Kirin Tethan, “The Record of Years”, Karilon Archives

Then, as if things were not hard enough, I saw a strange blue-white light through the misty dark sky. I knew what it was from personal experience; one of the few to survive to see it twice. Bursting through the dirty grey ceiling of clouds, a huge monster dove upon the lead ship.

Even above the shriek of wind I heard the Ice Dragon roar, all wings and limbs as it swept through the sky. Bathed in a misty glow, it hovered - unphased by the tempest - before the galley. Then a mighty breath. . .and a spray of jagged ice and freezing air erupted from its bowels to envelop the seemingly tiny craft. Sails were shredded in the deadly barrage, and the ship was suddenly a stinking mass of crystal. One flap of its great wings and the beast was gone. The remaining two of us counted our few blessings in this cruel place.

Turoj Mareskion

Shar-Bu threw discs of untold natures, resided in high spires, seemed impervious to flame and foil, and killed with a smile; and in the last I should be taken quite literally.

Elor Once Dark

Samli: Fifty leagues and over the northern pole, that is what Arak said to the Dark Captain. It was here that the ‘White Lat’ came. With the rings of ice they stood, and the land was subjugated. All fine, for the light was never strong.

Viour: In the glen of Norg, astride the northern faces of the Shadowed Hills, the Shards of Hoar Ak settled at the bidding of the Ahrenreth. They drank the blood of the lowland breed. Perhaps this is why Hoar Ak traded brown for burgundy.

Thanor: The men’s label was ironic in sound, but it was given to Thaan alone. This was the reason for the Thanor Stand, the remains if the northern flanks of the Asamis Arg (“Great Grove”). Here, betwixt Iron and and the Lake of Glass lay the remains of an army as well: the host of Roth the Flamboyant fell before the lungs of Vorrig Kye. Only the Shards rebounded and. Later, when Gholach followed; the land arose to be proud. Six went south the Ruar-Voerk.

Ubenmas: Along the Sea of Fate there is a green beach. There are trees aside the water. Do not, if you can see life, attempt to uncover those who dwell there.

Aarn Voru: In the forest by that name in the land of Rulaash, Kadaena left a scar. To undo it would be trying. And one would have to face Leste Kii Lormas.

Andraax

A keening filled the room, starting above the range of even Elven-ears, sliding downward in a painful cry, as the tiny comet finished its fifth circuit. A gust of hot wind and the spiraling ring imploded to the center of the ring. A few papers wafted to the floor in the ensuing quiet, and the only sound was a hissing like steam from a vent in the earth. The sound came from the huge red form crouched in the center of the circle. It turned towards Shanarak as it rose to its full height - more than twice the Magician. Its skin was bright red like clay and glistened as if oiled. It was in the shape of a man but had only four fingers and toes on each hand. It was naked and hairless, grotesque in its masculinity. It had no ears or lips, and when it opened its eyes there showed nothing but a bright orange light. Its long black fangs showed when it spoke - a curious screeching sound like many female voices hissing in unison. “I am yours to command, my lord,”; It said, full of hate. Then its flesh burst into flame.

“Imagine a point on the ground: this is the beginning of time and space, the Nexus. Radiating from it in every direction are lines of reality. We are but one of those lines, running along the ground, moving further and further from the Nexus as Time advances. We are at a given point. Towards the Nexus is the Past; away and ahead is the Future. Running directly opposite from our direction away from the Nexus is Chaos. Not backwards in time because time ends at Nexus; more like a mirror image. This is but one dimension.

“Imagine other lines which radiate from the point, all on the ground. These have been known as (ironically, and erroneously, if my theory is correct) the Parallels, worlds similar to our own. The greater the angle, the more at variance from our world these realities are. Infinite numbers of new ‘parallels’ are created every instant, diverging with alternate realities. These are two dimensions.

“Now, imagine lines radiating from the Nexus but rising above and diving below the Plane of the ground. These are the ‘Planes of the Void’ as they have been names. The six ‘Near’ planes are those immediately adjacent to us in Space-time, much the way six beehive cells cluster about a central cell.

“What’s that? Ah, you are asking ‘What about the two parallels which should lie to either side of our line of reality?’ Yes, well, I think you are taking my analogy a bit too literally. They are there, but co-existing in a different material existence, you see. The Parallels are of Existence, while the Six Pales are of the Void, co-existing in a ‘negative’ copy of our world.

“At any Rate, these six nearby Planes are in ways alien, but in other ways strangely similar to our world. The Demons of the Pale are almost human in certain aspects.

“Beyond the Six Pales that cluster about our own little line of space-time are the ‘Last Planes’, those alien places which bear less and less resemblance to our reality. They have never been catalogued; the Sorcerer Kulthog Ruan claimed to have visited more than 300. There are, I believe, an infinite number. We now have - in a matter of speaking - three dimensions.
“Now things become tricky. The Outer Void is so alien as to not fit into our nice little scheme in three dimensions, so I must ask you to envision a place which is beyond these three dimensions, a fourth dimension, if you will. It is a place that has no Place, a time where there is no Time. It has no relation to Existence, Chaos, or even what we call the Planes of the Void. It is totally alien.”

Taliax Chun

Nomikos Advanced Theoretical Studies

While only a handful of the Thalan race are known to have revealed themselves, since they actually have the physical form of other peoples, there are quite possibly far more of them than we could possibly know. Their powers of reincarnation, however, are apparently not genetically transmittable, so the race is doomed to remain at the same number forever. This begs the question: where and how did their people come to be?

Andraax

Ancient the story, no longer told:
the lords below are strong and hale.
Eight their number, named by lore.
All rivals shall perish, a threat no more.

