3. The Countenance of Lady Aspera Chillwind...

The Countenance of Lady Aspera Chillwind...


  • ((Too bad she missed the elections))


  • In the distance, she could make out the spires of Peltarch rising among the mountains, the dawn touching the walls with a silvery radiance which spread out, encapsulating every essence of it. The water beneath her slender ship glistened pale, a fine spray lighting up the air as the dawn flowed through it in a plethora of colour.

    A wan smile flickered across full red lips as ebon locks fluttered slightly in the laughing wind. Yet this laughter was hollow, and empty, and a shadow from the east brewed even as this brave new dawn rose. Cutting through the water, the prow of the boat was engraved with a spiraling drake of silver, rising in fierceness against the defiant waves.

    It was as if the water itself refused entry, yet nothing could shield Peltarch from what returned, with inexorable grace, across the horizon. Midnight sales fluttered, each one marked with the pale hand, clasping at a crescent moon.

    A familiar sudder passed through the sailors as she drew towards the port…

    Lady Chillwind had returned...


  • Inspirational as always ArUlric.


  • I left the crumbling citadel, the gates of ivy bound marble fleeting away behind the jagged horizon, its spides still standing, a painful reminder of glories past. As I drifted between the trees, I felt the rumbling of the ground beneath me. It was a steady beat of drums. Drums of manhide, played with bone. Drums of the greenskin, come to do their bloody work of war.

    In the distance, as I looked back, I saw the familiar red glow of fire upon the horizon. The shining pinnacle, sundered, stumbling and falling as I watched from above. The ranks of the goblins playing their foul sport within. I walked away. Sickness reached into the very pit of my stomach with viceral joy, and in my soul I felt shame. Shame that I had not the strength within to stop these barbarians. Shame that I had not the courage to die within that cherished ruin with the rest of my kin. Yet in death, I know I should achieve nothing.

    Drawing my cloak about me, I turned my back, and fled once again into the night. The darkness flowed over my senses, blunting my vision, yet I needed them not. For I knew my destination. Like a moth, drawn to a flame I danced my merry way towards Tor Thanan. Leagues, miles passed in the darkness, the clouds choaking the moon's light from the sky. The yawning heavens, a great maw opened up above me, yet I noticed it not. For my heart, resolute proceeded ever onward, mindless of snow or fog or rain. Too long had I tarried. Too much I had yet to do.

    Thus it was, that I find myself standing at the foot of the final hill that I must climb. The final foe I must conquer. The final step upon my road.

    Tor Thanan rose above me, and I fled to greet her.


  • Such glory to see them again! The flowing scripts of my people, the deft and fluid writing which speaks of wisdo, knowledge and power! Long have I desired to have such books at my fingertips, and now I find them here, before me. It shall take me many hours of study to full comprehend the matters of these writings, yet their variety of form and structure is impressive. Within their silent, leather bound ranks I find Histories of Tor Thanan and my own line, untouched for a hundred years. I find books ennunciating learly the nature of many spells which were beyond my comprehension until this moment.

    This is truly a place touched by the elves I an feel it. Every curve cries it, every statue proclaims it. A presence almost hovers above me, as if watching me though inquisitive eyes. The orcs lie sundered below, their bodies growing cold in the wan light of the new dawn. Its first tentative beams creeping through the elegant windows. Yet now I must proceed, for I fear my skirmish against the greenskins yester eve has caused something of a ruccus among their bestial ranks. Glancing out the window, I caught the graven image of a a weedy, craven creature scurrying among the rubble outside in a poor attempt to remain silent. Stealing to the window, I knocked an arrow to my bow and aimed at the creature.

    Alas! For the arrow, aimed true did blow aside faintly as the fridgid wind did blow. The bolt caught the greenskin in the leg. It screamed and fled, back into the darkness of the tall trees. I fear he had gone to find more of his monstrous comrades, and I could not hold this citadel for long alone. Thusly with heavy heart, I did contain what books I could take, leaving only those of which I had copies and left that place with all due alacrity.

    Against my inclination did I go, for it is not in my nature to surrender the position to a lesser foe. Yet no tactical value could come of me lingering there. I must reach Tor Thanan. A path wound through the mountains ahead, yet this was my land, and unto my eyes, it is but the same one that I left many years before. I proceeded from the path into the wilderness, drawing my cloak tight about. For the chill was fierce now, and although the snow had ceased its falling, the winds bite was ever as crisp.

    By my reckoning, the city lies within two day's jounrney in fair weather, yet before that I shall see once more the human settlement which destroyed my brother, and which I in turn destroyed.

    Memories never seem to leave you. Never forever.


  • Five points upon a star were they. Five blades striking out from Tor Thanan's heart, splitting the chill and illuminating the world with the power of the Tel'Quessir. They rose together in perfect synchronicity. Rose together in perfect elegant creation, their spires touching the skies, their eyes piecring the heavens and the earth as they watched. Watched for foes of my people, watched the passing of summer through winter, yet never failed us. These were the Five Towers of Sehanine, and as I crossed the hill, one of them rose to meet me. I cannot enunciate the feeling that struck he here. Thoughts, memories seemed to flood back unto me as I gaze at the silvery spires, the pale sheen of the marble walls, the shattered gazeway, the fallen statues and the defiled images of the Seldarine. In my heart, I felt a great sadness for this fallen greatness, and a great rage against those who perpetuated it!

