The Road to Dajemma - Moira Vhelskaya

[Fonic]

Character name: Moira Vhelskaya
Account name: LapinMort

(Apologies black_rider… its quite long...)

The Road to Dajemma

“Let us go, Moira” Called the old man from his horse.
Moira pulled herself up onto Sasha and gave her loyal black pony a polite, yet stern kick and quickly caught up with Jaska. Along the dirt road heading north from the Urlingwood, Moira took in every sight that they passed. Whether it be the half-buried stumps of the old, dead trees or the empty villages long swallowed up by the marshlands of the Ashane; for as long as she could, she would hold these memories dear to her.

It would be at least a year until she would return from her dajemma – the long held tradition of Rashemi’s youth-come-of age to venture into Faerun’s heartlands. Though Rashemi’s commonfolk saw the dajemma as a key part of becoming an adult; the Hathran were indifferent. As such, not all the wychlaran fulfilled their dajemma, though Moira had many a reason to be eager to visit the worlds beyond Rashemi.
“We’ll stick to the lake as we head north, but then we’ll use the woods to pass the Fortress.” The old man uttered before snatching a bite from an apple.
Moira gave the slightest of nods in response. Jaska was a member of the Old Ones, known in Rashemen as the vremyonni; male mages who had been selected by the witches at youth. Whilst girls such as Moira would become ethran and eventually join the ranks of the Hathran; the boys gifted with a mastery of the arcane arts had little choice over their future. Either they lived in isolation within the running rocks, teaching the young ethran to use their magic whilst enchanting weapons and armour for the hathran - or they would face exile from Rashemen forever. The Old Ones would have their lives extended by the wychlaran’s magic, serving the Hathran until death. Jaska was one of the eldest. He had been Moira’s teacher for as long as she could remember, but like the others he was forbidden even from taking the dajemma, and for that Moira pitied him.

It was barely 3 hours before Katrina caught up with them. Jaska spotted her first, bursting full gallop along the dirt road that traced the banks of the Ashane. As she dragged the bridle of her poor overworked pony back through its gums, it skid its hooves to a halt, nostrils flared and eyes bulging from their very sockets – though Moira was certain that it always had such a look about it. The young ethran greeted the travellers with a wide smile. It was the smile of a girl that knew she had done wrong and never suspected otherwise; yet still would profess her ignorance.
Jaska met her with his cold, wizard eyes. He wheezed his trademark growl of contempt and barked angry words at the teenager.
“Katrina!” He raged. “What in the blazes are you doing out here?! Turn back at once!”
“Ohh…” Katrina whined. “I just wanted to say goodbye to Vhelskaya. I thought I could come with you both.”
“Absolutely not!” Spoke her wizened teacher once his student’s sweetly words had drained much of the anger from his face.
“But I came all this way!” Continued Katrina. “I can’t go back now, not on my own!”
The teenagers head fell into a sideways tilt, her bottom lip began to swell and her bright amber eyes glistened in the afternoon sun. Moira had seen this pose many times, and though immune now to its charm, she decided to lend her young friend words of her own.

“Jaska.” Moira began. “If we ride hard tomorrow we’ll have enough food for the three of us. Besides, we could use the company.”
Jaska gave a slow and heavy sigh. He chewed his lip for what seemed an age as his brow settled low.
“I suppose we are stuck with you now, Katrina.” He conceded. “Let us not dawdle any further. You can make up for all the studies you’ll be missing on the way to the Erech.”
Katrina gave a long and drawn out moan in defiance before she settled her crazy-eyed pony into walk alongside Moira and Jaska. Together, the three continued a few hours past sunset before finally setting up camp for the night.