Crystal gleams red, no longer cold:
The heart of darkness will not fail.
Servants are summoned, sleepers awake.
Long years have left a thirst to slake.
The order gathers in the Hallowed Hall.

Gargarax…Urkanian

Andraax

A silence fell over the council chamber as the venerable sage Lukaz unrolled an aged parchment. Prince Kellas squinted at the faded colors and pulled a sputtering candle nearer, slopping wax on the Lonely Sea. The three ministers blanched as Lukaz shot the young Prince of Reandor a withering glance.

“The map is priceless, Majesty,” the old sage said with an edge of disapproval.

Kellas shrugged. “Maps! They’re only so much paper! They depict things so far away, they might be another world. ‘Jaiman’ for instance: what sort of place is that? It lies more than a thousand leagues away, beyond the sky-city.”

State Minister Oskali spoke up. “I understand it to be under the rule of a Dragon-lord, whose people are enslaved to him.”

War Minister Trendek shook his head. “That is a wild tale spun in Eidolon ale-halls! Jaiman was depopulated by a terrible plague and is broken into many empty realms.”

Trade Minister Alnara cocked an eyebrow. “What of the legends of the Six Crowns? I heard tell that there were magical diadems which held the Kings under some sort of enchantment.”

“A Fairy Tale!” snorted Lukaz. “Jaiman is under the Shadow of an order of evil priests, servants of the. . .” his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. . .”Unlife.” Prince Kellas rolled his eyes. “Dragon-lords, a plague, ensorcelled kings and evil priests of the Darkness! Which is true? Probably none.”

“All true.” Said Randae quietly from the shadows. “I have been there.”

Knowledge is the greatest of all weapons, for it is
as powerful when withheld as when wielded.

Knowledge is the greatest of all fortresses, for it
travels with you.

Knowledge is the greatest of all burdens, though
it weighs nothing at all.

Knowledge is the greatest of all addictions, for
the more you learn, the less of it you know.

“One would be led to believe that they were no more sophisticated than humans or elves with supernatural powers. But ponder for a moment this idea: suppose you were given godlike abilities. You are immortal, unkillable, and all creatures of the world are little more than toys or pets. No one has the power to control you or even influence you. You are a god.

“Perhaps for a while you behave admirably, allowing only your best nature to prevail. But the ages slip by and benevolence becomes dull. Why not tinker - just a little - with one or two races? Who will stop you? Who has the right to judge you? No one! You are a God!

“Soon the tinkering becomes more than harmless. So slowly you do not even notice it, your amusements become more perverse and twisted until you are a depraved creature with nothing left but a gnawing emptiness where your soul once lived.

“Perhaps this explains the quixotic simplicity of the Lords: they do not think as we do, because to do so would mean their downfall. Both more complex and more simple, they have a different set of goals and morals. Let us be grateful that they seem to be benevolant.”

Yael Ziriv-Kari

Loremaster Councilwoman

From her ‘Deities’ lecture

“Then the orb suddenly burst into a flare of rainbow light - and the room was gone. We stood in a strange place, flanked by towering pillars of what looked like glass and silver. Overhead wingless things darted at impossible velocities. And all about us swirled a cacophony of strange sounds - and people stranger still. Though most seemed human, they walked with monsters of unheard of form. And all wore stragne garments. We had been teleported to another place!

“Then, barely had I begun to grasp this new reality, when it rippled like a reflection in a pool. Even after that I was unprepared for our new location.

“Darkness was all around us, but a darkness thick with stars. Andars and I stood on a rock no more than ten feet long. We were drifting in the black emptiness of space! I was seized by terrible vertigo, and my legs gave ways as I fell to the rock. Andars fell next to me whimpering and out litle platform bucked unsteadily. What nightmare was this? Our boat-like rock wheeled about to face what must have been a world. It was a great globe hanging in the void, beautiful and terrible in its blue-green immensity. A crescent of it exploded with light as the sun rose from around its curving horizon.

“Then there was a sickening sensation of falling which ended with a bump. Andars and I lay in the domed chamber again. The sphere in the center was speaking again, clearly asking a question which we could not fathom. We retreated.”

Loremaster Garl V’shaan

Daric sensed that the spell was going awry before he finished the second chant, and we fled that ancient ruin, hoping that the wards would hold. Little did we suspect that we could summon forth such a terror as this. . . an Ordainer of the Dark Essaence. Our only hope was to reach the Place of the Old Race on the Jareth Plain a few miles away. Surely nothing evil could pass that ancient ring of stones.

I cried out with joy as I saw the dim blue glow glimmering ahead; it seemed as if the Standing Stones of Nilom were already aroused by the nearness of the demonic presence.

Almost - almost to our goal! The outer ring of standing stones was but a furlong ahead. . .then a wall of fire leapt seemingly out of the very earth to obscure the blue pillars. My horse reared and I reined it around, only to see the smoldering form of the Ordainer shambling towards us.

I knew then that we were lost.

Mirana - her braids of reddish hair partially unwound - was peering into a thick wall of vines that seemed to cover an overhang about ten feet tall. “Hurry! I can see something over here!” she cried impatiently.

Vurkanen Tyes put his hand on my shoulder and shot me one of his ‘stay alert, this could be trouble’ looks. Then we both noticed his bracelet.

“Sir!” His ancient band, usually a golden-green, was now glimmering with blue light.

Under that curtain of vines was a sheet of some material. If it was a door, it bore no handle or hinge . . .

Pelk of Kaitaine

Only fools and geniuses work with Eog.”

Tethior the Smith, after purchasing 100 pounds of Eog

Zenia felt the power. Like a blast of cold air it washed over her, leaving at its source a Presence. Titus felt it too, the sinewy Faun turning on his bare feet and drawing his broadsword in a single graceful motion. He cocked an eyebrow towards the Sorceress, but Zenia was already preparing her defenses. “You’d better go on,” she hissed to the Faun from between clenched teeth, “There’s nothing you can do to him.”

