Author: admin

This was something I came across on www.deviantart.com, and it’s similar to what I imagine Erinwe of the Rhiannon to look like.

This is art by Stjepan Sejic, aka nebezial, for his Ravine comic.

Great work!

Rand of the Scoth.

Rand hails from the windswept highlands of the Scoth, northernmost clan of The Realm.

He’s an only child, raised primarily by his mother.  His father, though a loving man, is often gone away on duty as a Knight of the Realm.  Rand worships the ground his father walks on, and wants to become a knight like his father.  His obsession with knighthood, a profession that brings the sacred honor of wielding a Nyakil, legendary black sword of the ancient, immortal  illuminar, causes him to frequently neglect his duties minding the sheep and tending to the chores around their small cottage, and this causes his mother endless grief.  He is frequently running off through the heather, his unruly shock of jet-black hair tousled by the wind.  Beside tumbling mountain streams and in groves of bigtooth maples, wearing scraps of shingle wood tied to his limbs like armor plates, he thrusts and parries his wooden sword against imaginary foes, eyes the color of polished steel gleaming with the pride of pretend victories.

He always plays alone.  He’s not a large boy, not strong for his age, not gifted with speed or agility, just a plain, average youth, though his square cut jaw, straight nose, and attractive features hint at a sprinkling of nobility somewhere in his genealogy.  His eyes sparkle with unusually high intelligence, and he often excels in his studies.  He has an amazing gift for solving puzzles and riddles.  It’s an admirable quality.   In fact, girls much older would be fawning for his attention, enraptured by his sharp wit, quick laugh, and penetrating gaze, except for one thing.  Rand suffers a terrible affliction, which he calls his curse.  It’s a strange ailment that no one else has, and the curse keeps him moody, withdrawn, seldom smiling, and slow to make friends.  He’s ashamed of it, embarrassed by it, and wishes more than anything to discover why he has such a thing, and how to be rid of it.

Rand can see the spirit world.

The avanyar, the mortal race in The Realm that make up the twelve clans, worship the Creator, whom they name Aradun.  They believe Aradun is the giver of life to all things.  They also believe that each being is given two Guardian angels at birth, who serve as protectors against the evil from the spirit world of the Demon Lord.  In ancient days, before the disappearance of the immortal illuminar, it was said that the great immortal ones had the gift of the Kallah, the inner voice.  It was said that they could hear and communicate with that voice, and some believed they were hearing and speaking to their Guardians.  The mortal avanyar had not this gift, but believe that one’s conscience, the innate feeling of knowing right from wrong, and the knowledge of discerning good from evil, is the voice of the Guardians.

Rand knows this to be true, but that’s not his problem.  His curse is that he alone in the entire world can see his Guardians.  He can see everyone’s Guardians.  And not only that, he can see the demons in the spirit world, see their constant attacks upon the souls of everyone around him.  He can watch other’s Guardians fending off the demons, and can see when someone has renounced good and has turned to evil, for their Guardians move apart from that person and the demons live upon the person, feeding like leeches on his doomed soul.  It’s terrifying to see, and Rand lived a fearful, withdrawn life as a child until he learned to turn off the sight, which he can do now at will.

Talking to his Guardians, seeking their counsel, their thoughts, and their friendship, seems a normal act for Rand, since they’ve always been with him, but it is a frightening thing to witness for those around him.  Because of his strange behavior they have labeled him touched in the mind, just an addled fool, and some tease him by calling him a seer, not because he sees the future like a mystic, but because he sees things that aren’t there.

He asked his parents about the Guardians, and his ability to see and communicate with them, when he was little boy, but his parents, Rommen and Staria, just passed it off as their son talking with imaginary friends.  They really saw nothing wrong with it in the beginning, but when Rand grew older and the behavior continued, they scolded to grow out of it he began to hide the curse from his parents.

At the tender age of ten, Rand loses his mother to the cancer, and his father takes him to live at the castle Hearthside, seat of The Realm.  Losing his mother is the most devastating experience of Rand’s life because he watches the demon masters come and haul away his mother’s soul.  It was so horrifying for Rand that he shut down completely, descending into a catatonic state that lasts for almost a year, and even after recovering, Rand has a life-long fear of the dark and of death.

