Nobody Else

BRENDA
I used to think that I'd have more people in my life as time went on.


BILLY
Doesn't work that way.


BRENDA
Yeah. I'm starting to realize that.


BILLY
It's almost like, as we get older, the number of people who really get us... shrinks.


BRENDA
Right. Till we become so honed by experiences and time and...


BILLY
... nobody else understands.



(Six Feet Under, 5th Season, "Static")

ROHAN ONLINE: Nessun Dorma

Disclaimer: Rohan Online is not mine, but YNK Interactive and -- I guess to a degree -- Level Up! Games let me use it as a playground. I am not making money out of this, so please don't sue me.

"The mind is its own place, and in itself, can make Heaven of Hell, and a Hell of Heaven." (John Milton)

He could smell it outside the hallways -- rank and rancid was its approach, like corpses rapping on the door. He never let go of her once during the night, letting her cry into his shoulder, calming a storm in her spirit as wrathful as the storm raging outside in the skies of Via Marea.

He himself was not crying. He was thinking, to be exact. Watching the door, waiting, and thinking. He was running his hands through her hair, green as summer's grass, smelling of lavender, whispering children's rhymes into her ear to soothe her unease. They stayed like this for most of the night.

He glanced at the window, at the greying of the sky. First light was upon them and the storm had passed, yet he dreaded what was to come. He looked at the doors again, at the light from under it peering into the room like a curious child. He shut his eyes at the vision.

He shifted his beloved to his other shoulder to have a good look at her face. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was calm. Was she sleeping? It is better if she were. He leaned close to her ear and whispered an ardent, 'I love you, I shall see you again,' in the sing-song whisper of the Elven tongue.

He kissed her softly on the lips, and then he broke her neck.

( Read the rest of the story. )


Gavril hates the rain. He hates this rain. It reminds him too much of a dream -- of a storm of steel-tipped arrows, relentlessly pelting the walls of the monastery. Its very noise drenching his mind in anxiety, flooding every cell of his body with unrest.

He could not stand another second of it. He threw back his sheets and walked over to the northern window, parting the thick velveteen drapes that muffled the sounds of the storm in his chambers. His restlessness was fueled even stronger by the sudden sharp onslaught of rain beating on glass, and the flickering light of the candle by the window does nothing to quell his anxiety. He blew it out, letting darkness overtake his mind, allowing the cold to enfold his skin.

Tomorrow was the Initiation, and he feels naught else but fear. Here in the black pitch of his chambers, with the sounds of the storm whirling as a cyclone would in his shadowed walls -- here in the most secret chambers of his heart, he can say it. 'I am afraid.' He stepped closer to the window and laid his palm against the cool glass -- a wall of nothing but waves and waves violent water. 'I am afraid,' he said again, a little louder. The rain beat harder against the glass as if in answer to the squalling in his mind. He stepped away from the window and closed the drapes. The storm suddenly seemed far away leaving him strangely feeling bereft and empty, all at once alone with his fear.

'Gavril?' a voice echoed from the entrance to his chambers. The darkness lifted.

'I am here, Eloise,' he said without looking.

'Did your candle burn out? I shall fetch you a new one...'

'No, no, I blew it out. I could not sleep.' He walked over to his drawers and slipped on a soft tunic.

Eloise opened the door, letting the light from the hallways scatter the shadows in Gavril's chamber. She drifted over quietly to where he was, took his hand and kissed it. 'Are you thinking about the Initiation, beloved? It is nothing but ceremony and fanfare. You need not worry about it.'

'I am not,' he lied, 'worried about the Initiation, Eloise.' He pulled her closer and planted a kiss on her lips, as he so often does when he lies to her about such things. 'I am fine,' he'd say after combat exercises, when he is weary and bruised to the bone, and he'd kiss her. 'It was wonderful,' he'd say after they made love, all night and under the stars, and he'd kiss her. He'd believe for a few seconds, and for a few seconds, he wouldn't be lying. Until the kiss was over.

She trusted him, regardless; and held him, regardless. Eloise has been his superior during his century-long stay in the monastery as a White Mage. She was an exceptional teacher, and he was an exceptional student. 'Empathy,' she whispered into his ear, 'is aligning yourself with the soul of another.' She was standing behind him, left hand on left shoulder, right arm outstretched, parallel to his. Their fingers twined at the meeting of their hands, palms resting on the rough bark of a dying tree. Winter was shedding its thick, white coat, and the continents were abloom in the advent of spring. 'Learn to look at someone and feel how he feels -- and heal from the inside. Your magic will do the rest.'

He knew what empathy was. 'You exist,' he simply had to think -- and believe it, even if it was a lie, and his magic would flare into being. The tree yawned awake, engulfed in golden light, coming back to life. The air smelled of green leaves and sunlight, and Eloise was pleased. 'You exist,' he told Eloise that afternoon, and it was as if his heart locked in place. He was held completely breathless by the solidity of his words at that moment, and so did she. Since then, they became inseparable.

They held each other in the dark. He, stroking her long, silver locks, inhaling not just her skin, but the very essence of her; she, running her fingers through his short, green hair, passing on what warmth and comfort she can spare. The storm raged on miles and miles from where they were. 'We shall leave Via Marea tomorrow, light of my life,' he promised. And with but a thought, he pushed the door of his chambers close, letting the darkness and the sound of the rain swallow their forms.


The forest was breathing, he could feel it as he ran -- the dense air, inhaling and exhaling, beating against his chest. He was in a panic as his eyes darted from shadow to shadow, searching for patches of moonlight in every groove, every snatch of vine, and avoiding it. He stopped for a moment at a clearing and silenced his senses, reaching out with his thoughts across the woods as he was trained to do, looking for signs of life. His mind was a searchlight, as much as a seeker as the one being sought.

He found it -- south from where he was. He started running again, careful to keep to the shadows, underneath the sound of his heart pounding madly in his head. At the back of his mind, he knew exactly what he was going to find. He wanted so much to deny it, however nearer every step he took brought him to the reality of things.

And then there it was, quick and sudden as a dagger through the gut, as blanketing as sin. 'No, no, no, no, no...' he said, the denial as real as the body in front of him.

The one on the ground turned his head and blinked, despite the blood on his eyes; he smiled, despite the pain wracking his body. 'I am glad you are safe,' he whispered.

To the one standing, the voice was a chorus of angels, a ray of hope. His mind fought, newly reinforced. He knelt beside the body of his fallen comrade. 'You will not die today,' he said, as he began gathering the other one's body to his arms.

'Don't be silly, you. Leave me here. You have to go before they catch you. Leave for Par'Talucca and tell the others what transpired. They should be ready.'

'No, you keep quiet! You are not doing this to me...' but already his mind was wavering. The other one's body suddenly felt too heavy, the failure of their mission started breaking through his resolve, like hammer on thick glass.

But then again, the other one was dead before he could say anything else. An odd taste spread through his tongue, worming its way down his throat. Suddenly he'd had enough of killing. He'd had enough of blood. The hardness of the dagger hilt on his hands was distasteful. He hated everything he was, being Dhan, being Human, being alive. He hated life. He laid his comrade down and closed his eyes, and stayed as he was for a very long time, he never noticed the approach of a unit of Guardians around him.

He looked at the other one's face -- they had only known each other a few weeks, but they had become quite close. Before he knew it, he fell in love, though the other one felt nothing more than honest to goodness friendship. He kissed the dead one's lips ardently, as if he were alive. He did not even feel the cold steel as it was thrust mercilessly into his body.


Gavril was wrenched from his trance-like stupor as he finished healing the Guardian. They'd just come back to the guild barracks from a reconnaissance mission to the Myrtle Woods as their Guild Master had received reports of a rival guild's movements of setting up an encampment near their territory. This was not true, but they did find something else.

'Is it true, what they are saying?' It was Eloise, as she sidled herself by Gavril. She was not called for the mission, having another of her own. A trip to the Spire of Redemption, he thinks, or something else. He doesn't ask. He never does.

'Yes, there weren't any Black Dragons in Myrtle Woods. The southern guilds must be astir, thinking the northern alliance has been renewed, and are moving.' He said this as he finished with the Guardian, withdrawing golden light back into his fingers. He thought it was a simple fleshwound at first, but it was invenom, and it killed the Human. He had to channel a complete resurrection -- unpleasant, even for one with skills such as his. He never looked forward to fetching a soul after it has crossed ways away from the veil. He closed his eyes and let out a slow stream of breath, as he often does after casting that particular spell.

'Thank you,' the Guardian muttered as he stood back up. He did not even look at Gavril, but he did not mind. Gavril sat back on the ground and tilted his head upwards, concentrating on regenerating his manna. He felt someone touch his hand. Eloise. He'd almost forgotten she was there.

'It doesn't ever feel good, does it?' she said, twining her fingers with his. He was so used to this, so used to her flesh, her skin, her smell by his side. It was comforting, even if he forgets sometimes.

'No, it never does,' he sighed. He eased her head onto his chest as he put his arms around her. 'I am never sure if I should thank you for teaching me how to do it, all these years,' he mock-chided her as he always does.

'You would have found a way to learn it for yourself, love. You can never stand secrets.'

'I can't, can I?' he said wistfully, a little guiltily. He's kept secrets from Eloise, of course, but he's good at keeping them. He'd always been silent, and she'd never asked. There was an implicit trust between them that cannot be severed no matter what, it seems, and Gavril cannot be sure if all he's done is take advantage of it or respect it. He's staying with Eloise, regardless. He cannot imagine centuries without her. Would she be doing the same? he thinks. Keeping secrets? Or, the better question would be, Should it matter?

'What are you thinking of, light of my life?' she asked, sensing the restlessness in his mind. 'Your breath quickens quite a bit when you are thinking very deeply. Is something troubling you about the Guardian?'

Gavril responded with a kiss on Eloise's forehead. She knows he isn't thinking about the Guardian -- she knows him enough to keep a safe distance from the core of his thoughts and let him speak for himself. He thanked the cosmos for her tact and presence even more. 'It is nothing significant, love. You know I always get this way after a resurrection, filtering memories not mine. You have always been better at it than me.'

'Mmm. I remember your first time. You were never able to sleep for days, nor did you eat. I thought you'd go mad.'

'I thought I would. It was a bad idea resurrecting a Dark Elf as my first time -- centuries of thoughts and memories... and that fire! I thought my skin was burning.'

Eloise chuckled despite the thought. 'I remember. You ran naked into the river and you never wanted to leave. You almost drowned -- and you almost drowned me!' She laughed, finally, as she punched her lover playfully on the chest.

'I wouldn't dream of hurting you, love,' Gavril said without a thought, surprising himself by meaning it too.

'That is sweet, and I am hungry,' Eloise said as she stood, dusting her worn leather tasset. 'Come on, I found an out of the way tavern near Valor's Trace. I heard a really good bard was playing there tonight. I want to get good seats.' Eloise is very beautiful, Gavril thought. He pushed the wayward, troubling dreams and memories not entirely his aside and took her hand.


She couldn't run even if she wanted to -- and oh, how she wanted to. She was skittish and restless, but her feet were bound. Half-Elves weren't meant for confinement. They weren't meant to be shackled like this, like caged vargs howling in the moonlight. She couldn't stand a minute of it.

But it just stretched on and on. She could have been held captive for a night, or it could have been years. Either way her will was breaking. She needed to be free! She scratched at her ankles, whimpering like a lost kitten, her breath mewling in panic.

The door to her cell rattled. Her ears perked at the sound, and she retreated to the shadowy corners of the squalid prison. It is safer here, she thought.

Against her most fervent hopes, the door opened, hinges squealing in rust, metallic things rattling like despair. 'I smell you, Half-Breed,' a voice said, gruff and threatening. She felt a cold finger snake up her throat. She stayed silent. A mouse, a mouse, a mouse is what I am, she thought.

'Come on then, you can't get away. You know it.' She heard its lumbering approach, its tongue licking its lips, and the shadows thickening around her. She remembered nights like this -- memories suddenly washing over her like an unholy river -- when her body was desecrated again and again. She clawed at her ankles again and again as she used to do until she drew blood. At first she wanted to escape. Now she only does it because the stinging pain numbs away everything else.

The large form was now upon her. She screamed.


Gavril woke up sweating. The dreams have been becoming more and more frequent now -- days apart, when it was weeks, months even years before. Eloise was alert to her lover's movements, and in a second, her healing hands were upon his brow. Physician, heal thyself, Gavril thought bitterly as he lay back down, trying to control his breathing.

'Hush now, lover, it's alright. It was just a dream. Another one of those dreams. Let me take them away.'

Gavril looked at his lover, his centuries-long companion with a mixture of love and pity. He wanted so much to push her away, to spare her from the hell he's been going through all his life, but the female is as stubborn as a middle-aged Human male. There is no moving her, even if he almost killed her once.

It was the day before they were exiled, seven years past. His visions have started to take over his senses more outwardly now. He was the Priest assigned to the unit with their Guild Master, and it was his first time to be in his presence, this Templar.

It was an attack on Ash'kelen, to take back their stronghold from a rival guild, but the assault was a failure. As soon as Gavril cast a healing spell on their Master Templar, his body convulsed uncontrollably and he sounded off a feral howl. It was throat-searing, this howl that went on and on, and at first, no one dared go near him. Not even any from the opposing guild.

Eloise was by his side in a heartbeat, summoning golden light to blanket her ailing lover. This was not something new to her eyes -- she'd seen him like this before, but not this violent. He'd always been a magnificent healer, but she supposed that came at a price. Everytime Gavril healed, he would take on parts of the most hurtful memories of the spirit he's healing. Many times, without his knowledge, Eloise had helped him with her own magic. This time is no different, she thought to herself again and again as she gathered the thrashing form of her lover into her arms.

She loved him so intensely, that she did not move away when Gavril brought up his shield and bashed the hardest side of it against her temple. She was still on the floor when Gavril did it again, howling like a fearsome beast. Gone were the colors of summer green on his eyes, replaced only by wild, untamed gold.

He brought up his shield one more time, shadowing the paralyzed form of Eloise by his feet when the old Templar brought up his warhammer, knocking the shield off Gavril's grip. As soon as his eyes met the Templar's, the raging in his mind dissipated. For a few seconds, his form took on that of the old Templar's himself, and then he was Gavril again -- breathless, his hair now a shock of white.

There had been no bloodshed that day -- both Guild Masters were aware enough not to challenge a power older than they were, and an uneasy truce was settled. Until Gavril was exiled, that is.

But Gavril cared for nothing else but Eloise. He picked her up and he walked away, not bothering to use any portal stones, he felt only compelled to walk. He thought about why, in the centuries they've been together, he'd never healed Eloise once. Now was his chance, regardless. As he disappeared from the questioning eyes of everyone in Rohan, he spread thin skin of gold onto his lover's body. He was not afraid to take on Eloise's painful memories. He knew what he would see.


The air parted in the dark cave where the two White Elves dwelt for the past seven years. It felt as if a candle had been lit, but the shadows never lifted. The couple remained asleep. The female sighed as if she were in a most pleasant dream, and perhaps she was.

The newly-arrived being floated near the female's ear and blew air into it, as one would breathe into a seashell. The effect was instantaneous -- the female died in her sleep, dreaming the sweetest of dreams.

The being of phosphorescence now moved to the male, caressing his long white hair before kissing his brow. She put her lips onto his ear, gently, but before she could let out a stream of air, the air parted once again. This time, it felt as if the sun itself had imploded. But, as with the first, the darkness never lifted. 'I pity you, sister,' said a voice, male, like the sound of dying embers.

The white spirit spoke naught a word, but she -- for it was a female -- looked up and met the eyes of the other one. That is, had the other one eyes in such pitch blackness. If it did, it would have been bi-colored, crimson and cerulean. Mad, and volatile. All these thoughts, the white spirit kept in mind, and she held her tongue.

'You would not speak, I see. It has been millennia, I grow weary of your vow of silence. Why do you not simply let the madness take over, beloved twin? Why did you have to pass on your madness to an innocent mortal Elf-Child? Do you feel no remorse for your deeds, sister?' the voice chided, although it did not hint any trace of reproach. Only... mirth. The careless elation of one who has triumphed.

'You are no different than I, sister. Eldest is no different than I. The Wind Dancer is no different than I. The Guardian of the World is no different than I. Even the Great Dragon is no different than I. We are all mad. Only I revel in it. Yes, yes, yes, yes. All-Father knew it, that is why he disappeared. Shadow-Mother knew of it, and she would not look upon us anymore. No, no, no, no, not anymore.' He was dancing and prancing around the cave now, trudging on the lifeless body of the Elf female.

The white spirit drew in the body of the Elf male close to her, as a mother would her baby. She was looking defiantly at the dancing form of one she has called brother, and she resolved not to let his touch defile her child. She put her lips near the Elf's ear.

'Eloise,' it called out weakly.

Both the white spirit and the dancing flame stopped as they watch the hands of the Elf male grope for the hands of the Elf female. 'Eloise, are you asleep?'

'She is dead,' the spirit of flame, now still, said flatly. 'Dead, dead, dead.'

'Dead?' the Elf said, as if he did not know what it meant. 'But that is good news. I feel my own death cradling me. Eloise and I will be together once more. What are you waiting for? Usher me out.'

The white spirit glared at the spirit of flame, sending him away. A cool wind encircled the walls of the cave. She put her lips on the Elf's ear, and blew.

//END

Howling Through The Night

GWEN
So what's out there? [Suzie had just been resurrected and Gwen was asking her what it was like when she died.]


SUZIE
Nothing. Just nothing.


GWEN
But... but if there's nothing, what's the point of it all?


SUZIE
This is. Driving through the dark. All these stupid tiny stuff. We're just animals howling in the night. Because it's better than silence. I used to think Torchwood, all those aliens coming to Earth. What the hell for? It's just instinct. They come here 'cos there's life, that's all. Moths around a flame. Creatures clinging together in the cold.


GWEN
So when you die, it's just--


SUZIE
Darkness.



(Torchwood, "They Keep Killing Suzie")

Breathe In

There are days when I can hear myself breathing. When that is the only thing I hear. The world is rife with noise and riotous with sounds of things living, but there are days when everything is muffled to a background, discordant beat and all I can hear is the sound of air being inhaled through my nose.

It is during these days when I am afraid to lie down, as I fear -- yes, I fear -- I may never have the strength to get up again. It is during these days when all that tethers me to the world is the thin and frail thread of words I weave in panic and desperation, and I pray -- yes, I pray -- by the memory of all who have ever loved me that this thread does not break.

My tongue wants nothing else but the taste of overcoming, but its light has all but fled from my spirit. Breathing comes at ragged and dragging intervals now, and the sound of the passage of air throbs relentlessly in my ears. My lungs strain at the burden. It is during these days when all I think of is it is only a matter of time.

Wooden Beams

In my room, there is no ceiling. When you look up, you see the roof. And before that, wooden beams criss-crossing in a skeletal framework of angles and straight lines, solid and unmoving and blackened by the decades from holding the house together. At a particular spot near the window, I know the wood is strongest. When I look up there, I see a noose, and my limp, lifeless body swaying back and forth just after my final struggling.

Through a stranger's eyes, he would see someone tall, someone with strong legs and long fingers. He would be wearing comfortable house clothes -- a white cotton shirt and pair of shorts, maybe. It would be mid-afternoon and the house would be quiet. The children would be out in school, the adults going about their business downstairs. The stranger would wonder what this person, a young adult male, would be doing at home at this hour, and not be at work.

The possibilities will be too numerous to be able to rule out just one, to be sure. But within the millions of threads would be this: at some point in this person's life, his spirit died, and his mind and body only caught up just now. At some point in this person's life, he began to feel conscious of his inadequacies, perhaps at a very young and fragile age, that this became such an intense, strong singularity -- a black hole -- that pulled everything into its gravity and left only aging, brittle flesh to exist until its cells expire. At some point in this person's life, he stopped radiating strength and meaning and purpose, and began living on what others feed into him, like a doll or a machine. At some point, he died.

It is morning now. 6:00am, Sunday. I have been mostly awake at night recently, getting sleep when the sun is out. It's been a year since I've become unemployed yet again, and still, I haven't figured out which path to take. I don't even see a path. Sometimes I would get a glimpse, like curtains parting or fog clearing, but there would always be something else keeping me from moving. Fear? Maybe. Doesn't matter. I feel like I am back to being 16, life stretching on ahead of me, but always out of reach. I think that was when I died.

I get up and open the windows, and dawn's half-light softens the colors in my room. It is always so cold at this time. I move back to my chair in front of the laptop and look outside, at the wall and the electric wires running across it -- black on grey. A particularly strong breeze blows into my room, and the flesh in my arms shiver as the chill settles on my skin. I look up at the wooden beams as the corpse sways back and forth, back and forth...