As Zenia spoke, the Presence manifested in a man-sized luminous cloud of gas. Through the cloud stepped the Dark Mage. Whatever Zenia had expected, he wasn’t it. Seemingly a man of middle years, he had an almost fatherly air about him. He wore a hooded robe of grey and held a tall black staff as he stared directly at Zenia. “That’s my book,” he said gently.

“An evil tome of the Unlife!” shouted Titus. The Mage did not even glance at him.

Zenia prepared the spell of Mind Death, and a glimmering line of blue and gold lingered where her finger traced. But the Mage only stood silently, clutching that black staff. His smile mocked her. Zenia cast the spell, and the pattern flashed and vanished. An instant later it was a writhing web of light around the Dark Mage’s head. With a casual gesture like swatting a fly, he waved his hand, and the light was gone.

“Is that your best?” The Mage asked. He held up his hand; the staff head glowed an angry red. Titus stepped forward, and the Mage’s expression hardened. Then the Dark One spoke a word and closed his hand with a twisting motion. A red mist enveloped the massive warrior for a moment, until he buckled with a tormented moan. “Now you, my dear.” The Mage no longer looked fatherly.

Among these great beings is a group who call themselves the Dragonlords, and of these there are now only a handful in number. All are thousands of years old, having survived the Wars of Dominion. Some rule lands, while others hold only their citadel and operate in more subtle ways to gain power and ever-greater wealth.

All of the Dragonlords have the power of Shapechanging, allowing them to assume human form (among others). This has the advantages in that they are able to move about freely in a world dominated by humanoids. The disadvantage is, of course, that they are more vulnerable in human form; theirs is a true shape change.

The origins of the Dragonlords are shrouded in the temporal mists that divided the First and Second Eras. It is believed that an order of the most powerful Lords was formed sometime in the Second Era, its purpose to promote the dominion of Dragons. The Master Smith Krelij aided the Lord Oran Jatar in the forging of the Dragon Helms, which allowed the Lords to remain in human form indefinitely, and use their devastating breath weapon with almost full potency. These items have greatly enhanced the scope of the Lords, and they control formidable cults of followers.

It should be remembered, however, that though these lords may appear as humans (and in fact spend much of their time in human form), they are alien creatures. Great Drakes do not think the same way that humans (mortal or immortal) do; they are indeed Dragons.

From a Loremaster Scroll

The palace of Oran Jatar also houses the six priests of Gaath, their High Priest, and the elite of the order of Athimurl. Though Jatar is not their true master, his voice carries weight amongst their ranks as well. In the caves below the tower they perform their dark rituals of sacrificeand torture by the flickering light of smoky torches.

More of the Aalk Gaath I will not tell, it is such an unpleasant memory. To those foolish and brave enough to seek riches and adventure (and indeed is an ample supply of both), I wish good luck, and suggest that they set their affairs in order first.

The Chronicles of Elor Once Dark

It is known now that the centers of Gaath and Athimurl are elsewhere, though representatives of those cults might reside in the Aalk Gaath. In addition, Jatar probably considered himself an ally of the Iron Wind rather than a servant. He essentially seized the order of Gaath and has placed it under his control. It is believed that the Smith Krelij aided Oran Jatar in the fashioning of the Dragon Helms.

Salthay Ryne

Dragonlord Historian

But time was cruel, and eight slept or died
Daenku at last had none allied.
Eight returned, yet they sought new guidance:
Ondoval filled the void with Darkness.

While Daenku slept for the second time,
His Cult turned from the Narrow grey line.
Crystal reflections were to defeat the Eyes
If both are lost then hope dies.

Few guessed the First Secret’s tale:
Subtle as whispers in a gale.
Now their actions speak and realms fall.
The Order meets again in the Hallowed Hall.

Andraax

She noticed her youngest daughter Ilene staring at Randae with glazed eyes and bemused smile. Bette frowned, afraid that the firl had fallen in love with the charming bard. Then the proprietress scanned the other faces in the room and noticed something for the first time: nearly everyone wore the same entranced look. Bette pressed he full lips together as she thought:

“Sorcery, from my little bard? We’ll have to have a talk after this set. Maybe I convince him to suggest that they buy more ale in addition to listening - and to leave my daughter our of his enchantment.” Then she turned back to cleaning ale glasses, taking for granted the fact that Randae’s spell had not enveloped her as well…

It was fortunate that the war with the Usurper was over and Lukas would not need to fight; Deroy was not anxious to see his only son die in some bloody battle far to the north. Of course Lukas had wanted to go even before he was of age, but fortunately there were strict rules about when the Highborn could enter military service, and the young Viscount Ridgeston had only just reached his twentieth year at the last turn of Orhan. While it was not required that of-age sons of the peerage serve their Emperor in battle (perhaps instead they show a particular aptitude for scholarly pursuits, the church, or magic), those who do not fight are not held in the same regard. They are less likely to find favor with the Emperor and at court.

Nevertheless, apparently Lukas had befriended one of His Majesty’s younger sons during his last stay in Haalkitaine; perhaps he had already contrived his own ways to gain influence in high places…

At the sound of a knock on the heavy Isran-oak door, the Duke turned from the window.

“Come!” He barked.

