3. A wanderer from Damara

A wanderer from Damara


  • Narfell a/c : sciolist
    Character : Keira Icewing

    A bead of sweat rolled up Keira's cheek into her eye. She blinked, trying not to unbalance in her precarious position above the coals. A fresh wave of heat surged upward as another Novice pumped the bellows beneath the hearth. Still she remained in the handstand, letting the mantra of focus displace the tension in her arms and shoulders from her mind.

    It is not know how long the halls of the Disciples had stood in one of the snow-tracked passes above Helmsdale. Following the fall of the Order, little was done to preserve the records or equipment, or even the structure of the buildings. Once the townsfolk had been aroused to vengeance there were few historians or chroniclers among them, only people with a dark resolve to remove the predation of the Order from the area…

    A robed novice brought the bundle of cloths to the Mistress of the Order. Foundlings and children were left often at the gates, out of some local superstition, or just to ensure some future for those who otherwise might have none. Elves were very rare this far north, though, and the Mistress was greatly surprised to see a pale, blue, elf-babe nestled in the blankets. As she later recorded in her journal, no elves lived below in Helmsdale, nor did they commonly pass this way for trade or other reasons. The Mistress meditated and prayed for guidance and, by Her grace, received it. The elf would be raised and, as her strength allowed, entered into the ranks of the Novices. Her first scar was the mark of the Order upon her arm, so that any who strayed might be returned to the path of Truth, by the townsfolk.

    In many societies it is common that the names given a child at birth or in youth are ephemeral things. These names are usually superceded at some time of transition, whether puberty, a formal presentation or some other occasion. The new names can be personally chosen or gifted by some mentor or superior in light of the behaviour or actions of the person. Amongst the Disciples of the White Rod in the Galena Mountains, it is believed that they took a name when they left the Novices to become a Scourge. From that point they would go on to serve the Maiden in whatever way was appropriate, either remaining to contemplate and to teach, or leaving to pass on Her truth and mystery to others.

    The Scourge jogged easily behind the loose line of students battling their way through the snow. Not even novices, the human children ranged from the smallest at 7 to a stocky 12 year-old. Their breathing was ragged and their bare feet numbed from the cold. 'The faster you move, the less you'll feel it' chanted the Scourge as he jogged past the children to the cairn, choosing a fist-sized rock from the top. He grinned as Keira rounded the bend at the cairn ahead of the other children by a few yards, remembering a similar pack of children maybe fifteen years ago when he had run with the elf and she had not grown much since then. 'Well done!' He smiled, 'You've earned an extra rock for the next leg'. The new rock clunked against the others in her pack as Keira and the other children set off for the next marker, barely visible in the drifting snow.

    Around fifty years ago, there was significant expansion in the activities of the Disciples in the area above Helmsdale. What had been occasional, if painful, brushes with the monks became more frequent. Trade began to tail off, even in the summer months, as merchants heard of the risks of being taken up to the halls for a broadening of their perspectives. The few townsfolk that were resilient or lucky enough to be returned were unwilling to speak of their ordeals. Those survivors were more crudely damaged than those historically, there was less artistry to the wounds and scars and more maiming and minor amputations. It is unknown what prompted the escalation of violence, but it eventually signaled the downfall of the Order in the area.

    The novice paused at the door to Keira's cell. She was sat near the window, meditating. Blood oozed from the fine scalpel cuts and dripped from her elbow into a carefully positioned bowl. She chanted softly as she worked, carving another thorned whip-tail looping about the muscle of her forearm to twine with other, older scars. 'I am to take you to the M... to the old Mistress' the novice said, uncomfortable with the interruption. Keira frowned and blotted her arm with a cloth before following the novice through the cloister.
    The bed in the infirmary was humbler than a servant of the Mistress' long years could have merited, but the New Mistress was fiery with zeal and ambition. Anxious to make up for what she no doubt felt was too many years waiting for the mantle of authority to pass to her, she desired more than ever before to walk the path of Truth. Additional children had been taken, and at greater age than was usual. Frequently the older ones attempted escape or were unable to learn the more basic tenets, relegating them to a less fulfilling position as canvases for the more experimental techniques. The old Mistress had been ousted from her chambers as soon as she was too frail to defend them.
    'Come close, I have little time' croaked the old woman, 'I had hoped to see you rise from the Novices before I died, but I will not'. Keira knelt by the old woman's bed, holding her hand as she spoke. The old woman smiled, savouring the internal agonies that her illness was inflicting upon her. 'She has blessed me with vision in these last days. When I die, you should fast and sit vigil with my body on one of the high peaks. Only when I am consumed by raptors should you return to the Order'. Keira thought fondly of the high peaks and the snow, and the resolve that would be required to endure them.

    The Disciples of the White Rod were wiped out in the Helmsdale region some 50 years ago. There is a song, sung locally by bards of the evil they put to rest, and old men that took part on the raid take some grim satisfaction in having visited violence upon those who deserved it. The predation of the Order was sufficiently removed from the previous state of superstitious awe to kindle action in the hearts of the locals. None of the order survived. None were allowed to. In a sly recognition of their values though, some of the monks were slain slowly in the burning buildings. Those without faith enough to withstand that were slain cleanly. Some years later when brave folk ventured up to the pass where the monastery stood only the buildings remained. The bodies and most of the other trappings of the order had been scoured clean by the snows.

    At first, returning from the peaks, Keira thought the smoke to be some mirage. Visions were common to many of the ordeals, and a portent of doom was a classic metaphor. Nearing the halls though it soon became apparent that something terrible had happened. The remains of a pyre still smelt of roasted flesh, and the great hall was a ruin of tangled roof-beams and charred corpses. Keira rubbed the scars on her arms thoughtfully. She had never been well connected to the functions of the Order, even less so as her sponsor the previous Mistress had waned in power. Even so, it would not help her to remain here. The bodies did not look like they had enjoyed a rational discourse before their demise. Searching the ruins yielded a simple robe from the sacristy, a pack and a sling from the storehouse. Faint from hunger, she found what little she could within the ruins and prepared some dried meat for travelling. It seemed blasphemous to use those knives upon dead flesh and she chanted one of the holy chants as she did so, promising that the Truth would not die as long as she lived.

    Where then should the road of Truth lie? Taking a stick from the ruins she tossed it high in the air, watching it tumble and fall with Her grace to point southeast, to Narfell.


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