Once Rand is relocated to Hearthside, the castle’s caretaker, Baladar, a jolly old man who is as fat as a wine cask with a stained beard to match, works with the healers to bring Rand out of his fugue state.  Baladar has a twinkle in his eye that gives away intelligence equal to Rand’s.  Encouraged by his father, the boy begins to learn from the old man.  He learns that Baladar had been a friar, a member of the sacred order who led the avanyar in the worship of Aradun, and who were given the task of training the Knights of the Realm.  He learns much of swordplay and weaponry from his father, endlessly training on the grounds, while learning much of the ancient ways of the avanyar, and their illuminar companions of old.  Rand learns of herb and leaf, woodlore and craftsmanship, and seems especially interested in learning the language and ways of the ancient immortals.  Baladar secretly believes Rand is the long sought after seer, foretold in the ancient tomes, but Rommen has his doubts.  Rand also goes to great lengths to keep his secret curse from everyone at Hearthside.

Rand catches a glimpse of Erinwe, daughter of the King, and his love for her is renewed.  It’s not the first time they’ve met.  She was there in Cheyne eight years earlier when the nightshade attacked Rand, and she killed it with help from her silver hair brooch.  They are both older now, Rand having just turned eighteen, while Erinwe is two years older.

Rand watches Erinwe pass the Clannad, the invitation to knighthood, and is terribly proud but jealous of her accomplishment.  He watches from afar, for he is afraid to approach her for fear of rejection.

In the meantime, Rand has never forgotten his encounter with the stranger on the moor all those years ago, just before his mother died.  He relentlessly quizzes Baladar about the ancient illuminar, in part because he suspects the man he met that day long before was of that immortal race.  He is obsessed with learning their ways because he realizes that immortality would be the answer to his dreaded fear of death.

Rand believes winning a Nyakil as a Knight of the Realm will impress Erinwe, but he fails the Clannad because his fear of death prevents him from completing the task of demonstrating a willingness to sacrifice his life to save another.  He feels disgraced.

Rand’s father feels bad for his son.  When the Demon Horde launches an attack on The Realm at Breachfille, Rand offers his son the job of standard bearer for the Captain of the Guard, which Rand accepts.  It is during the battle at Breachfille that Rommen falls at the hand of a demon master incarnate, which Rand kills with his father’s Nyakil.  Crushed at the death of his father, Rand refuses to give up the Nyakil blade, even though he knows the penalty for anyone other than a knight to possess a Nyakil is death.  He flees the battlefield and disappears for a time.

Scathe, a mysterious Druid from the east, appears during the midst of the battle for Breachfille, and helps the avanyar defeat the Demon Horde.  He goes with the Guard back to Hearthside where the king heralds him for the victory.  In time, Scathe works his way to becoming king’s counselor.  Erinwe distrusts Scathe.  Rand, feeling guilty about coveting the sword that he hasn’t earned, decides to sneak into Hearthside with Baladar’s help and return the Nyakil to the Wall of Swords, where it will remain until the next knight from Scoth is appointed.  He discovers that Scathe has come to Hearthside, has been anointed chief counselor, and he can see immediately that Scathe is evil.

Scathe knows Rand will betray him so he kills the king and frames Rand for the murder.  Rand flees the palace as Scathe takes control of the kingdom.  Erinwe is tasked with hunting down Rand.  While doing so, Scathe declares the knights themselves are traitors to the crown and the knights themselves are outlawed.

Rand remembers the words of Hadrin the old, told to him by Baladar, that revealed the intertwined future of illuminar and avanyar:

…The Creator’s light is righteousness, a beacon on the path
That marks the road to eternal life, away from Shaitan’s wrath

He hears their cries and delivers to them a mortal to kindle the flame
A se’er of realms beyond the veil; Rand shall be his name

He’ll gather the shards, the Keystones five, and root out from their holes
The minions who stand ‘tween death and life, guarding the well of souls

And joined with the last illuminar, the Captain of the Guard
With nightshade turned, and the soulless one, they’ll form at last The Star

United as five against darkness, though in the end betrayed
The Messiah steps free from the well itself and Shaitan’s hand is stayed

He doesn’t want to face the truth, that he is the Rand foretold of, and doesn’t want to be one of the five Keystones.  He has no idea who the others are supposed to be, nor where to find them.