ROHAN ONLINE: To Make Three Promises

Disclaimer: Rohan Online is not mine, but YNK Interactive and -- I guess to a degree -- Level Up! Games let me use it as a playground. I am not making money out of this, so please don't sue me.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appeares,
And true plaine hearts doe in the faces rest,
Where can we finde two better hemispheares
Without sharpe North, without declining West?
What ever dyes, was not mixed equally;
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike, that none doe slacken, none can die.

John Donne, The Good-Morrow

The night was neither cold nor dark, nor was it stormy as most tales of love and tragedy and triumph usually begin. It was quite warm, this particular night. And the moonlight bathed all it touched in a silvery, smoky phosphoresence at a clearing in the Hushed Forest where Rag was lying down and dreaming. Rag was awake, by all means, but one need not be asleep to dream, as Rag is oft caught doing. He was staring intently up at the full moon, head nestled on his arms which were tucked comfortably behind his head, his entire manner radiating openness and hope to the sky above him. Rag -- in each slight movement his body makes, and in each sigh, and in each blink of his deep green eyes -- was utterly and completely in love. Never mind that he could not remember the girl's name nor the girl's face; what matters is the feeling his heart was awash with, and he deeply believed it was indeed the sweet, sweet sangria of love.

Rag has been smiling at the moon for hours now as only someone in love could, trying to think of the net, the web that has ensnared his heart. But like a beautiful song he'd heard only from far away, or a rare bloom that grew only in hidden caves behind waterfalls, thoughts of the girl were both tantalizing and elusive. He remembered dark red hair, deepening into sunsets, but cut short, reaching only the chin. He remembered eyes, brown and gentle one minute, but blackening in rage in another. He remembered lips, sweet as sin and red as wildfire. He remembered a thin, lithe body, fragile as a little girl's, but deadly as a dagger plunging into your heart. He remembered all of these things individually, but he can never quite put them together. It frustrated him, but in greater measure, it drowned him completely. And tomorrow, 'Ah, tomorrow,' he kept on whispering like a prayer or a chant, 'Tomorrow, tomorrow, something amazing happens tomorrow.' Rag looked at the back of his left hand once again for the hundredth time since lying down, at the lightly glowing Guild Crest embedded on his skin -- a small silver star on circular field of midnight blue -- and kissed it. He slept with moonlight on his face and a prayer of 'Tomorrow,' upon his lips.

( Read the rest of the story. )


Rag had always been Rag, to the urchins running around the alleyways of Lower Einhoren when he was young, to the blacksmiths and the merchants he'd always seemed to have gotten along well with, but most of all to his constantly disgruntled mother. 'Rag!' she would shout over the din of clanging metals, the afternoon market, and children at play. More often than not, he would either be at Clare's or Harold's, asking them to tell and retell him all about weapon lore or armor lore, how to temper and enchant steel, or many other things Rag's mother does not want Rag to get into. But Rag never listened, naturally. He never learned his letters and up to now he neither can read nor write, but steelcraft he understands as well as the Elves understand the Weave.

His father he never knew, nor did he ever ask of him from his mother. When Rag was even younger and his mother was still working the last few years in the brothel she's worked on her entire life, she'd oft tell stories of his father when they were still in love. 'Raguel was his name,' she'd whisper lovingly to Rag's ear before she passed out for the night, her breath smelling of smoke and stale wine, her grey eyes misted and lost, always seeming to look at something far, far away, piercing through the walls of their small wooden shack at a corner in Lower Einhoren. Perhaps it was Raguel she was seeing. During nights like this, Rag had learned to keep still and let his mother caress his hair until she loses consciousness. 'Gold, gold, spun gold,' he'd hear his mother sing softly. 'Raguel had golden hair just like yours, green eyes just like yours. Brave and bold he was, but I don't want you to be brave and bold, Rag. I want you to stay with me forever.' And then she would weep. Rag made his first promise -- to never to speak of his father again.

Eventually, Rag's mother had to leave the brothel. By the age of nine, Rag was already helping his mother with the work she'd acquired at the Consignment Center under Auguste and Badilus, sorting out wares for the adventurers from all the continents. This is where his fascination with steelcraft was borne from, seeing a variety of weapons, both melee and ranged, and even magical staves and wands. But his most earnest fascinations were swords ands daggers. From the intricacy of the hilt, the pommel, the grip, and the crossguard, to the glinting of the blade to its tip, Rag was held spellbound by everything steel had to offer.

Of course Rag's mother was serious when she said she didn't want her only son to involve himself in bravery and warfare, but it seemed nature had other ideas. Rag was built like a tree, like a house of bricks. He was tall for his age and his arms and fists looked like they could shatter boulders. His legs were lean and muscular, and he could outrun any other child in Lower Einhoren during their races. That is, if he ever participated in them. As it is, Rag's mother made sure he was kept busy by his chores, and even when he's done, he would rather run to the streets of Middle Einhoren, to Clare's or Harold's, and listen to their stories of Guardians and Defenders and all the sorts of weapons they wielded. He loved his mother fiercely and he'd do anything to make her happy, but he was also a child full of dreams. Each one of the heroes in the tale he devoured so greedily would be his father, and, making his second promise, he would wield a sword just like they did.


Rag's fourteenth summer would be his darkest. For one year, his mother had been very ill. Her body had grown weak, but it was shadowed by the weakness in her mind. 'She refuses to fight,' Rag's White Elf friend had told him. 'No matter how many times I heal her, if she does not have the will to fight this sickness on her own, she will not get better,' said she, in that perfect lukewarm combination of cold fact and warm sympathy healers tend to speak. Rag nodded, understanding. His mother had been fighting battles all her life -- with herself, the loss of Raguel, and just simply trying to survive living in Lower Einhoren.

Rag had always thought the two of them together were quite happy fighting these battles. They worked hard to the bone all day and slept late at night. During storms, they would huddle close together to keep themselves warm. Sometimes food would be scarce, but Rag had friends in Middle Einhoren and they were always happy to give him leftovers for him and her mother to share. Rag was quite contented with his life, and he thought nothing else of it. But it wasn't until his mother died that particular summer night did Rag realize how alone he was in the world. That night, as with most tales of tragedy Rag had heard from Clare and Harold, was the coldest, darkest, and stormiest night in his life.

The following morning, he made good his second promise. He approached Fers Hahnt in Upper Einhoren, and signed up to be one of the Imperial Knights. He whispered a silent prayer, asking forgiveness from the shade of his mother, but he had one intense, powerful thought that shook the foundations of his very being. He will be a Defender.


The day Rag joined the Guild, his unit of Defenders was dispatched to the Black Dragon Sanctuary. Fers Hahnt informed them that a rogue band of Half-Elves have taken root at the eastern part of the Sanctuary, and they needed to be handed over to the Firr Mercenaries as soon as they are extracted. His unit had just exited into a hallway past the cloisters, and the floor was littered by bodies of Paragons and Paragon Witchdoctors which had been nesting inside the Sanctuary ever since it had fallen into disrepair. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea letting the Half-Elves stay here, Rag thought. They'd take care of the Paragons and Serpenters infesting this once sacred ground and keep it clean. But if there is one thing Rag has learned from his five years of being with the Imperial Knights, it is that things are not as they seem. There is more to this mission than just rooting out bandits, and rogues from the free races are oft times as dangerous as the monsters they face.

The hallway they were walking on was dark -- it wasn't so much as lack of light, but a pervasive shadow that grew like wild plants through the centuries. It seemed the very shadows were alive and breathing. The Captain of their unit, a Defender probably two years Rag's elder, held aloft the torch he was carrying to fend off the oppressive darkness, sword at the ready on his other hand. His companions took their Captain's lead and readied their weapons as well. Rag felt the air thicken like syrup around him.

Without warning, torchlight was swallowed by darkness, and the weight of another person was on him, catching him off-guard and making him fall flat on his stomach. A dagger blade pressed coldly against his neck as his head was pulled back by his hair. The blade felt like a shard of ice, but the voice that followed shortly froze him even more, 'Do not make a sound,' it said in a whisper. It could have been female, but he was not sure. Judging from the silence around him, it seemed like he was either caught by himself, or his companions were on the floor as well. He could not hear sounds of struggling.

'You're part of the Imperial Knights,' the voice said once again, close to his ear. 'You have the stench of Hahnt about you.' A light chuckle. 'You must be here for the same reason we are, then.'

Female, Rag finally decided. The weight on his back wasn't that of a man's, and he thought he smelled wild blooms when the voice whispered close to his ear. He suddenly felt conscious of her body on his back, and felt blood rise to his cheeks. He thanked the Sacred Spear it was dark as pitch in the hallways.

A few more moments of uneasy silence and the form eased off from him and the dagger was withdrawn. He heard the blade being sheathed, steel sliding on leather. 'Apologies,' she said. 'You may get up now.'

Rag did so slowly and warily, and as he did, torchlight started to flicker to life once again. But this time, it wasn't their Captain who was bearing it. It was a... child. A boy, armored in light leather of midnight blue and bearing a bastard sword with a length almost equal to his height. The boy looked like he was no older than Rag the first time he joined the Imperial Knights, but it is clear he was the leader of his unit. 'It appears we have the same objective,' the boy said in a tone just a little above a whisper. Rag looked at his companions and each of them were partnered with another, in the same midnight blue as the boy's. He looked at the female beside him -- arms folded across her chest, stance confident and cocky, and listening intently to what the boy was saying. And she has the reddest hair I'd ever seen. His trance was broken when he realized the female was looking at him, one eyebrow raised and a corner of her lips upturned to a smirk. He blushed again, as he turned to listen to what the boy had to say.

Apparently, their Guild has been tracking down the rogue Half-Elves for about a turn of the moon now. Not only were they bandits -- stealing from caravans and merchants on the high road -- but they had killed as well. It would not have been as severe, but what they killed was a band of Priests and Priestesses on the road from Vena heading towards the Spire of Redemption. This information came as a shock to Rag's unit, but their Captain was immediately wary. They were told to bring the Half-Elves to the Firr Mercenaries for judgment. This Guild was here to bestow final deaths upon them, and they do not look like the type to back down. For the first time since taking up the sword, Rag could not trust his strength to carry him through, and he was worried about losing a fight. Still. The rogues have killed Priests. Taboo, even amongst the most dangerous of assassins.

'How do we know you are telling the truth?' asked our Captain.

The boy raised his left hand in response, palm turned away from the group, and a sigil glowed ever so lightly on the surface of the skin. The others from his unit followed suit, displaying the same sigil of a silver star on a midnight blue field. It was a Guild Crest Rag hasn't seen before, but the Captain and some of his companions apparently have, judging from their reactions. The Captain grudgingly put away his sword. 'We walk, then. Imperial Knights, stand down. This is out of our hands. I shall make the appropriate reports to Fers Hahnt.'

'Th... They killed Priests, Captain,' Rag said, voice trembling. Every eye was upon him, and he thought he felt a kick in his heart. He could feel the eyes of the red-haired female burning a hole on his back.

'Yes, so I've heard. We walk, Defender.' The tone in the Captain's voice left no room for argument.

Still, Rag pressed on. Every word felt like he was treading on water. 'I... I would like to stay, Captain. And fight.' His companions, if they found his statement amusing, hid it by bowing their heads. The Captain did no such thing.

'If you stay, you die. Rag, is it? I was told of your stubbornness. Strong, without a doubt, but thick as brick.'

Rag did not back down. He felt another kick in his heart. 'I would like to stay and fight, Captain. I will not die. I will go back to the Imperial Knights.'

If there was any thought in the Captain's mind that Rag was being foolish and can still be swayed, it was gone now. His face was a straight line. 'No, Defender, you will not. And seeing as how you can be foolish enough to disobey a direct order, you may stay here to die if you so wish it.' And with that, the Captain and the rest of the unit filed out of the Sanctuary, bringing the torch with them.

The hallway does not seem as dark now, however. The light from the sigils was enough to see around, even though it did not eliminate the shadows completely. To be more exact, the shadows seemed to flow less thickly around them instead of completely making them go away. Rag did not have much experience with magic, except healing from the White Elves, so he was completely fascinated by the phenomenon.

'Your Captain was right, you know,' said the boy, whom Rag did not notice was beside him. They all moved so quietly, reminding him of Dhan assassins, but they were not. At least, he felt they were not. Dhans rarely mingled with Humans, even within Guilds. And this boy was strong, he could tell. Rag felt compelled to bow before him. 'You will die before this mission is over.'

'It... It doesn't matter, Sir -- Captain -- Commander -- Sir,' Rag said almost immediately. He felt his voice crack. He was very thirsty. He looked around and saw five Humans before him. The red-haired one was the only female. She was smiling at him. He felt shamed, and near weeping, but he knew why he stayed. He smiled back at her. 'I made an oath when I took up the sword -- to protect the weak. I... I plan on carrying it out... to the death.'

The boy regarded him, not with amused, indulgent eyes like he had been used to getting from his superiors at the Imperial Knights. The boy seemed to be studying him, looking into his very soul. Rag felt like hiding from the stare, but he stood fast, bearing the weight of eyes on him. 'If you survive, I would like for you to join our Guild. Otherwise, I will have to cast a confounding spell on you.'

My eyes brightened. 'I --'

'IF you survive,' the boy interrupted, holding up a finger. He turned to the red-haired female. 'Sister Defender, brief him of our mission. One more pair of hands should not drastically alter our plans. Treat him as one from your legion.'

'At once, Brother-Commander,' she responded as a soldier would. Unexpectedly and to Rag's surprise, the female grabbed his hand and led him away from the group. He felt his heart pounding madly against his chest. She whispered once again to his ear, 'Don't you think this is going to be fun?' And they ran faster as she led him deeper into the darkness.


'My parents doted on me when I was young,' Maeve said. They were on the bed, at a cell reserved for resting in between missions. Maeve was cradled in Rag's arms. She lifted her arm straight up, fingers spread, palms towards the ceiling. Rag looked at the pattern of shadows Maeve's hand made on the wall. He reached up for it and entwined his rough fingers with Maeve's. She continued. 'I was their princess, and I grew up not wanting for anything. I should be grateful, really. They were not bad people. But I wanted adventure. I wanted swordfights and duels; I wanted to hear the song of steel on steel.'

Rag kept silent. His hand covered hers on his chest. He was conscious of the beating of his heart. He did not want to interrupt Maeve. It has been a year since he joined the Guild, and this was their first night as lovers to each other. It was his first time to be with a woman as well, and Maeve understood that vulnerability. She held his hand every moment -- slowly and first, then picking up the pace when she felt Rag was ready. In the end, the experience was wonderful for the both of them. Every nerve in their body was lit from within, and it did nothing else but affirm their love for each other.

It was Rag's attraction to Maeve that made him speak up against his Captain in the Imperial Knights in the first place, and if Brother-Commander had read that in him when they first met -- as he had no doubt he did -- then that deep attraction gave him strength to stay on in the Guild despite the many things he'd been made to do to guarantee his loyalty. And when finally, just a turn of the moon ago, he received his Guild Crest, he confessed his love for Maeve as well -- who acted as his Legion Master all throughout his period of initiation. 'Took you long enough, you big ox,' Maeve said as she jumped to embrace him in front of a questing unit in the Dolmen of Heroes, after his final mission as an initiate. Every one of their friends within the Guild cheered them on, knowing love has blossomed between the two ever since Rag first started his training.

'I spoke of it only once, my intention to join the Imperial Knights. My father sternly refused, as I'd expected. My mother kept silent. I wanted to find the proper words to tell them how much I want this -- how much I felt this path was right for me -- but they eluded me. I never spoke of it again.

'Perhaps it was because of that, that my mother started to pair me up with Knights from prominent families. Her attempt at a compromise, I suppose.' This made Maeve chuckle, and Rag could not help smiling a bit as well. He felt her warm flesh press to his side, and he felt himself stirring once again. He kissed her hand instead. 'They were all charming, to be sure. Dashing, rich, smart, and they could tell me stories of battles to fill my every hour. But they all bored me. Their stories were not what I needed.'

'Am I what you need, Maeve?' Rag asked, which he immediately regretted. It sounded foolish to his ears. Weak, needy, and childish.

Maeve nipped at his chest in response. 'You are a little boy, Raguel, son of Raguel. You may be a year older than me, but I fear I am more advanced in years than you.' Rag felt blood rise to his cheeks. No one has called him by his full name ever since his mother died. Maeve kissed him once again. 'This is what I need, I know it in my heart of hearts. A cold, small cell to rest in between missions, a gathering of one of the most powerful Guilds in the continents of which I am part of just outside that door, the smell of oiled steel and boiled leather, the endless questing on dangerous territories. And me in your arms, foolish, silly, thick-as-ox boy from Lower Einhoren.' And she bit Rag once again, this time at a little spot on his jaw. He smiled and closed his eyes, enjoying the smell of her hair.

'Do you miss your parents?'

'I do,' she said without hesitation. 'I write to them a lot, even though they never respond. And I see them whenever I can, from a distance, of course. I make sure they are safe always. I don't expect to go back to them, and I am not sure if they would like to see me... I've always seen myself dying in battle, sword in my hands and blood in my face.'

'I'll protect you,' Rag said, holding her tighter. The thought of Maeve dying was inconceivable. He will never let go of his sword as long has he is sure Maeve is safe.

'Foolish, silly boy,' Maeve chuckled yet again, as she found another spot of flesh to bite. 'I would want nothing else than to fight by the side of my beloved.'

They settled into comfortable silence for a while, just playing with each other's fingers, legs entangled with the sheets. It might have been minutes, or it might have been hours, but Rag was not conscious of the passage of time. Maeve broke the silence again. 'One thing concerns me, Rag,' she said, voice sounding uncharacteristically like a child's. 'The confounding spell. We can't see each other outside gatherings, even if we wanted to.'

'I... I've thought about it,' Rag confessed, holding Maeve's hand even tighter. 'When I was still an initiate, whenever every mission ended, a small part of me would... would be afraid, thinking of the long hours I'd have to go through lost and confused. I'd find strange, alien emotions welling up in my chest, I feel like I wanted to tear off my armor, down to my guts just so I would know where they were coming from. It hurt a lot, Maeve.' Rag paused, remembering turns and turns of the moon he spent alone in the Hushed Forest where he'd made his shelter ever since leaving the Imperial Knights -- and Einhoren. 'But then... But then I'd be with the Guild again, within the bounds of magic without the confounding spell and I'd remember, and I'd be whole again. It was the most amazing thing I'd felt back then. Each time I'd leave, that was what I would think about, Maeve. That... That something amazing would be waiting for me in the Guild. All I had to do was be stubborn and keep on getting up. Tomorrow, I'd say to myself. Tomorrow, tomorrow. My mother always said I was good at... at being stubborn.'

'I remember,' Maeve chuckled. 'It was that same stubbornness that brought you to me. Gods be damned, it made me fall in love with you.'

Maeve raised her left hand to the light and looked at her Guild Crest. As it glowed, Rag felt a prickling in his own left hand. He eased his arm off from under Maeve and looked at his own Crest -- newly embedded and glowing with fresh magic. Rag felt blessed. He knew he was where he belonged. He made his third promise -- to protect Maeve no matter what.

'It will be an hour before the gathering officially starts,' Maeve said, with little urgency in her voice.

'We have to get ready, then. The Commanders will...'

Maeve got up first, pushing Rag's form back to the bed with gentle force. She straddled his body and laughed, pinning him down by his wrists. 'Foolish, silly, little boy Rag.' She kissed him on the lips. 'My strong, beloved, stubborn Raguel.' Her brown eyes met his green ones. 'It will be an hour before the gathering officially starts.'

'Oh,' he said. And then, 'Oh,' again. And then he smiled.

//END

The Tome of Blue Flames: The Wisdom From Friends

Disclaimer: Rohan Online is not mine, but YNK Interactive and -- I guess to a degree -- Level Up! Games let me use it as a playground. I am not making money out of this, so please don't sue me. Also, the order of which the story should be read is as follows:

001 PROLOGUE: WITHOUT A NAME
002 CHAPTER 01: OF GODS AND MONSTERS
003 CHAPTER 02: AN UNLIKELY EMISSARY
004 CHAPTER 03: AN ADVENT TO SHADOWS
005 INTERMEZZO: WHITE NOISE
006 CHAPTER 04: SEEDS OF DESTRUCTION, THE BOY-AVATAR AWAKENS
007 CHAPTER 05: STORM ON THE CELESTIAL CASTLE
008 CHAPTER 06: THE PATH TO DECIMATION
009 INTERMEZZO: THE LAST PAWN
010 CHAPTER 07: EIGHT YEARS AGO
011 FINAL CHAPTER: THE WISDOM FROM FRIENDS

We are constantly at war. Gods and Monsters -- of which we are both. Divinity and mortal. It is a cruel jape, this thread the gods of Rohan has spun. Could Ohn have known of this before he disappeared? Is this why he has disappeared? Who could know, really. There are too many minds in this labyrinth, we have all but lost sight of where we came from -- and where we are headed. And perhaps it is better that way. Perhaps it is better if we merely lived life as it is, to take what we are given and make the most of it. Perhaps that is part of the wisdom I have yet to learn. I could almost laugh at the irony. I have always been proud of having undergone Severance -- being free from the shackles of Flox, believing in my own divinity. Never in the centuries that I have lived had I imagined crossing staves with myself -- and quite literally, too. I had been too proud, it seems.

