New Coemil (Introduction)

The morning sun broke free from it’s misty prison, unleashing great arms of warmth, that stretched through the quiet streets of the bright White City. The cobblestone roads glittered brightly in the glorified presence of mother morning. Everyone in the White City began to shift in their houses, and open windows to welcome in the warm morning light. On the street of Witch Crick, even the hovel’s and tenements of the peasant-class became a little less dreary. Young children rushed out of the doors to play in the streets, only to be beckoned back in by their sickly mothers, with missing teeth.
Another day was beginning in the city of New Coemil, from the mage-noble housing, to the hovels of Witch Crick. City guards began their morning patrols, their steel armor gleaming bright, embellishing the symbol of the White Lion proudly. They walked in squads of six, a pair in the front, a pair in the middle, and a pair in the back, clanking down the sharp metal butt of their halberds against the white cobblestones with every third step. They kept a careful eye out, scanning the city with their peripheral vision, as they passed.
But something not noticed by the guard, were four dwarf-folk creeping from the streets into a manhole in Brick-Stack Alley. They moved with a stealth that wasn’t typical for the stumpy brutish man-like race, and they all wore a purposeful grey cloak that boar a symbol which meant nothing to many, yet everything to some. It was a circle with a symbol of a scowling dark eye in it. This symbol was ancient, and it was kept a secret from all but those who walked the streets of the mythical desert city a great many years ago, before the high mages created a protective barrier that denied entrance into the desert lands.
In moments, the group of mysterious dwarves vanished into the underground labyrinths of the city sewer systems, and the city continued to awaken. In a modest home, surrounded by the dirty hovels of Witch Crick street, lived a father and son. The father was a stern and arrogant man, who felt he knew better than any other, including his superiors at the mage school he was employed at. But this adventure does not concern him. This story does, however, include the gentle and innocent son of the man.
The son began to stir in his covers, to the sounds of the waking city. He erupted from the covers, throwing his thin, long arms into the air, and arching his back, as he let out a yawn that was similar to the mighty roar of the fabled White Lion of New Coemil. His long, wavy, sand-colored hair flew back with his head from the force of his mighty yawn, and the boy’s shut eyes burst open, welcoming in the sites of the awakening city from the window across from his bed. And the glorious morning streets welcomed his bright blue eyes back, calling him from his bed.
Nadion Erevan slid out of his warm covers, and the chill of the morning caught his attention, as he scrambled for his morning cloak to cover his almost-bare body. He found the great plum-colored thing, lying on the floor at the foot of his bed, and quickly draped it around and over him, warding off the chills of the misleadingly welcoming morning light. He stretched once again, this time noticing a small piece of paper sitting on his bedroom chest.
It was a list of chores from his father; what a surprise. Clean the house, weed the garden, gather fresh water from the well, bathe, organize his father’s papers from work, the list went on and on. Everyday his father wrote out a schedule for him to follow, but today it was different. On the back there was a small note.
“Nadion, it is most important that you complete these tasks with haste, but that you take pride in your work. This evening Under-mage Levestis is coming over to dinner so that he may interview me for the next chair at the mage school. This is my chance to become a mage, instead of just a scribe. I am counting on you, son, and if you cannot complete these few tasks properly, then you would be wise to not return home after shop.
Your father,
-Berrian Erevan”

Nadion always found it amusing how his father addressed himself to his son as “Berrian Erevan” first and last name, as if Nadion was unfamiliar of his own family name. His father never was informal with his son. He envied all of his friends, for their father’s hugged them openly, and let them call him Papa or Da, where as Berrian required his son to call him only ‘Father‘. Anything else was deemed a sign of disrespect to Berrian. Still, this made Nadion feel more like an employee in his father’s family, rather than anything else.
Though Nadion felt aggravated by his father’s threat, he obliged. Nadion slipped into his pants and pulled on a dirty, moss-colored tunic, and began to clean the house. He shook his head when he saw the mess of papers scattered all over his father’s desk, and eyed the low-burning flame in the hearth, and giggled to himself. He imagined the day he would be independent enough to toss his father’s mess into the fire. He then shook his head, and continued cleaning up his father’s mess, and the rest of the house. He used a ratty old rag to dust the cobwebs out of the corners, and took the broom out of the closet, and swept up the dark-oak floors.