Trayne, the Chamberlain, stepped inside and bowed crisply. “His Eminence the Archprelate of Lathornia has arrived, Your Grace. “

“Damn. I suppose it was inevitable. Well, show him to the south wing blue suite. And tell my son to get cleaned up and prepare to meet the Archprelate. Can’t put off Lukas’ indoctrination any longer. ”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Five months of kindness to your neighbor,
Making sure that the meek are treated well;
Five months of philanthropic labor,
Lord’s truth to tell, Cay this is hell!
(Chorus)
Its been depressing all the way, (Another ale! Another ale!)
And getting glummer every day (Another ale! Another ale!)
I want to burn a little town or slay a dozen men…
Anything to laugh again!
(Chorus)
Leachery and vice have been arrested
Not a maiden is ever more in threat
Virgins may wander unmolested!
‘Aye and well met;’ gad it’s a sweat!
(Chorus)
There’s not a folly to deplore (Another ale! Another ale!)
Temple confession is a bore (Another ale! Another ale!)
I want to spend a tortured evening staring at the floor
Guilty and alive once more!
Fie on virtue! Fie on mercy!
Fie on justice! Fie on goodness! Fie! Fie! Fie! Fie! Fie!!!

The boy lay unmoving in his bed. His terror rendered him unable to move or even breathe.

Ty felt silly for being so afraid. Eleven-year-old princes should not be afraid of dreams. But still, he was afraid.

That shadow by the wardrobe—did it have substance or not? Darkness seemed to move and flow around the polished wood doors.

There was something there!

Standing at the foot of his bed, not a shadow, but a shrouded figure! Ty’s heart thumped in his chest, but he remained motionless. How had this intruder gotten in? By magic? The palace had many wards against even such intrusions.

Then the shadow spoke. The boy felt every his muscle tense as the silence broke.

“Greetings Ajkar Tyrus Faslurin, third son of Emperor Jerrin Arej Malvion Faslurin.” The visitor had a soft, unexpectedly melodic voice.

Realizing that there was no point in hiding under the covers, Ty sat up to face his visitor. “What do you want?” he asked, proud that he managed to keep his voice steady. Sweat ran down his sides in warm trickles, yet he shivered.

The visitor stepped forward so that he stood in a shaft of moonlight cast from the tall windows. With a long-fingered hand he slowly pulled back the hood of his cloak. His face was white in the pale light, white and beautiful. His hair was raven-black, and fine pointed Elven ears protruded from beneath the thick locks. “To see you, My Prince.”

The dead hearth-fire leapt up to light the visitor in angry red.

The Elf smiled. With a terrible crash, the windows splintered outwards in whirling glass shards, and a gust of wind exploded through the room. Papers flew and bed curtains furled in the maelstrom. Amidst this fury of wind and sound and fire, the visitor casually stepped closer around the bed. Ty scooted up towards the headboard, but suddenly the Elf was next to him. He seized one of the boy’s hands in his own. The visitor’s flesh was cold and hard as marble.

“Let go of me! The guards will be here any minute!”

“Brave little lord,” the Elf smiled, exposing perfect white teeth. It was a leer of total malice, somehow… inhuman.

The visitor dug his fingers into Ty’s palm, and he gasped as sudden pain lanced up his arm. His hand felt like it was being stabbed by needles.

“Look!” The Elven man whispered, his face close, his breath cold and dead like wet ash.

Young Ajkar Tyrus tore his blue eyes from the pale amber ones of the Elf and looked down. Blood oozed from around his fingernails, pooled at the tips, and began to drip onto the white sheet. Slowly the Elf raised Ty’s trembling hand to his lips and licked up a few droplets of bright blood. To Ty’s horror, the Elf ’s eyes began to glow with an inner red light.

Then he vanished.

It was as if he had never been there. The boy’s bloody hand fell to the bed, numb and tingling. A cold wind swirled through the room, causing the curtains to furl lazily.

Ty realized with a start that a huge white owl was sitting on the broken windowsill, amber eyes staring fixedly at him for a long moment. Then it spread its great wings and was gone. Tyrus cried out as he awoke from the nightmare, his shirt soaked with cold sweat. He frantically looked about the room, but the fire was out, the window intact. It was only a dream! Shivering, he raised his hand to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. Dark red stains rimmed his fingernails. He looked up. A huge white owl stared at him as it sat on the outer windowsill. It spread its great wings and was gone.

It was just the first of many visits by the Pale Man.

A Dream of Ajkar Tyrus Faslurin

“Welcome to Haalkitaine, Master Tharal! What brings you to our rainy little town?” Gryphonburgh smirked behind a silk handkerchief. Tharal may have money, but he was a commoner, after all.

“Thank you, Lord Gryphonburgh!” Hengiis cocked an eyebrow and sipped his Namarian wine—which had no doubt passed through Sel-kai on its way to Haalkitaine, the Tharal family making a hefty profit along the way. “Ahhh… a little business, a little pleasure.”

“Indeed! And which do you prefer — business or pleasure?” The Count raised his voice ever so slightly. En garde!

Conversations nearby began to subside as others sought to hear this verbal fencing.

“I suppose that depends on what you consider business… and what you regard as pleasure.” Hengiis held out his goblet and a servant immediately filled it again with amber liquid.

“We Zori of the Rhakhaan noble-born consider pleah-sure to be our business!” Gryphonburgh lisped his ‘s’ slightly, a Maglean-family affectation. Lunge! He glanced about the room, noting with satisfaction the nods of appreciation for his wit.

“So I have gathered. It amazes me that some people appear to know no business but pleasure.” Riposte! A few ooohs and ahhhs could be heard from the growing audience. The wealthy merchant was beginning to enjoy himself as well.

“And sadly,” Gryphonburgh huffed with a flip of his kerchief, “Some seem determined to make pleasure seem like a business.” A glancing blow. The ooooohs, however, grew longer and more widespread. Some nearby glanced at each other with apprehension. The conversation was becoming heated.

Tharal smiled cooly. “In Eidolon, we think of business as our pleasure.” Attack! The chorus gasped almost as one.

