The Level Stories: by Sylent One

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Some of you might remember these. Others may not since they date from quite a while ago. Due to the forum change, most long posts took some damage in a way. Therefore for your entertainment I'll post the ordened collection of Sylent One's level stories below.

All posts below are Sylent One's work off course. I was not even remotely involved in the creation of these excellent works (just to avoid any misunderstandings).

[purazon]

ONE KNOWS - Prequel to the level Stories


Her left knee crackled with remembered pain as she knelt to pull the carved box out from underneath her bed. Her hands caressed the symbols incised on it as she prayed to Blessed Cory, whose cleric she had the honor to be. The prayers calmed her questioning spirit as they had so many times before. She stood and with tender, loving hands placed the box on the table and bowed toward his temple dimly seen through her window.

The bells sounded, calling her to dance for her god. With a last pat of the lid, she left to join the others on the Wall. She glanced around at the lower levels come to join the battle, some for the first time. Noting their white lips, and shaking limbs, she sighed. This eternal struggle was so hard on them; many would not survive the day but would die and be reborn through Cory’s glory. She checked her holy ring’s charge, and tested the mettle of her broadsword by whistling it through the air. Head bowed, she offered prayer to the god she loved so well, looked up to see the demon horde, and then the horrors swarmed.

She flowed with the battle, offering healing here, cradling a dying adventurer there, feinted and swung, killed and prayed, danced the praises of Blessed Cory, and cried as a well loved warrior fell. Her god was merciful and lent his strength to all that served him that day. Her eyes glistened with crystal tears as Cory himself arrived to stand with his army and take on the demon lord. A Marc more and the demons retreated, leaving their dying to the final mercy offered by a praying cleric with one sure thrust of the grace knife. Each soul liberated sighed their thanks into her mind as they faded into the desert wind. She swayed with weariness and looked down at fresh wounds she did not remember receiving during the battle that had just ended.

A Seven came near to offer his strong shoulder and help her back to town. She smiled her thanks from under the shroud, and limped slowly toward the temple. She never stopped to heal herself. So many needed the laying on of her hands, cried for her support, begged for the final mercy, her own wounds always waited until after to be acknowledged and healed. Fine white lines across her small form revealed the results of too much delayed healing, too many deaths, uncertain rebirths, and battles through many a night.

Healed by the temple cleric, released to rest with Cory’s Blessing, she headed back to her room. She smiled at those she passed, and laughed with them as they rejoiced in another triumph against the evil forces that challenged their world. The fountain in the town square spurted high in the air, dancing with the sunbeams that caressed it, coaxing the water droplets to rise higher. The sun warmed her face as well, and she danced with it and the fountain to the delight of those around her. A passing minstrel strummed a refrain on his zither and soon the square was full of people all moving in the ancient praise language of flying feet and waving arms tamely called dance. Her heart dropped its cares and she flew to join the others in a song of happiness and hope.

She left finally with light step and smiling lips. Entering her room, she spied the box she had left on the table. She had pulled it out to remember the journey, relive the adventures that had led to this day. She picked the box up, opened it and stared in at all the worn badges. Where to begin? Her hand touched the oldest badge of all and she smiled. It was One; and One knows the beginning of the way.

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ONE – The Coming Of The Light Bearer To The Sewers Of Dundee


Rasping breath and pounding heartbeat announced her arrival to the waiting predators. Sliding around a corner, she stubbed her foot and fell head first into the slime of the sewer. Darkness punctuated by the red gleam of the stalking rats closed in around her. The sounds of her laboring heart faded beneath the slurp, slurp, and slurp of creeping acid jellies. She pinched herself again trying to waken from this nightmare. The attempt failed and she sighed as her ragged tunic tore up the back as she levered herself upright.

Clutching a well worn, heavily battered sword in bruised and bleeding hands, she stood swaying yet composed. “After one has died a thousand deaths, one more for the glory of Blessed Cory and Mighty Ben should hold little fear,” she tiredly reminded herself. As a rat crept toward her, and a jelly started gnawing at her back, she looked up to where the gods were said to reside and with quivering voice proclaimed her mantra “I die for thee”.

Her health fading from acid burns, her blows at the rat grew weaker and the darkness settled in ready to feed on her again. A level Four took pity on the small one, and brushed the jelly off her back as he stormed through in avid pursuit of a large, fat rat. She took the chance to retreat screaming, and then stood breathing rapidly as the healing potions did their work. She bowed her head and prayed to Cory for help in understanding why she was here in this place, dying to learn and learning to die.

A sudden wind gust deposited a parchment labeled “Hunting help for the new adventurer” in her grateful hands and she sat against the wall to read what it contained. The darkness was almost absolute. The parchment shook in her hands as she moved it this way and that trying to make out what it said. Just as she was ready to give up, a glowing light that blazed Cory’s name came around the corner and loomed above her. Avidly devouring the helpful words on the parchment, she then looked toward the light source. It was so bright; it illuminated the tunnel from corner to corner and held the rats and jellies at bay. Whatever the source of this searing light, she was grateful, and stood to use it to good purpose as she struggled to increase in training and skill. Another new adventurer had leveled to Two yesterday and now stalked by her with his head held high, fancy clothes on his back and a bright, sharp sword at his side. She looked at the ragged One on her tunic and then attacked and slew a rat, a jelly, and on and on. A bell sounded in her ears, looking down she saw a fine mist obscuring the One and below it the magic words “Advance 101%.” Staggering past the light source she bowed her head to he that held it high above all the little levels and slowly climbed the ladder to outside.

Trails of tears lead her south to the trainer. He listened and looked, smiled and removed the stained badge of One – offering her a brand new Two to put on instead. She wandered over to the shrine, bowed before the cleric and made her prayers. Renewed in strength and determination she headed back to the sewers to train again.

Climbing down the stairs behind some scrambling Threes and Fours, she stopped for a second to wipe the face of a new One and whisper “Courage” to him. She crept toward the darkness and rounded a corner to stare at the towering figure of the Light Bearer – still holding Cory’s Light high for all the little ones to use to train by. Taking the new One by his hand, she headed down the corridor to teach him the dance of hope and renewal.

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TWO – Rat Theft, Jelly Secrets, And A Lesson In Generosity From The Light Bearer

She hit again at the rat and sighed with pleasure. He was almost dead and his carcass was badly needed to sell for more potions. She was Two, dancing for Cory the steps of life and death. It was a curiously graceful movement comprised of hit, heal, and move on. She felt subsumed by it and could sense a slow metamorphosis towards a distant reality starting to occur.

Another hit and the rat was drooping, she leaned back to put full force behind her next strike and suddenly the rat was gone. She looked around for its pelt but couldn’t find it. Always there was a gift from Cory for her battles, this time nothing remained of the energy draining fight except her low vitality and a strange silence. “It must have slunk off when I was distracted,” she thought to herself. She used her last two potions to heal to 80% and moved on praying to Cory for another rat.

Around the corner her prayers were answered and the heated battle began. She swung recklessly, she needed this one badly and could not afford to waste what little power she had left. Three times she hit, three times the rat bit back. On the fourth swing, the rat was just plain gone. “Dear my god Cory,” she prayed, “I know that you are all-seeing and all-knowing. You extend your hand and light over us in protection and bless our struggles on your behalf. I have tried so hard to follow your way, what am I doing wrong? Why are you taking my prey away before I can kill it? What offense have I done that I should be punished so?” She sighed; weary tears escaped her heavy eyes and cascaded in muddy trails down her dusty face. She grabbed the Two on her chest and fiercely reminded herself she was not One, she was more and should not cry and scare the little new Ones. She bit her lip, looked at the 40% health she had remaining and vowed to Cory not to lose the next enemy.

The next rat appeared and she carefully placed each hit, watching to make sure the rat did not run. This time she hit but twice, and when the rat vanished she saw it go. A Three had run into view, swung and killed the rat, grabbed up the pelt, and taken off at a fast lope. “In the blink of an eye, that Three stole my chance of life from me. How could he, why is he so mean?” She shook from the anger that surged through her, and then flushed in embarrassment at her negative thoughts. She bowed her head and prayed that understanding could replace the hate surging within her. The Three might have been desperate; maybe he was also low on potions. There had to be a million reasons for his actions, no one could deliberately hurt someone else that way, could they?

She wandered desolately; the next rat would kill her. Her only chance was a jelly; if she could find one then she might have enough to buy a potion or two. She found rats and retreated, square after square. She could always die and Cory would resurrect with full health but the thought was distasteful. A jelly would give her a respite, she prayed again to Cory for the gift of one to battle. On the last square she found one, killed it quickly and went to run up the stairs praising her god with each step. The Light Bearer saw her go by and grinned at her haste. He barely was able to heal her and slip a few coins in her pocket, she ran past so fast. She was halfway to the Inn before she realized she was healed and there was money where before had been none. She spun around and scurried back down the sewer stairs to the Light Bearer. She bowed and thanked him, saw his nod, and, praying to Cory on his behalf, she started back up with lighter heart. “Don’t sell that jelly,” his voice called behind her. She stopped and handed him the jelly, thinking he wanted it in payment for all he had done. “Not for me, foolish Two. Give it to the blacksmith’s apprentice please. He will give you his training sword in trade.” She flushed as he gave her the jelly back and bowed deeply again before she left to follow his directions and gain a new sword.

Gripping her new sword and clutching a pouch of fresh potions, she almost danced back to the sewers. Passing the Light Bearer, she waved and blushed when he waved back. She did not understand why a mighty Forty would stand in the sewers, but the light he carried and the gifts he bestowed on the new levels made the difference between existence and survival. She sang Cory’s praise as she moved on, and wove a request for a blessing for the Forty around her refrain of purpose and dedication.

She shivered in delight as she faced her next foe, and laughed when the sword slew it rapidly. Fewer hits were now needed, and she almost danced with joy as she bounced from one to the next. Her potions were lasting longer, and she was learning quickly which to hit and which to run from. “I may be Two, but soon I will be Three,” she chanted. Pealing laughter erupted from her as she rounded a corner.

She slid to a stop; that rat-stealing Three was there in battle with the biggest rat she had ever seen. A fierce desire to steal the rat from him flooded her. She gripped her sword and shook as she fought the urge. Blood trickled down her bitten lip and she screamed as she fought her baser self. “The Three is almost dead, look how pale he is. I would be helping him by taking that rat off his hands. It will kill him anyway, I can say I was just saving his life if he asks me why I took it.” Another voice in her responded, “It is wrong to steal, if he dies then take the rat. If I take it now I will be a rat thief and scorned as such by the other small levels.” She turned her back and bowed her head, trying to pray to Cory for guidance. A tap on her shoulder caused her to spin around and confront the pale, pleading face of the Three. He shakily offered her the rat carcass and asked if she could spare a potion or two, he had none left and was dying from his wounds.

She conquered the voice inside that was chanting, “Good, he deserves it” and carefully handed him half of her potions. He downed several quickly, chuckled at her, and took off laughing about her gullible nature. She cried at first, but then remembered that Cory saw all and if He did not react, what right had she? She turned and went back to her rat killing, losing a few to the Three but still gaining experience from the forced sharing.

On her way out the Light Bearer asked why she had shared with someone that treated her so. She bowed her head and whispered that she did not know, she had thought on Cory’s rules and was trying to follow them. She admitted it had been the most difficult thing she had ever done, and had struggled with the decision before and after. She was fighting herself and felt it denigrated the good she had tried to do. She blushed as she admitted she felt low and mean because her thoughts and deeds were at odds with each other.

The Light Bearer leaned down and asked her if giving to the Ones was easier. She laughed and expressed the great joy of giving to them and their happy thanks. “So you do not feel deprived by that gesture to the small ones? It is easy to make?” She nodded her head, and then flushed as she realized what he was saying. The greatest thing we will ever do in this life is that which will cost us the most. Giving to the ungrateful Three cost her more, but the true nature of generosity was in the act, not the acknowledgement. She tucked the lesson deep in her heart and went on to level to Three.

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THREE - Joy, Trust, and Freedom


Dancing with the jelly in small, graceful turns, thrusting and blocking, she circled the square with joyful sounds erupting from her throat. She was Three, and teaching a class of new Ones the art of war. The iridescent surface of the jelly reflected her small form in wavering shards of crystallized motion. The sun struck rainbows off the back of the tiny jelly as it pivoted around her, fracturing into pure bands of color that highlighted this One's face, that One's shoulder. The absolute grace of poetry in motion illuminated all.

Carefully moving out of the kill zone, she looked at the glistening, rapt eyes of her class and murmured, "It is beautiful, is it not?" Each nod of affirmation illuminated the Ones personalities, this One is tentative, that One firmly decided, and a quiet One in the back trying not to pick either way had the head bobble, shoulder roll of a timid follower waiting for the majority to rule.

As the last One agreed, the Three suddenly feinted a rush and the startled jelly sprayed acid around itself. The corrosive smell and sudden disappearance of part of the topsoil sobered the class and they stood wide-eyed and somber while she used the grace knife on the jelly. She turned her back toward her students and dropped the garment off her shoulder to momentarily display the scars of an old acid burn. Facing them she smiled tenderly at their voiced concern and dismissed them to practice what they had learned. She called after them as they left "Remember beauty is what beauty does." She rubbed the echoed reminder of pain branded into her back and hoped they would hear where she had not.

