Rusted Halo

Chapter 17

2004-12-01T01:11:00.000-07:00

Isalis has been built on what was thought to be the final battleground between Heaven and the world of man, otherwise known to the elders as the Holy Cataclysm. The battle had been so brutal that the very earthen plates beneath the area had shifted several hundred meters, and part of the continent had fallen below the other as to create a large shelf. A great flat span of rock reached for several miles, and it was into this great stone wall that the city was created.

The current populace did not know the truth behind the city's history, and merely thought that the grand city of Isalis had been build into the giant vertical wall of stone solely for protection. This sheer wall lifted several hundred feet into the air and protected the eastern front of the metropolis.

A great battlement had been created on the historic spot and Isalis quickly became the capital city of the known world. Numerous large spires rose into the air along its solid granite walls. A great number of the wealthy and powerful chose to call Isalis home, often living in great luxurious mansions. The largest congregation of Church buildings also sat within the confines of Isalis, occupied by the eldest members of the Cloth.

In the center of the structure lay the largest chapel within all of the Church. Its thick granite walls rose several stories high into the air, and great windows of colored glass littered its exterior and roof. Where most chapels and church buildings of the outlying areas were modest and plain, the ones found inside of Isalis were extravagant and ornate. It was believed that the luxurious décor of the main steeple might gain more favor from the Heavens above.

Within the confines of the elaborate chapel sat the man called Darria. He had risen to power quite early in his life, and the high priest was able to secure his place as supreme bishop well over two decades ago. It was by his will in the highest seat of the Church, that the many laws of the land were created and enforced. The world of man bowed to his immense power, and he was highly revered by the people for his great work.

Standing on top of the great stone cliff bordering the city of Isalis was the man called Donovan. He was no longer part of the Holy Protectorate, and he had fallen long ago from the graces of the Church. He struggled day by day to find any purpose to his existence. He often struggled with himself to find any motivation to keep living. Today, his reason for being was simple. His purpose was revenge.

The great ornate chapel had been built directly into the giant stone wall. Its rear wall had been carved directly into the native stone, and the other three walls had been constructed with thousands of giant granite blocks. Due to its location, the position of the building was the very center point of the entire metropolis. From this center structure the rest of the city had been built outward in an immense half circle.

Because the eldest priests lived and worked within the Church buildings, the parish of the city had the greatest number of Protectorate members assigned to their defense. At least a hundred guard members watched over the upper sages in each of the individual towers both day and night.

Donovan reached into one of his satchels, and broke open a small powdered capsule within his fingers. He drew this magic sand underneath the lid of his right eye. His vision became extremely clear, and he peered down several hundred feet over the cliff face. Even though it was a considerable distance away, he could see a total of fifteen members of the church guard down below. Each of them was assigned to the defense of one of the three massive doors leading into the chapel. Each of the tall wooden doors glowed with an orange aura around their edges as well. It was an unusual amount of men to be positioned solely for the protection of this building, and it appeared as though each of the doors had been secured with a spell of some sort.

The roof of the tall building was made from a single immense glass window. A rainbow of colored panes formed spectacular angelic shapes within the transparent surface. Donovan imagined that the interior of the main room must shine brightly with multiple hues cast down upon its floor.

From this distance it looked as though the chapel consisted of just one lone chamber, and that it was most likely reserved for communications between the Heavens and the parish. It did not look as though the populace of the city was allowed to visit the great glass palace.

Donovan stood up on the dusty cliff top. He looked across the horizon and felt a stiff breeze blow across his face. The warrior stood there looking into the distance for several moments. A calm came over his body as he stared at the cloud filled sky above him and the green fields beneath.

The warrior took a deep breath, inhaling the cool spring air. He took one step and leapt off of the great mountainside.

Donovan fell from the cliff top at a tremendous rate. The great glass chapel below was quickly racing upwards towards him. The panels of stained glass glinted in the sun as he dropped from the sky.

With a quick motion, he unhitched the sword from his back and held it pointing down towards his feet. He began to chant a few mystic words, and prepared to impact with the roof of the chapel.

Donovan's armored form smashed through the intricately designed glass. Shards of glass sliced through his unarmored face and skin. Twisted pieces of metal and colored crystals dropped from the ceiling like a great shower of rain. The fallen pieces danced and shattered upon the great stone floor. Colored dust and piles of leaded metal were all that remained of the once majestic window.

Donovan had cast a spell immediately after hitting the great window, and he was able to slightly slow his fall. Unfortunately, he was unable to completely reduce his speed and his armored form still slammed into the stone floor with great force. His metal armor buckled upon contact and several of his bones broke from the impact. Blood began to flow from numerous cuts and punctures. His form lay crumpled on the cold hard floor.

The broken warrior struggled to pull an object from one of his purses. With much pain and agony he was able to secure the item. He placed the item within his mouth and promptly ate it. His body retched upon the floor as magically his skeleton and injuries were mended. Audible sounds from the broken bones within his frame snapping back together echoed through the room. Wounds, which had moments before bled profusely, were now sealed. Without taking a moment to lose consciousness as Ifriit was ought to do, he forced himself to stay awake during the process and slowly attempted to stand.

Extremely groggy due to both his fall and the holy fruit, it took a moment for him to regain his composure and finally be able to survey his surroundings.

As he had previously thought, the great chapel consisted of a single large room. No pews or other seats could be seen within the wide space. Tall granite pillars which held up the great roof reached upwards towards the sky. The glass ceiling above had been shattered, and the midday sun gleaned through the great gaping hole.

Three large wooden double doors could be found on each of the manmade walls. Each of them still glowed with an orange aura, presumably still sealed shut. Frantic pounding could be heard on the opposite side of each, as if the guards outside were desperately trying to enter the locked room.

Donovan quickly scanned the entire room and could not find another soul. He appeared to be inside of the great chamber alone.

The center of the room contained a great seal that was embedded into the floor. The symbol upon the stone floor was the image of a single enormous twisted feather. Behind the seal near the back of the chamber sat a single large chair upon a short pedestal. The throne was quite ornate, and it was trimmed with a multitude of gems and bright stones.

Sitting in the chair was the frail body of a very old man. His robes were dark purple and trimmed with gold. To his side stood a tall white staff. Donovan's single eye was able to focus in on the figure, and instantly recognized it as his foe. It was the supreme bishop Darria.

Still reeling a bit from the fall, Donovan straightened his back with a crack and spoke. "So, this is what has become of the great high priest Darria. I must congratulate you on your achievement. I did not think a man I left for dead would be able to rise so high within the Church annals. How does it feel to be the supreme bishop?"

The figure did not answer. The elderly man did not move.

"How long has it been? Thirty long years? Do you remember my disfigured form, Darria?"

The supreme bishop still did not respond. All that was heard was the old man struggling to breathe.

Before Donovan could speak again, the air within the room began to feel charged. A thick field of energy perforated through the air.

The warrior's senses tightened. "What magic is this?"

A quick flurry slammed into Donovan and he slid across the stone floor. A great gash appeared within his upper right leg. Thick blood began to drain from the wound.

Before he could stand to see what caused the blow, another attack the same as the first came slamming into his chest. A tremendous gust of wind passed into his form. It felt as though he had been hit by a stampeding bull, and he struggled to regain his footing.

Lying on the granite floor, he scanned the area for his attacker. Nothing appeared within his sight.

Before he could blink, a giant blur appeared before him and struck his form again. A giant dent appeared within his chest plate and he coughed up a mouthful of blood. Several of his ribs snapped with great pain, and he struggled to breathe. Fluid began to fill into his lungs.

A ghostly figured materialized before him. The creature was gigantic, easily dwarfing the injured warrior. It stood twice the height of the warrior upon the ground. The thick forearms of the being were enormous, and giant white veins traced the muscular limbs like gnarled tree roots. Its chest was of equal size, and it wore great bands of transparent fabric upon its form. Covering its head was a thick golden mane that flowed around its bulky shoulders. The mystical hair billowed through the air even though there was not a single draft of wind within the room. Upon its back was a set of stark white wings that extended a distance away from its ethereal torso. They slowly undulated through the great room almost appearing wraithlike.

The being had the face and body of a man, but its eyes were hollow and its visage appeared catlike. A massive chiseled chin stuck out from its flat nose. Several large teeth were blaring from its quivering gums. In its massive hands it held a hefty sword made of glasslike metal. It remained standing motionless in front of the old warrior.

Donovan spit up another mouthful of blood which sprayed out on the stony floor. The wounded man tried to stand. With a struggle, Donovan was able to use his sword as a crutch and pulled his bleeding form up from the floor. He stood facing the creature, wobbling on his unstable legs.

The angelic creature remained still and continued to sneer at the warrior. Thin trails of transparent drool hung from the edges of its mouth.

Donovan reached into the cloth bag upon his waist and pulled from it a small, thin cylinder.

The dead eyes of the giant seraphim widened. It twisted its giant body and tried to flee away from the warrior.

Donovan uncorked the magical vial and threw it at the beast. The glass object shattered along its back and a thick black liquid sprayed across its giant wings.

The massive angel roared and dropped its weapon. Windows that lined the stone walls shattered from the scream, and their glass fell to the floor. Black fire began to grow upon the creature's rear with a black ooze eating away at its ghostly body like acid. A horrendous blue smoke emanated from the burning wounds. The beast's giant wings caught fire and popped with horrible explosions. Bits of ghostlike feathers fell to the ground. The black fire continued to rage as the beast struggled to put it out.

Donovan reached into his purse yet again. He was able to pull another glowing fruit from its recesses just before falling over from his injuries. With pain quickly filling his body, he swallowed the Ifriit seed whole. Fire erupted from his skin and his body twisted in pain. His wounds stopped bleeding once more, and the warrior struggled to keep his consciousness.

The beastlike angel spun and scrambled in futile attempts to put out the magical flame. In desperation, it reached back with both of its massive arms and tore what remained of the wings upon its back. White fluid filled the air behind the creature, and it bent down on its giant knees. The black fire had been extinguished, and all that remained of its once majestic wings were gaping holes filled with white blood. The monstrous angel let out a howl of pain that echoed through the chamber.

Donovan regained his fighting stance. He sprinted up to the wounded angel kneeling on the ground. With a quick strike from his ancient sword, he lopped off the right arm of the beast at its shoulder blade. The massive muscled limb flew through the air, and the seraphim let out another roar.

The beast stood up and faced Donovan. With a quick rush, it attempted to tackle the advancing warrior.

Donovan anticipated the maneuver and held his weapon forward in a thrusting position. The beast's charge caused the blade to skewer through its abdomen. A spray of white blood spurted into the air and the monstrous angel stopped in its tracks.
Donovan shifted his hands and lowered his body. Using all his might, he held the hilt of the embedded blade firmly and lifted it towards the air. The silvered steel cut upwards through the upper torso of the giant angel. A giant seam appeared vertically up its chest and Donovan removed the blade.

The warrior stood back as the lifeless body of the being in front of him slumped towards the ground. It landed with a great thump that shook the floor. A mixture of white blood and bright white light flowed from each of the wounds. The figure began to shake violently and Donovan retreated. Moments later the ghostly flesh exploded into nothingness and all that remained was a glasslike skeleton.

Donovan turned his attention to the supreme bishop Darria. A mixture of red and white blood covered the warrior's armor and hands. A thin trickle of red liquid dripped from the corner of his mouth.

The fallen Protectorate soldier walked towards the man in his throne. The aged man sat in his chair, motionless and struggling to breathe. His eyes were glazed over and his frail form had aged terribly. His once thick burgundy hair had become grey and thin, with large spots appearing visible along his scalp. A multitude of wrinkles littered the creases of his face. His musculature had withered and degraded with age. His clothes, as well as his skin, appeared to be falling off of his fragile bones.

Donovan drew his sword.

Lifting it high into the air, he struck the paralyzed man across his skull. The blade split through the center of the bishop's head, and continued down tearing through his chest. The frail body crumpled due to the force of the blow and the once mighty Darria lay in a bloody heap at the base of his throne. Blood seeped from his dead body down the pedestal onto the great feathered seal.

The old warrior let out a sigh. A great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and the anger within him dissipated. He walked to the center of the great seal and stood there staring out through the opening in the ceiling. He watched giant white clouds pass across the bright blue sky.

Moments after the bishop was disposed of, the orange aura around the wooden doors faded. The once sealed doors opened up with a flood of Holy Protectorate soldiers racing into the room. The startled guard members stood temporarily frozen staring at the two corpses that lay in the giant chapel. They quickly composed themselves and began to train their eyes on the old warrior standing in the center of the seal.

Donovan lowered his head to look at the army before him. Without hesitation, he lifted his great silver sword to the ready. His single eye scanned the large group of soldiers. He stood there, sword at the ready, and awaited the retaliatory attacks from the members of the Church.

Chapter 16

2004-11-29T23:51:00.000-07:00

The duo ran to the outskirts of the forest up until they could no longer continue. Their destination was a dusty mountaintop that overlooked one of the great human cities. A tall sheer cliff face raced down the right side of the path.

They stopped alongside a large tan boulder in order to rest. Donovan stood keeled over with his hands upon his knees. He was panting heavily and had trouble keeping his breaths even. His small female companion was not as exhausted as the brooding warrior, but she was still a bit winded from their hasty retreat.

Donovan struggled to speak, "What exactly… was that…. person…? I've never seen… a creature… like it."

"As he said, he was a Sylvan. I've only heard about them from the seraphim, but I know that they belong to the family of the trees. The Sylvan are protectors of the mystic forests. I thought they were gentle creatures, and not at all violent like that 'Centient' we… I should say you, fought with."

She continued, "Do you think there are more of them within those woods? Are there female Sylvans? Are they pretty like spring flowers, or are they all ugly like that male? He was not very attractive at all, nothing like the beautiful tree of my home."

"I… can't say… that I know…" The warrior took a few more moments to catch his breath. He asked a question regarding her initial response, "Seraphim? What seraphim? Like winged angels?"

"The Gilly often converse with the seraphim. They teach us many things about the world around us. We do not have the benefit of years of history nor any amount of experience to draw from. It is because of them that I know so much about the world of man."

"What do these seraphim look like?"

"They look very similar to you men, but with giant feathered wings upon their backs. They float upon the air with no effort, and you can see right through their cloud-like bodies. Their voices are quite melodic, and very very soothing. I often fall asleep during their visits."

"Are they from Heaven?"

Another ethereal voice spoke in place of the young girl, "Yes… we are from Heaven."

Donovan spun around. On the other side of the great boulder was a shrouded white man hovering several inches above the ground. His thin arms were outstretched towards the duo, and his spindly palms faced upwards into the air. Long bands of transparent fabric were draped over his shoulders like a cloak. The ghostly cloth twisted around his form and wrapped around his pure white legs. His eyes were deep and hollow, with no life emanating from within them. Upon his back was a pair of great feathered wings whose span was thrice the size of his body. Each of the large, cloudy feathers flowed towards the ground and were tipped with a faint line of gold along their edges. The massive wings gracefully undulated through the air and did not make a single sound. They easily kept the heavenly seraphim floating above the ground.

The warrior had never seen a single angel before in his entire life. No detailed images of them existed within the holy books. To him the form was very unusual, and unlike anything he had seen before. However, there was something familiar about this being in front of him. He had seen the face several times before and instantly recognized it.

The seraphim had the visage of the high priest Steirlen.

Whisper spoke, "Hello Steirlen, it is nice to see you again. Have you seen my brothers and sisters recently? I have to imagine they have many unanswered questions for you and your friends. Have you visited them lately?"

The angel replied, "I have not, dear Whisper. I must say, it is odd to find you here alongside this man. What led a small Gilly like yourself to befriend this man who was once part of the Cloth?"

"Donovan here? He saved me from some evil men several days ago. He was kind enough to heal me, and we have been playing and exploring together ever since. It has been ever so much fun. I have learned so much!"

The old warrior remained silent during their lengthy conversation. His one eye continued to train onto the ghostly face of the seraphim. He watched every movement of the ethereal being.

"Ah yes, I am familiar with this fellow. We had an encounter many, many years ago. In fact, it is because of him that I visit you on this day."

The one-eyed soldier spoke up, "And why might you be searching for me, Steirlen? For what reason are we graced by your presence?"

"You have been a hard man to locate I must say. We have been looking for you for quite some time… almost thirty years has it been? You have hidden yourself well. Using the ancient vial from years past alerted us to your existence within the forest. It was only a matter of moments before we located your exact position here upon this great hill."

Donovan continued to glare at the being in front of him. He did not respond to the seraphim.

"Killing Marqui was quite unexpected. Did you really believe the Church would understand the information that you had brought to them? The world of man is not meant to know the secrets of the past. It is beyond their minds to even fathom the truths you have uncovered. Furthermore, did you think that they would listen to the words of a wanted man and attempted murderer?"

"Attempted? Last that I knew, I was a murderer long before slaying Marqui. You do remember the high priest Darria do you not? He fell to the swing of my blade if you can recall."

"He did indeed fall to your sword, but he did not die that day. Since we are recollecting events from the past, you do remember what lay inside the crystalline bowl on that eve, do you not? He was easily healed by the mystic benefits of the Ifriit several moments after your 'escape'."

Shock and anger ran down Donovan's spine. He had forgotten about the Ifriit seeds that the trio of priests were consuming that night. Obviously they would have used one of the seeds to revive the slain sage. How could he have not realized this before? Was he blinded?

Painful memories from the past flew through his mind. He thought of the death of his friend and fellow soldier Sydney. He remembered the loss of his parents at the hands of the Pontia. He cringed at the moment his sister Bettany was sacrificed by the high priest Darria. The long suppressed anger that used to dwell within his bones began to bubble to the surface once more. He clenched his fists and grinded his teeth. A feeling of tremendous heat covered his entire body. Drops of sweat began to drip from his brow.

The frustrated warrior responded, "If what you say is true, then I must rectify my actions and dispose of the corrupt priest once more. If you could lead me to…"

"I'm afraid that we cannot allow that. Darria is far too important to the Church. He has become the supreme bishop of Isalis, from where he governs the land. From his seat in the great city, he is Heaven's direct contact with the world of man. It is imperative that he be protected."

"And how do you plan to stop me?"

"I do not have any plan to stop you, other than to ask for your word. I ask for your word that you will not harm the supreme bishop in any way. I require an oath that you will not attack the man called Darria."

"And what should happen should I refuse?"

"You will be mercilessly slain by the very hand of God."

"I see…"

The warrior contemplated his options. The temper within him continued to boil within his veins. His heart raced and he could not keep his thoughts straight. The only solution he could think of was to correct the actions of his past.

The angel asked again, "Do you agree not to harm Darria?"

"I do."

"And do I have your word?"

"You have."

"Then it is settled. Heaven and the will of God will spare you on this day."

The seraphim now finished with his mission, turned from the elder warrior and began to fly away. His great wings began to flutter in the wind.

Suddenly Donovan leapt forward. With the ancient sword between his hands he drove his silver weapon into the back of the ethereal Steirlen. Several of the tall feathers were shorn by the ancient sword and they fell to the dusty path. The blade sliced through the cloudy air and directly through the being's chest. A large gash appeared within the floating ghost.

With a great piercing cry, Steirlen let out a scream of pain that echoed for many leagues. A bright white light exploded outward from the laceration. Intense energy bled from the wound in great beams of light. The body of the seraphim began to vibrate violently.

With a great crash, every fiber within the floating man shattered into nothingness. Nothing remained of the seraphim other than his echoing cries.

The warrior was pushed back from the force of the explosion. He slid through the dirt and landed next to the weeping Gilly named Whisper. She stared directly into his single eye.

"Why…? Whhy? Why did you kill him?!? What have you done? What has he done to you?!? Why did you kill him?!? "

Donovan stood up and faced the girl in from of him. A solemn look graced his pallid face. Not a single look of concern appeared across his features.

Whisper with tears flowing down her pinkish face, pleaded with the warrior in front of her. Her tiny fingers clawed at his chest plate. "Why?!? Why…? Why did you kill him!?!"

The warrior did not answer her.

Now terribly frightened of the old warrior, Whisper quickly retreated from the brooding man with wet streams still trailing down her face. She made a few noises that sounded like angry bird chirps, and quickly fled. The Gilly hopped away from Donovan back towards the forest behind them. Her tiny little feet created clouds of dust as she ran.

The solemn man continued to stand on the dusty path without a single emotion upon his face. He slowly watched Whisper disappear into the woods behind his current position. He turned and looked off of the great cliff he found himself on.

To his right, down the side of the steep cliff several hundred feet below, lay the town of Isalis. Within its hallowed stone walls sat the elder sage Darria. There he sat, unaware of the warrior Donovan and his deadly plans.

Continue to Chapter 17

Chapter 15

2004-11-29T01:51:00.000-07:00

Whisper had been able to gather fifteen more vials from within the sealed room. Two of the vials were cracked, and their liquids had long along drained from the glass. One was missing its ornate metal stopper. Five more were empty and spotless inside, almost awaiting their magical contents. The rest contained a multitude of exotic liquids.

The filled vials all glowed with the many different colors of the spectrum. Two of the white filled vials actually reacted and glowed when in the presence of a light source. Another capsule which contents were silver-blue felt strangely cold to the touch. The most eerie of the capsules contained a pulsating black liquid that almost seemed to be breathing, even after all of these millennia.

The small Gilly was unable to locate any documents pertaining to the vials, or at least any that she could understand. She couldn't read the common language perfectly, nor any of the ancient texts. Papers containing information could possibly be resting within the room, but Donovan was not going to be able to read them on this day.

Before heading outside, Donovan made sure to help the oddly clothed Gilly find something more to her liking. They visited the barracks to look for some more appropriate attire fitting of the young girl. Whisper gladly raided several dusty closets for anything that might catch her eye. After just a few moments she was wearing a mishmash of robes originally worn by females of the parish. They fit a bit better to her form and she was quite pleased to be rid of the crude burlap smock. She seemed to favor fabrics with a blue tint that more closely matched the color of her eyes. Around her waist she carried a cloth bag that contained the mystery vials they were about to test. She still chose to not wear any shoes even after Donovan's insistence.

He had decided to wear some armor, just as he once had, for this test. Unfortunately for the aged warrior, his Protectorate suit of old no longer fit his large frame. He had grown stouter over the years and he could no longer wear it comfortably. Instead he had to settle on a set of rusted plate mail found within one of the cavern storerooms. While the suit could be coerced to fit appropriately, it was most certainly not comfortable. The thick shoulder sections cut into the aging warrior's neck, and the iron bands around his legs felt tight. In addition, with each movement the metal plates seemed to screech and wail. It was not a perfect solution, but it would have to do.

Donovan had settled on a slightly open patch of forest that was a distance away from the entrance to Ternail Dae. He didn't want to take any chances being noticed during this experiment, and he really did not have a clue as to what might happen with these capsules. He knew that ancient magic was nothing to be toyed with, but the warrior was terribly curious about the purpose of the vials.

The area he had chosen was bordered by large trees the same width of a small home. The bark of these trees appeared tremendously thick, and to the touch they felt like stone. Upon the forest's floor was the traditional emerald moss, and a fine layer of dew was painted across much of it. A faint purple light emanated from the upper canopy on this early afternoon. The wind was slightly warm and the air tasted sweet and moist. An occasional amber leaf would fall from the sky and float through the air.

"So which vial are we going to test? The purple one, the green, the orange? How about the black one? I think the cloudy purple one should be tested first. I think it is very pretty. The color of the liquid is like the eyes of my father." Whisper began her tradition of unending questions yet again.

"Which one felt cold to the touch? The blue one? I'll try that one first."

"The blue one? Why would you want to try the blue one? These other ones look much more interesting. Are you sure?"

"Can I please have the blue vial, Whisper? I'd like to see what it will do."

Begrudgingly she handed over the blue-filled vial. With a quick depression of the button along the hilt, the warrior was able to remove the red vial they had inserted earlier. He switched out the capsules and locked the blue one in place just as he had done before.

Almost immediately the metal blade within his hands began to feel cool to the touch. Only a few moments had passed before a layer of frost coated the upper tip of the blade and its sharp edges. White fog began to be cast from the center channel. As he slowly swung it through the air, a trail of white mist traced the sword's movements.

Whisper was entranced by the weapon. "Isn't that odd? Does it feel like ice? How cold is it? That fog is quite weird isn't it? Is it enchanted? That is what is happening right?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. It doesn't feel any different than before other than it feels colder. It doesn't 'feel' more powerful."

"Well, what are you going to test it on? Maybe one of these trees? How about the large boulder over there. I see a dead log over there near that incline."

Donovan walked up to the base of one of the large trees. A thousand wrinkles lay upon the deep brown bark. The top of the tree seemed to rise into the air until it could no longer be seen. It was as good of a test target as anything else within the forest.

Beginning with a lightly powered swing, he reached back to his right and struck the thick bark. The blade cut about an inch into the bark. Pieces of wood flew into the air as if he had struck it with a simple axe.

A puzzle Donovan spoke, "Hrm, I assumed something more would have happened. It behaved just like a regular sword attack. The strength of my swing was not improved, and nothing special has happened to this tree. Now what?"

"Maybe try something with that button on the handle. Maybe that is the secret…"

With the sword pointing towards the ground, Donovan pressed the bump on the handle with his thumb.

The mystery vial released from its locked position and slid smoothly down the chamber. Once it hit the weapon's tip, the glass shattered. Immediately the frost which had encrusted the sword turned into a thick layer of crystalline ice. The icy fog that used to emanate from the center now transformed into small sections of snow that flaked off from the metal. The blade of the weapon was apparently frozen, but the hilt's temperature had not changed. Donovan lifted the sword into the air and a thick, visibly white mist trailed its motions.

Whisper began to jump up and down. "Now strike the tree! Maybe the magic will happen now!"

The warrior struck the tree again, this time with a greater force. The icy blade pierced several inches deep into the burgundy bark and became stuck within the ancient wood. A thick frost quickly radiated up the tree away from the blade. Deep cracking noises could be heard within the tall tree. The wrinkled bark began to turn whitish blue.

Whisper quickly hid behind a distant tree.

Donovan struggled to pull the blade free from the thick wood. He tugged at the hilt, but the weapon did not budge. The warrior resorted to planting his foot upon the trunk to help with leverage. Grasping the great sword's handle with both of his hands, and with his boot pressing strongly against the bark, he was able to pull the blade free with a great tug.

The base of the tree in front of him shattered into thousands of pieces. Large and tiny splinters covered in ice flayed out in every direction. The splinters danced off of the warrior's protective armor and fell to the floor. The splinters were accompanied by a flurry of powdered snow that exploded into the air. The ice and snow blanketed the nearby area, including the stunned warrior.

A great thud was heard as the top of the tree, which had not shattered from the blow, fell down upon the remaining trunk with all of its weight. The splintered tree teetered for a moment on its temporarily pedestal. Unable to balance upon the broken trunk, it toppled over away from Donovan's current position. Hundreds of spider-like branches cracked and split as the treetop smashed into the moss covered ground.

Whisper rejoined the snow covered warrior. A look of amazement graced her impish features.

In front of them lay not only the fallen tree, but also an apparently hollow cavity where the base had once been. The space looked oddly like a room of some kind. Several objects, which now looked to be nothing but broken boards and splinters, littered the floor. Whisper had taken a few steps closer to investigate when she was startled by a voice.

"What have you done to my home?!?" The deep voice was accompanied by heavy breathing. The haunting voice almost seemed to echo through the air.

Whisper quickly retreated back from the hollow trunk and hid behind Donovan. She tilted her head around his right side to get a better look.

From behind another tree several paces away came striding a figure which was slowly moving into the area. It looked like a man, but its clothes and skin were abnormal. A thick layer of leaves and wood covered its entire form. Its wrinkled face looked to be covered with brown bark, and upon its guise were two solid bright green eyes that shone through the afternoon mist. A layer of emerald green leaves traced its chin and the area below its flat rectangular nose. Upon its head it wore a large brown brimmed hat. In its hands were a long thin weapon accompanied by a large wooden shield. The mysterious figure continued to walk towards the duo.

"What have you done?!?" the wooden voice asked again, now only a few steps away.

"We didn't mean to! Is this your tree? We are so sorry. Tremendously sorry! We were just testing. We didn't know that anyone lived in there! Please don't kill us!" the tiny girl pleaded.

"Testing? Testing on my home! Look what you have done to it! This room is completely destroyed!"

Donovan responded, "We are sorry… sir? We did not mean to cause you distress. It was not out intention."

"They what was your intention?!? To destroy every tree within this forest with your 'tests'?"

Donovan realized that the situation was getting worse. He positioned the great silver sword directly in front of him in preparation for an attack.

"Ah, a warrior of men. I have fought your kind… and won. Do you wish to fight me this day? Your actions seem to suggest so." Creaking noises could be heard emanating from within the wooden figure.

"No, I have no wish to fight you. But I will defend myself and my companion if the need arises."

"That is a likely situation for you on this day, warrior. I demand repercussions for this terrible act. Maybe I shall remove that other eye of yours? Would you like that? Maybe we can consider it a 'test'."

With the threat from the wooden man, Whisper immediately hopped up and effortlessly climbed the length of one of the tall trees behind the duo. She quickly disappeared into the upper canopy of leaves. Frenetic chirping could be heard calling down from the branches.

"Two strange new creatures in as many days," the warrior thought. "What other surprises can I expect?"

The wooden man lunged at Donovan, its thin sword cutting through the air. Donovan easily parried the first blow, as well as the second and third. With a quick shifting of his feet he was able to shove the attacker away from him. The being rolled backwards twice amongst the moss.

"I do not wish to fight you this day you… you…. What are you?"