"You will let me pass, Brother," a voice like mine -- but not quite like mine -- said. It was like looking upon a mirror, only the image I see is ghost-like. The paleness almost white, and the blacks are deeper than mine.

It was disconcerting, but I draw strength from one single thought: "You will not kill Alaric," I warned the specter, summoning a wall of hellish flame, wilder than I have ever summoned.

A wave of his hand and the inferno was gone. His casual impudence served only to fuel my rage. "You cannot conjure up enough flame to consume me, Zohariel. Nor can I defeat you," he said, walking towards me. "I see it now -- who I am, and what I must do. You must know it, too."

I do, to be quite honest. From the moment my staff deflected the killing blow the specter was about to deal Alaric -- no, Roha -- my mind exploded in a supernova of recognition. The specter was me. Or rather, the part of me that was taken away during the Severance. Several parts of me, as a matter of fact, as I had been reincarnated for centuries on end, going through many and many more instances of Severance, slowly and gradually building up enough power and magic until at last, it would be enough to rend the entire Weave of magic and destroy Rohan and all who dwell in it. A carefully laid-out plan by the Mad God of Blue Flames, which Roha had managed to intercept by Marea's intervention eight years past. I have been nothing else but a pawn my entire existence, and each Severance I have undergone has been nothing but empty, empty shells of what I thought were meaning. I was enraged. I released another torrent of flame to the specter that was myself.

He held out his hand and caught the river of fire. It snaked up his arms, circling his neck, his body, crawling into his mouth. "Yes, yes, Brother. Anger yourself more. It is maddening, is it not? It is intoxicating, is it not? Do you not feel the Weave bend and submit to your every thought?" His voice was melodious -- a sing-song chant to my ears, and I hear nothing else. Arcane spells lit up in my mind and my flesh was afire. At that point I consumed by pure destructive magic; I wanted to burn.

Somewhere in the chamber, I heard the crashing of steel, the pounding of rocks, and the roar of beasts. Alaric and the Guild Master, a part of my mind whispered. But it was quickly pushed away as I felt the breath of the specter on my neck. "This is what we were made for, Brother. To burn like suns and stars, to light up the Weave." And I felt the sensation of floating, of the ground falling from under my feet, of both ascending and descending. He took my hand and pointed to where Alaric and the Guild Master were crossing sword and zhen. "We must kill him, Brother. Roha. We must take the True Leaf of Ohn and cast our magic into it. Only then will All-Father awaken."

I looked at Alaric from where I was, and I felt the fire on my lips, down my tongue, and onto my throat. I remembered his insolence, deigning to walk the halls of my mind. His arrogance at appearing before me, assuming I would feel kinship towards one who was so terribly inferior. It was incredulous; it was maddening. I lifted a hand and pointed to where he was, feeling the fire singe by clothes, my skin, my bones. The pain was exquisite. For but a few seconds, Alaric's eyes met mine. "Do it," I heard my voice whisper. I released the spell.

( And a memory came unbidden. )


There is a memory I fondly keep close to my heart, although I would not admit to it. It was a few years after I have undergone Severance, just before I secluded myself in the caves of the Vortex Shore for a century of meditation. Lhyria, the Dark Elf whom I have called mother, was sitting on the bed as I awakened from slumber. Her back was to me and she was looking out the windows, into the volcanic magnificence that was Ignis. She seemed to have sensed I have awakened. She began speaking without preamble. "I was mortally afraid the night you came to me in a dream, Zohariel," she said. I could not see her face, but I knew she was weeping. I kept still.

"I had lived for a trite two centuries before then, and I was due for the Ceremony of Severance, as Arianne was. She had lived to the fullest as a Mage -- exploring the continents with her staff, meeting strange and wonderful creatures -- whilst I stayed in Ignis, within its dark spires and magical walls, afraid to step out of its protective light. I'd thought my magic was too weak, too inadequate for what was expected of me. Instead I settled into politics, as my father was. Two centuries, Arianne never tired of asking me to escape from the cage of my duties and go with her on one of her grand adventures, but I never tired of refusing, putting duty above all else. I made myself content to let her tell me the stories she has gathered throughout her journeys. I was envious, true, but I was too proud to let her know how deep my envy went. She might have known, but she understood my apprehension.

"The night before our Severance, I had a dream," and she looked at me, eyes of crimson and cerulean sparkling with dawn tears. "The Crimson Fires of Life bade me go to Sinner's Inheritance to claim you, one I have named Zohariel. And I woke up in cold sweat, although the fire was burning bright in my mind. Arianne sensed this fluctuation in the Weave and she was by my side immediately. I told her about the dream, and it confused her even more so. The Crimson Fire has never Touched a female Mage before Severance. And even then, between the two of us, I thought it was Arianne who would most likely be Touched.

"No magic, dark or light could have dispelled my fear during that night. And your name scalded my mind as magma scalded the veins of the earth." Lhyria was trembling. I put my hand over her cold, clammy ones, letting my warmth flow through her. After a while, she continued. "It was still dark when I left the manse. Arianne insisted on going with me. Ignis was cold and the night was enshrouded in sleep when we stepped out from the front portal. Arianne and I moved as ghosts would, silently making our way to Sinner's Inheritance. When we got there, your name sounded even more persistent. The lava craters bubbled with scorching heat, enough to bake mortal flesh, but the need to find you was even greater. I pressed on, even when Arianne was left at the foot of the lava basin.

"Then at last I found the source of your voice, your persistent wailing. A small lava crater furthest from where Arianne was. I knew what I had to do. I submerged both of my hands into the red-hot lava to search for the nucleus of magic that was your spirit. The smell of burnt flesh invaded my senses, but I would not pull my arms out until I found you. And when at last I did, and when at last I scooped you out from the boiling earth, and when at last I laid my eyes upon the light that was named Zohariel and breathed shape into you, I knew that I need not be afraid anymore, nor envious, nor sad. I knew that having you would be the greatest adventure I will ever have, more than what even Arianne had experienced."

She was smiling now, and tears were freely flowing down her face. "I am very proud of you, Zohariel, as your mentor, as your mother. I have seen you grow and excel in the magical arts and the manipulation of the Weave. But in the centuries that you have lived, you have always been solitary, without friends. And now you are telling me you are going to leave to be alone even more..." She held my hand even tighter. "The Crimson Fire has touched me again, Zohariel. You are going to have a sister. Her name is Amaryllis."


The flame swallowed my outsetretched arm like the jaws of a mad dragon. The specter leapt away from me just before the fire singed ghost-flesh. "What are you doing, Brother?" he shouted, voice crackling like lightning.

"My life is real," I said, more to myself than to the specter, still looking into Alaric's eyes. Therein I found the affirmation I was looking for -- that I am not a pawn of the Gods, and I am not a vagabond sailing through the winds fate blows me to. I remembered Amaryllis, my little sister. I remembered someone else who had a little sister. "And so are you."

I looked at the specter and lifted my other arm to where he was floating. "I know what I must do." I cast the same spell on my other arm -- dragon flame searing away Elven flesh, working its tendrils towards the rest of my body. I feel its urgency, the painful path it runs as every finger of fire knifes through sinew, through marrow. I was becoming pure magic, melting into the Weave. My eyes never left the specter as it watched what I was doing in mute horror. I was pleased. I flew to him as quickly as my will would allow, mentally binding him in place, stopping only as soon as we were face to face.

I understood what he was. More than a concentration of energy, of magic, he was me. It was one thing Flox forgot about when he breathed life into my spirit many a century ago -- that Dark Elves can grow to more than his own, mad image. That Dark Elves, in the centuries they spend alive, remember. And seeing as I have been alive for more than one lifetime, I remember more than I care to -- bestowing me a spirit far stronger than I give myself credit for.

My body has all but burnt away. The specter is struggling through my bonds. Without another thought, I sailed on into the stream of flame coursing through his mouth, and entered his body.


I felt a hand on my shoulder as I was kneeling in front of Alaric's lifeless body. "He has gone beyond the reach of my magic, Brother Wizard." It was the young, green-haired Priest-Seer, recently recalled into living by Brother Sage.

"And mine as well," concurred Brother Sage, standing up from Alaric's side after healing the Guild Master's injuries.

"Brother Commander shall have a King's service," said Sister Templar.

It was the best one could hope for. Roha used Alaric's body too much. Mortal flesh -- even one possessing such power as Alaric had -- could simply not sustain the divine energies of a God. Even when I had succeeded in keeping the True Leaf of Ohn away from the specter, Alaric still died. A compartment in my mind took over my faculties as they had so often done after my heart has gone past a certain level of hurting. I stood up and took the True Leaf from Alaric's cold hands. "The mission is yet to be completed. Brother Sage, Sister Warlock, please teleport Alaric and the Guild Master to the Conclave. I, Sister Templar, and Brother Priest will bear the True Leaf through the Celestial Castle."

Each nodded their assent. In but a few silent moments, the devastation of Jainus Une Roha's chambers was behind us.


In a war of Gods and Monsters, Gods belong to one side and Monsters must die. This is what I have always stood for, ever since undergoing Severance. I was at the Vortex Shore once again, the place of solitude where I have spent a century away from the few people I cared about. Lhyria, Arianne, Amaryllis. And now, one more name has been added to the drumming of my thoughts. Alaric -- he who has gone beyond the call of magic.

The wind blowing from the sea was pregnant with memories. I had to close my senses to hinder the rush of them to my mind. Names kept pounding on me like tidal waves and each second, I come undone. I clench my jaw tighter to contain the painful swelling in my chest. Thicker and thicker I lay layers and layers of steel upon my heart. Further and further the sounds of the sea flew from my mind.

The Weave hummed, prickling my skin ever so slightly. I parted my senses to see what has caused the disturbance. A billowing of gauzy cloth and the smell of spring flowers. "Zohariel," a voice said -- more in my mind rather than in my ears. I knew who it belonged to.

"You do not have to speak; I can hear the cacophony of hatred in your mind," she said -- almost sympathetically. "Eldest is now in his Forticus. He succeeded in foiling my mad twin's plans, but not in the way he wanted. He did not get to kill you and aggravate Flox further. That was a defeat, to someone like him.

And I... Flox has love for me even less now," she laughed -- a merry sound, contrasted by a thin sliver of acrid bitterness. I wanted to sympathize, but my heart has locked its exists for Monsters such as her and her kin. "I suppose I got what I was asking for."

She was silent for a time, I could not hear even a breath, but the smell of spring blossoms is still there. I turned my head to look at her. She was... plain, I could say that much. Her dress was white gauze, light and in constant movement like sea foam, draped casually on her shoulders and cinched at the hip, but otherwise ordinary. Her golden hair was long and loose and being blown by the wind as her dress was. Her face was smooth and she looked young, but there was exhaustion setting beneath the skin, lining the folds of her face -- a world-weariness one can't quite fathom. Maybe it was the way she was standing -- weight on one leg, arms folded, hands absentmindedly rubbing her elbow. She looked like a sheet of glass, spiderweb cracks slowly creeping from its center. Her fragile body was just waiting to shatter. She looked at me and smiled. Her ageless, azurite eyes letting loose one errant tear. I looked away, ashamed -- I had forgotten she could read what I was thinking.

She spoke again. "Eight years ago, Flox abandoned me. He said his plan was nearing its fruition. I felt his mirth, being his twin. But he was mad, and further and further, his heart fluttered away from me like bats in a cave. I was left deprived and void of the warmth of his flames. We spent eons together, playing and scheming and making love. His love for me was peerless, save for his love of our All-Father -- no, of power, which took hold of him completely and there was no room left for me.

"Scorned woman I was, and thoughts of hurting him lit every cell in my body. I went to Eldest in his bedchamber that evening and sent him a most vivid dream." She laughed once again. "Or maybe it was not a dream. Regardless. I told him of Flox's plan. And I sent the same dream to a particular Dekan whose thread will eventually cross yours and Alaric's. I was determined to see my twin's complete and miserable failure." A heartbeat. "And I won."

"I have nothing to say to you," I said, with a voice of glaciers.

"Nor do I expect you to speak, sweet, silent, wise Zohariel. Forgiveness is too much to ask of you, so I shall not ask. Perhaps it was my wish to lay on you the fact that Gods hurt, too. We get jealous and spiteful, and we scheme and we get enraged. And we love, too, and it is our triumph, and it is our tragedy. Our love for All-Father is too much, sometimes. His absence is a yawning emptiness in our chests. It drives us to our own little pockets of madness more often than we care to admit."

I felt her shook her head, warding off thoughts like insects. She touched my arm. "I sense that selfsame emptiness in you, Zohariel. And it burdens me even moreso to know I caused it. The Tragedy of the Seven Swords, I caused it as well. Let this one act ease your pain. Let this one who lived through the Tragedy live again."

And as the Weave shuddered at her fading, the weight of her hands on my arm was replaced by another's -- warm, and familiar. The smell of spring blossoms is gone, but summer and earth and things green and wonderful have arrived. "Let's go home," a familiar voice said. Something caught in my throat. "Rosalind might be getting worried."

//END

CREDITS (As posted in the RohanPH Forums): Finally, consummatum est. It has been quite a journey, with me clumsily walking the path as it is. I am not sure if I had mentioned this before, but Zohariel's tale was originally not meant to be this long. I am pointing a finger to Liebesgottin, one whom I had fondly grown to call my sister, for giving me that much-needed nudge when she stumbled upon my blog and read that single Rohan-related piece I have written, oh, about three months ago now. I think I will never get tired of thanking her for it.

Also, Marea and Flox, for keeping me company during the quiet evenings when my muse seems to have grown bored of my incessant whining. It was mightily amusing crossing words with divinity, passing time until my muse comes back from a night of utter debauchery and finally showing up to work on her part of the deal and getting back to work on the story.

Level Up! Games and YNK, despite the bugs, this was a wonderful, magical game, filled with rich lore anyone could easily immerse themselves into. Thank you for bringing Rohan into existence.

A deep court bow to the world of The Forgotten Realms, for letting me borrow the concept of The Weave of Magic. It is something I have always been fascinated with, indeed, it is something I even believe that exists. Reality is nothing if we do not have a world of fantasy and romance to strive for. May we all feel the magic of the Weave around us, and may we see it for what it truly is.

The Historian Trenia and the Rohan Writers Circle -- Liebesgottin, Corvinus, Fascia, Jupitress, Caffeine, Lucy, Canaris, LiloNStitch, Vesuvius, Malice (who has just recently joined us), PurpleSaint, and Elysia Silvermoon (for the Tavern, please come back) -- for fighting the good fight and keeping the love for literature and creativity alive. You all have my respect just for taking up the pen and starting to write.

Keep the fire burning!


//podialejandro 091109

The Tome of Blue Flames: Eight Years Ago

Disclaimer: Rohan Online is not mine, but YNK Interactive and -- I guess to a degree -- Level Up! Games let me use it as a playground. I am not making money out of this, so please don't sue me. Also, the order of which the story should be read is as follows:

001 PROLOGUE: WITHOUT A NAME
002 CHAPTER 01: OF GODS AND MONSTERS
003 CHAPTER 02: AN UNLIKELY EMISSARY
004 CHAPTER 03: AN ADVENT TO SHADOWS
005 INTERMEZZO: WHITE NOISE
006 CHAPTER 04: SEEDS OF DESTRUCTION, THE BOY-AVATAR AWAKENS
007 CHAPTER 05: STORM ON THE CELESTIAL CASTLE
008 CHAPTER 06: THE PATH TO DECIMATION
009 INTERMEZZO: THE LAST PAWN
010 CHAPTER 07: EIGHT YEARS AGO
011 FINAL CHAPTER: THE WISDOM FROM FRIENDS

The wind was warm and tinged with salt as it blew on my face. The merchant ship I was aboard sailed through Shamar River a few hours past noon as expected, and was about to dock at the Basin of Rebirth in but a short while. It was a rare chance sailing a ship in this place, as merchants very seldom take this route -- only when delivering supplies to the outlying bindstone. Otherwise, this area was generally avoided because of the specters and other undead lingering about -- not to mention Dhan assassins and mercenaries from less than reputable Guilds. This ship had little to worry when it came to such things, of course. I noted upon boarding two nights ago the well-armed and armored Guardians patrolling the ship's deck. They even had a Warlock on board, and couple of Priests. And then there's me, a Master of a notable Guild. But of course, the ship's captain and crew didn't know that. All they saw was an old Dekan robed in a cloak of drab with enough Crones to pay for safe passage through the waters.

I stepped off the port and walked on without looking back. I had paid my coin and that was that. I was not the type to chat about and linger. I had very few friends. One of whom I will be seeing again very soon, after years of being apart.

I surveyed the landscape as I walked. Not much has changed from when I was here last. The forests were as thick and the roads as unforgiving. My hand crept to the belt underneath my cloak to check for the hilt of my zhen, and I was satisfied to feel its worn length and grooves on my fingers. I quickened my pace and pulled my cloak closer to me despite the heat.

Eventually, I saw a pillar of blue light in the distance. The Armenes Altar Bindstone, no doubt. A figure stood up, the Bindstone Keeper. Blue robes unique to their Order billowed out about her as a particularly strong wind blew past. She looked towards my direction and raised a hand in greeting. "Well met, friend!" she called out, in perfect Draconic. I was only slightly surprised, as she did not have the blue skin my race shared. Then again, Bindstone Keepers are known to be masters of the language of all the free races -- among other things.

I raised my hands in response, indicating no ill intent. "Well met, Keeper," I greeted. As I neared, I noticed this was a new face -- not the Keeper I have known to secure this area many years ago.

"It is pleasant to see a stranger once in a while, good Dekan. The merchants and suppliers I meet are all good people, to be sure, and I welcome their company, but I have always believed that strangers are friends one has never met," she said good-naturedly.

I could not help warming to this character. I relaxed my guard. "Wise words, Keeper. It is a pity someone as kind would be left alone in a desolate place as the Basin of Rebirth," I said, surprising myself with the sincerity of my words.

"That is true, I do miss the hubbub and noise of the cities..." she said wistfully. "But my Sister Keeper, that is, the one who used to guard this bindstone, passed on, and someone had to take her place."

Judging from her tone, this had happened recently. I had heard of stories of Keepers passing on to their final deaths. Their magic, although attuned to the Weave of Rohan, is still somewhat of a different nature. As I understand it, after years of training within their Order, they become beings of pure magic themselves, although I myself am quite skeptical. But it is known that when they die, their spirits are beyond recall by any magic. Perhaps the Elves and Sages would understand this more. I am a Knight and my strength lies in the steel I wield, not in the spiritual arts. "That is unfortunate," I said, empathy lining my voice, "both for you and for your Sister Keeper."

"Indeed. But duty is our most sublime ideal, good Dekan. Peerless it has been within our Order, and peerless it shall be. I daresay not even love can equal its calling -- love, which my Sister Keeper made the mistake of pursuing." She smiled enigmatically. "I am sure you understand, being a warrior of duty."

I smiled to mask my surprise. Keepers are not to be trifled with -- not this one at least; I sensed a thread of warning underneath her otherwise friendly tone. "There is no higher honor than fulfilling one's duty, Keeper, and I intend to keep mine," I agreed, and proceeded to state my business. "I have received a summons from a friend, needing help harvesting a rare herb that is only found in this area," I explained, my mind relaying to my lips the story I had concocted in case a stranger was curious enough to ask. "He is currently waiting for me near the Altar of Armenes."

She may have believed me, or she may have not, but she was polite enough not to press further. Their power is their great triumph and tragedy -- enough to move the histories of the entire continent with but a whim, but bound by duty to serve and not interfere with the affairs of the free races. I do not envy their station. "Quite understandable. The altar of the great dragon has been overrun by a grotesquerie of demons. It would prove wise to have a strong warrior as a companion. Very well, then. I suppose you would not want to dawdle," she said sagely.

"Yes, I must be on my way. But before I depart, may I know your name, Keeper?"