Fleeing to elude capture, he encounters a Wood Nymph, who places around his neck a Keystone, and he knows he has no choice but to walk the road destined for him.

Afraid of the dark and armed with only his father’s sword, led by Guardians only he can see, chased as an outlaw by the Captain of the Guard whom he loves, Rand plunges into the forbidden Great Wood in search of a chance to cheat death and win the right to carry the sword he bears.  Unknowingly, he is leading the worlds of light and darkness, mortal and immortal, even the realms of Heaven and Hell, all on a collision course that threatens the very fabric of the universe and could deliver them all into the hands of the Demon Lord.

The hour was now late.  Though it was unusual for children to be out after dark, the excitement in town had disrupted the quiet routine of the sleepy village.  A few youths still lingered under the eaves of the now closed shops, seeking to take advantage of the distracted town to cause a little excitement and mischief of their own.  Chief among them was none other than Garish and his gang of ruffians.  They were determined to steal the spotlight off the royal visitors and turn it back upon themselves.  Troublesome children usually acted out because of a need to be the center of attention, and Garish was no exception.  In fact, he thrived on being just that, though he had another reason this night as well.  Earlier in the evening, a cute girl had been seen exploring the streets.  She was a stranger to town, which meant she had probably come with the royal entourage.  Garish had a mind to impress her.

As the group looked for her now, the ruffians came upon Rand for the third time today, instantly recognizing him as he strode through the unpaved streets of the village.  They picked up where they had left off earlier in the day, renewing again as they had for most of Rand’s life their insults, name calling, and verbal barrage of “seer”, and “crazy one”.

Rand’s encounter with the Stranger on the moor and then the nightshade had left him forever changed.  He was no longer afraid of a simple band of troublesome kids.  He ignored them and just walked on.

One of the ruffians threw a rotten tomato, and though Rigel warned Rand, he ignored the warning and took it in the head; he didn’t even flinch.

“Where’s your invisible pals to protect you now?” one of the boys laughed.

Rand kept walking.  More children now gathered, taunting as they always did.  Rand saw the Guardians of those who were taunting him standing well away from their charges.  In their eyes was a look of sadness and of sympathy for Rand.  They were obviously unhappy with the abusive behavior of those they had once guarded.  Of course, they did not take part in the taunting of him.  They never did.  Not that they would, of course, for they weren’t of flesh and blood, weak to the sins of the flesh.  They were spirits, invisible to all eyes save Rand’s alone.  And that had always been his whole problem.

Being the only one who could see the Guardians, Rand had tried many times to ignore them in an attempt to act normal, but he found he couldn’t do it for long.  In fact, he found himself communicating with his Guardians more often than the people of the real world, for at least they didn’t treat him with contempt.  But when others viewed this behavior, it disturbed them.  The children and adults of Cheyne had often observed Rand conversing with unseen things and had labeled him mad.  That gave rise to the teasing, and was where the nickname “seer” had come from, the youths corrupting the name that was normally given to one who could see the future.  The town mocked Rand and named him “seer” because he saw things that weren’t there.

The ruffians continued pestering Rand as he passed through the streets of Cheyne, but he walked on, ignoring them.  He didn’t care about the verbal torture anymore.  He felt like something deep within him had changed.  Meeting the Stranger on the moor had taken him way beyond the troubled treatment he had received from the village crowd all his life.  So now he ignored the villager’s taunts, but that only angered them all the more.  Soon they crowded around him again and sought to finish the beating they had begun earlier in the day.

“Leave him alone.”

The voice came from up the street, and the gang encircling Rand looked up to see that it was the girl they had glimpsed earlier.