"I am Centient of the Sylvan. I am going to be your punisher on this day!"

The Sylvan pounced again, this time aiming for Donovan's legs. The warrior continued to defend against the blows, not yet retaliating against this new foe. Their blades clashed and the clanging of the metal echoed through the forest.

"Are you a man of some kind? An automaton of some sort? A living tree?" The warrior pestered the Sylvan with his questions as he defended from the figure's attacks.

"I am beyond your feeble thinking, and you couldn't possibly understand what I am. I am 'the living'… and I will be living long after I have disposed of you!"

The skirmish had pressed Donovan to retreat up next to one of the great trees. Feeling pinned, he spun from one of Centient's heavy blows and skipped several steps away. He still had not made an offensive maneuver during the fight.

Centient twisted and threw his wooden shield at Donovan. The wooden disc spun through the air and hit the old warrior directly in his chest. A great dent appeared within the aged metal. He was knocked back onto the ground and slid several feet on the mossy floor.

The leaf-covered man leapt on top of Donovan and stuck with his sword. Donovan rolled out of the way just in time to dodge the blow. The thin sword of the attacker sliced through the ground with ease.

Donovan was becoming tired of defending from this incessant attacker. He did not mean to destroy this creature's home, but he had done so just the same. It seemed that this being wanted to pick a fight, and so the warrior decided to grant him that wish.

Centient strafed to the warrior's right and charged with his sword aimed at the aged warrior in front of him. Anticipating the blow, Donovan lurched back and swung his great silver sword. The blade effortlessly cut through the air and connected with the enraged Sylvan.

One of the wooden man's limbs flew through the air. The attack severed Centient's right arm just above his elbow, cutting through the figure's body with ease. No blood flowed and no screams were heard. A sharp-pointed stump where the extremity had once been was all that was left.

Centient faced the retired Protectorate. "Nice blow with that swing. You may think you have harmed me, but lucky for me that limb will grow back in time. Can the same be said for you!?!"

The Sylvan raced back to his fallen limb upon the forest floor, quickly twisting and grabbing the thin weapon with his remaining hand. Once rearmed, he went on the offensive yet again.

The battle continued for several more moments. Each fighter seemed an equal for the other, with a majority of the blows being countered by the other. One blow from the wooden man had connected with Donovan's side, but the heavy armor combined with a rolling maneuver staved any injury. During another attack, one of Donovan's strikes had sliced deep into the center of Centient's chest. The Sylvan appeared to feel no pain and a long cut across his chest was the only evidence of the attack.

Donovan was tiring of this fight and of the Sylvan. It was apparent that it might not be possible to defeat this attacker, save for chopping off every single limb one by one. He had to find another way to end the confrontation.

The tree-like fighter lifted his remaining arm into the air and arched his thin blade down towards Donovan's head. Acting quickly, Donovan placed his left gauntleted hand in the path of the blow. When the weapon connected with the metal glove, Donovan clasped down hard on the thin blade. By stepping backwards he was able to pull back and disarm the Sylvan, whom temporarily lost his balance due to the odd defense.

Not taking a moment to catch his breath, he lowered the blade and flipped the thin sword around in his left hand. He rushed towards the wooden man in a tackle, and pushed the attacker several paces backwards. The pair raced towards one of the tall trees. With the tip of the thin blade at the Centient's chest, he stabbed at the Sylvan. The blade passed through the middle of the fighter's chest and embedded itself into the thick wood behind him.

Donovan stepped back from the attacker. The Sylvan had been pinned to the tree and the warrior stood there watching the unarmed fighter struggle to remove himself. Centient squirmed to pull away from the tree, but he was unable to pry the weapon loose.

The victorious warrior shouted towards the treetops. "Whisper, we need to leave! Follow me!" He began to run away from the trapped fighter.

Bird chirps echoed through the upper canopy in response.

The defeated Sylvan yelled with rage, "Come back here! Where I was initially content with just seeing you bleed as payment for your actions, now I will most certainly strive to cleave your monstrous head from your flesh-filled body! I will find you! Mark my words! This battle has not ended…!"

The echoing voice of the pinned Sylvan became quieter as Donovan raced further away. With each step, the warrior could hear less and less of the ramblings of the wooden warrior. Instead all he could hear were the sounds of the twigs snapping beneath his feet. Once he had reached a considerable distance from the battle, the cries of the dejected Sylvan could be heard no more.

Continue to Chapter 16

Chapter 14

2004-11-29T01:49:00.000-07:00

Pollen from the forest flitted down through the opening inside of the main chapel. The tiny airborne objects glittered and glowed within the tall beams of sunlight. The little bits of dust glided towards the ground like winter snow.

Laying in one of the ancient pews was the body of the injured girl. Her thin form rested upon the crushed velvet seat. Her stark white hair contrasted heavily with the ruby-colored fabric.

Donovan was able to get a better look at the young woman as she rested. Her most obvious feature was her long ivory locks, and the silvery strands almost mirrored the environment inside of the old Church. The great mane was held back from her face by a twisted cloth band tied around the top of her head. Her bangs and the tail of her mane were trimmed flat perpendicular to her body. Two longer white tresses on each side of her head were long enough to frame the front of her face. Tiny flecks of bright pink dotted her pale cheeks, and her terse lips only had a tiny amount of color. Faint blue glitter seemed to lace her closed eyelids. Not a single line could be seen dotting any of her features as the edges were all smooth and rounded. Odd green stains, probably from walking in lush grass, covered the bases of her feet.

She still wore the same crude burlap smock that Donovan found her wearing earlier in the forest. It was very loose fitting and it was almost falling off of her tiny shoulders. It had been torn and ripped in places, apparently from a combination of running through the forest and by the torture caused by the three men.

"Why were they trying to capture this little girl? They were planning on 'selling her'? Why would they do that? And why was she so special?" These were all thoughts running through Donovan's head.

This little girl did seem a bit strange compared to other girls her age. An invisible aura seemed to emanate from her small form and her features let off the sensation of mysticism. "Just who is she?"

When Donovan had returned to Ternail Dae, he immediately brought her into the great chapel. The old warrior's thought was that in the presence of a shrine to God she would be in better hands, possibly under his protection during the healing process. He left her there while he went to retrieve an Ifriit seed. He did not have any healing experience and it was the only thing he knew of that might help her recover from her wounds.

When he returned, the warrior had been able to force feed her a single seed, and she convulsed and healed as any other would. After the procedure she laid resting upon the pew for a few hours, much longer than what Donovan expected. He thought that she may still be sleeping due to the exertion of the day's events.

The aging man was sitting a distance away thinking about this young woman, when she suddenly awoke. Both of her eyes jolted open and she stared directly up at the ceiling. Before Donovan could blink she had jumped high into the air and clung to the bent brass tubes of the pipe organ. With her hands and fingers clasped to the metal, she leaned back to look at the warrior. Obviously startled and possibly frightened, she began to speak.

"Ai tau iet ferr hyum?" A trembling voice, similar to the chirps of wild birds, came from her small mouth. She was obviously asking him a question, but what?

"What? What did you say?" he said towards the hanging girl in vain.

"Tyui bannei vuadi puily, erta byum efreeyn cade ta u?" she asked again.

"I don't understand. What are you asking?"

The young woman clinging to the organ stopped talking and a slight grin appeared around the corners of her lips. Almost as easily as she had hopped up onto the brass pipes, she jumped back down and landed softly upon the ground a few steps away from the warrior. She looked at Donovan again and smiled even more.

The short white haired girl began to walk towards Donovan. This caused the startled warrior to become apprehensive of his current situation. He froze for a second and took a step back. She continued to advance.

When she got close enough to him, she lifted her arms upward into the air towards his upper body. Donovan stood still not understanding her requests. She shook her lifted arms, almost as if she was pleading to hug him. Because of her height she was barely tall enough to reach up to his shoulders. Begrudgingly he began to kneel down.

She cupped her small pink hands around the sides of his head and slowly pulled it towards her. With a quick peck she kissed a spot on his forehead next to his large scar. Strange chills ran down Donovan's neck and back. The girl let go and he stood back up.

"What is your name?" she asked, her voice now recognizable.

The warrior was taken aback. "I can now hear her whereas I couldn't before? How? Wasn't it just a bunch of chirps before?"

The older warrior cleared his throat before speaking, "Donovan."

"Donovan… isn't that an odd name for a man? I don't think I've ever heard that name before. Are you the only Donovan you have ever come across? Is it a common name? And…"

"Wait," Donovan interjected, "How can I now hear you?"

"I gave you a kiss. I've granted you the ability to hear my true voice. Isn't it obvious?"

"No, why would that be obvious?"

"Because it is obvious, silly. It is completely obvious. Where…"

He interjected again. "If I couldn't understand you before, but I can now, then how come you can understand the common language?"

"Oooh, more questions for me! I've not had any questions asked of me in a long time. I am always the one asking the questions." With noticeable excitement she paused trying to remember his query, "Umm, I enjoy studying your people, it's fun to learn your words."

"My people…? What do you mean by my 'people'? You aren't part of my 'people'? Then who are then 'your people'?"

"I am a Gilly."

"What is a Gilly?"

"A Gilly…? A Gilly is a… Well, I'm a Gilly… What more do you need to know?"

Donovan thought, "What more do I need to know…? What do I ask? Where do I start?"

The warrior spoke his first thought, "You have asked my name, then I must ask what is yours?"

"I am called Whisper by my family and friends. Do you like it? Is it a common name of man? Or should I say, of a 'woah-man'? I haven't had much time to study your females. They simply don't interest me as much as you men. How…"

Another question came from the old warrior. "How old are you?"

"Well…" she smirked, "Aren't you a rude one for interrupting me yet again? From what I've seen it is impolite to speak before a female is finished with her speech. Anyway, I enjoy your questions… Let's see, I am fourteen seasons in age."

"How can you only be fourteen seasons old? That is only four and a half years. You look to be sixteen. You can't possibly be that young!"

"Of course I can. That is my age, and I am standing here in front of you. That is proof enough of my age. I'm actually quite old for my people. We are new to this world you know."

"New to this world?"

The ivory hair girl sighed. "I keep forgetting that the world of man does not know the history of the Gilly. I mean, you should, but I guess you haven't had the opportunity yet. Maybe in time."

She spoke up again, "The Gilly were created by… I suppose you call him 'God', forty seasons ago. We are one of his more proud achievements; a slight improvement of your kind I must say."

"Created by God Himself!?! How do you know this!?!"

"He told us himself of course. He is a very kind deity, quite curious like us. We often speak with him at his discretion."

A massive flood of thoughts swarm into Donovan's mind. "Created by God! Is it possible? Of course it could be possible, anything is possible with it involves the Lord. And can she and her people really only be that young? If in fact they are a recent creation of God, then it would only be by His will that they could possibly be so young…"

"Are you okay?" she asked. "You look confused."

"That is because it is confusing. It is unheard of for God to have recent contact with our world. Not a single memoir of direct contact from God has been recorded in a millennia. And even then, no tangible proof of his presence exists. It is a difficult thought to grasp."

"Oh he wouldn't like to hear that. He almost certainly exists, even if just as a creator and advisor. I just think he has tired of your people and therefore does not bother with your kind. He needed something new to keep his mind occupied, and we were his answer.

"I find you silly. Might I now ask how you came across that scar of yours? I have answered many of your questions."

With the query, Whisper brought Donovan back into the real world. "Uh, I was wounded in a battle with a giant Pontian monster. During the battle I lost my eye as well as…"

"'As well as…' what?"

"My family."

Whisper gasped. "Ooh… sorry! I didn't mean to ask something like that. I'm sad to hear that. Family is a very dear thing to lose. I don't know what I would do should lose any of my thirteen brothers and sisters. Nor what would happen should to my twenty-four cousins…"

She stood next to him as she spoke. With a slow gesture her tiny pink fingers clasped onto his left hand. Her tiny little hands were slightly cold. She tilted her head up and looked into his eye. A tiny grin appeared across her face. Her eyes were a deep marine blue and they pierced through the air. With her gesture and the glare from her sympathetic eyes, he couldn't help but smile back.

"Good, I have made my amends!" She walked away towards the marble podium and turned back to face the warrior. "I forgot to thank you for saving me from those evil men who caged me. I owe you my very soul for your heroic deed. Thank you… Donovan."

"Caged?" Donovan remembered that she had been chased by three men. "Why were they chasing you?"

"Oooh, I get to tell a story. I love stories? Do you love stories? I like simple stories the most, but sometimes I like scary stories even if they give me nightmares. The ones that my father tells during the harvest moon are…" Whisper glanced over towards Donovan.

A blank expression ran across his face.

"You are a bit slow aren't you? Oh well. Well I'll begin my story now I suppose.

"A few days ago I was watching a caravan of men traveling through a forest near my home. We had heard the calls of strange beasts echoing through the tall woods and I decided to investigate it alone. It is hard for us not to be curious about these things. There is so much to learn!

"Well, I managed to follow the caravan and saw a wonderful amount of new things. Beasts with long tails, colorful birds, and females covered with vibrant clothes were all part of the caravan. Men who walked along the wagons tossed small balls into the air and caught them in magical ways. There were also men that were only half the size of your smallest children. I was most excited by this find! I had never seen such things!

"On the side of one of the wagons was the word 'circus' written in your language. Sir-cuss I think it is said. Is that right? What is a 'circus'? Do they perform magic? Why did the women look just like the birds? Were the small men children?

"Well, I was hopping from branch to branch as they went along the forest path. Pathetically I lost my footing. It was a slippery branch I tell you, I almost never fall!

"I fell down through the branches and horribly my clothes were torn from my body! My beautiful bressum got hooked by a stray dry branch and stuck there. That bressum was sewn by my mother not more than two seasons ago! Anyway, it was terrible flying down through the air naked!

"I lan… why are you turning red? Are you 'blushing'? Why are you blushing? Oh, because I was naked... never mind that, there is a great story being told!

"I landed in the soft root of one of the larger wagons.

"What happened after that I don't fully remember. I did land pretty hard. Well, next thing I knew I was caged behind some cold iron bars. Several hideous men poked and prodded at me. They had clothed me in this pathetic dressing as well. Is this actually what some of you wear? Pitiful!

"I tried to escape from the metal bars, but I couldn't fit through between them. I almost got stuck too!

"A day passed, and they removed me from the cage for some strange reason. Well I took this opportunity to escape and jumped away. Unfortunately I didn't plan correctly and ended up fumbling into a large fat woman. I tripped over her and everyone's attention was on me.

"I started to run and one of them attacked me with that long leather strip. It cut across my left leg and I couldn't jump! So instead I ran into the depths of the forest. They continued to chase and chase me. I couldn't seem to get away from them.

"Just when I couldn't move any further, a great and noble hero came to my rescue! He saved the poor Gilly in need and shooed away her aggressors. It was quite valiant! I've never been saved by anyone! Have you ever saved anyone else…?

"I saw you attack the hairless one with the whip just before I lost my vision. What else did you do to those men? Nothing else that was violent I hope…"

"… I took care of them and they fled. I gave them penance for their transgressions."

"Wonderful. It sounds like they learned their lesson, never mess with a Gilly and her hero!

"And so that is what happened before I ended up here. Where are we by the way? Is this your home? Do you live here? How long have you lived here? Do your wife and your family live with you? You do have children right? Most men have children from what I have seen."

The warrior ignored these questions.

"Another sore subject I suppose. I always have trouble with asking the wrong questions. That happens when you ask so many questions like me. Well at least you can answer where we are, can't you?"

"We are in the once hidden city of Ternail Dae. This structure is now abandoned except for the two of us. We are in the chapel where my people once prayed to the great Lord above."

"You pray to God? Does he listen? Does he answer you?"

"No, he has never answered any of my questions. For others I do not know, but he has never spoken to me."

"Interesting. Can I look around? I have never actually been inside one of your cities. Far too dangerous. So much to see though! May I?"

"I doubt I could stop you with that jumping ability of yours, and so I won't. Please do not destroy anything. Many things within this cavern are quite fragile. Most of the items are holy to my people."

Whisper giggled. She quickly skipped towards the great wooden entrance of the chapel. Her long white locks billowed behind her as she ran. Donovan cast a simple spell to light their way, and began to follow the strange young girl on her exploration.

The pair walked through many different tunnels and passageways of Ternail Dae for a few hours. She continued to pester Donovan with questions every few steps. While it was slightly annoying, he enjoyed being able to actually talk to someone once again. He had not had a conversation of any length in a very long time. With each little query that he answered his mood seemed to improve. His ever present depression appeared to seep further away.

"What is that room over there?" the tiny girl asked as she pointed down a hallway.

"That is the study chamber. It is where elder priests would have conversations about our faith. Behind there…"

Whisper's eyes wandered to the tall sword that now lay across Donovan's back. "Where did you get that sword? Is it magic? Is it made of silver? Do you always carry it? Why didn't you have it during the fight in the woods? Can I see it?"

"I found it within a great white tree in a forest far from here. It appears to be very old and ancient. It looks to be made of silver, but I'm not for certain. The blade is superb but I doubt it is magic. I'm not sure from where it came, but it appears to belong to me now. The only thing that I know about the blade is that the symbol found here on the hilt matches a symbol found on an old religious artifact that I was able to collect. However, I was unable to learn anything else about it from the books in the great library."

"Ooh, more mysteries. I like to solve mysteries as much as I like asking questions. Have you searched all the rooms in these caves? There might be clues about the sword right here!"

"I have searched most of the cavern, but I have not searched all of its hidden passageways and secrets. Some places are inaccessible due to cave-ins that block my way."

"Maybe I could climb over them and search for you! It would be fun to solve the riddles of your sword. It can be a game!"

"I don't have time for gam…," the old warrior caught himself.

Donovan began to think, "What else do I have to do that is more important? Do I have anything at all important to do? I can't I suppose searching more of this cavern would be quite helpful."

He spoke up, "Yes. Yes, we can search the hidden passageways. Would you like to help?"

Whisper's eyes widened and her deep blue eyes reflected all the available light. An expression of pure glee draped her face. Excitingly she spun around and skipped away ahead of her new playmate. She began to hum a tune and sounds from the little melody reverberated through the great stone walls.

"Have you found anything this time?" the warrior asked from across a giant pile of rubble. The mass of granite and earth blocked most of this passageway. Near the top on the left-hand side was a small opening through which the tiny girl was able to squeeze through earlier.

"You must be patient. I am still searching," said a distant voice from the other side of the mound of rock.

From within the hidden room a noisy collage of tin pans hitting a stone floor could be heard. This was followed by the distinct sounds of breaking glass.

"Oops, I didn't mean to do that. Could you have this little floating glowy-thing be more careful? I can't see what I'm doing in here. I tripped over some dusty papers and into a box made of wood. I think it's called a 'cabinet' right? Am I right?"

"Yes, I believe so but I can't tell you for sure. I can't see in there you know."

"I'm sure it’s a 'cabinet'. I am usually right about these things. Cabinet, cabinet, cabin…"

Whisper continued to repeat the word over and over again for several minutes as she searched. As she looked around the hidden room, a multitude of noises could be heard. They ranged from her falling into furniture, to the small girl knocking equipment over, as well as from the curious Gilly just being clumsy in general.

"Cabinet, cabinet, cab…. inet! I've found something! It looks just like the glass tube you showed me earlier. Would you like to see it? It is full of liquid! Should I drink it first? It looks like it might be sweet. Can I have a taste?"

"No, don't drink it. Men traditionally don't put beverages in tiny glass tubes. Bring it over the rubble and I'll take a look."

The tiny girl came crawling back over the mound of broken stone. Within her small hands was a glass capsule similar to the one he had found in Copperton. The same twisted feather symbol that lay engraved into the hilt of his sword, and on the tube from Copperton, could be found on the unbroken tube that Whisper held within her fingers. The liquid inside resembled a dark red version of honey. By tilting the vial the liquid could be forced to ooze from corner to corner.

"What do you suppose is inside? Do you think it would taste good? It almost looks like honey," the inquisitive Gilly responded.

"I don't know, but it looks like the liquid inside might be magical. Why else would someone place this marking on its stopper? It is a very unusual symbol, as I have said before. And the vial looks to be related to my sword but how?"

"Can I see the sword? You didn't let me see it earlier. Maybe I can figure the puzzle out!"

Donovan laid the sword down onto the stone path between the two of them. Whisper began to feel the different sections of the weapon. Her fingertips traced from the pommel, up the quillon, and along the long grooved chamber that lay inside of the blade. Her attention returned to the hilt and she began to follow the golden spirals found within the crossguard. By drawing tiny swirls along the hilt, she studied the golden metal.

"There is a bump here in the middle of the handle here. Have you felt this before?"

Donovan bent down to take a closer look. He too traced the golden spirals and there in fact was a distinct bump, hidden within the design, right in the center of the hilt directly below the blade. The warrior studied the strange bump and noticed that it could be depressed with a small amount of effort, feeling rusted as if it had gone unused for many a year. A faint clicking sound could be heard with each press.

Whisper noticed that the tube was the same width as the channel along the blade. Still holding the vial within her hands, she placed it inside of the groove. With the stopper facing towards the hilt of the blade, the glass cylinder was able to fit snugly inside of the channel.

"Why didn't I think of that before?" Donovan exclaimed. "It's so simple."

"It is because you are not curious enough like the Gilly. We often stumble along solutions to complex problems by accident. It helps to look at everything. Don't you look at every little detail?" A sheepish grin spread across her face.

Donovan touched the vial and shifted it closer towards the hilt along the groove. With a small click, it locked into place.

"Heeee! What do you suppose happens now that we have solved the puzzle? Is the sword enchanted now? What do you suppose the tiny button does? Can we try it!?!"

"We can experiment, but we must do it outside. I don't wish to have anything terrible happen within this the city, so we shall go outside to the forest for our tests.

"But first, were there any more vials like this in that room? How about any books or papers that were laying around the vials that might help us figure out what they do? Did you see anything like that…?"

The old warrior turned to face the little girl, but she had already scrambled up the rubble pile and was inside the room in just a matter of moments. Just as before, numerous sounds of items falling and bumping into each other could be heard. Tiny little curses of frustration also perforated the air, presumably from the overeager little girl.

Continue to Chapter 15

Chapter 13

2004-11-27T01:39:00.000-07:00

Donovan now knew that he was a wanted man. Due to his brash and violent actions the troubled soldier would most certainly be hunted by the forces of good. His calling card would be his great facial scar, and the disfigurement would be recognized within any of the main cities. The unlucky warrior now had no choice but to go into hiding.

With nowhere else to go, Donovan eventually found sanctuary in the lost city of Ternail Dae as he had once before. After a few days of re-tracing his steps through the forest, he was able to find the cavernous structure hiding within the woods. He was almost certain this would be his new home, as well as his place of death. He would die alone in this great tomb, hated by the world outside.

The young man quickly realized that he couldn't spend all of his time inside of the caves. Most of the ancient supplies within its cellar were depleted or long since ruined. In order to survive he would have to once again venture back out into the world to find sustenance.

Donovan considered the idea of trying to change his appearance in order to visit one of the local towns, but the Protectorate found there would almost certainly recognize him on the spot. His scar was too noticeable of a feature to even attempt to conceal. Instead he had to find another way.

After a bit of thought the warrior came across a solution to his problem. He might be able to find work on a small farm that lay outside one of the main villages. There would no policing force looking for him day after day while he toiled in the field. He also wouldn't be trapped within any city walls that might cage him in. One of the benefits of working on a farm would be the freedom to return back to a simple day-to-day job. With simple manual tasks he would be without the fearful worries of a Holy Protectorate soldier. He decided this must be the action he would have to take.

In order to find an average job, the young warrior would have to set off without his suit of armor. It had been at least several years since he had been without his armor for longer than one or two days. Donovan felt unprotected and almost naked. He had grown accustomed to the constant feel of the cold and heavy metal rubbing against his skin. A terrible weight had been lifted off of his shoulders and he didn't quite know how to handle himself. The warrior put on some ragged clothes found within the caves, a dusty white smock along with some loose leather pants, and headed out of the hidden city in a search for work.

Donovan spent the better part of a week looking for a suitable farm that was be in need of help. Two separate pig farms that he came across on his search were not looking for assistance. A horse farm was only looking for those who could ride wild horses, and another large acreage that raised corn and beans was also not looking for workers. His idea about his new profession was looking worse and worse with each denial.

As luck would have it, he came across a small sheep farm that had a rickety sign posted. For once in a many while, good luck had been on his side. Donovan inquired about the job and learned it was just a modest position including tasks such as tending a flock of sheep. He would be assisting a small family of four: a young man and his wife, as well as their two young boys. The family did not have much, and their humble home had just the basic necessities needed to survive. Donovan didn't care. Here before him was his new simpler task in life, and he was thankful for it.

Donovan spent the next three decades with the Foxwoods on their rural farm. Day after day during the warm seasons he would tend to the flock as they grazed on the nearby grassy hills. He would make sure that they didn't stray from his vision, and he made an oath to keep them protected from any possible attackers. The retired warrior also helped shear the sheep in the spring season when their woolen coats had grown thick and white. The man in hiding would also assist with menial tasks around the farm such as gate repair should they ever arise.

It was modest work, sometimes very hard, but the aging man enjoyed it. Year after year he continued to watch over the livestock and his surrogate family.

The Foxwoods had initially been very apprehensive of their new assistant, mostly because of his large scar and unknown past. They had needed the help and no other choice had presented itself other than to hire the secretive man. Donovan did not share his painful history with the small family as he didn't want his past indiscretions shared amongst them. Instead he would lie and say that the disfigurement was due to a childhood accident shoeing a wild horse. The small group and aging warrior did not speak much during the work day, and they often ate meals apart from each other. Donovan had no animosity to the family that had brought him in, and he took on the role of their secretive protector as his thanks for their gratitude.

The retired warrior would spend his nights in the upper hayloft of the main barn, far away from the Foxwood home. His bed was made from some strewn hay and a few torn blankets. The building was very old and poorly built. It neither kept the rain, nor the cold, out of its interior with any kind of success. Icy rain would seep through the split boards of the ceiling during much of the spring months. Summers were also very brutal with no way to cool the structure. Often he would take it upon himself to sleep within his straw bed naked solely for the purpose of keeping himself cool.

The many years spent living with the Foxwoods were rarely eventful. Of the few items of note, the biggest crisis was the one time he had stopped a group of four gray wolves from stealing part of the flock. Another notable moment was when the warrior helped to put out a great fire that almost consumed the entire Foxwood home. The time living and working on the farm was bland and often boring. He did not wish for excitement, and excitement never decided to find him.

The only real problem that Donovan had was with keeping his focus on small rogue groups of sheep whom occasionally decided to flee from the flock. Most of the time he was able to force the little critters to rejoin the group, but on a few other occasions he wasn't so lucky. Three sheep under his watch once fell straight off a steep cliff directly into a canyon never to be seen again, and on another day five of the wooly creatures just up and disappeared without a trace. He had often been warned that he might be out of a job should he lose any more. The threats were not sent with any kind of strength and he often ignored them.

Since there was no need for Donovan's services on the farm during the winter, he would say that he was returning home to his family in Solitude. This was of course another lie, and instead he would head back to the hidden city of Ternail Dae, the only other place that he was always welcome. Not a single soul had come across the great cavernous structure over those many years he spent away from the city, and he was still the sole occupant that he knew of. In the great caves he would spend the cold season studying the ancient tomes, those that were still legible, and simply kept on living.

Over the years Donovan strived to continue his Church training. Other than reading books, he didn't have much else to do during his time inside the hidden city. There was no real point, but he felt the need to keep his skills sharp. By crafting makeshift dummies from some broken barrack beds, he was able to make crude targets for sword practice. Swinging his great silver sword during the time spent in Ternail Dae helped to calm his mind and tone his skills. The sword practice, in addition to some of the heavy lifting while on the farm, kept his muscular body in shape to boot.

As chance would have it, the warrior's appearance did not change drastically over the decades. His scar remained his one defining feature, but his usual patchy auburn-brown hair had begun to gray along the temples. His face was still roughly square with his nose and jar appearing flat and boxy. Donovan did keep an orange and gray beard upon his face, which helped hide the fact that he once was a soldier of the Church. As the years continued to pile upon the aging warrior, a few wrinkles had begun to litter his eyes, lips, and brow. The once young man was reaching into a half-century's worth of time living on this plane.

The day was slightly overcast with just a few patches of clouds overhead. The air was very calm on this spring day with not a single breeze to be felt. The several hundred sheep and their full coats of white wool were almost ready to be sheared. The flock was grazing on a hillside near a sparse forest located along the north side of the Foxwood's land. Both Donovan and one of the Foxwood son's were tending to the sheep upon the hill. The son held up the rear, closest to the family farm, and Donovan watched for any sheep that might be scheming to hide in the woods.

"Donovan! Keep ahn eye out! I think ah saw a few of 'em make a break fer the woods. A few of the trubblemakers I bet! Don't ya dare lose another one or it'll be yer hide!" yelled Kean Foxwood from across the field.

"Blast!" Donovan thought. Another group of them had gotten loose while he wasn't paying attention. This particular hill was bad for the disfigured warrior as his single eye had trouble scanning the entire landscape. "I'll go check… I'll be right back!" the warrior yelled back.

On this season there had been a set of five young sheep that didn't like to follow the rules of the rest of the group. Often they would stray a considerable distance away from the main flock and it took considerable wrangling in order to get them back into the whole. A few weeks ago, tiny iron bells had been placed around their necks in order to help locate them should they flee again.

