Chapter III:7

The wolf is the pack,
the pack is the blood,
blood skillfully taken,
to feed their young.

The ram is the heard,
the horn and the hoof,
every lamb she defends,
each honored and good.

The serpent is lurking,
the smallest his pray,
the largest he fears,
by hoof kept at bay.

The mother is watching,
with crook tends her flock,
the child she is growing,
with lamb head doth knock.

Take what is yours,
take all that you can,
stay not the young sheep,
grow proud as the ram.

The Flock, circa 600 B.E.

Order Midst Chaos

The caravan started to move. Katrisha had enchanted each wagon, providing a barrier that would slow incoming arrows, hopefully to harmless speeds, and likely short of their mark. She was regretting it. The effort had left a weariness in her bones, even with her staff aiding her. Kiannae had tried to help, but her skills were not as sharp with conventional magic anymore, and her methods too intensive. Her own reserves taxed form healing.

It wasn’t good. None of it was good, and the caravan was moving much faster than it could sustain. Trying to make a town before nightfall. Wren was curled up to Katrisha’s shoulder seeking comfort. She was taking easily as much from his presence. Kiannae sat across from them, reserved, eyes closed, reaching out with her senses in every direction. Continue reading “Chapter III:7”

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Chapter III:6

Of the company of merchants,
much could right ‘n truly be said,
half contrary ‘n misleading,
the rests destitute or dead,

no better the company they keep,
sell swords oft of lowest caliber,
yet without it the wheels would stop,
and every fortune would be poorer.

– Councilman Ashander I, circa 450 E.R.

The East Road

“So, how was the old farm?” Samantha asked with reservation as a silver haired woman tried to storm past her.

“Oh, the usual,” Katrisha spun, and glared at her. “Ancient ghosts. Fulfillment of millennia old prophecy. Love conquers all. Except for me of course. I die alone at the end of the world,” She turned on her heal again, marched past, and slammed a wagon door behind her.

Continue reading “Chapter III:6”

Chapter III:5

A line which is straight and doth not cross,
masters claim may touch a circle but once,
such minds enlightened by Aclaedian reason,
presume the fallacy of domains flat and even,

oh march unerring ahead, ‘pon a worldly globe,
let not ocean nor mountain force thy to roam,
walk straight and narrow this true noble path,
there come again to thy beginning at last,

oh look out there from whence you did start,
imagine straight lines from the surface to part,
see the paradox is not but faulty perspective,
the tangent, the circle, all together connected.

– The Circadian Path, 113 E.R.

Archtangent

There was still melting snow in the high pass, miles above Brokhal. Not an expected stop, and yet the wagon rolled to a halt. Kiannae sat up, and pulled back the curtains on a side window. Cries echoed down the pass, and as she strained to hear the repetitions grew closer. “Broken axle,” the driver called from the front, and the calls continued down the line.

“Three miles.” Katrisha sighed.

Continue reading “Chapter III:5”

Chapter III:4

Oh watch your words wisely,
oh do stay your offered hand,
don’t shake till it’s quite settled,
in bargains there are no friends,

watch the eyes they tell tales,
watch the lips they always lie,
those clever like to think they are,
restrained smirks seeming shy.

oh some deals you cannot lose,
oh often this is the earnest sale,
don’t give up the upper hand,
you could get more, do not fail.

– The Haggle, Alexander Durandal, circa 390 E.R.

Bargains

Coria 12th, 655 E.R.

In the Grey Lamb tavern, on the eastern end of the village of Brokhal. No eyes were upon a woman with deep red hair, and striking bronze skin. She resided by herself at a small table, in a quiet corner. Her only company a few scattered tankards of ale. It was a busy night, and every table was full, save hers. Surely this striking Osyraen woman, sitting alone, should have drawn some attention. If only for a place to sit, if not suspicion. Yet the patrons seemed oblivious to her presence.

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Chapter III:3

Oh proud ‘n fertile North,
in times of war ‘n strife,
oh those of plow ‘n soil,
did turn to steel ‘n fire,

there defend a noble land,
unbreakable wills did show,
yet pains of life left behind,
can be hard as war to know.

– Writings of Sir Ashton, circa 160 E.R.

Weathered Stones

Vhalun 39th, 655 E.R.

Katrisha sat in her window seat, peering out over the snow dusted valley below. The spring continued to languish in winter, and the next caravan east would be delayed at least another week. Giving her time to doubt. Avrale had always been her home. Be it castle, cloister, or a farm she could barely recall. She wiped away a tear as a knock at her chamber door startled her from endless regressions. Continue reading “Chapter III:3”

Chapter III:2

The gift endures in soul-ward order,
the material marches on toward decay,
the flesh a fickle beastly carnivore,
the path endures if we do not stray,

great spells give way to entropy,
even suns before it cannot endure,
yet the aether burns above eternal,
to temporary desires become inured.

– The Clarion Call, Saint Darius, circa 130 B.E.

Artifacts

Vhalun 23rd, 655 E.R.

Katrisha opened her study door, and considered the overly tall bundle the man outside held. She gestured in, and Xander carried the package taller than him to the central table. He set it before Kiannae, and barely spared a curious glance to the massive orrery overhead. It was not an easy sight to look way from on first sight.

Continue reading “Chapter III:2”

Chapter III:1

Her name was Katrisha –
daughter of the moonlight and the winter frost,
Court Mage of Avrale, and a woman of Lycian faith.

In but a few scarce years of her youth,
she fought a dragon, and nearly won,
knew true love, and most plainly lost.
No less than twice stood at death’s door,
yet these things, were only her beginning.

– The Mage of Avrale, Mercu Peregrine

The Turning of Pages

Vhalun 22nd, 655 E.R.

An unseasonable spring snow fell that morning. A thick blanket that washed color from the valley, and topped the parapets of Broken Hill in caps of white. It was the sort of morning that invited a leisurely pace. Stirred a sense of calm. A desire to linger near hearth, and other warm refuge. High in the westward tower of the castle. Above steep stone cliffs and shimmering waters. A woman of great and terrible power worked subtle magic, to profound effect. She bore the snow little mind. Though it was often among her favorite things. Other wonders had her full and rapt attention.

Continue reading “Chapter III:1”