Walking out of the beginner's training yard she passed into the advanced warrior's yard and stopped as she always did to stare with wonder at the tall, massive high level warriors as they moved in an intricate pattern of feint and parry. Her eyes could barely follow the flow of their battle moves, and her mind had not yet learned enough to understand why they attacked here, retreated there. Their dance of death had a sophistication that bespoke years of training and a way of life that demanded complete, utter commitment. Their armor bore the scars of battle against enemies whose single glance would slay her. She bowed deeply to these heroes of the front line and then moved on.

"Three, stop a minute please" one of the warriors had called out to her. She flushed that one so high would notice her, but obedient to the strain of command in his tone she stayed her pace and waited to hear what he wanted. He looked at her carefully and then asked where her wrist guards were. When she admitted she had not gotten any yet; he shook his head at her and tossed her a set. "Try these, they were mine when I was just a little level like you are." She started to fish in her pocket for a few of her precious gold coins to pay him. He smiled and refused them. "Someone levels above gave them to me. I pass them on to you and charge you to keep them safe until they can be moved on down the line when you grow in levels and wisdom." She stammered that she would do as he asked, then escaped to the apothecary lane to buy a few potions and get ready to train. A friendly Five had promised to take her into the great plains area once she made Four, and the promise of sunshine rather then sewer dimness was a dream to strive after.

She slid down the sewer stairs and turned left into the giant rat territory. As Two this way had taught her humility, and what dying without dignity meant. As Three she could barely manage one rat before she had to stop and heal. The difference between "You have no chance" and the opportunity to battle and stand victorious with a few hit points left was immense to her. She cried out with joy when the new wrist guards left her with fifteen points instead of the usual few after a giant rat battle. The healings saved by this small addition to her armor shaved Marcs off her training. The battered old pair of wrist guards was exactly what she needed right this moment. Sometimes it is not the size of a gift, but the timing of it.

The Light Bearer watched her scurry around training, selling hides, and healing. She seemed so content that he almost felt sorry for her. The time in the earth's womb was drawing to an end for her. She was already flashing Advance on her chest, and soon must move on. He sighed a bit as he heard the town criers call out her name and that she had leveled up again. He watched the Twos training and recognized her movements in them. She may be level Four now, but she had left a legacy in these that followed. The light felt rather heavy to him for a minute, then new Ones arrived and he lit their tear-stained faces and waited for compassionate Twos to come and help.

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FOUR – Panic, Pain, and Growth

She huddled miserably under the giant tree and shivered in the cold rain. The new Four on her chest echoed her mood, dripping blue dye over her tunic. The plains had beckoned sunshine, space, and freedom through three levels in her dreams. The reality was loneliness, pain, and sorrow. The crowded sewers she had threaded through and stepped around reflected a soft glow of companionship in her backward looking memory. She had known what was around each corner, who to fight where. Once boring, that intimate knowledge of her whereabouts assumed desirable proportions when faced with such an expanse of uncharted territory.

A chortling sound from within the tree startled her and her wet hands slipped on the blade, nicking her little finger. She stared at the crimson flow as it mingled with the blue rivulets of dye cascading from her chest and added scalding tears to the liquid avalanche. The goblins inside that dark place had stolen her shoes, shoved her face down in the muck, and tossed her out on the discard pile. The laughter rumbling from down below colored her sense of misery with dark shadows of humiliation.

Shaking uncontrollably, she dragged the tattered remnants of her shroud around her head and fell to her knees to pray to Cory. Her small voice wavered in obscene imitation of the rain streaming down, flowing high and low as her courage ebbed and waned. She bit her lip in a vain attempt to refocus from panic to pain to courage. Her prayer sounded like a small child’s wails for protection as it emitted from under the tree and into the ears of a passing high level warrior. His armored heart was not proof against the faint sounds of anguish. He strolled over and peered in under the foliage and discovered the small, sodden young Four staring at him blankly with wide staring eyes. He noted the wrist guards and frowned, he knew this one – she had been so proud such a short space ago, where had all that pride and courage flown?

The warrior knew that look well, too often seen in the face of those doomed to die in battle, a giving up of spirit before the body followed. The eyes of many haunted his dreams, companions fallen to stare blankly up as death swooped down. It angered him to see it’s grip on this young level, and his hand reflexively tightened on his massive war broadsword as white spread around his angry lips. She flinched at the motion, and then a flash of crimson in her eyes reassured him that here there was still hope. He placed his weapon in its scabbard and carefully held a hand out to her. Flight and fright battled behind her eyes; then reason lit the way back for her. She attempted to bow her shaky head, put up her own small sword, and placed her quivering hand into his. He gripped her hand firmly, mentally offering of his own vast strength and courage to this small level for her to draw on. She breathed him in, felt his resolve, and saw his integrity flowing around him like a vast shield. Locking her betraying knees she took one tottering step, then another, flowing finally with faint hints of lost grace into his arms, wrapping her own around as much of the massive warrior as she could reach.

Looking down at the small head nestled on his chest, feeling her breath’s ragged edges mend; he held her close and sighed. She pulled back at the sound, looked down, and saw her colorful red blue flow had patterned his shiny armor with partial rainbow streaks. Her sigh echoed his own, and she flushed deeply. Seeing the ruin of a night’s work polishing, he chuckled and the sound lit the area around her with the comfort of a warm coat. She touched the mess on his chest, looked up and him and started to laugh. Her gaiety stopped safely away from the border to hysteria and she felt fleetingly proud of that.

“Young Four,” his voice rumbled, “What were you thinking, to be so far away from support and all alone in the storm?”

She flushed and then confessed her sin. The cats had been so easy to snare, she had left her hunting party behind as she chased first one then another. Their calls to come back had not been heeded. She had danced Four in the sunshine and ignored the clouds rolling in. The sudden rain had upset her, and she had taken to the hole under the tree for safety. Her lip quivering, she described the horrors called goblins that made the tree a snare. Forced to give up her hunting trophies, made to kneel in muck, she still refused to disarm and tried to stare them down. She sought to fight on, but with scornful laughter they had bundled her up and out to lie like rubbish in the rain. Her fingers pried at the Four as she cried she did not deserve to wear it, she should go back to being a One and learn from the ground up again.

He nodded gravely and then slowly said, “You would go back to the womb, my friend? Learning to walk is too tough and you want to crawl again? Give me your weapon, climb in my backpack and I will take you back to be a baby again.” He reached out for her small sword and waited to see what she would do. Sudden, unexpected fury at the thought of disarming shook her soul as her head moved side to side. She snarled under her breath and almost screamed, “No! The goblins did not get this weapon, nor shall you.” Her head looked up towards the heavens as she repeated her mantra “I die for you my god.” Her body remembered itself as she flowed from one fighting stance into another and stared at him with the cold eyes of a battle ready warrior. He saluted her with his weapon, then smiled and waited. Passion flared and then was wrapped in her recaptured sense of the ridiculous. She sheathed her weapon, smiled and whispered, “I think there is some fight left in this small form my warrior. Thank you for helping me center myself around it again. Perhaps though picking a fight with you might not be the best way for me to start finding courage again.” She laughed and bowed to him then almost skipped to his side as she started to dance the movements of war. Her eyes were staring towards the hated tree and she was growling low in her throat.

The warrior laughed, caught her hand and led her back to Dundee. She needed warmth, clean clothes, and healing. The tree could wait for another day. He wrapped his spare cloak around her, showed her some fencing techniques as they walked, and explained the vulnerabilities of goblins. She drank in the knowledge and mentally gave oath that the first goblin carcass would be laid at his feet in honor of him. Her spirit returned from its frightened wanderings before they reached Dundee and she glowed as she thanked him. He bowed to her and went on his way, marking her character in his thoughts. “This small one would bear watching, she had a warrior’s spirit in that tiny frame.”

A month later he woke to find a dead goblin chief artistically displayed next to his forgotten cloak at his doorstep and smiled.

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FIVE – Snakes, and Snails, and Alligator Tales

The mud sucked off her right shoe with a hungry, relentless gulp. The left had disappeared into the last morass she had struggled through. She had spent a marc looking for it and finally given up after the snakes had shown up. Looking down at the snake hides on her shoulder she grinned, white of teeth flashing brightness behind her mud encrusted face. She slogged through the last few feet of muck and staggered onto a hammock of grass.

A lump of strange metal weighed down her backpack; insect bites sent fire trails up her scratched legs; bare feet and torn pants adorned her legs. Yet she smiled. The swamp was testing her mettle and the weight of hides and fangs she staggered under was proof that her skill with the borrowed sword had grown. “When I get back to town I will make an offering to Cory for the luck he has sent me today,” she thought. Her last trip into the swamp had left her gobbling like a scared turkey; this one was going to leave plat in her pocket and experience under her belt. She strutted a step or two, swaying a bit with the breeze. The wind was always a joyful partner and she loved dancing with it.

Her last swaggering step brought her around a small dirt mound to face a large cavity in the ground that appeared to contain a set of stairs heading down. A sign next to the hole announced that it was the abode of the swamp hermit and visitors were welcome. Grinning, she slid down the stairs and around a corner into a small, cozy room full of the reflected glow from a small fireplace. The area greeted her with light, warmth, and the smell of something good cooking. A wizened face and skeletal hand poking out of an encompassing shroud enthroned in a corner chair startled her for a minute until his kind toned voice welcomed her and bade her sit. She took the stool next to him and gratefully held her hands toward the warmth of the flames.

Afterwards, her time with the hermit wavered in her memories like a pond bottom under wind stirred water. Some things seen clearly, some hazed out. The taste of the food offered, scent of the fire, trading the metal for a pair of well fitted shiny boots. These came back clearly, but his conversation with her faded behind a mental screen. Five knew they had talked, he had laughed a whole lot, and she had chuckled and danced and told him some tales. She remembered his eyes growing large in his face, low words saying Cory, courage, and cost. Five recollected his hand waving in front of her face as his voice spoke of sleep; the rest was just lost. Somehow it was morning and she was back on the trail, fine boots on her feet that floated on mud. Dundee was in front of her, the swamp over a hill. From then until now, her memories had jumped. Even the recollection of lapse of memory faded as she entered Dundee.

The merchant complimented her on the skins and she flushed with pleasure at his approving tone. She had been careful in not nicking the hides and was rewarded with a few extra silver coins for each. Clicking them in her palm she went to buy potions with a light heart. Six was standing there arguing with the apothecary’s clerk; Five flushed and moved to the side a bit. Six was boisterous, heavy, and moved without looking. He had stolen kills from her since she was Two. She normally avoided him and seeing him here took a bit of the joy out of her day. He finished browbeating and left finally. She moved to the counter and bowed deeply to the upset counter clerk. The young clerk had tears in her eyes that she wiped at with an unsteady hand before asking what Five needed. Five bought her potions, and saw in a display case, a few small silver snail amulets, one labeled for courage. She bought that one on a whim, and dropped it in the clerk’s pocket with a smile and a hug. Maybe next time Six came in he might face more then tears and cowering. She grinned at the thought as she marched back out.

She slid back to the swamp, and danced across the mud, one fight after another. Her eyes glowed as the fight surges kicked in, each soul released sighed its thanks and that stirred her blood further. Strange orange flares flashed through her green eyes, and a smile of sublime pleasure crossed her face. A bit of cockiness arose, soon to be crushed into submission by the sharp jaws of an alligator. She barely made it through that fight, and a chastened Five bowed her head and thanked Cory for the lesson in humility before taking a potion to heal and go on. A small shimmer to the air behind her and a faint chuckle from afar announced her prayer had been heard and she grew scarlet for a moment. If Cory had heard her thanking him, he also knew why and for that she was very ashamed. She vowed fiercely to never take strength and courage for granted again, nicked her finger and dropped life’s blood on the ground to seal the oath. She barely skipped as she moved out, but there was enough of a bounce left in her for Cory to shake his head over as he moved unseen past.

The next alligator was approached with deliberation, swings of her sword hit slower, but deeper. She dispatched it with energy to spare and smiled as she realized blood lust sapped life. The monsters were only containers for evil, and needed to be broken, not stomped into shreds. She prayed over the carcass and felt the wind stir her hair and far off another chuckle and a voice praising humility. The wise warrior’s advice surfaced in her and this time rooted deep in her heart. “I want to be known as the Humble One someday. I promise not to take too much pride in that name.” But her nostrils flared a bit too much at the thought and Cory’s hermit hidden near by smiled a bit as he watched. She had such a long way to go, her feet were on the right road and her mentors had been set. It was still to see if that pride she was made of could be bent to the task without breaking apart and dropping in shards. Five needed a quest to refine her and define her. Her chest flashed Advance and he came forward to point her to the castle to learn of the task she must face as a brand new Six after she leveled.

He stood and watched her leave the swamp and patiently waited for her to come back. The quest would either build a foundation or create in her a love of town life. He looked after her and wondered which way she would choose.

[purazon]

SIX – Till Death Us Do Part

If she looked down at her chest, the Six emblazoned there read as a Nine. She had fantasies of wearing Nine; it meant respect in the Inn and townspeople moved over to allow a mid-level to pass. Six was not a baby, but not yet a full-grown child. It was the awkward age where nothing really fit and all the good armor was levels above. The plains cats fell easily, the goblins were still a bit too tough. She was stuck with the swamp, and slogging through fields of mud.