The Tale of the Tree Spirit

The next morning the trio entered a small wood whilst en route to the crossing at the Iceborn River. Katrina was out front, tracing her arm through the low hanging willow branches. A thought struck her suddenly, and she twisted round in her saddle to face Jaska and Moira and in her ever inquisitive tone, she asked:
“Are there Thayans in Narfell?”
“Possibly.” Jaska replied, promptly.
“But…” Katrina tugged at her reins to slow down her wild and impatient steed enough to close in on the other two. “The Thayans hunt witches. They’ll hunt you too, won’t they Vhelskaya?”
Moira shrugged and looked to Jaska for an answer. The old man grumbled as he paused, staring off at the distance.
“Moira is prepared for such a foe, aren’t you?” He said as he turned to Moira in question. Moira blushed, a small and clueless smile plying her lips.
“I suppose so.” She said with another slow shrug of her shoulders.
With that, Jaska turned his narrowed gaze back to the younger of the two Ethran.
“Katrina.” He asked sternly. “Do you remember the tale of the Tree Spirit?”
“Of course.” Replied the young wychalaran.
“Well, tell it then.” Asked Jaska in a wry tone.
“Uhm.” Katrina hesitated, dragging a slender finger across her lips and down her chin.
“Fine, I shall have to remind you both.” The old man muttered.

“Many hundreds of years ago, they say the lands of Ashanath were home to beautiful, mysterious forests instead of the savage tornados that plague it endlessly today. For this, you see, was long before the Thayans had torn apart the skies with their weather machines and magic.
In one of these forests lived a humble spirit, known only as the Green Tree Spirit. A simple enough entity, much like the tree spirits of Rashemen’s woods, it spent much time with the druids and fey. The spirit, the druids and the fey knew well that these woods of Ashanath held a great and magical secret; for in these woods were a special kind of tree; a tree whose bark held twice the strength of iron and steel.”
“What was it called?” Katrina interrupted.
“What?” Uttered Jaska, caught off guard. “Hmm… It didn’t have a name, but for the sake of the story we’ll call it… wychwood.”
Both ethran smiled at this.
“But.” He continued. “This land was also home to many savage Orc armies. One army in particular was led by a Half-Orc known as Ordinus Fang. Fang was smarter than most humans; he could read for a start. When he had learned of the secret wychwood he decided to build many a weapon and suit of armour from these trees, and use their power to overwhelm the rival orc tribes.”

“But how did he know of the wychwood, Jaska?” Asked Moira.
“Well,” Jaska continued. “Fang had grown up in these very same woods, and after being saved from the cusp of death by a druid, had learnt its secrets – but as he had aged he had forgotten where to find the wychwood. Now he was hunting the druids, killing them one by one until they told him.”
“Did they tell him?” Katrina asked with some concern.
“Not at first. He squeezed the life out of many a druid before one finally broke. He offered to lead Ordinus to the wychwood, and did so. Once they had found it, Ordinus tore off the druid’s head and used his blood to leave a trail back to the forest perimeter.”

“The druids plight seemed hopeless and would have been so, were it not for the Green Tree spirit. The spirit had watched all of this unfold from the shadows of the trees. It remembered the vile Half-Orc when he was saved by the druids all those years ago. Even then it did not trust Fang, and the spirit had told the druids that they should have left the Half-Orc to die. Still, even though all these years later the spirit had been proven right, this was no time to gloat.
Before Ordinus and his army could return, the Green Tree spirit spoke to every tree in the forest and warned them of their impending doom. Tree by tree, the spirit reshaped the forest. It pulled the smaller trees from their roots and swapped them with others; then swapped the leaves between the bigger trees, and adjusted their branches to close old paths and unveil new ones.”

“When Fang returned with a small army of loggers, they used their dogs to follow the druid’s blood trail back to the wychwood; but the dog’s lost the scent too early. Fang did not care, for he had memorised the way, and so took point of his armies and lead them through the woods. The Orcs and their Half-Blood king searched for days, but it was clear Ordinus had forgotten the way; or so he had thought. So great was the work of the Tree Spirit that Ordinus could not recognise a single tree in a forest he had grown up in. Angered, he left with his army, only to return in a tenday.”