Donovan headed into the forest of thin ash trees. Filling his vision were skinny stalks that resembled tiny wooden poles, almost like extended broomsticks. The vertical lines created by the trees hindered the warrior's vision. A thick layer of brown and green leaves covered the floor almost like a heavy blanket. Tiny little jingles from a bell could be heard ringing into the distance. He quickly raced through the high brush. The density of the forest grew as he went deeper under its canopy.

A few hundred paces into the forest lay the missing sheep. Obviously it was one of the five whom almost always ran away from the group when the chance arose. The sheep was still skipping away from Donovan when the warrior was able to catch up to it. He leapt into the air landing upon the ground while grabbing the animal's legs. It kicked and flailed as Donovan pulled it in towards him.

He lifted the small creature into his arms. Its once white coat was speckled with broken leaves and small twigs. The sheep was not very large and it squirmed within his arms. As the wooly object wriggled back and forth, Donovan heard another sound: the sound of a girl whimpering. Surrounding the miniscule voice in the distance were the arrogant laughs of several men.

The warrior's first impulse as an old member of the Holy Protectorate was to drop the sheep and head for the cry for help. "I must save her!"

He second-guessed himself and thought of his current duties. "I am no longer a savior… I am but a simple farmhand. It is no longer my duty to protect the people."

The laughs were becoming louder, and the men were heading closer towards him and the sheep.

His conscience began to argue with his rational side. "I must save the lady in need! It is my duty to God!"

The warrior's thought process swayed again. "If I lose this sheep in my attempts to be valiant, the Foxwoods will be none too pleased. They might actually fire me this time!"

His heroism chimed into the argument, "If that is how fate chooses to deal with my indiscretion to my current duties, then so be it!"

The warrior dropped the lone sheep within his hands and raced towards the voices in the forest. Braches and leaves crumbled beneath his feet as he ran.

The sheep slightly confused by its apparent freedom, stood standing by one of the ash trees for several minutes. It almost looked puzzled and dumbfounded. After a few moments, it bleated out a "Baa" that echoed through the forest. With a quick hope it continued on its journey through the woods. The bell around its neck continued to ring into the distance.

Into an open area came crashing the frail form of a young woman. She tripped and fell to the floor, sliding upon the mass of leaves. The woman didn't look much older than sixteen, and upon her back she wore some ragged burlap clothes. Her skin was a normal-looking whitish-pink, but she had a bright white mane of hair upon her head. With the fall her long straight locks had fallen forward upon her face, and they covered her apparent tearful expression. She was breathing heavily and her arms were shaking violently in an attempt to hold up her frame. In between her breaths soft cries could be heard.

Three men entered into the open space following the white haired girl.

One was tall and skinny with his joints looking very knobby. Upon his brow sat a blue cloth hat that covered his eyes. He wore a faded brown jacket with similarly colored pants. A grin lay upon his face. Spaces within his teeth could be seen as he cackled.

The second man was completely bald and quite large, almost Donovan's size. A single golden looped earring hung from his right year. Upon his forearms lay thick, bushy strips of brown hair. He wore a pair of leather pants and a black-dyed vest. His eyes were focused at the woman on the ground, the bright green centers of his corneas glaring in the soft sun. In his hands he held a long bullwhip, which he dragged along the ground with each step.

The third and final pursuer of the woman was much younger than the other two. He was smaller than his compatriots and seemed to be just following their lead. In his hands he held a large net, big enough to catch a wild dog. By the looks of his appearance, it looked like he was quite afraid and apprehensive about what he was doing.

Following the entrance of the three men was the retired soldier Donovan. He had emerged from the forest on the far side of the open space. The white haired woman sat upon the ground between him and the three males. Not having a weapon on his person, he scanned his memory for available spells.

The largest pursuer pulled his arm back and cracked his whip into the air. A loud snap echoed through the trees of the forest. He swung again and the tip of the whip hit the ground beside the girl's frail form. Leaves and twigs flew into the air, and a cloud of dust lifted lightly above the ground.

Greasy words came from the tall man. "Careful Biggs, we don't want to harm the merchandise. If she has any more scratches on her we won't be able to sell her for anything!"

"I wount miss, truss me" said the man with the earring.

The little girl appeared to get up, almost hopping, but immediately fell back down. She rolled into the leaves yet again, apparently unable to stand.

"Ay! You ain't gettin' away that way again lil' one," said the thin man.

Donovan moved forward towards the group, and all three of the men shifted after noticing his form coming into view. The younger man stopped advancing and stood there shivering with the large net wobbling in his hand.

"What have we here?" said the thin man.

Donovan spoke up. "A concerned citizen. What are you doing with this young girl?"

"Oh, aren't we the curious one? And why do you think you have the right to know peasant?"

The girl on the ground attempted to move again. Using her front arms she started to pull herself towards Donovan. She slowly began to slide across the wet leaves.

The right arm of the larger man pulled back, and the tail of the whip lifted high into the air. With a quick flip the weapon, the leather cut across the girl's back in a diagonal line. She fell forward onto the leaves and a large gash appeared along her spine. A thin line of blood dripped from the wound.

Donovan had continued to close in on the trio.

The thin man began to worry. "Easy friend, we have no problem with you. This wee lil' thing is our property. We have every right to sell her. We found her you know, she's ours. You…"

The warrior jumped forward. With a quick ratcheting motion from his right arm, Donovan punched the tall man straight out of his little speech. The blue cap flew through the air accompanied by several teeth. The man fell backwards onto the leaf covered floor and slid several paces away.

"Kiell tha bugga!" the man spoke with his shattered jaw.

The whip came flying through the air and wrapped around Donovan's right arm. A quick snap was heard and the leather embedded into his skin. A thin line of blood appeared where the leathered strip had twisted around his unprotected arm. The man with the earring grinned.

With a quick tug on the tied whip, Donovan pulled the larger man towards him. Caught off guard, the larger man stumbled forward. With a quick knee to his gut, Donovan was able to wrench the whip out of the pursuer's hand. The man with the earring started to fall backwards and Donovan planted his skull into the man's forehead. The man's neck and head flipped back and bloody spit sprayed into the air in a fine mist. He retreated a few steps away from the warrior and then regained his balance. Once recovering from the blows, the earringed man sneered at the impromptu hero. A line of blood created by the second attack ran down from his right nostril.

The large bald man charged at Donovan and his head connected with Donovan's midsection. The warrior braced for impact but was shoved several paces backward because of the attack. Using his hands, the bald man pushed Donovan off of his form. The warrior tumbled backwards twice. The man with the earring let out a great "Ha!"

Donovan righted himself, and sat on one knee. The blow had left him slightly dizzy and disoriented. He tried to remember any spell that might be useful for this fight.

It only took a second, but Donovan was able to recall the words he was looking for. He chanted four loud words and made twisting motions with both hands. Leaves, twigs, and rocks from the forest floor began to congregate in front of him. After just a moments worth of time, a large mass created by forest debris floated between his fingers. With a quick forward step, he cast the spell at the larger man.

The magic hit the earringed man directly in his upper torso. The debris hit his chest like a wave crashing along the shore. He was flipped backwards high into the air through some of the tree branches. The largest pursuer then landed upon his head with a loud crunch. A growl was heard, but it was quickly silenced as his body crumpled under its own weight.

The youngest of the trio had just stood there shivering during the entire fight. He quickly went over to the thin man and helped him up. With the both of them realizing that they were outmanned, they fled the scene leaving their compatriot to suffer alone on the forest floor.

Donovan, still bleeding from the whip's attack, sprinted over to the woman on the ground. She was motionless, but she still appeared to be barely alive. The blood from the wound along her back had begun to stain her simple burlap clothes. Her breathing was slow and shuddering.

The heroic warrior knelt down and picked up her tiny little body. She almost felt weightless, and far lighter than he expected. Her long white hair drooped down out of his arms.

He quickly began to head through the forest towards his winter sanctuary of Ternail Dae. For now, he would have to leave behind his duties on the farm. Right now they didn't matter compared to the health of the young woman within his arms. He was determined to save this little girl, whoever she was.

Continue to Chapter 14

Chapter 12

2004-11-24T01:34:00.000-07:00

The forest city of Copperton was slightly smaller than the town of Gestalt. Unlike most villages which were circular in design, Copperton was laid out in a long rectangular shape by her founders. Copperton's main industries included mining and a small amount of forestry. Long ago travelers came across this area looking for gold mines and their fortunes. Instead what they found was a large copper vein nestled within a great pine forest. The town was quite hidden in her little secret spot, and most travelers didn't even know she existed.

While not as lucrative as gold, the copper they were able to pull from the ground ended up becoming the life blood of the town. The soft, amber tinted metal was easy to mine and quite useful. Copper goods from the city were distributed throughout the land and were well known for their quality. In order to protect the great copper vein, the town herself was built around the mineral deposit and massive walls were erupted around her borders.

Those who had come to the area, and were not able to stake a claim, deviated from their initial plans and turned to the great forests for their livelihood. Lumber and wood based goods began to become a side business for the town. The odd dual purpose for Copperton was born.

Due to her main fields of commerce, the town was built from a mishmash of golden metal and thick lumber. A majority of the buildings were made from tall planks of pine, topped with shiny auburn roofs. Its defensive walls consisted of heavy sheets of copper riveted together with thousands of tiny little bolts. The busy town of Copperton seemed to be full of life with all her workers attending to their tasks at all times of the day. Thick clouds of smoke billowed from the town's foundries during all hours.

The town seemed to shine with an orange luster in the morning light. As the young warrior approached the tall metal walls, he wondered if the occupants inside would welcome his recently discovered revelations. "Will they accept the information I bring? Or will they cast me down?"

It had been a full month since Donovan had left the town of Gestalt, and now he was finally returning to civilization. The warrior looked disheveled and wore a scruffy red beard. His Protectorate armor was covered in mud and rusting at the seams. Upon his back he carried a large sword of unknown origin. The warrior, fresh into his twenty-third year, followed a dusty path up to Copperton's southern gate.

A Protectorate member on top of the gate spoke, "Hello, what might your task in Copperton warrior?"

"I wish to speak with the parish, friend. I have news regarding our faith."

"Where is the rest of your group? Isn't it odd for a Protectorate member to travel alone?"

"I was on a mission for the Church. I have completed my task and wish to share my findings."

The guards behind the gate removed a latch, and opened the thick copper door. Donovan was led inside the city towards the main citadel by two Church soldiers. The Church grounds were located on the northern side of town; a distance away from the village's copper vein.

"Who might the high priest of this town be?" Donovan asked.

One of the guards replied, "Her name is Marqui. She has been with us for the past five years. From which town do you hail?"

Donovan thought for a moment before responding. "Gestalt."

"And where might have you come across that scar? With what did you fight?"

"A…," the warrior paused.

The questions were making him nervous. He wondered if the members of Copperton knew of his actions in Gestalt. If they did, then this visit would be very dangerous indeed. He decided to continue with his plan, and deal with any complications that may occur should they arise.

Donovan continued, "A Pontian attack on our town. I lost my eye… and my family, during the battle."

"Sorry to hear that. Where did you gather that sword? It doesn't look like any Church weapon I have ever seen."

Donovan turned to the man walking with him along the path. The soldier asking the questions was very young, likely still training at the Protectorate academy. He was almost the same age that Donovan was at on his first quest. His questions were the simple queries a curious mind would ask for days on end. The sight of this teenage soldier made Donovan feel quite a bit older.

Donovan responded, "Have you left this town yet young man?"

"No, not yet…"

"There is much outside of these walls that is not foretold in books. This sword upon my back is one of those mysterious things." Donovan was annoyed and frustrated by the questions, but understood the mentality of this young soldier.

The group of Protectorate soldiers arrived at their destination. The citadel they reached was built similarly to the other structures in the town, with its tall walls made from aged boards of pine. The small tower reached a mere four stories into the air, and had no balconies or adornments on its exterior. A single row of open windows could be seen upon the fourth floor.

Donovan was led up the wooden stairs to the high priest Marqui's quarters. The group climbed towards the fourth and final floor. The younger soldier knocked upon the chamber door.

"What business do you have?" a deep feminine voice asked from inside the room.

"A Protectorate member from Gestalt has news regarding his mission that he wishes to share," said the young soldier.

"I am busy at the moment, but I will allow his visit. Let him in."

Donovan and the two other guard members entered into the woman's office. Compared to most parish rooms, this one was strangely ornate. Trinkets and artifacts decorated the walls. Odd baubles and ancient texts lined the many bookcases and shelves. A deep dark red carpet with great swirls of color had been placed upon the floor. A large cherry-stained desk sat in the middle of the room surrounded by a trio of wooden chairs. There was a door in the back of the room that presumably led to more personal quarters.

Sitting in a tall chair behind the desk was a woman with long grey-silver hair tied into a bun. Wrinkles dotted the areas around her eyes and lips. Upon her stubby nose sat a thin pair of spectacles. She was a small woman, but also had plump cheeks. She wore simple white robes.

The sage glanced towards Donovan and peered at his scar with her right eye.

Marqui spoke with a deep throaty voice, "Thank you soldiers, you may now leave us be."

The two Protectorate left the room, closing the door behind them.

"Please sit young man. What news do you have for me?" said the high priest.

Donovan removed his satchel and sat down. From his pack he removed the cleric's journal. "I have brought news from Ternail Dae."

"Ternail Dae…? Where might that be?" asked Marqui. Her tone was neither inquisitive nor excited.

"It is a lost city of our forefathers. I have just come from there, with revelations about our history. This journal here includes the detailed findings of the cleric Cernus Wheldon."

"Lost city of Ternail Dae…? I only vaguely remember hearing that name… maybe once during my studies. Why might this news be important?" The high priest of Copperton continued to ask her questions in an aloof manner.

"The news is regarding the events and truths of the Holy Cataclysm."

Marqui's eyes went slightly wider, but her expression did not change. "And what, young sir, do you know of this 'Holy Cataclysm'?"

"I have learned that it was the battle in which the world of man revolted against those in Heaven. It was the time in which Heaven's second generation was born."

The sage was now a bit more concerned. "And you say that this journal contains evidence of this?"

"Aye, this journal along with the existence of Ternail Dae seem to support these theories."

"Interesting… and what do you hope to do with these findings?"

"I wish to share the truths of our history, and because the author of this journal was unable. These are pieces of our heritage that must be told."

"And where is this Cernus Wheldon, the cleric behind this written record? Was he part of your mission's party?"

"The cleric of which you speak has long since been dead. I assume that this journal was written many years ago."

"And how did you come across this 'Ternail Dae'? Were you sent to find it?"

Donovan thought about his response. He didn't want to lie, but it appeared that his ruse of being on a mission for the Church might be failing. He carefully chose his words, "It was the will of God that I came across the city."

"I see…" Marqui still had not showed any emotion during their speech. During the conversation she continued to scan the brooding figure in front of her. Here before her was a single lost Protectorate soldier who was dirty and unkempt. His once shining armor was now dented, muddy, and rusting. The information he had come across was also strange for a warrior to be privy to. As they spoke, she occasionally would glance back up at Donovan's great scar.

The woman spoke, "I will need to verify the quality of this information. I am going to take this journal back into my personal quarters to check its validity. It will take but a few moments, but I need to be in private. Please wait here."

Marqui got up from her chair and went into the room at the back of the room. Once inside she locked the door. Quiet chanting could be heard though the cracks in the wooden walls.

Donovan sat for several moments and started to become impatient. He unsheathed the sword from his back and held it in his hands. The warrior had already spent many hours scanning the many intricacies of the strange weapon, and he began to search it again.

The blade was almost certainly a form of silver and seemed to reflect all that was around it. A multitude of nicks littered the edges of the ridge, but the wide blade was still incredibly sharp. The deep groove on the center of the blade still intrigued him. The inch-wide depression ran from the hilt to the tip, and a single golden line crisscrossed the strange shaft in a wavelike design. Thin scratches could be seen running up the interior of the channel. "For what purpose does this channel serve?"

The thick hilt felt good in his hands; both comfortable and light. The crossguard was made from a golden metal, with many silver swirls inlayed into its design. The extending quillions of the crossguard curled downward in order to help protect the wielder's wrists. The pommel was made from the same silvery metal as the blade and drooped from the hilt in a teardrop shape. The sword could either be wielded with a single hand for quick swipes, or with both hands for stronger more powerful attacks.

A distinct symbol could also be located on the grip. On the long portion of the handhold, lay the design of a single coiled feather. The design resembled a feather falling through the wind which had been twisted into very loose braid.

With the weapon still in his arms, he lifted up his head and began to scan the room. A multitude of strange pieces could be located throughout the chamber. Items such as deformed skulls, ancient tomes, and bottles of glittering dust decorated the area. Standard books of prayer and satchels of magic components also littered the tables. While investigating the room's contents, his single eye was caught by a set of vials upon the wall.

He stood up and walked over to the artifacts; the sword still in his hand. Fastened to the wall was a wooden holder containing four empty glass cylinders. One of the vials was cracked and broken at the base. Roughly twice the length of a thumb, each of them was corked with a metal stopper. Upon the stoppers lay the same design as the hilt of Donovan's sword; a single coiled feather.

The warrior pulled one of the vials from the wooden display. He scanned the vial with his single eye. "Things are becoming stranger. Is this container related to this sword?"

The warrior's ears perked. The distinct noise of armored men climbing the stairs outside echoed through the wooden walls. He quickly pocketed the glass vial and backed away from the door.

Bursting through the door came three Protectorate soldiers. This included the young man from earlier who was now leading the charge. Without thinking, Donovan made a quick swipe at the lead soldier.

The blade cut through the armor with little effort. A large cut was made in the young man's chest and blood spewed forth into the air. With the attack, the young Protectorate fell back with a cry onto the office floor. Red began to stain the wooden floor around the rug. The two other soldiers temporarily paused.

Donovan quickly leapt behind the wooden desk and began to cast a spell. By motioning his hand in the air, the desk in front of him began to wobble. Almost instantaneously it quickly rotated forward onto its face. The desk then twisted onto its short end so that it stood tall into the air like a wooden wall. With a quick word from the defending warrior, the wooden object flew forward with great force towards the door.

The speeding object slammed into the two stunned soldiers standing in the entryway. Contact between the desk and entryway caused the doorway to splinter and crack, and the two Protectorate were flung backwards out of the room. The sounds of two armored men falling down stairs could be heard.

The flying wooden wall had also pinned the midsection of the young fallen soldier. He lay writhing upon the ground with only half of his crumpled form still within the room. Great tears fell down his face as he cried in agony.

Donovan did not take any time to consul the ailing soldier. He quickly barged into the personal quarters of Marqui. With a short rush, he knocked down the once locked door. The priest was standing at the back of the room with her face in a book, chanting. To her left was an open window. The sage was obviously worried about her new visitor.

"Stay back! More soldiers will be here in any moment!" she cried.

"All I wanted to do was share this information. Why have you called upon the Protectorate?" Donovan asked.

"You know what you did! You know what you did, you hideous monster!" The priest pointed to the center of the room.

Where the priest was pointing lay a poster upon a small table. Upon the poster lay a drawn portrait of Donovan. The image showed a great scar running down the left side of his face. A single large word ran across the top of the curled parchment, "Murderer".

Donovan went cold.

He paused, obviously distraught. "Yes, I did kill the high priest Darria… But I wish to redeem myself with this glorious information I have found!"

"We will not listen to the words of a man lost to God! You have forsaken your soul with your actions!"

"Isn't what I have brought to you the truth? It must be shared and taught!"

Marqui's crying stopped and a stern look came over her face. She paused for a moment. "Of course it is true. But of what use does it have for the Church? What benefit do these truths bring to our faith?"

Donovan was taken aback. "Did she know about the history of the Precursors this entire time?" he asked himself.

"What do you know of the Precusors!?!" Donovan demanded.

"That is no concern of yours murderer. Not all truths need to be known and shared. It is not for everyone to know the truth!" The priest had a single hand tucked behind her back. With her hidden wrist, she began to make subtle swirling motions.

The ever-constant temper of Donovan began to grow. He hated all these secrets, all of these lies. History and knowledge should be shared, and if it was already known by the upper parish then why wasn't it shared? He tensed his grip on the ancient sword.

Marqui flicked her fingers and a bluish wall appeared directly in front of her. She began to make other motions with her hands.

Seeing the defensive maneuver, Donovan charged. Using both of his clenched hands, he made a high horizontal swipe with the ancient sword. The blade passed through the magic barrier and the high priest's head was sheared from her body. A fountain of blood spouted from her headless form and her body fell to the ground.

Not taking much time to think, Donovan quickly retrieved the cleric's journal from the room and placed it in his satchel. With an exit via the stairs out of the question, he would have to make another escape via a window.

The warrior backed out of the office's window and leapt towards the ground. His heavy form began to fall quickly.

Still descending with the sword in his hands, he forced the tip into the blade into the wooden walls. The silvered edge began to cut into the wood and his fall was suddenly slowed. Splintered pieces of pine flew into the air. The force of the cut created a large groove that traced down the citadel's eastern wall. The warrior landed on the soft ground with a thud.

Like before, he was certain that more Protectorate would be sent and he had to flee immediately. The southern gate would most certainly be guarded and his bloodied sword would not make it easy to gain passage through. He would have to think of another way out of Copperton.

He spied the area looking for any escape route. Along the northern edge of the town lay a single large building the bordered the great copper walls. He made a quick dash towards it.

The tall wooden building ended up being a barn owned by a local blacksmith. The smith was toiling away near a furnace along the far side of the building. The top portion of the structure contained a hay loft, and more importantly a roped pulley. As luck would have it, a bundle of hay hung from up top with the base of the rope tied to an iron anvil on the ground.

Not having much time to think, the warrior ran at the thick rope with his sword out to his side. As he ran past the hanging rope, he grabbed hold of it with his left hand and swung his sword. The rope snapped in two and the hay from above came barreling down. The rope was pulled quickly up through the pulley and Donovan was thrown through the air.

The momentum of his short run caused his flight to arc out over the amber wall, as if he had used a great swing. The armored man floated in the air for a moment and predictably came crashing down onto a bush on the other side of the great wall. His form crushed the plant into several pieces, and thorns from the braches scraped across his face. He tumbled out of the bush and rolled onto the ground.

Taking only a moment to catch his breath, he made a quick dash for the outlying forest, leaving the town of Copperton behind. The warrior's mission had failed miserably. Worse yet he had killed members of the Cloth yet again. Donovan continued to run deep into the woods, not taking a moment to look back, until he could run no more.

Continue to Chapter 13

Chapter 11

2004-11-21T16:21:00.000-07:00

Donovan spent the next two weeks getting ready for his journey back to the civilized world. For the trip, the warrior gathered a supply pack containing different items from around the caves.

Included in the pack were some quick loaves of bread that he baked in the kitchen. His training in the family bakery paid off, and he welcomed the opportunity to cook again. The sensation of the dough between his hands and the scent of the long-missed bread warmed his heart. He would soon be able to enjoy three large saltbreads during his travels.

The warrior also planned to take several flasks of fresh water from the pantry, as well as an old compass that he was able to scrounge for. The outer rims of the tool were deteriorating, but the needle still seemed to point straight and true. He wasn't quite sure in which direction the nearest town was located, but he'd imagined that the pointing device would come in handy.

He spent two days looking for some basic spell books, and he searched for anything that might contain useful bits of magic. The apprentice mage was able to learn the floating light spell that Cernus's journal spoke, as well as a few other simple spells. The magics were nothing that would save his life should a problem arise, but they should be useful nonetheless.

He continued to search in vain for a weapon. The young warrior was unable to locate a single usable weapon at any time during his scans of the complex. However, he had decided to use a large bronze pan from the kitchen as a makeshift shield. Regardless of this new defense, he did not look forward to the idea of traveling in a strange forest without the use of a sword. "I suppose I can fall back on my defensive talents, and possibly some offensive magic should the need arise, but it will be a dangerous journey."

Once he felt he was ready, he left the great city of Ternail Dae. He hoped that he might one day be able to find the lost village again and learn more of its secrets.

Donovan spent the first few days wandering the forest aimlessly. He didn't quite know which direction to head, and he only had the ancient compass to aid with his bearings. Everything within this forest seemed odd and unsettling, which made him feel as if he were perpetually lost.

The larger than life trees seemed to reach endlessly towards the sky. He could barely see the sky through the canopy above the great wooden columns. The area he was in did not have any distinct paths nor any open areas, just rows and rows of extremely tall trees.

Suddenly, a large branch was torn from a tree and flung hard against the ground. The fallen branch broke into several pieces upon contact with the forest floor. Leaves and twigs below it snapped and crackled under the weight.

A terrible roar was heard echoing through the woods.

Donovan turned to see a slimy black mass walking towards him with its jaw completely unhinged. Its skin looked as though it was made of a soft tar, which oozed off of its body, and the beast shambled along with the step of a man. The creature appeared to have no eyes or discernable limbs. Where the creature had initially stood, black flames caused by its burning skin could be seen littering the floor. The beast roared again and a chill ran down the warrior's back.

The Pontia attacked.

The left arm of the creature flew through the air, almost extending threefold as it made its arcing swipe. Donovan just barely ducked in time for the slimy arm to pass over him. A great gust of air flew over the young warrior.

Due to the force of its attack, the beast's arm continued its arching swing until it made contact with a great tree on its left. The outstretched, ooze-covered arm wrapped around the tree's bark like the end of a leather whip. Black flame erupted along the tree's hull where the arm had made contact. The outer bark and the interior wood were being eaten away by the Pontia's skin.

Donovan quickly ran behind a tall tree in an attempt to hide. He tried to stay motionless in the hopes that the creature would not be able to locate him. The frightened young man hid there with his back towards the tree and the deadly Pontia.

The Pontia howled and uncoiled its long arm, which it then was able to retract back into its body. A great cracking was heard beside the beast; a noise similar to the sound of wood splintering under tremendous weight. The tree which the beast had unavoidably attacked began to topple over.

The upper branches of the tree landed with a great thud on the mossy floor next to Donovan's hiding spot. Thousands of tiny yellow and orange leaves flew into the air. They fluttered to the ground slowly like snowflakes.

He could still hear the heavy breathing of the creature behind him. He could still hear it advancing.

Donovan jumped from his temporary refuge just in time to miss an attack from the beast. An arm flew forward, straight past his previous hiding spot like a charging bull. The ground where he had originally sat was now nothing but burning leaves and moss. The black fire charred whatever it touched. The very floor of the forest seemed to be disintegrating due to the oozing skin.

The warrior raised his makeshift shield and prepared for a blow from the beast which still stood several paces away.

The Pontia attacked again, protruding its arm straight out in front of it. The tar covered limb hit the center of the shield and threw Donovan several yards back into the air. The warrior's backside slammed into the trunk of a tree behind him. An odd thud was heard and he slid down with his armor cutting grooves into the protective bark on his descent. Coils of stripped wood fell to his sides.

Donovan, temporarily out of breath, noticed that the tree he had landed against was not like the other trees of the forest. It was twice as wide and its bark was much whiter, almost fossilized. The noise that was created with his impact didn't lead him to believe that the tree was solid. It almost sounded like a great keg had been thumped, and he swore he could hear the sound of water splashing to and fro.

He turned his head towards the top of the tree and noticed that no canopy of branches or leaves covered the top of this strange tree. Instead, the upper trunk looked to flail out into the air as if a great explosion had torn up through the top of the tree. Large portions of the upper bark bent in an outwards fashion.

The warrior turned to see the Pontia make another attack with its battering ram-like arm. He shifted to his right, dodging the blow. The Pontia growled and retracted it arm yet again.

Donovan noticed that where the skin had made contact with the odd tree, no portion of its bark had been burned. The floor beneath it had, but not a single scorch mark lay upon the bleached bark. Again with the thud created by the attack, he swore he could hear the sound of liquid shifting.

In a bold move, Donovan repositioned himself in front of the great white tree again. With the dented bronze shield in front of him, he awaited another rush from the beast.

An ooze-covered arm came flying through the air again towards the young man and the tree. The warrior leapt out of the way just in time to miss the attack. The tip of the Pontia's arm penetrated the wooden column and the outer bark at the impact site shattered.

A tremendous rush of water flooded out from the fresh hole in the tree. The liquid spewed forth directly towards the Pontia. The beast was flung back several hundred paces due to the deluge of water.

Donovan stood up to see the beast writhing upon the ground. The water had washed away part of the burning black skin, and underneath the black mass appeared to be the remains of a freshly half-eaten man. Where the head used to be was the partially digested face of a man screaming at the top of his lungs. Both eyelids gone, teeth blaring, his bloodshot eyes looked out into the open air. Both muscle and bone could be seen in bloody patches where the ooze had washed away. The Pontia continued to writhe in apparent pain upon the ground. Donovan assumed that it would be some time before the monster could rise again.

The warrior turned to see the hole the creature had created within the great white tree. The opening was easily the size of a full grown man. Just as Donovan had thought, this tree was hollow and apparently had contained a tremendous amount of rainwater. With the impact, the water had a chance to escape and came flooding out with immense force.

Donovan climbed into the tree to get a better look. Looking up the tall trunk of the tree, the top was clearly open towards the sky above. The walls looked aged and waterlogged. At the base of the hollow cavity lay a long metallic object drenched in some mud.

The warrior reached down to grab the mystery object. His first attempt to remove it was futile as his wet hands slipped due to the muck. Upon a second try using both hands and his legs for support, he pried the object up from the base of the tree. Mud and water flew into the air.

In his muck covered hands lay a large sword. It was as tall as a standard long sword, but its blade was twice the width of a broadsword. Along the blade of the weapon, a long inch-wide and inch-deep groove ran from the hilt to the tip. The tip of the blade seemed to look like some sort of fork due to the channel that rose up the blade's center. The weapon looked to be made of a silvery metal and felt light in his hands. Finally, he had a weapon with which to fight with.