    I could smell them upon the wind, their foul spoor decernable in the chill stillness of this Northern day. Orcs. Closing my eyes, I reached into my spirit, wrapping myself in energies that ward away blows and confound enchantments against me. Finally I cast a veil of darkness about myself and proceeded within, through the shattered gateway. The stones were still erect, yet intertwined like the fingers of lovers between them were barbs of green ivy, somehow weathering the cold. I could almost feel the presences here, of ghosts long since fallen, yet still remaining, watching, waiting. To my right, I heard the crackling of a fire and the black tongue of that crude and brutal race. I must swear that in that moment, I should have gone and slain them all for their foul invasion of this place of Higher things, yet I did not. My father always councelled caution before action, I shall do nothing to dishonour him here in this place of my ancestors.

    Thus I proceeded into the next room, a library. High on each side bookcases stil stood, silent and ashen, likely due to the fact that in this part of the construction at least, the roof had persisted against the ravages of the weather and war, and had not collaspsed.

    My heart leapt to see such a glorious collection of knowledge still remaining at my fingertips, and yet I could not touch it for in the centre of this place of reason and thought was a ramshackle collection of greenskin creatures! How I loathe them! They are unredeemable in their manifest brutality. I believe that it is their mission solely to destroy works of beauty and thought that the world may exist in simple chaotic hedonism. I was not to allow that. I could never allow that. Glancing across their numbers, it was clear that it would challenge my powers to deal with them alone. They numbered twenty in the least, and were busily setting themselves up with a fire from pages of tomes written a thousand years before their fathers and glugging down wines savoured and adored by my people for half a century.

    Moving swiftly across the room, veiled in darkness, I could sense but one arcanist among their ranks, and a priest of their foul god Gruumsh. With a gesture, I opened the portal behind them, Cerith flapping out if it, his hands wrapped in chill energies. With a cry, the orcs snatched up their weapons and as one, rushed the mephit. Twin gestures sent blows of pure ice through the mob, twin orcs falling and writhing, clutching the shattered remnants of their black hearts. Reaching out, I formed a net of arcane force about their dull minds and set it forth, scything through their ranks. A score of them fell to their knees, drool dribbling onto the floor as they felt their conciousnesses bound in the blackness of sleep. Still the remaining attacked Cerith, his agile form dodging blows as he struck out at their eyes and throats with his fists.

    Yet the shaman still stood, and turned his beady red eyes upon me. Looking into them, I could see the nature of this beast. I could see the animalistic cunning behind the low intellect, the urge to kill to slay to maim and to murder in the name of their fell god. Yet I am an elf. I am the Firstborn of the House of Chillwind. I would never bow to the barbarian. Orcs fell about the mephit, clutching severed arteries and frost shattered limbs as they howled their agonies. With a gesture, the orc sent a beam of blackness burning towards me. Too late was I to halt its path as it enveloped me. Pain blistered across every nerve in my body as the divine forces of his Master did drive into my soul. Yet I did fight it, maintaining my stance upon the ground. The ground of my ancestors. With a gesture, I set about probing his mind, casting aside his mental defences as he fought to maintain control of his limbs.

    The axe blurred in my vision. Too quick it felt for me to avoid it. A flash of light heralded its contact, a gash upon my cloak its only remnant. The orcish warrior looked at me with dull witted confusion, then unto this weapon as if to devine the cause of my continued existance. A mistake, for allready had I stolen away the power of his limbs, and he stood before me, dribbling and cowering. His beady red eyes glistened with something life fear as I drew out the slim longsword. The light died and crimson ichors bled from the deft cut I scored him across the throat. Like a puppet with its strings cut, he fell.

    A sudden mantra sparked in my awareness. For still the shaman stood, brandishing his staff before him in fiery rage. Risking a glance unto Cerith, I did see that he was exchanig passing blows with the largest orcish warrior. Neither seemed capable of victory, neither seemed prepared to give in. Yet my awareness was focussed solely upon this foul cleric. I did think that in this moment, it was a battle symbolic of a struggle which has persisted for what seems like an eternity, even by the reckoning of the elves. Yet the elves would conquer here, as they always did.

    The head of his staff glowed, yet too swiftly could I see wat this monster was attempting to do. I could see the crude tendrils of magic he sought to weave about me, seeking to contain me within the barriers of his will and sap the power of my limbs! The fool! For I sent his spell tumbling back against him with such ferocity that that his green face fell in shock. And again he wore the expression of his comrade, of dull witted terror as I moved forward slowly.

    Snatching up his staff from his, his numb fingers desparately seeking movement, yet finding none. Invoking arcane force, I shattered the crude icon before his very eyes. Something like outrage I sensed in the orc, to see the symbol of his rulership, his god, destroyed before his eyes.

    He died. He died hard.

    Yet now I resign myself to peruse the tomes within this library, and perhaps find something upon what I seek. The nature of the Gem of Life. I read long into the night, illuminating my way with bright candles. Elven candles lit for the first time in night two hundred years.


  • Day 8.