“News reached the Green Tree Spirit that the Orcs were marching on the wood once more. The Tree Spirit was confident that still they would not find the wychwood, but the Wild Elf who had brought this warning stressed that the Orcs had far too many hands and hatchets to take only the wychwood; in fact the Elf was certain the Orcs would cut down every tree until they found the magic wood. The Green Tree Spirit was devastated at the Elf’s words, but soon devised a new plan. By the time the Orcs had arrived, lead still by Ordinus Fang, the Green Tree Spirit had placed new trees of his own making around the forest perimeter. The Orcs took their hatchets and surrounded the forest, but when they swung their axes into the trees, the trees did not flinch! Again they swung, again and again, but the trees resisted. When the Orcs returned with even bigger hatchets they made the slightest of dents, but these trees were too strong to be cut. The Green Tree spirit watched with a smile, for the trees he had moved to the forest edge were in fact rocks piled high, disguised with leaves and bark. Ordinus fumed, refusing to be outdone by the forest and its spirit. He cracked the whip hard and his Orcs swung harder and harder, until exhaustion had snatched the will from their hearts.
“NOT GOOD ENOUGH!” Ordinus Fang bellowed, and he yellowed once more but was cut short by a blade through the neck. His trusted Lieutenant, some say, ran him through to silence his madness once and for all. And so the Orcs returned to their camp leaving Ordinus to rot, and the wychwood hid safely for another thousand years….”

Jaska shimmied his saddle back to centre; it had slowly crept sideways enough to misalign his stirrups. His adjustments failed. The Old Man pulled his horse to a halt and slid down his saddle and began tightening the girth. The two ethrans waited patiently.
“You see Katrina, the humble Green Tree spirit held back an entire army all on his own.” Said the old man as he removed the girth to reattach it properly.
“He was a trickster!” cried Katrina. “No better than forest imps and naughty goblins!”
“Nay, girl.” Jaska replied. “The spirit used misdirection and illusion to confuse and deceive. Many foes will choose to face you directly, knowing they can defeat you that way. These foes play to their strengths, as should anyone.”
“But…” Katrina’s attempts to interrupt were promptly overrun by Jaska.
“And if your strengths lie in illusion and stealth, why should you not utilise them? Perhaps the spirit was a trickster, but in this instance the spirit fought for the good of the forest and the land. There is nought wrong in that.”
Moira flashed her sister a cheerful smile as their wizened teacher tended to his saddle.
“I am glad you came along, Katrina.” She said.
“Will you miss me Vhelskaya?” Katrina asked Moira, eyes wide in expectation.
“I will miss all my sisters…” Moira replied with a flat smile, Katrina’s face falling sullen.
“But…” Moira continued. “…I will miss you most of all.”
Katrina’s face stretched a grin from ear to ear.

Jaska meanwhile was muttering curses beneath his breath as a strap on his stirrup tore. He began to fix it with a makeshift knot but became distracted. Whilst the girls stood idle, Katrina’s wild-eyed steed had clearly seen their impromptu break as a fine opportunity to bury its head into a berry bush, which it did so despite Katrina’s protests. Jaska laughed as he watched the girl struggle with her impetuous pony.
“The horse has the right idea.” He joked as he gave up on his saddle repairs for now.
“It is almost mid-day, let us lunch before we cross the river Iceborn.”

The Flower Spirit of Dereveshnya Field

Dusk was approaching fast. The trio had been slowed by Jaska’s need for saddle repairs and the crossing but were still set to make the Falls of Erech by tomorrow evening. Jaska rode ahead scouting for a good site to camp. They had made it past the Fortress of the Half-Demon without any hassle. The fortress was quiet, without even one of the weaker demons such as an imp or a quasit in sight – much to the two ethran’s dismay.
Other than the fortress there was little else out here in the North Country, save for the abandoned villages and the odd Durthran; though Jaska was mostly safe from the latter thanks to his pendant. If a Durthran, the evil counterpart to the Hathran, were to capture them he would likely be killed, or at the very least held prisoner. The girls faced indoctrination to the Durthran ways, and if that failed they would be killed. Jaska felt they would turn the youngest, Katrina, without much trouble, but Moira would be difficult. She was strong willed but had much potential as a mage; Jaska feared they would try all of their most vile and sinister magic to turn her. Still, the pendant he had crafted back in the Running Rocks would warn him if any Durthran or even Hathran drew near.

