Digress

Thinking back far enough, Caldwell was barely able to acquire his last memory of the warm, southern sun. It had been many months since he had last cracked the dusty blinds of his flat in the Drifts and felt that cinnamon-spice warmth. The sounds of laborers moving sacks of vegetables and boxes filled with powders and liquids from all corners of Ilucin would fill his brain, and in that moment, he felt himself connect with the greater fabric of the world. He missed that place, and the way it made him feel, especially as the sharp gusts of the northern sea broke through his skin like thousands of tiny needles.

As far as seafaring vessels are concerned, Caldwell was pretty impressed with the construction of this particular craft. He was informed that this type of ship was called a bucia, and its design is an evolution of the trawling vessels of Akroma. At fifty feet long, 15 feet across, and with two levels below the main deck, the boat didn’t so much sail as it did slowly saunter as it bobbed across the black water. Its bulkiness, as far as Caldwell could tell, didn’t lend itself to fast or efficient travel, but to the ability to store a great deal of whale oil. This whaleship, affectionately known as Sun’s Folly, was maintained by only five people, four of whom were related.

It had been a few days since Caldwell and Rúna had flagged down the Folly as it crossed the horizon beneath the Palm of Seldara. Initially, the pair of newfound friends had been intent on crossing through the Crown directly, but the terrain beneath the formidable mountains proved to be impassable. Thus, it proved fortunate that a ship had been settling along the coast for the evening just as Caldwell and Rúna had settled on their new course.

So far, the disparate wayfarers had been keeping to themselves. Rúna, out of a sense of gratitude and duty, resigned herself to assisting the whalers in the tying of sails and various sorts of hoisting, whereas Caldwell understood he best served his new compatriots on the upper deck – far away from the physical activity. Every now and then, he’d lend a hand in repairing old equipment and worn rigging, but these times were sparse. For the most part, he curled himself beneath heavy down blankets astride the long wooden bench that had been fastened to the starboard side of the upper deck. On several occasions, the whalers would ask the strange southborn why he insisted on staying above deck, and on each occasion, Caldwell would generate some dubious remark along the lines of “better light for reading.” Truth be told, he just wanted to make sure the whalers didn’t start any trouble with his strange companion.

۞ ۞ ۞

After ten minutes of gathering the kindling for a bonfire, the pair finally managed to get the attention of the ship as it nearly slipped out of view behind the horizon. Moments later, it seemed to be upon them, pulling alongside the narrow shore they stood on. With a few more passing moments, a calloused set of hands was pulling the pair of wayfarers over the side of the ship.

The calloused hands belonged to a stocky, red-bearded Northman, whose arms, neck, and face were marked by the cobalt-blue tribal lines of Clan MacLeod. As he introduced himself, he absent-mindedly kicked away a few pieces of loose gristle and blubber that had been piled on the deck. Forgetting himself, he gestured to his gathered crew — three young girls, who clearly possessed a mix of human and dark elf ancestry, and a stout dwarf with black, bushy hair.

After shaking hands with the wayfarer pair, the father turned and gestured to the assembled crew of his ship.

“Oy, welcome aboard. This is my ship, and these are my daughters. Liaren, on the end there, is the oldest. Those are the twins, Estril and --.”

“Hi! I’m Phee!”

Liaren rolled her eyes and Estril looked at her feet as Phee, the daughter on the end, lunged forward with a wide smile and an outstretched hand. Caldwell took it quickly and shook it.

The daughters had skin the color of charcoal, and while differing greatly in style, each of them had shockingly pearlescent hair, whiter than fresh snow. Liaren wore hers in complex braids that traveled down her back to her waist. Estril wore hers in a single ponytail, which she teased and pulled at nervously as it draped over her left shoulder. Phee, clearly not one for fussing, had an aggressively shorn scalp, save for a long and thick stripe of white hair that ran from her forehead to the nape of her neck. Their ears rose to soft points, their complexion was fair and without any blemishes or spots, and their cheek bones were pointedly obvious beneath their sun-bleached skin. Like their father, however, each daughter had stocky builds and small, rounded noses.

“Oh, and that’s Dokker over there, the ship’s cook.”

“Good tidings. Hmmph.”

After a few nods were exchanged, Caldwell cleared his throat to return the favor in gregarious fashion. He stepped forward and clasped his hands together like a seasoned statesman.

