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Player: Rin engaged the nearest thug, thrusting fiercely with his spear while maintaining a guard with his buckler.
NPC: Lacking any real talent for combat, he flailed wildly, knocking the thrust aside and tossing himself to the floor in the process.
Player: With a confident smirk, Rin struck again at his vulnerable target.
NPC: The thug shrieked when the spearhead slipped between ribs and sliced into his heart. In seconds he was dead.

A boy stands on the western beach, just outside a massive fortress wall that stretches hundreds of yards into the ocean. His gaze is set on the horizon and melancholy defines his muddy hazel eyes. The sun is low, coloring the typically crystal blue water a hazy ripple of red, orange, and yellow; sunset is the perfect time for melancholy, the boy thinks. He has a great voyage ahead of him, and the weight of the country on his broad shoulders; melancholy seems appropriate for the situation. Men will heed his every word, and it is very likely those men will go to their deaths because of him. He detests the idea that his commands will send great men-- and women, he reminds himseIf-- to die. If only... If only he had the wisdom of his father... But he can't dwell on that. It will only lead to more tears. Kings don't cry.

Though he is only fourteen, the boy stands at five and a half feet-- tall for his age, but still short in a world of men. His shorts and tunic are green silk, but only sleeves of the latter are visible beneath his leather armor. From the wet sands plated leather boots rise to his knees; his thighs are hidden beneath leather trousers. The backhands of his elbow-length leather gauntlets are plated with iron, and the left arm sports a junction for attaching a bracer. His waist is girdled with a thick belt. At his right hip hangs both a short sword and a small knife, suggesting he is left-handed. The chestpiece and pauldrons of his attire seem almost too small. Puberty rests for no one's convenience, not even the Prince's.

The breeze kicks up again, tousling his dark brown hair and caressing his face with cold hands. He flinches, chilled, but ignores the discomfort. His left hand forms a fist, his eyes fix upon the sun. If he could only take hold of that great ball of light and throw it upon his enemies, life would be much simpler. But then, what would the realm of mortals mean to him, a sun-slinging god? An interesting dilemma; he would have to speak to his philosopher if there was time before departure.

Trimley decides it is time to return to the fortress; his people will be arriving soon and the King cannot be seen as rueful by his soldiers nor citizens. They need to see determination, courage, and strength: traits he comes by naturally, displays gracefully like a man of the court aught.

A smile breaks out on his face as Trimley strides into Rokva, and it is mostly sincere. It is the smile of a gallant King in the making, assuming he survives the trial by fire.

"Sir" Selene Argyris exploded.

The discharge of raw force from her body schorched her skin, the furious heat the energy converted into failing to disintegrate her eyebrows and hair solely on account of having done so many castings of this ago. Her short-sleeved white robe was curiously unburnt, the silver trimming unmelted. Her opponents, who were thrown clear off of their feet, noticed none of this. They did notice, to some degree, as the female knight followed right behind them, her battle axe - a weapon as strong and sharp as it was slow and heavy - raised at her side.

"On your feet, dog!" she called out, beckoning to the middle of the three bandits with a hand the shade of chocolate imported from a nation across the sea - imported much like she had been, perhaps. "It's more than you deserve for trying to start a fight of three against one, but I'll permit you to die on your feet instead of on your back! Now rise, if you have any honor!" The bandit tried to scramble away. He and his band had started this because he'd seen what he'd thought was a particularly feminine-looking foreign man with an axe "he" couldn't possibly use in a silver-trimmed robe with a bag that must surely have more valuables. An unusually masculine-looking bald woman with an axe she could very much use and with more power than control in regards to her casting was in absolutely no way what he'd bargained for.

Arygris took two long strides forward and her slammed her axe down, burying it between his legs. He soiled himself for obvous reasons as he stared up into the dark eyes of a woman who, though not native to Dinn, was more of a patriot than most of its home-grown inhabitants. "Where's your bravado, now!? Come on. Don't be shy, not after you tried to start this." She ripped her axe from the earth. "Grab your blade! Split your lungs with blood and thunder! Have some damned pride, worm!" He failed to obey. "That's it, then? Fah. You'll get what you deserve, then: a slow, painful, and ignoble end followed by a shallow grave." She brought her axe in a headsman's arc and slammed the axe through his shin. Leather, cloth, skin, fat, muscle, and bone all parted in turn, then again on the way out, with the bloody blade finally resting in the soft soil. Then, footsteps from her right and left-

With a deafening thundercrack, Argyris exploded again, the wave of force pressurizing the air around her to create a sonic boom. The two remaining bandits, who had just attempting to jump her again, stumbled back, smoke trailing from their skin and armor.