“Then you find pleasure in business, yet now this pleasure has begun to seem like a business!” Gryphonburgh retorted. Then he turned on his heel and stalked away. Parry, retreat!

“My pleasure!” Tharal bowed very slightly to the Count’s back, raising his glass. Coup de grâce! Muffled applause from the assembled white velvet-gloved hands.

Above Haalkitaine City the sky was flat and grey, a dirty ceiling dripping sooty water onto a filthy city. At the center of this sprawling mass of black stone towered the Rhakhaanian Imperial Palace compound; Ren caught glimpses of its towers as he wound his way up along narrow streets towards the enclosure. The palace was like a mirage, though: the distance deceptively great though it seemed to loom over every intersection. The mist only added to the insubstantial appearance of the structure.

It began to rain harder. Ren pulled his hood over his head, scowling unconsciously at the weather.

They say it always rains in Haalkitaine…

A beggar—a short old man wrapped in burlap and wearing no shoes—stag-gered out of an alley and held out a deformed hand. “Got a copper for a poor old man?” He asked in broken Shay, exposing a few rotten teeth. He reeked of urine. Ren handed him a silver piece, a coin worth a hundred coppers. “Oh, thank you sir!” The man trembled with amazement. “If there’s anything I can do for you—”

“Yes: tell me the shortest route to the Palace.”

The man’s eyes went wide and his mouth formed an unvoiced gasp. “I thought you looked like royalty, sir!” Then he seemed to notice Ren’s upswept, slightly pointed ears for the first time. “An Elven Lord you must be! I beg your pardon! Turn left there by the vegetable cart, then the second right, then right again. You’ll be on the Sunset Avenue, straight to the Western Gate.”

“Thank you.” Ren turned to go as the man groveled.

Yet Ren Thraysk was in no hurry to get to the Palace. There (no doubt) waited fawning aristocrats, haughty bureaucrats and surly, dull-witted, inbred royalty. Most either mistrusted people like Ren or feared them, or simply tried to dismiss them as irrelevant—most of the time. When there was the rare problem that no king could dispose of with an execution order or a well-equipped army, then pride was reluctantly swallowed and one of Ren’s kind was called-upon.

One of his kind… there were days when he hated being a Loremaster; those days seemed to become more frequent with the passing years. A pity Loremasters weren’t often accorded the same respect as the Navigators, a guild that had honed their arrogance into a fine, razor-sharp tool. Ironic, since the Navigators were a godless little coven that worshipped only the almighty coin, while the Loremasters toiled for endless centuries to sustain the few pockets of civilization existing on this tortured world.

Ren wondered if Tar-esiir would be there. Actually, he’s not as bad as as some other Navigators I’ve met.

At least the beggar’s directions were correct, for Ren turned the last corner and found himself on a wide avenue sloping gently up and eastward to the granite walls of the Palace. Trudging up the rain-slimed cobbles, he cursed Randae Terisonen not for the first time. I never did get a satisfactory answer why I had to suddenly step into this mess at Haalkitaine. What is Randae up to that’s so much more urgent? Or maybe he was censured for breaking the Code again. Ren smiled ruefully. He had been called in more than once for bending the meaning of the Loremaster Code himself, and did not envy Randae having to face the Council.

A looming presence of darker gray… the outer portal grew more imposing as it solidified through the mist. The flanking towers must have been fifty feet tall. Certainly a suitable entrance to the palace of the greatest empire on all of Jaiman. Ren Thraysk was not impressed.

The Great Moon Orhan had set; red Charon gaped like a bloody hole in the sky; and of course Eidolon dominated the heavens above the Lower City, spurning her poor elder sister… taunting her.

Darkness pressed down on the shadowed alleys, while an oily mist rose from the stinking canals. The night was quiet… deceptively so.

Ormool leaned indolently on his ebony cane, a figure out of context. The handsome Dyari Elf’s ears glittered with gold hoops and jewelled studs, and his finely-cut black garments were trimmed with golden thread. But he stood at the end of an alley in the depths of canal-town, flanked by two hulking humanoids with clear genetic ties to Lugroki. They were Gork and Lunt, Ormool’s “special assistants.” Behind the trio in the canal a skiff bobbed on the scummed water. The only sound was a rhythmic slurp-slurp as the boat washed against the stone pier.

“Someone approaches, My Lord Priest.”

“Thank you, Lunt, but I heard him some time ago.” Ormool’s words were knives of condescension.

Silhouetted by misty lamplight, a giant of a man stumped down the black alleyway. As he approached it became clear that he carried a sack over his shoulder, whose contents suspiciously resembled a body.

“Ah, Krann, you have brought my new toy?” Ormool grinned, showing perfect white teeth.

Not only far larger than most men, Krann was so ugly that most believed he had Trollish blood. His homely face was expressionless as he closed to tower over this unwholesome trio. “I got it.”

“Well, let us see, shall we?” The Dark priest could hardly contain his excitement. “Gork, open the lamp.”

Krann shrugged the sack carelessly onto a handy pile of trash and yanked open the drawstring, exposing the head and bare shoulders of an unconscious Elven youth, no more than fourteen years old. The boy was a beautiful Iylar: fine blond hair and delicately pointed ears framed his angelic features. His skin was clear and golden in the lamplight.

“He’s perfect,” Ormool crooned. He caressed the boy’s cheek with long, tapered fingers. “Moralis will be pleased.” He straightened, loathe to take his eyes from the boy, and gestured to Lunt to pick up the youth.

“Wait. The gold first.” Krann extended a huge gnarled palm.

Ormool smirked, but produced a heavy leather pouch and dropped it in Krann’s paw-like hand. “One hundred, as we agreed.”