Outside of the tree, Donovan could heard the telltale scream of the Pontia. He stepped outside of the hollow tree just in time for the beast's arm to slam into his armored chest plate. Ooze spattered across his front and he was pushed back into the center of the tree. The monster retracted its arm yet again and advanced.

Not taking a moment to catch his breath from the blow, Donovan jumped from the trunk and ran along the mossy ground towards the Pontia. In his raised arms he held the great sword. He charged at the beast screaming.

With a quick downward swipe, he split the tarred creature into two. Both halves of the beast fell to the forest floor. Where the monster had been cut, a cross section of bone and muscle could be seen beneath the black oozing skin. The Pontia rolled in spasms along the mossy floor. Unable to right itself, it continued to spin and grasp at the air upon the soft, wet ground.

Not taking a moment to dawdle, Donovan fled away from the scene with his new sword in hand.

Continue to Chapter 12

Chapter 10 - continued

2004-11-21T13:32:00.000-07:00

An enraged Donovan continued to search the great cavern in disgust. It was becoming more obvious to the warrior that this place might have been a place for worship. It certainly wasn't a defensive structure, as he had yet to come across a single weapon. There had been a library, there had been sleeping quarters, and there was a large Ifriit garden; but he had still not found an armory.

While there were no signs of armaments, he did begin to notice large gouges in the great granite walls. Indistinguishable at first, these cuts into the rock looked almost like gigantic claw marks. Three to four rows of similarly inch wide depressions could be traced in parallel formations across the stone walls and ceiling. He had never come across a creature on his travels that could possibly be large enough to make such marks. The fear that was brooding within him began to grow larger.

Several hundred paces from the Ifriit pond, the young man came across a great wooden doorway. A majority of the rooms up to this point did not have any doors, and those that did only had small ones. Here before him were two large wooden doors covered with intricate carvings. Painted figures with large feathered wings could be seen gracing the entry before him. The warrior grabbed one of the wrought iron handles and pulled it open. The ancient door creaked as its rusted hinges were pried open.

A flurry of bats screeched upon hearing the noise and began to flutter about the room. They quickly exited via a giant hole located in the ceiling. Apparently the massive opening was from where a large chunk of the hill had fallen down into the space. Great rays of light shone down upon the rubble on the floor.

From above, a small unsteady trickle of water dripped onto the smooth granite floor. The water drops echoed through the great hall as they fell. Of the constructed rooms he had come across, this was by far the largest one. The ceiling rose into the air at least ten times that of Donovan's height. The space could easily accommodate several hundred men.

Sitting opposite from the doors a distance away appeared to be a great brass organ in disrepair. Rocks, which had fallen from the ceiling, had destroyed its mechanics and bent its once shiny pipes. Two large fabric-covered wooden bellows located on each side of the organ had been crushed by the fallen stone. The bellows must have powered the musical device with great puffs of air at one point. Donovan was fairly certain the instrument would never again make a single note.

In front of the musical instrument sat a solid marble podium. The swirls of soft blue and gray on its surface glistened in the light. Not a single scratch could be seen upon the pillar. Figures with large feathered wings, similar to the paintings on the door, were carved into its surface. On top of the pillar lay a very large and tattered book that still lay open.

It was quite obvious to Donovan that he had entered a chapel of some sort. Much like the other rooms of the cavernous complex, it had gone unused for what seemed like a centuries. The architecture of this room differed considerably from the rigid designs of the holy chambers found in Gestalt. This space seemed like it must have been full of energy and warmth at one point, much unlike his church of old.

Much more elaborate pews could be seen in the center of the room. Their seats were covered with plush red cushions that appeared to now be rotten. Dry basins that had once been filled with water, presumably for ceremonial use, stood upon stone pedestals at the front of the room.

Donovan walked up to the tattered book upon the podium so that he might get a better look. The open pages were terribly weathered, most likely due to the water and sunlight within the room. Extremely faded script could be seen upon the yellow stained paper. As he tried to turn the pages the fragile parchment disintegrated into dust within his fingers. He closed the book in an attempt to determine its origin and found no writing upon the cover or its back.

Donovan frustrated that he was unable to read from the book, began to think. "The symbols of this church feel odd. It does not feel to be the religion of me and my people. It is similar but strikingly different. I wonder if the man at the desk could shed some light on my questions."

Donovan left the great chapel, his footsteps echoing through the great hall, and made his way back through the great cavernous complex.

Upon the dead man's desk lay several books. Most of them appeared to be in a similar weathered state to the book upon the pedestal. Cobwebs and a thick layer of dust lay upon the ancient tomes.

Directly in front of the man in his chair sat a single open book. It did not look to be nearly as aged as the others, with its pages only slightly yellowed. The current page that the text was open to was torn in half. Upon the upper portion of the ripped page were handwritten words penned in black ink.

Donovan flipped the book over so that he could read what might be on the cover. The binding of the book was made from heavy leather that was stained a deep reddish-brown. A pattern of concentric circles could be seen cut lightly into the text's coverings. Upon the leather bound folio were the words "Journal of Cernus Whedon" printed with a golden inlay.

"So you must be Cernus," said Donovan as he faced the body fastened to his chair. "I wonder what might have happened to you in this cavern, and what may have caused your murder via this spear. Do you happen to know whether or not this journal of yours will answer any of my queries?"

The warrior initially tried to remove the spear from within the corpse so that he might sit down in the body's chair, but after considerable work he was unable to even budge the golden weapon. The tip of the lance was positioned very deep in the rock, and it was not going to move without tremendous force.

Satisfied that Cernus would be stapled to this wooden chair of his for eternity, Donovan gathered another simpler stool from nearby and sat beside him. He began to read from the dead man's journal.

14th day of Spring, 414th year after the Holy Cataclysm
Ah, this will be quite exciting. I haven't left the chapel of this town in what seems like ages. The upper sages have given me the task of locating any Precursor structures that I might find within this world of ours. They say it is of dire importance that I find any additional information regarding the Precursors. I'm not privy to why the situation is so dire. I'd imagine that I will find out upon my glorious return.

I've decided that I shall find the lost village of Ternail Dae.

Yes, yes, the great city where the Cataclysm itself occurred. It doesn't hurt to go big! It'll be grand when I find it after all this time!

The tomes that I have read in our libraries say that it may lie to the north of here. No one has of course found it, with it being lost and all, but I will try my best. So after I say my goodbyes and gather my supplies, I'll be off! I can't wait until my adventure!

"Holy Cataclysm? What Holy Cataclysm?" Donovan thought. He had never heard of such a thing. The few history books he had the privilege to read outside of combat training spoke of no such event. "Just how old is this journal?" he thought to himself. He paused for a moment to ponder his own question, and then he continued to read the journal's next entry.

36th day of Spring, 414th year after the Holy Cataclysm
Oh why, oh why did I accept such a foolish mission? I'm but a simple cleric in my thirtieth year. I'm not suited for adventure! I've been trudging around this bloody forest for what seems like months on end.

My robes are full of mud and my stomach is terribly empty. Maybe I should have learned better cooking skills with my time versus spending all my hours in the libraries reading about spells and scriptures. Reading a cookbook is not the same as actually learning it via experience, I'll tell you that. My stomach will actually tell you that. The Heavens themselves can probably hear the pangs of my hunger.

There is obviously nothing above the ground that the locals have even seen resembling a lost city. I guess if it were that simple, Ternail Dae wouldn't be lost for all these centuries. And to think, the only record of Ternail Dae is a short history of the Cataclysm. Of course that is an important milestone, but to think that a great city so pertinent to our history might not even exist… ok, maybe I shouldn't have said that.

I'm getting down on myself. I have to keep God close to my heart if I am to find the great city. He and the Heavens above will guide me. I'm certain of it. It'll only be a matter of days before I discover it. I pray it's only a few days before I find it…

38th day of Spring, 414th year after the Holy Cataclysm
I've found it! I can't believe I've found it! I've found the great city of Ternail Dae!

Well, truth be told, it kind of found me. Just by walking upon a large forested hill yesterday during that torrential downpour was the luck I needed. The ground beneath me gave out and I fell. I fell straight into the main chapel of this ancient church, along with a sizeable portion of the ceiling mind you. I'm lucky that I survived the great leap into this amazing underworld!

Stones from the ceiling crushed a number of the pews as well as a brass organ located in the rear of the chapel. Is it blasphemous to desecrate a chapel, even if by accident? I'll be sure to pray for forgiveness later, once after the bruises from my fall heal.

In the meantime, there is much exploring to do! I've already run around the halls for several hours and I am amazed at what I've found.

I'll be sure to write later. There is so much to do, so much to read!

5th day of Summer, 414th year after the Holy Cataclysm
On my searches I've found the great halls littered with an amazing number of bodies, both those of man… and those of something else. Nothing but their skeletons remain, but it is obvious that the dead come from a great battle, possibly from the Cataclysm itself! Huge scars in the stone litter a number of the walls, evidentially from the claws of the larger beast-like corpses. I don't think they were Pontia either.

I've made it my duty to dispose of all the bodies. It is the law you know, and we can't have the monstrous Pontia desecrating these skeletons for their evil uses. I gathered them all and burned them in a great fire. I should have thought before I started the blaze though, as the entire cavern became filled with ash-laden smoke that has lasted these past several days. I doubt I will ever be able to get rid of this putrid smell from my nose.

As far as Pontia are concerned, I can hear the yells and screams from the vile beasts living in the forest above. Their voices can be heard echoing down through the open roof of the chapel, but I have yet to encounter a single one inside of this city. I don't quite know what I would do if I should encounter one. My only successful encounter with a Pontia was when I was accompanied by two knights; and one of them died! Thank God they haven't invaded the caves yet.

The great water garden of Ifriit is most certainly keeping them at bay. The Pontia seem to flee from the very presence of Ifriit, and that has definitely been a benefit for my frail form. Nothing else seems to live within these hallowed walls, and so I am here writing in this journal alone.

Not that I mind. I have an entire library of books to read! I've already learned a couple of useful spells just from the small amount of time spent with them. One such spell is actually penning this book as we speak! No inked filled hands or stained sleeves for me today!

Many of the books have detailed histories of the events before the Cataclysm. Wouldn't the priests back at home love to learn what little I have learned so far!

Speaking of home, there doesn't appear to be an exit to the great caverns…

This is slightly disconcerting. I've found several archways that lead outside, but unfortunately they have all great piles of rubble blocking any exit. I'm not quite of the physical strength to dig through the rock and on to freedom. I'll have to find another way out, possibly through the chapel.

At least I have a well stocked kitchen and pantry with which to sustain myself. I'm sure that I will find some way to exit the caverns before I run out of the supplies found within this complex.

I sure hope I don't tire of preserves and poorly baked bread! I bake the bread myself you know. It's not the best, but it suffices. Maybe I should start using some yeast… if I can find any.

Time to read some more!

Donovan took a short break from reading. "This Cernus appeared to be likable. Strange that he fell into the discovery of this place… just like myself I suppose. Were his actions and those of mine persuaded by God and the Heavens?

"Is there truly divine intervention? The scriptures state that man has been visited by heavenly messengers in the past. No proof of their appearances exist today… but does that mean that it didn't happen?

"His notes here should be able to save myself valuable time scouring the library… well I suppose my time isn't precious anymore. At least his notes are far easier to read than how I'd imagine the ancient books are written. Plus his notes don't appear to turn to dust upon contact."

The warrior continued to read the notes of the cleric Cernus.

16th day of Summer, 414th year after the Holy Cataclysm
What I've read so far is quite disconcerting, and an extreme blow to my faith. I will strive to stay focused and faithful to the Lord, but this new information of the past is a blow to my previously held truths.

I've come across some scriptures that explain the state of Heaven prior to our current existence of Heaven. Yes, the scriptures state that there have been at least two instances of Heaven over the ages. Apparently, we are living under what appears to be the second generation of Heaven. And the Holy Cataclysm that we always speak of is the germination of that second generation.

We of course never knew the full details of the Holy Cataclysm, but we do know that the world was almost torn asunder during those times. Thousands of people died, cities were destroyed, and many a great thing was lost. Due to the events, the earth was in complete chaos for the span of a year.

Evidentially, it was the Precursors whom caused the Holy Cataclysm. They did not plan to directly cause so much hurt upon the world, but they desired to revolt against Heaven. Their desires for revolt were due to the Heavens above apparently becoming corrupt; almost toying with the lives of the people for entertainment.

The entities were vengeful, merciless, and cruel. They would kill for pleasure and cause entire plagues simply as experiments. The Precursors detested this and took action to stop their motions.

This complex, the Ternail Dae, was built for the sole purpose of planning an attack on Heaven… in order to destroy it.

For reasons that I do not yet understand, it was thought by the Precursors that the Heavens need the world of man in order to survive. The Precursors also thought that Heaven was very afraid of what man might be capable of. It was these ideals that led them to believe man could feasibly bring upon the fall of Heaven.

Another truth that I've come across is that, against what I have been taught, Heaven is not omnipotent.

They supposedly cannot see what we do every second of our lives, nor can they read our thoughts. They do have great power, and can act with that power, but they apparently cannot survey all. Only God appears to have the sole capability to see all, but this power was not granted to his followers in Heaven.

In some of the writings I've found, it also seems that God was noticeably absent during this time for unspecified reasons. He, or She as some of the books are written, merely comes and goes from our world on His whims. Only when it pleases the great Lord, will He intervene. Without the apparent guidance of God, Heaven's motives fell into disarray and became corrupt.

Very little was written directly before, during, and immediately following the great battles between man and Heaven. The clerics appeared to be far too occupied with their survival instead of documenting the events as they unfolded.

Did they not know that their very purpose as a cleric was to preserve history? It was their sworn duty to write about the events so that they may last through the annals of history!

There are pages scattered throughout a multitude of texts speaking about the minions of Heaven being able to transform into large ferocious beasts. This leads me to believe these bestial forms were the cause of the great gashes in the walls of the city. The larger skeletons that I found within the caverns also support this theory. Even the bones of these creatures were horrific, and nothing like what I would expect from the Heavens.

There are also anecdotes of single men defeating entire battalions of angels. How this was possible are not discussed. I'd assume that this was simply an attempt by the historians to add a bit of flourish and myth into their writings.

It does seem that man and the constructors of the Ternail Dae were successful in their war, but not without high casualties and tremendous loss. Many of the Cloth died in the attacks, with nearly one half of the Church of the time falling to the might of Heaven.

Very little is written about what happened to the Church members after the war was completed. Only a handful of Church members survived the war and continued to preach the Holy Scriptures across the land. What then, happened to the other majority? How is it that they are not accounted for?

I will have to continue my research in hopes of finding the answer. I feel I've only begun to scratch the surface of this ancient knowledge. For now, I will continue reading.

5th day of Fall, 414th year after the Holy Cataclysm
After many months, I have learned very little about my remaining questions. The texts are becoming harder and harder to read because of their age. I must read them all before they degrade into nothingness.

I've learned a few more spells: light bearing spells, projectile spells, and illusionary spells to list a few. Very few of them are actually useful to me here in the cavern. It's a struggle to split my time between both history and magic. I often find myself drifting to the magic books more often than the historic tomes. This I feel I must rectify. I have my job and my purpose here to think of.

Oh, and I should occasionally remember to eat more often. These pesky books are quite time consuming, and I must remember to keep myself nourished. A sickly body cannot process the data as efficiently as a fed one!

From now on I'll keep track of my meals in this log in an attempt to remind myself. This should also give myself breaks from my studies. I must strive to keep myself going.

Today's meals: Hand-made flatbread, strawberry preserves that appeared at least five centuries old (still good), moldy cheese (very disgusting)

6th day of Fall, 414th year after the Holy Cataclysm
I learned how to control the floating light spell listed in "Dae de Paladain", loosely translated as "Magic of the Paladin". Without having to handle a torch or candle for my studies, I can read twice as fast! I now have the assistance of a bright glowing object that follows my every whim!

Today's meals: Hand-made flatbread (burnt), boysenberry preserves (quite tart), a tankard of ale (quite good)

7th day of Fall, 414th year after the Holy Cataclysm
Today's meals: Hand-made flatbread, some fruit stew I made from ancient preserves, water from one of the many kegs

8th day of Fall, 414th year after the Holy Cataclysm
Today's meals: Hand-made flatbread, water, some wine (quite exquisite)

9th day of Fall, 414th year after the Holy Cataclysm
I've already become tired of logging my meals. It distracts me from my studies. I hope that I continue to feed myself regardless. I'm sure that my body will let me know when it is hungry.

I am also quite tired of eating my pathetic attempts at flatbread. Well, I'm not trying to make flatbread directly, but with my little knowledge it is about all I can seem to make. Either burned or undercooked, either is very unsatisfying. If only I could find some yeast, then I could make something much more… airy.

Donovan continued to read for hours upon end. He couldn't determine how long he had sat beside the dead cleric reading, but he couldn't seem to turn away from the man's journal. Page after page contained a great history of that which existed before his people. The facts contained within the folio were so innumerous that he doubted he could remember them all.

Here before him was very valuable knowledge of what had come before. "Is it all true?" he thought to himself. "Why had the parish not shared this information with the other members of the Church? Do they even know these truths themselves? Or, perhaps, were they keeping them a secret?"

The young warrior's thoughts began to dawdle on whether it was wise to share this possibly dangerous information. "Even though the truths exposed are disturbing, this information should still be shared. It is the people's right to know their history; both good and bad."

He thought some more, "Does the Church herself deserve to know this information?

"Is the entire parish corrupted, or just those upper members of Gestalt? Do I dare deny the rest of the Church this wonderful knowledge?"

After considering his thoughts multiple times, Donovan made a decision. "I shall share this man's journal. It is my duty from God Himself that I speak these truths to those that will listen, and to even those who refuse to listen. These chronicles of our past must be distributed!"

Satisfied that he had a greater purpose again, Donovan continued to read.

3rd day of Winter, 414th year after the Holy Cataclysm
While trying to reach one of the books that lay high in the library stacks, I fell off one of the tall ladders down onto the ground. I should have known better, and moved to the ladder before climbing, but I was so close to reaching it before I fell! It was nearly in my fingers!

My arm snapped upon hitting the stone floor of the library. I, of course, cried in pain. I had never had a single bone break and the pain was immeasurable. I easily panicked for several hours. A full bottle of wine from the cellar didn't even calm my nerves.

Of course I came to my senses about the resources of this ancient cave. As anyone would do with several hundred Ifriit at their disposal, I made use of one. I wasn't expecting to convulse nor feel the way I did, but as it is foretold I was fully healed.

What I wasn't expecting was to feel as drained as I did after the process. Nowhere had I read that my energy would dwindle to but a fraction. Why was that so?

I, of course, made use of the great tomes located in the library to solve my question. It seems that while an Ifriit seed has immeasurable curative powers, it does have its nasty little consequences.

Upon ingestion of any amount of Ifriit, some essence of life is destroyed. The essence that is destroyed is from the end of one's life. So simply by using the benefit of a seed, a person's soul and lifespan is shortened. It seems the balancing equation is one complete Ifriit seed removes a full year from the end of one's existence.

The side of effect of this lost life force is that the person seems to age faster, almost rapidly in some extreme cases. Stories are chronicled of wealthy land owners who splurged on their horded Ifriit and became wrinkled not even halfway through their life. So I guess I'm a year older, and just that much closer to my demise.

Had I known this beforehand, I might have been more cautious with my use of its powers. To have a full year removed from the end of my life is disheartening. Oh well, what can I do now? Just die a year earlier I suppose…

On my studies about the Ifriit though, I did learn something else.

As most know, in order to ascend to Heaven and be part of her upper flock one must eventually die. What exactly one has to do in order to successfully join the ranks of Heaven, other than dying, is quite vague. We know that we must serve the Church and hold an undying faith in the Lord. Other than that, it has always been a mystery.

The other "secret" of the process turns out to be related to the use of Ifriit seeds. In seems that it is possible to gain greater status within the annals of Heaven by the consuming the holy fruit. So the use Ifriit is twofold: a quicker death and a greater opportunity to ascend.

I wonder how many of the elder sages know of this process. Has anyone I've ever known ascended in this fashion?

So that begs the question: which is more important? To live long and prosperous on this plane, or ascend quickly to spend your eternal life in Heaven? Quite a paradox if you ask me. I'm not sure which I would choose.

Can we read books in Heaven? No scriptures speak of this, and no information regarding this question is known.

It's a shame no one who has ascended to Heaven left notes about the upper planes. Having questions such as this answered would help considerably with my decision.

As the young man read this passage, prior events that he had seen in the room with the three sages began to make sense. The facts spelled out by the cleric Cernus now told of their reasons for consuming Ifriit seeds, even though they were preciously rare. Ovembre, Steirlen, and the high priest Darria were attempting to ascend to Heaven. He wondered just how many other upper priests followed this process.

Hundreds of people could have been saved with the use of the seeds that the upper priests squandered. They put their own agendas ahead of the very people they swore to protect! The continual anger that ran through Donovan's veins continued to throb as he read the ancient journal.

28th day of Winter, 414th year after the Holy Cataclysm
The cold within the cavern has grown bitter. I feel as I have burned every piece of available firewood that this place contains. I hope I don't resort to burning pieces of furniture… or horror of horrors, the great books!

I've had to bar the doors of the main chapel in an attempt to hold back the winter snow. Drafts from the outside world were chilling the entire structure and I had to put a stop to that.

The great doors have begun to freeze together due to the melted snow behind them however. A waterfall of ice encrusts the wooden entry from top to bottom. Even if I wanted to open the doors, I'm sure that an avalanche would fall upon me. Woe is me.

I fear that I should have made plans to leave the cavern long before winter arrived. I most assuredly cannot exit from Ternail Dae in this weather. I neither have the skill to climb my way out, nor the knowledge of a magic that might assist me. If only I could find a levitation spell of some sort to aid in my escape. I shall pursue such a spell with much diligence. I fear my very life is at stake now. Maybe in the spring I may make an attempt.

My supplies within the kitchen have dwindled severely. The flour has started to become rancid, as I should have closed the bags when they were not in use. My flatbread, which was horrible at the start, is barely edible now. It is like eating biscuits made of sand.

And I am terribly tired of eating preserves. I cannot even tell the difference between the different fruit jellies in the jars. They all taste the same now! Each of them is sweet and tart in a horrible sense of irony.

A cooking fire in the kitchen that I had tried to use for heating purposes ended up setting one of the wooden tables ablaze with its embers. I should be more careful in the future. I will use this self-warming spell I've found to keep my body heat up.

Ah, yes. Much better now. I should have cast that spell earlier.

Even though my situation here is becoming dire, I have come across a rather interesting find. I found a locked book with a heavy metallic cover hidden within a false space in the library. I noticed that one of the rocks that made up the great walls was discolored, almost having a greenish hue. Granite is distinctly gray and so it was amazing that I found this "fake" stone to begin with. I guess my mind wandered and my eyes saw the greenish color in the light.

While the majority of the books in the library are written in an ancient dialect of our common language, the letter-like symbols upon the locked book appear to be far removed from anything I have ever seen. My attempts to translate it using other books in the library have only led to the discovery that they mean something along the lines of "forbidden".

Why or how a book can be "forbidden" is a foreign concept to me. If someone writes something down, then they must have had a desire for it to be read. A book that cannot be read is useless. It is like a river that you cannot drink from; a pointless existence.

I will continue to see if I can learn the metallic book's secrets. I will try to keep my insatiable desire to read this "forbidden" book at bay. Keeping myself restrained from the book is almost as worse as being stuck in this blasted frozen cavern. The shrouded knowledge within the tome is tearing at my very being.

As before, I will use the will of God and the Heavens to keep my desires at bay. I must trust my instincts, and determine what the true purpose of the book is before I attempt to read from it.

Sitting upon the table in front of Donovan was this so-called forbidden book. Its cover was made from a thick rusted iron that was bound together with great rivets. It was easily several hundred pages thick. Eerie shapes that looked of doom dotted its surface. It lay closed, but its latch had been pried open.

"Did Cernus read from this book?"

45th day of Winter, 414th year after the Holy Cataclysm
I have determined what the purpose of the "forbidden" book is!

In ancient words printed upon its back, it contains a detailed history of the relationship between man and Heaven itself. Within its pages are the secrets of why Heaven fears the will of man! The very reasons for why the Precursors believed they could successfully overthrow the upper plane are detailed in this book! Marvelous!

Apparently this knowledge is far too volatile to be shared. I wonder why that is?

I believe I should trust my instincts and leave these truths out of my realm of knowledge. If the Precursors believed strongly enough that this information must not be shared liberally, then I must respect their wishes.

Oh, but how the idea of knowing this greatest of secrets eats away at my daily thoughts!

I have dreams at night of reading the grand book. Every time I see the true reason for Heaven's fear of the world of man, the words become a blur and I continually race to find the answer within the pages.

I've noticed that my already thin frame is becoming even more emaciated. I need to find a suitable way to continue my sustenance or my time here will be for naught. I wonder if I could find a spell or magic that can generate food for myself. Could I generate a roast duck or some seasoned beef out of thin air? Oh how glorious that would be!

62nd day of Winter, 414th year after the Holy Cataclysm
I fear I may have doomed myself. I have pried open the lock upon the forbidden book and read from its contents. This was not knowledge that man can learn freely. They will most certainly be able to locate me now. I am almost certain…

Ack…

Ahhhh…

Donovan had reached the final page of Cernus's journal. As he had seen before, the page had been torn in half at its midsection. Apparently, it seems the cleric died as he was documenting this passage. The final odd screams upon the page must have come from the penning spell he was using.

"What exactly did Cernus read that caused his death? Apparently he was killed by this great golden spear, but by whom and for what reason?

"Would a similar fate befall me if I were to read from the book? Should I dare?

"No, I mustn't. I must do what Cernus failed to do and share the great revelations found within this cavern of Ternail Dae. His journal must be shared!"

Continue to Chapter 11

Chapter 10

2004-11-17T01:38:00.000-07:00

Donovan found himself inside of a large, dark cavern. He expected to find just a small space behind the wall of rock, but this was unanticipated. He seemed to be standing in a stone tunnel that was apparently manmade.

The distinct structure he now stood in looked as if it had been hand chiseled directly into the great mountain's granite center. Looking around he found that the path was easily wide enough to accommodate a large horse-drawn wagon should the need arise. The ceiling above appeared twice as tall as the path was wide.

He turned around to see that the crude tunnel he had dug led through an old collapsed archway. It presumably was part of an ancient doorway of some kind. Large keystones from the top of the archway lay broken upon the ground below.

He took a moment to survey his surroundings further. The air within the cave was moist and warm. He found that his boots had sunk slightly into the fine muddy silt that he had fallen into prior. Thin layers of mud filled portions of the tunnel's floor, and the surfaces were free from any type of visible tracks as well. The most peculiar thing about his new location however was that at the end of the long tunnel, a faint light glowed.

He began to trudge through the thin mud, slipping occasionally as he made his way into the structure. As he traveled deeper and deeper down the path, distinct architecture could be seen within the cavern walls. Large stone pillars, cut from the same rock as the walls, held up portions of the tunnel. Occasionally he would spot intricately carved designs cut directly into the granite. The chiseled patterns and shapes looked familiar, but also odd; usually depicting strangely built human figures. He also found that every few paces another extinguished wooden torch could be seen hanging the walls. He decided to gather one of the torches for later use.

The brightness of the distant light continued to grow as he moved forward. He proceeded on the path, determined to explore this new wondrous place. Whoever had created this structure obviously did it with some kind of purpose in mind. The creators must have spent year upon year carving the great tunnel during in its construction.

He was also fairly certain that no one had visited the cavern for many years. As he approached the area with the most light, he came across at least one of the cave's possible occupants.

Sitting in a tall wooden chair behind a cluttered desk was the decayed corpse of a man in his robes. The person was long since dead; only his skeleton and a very thin layer of dry rotted skin covered his bones. Donovan had seen a dead body before, but never one that had been left to rot for this long. As was law, most bodies were burned within a day's time. This mummified carcass with its leathery skin had been left behind, and it was a strange view for the young warrior.

Piercing through the dead man's entire body was a long golden spear easily twice his height. The apparent implement of his death ran through the body's entire frame: from the man's right shoulder, through the center of a dry shriveled heart, and into the floor beneath his feet. Several broken ribs from the man's skeleton littered the floor.

The tip of the weapon had been deeply embedded within the granite surface below. Large webbed cracks, easily inches deep, spread out from the site of the impact. Donovan wondered what could have had the strength to force the golden weapon so hard into the ground.

Donovan looked upwards and noticed an opening leading up through the ceiling above him. The hole was sizeable; enough for a large rodent to crawl through but not wide enough for a man to traverse. A beam of sunlight was cast down via the passage. A single twisted root from the world above hung down from the opening like a thin rope.

He could see the single ray from the sun peering through the hole, but he could not see the sky above. "I can see the light from the surface, but why cannot I see the sky above? Just how long and narrow is this passage? And what possibly could have created it?"

Donovan carefully studied the opening and compared it to the impaled man to his right. If the warrior didn't know any better, he could swear that the hole above lined up perfectly with the trajectory of the embedded golden spear.

Returning to the dead man's desk, he found a pair of flint stones. By clapping them together he was able to reignite his wooden torch with just a few sparks. Now with the assistance of a new light source, Donovan pressed on through the darker end of the tunnel.

As he continued to walk, the structure became more and more like a planned building and less like a converted cave. Stone bricks began to make up the walls around him, and the floor was no longer muddy. Instead of basic wooden torches, massive candleholders were attached along the walls. The wax from large ancient candles had long since drizzled to the floor, and their wicks were nothing more than ash. Spider webs occupied most corners and crevices, and a thick layer of dust covered the tops of every flat surface.