“Well at least there is a quest finally. The IRN Castle contains it. A quest in a castle, dry areas to roam at last.” Six looked down at the quest invitation she had received and then up at the towering castle gates. She felt small for a second; but her pride rose to shake off her meekness. “They would not have asked me to come were I not ready. I am Six and I dance the movements of war like a Nine, the trainer told me so.” She tucked her small frame around that thought, marched up to the guard and presented her invitation to him. He looked down at the tiny Six and only his inherent kindness kept him from laughing as her attempt to maintain a serious demeanor kept slipping into sideways glances of joy. “She loves life this one, her chances of making it through the quest may be jeopardized by that fact.” He bowed to her as he handed back her precious document of admission and pointed her toward the steward of the quest. He would see her again, either with a quest shield, or shielded in mind from any further growth. He sighed as he thought of the many that failed, left sitting around Inns or working as townsfolk. He silently prayed to Cory on her behalf as he watched her disappear inside. Shaking his head, he looked up and said “Next” to a male Six that stood impatiently at the head of the line waiting to enter.

She stared incredulously at the steward. Her dreams of a cozy quest inside the sheltering castle had just been shattered by his words. He had shown her a locked armory full of wondrous equipment then pompously announced the key had been misplaced. If she wanted that IRN shield she was drawn to, she would have to go retrieve the key from a massive viper in the now hated swamp. Forgotten was her Five pride in traversing the mud, the feeling of contentment as beast after beast fell to her sword. She took perverse joy in scuffing the polished marble floor as she flounced out. Send her out into the cold and mud would they? So she was not good enough to hunt in the castle like others had told her they had done? No, her quest forced her out of that magic place into the swamp like a lowly Five. Never mind that yesterday she had been Five, today she was Six and that upside down was Nine. Her nose tilted up a bit in disdain as her feet stomped her displeasure all the way out the back way. She wasn’t even good enough to go back the way she had come in it appeared. She huffed a bit with wounded pride as she left.

Stopping at the Inn to grab food for her journey almost ended her quest before it began. The fire-warmed inviting room was full of adventurers laughing and telling tales. The male Six was there showing off his new shield and bragging about how it only took searching two castle rooms for him to find the key. He turned around and sneered at her basic shield and wondered out loud why she had gone in first yet returned empty handed. Her tattered pride barely hid the shaking of her voice as she retorted that her quest had not yet begun, she was going to the swamp to search. He roared with laughter and called her mud puppy. Her knuckles whitened as she fought the urge to bury her sword in the center of his hated face. The flaring heat his words created in her fueled her resolve and supported her refusal to stay and talk with some of her friends. They were in no hurry to go on this quest, many had sat here for many marcs drinking ale and laughing with each other. With a last, lingering glance at the carousing crowd she moved out.

She stood in the town square, oriented herself and started to move off reluctantly. Radiating wounded pride, she still remembered her manners enough to bow to a passing high-level enchanter. He glanced at her set, stony face, smelled her coiled anger with flared nostrils, and then called out to her. She shuddered a bit as she waited to hear what he wanted. Enchanters scared her; they dressed in subdued elegance and were all tall and lean folk who always seemed to be looking down their patrician noses at her tattered attire. They even puffed in and out of places leaving disappearing trails of choking fog for her to contend with. “I bet none of them had to face the swamp on this stupid shield quest.” She reluctantly stilled her thoughts as she stared up at his glowing eyes. “With all his other powers, he can probably read my mind too.”

His mouth twitched a bit as he examined the small Six vibrating wounded pride in front of him. Not a mind reader, he was nevertheless an excellent judge of character who could readily decipher the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. He glanced at her new orange Six, noted the forgotten anger crumpled guild invitation dangling from her side pocket, recognized the look in her eyes of wounded pride, counted it up and grinned inside. “You’re going to the swamp on the quest are you?” His low, gentle tones pierced her pride and she nodded, a hated tear trickling down her red cheek. She bit her lower lip to contain its quivering then poured out her anguish to him. The other Sixes either got to search the castle or were still sitting in the Inn having fun before they went on quest. She was the one out in the cold, on her way to dig through mud. It just was not fair. He raised an eyebrow and inquired who had promised her fair? She shook her head and said “No one.” He nodded gravely and stood silent as she listened to herself and then raised startled eyes to him.

“The warrior told me you had outgrown your childish desire to take the easy path, was he wrong?” His words finished unchaining her from resentment and propelled her back onto the centered route she was growing toward. She flushed again, this time from the cleansing effect of shame, and dropped to her knees and bowed her head to kiss his hand. “Please pray for this small one to learn humility and patience in the service of Cory. Thank you for enlightening me. Tell the warrior I will not take the easy path, and am honored to be offered any quest, whether it is in the swamp or the … the nice warm castle.” Her eyes flared and she stood up proud and then bowed deeply again to him. He laughed, pointed the route she needed to take out to her and smiled as he watched her march off back stiff with pride. He remembered his own quest so many marcs ago, like her in the hated swamp. Humility and acceptance were not the way he had approached it either. If not for the warrior, he would have been left behind nursing resentment with mugs of ale himself. He had finally repaid his old friend, passing his words of wisdom on to another. The circle had turned and that made a good ending to any day.

Six spent days and lives in the swamp looking for the viper, finally discovering it in the very back of a tunnel that had radiated out from an overlooked hole in the ground. She couldn’t even credit her tracking ability with discovering the hiding place; she had stumbled and fallen into it. Beast after beast attacked her as she steadily worked her way through the darkened tunnels. Finally creeping into the viper’s den she stared at it with reddened eyes and barricaded the doorway behind her. “Till death us do part!” she snarled. The viper’s eyes glowed with the embers of evil as it spat at her and raised up into striking stance, flaring a hood marked with the sign of death. Six noted that it towered over her and suddenly had no problem feeling humble. Counting under her breath to keep step, she flowed into the dance of war. Feinting and parrying around it she swung her sword and struck deep, once and again. The snake hissed; Six screamed defiance and the battle began.

Reduced to limping through the battle steps at the end, Six laboriously took down the massive viper wounded coil by wounded coil. Its’ hissing tones faded from fury to anger to acceptance of approaching death at the end. She was struck by that final sound and stood looking down in awe at the hooded head, eyes closed in the coma that sometimes proceeds death. She prayed for Cory to heal the viper’s soul and was rewarded by a gentle air kiss from its ending breath. Her eyes softened from anger red back down the rainbow to quiet green as her own gasps for air eased off. She bent and tenderly stroked its head, and whispered that now it was safe. Cuddling it close, she found the key dangling from the side of the snake’s mouth. After another prayer of thanksgiving to Cory, she staggered over to the doorway and removed the barricade. The hermit stood on the other side waiting to help her back out. She humbly accepted his offer of assistance and marched back out of the tunnels sheltered under his shoulder. He looked down at her and smiled, she had been melted in Cory’s forge and was returning to town refined.

The IRN Castle guard looked down at the bedraggled small Six offering for his inspection the armory key clutched in a grimy paw and smiled. She bowed deeply in front of him and then laughed as he caught her up in proud arms and shouted that she was a right proper one. When she went in to claim her shield she was not surprised to see the warrior and enchanter standing there, somehow it all made some kind of crazy sense to her. They visited the trainer with her, gifted her with new equipment and the enchanter spelled her new Seven on it. Walking between the two tall, proud high levels she smiled and skipped a bit. Their eyes met over her small head and they nodded at each other. She was safe from the sleeping death of lethargy; her training could now begin in earnest. The Light Bearer was waiting by the corner. They handed her over proudly and hid their deep sorrow at what she faced next until after she was gone.

[purazon]

SEVEN – Fire Fixing to Burn

A sudden thunder of feet and sliding jump off the ladder preceded her impatient entrance into the Light Bearer’s view. Seven bounced up and patted his cheek, slid to a stop and grinned at him. “She still can’t move with any sort of grace. Where the others are learning to glide, she must skip and leap and do a thousand things with that exuberant mixture of noise and joy that makes up Seven. She will be Forty and still cavorting with abandonment as she dances with her shadow.” He shook his head at that thought; then hid a grin behind his visor. A high level dancing in the streets with the Ones and Twos, he would love to see that happen.

Seven bowed deeply, pulled at her tunic in a furtive attempt to hide a sadly neglected pair of pants; and grinned impishly up at him. “You called me my Lord Light Bearer,” she softly voiced. He sighed, handed her a mending kit, and raised a pointed eyebrow at her disheveled appearance. She flushed, patched her pants and muttered something about climbing the rooftops playing Catch Me with the other initiates. “That was yesterday, I saw you. What prevented you mending your garb between then and now?” His other eyebrow rose to join its brother as she prattled on about the sun shining through the rain and chasing rainbows as they kissed the wind. She stirred a small, grubby toe in the dirt and grinned up at him. He decided prudence dictated not asking her where her shoes had gone. “She has either forgotten where she kicked them off, or gave them away again.” He sighed and handed her a new pair from out of his backpack. Seven laughed, crammed her dirty feet into them and then skipped around him once to try them out. He had run out of eyebrows to raise; and contented himself with a deep sigh.

Grabbing at his disappearing composure, he told her that a quest awaited her if she wished. Her eyes shone as she nodded and then grinned. Pointing toward the sewer entrance, he told her that a rogue would be along presently to unlock the depths for her and the other Sevens. “You should have gone down there long ago, but there was a nest of bandits that had to be cleared out first. Hurry up and go join the others. May Cory’s light go with you.” He blessed her with that light, and laughed at her face as she saw her hands begin to glow. Seven bowed; then ruined the affect by exposing another forgotten tear. He pointed a shaking finger at it, and she hurriedly slapped a patch on her backside before skipping off singing of lighting her life. Her disappearance around the corner was punctuated by gales of laughter escaping from him.

The rogue was tapping an impatient foot when she arrived at the entrance to the lower levels; there was no sign of the other Sevens. “About time you got here missy, my lock pick is bent from holding this grate up.” He shouldered the heavy metal again and waited for her to enter. He had to snort twice before her wondering gaze left his mystical dancing shoes and returned to his face. “Get on with you, stop looking at my shoes as if they were edible.” She laughed, patted his arm and slid under it and down into the darkness below. Her happiness and glowing spirit seemed to float behind her. Shaking his head, he went to speak to the Light Bearer about her. They ended up drinking mugs of Ale at the Inn together, sharing stories of small levels and their antics. Neither one recollected their journey home the next morning; there had been many stories and Ale to wash each one down.

At the end of the ladder Seven stood, finger in mouth. The others were long gone, a map stuck to the wall beside her bore mute witness to their impatient departure. Scrawled on it were the words, Catch up slow one. Corridors extended in all directions, none displaying even the fading trail of her fellow initiates. She grabbed down the map and spread it out, grimy finger tracing the route the others must be following. West, West, North, East, she could do this. Shoveling the map haphazardly into her pack, she set off skipping to an impromptu mental tune based on the directions. West, West, North, North, South, ummm.. something did not look right. She didn’t remember anything about stone walls and heated air from her class on hunting amulets. Pulling the map out, she peered at it and shook her head. Directional Challenges had caught her again. Somehow they twisted in her head, North into East and South to West. “Why can’t they just say Left, Right, Up and Down? I have those down pat finally.” Seven grinned as the stray memory of falling down a well instead of climbing a tree intruded.

A huge hand tore the map out of her grasp as her startled gaze suddenly tried to focus on a battered broadsword pointed at her nose. Several bandits stood in front of her sneering. “A Seven, it is our lucky day.” The largest bandit stared at her with baleful eyes and then gestured for her backpack. As she wavered, the broadsword wielding one moved it back and forth, mimicking her swaying. The others laughed and called to each other dares on what to do with this unexpected bounty. Shielding her crimson flaring eyes with dropped lids, she bowed and reached for her back. Appeased by her apparent acquiescence, the bandits joked with each other about ransom, slavery, and other things they fancied she might be good for. Shrugging her backpack off, she slung it around and into the face of the closest bandit. Unsheathing her dagger, she flowed backwards and assumed a fighting stance. Her wide staring eyes glowed crimson flames, contrasting with the cold smile tilting up to meet them from below. She stood ready and waited.

“She’s but a Seven, take her out now!” sneered the one she labeled Chief in her mind. Looking at each other, three of them moved toward her. Feinting left, she struck right. Her dagger bit true and one bandit was down. She laughed, “See, not North or West, but Left and Right working well”. The other bandits blinked their confusion, and rushed at her again. Seven tried out a side kick and smiled as it hit home. One more down clinging to his shattered knee and glaring hate at her. She giggled as she noted her sadly split shoe (another pair to explain to the Light Bearer) and then flowed into fighting stance thirteen, meeting the immutable. The last bandit glanced back at his chief, again at her, and threw his weapon down – he’d flunked the counter move in school. He slunk away, followed behind by the last one. “Not Chief, but only bully after all.” She laughed as she pranced away in the opposite direction; she only knew the opening to stance thirteen because she had peeked at the high levels training. The fluid remainder of the dance still eluded her young limbs. When it doubt, feint. Good thing she remembered that lesson well at least.

Whistling delight, she rounded a corner to face fire and a demon’s glare. “I knew there was something wrong with those directions, stupid map anyway.” Kissing her dagger, Seven looked to the heavens and promised Cory “I die for you.” The fire demon chuckled at this small morsel dropped as manna from heaven for his afternoon delight and raised a massive, fiery fist slowly before her. His high-pitched wail as she skewered his small finger made her squeal with glee. She would go down with honor, or die trying. Laughing at that concept, she faced his coming death strike with smiles.

The demon moved toward her a bit more cautiously, that small dagger struck deep. He snarled a promise to dismember her into pieces slowly as he came. Seven gulped, glanced up, and then gripped her weapon in sweat shrouded shaking hands. He was certainly a massive one; this death was going to be rough. She shook courage back into her limbs and flowed into fighting stance two, facing certain death. Her eyes widened as he backed off. She stiffened; decided he must be bully too and started for the demon. “Hold, foolish Seven,” a deep melodious voice sounded from behind her. The large cleric brushing past her and rushing at the fire demon explained the demon’s sudden caution.