“Greetings, fellow travelers! My name is Caldwell Fleetstone – Scholar, Explorer, Procurer and Luminary. This is Rúna Brynjalður, my compatriot and more-than-occasional protector on our quest to the South.”

Rúna shrugged her shield to a more secure position on her upper shoulder and nodded quickly and politely in the direction of the whaling family.

“Halló.”

“It’s good that you’ve both just turned up. I think Dokker just wrapped up our supper. Dokker, think we’ve got enough for our guests? Oy, how hungry are ya?”

“Hmmph. Enough, aye. Enough.” After his reply, Dokker grumbled about silverware and shuffled off to the galley below deck.

“Sorry ‘bout Dokker. He was never fond of strangers, and truth be told, you lot are certainly strange. Anywho, the girls’ll help ya with yer belongin’s.”

After handing over their various bags and heavy cloaks, the wayfarer pair followed the three half-elves below deck. Strewn about the first lower deck, Caldwell and Rúna found that the family had tied strips of rope and fabric between support beams into makeshift hammocks. Without missing a beat, the three daughters got to work cutting strips of canvas from an old sail and braiding twine to construct two additional hammocks next to their own. Once they had finished assembling their lodging, the scent of sweet, smoked salmon and boiled potato stew reached Rúna and Caldwell’s nose. They followed their hosts to the galley, and broke their day’s fast with the whaling family.

What followed was a surprisingly standard dinner, save for a few robustly offensive outbursts from the daughters and the dwarf, as well as a somewhat uncomfortable patch of silence that followed Rúna’s query as to the whereabouts of the mother. The father answered on behalf of his suddenly sullen children, and the answer referred in vague terms to her passing away a year and a half ago.

The interconnectedness of this whaling family struck Caldwell in a place he had forgotten existed within him. The feeling of belonging, of sharing a bond, had not been felt as long as he could remember. Seeing this group, the Cullard Family, feeling comfortable in each other’s midst, warmed Caldwell. He was jealous.

۞ ۞ ۞

The sun was near minutes away from finishing its fall to the horizon when Caldwell finished reading each book on the Folly. Mostly ledgers and bills of sale, a few manuals and folders filled with whaling mechanism diagrams for winches, lampoons and recipes for bait, and a couple notebooks of old drawings. One particularly interesting tome concerned the evolutionary history of whales in the northern sea, charting the theorized origins of the more than fourteen different species back to the Incursion. After about a thousand pages of timelines, illustrations, and shifting continental maps, Caldwell reached the modern day.

Rúna and the elder two sisters were fastening down the bowside sail, jogging back and forth as they caught the collapsing billows of canvas. Caldwell began to recline on the bench and watch with contemplation as Rúna bounced and jumped to catch the sails, the hints of a smile creeping across her inscrutably stoic face. It was refreshing for Caldwell to see her take joy in something so childish. If anything, he envied her ability to let go. He waved to her excitedly across the deck, and she waved back curtly, quickly dispelling the smile from her face and regaining her composure.

Caldwell sighed and began collecting the heavy blankets around him when he noticed Phee, the youngest daughter, struggling with a bait line on the starboard side of the ship. She was dangling her torso over the side of the ship, trying to untangle something. As she reached and strained for errant ends of rope, her feet would come off the wet deck of the ship, seeking leverage to pull the pulleys and locks off their latches against the hull. As the seconds ticked by, her feet would stay in the air for longer and longer, and Caldwell was beginning to get nervous.

“Hello! Lady Phee, are you in need of assistance? You seem to be having trouble with that bit of knot on the --”

Without a noise or fanfare, the legs of the half-elven girl tumbled after the torso as the connected pair made their way into the dark brine of the northern sea. In a flash, Caldwell’s form exploded into blue smoke, the thick blanket falling to the deck with a muted thump, and he appeared a blink’s length later at the edge, hand clutching a clump of thick cotton pant leg. However, her was speed was already too great, and the cloth ripped, leaving Caldwell with a sleeve and leaving Phee with the cold embrace of the northern sea. Without a second thought, Caldwell snapped his finger, and the wand flew from his left breast pocket into his left hand, and with it, he traced five crossing lines into the air, each line a bleeding gash of blue, seeping light. As the light dropped out of the marks in the air, they coalesced around Caldwell’s outstretched hand, coiling and ensnaring themselves between the knuckles. Caldwell pointed with aggressive force, and the gathering blue reached out like an elongated appendage, shot out into the obsidian sea, and plucked the girl quickly, yet gently, from the rolling sea. Through a show of immense effort, Caldwell managed to focus his incantation for long enough to return the girl to the deck of the ship.