"Jasmine. Yours, good Dekan?"

And my mind relayed to my lips the name I had concocted in case a stranger was curious enough to ask.

( Onward to the Altar of Armenes. )

I dismounted and unsummoned the gon I was riding a fair distance away from the Altar, deciding to walk the rest of the way and take my time to think. As I neared the vicinity of the desecrated grounds, however, I picked up the scent of a band of Devoter Assassins. Not too urgent -- I assume they were merely passing by, or they had just finished what it was they set out to do. Instinctively, I pressed myself against a wall of stone teeming with wild vines -- trusting my garb to hide me from their sight, and the vines to hide my scent. It would take but a few moments to dispatch of them, I know, but I would rather not engage them -- not here on this holiest of places.

I closed my eyes and slowed my breathing, letting my mind settle into the shallow trance I normally took when I used to go on espionage missions. It has been a long time and I thought I had forgotten, but I feel as if I'd only done this mere days ago. I allowed myself a smile as a stream of memories washed through my mind.

All too unbidden, however, came the more recent memory of why I was here now in the first place. The smile flew from my lips like a startled bird, and my mood soured. I clutched my cloak closer and tighter to me, as if to ward off any other errant thoughts. Have those damned Assassins left yet? I wondered instead. I peered through the corner and sure enough, I saw their retreating backs. I silently let out a slow stream of breath as I crept in between rocks and bushes until I got to the incline leading to the center of the Altar. Only then did I relax.

I took off the hood of my cloak and started walking up, wondering about the time when Dekans did not have to sneak about in their own holy place. No one from the free races set foot here anymore. Only the odious presence of the assassins of the Devoter clan and packs of wild drexters stand unholy vigil to this once mighty tribute to the great Armenes. This vast, round, open space had no walls and no roof -- the forests that stretch on for miles and miles, the rise and fall of the earth, and the flowing River of Shamar all encircling cradle its grounds, and the arcing sky above is as holy as the ground it blankets. So it has been for Armenes, so it will be for us.

I walk to the center where a slab of stone of what once must have been a relic to the Last Blue Dragon stood cold and neglected. I knelt on one knee and placed one blued hand to the damp, leaf-strewn ground before it -- a posture of prayer and deep reverence of all who have dwelt in glorious Rev'Deca -- and whispered a forgotten prayer in Old Draconian these grounds had not heard in perhaps hundreds of years.

"May your light shine forever," I said towards the end, as all Dekan prayers are supposed to end.

"May your light shine forever," came a familiar voice from behind. I stood up and turned to look at source of the affirmation, expecting to see a face older than the one I had at the forefront of my memory. But the surprise on my face must have been too obvious that the other Dekan couldn't help letting out a hearty laugh. It barreled into me, the suddenness of memory sharpening itself into reality before me -- apart from the armor he was wearing, the face of the laughing Dekan was no different from the one I'd known many, many years ago. He still wore his silver hair long and tied loosely at the back, just below his shoulders, and strands of it fell to his eyes. His jaw was sharp, but instead of bringing the entirety of his smooth face a stern and hard look, it only seemed to accentuate each emotion he expressed -- mirth, this time. Even the color of his armor was the same -- black on deep crimson. Then again, that has always been the color of his Guild -- that is, the Guild that he is the Master of, and the Guild I used to be a part of.

"Aristarchus," I said, managing to steady the confusion in my mind, finally, to a name.

"Old friend," he said, eyes of pure white smiling, and approached me for a loose embrace. "You have changed a lot -- trading your armor of drakescale with the deepest of blacks equal only to a thousand Rev'Decan midnights to a cloak of... of..." and he pulled away, exaggeratedly gesturing with arms spread the confusion before him, "... of this! I only hope that your love for good wine and women is still as ardent as it used to be!"

"The wine, yes. It is a bond as strong as our kinship, Aris, old friend," I smiled, finally "The women... not as much as before." I should have expected this from Aristarchus, always unchanging, always seemingly void of worry. But for all his capriciousness, he sees to his Guild as a Lord would his Keep.

He clucked his tongue at my remark and shook his head. "We have been comrades since our youths, playing at the shores of Bowstring Bay, but for the life of me, I will never understand your decision to leave my Guild in place of one so shadowy," he said, trying to sound regretful, but the smile never leaves his face. We have had this conversation a hundred times over in the past and bringing it up was moot at best, but it was comforting, in a way that a brother greets a prodigal brother. "Granted, your Guild has established a strong reputation across all the continents and throughout the histories of Rohan, but I have never trusted your predecessors. Nor have they trusted me, of course, but you know how Guild Ashmore conducts itself, do you not, --" He frowned. He cleared his throat, opened his mouth to speak, but no voice comes out. He frowned again. "Rakkhasi!" he swore. "It's that blasted confounding spell, isn't it?"

This time, it was my turn to laugh. "Yes, unfortunately. I had taken extra precautions before I left Del Lagos and I cast a derivation of the spell on myself. I will be able to interact as much as I can, save uttering my real name, but as my circle of influence departs, my presence will have been easily forgotten. Which reminds me." I produced a small amber pebble from one of my belt pockets and showed it to Aristarchus. "A Guild Stone, containing the same spell. We will be needing this for the task at hand."

The expression on Aristarchus' face at once became one of contempt, as he folded his arms across his chest. "Ah, yes, your dream." He said the last word with a sneer. He had told me it was folly, the first time I spoke with him about it three days ago -- through magical means, of course. He had known me long enough not to be swayed by dreams and the whims of fate. We happily left such notions to the Elves and Sages, finding comfort in the solid truth of steel and sinew. But it is precisely because of this that Aristarchus had agreed to meet with me. This particular dream had swayed one such as me. "Very well, follow me. I brought three of my men as I have promised. You can explain to them what you have seen, and we shall let them decide for themselves if they want to partake of this madness."

He led me to a nearby glade, a short distance off the incline opposite where I came. The three Dekans who were camped stood at our approach. Two were male, one was female, all of them armored in the same black and crimson of Guild Ashmore, all Sages, and all masters of Evolving, I sense it. "Ekaterina, Konstantin, Corvinus," Aris called as we neared; the Dekans nodded as their names were called. He gestured to my direction. "This is... a good friend of mine." And then to me, "All three joined Ashmore after your time."

I nodded back to the three before us and gestured for them to sit as Aris and I sat in front of them. I began. "Peace. I come before you humbly, as I have presented myself to your Guild Master, to request for your assistance. No doubt Aristarchus has told you that this particular mission requires the strength of spirit only Sages possess." I paused, suddenly hesitant. The one called Konstantin urged me to go on. "The Goddess Marea visited me in a dream. She showed me the ruin of all the free races in Rohan: In eight years' time, a great light will be seen from the Celestial Castle Rakhon, and that is the very last vision each living soul will witness until nothing else remains -- all to resurrect All-Father Ohn."

They were silent. Three pairs of eyes, the purest of pearls, were upon me. "What is it that we must do?" asked the one called Ekaterina. I was taken aback -- much because of the question as well as the voice that asked it. Her voice caught me by the neck, like winding threads of silver. She laughed lightly, as a nymph would in front of a satyr; her earrings sparkled in the stray afternoon sun. "Do not be surprised, Nameless One. As you have said, we are Sages. We are no strangers to the realm of dreams. You have indeed been touched by divinity, we sense it. A ruinous one, true, but the mark is there," she pointed to my chest. I glanced at what she was pointing to, but saw nothing. She shrugged and hugged her knees without another word.

"Indeed. The Gods are much like mortals, bound by fate and circumstance. Power they may possess, but immune they are not to the webs they weave for or against each other. She Who Has Fallen From Grace must have seen your thread of fate cross hers, and has called upon you now to act," said the one called Corvinus.

"I do not trust her," I confessed, unsure of my words now. I refuse to be a pawn, I wanted to say. "But I cannot turn a blind eye to what has been shown to me."

I felt a hand on my shoulder. Aristarchus, my dearest friend, my brother in all but blood. He would have done the same if he were in my skin. I drew all the strength that I could from his touch. "I say again, Brother, what is it that we must do?" he asked.

"Very well," I started. And I relayed to them how, in the dream, Marea showed me the emergence of Roha's avatar from the Caravan of the Seven Swords. This avatar must be killed before it grows to maturity and learns of its power. If this avatar were allowed to exist further, it will trigger a chain of events involving the loss of the True Leaf of Ohn from the Elven Queen Rima Regenon, the demise of a Dark Elf Wizard at the hands of his own Severed Spirit reincarnated again and again to harvest a destructive amount of magical energy, ultimately leading to the devastation in Celestial Castle Rakhon eight years hence, and the decimation of all within Rohan.

"The Caravan of Seven Swords sets out in three days from Ash Valley in Del Lagos," says Konstantin. "Queen Rima Regenon as well, from her majesty's seat in Vena. The Harvest Festival will take place in the Harbor of Ehres."

"Then that is when we must act. Two units will initiate the attack on the Caravan and two units will guard the Elven Queen's entourage."

"We kill everyone in the Caravan?" asked Ekaterina, the fins on her back bristling just a bit. Do my earrings dazzle you? she might as well have asked. Aristarchus never fails to attract those who live by the sharp edge of their zhen, it seems. My Guild may thrive on working in the shadows, but we kill only if we must. I cannot ask this of them -- the slaughter of innocents for a dream sent by the Fallen Goddess. The Conclave of the Pure most especially will vehemently oppose. Ashmore, however, has no such qualms. The reaping of lives for the greater good was the vow they took during initiation.

I nodded slightly, careful not to excite Ekaterina too much. "We cannot take any chances. No one is to be spared."

"Then one unit should be sufficient to guard the Elven Queen," suggested Aris. "Corvinus and I shall lead this unit. You, Ekaterina, and Konstantin will lead a larger unit -- preferrably Knights -- to assault the Caravan. They are mostly Human?"

"Yes. There are some Half-Elf mercenaries and quite a few Priests, but the Seven Swords themselves are mostly Human Guardians and Defenders," affirmed Konstantin.

"Excellent!" Aris exclaimed, clapping his thigh to punctuate his glee. "Then further details shall be discussed on the morrow. Tonight will be all about meat and mead, my friends! Brother of mine, we go by bindstone, and not those dreadful ships, correct?"

"I --"

"Then it is settled! Some of our men will teleport earlier than usual to various bindstones to avoid suspicion. Now, Brother," Aris said with a dangerous sparkle in his ivory eyes, "Are you not craving for fish?"


Konstantin is dead, and Ekaterina and I are struggling despite being Evolved. How can one Guardian be so... resilient? I parried a swordthrust with my claws and countered with a lunge. Blood sprayed onto my face. I sneered and doubled back, and I discovered to my chagrin that I had only managed to wound his side. I leapt and did a backward somersault to avoid the Human's arcing steel. Ekaterina, bleeding and weak as she is, took this opportunity to let out another stream of fiery breath. The Human raised his shield, but the force knocked him to the ground. Ekaterina pounced, baring her fangs, bloodied claws glinting menacingly in the moonlight. But the Guardian was too quick. He slashed upwards, sending the female dragon's left arm flying. Ekaterina's wailing was nothing like I had ever heard. The Human stood up and resumed his stance as I ran to Ekaterina's side. Surely, this must be Roha's avatar.

Just then, the throbbing of blood in my ears was pierced by a crystal clear voice, it was as if the moon itself had spoken. "Father!" it said. And the Guardian's defenses crumbled like sand. Ekaterina screamed for her kill one last time, and then there was nothing else but pure white.


It had been two turns of the moon since the passing of the incident that has been dubbed as the Tragedy of the Seven Swords. Aristarchus and I have remained in the territories of the south, drifting from tavern to tavern, gathering wisps of information, making sure no familiar names were dropped. And when at last we were satisfied any involvement of Guild Ashmore has been purged, I saw to my friend's departure. "Once again, I grieve for the loss of Ekaterina and Konstantin. They were both brave and steadfast, and loyal to their Master."

Aris waved a hand, as if to dispel a noxious smoke. "Think nothing of it, Brother. We are bound by the same vows as any other Guild is bound -- to carry out one's duty. I am sure their spirits marched on into the Great Blue as warriors." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Although I must admit, I will miss Ekaterina particularly. I have grown quite fond of her... earrings." And then he laughed.

The smell of Einhoren dusk stirs the air, and the bustle of the evening crowd is rising. As Aristarchus and I rounded a hill, the walls of the great Human city loomed before us. "It is time for us to part once again, my friend," Aris said, dismounting and unsummoning his gon. He turned to me for an embrace before he took out his Portal Stone to Rev'Deca. "The True Leaf of Ohn is safe and secret. Corvinus is honorable -- he will not tell a soul. Not you, not me." He was saying this without looking at me, just fingering the soft, smooth stone in his hand, eyes towards the reddened sky.

I turned my eyes to what he was looking at, unsure of what it could be. We were both silent for a time, letting the tumult of uncertainty pound its waves in our hearts. Already it has begun -- the True Leaf of Ohn is not in the possession of the Elven Queen anymore. All I need to find is the Dark Elf Wizard -- and Roha's avatar. As if sensing my thoughts, Aristarchus clutched my shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze. He took a step forward and looked back at me and smiled. Without words, he activated the Portal Stone and, in a heartbeat, he was gone.

I waited until the last sparks of magic dissipated and then I walked the rest of the way to my rooms in Einhoren. Since I had been recruited to this Guild, Einhoren has been my home. Without family, that is true, but still a home. Human children ran past me as I entered the gates. Hunters have just gone through with the day's game, ready to be skinned and cleaned for the evening market. The man at the Sundries whose name I can't quite remember tipped his hat to me, and I nodded in response.

I thought of making my way to Clare's shed about a dagger I had asked her to reforge when a little girl of about five summers stopped and stood in front of me, a bunch of roses in her hand. She separated one and held it out to me, "A rose for your lady, sir?"

She had dark brown hair and large, round, chestnut eyes. I smiled at her and took the red blossom. Her face was pale and her dress smelled of the smoke from forged steel. "Do you work for Clare, little one?"

"No," she said, looking at her feet. She held out her hand. "Two Crones, please."

I knelt in front of her and handed her a pouch heavy with crones. "What is your name?"

She was still looking at her feet and I had to strain to hear her speak. "Rosalind," she said.

The Tome of Blue Flames: Intermezzo (The Last Pawn)

Disclaimer: Rohan Online is not mine, but YNK Interactive and -- I guess to a degree -- Level Up! Games let me use it as a playground. I am not making money out of this, so please don't sue me. Also, the order of which the story should be read is as follows:

001 PROLOGUE: WITHOUT A NAME
002 CHAPTER 01: OF GODS AND MONSTERS
003 CHAPTER 02: AN UNLIKELY EMISSARY
004 CHAPTER 03: AN ADVENT TO SHADOWS
005 INTERMEZZO: WHITE NOISE
006 CHAPTER 04: SEEDS OF DESTRUCTION, THE BOY-AVATAR AWAKENS
007 CHAPTER 05: STORM ON THE CELESTIAL CASTLE
008 CHAPTER 06: THE PATH TO DECIMATION
009 INTERMEZZO: THE LAST PAWN
010 CHAPTER 07: EIGHT YEARS AGO
011 FINAL CHAPTER: THE WISDOM FROM FRIENDS

I awaken once again. My vision clears, like curtains parting. I smell the ember smells of dusk and twilight, of fires dying. Where am I this time? I look around, trying to pierce through the haze. It is always like this upon awakening; I wonder when I will get used to it? Then again maybe I do not have to get used to it. Maybe all this will end soon. I sense it. I taste it, like wine swirling in my mouth. Like green crackles in the Weave.

Shapes begin to sharpen amidst the haze of burgeoning night. There. A vast rocky plain, lifeless and barren. The air stirs, not from things living, but from a haunt of banshees prowling the savanna. There. A bindstone and a merchant encampment; a safe pocket in this shadowy wilderness. There. Further into the gloom, melting into the darkening sky, a lake, reflecting fragments of the rising moon. And -- ah, there. THERE. Set upon the heavens like an ancient treasure. There I must go. This emptiness in my chest craves for it -- howls for it.

I lick my cracked, dry lips. And, without knowing how I knew, I whispered its name -- reverently, and thick with longing. "The Celestial Castle Rakhon." All at once, I begin my slow, silent ascent.


Demons plague the halls of this castle at every turn. So do mercenaries and thieves from all the free races, it seems. No matter. They will not stand in my way. They will not hinder me from the one who strums the chords of my emptiness. With but a thought, I sever their ties to the physical plane and send them to their final deaths where no magic, Elven or Draconic, can bring them back.

I walk -- slowly. At each bend, at each corner, I stop and close my eyes, feeling the strings tug at what once must have been a heart. I reorient myself, breathe, and then I walk again. I do this over and over, measuring the passage of time in sure, deliberate strides.

Eventually, I come upon it -- this wave of magic crashing into me. A foot steps back to accommodate its force, but my arms welcome it. I smile -- for the first time since I had been called into being.

I hear the song of steel on steel, of the hum of magic being cast. The emptiness in my chest growls in anticipation. I clutch at it absentmindedly. I step into the chambers.

There. THERE. Beside the Dekan. He is the one. The one who has the same emptiness as I have. The one who haunts me before I lose consciousness, and the one who plagues my vision as soon as I awaken. The one who gnaws at my mind and claws at my very existence. I must go to him. I must go to him. I must kill him.

The Tome of Blue Flames: The Path to Decimation

Disclaimer: Rohan Online is not mine, but YNK Interactive and -- I guess to a degree -- Level Up! Games let me use it as a playground. I am not making money out of this, so please don't sue me. Also, the order of which the story should be read is as follows:

001 PROLOGUE: WITHOUT A NAME
002 CHAPTER 01: OF GODS AND MONSTERS
003 CHAPTER 02: AN UNLIKELY EMISSARY
004 CHAPTER 03: AN ADVENT TO SHADOWS
005 INTERMEZZO: WHITE NOISE
006 CHAPTER 04: SEEDS OF DESTRUCTION, THE BOY-AVATAR AWAKENS
007 CHAPTER 05: STORM ON THE CELESTIAL CASTLE
008 CHAPTER 06: THE PATH TO DECIMATION
009 INTERMEZZO: THE LAST PAWN
010 CHAPTER 07: EIGHT YEARS AGO
011 FINAL CHAPTER: THE WISDOM FROM FRIENDS

This is taking too much time. Jainus Une Roha is showing no signs of tiring, even after all the spells we assault him with. The Land and Fire Angels flying about the chambers are a nuisance at best, to be sure, but armadas at once can be quite vexing. And after all the destruction we have been unleashing in the chambers, Alaric still cannot locate the True Leaf of Ohn!

"It was here when the moon turned last, I am telling you!" he shouted from the other end of the chamber, dodging a jet of flame from a stray Fire Angel that might have immolated his entire left arm. Two heartbeats later, the Angel was reduced to a scattering of red light motes, Alaric's bastard sword gleaming dangerously in its wake. He ran to another corner of the chamber at once -- a corner which he had passed for the seventh time at the last counting.

"Then it is here, Brother Commander," the Evolved Sage roared in affirmation, as he unleashed a fierce stream of dragon breath on Jainus point-blank, burning the surrounding Angels as well to nonexistence. "And we simply must needs look harder."

"Perhaps it would be prudent to ask Jainus here of its whereabouts?" the Templar suggested, impatience lacing her gruff voice. She had been relentlessly pommeling the seemingly impenetrable shade with her enchanted mace, careening nimbly to and fro to avoid connecting with Jainus' own attacks, but the shade simply shrugs them off as a Giant would a gnat.

"This is getting us nowhere. Brother White Elf, how are you faring?" I asked the young green-haired Priest to the left and behind me, as I threw seven force blasts at once to push back seven Angels advancing at our direction. "Taunt!" I shout to the Sage.

I did not get a response from the Priest so I spared a glance at his direction to make sure he was still alive, executing arcane passes into the air at the same time with my free hand for the next offensive spell. He was standing, thank the Blue Flames, although he looked terribly exhausted, chest heaving and sword-arm hardly steady from the effort of healing all of us and recently resurrecting our Sister Warlock. He did manage a nod, so that will do. Alaric should have chosen a more veteran Priest for our Squadron, I thought, as I released my spell, charring the seven Angels. This stripling youth looks like he'd just been initiated to Priesthood.

"Apologies, Brother Wizard," the Warlock said, panting, taking her place once again beside me. "But it felt like my own spell backfired when I aimed at Jainus. The True Leaf must indeed be here." She started casting strengthening spells on herself once more.

( And the Weave sang an arcane melody. )

Alaric was now almost behind us when he heard our Sister Warlock's remark. "Hah! You see?" he exclaimed to no one in particular, punctuating his glee with a somersault. "I am sure it is here!"