“For Cory, Valorn, and Glory” his mantra sounded as he struck with holy ring and sword. The fire demon screamed in earnest now, a severed limb flopping around his feet. The cleric flowed through the movements of fighting stance thirteen, too fast for her to follow. “Darn, I wish one of them would slow down enough for me to get that move, it looks so impressive when done right.” She chuckled, and moved through stance two, stabbing at toes and ankles while the cleric finished off the rest of the demon. Shared experience increased her training level and she bowed to the high level cleric with delighted eyes. She had helped kill a demon, and that was something to think about. The cleric looked down at her with wondering eyes and then healed her wounds with a gentle touch.

“What in Mighty Ben’s own name are you doing wandering down here?” His inquiry drew a flush from her and he had to bend down low to hear her whispered explanation of West and East and stupid North. He shook his head and asked for her map. Handing it over, she looked down at her shuffling feet and noticed they were bare again. He pointed out three different times the way back, then gave up and led her personally. Tall and sleek, he flowed down the corridors exuding charm and grace as he went. She followed closely, watched carefully, and was imitating him credibly as they exited the lower levels. The Light Bearer looked startled at first to see her without amulet; then smiled. Seven was finally moving with graceful fluidity. He cocked an eyebrow at the cleric, listened to where she had been found, and stared down at her with a thoughtful frown. She stood in front of him with downcast face and bare feet again.

“Who taught you to move with such grace?” His unexpected question caused her startled eyes to move to the waiting cleric with a wistful smile. The Light Bearer grinned at the cleric and pointed downward to his troublesome ward. “It appears she has finally found one she can emulate. May Cory help you now; she is yours to train. Congratulations small Seven, bow to your new mentor and listen carefully to all he says.” The immaculately clad cleric looked down at her standing unrepentantly grimy and barefooted, gulped at the impossible task just handed him; then bowed his acceptance of this strange challenge. Wrinkling his nose at her dishevelment, he bade her follow and headed off to the river to wash up. She flowed in perfect harmony behind him, casting a mischievous look back at the Light Bearer as she went.

[purazon]

EIGHT – By Rogues Be Undone

“A lock is a lock, of course, of course,
and no one can open that lock of course
That is, of course, unless the source is the famous Master Rogue.

Go right to the rogue and ask the source
he'll give you the answer that you'll endorse.
He's always on a steady course.
Talk to Master Rogue”

The pure lilting notes and clear tones of the singer did nothing to endear the ditty being sung in the Temple Training Area to the cleric. On the hundredth rendition, his exasperated fingers snapped the quill he was using. Tossing the splintered remainder down, he called out low “Eight; come here please”. His request for her attendance climbed the scales as he repeated it again and again. Fortunately she responded before he was faced with the notes above tenor that always cracked when he attempted them on the rare occasions Ale called him down to the Inn.

His jaundiced eye noted her fluid grace as she flowed down the corridor toward him. Anyone not knowing Eight would assume she had already donned the hallmark of a successful cleric, Cory’s own harmony and charm. He had been beguiled into believing that she was that rarity, born to be a cleric, until she cast unveiled eyes at him and he caught pure, unadulterated mischief peeking out at him. “The Light Bearer must still be shaking with laughter over this one,” he growled to himself.

Eight slithered to a stop in front of the cleric, and flowed through her newly learned fighting stance, Ben’s Breath of Fury, for the sheer joy of the movement. “She’s converted the Warrior’s majestic fighting stances into dance steps. Eight has substituted fluidity and speed for power and form. How do I teach such a student?” The laments from her training master intruded into the cleric’s thoughts and he looked up at the red faced old campaigner with an apologetic quiver to his elegant form. Frustrated, they both glared at Eight as she broke into the Rogue ditty, her body perverting the Warrior movements into a travesty that matched the tune perfectly however. They both shuddered. The old warrior patted the cleric’s arm in mute sympathy and moved off shaking his perplexed head. He growled a prayer of thanksgiving to Mighty Ben that he had been spared having her as permanent charge. The elegant cleric must have done something to call such revenge down on his head. He laughed as he contemplated what that might have been. The stories that could be conjured around this one would buy him many a drink tonight at the Inn.

The cleric’s nostrils flared slightly as he raised an inquisitive eyebrow at her and waited for Eight to wind down. She flushed as his silence penetrated her dancing trance and assumed a humble, head down posture in front of her mentor. “I have a note that must be delivered to the Master Rogue. You might not want to sing that song around him, however. I understand he stuck a poisoned dagger in the heart of the last person he caught singing it.” His dry tones added validity to his pronouncement and her small body shook for a minute as she contemplated such a death. Eight swallowed hard and nodded, she would keep her unruly tongue under check on this mission. She barely protested when he called for a Warrior Trainee to accompany her on the dangerous trip. She was still mentally wallowing in thoughts of meeting the Master Rogue, undecided whether alarm or anticipation was the order of the day.

Eight slowly meandered down the forest path, barely tethered by strict commands to the impatient Nine commandeered into escorting her to the Master Rogue’s hut. He slaughtered the first wolf with undisguised contempt, she slew the second under his watchful eye, and together they took on a pack of them at the next corner. Her unconventional movements drew grudging respect from him during that battle, and by the time they reached Milltown he has learned a few of the basic flows from her. He was anxious to get back to the training grounds to practice some of the rest. Nine pushed a suddenly reluctant Eight toward the Rogue’s hut and headed back to Dundee flowing a bit through fighting stance one as he went. “The trainer will be speechless tomorrow when I show him these,” he happily thought.

She knocked at the hut’s entrance and flinched as a gravely voice bade her enter. Eight timidly peered into the murky haze and stood frozen with wide-eyed wonder in front of a massive Rogue. His gnarled face sported intelligence and barely contained blazing eyes, a craggy nose, and the sweetest mouth she had ever seen. Curled dark locks fell across the shoulders of his purple vest, and disappeared down his back. His massive thighs and strong arms had a curious juxtaposition next to the long elegant purple clad torso wrapped with dagger sheaves and mysterious deep pockets that jangled a bit as he moved. She blinked and then made her best bow before him, placing the cleric’s note at his feet. He reached for it, read it and then sat staring into the flames with a curious look on his face. She stood silent as long as she could, then began to unconsciously sway to that dratted ditty until a coughing sound from him awoke her to the danger of that movement. His lips twitching slightly, he announced that it was a catchy tune and then laughed as her blush rivaled the fire’s red tones.

He offered her refreshment and entertained her with his Roguish wit as she sipped on some lemonade. She relaxed as she laughed and mentally decided the stories of rogue danger were over rated. He was a clown, a comic, and not quite a buffoon it appeared. “Why Rogues are more hair then wit…” The Town Crier announcing danger at the gates interrupted her thoughts. Her genial host underwent a transformation, shaking off the languid looks, and caressing tones, he stood with Warrior speed and suddenly was just gone. She scurried after him to the gate and arrived in time to see him dispatch a demon with his rapier and turn to face the demon chief.

The Rogue’s eyes radiated red fury as he whipped out his poison dagger and sent it to drink deep in the chest of the towering demon. He flowed with electric grace as he stabbed and then slashed away at a monster twice his size and several levels above him. Where others might retreat to heal, the Rogue shook off his own pain and pressed again and again at the demon chief. His magnificent frame was torn and bleeding, but he did not flinch and struck out with rapier, dagger, hands and teeth tearing away the demon’s armor in the end. The death cry of the chief sounded against the sandy hills and caused tremors to resound in the limbs of the other demons. The battered townsfolk took courage from the win and pressed against the demon horde shouting “A Rogue, A Rogue” in his honor. Eight even slew a small demon apprentice, and took great pride in grabbing his helmet to place on her small head. The rakish helm tilted sideways but she wore it with pride, even as the next foe encountered dispatched her with practiced ease.

Eight reformed with Cory’s blessing back at the Dundee Monument and after checking for her new helm, stamped her displeasure at missing the rest of the melee. She sighed, and headed home. Half way there, a massive arm surrounded her, picked her up and mounted her on the Rogue’s shoulder to perch there in parrot imitation. She drummed her heels against his chest and crowed her joy of seeing him again. He moved with a whirlwind’s grace, all sound and fury with a curious under note of subdued elegance. She sighed a bit when the journey ended, and then smiled at the look on her mentor’s face. “I guess coming back riding in a rogue’s arms is not correct cleric behavior either.” she thought. “Well too bad, rogues are heroes under their gaudy attire and jester behavior. He fought with a predator’s stamina and a prey animal’s grace. I will never forget the look in that demon chief’s eye when he first saw this rogue, laughter that faded into the deepest horror as that poisoned dagger bit.” Suddenly realizing that both Rogue and Cleric were staring at her she flushed deeply and bowed low. Her traitorous mouth had uttered her thoughts to them rather then remaining tamely closed.

The Master Rogue swept her a practiced bow, picked up her small grimy hand and tenderly planted a reverent kiss on it. He smiled as he promised Eight she would learn to love rogues even more some day. The rogue then turned to her horrified mentor and bowed again. His eyes danced as he gave answer to the note’s question and his mouth twitched as he thanked the Cleric for allowing him to meet the small Eight. He clucked her under the chin, bowed again and disappeared from the room taking a small part of Eight’s heart with him. The Cleric shuddered, turned to Eight and caught her imitating the Rogue’s suave bow in front of his corner mirror. Her shining eyes and dreaming look struck new horror into his heart and he decided the Light Bearer better hear about this day from him. He headed down to the Inn, only to find the Rogue, Warrior, and Enchanter there before him with the Light Bearer at the corner table. They all looked up and roared in laughter as he huffily came in. It took several Ales and lots of sympathy before his Tenor voice could join their song.

He did get some small revenge the next day watching Nine show off Eight’s dance form to the Warrior on the Training Ground. His roar of delight at the horrified Warrior’s face almost made up for Eight dreamily incorporating Rogue steps into fighting stance seven as the rest of the trainees stared aghast. The Light Bearer placed a companionable arm around the Cleric’s shoulder and led him off for some tea and discussion of what to do with her once Eight became Nine.

[purazon]

NINE – On Honor Bound

The sun was setting across the desert, radiating bands of orange, red, and gold to splash their hues on the pale beige sand and set it ablaze with Ben’s Might. The Warrior slowed his steps to bask in the god’s radiance then slid with practiced ease through the doors of the Inn as Cory’s cloak lowered darkening blues, shrouding the day into night. A raucous cacophony assaulted his ears and unnamed scents assailed his nose. He smiled; the Inn was an unending place of entertainment and news. He’d been out doing battle for too many marcs, it would take ale and company for his smile to reach his weary eyes and not just perch on his lips.

He looked toward the far corner and spied the Rogue, Enchanter, and Light Bearer there. Waving a massive hand toward the man wench, he mouthed Ale and went to join his friends and catch up on their doings. They shouted welcomes at him, pounded his back, helped him take off his war armor, and escorted him with honor to the corner chair reserved always for him. The Warrior fell wearily in it, stretched his booted feet toward the fire, and sighed his thanks to the man wench who shyly served him ale. He glanced around at all the Inn Zombies, snarled a bit in disbelief, and then quaffed the drink in one long cooling gulp. Another was soon brought to him, it rapidly following the first. On the third drink his thirst finally curled up and went to sleep.

The Warrior shifted a bit in his chair, and a tear in his chain mail gapped open, revealing the ridges of an unhealed red burn. The Light Bearer dropped his languid posture, sat upright and placed gentle hands on the Warrior’s hawk profiled face and began to pray. Cory’s Blessings flowed with a liquid shimmer down his hands and disappeared into the Warrior. The Warrior tried to endure the healing with stoic silence, but a small sigh escaped him as the shimmer touched his fractured knee and ran down to his right foot, regenerating his small toe. The journey home this time had been punctuated with painful steps, only pride had held him upright and silent upon his entry into the inn. Warriors did what others only dreamed of, not for lesser men to know the price they paid.

The Light Bearer bowed his head, feeling the wounds as they knitted and frowned at the severity of them. He knew instinctively not to bring them up to the Warrior, merely contenting himself with smiling sadly as he drained himself to refuel his friend. The Enchanter lifted his sacred staff, and rejuvenating energy surrounded the Light Bearer in a golden halo, who bowed and thanked his friend. The Master Rogue looked up from his own deft mending of the Warrior’s chain mail and smiled as his friends gathered together to share and heal. Such was the way in Valorn, from before time’s counting began. In unity there was purpose and safety and companionship. He murmured a Roguish joke and joined them in shared laughter just as the door slammed open and a thoroughly disheveled Cleric stormed in.

The others sat in stone faced silence as the muddy, robe torn Cleric flounced towards their table. Only a small quiver to the lip of one, a twitch to the eyebrow of another, and shoulders shaking of all proclaimed their enjoyment of seeing one normally so elegant looking like a street urchin with sunburn. “Nine tried to dance an Enchanter Spell, she called a Green into town with it and I had to dispatch it. Light Bearer something has to be done with her, she is creating shambles and even the training master can no longer channel her wit into needed training forms.” Shaking his head and pursing his lips, the Cleric fell into a chair and began to rock his distress. The others put aside their enjoyment of his discomfiture and began to smooth his discontent with soft words and small comforts. The man wench was dispatched to bring back Cleric robes, a swift trip to the back room and the Cleric flowed out in close imitation of his usual elegance. A swift glance between his friends assured silence on the question of where the Cleric’s left eyebrow had flown.