They both collapsed in heaps of warm perspiration on the hard deck, and tried to catch their breath in the frigid air. After a few moments, Caldwell noticed the girl’s violent shivering. Caldwell leapt to his feet, pulling Phee up beside him, and put his own arm around her shoulders. As they walked, he jumped up the upper deck to grab the heavy blanket he had been using earlier. He brought her into the lower deck, started a fire in one of the old stoves, and retrieved her father.

Still in a bit of shock, Caldwell absentmindedly listened as Gallur reprimanded and consoled his daughter in the way only a father could. All the while, Phee alternated between apology, explanation, and variations on “I’m fine,” over and over again. However, Caldwell couldn’t help but notice her repeated attempts to clandestinely pull down her barbarized pant leg over her calf.

When she failed to cover herself with stretched cotton, she used her hand to cover up what Caldwell only saw for half a moment: a tattoo depicting a crimson sun rising from the blade of a long, curved sword, with a dark chain wrapped around the handle and dangling from the hilt. After finding a way to end their conversation, Phee sighed with relief and dropped her face into her hands.

“Here, Lady Phee. Best not to move about if you don’t want anybody to see the work of art on your leg.” Caldwell dropped another blanket on top of her in such a way as to cover her completely as he pulled the pipe from his right breast pocket and sat down next to her. Listening to the sputters and sparks of the fire, Caldwell contemplated the warmth, and after a few puffs, the smell of chamomile filling the air around them, a thought interrupted the young half-elf’s shocked stupor.

“How did you see it? I covered it as soon as I could. Nobody has seen it. I always cover it. Please don’t tell my Dad. He’ll keel-haul me if he hears me even talking about getting my skin marked.”

“Ah, my dear. It’s hard to get anything to past these eyes.” Caldwell gestured to his face with the air of a salesman. Incredulity is a sensation Caldwell finds himself discussing with others quite frequently, and Phee would be no different.

“I swear to Gods, it’s even worse that you know what it is. Nobody in the North dresses the way you do and pays for the kind of protection you drag around unless they’ve got brains about ‘em. Worse still, you got one of those Seldari savages.”

Phee dragged her feet up beneath her and hugged her legs against her chest. Caldwell pulled the pipe to his lip’s edge and gave Phee a look of pure scorn.

“I shall tell you three things, Lady Phee. The first is that I see no reason why your father would be disappointed in his daughter demonstrating her faith with the Insignia of Solura, Matron of Radiance – even if it is a little ironic that she is your chosen worship as a half-drow. Secondly, this coat was made by the finest merchants in Ionin, and is not worthy of your besmirching. Lastly, my comrade is not a savage. She is my friend, and I believe she is worthy of more respect than your current hospitality affords.”

Phee scoffed and blushed, but then chuckled. “You are not as smart as I thought. That is not the symbol of Solura. It’s the symbol of her champion, the Radiant Reaver.”

Caldwell prepared a quick retort, but then realized she was right. For the third time in his life, he was taken aback by his own ignorance. “Who is the Radiant Reaver?”

“Come on. You know the legend. The Myth of the Six? The Children of the Gods? It’s the story of how we beat the Incursion! My mother told me all of their stories growing up. You know, how they cleared the vampiric scourge from the underside of Yoe Tao’s dragon capital, or how they repelled an invasion from Morkorath, the Shadow King and Overlord of the Plane of Darkness? Or the story where they assembled a legion of Seers from across the lands to form the first guild of mages? Or the story where they traveled through time to save everybody’s great-great-great-great grandfather from destruction at the hands of Elder Primordials? Or the one where they met their adversaries at the Pillars of Ocker – back when it used to be Ocker’s Plateau. If it weren’t for that battle, Balderich the Dwarf wouldn’t have been able to raise the mountains and trap the monsters, Osonia wouldn’t have been able close the portal to their alien world, and General Brisit wouldn’t have had the time he needed to lead his legions to the Wastes and finish the war, once and for all . . . How have you never heard these tales? What stories did your mom tell you?”

Caldwell was flustered. Obviously, his mother didn’t have a huge part to play in his early education – at least not in any practical sense. On top of that, the Sisters of the Temple weren’t huge on filling their wards’ heads with legends or fairy-tales. Regardless, Caldwell wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to educate himself. Taking a long puff on his pipe, he tried to reply coolly to Phee’s query.