    The wind's tempo rose, a sibilance swiftly turned to maelstrom. The blanket of ivory shrouding the land in deathly pallor swirled and danced its merry freezing jig. Beneath the ranks of the trees, I still felt Auril's touch too much to endure for long, thus I remain in my camp for this day, watching and waiting as then Snow Queen scours her wrath out upon the hillsides and the woods. Upon the edge of the forest, the trees, standing tall and silent, quivered under the torrent, yet stood strong. Always watching, always waiting. It was not the free elven forests that I would feel at home within - bathed in shimmering sunlight, undergrowth and life exploding from every pore. The singing of a stream as it trickled its merry path through the trees. No, this was something different. A dwarf's paradise. Nature in lines, tall, strong and easily felled. Not my colour at all, and I would gladly leave this place were it not for the winds raging outside. Thus I sat, considering the runes written before me.

    Four, repeated, four concepts, four thoughts, four dreams, perhaps even hopes. As I look upon them I cannot help but feel something within me rise. A familiarity that settles in my chest, spreading out warm tendrils through my body, shutting out the cold. The first, with its definite lines, rising and falling in graceful, yet somehow dangerous lines. The second, a simple spiral, whirling endlessly. The circle is a traditional symbol of eternity, of time and its passing in a cycle. Could this be a depiction of such?

    I began to think of M'releril, I could not prevent it as I stood in that barren sylvan army. With agonising clarity, I recall his rejection of me for his human knightling. Moreover, I also recall her agonising demise at the hand of the Banite monster Ashan. When I return to the city, I shall invite him for dinner. We shall see the true colour of this mysterious elven minstrel. The memory of his handsome features, his slender frame against mine, our lips meeting for the first time. Precious jewels. Yet too have I seen that he can be a fool, blinded by his sympathy for the N'Tel'Quessir.

    Love I no longer seek. Yet I long for his touch. I wonder who the greater fool is, and who deceives who. Yet I must throw aside such baubles, for Tor Thanan rises with the moon. In these days, I have been strengthening my defences against what may come. Hardening my soul, my heart for what may come. What has been lost. It is my earnest desire to uncover some guide - some fragment of my lost kingdom, of my lost kin. Employing the Globe of Location I purchased, I have managed to locate elements of the Gem of Life within Narfell, while the time instructing upon its true history and use remains in the frigid north. In my ancient household. Each wall, each room, each book is a vision written clearly upon my memory. It is with such knowledge and armed with my will that I shall proceed upon my search of the grounds. I shall begin on the initial floors, the gardens, if they persist.

    The storm lessens; the snowflakes cease their prancing, settling in deep swathes upon the ground. Thus I go, as the sky is dark, and the moon gazing down impassively from above. Wrapping my cloak about me, I continue to travel down my path. Wherever the wind may take me.


  • Day 7.

    I continue upon my journey, and I sense that I have not left my erstwhile pursuers behind me. My feeling, the dreams of deep amber eyes, blazing with secret intellect and forbidden thoughts still haunt me from above. I still see silent whispers dancing in the clouds, flecks of gold reflecting the coolness of the sun. I am being watched. There is no doubt.

    Yet who could it be? This is the most terrifying realisation of all. For I cannot say what secret foe dogs my moves. Stalks my steps like a sibilant wind. I endeavour to move through trees, to step in shadow, and yet still they remain. Those same, deep, amber eyes. Watching from the heavens.

    I endeavour to throw it from my mind, and focus upon my journey. As my foray with the trolls reveals, the danger grows ever more acute, and the north is always ready to claim another victim. The foolish and the unwary. My journey has taken me up the side of the mountain, and now I proceed back down the slope, into a sea of concentrated green, dark and foreboding. As I ducked under the canopy, the first rank of conifers marching away behind me, I was instantly struck by the unearthly silence of the place. The trees linked arms and bathed the entire area in shade. Comforting in a way – for the emptiness, the desolation of the cliffs and valleys begins to hammer upon the mind. The wind’s breath and Auril’s hand constantly scouring the mountainside, wearing away rock and man alike. It is not place to linger for long.

    Yet neither is this wood I feel. Although upon the surface, it is a being of nature, I sense no love not tenderness. The trees are silent, no shoots or plants dare to venture beneath the incessant wall of needles blanketing the ground. Never trust the face you are given, much that doth look like the innocent flower, is the serpent under it. I maintain my defences, for I do not trust this place. I draw up camp, and the map reveals that I must cross this forest for another day until I can reach the shore of this green sea. And then, Tor Thanan will be near…


  • Day 6.

    This day I elected to remain upon my cliff face, and endeavour to reach this vision of my mind. Exploration of the area revealed that it was quite cut off from the ground beneath it, the slope above too fierce for any mortal to navigate without falling to a painful death below. As I awoke, my mind flooded with the memory of the trolls below, a notion alien to my night of quiet contemplations beneath the stars. Summoning up Aera, I sent him to spy out from the air my current predicament, and his news was not encouraging. While the trolls had abandoned the immediate vicinity, it was clear that their low animal cunning had sought out my presence, and a gaggle of the foul things had begun to congregate below. Wrapping myself in shadow, I risked a glance below, stealthily making my way to the precipice. My familiar had not misled me, for now around six of the creatures were sloping around below, some vainly scraping at the rock in a pathetic endeavour to gain purchase.