Tranquility regained, they gathered close to share humor and news, renewing and replenishing their bond of brotherhood in trivial words, and unspoken thoughts. The Light Bearer grew quiet, a contemplative inward look shuttered his face for a moment, then radiant light burst from his eyes and a deep chuckle rose from his chest “By Cory’s Sweet Breath, I have the answer which satisfies two vexing problems of mine.” He turned to the Cleric and asked if he could borrow the Nine for a small trip into the desert. The Cleric tried hard to mask shining eyes as he nodded his agreement, but the others caught the gleam and smiled. The Warrior’s face dropped into stillness as the Light Bearer bowed to him and begged his escort of the small one on this journey. He nodded acceptance of the task, and bowed his head to accept the Cleric’s Blessings before gathering his armor up and striding off to vent his spleen at babysitting on an unwary Zombie Adventurer who slithered around a corner in front of him.

Informed of her journey, Nine smiled radiantly at the Cleric and bustled off to pack her bag with some small medicines, a few warrior salves, and bottled blessings – following the travelers list supplied to her by the Light Bearer along with extra ointments and needle and thread. She might not be cleric yet, but battlefield medicine was her best subject and she felt honor bond to be ready just in case. “Not that I’ll get to see any battles, the Warrior will handle them all.” She sighed a bit, stamped her discontent at inaction, then shouldered her bag and went out to the courtyard. The Cleric stood there, surrounded by Rogue, Enchanter, and Warrior in front of the Light Bearer. The Warrior bade her follow closely in his steps and moved off silently. She slide softly behind him and the unlikely pair disappeared into the desert moving in single file harmony. The others looked at the Light Bearer and questioned if curbing her might be one of his vexing problems, what was the other. He ignored their questions, caught them up and they all strolled off to the inn together. The Cleric surprised himself by stating he actually missed her. They all roared with laughter at this, then stilled as each nodded their own feelings for the small one.

The first few days were fairly uneventful, a few demons met and dispatched with practiced ease by the Warrior. Her steps had stilled into credible imitation of his carefully crafted pace, designed to eat distance with economy of motion. She learned to hush her happy tongue after an unguarded laugh spawned a scorpion that attacked her. Nine killed it with careful movement and earned a nod of acceptance from the Warrior that fired her with the desire to merit more. Each night she practiced her fighting stances, still flowing with dance movement through them. The Warrior no longer winced at the sight, rather beating out the rhythm for her on his upended shield. Her wary silence in the day dissolved into happy discourse in the evening, and the solitary Warrior found himself laughing with her and enjoying the company for a change. Cory passed by invisibly one night and stopped to peer into the dusk smiling at the sight of his own Warrior leaping in dance with the young Nine. Each was taking the best of the other and making it part of their own heart. The god laughed and sent a note to the Light Bearer that caused joy to rise in the Light Bearer’s chest.

The demons attacked a few days later, in one massive slathering horde. The Warrior blinked, put her behind him and starting slaying them one after another. His shoulder bleeding from an unguarded thrust, he faced the last three with deep exhaustion. He raised his weary head to the clouds and roared his Warrior mantra to the heavens. Her small voice joined his and to his shocked dismay she stood beside him facing the last few with quivering limbs but set face. He glowered at her then looked back toward the demons’ charge ready to die as long as she was kept safe. He found her blade a worthy companion; she struck low, as he swung high. One died, then another, the last sprayed blood around them in its death throes as she danced joy and honor satisfied to a bemused Cory looking down from the sky. The Warrior buckled and then collapsed on the sand, his own crimson life force staining his armor and flowing in death dealing tendrils from his frame. He growled to her that she must go on without him; he would cover her tracks as she fled home. He kissed his mighty weapon and prepared to face death with honor, blocking the passageway home with his own body.

She ran to her pack, and dragged out warrior salve, bandages and ointments. She knelt and plied her craft, stopping bleeding, healing where she could, applying dressings where her small skill allowed. He passed out somewhere in the middle of it and woke to a night sky, the comfort of a fire and broth being spooned into his mouth. The smell of death no longer surrounded him, only gentle hands and a soft voice whispering of rest and quiet. He drifted in and out of dreams; once shaking awake to hear her challenge a bandit, smiling as she slew the man, then fading back into restorative sleep. He honored her pride and did not ask her why she wore a dressing on her own left arm; she honored his by not mentioning the battle. A desert viper taught her about bleeding; the warrior was alert enough to apply the salve and help her pray over it. Their shared laughter at matching wounds evolved their companionship into oath bond friendship – sealed with a small nick on each of their hands, then mingled in a tightly joined clasp of small grimy fingers into massive warrior fist.

Two weeks later they flowed out of the desert together, no longer single file but side by side as companions march. The Cleric saw only his beloved Nine returned safely and smiled. The Light Bearer saw Nine marching with purpose honor bond, plus Warrior allowing another to aid him and finally accepting companionship. Both vexing problems appeared to be eased; he lifted Cory’s Light high and glowed his happiness far into the night.

[purazon]

TEN – Some Enchanted Evening

Feathers spun crazily through the air around Ten. She sneezed and sighed as the gust of air stirred more plumage to plunge around her. A rapturous Nine slew another chicken and happily plucked it rapidly then grinned at Ten and moved off, leaving mounds of feathers to swirl in the breeze. Ten snarled her distaste; then applied her strong arms to the wielding of her broom again. “What kind of self discipline course is this? Just because I might have accidentally left the poultry pen open and a very few of them visited the Milltown Square, was just a small infraction after all. ” Ten grinned as she remembered the frenzy of townspeople running from the ravenous beaks of the turkeys. Hearing the soft swish of her mentor’s garb as he stately flowed toward her, she hid the grin behind a carefully blank face and bent with studious posture to her assigned task.

Neither the carefully calm face nor the harmonious flow of her movements fooled the cleric as he watched her dance Ben’s Great Silence with her broom. He’d been taken in before by that carefully crafted persona, inside this young cleric to be was pure mischief barely held in check. With a barely checked wistfulness, the cleric asked Ten “Are you sure you would not rather be a Rogue or an Enchanter?” Ten shook her head and an unusually grave expression peered out of her eyes. “I want to be one of Cory’s own clerics my Lord. I feel his hand on our world offering protection. His truth calls to me, my soul rushes to answer him. He and Mighty Ben have breathed their life and spirit into Valorn, I must dedicate my life to offering their healing and protection to others.” The cleric shook at bit at the intensity and truth of her answer; then bowed his acquiescence as he thought, “She is finally starting to grow up.” Whatever comfort might have been derived at this point was blown away with the sight of her leaping into the feather pile and laughing as it scattered again.

“When you have cleaned this area, please write for me of the importance of being earnest in your daily duties. Tomorrow report to the guard, they will assign further tasks – I must go to Branishor and will leave you in the Warrior’s capable hands.” Bowing before her crestfallen face, he smiled and took his leave. “That should at least keep her out of trouble until I come back.” She waited till his back was turned before sticking her tongue out. The last time he had caught her doing that he gave her soap to taste. It had not been a meal she wanted to repeat. Burping bubbles was a spectator sport, more fun to watch then to do.

The setting sun was slanting through the great skyward thrusting arms of the western Mill before she was finally done swooping on feathers and subduing their cloudy clutter into orderly piles. She had not quite threatened that late arriving Eleven bent on training another hour. No matter what he bleated, she had only been showing him the business end of the broom when he blanched and ran off threatening to tell. Quickly locking the pens before retribution showed up; she strolled off singing the latest Rogue ditty “A Rogue By Any Other Name Would Smell Just As Sweet.” She shifted into a flowing rendition of fighting stance fourteen, Mighty Ben’s Anger Thrust, and fitted it to the ditty as she rounded the corner heading toward the Milltown Gates.

Truly she meant to slide past and head to the shrine, it was not her fault the gates were still agape and dusk called her outside. She had every intention of stopping for just a second to praise the gods for this crimson glory. She was sure she took moments only putting frame to thoughts. The bang of the gates being closed and latched for the night behind her barely penetrated her dreamy haze. The warning growl of a hunting zombie finally stirred her to reality. Ten flowed through a quick war movement, released the tortured soul, and ran for the gates only to slide frustrated to a halt as she face their barred and shuttered barricade. A quick shout, a banging fist, a prayer to Cory, all had the same silent response. It appeared she was camping out for the night.

Ten sighed, and moved toward the leeward side of the Milltown walls where she could find some shelter in case the sandstorms came rampaging in. She found a small niche that looked like it could be guarded against the demons that walked the night. Opening her backpack she checked her supplies – no fire making equipment, no desert trail food, but at least she had water, her assignment book, and a few well-chewed quill pens. It was going to be a long night it appeared, survivable but not pleasant. She shuddered at the thought of explaining to the Warrior just how she got locked outside without the supplies he demanded she carry at all times. “Should have put them back in after I took out those pretty rocks I found” she shook her head at her forgetfulness then grinned as she remembered just how heavy those rocks had been.

A few Marcs later Ten was missing her long gone grin and facing demons in the dark. Without a fire to keep them at bay, they slavered in a slowly inward moving circle toward her. She had to rely on the red glare of their eyes to pinpoint them and respond to their attacks. “As long as they don’t stand on their heads, a foot below the eyes to stab seems to work out fine.” Clutching at her humorous thought to cloak her heart from fear, she wearily flowed through the first five fighting stances again. Her left arm dripped blood, there was a rent in her armor and she limped a bit. Looking at the stars to cheer herself on, she held to the belief that dawn would still see her standing. “Dawn is in but seven more Marcs, I am Warrior fostered, Battle Cleric trained, Rogue rider and sewer spawn, I can do this. I can, I can.” She stamped her foot on the last thought and shuddered as the noise brought more rustling in the dark toward her. “I need to learn to emote more carefully, or at least more quietly.” She grinned at that idea and moved to face walls of red staring eyes coming toward her.

A sudden noise behind the demons caused them to surge and then a voice shouted, “Cover your eyes young Ten!” She shielded her eyes and felt the blast as energy erupted somewhere in front of her. Peeking through her fingers she was startled to see a tall man clad in enchanter robe wading through dying demons toward her. His staff flared again and she blinked frantically. Demons dropped around his feet, and melted into the sand leaving only pretty stones where their shattered hearts fell. “So that is where those rocks come from, enchanter cooked demon hearts.” She used the stray energy that lit the area to see the final demons standing and aid the enchanter in putting them down. Ten wearily bowed to him as the last one choked and expired at her feet.

The enchanter’s lips twitched as he stared at the bedraggled Ten. Glancing behind her into the niche he stared at her temporary camp and blinked. His raised eyebrow looked distressingly like her cleric mentor’s and she flushed as she shuffled her feet and tried to look humble and meek. “Camping out are we tonight?” His low, melodious voice barely contained laughter threatening to spill out. She mumbled her explanation about clouds, and gate times and oh yes, colored sand. He gave into the stored laughter, and his shoulders shook as he roared with glee. Clapping an arm around her, he led her back into the niche and enchanted up a quick fire to complete the shelter.

A Marc later, replete from food he supplied, Ten was listening to tales of wonder. The enchanter had the golden tongue of all his kind, and knew just how to draw out the small dreams of the young and gild them to present back with grace and charm. She blushed several times at some of his remarks, then noted his kind eye and was reassured. It was safe to sit and be enchanted, he meant Ten no harm. He listened and chuckled, then put her to work filling out the hated assignment for the morrow. She fell asleep wrapped in a fold of his cloak and dreamed of glories streaming from an upheld staff. The enchanter looked down at the small form and smiled to himself. He was missing a party at the Inn, but she could not teleport and he would not leave her here. “Well the Light Bearer will appreciate my taking her under my cloak, and she does indeed have a lot of heart. I truly think it is rogue heart rather then cleric, but who am I to judge another?”

The dawn opening of the gates found Ten sliding quietly in and running to her room. Changed and refreshed she made it back out to the exercise yard and had flowed through several training sets before the Warrior appeared. He nodded as she handed him her assignment book and smiled softly as Ten moved back into the exercises again. He could tell the cleric and the Light Bearer she had been no trouble at all. He frowned for a second as she finished the set with an Enchanter’s flourish. “Now where did Ten see that movement performed?” A small self-satisfied laugh from the gate announced the Enchanter’s presence. The Warrior saw the pleading look from Ten and the nod back from the Enchanter, it made his face go blank and created an immediate resolution to not mention anything about no trouble at all to the cleric. Sitting in the inn that night with his friends all listening open mouthed to the Enchanter tell a tale about small Tens and glaring red eyes, he was glad of that decision.

[purazon]

ELEVEN – Death Be Not Proud

The cleric’s mouth twitched as he surveyed a scruffy looking Eleven training with a positively roguish leap to her forward movements and enchanter slide sideways to her feints. He cocked an eyebrow at the warrior inquisitively. “It started out as fighting stance seventeen, Mighty Ben’s Lighting Tongue, before she added that spin to it.” The cleric shuddered as he considered what Ben might think of the body language screaming such joy in His Name. He glanced up at the heavens and carefully moved a bit away from the swirling form of Eleven. He preferred not to get in the way of a Holy Smiting should one be heading their way. The warrior looked at his old friend and laughed. The cleric’s hunkered shoulders proclaimed more about what he was thinking to a warrior trained in body motion then he realized. The cleric looked puzzled, then grinned as the warrior glanced toward the heavens and made a lighting motion with his hand. They nodded at each other, and moved a few steps further away from Eleven, just to be safe.