“Hello, pretty girl,” Garish crooned to her.  “We’re just ridding the streets of this addled oaf so that he shan’t try to hurt you.”  Garish puffed out his chest in an attempt to impress her.  The look she shot back said she wasn’t buying it.

“Leave him alone,” she said again as she walked into the crowd of boys.

Rand noticed the girl for the first time.  She was the same age as the ruffians, a couple of years older than he, but she was the antithesis of the dirty boys, for she was beautiful.  Her brown hair was pulled back into a pony’s tail and her dark brown eyes sparkled in the firefly lamplight.  Her eyes met his and held them for several seconds, causing Rand’s heart to skip a beat.

Rand, you must leave now.

Rand heard the voice in his mind, but he dismissed it.

Garish, angry with Rand for gazing at the girl that he had laid claim to, decided it was time to impress her, so he raised the wooden stave he carried with him and tried to strike at Rand, who was distracted with the girl standing before him.  The stick reached the apex of its swing, but then stopped, stuck in mid-air.  Garish looked to see what had stopped his swing, and was surprised to see that it was the girl, herself.  She had grabbed the stave and stopped the swing from striking Rand.  With a deft jerk, she took the stick away, disarming a wide-eyed Garish.

“Leave him alone,” she said for a third time.

Garish started to protest, but something caught his eye that made him forget all about the anger and embarrassment at being disarmed by a girl.  He was distracted by the fear welling up inside him as he watched something stepping from the shadows.  He whimpered and pointed, and now the others saw the reason for his fear.  Something was coming toward them dragging the darkness with it as it stepped from the black alley; something with skin of violet.

“A nightshade!” Garish stammered, and the ruffians started to back away.  One boy wet his pants.  They all thought futilely of running, but their fear slowed their legs and one look from the thing that approached riveted them to their spot.

Rand and the girl who had come to his defense turned and saw it as it approached.  It appeared human-like, tall, thin, dressed in some kind of black skinned garb with a great black cloak, but its uncovered head and hands were of the darkest violet hue, covered with scars carved of strange runes.  Its black hair was slicked back on its head, and most riveting of all were the lavender eyes that glowed with evil ferocity.  Rand now realized why Rigel had given him the warning to leave a moment before.  As he looked away from the creature to Rigel, his inquiring look was answered.

A nilganash approaches.

Rand noted too late that his Guardians had drawn their gleaming blades.

The nightshade had watched the group surrounding its intended victim and had noted that they were made up of only youths.  Thinking to take advantage of the group’s fear of it, it had chosen now to approach the one it had been following.  Its black cloak wafted behind, moving and undulating, though there was little breeze.  The demon warrior’s lavender eyes stayed riveted on Rand.

Though few in the group had ever seen a nightshade before, all children knew the tales of the undead creatures who stole men’s souls and feasted on their hapless victims.  They were thought to have been eradicated in ages past, but one fitting the very description of those ancient creatures in whispered tales now approached.  It was the same creature Rand had encountered an hour ago, and again his hair stood on end.

Strangely enough, only the girl seemed unafraid.  Holding Garish’s wooden pike, she stood riveted to her spot, not out of fear, but from recognizing that the nightshade was too close for her to spring out of the way.

“Cah ni  or efen zan udo na!”

“Perhaps I will feast on all of you,” it repeated in the avanyar tongue, looking only briefly at the girl and the others, “but for now, I have business with … you.” It raised its hand and pointed a slender finger ending in a black talon directly at Rand.

The girl gripped Garish’s wooden stave tightly and prepared to strike in defense as the nightshade approached, and but it ignored her completely as it walked past her to stand before Rand.  Its violet skin appeared almost black in the torchlight, but for the eerie glow of its eyes.  Rand knew he was in trouble when the nightshade threw back his cloak and spread great leathery bat wings out all around, as if to engulf him.

Demons rushed out of the darkness all around just then, having been held back momentarily by the approach of the nightshade.  Rand scarcely saw them, their forms limned in a reddish fire.  They moved forward, but they did not attack Rand, nor the others.  They just waited their turn, anticipating a spectacle.

“Nan coresh za gron ida neg.”