He also found that the cave consisted of a series of tunnels and passageways, rather than just one single path. A multitude of tunnels seemed to lead in every direction. Whatever this structure was, it was much larger than anything Donovan had ever expected to find.

In addition he didn't quite know what else he might encounter along his search. He didn't know whether something, or someone, would be discovered lurking in the shadows. He didn't have any weapon upon him other than his fists, and the warrior had yet to find anything suitable along his underworld journey. He felt defenseless, and did not look forward any possible surprises that might exist within the ancient cavern.

He began to pass several large rooms on his exploration.

One such room appeared to be a grand library. Enormously tall bookshelves with hundreds of moldy books could be seen cluttering a giant room. There were several tall wheeled ladders that had at one time been used to gather materials from the upper shelves. A multitude of wooden writing desks could be found bordering the walls of the room. Upon the stone floor were many torn books bereft of their pages, and several of the tall bookcases had been knocked over and destroyed.

He also came across what looked to be a large kitchen area. The roof in this chamber was quite short, with just some basic cauldrons and cooking fires lining the walls. Three thick wooden tables and their aged countertops were located in the center of the space. Large cuts could be seen within the cherry wood; probably due to a combination of smaller nicks, moisture in the air, and plenty of time. Another wooden table appeared to be nothing by ash and broken timbers. There appeared to be no chimneys anywhere in the room and so the ceiling was discolored with dark black smears. Stains of soot climbed the walls around each of the fires. The room felt as if it was closing in on the young man, and he decided to move along.

Several doors led out of the kitchen, one of them leading into a great pantry. The pantry appeared to still be well stocked, albeit covered with a heavy layer of dust. Bags of flour, jars of preserves, and barrels of spring water could all be found within the room. Just from a quick inspection, it appeared that some of the goods might still be partially salvageable. Of course, not everything had stood the test of time and many of the crates that once held produce now held nothing but dried rinds and dust.

An hour into his exploration he came to a junction on his chosen path. He took the left fork and shortly came across what looked to be barracks. Around thirty bunks, stacked three beds high, spanned these old living quarters. The beds were made from straw and had been covered by white linens at one time. More destruction could be found here as a majority of the bunks were nothing but splinters and shards of wood. Torn sheets and clumps of straw also littered the floor. In addition, it looked as though long ago part of the rock ceiling had collapsed on the far side of the room.

On his journey through the great halls, a familiar white object appeared within his torch's light. In front of him floating along the floor was a similar wisp from the forest, most likely the same one. It appeared to be going from cobweb to cobweb looking for something.

He finally saw it come across a single long-legged spider hanging onto a large web. The wisp quickly floated to the spider web and wriggled in the air above it. By gently pulling the silk towards its center, the magical object appeared to absorb the web along with the spider. The white ball grew ever so slightly when it gathered the insect. Seconds later after its "meal", it had compressed back into its original size. It continued to search from web to web looking for more small bugs.

Donovan found more distinct rooms as he continued through the structure. Most of the spaces he would come across were in disarray. Many had their contents in shambles, and some of them had portions of their ceilings caved in.

He still hadn't come across an armory or weapon store of any kind. He found this odd. "Why would someone build this structure and not adequately defend it?" he asked himself. "Why are there no weapons to be found?"

"If there are truly no weapons, and there are no apparent living occupants, then was this grand complex abandoned some time in the past? If so… why?" He continued to ponder these thoughts on his walk, knowing that he had yet to see even a fraction of the great caverns.

As he made his way deeper on his exploration, he began to smell a slightly sweet scent on the air. Most of the tunnels reeked of mold, dust, and decay; and this was a much different scent than what he had yet to come across. As he turned a corner, he glanced at a body of water easily the size of a large pond. A great stone pit had apparently been flooded to make this small lake before him. Floating upon the motionless water sat hundreds of faintly glowing plants.

"Ifriit!"

Donovan's heart skipped a beat. Here before him were at least a hundred blooming Ifriit plants. A multitude of seeds glistened in his torch's light.

The warrior never had the privilege to see either of Gestalt's precious plants with his own eyes. Instead he had to settle for reading about them in the church library. The warrior had learned that the Ifriit plant grew upon the surface of the water just like a lily. Here they were; an entire pond full all lying before him.

Skimming across the water amongst the numerous plants were a multitude of tiny water skippers. The young man could see long legged insects gliding from plant to plant on the surface of the water, and apparently the little bugs were the pollination agents for these Ifriit. Beneath the water, thousands of rotten seeds lay covering the pond's bottom. Many a year had gone by without the precious seeds being harvested.

His mind went immediately to his giant scar, and the sensitivity of the stitched wound was instantly heightened. He could feel the threads pulling at his face, and could feel the scar itching terribly. "The Ifriit… it can heal my wound… and restore my eyesight!"

After removing both gauntlets, the young man raced to the edge of the pond and hastily plucked a ripe seed from one of the foremost Ifriit. The seed seemed to pulse in his fingers and felt perceptibly hot to the touch. The surface was eerily smooth, and the contents glowed with a radiant red light. His fingers began to tremble from the new possession. Tears began to pool within his right eye. He fell to his knees, staring at the glorious object within his right hand.

"This gift from God, and the Heavens will cure me! I will be whole again!"

He opened his quivering mouth and placed the seed inside. His jaw clamped down and juices began to flow over his tongue. The liquid burned, but it was also incredibly sweet. The corners of his eyes began to squint from the sensation. The warrior swallowed the wondrous seed.

A rush of heat ran over him. His spine felt as if each of its vertebrae had caught on fire. Massive pressure overtook his skull and it felt like it might explode. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he began to spasm on the ground.

The giant wound that ran down his front began to glow a bright red, with the affected skin appearing translucent. Smoke began to rise from each of the crossed stitches. Much like fireworks, one by one the threads snapped and fell from his face onto the ground. The needle holes that had been used to hold the stitches in place were sealed up completely. The deep wound that ran down his face continued to glow red; with the brightest emanation coming from his left eye. His armored form retched violently upon the wet ground for several moments. His body then rested.

When he came to, he felt terribly disorientated. Calmness had come over his entire body and his muscles felt relaxed. He was unused to the sensation and it almost felt as if he were asleep or dead. His eyelids felt incredibly heavy and he was unable to open either of them.

Using his right hand, he began to trace his neck. The stitches that had initially held his great lesion closed were no longer present. Instead, a large sealed scar had replaced the mended wound. He traced down his chest and found those stitches missing as well.

He tried to open both of his eyes. They were initially unwilling to respond to his requests, but after a few attempts the vision of his right eye returned. With his right vision restored, his attempts to open his left eye continued.

Slightly puzzled in his inability to open the left, he placed his right hand over his uncooperative eye. Where there had once been stitches, now a large smooth scar similar to the rest of the wound remained. The entire surface of the eye including the eyelids had been sealed shut. He could also not feel the existence of an eye beneath the skin.

The warrior let out a great echoing roar that filled the chamber. Anger and frustration fell over his body much like the heat of the Ifriit. At the top of his lungs he yelled into the air above the room.

"Is this your great gift!?! Am I 'healed'?" His arms were outstretched into the air; pleading to the holy beings above. "Is this the end result of your almighty power!?!"

"Answer me!" he yelled with his raspy voice. Veins within his neck tensed, his single eye bulged. The anger within him was growing.

"Why have you forsaken me? What did I do to deserve all of this? Why have I been forsaken!?!"

The young man walked up to a nearby wall. Without the benefit of his gauntlet, he slammed his unarmored right fist into the solid granite surface. Flecks of stone and dirt fell from the wall. Streaks of blood began to appear on the front of his fist. He didn't cry in pain.

The warrior, obviously upset, turned around and left the giant room containing the great gifts from Heaven.

Continue to Chapter 10 - continued

Chapter 9

2004-11-14T23:19:00.000-07:00

Donovan never cried again after that night spent on the forest's floor. He had already seen so much pain and felt so much suffering that he simply closed himself off to the world from that moment on. No tears would be shed; no loss would ever mean anything.

As he saw it, he now had no purpose, no home, and no one in the world. Everything he had loved was now gone. The young man's entire life had been torn from his very soul.

With his self-inflicted banishment from Gestalt, he had nowhere to go. Anywhere had became his new destination. The broken warrior wandered the woods outside of Bella's pig farm for at least a week. His armored form continued to walk deeper and deeper into the forest on his travels. He simply had nothing else to do.

The potion given to him by the herbalist continued to work its magic. A continual numbness pumped through his veins for days after. As he walked, simple scrapes from random branches would go on being unfelt. Cuts and bruises from whatever he stumbled into would leave tiny marks of blood. He did not bother to bandage them; he did not see the point.

Basic needs governed by his body did eventually force him to sustain himself. After the seventh day of his aimless travels, he came upon a small forest stream. He drank from the muddy waters, re-hydrating his cracked lips and throat. The water slowly flowed down into his empty stomach.

His stomach ached from hunger; a pain that the potion did not help to subside. He surveyed the area for possible nourishment, his survival instincts now governing his motions. He located a thorned bush with purple berries several paces from the forest stream. They could have been poisonous, but his body didn't care: it needed food and needed it now.

Donovan gorged himself amongst the berries. Smears of purple flesh stained his lips and chin. The fruits' strong flavor tingled upon his tongue. The berries were both sweet and tangy. As he ate, the juicy seeds reminded him of the sugared tarts that his family used to occasionally bake.

He began to lose focus, and his vision began to blur. The world began to spin and a dizziness fell over him. "This must be from the berries," he thought. "Oh well, at least now I shall die; a fool no less. They will put me out of my misery; a pointless end to a pointless man's life."

He toppled over against the bark of a large tree. His armored frame slid down its woody hide to the forest floor.

Today was not the end of the man named Donovan.

He awoke with his stomach partially satisfied by the earlier meal. Still leaning against the tree, he began to survey the area around him. With the nourishment, his thoughts had become clearer and more distinct. He noted that his current location did not look like any forest he had ever come across. The trees appeared much taller, their trunks slightly twisted in a peculiar manner. The floor was covered with a mix of fallen leaves and a spongy, emerald moss. The distance ended in a subtle mist. A certain odd white glow appeared to emanate from the entire forest's canopy. It felt natural, but foreign at the same time.

The warrior's inquisitive nature had now given him a purpose: explore the strange forest.

He stood up, and searched the area for any life. He could hear leaves landing quietly upon the mossy ground, and he could see the branches above him shift in the slight breeze. He could not sense anything else.

He searched the area for any monuments to track his position. To his right lay more strange trees, and to his left a few steps away were other plant growths climbing a tall hill. He decided to trace the hill in an effort to keep his bearings.

The interior of the hill looked to be made of a tanned rock. A multitude of bushes and trees had intertwined their twisted roots within the stone cavities. Many of the roots trailed down from upon the hillside onto the ground below. Large woody bumps protruded from the mossy floor.

A calm fell over Donovan as his mind became occupied. "Where exactly am I? How long have I been walking through this forest? Where am I going?" He began to speed up his travels.

He noticed that the air felt moist and he could smell the musky scent of wet leaves. He began to pay attention to the minute sounds he created on his search. The snapping of twigs and the compression of the soft moss began to fill his ears. He felt relaxed and took a large breath. He exhaled and felt happy.

A small white cloud began to appear from within the forest's distant mist. It was floating in the air only a few feet from the ground. It slowly wandered along just above the forest floor. As it got closer to Donovan, he was able to get a better view.

Donovan had seen illustrations of the object, but like many things he was never able to see it for himself. Almost ball shaped and the size of a medium pumpkin, it was entirely translucent except for the very center. It had no eyes and it had no limbs. It was a bright white but did not radiate any light. It floated upon the air unlike anything he had ever seen. He remembered that the name that had been classified for this object was "wisp".

He had read that the "creature", if you could call them that, were essentially entities of nothing. In fact, wisps didn't seem to serve a purpose at all in the entire world. No one knew how they might reproduce, let alone where and how they might have originated.

The image of the wisp became clearer and clearer as it made its way towards Donovan. He noticed that, almost logically, it avoided trees by circling around them on its path. He was surprised by its apparent intelligence. During his studies, he had also read that wisps were perfectly harmless and had a peculiar feel.

As the wisp continued on its journey, it passed near Donovan's current position. He removed his right gauntlet and knelt down; placing his hand and arm within the wisp's path. When the wisp made contact, Donovan swore that he could feel millions of tiny whisker-like hairs. They tickled at the touch, but carried no weight. A tiny grin appeared across the young warrior's face.

The wisp did not stop because of Donovan's roadblock, and it floated towards the hill behind him. Once there, it began to trace the hill's base in a direction leading away from Donovan. Donovan stood up and followed the little creature.

The warrior seemed to tail the floating object for what seemed like hours. He didn't mind; this little being had given him something to do.

The pair, both the leader and the follower, came to what looked with a great rockslide. Ton upon ton of stone had tumbled down the hill long ago. Tree roots had already placed themselves within the tiny crevices, and thin layers of moss covered many of the rocks. Whatever had caused this rockslide had done so a millennia ago.

The wisp began to diligently search the giant mass of rubble. It hovered over a number of different spots, floating back and forth amongst the many rocks.

Donovan then saw the wisp suddenly reverse its path, and then enter the mass of stone.

Donovan was partially stunned. "Could wisps move through solid objects? I hadn't read that. Why did it choose to go into the rockslide?" His thoughts paused. "Was there a space on the other side? The wisp had evidentially planned and desired to get into that space. What might be back there?"

Curiosity continued to grow within the young man. He decided he should see for himself what might be behind the mass of rocks.

He began to pull single stones away from the hill. Most of them were small enough being similar in size to a human head. He could easily remove them with just his armored fingers.

The larger boulders, on the other hand, required a bit of ingenuity. He gathered a thin log from the forest floor and was able to pry a few of them loose. It took at least an hour or more to make any progress with the bigger stones.

Sweat had already begun to pour inside of his armor as he worked. His muscles were becoming tired and strained from exertion. He continued until a distinct open space could be seen within the forested hill. There was now a path that he could feasibly enter just as the wisp did.

Now visibly excited, he began to crawl through the fresh opening. It was difficult to squeeze through at first, as his iron armor scraped the rock around him, but he was able to slowly climb through his entrance. He only traveled for a short bit before reaching the other side of his makeshift tunnel. Once at its exit, his armored form tumbled out onto a muddy floor.

Lying upon the ground covered in a thin coat of mud, he could see a faint light in the distance. He stood up, and clanking from his shifting armored plates echoed through what sounded like a large chamber. The warrior's eyes went wide with wonder.

Continue to Chapter 10

Chapter 8 - continued

2004-11-13T22:37:00.000-07:00

Donovan flew off the balcony as a leaf would fly through the wind on a gusty day. On his flight, his armored boot had caught itself on the edge of the stone balcony and he began to flip over and over in the air as he fell. As he spun, his vision switched between views of the ground, the great stone wall, and the sky above. He frantically flailed his arms hoping to grab a hold of anything.

As he sailed through the air, he caught a glimpse of the top of the oak tree that bordered the eastern wall; a tree which he was fast approaching. His body slammed into upper branches, smashing them upon contact. The speed of his fall was slowed, and he tumbled off of the top branches several feet above the ground.

With his back towards the earth, he landed with a great thump upon the grass below. Blades of his armor bent and crumpled due to the force of the impact. His jaw bit down and he felt a tooth crack. A small amount of blood spit into the air. The air within his lungs temporarily exited his body through his nose.

After he had recomposed himself, he slowly stumbled back upright. To his right lay the body of the dead assassin. He knew that with his attack on the high priest Darria, the remaining priests he had spared would not spend any time in trying to find him. He had to leave the Church grounds and the city as soon as possible. It was no longer safe to be in or near the town of Gestalt. All was not for naught however: at least, as he believed, the evil priest Darria was dead.

He thought to himself, "Where can I go?" Without dwelling on it, an idea popped into his head and he headed for the center of town.

On the way out of the church compound, he encountered other Protectorate guards at their posts. Using the fact that he was bloody and disheveled to his advantage, he told them that he needed emergency medical attention. They recognized the situation and let him on his way. After bidding them goodbye, he made his way into town towards the herbalist's shop.

With a quick pace he made his way down the main roadway of the town of Gestalt. It was still quite late, and so few villagers roamed the alleyways. He did see a small girl as he made his way, but she ran away from him with fear in her eyes when she got a glimpse of his great scar.

When he arrived at the herbalist's shop, he knocked upon the wooden door with his gauntleted fist. Splinters flew into the air. Moments later, an older woman slowly creaked the door partially open. She was hunched over and squinted at the young warrior standing outside. Many wrinkles covered her apprehensive face.

"What do you want? It is late, and we will re-open in the morn. Come back then," she said.

"I need to speak with Bella. I am injured and need help with my wounds."

"Ah, I recognize you now. She has spoken of you before. She doesn't live here you know, she lives on the outskirts of town at a pig farm."

"From which gate should I leave? I desperately need to speak with her."

"She lives to the north. The farm is several leagues away. Head up the main road until you see a small dirt path that forks to the right. Follow that path and you will come upon the farm."

"Thank you miss, you are very kind."

Donovan motioned to leave, turning down the road, but the woman spoke up. "'Ay, hold up. I can give you a little something you know? A wee bit of medicine for your pain."

She closed the wooden door, locking it, and headed back inside. She returned with a small glass bottle. Its bottom was round like a sphere, and its contents were orange with glittering gold flakes.

"Drink it, and you ought to feel much better. It'll help stop the bleeding as well."

"Thanks again, miss. I am very grateful."

"Ah, whatever I can do for a Church soldier. The more I help you fellas, the better I'll look in God's eyes. Take care."

With that she closed the door yet again. Donovan made his way down the roads of Gestalt heading for the great iron gate to the north.

Before reaching the gate, Donovan stopped at one of the local wells. Using water pulled from its recesses, he attempted to wash some of the dried blood off of his armor. For the most part, the stains washed off the metal with little effort. Satisfied that he had cleaned up a reasonable amount, he made his way on his journey.

When he reached the locked gate, two guards were standing on top of the walls. They called to him when he arrived.

"What business do you have north of Gestalt?" one of them asked.

Donovan lied. "I have just gotten off of duty, and I need to return home. My wife is likely to give birth at any time, and I need to be with her. It is our first child."

The guard, slightly puzzled due to Donovan's apparent age, always trusted another Protectorate soldier. "Raise the gate, let's get this father-to-be home."

As he passed through the iron bars and wooden walls of the northern gate, he viewed the great dark expanse ahead of him. He had never been outside of the city walls by himself, let alone on a night such as this. A slight chill ran up his spine.

The guard behind him closed the gate with a clang, and reset the large wooden barricade back into its place. He then returned to the top of the wall.

As Donovan made his way down the moonlit path in a quick jog, the main gate guard spoke. "I hope it's a boy!"

Following the herbalist's directions, he easily found Bella's pig farm. The farm was bordered by a dense forest on its northeastern side. Several wooden pens contained a few hundred pigs. The smell from their waste made the air dense and foul.

It had been a few weeks since he had seen her last, and he missed her incredibly. He missed both her company and her smile. As he made his way up to the main farmhouse, the noisy grunting of a group of pigs in one of the attached yards could be heard.

He didn't quite know how he was going to re-introduce himself. Should he go up to the front door and ask for assistance, or should he lay low and survey the situation? Not knowing what to expect, he chose the latter and stealthily made his way towards the southern wall of the building. He found it quite easy to move without being noticed due to the rustling of the pigs.

The farmhouse was of an average size and looked very old. The wooden beams that made up its walls looked very weathered and large seams appeared in each board. A thin straw roof spanned the entire structure. A single window was located on each of its walls, and a bright yellow glow emanated from them. Inside, he could hear the voices of a number of people.

He perched himself behind a solid wooden fence only a few paces away from the southern wall. From this vantage he could easily see into the home's southern window.

The first view he got was that of Bella. She was wearing a plain white dress, and a brown apron covered with patches of flour. Her hair was loose, and she was singing. It was a soft sounding tune, almost like a lullaby. It looked like she was in the kitchen, and in the process of cooking. She continued to hum as she went about her way.

Pleasant feelings began to warm Donovan's heart. He almost forgot what had happened on this evening. His entire emotions focused on the girl in the window. He wished desperately to talk with her.

Laughter from a child could be heard from within the home. Donovan then saw a very small girl tug at Bella's apron. Bella smiled, and hoisted the little girl up into her arms. With a bit of flour, she touched the tip of girl's nose. A white spot appeared on it, and then the tiny girl sneezed. Bella let out a great laugh that echoed through the night.

Another voice could be heard, this time of a deep voiced man. Into the kitchen walked a plump figure wearing muddy work clothes. He looked much older than Donovan, his chin thick and belly huge. The man walked up to Bella and the girl in her hands.

The three members within the home joined together in a great big hug, with each wrapping their arms around the other. The large man first kissed the little girl upon her forehead, and then turned to kiss Bella on her lips. Bella began to blush.

Fire began to spread through Donovan's body. His heart raced and his brow became hot. He found it hard to breathe, and began to choke upon the cold night air.

The warrior quickly ran away from the home into the nearby forest. Once a few hundred paces in, he knelt down onto the woody underbrush. Leaves and trigs crackled beneath him. Still finding it difficult to breathe, he began to hyperventilate. Tears flowed from his eyes and spit drained from his mouth.

Donovan felt stupid and unloved. "Of course she was married. How else would a woman like her go unclaimed? How could I have not seen it? Was I blinded?

"Of course I was blinded! I am a disfigured abomination. Who could stand to live with my monstrous form! Certainly not her!"

Just then, he remembered the bottle of liquid the herbalist had handed him. He hastily pulled it from his purse, and popped the cork. A heavy vapor lifted from the bottle's neck. With one quick gulp he swallowed the potion.

It burned all the way down his throat; just like the sensation of pure alcohol. He could feel his nostrils flare, and his head become light. Within seconds of drinking he could sense all of his extremities numbing.

With a great cry that echoed through the forest, he collapsed onto the forest's floor. There he lay weeping, moaning in pain. The numbing sensation proceeded to increase throughout his entire body. It continued to grow until Donovan could feel nothing at all.

Chapter 8

2004-11-13T20:40:00.000-07:00

After the attack on the city, dissidence had begun to swell within the townsfolk. As with any crisis, fear begins to creep into the minds of the people. Many villagers lost loved ones as well as home and property during the skirmish. This fear coupled with loss caused some within the town of Gestalt to hold the Church accountable for the chaotic attack. They blamed the parish for not protecting them from the terrible anguish that they had been afflicted with.

A few unorganized attacks on the Church parish had been prevented with little trouble. One father, who was drunk from a night spent at the local tavern drowning his pain away, had tried haphazardly to set fire to the warrior domiciles. The arson attempt had been easily thwarted by the Protectorate and the man was counseled for his actions.

Another elderly grandmother who had lost two sons during the battle had thrown some stones at the priests during a Church service. Several of them received bruises and gashes from the attack. She was apprehended and spent a few days within the city jail.

The parish realizing the possible dilemma of revolt posted a small amount of guard around the church grounds as protection. One of the guard members given this task was the crippled Donovan.

It had been just a short while since he was last in the Church hospital, so the stitches that traced his front were still in place. His mood had not improved over the time since the battle, and instead he spent each day solemn and emotionless. In order to keep himself from falling apart, he pushed the painful memories that initially consumed his every thought into the back of his mind. His duties for the Church were his only escape.

He was stationed at the base of a large stone tower which housed members of the upper parish; including the high priest Darria. It had four levels, contained fifteen lavish bedrooms, had a small kitchen, and inside the third floor was a single room meant for private meetings. The entrance that Donovan was posted at was the main entry for the building. There was a medium-sized, double door that led into the central hallway of the tower. Another smaller cellar door behind the building led into the service area of the kitchen.

The upper sage domicile was located in the southern part of the Church grounds. It was separate from the other main buildings, and a single small oak had grown on the eastern side of the tower. Several windows and the occasional balcony looked out from the rooms on each floor.

The sun said its goodbyes to Gestalt and disappeared into the horizon. The once amber sky began to turn purple and black. The moon came out of hiding and shone brightly above the grounds of the Church. A few scattered wisps of clouds hung in the sky. A slight breeze drifted around the sage's tower.

Donovan stood at his post located at the main doors; clad in the traditional thin Protectorate iron armor. While looking out into the expanse of the Church courtyard, his eyes glazed over. Donovan was serious about his commitment to the holy order, but he believed his current duty was pointless and mundane. "Who would bother coming this deep into the Church grounds looking to pick a fight at this hour? And why was a great warrior such as himself given such a useless task?" He quietly argued with himself within his mind, still standing stoic as the single guard for this tower.

The hours seemed to pass slowly as they always did when Donovan was at his post. He didn't have the luxury of another guard member to talk with. Besides, because of his injury most of those within the Holy Protectorate had a hard time looking at him at all. The gruesomeness of his wound made those around him quite uncomfortable. He often cursed and wished that he would have rather lost an arm or a leg than to be disfigured in the manner that he was.

He constantly battled with his emotions whenever he was alone. He had to continually remind himself that he had a job to do, and worrying about what might and could have been was meaningless. He was where he was at, and he could not do a single thing to change it. On a regular basis, he told himself to just move forward.

Donovan leaned back against the stone wall next to the wooden doors. He tilted his head back a bit, and felt the stitches pull his skin taut. He looked up at the large moon hanging above the night sky. The warrior began whimsically tracing shapes within the shadows upon its great white face. He dreamt that there must be great canals and rivers upon its shimmering surface. While gazing at the celestial object, he saw faint movement out of the corner of his single eye.

The motion that he had seen instantly heightened his senses. He quickly raced to investigate further. He glanced up the great stone wall. Upon the wall about halfway up the tower, near the top of the second floor, was a figure clad in black. A faint outline of a man climbing the great tower appeared within his eye. Tiny flecks of stone showered down to the ground, presumably from the figure's climbing devices.

Donovan had to think quickly. He did not have a bow available and, unlike the figure above, he would unable to climb the great tower with any speed. He instead decided to use the building's stairs and meet the fiend at the end of his ascent.

He made a quick sprint for the main doors and flung them open. He raced inside, quickly climbing the great stone staircase located in the center of the tower. The sword tied to his back clanged noisily against his metal armor as he ascended. He assumed that the attacker would probably target the third floor meeting room. On evenings like this, several of the higher parish members would meet to discuss issues of the town.

After a few minutes, with little breath remaining he reached the doors to the meeting room. The door was closed due to the discussions inside. He tried to open the door at first, but the door was locked. He pounded his gauntleted fist against the wooden door, trying to get the attention of the occupants inside. When they did not answer, he stood away from the door, ran, and broke it down in a quick rush.

He crashed through the entry in time to see three darts flying through the air towards the table at his left. He turned to the balcony on his right and saw the figure in black standing in the doorway. Behind him he heard the sound of a body hitting the floor accompanied by frantic screaming.

With one quick motion he unhitched the sword from his back and advanced on the assassin. With no weapon to counter the sword of a Protectorate, the black figure attempted a retreat. It was a futile maneuver, as Donovan charged at the man with his sword pointed directly at the enemy. The warrior's broad sword skewered the assassin with just a few steps.

Donovan continued to charge the black figure and the assassin's body was flung over the balcony wall. The man screamed as he flew through the air down towards the ground below. His screaming ended when he reached the destination below with a large thump. The assassin's body landed in a contorted shape.

With the assassin disposed of, Donovan passed his sword into his left hand and turned his attention to the occupants of the meeting room.

When he turned around into the interior of the room, he saw three figures. Two of them sat at a large round wooden table, with the third writhing back and forth on the carpeted floor. He recognized all three men; each of them a great mage from within the Church. The high priest Darria sat to the far right of the table, and next to him was the elder sage Steirlen. They sat in large, thick wooden chairs which had intricate designs carved into them. On the floor crying in pain was the lesser priest, Ovembre.

"Ahhhh, save me! I'm dying. I surely will die!" howled Ovembre. Two of the three darts had landed along his torso. Blood flowed from the punctures.

Steirlen walked over to Ovembre, and kneeled next to him. "Calm down you fool," he said in a raspy voice.

Steirlen plucked the two darts from Ovembre's midsection. He then helped the lesser priest back into his chair.

"I will bleed to death! I already feel faint! It's only a matter of time! Ahhhh!" cried Ovembre.

"Eat the seed you buffoon. You will be fine," said the heavy voice of Darria.

It was at this moment that Donovan saw something he wasn't expecting to see within the tower on this evening. He saw the sage Steirlen hand Ovembre a whole Ifriit seed which he promptly chewed then swallowed.

The lesser priest began to convulse and spasm. His eyes turned white as they rolled into the back of his head. Magically the gushing wounds caused by the darts stopped bleeding. Where the skin had been cut, it no longer showed any signs of attack. Ovembre's body went calm, and then the priest seemed to pass out into a deep sleep.

"Was that the true power of an Ifriit seed?" Donovan thought. He had never personally seen the use of a full Ifriit seed. He was amazed at how quickly and thorough it had sealed the wounds of the injured priest. They most certainly were a heavenly gift from above.

The warrior's eyes scanned the rest of the area. In front of each chair sat a single glass goblet of wine. In the center of the sage's table sat an intricate glass bowl. Within its lavish designs sat two other Ifriit seeds, apparently ripe. "Why are there two more seeds?" he thought. "I thought they were only harvested when the need was dire."

Darria spoke, "Thank you for your services warrior, you may now leave."

The high priest paused. "You must also disregard what you have seen here. We cannot allow info regarding the events transpiring here during this meeting to leave this room."