“She set the foul fowl on edge again yesterday,” the cleric’s voice almost quivered with outrage as he spoke. “She was throwing things back at them and laughing when they scattered. Eleven has no reverence for the sacred training program, not even the grace to pretend she enjoys training there. Ever since she came squalling back to town trailing blood down main street, she has had a hatred of the poultry. I don’t know how we are going to get her to level up with that attitude.” He shook his head as he watched her train. Even with the corruption of classic movement into this travesty of fighting form she used, the purity of her faith shone through. She glowed with Cory’s Sacred Light as she flowed around the training yard, her soft voice could be heard singing one of the morning glories from Cory’s Book of Wonder, and her shadow appeared to have the floating motion of a distant pair of wings.

“Let me take her out where the sky and grass meet, let her dance with clouds and discover the joy of battling again.” The rogue’s tenor voice rolled over them as he moved between them. His eyes sparkled and his lips blew kisses at the female initiates training in front of him. The cleric sniffed as he noticed all of them, including his wayward mentee, colored and moved with unnecessary swaying as they suddenly started showing off. “Actually I need the help, taking some merchandise down land and she fights well.” The unwonted seriousness in the rogue’s voice startled them. If he was requesting assistance then it was a rarity that demanded exploring.

Grabbing the rogue by his arms, they marched him off to the inn, sat him down with a mug of ale and looked askance at him. Rare color stained the cheeks of the rogue around his burners as he looked into his mug and sighed. The rogue’s golden voice dropped low as he explained he had lost a load, died on the road and left it unprotected to be defiled by demons. Cory’s mercy had brought him back to life but the bitter taste of that death had haunted him for the six marcs it took to regenerate. “So I understand her feelings about death and blood, we can support each other through this.” His eyes held the faint shadows of that death behind a glaze of bitterness swirled through with an ironic glitter. For a second the hint of an unspoken pleading passed across his countenance, to be quickly masked by the Master Rogue persona he shielded himself with.

“Of course my friend, Eleven will go with you. How soon do you set out?” The cleric reached toward the rogue, but hesitated to touch his arm. That glitter, and the set shadow of the rogue’s smile fenced him away from them deep into his own internal hell. Whatever the contents were of the load he had lost, it weighed heavily on the rogue. He needed healing and a trip with Eleven might be just what Ben had ordered for him. The cleric prayed to Cory for guidance and felt His grace flow through his mind and warm his heart. Mighty Ben’s hands were apparent to his cleric eyes as they hovered over the rogue. “Cory help my small mentee; on a trip with a demon ridden rogue and the breath of Ben’s Unbending Justice hanging over all. Death be not proud, spare her please.” The cleric’s prayer strangled silently in the back of his throat, he finally just bowed to the rogue with mute pleading for Eleven’s safety in his eyes. The rogue returned the bow, a fierce promise to hold true suddenly piercing the shadows of his eyes with radiant light.

The next morning an unquenchable Eleven fluttered around the Master Rogue as he packed his merchandise to set out. She danced in place with impatience, and grumbled to herself as she shouldered her pack, trying it out for size. The cleric had insisted on giving her extra potions, and the warrior had handed her salves to stop bleeding with a serious look in his eyes. With the new shield she carried, this added burden felt heavy, weighing her down. “You need to level to lighten your load my dear.” The warrior’s deep voice rumbled as he straightened the strap on her broadsword and patted her armor into place. The cleric contented himself with repeating over and over “Everything’s going to be alright.” Only her ingrained sense of affection for the two of them kept her mouth silent and locked away the image of them acting like worried level Twos, keeping it safely away from her unruly tongue’s desire to express what she felt. The rogue finally bowed to the cleric and warrior; clucked to her and set off out the walls of Dundee. She sighed with relief, and hurried after him before the cleric and warrior could find something else to stuff into her overburdened pack.

Eleven and the Master Rogue traveled toward the grasslands in silence most of the first day. The inward contemplation of the rogue’s eyes quenched her normal voicing of all that flitted across her mind. She was reduced to speaking internally to Cory of all she passed, and running the fighting forms through her mind to occupy the time. The few beasts they met ignored them, or faded away as they drew near. Eleven was glad to see that demon fighters had been through here recently; small mounds of dismembered demons littered the side of the road they traveled. “Although they could have left a few for us to fight, it would enliven the boredom of this trip.”

Eleven glanced sideways at the rogue and was startled to see a set expression on his face as they passed a particularly large mound of dead demons. She looked back at the pile of death and was shocked to see rogue attire tattered into shreds, but still intact enough to be recognizable. She started to blurt out that a rogue had died there too, but swallowed hastily as she realized it was Master Rogue armor clenched in dead demon hands. Eleven flushed and gazed at her white knuckled hands as they hastily wrapped around her unsheathed broadsword. “I’d better be ready. Whatever can kill a rogue can eat me for lunch in seconds.” She shuddered at the thought; then imitated the set of the rogue’s chin. If he could face his own death spot, she must do no less then honor him by showing no fear as she stood at his side.

The rogue was dragged out of his silent contemplation of that unfortunate death by the sight of Eleven stiffening with pride next to him as she flowed through several fighting stances and then kissing her blade and offering it to the heavens in mute adoration of her beloved gods. Her crimson eyes stared straight ahead at the approaching horde of demons slavering toward them. The Master Rogue felt Eleven’s determination shaking her as she placed her back against his and stiffened in reflexive pride. If she could face death with such pride, he determined to do no less then honor her by showing no fear as he stood back to back with her.

They dropped their packs on the ground and Eleven’s mantra “Cory, I die for thee” blended with his cry of “A Rogue, A Rogue” into a harmony of unbroken spirit that rose to the heavens proclaiming belief in the gods and their unquenchable trust in them. “By Ben’s fiery breath, you will not die today!” The rogue grasped poison dagger and sword at ready as he swore to protect her with his life. “Well by Cory’s Protection, neither must you, my rogue!” Eleven’s fierce pride snarled her response back to him. His eyes lit up, and all the joy that battle for good can bring animated his face and melted the ice that had imprisoned his heart. He laughed, she chortled, and then they turned to face the horde sliding toward them.

They swayed as their forms flowed through the battle side by side. Demon pieces littered the ground around them, and their own wounds flowed crimson unheeded. Two marcs passed quickly by, running the present to the past in accelerated motion. The present finally slowed down into the realization that all the demons they could see were littering the ground around them in the abandoned grotesque postures of death. Nothing moved except the slow drip of blood from their bodies staining the ground around them. Eleven felt her own lifeblood flowing down herself and moved to the pack to grab out the warrior’s salve and anoint herself and the rogue with them. She shared the potions as well, helped him bind a shattered gauntlet back together and sighed with relief. He cocked an eyebrow at her and asked if she was glad the battle was over for a bit. She grinned and responded she was actually glad the battle had lightened the load of healing stuff she carried in that overburdened backpack. He laughed and told her the pack would be much lighter by the time they returned to town. She grinned and announced she was ready.

Their blended voices singing a rogue ditty announced their return to the cleric and warrior several days later. Her pack was almost empty, her armor in tatters, but Advance blinked above her and joy animated her face as deeply as it resounded in the Master Rogue’s eyes. That was almost enough to make the cleric forgive them for driving another of those stupid ditties deep into his reluctant brain. “That could drive me to drink” he thought, then looked at the warrior and grinned. The warrior was mouthing the words of that ditty with horror in his eyes, before he broke and ran for the inn shouting for ale. The cleric took off after him as the rogue sauntered behind them serenading their reluctant ears with his fine new song.

[purazon]

TWELVE – The Irony of Perfection

The Cleric's drowsy head jerked up as his sleepy brain processed the dreaming scent of savory cooking into the reality that Twelve had just placed a bowl of stew in front of him. He smiled at her as she placed a clean spoon ready at hand to him, bowed and slide quietly over to her own place at the table. Her attire was flawless; from her neatly hemmed leggings to the small, discreet shroud covering her carefully braided hair, she was a model Cleric trainee. He sighed with pleasure as she gently folded her immaculately cared for hands and lowered her eyes in preparation for Cory's Blessing of Sustenance.”

“Finally, she is growing up. It has been many marcs since she was caught dancing Crystal Guardians, she has not lost a pair of shoes in ages, and even the Warrior no longer complains about her fighting stances." He started to eat with true relish, happy that his waistline was expanding from the ingesting of meals without the clenched stomach pain of waiting to hear what she had done lately. He had been growing gaunt, almost to the point of being worried about the high price of getting his armor resized. "At least that expense does not have to be borne," he thought as he reached for more bread with satisfaction in his eyes.

Her soft voice provided a quiet counterpart to his contented eating. She recited the blessings she was working on, named the fifty fighting stances, and recounted the history of the battle for Ryndall. Twelve looked brightly at the Cleric as she spoke, listened intently to his responses, and engaged in delightfully coherent conversation without a hummed bar of rogue ditty to mar the discussion. Her feet remained firmly in place; not even a shadow of enchanter swaying removed her steadfast gaze from his face. The Cleric's eyes dropped down to her well-tended hands and softened. She was finally wearing her gauntlets when doing the compulsory training, there was not a skinned knuckle or nicked fingertip in sight. He sniffed; the warrior stink from hard training was also absent. The hybridized initiate was blossoming into the subdued elegance of a Temple Cleric, far exceeding his hope she could at least attain the abilities of a hedgerow healer. The Cleric smiled with pure bliss, this one he could proudly present in the temple when her time came to assume the full power and responsibility of her chosen profession. He amused himself with drafting his acceptance speech for the annual Best Mentor Award. His eyes drowsily lidded slowly shut and a gentle puffing of air too refined to be called snoring arose from him.

The silken rustle of the cocoon slick sleep of the just had not fully invaded his ears before he felt, and responded, to a cacophony of voices that drew him up and out of the enveloping wonder of his dream. Bleary eyes blinked as they brought into focus the grinning faces of the Master Rogue, Dance Master Enchanter, and Elite Warrior. His nostrils expanded as the half rank smell of congealed rat stew pushed itself into his reluctant nose and painted the back of his throat with thick strokes. The Cleric's horrified eyes stared at the bowl sitting in a puddle of grease next to him. He struggled upright with a twitching eyebrow that began to pulsate into a full fledged tic as the Rogue dipped a piece of stale bread into the slime and began to suck at it noisily. The Cleric shook a bit from unconcealed nausea and then got it under control – he had serious worries about the measuring hungry gaze of his friends. None of them had ever been accused of wantonly turning down a free, hot meal.

“We’ve come to take you and Twelve out, the Festival of Light is just beginning and you promised the both of you would join us for the fighting stance contests.” The baritone of the Enchanter and bass of the Warrior offset the Rogue's tenor as their voices blended together in curious harmony. For a second the Cleric struggled with the urge to lift his voice into the four cornered songs they had sung as initiates together so long ago. His lips twitched as his countertenor voice struggled to free itself from the years of subjugation then subsided into another round of tics. He mentally smoothed himself and merely uttered in a colorless tone, “Twelve we are wanted, make ready to go.” The other three shared a glance of sorrow for what used to be; then nodded their heads in mute acceptance of what was.

Twelve languidly entered the room, saw her friends and quivered a bit as her heated eyes devoured their freely moving forms. She shuddered with the effort of squelching herself down into the rigid backed Temple Cleric form. Visibly diminished, she made her best bow and quietly went to stand behind her mentor. The rogue shook his head and only the strong grasp of the warrior on his arm held him in place. “This is a perversion of growth,” muttered the enchanter sotto voice as his eyes flashed fire. The three huddled in a sodden, miserable heap that was dragged behind the lordly cleric as he strolled down the street followed at the correct two paces by a downcast quiet Twelve. The continuing indignant whispers of the rogue floated behind them.

The festival area was rocking with the barely contained excitement of a multilevel gathering. Small ones darted around the legs of high levels as they wore the edge of anticipation off by chasing rats and shouting encouragement at each other. The high levels smiled reminiscently as they watched the melee and shared their latest forays into the black lands with each other. Rogues plied their trade offering amulets and flowers to the enchanter ladies, warriors tested themselves in games of strength, and hedgerow clerics stood by to heal the inevitable sprains and pride pulled tendons. A minstrel strolled here, a wordsmith told tales there. Enchanters trailed multi-hued spells as they weaved through the crowded area and headed down to the central ring.

A mischievous cleric cast Cory’s brilliant light onto the stiff-backed Temple Cleric’s head as he passed by. An enchanter compounded it by attaching alacrity to the cleric’s feet. He now bounced as he walked, his illuminated hair flying up and down. His entrance into the arena area dropped many a jaw. The rogue slipped platinum to the ones that had done him this favor furtively, although his friends noticed and slapped his back in glee. They chortled together then slipped down and into the stands next to the rigid cleric. Twelve stood in her accustomed place behind the cleric and lost control of a giggle as his lit hair flew around his head in carefree splendor. The rogue looked back and smiled at her, appreciating the small wiggle that escaped her attempts at self-control.

The contest for high level required fighting stances came first, and the cleric blamed his loss of finishing in the top ranks on his hair. Twelve silently thought it was his measured control that denigrated his motions into banal triviality. The rogue and enchanter battled for first place, the warrior being a professional was barred from entering. He contented himself with holding a companionable arm around Twelve and commenting to her on each of the contestant’s use of form. He grinned to himself as he felt her feet begin to move, swaying her into that unconscious rhythm of the small one still inside her.

The warrior fighting forms came next, and Twelve danced in place as her own master warrior easily conquered all. The rogue and enchanter swayed side-by-side, humming rogue ditties until her contralto voice took wing and joined in. Her shroud was slipping, and the braids falling out to dissolve into frank imitation of the cleric’s still flying hair. The infectious harmony had the crowd around them moving to the sound and even the cleric forgot his dignity enough to swing his arms and stamp his feet on the chorus.