    Thrusting aside such matters as mortal security, I turned my mind upon the matter of this clef in the mountainside. In my reverie, no greater insight was attained, thus I concluded an in-depth search of the area would be proper. Therein, I uncovered that, under the cold scrutiny of day, that the inside of the groove was covered in sigils and runes, some of which elven, and others of a more basic, humanistic value.

    In my vision, the elven runes, the exact nature of which I cannot say, appeared to have a glimmer of the arcane to them. Their edges written in a faint magical resonance. As I ran my hands about them, I felt a delicate wave of it wash across me, like the eddies of the sea, lapping languidly against the land. What could it be? Some sort of basic elemental energy? I recall my father speaking of the religious significance of early elven carvings, which tap into the weave in its most natural sense, tapping into the earth and using their powers in balance. Could this be what he referred to? I continued my observations but uncovered nothing greater than my current intuition. I have marked this area upon my map as one requiring further study at a later date, and made copies of these mysterious runes into my casebook. Perhaps in the laboratory, I may be able to recreate the effect and uncover a specific use for these esoteric enigmas.

    Examination of the crude human depictions reveals merely the work of barbarian shamans by my reckoning. Images of beasts and hunters armed with spears and clubs daubed on the walls with the typical rustic simplicity of them. Their presence here is hardly surprising. I would hypothesise that the shaman’s recognising the inane magic of the elven runes, were attracted and sought to invoke their bestial gods from them. I resisted the temptation to destroy them from their interesting sociological standpoint – evidence in Ulthan’s Theory of Cultural Continuum. Finalising my observation, I proceeded to consider the threat posed by the trollish life forms below the cliff face.

    Predictably, their numbers had fallen as the day passed, leaving me with only the original pair, passed out in ardent slumber below, arms and legs flailing violently in posture, giving them a faintly deformed and brutal countenance. In directly confrontation, even with a troll recently awoken, I believe that I would have suffered. Therefore, I must risked venturing back down the cliff face, wrapped in tightest veil of shadow, and hope that the Lady of Darkness favours my footsteps.

    Upon reaching the floor, I was thankful that it had been worn clean in times passed by the movement of ice, and thusly was smooth and clear. Even under the mantle of invisibility, it is known in the north that a troll may smell your presence, and continue to track even an elf over a distance of several miles. Flitting from tree to tree below, endeavouring to keep my movements as quiet as they might be.

    Then, a wolf cried in the mountainside, deep in the valley below. The sound, like a fanfare, a trumpet pealed out, shattering the silence I had carefully orchestrated. The trolls shifted slightly, roused from their slumber, no doubt filled with dreams of ripe virgins and rancid goats to be eaten. I fled. I curse the fact that my strength has not yet returned. That I still remain unable to quicken my step. Soon perhaps, as my spirit strengthens, it may return. Soon.


  • Day. 5

    Trolls. It has been some time since I have encountered their like in the south. As I made my way up the path, towards the summit of the hillside, I sensed their presence. That faintly foetid stench drifting with the wind towards me. Then the shuffle. Long loping arms garbed in long, dirty claws dragging slowly upon the arms behind them as they search for sentient food. I slipped me behind a large tree, clothed in darkness, and waited. For a hundred counts I seemed to linger, painfully aware, upon the edge of danger. Then it came closer. One, then two sets of shuffling, clawing beasts! The first shambled into vision, round the corner. I fought the urge to gag. It was the so called ‘Snow Troll’, vast of height and weight, gazing about with those vacant, empty headed eyes. Ogling the world in a fit on constant confusion. It had the hide of a pachyderm – beady little red eyes and a long sloping nose with which it snuffled about in the snow. I looked across to see the beast ladling his attentions upon where I had stood before. Where tiny, almost imperceptible indentations wrote my progress upon the snow. I cursed silently as it sloped forward slowly, towards the tree. What could I do – fighting was no option, for my strength has not yet returned in fullness. My flame flickers, but has not yet risen to the inferno required to crush this carbuncled killer. Closer, closer in came until I could smell the odour of wretched, rotten meat upon its breath.

    I ran – it was all I could do. Leaping upwards, I grabbed a low branch upon the tree and used it to haul myself higher, into the bows. Up I went, the sharp thorns, like an army of tiny green spears catching eternally upon my clothing as I fought my way upwards, towards the cliff edge that rose just above the tree’s top. Within minutes, the ground lay far below, yet still I could make out the troll in frightening vivid detail. As I glanced down from above, I saw another, a smaller, younger troll appear from the path I had come down. Do not be mistaken, for although it was smaller, its claws and teeth could still rend an unwary traveller limb from limb. Their platitude of grunting and various other distasteful remarks continued for some time beneath me as I climbed, reaching the top of the tree, clutching on the final, slender branch there. The wind was still whispering, gently, the blue sky yawning above me. Whispering a small prayer to the Seldarine, I leapt.