“I – well, I – I’m sure she did. Refresh me, if you would, Lady Phee – who were these Six Myths?”

Phee gave Caldwell a snide glance, and then rattled off the names of the Ancient Heroes as if she were reading items off a market shopping list.

“Hmm, let’s see. There was Rexxar Anthraxis, Representative of the Last Dragon Empire, Wielder of Shadow and Darkness, and the most powerful fist-fighter in all legends. Over time, his instinct to protect his kingdom alone grew to encompass all life in the world, and his patriotism turned him into a paragon. They say he carried the Obsidian Ichor, which is something like the blood of the dragons that breathed the world into life. With their blood running through his veins, he was granted the ability to move through cast shadows, and with the speed of the wind. There was Samuel the Exemplar, Manipulator of Life and Death, the Great Diviner. His healing ability was said to have brought hundreds of thousands from the edge of death, and his wisdom spread the light and love of Solura across the world for many years after he left our world. There was --”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but what do you mean by ‘left our world’? How did he increase Solura’s worship?”

“Well, nobody knows what happened at the end of the battle at Ocker’s Plateau. Nobody knows what he really did, either. But I do know that he is the reason that the Twelve are worshipped today – and why they have their power. While he walked our world, he spoke for the gods in all things, and through his sagacity and foresight, he gave the people the power to believe. That was his gift to all of us: faith.”

“Hmm. Carry on.”

“Well, after those two, we have Sani Jessup, the Child of Iphora. They called her the ‘Woman Out of Time’, though I don’t think anybody knew why. But, they called her the Child of Iphora because, supposedly, she was literally Iphora’s daughter. I think this would make her a demigod, and that would make sense, given her power. It was said that she could enslave the minds of a thousand creatures with a snap of her fingers. Some even say she had the power to commune with all manner of gods and creatures, and could explore the memories and experiences of all mortals.”

“Goodness gracious! Are you sure she belongs amongst the other legends? She seems fairly dastardly to me.”

“Yes, but this is why she was a hero! She was good despite the evil. She used the evil within her to fight the more evil evils, in others . . . anyway, where was I? Right. After her, there was --“

“I’m sorry that I feel inclined to interrupt, but was she an Aasimar?”

“An ass-what?”

“Aasimar. A divine descendant. Progenitors of the divine blood?”

“. . . sure, I guess.”

“Wonderful! Carry on.”

After a pause that sat heavily with frustration and a struggle to find her place in the recitation of the legend, Phee continued.

“There was Braum, of the village Brothe, whom the legends call the ‘Defender of Ilucin’. That isn’t the name that stuck, though. The School of the Iron Wall, that one for all the paladins, was named after him. With a sword and shield forged in strength of Velseth, Braum became the Bastion of Civilization. He interposed himself between the horrors of the Incursion and all who needed his protection. Above all else, the Knight of Canacea was known for his kindness and generosity.”

“Wait just a moment – you’re telling me that the Iron Wall was Braum of Brothe?”

“Yeah. Though I can’t remember if the ‘Iron Wall’ was meant to be him or his shield. I could go either away. He was eight and a half feet tall.”

Caldwell sat still, staring blankly, while the information registered. Phee had nearly begun speaking again before Caldwell finished restarting the part of his brain that produced speech.

“Eight and half feet tall? Was he a Goliath? A Firbolg? Surely he was not a human.”

“He was a human – I think. I’m not sure. He was only Braum to me. I mean, not to me, exactly. The way my mom told the story, he was never anything but Braum of Brothe. I guess he was a Giant or Goliath, but not in the way that he was a monster or anything. He was larger than everybody because he needed to be.”

Phee laughed, and then remembered something.

“Just like him, though not really, was Morlin Lightstone, the Phantom of the Winds and the Greatest Explorer in History. If he was looking for anything, he found it: the shortest path, the highest window, and the weaknesses of his enemies. He was a halfling, so there wasn't much to him, but he had twice the heart and twice the gall of any mortal. He represented his kin across the world, and served to protect represent the ideals of heroism. He was selfless, jubilant, and quick to act on behalf of friends and strangers. Most importantly, no matter where he was or who he was with, he always had a knife.”

Phee finished her piece on Morlin Lightstone, and then closed her eyes slightly as she adjusted her posture under the heavy blanket. She let go her knees and stood up on top of them, sitting back on her heels. She put her hands out in front of her, warming her fingers in the orange shimmer of the fire. She took a breath and finished the legend.