"Brother Commander might be right..." our Sister Templar said, through gritted teeth. She just barely managed to swerve right out of the path of Jainus' force blast mere moments after she landed a devastating hit with her mace -- which, judging from the shock it sent to the Weave -- should have cleaved the shade in several parts. "... I have been hitting Jainus with everything I have, but he just. Won't. DIE!" she grunted, punctuating each word with a strike.

"Steady your blows, Sister Templar. The fluctuations of the Weave do indicate the presence of the True Leaf within the chamber," the Sage growled as clearly as his reptilian tongue would allow, clawed hand flaying the throat of the nearest Angel. "We need not aggravate it further."

Aggravate seems to be just about right. Every time we manage to land a blow on Jainus Une Roha, the Weave itself seems to crackle in pain. I myself had to keep from attacking Jainus lest my staff breaks from the force of the magical recoil. Still, fending off Angels will accomplish nothing. I studied Jainus from where I stood to look for a possible weakness. His shade was towering, almost reaching to the chamber's ceiling. He was supposed to have been Human when he was alive, but any resonance of his Humanity had been lost in the Weave -- most probably due to centuries spent in the spiritual plane. He has evolved to become a formidable spirit, growing not only in size, but sprouting wings as well, which means having a seat in the upper hierarchies of the undead. Still, something is amiss in the vibrations he emanates...

And then we heard it. A blood-curdling wail from what might have been the shade's mouth. Sister Templar and Brother Sage jumped back from Jainus in surprise, taking the defensive. "Squadron, to me!" Alaric shouted. We rushed to his side right away.

"My... treasures..." the shade's lamentation was like daggers in the air itself. "... keep... away!" Jainus released a force so powerful, it felt as if a pillar of steel rammed me on the chest. I managed to stay aright and I gripped my staff tightly as I conjured a magical barrier to deflect whatever energy it was hammering at me. The Angels inside the chamber were completely vaporized in yellow and red pinpoints of light, like a million dying fireflies.

"The Weave!" someone shouted. The Weave! my mind roared. It was unraveling from where Jainus was standing!

"No!" White cloak and green hair elbowed past me -- the young Priest shot his arms out in front of him, shield and sword all but forgotten at his feet, and released a torrent of golden light from his outstretched fingers.

I looked at him, aghast. He does not mean to heal the Weave all by himself? I had forgotten how much more sensitive the White Elves are to the different fluctuations of the Weave than us Dark Elves. While our magic invokes its nature for outward change, movement, and destruction, White Elves channel its more inward energies of healing, balance, and temperance. This violent rending of the Weave must be excruciating, especially for a young Priest.

I extended the barrier to encompass all six of us, with my Sister Warlock lending her strength. Sister Templar harrumphed and positioned her muscular heft beside the young Priest, slamming the head of her mace to the ground in front of her. "Do not be foolish, stripling. I may be Templar, but it has only been mere centuries when I was once a White Mage, too." She placed her free hand on the now-knelt Priest's shoulder and let her energies flow into him. He looked at her gratefully, his face a rictus of pain and fear. She remained stone-still.

"Then I shall do my part as well, for I have magics similar to yours," said Brother Sage, now back to his humanoid form. He transferred his zhen to his other hand, placed his free palm on the young Priest's other shoulder, and initiated the flow of golden energy.

Alaric saw it first. "There!" he pointed, eyes gleaming as a child might, finding a shooting star.

I looked at the direction his finger was pointing to, and I saw it. A tiny green flicker, fighting against greys and blacks and dark purples. The True Leaf of Ohn. "Oh," I think I said, after a while. Inside what might have been Jainus Une Roha's abdomen.


"You cannot mean to do what I think you mean to do, Alaric!" I whispered sharply as Alaric and I ran past another one of Jainus' force blasts.

"I do not mean to do what you think I mean to do, Zohariel!" he said just as quickly. "Shield!"

I cursed under my breath for letting the shield expire prematurely. A few moments of quiet concentration, and it was up again. "Stay near me!" I hissed, as he jumped to slash at Jainus once more, keeping the shade's attention to the both of us while our comrades focused on keeping the ambient Weave stable. By the Blue Flames, I pray the rest of the Celestial Castle is still normal. There were too many demons here to be made insane by the True Leaf's power.

"Please tell me there is a choice, Brother," Alaric said as he leapt back to my side. We broke into a run at once, frustration fueling my limbs. Dark Elf minds are not suited to being driven into a corner. We always had a choice. But I could not think of any other way to retrieve the True Leaf other than defeating Jainus.

All of a sudden, a cold finger snaked up my spine. I knew who it was without looking. "Roha."

"Well met, Zohariel," Alaric -- no, Roha said. The voice was still the boy-commander's, but there was an undeniable chill in between words, like the tendrils of thin ice. I darted a look at our comrades to see if they'd noticed. "They are unaware of my presence. The Weave is too unstable near the periphery of Jainus, even a simple cantrip can be perceived as a shockwave of power. No, they would rather focus on healing it."

"And they are healing it considerably fast. In a few moments, your masquerade will be forfeit."

He spat on the ground. "Then I will just have to eliminate them," he said, a little too casually for my tastes. I have little doubt he means to do it.

Jainus was on a rampage, being at a disadvantage. He was too large and towering to move quickly against two small targets. And it appears the surrounding Weave is adversely affecting him as well. The True Leaf might have bolstered his spiritual energies, but he has not enough knowledge nor sentience to use it properly. His attacks were devastating, but clumsy and poorly aimed.

"I sense Flox's hand in this," Roha muttered as he brought up Alaric's bastard sword to strike the shade once more. "Presumptuous ghost, deigning to use my name!" And then he slashed down, raw strength and power free from any magical aid weighed the length of the wide, steel blade, threatening to cut a wide swath on the fabric of reality itself. Cracked earth flew in all directions as the walls of the large chamber quaked in response to the force of impact of the heavy sword. There was a sound, a sorrowful wail, which might have been Jainus, or it might have been the Weave, but it lasted for only a few heartbeats and it was gone.

I managed to raise a wall of fire just in time to burn any errant stone in my periphery -- which I was about to extend to my comrades but I was pleased to see our Sister Warlock had done the same. The healing of the Weave is almost about complete, its threads hum with less electricity on my staff and on my fingers. I looked at the spot where Roha brought down Alaric's sword and walked over, but not without some degree of caution.

"It is finished," Roha said breathlessly. He turned around, and hovering on the palm of his left hand was the True Leaf of Ohn. At the same time, the ambient Weave healed completely, fluctuating at irregular intervals around the Leaf, but otherwise intact.

"What is the meaning of this?" My head snapped to look at the source of the voice. Sister Templar was advancing, mace in hand, anger rising. "Brother Commander! No -- ROHA!"

A breath, a spell, and I was between them. I held my staff in front of me, barring Sister Templar's path. "Stand down, Sister. The mission is yet to be completed. We must bring the Leaf to the Conclave at once," I spared a sidelong glance at Roha. "Roha will not harm us."

"Have your senses left you, Brother Wizard?! You are standing before Roha -- who bears the True Leaf of Ohn, no less! Move, or I will strike you down where you stand."

"Brother Wizard, you had best explain." It was Brother Sage, voice as cold as the glint of his zhen. "It is undeniable the one before us is Roha. Until you shed light on this matter, I stand with Sister Templar."

"As do I," concurred Sister Warlock, placing herself beside Brother Sage, reflecting cold wrath on her crimson-cerulean eyes.

I looked at the young Priest, waiting for his words affirming to stand by our comrades. He looked exhausted has he took up his longsword and shield. His deep azurean eyes met mine. "I saw this as if in a dream mere moments ago," his voice was weak, seemingly made of smoke, threatening to fade into the air. "The Weave spoke with me as we were healing it." He made his slow walk towards me. "Brother, you will die."

I made to lift my free hand as he approached to push him away, but he caught my wrist first. "You will die," he insisted. But there was no urgency in it, no alarm, and no comfort. It was fact, like it was written in the annals of some ancient Elven history book, and that was that. The sun is warm; the moon is silver; I will die.

His face turned towards our comrades as soon as he was satisfied I understood, "And we shall remember naught of the events here." His face returned to me -- no, past me -- to Roha. "And you, Brother Commander, Roha, will return to the Firmament, to the place of your siblings, a victor, after all of this has ended. But the light of All-Father Ohn will be no more nearer as when all the madness started during the Purge."

He let go of me and started walking towards Roha -- where his body met unyielding, unforgiving steel. He exhaled one last breath, and then he died. "What were you thinking, Alaric, bringing an Elven seer within my presence?" Roha said. He withdrew the bloodied sword from the young Priest's lifeless flesh and spat, letting the corpse fall soundlessly to the ground. The True Leaf glinted a cold and ominous green light on his hands. "If any of you would like to meet the same fate, come at me. All at the same time, if you so wish it," he challenged the others.

"ENOUGH!" A new voice boomed. All heads turned to the entrance of the chamber.

"Guild Master," Brother Sage said for all of us.

"Brother Sage, Sister Templar, Sister Warlock, to me!" he commanded. All at once, the three who were summoned were at his side. The Dekan Guild Master produced a round, amber-coloured stone from a pouch slung on his belt and crushed it while whispering an incantation. The three soldiers at his side were suddenly engulfed within pillars of muted gold, rendering them as still as statues. A concentrated confounding spell. Once done, he walked towards me and Roha.

"Brother Zohariel," he said to me, not unkindly, "You will forgive me if I let you keep the memories of this event fresh in your mind. The part you are yet to play in this farce is most important and you will need complete control of your faculties if you are to play it out well."

It was intended to give me comfort, I saw it in the Guild Master's eyes, but I felt only sickening revulsion -- the darkening of my heart from the web of secrets and deceit clinging to me. "With all due respect, Guild Master," I started, "I understand that the fate of all the free races depends on the success of this mission, but..." But I refuse to be a pawn, I wanted to say. Even if saying it out loud affirmed it even more so.

"No, Brother Zohariel," the Guild Master raised a blue-skinned hand. "The fate of all the free races depends on you, and the decision you will be faced with. Now," he turned to Roha. "Alaric, whom I have cared for, for eight years, as my son. Take control of your body -- the success of this mission has been too long delayed."

"Your words do not reach the mind of this vessel, Dekan," Roha said, eyes burning with hatred and contempt. "Nor do they matter, whatever they may be, for by being here, your death has been all but ascertained. Zohariel and Alaric are mine; your demise is inconsequential."

"Perhaps. I care not, truly. It appears Marea had not been lying when, eight years past, she said you will descend, take the True Leaf of Ohn, and kill a certain Dark Elf to thwart Flox's mad plans -- that is, the genocide of all the free races for the resurrection of All-Father Ohn." In slow, deliberate motions, the Guild Master unclasped a blackened rod from his belt, lined with red glyphs on its two ends. I sensed the Weave vibrate the very air around it as the Guild Master held the instrument in front of him. Slowly, spikes of enchanted metal grew from the opposite ends, like a dragon awakening from a long, deep slumber. The fangs of the ancient zhen -- now completely extended -- glinted evilly as it caught light. "I can never resolve whether I should regret not killing you during the assault on the Caravan of the Seven Swords, or I should regret not training your will to be strong enough for you to wrest complete control over your own body.

"It falls not on me now to do what I have failed to do, for there is one last pawn in this war of gods and monsters. Relinquish the True Leaf of Ohn, or not. It matters little." The Guild Master's eyes were a shock of pure white. Soulless, and cold. "He approaches, the executioner of us all."

Amnesiate

Rarely do I go spelunking in the dark, dusty, cavernous archives of my blog, but when someone else does -- and brings back unsavory remains of things dead and decaying -- I am compelled to put on my rubber gloves and do some serious spring cleaning.

I have been keeping journals for as long as I can remember. The whole lot of them in notebooks which I do not have anymore. In the advent of the Internet, I started jotting down my thoughts in the vacuum of cyberspace. Unlike notebooks, however, these do not get lost easily, and are readily accessible with but a few magical mouse-clicks. This may be a good thing for some -- and for most of us, this is NOT. Especially when one goes through a period in one's life which, oh, let's call it the Dark Ages. Unfortunately for me, a few remnants of my Dark Ages managed to seep through the Internet before I completely broke away from it, circa 2001-2002. And now that a friend of mine has most graciously pointed it out, I am finally purging myself of them. Thank the cosmos forgetting is just as easy with, again, but a few magical mouse-clicks.

To fragments of who I was -- fragments I grind to dust and cast into the wind -- I bid a most sincere adieu. Cross into the light, be at peace, and may you never come back to bite me in the ass.

The Tome of Blue Flames: Storm on the Celestial Castle

Disclaimer: Rohan Online is not mine, but YNK Interactive and -- I guess to a degree -- Level Up! Games let me use it as a playground. I am not making money out of this, so please don't sue me. Also, the order of which the story should be read is as follows:

001 PROLOGUE: WITHOUT A NAME
002 CHAPTER 01: OF GODS AND MONSTERS
003 CHAPTER 02: AN UNLIKELY EMISSARY
004 CHAPTER 03: AN ADVENT TO SHADOWS
005 INTERMEZZO: WHITE NOISE
006 CHAPTER 04: SEEDS OF DESTRUCTION, THE BOY-AVATAR AWAKENS
007 CHAPTER 05: STORM ON THE CELESTIAL CASTLE
008 CHAPTER 06: THE PATH TO DECIMATION
009 INTERMEZZO: THE LAST PAWN
010 CHAPTER 07: EIGHT YEARS AGO
011 FINAL CHAPTER: THE WISDOM FROM FRIENDS

"I gathered the dead and burned them. Peering into their fear-burnt and lifeless faces, all I could think of was the paralyzing void of loss. There was nothing else in my heart. These people had families, people who loved them waiting for them somewhere. The overwhelming sense of it was packed tight into my 11-year old body. I could only imagine how Rosalind must have felt.

"I buried our parents last. Our father's sword, I laid on his chest; our mother seemingly asleep beside him. Her face was immaculate. Their bodies and faces both seemed to say they were ready to cross the veil. I was carrying Rosalind as I lit the pyre. She was silent now, her hands cold and numb, no doubt mirroring the chill in her heart. We stayed where we were until there was nothing but ash."

Alaric was looking at his feet, head reclined on the back of the couch, empty goblet of wine twirling on his hands. His eyes looked more distant than sad, as if he were reading himself a story from a book. He placed the goblet back on the table, let out a sigh, smiled, and looked at me. "Nothing much happened after that. My sister and I never returned to Ash Valley. We never went to Ehres Harbor either. We took a path and walked straight on it without looking back, living off the land. With my newfound strength and endurance, I could walk on for miles without needing food. Hunting game for my sister was not that difficult, and I almost never slept, watching over her during the night.

"Eventually, the path we were on led us to Einhoren. It must have been five days since the Festival, but the town was still talking about the devastation that happened at the Tranquil Forest. Me and my sister never said a word about it. Instead, I tried looking for honest work -- from the smallest fetching duties to apprenticing for one of the minor blacksmiths.

"It wasn't long before the Guild Master found me. Of course, I didn't know it at that time. All I knew was he was an old Dekan with the bearing of a hardened warrior and a battle light that reminded me somewhat of my father. He said he sensed an unusual resonation of power within me, offering not only to take me under his tutelage, but a roof for both me and my sister as well. I agreed right on the spot. By the following summer, I was elevated to Commander status, with Einhoren as my jurisdiction."

"And here you are," I said, with a slight flourish of the hand, reflecting his smile.

He mock-bowed. "And here I am. So..." his own smile widened, "... friendship?" and held out his hand.

I regarded it with an amused, if slightly bored, expression. I looked at his face again, fingers poised under my chin, feigning deep thought. I let him hold his breath for a while, and without warning, I stood up. "It is late," I declared. "You shall stay for supper, and I shall have the servant golems prepare your rooms for you." I started to walk to the door, expecting him to follow. "Your horse, if you have one, shall be tended to as well, and will be ready until your departure at daybreak."

I never saw the playful way he skipped off the couch, nor the victorious grin he had as we exited into the hallway and teleported to the dining hall. I smiled, despite myself.

( Seven days have passed. )


The entire guild was called into assembly once again seven days after Alaric's visit to the manse. This gathering was held deep in an underground crypt carved into a particularly grim hillock at the fringes of the Enraged Netherworld in Dharvegawan. Tribes of Serpenters and hordes of Flame Spites prowled relentlessly at every peak and valley that I thought this meeting must be of some significance for the Guild Master to select such a daunting region in the continent.

It came as a surprise, then, as I finished descending the stone steps of the cavern, to see a wide, sprawling space open up before me. What must have been a dark, dank grotto mere hours ago had been magically altered and ploughed into a broad, yawning subterranean amphitheater. Along the perimeter and lining each tier down to the central arena ran countless glyphs, each glowing the distinct mana-blue of the Weave. My staff hummed ever so slightly in the thick layers of magic. I tried to look through the phosphorescent gloom, and surely enough, situated on each of the four directions at the topmost tier was an exceptionally powerful Dark Elf lending strength to stabilize the underground structure. Never before had this much been done during past guild gatherings.

A young White Elf novice -- no doubt from another lesser guild -- greeted me as I was drinking in the meticulous architecture. I showed him the back of my left hand, guild crest burning a low thrum on my skin, displaying my rank and tenure. He bowed in clumsy deference and silently guided me down a length of stone stairway to my appointed place, uttering not a peep.

I turned my attention back to my surroundings. The amphitheater was almost filled. Around three hundred in attendance hailing from all the free races -- most were Human, some of which were probably Dhan; there was a smattering of blue skin, indicating Dekans; Half-Elves in one place, sticking to their own as usual; and White and Dark Elves moving as they please all over the space.

The White Elf novice I was following pointed me to a vacant seat a few tiers above the center, and ran back up the stairs before I could express my thanks. I nodded to my guild brothers and sisters sitting beside me, and as soon as I was settled, I resumed my scanning of the place. My eyes settled on the section directly opposite from where I sat. The Conclave of the Pure formed a rough crescent on two tiers -- their white, gauzy robes lightly illuminated by the mana-blue of the surrounding glyphs drawing most of the attention in the crowd. Directly a rung below them sat the ten Guild Commanders, armored all in light leather of deep midnight blue. Alaric was among them, of course, looking right at me -- his fingers forming a steeple and his gaze square and unsettling. I couldn't dispel it even if I tried, so I nodded to his direction instead, hoping that would break his stone-like concentration. It didn't. I sighed.

A few more moments of discomfort under Alaric's intense scrutiny and the entire assembly fell into a hush. From the central arena arcade emerged our Dekan Guild Master, armored in the same midnight blue as his commanders, but with a long, flowing, dark cloak clasped by silver stars on his shoulder guard. Beside him, and what must have been the reason for all the fanfare, was the White Elven Queen Sovereign, Rima Regenon. She seemed to glide rather than walk in her long gown of vivid lilac lined with gold that spilled and trailed on the ground behind her. Her sun-spun yellow hair was tied at an elaborate knot atop her head, leaving a cascade of white-gold locks tumbling down her bare shoulders and the small of her back.

There was an audible gasp followed by a stream of whisperings, very much like trees in a passing wind, rustling across the vast space as the two individuals -- each radiating their unique brand of eminence -- regarded their audience. The Conclave of the Pure stood at attention and raised their wands. From each tip emerged an orb of eldritch light which floated like wisps, and proceeded to line the narrow path as the resplendent Queen and the ancient Guild Master walked from the mouth of the arcade to the raised dais at the center of the arena.

The murmurs died down as the Guild Master raised his blue-skinned hand. "Peace, Brothers. Peace, Sisters," he announced with a voice that seemed to resonate from the stone walls themselves -- a voice in stark contrast to his age. "I have called on all of you today as a matter of great import. For nearly eight years, a unit being led by one of our Guild Commanders has been tasked to locate an artifact stolen from the Queen Sovereign, Rima Regenon. I am sure most of you recall, with great weight in your heart, the tragedy that befell the Caravan of the Seven Swords at the clearing of the Tranquil Forest eight years ago."

My limbs tensed at the mention of a caravan, causing me to look at Alaric and how he was receiving the news. His eyes were away from me this time, and he was focused on the Guild Master and the Elven Queen on the dais, face devoid of any expression. A slight chill crept up my spine as I sensed Roha's shadow within him.

The Master's voice broke me from my trance. "The same band of rogue demons ambushed the Queen's entourage on their way to the Harbor of Ehres and stole from her very hands one of her badges of office -- the True Leaf of Ohn." At the mention of the name of the artifact, the Conclave of the Pure as well as the other Elven Templars and Priests in attendance reacted as one -- that of fear and disbelief. The White Elf novice who assisted me prior was now holding on to the railing at the edge of the tier, trying not to buckle on his knees.