“Your soul is sought this night,” the nightshade spoke with a menacing snarl to Rand.  Rand didn’t move.

Realizing at that moment that the nightshade was after the seer and not interested in them, the ruffians suddenly found the strength to move, and they bolted from the scene, Garish leading the retreat.

Rand felt more than saw those around him leave with a few demons in hot pursuit, and he guessed that he was now alone before the nightshade.  He wished for another one of the mysterious Limnos spheres, but he had already used the one he had been given.  Rand only half-noticed the “crack” of splintering wood as the winged one before him raised clawed hands and took a step closer, fangs bared in a malevolent grin.  His Guardians had already begun a ferocious attack with their swords, but were powerless against the creature that walked in the material world.  The wincing Rand had seen in the nightshade from the Guardians earlier attack was hardly noticeable and apparently ineffective.  The nightshade continued to advance.  The Guardian’s blades were deadly only against those in the spirit realm.

Rand raised his fists and mouthed a silent prayer to Aradun.  The little boy showed the courage of his forebears at that moment.  Though his mouth was as dry as sand and he shivered almost uncontrollably from fear, he was determined not to die without a fight.  The nightshade bent over Rand and grabbed him with claws that sent icicles of cold stabbing through Rand.  Rand struggled as it opened its gaping jaws and went for Rand’s neck.  Rand saw saliva dripping from its fangs and felt its fetid breath washing over him.  This was the end.

“Baargh!”  Suddenly, the creature lurched upright, its malevolent look turning to one of surprise.  It let out a blood-curdling howl and let go of Rand to grasp instead at its own chest.  Falling backward away from the demon warrior, Rand saw the reason for its lurch.  A bloody stake now protruded from the nightshade’s clenched claws, with something red glimmering on the wooden tip.  The nightshade fell off to one side, and Rand saw who held the other end of the stake that had been thrust through the demon warrior.  It was the girl.  Rand had heard the crack of splintering wood a moment ago.  It had been her, breaking Garish’s stave in half.  She had stabbed the nightshade from behind with the jagged end of one piece.

Rand was speechless.  His eyes returned to the nightshade, which had fallen to the earth in the throes of the end of its undead existence.  The girl stood holding the other end of the stake with eyes wide, a look in them of ferocity mingled with fear.

“Disgusting creature,” she said, trying to sound unafraid.  But then she dropped the stake, her hands shaking.  Fear had overcome her at last.

Rand started to speak, but before he could, a strong voice rang out in the street behind him.

“Erinwe!” it called out, and an instant later the street was filled with border guard, led by a tall soldier in silver and violet armor, a Knight of The Realm.  “Erinwe!” the knight called out again.  “At last we find you.  The King grows angry at your absence from the—” and he saw the violet nightshade crumpled before the girl.  He immediately drew his sword and barked orders, sending the border guard into a defensive perimeter around Rand and the girl.

“The nightshade is dead,” a guard announced to his leader as he rose from examining the creature.  As if acknowledging his statement, the body of the nightshade began withering away until only bones remained, which then crumbled to dust and blew away in the wind leaving only clothing behind.

“Burn them,” the lead knight directed toward the garments, and he turned his attention to the girl.  “Erinwe, first you disappear from the banquet, and now this!  What in Aradun’s name happened here?” he asked, much distressed that the girl under his protection had escaped his sight.

“It’s alright, Kuril.  I am uninjured.”

“He did it!” A voice shouted from the growing crowd.  “He brought the nightshade!”  It was Garish, who had led the crowd and the soldiers here.  “It was he who brought the nightshade.  He tried to get it to harm the princess!  The Seer did it.”  Garish pointed at Rand, who still stood before the girl and the growing crowd.

The knight turned and seemed to notice Rand for the first time.  He started to address the boy, but Garish interrupted.

“The seer did it!” he said again.  “The seer called forth the nightshade.”

“No,” Erinwe answered, but her voice was drowned out as the crowd turned toward Rand with a shout.  Her eyes met Eldar’s again as he turned to flee.  “Wait—”

“Thank you,” he mouthed to her before she could finish, and he took off running from the crowd.