    The cliff proved to be stable, crafted of fine rock which glimmering slightly in the cool sun of the north. I was struck by a sudden familiarity. What can it be? I still here still, the trolls slumbering beneath me. Logic would urge me to ponder the manner in which I shall deal with these creatures and yet I cannot but keep my mind upon the cliff face, the groove cut into the rock behind me leading to a shallow cave. What could it be which drew me to this spot, that makes it so… so memorable. So I sit, and write, and ponder, desperately reaching into my mind with eager finders, ready to pluck out the notes of recollection.

    Perhaps in sleep I shall find my answer.


  • Day 3.

    That howl. The sound which splits the coolness of the night like the face of a mirror. That shatters the silence into a thousand shards, each one reflecting the watery light of the moon above them. To have lived, one must have heard the cry of a winter wolf, calling to its brother the moon. It is unlike any other, its timbre, its pitch, its resonance.

    I had forgotten this lunar predator, somehow lost amid dreams of fat heifers and mindless livestock. Somewhere along my road, I had lost sight of the nature blossoming about me. Yet once more I move my eyes to the sides of the road. I see the leaves and the flowers and the birds and the beasts in life’s wondrous tapestry.

    Again it peals out across the hills; it rings in my ears with a resonance greater than any concerto or orchestra. It shakes my world, and I welcome it.

    I was correct. This is no blank page, for as it looks back at me, I see it is written with hundreds of words. Stolen visions, shards of truth mingled together. I see my father, raven haired, tall and proud atop his finest charger. Garbed in raiment, woven with exquisite silk of silver, he shone as a beacon to me. His eyes and veins writhing with the powers I feel within me. When I reach inside, tapping the well of force within, it is as if I clasp his hand to mine. As if I am with him again. Still riding at his side through the ashen landscape. Still hunting the deer in the forest for the feasts of the spring. Still there. Still breathing. Still me.

    This day I crossed the river, still guttering its path through the low rocks of the hills. Huge boulders tower of the landscape, behemoths of granite, leering, bathing all in shadow, yet I find no shelter. For above me, I can feel eyes upon me. Eyes of amber. For an eagle flies above. For how long, I cannot say, yet as I strode up that hill, I saw him. Strolling his slow waltz with the clouds. Watching me with those same amber eyes. Reaching down, I touched the surface of the water as I reached the ford. For an instant, the wan sun dashed from behind its pall, filling the air with sudden purpose, then falling away. The air continues to chill, yet my provisions last well and the journey does not weary my limbs.

    The same sense of excitement, writhing in my stomach grows daily as I proceed to my final destination. And yet the world about remains, as if caught in glass. Chill and unearthly still.


  • Day 2.

    Auril's breath grows ever more accute, her wan fingers even now lilt their freezing jig across my skin. It is the touch of home. I still recall how I used to stand upon the battlements of the tower, reaching out to touch a falling snowflake, the wind whipping it around me. There is a homeliness in the cold it seems. Too long have I known the verdant lands of the south, where warmer pastures stretch out in gluttonous green swathes. In the distance, mountains rise, crowned in their glory by bright raimant of ivory and silver.

    This day I did pass through a great wood. The trees stood silent. Ranked about the path like a hundred warriors, bearly swaying in the breeze. There was silence here, few birds nor beasts lingered. The only breath was that of the wind, sibilant and distant amid the shelter of those frozen bows. Yet I was not alone, for I did hear the crack, a splinter of a branch. Drawing from the energies flickering through my veins, I garbed myself in shadow and strode forward. The path ahead turned sharply, and as I passed it, my eyes were met by a most foul thing. Slumped, grunting and gurgling amid a sickly fire sat five beasts. Their name, at first escaping me, I later uncovered to be 'hobgoblins'. Goblinoids remain a blight of which the world would do well to be scourged.

    Their bodies lie in the dry silence of the forest now.

    So I passed under the final gateway of the sylvan maze, and found myself standing before a track wandering into higher lands. I draw my robe closer, the winter wolf lining soft and warm against my skin. The air about me remains tangibly cold, not freeing, yet the wind has gained a bite it was without before. Yet the fires within me buble, and a thousand thoughts and memories move in my mind. Too long have I planned this trip. Too long have a waited for the moment, the time to move to see what has passed before. Errant hope rises in me that I will find some fragment of information, some feeling that will lead me to uncover the Gem of life, or the tome, or anything that was. I find a need within myself grow. Something in my chest yearns for its touch, its feeling, its power.

    Divinations of Narfell revealed that some essence of it remains there, but wherefore I cannot say. In the past, we will find the path to he future. I hope it is right.

    Tomorrow I move into the foothills. Tor Thanan grows closer.


  • Day 1.

    Dawn crept over the horizon, its syrupy beams melting across the surface of the water like a gilt mirror. The walls of the city tumbled away into the distance, the only evidence of its existence the coiling of roads towards it like a hundred wan serpents, the sun flecking the sandstone cobbles gold. Peltarch is passed, and the north rises before me – deep, dark and chill. And yet, I feel its pull. I write this, the first page of my journal. The page, on first inspection blank, seems to me scrawled with a thousand memories and pasts and thoughts and dreams.

    I return to Tor Thanan.

    I travel in solitude, without guard or defender at my side. I had pondered ordering Anelad to join me, to stand with me upon the nadir of our fallen pinnacle. Yet I could not countenance it. I could not yet let eyes see my fallen majesty. Affairs were set in order – I informed Senator Ashald of my absence from affairs of state and placed my secretary in charge of my estate until my return. If I return.