Doubt began to seep into Donovan's mind. "Why did three high sages have three ripened Ifriit seeds? They had not expected an assassin attack, and why had they so calmly fed one of the precious seeds to a man without life threatening wounds? Had they planned to consume the seeds regardless of the evening's events? Why would they do that?"

These and other questions began to flood the warrior's mind. Before he could use logic to review his actions, he asked the trio a question. "Why do you have three full Ifriit seeds?"

Darria, obviously taken back by the warrior's question answered, "That is none of your concern warrior."

Anger joined Donovan's current inquisitive mood. "Weren't Ifriit seeds precious and rare? Then why were these priests apparently using them so liberally? They were a gift of Heaven and were not to be squandered!" Donovan's temper grew.

The warrior spoke again, "Couldn't the wounds of priest Ovembre been healed using traditional methods? Why so then did you give him a full Ifriit seed?"

Darria's demeanor also began to fill with anger. "As I said before, that is not for you to know young man. Leave us!"

Donovan was becoming very agitated. "If they used a seed to heal this lesser priest, couldn't they have healed many more of the wounded soldiers from the attack? A single drop or just a small sliver from a single seed could have saved many lives!"

His mind continued to race. "In fact, if they had these seeds available they could have saved… they could have saved Bettany! She could have easily been cured! Why then were they using these seeds now?"

Ovembre had begun to awaken from his sleep. As he came to, Donovan yelled at the trio of priests, "I demand to know why you have squandered these gifts from Heaven!"

Darria, sensing the ever increasing anger within the young warrior, motioned for his goblet. Using his right index finger, he traced the rim of the goblet once in a circular motion.

Donovan obviously upset from not receiving answers to his questions, shifted his sword into his right hand.

Darria quickly lifted his hand that was tracing the goblet and slammed his fist down onto the table's surface. Red wine from the glass sprayed into the air. Globules of red liquid hung in the air for a moment, then turned glassy. A red tinted bubble surrounded each of the priests. Glare from torches throughout the room shone on the protective transparent bubbles.

Something inside of Donovan snapped, and he attacked Darria with his sword.

Even though he swung the weapon forcibly, his blade was repulsed by the glassy shield above the priest. It bounced back into the air and a ringing sound echoed through the room.

Ovembre let out a yelp of terror and cringed in his seat. Steirlen began to laugh at the attack, and a slight smile began to grace Darria's face. The spell would easily protect them, and the two senior sages relaxed. Steirlen let out another laugh.

Donovan attacked the magic bubble again and the blow was deflected. The same ringing sound was heard. The sages continued to laugh at his futile attempts.

The warrior still fueled by his pent up anger, continued to lash out with his sword. Again and again he slammed his blade against the protective shields. With each attack his anger grew and grew.

His mind raged, "Why were they not answering my questions! And why did they feel the need to defend themselves from me!?!"

Donovan continued with his attempts. Sweat from his hair was beginning to pour down his head. His arms were becoming strained, and his hands were turning numb with each vibrating blow. The veins within his wrists were pulsing with furiously pumping blood. An enraged look lay upon his face: his teeth bearing, lips quivering, his eye wide, a snarled wrinkle in his nose. He grunted louder and louder with each blow.

The priests' laughter also grew. "Who was this feeble little warrior in thinking he could attack us? What did he think he would accomplish with these pathetic efforts?"

Donovan roared. He pulled his sword yet again into the air readying it for another blow. With all his might, he screamed and slammed the tip of the blade into the top of Darria's bubble. The sound that was heard was a dull ring.

Darria's laughter stopped and his eyes went wide. He heard a small cracking sound, and noticed a miniscule seam appear within the top of his bubble where the warrior had hit it. He began to pull himself back into his chair, retreating in fear.

With a massive growl at the top of his lungs, Donovan attacked the high priest's bubble with every bit of power he had remaining. The sword flew through the air in a reflective blur.

The glass bubble above Darria shattered. Pieces of thin red crystals exploded into the room. The high priest let out a scream.

Donovan's sword arced downwards towards his enemy, and embedded itself into the great wooden chair. The blade easily cut through the right shoulder of the mage sitting in it, and ended its journey just a few inches shy from his heart. Blood spewed forward towards Donovan in a great spray. His armor and face were painted with the fine red mist.

Steirlen, obviously caught off guard, quickly cast a spell. Grabbing a tiny glass marble from his purse, he threw it at the enraged warrior.

A great gust of wind hit the center of Donovan's chest. He lost his grip from the hilt of the great sword, and was flung into the air across the room towards the window. During his flight, his left foot was caught on the balcony's small wall and he fell down tumbling out of the tower. A thump similar to that of the assassin's landing mixed with the crumpling noise of iron armor was heard.

Darria sat stapled to his chair, quickly losing consciousness due to his blood loss. While Ovembre sat at the end of the table cowering, Steirlen made attempts to dislodge the bloodied sword from the priest's chair. With some effort the blade was pried loose, and more blood flew through the air. Darria slumped over in his seat.

Steirlen grabbed one of the magical Ifriit seeds from the glass bowl upon the table. He broke it open with his wrinkled fingers; juices from the fruit drizzled down his hand. The elder mage shoved the cracked seed directly into Darria's mouth. The high priest swallowed then convulsed; his eyes turned white similar to Ovembre's.

A few moments passed and Darria awoke. His body retched and he coughed up a small amount of mucus and blood. The wound that originally stretched from his shoulder to his heart had sealed up. His robes were bloody and torn, but the skin showed no sign of injury. He lifted his head, and a great scowl of outrage could be seen upon his face.

The great high priest let out an echoing yell that filled the room.

Continue to Chapter 8 - continued

Chapter 7 - continued

2004-11-12T01:08:00.000-07:00

"Hello young man. It's good to know that you survived," said the voice. The deep bass resonance of the words reverberated in Donovan's ears. The man's voice sounded tough, hardened, and very guttural.

The man, dressed in full Protectorate armor, introduced himself. "My name is Nox. I am a captain within the guard. I believe we might have met before." Captain Nox was easily past the midpoint of his life and his hair was graying along the edges. Upon his face was a long white mustache, and it trailed off his chiseled chin like two twin waterfalls. Several wrinkles could be seen around the corners around his eyes. Pock marks and other small spots of color dotted his sullen face.

"I am here to personally thank you for your services to the town. Your actions during the previous battle are to be commended like those of a hero. Your masterful attack that brought down the evil creature saved hundreds of lives. Both the lives of civilians and the lives of those in the Church were spared because of you. It is valiant warriors like yourself that make a good example for the other soldiers.

"Protect that which matters most at all costs. You live that mantra to the fullest my boy!"

Donovan lay there in his bed silent. He was most certainly awake, but he did not welcome this new visitor. Reminiscing about previous battles with a veteran captain was not something that he was in the mood to participate with on this day.

"As you can see around you, the Holy Protectorate has paid a high price for this victory. Many of your compatriots were either killed in battle, or they lay beside you in this hospital gravely injured. It is with good fortune that you were not harmed any further than you are. It is also lucky that you weren't killed from that explosion within the square for that matter."

Donovan gritted his teeth; not from pain, but from frustration. Images of the bakery being utterly destroyed ran through his mind. This discussion was not helping Donovan's morale in the slightest.

"Of course, with the loss of your eye you will not be able to serve the Church as you once had.

"It's a shame too. You were on your way to becoming a great warrior. The Protectorate most certainly need every well-bodied soldier we can get. Losing someone as yourself is a heavy blow."

A temper within the injured warrior grew. He thought to himself, "Was he now worthless with only the sight from his single eye remaining? Couldn't he still fight with the vigor of a raging bull should the need arise? Why was the loss of a single eye the death of his career?

"And what did he mean by 'on his way to becoming a great warrior'? Wasn't he already a great warrior? He had slain a great Pontia!" He continued to listen to the captain, the anger within him brewing.

"We still don't know quite what we're gonna do with you yet, but we will. We have to let you heal some more before we can determine where you would be of the best use for the Church. We have to see whether you are actually still fit to carry a sword, let alone swing one with any accuracy. I'm certain that you will be able, but we'll just have to wait and see.

"So get some rest my boy, the Protectorate needs you! Heal up and we'll talk again."

Without Donovan speaking a single word, the lopsided conversation was over. Captain Nox left Donovan's bedside and walked over to one of the other men sitting in a bed further down into the barracks. The wounded soldier had lost his entire right arm from the shoulder down. Large cotton bandages wrapped his upper torso; they were tinted a faint red, presumably from some bleeding that was still taking place underneath. Donovan could vaguely hear the captain talking, his speech strikingly similar to the one he had spoken to Donovan. Donovan's anger within him grew even further.

Donovan stayed in the hospital for several more weeks after his talk with Captain Nox. The warrior was plagued by ghoulish nightmares as he slept; nightmares that made him twist and turn in his bed, screaming. Sweat would bead down his face, and his hair would become drenched with perspiration.

Each time he had one of his nightly episodes, several of the threaded stitches along his body would break open. Fresh blood mixed with the glue-like sealant would stain his clothes and bed linen. Each broken stitch necessitated repair, a painful process requiring the use of a long iron needle. Each time his injury was mended, the length of time required to stay in the hospital recovering grew even longer. The skin around the wound also had to be pulled tighter and tighter with each procedure in attempts to seal the lesion. The physical pain as well as the mental anguish never dissipated.

The only uplifting hours of his days were when the nurse Bella would come to tend to him. Since most of the other non-gravely injured soldiers had been able to leave the hospital by this point, she was able to spend more of her time caring for Donovan. She consoled with the hurt warrior the best that she could, but most of her herbal remedies had little effect on the soldier.

One of the few things that did in fact help him forget the pain was her smile. It was because of her company and because of her smile that he began to look forward to her presence.

Since it had been over a month since he had seen the outside world, she would often talk about what she had experienced each day during her travels between her home and the church. She would describe the common red sparrows that congregated on building gutters, and how they would chirp and jump at each other when scavenging for food. She spoke of the different smells: first the sulphuric fumes of the blacksmith's forge, followed by the aromatic fragrances of the herbalist shop where they kept healing supplies. She retold tales of children playing in the street, chasing each other during games of tag. The joyous activities in the town outside, compared to the misery of this crudely constructed hospital, fed Donovan's will to get better.

She often offered Donovan cups of Ifriit leaf tea in futile attempts to calm his pain. Donovan still despised the bitter taste; but if it pleased her when he drank the putrid liquid, then drink it he did.

On more than one occasion, she had caught him staring deeply into her eyes as she recounted her daily travels. His single remaining eye did not blink and he did not shy away. This always made her cheeks blush a little and her smile would grow a bit wider.

One day, Bella did not return to the hospital. Donovan at this point was the sole resident still living within the reapportioned hospital barracks. An older parish member came and spoke with him on this morning.

He was told that with the new spring recruits arriving soon, Donovan would have to relocate back to his old barracks which he had occupied prior to the attack. The space that was being used for the Church hospital had to be transformed back into living quarters for the new students.

Donovan however was not yet fully healed. Within the past week, he had been able to get up and walk around the building, but he still wore the stitches along his front side. With the eviction, he would simply have to make due, possibly having a nurse remove them at a later date.

When he arrived back at his barracks of old, memories and thoughts flooded into his mind. No Protectorate members other than Captain Nox had come to see him while he lay in the hospital. With Sidney dead, he had no other friends within the Church that would have visited him. In fact, he did not really know whom he might be sharing his current quarters with, especially with all the deaths the Church had experienced.

The depression that had subsided due to Bella's presence bubbled to the surface. Reclining in his bed of old, tears began to flow from his right eye. At first it started as just a whimper, but progressively his fragile emotions grew into a steady cry. He rolled onto his side and curled up his body into a ball. He lay there, sobbing in his bed, completely and utterly miserable.

Continue to Chapter 8

Chapter 7

2004-11-11T01:37:00.000-07:00

Donovan woke from a long slumber. The world around him was nothing but a blur. He struggled to open his eyes, with only his right responding to his request. He winced as he tried to scan the room. His muscles ached as if they had not moved in months; his head throbbed with a constant pain. A fuzzy figure sat in a wooden chair to his right.

"Morning young sir. It is nice to see ya awake." The soft female voice paused. "We often wondered if you'd ever come out of yer sleep. How might ya be feelin' today?"

"Where am I?" said a gravelly voice coming from Donovan's dry throat.

"Yer in the Church hospital. We have converted one of the Church barracks into this place of healing that you 'appen to find yerself in. We've been tendin' to yer wounds. You got pretty beat up out there."

"How long have I been asleep?" As Donovan spoke, he attempted to sit up. Pain shot through his body, he gritted his teeth and let out a grunt that echoed through his skull. With the pain obviously showing on his face, he sat up in his bed.

"Careful! Careful sir. Yer wounds are still fresh. You don't want 'em openin' up again do ya?"

Donovan's vision cleared a bit more and he was able to get a better glimpse of the woman by his side.

She answered his previous question, "It has been two anda' half weeks since the battle. Several of yer partners didn't make it, and several of yer partners also litter the beds around you. Most of 'em are more worse off than yerself. At least ya still got all yer limbs!"

Donovan lifted his right hand towards his forehead. His fingers and hand were still a bit numb. Upon contact with his head, his fingers felt the distinct touch of threaded stitches upon his brow. Drawing his fingers downward along his face, he reached a large stitched area over his left eye.

"Ya, we're sorry 'bout that. Not much we could do other than remove it. It had been split in two by the blow. Out she had to come I'm afraid," said the nurse with a depressing tone.

He continued to scan the wound downward with his fingers. A continuous seam of stitches ran down from his forehead, through his left eye socket, around his left cheek, down his neck, and finally ended halfway down his left breast. The cut had been terribly deep, and the skin had to be pulled tight in order to seal the wound. Thick threads from the stitches ran in sloppy crisscross patterns down the wound. A sticky, glue-like substance had also been painted onto the strings. Its purpose was to help sterilize the injury and to contain the flesh within.

With his sensations slowly returning, the multitude of different pains within him became greater. He could feel the threaded stitches pulling tightly across his face. Each breath and each spoken word pulled the strings taut. When his remaining eye either blinked or moved, he could feel the muscles in his left twitch in an attempt to direct an optic which no longer existed.

Donovan could now more clearly see the healer by his side. She was not much older than himself, maybe a bit younger, and she appeared quite thin. She wore an exotic white sundress that widened with a fanciful flurry near her ankles. The dress was decorated with intricate sky blue patterns of connecting lace circles. Around her chest she wore a similarly designed satin vest of blue and white. Her brown hair was kept up in a ponytail with long strands of deep blue ribbon. Her eyes were a subtle forest green; her cheeks warm and rosy. As Donovan focused on each of the features of her face, he noticed that she wore a slight smile.

"What is your name?" Donovan asked.

"My full name is Isabelle Damascus, but my friends call me Bella. I work in the local herbalist's shop, right 'ere in town. I've come to 'elp with the wounded, yerself included. It's a shame what happened to ya poor fellas."

She paused; then asked a question. "Would ya like a drink? We have some special tea for ya."

The woman left to speak with another herbalist within the large room. Donovan could see that other injured soldiers lay in the beds around him, each of them wounded in a different way. He wondered just how many had died on the day of the attack, and how many ended up here. A moment later the nurse returned with a ceramic cup containing a steaming cup of dark tea.

"'Ere. Drink this. It'll help with the pain."

Donovan brought the drink up towards his mouth and dry lips. The scent was thick and aromatic. The vapors seemed to waft easily up into his nostrils. His head began to feel much more pleasant and more relaxed. He put the cup to his lips and drank. The hot liquid warmed his tongue.

The taste however was bitter, very bitter. In fact, it almost tasted putrid. No longer pleasant, he swallowed with a large gulp. His sense of taste seemed to disappear into a tingling numbness.

"Good job then. That'll make ya forget yer worries. It was a cup of dried Ifriit leaves by the way. Brewed directly from the plant of the Heavens. Amazing stuff it is. Can cheer up the saddest of folks."

For Donovan the tea was neither helping with his pain, nor was it combating a lingering depression that was growing inside of him. He slowly began to realize and remember what had occurred during the battle. Before he had much time to think about the events, the nurse spoke up again.

"Someone is 'ere and has been waitin' to see ya. I'm gonna go fetch 'im. Be back in a few minutes young sir."

The physical pain within him was slowly growing as time passed, almost becoming unbearable. He could feel his entire sections of his body retching in agony. His one good eye slowly rolled into the back of his head. Seconds later, he had fallen asleep due to the pain.

In his head, Donovan could see the town square. The sky was a dark grey; no shadows appeared upon the ground. A thick fog surrounded the immediate area. He lay face down upon the icy cold cobblestones of the square. The stones were so cold that it felt like they burned. He leaned back, raising his head in order to look around. He could clearly see the entire area with the use of both of his eyes.

In front of him a few paces away stood his sister Bettany; a much younger version of her at that. She was aged only five years and the familiar tiny yellow ribbons tied her hair into loose strands. She stood there motionless and was staring directly into Donovan's eyes. Her eyes were completely open, but tears flowed down her cheeks. Her lips were not quivering and she was not audibly crying.

A black shape slid into the space behind her.

She raised both of her arms towards Donovan, with her hands outstretched. It was as if she was attempting to plead for help from her older brother. He tried frantically to crawl upon the ground towards her, slipping upon the glassy stones.

Suddenly outside of his dream a gruff male voice spoke. His dream broken, Donovan lost the visions within his mind and was forced back into the real world. A pang of frustration and desperation ran through the back of his head.

Continue to Chapter 7 - continued

Chapter 6

2004-11-10T01:15:00.000-07:00

Near the western wall of Gestalt lay the largest forest of the area. It consisted of great tall pine trees that stretched high into the air. Dew still lay upon the leaves on this early morning, and a thick mist emanated from within its woody darkness. The air was chill from the cold.

Traditionally birds and other animals could be heard throughout the forest's canopy. Songbirds would call at each other from branch to branch. Small creatures would chirp and rustle leaves as they foraged for food.

Today, the forest was silent. Nothing inside of it could be heard making a single sound.

Out of the mist trudged two large demonic looking shadows. Their forms slowly staggered out of the forest, heading towards the great wooden walls of the town.

Most of the populace was just starting with their morning duties. Many were already at their work, and most children were still asleep in their beds. A few groggy guards stood half asleep at their posts on top of the northwestern gate.

A great thumping was then heard rumbling along the western perimeter. A slow booming sound repeated its resonance through the air, much like that of a battering ram.

A few guards that were patrolling inside of the city ran to the wall to investigate. The area in question was at the end of a long alley between several small houses. A numerous amount of homes bordered along the great wooden wall. Those still at home also turned their attention to the noise.

One of the soldiers yelled to the men at the nearby gate. "Wake up you worthless vagrants! What can you see?"

A large crack was heard, and the wall vibrated. Metal bracings used to hold together the large logs of the wall, popped loose. The bronze pins that once secured them in place fell to the ground. With no support, a portion of the wall about twenty logs wide crashed down into the street. It smashed into the backside of one of the nearby homes, tearing the entire house down. The house's walls splintered and collapsed.

From the rubble, and from over the fallen wall, crawled a large Pontian monstrosity. Easily taller than two men, the beast walked upon four multi-segmented legs that crackled with each step. Upon this base was a long snakelike neck which arched high into the air. Each section of its torso was covered with black pieces of heavily armored exoskeleton. The mirrored plates shone in the morning sun, reflecting the area around them. Between the armor, a soft reddish-black flesh pulsed with each breath. Upon its head sat a plate of similar armor from which two small cloudy white eyes peered out. The face plate was shaped similar to that of a human shield, but the top edges curved backwards into sharp points. A large sharp bridge ran along the center of the headpiece.

With its mouth of tiny sharp teeth slightly agape, it scanned around its current area making large swooping motions with its neck.

Behind the first creature, came a second. Built the same as first, this one had noticeable scratches and bite marks along its body. As the second Pontia crawled through the same opening, the first swung its head around and made to attack. The other scrambled a bit back, yelling a horrid scream at the first. Each seemed very fatigued and frustrated with the other. With a slow shamble, they both continued to make their way into the town.

An alarm had already been sounded within the city, and half of the Holy Protectorate within the town had converged around the village's new visitors. Donovan, Sidney, Marissa, and fifteen other full Church members stood at the ready. They carried weapons ranging from large spears, to bows, and the standard long swords. Civilians that had seen the madness fled quickly back to the protection of their homes. Older sages whom had just arrived to see the beasts firsthand called for a runner to fetch the high priest Darria. Obviously the situation was serious if he needed to be involved.

The mages were powerless to help at first as the tight quarters of this city district were too dangerous a location to use the more destructive projectile magics. They attempted to subdue the beasts with charms and sleep spells, but they proved ineffective as the Pontia still slowly surveyed their area.

Two Protectorate with long polearms at the ready, tried to flank the forward most beast. As one of them tried to stab into the beast's undercarriage, the monster had already retaliated at the second soldier. Raising one of its large clawlike legs it stabbed into the center of the guard's chest. Her armor was no match for the mandible, and her frail body collapsed under the weight of the puncture. The initial soldier's attack also failed, his weapon breaking upon contact with the metallic exoskeleton. With a quick juke of its neck, the Pontia slammed the body of the defenseless guard through a nearby stone wall.

A multitude of gasspin flew through the air, painting trails of dust as they flew. Cast by several of the Protectorate mages, they rocketed through the air directly at their targets. Each shard harmlessly shattered upon contact with the creatures' armored skin. A second volley of several small fireball spells also did not prove to cause much damage. Flame appeared to engulf the lower bodies of the beasts, but the creatures continued to press on with their armored legs only slightly smoldering. The Pontia continued their march through the newly created fires.

Marissa, holding a large long bow from a distance away, fired a single long shafted arrow at the head of the closest beast. The arrow followed the curvature of its headpiece, connecting with the left eye. The Pontia reeled back with a yell.

In desperation it rammed its head into the brick wall of a nearby home tearing the arrow, as well as its eye, out in the process. Black blood oozed from the wound. It bent its bloodied head towards the ground, pausing its advance. With the first beast retreating in pain, the second beast now moved up in front of its partner.

Sidney and two other guards engaged the foremost beast. They tried desperately to make swipes with their swords at its thin legs in attempt to cripple the creature. Sparks from metal hitting metal flew onto the street with each attack. Their blades were easily deflected by the legs' impenetrable armor.

With a quick hop forward into the air, it crushed two of the guards with its massive form. The monster then opened its large jaws and lunged at Sidney. Its large mouth grabbed a hold of Sidney's entire head with the quick attack. Sidney dropped his weapon and both of his arms went limp. With its jaw still clamped firmly onto Sidney's head, it threw its neck back in a circling arch. After quick bite during the movement, the soldier's headless body was flung over the wall. A distant thud could be heard. With a short swallow the Pontia paused for a moment then moved on.

As the disastrous fight continued, the monsters were slowly making their way from the dusty alleyway into the cobblestones of the main town square. Soldier after soldier fell, and the Protectorate kept pulling back.

The new location was much more open than the previous alleyway, and so the square lent itself to being a better battleground. Bigger and more powerful spells began to fly. At that time, the high priest Darria could be seen joining the defenders with their fight. He began to assess the situation with other sages.

An older mage chanted a few words that boomed through the square, and a blizzard of ice began to enwrap one of the creatures. The ground below it froze and ice began to appear beneath the beast on the stony floor. The monster's clawed legs could not support itself upon the icy road and slipped. Its large frame toppled over onto its back, temporarily stunned.

Several church warriors immediately pounced on the beast. Their swords pierced into the soft hide found between its chinked armor. It howled in pain unable to defend itself. Thick, black blood began to ooze onto the cobblestones.

One of the larger soldiers approached the beast carrying a huge war hammer. With a struggle he lifted his weapon high into the air. A quick grunt later and the hammer sped down towards the ground. It easily crushed the black exoskeleton of the fallen Pontia's flailing neck. The armored plates seemed to shatter and the monster's esophagus deflated of life. The warriors continued to hack at the beaten monster.

One monster still remained, and it appeared more enraged with the loss of its partner.

The angry Pontia charged into a mass of about ten Protectorate who were stationed in front of some city shops. Both warriors and mages were included in this group. The beast attacked viciously with its mighty jaws and long neck. Men and women were flung left and right; wizards were torn into pieces. Broken bodies quickly littered the area where the defenders had previously stood. The Pontia twisted its neck and head to face towards the rest of the soldiers behind it. Blood dripped from the monster's open jaws. A look of satisfaction was upon its single remaining eye.

Darria spoke several rustic words while clasping his hands. The wizard's fingers became transparent for a moment and then they returned to their original state. He pointed at Donovan's long broadsword that was within the warrior's hands. A golden glow began to emanate from the weapon, starting at the hilt of his blade and running towards the tip.

"Quick!" Darria yelled. "Attack while the blade is still enchanted!"

Donovan and two other guards ran towards the remaining beast.

Before he could make his attack, the monster had hit him square in the chest with the broad side of its head. With his arms crossed to absorb the blow, he slid upon the ground into a shop wall. The shop that he had settled against was that of his parent's bakery. They evidently were either still inside making that day's bread or watching the events outside unfold. The glow upon his sword began to fade.

The compatriots that had joined Donovan with the last charge were desperately trying to defend themselves from the Pontia's attacks. The monster had moved to pin them against another wall. With its advance on the soldiers, it turned its back to the young warrior. One of the soldiers lunged at the lower portion of the creature's neck and the beast retreated a step.

Donovan with his sword at his side began a quick sprint towards the beast several paces away. As he reached the monster's backside, he laid down on the slippery stones of the town square. With the momentum that he had gathered, the warrior slid underneath the creature's massive undercarriage. When he re-appeared on the other side of the beast, he quickly knelt and shifted his sword behind his back. As the warrior rose up with his back to the beast, he flung the golden sword over his head. The upward stroke sliced through the center of the armor plates protecting the monster's neck. They split wide open with the forceful blow. The flesh inside flayed out in a large puffy mass; now no longer compressed by the hard exoskeleton.

The monster froze for a moment, and a multitude of gasspin again flew through the air. Now exposed, each of the gasspin penetrated deeply into the billowy flesh. The hundreds of shards had been cast so quickly that the beast was unable make a single cry of pain. The force of the blows knocked the beast over; its head and neck unfurling as they hit the ground.

As the remaining guards charged at the beast to continue their attack, shuddering could be seen within the midsection of the dead Pontian monster's neck. A mass began to form, a mass much larger than what the neck could withhold. It began to move and pulse.

Several guards yelled in unison at the top of their lungs, "Infection!"

Gasps could be heard throughout the crowd.

The neck continued to shake, and then finally the mass exited the fallen monster's mouth. It flew high into the air with great force. The flying object took the form of a medium black ball of tar-like material. Hundreds of tiny arms and legs stuck out, each writhing around chaotically. The demonic limbs flailed in the air, grabbing and stretching into the sky.

The infection form Pontia continued to fly through the air until its flight ended with a crash through a window. The window it had penetrated belonged to that of Donovan's parents. Glass shattered and fell to the ground along the bakery's northern wall. Immediately screams of desperation and panic could be heard from inside. Donovan went white with terror.

Darria had recognized the new threat once it had begun forming in the neck and had already begun to cast a spell. Reaching into one of his satchels, he pul led from it a spool of thick blue thread. With the end of the thread in hand, he drew a circle in the air in front of him. The coarse thread hung in the air magically as he drew. Once the circle was complete, he placed his open right hand, palm up, into the floating shape. He then curled his fingers, and clasped the hand tightly. In one quick motion he pulled his clutched fist out of the circle.

A rumble could be heard far into the distance. From the horizon raced a huge bulbous mass at tremendous speeds. From the silhouette, it appeared that the mass was a large chunk of rock. The massive object had been torn from a nearby mountain, and it hurtled towards their current position.

Once Donovan had seen the infection form break into his family's home, he dropped his weapon and raced to help. If he got there fast enough, he could evacuate them without the infection spreading. With deep heavy breaths and great long strides, he sped towards his home of old. He prayed that he would reach them in time. He would be able to save them he thought. He must.

His sister, Bettany, opened the front door of the shop and began to flee. She stretched her arms in front of her as she ran; her hair billowed frantically behind her. Tears flowed down her face, and frightful cries bellowed from her small form.

Darria's attack had begun to pick up speed from its long journey. The mass was getting closer and closer, glowing red hot from the sheer velocity. It was obvious that the planned target was the bakery, and he hoped to completely destroy the infection with a great blast.

Donovan was still racing to get to his home, and Bettany was still fleeing the scene of terror. As both siblings were but a few steps from each other, the mass of rock came crashing down into the bakery. The walls were instantly transformed into tiny splinters; the ground beneath it cracked and smoldered. Tall flickers of flame shot into the air around the impact site.

Both brother and sister were flung into the air from the force of the attack. Bettany's tiny body fell, rolling multiple times on the ground. She lay crumpled upon the square's cobblestones, her hair frayed along the ground. The flames had caught her clothes on fire, and they continued to slowly burn. She struggled to breathe, albeit barely.

As Donovan flew, time seemed to slow down and he could easily see his quickly approaching destination. A fallen Protectorate sword lay uprooted, its hilt jammed into some broken cobblestones, its blade rising into the air. He tried to roll and avoid the weapon, but was unsuccessful in his attempt.

The sharp edge of steel impacted onto his face with massive force. His body slid up the weapon, cutting a deep groove from his forehead, through his left eye, and down into his chest through his thin iron armor. He tumbled off of the blade back onto the ground. Blood gushed from the large wound. He did not cry in pain.