Just as they were calling for the initiate’s contest a scurrying was heard, then shouts and pandemonium as an army of Balthasar’s finest parted the crowd. Back to back with the warrior Twelve almost laughed with glee. There were a veritable army of demons, and she wanted her blade to taste the blood of as many as she could. She shouted her mantra, stomped her feet and swayed into the forms of war. The warrior grunted, “Tis a good time for you to awaken from that abnormal dream – it would have gotten both of us killed, and today is too pretty to die for stupidity.” She laughed and bounced through fighting stance thirty-one, Ben’s Mighty Kick, with high stepping feet.

It was a grand time; everyone got to kill a demon or two. Twelve dissolved into happy laughter as she saw the Temple Cleric use one of her dance steps to add dimension to his fighting form and leap against a master demon. Demon parts littered the arena staging area before all were done. The crowd huddled around enchanter-powered clerics as they offered healing, and slowly settled down to watch the final games be played out. A thoroughly disheveled Twelve joined her class and took first place easily with an impassioned rendition of Fighting Cory’s Immutable Swing.

Gathering her trophy she heard her four friends glue their voices together to make music, what came out was pure honey – sweet and golden. The rogue ditty sounded effortless, the harmony flowed, nice and smooth and natural as their bodies swayed through the fighting stances Twelve has just danced. She leaped to join them and smiled in complete relief that the normally spotless cleric was tattered and torn in public but carefree and grinning like his friends. His face beamed even brighter then his face, and his feet flew in frank imitation of his hair. She flashed Advance at him and he laughed out loud as he bowed to her and offered his arm. The following dance was so exuberant even the small ones ran out of breath before they ran out of words to describe it. The rogue and enchanter grabbed initiates and joined it. The warrior pounded out the melody on his shield until the minstrel came over; he then took a partner and proceeded to put them all to shame with his grand sashaying and parading of the perfection of form that spoke Elite Warrior to all that watched and clapped them along. The next song, everyone joined in and leaping steps shook the dust of battle off their clothes to rise into clouds of enchanter spelled rainbows that floated around all.

[purazon]

THIRTEEN – In Your Dreams

Darkening clouds chased the sun out of the sky and murmured thunder promises of anger-filled rain to the land. The path, that moments ago had flowed between verdant flower-strewn fields, arched and then dug a sullen edged jag into the hillside and collapsed beside a blackened plinth. Staggering forward on fear shaking legs, the small initiate finally fell into a sodden heap at the gravesite and peered with hope-lost eyes at the horrendous inscription " ~Here lies Islander the Fallen~ In the end, even our greatest heroes could not save us."

Whispers fluttered around her tiny form, and invisible demon tongues licked the salt from her tear-stained face. Thirteen cradled her face in her arms, rocked herself, and then cried desolately - heart and spirit leaking away drop by drop. The initiate cried for the gods, cried for the people, cried for the land that was taken away. Most of all, she cried for the death of all hope, buried here with the greatest warrior in the land. Her fingers clenched at the loose soil and then grabbed handfuls of it up, pouring it on her head in an unconscious attempt to bury her anguish.

“It is false, a lie fostered by Balthazar onto Valorn in an attempt to fool us into giving up.” Thirteen clutched at the memory of the cleric forcing that fact into her mind before sending her to this desolate, dark forest. Her tear drenched eyes bled misery as the warmth and surety of purpose that had sent her here faded under the whispering gibes of hidden demons. The straightforward nature of her quest tangled and was lost in the skein of lies woven through the aura of Islander’s graveside. The paper she was sent to place on the grave rustled unattended in her pocket as she swayed under the unholy force of misery welling around and through her.

Thirteen frantically unsheathed her dagger, held up her arm to the gods and screamed, “For you my gods – always and only for you.” She dragged the dagger across her thumb, sending gouts of blood to flow freely down onto the grave. The pain made her grimace; the crimson tide dragged her mind back from dark-holed gibbering to face reality again. She pulled out the paper, smearing gore on it as she held it in shaking hands and read it then prayed, “Let this not be the future, but only a pale shadow of what can never be!” Thirteen then tenderly smoothed the missive and placed it on the grave, held down by a large stone so she could see it. The cleric wanted others to have the warning and take heed; he had sent her to this god-forsaken place to brand the grave with it after four adventurers had come back with broken minds and missing spirits from here.

Standing as tall as her small form allowed, Thirteen started to carve the words from the paper into the gravestone below the lie emblazed on it. The physical act smoothed her jangled nerves and she started to sing as she worked. A gentle wind dried the tear tracks on her face, and the dust drifted unnoticed off her head to dissipate in a small cloud. The sudden shimmer of brightness in the air next to her coalesced into the form of the enchanter. He bowed gravely to her and she solemnly returned his gesture. The mage pointed his staff at the words she laboriously engraved and lightning flared from it – tipping the letters with flame red and bright orange hues. Smiles illuminated their faces as they looked at the result. The letters blazed with truth, overwhelming the falsehood with the brilliance of reality.

Thirteen nodded her head fiercely at the grave, “This could never be Islander’s grave – he would not end up like this, dying in battle against Balthazar. Before he was defeated, and slain in the final battle, the very world around him would be torn asunder by the force of his blows. The ground itself would heave up and vomit him out. Even this dark land could not allow his hero form to be laid to rest so easily. And there would be such a litter of Islander slain demons around that no place would be large enough to inter them together. The very smoothness of this land shouts against that lie. Nothing is buried here but Balthazar’s dream to succeed, and I vow with my last drop of blood to stand beside Islander as he makes sure that dream stays a dormant nightmare festering in Balthazar’s side. His evil remains captured below, shrouded with muck in this failed attempt.”

The enchanter nodded and then held his hand out to Thirteen. “That is a good oath, let me join you in it. Until Balthazar’s blood washes away this nightmare, until the last demon dies, I pledge my heart and soul to stand beside Islander and dedicate my life’s blood to this goal.” Thirteen drew dagger and the enchanter’s blood flowed down to mingle with hers.

“You are not leaving us out of this grand adventure deliberately are you?” The sudden sounds of the rogue’s purring voice drew their eyes to him dancing toward them, and then to the cleric beside him sauntering into the clearing. A grinning Islander peered over their shoulders as he surveyed the purported grave. The trio moved forward to join them on the blood sacrifice covered grave and offer hands and life fluid to the oath – Islander accepting each one’s reddened clasp with his customary dignity and grace.

Islander clapped a mighty hand against Thirteen’s small back and laughed as she staggered. “You’ve wasted yourself away again, small one. Let’s get you back to Branishor and build up some of that blood you insist on shedding all over this land of ours.” She bowed and joined the other four as they set off back toward the light and life of the god’s own city. Just as they topped the crest she looked back and laughed at the grave. Blazing bright enough to be seen from far away were the words she had carved at the cleric’s command. They were not exactly his dignified comments.

In your dreams, Balthy!

Battle Score so far:
Islander 9999
Balthazar 0

Her own small take on them, she thought with a blush, conveyed the same meaning with a bit of roguish charm. The singing of the others as they harmonized on the latest rogue ditty seemed to agree.

[purazon]

Fourteen – Lest There Be Lessons

The veteran warrior took a minute to scruff his boots and polish the inlays on his armor before striding through the classroom door. Grunting softly to announce his presence, he peered from under heavy eyebrows at the rambunctious fourteens overflowing the room and waited vainly for them to notice and come to attention. “I hate teaching! Of all the classes to have to work community service off on – “Life Lessons for Level Fourteen” is the worst.” He grumped again under his breath, growled, and sent a piercing Call to Alarm whistle ringing over the room. “At least that got the little darlings attention,” he snickered when more the one of the initiates blanched and dropped under their desk. A few of them paid credit to past teaching by assuming an alert waiting stance, and one small female flowed through a perfectly formed “Ben’s Eyes In Watch and Wait” fighting form. He looked at that one and marked her down mentally, she moved with a warrior’s inborn arrogance. He could use a new trainee in his division, might just make a point of checking on her when she turned Fifteen.

“Tis my duty to squire you through this life lessons class and your honor to learn from me. We can go on from there to have a most enjoyable time learning or I can make your next few marcs pure agony worse then even Balthazar would imagine. Your choice, for me it makes no matter. I get released from this duty by hour served, not by number passed on.” Fourteen looked up at the old warrior chewing the tip of his bedraggled mustache, started to sigh, and then had to hide a smile as she noted the blue fog of amusement flowing through his eyes. A quick glance around brought her the knowledge none of the others saw the haze for the smoke of his speech. There were shudders weaving here, baleful glances warming the air there. She looked at the brimmed full orbs of this unlikely teacher, caught his faint squint of warning, shuttered her own eyes and bit her lip. He nodded his appreciation of her effort to keep quiet and went on scaring the expectation of a good night’s sleep out of the rest of the class.

“Each of you is in here because you are approaching that mountain peak watershed of your life, fifteen. One slope you’ve climbed as an initiate, the other, fast approaching, takes you on the steep rock strewn path toward an adventurer’s profession or softly downward to a protected life wrapped around hearth and home. We will spend sometime exploring all the possibilities and then each of you must decide which way calls your heart home.” He paused and frowned as he noted a tall initiate leaning over whispering urgently in the small female’s ear. Her face carefully blank looked forward at the correct angle but the observant eyes of the warrior noted a small declination of her head had placed her ear close to the speaker and a small tilt to her lips quivered in response to his whispered comments. The grizzled warrior grunted loudly, and the tall initiate straightened up hurriedly, crimson face clashing with his orange initiate tunic.

“For the morning each of you is to turn in a small writing on which road calls you. Tis too early to finalize professions, but adventurer or protected divisions start now. Think carefully and pray for enlightenment to color your choice. Although paths can be changed later, there is a heavy price to be paid. And pity the one that hears the voice of the gods directing them and ignores it to follow false shadows promising fame, fortune, or hearth warmth.“ His voice dropped a bit on that last utterance, and remembered sadness fluttered behind his eyes. Fourteen quivered from empathy and then went stock still as she noted the rest of the class was blind again to traces clear and precise to her own inner eye. The other young initiates were plainly watching the sand fall in the marc glass and visibly straining to be let go. The warrior growled his disdain of this level group, passed out watch guard assignments for that night, and let them loose to hit the inns, dance in streets, whisper in corners, and do all the other foolish things that thoughts of animated their faces. The warrior noted the small female had desert duty and from the crestfallen look on the tall male, he did not.

Fourteen hurried out of the room, intent on getting to her assigned duty spot. If she could get the guard duty over first off, there might be time after to dance a bit with her friends. The paper for tomorrow should be easy to write; a sentence about gods and duty should suffice. She smiled to herself as she moved off, dreamily missing the longing looks being sent after her.

“She will listen to me tonight, that one will follow me on the downward slope. Once she hears what I have to say, she will be convinced.” The tall orange clad initiate hurried after Fourteen but her practiced flow slipped her through the crowded byways much faster then his deliberate town march could take him. He gave up finally and turned toward his home hearth to select special dancing attire for the night and write a quick sentence about being protected. “Much better then learning any more fighting stances or facing demons on an empty stomach,” he nodded his head vehemently as he conceded he knew best. It was his favorite pastime, agreeing with himself and then forcing others to see the error of their ways if they dared to think differently then he.

He smirked as he considered the pleasant future of having his chosen one learn to listen and follow his orders instead of sliding off to make her own misguided decisions. He would tell her later and she would agree, especially if he applied a bit of persuasion. His tongue flickered over his lips as he considered a small whip on the wall and a spot of crimson brightened up each cheek. He still remembered her baby squall as a level one when he stole her kill; he looked forward to hearing that sound of helpless fury again. He’d waited a long time for this day; tonight the fun could begin. He glanced at the marc glass, enough time to have a few ales and swap some tales with his cronies at the Inn.

Fourteen stared up at the velvet haze of Cory’s cloak as it fell over the sky and smothered the sun into dimmed, quiet acquiescence. She had drawn the North Wall of Milltown for a watch point, a quiet post that was rarely disturbed except for the occasional demon horde. She smiled to herself as she remembered a long ago night where she had gotten locked outside by accident. It had been a night of agony and ecstasy, punctuated by meeting a grand enchanter indeed. She stretched through several rapid fighting form shifts as her thoughts wandered in mental gymnastics around a torturous path. That night of enchantment had sealed her determination to be an adventurer – to take the hard path, not the sleepy easy town ways for her.

She marched her perimeter path in perfect counterpoint to the other initiate who shared this duty. He was a tall, smiling, ginger topped man who had espoused being a rogue from early levels. As their perambulations brought them close she waved and sketched a casual bow. He swept his hat off, and put her perfunctory bend into place with a practiced rogue twirl and twist to his long torso. She grinned in acknowledgement of his talent and turned to flow fighting forms back down her half of the square. His small huff of amusement added sparkle to her step.

A dry roar stirred the hairs of her head and then swept them back as the wind cried forlornly around her. She glanced sideways and blanched. A reddish cloud so dense it obscured the stars and reduced visibility in a massive wall of dust was rushing toward her. The wind was strong enough to move sand dunes and was obliterating the road as the heated ground continued to fuel its fury. Waves of fractured air tilted the landscape and danced in haloed haze, half obscuring the creatures fleeing in front of it. Death rode that cloud, and even Balthazar’s demons had prudently taken heel and run from it. Her small hands fluttered around her head as Fourteen drew the shroud up, she then flowed to give alarm to the gate guards. Her fellow watcher strode rapidly toward the gates, dagger and sword already unsheathed and thirsting for blood. From the looks of the horde fleeing in front of that wall of red death, there would be blood enough for many.