The regal Queen raised both her hands. She began to speak. "Hush, sons and daughters, for all is as yet balanced." Her voice is strong and clear, like the ringing of a bell at dawn's first light. Her bearing and the command she has over her dominion remind me of His Grand Majesty George Lyonan. While our Grand Majesty inwardly compels deference and absolute obedience, this White Queen radiates loyalty and respect in an outward force. "For eight years this matter has been shadowed from the entire continent, fearing its revelation to spark anarchy and the shattering of the fragile peace between all the free races which we have all worked hard to attain. For eight years, I have worked tirelessly with your Guild Master..." and she looked at him with eyes so tender, pressed her hand to his, and gave him a grateful smile, "... my friend, and the only Guild -- with its ancient roots and secret traditions -- I would entrust my life, into locating the True Leaf. For eight years, my heart ached to tell my children of the suffering I bore, precariously maintaining the balance of power with my own connection to the Weave... NO MORE!

"For we have found it." Relief illuminated her face and flooded her voice. She seemed almost about to weep.

The Master patted her hand that wouldn't let go of his and spoke in her place. "The artifact has indeed been found," he said with mounting pride. "The Commander in charge of the mission has reported that the True Leaf of Ohn is at the chambers of a powerful shade -- the shade of Jainus Une Roha -- somewhere in the third dungeon of Celestial Castle Rakhon." The derelict castle floating near and above the Limestone Foothill Bindstone in Varvylon, which the Wind Goddess Silva ransacked and claimed as her mortal nest during The Purge. It has since become a grotesquerie for all manners of demons, apart from being a source for all sorts of wondrous and magical artifacts.

He let this information sink in before he continued, as he at the same time reverted to the commanding air of a venerable Guild Master. "The Commanders have been briefed as to how the retrieval of this artifact will be executed. Your guild crests will signify which Commander you will report to. By dusk, the Dark Elves tasked with teleportation shall move their corresponding units to their respective locations in and around the Celestial Castle. Your Commanders will explain the details before we depart." And with that, the Guild Master bowed to the assembly and led the Queen Sovereign, now beaming with open gladness and anticipation, off the dais and back into the interiors of the arcade.

If my estimations were correct, we still had two hours before nightfall. The preliminary briefing might have been short, but assembling the troops would take more time. The Commanders stood and positioned themselves on each of the ten arcade openings at the perimeter of the circular arena, their crests visible and radiating a unique hue.

Each of the assembled checked their left hand for the particular color it displayed. Mine was yellow. I looked at Alaric's direction first out of habit -- which annoyed me for but a quick moment -- and saw him slightly and casually tilt his left hand to my direction without looking at me. Naturally, I thought, rolling my eyes. Yellow. I stood up and walked over to where he was, as the others started heading to their own assigned Commander.


"The third dungeon of Rakhon," Alaric announced to the thirty individuals he commanded. He seemed taller somewhat, his armor gleaming and his bastard sword at his side. "Squadrons Leaders, be at the ready! At my signal, each squadron will head out one at a time, in five-minute intervals, and proceed as quickly as they can to their assigned locations. Once again, no one is to engage any individual within the dungeon! Your primary task is to herd anyone from the free races out of harm's way and away from the path the Retrieval Squadron will take after they have acquired the True Leaf." He paused to look at each of the five squadron leaders too see if they understood.

Before the entire assembly left the subterranean amphitheater, the Guild Master once again took the dais. He stressed the importance of keeping the mission as covert as is possible. No doubt there will be other groups and other guilds within every part of Rakhon, and the most crucial part of the mission is to keep the magic of the True Leaf of Ohn from disrupting the ambient Weave. "As the True Leaf cannot be transported by any ordinary magical means, we must bear it in the physical plane until outside the Celestial Castle at a secluded clearing in Limestone Foothill, where the Conclave of the Pure will be waiting. Until then, White and Dark Elves, we must keep the Weave as stable as we can at all times. Other guilds present in the dungeon should not be made aware of its presence, not only because it will compromise our mission, but it will also cause a terrible imbalance in all of the continents."

Those same words Alaric repeated. I looked at the entire group as he was speaking, and I noted with satisfaction that I was not the only one being awed by Alaric's presence. Each face from all the free races was turned to this boy-child, and each was undeniably limned with respect for his words and capabilities. This mission will not fail, I thought, and I believed it.

"Squadron Leaders! Your guild crests will signal you of the status of the mission." Alaric's own crest flashed bright gold. "The other Commanders are in place. First Squadron, cast your spells now."

A group of six nearest the entrance started doing so, and I felt the ambient Weave sing in response to their incantations. I can feel my staff's urgency to join in the chorus, but I exerted my will and managed to hold it in check. A stern-looking female White Elf Templar, whom I assume is the leader, finished casting her spells and walked to the entrance of the dungeon followed by the rest of her squadron -- a Priest, a Warlock, an Evolved female Sage, a Ranger, and a Predator. The Templar looked to Alaric for his command, and as soon as Alaric nodded, the first squadron was on their way.

"She's a serious one, isn't she?" Alaric whispered to me as he stepped off from the platform he was standing on. I nodded in agreement. She had the fierce look of a leader. "Quite the opposite in my private chambers, I assure you."

I am not one to let my emotions parade openly on my face, but that remark took me completely by surprise. "'I have nothing but utmost respect to the guild's traditions,' who said that again?"

"I also said that as a Commander, we are permitted certain privileges," he deflected easily, grinning his usual little boy grin. "Besides, it was during one of the previous guild gatherings. I would not be able to penetrate the guild's powerful confounding spell if it were any other time or place. And she did not permit me the honor of knowing her name," he said, almost disappointedly.

I sighed and conceded. For all my trepidation, Alaric was very charming for a Human. Not that I've had many conversations with a lot of them in the centuries of my life. And with this level of familiarity, too. "I'm supposing you had a little help breaking through the confounding spell in finding my whereabouts, then?"

"Guilty. I am able to tap into some degree of power from being Roha's avatar, but I am careful not to utilize it too much as it takes a toll on me... physically." He turned back to the assembly. "Second Squadron, cast your spells!"

This time, a Human Defender led the group. A Human female followed him, also a Defender, then a Ranger, a female Wizard, and a Priest. "Lovers," Alaric whispered once again, indicating the two Defenders. "Tragic they can only be with each other during guild gatherings. Sympathy I normally would not have felt until I met you took hold of me and I decided to put them in the same squadron."

Once again the intrusion in my psyche. My grip on my staff tightened. I will not have any of it. "With all due respect, Brother Commander, I would request that this dissection of my innermost thoughts be ceased."

He looked at me with a curious expression, blinked twice, and turned his attention back to the squadron. He nodded, and they were off. We both remained in an uneasy silence for quite some time until the third squadron left and the fourth was casting their spells. "Fourth Squadron Leader," he called to an Avenger. "Your group is to stay near the entrance, making sure the transport portal to the second level of Rakhon is clear." The Avenger nodded and proceeded back to his squadron.

Alaric turned his attention to the four who were left -- a female Warlock, a Priest, a female Templar, and a Sage -- all with significant control over the Weave. "Retrieval Squadron, to me!" As soon as he was sure our attention was focused on him, he began. "To be quite honest, I would rather have the shade of Jainus Une Roha not be present when we get to his chambers. I have faced him once, and his spirit is not to be trifled with." I most sincerely doubt this. With his power, he could crush Jainus Une Roha with a thought. But projecting himself as an ordinary Human with ordinary vulnerabilities might work to his advantage and wrest more control over the group. "But if he is there, then that is why we are soldiers.

"Remember, however, that our mission is the retrieval of the True Leaf, and not to defeat Jainus. We shall remain in the defensive if he attacks first, but we focus on bearing the True Leaf safely, apart from maintaining the stability of the ambient Weave. While the True Leaf is in our possession, any spell might be disrupted or it might be cast the wrong way, so be wary." He turned to face the dark, foreboding hallways of the dungeon. "Cast your spells," he said, just a little above a whisper.

All at once, I felt the power of the Weave surge into me like a raging river as my own spells, as well as that of my companions, took hold. I felt my senses heightened and sharpened, and saw and heard things that weren't there before; ancient incantations of power were made clear in my mind; and the very energies of the cosmos coalesced in every nerve in my body, ready to be tapped into at my whim. My staff hummed, hungry in my hands. It was thrilling and intoxicating, enough to drive any ordinary mortal mad. I spared a few seconds to thank the Weave for the centuries of meditative discipline I undertook.

I never noticed when Alaric sidled himself beside me and whispered, "You guard your heart well, Zohariel, but your sister was right. You have yet to know the wisdom from being with friends." And before I could snap back, he was dashing off into the darkness, his laughter an odd, merry echo bouncing off the desolate walls of the dungeon. I darted forward with my companions and smiled, despite myself.

The Tome of Blue Flames: Seeds of Destruction, the Boy-Avatar Awakens

Disclaimer: Rohan Online is not mine, but YNK Interactive and -- I guess to a degree -- Level Up! Games let me use it as a playground. I am not making money out of this, so please don't sue me. Also, the order of which the story should be read is as follows:

001 PROLOGUE: WITHOUT A NAME
002 CHAPTER 01: OF GODS AND MONSTERS
003 CHAPTER 02: AN UNLIKELY EMISSARY
004 CHAPTER 03: AN ADVENT TO SHADOWS
005 INTERMEZZO: WHITE NOISE
006 CHAPTER 04: SEEDS OF DESTRUCTION, THE BOY-AVATAR AWAKENS
007 CHAPTER 05: STORM ON THE CELESTIAL CASTLE
008 CHAPTER 06: THE PATH TO DECIMATION
009 INTERMEZZO: THE LAST PAWN
010 CHAPTER 07: EIGHT YEARS AGO
011 FINAL CHAPTER: THE WISDOM FROM FRIENDS

A fortnight had passed since the siege at Siemech. Naturally, our guild had taken the stronghold. Before sundown on the same day, the banners of the opposing guild were taken down, replaced by our own -- a single silver star on the corner of a black field. During the festivities that came after, our Guild Master magnanimously bestowed Siemech to a lesser guild which had proven their allegiance to us for many a time.

Of course, the Guild Master never forgot the special mission our small unit undertook, although I was the only one to receive the honor at that time. Both our young leader and the Dhan were still at the care of our guild's healers (pretentiously calling themselves the Conclave of the Pure) and they would not be available until the morrow, I was told.

I was anxious to speak with our leader, but the icy White Elves did not permit me to enter his rooms, promptly slamming the door to my face before I even finished stating my request. I'd made sure to bow apologetically to the the offending door, careful not to let a few prissy White Elves get the better of me. The continents think Dark Elves arrogant, but the White Elves are actually even haughtier, pretending to like everyone. At least we admit to our arrogance. The guards regarded me with a perplexed look.

I spent the evening at Siemech, hoping to talk with the leader the following day. My patience was unrewarded however. In the afternoon, while I was exploring the stronghold's underground library, I was told by a young, nervous-looking Dekan novice from our ally guild whom I'd clandestinely hired the previous evening to keep an eye on our young leader that our quarry had left the care of the Conclave. I gave the trembling apprentice a curt nod and a pouch heavy with Crones and sent him on his way.

I was left in a conundrum. There was no way for me to know the whereabouts of our young leader. This guild thrives on secrecy -- names, origins, personal affairs of each member, even ceremonies are kept to the barest minimum. Only the guild crest magically embedded upon initiation at the back of each novitiate's left hand serves as a testament of affiliation. And even that, only our Guild Master and his commanders can activate.

I stepped out of the library and headed to the portal in the middle of the courtyard, trying to hide the tumult in my mind by looking purposeful and taking long, deliberate strides. There was no doubting we would meet again, of course. I simply had to shelf the idea as to when, else I'd go mad with anticipation. "Ignis. Montt," I said to the portal keeper, and in a breath, I was home.

( Portal Stone to Montt. )


"Five seconds," I said, tonelessly.

Amaryllis nodded, eyes squinted, face hard at the effort of concentration. Beads of sweat formed above the horns on her brow.

"Three... two..."

There was a squeak, a muffled oomph from the center of the room, and then finally, the smell of burning sulfur.

I sighed and gestured for the servant golems to draw the curtains and open the large windows of the training dome. "You haven't been meditating like I told you, have you, sister?"

"It was just one silly second, brother! Seven seconds are enough for my companions to kill a little imp!" Amaryllis stomped her foot childishly to punctuate her frustration, which she immediately regretted. She sucked in a fair amount of air to keep herself from whimpering.

"Skilled you may be, but you still act like a child, little sister." I lifted an eyebrow, sparing a questioning glance at her foot.

"They're fine, brother!" Stomping it once again -- harder this time -- in defiance. I can see the blooming of pain in her eyes, but I should commend her for steeling her nerves against them. It has been three days since her little mishap with the Human patrols at Del Lagos and her foot has been healing at a considerably fast rate, although still not complete. Perhaps she is getting stronger.

"Very well," I said, sighing. I knew better than to push my sister past her limits. She might just end up shattering every window in the manse. I walked towards her and held her face in between my palms. "The Weave resonates strongly in you, sister, there is no doubting that. But I hope you understand that its purpose is more than mere elemental fire and fury. There is wisdom in its hidden voice."

She was silent, her eyes downcast, consciously not meeting mine. I can feel the underlying rage her breath exhales on my wrists. "Wisdom, brother?" she started, the words acid-laced and scalding. "You mean the wisdom you have gleaned from this prison in the century you spent in solitude, withdrawing from everyone you loved? From everyone who loved you?" Her voice rose and she drew back from me, crimson-cerulean eyes flashing a violent swirl of pain and... disgust. I was wounded. "Liken me not to you, Zohariel, for all the wisdom I need, I share with my comrades, my friends." An accusing finger. "Wisdom even you will not have."

There was a shimmer in the air where Amaryllis was, and then she was gone. My mind instinctively swept the house for her presence, ignoring the sharp echo of her words in my ears. There. She was in her rooms, crying into her pillow. I breathe a sigh of relief as I'd imagined the worst -- that she'd leave before she healed -- but all too soon my sister's words came pouring down on my mind like bitter wine. I felt as if my heart had been wrenched from my chest.

"Was it true, what she said?" came a voice from where the entrance to the dome was.

I turned around to a cascade of wind-blown wavy black hair, a curious face with lips upturned to a smirk, arms crossed on the chest, body leaning on the doorway, and eyes chestnut, round, and sparkling with youthful recklessness. The guild crest on my left hand sent a slight burn to the rest of my body.

My mind, clouded as it was, tried to race through the possibilities as to how the boy-child was able to discern my location. And on top of that, how he was able to bypass the wards surrounding the manse without alerting any of the servant golems. "You."

"Yes, me." He took a couple of steps closer and held out his hand. "I am very glad to see you again, Brother Zohariel."

I flinched at the mention of my name by another, other than kin. Involuntarily, I reached out my hand as well. "You are... mended, I suppose?" I asked, reverting to the safe walls of courtesy before pandering to the rest of the questions racing through my mind.

He nodded. "Alaric. My name is Alaric."

"Alaric," I repeated. Making sure it was real, and not simply another secret spun by the guild.

"Yes, that is my name." His smile was... disarming, up close. He was looking up at me and I saw naught of the god seeking the destruction of the free races. Only the beaming face of a human boy. I became aware that our hands were still clutching. "Was it true, what she said?" he persisted.

My jaws hardened as the words of my sister were brought to the forefront of my mind. I let go of his hand and gestured to the hallway exiting the dome. "Yes... I did spend a century in solitary meditation and training. Not here in the manse, of course. Not here in Montt. I was at the Vortex Shore in Eibach, communing with the Weave."

"I see. So that explains why you are how you are," he said, a little too matter-of-factly for my tastes.

"Your tone suggests you know me very well," I said, a little colder than I had intended. I nodded to the servant golem guarding the double doors of the training dome hallway, opening to a circular courtyard filled with flora that can only thrive in the harsh environs of Ignis. At the center were four manna ports of lesser height, used merely to transport the inhabitants from one part of the manse to another. Like any other structure in Ignis, the rooms of this house are magically disjointed from each other, both for protection and unique aesthetic. "Hold my hand," I said, as we approached the portal. He obliged, as the light in the center shifted colors. A translucent blue veil materialized in front of us, and I stepped into it, making sure Alaric was with me. In a few moments, the courtyard dissolved into the hallway of my rooms.

"I have never experienced that kind of magic before..." Alaric said wistfully, as he surveyed his surroundings, suppressing a shudder.

"The White Elves prefer to limit their usage of magic, I understand," I explained, trying to hide the scorn in my voice. The golem guarding the hallway opened the doors to my rooms, and I gestured for Alaric to step inside. "Alert me of my sister's activities every hour, please," I said, addressing the golem. It nodded and proceeded to close the doors.

"Yes, I do know you," Alaric said without looking at me. He was still turning around in place, trying to take in the entirety of my rooms, eyes brimming with the wonderment of a child. "By the Sacred Spear, this space is enormous..."

I crossed my arms in mute impatience and gave him a few moments to spend in awe. "Please elaborate. How exactly do you know me? It is my understanding that the guild does not tolerate prying on the personal lives of its members."

He looked at me and tilted his head, as if seeing me for the first time. "Your name," he said. "When Roha plucked your name from your mind, a blanket of familiarity billowed over me. I felt as if I've known you for... centuries."

I kept silent. It was not enough for me.

He smiled. "So reticent. So guarded. Worry not, Brother Zohariel. The rooms of specific details in your life are closed to me. I only know what it is like to walk the halls of your mind." He looked at me intently. "How lonely it felt, standing in the middle of that grey corridor."

I felt a spark of anger. "That is unfair."

"You are right, I apologize." He sighed and sat down on the couch by the window. The Grand Castle of the Lyonans was perched on the sky like a magnificent fabled bird. "I shall not speak of guild business for that is not why I am here. Besides, being one of the commanders, I have nothing but utmost respect to the guild's traditions."

"Your being here is a direct affront to its traditions, Brother Alaric," I said, my voice suggesting hostility, but my face remaining neutral. I took my place at the soft chair opposite him.

"True enough. You are only allowed to know three names within the guild. One is your Legion Master, and two below you," he looked at me directly with the eyes of a commander and leaned closer. "Conveniently enough, two of your subordinates died at the Siege of Siemech, permitting you to two new names. I name one of them mine." He smiled again, playfully this time. It amazed me how easily he can switch from being imperious and cocky to being childlike.

I took his challenge. "You are not a subordinate."

"No, but I am a commander. We are permitted certain... privileges." His smile widened to a grin, triumphantly. "Now, that is the last we shall speak of guild matters."

I sat back, signaling my consent. My body and manner visibly relaxed, I conjured a bottle of wine and two goblets on the small round table between us. I would normally not use the Weave for trivial magics, but I could not be bothered to do much else but listen after what my mind has gone through the past hour. It wasn't long before the rich, sweet scent of the strong spices in the Ignis wine wafted through the air. I proffered one of the goblets to my guest.

He continued staring outside the window after he took a sip. Swiveling to his side, he settled comfortably on the couch, hugging his knees to his chest and cradling the goblet with both hands. He looked like a lost child. "I can never figure out how to start. For one week, I was with the Conclave, and another, I was at home in Einhoren. Every waking moment was spent thinking of what to say to you. Naturally, I had to apologize for bringing you into this, but I am sure that will not be enough. I was terrified of having to meet with you, to be quite honest." He emptied the contents in one long swig.

I swirled the contents of my goblet as I watched him speak. He looked back at me. "Back at Siemech, when I was looking through Roha's eyes, I was able to see your aura. You were not the first Dark Elf I'd seen while Roha was inside me, but your aura was very different. Its layers went on and on, as if it were stretching on to eternity itself. I couldn't look away. Roha saw this too, I'm sure. Perhaps that is why he chose to disclose his plans to you."

"You were sharing Roha's mind. You speak as if you look through to his thoughts with smoked glass," I speculated, just a bit perplexed.

He shook his head and smiled a sad smile. "There is only much I can do before a god, Brother. The body may be mine, but he has power enough to obfuscate his thoughts from even me, his own avatar. Although I have no doubt he has tapped into mine many times." He placed the empty goblet on the table and he went back to hugging his knees and staring outside the window. "No, Zohariel. Roha is not why I am here either." A heartbeat, and he said, "I would like to be your friend."

There were a million words in all the languages -- Human, Elven, Draconic -- but I could not find a proper response to what was laid out before me. "Ridiculous," my voice managed to say.