Finally, the inside was clean enough for Nadion to begin his outdoor chores, so he slipped on his autumn jacket, and opened the cracked wooden door, and gazed down the street. The peasant-children were playing in the streets. Nadion was probably the eldest youngster on Witch Crick; being 16 he was considered by many as more of an adult. His face was young and smooth, and he was abnormally clean, which often caused him to be mistaken for a mage student. And he certainly wasn’t. He was a shop boy, and the son of a scribe.
“Nadion! Oh dear Nadion! Thank High Mage Lord Zaetis you’re up!” Running down the street, towards his open doorway, was Nadion’s young neighbor Lucille. She was just a child, but everyone on Witch Crick agreed that she was going to grow into a beautiful little thing, even though she was only 9 star cycles old. “Nadion, please come help, my kitty is stuck in the cheap-street-oak.” She pulled on Nadion’s jacket.
“Lucille, I have so much to do today, I really don’t have time to rescue your kitten.” And instantly Lucille’s face dropped, and her pupils dilated, as tears formed in the corners of her violet-colored eyes. Nobody had will-power enough to resist Lucille’s beautiful innocence. And Nadion quickly stooped down to her, hugged her, and allowed her to lead him to the cheap-street-oak. There was a noticeably beauty to Witch Crick street, but only the peasant-class truly seemed to understand the meaning of humble family.

Ma'Drian Pass (Excerpt)

“We’re going up there?” Lyydon whispered in Kree’s ear, so Fiauren wouldn’t hear the fright in his voice, and taunt him again. Kree only turned her head to face him, and nodded. Kree remembered the tales her mother once told her of the perils one might face upon traveling in the mountains. Only to herself, though, did she admit the fear that grew inside her mind, as their horses trotted slowly forward. It had been so long since she had seen the mountains, her home, but this was no happy reunion.
The smell of death and mold seemed to linger in the air around the opening of the rift-like steeps. Fiauren, riding a little ahead of the group, was having trouble keeping his horse calm. He could feel an uneasiness within the beast, which chilled him to the bone.
“Forward, you silly girl!” He pleaded with his horse. He pressed his boots into her flanks, edging her forward, but it seemed only to distract her further. Lyydon fluttered up to Fiauren, and placed his hand on the almond colored steed. The horse gave in a little more to Fiauren’s persistence, as she calmed a bit. “Lyydon, you should really try and rest your magick for a while. Who knows what we face ahead.”
Lyydon gave Fiauren a sideways smile and said, “I didn’t use magick; she just likes me more than you.” Fiauren rolled his eyes, as Lyydon continued. “What exactly do you expect us to find up there? I mean, obviously, dwarves, but how many? And what else?”
“I’m not sure how many dwarves would be up there. The villagers of Tocopa seemed to be a little afraid of the dwarf underground, though, so there might be a little more than we can handle. As long as there is treasure up there, though, I’m happy risking my life.” Fiauren gave a small nervous smile, yet his eyes didn’t show that usual gleam of desire they would usually showed when talking about treasures and riches. In fact, Fiauren’s eyes seemed very much afraid. From the back of the lines, Zera rode past Kree, and up to Fiauren.
“We need to get off the horses now. I feel as if something is waiting for us up there, and I’d rather we not have loud beasts of burden nickering along the way.” Lyydon nodded to Fiauren in agreement. With a small groan, Fiauren halted his horse, and jumped off her back. “Who knows how long we will be up there, or even if we will survive.” Zera teased, “We might as well let the horses run free, instead of sitting here starving to death, or possibly becoming lunch to a lazy pack of ice wolves. Lyydon turned a bit more pale than his usual self at the mental image of ice wolves tearing up the helpless horses.
“Who will carry our supplies?” Kree asked from behind. She had a wicked face on that seemed to say ‘don’t even think of saying I’m carrying all this.’. Lyydon held his hands out on the ground before him, and closed his eyes.
Concentrating, he said, “I’ll make us an invisible servant to carry our supplies.” From his lips seemed to slip a line of light blue smoke, and it swirled to his chest, where it divided in two lines, that darted towards his palms. The lines formed balls of the blue smoke, which faded into balls of bright energy. Lyydon clapped his two hands together, and mumbled to himself. A wave of energy passed through his body, and seemed to collect in front of him. A ghostly figure appeared for a moment, then vanished.