"One at a time, scum. We're going to fight by the traditions of your forefathers, and may your ancestors help you if you try that again."

The young man smiles in satisfaction as the last row of wheat falls before his scythe; His emerald eyes sparkle with pride as he inspects his work. The scythe had been his first major success in the art of enchantment and had proved invalueable, both as a source of work and a means of defense. He has since then recieved the title of Master. As the gentle breeze blows back his raven black hair from a clean shaven face, and dries the sweat from his tall, lean and deeply tanned frame.

Simon Anion lights his pipe and puffs at is as he considers his decision to join the young prince in his war efforts. He had no use for the spoils of war, nor did one in his position much care who ruled the kingdom, but he knows full well that an invading army wasn't likely to leave the farming class alone for long; Soldiers need to eat after all. Besides nothing provides a better chance for advancement in enchanting or casting than the art of war, and as only an apprentice caster, if he ever wanted to become a true sage his casting could use a little work.

He frowns slightly as he considers further. The enchanted scarecrows were already beginning to collect and bundle the hay that was cut the week before and had been thouroughly dried. Though the farmers would have to work harder without him there, there would be no lack of workers, and golems worked cheap.

Reluctantly he gathers up his pack and the tools of his craft, straps them to his back, and carries the scythe over his right shoulder. He nods grimly to the few farmers in the field as he starts down the road to Rokva and a new, vastly different kind of harvest.

The sea breeze was sharp and a little cold as Otter anchored in Rokva's public port, outside the massive seawall. He stood a moment watching the docks around him from the prow of his little ship, an odd vessel in a port of three masted galleys. But the old catamaran had served him well through many scrapes and he would much rather sail his Quetzalcoatl to the ends of the world than take even the new king's finest warship. Though he seriously doubted that would be allowed. So he just hoped he wouldn't be telling her a long good-bye as he jumped from deck to dock and tied her heavy rope to the post. "Good times, old girl," he muttered patting the dragon carved prow and frowning at the flake of green paint that fell from the touch. "Paste due for dry-dock work anyway," he grumbled under his breath before turning away with a fixed smile.

Forced optimism was a difficult expression to pull off and it looked a bit threatening on the young man's copper tanned face as he walked up the dock toward the fortress. Long dark dreads tangled in beads and ribbons, feathers and shells framed the expression with a wild look. Topped with a coin-bead trimmed, bright red silk bandanna and covered in a worn captain's coat the young man didn't need the cutlass at his side to look like a pirate. The large knife strapped to one of his knee high boots and several more hidden in the lining of his coat only served to augment the look. Brightly colored scarves and bits of fabric, beads, bones, even a few bells that jingled with every step drove the look home so well that most gave him a wide berth as he passed.

But Otter would have only laughed had any of them chanced to call him such. Laughed and pulled a worn bit of parchment from the breast pocket of his finely embroidered vest. Every time he did was with a wry grin as he flicked open the folded letter, showed the title and old king's seal to any that questioned legitimacy. A "Privateer of the Sovereign King of Dinn" the paper called him and Otter was more than proud of the title, even if the scribe had misspelled his name.

The privateer was so proud he'd come to port that day to get the new king's signature added to his father's, though the weather had been perfect for pearl diving off the reefs. The oysters could wait, he'd thought as he pulled into the harbor but news from the ships he passed there nearly sent Otter turning rudder back to sea.

The new king was calling a Quest. A quest to the Western Sea no less. Just what he needed, landlubbers splashing about in his waters. They were sure to muck it up and scare the fish. For a futile venture to top it off. Otter had personally sailed weeks to the west and never found anything but trouble, usually in the form of storms and sea monsters. At least that was the story he stuck to as for how he lost Mallory's schooner out there. The old sea dog deserved it for making him run contraband in that piece of junk anyway.

