. Black and purple blood spurted across the altar as her family collapsed around her. Filfae did not think. Her legs carried her to the large stone entryway to their sacrificial room where she had left her bow and quiver, and in one swift motion picked them up and knocked an arrow meant for anyone in her way.
A blur of grey and dark faces filled with shock and horror were gone as fast as they came. Filfae was agile and surefooted and had always been the fastest of her peers. The city was vast, but word travels fast when your family holds the means of information. No one voluntarily leaves her position and lives to tell the tale. But she remembered the time she spent slinking around the archives and about the meeting stone of Steve. A link was established as politeness but was seldom used and as such was hidden away. Filfae’s legs took her there, her quiver three arrows missing.
Blinking away her tiredness Filfae perked up as the maiden made her way back to the kitchen. “Excuse me I would like to stay here,” she said matter of factly.
“Sure love, its five silver dragons a night, and that includes a meal in the morning and a hot bath.” The scaled smile a contrast to the grime and hard work on the maiden’s apron.
“That is more than fair, but I meant here. In Steve.”
Okrin
“Wings, what is the use if they do not work,” Okrin said to himself, defeatedly. He was alone in the dressing room inside the barracks. Stretching his snowy white feathered wings he could almost touch bother walls of the wide room, each wing his full height long.
“They seem to help you in the Arena,” a loud laugh from behind his bellowed and startled Okrin. (Arron’s old character) A dwarf was holding an ax out for him to grab. “Get back in there, we are not done today yet.”
“Yessir,” Okrin replied to his teacher grabbing his ax, blade slightly dulled from training. He was lucky to be training directly under one of The Seven. Seven brave adventurers had gathered together with a goal of stopping a rampaging cult from ravaging cities along the coast. They drove back a mighty demon god back to the hell’s she came from. And now train the next generation of warriors.
“What made you settle here?” Okrin asked his master walking next to the hardy dwarf back to the sparring arena.
“What Steve? Because it was here and we owned it.” He chuckled, “It took a lot of coordination, but everything seemed to make sense and just sort of worked out.”
Okrin had been left for a guard to find at the gates of Steve when he was just a child, memory magically wiped. Never once did he think about his parentage or why they left him, Steve was his home, and the denizens were his family. The Seven were his real parents, and (AOC) has been teaching him to combat to defend himself and Steve for years.
They stepped onto the arenas pitch, the singing of swords clashing around them as warriors, paladins, and fighters trained in the wide sparring zone. Carefully moving to an open spot where their combat would not disturb others they stopped and faced each other mere inches apart. A twitch in AOC’s brow instigated Okrin to unfurl his wings and retreat hastily, drawing his great ax in the same moment.
AOC’s belly bounced as he laughed “A little jumpy this morning are we?” Drawing a longsword in each hand and assuming a defensive stance.
“Just giving you some breathing room old man,” Okrin taunted raising his ax high. Using his wings to accelerate his advance, Okrin lunged with a wide swipe at his teacher. AOC dodged with a dexterous move that was not fit for his stature with a roll. Okrin almost fell off balance stopping abruptly trying to turn for a second swing, but AOC was quicker and had rolled again closing the distance between them and held his two swords carefully at Okrin’s sweat beaded throat.
Several hours passed with continued training, Okrin absorbing as much technique as he could as he did every day. Some days he would spar with other trainees, but none were skilled enough to really challenge him. Okrin had taken a tutor roll to help close the gap of skill between himself and his peers. Some did not take kindly to that.
Midday had come and left without a break for luncheon, and Okrin’s stomach grumbled its dissatisfaction. AOC heard and called the yard in for the day to the mess hall in the barracks. Fighters of all races filed in, Kobolds and Dragonborne, gnomes and Firbolgs, Humans and Elves, all filling Okrin with a joy that he did not try to hide.
“What are you smiling at Angel boy?” Beckoned a large giant, skin thick and hard as stone.
“Nothing, (GIANT NAME, STONE) I’m just happy to have a full stomach.” Okrin mustered a half-hearted chuckle he hoped passed for a real enough one to get him to leave.
“You know, you really ought to watch where you fight with those wings. One almost hit me this morning while you were with AOC.” A deep-voiced threat laced with disgust backed up by a small flash of a dagger. “We would not want anything to happen to those pretty wings, would we? It would be such a shame.”
“I am deeply sorry,” Okrin said genuinely slightly afraid of what the giant would be capable of. As he was getting up from his table to dodge any further threats AOC sat down directly beside him.
“Hello, boys!” AOC said pretending to not know what quarrel was occurring. “Why do you not join us GIANT?” And with a loud gruff the giant pulled back to long wooden lunch bench and sat hard, the wood straining beneath his weight. “Great, now, I have a proposition. Okrin here is nearing the end of his training and what all I can teach him, and I simply do not have the time to train everyone here. People are pouring through the gates daily looking to be trained in combat. I propose Okrin take some charge and train some of the older students up so we can all train newcomers.”
“So I would be training GIANT?” Okrin paused, hoping to be wrong.
“Absolutely, and Rokum, and Tyrnie. Then when I feel everyone is up to snuff we can each take on the new load of trainees together.” AOC drank from his mug, though it was empty a second ago, and he had not poured any liquid.
“No, I will not be forced to train under feathered wings here!” GIANT clearly disgusted stood abruptly.
“Do you want to learn how to defend your family?” AOC’s face was now stern and serious. GIANT sat back down and unclenched his fists. “Good. You four will start sparring tomorrow and make sure you get Okrin angry, he will not be able to push you like I can without his rage.” AOC stood up, not getting any taller, grabbed his mug, and winked at Okrin then hobbled away to retire for the night.
Okrin turned away from his leaving teacher back to GIANT and their eyes locked. GIANT seemed to be both extremely happy and frustrated that they would be sparring on the morrow. They had never gotten to cross blades, and now GIANT was getting his wish. Okrin hoped his ax would be enough to defend him against GIANT’s daggers.
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