He let out a chuckle and poured himself more wine before returning to his preferred position. "Utter absurdity, is it not? Human and Dark Elf. Camaraderie during times of war, yes, but friendship? I couldn't believe it myself. But after two weeks of having my mind captive by the overwhelming sense of solitude from being inside your mind..." His voice trailed off. He took a long draught of wine and looked at me squarely. "There is wisdom in the absurd, too, or did your Weave not tell you that?"

It was absurd, I thought. Dark Elves live for centuries; Humans live for at most over a hundred years. What could friendship afford both races? True, the White Elves have developed a deep relationship with the Humans since the Purge, but that had always been their nature. Us Dark Elves would rather keep affection within our own kin. Also, I was irritated not only because of the condescension in his last statement, but at the constant dissection of my psyche as well. I refuse to let the silly words of a Human boy get to me. I sipped on my wine and I began to stand. "I shall take your words under advisement. Will that be all? I need to attend to my sister..."

He stood up before I did. "Yes. No. Please sit..." he pleaded. "I apologize. That last statement was out of bounds. Please. I realize this is such an odd request, and I appreciate your being cordial despite the strangeness, but please understand that..." he seemed at a loss for words for once. Once again there was that lost child, awkward and clumsy with words, staring at his fingers. "I find myself drawn to you, somehow. That emptiness, that sense of loss... it seemed to stretch on." He paused, and then he sat down again, sighing, seemingly deciding on something. I settled back to my seat. "Perhaps it would be better if I tell you the first time Roha came to me."

I considered for a moment. "Perhaps it would. It might help me understand your intentions more, and it would explain our situation with Roha at the same time."

This seemed to have pleased him. He picked up his goblet and settled back onto the couch, knees up, a nostalgic smile settling on his face. "Very well then, let's see... it had been seven or eight years ago, I think. It was my eleventh summer..."


It was my eleventh summer. Father was going to take me, my mother, and my sister who was five summers younger than I was on a merchant run to Ehres Harbor. Every turn of the moon, he would go by himself, telling us of the dangers he would always encounter along the way. He said all of this especially to me, since I'd always insisted on going with him -- but this time was different. Queen Rima Regenon of the White Elves will be in Ehres Harbor to commemorate this season's Harvest Festival. Father said we will be joining a large, well-guarded caravan to the Melodic Sea, so it will be quite safe for all four of us to go. "Besides," he said, ruffling my hair, "it's about time you see the rest of the world, Alaric."

I remember looking up to my father with awe. He used to be one of the Guardians of the Imperial Army, respected and honored for his valor and bravery, but after many years of service and many battles fought, he decided to retire with me and my mother to a life of farming at the distant fields of Ash Valley, bordering the Tranquil Forest in Morissen

Not long after his retirement, my sister, Rosalind, was born. My father couldn't be happier. If he had doubts about settling down before then, Rosalind's birth dispelled all of them. Mother was overjoyed at father's decision to stay, and our days were spent training in swordfight with father during the hours of sunlight, and learning our letters with mother during the night.

The evening before our departure was the hardest. My mind was fitful and restless. To a boy of eleven, the promise of a whole world is an amazing, overwhelming thing. In my mind's eye, every color was vibrant and vivid, even if I hadn't seen them yet. I relied solely on the stories my father told me, which I'd devour greedily everytime he'd get home from his merchant run -- the deep red of taurics and pahans grazing in the distant steppes of Geizan, the midnight blues of iron golems, and even the much rare sightings of red and black drakes. I'd take them all in, imagining my father brandishing his sword in the sunlight, blood in his armor but never his. And in the end, the triumphant form of my father, towering over the felled monsters, scattered as far as the eye can see. It would put me to sleep, but dreams of it would wake me again. It never mattered, however. When the sun rises, all my dreams will be as they are before my eyes, and I would smile my little boy smile.

The following day, my energy never subsided. The journey from Ash Valley to the Melodic Sea would take a little over a day, so we set out very early in the morning. Despite that, I would run to and fro the line of the caravan, doing errands for my father, my mother, and even for bewildered strangers. Whenever I am in our wagon, I would either polish my father's armors and sword, or, having done that, rouse little Rosalind from her nap and point to her things I'd see along the way -- a rock, a boulder, a tree, and even what I thought were wings from a gargoyle, even if I knew they only lived in far Eibach. It went on like this for most of the day. Every step towards Ehres Harbor filled me with visions of great and wondrous things, and I couldn't be happier.

I didn't know it then, since I was a foolish young boy. If it happened now, I would have thought all tales are meant to end in some kind of tragedy. It happened at dusk, just as we were leaving the fringes of the Tranquil Forest. Rai'ner River was coming into view, mirroring fragments of moonlight in its lightly lolling waters. The caravan was about to camp for dinner -- and perhaps sleep -- when we heard the deep, lingering growl of the caravan head's warning horn. This could mean several things -- might be, a pack of vargs had been spotted and we merely had to wait until a unit of the Patrols manage to fend them off; or we could wait for the sound of a second alarm, signaling a higher level of danger, upon which the mother and children retreat inside the wagons, and all Patrols along with able-bodied men and women take arms and prepare for combat.

And then there it was. I thought I heard every person in the caravan catch their breath all at the same time. The second alarm was shaking the air like a thousand hornets in flight when my father barged into our wagon. "Stay with your mother and sister!" he commanded as he was gathering his armors. My mother looked up from her sleep, distress lining her face, rousing Rosalind with her. I moved before them protectively, feeling my instincts sharpen. This is what my father had been training me for, I thought, feeling the rush of adrenaline through my bloodstream. "You are not to leave the wagon, Alaric," he said urgently, as he finished the clasps on his armor. He fished for his longsword at a chest from the side of the wagon, and a short rapier. He tossed the latter to me, and I deftly caught it, as I have many times during our training. "Be smart, Alaric. I trust you. This will be over before you know it." And then he smiled. This was not the brave, valorous Guardian of the Imperial Army before me. It was as if my dreams were asserting themselves before me, superimposing my vision, blurring just about everything else. This was my father, and he will save us all.

I could never exactly remember how long it was between the time my father left and when I saw the blood-stained length of a longsword pierce through my mother's chest from the side of the wagon. Had my sister been a head taller, she would have died as well, as my mother was cradling her throughout the ordeal.

I can't recall what it felt like, either. I could say it felt like a piece of my soul was forcefully ripped out from me, but the pain transcended to the physical as well, now that I look back on it. I think I screamed, or maybe I didn't. My mouth was agape, that I remember, and my jaws felt locked in place. I remember my eyes, too -- unblinking, and unable to look away. I remember little Rosalind screaming, our mother's blood on her hair, on her cheeks. I remember her weight as she threw herself on to me in fear and panic. I remember my mother's face, pale and in muted pain, mouthing the words, "Run. I love you."

But I was paralyzed. Nor did I want to move. I gripped the hilt of my rapier tighter... and then I remembered my father. Hope surged in my veins. I held my mother's lifeless hand for a moment before I lifted Rosalind. She buried her face into my neck, trying to muffle her cries. "We'll find father, and everything will be alright," I whispered, infusing as much hope as I can in my voice. I even thought, for a few heartbeats, finding father would bring mother back to life. I let a bitter chuckle escape from my lips before leaping out of the wagon.

Almost at once my face was blasted with intense hot air. Most of the wagons were burning and there was smoke everywhere. I crouched low but it was no use. I couldn't see anything and my eyes were stinging -- from both the smoke and the tears. Rosalind was clinging on to my neck as tightly as she could, for which I couldn't be more grateful. Her little heart pounding furiously against mine was about the only thing pushing me forward. I can still hear the sounds of steel clashing. Perhaps one of them was father! I tried to focus on where the sound was coming from and I reoriented myself. Taking in a large gulp of sulfurous air, I closed my eyes and made a mad dash towards the direction of the sound.

The smoke thinned and the cool night air settled on my skin like a soft veil. I slackened my pace and opened my eyes. The first thing I saw was the moon -- full and round and so very large. Right beneath it was my father, wielding his longsword like some legendary god, fighting off what to my young eyes seemed to be the demon horde itself. My heart brimmed and I shouted, "Father!"

Immediately, I knew I made a mistake. How could a father ignore the voice of his own son in the middle of a battlefield? He turned around in mute horror, the hardened warrior shriveling into an old man before my eyes. That was the only opening the horde needed, and all at once, the destructive force of the underworld descended on my father. It was over in one devastatingly violent second.

This part I remember exactly as if it happened mere moments ago. I still break out in cold sweat whenever I revisit that corner in my mind. It was as if all blood had drained from my body, and there was nothing but mind-numbing cold. I was ice. I was fire. I was celestial light itself, and I want nothing else but have everything around me... explode. And then there was nothing but complete and absolute whiteness, and the pleasant sensation of endless falling.

When I came to, there were no more fires and no more smoke. For miles and miles, everything was silent, everything was dead. The moon was still up -- the lone, cold witness to what had just transpired. I eased my grip on the rapier on my right hand. And on my left shoulder -- the lifeless body of Rosalind. I felt a void, an emptiness expanding inside of me. There was nothing more I could want that to die, here in this place of death. I heard a voice calling my name. I am going mad, I thought bitterly, as I clung to the last vestiges of my sanity like driftwood.

"Alaric," it said again.

"I would bury my sister and my parents first," I responded loudly, not taking my eyes off the moon. I stood up and walked to where my father fell, pushing corpses out of the way. I laid him out properly, sword on his chest, like a proper knight. Then I gently placed my sister beside him. Once that was done, I started walking to where my mother was, mechanical limbs taking over my faculties.

I was but a few steps away when I heard a rasping cough and a small, tiny voice. "Brother," it said. I turned around and saw my sister no longer on the ground, but in the arms of a dark, towering figure. Father? No. The being walked towards me, armored in the colors of dusk and twilight, and with a face shrouded in shadow. The moon went dim behind him. My sister jumped off from the man's arms and ran towards me. I picked her up.

I raised my rapier and demanded to know who was before me. The man remained in the shadows and folded his arms across his chest. I couldn't see his eyes, but I felt them looking down at me, pressing me to the ground. "You know who I am, Alaric," it said with a voice that resonated not in my ears but in my mind.

I wavered, but did not respond. He continued. "You have awakened, which means I must act."

"I don't know who you are!" I shouted, sounding unsure, and more of an affirmation than anything else.

"You are the seed I have planted in the Weave hundreds of years ago, Alaric, when my doubt on Flox began to surface. You awaken when Flox makes his move." He took another step. "And it seems he has begun."

My sister was silent, but her grip on me tightened. She was asleep, I thought. She was not dead. My nerves screamed for me to run, so I did without looking back. Neither the voice nor the man would leave. I looked over my shoulder as I ran. The figure was behind us, just as the moon was behind us, never moving, but never a step farther either.

"I brought her back to you, Alaric. I thought you would have been more grateful. I could take her away again." And he began to lift his hands. My sister screamed into my ear, and I felt her pain.

"No! Please! I'll do anything!"

Beneath the shadows, I felt the figure's face twist into a smile. And just as he faded into a pillar of yellow light, a blaze flared in my heart. I knew who he was... and who I have always been.

A Journey Of A Thousand Miles

... will get you sore feet that will not move for anything as soon as you get home in the evening. Yesterday's Manila trek with Chris and Ly was one of the most exhausting trips I've ever experienced.

It's not without good trade-offs, however. Got to try out Estero at Binondo for lunch, for instance. Food was really good and really cheap. Chris ordered a shrimp dish, and Ly and I got beef in spicy sauce. For rice, we had Shanghai fried. We barely scratched the surface of what Estero had to offer, so I hope we're be going back in the near future.

After our tummies were happy, we walked to Binondo church to say hi to the statues and, well, mostly get away from the heat. It's been a while since I stepped inside a church, so I felt the need to ask, "What do we do inside?" I had to convince myself we won't get struck down by lightning in divine retribution just by being there and looking at the murals. Growing up studying in a Catholic school has made me a bit paranoid about being inside churches, apparently.

After paying our respects to the Lynda Carter angels (Ly's fault) by the church's main entrance, we headed out for coffee to wait until the heat fizzles out. But as it turns out, our wait wasn't worth much since the heat was still pounding down on us by the time we decided to walk again.

Ly wanted to check out some craft stuff at Divisoria, which was... I suppose relatively near, so we thought it would be OK to walk. After twenty, thirty minutes of trudging through back roads and alleyways and streets of freshly-laid out asphalt burning through the soles of our shoes, we finally found Tabora. Up and down we went for more or less an hour and a half until Ly had his fill of things he doesn't need. (Hee hee.)

By 4:00pm, we started walking towards another destination. This time from Tabora to Reina Regente, where we were getting a jeep to take us to Recto and ride the D. Jose train to Pedro Gil. Amaryllis will be at the Level Up! Games event that was taking place at Robinson's Manila, and I said I'd dropped by to say hi and check out the festivities.

We got there by 5:00pm when the event was about to end. Good thing we still caught up with Amaryllis, tho. Chris had to go home by this time, so Ly and I went with Amaryllis instead to Walter Mart Makati where she'd be meeting up a friend at 9:00pm. We kept her company until around 8:00pm and then Ly had to get home.

I walked with Ly from Walter Mart Makati to Buendia where he'd be getting a ride to the Ayala MRT Station. I thought it was still too early, so I decided to keep him company until he got to Ayala. Arriving at the station and having nowhere else to go, I turned back to the direction where I came from and started the long walk home.

By the time I got to Dela Rosa, which was almost near my place, my feet were already begging for mercy. I almost took off my shoes to walk barefoot since there was no one around anyway, but decided against it. The minute I got home, I fixed myself a large tumbler of ice-cold orange juice, retreated to my room, put my feet up, and gave in to happy, happy, blissful exhaustion.

Getting Back Into Shape

It feels good, having a renewed vigor in writing. It isn't much now, but at least I'm getting myself back into shape. Or, I don't know, was I "in shape" to begin with? Ah, well. I'm just glad I'm doing something productive with my time.

I owe this reincarnation to my most recent vice, Rohan Online. Sans the bugs and the rowdy community, the mythology is kind of cool, albeit (such an ugly word) suffering from a few loose details. Nevertheless, it tickled nerves enough in my brain to hotwire a revolution.

I started with one piece, and, without initially intending it to be, it is currently growing into something more. Enough, even, for me to draw out an outline (collective gasp). Yes, I have never been so formal with any work of fiction before, but the ideas just kept on gushing out that I felt I had to dam them in somehow else I might end up with something like this again.

Still. The prospect scares me. I feel I have bitten off far more than I can chew... but that has always been my problem. How do I know it's too much if I don't venture forth beyond the proverbial fog of war? I can do this. It's about time I do this.



____________________
PS: Too, I owe this hotwiring to someone I fancy calling my sister, Amaryllis. She gave me that little nudge which got me into role-playing my character in the Rohan Boards. Eventually I'd gotten to know other creative spirits, and even gods and goddesses. A deep court bow to the Mad God of Blue Flames, Flox, and his twin sister of white magic, Marea. This scribe hopes his words provide enough amusement to merit his continued existence.

The Tome of Blue Flames: Intermezzo (White Noise)

Disclaimer: Rohan Online is not mine, but YNK Interactive and -- I guess to a degree -- Level Up! Games let me use it as a playground. I am not making money out of this, so please don't sue me. Also, the order of which the story should be read is as follows:

001 PROLOGUE: WITHOUT A NAME
002 CHAPTER 01: OF GODS AND MONSTERS
003 CHAPTER 02: AN UNLIKELY EMISSARY
004 CHAPTER 03: AN ADVENT TO SHADOWS
005 INTERMEZZO: WHITE NOISE
006 CHAPTER 04: SEEDS OF DESTRUCTION, THE BOY-AVATAR AWAKENS
007 CHAPTER 05: STORM ON THE CELESTIAL CASTLE
008 CHAPTER 06: THE PATH TO DECIMATION
009 INTERMEZZO: THE LAST PAWN
010 CHAPTER 07: EIGHT YEARS AGO
011 FINAL CHAPTER: THE WISDOM FROM FRIENDS

Blink blink.

Dimness. Dust. My consciousness wakes. I feel a certain density slowly pressing down on me, filling my lungs with... water? Yes, all around me was nothing but water, yet I feel not the fierce struggles of drowning. There is only the sensation of both ascending and descending, of floating. And complete and absolute silence. At peace, I stay like this for a while.

Only the movement of dust suggested the passage of time here. So slow, so minute was their progress that I could not be sure if only a second had passed or an eternity. I was left contemplating on this.

Eventually, I found a voice. "I am. I am. I am," I repeat this to myself, but my mind could not seem to walk past it. The concept of who I am is closed off to me, and a wall shaped of smoke and shadow guards its secrets jealously. Still, I press on, and like a song or a prayer, I chant, "I am. I am. I am..."

And then I stop. I hear a faint voice in the distance. I float towards what I perceived to be its source, warily. The voice grows in volume, but no more discernible, like a chattering of a hundred angels. My movement becomes urgent, hurried. Upward and upward my legs propelled me until, at last, I find myself breaking through the surface.

I discover it is night. Moonless, but a vast field of stars stretches endlessly above. The voice is relentless. Treading water, I look around. After a while, I see a pulsating light in the distance. The voice strengthens. I swim.

Hours seemed to drag on; a glacier in my mind. As I swim, my head twists from side to side, seeing nothing but the white specks of stars splattered on dark canvass and the wide expanse of obsidian water spreading out in all directions. In front of me, occasionally, the light pulses intensely.

It wasn't long before fatigue begins to weigh on my limbs and the voice becomes oppressive, forming sharp, solid words assaulting my senses. At the exact same second when my arms are about to give in and my legs collapse from under me, the light explodes to a spectacular nova. And within moments, I felt the searing of flesh and a dagger-sharp pain through my chest. "The time is now," the voice imploded in my head. I screamed.


Blink blink.

Dry. Steam. I stir, and find myself on dry land. I feel the jagged sharpness of the untamed earth biting into the flesh of my back and legs as I move to sit my body upright. I seem to be naked, but somehow it does not matter. I hold on to a protrusion of rock on the wall beside me to steady myself while I stand.

I look around. It must be nearing dusk. Nothing but boulders and pebbles and the occasional jet of steam permeate my vision. Something in the distance catches my eye. A sudden bluish spark. My hand never leaves the assurance of the wall of rocks beside me as I limp towards the object, glinting as a jewel would perched on top of a hill under the setting sun -- like a proud, old queen on her throne. But as I neared it, I noticed it wasn't a jewel at all. It was not even small. I walked around another hill of rocks to expose the entire body of my discovery.

A small, narrow tower stood before me, almost twice my height. Four sides it has, all black as soot. The corners were lined with glyphs, all ancient, crackling with crimson energy. And at every facet, three ribbings running parallel from base to tip exposed what was inside -- the slow, languid flow of cerulean manna.

Doors start to open in my mind and fear creeps into my veins. I climb the beside the tower to have a farther view of this strange, seemingly barren land. Upon reaching the summit, all doubts flew from my mind. Scattered across the terrain, almost hidden in between the rise and fall of volcanic rock, were a smattering of blue-glowing towers. Mana ports. And in the distance, far to the south, set upon the sky like an obsidian bauble, were the dark spires of Montt. I am in Ignis. This very spot is Sinner's Inheritance.

I fall to my knees. This is all wrong, somehow. I clutch my chest. I feel a certain emptiness, a sense of something lacking, something incomplete swimming inside of me. I shouldn't be here.

"The time is now," said a sing-song voice in my head, the tone suggesting a warning. It made me look up. Below me and to the right, on the rocky path, I sensed the approach of something dissonant. Something ominous. I turned my head to look at the path below and behind me, but plumes of smoke obscured my vision.

I heard before I saw. It was a horse. On it was... a man? A woman? The hood and cloak concealed enough for me not to be entirely sure. The arms seemed slim from this distance but the legs that straddled the beast looked lean and masculine.

As it neared, however, I noticed something strange about its periphery. Human, its life signs suggested, emanating an ordinary frequency as Humans would to the Weave. There was something different about this one however. Something disparate. And then I saw it. Or rather, I felt it. Time slowed to a crawl. The yawning emptiness in my chest raged as the rider passed. I crumpled to the ground as the pain wracked in waves through my mind. I struggled to keep my vision open, boring through the rider with my eyes. There it was! A flicker, as if in resonance to my own, and absolutely separate from the Weave -- the same black throbbing emptiness that I possess.

I struggled to my feet, trying not to convulse in the intense pain. I must follow it. And, without knowing how I did it, I took to the air and followed it.