“No, Kuril,” the girl said, turning to the knight as he started to order others after the boy.  “The boy did not call the nightshade.”

“Then who did?  And who killed it?” Kuril asked.  “Who killed the demon warrior?”

“I did.”  Erinwe answered.

“You?” Kuril questioned with a startled look.  “That’s impossible.”

“Maybe.  But it’s true, nonetheless,” she answered defiantly.

“A twelve-year-old girl single-handedly dispatching a nightshade?”  He looked on her with wonder.

She said nothing more, and didn’t need to.  Kuril knew the girl well.  She never spoke falsely.

Kuril eyed the broken stave with the jagged tip that lay at her feet.  “It is true that the nightshade is dead; still, ‘twould take more than a stake of wood to kill a Nil’Ganash,” he spoke with a hint of doubt.  He picked up the weapon to examine it.  The answer came to him a moment later when he saw the silver hair comb wedged in the tip of the stake, now caked with dried black blood.  She had tipped the stake with silver.  That’s how she had killed it.  He cocked his head, marveling at her resourcefulness.

“Your hair comb, Princess,” he offered, and she took it and wiped it clean on the leg of her breeches, then placed it back in her hair as if nothing had been done with it.  Kuril shook his head.  She behaves more like a warrior than a lady of the court, he noted to himself, seeing that she paid no heed to the blood that now stained her garment.  Such behavior is … worth noting, he finished, tucking his observation away for future use.  Worth noting, indeed.

Garish now stood off to the side of the gathered throng, his minions in tow.  He was angry at having failed to implicate Rand in the spectacle with the nightshade.  Unable to win points in the eyes of the girl he lusted after, he slunk off into the shadows with his cronies, intent on revenge upon Rand for having spoiled his attempt to woo Princess Erinwe.  He was not yet finished with the seer.

The royal guard prepared to return to the Inn.  “Kuril, do you know who—”

Kuril cut her off before Erinwe could ask who Rand was.  “I see you have much to explain,” the knight pondered.  “Come; tell me this tale while I return you to your father.  King Vassar desires his daughter at his side!”  He put his arm around her and started her off toward the village center, surrounded by border guard.

The girl started off with him toward the Ram’s Head, but at the last minute stole a glance back toward the direction Rand had departed.  Her thoughts were of the events of that night, and she would ponder them for a long time after; but more than the nightshade, her thoughts were of the strange boy she had saved.  Who he was, she wondered?  She would not soon forget his face.

“We need to get you out of these plain garments,” she heard Kuril saying as her thoughts returned to the present.  She caught the tail end of his lecture, hearing the exasperation in his voice.  “Child,” he said with a look that was half smirk, half frown, knowing Erinwe well, “where are your royal robes?”

Click here to listen to the original Song written for Rand and Erinwe’s first meeting:

“Love at First Sight“

Nyakil.

Ancient weapon of the immortals.

It was a beautiful blade.

Rand stood before the Wall of Swords in the great gathering hall of Hearthside.  He looked up at the latest sword that had been returned to the wall after a Knight of The Realm had fallen in battle.  Here it would remain until the next person from that clan was knighted, to take up the fallen sword.

How badly he wanted it to be him.

The sword’s hilt was of a dark bluish steel, with the quillion and grip completely covered by a finely scrolled silver filigree.  The rounded pommel contrasted the intricate patterns fashioned on the rest of the hilt and was adorned rather simply, with only an embossed silver star.  Extending beyond the cross-piece was the blade itself, and it was the reason the Nyakil was worshiped and revered by all in The Realm.

The blade was almost five feet in length and was forged from the molten ore of a fallen star.  The weight itself was astonishing because it was almost weightless.  The pommel was surely hollow, for there was no need to counterbalance the blade.  The entire weapon was as light as a feather, and tireless was the wielder of such a finely crafted blade.  But even more striking was the color of the blade itself.  It was black.  But more than black, it was really the absence of all color, indeed the absence of light itself.  While the silver pommel might glint in Tiela’s noonday glare, the blade instead seemed almost to absorb any and all light.  Ever sharp down both edges of the blade, with a groove running nearly to the tip that was outlined in silver filigree that scrolled where it joined the hilt, the rest of the blade was, simply, black.  Dull.  Lifeless.  Yet utter death to those who felt her kiss.