“Lastly, there was Zephyros, the Reaver. He was a Drow, just like me and my sisters and my mom. He was a lot like Sani – they both had evil in them, or at least the seed of it. Before the Incurison began, and long before Ilucin found itself in the greatest danger, he was a slaver and a marauder – a killer. He was a member of the Tyroshe, a system of clans and tribes that were spread throughout the continent of Akroma, and they were known for being savagely violent and bloodthirsty. He led his first tribal raid when he was fifteen years old, demonstrating a tactical wisdom unheard for a person so young. One day, his tribe was nearly completely wiped out by a fever, and on the edge of death, he was rescued by a detachment of Solura’s most devout worshippers. It was from the edge of death that Solura herself returned Zephyros to a righteous path. On this path, he found the rest of the Six, and while their relationship started out tense, they eventually formed the team that would bring the Eldritch Horde to its knees. On their quest, Solura granted him the title of champion, and bestowed two gifts to the wayward Drow. Helios, the blade that Solura granted him to fight off the Incursion, was forced to bend itself to his will, not the other way around. Zephyros’ fury bound him to his weapon by a single golden chain, and granted him the ability to strike any foe. To ensure the swift defeat of their enemies, the Gods also granted his the wings of an angel. With these tools, Zephyros became the Blade of the Gods – the Radiant Reaver.”

“So he was a ‘savage,’ as you say – what of it? Every other legend had some remarkable elements that defined their power. Sani Jessup was the child of a Goddess, Rexxar Anthraxis wielded the power of the ancient dragons, and Morlin Lightstone had a reliable and remarkable talent for accuracy and foraging. Braum of Brothe was essentially a half giant metal wall, deemed worthy by Velseth of wielding her own sword, armor, and shield. I can’t even begin to understand the extent of Samuel’s power, or the ramifications of being able to reverse death or restore life, or even on the scale of armies. What is it about this Drow that inspires you so much?”

“He wasn’t magic. He wasn’t an adept, or a sage, or a disciplined soldier. He came from the dirt and the grass of our world, was raised with horses and his brothers and sisters, and learned to fight from his parents. He fought not with a shield, nor with armor, nor with an army behind him. He fought with a single sword. He fought with his heart. It was all he needed. He dug into himself and fought with anger. He fought with the rage he bottled up and released to grant himself the power to overcome anything. With his anger, he became stronger than a hundred men and faster than the currents that turn the seas. The Gods saw the potential in this mortal being, and turned this anger into focus. Zephyros took the rage that drove him to wickedness and harnessed it, transforming him into the world’s fiercest champion. One elf and a sword struck fear into the hearts of the eldritch monsters, not only because he was stronger than them, not only because he was faster than them, but because his devotion to safeguarding mortals everywhere and primal rage granted him immunity from death itself.”

“You’re describing a God, Lady Phee. Only the Gods are immune to death.”

“No. He was just an elf, like me.”

“Is that why you have his symbol tattooed to your leg? Are you so confident in the verity of a legend that you would immortalize it on your skin? I am not judging your choices, Lady Phee – I have one of my own.”

Caldwell then rolled up his left sleeve, struggling to bunch up the outside of his cloak and his shirt to reveal the black square on his arm, crudely scratched into his skin. It was evident that it was not well-administered, at least as far as tattoos are concerned. Phee grabbed his arm from the elbow and wrist and dragged it closer to the fire to make it easier to see, and made a quizzical face before addressing Caldwell’s question.

“Sort of. He was my favorite one when I was younger. He was my mom’s favorite, too. Talking about these legends always made my mom happy, and I was the only one of my siblings who cared. I can’t remember if I asked her to tell me the stories at first because I liked them or because I knew she liked them, but before she . . . you know, before I stopped hearing them, it was one of the only ways we spent time together alone. ‘He was a hero for all Drow like me, and like you, too,’ she used to say. ‘But the Drow do not need a hero. He was a symbol of change. He represented all change in our world. He was a testament to the fact that a story can start anywhere and end anywhere else. There was no end to what you can accomplish. The only limits that exist, child, are the ones you impose on yourself.’”

“Hmm. That’s poetic. I like that.”

“Me too. Plus, I’ve always thought mom had good taste. She did name me after him, after all.”

“She did? But your name is --”

“Zephyra. My name is Zephyra.”