“What’cha gonna do with the kid?” Krann asked conversationally as he stuffed the coins into his breeches pocket.

Ormool’s face went mask-stiff. “Why do you care?” He asked curtly.

“Just curious.”

“An unhealthy habit, curiosity. If you must know, he won’t be harmed… physically.”

Krann stuck out his grotesque lower lip reflectively. “You Moralans really know how to have a good time.” Even through that thick accent Ormool could read sarcasm.

Lunt hefted the sack into the boat while Gork prepared to cast off. Ormal stood watching the Trollish mugger lumber off the way he had come, but after he had gotten about twenty paces away, the Priest pulled up his voluminous sleeve— revealing a heavy iron bracer covering his entire forearm. He locked his arm, aiming his fist at Krann’s retreating back. With a muffled ‘thunk’, a steel bolt shot from a track along the band and went whistling through the thick air to plunge into the base of Krann’s skull. The Half-troll fell like a tree.

“That will teach him to ask questions. Lunt, retrieve the money.” Ormool turned back and stepped gingerly into the skiff. A moment later Lunt was on board and the boat eased out into the canal, towards the Temple district.

Above them in the clear night sky hung luminous Eidolon, oblivious, scorning the very earth.

“Halloo, Divad!” He called up. A few rays of the noon sun filtered down between the looming buildings here in the Old City. They fell on a narrow door about six feet above the jetty, and a steep stair connecting the two. A youngish man with curly black hair and kicked open the door and squinted into the space over Tad’s head.

“Down here, Div!”

The proprietor of the Cold Barley Soup Kitchen looked down as if it had never occurred to him that someone might be at his jetty, then his confused expression turned to a smile. “Oh, Tad, here with my wine!” Wiping his hands on a filthy apron, he leapt down the stairs and onto the landing, causing boat, boy and floating pier to bob wildly. Divad Taminger knelt to examine the casks carefully, inspecting the Gryphon Vineyards seals with an intensity which belied his usual, somewhat vacuous demeanor. “Not that I don’t trust you, Tad,” he muttered, “but one never knows these days… someone could have watered down this otherwise excellent vintage.”

Tad rolled his eyes. “I assure you, Div, that they haven’t been out of my sight since they left the Gryphon docks.”

The Tavernkeep smiled, this time somewhat absently. “They look fine, Tad.” He counted out the twelve bronze pieces. “Now if you’ll help me unload these, I’ll give you a good hot meal and maybe even a taste of this glorious drink.”

Her streets are paved with silver and gold
Of pearl her towers are wrought
Name a city with such wealth?
Eidolon, or naught!

Floating on a breast of a cloud
She gleams in the morning light
Who is queen in our hearts?
Eidolon is, by right!

Where else can we spend our gold
on pleasures of every kind
When our pockets are heavy with coin
Eidolon comes to mind!

“Days as hot as volcano’s breath,
The night like ice to freeze the heart
Demons walk, souls full of death
The Land of Uj, a world apart.”

“If that is your will, my Lord, I am honored.”

“That is my will.” Ondoval scanned the other six gathered about the table. Together they were the Secret Circle, and none would hinder them now that the Crystal was again awake. “I appoint the Elf-lord Sigirus to assist A’kesh. Are there any objections?”

There were none, though Schrek stared across the ebon expanse, unimpressed by regal bearing and aura of power that surrounded Ondoval, the Lord of Essaence. Even Ondoval knew not what lay behind the flat gray eyes of Schrek, the ‘Elder Mind’: thoughts more hideous and alien than his true form. None knew that the fragile human flesh was a mask, behind which hid a grotesque mass of writhing tentacles and a putrescent bloated form, oozing a foul stench and poisonous bile: Schrek was a monster born not of this world or even of this universe. He was Agothu.

Xuul!
Fell from above
Master of air
Receive our love!

“If you have the gold, we know the way.”

Slogans (erroneously) attributed to the Navigators

Gargarax…Urkanian

Gargarax…Urkanian

Interregnum, date unknown

The sun went down and darkness swept across the waters all around us. I felt a cold wind on my face; saw clouds moving in from the north. Looked like a storm coming… then suddenly I was thrown off my feet and nearly over the balustrade as the ship lurched backwards. Had we hit some hidden rocks just under the surface? Then I saw them—two then three, then more, like huge blind serpents coiling over the rail and onto the deck: tentacles. One knocked a man overboard as you or I might swat a bug. Then another wrapped around a crewman and lifted him into the air like a doll, screaming. Other tentacles, dozens of feet long, gripped the ship, and we began to list badly to starboard. The first mate was yelling for everyone to grab harpoons and swords, but it seemed like there would be no stopping this monster…

Maret Skeldo, of the Trader Ship ‘Blue Morning’

“I can smell water!” Kylen called back. “Must be a stream nearby; we can rest—”

The Elf was cut off in mid-sentence by a sound like a thunderclap. The ground trembled under their feet.

“Wh-what was that?” Bandor looked up to Kylen for guidance.

But Zek saw it first. “I think it has something to do with that!” He pointed to a sheltered niche not far away. It had been shadowed before, but now from that overhang game an eerie blue-green radiance.

The three fearlessly clambered over to the source of the light, entering the niche as one—and stopping short. Before them, framed by a bright glow, was an upright oval perhaps eight feet high. It seemed to hover in midair. And within that oval, like a window, was an image of another world. Within the window it was night, on a rocky shore overlooking a stormy sea. But it was much more than a vision—they could smell the salt air and feel a cool sea breeze. And as if far away they heard the crashing waves.

“A Portal…” Kylen said in a hushed voice.