“Well that was cool. Useless, though.” Fiauren just couldn’t resist this opportunity to dismiss Lyydon’s abilities as mundane. Suddenly the supplies from Fiauren’s horse was lifted into the air, where it lingered for a moment. Lyydon still concentrated, mumbled, and the floating supplies moved from horse to horse, collecting from each of them, and cutting the bridle from the horses, rendering them free.
“I said invisible, Fiauren. Didn’t you learn that word in your elven private schooling?” Lyydon opened his eyes, and gestured his hands, urging the party to continue it’s journey.
Fiauren gave Lyydon a short dirty glance, that turned into a smile, and the group began to proceed towards the dark mountainous passage, only this time on foot. After a short walk, Fiauren reached what seemed to be crude stairs carved into the stone mountain side. A gloomy look formed on Lyydon’s face, as the group all stopped at the base. This was definitely the entrance to the dwarves fortress. The smell of death lingered more heavily in the air here, and Zera pointed up about thirty of the large, crude stairs, at a skeleton with rags of clothing clinging desperately, in the cold mountain wind, to the bone.
“Looks like somebody’s been having some fun here.” Zera teased with her morbid humor nobody else could find amusing in the slightest. The smile on her face turned into a more serious look of determination, as she noticed the looks given to her by her companions. Actually, no. Her friends.
Zera could admit to herself, now, that these were her friends, and probably the only friends she ever had, and maybe even could ever have. A warmth passed through her body, and the hairs on her ebony skin stood up, as she realized her one fear. She loved these people, and knew that it would cause her a great deal of pain to lose any of them. Back at her home, the only time she smiled was when she was dealing with her customers. Her smile, of course, was fake, and only a tool she used to slyly barter her services for a price higher than typical, for dark magick crafts.
Now she found herself smiling gaily more often than in, even, her childhood, when she used to torture the cave rats with her twisted friends. As she made her first step up the stairs to the underground fortress, Zera made a vow to not let anyone take these friends from her. She vowed to never let any serious harm come to them, and she vowed to risk her life to protect them, if necessary. In her heart, Zera felt love for these people. From the brave rogue shape shifter, to the wise faerie druid, and the simple-seeming barbarian, Zera loved them.
Fiauren was silent, as he passed the rotting corpse. His eyes watched the darkness ahead of him. The crude stairs seemed to climb forever, into a dark abyss. The way the stairs were built and the mountain pass carved, the path ahead seemed unbearably long. The pass seemed to become slim, from the massive sixty-foot mass stair case, fading into a narrow five-foot passage, but as it went higher up, the stairs seemed to become less crude, and not quite as uneven and high as the stairs before.
Lyydon’s wings began to ache, as he floated slowly up the stairways, so he stopped, dropped to his feet, and began walking. He turned back to see Zera staring at him. He gave her a small nervous smile, as he continued walking. Lyydon wasn’t very good at walking, probably because of his being only three feet high. He stumbled a few times, and feared he might fall; his wings flickered instinctively to catch him if he were to. Even after his feet adjusted, though, Lyydon felt a bit dizzy. He noticed the air was a bit thinner, and becoming more and more thin as they continued up. His head began to throb softly, as his body tried to adjust.
Kree watched Lyydon quietly, as he wobbled with each step. She blinked, climbing the stairs effortlessly, and not even tired. Lyydon stumbled, and she thought he might fall, jerking herself to get behind him, but, while bumping into the floating supplies, she was relieved to see him become stable again. Kree didn’t like walking behind the wobbly fey when he was on foot, but she assumed she had little choice. As she continued walking, her eyes scanned the area, watching for enemies, anticipating one to make a move against her, or one of her comrades.
Her left hand was firmly gripped onto her right sheathed great sword, ready to draw the large blade in defense against any beast or being foolish enough to enter her threat zone. A sort of boredom swept her mind, as she saw no movement above them, or behind them. Kree craved battle. It had been a week of travel and diplomacy, her only joy being anticipation of the lives she would rob her enemies of. Her fingers brushed the signet of her father’s sword, the old Luna Clan Champion. Now she would be the leader of her clan, upon return. This idea bored her.