    Were it possible, I should rather have employed a trans-dimensional portal to transport me from my place of current residence to the remains of the city. However, upon investigation, this proved impossible owing to my own lack of specific study in this field and the apparent lack of competent practioners within the city walls. I toyed with the prospect of requesting the aid of Chaelvin; however, I did not want that half breed poking around in matters best left to those of a purer strain of thought. Like all wizards, he lusts for the power of others. He cannot have it.

    Thus I must proceed to the site by mine own energies. Silence. Few beats reside here. I have sense no danger in the immediate vicinity, so I have drawn camp for the evening. The bandits of the south hold no sway as I proceed north, yet I cannot escape the sense of shadow looming. I dream of thunderclouds roiling in the heavens. They are the colour of blood. Eyes other than mine own examine my progress. I shall proceed with all due alacrity, and with all due stealth.

    Until tomorrow.


  • Politics, I have often heard it said, as like a game of chess. Each piece has its own skills, its own moves. Black and white mirrored perfectly in balance, arranged as if to war amid their battlefield of ebony and ivory. There are casaulties in this war, yet its rules can never change.

    While the king stands, the Queen rules supreme.

    Peltarch is the board of play, and I find it most fitting indeed. Senator Ashald. A most kind, most worthy gentleman of course. It is clear, however, that his political progress, his career would swiftly collapse had he not me here to guide his every footsteps. The way he looks at me, it is clear that with his eyes, his human eyes, he undresses me, imagining in his base conciousness any number of things. The thought of it is enough to drive me to wretched extremes, yet I will premit it.

    So long as he finds me alluring, I will suffer his gaze, for with it, I know that a part of him is stolen away. The Queen will always be supreme. Policy I have guided him - ones that the Senate could not, in all faith deny the usefulness of. And in this useful policy, I do for Senator Ashald a great service, for with it, his position as Senator, responsible, sensible is born.

    As yet, as abhorant as it may be, I require his influence to sanctify my own. I need to build him, to craft him in the image of my choosing. Yet the sculptor is somewhat beholden to his stone, and I cannot help but wonder at the true mettle of this human. He spoke of links with a group. He said that none who sit on the Senate now are of it save for he.

    This will have to be watched closely for should they gain overmuch, I may find myself in a position most costly. Watch thy friends. Watch thy colleagues. For my own position, I will not cut with Rath, and in time, once my position on the Senate is realised, he may prove a useful ally.

    However, in this moment I will concentrate for I cannot afford to suffer a slip. Soon, we shall see the Ministry of Magic become a reality, and from it, I will have the power to see that those who would oppose me fall into death and destruction.

    However, enough of my musings, for the future is yet murky, and much is yet to do.

    My thoughts continue to turn to M'releril.

    In the silence, the pain he caused me has dried up, my hopes that we could be together, unto forever, have too fallen cold as the leaves of Autumn. I no longer trust to hope, for hope has no part of me. Yet my mind, Shar forgive me, continues to turn to that night.

    That night when we both stripped away that which is mortal and embraced and slept in quiet harmony. Coolness of my skin, melted by the warmth of his, my hands moving across his firm and elegant form tenderly.

    I still recall the frantic beating of my heart as we embraced closely. The sweet softness of his lips against mine. It was as the blooming of lilies in spring. An explosion of errant joy within me. His hands, his arms.

    I have sipped of the forbidden chalice of desire, and I cannot help but want more. Something within wishes to take M'releril in my arms and give myself to him with all the fury of the tempest and ignite the flames that simmer within him. I wish to rip his garments from him and give in to the feelings which rock through my entire body at the mere thought of him. I wish to touch every part of him and allow him to touch every part of me…

    Almost every part...

    Yet is not love like a game of chess also? In passion is it not the lady who is in the power.

    Her father was right. The queen does always rule surpreme. Always.


  • ((This is a poem I am rather fond of, the poet who wrote it however has currently fled my mind…I am sure it will return.))

    _Out of the night that covers me,
    Black as the pit from pole to pole,
    I thank whatever gods may be
    For my unconquerable soul.

    In the fell clutches of circumstance,
    I have not winced nor cried aloud.
    Under the blugeonings of chance,
    My head is bloodied but unbowed.

    Beyond this place of wrath and tears,
    Looms but the horror of the shade,
    And yet the menace of the years,
    Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

    It matters not how strait the gate,
    How charged with punishments the scroll,
    I am the master of my fate,
    I am the captain of my soul._


  • The ring glimmered in the flickering radiance of the candle. Catching like hope upon its multi-faceted face, the light flowed through the emerald, casting its beams, like the shoots of spring, about the room. Aspera glanced down at it, her eyes mirrored in its hue. Distracted from the text she held in her willowy fingers, she allowed herself a moment of simple pleasure. Of simple reminiscence.

    Reaching down, she polished the face of her ring, with curious focus cleansing it of perceived dust where no dust lingered. It was pristine, glorious, perfect in its creation. With a critical eye she examined her jewel, nodding contentedly that her item was as it should be, and returned her attentions to the words sprawling before her. Looking down, they seemed to blur, to mutate and flux in her vision. Blinking forcefully, she opened her eyes to see the same, frowning in quiet consternation that her concentration should fail so.