The Tome of Blue Flames: An Advent to Shadows

Disclaimer: Rohan Online is not mine, but YNK Interactive and -- I guess to a degree -- Level Up! Games let me use it as a playground. I am not making money out of this, so please don't sue me. Also, the order of which the story should be read is as follows:

001 PROLOGUE: WITHOUT A NAME
002 CHAPTER 01: OF GODS AND MONSTERS
003 CHAPTER 02: AN UNLIKELY EMISSARY
004 CHAPTER 03: AN ADVENT TO SHADOWS
005 INTERMEZZO: WHITE NOISE
006 CHAPTER 04: SEEDS OF DESTRUCTION, THE BOY-AVATAR AWAKENS
007 CHAPTER 05: STORM ON THE CELESTIAL CASTLE
008 CHAPTER 06: THE PATH TO DECIMATION
009 INTERMEZZO: THE LAST PAWN
010 CHAPTER 07: EIGHT YEARS AGO
011 FINAL CHAPTER: THE WISDOM FROM FRIENDS

When our entire force arrived at the outskirts of Siemech three hours prior, our Guild Master wasted no time and called for a War Council with his commanders right away. Every one of them was present, although I wasn't made privy to their names. No one within my rank was, I suppose, as was customary. This is an old, strong guild with old, strong traditions. It still makes me wonder why I was recruited in the first place.

The Human youth was among them. I have seen him a few times before, sitting at the council table during fortnightly gatherings, but not everytime. He speaks when he is spoken to, but more often than not he is seen sipping on his goblet, lips a morose straight line, and eyes ponderous and thoughtful.

It wasn't long before the Council adjourned and the commanders dispersed to their respective squadrons. I was surprised to see the Human youth walking towards me. "Brother Dark Elf," he called.

"Brother," I said in acknowledgment.

"I have special orders from our Guild Master. I am to choose among the force three individuals to create a special squadron." He paused for a response. I nodded for him to go on. "While the rest of the force is assembled throughout various points around the Siemech stronghold for the siege, our squadron will stealthily infiltrate their walls and take down their Captain of the Guard."

"My magic would mainly serve as support, then, rather than assault."

"Yes, and transport." He produced a ring from a little pouch slung on his belt. "Here is a summon ring. Two more Dhans will be recruited to complete our party. I shall activate it once our squadron is complete. Be ready."

I nodded one last time before he turned away. It was rather odd, taking commands from someone significantly shorter, but the inert power the youth possesses is undeniable. Any doubts I might have from him being in the council have been adequately dispelled just by a few moments of being in close quarters. I returned to my meditation.

It wasn't long before the summon ring was activated. In my mind's eye, I received the exact location of our leader, and in a few moments, I was there. Two Dhans were present as well, and both were donned in the light leather armor of assassins -- although these were in the deep midnight blue of our guild, and enchanted, no doubt. Both were lithe and moved with the fluid grace of wild cats, and both were taller than our leader. They both glanced in my direction at my appearance, and I immediately felt the effects of the cloaking magic unique to their race.

"I have briefed all of you as to the objective of our mission," he started without taking his eyes off the enemy guild's stronghold. The banners were waving furiously in the morning wind. "Brother Dark Elf, you shall provide magical support and teleportation. Brothers Dhan, both of you will be our eyes and ears as we penetrate the stronghold. None shall stray during the operation. I alone will face the Captain of the Guard. We rendezvous with the rest of the guild in about three hours."

And with but a word, the die was cast. There was never any doubt we would complete our mission. The entire stronghold was on alert, but by sheer number, our victory is assured. This is one of the minor guilds who will not yield to a merging with ours, and yet still dared raise a challenge. Their conviction is admirable, but they are as foolish as they are brave.

One of our Dhan comrades fell, but the Captain of the Guard was cunning as he is strong, proving his tactical skills by killing an invisible assassin before he himself was struck down. Our leader retaliated and rushed to him in one wide swing of his blade, cutting a swath in the middle of the hall, leaving the Captain with nary a moment to breathe from his fresh kill.

That was about an hour ago. Our mission is complete, and we have paralyzed a major arm in the enemy guild's forces. We are supposed to rendezvous with the rest at the frontlines, otherwise, the siege will start with the assumption that we are dead.

The hall was littered with the bodies of fallen soldiers belonging to all the free races. And at the apex, the Captain of the Guard lay still and unbreathing yet dignified and proud, the battle light of warriors fading slowly from his person. Before him, Roha. Sword thrust upon the ground, arms spread, youthful Human face twisted in an ecstatic smile of sated bloodlust and rage too beautiful and terrible to behold.

"The Human body is a wonderful thing," the boy-god said in between ragged breaths. "Soft and pliant and deliciously fragile. And the blood!" he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, the expression on his face a perfect blend of reverence and pleasure. "Just the scent of it is intoxicating. So thick and rich and red... It has been millennia since I last bled."

I was immediately at the defensive but I felt each nerve and muscle nailed to one spot. My legs had the weight of leaden stones and my staff seemed oceans and oceans away, even though the skin on my hands knew I was clutching it all too tightly. And for a few seconds, the despairing thought of the Weave abandoning me crossed my mind. That alone was unbearable.

Pushing against the raging torrent in my spirit, I willed my voice to existence. "Speak your intentions, Roha. Otherwise, strike. You will not take us down easily." Immediately I felt the soothing calm of solid words, of biding time.

Roha turned his gaze towards me. My body shivered involuntarily. "Brave little Dark Elf, child of Flox," he folded his arms across his chest. "I believe you have just uttered a perfect blend of bravery, foolishness, and hopelessness in one fell swoop. So perfect with words, just like your creator."

I felt a slight shift in the air. Movement so quick and precise, it was beyond mortal bounds. All at once the Dhan was behind Roha, katar poised to paralyze... but not enough. The god spun just before the Dhan can complete his thrust, and in another second, sent him flying at hellish speed towards the other end of the hall. His body crashed at a wooden arms locker, sending splinters exploding all over the place.

"Arrogant Dhans." He spared a wistful glance towards the limp body of my comrade and turned back to me. I saw what seemed like pity and compassion in his eyes, but only for a flicker. "They are as much my children as the Humans of Einhoren are. Yet they are very much like you, Dark Elves. Beneath your thick carapace of nobility and honor lies a pounding heart that is headstrong and quickly enflamed. It is a wonder how the Dhans can be such unparalleled assassins. Or how you can be such... politicians."

His talking more or less relaxed me now. I can feel my staff and my connection to the Weave seeping into my fingers. I can get through this. "You have something to say, Roha. If not, you would not have bothered with the charade of this mission and you would have killed me. Speak, please."

The god regarded me with what he must have intended to be an indulgent look. The round chestnut Human eyes had failed to impress the stern indulgence of a god, but instead had the disarming look of curious wonderment only a child is capable of. It was hauntingly beautiful, and it had me affixed. "I suppose you have no reason to trust me. After all, me and my siblings want nothing else but to see the destruction of all the free races -- for nothing else but the resurrection of our All-Father Ohn.

"However I am not blind, and am I not the god of justice? Who better to see the equilibrium of our universe other than me? And what I am seeing now is the treacherous hand of Flox, the Intelligent. The entire blanket of creation dances at his fingertips." He looked at his hands and an expression of what seemed like pain lined his face. "Even us, his beloved siblings. He is treading a dangerous path, and he seeks not only the destruction of the free races, but I fear he covets the power of Ohn himself. For millennia I have suspected, but never acted. No more."

He looked at me with eyes burning and all-consuming. "Before me, Dark Elf, named Zohariel, I give you this message." My heart skipped a beat at the mention of my undisclosed name. "Roha, the Eldest, has descended in secret, and these words in secret shall remain: Trust none save for the voice of this boy-child, whom I have anointed as my avatar. Flox suspects, but he is riddled with doubts. He will send his own emissaries; he may even make his presence known, but never relent. Remember your Severance, and you will overcome. I shall descend time and again as events unfold. Until then, grow in power and be wary."

Light motes began to dance around Roha's form, slowly at first and gradually increasing in number and intensity, until nothing but a pillar of yellow light enveloped him. I covered my eyes for what seemed like an eternity and when I opened them again, there was nothing but the after-image of the pillar and the body of our leader kneeling and holding on to the hilt of his ground-thrust sword. He was breathing heavily and rivulets of blood were tracing down his pale face. "Brother," he said hoarsely. "Attend to our Dhan comrade. He still lives, but he will remember naught of what transpired."

I quickly did as I was told. I knelt beside the Dhan and touched his shoulder. I whispered to the Weave a spell of movement, and in a second we were beside our leader. "I shall transport us to a healer at once." But not before dealing an icy gaze to the boy-child beside me. "And once you are well, you will tell me all that you know." And, as an afterthought, "Brother."

The Tome of Blue Flames: An Unlikely Emissary

Disclaimer: Rohan Online is not mine, but YNK Interactive and -- I guess to a degree -- Level Up! Games let me use it as a playground. I am not making money out of this, so please don't sue me. Also, the order of which the story should be read is as follows:

001 PROLOGUE: WITHOUT A NAME
002 CHAPTER 01: OF GODS AND MONSTERS
003 CHAPTER 02: AN UNLIKELY EMISSARY
004 CHAPTER 03: AN ADVENT TO SHADOWS
005 INTERMEZZO: WHITE NOISE
006 CHAPTER 04: SEEDS OF DESTRUCTION, THE BOY-AVATAR AWAKENS
007 CHAPTER 05: STORM ON THE CELESTIAL CASTLE
008 CHAPTER 06: THE PATH TO DECIMATION
009 INTERMEZZO: THE LAST PAWN
010 CHAPTER 07: EIGHT YEARS AGO
011 FINAL CHAPTER: THE WISDOM FROM FRIENDS

Another three fell before me. I lowered my staff and whispered an incantation of dispelling of psychic threads to the Weave, and exhaled. Looking to my right, it seems that my Dhan comrade has just ended his little frolic with two of the enemy guild's numbers as well.

The leader of our squadron, a Human male no more than a stripling youth, is hard-pressed on his battle with the Captain of the Guard. The singing of steel on steel rang on through the cold, crisp Siemech dawn, with no telltale signs of breaking.

"Do you think we should help him out?" said the Dhan, who was suddenly, stealthily beside me. I have long stopped being surprised and amazed at how silent and agile the Dhans can be. The culture and the ways of their people might be a mystery to the entire continent, but the fact that they are all trained assassins is no secret. Chilling to think about what they go through before they are given leave to explore the walls outside Kowarre, their home country.

"He will not allow it," I said without taking my eyes off the fight. Although I must admit, there is a faint scalding in my throat of a spell of empowerment threatening to be let loose. But our leader made it clear before our assault that he alone will face the Captain of the Guard, and he will brook no interference from any of us. Young he may be, but the potent power in his voice reserved no place for contention.

The battle is mounting. Both warriors have discarded their shields and most of their armors. The glint of their swords in the morning light was a divine sight in itself. It seems they are talking, but their words are lost in the distance.

Quite unexpectedly, our young leader eased his stance and thrust his sword to the ground. His opponent, in contrast, crouched low and brought his sword up. I reached into the Weave in a fit of curiosity and silently spun a spell to sharpen my vision.

The Captain's face was, to say the least, fascinating -- every muscle was stone-still and ice-cold, like the crags of a lonely, desolate cliff. Life has drained from his eyes, as if he'd want nothing more than an honorable death. And, glancing at our leader, it seems he will get it.

"That's it, I'm helping him," the Dhan beside me spoke urgently, clasping the hilt of his katar.

"Stand down, Brother," I said, crossing his path with my staff. "It is almost finished."

And it is indeed reaching its crescendo. The Captain broke into a dash, his sword boiling blood red in the sun. The undulations of the Weave were maddening even from this distance, yet our young leader remained calm. He raised his blood-marred arms at the approach of his opponent as if in welcome, and at the second of impact, there was nothing but pure, white light.

The etheric affinity of Dark Elves to the Weave enabled me to anticipate the onslaught of dissonant magic and I was able to raise a barrier both for me and my Dhan comrade. Even so, it took most of my psychic energy to constantly reinforce and adjust the barrier to the right size and strength every so often to prevent it from shattering prematurely. I ought to talk to our leader about this. Powerful he may be, but the reckless use of force may very well put our squadron's mission in jeopardy.

"Brother," my Dhan comrade said, through the ringing of magic in my ears. "That power wasn't..."

"... human, I know," I finished, through gritted teeth.

And as quickly as it sparked to life, the waves and waves of energy just... vanished. Gone. Like the side of a mountain exploding, leaving a gaping, yawning hole, so did the sudden release of power leave a gaping, yawning hole in the Weave. Yes, it will heal, but with the strain it went through, it will take time.

I lowered my staff but I kept the barrier up. Aside from protecting us, it served to dampen the ambient magic, preventing any other Dark Elf or anything else tied to the Weave from sensing the dissonance that just occurred. I let out an incantation to hold the barrier indefinitely until the Weave manages to heal itself.

Me and the Dhan ran towards our leader, not waiting for the smoke to clear. I knew we weren't really expecting to see him dead; that wasn't our cause for hurry. What we wanted to know was -- and at this point we've reached the epicenter of devastation where our leader was standing, or rather, stood -- why Roha was in the form of a stripling youth, smiling at us.

The Tome of Blue Flames: Of Gods And Monsters

Disclaimer: Rohan Online is not mine, but YNK Interactive and -- I guess to a degree -- Level Up! Games let me use it as a playground. I am not making money out of this, so please don't sue me. Also, the order of which the story should be read is as follows:

001 PROLOGUE: WITHOUT A NAME
002 CHAPTER 01: OF GODS AND MONSTERS
003 CHAPTER 02: AN UNLIKELY EMISSARY
004 CHAPTER 03: AN ADVENT TO SHADOWS
005 INTERMEZZO: WHITE NOISE
006 CHAPTER 04: SEEDS OF DESTRUCTION, THE BOY-AVATAR AWAKENS
007 CHAPTER 05: STORM ON THE CELESTIAL CASTLE
008 CHAPTER 06: THE PATH TO DECIMATION
009 INTERMEZZO: THE LAST PAWN
010 CHAPTER 07: EIGHT YEARS AGO
011 FINAL CHAPTER: THE WISDOM FROM FRIENDS

We are at war, that much cannot be denied. I have learned so many things, and I have been made privy to so many secrets since the Ceremony of Severance opened my crimson-cerulean eyes. I, and a great number of my peers, have been thrust in the middle of an ancient and cruel game of Gods and Monsters: Flox, the creator of our noble race whom I have been taught to respect my whole life, his twin sister Marea, and the rest of their wretched otherworldly kin, plan to kill us all.


Dark Elves have neither Mother nor Father. Rather, our concept of a "Mother" or a "Father" differ much greatly from that of other races. We are all of us, quite literally, born of flame. The molten, volcanic rocks of Ignis are the framework from which the ethereal spirits of flame and shadow coalesce into pale corporeal flesh. Our distinctly mismatched eyes represent the dual command we have over both the Crimson Fire of Life and the Cerulean Weave of Magic. Any other Dark Elf whom we refer to as Mother or Father are merely our mentors in mastering the arcane arts and harnessing the power of flame. Kinship therefore, for us, encompasses all Dark Elves in existence -- yes, including the murderous, scheming, incestuous Flox.

The Ceremony of Severance does exactly what it says it would do. It severs our ties from Flox, the madness he represents that taints the Weave, and the kinship embedded into us from our time of emergence. The Severance reveals that each Dark Elf, after being ensconced for a specific amount of time within his or her own corporeal form, develops an ethereal spirit akin to, putting it simply, Gods. Indeed, each individual Dark Elf possesses the inert potential to create life -- to create worlds -- as Flox had done with us, and as Ohn had done with Flox and his siblings.

The Fire and the Weave that mature together inside our pale forms will be the twofold key to unlocking the mystery of creation, and it is this exact same mystery His Grand Majesty George Lyonan had been working on his whole life.

The Academy of Blue Flames, before its fall to the plague of monsters, was dedicated to this research -- to unravel the various secrets of the Weave. Fortunately, the fruits of research have been well-preserved, even after the Academy has been overrun by the aberrant Worms and Golems. Flox's one great mistake was that he made us too much like him -- meticulous, down to the very last hair's-breadth detail.

What I do not understand however, is the reason why His Grand Majesty decides to hide this from the fledgling Dark Elves. He keeps them in the shadows and lets them mindlessly mouth exultations to Flox until he decides it is time to wrench them from blissful ignorance.

Perhaps his wisdom is beyond my understanding, but now that I have gone through The Severance, I am speculating it was necessary for us fledglings to completely understand our divine origins first and foremost. Perhaps he meant for us to understand this divine bond we had with Flox, and in turn, Flox's divine bonds with us, and how those selfsame bonds were painfully severed in rage and madness. Perhaps he meant for us to understand that as Flox, a God, severed himself from his children, we, logically, can sever ourselves from him.

This understanding, coupled with the knowledge that we are ourselves divine, catalyzed by our innate powers over the Flame and the Weave, both evolving over time and memory, in effect, turn us into Gods.

But enough philosophizing. Us Dark Elves might have been created with superior intellect surpassing any and all the other races, but overestimating could yet be our downfall. That is a mistake which should never happen. What I do understand is yes, my power is my own, and Flox, Marea, and their equally disdainful siblings, are raising hell on my home. Ohn must have seen this -- which makes it unsurprising why he decided to leave without a trace.


The Gathering Hall at Ehres Harbor was quiet, or at least, as quiet as it could get before first light. Nevertheless, I awoke from my reverie. My staff was humming with resonant, ambient magic, signaling my brothers-in-arms nearby. I stood up from where I was seated, dusted myself off, and lightly tapped my staff to the ground twice to dispel the magical cloaking I cast on myself the night before. I strode silently and leisurely through the closed stalls, past the cargoes being unloaded from the port, past the wounded, the sick, and the dying, and onto the nearest bindstone.

An unmoving form, silhouetted by the mana-blue light pillar before him, stood in response to my approach. "Brother," the silhouette voiced. Sharp and clear as the zhen it bore, the voice pierced through the dawn mist.

And in response, countless shadows moved in every corner of the forest, stepping into the light of the bindstone. To those I knew, I gave a nod. To those I did not know, I rendered the same courtesy. These are my brothers and sisters. These are my kin. Dark Elf I may be, noble and proud and esteemed of all races, but in a war of Gods and Monsters, us Gods must belong to one side.

The strongest among us, the Dekan silhouette, raised his zhen. The first dawn light seemed to split in two as it kissed the edge of the ancient draconic blade. "Dark Elves!" he shouted. His voice a deep, booming war drum rumbling the earth we were standing on.

I and my Dark Elf brethren raised our staves as one, channeling a mounting light from the Weave, portal spells ready to be cast at a word from our Guild Master. We are at war, a single mantra, a prayer, marched through my mind.

"To Siemech!" And before the radiant blanket of light engulfed the entire assemblage, I figured out who I was praying to. I smiled. We are at war. "And we will win," I breathed.

It's Not How You Play The Game -- It's The Cleaning Up After

There is no great wisdom to be gleaned from this, I realize now. Nothing sage-like or poignant or moving. "Complex" doesn't even resonate well with it. As I stretch the creases out from my folded-up blanket and pat my pillows back into shape, I knew that the best thing I like about sex was the cleaning up after.

This epiphany, minor as it is, is one of the best ones I've had in this lifetime, honestly speaking. Used to be I'd curl up into a shallow cubbyhole of melancholia for a few hours, thinking about how very lonely I am, needing to have sex with complete strangers just to validate my self-worth, pretending to feel loved even for a few muscle-controlled minutes... But NO. Not really. I really just needed to get off, and there just so happened to be someone who was in the same vibe as I am, and messing around with that person seemed like the right thing to do at that time -- so we did. I can validate my self-worth all I want while we're madly grinding against each other, flesh on flesh on flesh, and oh yes, yes, whisper my name lovingly into my ears as our passion culminates into a steaming, sweaty, sticky crescendo, but as soon as we get our breath back, I'm hitting the showers, baby.

And if this had happened at a place other than my room, I would have actually kept my clothes on. About three months ago, I hooked up with a guy in his office. He asked me why I wouldn't remove my shirt and jacket. I told him sex with clothes on gets me really hot. Sure, that was part of it, but really, I just wanted to be able to dress up as quickly as possible as soon as we finish so I can get home right away and take a bath. Heh.

He just left, this latest trick, and all I can think of was, "WOO. Now I get to bathe and make my bed again." The flesh in my arms feels cool and taut as I pull the mattress back into position, and the scent of soap arcing through the air feels rejuvenating as I toss the pillows back into their places at the head of the bed. I feel clean and, very much like my blanket, crease-free and stretched out in all the right places. Nothing feels better than cleaning up after a quick tussle in the mud.