The crier alerted, she stood back watch for her friend as they rotated in slow circles slaying the demons intent on reaching the safety of the town gates. So frenzied was the fear animating the evil ones that their customary careful charge had turned into a full melee. Dust roared around her as she swiveled to keep her back mate safe. Claws racked her cheek as she spun, and then a sharp cut off snarl and spray of demon blood assured her of the rogue-to-be’s protective presence. Similar fighting teams were assembling and breaking into the tangled knot of storm-dazed demons around her. She chortled as her back vibrated to some silly rogue ditty being sung behind her. She started to strut in time with it, adapting the harmony to her fighting forms and laughed as she sensed disapproval from the team to her left.

Some of the townies had to come drag the last of the fighting teams in as the massive gates were closed. Fourteen and her back mate slowly retreated through the final crack as sand and demons were left to wail despair into the uncaring wind outside. Face flushed and eyes bright, she positively pranced with glee after she was released to visit the healer and then take her ease. Forgotten were her promises of dancing at the inn, and meeting her friends. She hurried through the ungentle touch of a hedge cleric rather then standing in the long line of injured standing by the temple. Flinging herself into her room in miniature imitation of the swirling windstorm outside, she tore open the desk and dragged parchment and quill out with carefree abandonment. An old, cracked box next to the desk was half open, and her face softened as she saw her level one badge half falling out of it. She tenderly tucked it back in, and then lingered as her hands passed over the other stained and torn reminders of the road traveled to date.

She bent her head and began to write. Her life choice assignment merited more then just a few careless sentences. She licked the quill into submission and poured her heart into the ink flowing from it. Across town an angry young man hissed as he stared at his own assignment then crumpled it and threw the tattered remnants against the wall. His lips twitched as he gathered a fresh sheet and bent to write a revised form. As was only fitting, the paper for the other initiate, the rogue to be, had been previously and meticulously written. He was down at the inn drinking ale with the instructor and sharing jests with the master rogue.

Fifteen would come for all three and life lessons articulated, for now it was enough that warmth and safety wrapped the night and sheltered Valorn in the caring hands of its gods.

[purazon]

Fourteen and a Half – Lessons Lost

The grizzled warrior straightened his back; then strode casually into his classroom. His sharp eyes noted several drawn haggard faces on the soon to be fifteens that suggested late nights and either too much dancing, last minute assignment scribing, or perhaps both. One furtive faced one was trying to hide a moving quill behind a strategically placed forearm. The emission of a sharp grunt from the warrior created a leap in the quill top that must be echoed by an inkblot on the parchment below. The warrior quirked his left eyebrow at the furiously blushing initiate and grinned.

“The life choice assignments will now be read by each of you in turn. When all are finished, you will each place them next to me and go through one of the two doors behind me. The white one on your right goes toward town life and apprenticeship to a merchant, shopkeeper, or Inn master. The left hand red one leads to pain, many deaths, and a profession to honor with your life’s blood. Until you go through a door you are but initiates, with a chance to change your mind again and again. The gods help you if you chose wrongly, the doors are only one way and you must sacrifice more then life to get back here and try again.” The warrior’s gruff voice stilled and then he gently asked if all were ready, glancing sideways at the still moving quill of the dilatory one. Sharply inhaled gulps of air punctuated the room as all presented deeply bowed heads to his jaundiced eye’s inspection.

“Let us begin.” He pointed toward a languid male form draped carelessly against the wall and waited for the initiate to acknowledge before moving to the back of the room and stand at parade rest staring at the shaking backs of his soon to matriculate students. He sucked on the tip of his mustache and contemplated the twelve initiates, calculating that six would choose town life, one would be rogue, two smelled like enchanter types, and he hoped for a warrior and a cleric or two out of the other three. “As long as they are not all townies like that class last year that poor Tyree taught, I will have done my duty and can return to the front with honor satisfied.” He sketched a quick warrior prayer with his broadsword then settled back to listen as the assignments were read.

The languid one carelessly informed the class that he would be a merchant of fine jewels and planned to set up shop near Milltown center if any of them were interested later. When asked why he had chosen that path, the finely clad initiate colored and responded that he was not fond of fighting with anything more strenuous then a recalcitrant steak. The warrior nodded and released him to flow back to his wall post where he leaned and half closed his eyes, already miles away from the other sweating almost fifteens that were still his peers.

In rapid succession a future farmhand, shop clerk, enchanter, and banker stood up and read their pieces. The quill wielding one turned out to have aspirations of being an Inn keep to the puzzlement of the warrior. “He had better learn to dip less into the brew if he wants to make profit at that calling.” The warrior spit out his mustache and pointed toward the one who had desired to be rogue from level one. He half smiled as the ginger haired initiate smoothly bowed and pulled out a meticulously written document to read from. His smile slid downward as the initiate dropped it and then broke into classic rogue ditty singing of his desire to be one of the lock-picking guild. A courtly flourish of his hat, flash of lace, and finely turned leap returned the rogue to his seat amid audible sighs from the more suggestible of his classmates.

Two warriors and another enchanter brought the list of the chosen to ten, leaving only the small female and a fiercely angry male to still elect their life choice out loud. The warrior pointed at the young man and scowled as the initiate kicked his chair over on his way to the front of the class. “That one is a dead man walking if he chooses a profession. He lacks the self discipline necessary to stay alive more then a marc outside of the shelter of town walls.” The warrior leaned forward to listen intently as the initiate denounced the way of the warrior; heaped strident disdain on perfumed enchanter robes, derided the singing of rogue ditties; and positively sneered over cleric pomp and circumstance. He followed with a diatribe against merchants, scowling as he refused to be a shopkeeper, and spitting about farmer stink. His final words “I think I’ll just be an Inn Zombie and dance my nights into oblivion” brought glares and groans from his classmates. He flounced his way to the back of the room and stood rigid next to the warrior. A sharp glance pulled agony from deep inside his eyes and into the wondering warrior’s mind. “He wears a mask that one does. Something has broken inside him.” The warrior averted his eyes from the red-hot pain radiating from the young man and nodded go ahead to the small female who stood with bowed head waiting at the front of the class.

“I have prayed about the profession I would take. All are needed; all have honor; and the love of our gods flows through them with the strength and speed of the underground river that erupts into the waterfall at the end of the world. The rogue is of the soil, bound with the greening of new life. Volcanoes spew forth molten ore forged into the warrior’s soul. The very flame of life binds the warrior to their holy way. Air uplifts the enchanter; storms and gentle breezes of bewitchment stir the atmosphere around them. The water of healing flows through the cleric, their blessings are gentle rain on the parched souls and bodies of adventurers around them.”

“I dream of our gods; Ben the World-builder, Cory with the gentle hands of protection, and Darren the Bringer of Light.” Her gentle words flowed over the class, bringing balm to nerves jangled by the last initiate’s outburst. “I wake to the warmth of their sun’s blessings, dine on the bounty of their harvest, and train with their praise lifting my spirit and animating my feet in their honor.” She began flowing through fighting forms unconsciously, matching the cadence of her voice with the dancing movement of her body. “There is no dark of night without the promise of Darren’s dawn light. No army of demons moving against us fails to meet Cory’s shield. Valorn unfolds around us, expanding in new directions as Ben’s hands weave enchantment into his new creations. Our gods are in themselves paradise, without them I am but a lost, wandering body bereft of my soul.”

Her voice wavered as emotion warred with self-control; then strengthened as surety in her path propelled her forward. “I dream of our gods, but more importantly they dream of us. Without their life force we are but shadows, animated by “He who must not be named” and his puppet strings and demon horde. They are owed my homage, my heart cries out to them, and I crave their holy way branded on my soul. This small, humble one will take oath to be a cleric.” Her face was illuminated from within as her voice faded away and the warrior almost expected to see the walls shimmer as she bowed deeply and quietly moved back to her seat. The force of her oath had slammed into him with a palpable force that tore him back to his own long gone day of choice and renewed his belief in right, might, and the warrior way. He bowed to her then released the class.

Silently they faded through their chosen doors, and left him standing there alone with his ghosts. He shook himself and headed out to the temple for contemplation and a prayer to the gods less perfunctory then his usual wont. He looked up at the gods and smiled as he considered their new cleric to be. “Are you ready for this one, my gods?” Ben grinned as he shrugged his shoulders, Cory winked, and Darren looked very thoughtful.

The small one’s voice had pried a crack into the warrior’s well-armored heart and faith poured in to saturate him anew with the blessings of the gods in a bedazzlement not even a high enchanter could perform. “And she did it while dancing fighting forms.” He was never sure afterwards which of the gods had said that, but all of them laughed as he smirked in agreement.

[purazon]

FIFTEEN – Curved Is The Line Of Beauty, Straight The Line Of Duty

Fifteen peered into the polished shield, half slanted her eyes as she anxiously surveyed her reflection and sighed deeply. She tugged a rebellious braid back into the lopsided coronet of hair that was the best her war torn hands could manage. Today was Ascension Day for the fifteens and all around her others were preening, smoothing pristine robes, smiling at each other with glowing faces and bowing smoothly coiffed heads. Fifteen glanced down at the smudges on her tunic, and furtively attempted to brush them out. “When that small demon threatened the Ten class I had to stop to help! If I fold it here and there, the worst of the stains might not show.” Fifteen sighed again, she had promised her sponsor she would be at the temple on time and clean for a change.

Her green eyes glanced down at the scars on her hands and a bright haze of tears glittered through the lashes that swept down. Fifteen slid gratefully into the memories emblazoned across the old wounds, moving back from the emotions threatening to overwhelm her fragile self control as she waited for her turn to go into the temple and make her bow before the gods and proclaim her life choice. So many reminders of her past webbed her hands in pallid marks and branded deep into her soul the duty straight path of her growth. Fifteen’s lips twitched as she heard again the words of the Light Bearer, “Curved is the line of beauty, straight the line of duty. Follow ever closely the straight line and thou will see the curved ever following thee.” She had hated those words so; they always presaged a hateful task being assigned that would keep her from the song and dance at the inn. Maybe now her life would finally blend duty and beauty into a peaceful coexistence.

Fifteen stroked the back of her hand and stared blindly down at a crescent shaped scar as she fell into the memory of that day in the gremlin tree. She had been a terrified small one; her knees shook with ancient remembered fear. The blade had slipped in her sweat soaked hands, nicked her deeply as she frantically clutched at it and refused to surrender. Her teeth showed whitely through a grimace as she mentally screamed in defiance against those that would scare small ones so. That was the day the warrior had come, taught her to reach deep inside and channel that pain and fear into controlled rebellion against the evil that tried to eat her soul. Fifteen smiled softly as she remembered his kindness and bowed her head in honor of that long ago day.

A crimson patch that underlay more recent scars was the foundation wound – laid on her by an acid jelly when she was One. She had learned to retreat with honor that day, the maker of this mark taught her that. Fifteen shuddered as its’ shrill, dying shriek reverberated again through her soul. That first terror taught her caution, and set her footsteps on the straight path that led to this very day. This was her body’s first badge of courage and well loved indeed.

A foul fowl had raised this welt, that scarification was the remnants of a scoring from the scorpion’s tail. Zombie teeth had laid bare the bone of her left forearm; the small lump on her right shoulder had been laid there courtesy of an over eager training mate on an overnight trek into the southern plains. “I am a walking map of all I have gone through. Anyone can trace my path by looking at the souvenirs of that journey branded into my flesh.” A sudden grin ignited her face as she wished she could read that map and find her way more readily. She still suffered from directional challenges, had barely passed the required cartography class and failed the extra credit tracking one. At least she had enough credit in other classes to pass up the final level and face her life choice with her level mates.

She felt a gentle hand on her shoulder and looked up to see the temple guard nod towards the entryway. It was time; her level mates had all entered – gone to their futures with bright robes and dreaming eyes. Her turn was now. She ran shaking hands across her hair, moved away from the shield, straightened her tunic and stalked on uncertainty stiffened legs towards the door to all her future tomorrows. Her sponsor glided up, bowed to her stately, sighed over her disheveled appearance, and tweaked the hem of her robe straight, paused and then winked at her. She calmed herself, fell into her normal flow and followed him inside.

The peace of the dimly lit temple descended on her, sheltering Fifteen from the clamor of voices beseeching the favor of the gods that stood up front staring at the crowd of worshipers circulating around them in postures that reeked of need, pride, and stiff necked honor. She paused, aghast that some would abuse the gods then nodded as she noted one grow weak as he shouted for strength, another lose good armor while pleading to be given better. The gods did not react well to lazy ones looking to replace hard work by reaping rewards for bowing and fawning. Her mouth grew dry as she reflected back on things she could have done better; battles not fought wisely, lessons skimped over. She grew pale and shook as she waited for her name to be called. Would the gods forgive her the trespasses of her youth? The reassuring feeling of her sponsor’s gentle hand on her back provided needed warmth in the chilled atmosphere and his smile told her he understood her fear.

“Fifteen” boomed the voice of the god’s Holy High Cleric. She froze; unable to think of anything except flight. Suddenly the gentle hand on her back became a pressing force shoving her forward. “Glide my dear,” whispered the voice of her sponsor. She pulled the shroud over her head and bowed deeply, three times. Shambling at first, she stabilized into the formal glide toward the altar practiced at every level until it melded into one’s very nature. With a grace unconsciously easy, she glided forward in as straight a line toward duty as she could form.