Fiauren’s leg muscles throbbed with pain, but he tried his best not to show his weariness. The stairs seemed to be unending, as the darkness was revealed to them, upon adjusting eyes. Fiauren’s fears of the forthcoming tasks moved to the back of his mind, as the arduous task of overcoming these stairs took it’s place. Fiauren figured this was probably the most tiresome thing he had ever done in his life, and he had just completed the trials of TreVeille, fought an invasion, and escaped the demonic maze of an evil prince, all within the fortnight.
The party traveled in single-file, now, as the passage narrowed. All of their minds began to wander. What would be found at the Dwarf Underground? Would the dwarves know they are coming? Could the group effectively protect themselves, if the dwarves attacked? These questions lingered in their minds, as the party climber higher and higher up into the pass. Until they reached a clearing carved into the stone. It was almost a perfect circle, cut out of the mountain. Like an arena.
Fiauren halted the party, with a quick motion. He crouched down, and squinted his eyes. There was a portcullis directly across from the path they were on, only about two hundred feet away, but in the very center of the clearing, something caught his eye. And it confused him. It was a large wooden ballista, mounted on a stone platform, with some type of crane-tower built over the top of it. This sort of thing was definitely an example of fine dwarven craft. The group crept closer, keeping low, and watching the portcullis.
After the four of them left the path, and were fully in the arena-type clearing, a sound of metal gears grinding against rock echoed through the pass, and the ballista began to move… with no visible operator. Lyydon turned around, just in time to see huge slabs of stone slide from the mountain-side, and land behind them, barricading them inside the clearing.
Kree pulled out her sword, and rushed to the front, as the crane-tower dropped a large steel bolt into the ballista. The bolt was fired immediately, and deflected with the magickally enchanted, barbarian’s, sword. Almost as soon as the bolt was released, the tower dropped another into the ballista. This machinery was impressive. This machinery was dangerous, and the group knew they had to move.
Zera and Lyydon took shelter behind a boulder, and began whispering to each other. It was an interesting thing, the collaboration of a Nature Mage, and a Demon Mage. One would gain power by promoting growth, and bringing life, while the other gained her magicks through torture and death. In natural circumstances, the two would be enemies. But the past month had been filled to the brim, with unnatural events. And through all of this, the two became friends.
Kree bounded forward in a zig-zag, wielding her father’s sword like a club. A dark plum-colored mist hovered over the blade, as the ancient barbarian magick was awakened by Kree’s building battle lust. Though there wasn’t much she could do against this large machine, she knew she could distract the machine from her comrades, so that Fiauren could disarm it. After all, this was his specialty. Two bolts were fired at her, one after another, and Kree felt a bit of panic, as the heavy steel bolts connected with her sword. She knocked one to her left, and brought her sword down upon the second, as it flew past her. And she brought it into the ground.
The tower dropped another bolt, the ballista fired it, and again, Kree would deflect it for Fiauren. He knew she couldn’t keep this up for long. He caught eyes with Lyydon and Zera, who nodded to him. “We’ll cover you,” Zera shouted, “but we don’t know if the machine would still be able to spot you.” Lyydon put his hands to the air, and fired a bolt of blue lightning from his finger tips. Immediately, an mountain goat bounded down towards them, and as it hit the arena grounds and came close to Lyydon, Zera stabbed it in the neck with a black obsidian dagger.
Lyydon’s eyes were shut now, and he squirmed in pain. He felt great compassion and love for the animal, as was his natural duty. But they had a need that it could satisfy. Power. Zera’s eyes turned black, as she twisted her blade. The animal bleated in pain, as she twisted and jerked into it’s neck. Her veins ran black, as her body filled with the power she needed to perform her tasks. In her head, it was only she, and her victim. She thanked her demonic lords for their gift of power, as the goat turned into a pile of bones, it’s flesh, completely absorbed.
She shot a firm, dark look at Fiauren, who became surrounded by a dark cloak of shadows. The cloak vanished in seconds, and Fiauren disappeared. Kree deflected more of the bolts, and made her way to Lyydon and Zera. She was becoming tired of interrupting the blow of the mighty machine, and took shelter behind the boulder. The ballista shot three more bolts, all three stuck into the boulder, before it ceased fire.
The world looked like it was all underwater, to Fiauren, as he navigated closer to the ballista, hidden in the magikal universal cloak brought by Zera’s demon magick.