Rylec Qaterris, Prince of Sel-kai

At his 200th birthday celebration

Andraax

Canaler saying

The Nameless One

Attributed (probably erroneously) to Andraax

Rylen Alnesh

Ky’taari Scholar

Last words of the infamous trader-prince Decadus Barrud,

who died penniless in a convent of Eissa

Over the centuries the Myri and Duranaki evolved a race/caste system in which the smaller Duranaki were the intellectuals, the artisans (and the masters), while the Myri did the manual labor. This has helped the Duranaki to create a society of leisure and comfort, but the Myri have not shared in the full benefits of this arrangement. At one time, the Myri were actually ‘programmed’ into subservience through magic, but the Duranaki learned that a Myr’s loyalty could be earned through kind treatment. Inequality continued however, and the Myri came to assume that this was their place in the world as intellectual inferiors to the cavedwellers. In fact, however, they are just as bright as the Duranaki, a fact that Terek Al-Arain has proved by teaching Kel and Renar to read. What Terek has done is forbidden, however, and soon the secret will be out, with serious repercussions for all three. But for now, something else was distracting the young Duranak…

“What’s the matter, Terek? Kel reined in next to his master, who was still astride his horse. The beast stood patiently in a few inches of water at the river’s edge. Terek did not answer. He was staring down into the crystal clear water as it splashed over stones smoothed by eons of wear. Renar stopped his mount a few paces back, glanced at Kel, then began scanning the horizon. “Terek?” Kel asked again, tentatively this time.

“Don’t you see it? Terek glanced up at his friend, then quickly looked back down to the water.

Kel’s brow furrowed, and he peered into the shallows. “See what?” he asked finally.

“That glow!” The Duranak slipped off his horse and landed in the icy water with a splash, seeming not to care that it would soak into his boots. He reached into the flow and pulled up a bauble on a chain. It glistened in the dying light, and for a moment Kel thought he saw a red sparkle… but he was amazed that Terek could have seen it even with his night vision.

The Duranak was holding it close to his face for a closer look. “There’s something imbedded inside this little crystal globe… it’s really beautiful workmanship… I believe that it’s a Pheonix!” He smiled and hung it around his neck. “My lucky Talisman!”

Kel shook his head. “I don’t know, Terek. The Pheonix is not supposed to bring good luck.”

Kel was to be proven right.

Kier Ianis
Prince of Helyssa
Presumptive King of U-Lyshak

Larigon’s smile was as much to himself as to the youth.  Smiling and plotting the course of this boy’s life under his expert guidance and supervision.  Tallin is the brightest of a galaxy of luminous stars.  He can serve me well in the years to come.  The first task will be to free him of hte shackles of emotional bondage.  The feelings he has for the young woman Laurianne will have to be supressed; then we will replace them with loyalty to the College…and me.

But Larigon underestimated his student.

Tallin Vedui had long ago read the elder Mentalist’s intentions and taken steps to thwart his moves and manipulate his allies.  Even now, carefully planted seeds of dissention were beginning to sprout.  Let him destroy Laurianne; she was a stepping-stone on a path he trod long ago - useless now except as an amusement.  And eventually, Larigon would be supplanted as governor - but not too soon; not before Tallin was ready to take his place.  Then we would see who was in control of this city of puppets.

All these thoughts raced in an instant through the powerful mind of Tallin Vedui, whose face still bore the innocent flush of youth.

T’revor’s reverie was halted by the entourage’s arrival at a pair of huge panelled wood doors. Youthful pages yanked open the gates and the group passed on into an impressive hall, at the end of which stood a long desk on a stone dais, and behind the desk three throne-sized chairs. He and his guards approached the bench; they stopped

“T’revor Arain, you have been called before this Tribunal to answer questions regarding your activities on the night of Five Orhan Thirteen.”

Uh-oh. But the Duranaki prince showed no sign of distress. “I spent the entire evening enjoying the services of the Red Door.” This should be amusing… a little Teleport to my camp on the coast and I’ll be off this rock in no time, leaving these pompous judiciaries with slack jaws. T’revor smirked. “This has been fun, Judge, but now I’ll have to say… goodbye.” He cast his spell, but instead of the slight vertigo of teleportation, he winced as pain lanced through his skull. His guts wrenched from the effort of trying to draw Essence where there was none. Something interfering with my powers…

“You think we are so foolish, T’revor Arain? Your manacles are an alloy including significant amounts of kregora.” The center judge smiled, thin lips stretched tight, then his face hardened again to a mask of cold anger. “Now I ask you: What do you know of the Eyes of N’swi’Nkiy?”

Two men stood on a narrow landing about three feet above the water (it was late fall and the rains had been light the last few weeks; the Sharhya was running pretty low). Tad heard the bulkier of the two men begging for mercy, while the other held him by the collar. The other had long black hair, with a silver streak at the temple—and as the light flickered of the rippling water Tad could plainly see his ears. He was an Elf all right, a Loari he guessed. Then the Elf hefted that poor sot up off his feet with one hand like he weighed nothing and held him out over the canal.

“It’s a little late to ask for mercy from me, don’t you think?” The Elf’s beautiful voice held a razor edge.

“I-I’ll never kill again, sir!” The man fairly whimpered, wringing his gnarled hands.

“Unlikely. But I’ll leave you to the judgement of the Sharhya. Should you survive, I suggest you inform your bosses of my displeasure. Also know this: the Grey Ring will never forget your crime.”

“No—!” But the man’s last plea was cut off as he dropped into the cold waters. He cried and splashed for a few moments, but was clearly not a swimmer. He gulped canal water and soon there was nothing but ripples and black waves slapping against stone foundations. Tad remained riveted to the spot, his pole dug into the mud.

The Elf looked up, his bright glance going right to where the youth lurked. His lips curled into a humorless smile. “Better get home, boy; the canals are no place for you at night.” Then he vanished.