    A whisper drew her attention, the faint movements of the curtains as they lilted in the breeze. It was warm, faintly dank bringing with it the unpleasant greasiness of the city far below. Outside was quiet, save for the barking of an idle hound or the clatter as the guardsmen went about their patrols. The sky was dark, not black, yet an almost grey colour. The sun had long sunk beneath the horizon, its syrupy rays dripping away with it, yet the horrible memory of its warmth still remained. It hung in the air like a foul stench and was as unappealing as such an odour might be. Aspera shuddered slightly as she felt the trickle of sweat down her spine. Her browns knit, shattering her ivory mask for a moment. With hands, slender, she articulated her will unto the Weave and it was so, a blanket of coolness flowing over her, banishing the foul humidity of the dusk.

    Striding to the window, she drew the curtains closed and returned to her desk. The room was bathed in darkness, save for the errant flickering of the candle, its tongues flowing in an almost elegant dance. Taking to her seat once more, Aspera threw the book closed. She could look at it no more this night. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and allowed herself a moment of serenity. She had few enough of these in these days. Crossing her arms, she felt something inside her robes. With an inquisitive hand, she reached inside and withdrew a vial. Holding it to the light, the glass reflected green as the ring had done, though its contents were unmistakable. As the flame’s radiance touched it, the room exploded in a luminosity of crimson. All about her, the room seemed to drip with scarlet light, incarnadined in hideous clarity.

    This was the blood of the paladin. Of Alannia Diams. The asp. The fallen fool. Aspera let a rare smile play upon her lips as she tilted the blood in the light. This was the essence of that which she called foe. This was what M’releril loved. This. Now, she held it in her hand. Now it was hers. Toying with it for a final moment, Aspera moved to place it in her drawer.

    As if guided by divine hand, the candle flame lashed out. A tongue of fire thought to wound her, turn her pale skin to raging red! The vial fell from her grasp. Falling through the air, it landed with a clunk upon the ground, yet she did not see it. Holding her hand in abject horror, her ghostly countenance written a mask of fear as she fixed her eyes upon the impertinent candle. With an almost childish cry, she lashed out with her mind, obliterating the wax into its composite atoms. There would be no more flame! She would not touch the inferno! Never fire!
    And so it played out again before her eyes. The figure of her brother, lashed to the pyre. The flames, passion, reaching higher and higher. The scimitars of flame hewing his pale flesh into a thousand pieces. Cruel hands chanting On! On! As his body surrendered to the fires of their ignorance. The hideous screams as his throat, burning, cried out in his agony. His last words written in flame. First it was that his fair locks did yield, as corn set ablaze by the sun, as gold marred by imperfection. His eyes of emerald glowed to the last, even as his shattered frame did fall, feeble before their feet.

    How the petulant fools triumphed in their own ignominy. How the cretinous beasts gloried in their murder of a boy. He was but a boy. How each injudiciously laughed, cackled, took twisted, distorted pleasure in it. They were nothing but savages, beasts, barbarians. Aspera recalled well how she had dealt with them.

    A hundred bodies lined the road. Each nailed to crosses. Each left to rot in the cold, for the crows to have their pleasure of.

    To die in the snow was too good for them. Humanity the plague. Humanity the curse. Humanity the blight upon nature and this earth.

    She knew them well. She would not surrender to the flames. Never.


  • Aspera sat in her chair in Spellweaver Keep, countless documents, papers, scrolls laid out before her, each scanned, read, absorbed again and again. Countless talk of wells, of the Weave. With an almost desparate sigh, she opened the final tome, throwing open its pages with forced energies. She knew she had to persist.

    The hand was elegant and floral… elven work... and so she read...

    _Here follows the true account of Ulanor Tarilvar…mage of Norwick... the happenings most foul...of man misguided....

    The Death of Purity

    The dew of the morning hung upon the plants like the tears of the gods. The frail glow of dawn crept over the forest, silently. Maria stumbled forward, blind to the tears that ran down her face. Her village was dying; the wells were poisoned yet she could do nothing. Cruel thorns tore into her bare feet as she stumbled into the glade. The wan light of the newborn sun, precariously hanging from the sky stung her eyes, so accustomed to the dark gloom of the forest.

    A pale shadow against the black columns of the trees flitted before her tired eyes. As if a ghost, the mysterious figure fled before her eyes, deeper into the blackness of the forest. Scooping up her tattered rags, she flew after the light in the darkness. Cool water spattered across her tear-worn face as she crashed through the trees. Branches, so pitiless, scarred her body. Inured to pain, she ran after the radiant creature, always slipping in and out of vision.

    Suddenly, she stopped.

    Her eyes grew wide as she looked upon the beauty of it. With grace unknown to the dull minds of humanity, the wondrous creature stepped forward, its hooves making no noise to break the still silence of the morning. Her glazed eyes saw a rippling coat of purest white illuminated by the sun in a halo of iridescent light, its noble brow crowned in its glory by a spiralling horn of ivory. The lunar beauty of the proud and fearless, yet gentle creature stunned her.

    For this was a unicorn.