It was true they were rare blades, for in all The Realm only seven score and four Nyakils were known to exist.  Discovered in a cache in the deep catacombs of Hearthside in 2012 AI, they were, like the castle itself, just about all that was left behind by the immortal illuminar, whose disappearance two thousand years earlier had left the avanyar alone in the fight against the Demon Lord.

The art in crafting such a weapon was known only to the gnomes, and even if they could dust off that ancient knowledge and attempt anew to create such arms, no ore remained of that fallen star with which to forge such a striking blade.

Rand desired more than anything in the world to become a Knight of The Realm, to follow in his father’s footsteps.  Power, prestige, schooled in the ancient knowledge of the illuminar, all these things he gained with knighthood, but more than anything he just wanted to wield the sword.  In the purple raiment of a Knight of The Realm, with a Nyakil scabbarded at his side, people would finally take him seriously.  Look up to him.  Worship him.  Befriend him.  With a Nyakil, he knew, people would finally stop taunting him, stop teasing him, and stop cursing him with that sickening name:  Seer.

He just had to get his hands on a Nyakil.  There was only one small problem.  Maybe more than small, you see, for anyone other than a Knight caught wielding a Nyakil was guilty of a crime punishable by death.  It was a harsh judgement, but necessary in a land that lay on the edge of chaos, for their realm bordered the dreaded lands of the Demon Lord.

But even the threat of death did not deter Rand.  If he couldn’t win to Knighthood, he’d just have to steal a blade!

Mortal men look to the stars as evening turns to dark
Their hearts hunger for love; their souls for Aradun’s spark

A tiny flame within them burns, anxious to ignite
To banish darkness; ridding them of fear, of dread, of fright

Alas, their tiny flame burns low; they feel impending doom
Without His blinding, white-hot light to drive away the gloom

The Creator’s light is righteousness, a beacon on the path
That marks the road to eternal life, away from the Fallen God’s wrath

The Creator hears their cries; sends a mortal to kindle the flame
A se’er of realms beyond the veil; Rand shall be his name

A Zadahrathi to gather adepts and root out from their holes
The minions who stand ‘tween death and life, guarding the well of souls

An alliance of fairy, illiri, grimm, and the Captain of the Guard,
With nightshade turned, and the soulless one, they’ll form at last The Star

United as seven against darkness, when war sweeps across the land
the Zadahrathi must win the day to stay the Fallen God’s hand

24^th day of the Gourd, 2347 IA

A Google SketchUp 8.0 rendering of the keystone.

The wind had been rising, whipping gusts of rain before it.  Now, after midnight, the damp sea wind howled through the cobbled alleys that led away from the harbor.  It swung the painted wooden signs above the doors of inns and taverns.  Starved mongrels cowered, shivering, in doorways against the wind and rain.

At this late hour, the revelers were done.  Few lights burned in the houses of Kordava, capital of Zingara on the Western Ocean.  Heavy clouds obscured the moon, and tattered rags of vapor scudded across the gloomy sky like ghosts.  It was a dark, secretive hour–the time of night when hard-eyed men whisper of treason and robbery; when masked assassins slink through nighted chambers, envenomed daggers bright in their black-gloved hands. A night for conspiracy; a night for murder.

 

–L. Sprague de Camp and Lin Carter, Conan the Buccaneer

 

These first two paragraphs in Chapter One of Conan the Buccaneer sum up what Sword and Sorcery fantasy is all about–visceral feelings of dark intrigue in the raw elements of a world that once was.

Great stuff.

I composed this song thinking about the loss of the Illuminar in the world of Men. Click on the Pic (site) and it will take you to Musicshake where you can hear the song.

…writing is not a technique but a song.  It rises in us most beautifully when we believe no one is listening…

                        – Sher Horosko

Illuminar Language.