The two girls rode side by side some thirty feet behind, talking idly about what Moira would miss most about Katrina; until Katrina posed a question to her elder wychlaran.
“Why does he keep calling you Moira anyway? Your name is Vhelskaya.”
“Vhelskaya was what the Hathran named me when I was first anointed.” Moira answered. “Moira is the name given to me by my birth mother.”
“You mean your foster mother didn’t name you?” Katrina asked curiously.
“No.” Moira shook her head. “When the Hathran gave me to my foster mother so that she may raise me, they assigned a name of their choosing.”
“They told you your real name?”
“No my real name is still Vhelskaya, Katrina. Jaska knew my mother however, and he told me.”
“So why’s he using it now?” The young ethran asked with a furrowed brow.
“Jaska says the dajemma is a time of self-reflection. He says I must find and understand who I am, and that using my given name would help cast my mind back to its furthest memories.”
Katrina; silenced at last, gave a slow, wide-eyed nod in response.

“See the clearing there Katrina?” Called Jaska from up ahead as he pointed to a meadow in the distance off to the right. “You remember what that is, yes?”
The meadow was only a small clearing, but filled with rows of lavender and other brightly coloured perennial flowers; it stood in stark contrast to the surrounding arid grassland of the North Country.
Katrina paused before responding.
“Is it… Dereveshnya?” She asked reluctantly
Jaska slowed his horse enough to meet the girl’s pace. After a lengthy, tense pause he gave a solemn nod to Katrina.
“Correct.” He uttered with his typical aloofness. “And why do the flowers grow in the Dereveshnya Fields and nowhere else?”
Moira cleared throat quietly, waiting for Katrina to begin her response before interrupting her sharply.
“Jaska, there are many tales of Dereveshnya, and none have ever been proven. Some say it is just the geography, and the movement of the winds that let the flowers grow…”
Jaska regarded the elder ethran with a stare of clear disdain; his nostrils flaring and whistling quietly as he drew a long deep breath. After staring Moira down for almost a minute he finally barked back a response.
“Katrina knows the tale I speak of; don’t you?” He said as he looked to Katrina, now awkwardly positioned between Moira and Jaska.
“Yes.” She uttered quickly; and after a nod from Jaska she continued.
“There was a big battle here, many years ago… Hundreds?”
Jaska nodded.

“Hundreds. Hundreds of years ago, a battle between Narfell horsemen and Rashemen horsemen, covered all these lands in blood and guts. So much blood and so much guts that it bled into the grass and into every plant. This blood was Narfell blood, which is tainted by demon blood, and so it killed everything that it seeped into.”

“Only the simple, tough grass could survive all the blood. The most delicate and beautiful flowers were all strangled to death by the blood. This happened all across the North Country, which is why only grass and rocks cover the land outside the forests.”
“It was the cause of many battles Katrina, not just a single instance.” Jaska interrupted, continuing her story himself.
“For years the Narfell raiders rode into Rashemen, only to meet the axes of Rashemen’s berserkers. They battled endlessly, the only few survivors escaped missing limbs and eyes, haunted by such fierce fighting. The forests retreated as blood swept the land, but there was one spirit who defied them – the old Flower Spirit. The spirit had seen many of its flowers, its children, suffocated by the fighting as it retreated from the Erech alongside the forests – but it would retreat no more. It had no means to stop the barbarians through force, so what did it do…?”
Jaska cast his discerning eyes upon Katrina, who moments from spewing the answer was cut silent as Jaska instead drew his gaze on her wychlaran sister.
“Moira; tell us.”

Moira gave a quiet sigh; she did not care for this particular tale as there many variants of it, each more elaborate and far-fetched than the next. Still, she saw fit to humour the old man.
“The Flower spirit took to the trees of the forest and asked them to make it a clearing; which was the meadow we passed. The raiders returned and again fought the berserkers. As the spirit anticipated, the fighting spilled out into its new clearing, but the spirit was prepared for this.”
“It sang a song; a song that could not be heard by man but by the grass and the flowers nearby. It was sweet, and as they listened to the spirit they released spores. The berserkers and the raiders breathed in these spores. It soothed their minds and made them docile.”

“And then they all put down their axes and hugged!” Katrina butted in. “Traded arms for handshakes!”