When he could control his trembling, Tad poled to his room above Bryon’s Wainwright shop in record time.

“I see we have a problem.” Moje said without taking his eyes from the eerie phenomenon before them.

“Indeed.” Answered Sulfean tonelessly. “It formed about five minutes ago; the shock waves are already extending more than five miles.”

The two men stood impassively watching the gathering storm while the crew of the Princess wrestled with the flapping sails and fought her air-rudder. The Loremaster cast out a tentative spell to gauge the power of the storm, only to feel the essence torn from him, sucked into the magical vortex.

“Perhaps we should Jump now, before the storm intensifies.” Moje suggested mildy.

Sulfean peered through his sextant-like Compass and adjusted a jeweled screw. “Too late.”

A moment later there was a brilliant flash from the area ahead, and knives of iridescent lightning stabbed down from the sky to the earth. The green clouds swirled into a monstrous funnel, twisting like a great screw towards the ground. The sky went dark; the sun seemed to go out as everything was lit only by this luminous green tornado, laced with forks of lightning. Then the winds reached them.

The skyship trembled and began to list to starboard, her structure creaking ominously. Both men staggered but regained their balance as the craft slewed about in a strangely majestic spin, drawn towards the Essaence vortex.

Ignoring the wind tearing at his clothes and flowing hair, Sulfean carefully replaced his Compass in its padded leather pouch. Moje fought to control his own furling cloak in this sudden gale, while the Navigator turned to face the storm.

The captain of the Princess rushed up to the two men, clutching at his cap. He still had his composure, but it was clear that even he was frightened by this monstrous storm. “Sirs,” he shouted over the rising winds, “I realize you are not responsible for rescuing us from such as this, but any assistance would be much appreciated.”

Sulfean continued to stare forward, eyes glazed, his knuckles white on the balustrade. Moje doubted he even noticed the captain.

“Captain Renian, I believe that the Navigator is even now doing his best to divert our course from a disastrous collision with this storm. However, I fear that even his powers will be of no avail against such a powerful flowstorm. I suggest you attempt to steer to starboard and make preparations to jettison the Xenium keel and attempt an emergency ground landing.”

The captain was horrified. “That’ll wreck my ship!”

Moje cocked an eyebrow. Our alternative is quite likely to be caught in a Flow Vortex, in which case we will surely be destroyed… or worse.”

Crack! Another skull shattered under the silver blades of his mace. Jointed fingers clasped spasmodically at him, only to crumble into a heap at his feet when the spell binding them was broken by the enchanted weapon. A rusty sword clanged off his shield and he staggered back.

“…blood loss making me dizzy… got to get back out into the light…” He tried clumsily to retreat, but every doorway out of this great round vault looked the same. Then the floor began to tremble; Kedrik’s footing was already unsteady, and he fell to his knees. He prepared himself for the rain of blows falling from these mindless constructs to finish him.

But the skeletons had stopped their attack, turning towards the sarcophagus in the center of the chamber. Did the lid move? Kedrik watched in amazement as a glimmer, then a burning red line of light formed along the seam between lid and base of the coffin.

It appeared that the Black Wizard was not as completely dead as his ancient rivals had claimed. The lid rose with agonizing slowness, then fell back to the floor and shattered in a thousand splinters of granite. Out of the angry glow rose a dark form, coalescing into a humanoid shape. Kedrik raised his mace, hoping desperately that its magic was strong enough to combat an Undead sorcerer…

Kyse Pharnese
Merchant Baron

Transcribed from a Lords of Essence Speaking Crystal

Nomikos Library Special Collections

At last two stood upon the planet which had become one vast battle-field. Kadaena, Empress of the Galaxy and Queen of the K’ta’viiri race, faced her opponent: the rebel Utha. They had the look of siblings but for the glaze of hate in Kadaena’s violet eyes, and the haunted mask which Utha’s face had become. He held in his bleeding hands a sword. A strange barbaric weapon for a time when ships flew between the stars and the people of his race could slay with one thought of their tele-pathic minds, but the Soulsword was all that could protect him from She who wore the Shadowstone.

Pulsing with a thirsty crimson light, that gem lay upon Kadaena’s breast, held by a heavy chain of black iron. Kadaena thrust her hands forward, palms out at waist height, her bearing one of readiness. “Here we stand at the end of all things, my cousin. Are you well pleased that you have brought about the downfall of your people?” Her words were barbed with psionic knives, but Utha was beyond feeling.

“You destroyed us long ago, My Queen. Better that we die now than live on as a mockery of what we should have been.”

“You wanted my throne!” Her hands snapped forwards and from her fingers lashed twisting bolts of white-hot energy, arcing towards her opponent.

But they splashed aside harmlessly: the sword shielded Utha. It diverted those deadly charges, but it took its own toll on his strength. The earth trembled. He took an unsteady step closer to his cousin.

Again Kadaena attacked with lightning, again the Soulsword absorbed the energy. The black blade began to glow with a faint silvery light.

Utha raised the sword, his sinewy shoulders protesting, every muscle trembling with fatigue.

“No!”

The sword flashed in a mighty horizontal arc, severing the beautiful Kadaena’s head.

Groaning in its own pain, the earth opened at her feet, and the Shadowstone tumbled from Kadaena’s shoulders into a fiery crevasse. The Empress of the Galaxy’s body trembled, then disintegrated to dust, floating to the smoking ground.

Utha stood silent for a moment to gather his strength. He touched a finger to his forehead and vanished from that battlefield. The most difficult task was yet to do.

Immigration of some Laan families from Emer to Jaiman, the southern portions of  which are largely uninhabited except for a few scattered Elven settlements.