The blast had also sent his parents flying into the square. However, they did not appear as they once had. The infection had worked quickly, and both of their forms were deformed and twisted. Underneath their tattered and burned dressings, both their arms and legs were abnormally long. The once human hands and feet were enlarged and clawlike. Their jaws had become unhinged, and their eyes had sunken deep into their skulls. Their skin was a disgusting tint of midnight black. They lay twitching on the ground, tongues and limbs flailing.

Donovan struggled to pick himself up. He could barely see with his right eye, and blood from his giant wound had begun to flow down his face into it. He still had not yet made a sound of pain.

He could see Darria standing over his mother. The priest began to chant with a bellowed voice, his hands moving in rapid motions above her. The body became motionless and slowly rose a few inches from the ground. To Donovan's disgust and horror, his mother's skin began to bubble and tear. It started to burn away, turning into a thick black smoke on the air. The muscles followed suit, then accompanied by her bones. Her skeleton quickly decayed into dust, and all that was left was a faint glowing blue mass. The mass, half the size of the destroyed body, hung in the air for a moment. With another few words from the priest, the ghostly mass turned into vapor and disappeared.

Darria next walked over to Donovan's father still twitching upon the ground. He performed the same ritual, and a similar blue mass floated in the air. The mass shuddered then dissipated.

Donovan, cringing, began to crawl towards his little sister lying upon the stones of the town square. The flames on her clothing had cooled, but the skin on her right side had been badly burned. Darria appeared above both of them.

"Please. You must save her!" Donovan cried. "Retrieve an Ifriit and she can be saved! She has not yet been infected! Please!"

Darria replied. "An Ifriit seed is far too valuable for this. Besides, it is quite obvious that she was in contact with the infection form. It is only a matter of time before she succumbs to it. We must exorcise it before it can reproduce."

Donovan clutched at the high priests robes, and pleaded again. "She must be saved! She is but a child! Just a child! Save her!"

Darria called for other guard members to remove Donovan from the square. Badly beaten, blood still oozing from his wound, he fought against the holds of the guards. He cried out for help to the high priest and to those others found in the square. No one moved or said a word.

As he had before, Darria began to chant above the little girl's body. The tiny body floated above the ground and then soon began its transformation into nothingness. Instead of the blue vapor that remained like that of his parents, the mass was instead a bright orange.

Darria did not finish the second part of the ritual. The aggregate of amber vapors began to rise into the air. It continued to lift itself higher and higher to the heavens, until it finally disappeared.

Before succumbing to his injuries and the massive amount of blood loss, he heard the voice of the great high priest Darria.

"Hrm, it appears that she was uninfected after all." He paused. "A pity."

Continue to Chapter 7

Chapter 5

2004-11-08T01:12:00.000-07:00

Another six months had passed since Donovan and his party had the encounter with the catlike Pontia. Many smaller battles had come and gone during that time, and almost all of them dealt with a human element: thieves, murderers, and the occasional drunken riot.

These were simple adversaries. They did not pose a tremendous danger, and these enemies could be captured and possibly rehabilitated. Not all of them needed to be wiped clean from the world.

He had visited his home numerous times over the course of this time. He and his parents had long discussions about his calling in life.

His mother and father would reassure him that the correct path was that outlined by God and the Heavens. He was doing the world a service; doing his faith a service.

His sister, who still worked in the bakery, would occasionally chime in with her thoughts. They would cheer him up a bit, but they still were just the thoughts of a small child. He still often wished that he had stayed as a baker and continued the family's craft.

Today was another lesson about magic from the academy. Donovan, while proficient with the most basic of spells, did not excel at the mystic arts. For example he could calm the frantic mind or he could enchant his sword with a pulse of holy energy, but he struggled, often getting terribly frustrated, when trying his hand at new magic.

The class today consisted of himself, a few older pupils, and two fresh recruits from this past spring. The magic trainer for the day was an older male mage called Tournee. He wore a short white beard, and a long curled mustache. He had been with the Church for the past three decades, mostly holding sermons and performing marriages. Almost every member of a parish taught lessons as some point during their career, and Tournee was familiar with some advanced projectile spells.

They were going to practice tossing crystal like shards called gasspin. Gasspin were created via a mixture of bonemeal and a short chant. Several gasspin could be cast in succession, pinning or penetrating whatever you focused on. The shards would either shatter upon impact, or transform back into dust shortly thereafter. A handful of bonemeal and the proper technique could create about seven deadly shards for experienced wizards.

Training dummies made of timber and covered with straw could be found scattered at different lengths along the practice field. Representing human targets, numerous cuts and marks littered each of them from years of training. Each looked terribly ragged, and appeared like they might break and fall over if hit with a strong enough force.

Tournee did not like long speeches about casting spells. He preferred a long drawn out sermon, but as far as he was concerned magic was something inert inside of you. You either knew the spell immediately via seeing it by example, or you did not know it all. Using some meal he had in a small pouch, he generated a single gasspin shard which rocketed towards a training dummy. It stuck into the upper body of the mannequin with a quiet thump. After a quick instruction in the correct verbiage and hand gesture, he told each student to gather a small amount of bonemeal in their hand. A large sack full of the substance lay at the entrance to the field.

The older students easily and quickly performed the spell. Each successfully created a single shard, which flew straight and true to its target. One of the younger pupils also successfully performed the spell.

Donovan struggled for several minutes to create a shard. After speaking the quick chant, the powder in his hand would quiver a little then stop moving. On a second try, tiny transparent crystals appeared in the meal, but nothing resembling the desired shard.

He was beginning to get angry. He walked back over to the sack of meal to replenish his supply, and attempted to motivate himself. He envisioned the gasspin in his hand, and argued with the imaginary shard to move to its target. In his mind, the crystal dagger flew perfectly out of his hand.

He said the chant aloud again, and the sand in his hand failed to move. He clenched his teeth, grinding them back and forth. His cheeks were noticeably becoming red with embarrassment. He could feel a warming sensation climbing up his back through his spine and up into his ears. He was almost on the verge of shouting.

He attempted this time, clearly focusing on the task at hand. The powder quickly formed into a trio of long shards shaped like crude daggers. With the force of a gale wind, one after the other launched forth from his outstretched hand. One by one they slammed into the body of a dummy at a mid-distance into the field. When the third gasspin struck, a cracking noise could be heard and the mannequin toppled over. The support beam had been split by the force of the spell.

Tournee was taken by surprise by the force of the blow and called for the other students to stop with their chants. He walked out into the target area, motioning for Donovan to follow. When they reached the dummy on the ground, each stared at the gasspin embedded in the dummy. The first crystal shard had shattered on impact; several fragments remained embedded in the grains of wood. The second had hit the chest and deeply sunken itself midway into the target. The third and final gasspin shard had hit the head of the dummy directly in its middle. The final crystal had a purple hue that shone in the morning light; a webbing of spiderlike fractures peppered its interior.

"Good work young man," Tournee chimed in. "With focus, you were able to let the spell flow out of you. As you can see by calling upon the Heavens to heed your words, they have blessed you with a weapon that has flown straight and true. The magic obeyed your commands and to the best of its ability destroyed your enemy according to your wishes."

Donovan felt uplifted by this. He had succeeded just where he thought he would fail. His faith had performed for him: guiding his thoughts and the actions of the shards. With a smile, he walked back down the field towards the other students.

His mood greatly improved after the session. He no longer looked like his usual downtrodden self during his studies. He again saw purpose in the lessons that he was learning. Spells seemed to come to him more easily now; his fighting motions much more honed. Even Sidney noticed a considerable difference in the demeanor of his friend.

Continue to Chapter 6

Chapter 4 - continued

2004-11-07T21:48:00.000-07:00

The party did not have the luxurious benefit of a full Ifriit seed for this side mission. Ifriit, in addition to being rare, were not handed out liberally to groups assigned simple guard duty. However, they did have the standard pouches of dried Ifriit essence carried by every Protectorate member.

Once harvested, an Ifriit seed could be kept fresh and potent for a maximum of fourteen days. After that time, the seed would begin to wilt and decay losing its magical properties. Properly dried however, and a less potent sand-like powder could be crafted from expired seeds. Not strong enough to cause physical harm to Pontian beasts, it was instead used to destroy the carcasses of the defeated monsters.

As they began their march towards the farmhouse, Marissa pulled from her satchel a small object about the size of a pea. She broke it open with her fingers, and what looked like fine powder glistened in her hand. She rubbed this newly freed magical dust between her thumb and forefinger. She spread the powder onto her cheeks just below her eyes. The dust glittered in the afternoon sunlight like specks of silver. Donovan had never seen this before. With the dust sparkling upon her face, she almost looked angelic. She squinted, looked into the distant farmhouse more than a league away, and then began to speak.

"The Pontia appears to have already had its way with the woman's husband. It is feeding from his remains near the home as we speak. It is a medium sized beast, unlike any I have ever personally encountered. It looks as though it walks upon all fours.

"We should use caution. We do not know how this beast will react to our presence. Follow my lead, and we will find the best manner of defeating it. Do not attack unless attacked."

The farmhouse was a small structure, with a separate larger barn a small distance away. A fenced in area made from thin wooden stakes, meant to contain cattle, was attached to the home. The wooden walls of the rustic house looked very aged, and a dry thatched roof could be seen resting on top of them. Two open-air windows could be seen cut into the wooden wall planks. A stone fireplace made from large river rock reached towards the sky from the center of the structure. Smoke from a lit fire rose from the top of the chimney. Upon the southern wall, a beastly mass could be seen moving.

As they got closer to the building, Donovan could begin to see the beast for himself. Almost catlike in form, even in its hunched over state it could easily be as tall as a small mule. It stood over a body eating, its skin a slimy transparent black with its musculature visible in the sun. The spine of the beast consisted of flat bladelike vertebrae that stretched through its skin in spots like spines. The ribcage was quite large and breathing heavily; its undercarriage tapered into a very small waist and hindquarters. Its four limbs looked overextended, thin with large forearm muscles. Its four paws were huge and displayed long claws similar to sharp knives. The Pontia had its back turned towards the group, so they could not yet get a good view of the head. The beast continued to tear and gorge itself from its prey upon the ground.

As they approached, without much forethought the veteran guard member of the group made for a full run at the beast. His large blade at the ready, the hilt at his shoulder, the tip facing towards the beast: he charged.

The beast lifted, and turned to see the warrior on his approach. Thick drool dyed with the color of flesh dripped in large blobs from its gaping maw. It had soulless white grey eyes. Its jaw had two large incisors that stuck out past its quivering lips. Its nose, appearing caved it, took in a few quick audible breaths.

The guard took a full swing at the monster. The beast, now engaging its adversary took a step back.

The blade missed the midsection of the Pontia, and the guard spun to his left due to the force of his attack. With a quick pounce, the beast rammed its head and clamped jaw into the back of the guard. An echo of metal being crumpled mixed with the sound of bones being crushed could be heard. The guard flew forward down upon the sandy ground. He lay there, silently screaming, his eyes frantically looking back in forth in an attempt to move his body.

Marissa made a slight sigh of disgust at the guard's stupidity and engaged the Pontia. Making quick hand motions in the air she produced a cloud of dirt and rock that quickly jetted towards the beast. The monster hopped to the right, dodging the magical blow. It then charged forward in a direct path for the wizard.

When the beast was upon her she leaned, arching her back, and kicked the beast hard with her right boot. The Pontia reeled back; blackish blood leapt into the air. Continuing with the blow, she flipped backwards upon the ground just as a limber circus performer would perform an acrobatic roll.

While the beast was still dazed from the kick, she knelt then rose for an attack. With her right arm extended, fist clenched, and wrist bent back she forcefully planted the palm of her hand directly underneath the creature's skull. The maneuver cracked the jaw of beast and more blood splattered into the air. The attack caused the beast to fall back into the wooden walls of the farmhouse.

The Pontia momentarily propped itself against the wall, beaten but not dead. Donovan raised his long sword and leapt forward. With a quick swing of his blade, Donovan lopped off its lower right leg right above a joint. A horrible bloodcurdling howl could be heard, and the beast fell onto its front legs, its chest crushing into the dirt. Donovan stepped back, readying his sword for another attack.

Without even taking a heartbeat to rest, the beast had dug its front paws into the soft ground and threw itself forward towards Marissa. Before the stampeding beast could again engage the female mage, Sidney came charging into the beast.

With his full weight he slammed his armored shoulder into the broad side of the advancing Pontia. It flew into the air and crashed through the home's southern wall. Broken boards were flung inside of the home, and the creature's flight ended when it hit the center stone chimney with a thud. A light cry of pain and helplessness came from within its badly trampled body.

Entering the house through the newly created door, Donovan attacked again. With another strike from his sword, Donovan had successfully removed the Pontia's head from its torso.

The remainder of its headless body writhed and twitched upon the ground. Donovan removed some dried Ifriit sand from his purse, and tossed it upon the beast's body. A quick green flame appeared to consume the skin and flesh of the monster. After a few seconds, all that remained of the evil beast were some splatters of blood that drenched the hay covered floor.

Donovan then went about looking for whatever was left of the woman's husband in the field. Very little other than his clothes remained. Satisfied that nothing was left to attract other Pontia, he returned back to the house.

His party was congregating around the veteran laying in the dirt. A large dent could be seen in the backside of his armor, and a small amount of blood had puddled around the wound. His eyes darted back and fort inside of his motionless skull, still wide and dilated from the pain. He was unable to make a sound, and unable to move even the slightest finger. Soon, he would be unable to breathe due to the paralysis and his heart would finally fail.

To help soothe his eventual suffocation, Marissa lifted his arm and placed a kiss on upon the back of his right hand. The veteran's eyes lost the will to move, and his eyelids slowly shut. Sleep fell over the warrior.

Several minutes passed and the soldier's body shuttered for a few moments. Following the spasms, the distinct sound of his lungs fully emptying could be heard. All three bowed their heads and said a few murmured words.

The policy of the Church, and the current state of the world, was to leave no dead. Pontian creatures were strongly attracted to the bodies of those whom no longer existed on this plane. Even those dead for centuries within a grave could possibly be sought out by Pontia.

Many of those belonging to the Pontian race consisted of the undead; and undead monstrosities were the most fearsome of enemies. Fighting corrupted versions of your ancestors could lead to disastrous events on the battlefield. For this reason, long ago all cemeteries and tombs had been emptied of their ancient occupants. Thousands of bodies were burned in great fires; burned until no traces of the corpses ever existed.

This same fate was due for the fallen warrior. Marissa removed the staff strapped to her back, and held it perpendicular to the soldier's body with both of her hands.

She passed the staff across the length of the body upon the ground. Sparks could be seen flickering inside of his armor. Quickly afterwards the dead warrior was engulfed in full flame. With remorse in their eyes, they left the farmhouse and headed back towards the road. Smoke created by the burning body wafted through the air.

They met back up with the caravan and the old woman. Having done their duty, they prepared to continue on their journey with the caravan.

With them not being able to further assist the farmer's wife, the party said their condolences to the newly created widow and pressed on towards Solitude. As they left, the devastated woman continued to weep in the middle of the road.

Seconds after they had left, a light thump was heard. The woman had curled up into a fetal position upon the dusty path and continued to moan in pain. When the caravan had passed a nearby hill, her cries of agony still echoed through the plains.

Once near the outskirts of Solitude, Marissa spoke to the two teenage church soldiers about their competency during the battle against the Pontia. She praised them for their intelligent tactics and skillful attacks.

Neither was ready or willing to accept the praise.

Yes, a creature of evil had been rid from this world. Yes, the farmhouse and cattle were now temporarily safe. And yes, the woman could continue with her life.

But when one has lost the love of their entire life, how does one keep living? Is it even worth continuing when your very home is stained with death? Death would hang over that farm for many generations.

Furthermore, they had lost a man of the Cloth during the skirmish. Had the Church really won? Evil had been reduced that day, but so had the forces of good. Was it really worth the consequences and the cost?

When they successfully entered the gates of Solitude, neither Sidney nor Donovan were interested in exploring the great city. Neither had interest in the wonders of the grand town and its many exotic experiences. They instead went directly to the local chapterhouse with the rest of the party. They slowly awaited the arrival of the following morning so that they may return to Gestalt.

It would be a long evening filled with pain and regret. Donovan, although victorious for the day, was unsure of his chosen path. He tossed and turned as he slept, wondering if he had made the right decision by joining the Church. Was the Holy Protectorate really his calling?

Continue to Chapter 5

Chapter 4

2004-11-06T01:02:00.000-07:00

It had been six long years since young Donovan had joined up with the Church order. The young man, now sixteen, was much different than his younger self. He had grown much taller, and his build had increased threefold. Once a scrawny little boy he now had broad shoulders, large forearms, and an indispensable amount of knowledge. He looked quite formidable in his armor, and didn't have the walk and stagger of a traditional carefree sixteen year old. He still had small burgundy freckles upon his face, but they were a bit more faded than when he was just a child. He still kept his autumnal hair short and messy, but it was a bit longer in the back.

He knew some basic spells, but more importantly he was turning into a skilled warrior. His fighting style was not only proficient, but also quite vicious. During exercises he did not let up, strongly desiring to be the victor. He attacked his foes with extreme vigor, using all of his might to its fullest. In addition to this, a temper had begun to brew within the young man, which showed from time to time in loud outbursts of frustration.

The life of a young Church trainee was devoted solely to the teachings of the Cloth up until the age of sixteen. After that age, the occasional mission would be part of his or her weekly list of duties. These missions usually were the simpler and less dangerous of the Holy Protectorate tasks. Caravan support, scouting missions, and interior town guard detail were all examples of these kinds of missions.

At this age, they began to wear a lower class of metallic armor for their guard detail as well. Donovan seemed to prefer the thin iron armor he now wore compared to his leather suit of old. It felt lighter than the training suit and seemed to handle much more punishment when the need arose. Having a functional helm was a bonus as well.

This week's task was to help guard a family which was moving from the city of Gestalt to the larger city of Solitude to the south. Donovan had never been able to visit any other city other than his hometown and was excited to see what Solitude might have to offer. He had read in the Church library that the population of Solitude was much richer than that of Gestalt. Large extravagant estates overtook entire town districts, and luxury items such as foreign fruits and exotic baubles could be found in the local shops. He had also heard from the older guardsmen that the women of Solitude were quite beautiful in their own right.

Accompanying the caravan was a party of five Protectorate members. In addition to Donovan, his friend Sidney and two older warrior guardsmen were given the same protection duty. The final member of the party was a female mage in her mid-twenties. Named Marissa, she had been part of the Church since she was but age five. Being an orphan of a union between a guardsman and his wife, she had been automatically entrusted to the care of the Church by law after her parents' deaths.

Marissa being a mage, had similar features to those of her class. Quite plain looking, her skin was a pale pink, mostly from all the time spent indoors studying mystic books. Her hair was dark black, which she kept trimmed very short but never tied up. Small strands of hair draped her face like wet icicles. Her eyes were a piercing golden brown with distinct jet black eyebrows above them. Her lips were very thin and she always had a pensive look to her demeanor. She wore a sorrowful expression upon her face almost every day, and a few wrinkles could be seen upon her face due to the intensity of emotions involved with her craft.

Her wardrobe also differed from that of her warrior party members. She wore long white satin pantaloons that billowed out at the bottom. Around these pantaloons, a thin spiraled strip of heavy leather loosely wound up each leg from her ankles to her belt. She wore a soft blue woolen vest upon a long golden shirt that stuck out below the vest. Her arms were bare, and under her pantaloons she wore tall leather boots with heavy soles. Marissa's weapon of choice was a staff about four feet long that she kept tied to her back. It was made from a gnarled strip of pine, and was also wrapped with a spiraling strip of leather similar to her legs.

Since she was the senior member of the party for this mission, she took the lead in assigning duties to the others. The family that was moving between towns had packed up two horse drawn wagons worth of belongings, and all six members climbed aboard. Only one of the Protectorate, one of the veterans, rode on horseback. The other members were delegated to walking alongside the caravan while the Marissa rode on the rear wagon.

They were led out of the village's southern gate a few hours after dawn. It was a two-day trip to Solitude, with a single night of camping between here and there. The road to Solitude led through the grassy plains of the area. Wide open fields of grain and grazing land stretched as far as the eye could see.

Farmers and the like of this area were delegated to work and live outside of the city walls. It was their role in life to be without the protection of any local guard and without the security of the city's physical defenses.

The farming life was a rough existence. Without constant protection, farmers had to deal with more than the occasional event involving Pontia or animals from the wild.

Sidney knew this all too well, growing up on a farm himself. No great harm had ever come to himself or his family while tending to the fields, and for that he was grateful. An attack from a wild boar or bear was most assuredly a difficult affair, but the beasts were always drawn away or killed in the end. Luckily, he and his family had never had the misfortune to deal with a visit from a Pontian creature. The only serious threat he had witnessed was the single time his family defended themselves from a roaming band of thieves. Sidney's family had been fortunate in this regard for most of their lives.

On the road to Solitude, one of the veteran guard members began to speak with Marissa. He tried to strike up a conversation about her beauty and tried desperately to coo her. She was obviously disinterested in what the warrior had to say, having shunned most attempts at courting throughout her life. The warrior continued speaking his sweet nothings, and Marissa continued to ignore him.

Donovan overheard the veteran, and didn't quite understand his motivations. He had never thought to bother looking for love while on duty. In fact, he hadn't put much thought into whether to bother with love at all. He assumed that as men aged, they got more and more enthusiastic for companionship. He wondered if and when he would get to that point in his life.

The first day had already come and gone, and it was midway through the second. The sun had passed the halfway point in the sky, and it had begun its eventual journey down into the horizon. They had stopped to eat a few hours ago, and each of them was fairly rested so that they could continue on with their journey.

While they were moving along, the caravan came across a weeping woman in the middle of their path. She was of old age; her white hair very thin and ragged. Great big tears fell down her face, and each of them were absorbed into the many wrinkles within her cheeks.

"Please… you must help!" she yelped. "My, my husband. He was at-attacked. Help, I-I don't know what to do. Who can help, who can help me? He can't be saved!" She continued to cry.

Marissa disembarked from the rear wagon and approached the woman. With a slow pass of her hand, the woman appeared to calm down. She asked her a few questions to which the woman replied, hesitating between each answer as she took short breaths in order to speak the words. After Marissa appeared to understand the situation, she began to speak to the party.

"This woman and her husband own a cattle farm a few hundred yards to the west of this road. It appears that a short while ago a large Pontia invaded their homestead and began to attack their livestock. Her husband went to the fields to wrestle with the beast, but appeared to have little success. Not knowing what to do, she ran towards the road in a panic.

"As is our duty, we must investigate these matters before we can move on. One of us will stay behind.

"You," she pointed to the guard on horseback. "You will stay here to guard the caravan. The rest of us will move to the farm and see what we can do about the situation. I will have point, so listen to my commands before acting. We don't know what breed of Pontia this creature is and do not yet know how to counter its attacks.

"Let's get moving," she said with a surprisingly calm voice.

The last time that Donovan had seen a Pontia was the incident involving the child in the roadway outside his bakery. The thought of seeing a larger beast and engaging it, caused his heart to skip a beat. He calmed himself via focus, and reassessed to himself his duty within this world. His job was to protect his people. This farmer's family was part of the people, and therefore deserving of protection.

He would face this beast, he thought to himself.

He would face this beast head on.

Continue to Chapter 4 - continued

Chapter 3 - continued

2004-11-05T22:04:00.000-07:00

The next lesson for the day was another combat session. While most of the battle training extended to both classes of students, the full contact armored sessions were reserved for the warrior path. In order to get the pupils used to the weight and feel of armor, each of the students wore a training suit for each skirmish.

The armor, while not the traditional heavy iron plate, did have similarities to the standard issue gear. Their training suits were custom sized sets of thick leather armor shaped to mimic the sectional blades of traditional plate. A light leather helm with no real protection was also worn.

In addition to this, multiple pads of ceramic were attached to certain areas via leather straps. These plates served three purposes. The first was simply for extra protection. The second was to help mimic the heavy weight of Protectorate armor. The third was an aid for scoring during full contact training battles. In order to score a point, the attacker had to hit the clay section with enough force to crack or break the pad. This also simulated dents that might occur with traditional metal armor.

Donovan had sparred in this armor several times before. It was awkward at first, but he had learned to adjust to the altered movements and the shifting of the different plates. He had lost both of his previous fights, once to a thirteen old female and once to a sixteen year old male. They were not total losses. He had been able to block most of attacks with his weapon, but still fell in the end.

The weapons used for these sessions ranged from short copper bars to mimic rapiers, to long steel poles for polearms. On this day they were using medium weighted training swords similar to the size of the standard broadsword.

His sparring partner for today was one of his few friends in the program, Sidney. Sidney was an eleven year old boy from a nearby farm. He was slightly heavier than the others, and both of them were the two youngest members currently training with the Church. They were of course the weakest of the trainees, but both had jumped leaps and bounds in the past month in terms of strength.

The combat grounds consisted of a soft clay floor covered with patches of dried grass. Hay bales had been placed randomly throughout the battleground to act as temporary walls used for cover. Sidney and Donovan, fully suited in their armor, went to their starting positions. The combat trainer rang an iron bell, and the two began charging toward each other.

Sidney took the first swing. It was easily deflected by Donovan and his training sword. Sidney swung again, this time an overhead blow which was again blocked. As a response Donovan kicked Sidney in his side. The young man consequently fell to the ground.

Donovan raised his blade to the right, swung his sword down towards Sidney's legs, and impacted upon a shin plate. The clay plate cracked, and Sidney was spun around on his rear. In real battle, a blow of that kind would have disabled his foe allowing him to take a finishing blow. In other cases, he could leave his opponent upon the field and move onto other more lethal targets.

Sidney rolled on his back away from Donovan, and sat their kneeling. He immediately rose, charging Donovan yet again. Donovan was unable to spin out of the way, and Sidney was able to clip Donovan on the chest with his shoulder. Being the larger of the two, the blow from Sidney was punishing but not painful. The plate located on Donovan's breast showed no signs of fracture.

Temporarily disoriented by the hit, Donovan strafed to his right and hid behind one of the hay bales. He paused and then moved to another bale further behind him. The temporary wall he had initially used shuddered and fell over from one of Sidney's sword blows.

Donovan quickly used this to his advantage. He grabbed a handful of scattered hay and threw it into Sidney's face. Temporarily blinded, Sidney took a few steps back and toppled backwards over a single bale behind him. He lay upon the ground trying to clear his helm of the grass.

Donovan rushed in an attack stance towards his fallen foe. He took a step upon the nearby hay bale, jumped into the air, and shifted his sword into a downward stroke. He came crashing down onto the center chest plate on Sidney's armor. The ceramic pad shattered into several pieces and Sidney coughed up a mouthful of blood.

With a ring of the iron bell the match was over. Donovan was the winner for the first time during his training.

Sidney lay upon the ground holding his chest. Donovan placed his hand down to help Sidney up from the ground, and pulled him up. Sidney wiped some blood from his mouth with his wrist and made a chagrined look at Donovan.

"Did you have to hit me so damn hard? I think you might have cracked one of my ribs! It feels like I got hit by a stampeding cow!"

With condolence on his voice, Donovan spoke. "I just wanted to win this once."

He spoke again. "Besides I didn't really hit you all that hard. I could have split that leather armor of yours if I had really wanted to."

"Good work Donovan," the trainer said with a congratulatory tone.

"You both must realize that we guardsman will use anything in our environment to help with each and every battle. Use of the scattered hay was a clever tactic, and as you both saw, it was a deciding factory in Donovan's victory."

Continue to Chapter 4

Chapter 3

2004-11-04T22:21:00.000-07:00

Donovan slowly awoke from his cold, stiff bed. During the previous night it had begun to rain heavily upon the entire town. Rainwater had begun to seep into the roofing above the students' heads. Small raindrops fell upon them as they slept, making the night wet and uncomfortable. Donovan was unused to the cold living quarters of the church domiciles. His bones were chilled and his muscles trembled in an attempt to stay warm. He missed the warm nights and pleasant smells of his bakery home. He also missed waking up with his family and talking with them each day.

Donovan didn't sleep well that night, or any night in the barracks for that matter. In the morning when they all arrived at the front of the training grounds for roll call, he was noticeably tired. Initially around twenty other young men and women had decided to become part of the church guard when spring had finally arrived. After two months of training, only five of them remained with Donovan being the youngest and the oldest being seventeen. The Church preferred to train their recruits at an early age, even if they were too young to hold a traditional job. A guard member with more years of experience was always of better use for the cause than those drafted directly into the Holy Protectorate. Including the five new recruits, the entire group being taught in the training sessions numbered fifteen.

The group had lived on the church grounds for the past two months and were rarely given time to return home for visits. Both those wishing to become warriors as well as those desiring to become sages of magic trained under the same sessions together. The training was fairly grueling, but in the end, members of the Protectorate were some of the finest warriors in the land. A strong pairing of the magic of their faith with the detailed fighting maneuvers of the guard was an impressive combination. Only focusing on one type of combat was detriment in the eyes of the parish. A warrior without a strong talent for the magic arts was as about as useful to the Church as a wizard without the knowledge to defend themselves in a hand-to-hand fight.

The starting lesson for today was a lecture from the high priest of the town, Darria. Having already learned some fundamental basics of combat during their initial time with the Church, this was their first chance to learn more about the bases of their religion from the highest member of their local parish. After attendance was counted by their trainers, the students were moved into a small lecture hall.

Donovan had seen Darria many times before during regular Church services. Usually his family would sit in the pews located in the rear of the chapel. Today he was able to get a closer look at the man who governed the actions of the entire town of Gestalt.