Jaska chuckled low, a small smile marking his appreciation of their combined storytelling.
“You see it doesn’t matter which story is true or not, Moira.” Jaska continued. “The point of the tale is that the Flower Spirit used its magic and charm to quell the fighting and spare the land from its taint. When you are Hathran this will be your task too, and there are many ways to fulfil it, but you must always strive for peace. Peace of body, peace of mind and peace of heart.
Remember this - though war does make us strong; it suffocates us, and it strangles the life from our very land. The Hathran and all wychlaran, along with every Rashemi must fight for peace in Rashemen, just as the flower spirit did for its meadow.”
Moira gave a solemn nod in understanding. She still held her reservations over the tale’s accuracy but Jaska spoke wise words, as always. Together the trio rode on for another half-hour before the sun had fully set, at which point they made their last camp before the falls.

The Fire Spirit

The Falls of Erech were drawing near; it would not be long now. Like most young Rashemi beginning their dajemma in Narfell, Moira would camp there overnight and cast an offering into the falls to the spirits and the goddesses. Today’s ride had been a long and dull jaunt through more arid grassland, yet Jaska was still adamant he would make the trip educational for the two girls.
“We are almost at the falls now, students. We have time for one more tale and I want Moira to choose it.”
Moira paused in thought as she decided on what story would be best. She knew many tales of the spirits and Rashemen, as did any young wychlaran. The vremyonni bombarded them with tales set to teach them of the ways of the Hathran from the moment they stepped foot into the Running Rocks.
“How about the young Ember? Will that do?” She asked reluctantly.
Katrina shook her head in agreement with an eager smile. Jaska offered only a reserved nod.

“The story goes back to the times when Narfell and Raumathar raged war with their summons of demons, dragons and fire. The Narfell Empire was vast, spanning far and wide across the lands. Narfell’s rulers had made blood-pacts with the demons of the abyss to gain their power, and now many of these demons roamed free. There was one band of demons in particular, a loosely aligned gathering of two vrocks and several manes and dretches, all lead by one particularly wicked hezrou. The hezrou was a vile sort, as most demons are. Initially a foe of the vrock, after he had interrupted their dance of ruin by tearing the third vrock to small, bloody pieces, the other vrocks had submitted to his will. They joined the hezrou’s batch of weakling dretches and manes in what was now a small but ever growing band of demons.”

“With the vrocks at the vanguard of the hezrou’s force; they ravaged the ancient forests of the borderlands, far from ancient Narfell’s cities. There was one incident that was particularly wicked, in which the hezrou had his underlings defile a shrine to the earth mother. A shrine that had stood for many hundreds of years and would still today, were it not for those wretched beasts. The hezrou bellowed his vile laughter as his cronies tore apart creatures of the forest, only to sacrifice them to their dark gods for more power. After they had cleared one forest in particular of all the animals and fey folk, they turned their malevolent sights on the spirits. Eventually one of the vrocks had captured one of the spirit-folk, the half-kin offspring of the spirits. The hezrou and the vrocks tortured the spirit-folk until his screams drew out the spirits of the woods coming to his aid. But the demons had grown strong from spilling the blood of the forest in honour of their crazed, dark lords, and the spirits were no match for them. The demon band killed all of them, except for one lone fire spirit.”

“Last to be destroyed was the fire spirit; who young and small, stood now before the demons only to be drowned in their laughter. Well, the manes could barely speak and had no will of their own, so they accompanied their master’s bellows of amusement with half-gurgling hisses. The telepathic dretches simply stared on in their eerie silence. The fire spirit was just a small fledgling, and had no great power to call upon beyond its courage. Yet the demons were so amused that they did not bother with destroying this last, tiny spirit and so continued on through the now desolate forest looking for more to destroy.”

“Stop!” whispered the spirit; but the demons continued.
“Stop!” it cried again; but still the demons ignored it.
“Stop!” the spirit bellowed, loud enough for the demons to finally stop and hear its plight.
“You have destroyed everything I have ever known, and now I must destroy you.” The young spirit shrieked.
This was too much for the proud hezrou to bear. He had spared this puny spirit only for it to taunt him back. The hezrou growled in fury, and threw its hulking form at the tiny fire spirit in a reckless charge; barging every tree from its path. The fire spirit stood its ground, and as the giant hezrou loomed near the fire spirits courage began to grow. So much did the spirit’s courage grow that it soon swelled from a tiny ember into a huge and ferocious swirl of flame. The blaze engulfed the hezrou, then billowed and billowed until it had consumed the manes, the dretches and finally the two vrocks. As the flames subsided it seemed the demons had been purged; and save for the surrounding trees everything had been reduced to ash. Alone, the tiny fire spirit had defeated the fiends, but it had cost him his life.”