    The animal moved towards her, yet she did not shrink away. She felt her fear wash away as the tide of magic drifted over her. Venturing out a pallid hand, she laid it upon the unicorn’s side. Warmth spread out its tendrils, enveloping her body in its tenderness. Black, liquid eyes met hers and she understood. Gesturing with her hand she pointed back the way she had come, her child-like eyes pleading. The ill wind blew its bitter chill back into her tired limbs. Gazing into the sky, she saw that the morning that had begun with such promise had sunk into gloom. As summer gives way to winter, so she saw the sun die under the assault of the cloud. The trees around her shook in fear as day turned to night, and lightning lashed angrily across the sky.

    The girl almost quailed under the rage of the storm gods above her, yet something steadied her. The unicorn glowed as a beacon in the darkness, its flowing mane of snow roaring in the wind. Then the storm broke.

    Fiery arrows of water pattered from the leaves above the oddly matched pair. Such a noble, god-like creature beside a poor peasant girl, yet both had something in common. A pure heart.

    Even as the rain fell, the pair hurtled down the well-worn path to her village. The trees parted before them; nothing would bar the unicorn’s path. Time blurred into a single moment, and the maiden was clear of the tree line. With a guiding hand, she touched the unicorn’s strong neck and led the noble creature to the well. Her eyes stung as she looked upon the cancer in the heart of her village, what had once given life and now took it away. The water was covered in a black slime, putrid and vile and deadly to all who touched it.

    Bowing to the moon, the unicorn let the shaft of ivory pierce the surface of the water. When the horn touched it, the water trembled, the slime on its surface dissolved and it shimmered pure as crystal, clean as sunlight.

    "Look to the horn," came an ominous voice from behind them.

    Spinning around, the maiden saw the villagers swarming out of their greasy little huddles to paw at the lustrous satin of the unicorn’s sides. It did not flinch at their rough hands, but daintily sidestepped to be closer to the girl.

    Fear loomed before the innocent girl, as through the eyes of a child she saw the evil intent of the villagers. Their eyes all gazed with the evil glint of greed as they clawed at the unicorn. All thought of the magical beauty of the unicorn was cast aside by the power of human frailties. The mob moved in with terrifying enthusiasm, throwing the maiden aside. She landed heavily against the cold stone cobbles of the road. She could only look on in horror as the men laid about the majestic beast with billhooks and crude spears.

    Tears of purest agony fell from her eyes. This was her fault. She had brought the unicorn here.

    Even before the light had died in the unicorn’s beautiful eyes, they had hacked off the precious horn. Little did they care that they had removed magic from the world; little did they care that they had sinned beyond the universe for the death of purity itself is of little concern to the evil of this world._


  • Aspera looks across the portrait, offering a smile to the elven arists who stood at her side, quivering slightly.

    "You have done well Loenal… "


  • I seize the 50th post in the name of my Dark Mistress! For Shar!


  • Daemons is it now? How strange this place Norwick is. So it is that the vermin swarmed from their hovels but days ago, so it is that a rot is at the heart of the people grows deep indeed.

    I took Chaelvin to be a man of control, a man of power. A dangerous man. Yet as we sat, discussing the Gem of Life, his eyes turned to snow, gazing distantly at a perceived spectral foe. His staff, glowing with energies seemed to swell in my sight as he drew the forces of the weave to him. His aura is potent and his power compelling. Yet perhaps his mind is a weakness. For he screamed of daemons within the mind.

    The daemonic. The Fell. The legions of the Nine Hells. The armies of the Abyss. Many are their names. Many are their energies and powers. Daemonology is a facet of the art which has long been distant from my hand. My essence seemed to recoil somewhat from the touch of such vile creatures. Yet, their powers cannot be ignored. Their might could be focussed closely unto the glory of my name. Fierthior he was once. An imp in my service. He was but a chittering evil. A minor beast. Once I heard a hypothesis upon the nature of the sorceror's familiar. The mage within suggested that these small creatures were a physical manifestation of the life force of the wizard, a signature of their being. I now understand that by this philosophy, the imp which came to me was but a sign of my nature - chaotic, unjustified, confused and enraged.

    Yet what if I could draw upon one more powerful?

    Mayhap the essence of the well would be enough, if the burst of wild magic was sufficient enough. To break the barriers between the planes. I do not know if I have the strength in me, yet bouyed upon the energies that the well could feed me, if I managed to protect myself and draw forth a surge and control it. It may well be possible to call up one of those daemons. My mistress of night… mayhap indeed she too could aid in this business. For a price. The blade is drawn black. In time, I will have to qench light with it. The energies of divine and arcane interwined may have the power to invoke its spirit. Though in doing so, I should be forced to find a fitting sacrifice in Her name.

    Perhaps the word of this creature may help me to find the Gem of Life if I could bind it... I shall have to seek numerous texts upon this. Spellweaver for all of its glory will have them hidden deep in some inner sanctum. I will have to proceed calmly in this business, for if I was to be uncovered, it would be for the ill of all. For now, I will maintain by search for my Gem of Life in earnest. It is close, almost tangible and not quite unto me.

    So I turn my eyes to texts and scrolls. So I look through eyes upon thousands of words, to see truth from fallacy. So I return to my books.

    Aluve' malla ilharess