Instead of his formal white robes, today the high priest wore a simpler tunic. It was dyed ruby-red and trailed down his legs like a thin sheet. The outfit had intricate embroidery that traced his wide shoulders. A similarly designed knotted belt was tied around his waist; from which several pouches and purses dangled. He did not carry his long staff today and Donovan was able to get a better view of the priest's long burgundy mane. The hair was of an oddly colored hue, and the single slick mass trailed halfway down his back. His eyes were of a similar dark color, and upon the man's face lay an expression of both happiness as well as one of restraint. Even though the priest appeared to be fairly young for a high priest, he did seem to have traits upon his brow and cheeks like those of someone much older. Darria's look and wardrobe gave off an undeniable aura of mystique.

"Good morning young pupils, my name as you may know is Darria. I am the head priest of this institution, and the highest level sage of this town. As you have found out over these past few months, life in the Church is by no means easy. Our lives are destined to be wrought with difficulty, but we are here because we owe our very souls to the Lord and to Heaven above. It is with their blessing that we may live upon this world.

"We exist upon this plane to worship the Heavens and to smite all the entities of evil in the world. Evil exists in many forms. The most obvious form of that evil being those that we classify as Pontia. Pontian creatures are born of the very essence of evil. However, Pontia are not the only sources of evil.

"As you will come to learn, man can be and often is evil. You will also find that creatures of the wild can and do succumb to the motions of evil. Even Nature herself has been found to be a cause of evil. It is from this evil that surrounds our world that we must protect the people of the land. It is our holy duty to serve and protect our people from tyranny. We must be the ones to punish that which is evil and eradicate it from our very lives.

"It is only us, those of the Cloth that can send evil to where it may not return. It was the Heavens themselves that gave us the power, as well as the will, to perform these acts."

Darria reached into a satchel from around his waist. From it he pulled an orange object about half the size of a chicken egg. It had a glossy smooth exterior and a cloudy center. It glowed and pulsed as if fire itself could be found within. He held the object between his forefinger and thumb, and raised it into the air.

"Can any of you tell me what this is?" he asked.

One of the older trainees, in his third year of training, spoke the answer. "It is an Ifriit seed."

"Correct. What you see here in my hands young ones contains the key to defeating evil. It is an Ifriit seed from the Ifriit plant. The Ifriit was given to us directly from Heaven as a means to defend ourselves from the Pontia. It is the nectar of this seed that we use to burn and destroy the Pontian creatures to ash and cinder. It has a power so strong that the Pontia simply cease to be upon contact!

"The nectar of the seed is also a great source of healing. Anyone, even if on the brink of their death, can be saved by a single drop of essence from the Ifriit.

"The existence of a single seed within a furlong can also raise the morale of an entire battalion threefold!

"The Ifriit is the most holy of powers. This magical thing, granted to us directly by our Heavenly masters, is the greatest gift ever to be bestowed upon our people.

"That power, with its wondrous benefits, sadly is not limitless. An Ifriit plant blossoms with four invaluable seeds but once a season. Adding to this fact, we have but two plants within the confines of this city. It is a gift so precious that other villages may be lucky as to have five to ten plants within their walls at the most.

"It is due to this rarity that we must not use haste and squander their power. Each seed is to be treasured more than gold or gems, and because of this each precious plant must be defended at all costs!"

Darria then placed the jelly-like seed back into its protective pouch.

"As you will learn during your studies, while the Ifriit is our most powerful tool it is not our sole source of power. We have also been blessed by the teachings of Heaven, with all of its mystic, magical enchantments. Magic, as a few of you may have seen with your own eyes, is as useful a weapon as a sword or bow. In fact, the magic based around the foundations of our faith can be more potent than an entire army!

"Today I will give most of you your first experience to the scope of this power. Please rejoin me outside so that I may show you."

The recruits filed out of the building and stood outside the entrance in a single line. The high priest walked in front of the crowd, and faced away from the group. Murmuring could be heard throughout the line. Several of the students had seen this demonstration before and smirked at the thought. They grinned slightly because they knew the others had no idea of what was about to come.

Across the field several hundred paces from their current position stood several younger sages. Each of them was holding fowl within their arms; five of them to be exact. The birds they were holding were simple roosters, old in age, and slow in their step. The mages placed the birds upon the ground, which then began to strut about.

Darria placed his index fingers alongside his temples, and closed his eyes. With a spiraling motion, he drew circles into the air that continually grew in size. As he drew in the air, flame appeared to gather at his fingertips. Stronger and stronger the fires grew. With a final push, he pointed his flaming hands down the field.

Almost instantaneously, five orbs of fire leapt from his hands and made arcing, self-directing paths towards each of the roosters. Each of them rocketed down the field; one of missiles redirected its path, nearly missing one of the younger sages. With a simple count of five spoken aloud by the priest, one by one the balls of magic hit each rooster one after the other. Each rooster appeared to detonate on contact with a popping sound, a flash of flame, and then the distinct smell of charred flesh. Miscellaneous feathers floated towards the ground.

He turned to face the group of recruits. Half of them stood there with eyes wide and pulses racing. They had known that magic existed in the world just as Darria had said, but seeing it in action, seeing it almost have intelligence in its actions stunned them.

"This is just an example of the type of power that we will attempt to teach you here at this academy," he said rather bluntly. "Magic such as this, balanced with basics of combat, will lead us all on the path of righteousness. Should you focus your energies to the fullest while here at our Church, you will become the mightiest of the mighty.

"We are the Holy Protectorate, and this is our calling."

Continue to Chapter 3 - continued

Chapter 2

2004-11-02T22:37:00.000-07:00

A single Pontian creature hadn't been able to successfully penetrate and attack the interior of the town at any time within the past few years. Roaming Pontia of different shapes and sizes could be found outside the city walls in just about any area of open land, but never within the confines of a city. The occasional caravan between towns would be attacked by one or two small Pontian beasts with little issue. For this purpose, each traveling caravan was defended by a detachment of church guard from one of the surrounding cities. This morning's attack inside the town, however minor, was a shock to everyone within the village. To calm the populace, a special evening church session was called. Everyone within the town was expected to attend.

All few hundred of the Gestalt villagers congregated at dusk in the main church steeple found in the center of town. The building easily accommodated the large group and its design even left room for a few hundred more. The appearance of the church was not ornate in any way. No large windows could be seen gracing its walls, and only small metal grates designed for air flow could be found littering the ceiling. Not a single pane of stained glass could be found inside of the holy room either. The walls themselves were built from stone and masonry, fashioned in a way similar to the strong block walls of battlements. Three large wooden doors led into the chamber, each placed along the back wall.

The main chamber was very angular, almost resembling a large triangular box. The ceiling above the main area raised approximately two stories into the air. The only anomaly of the large room was the smooth circular walls around the main podium, which were almost spherical in nature. Single long pews reached across the entire length of the large chamber. They were made of weathered oaken boards and topped with several layers of cushioning linen. Along the walls were very large sconces containing giant oil-based fires used to light the entire room. The stone walls behind these sconces were stained a deep black from the burning soot.

As everyone entered the room and sat along the pews, very little muttering could be heard. The villagers knew not to worry and second guess while in the house of the Lord. A few moments later several members of the parish entered, followed by the high priest of the town.

He was a man of medium build, about halfway through his life cycle. His hair was a deep burgundy, and trailed down his back in a long mane. He wore a stark white tunic that ran the length of his body like a robe. Along its sides, seams of bright purple and gold could be seen. They were so vibrant that even the congregation members in the very back could see how stark they were compared to the surroundings. He carried a large ivory staff topped with a gilded cross. He used this staff as a walking stick and tapped it on the ground with each step. He casually walked up to the main podium, turned to face the crowd, and began to speak. As he spoke, his deep booming voice could be heard echoing throughout the chamber. His voice was loud but also soothing.

"Citizens, it is with great dismay that I must speak to you this night. As you very well must know, a single beast of Evil was able to reach into the very heart of our town on this day. A dire event indeed, but members of our Holy Protectorate were able to eradicate the creature just moments after its breach.

"While successful in their motions, the events were not without incident. Of sad note, a small child of the Tonne family was lost this morn, and for this the Church wears a heavy heart. Losing one of the smallest members of the congregation is a tearful moment, and our condolences are to be given out to them.

"This day's events have been a great cause of fear within our congregation, and it is this reason that we are here on this eve.

"Fear, as I have spoken of before, is an evil thing. Fear leads to nothing but peril and desperation." The priest paused for a moment. "Fear leads us to commit acts of Evil, and fear leads us to lose faith in the Lord. Fear is the enemy of our faith and should be banished from our everyday lives.

"We of the Church are here to protect you and your families from harm. Remember, it is us of the Church whom have the sole power to vanquish those belonging to the evil of Pontia.

"While dark and evil, beasts of the Pontia do not belong to a single organized movement. They do not construe a plan to eradicate our day-to-day lives. They do not have a leader, and they are not controlled by one being. Pontia and the concept of evil are but one in the same. Beasts born of the Pontia simply exist to hate all, and attack all regardless of temperament. Pontian entities are based on pure evil, and nothing more.

"Only faith and worship of the Heavens above will help us to survive this continuous scourge of Evil. We of the Church request your faith in these matters, and we in turn will continue to provide our services. Fear not, as we are here to protect you to our dying breath. Live your lives free of fear, and we will all conquer this threat together. Continue to live each day to the fullest, and be certain to keep God close to your heart."

With these last words, the priest stepped away from the podium and walked towards a large flat altar behind him. He knelt down on the ground with his palms facing towards the altar, and lay still. The members of the congregation lifted from their seats, and left the chamber.

During dinner at the family's home, talk about the day's event began to be discussed around the table.

Donovan's father spoke, "I heard that the Beast got into our gates by boring itself into the belly of a boar brought via a caravan. A single dead boar lay in the middle of all the cages, harboring the deadly Pontia. Stupid pig farmers and their carelessness…"

That thought certainly didn't make this evening's meal of pork stew any better for the mind. Already very dry and salty, having the meal relate to the evil of a Pontian beast made it all the worse. His mother and father continued to talk to each other.

His little sister, Bettany, neglected her meal. Instead she concentrated on twirling the ends of her auburn hair around her fingers, all the while whispering little nothings into the little yellow bows at the tips.

A lingering thought was on the mind of Donovan as he ate. Seeing how quickly the church guard had attended to the matter of the day impressed him. He had never seen a Pontia with his own eyes before, and the speed at which it was dispatched by the Holy Protectorate amazed him. The guard simply went about his duty: he slayed the beast, took care of the remains, and then returned to his post.

He calmly asked his father, "When does the church accept new students into the training for church services?"

"The church trains new recruits each spring," his father responded without giving it much thought.

Donovan waited another moment to think and then spoke, "I think I want to join the Holy Protectorate and help defend the town."

His mother and sister gave quick gasps. His father, now realizing what his son had originally asked, contemplated his request. He paused, and then spoke. "Why do you feel the need to be a holy defender?"

"The speed at which that soldier slayed the beast I saw today was amazing. He was so fast at killing the monster, that… that it was almost a miracle! I think of what might have happened if Bettany would have been the one attacked instead Paul Tonne. If I were out there defending the town, I could better protect the family. I could be of better use to the town… as a warrior."

"Do you not enjoy the baker's life?" his mother asked.

"I do like baking, but I feel that it would be better for the Church if I fought."

His parents gave each other glances. They turned to each other and muttered.

Little Bettany stared at Donovan. Tiny tears could be seen accumulating in the corners of her eyes. The edges of her lips could be seen curling downward trying to create a slight frown. She had always expected that her big brother would be around to help her in the bakery. How dare he try to leave her and his family for the Church!

After a moment, his mother and father nodded to each other. His father began to speak slowly, "If you so desire to join the Church, then we will not stop you. You are still young, but we believe that you are acting with your heart. The Protectorate is always in need of more members to join its fight. If you still feel as strongly as you do now when spring arrives, then we will let you enroll in the training of the Church.

"We do not look forward to having you leave this family for that of the Church, but we accept the fact that it is the will of God that you have chosen this. He Upon High will protect you from harm during your training and duties, and in turn you will protect us from that which is Evil."

Donovan had already made a pact within himself to stick to his beliefs and join the Church in the spring. Previously, he had always pictured himself continuing to be a baker, conjuring more and more elaborate sweet breads to sell to the populace. This new thought of becoming a warrior was exciting, yet unknown. He had a feeling in his gut that this decision was the right one to make. He had to learn how to protect and defend. He needed the training of a warrior in order to save his family. He needed to become a soldier in order to support his faith.

That night as he slept, he dreamt of the tasks he might be doing as a member of the Holy Protectorate. He saw a much older self standing watch high upon the iron gates on the north side of town. He saw himself giving orders to lift the barricade upon the door and personally cranking the heavy iron doors open. He waved the caravan below welcome into the town.

He had dreams of walking alongside a traveling circus that was bound between the two main cities of the west. He watched as jugglers and acrobats practiced their art as the wagons wobbled along the trail. He laughed and joked with his fellow defenders about what a great show the next town was about to receive.

Unfortunately for little Donovan, he did not once dream of having to battle a single enemy. Not once did a Pontia enter his dream, nor did any other beast of evil. Not once over the course of the winter did he think about any of fighting that he might have to participate in as a member of the Holy Protectorate. He did not yet realize the training ahead was going to be incredibly tough and a burden on his very soul.

Regardless, that following spring little Donovan the previous baker-in-training joined the Church in order to fight the scourge of Evil.

Continue to Chapter 3

Chapter 1

2004-11-01T22:48:00.000-07:00

Donovan woke to the smell of warm plainbread on the air. He yawned, stretched his limbs, and then climbed out of his straw bed. He walked to the nearby wash bowl upon his bedside table and began to wash his face. He used the warm water to flatten his hair, as well as sweep away the remaining sleep still within his eyes. He stretched yet again, and took another breath of the scents on the air.

He turned to see his younger sister still lying in his bed. Since she had no chores to do this morning, she blissfully remained asleep. Bettany was halfway through her fifth year. Her hair was sizably long, and was colored a mixed hue of orange and bright red. Small little wispy curls could be seen at the ends of long entwined strands of hair, each tied with a small faded yellow ribbon. Her ears appeared slightly large for her peckish face, and had two large front teeth as well. Donovan often made references to her and rabbits in the nearby field. She didn't take kindly to them in spirit, but adored the comparison secretly. Still asleep, she wriggled a bit in bed, hugged her small little pillow with all her might, and turned towards the wall.

Donovan was not much different than his sister. He was almost in his tenth year, of a similar scrawny build, and had autumnal colored hair as well. His mother had trimmed his hair fairly short and so all that was left was a messy tuft of orange, burgundy, and blond. His shoulders and forearms were covered with hundreds of tiny maroon freckles. His cheeks had a few specks of color as well with his chin sticking out at a similar length to that of his nose. Donovan wasn't cursed with the large ears his sister was, those ran through his mother's side, but he did have fairly long fingers. Almost spider-like at this age, they almost made him seem taller than he really was. As it happened, those long fingers made him an especially good asset to have in the bakery below.

The bakery that Donovan's family resided in had been in his family for several generations. His great-grandfather had given it to his grandfather, who in turn gave it to his mother. Both his mother and father ran the bakery below. The two children helped of course, and the entire family lived in the lofts above. One of the benefits of living in a bakery is that one rarely goes cold. The house is usually warm due the fact that the brick ovens are always being heated. Even during the coldest spike of winter, all one really needs is a thin blanket if one such desires.

Donovan got dressed in his work clothes: a cotton undershirt, a simple faded stone-blue smock which was covered in flour, tweed pants, and a pair of soft leather shoes. He lifted his nose and waited to taste the air again. In addition to the smell of plainbread he had awoken to, he could also smell some saltbread as well as the distinct odor of long pretzels.

Plainbread was the staple bread of the town; it had a bland taste and an ultimate versatility in its use in any part of a meal. Saltbread had the usefulness of being sturdy, and being able to withstand long periods of time before being eaten. Saltbread was especially handy for travelers and those wishing to sail upon the seas. Long pretzels were the specialty of the bakery: a foot long braid of soft boiled bread, covered in coarse salt. They were quickly baked to increase the crispness of their golden skin which then was brushed with a bit of olive oil for flavor.

While Donovan loved to eat long pretzels, he favored the sweet breads that the family would make. Those breads containing bits of honey, breads covered with small amounts of sugar, and breads that were dipped in fruit purees were more to his liking. To him, the sweetness of the bread was a good method of waking someone up. The tartness of their tastes along with the sugary scent would instantly heighten anyone's senses he assumed. A personal recipe that he had invented a few months ago, and was well liked by his friends, was his spearmint-honey bread. In a small half-loaf pan, he would combine traditional bread dough with several spoonfuls of honey and cinnamon. He would then mix the concoction well, and let it rise for several hours. He would then pick fresh spearmint from a nearby household garden, which took a small bit of thievery to retrieve, and top the loaf with the mint leaf and plenty of sprinkled sugar. The finished bread not only was sweet and light, but also had an aroma that could be smelt throughout a house. He'd often share it with other kids in the town when they attended church ceremonies.

The church was a large part of the townspeople's lives. Attendance to at least one church session per week was required by the law of the land. Often these ceremonies lasted one to two hours, and dealt with not only the day-to-day news of the town but also pressing matters regarding the outside world. Gestalt was a fairly self-sufficient city. The town of Gestalt was surrounded by a large wooden wall that circled the entire village. It was several meters tall, almost as tall as three large persons and amongst the wall was three large entrances. Each of these entrances was protected by a heavy iron gate and was watched day and night by members of the Holy Protectorate up upon its walls. Only recognized travelers were allowed to enter any of the gates, and whenever not in use they were closed shut and blockaded with large wooden beams. Even though the populace was constantly surrounded by this large protective wall, daily life was carefree and free from worry.

As Donovan climbed down the stairs into the bakery's storefront, he saw his father working at the front counter selling several loaves of round oatbread to Mrs. Boncing who lived a few houses away. His father was a large broad shouldered man with a scruffy blond beard. His chest and upper forearms were quite wide, his large status mostly due to time spent working in the lumberyards of the nearby forest.

Mrs. Boncing was a large rotund women having been a housewife most of her adult life. She had given birth to all six of Mr. Boncing's sons and feeding a family of eight took a significant amount of food. Oatbread was a hardy, tough, and stringy bread. As four of the six Boncing sons worked long, tiring jobs at the family blacksmith, this bread would stick in your stomach for several hours between meals helping keep one's hunger down. Add a little bit of jelly or jam and the bread didn't taste half-bad either.

When Donovan reached the kitchen he saw his mother mixing a batch of dough which was obviously for several loaves of plainbread. Plainbread consisted of just the breadmaking basics: flour, milk, yeast, with a pinch of salt. Mix the bread, let it rise, lay into long bread pans, score the tops, and bake for about an hour. His mother motioned for him to walk over to her.

"Donovan, I need you to knead the sesame bread over there on the counter. Once you are done with that, we can go ahead and get started on breakfast," she said.

Since he had to make sesame bread this morning, he had to prepare. In order to make the bread, the sesame seeds had to be rolled slowly into the dough as it was being kneaded. Sesame seeds were a local delicacy and a rare find. He went over to a small cabinet containing different spices and flavorings. The cabinet was quite old and made from tarnished hardwood. Cobwebs and dust-balls could be seen stretching along its top. Amongst the numerous jars and shelves sat many different ingredients. Sea salt, thyme, peppercorns, pumpkin seeds, powdered sugar, and sunflower leaves could all be found in the cabinet alongside a multitude of others spices. He reached for a tiny glass jar containing a few hundred sesame seeds and took it off of the shelf.

He walked over to the table containing the dough his mother had made earlier. He gently tossed flour on top of the counter, and then he scooped the dough out of the copper bowl it had been mixed in. He split the dough into two halves and began to knead half of the dough between his long spindly fingers. Donovan took pleasure in the texture of the dough. He liked how it was sticky, smooth, and spongy at the same time. He began to roll the dough into a long cylinder, rolling it back in forth with his hands through the flour.

He then prepared the sesame seeds. He opened the cork upon the glass jar containing the seeds and set it aside. He next dipped his left hand in a small bowl of water that was upon the counter, which was then sprinkled with some sugar making his left palm sparkle in the morning sun. With his right hand he grabbed a pinch of seeds from the jar and laid them across his sugary left palm. Clasping the seeds in his left hand, he then began to roll the bread back and forth with his right. He then slowly shuffled the fingers in his left hand and began to sprinkle the sweetened seeds into the dough. As it rolled, it picked up an occasional seed which was implanted into the loaf. He continued this until both dough halves had become large rolls of speckled tanned bread.

The bread was then looped together to make two medium sized circles. This was baked on a flat pan on the highest rack of the brick oven for only a few minutes. It was then removed, and the residual heat around the oven was used to finish baking the bread in the air.

"Nice job with those loafs, Donovan. Now it's time to make the morning bread. You know the recipe", his mother said from across the kitchen.

Of course Donovan knew the recipe, except on the rare occasion that the family had some bacon or ham for their morning meal, each breakfast had consisted of some version of morning bread. In fact almost all meals had some type of bread, one way or the other, which is the curse of being a baker. While he didn't mind the taste of morning bread: an egg poached on top of a stale, unsold loaf had its certain charm. The moisture and juices from the eggs helped to soften and season the underlying bread; whatever kind of bread that might be that day. He walked up to the storefront to gather a loaf of bread that hadn't been sold within the previous week from his father.

"Dad, I need a loaf of old bread to make morning bread..." he let out with a sigh.

"Ah, morning bread yet again. Let's see. Let's try to make something interesting today". Donovan's father scrounged around the multiple storefront racks that held all the family's wares. He scanned through the many different breads displayed in the case. "Here we go. Five-day-old pumpkin bread. That should make things slightly interesting."

With a slight smile he took the bread and walked back into the kitchen. The family's stovetop was situated along one of the main windows. The flume for the main smokestack led up along the wall and up through the roof. The window was dressed quite plainly, and was open on this morning. It had four glass panes amongst a wooden frame. It had been painted an off white, and small ruffles of faded lace were hung from the top valance. The window led out into the main road between the shops and houses of this district. The road was a dusty brown with patches of thin grass along its sides. Deep grooves from the wheels of wagons could be seen dug into the dirt.

The building directly across from the bakery's window was the library of the town's scholar and school teacher. An oak tree had been planted alongside the building many moons ago and even looked older than the building itself. Its branches stretched into the sky taller than even the highest tip of the library's fireplace. It had unfortunately been planted so close to the building that the tree had over time shifted the bricks within the wall of the library. A window that at one time had been found along this wall was removed due to growth of the tree, and numerous single bricks lay amongst the base of the wall. The tree's roots and limbs had so entangled itself with the library walls that if anyone had wished to chop down this one tree, that person would essentially be tearing down a wall of the library. So the tree stayed, protecting its own longevity by entwining itself into the wall. It was autumn, and so the leaves of the oak were a deep musky orange. Each leaf appeared as if they were made of thin, tanned leather; and many of them littered the roadway below.

As Donovan began to cook his family's breakfast he could hear the laughter and screaming of children outside. They were chasing each other, with some of them playing the forces of good and some playing helpless citizens. The rest were acting as monsters; fingers curled like beastly claws, mouths open trying to show little teeth.

"Oh no… run! Here come some Pontia! Get out of the way!" cried a little girl as she ran pass the window. She hid behind the large oak.

Two boys who were hunched over and skipping, growled after her. They made braying sounds as if they were going to eat her. "Rawr!" one howled. They ran past the oak and did not see the hidden little girl that they were chasing.

Next came the premature knights. Each had a weathered plank, knots and all, for a shield. A white circle had been quickly painted on each to symbolize the mark of the town's Holy Protectorate. Thin switches torn from a tree branch made due as their swords. "We will vanquish you!" three of them said in unison.

While these children were younger than Donovan, he still wished he could play with them. Unfortunately for him, bakers, innkeepers, and those delegated with tasks of providing the morning services of the town had to service the villagers first. They themselves had to first care for the townspeople before being able to enjoy breakfast and go about their days. That meant that Donovan and Bettany were always a little late in getting to play time.

Donovan finished making the morning bread, five in all, and his family gathered for breakfast. His father temporarily closed the storefront as was accustomed, his mother set the table, and his sister came down from the loft. Once they had finished sitting, all four pressed their hands together, palms facing up, and closed their eyes. Donovan's father began their small traditional prayer, a moment of silence was held, and then they began to eat.

The next day was almost exactly the same as the first. Donovan awoke to the familiar smell of the daily breads, although this morning he could smell the distinct scent of molasses. "Pumpernickel. Someone must be having a wedding today," he thought to himself.

He got up to wash, but so did his sister this morning. His sister was a bit too young to cook in the kitchen with himself and his mother, but she had chores nonetheless. Her duties of the day included getting ingredients from numerous places amongst the town. Eggs, milk, butter, spices; whatever the bakery needed for that day. She put on her little sun dress, didn't bother to wash, and raced down the stairs. Donovan could hear his father mumble, "Please wash first before fetching the goods Bettany." Small little footprints could be heard slowly waddling up the stairs.

Bettany kicked Donovan as he went downstairs. It wasn't an aggressive act, merely an act of frustration.

As it happened the morning before, Donovan's job was to knead some more bread. This time just some simple saltbread was on his task list. Just as he had done before he split the dough his mother had previously made; this time separating it into four parts. Each part was rolled into a ball, and then flattened. The flat dough balls were then scored with a cross pattern design and placed into a pot of boiling water, one of top of the other. After cooking for fifteen minutes, they were removed from the boiling bath. A glaze of vinegar was splashed across their tops and then sea salt was encrusted on the top of each. A final hour back in the oven would finish these loafs of saltbread.

His mother began to speak to her son from across the kitchen, but he had already gone up front to ask for a loaf of old bread before she was able to get any of her words out.

"Dad, we need another morning bread loaf."

"Ah, yet again. Lemme' find something interesting," his father said as he looked in the racks. After a minute's worth of searching he handed a loaf to Donovan. "Six-day-old pumpkin bread, this should make it interesting."

With another sigh, Donovan walked back into the kitchen. He sliced the pumpkin bread into several thick slices. He cracked a few eggs into a clay bowl, and then placed dollops of egg onto each of the pumpkin bread slices already on the griddle. The sound of the eggs hissing and popping could be heard as they oozed off their perches onto the hot stovetop.

He gazed outside the window as he had done yesterday. He could hear the screaming of children just like the morning before.

This time several little boys and two little girls could be seen running past his window. They didn't bother to say anything to their play-time adversaries as they ran.

A cry could be heard. "Help! Help! It's chasing me!" The child's voice wasn't in a playful tone. The child was truly afraid. The small boy, no more than five years old could be seen running down the dusty street.

Just as he reached the kitchen's window, he tripped on one of the roots of the oak across the street. A stray root had always lay intruding into the middle of the road, but most people had noticed it on their travels and avoided it.

A small blackish weasel-like creature could then be seen leaping through the air. Only a few feet long, and very thin, it almost glowed even though it was only black. It appeared to have no eyes, and only two small little limbs. At the end of its leap it landed directly onto the belly of the child on the ground. Donovan's eyes went wide and he stood frozen.

The child let out a horrifying scream as the creature began to bore its way into his tiny stomach. Blood could be seen spilling onto the roadway as the boy writhed back in forth on the ground on his back. He tried with his little hands to pry the creature away, but it was like grasping at oil. The body of the beast slipped through his fingers regardless of how strong he held. He moaned helplessly.

A clanking noise could be heard coming down the street. Several church soldiers had been following the group of children and the creature. Each of them was wearing the standard Holy Protectorate armor. One of them drew his sword mid-step. It was a large broadsword, several inches wide and a few feet long. Even though the boy was writhing wildly on the ground, as the warrior approached in a full run he took a swing at the beast. The warrior kneeled to the ground with the finishing arc of his blow; nearly missing the chest of the young boy.

The body of the creature was sheared into two with the tail portion flying into the air. The portion that had been eating its way into the child tumbled lifelessly to the ground. The boy rolled back and forth along the path howling in pain, clutching his bloody midsection.

Two of the knights picked up the boy, and quickly began a run down towards the end of the street. Donovan could hear the boy's screams and the knights' armor clanking as he was taken into the center of town.

The one knight that had shorn the black weasel into two reached into his pocket. He drew from it a small amount of red powder. He sprinkled it on top of the remaining pieces of the beast. The tail section still had life in it and was slithering along the ground aimlessly. Once the powder reached both sections, a bright green flame could be seen as the beast's remains were consumed. Almost instantly the creature's body was nothing but ash and dust, the ground scorched from where the powder had done its magic. A swift breeze came down the path and the ashes blew away in a small gust of green smoke.

The knight that had killed the beast turned back down the path the way that he had came and calmly walked back to his post. The spilt blood of the child on the path began accumulate dust from the roadway. A thin layer of dirt could be seen floating upon the tiny red pools.

Donovan still completely frozen with his mouth agape from what he had witnessed, said to himself. "Oh God! That was a Pontia!"

Continue to Chapter 2

Obligatory First Post

2004-10-26T15:21:00.000-07:00

Looks like I'm going to attempt to jump on the NaNoWriMo bandwagon. My little story is gonna follow a "fantasy" theme about the life of a bitter old warrior. I already have the plot points, story arcs, and major events mapped out in a Word document. My intial plan was to use "Rusted" for graphic novel purposes in hopes of practicing for my artistic desires: learning to sketch better, animate better, learn 3D graphics better, etc.

Will I actually find time to write this slapped together 50,000 word novel over the course of a single month? We'll have to see. Will anyone care to follow Rusted's story? Hopefully having others such as American Blogger and Stradasphere stepping up to the plate, the desire to stick with it will remain.