Otter wasn't the only one who told tales of monsters in those waters either. It was common to hear travelers regaling any that would listen with stories of great serpents, giant squids, and bloodthirsty mermaids in the western seas. From the dockside taverns of Laud to the inns of Glint, wherever sailors and traders could be found, there was sure to be at least one ranting over a frothy mug about some dark night on an evil calm where the seas themselves spat up monsters from a watery hell.

As entertaining as those stories may be, Otter had no intention of living them - not when he could just tell them as if he had. So he started to shift sails and leave the harbor. He could always come back later for his signature. The child left to the throne once this new king was dead might even be an easier one to ask for it. And then the privateer heard rumors of a bounty.

The specifics varied of course depending who Otter asked but the word in the harbor was that the king would pay handsomely to join him in his quest. It was enough to give Otter pause. A king's bounty. Otter could only wonder what that would be like: gold, jewels, title, maybe one of those fancy swords the knights were so proud of. It would probably be land, the privateer sneered. He had no use for dirt; though, he could probably sell it.

Whatever the reward he would have to survive the journey first. A challenge. An adventure. The thought put a smile on his lips. It had been too long since he'd last had a real adventure. Far too long he'd missed the wild wind in his sails taking him into the unknown. Maybe it was time to put off the safety of shallow waters and return to the deep. Bounty or no another trip into the western sea would be interesting at the least. Maybe he wouldn't have to pay the boy for his signature as he had the last king. That would be a bounty in itself.

So Otter tied his ship to dock and made his way to the meeting of heroes where he would cast his lot for inclusion in the boy king's doomed quest. No doubt they would need an experienced seafarer and, he hoped, a fast ship to take them to the edge of the world and back.

"Failure!" A young, grimacing enlistee thought to himself as he leaned against a tree by the road to Rokva.

"Shoulda just stayed in Laud. Perfectly good job, that was. Payed the rent and what not. Damn your ambition!" Despite his harsh self-criticism, Erick's former job at a warehouse in a village on the outskirts of Laud, organizing shipments bound for export by destination, paid for more than the rent. He had managed to save up enough to purchase the small round shield, spear, and skirted leather cuirass that accompanied the undyed boots, trousers and tunic he had also purchased specifically to join the new king's quest.

"What now? Off to pledge your life to some spoilt noble's revenge? Mother won't sleep a wink while you're off lookin' for some island that probably don't even exist, y'know that! Damn your heedlessness!" Only a month before, young Erick Williamson had been incomparably proud of having fought tooth and nail to earn his independence at the age of 19, even after having failed the education at the trade school, which his mother had fought equally hard to give him. Only a week before had he decided that his job was a dead-end, he was going nowhere, he would never be the man he wanted to be.

The sounds of cattle drew his harsh gaze away from the ground, to the young farm girl grazing a single healthy cow in the pasture across the road. Realizing the severity of his expression, he smiled at her. Her innocent giggle brought a moment's peace to his bright green eyes. He was a handsome, slightly tanned young man, if somewhat unkempt.

He stroked his sparse, ungroomed beard thoughtfully, his mind wandering to the future. "It's not so bad. I'll make a lot more money this way... then I can go back to school, and--" He realized his hand was resting on the war axe at his side. Unlike the spear, shield, and armor, this was not a recent acquisition. Along with a few less-than-flattering anecdotes pried from his mother's memory, this axe was all he knew of his father. A rustic, but well-made axe. The curved edge and the spike on the opposite side left no doubt that it was a weapon of war. He had never meant to use it for the purpose it was designed, but this axe was all that he had to remind him of his passion.

Erick Williamson was brilliant, truly a gifted intellect. No-one could understand why he had done so poorly in trade school. What they did not know was that he stayed up late at night, studying the science and magic of enchanting and suffusion. With no formal training, albeit with no small effort, he had placed an enchantment on the axe--a keyword, which, when spoken, made it slippery to the touch. He had chosen such an enchantment only to prevent it from being stolen. He had also experimented with healing injured birds and rodents over a period of weeks. All of this, however, was more difficult than he would care to admit. By his estimate, he was only barely a novice of enchanting, and at best an apprentice of suffusion.

He grasped the axe suddenly, drawing it from the loop of his belt, and gazed upon it intently. "Why, father? Why did you have such a thing? Why... did you leave this to me?"

