Qira

Hair
Bright red
Eyes
Blue
Age
(before death) 25 years
(after death) 21,560
Occupation
Light acolyte

Personality

Positive:

• cheerful
• outspoken
• comfortable going with the flow, but will take charge if necessary
• interested in the finer aspects of magic

Negative:

• disrespectful, especially of authority figures
• trickery/teasing nature can get out of hand
• hates Aristarzian everything, including his family

Qira strode through the dim hallway of the Forest Temple, peering at the walls resplendent with glittering tapestries of many cultures, many themes. The subjects enjoyed life, whether they entertained or loved or studied.
Or warred.
He glanced down at the envelope with the brilliant Sun stamp, memory flitting through his life and the obliteration of happiness, the destruction of joy. Every time he saw a ray of hope break through the shattered remains of his life, another of his friends died, another lost soul who would never reach majority because greed, corruption and indifference ruled the Aristarzian.
He closed his eyes as he heard the echo of his dearest friend, Kayd, whispering through bloody lips. "Qira, ereva dem." He had bowed his head to hear, and wiped the bloody spittle away with his tears as Kayd's eyes faded into blankness. Too much blood, lost too fast...
Qira, ereva dem. Cherished one, revenge us.
He smiled, his eyes lighting with vicious fires of righteous hate. Revenge came, and he held the torch.
He came to a round room of grey tiles and grey walls, somber, ashen, a reflection of the ghosts judged within. An old man with a long white beard and snapping grey eyes sat on a throne, cheek in his hand as he leaned on the arm.
"And what brings you here?" he asked before snapping his head around to glare at shadows moving against the wall, beyond the circle of decorative pillars. "And I should ask the same of you," he said, his tone sharper, uneasy.
Laughter echoed through the room, filled with the hate and contempt Qira associated with the mangled priesthood of Light. A nymph flowed from the shadows, a tall, thin man with an effortless gait and self-satisfied smirk. He had dark green skin, oiled hair of an even darker green, and black eyes that flickered with magic. He wore a tailored robe common among mafiz, though the pants combo did not fit with modern styling.
"I came to see the human who made such a fuss," he said.
Fuss? Was that how he described his attack on the Light Temple? Qira held up the envelope, in no mood to play kips and kisses with arrogant Darkness. "I've correspondence," he began.
And jerked his hand back, avoiding the grab from the nymph.
"Now now," he said, in the prim voice that set the priests' teeth to grinding when he used it. "This is for Old Man Death. You aren't listed as a recipient."
The nymph's eyes narrowed, displeased as his lack of fear. "I am Rezenarza. Darkness." He breathily breathed the last word, taking pleasure in the form it took in his mouth.
"So I guessed," he said cheerfully. "And not the syimlin I need to speak to."
His lack of intimidation confused and angered Rezenarza. Qira had faced the horrors of the Aristarzian gauntlet; mere Darkness had nothing on the terror the Light priests instilled during those darker-than-dark days.
Summoned monsters to battle and prove one's prowess, beatings for singing off-key in honor of Light, days spent in solitary confinement for small offenses a typical caregiver would ignore. The constant need to learn more powerful spells, even if one did not feel prepared. The constant death of friends who made one mistake in their attempt to honor their syimlin, leaving their cherished ones behind to mourn and to plot shallow revenge.
Only a handful ever carried out vengeance for the lost. He proudly wore that badge, and would never take it off.
"Leave him be, Rezenarza," Old Man Death said.
"One who sought to emulate Light himself doesn't need you as a defender," the nymph bit out.
"Emulating Light was not my idea of a good time," he said, his voice dropping to a throaty growl. "I wanted nothing to do with the Aristarzian gauntlet. I didn't have a choice after my parents abandoned me to it." He leaned closer to the nymph, unintimated by his height. "We learned not to fear the Darkness, because the Light held more frightening monsters."
The priest of Ga Son who handed him the letter had warned him about provoking Rezenarza's anger. He laughed and reassured the skeptical woman, but, as typical, he could not keep that promise when dealing with over-presumptuous authority.
Darkness whisked through the room, sending everything into deepest shadow. Qira placed the letter against his chest and grinned as sparks coursed around his fingertips. Did Rezenarza wish to see his performance live? He would oblige.
The shadows disappeared. The nymph whirled to Old Man Death, who glared with malevolent sarcasm at the man. "This is my temple," he reminded Darkness. "Your power here is what I grant, and I just took it away. Now off with you. I've no patience for the games today."
Rezenarza disappeared, and the atmosphere brightened. Sent to the front door? Qira grinned and again held up the letter.
"He holds grudges," Old Man Death said, his voice softer. "Don't think, he won't exact revenge for your insult."
"What can he do, that is the equivalent of what I've already faced? I don't fear him or what he might do to me." He handed the man the envelope.
Old Man Death glanced at the seal and touched it; the wax dried, cracked, and broke away in a dozen pieces, to coat his grey robes. He skimmed the contents, then nodded to himself.
"Ga Son normally has no interest in the general move and sway of things, but every time an Aristarzian lad survives the gauntlet then turns his power on the temple, he pays attention."
"If he cared, he'd stop it."
"Some say the same of Courveel, but he hasn't the power to convince his priesthood to follow his commands. He's a weak Light, and he knows it." He smacked the envelope against his thigh. "What did Ga Son tell you?"
Qira shook his head. "Nothing."
He groaned to his feet--which Qira thought odd, considering the man had already died. Did ghosts feel aches and pains as they aged? How? No body meant no aches and pains. Right?
He followed the old man through several hallways, and while he mentally attempted to keep track of the route, he did not think he correctly remembered it when they reached a doorway plastered with so much magical shielding, it was a wonder the plain iron sheen shone through.
Old Man Death waved a hand and the door creaked, sliding open with slow inefficiency. Qira fought not to tap his foot; creaky door, creaky Death, and both grumpy, he assumed.
He expected a room; instead, a glass case rested behind the portal. Within was a plain wooden spear, unadorned but reeking of magic.
"Life's Gift," Old Man Death whispered. "The bond of Death and Sun, creators and takers of life. It's an old relic--older than I, and I've seen many a year."
He grasped Qira's hand and set it against the door; tingly magic snagged his fingers and tickled against his arm. "Until now, only Death could open this door. Now you hold the key as well."
He dropped his hand and stared blankly before him. "There will be a time, when you must retrieve Life's Gift. Don't hesitate. What you do with it beyond that is circumstantial, but know, the blood of the Evenacht will depend on it."
"Blood of the Evenacht?"
"It is a vibrant land of vibrant peoples. Native heartbeats fill the land, every breath of a ghost is the wind. Don't fail them."
Old Man Death closed the door as slowly as it opened, withdrawing further into himself. Qira studied the spear, curious as to why this insignificant-looking weapon might hold some importance to the Evenacht.
He supposed he would find out.