Katrina burst into applause. Her favourite story, told just how she liked it. Moira flashed a warm smile as Jaska bowed his head in sombre appreciation.
“Well told Moira. I am glad you picked a story so poignant too.” said the old man.
“And what timing – I see the falls just up ahead.”
“Really?!” shrieked the young Katrina, eager to race ahead but held back by Jaska’s firm grip on her shoulder.
“Not yet young one – first you must tell me the significance of this story.”
Katrina gasped in desperation yet again, her head hung low. She straightened up her posture and mulled over the tale in her head before finally lending her analysis to the wise old man.

“Well, the fire spirit was only little, and he didn’t think he could take on all the demons, and neither did the demons. But then the fire spirit tried anyway, because he was brave and he had to fight them. Then his bravery and faith in himself finally paid off, and he killed them all!
So basically, you should always be brave and stand against evil; even when you think you can’t win, because you can!”

“A fine analysis.” denoted Moira with a sly grin.
“Mhm…” The old man paused before continuing. “Yes Katrina, the Fire spirit’s bravery paid off, but bravery alone won’t win every battle. Faith in yourself is important, as is the courage to fight for your home.
As both the green tree and the flower spirit taught us; one doesn’t always need to resort to bloodshed. Sometimes you must be subtle, and weave deception and misdirection.”
“Like the tree spirit.” interrupted Katrina; Jaska giving a nod in agreement as he continued.
“Other times one must use skill in charm and diplomacy.” the old man looked to Moira, who flashed a hesitant smile before reluctantly adding:
“Like the flower spirit.”
“Exactly Moira; and sometimes threats be so deadly that a witch must use all her great power and might to overwhelm a foe. Even the young wychlaran such as you two possess great strength within, just as the fire spirit did. And as the fire spirit did give its life bravely to defend its home, so must the wychlaran stand against all evil that threatens both Rashemen and all of Faerun.”

“There is much the witches of Rashemen have learnt from the spirits of this land, and you, my young ethran, must heed their lessons too. Remember what I have taught you. Even if you make it so far as to join the ranks of the othlor, the wisest of all the witches; never forget what we have learnt of the spirits these past few days.”
“But enough teaching for now, the Falls of the Erech draw near. It is time for Moira to make her last camp in Rashemen.”

Epilogue

Moira watched the sun rise on the horizon, sat on the rocky outcrop that overlooked the waterfalls. It was far from tranquil – the roar of the hundred foot waterfall could be heard for miles, yet it wasn’t the noise of the falls that had kept her awake. Today she would cross the river into Narfell. Today began the dajemma.

Jaska had been first to go to sleep last night. Katrina stayed awake a few more hours with Moira. The two ethran spent much of the night tossing trinkets and copper coins into the falls, whispering prayers to the spirits and to Bhalla. Katrina tried her best to keep herself awake with incessant talking, but eventually the young teenager succumbed to slumber. After putting her in her tent, Moira had wandered back to the falls to meditate.

After a quick breakfast the three made for the crossing. It was a small, rackety wooden bridge, but thankfully the river was calm enough for it to be safe to cross. Before she stepped onto the bridge Moira turned to her two travel companions for a final goodbye. It had only been three days ride from Urlingwood but she had enjoyed their company and the tales they had shared. Katrina was first; clutching her sister witch in a tight embrace. Jaska simply bowed his head; more emotion from her wizened teacher than Moira had expected.
With a flash of a smile, Moira took a few steps onto the bridge, but stopped as Jaska gave her some last few words…

“Be careful, Moira…” He uttered, with a reserved taste of fear in his voice.
Moira was stunned. All the emotion combined from every word she had ever heard pass Jaska’s lips, paled compared to this one half-sentence. She looked back to Jaska and Katrina with a loving smile. Before she made her way across the bridge, she spoke one soft, final word to her friends…

“Farewell.”

[Black Rider]

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