Blood on his robes, pooling around his ankles. Soaking up into black fabric, into the bandages upon his feet and legs. It was all he could do to force himself to remember how it got there. Why he was standing in a puddle of blood. The nearest skeleton shifted its bones across its bloodied axe. It waited on him, expecting orders. They all did. They had all done exactly what they were told, as they always had to. Why had he chosen now to wake up?

Of course, it was the survivor. She was huddled in the corner, not crying but clearly petrified with fear. She was similar to him, Fyrin noted. In a lot of ways. She, too, had the X-shaped brand of a murderer, but hers was upon her throat, rather than the left cheek. She, too, seemed too tall for her own size, just like Fyrin’s own fragile, skyscraping build. Her face was narrow and her cheeks recessed ever so slightly, just as his. And even in her fear, he could see that same hatred, the same fury that had brought him to this. And in that moment, he had woken from a years-long slumber, intending for the first time to rescue a soul instead of enslaving it.

Bending down, unwrapping the sand-covered bandages encircling his face and head with bandaged, sand-encrusted fingers, Fyrin Mal’Reist held his hand out, trying to pacify the terrified girl. He must have seemed awfully pale, especially with dark hair and unshaven stubble to frame his face. She didn’t seem to be paying attention, though - her eyes were focused instead on the undead warrior behind him.

“Master,” the bones snarled, the title full of hatred, “shall this one be massacred too? Or will your all-mighty hand see fit to spare her the fate of her friends?” The soul trapped within the bones longed for freedom. Fought for it every second. Fyrin Conatined him through magic and nothing else. If he slipped up, the bones would kill him for what he’d done. As they should. The girl shrunk further back in terror, curled into herself for protection. There was a twinge of anger in Fyrin’s heart. They always thought him a monster. He had proved them right.

“No.” He couldn’t blame them anymore. “You are released. All of you. May your souls find rest in the Beyond.” There was a splashing as bones and steel collapsed to the blood-soaked ground. The girl remained silent, clearly in shock. She would need help he could not provide her. Still, he could take her there. He reached out and gently grasped her hand, slowly pulling her to her feet. Fyrin lead her to the door, pushing it open and squinting as the brilliant sun hit his face for the first time in what seemed like years. The next village would be a few miles, and they’d kill him on sight. He could only take her so far, but he had to do what he could.

What a time to wake up.

Twyla struggled for the fifth time today to affix a very large wooden chest to the back of her pack mule. She was not very good with knots and the ropes that kept it there had come untied again. She hefted it back into place with a great amount of effort, tied the knots again, and grumbled in annoyance. Both the mule and her little grey gelding were taking the opportunity to munch on the surrounding grass, oblivious to her attempts. She had been trying for nearly half an hour. Twyla stepped back, crossed her arms, and studied the arrangement.

Piled under chests of bottled oils, crates of dried herbs, and bundles of cloth, the mule looked like a mountain on legs. In comparison, the young woman looked like half a twig. She was just under five feet tall, with a wispy cloud of long blonde hair, pale grey eyes, and slightly tanned skin. She was very thin - even the bones in her hands showed through - but that was no uncommon thing in her village, and anyway she made up for her size by being stubborn; everyone said so. And if they were wrong, that didn't much matter because she had something else to make up for it too: she could heal.

She hadn't been to a fancy school to study suffusion, though the local hedge witch, Old Sallis, had taught her all she knew of it. Twyla's real specialty was herbs. Sallis always told her, "If'n ye got the choice betwixt usin' yer own energy an' usin' a plant, go fer the plant." Twyla had quickly become so proficient with herbal medicine that the villagers often couldn't tell if she was using magic or not. She was only nineteen now, and if she kept up her studies she could soon surpass the hedge witch. She'd had a promising future there. Not anymore.

Twyla could not have turned back if she wanted to, and as much as she was leaving behind, she almost didn't. The entrance to Rokva was barely a mile away and beyond it were adventure, a challenge, prestige, and the king. Remembering the latter, she looked down at her clothing: a faded green rough spun dress with the skirt split to allow ease of riding, over a loose shirt of undyed wool. Not at all fit for meeting royalty. She looked around and rested her gaze on a patch of bright yellow flowers - tansy, she recognized. She picked one of the blossoms and tucked it behind her ear. Pretty enough. After a quick check to be sure that her belongings were still secure, Twyla hopped back into her gelding's saddle and guided the horse back onto the road to Rokva.