El Festival De Muerte

[Storm Veritas]

((Closed to Ira))

Class structure on Althanas was defined not by who held the regal names, but more simply by who was foolish enough to overpay for a pricey suit.

Storm was one of those people. Diplomats, aristocrats, the upper echelon of earners upon the land were well versed in their own inner circles, but faking your way in was easy enough. The poor in Radasanth were just that – dirt poor – and lacked the ambition nor the wherewithal to circumvent the system and lay claim to the golden cup.

Fools, ripe for the picking.

He primely picked a nice thick shrimp from a garish silver platter being ushered around by some awful old stuffed shirt with an accent. Smiling, he looked around the place – beautiful and ornate, with cherry wood floors and brilliant crystal chandeliers. Soft piano music lifted echoed in the background, with the pompous bumbling chatter in small circles all about. The intro was always awkward, so he skipped it altogether.

“And then Abigail and I will be chartering a ship sailing past Nyd in a month… Lovely place, if you stay away from the mainland.” Braggard declarations of a well kempt white-head, very proud of his ability to burn through money. “And you, Stephen, anything scribbled in your planner?”

An awkward, unnecessary and unexpected laugh. Apparently this was what passed for amusing. Stepping forward, a round-bellied blowhard in a tuxedo talked between bites of some cheese-looking morsel, his left hand filled with a near-empty chardonnay.

“Well, I’m looking for something a little tamer. Last year we got stuck going to that awful place on Fallien, the festival, and it was total madness! Complete hedonism! Undressed women, excessive drinking, drug abuse and prolific fornication.”

Hey now!

His ears perked, the tone of conversation taking a nice turn. While he was interested in his own political advancement, pulling off a ruse or two, he was also very sincerely intrigued by the prospect of bared breasts and plentiful beer. He wasn’t that old, or even that inhuman. Waiting patiently while sipping gently at the soft chardonnay of his own, he would grab Stephen around the shoulders, greet him by name, and overwhelm the diplomat with the guilt of forgetting what must have felt like a familiar face.

“Stephen, about that festival…”

~*~
Six weeks later, aboard the “Delores”, three hundred yards from the coast of Fallien.

The trip hadn’t been bad. A few coins under the table had allowed Storm to board with a few friends of that Stephen fellow, a man who actually had been tolerable in spite of his exorbitant wealth. The tall, well dressed Veritas was cordial and polite, but peacefully distant, and kept mostly to himself over what could only be described as a routine sail. Everything had fallen together quite simply, and he waved and smiled again once more before disembarking. He wouldn’t have a ride home from the shores, but in his experience a few gold coins could lubricate the rudder of even the most steadfast ship.

It would be hot today, the sun browbeating him as he landed in sand. Climate control was not his best fit avenue. This place was hot – very hot – and his armpits were quickly feeling the uncomfortable tack of perspiration. Where the hell was he? The Stephen chap had informed him the Festival was “can’t miss”, but something of this place reeked of disaster.

Aw, whore. And the good-f*cking-ship-lollipop just took off for the high seas again. Why do you do this to yourself?

There was a stone structure ahead. It would serve as some shelter. Perhaps someone there would get him a bite to eat for a few coins, and directions to this party. He needed badly to urinate, and then begin filling his system with the devil’s nectar. This wasn’t supposed to be so difficult.

[Iriah Caitrak]

(Soundtrack - Yoshitaka Hirota - Deep Meditation - Title)

The Festival of the Dead was the largest celebration in the Calerian tribe. There were other, smaller festivals scattered throughout the year on nights when the moon was full and on nights when there was no moon at all, but this was the festival that beat all others. This was the festival that brought the Calerian’s home from their meanderings throughout the world of Althanas. This was the festival when the dead were supposed to walk amongst the living and one could see long forgotten ancestors and pray for all souls still trapped on this plane of existence.

Having the dead walk amongst the living was a tricky thing to prove, unless you had a tribe where one third of the people within it could see the dead. Of course, the Calerian’s never admitted whether or not spirits did walk on these nights, they never disproved it either, however Ira had never seen a single soul during The Festival of the Dead. As far as she knew, none of the Calerian’s had. But it wasn’t about whether or not the dead actually walked with the living; it was about honouring what had come before them and what was still to come. Praying for the saved and hoping for the lost.

She’d come back early, she’d known it was getting close to that time of the year again, all Calerian’s knew it. So she’d given herself plenty of time to find a ship that would take her back to Fallien and then traverse over familiar ground to home. And what had she got for coming back early? A job assignment, Gereint had sent her off into the Oasis to help an aspiring God named Chidori beat back the minions of Mitra, the Sun God, in order to reverse what he had been doing to the Oasis. That God, she now knew, had some serious issues with Suravani and her little desert people. Ira was just glad that her tribe was so isolated they usually managed to stay off the radar when it came to any form of God. Pissed off, petty or otherwise.

But that had been a little over a week ago and now it was only two days to the first day of the celebration. She was getting excited, she knew it, already people not of their tribe had started to filter into the village. It happened every year, though isolated, the lucky few in Fallien did know of their existence and all were welcome during The Festival of the Dead. So there were people setting up their own tents and makeshift homes around the village, making Ira’s house no longer the outskirts for this brief week. Most of them were from the Oasis, however she did spot one or two of Jya’s priestess’s. There were also people from other parts of Althanas, with pale skin, people who had happened in chance of this and came along for the fun.

With the sun still high in the sky and the dry heat of Fallien sinking into her skin, there was still much that needed to be done. A hunting party was returning from the desert, their catch slung over their shoulders or tied to a pyre and carried by two, so large was the animal. Desert foul, lizards and a few of the Giaz, an animal close to the deer and gazelle that Corone sported within its forests. It was going to be a great night, with a great feast and a great performance…and she was at the centre of that performance.

Nervous, anxiety was beginning to set in. She’d taken part in the main event before, but she’d never been the focus of it. Last time she’d been told where to go and what to do and she’d done exactly that, but this year, she’d been honoured by the village Majra and asked to lead it, and now she was wondering at her capabilities of doing so.

“You look worried.”

Ira’s head snapped around as she was pulled from her daydream. Her eyes fell to the figure of Liax, one of the other Calerian’s back from her travels in Althanas. Like Ira, she too sported the unusual hair and eye colour, only her hair was silver and her eyes were red. Sometimes a Calerian’s hair and eyes changed colour when they achieved greater power, Liax’s had originally been red hair and red eyes, she didn’t know what new abilities the Calerian had now since the last time she saw her. She did notice a few new scars on the woman though, one in particular on her neck and still rather fresh looking, like it had only been done a little while ago.

“Just kind of nervous, nice hair by the way.”

Liax sat down on the rock and grasped a thick strand of the silvery hair between her fingers with a smile on her face.

“Surprised me when it happened. Gereint said my eyes will probably change to silver as well, but he’s not sure if I’ll achieve anything higher than where I’m at.”

Ira nodded her head, not really knowing what to say. She was still on the novice side of being a Calerian, she’d only been allowed to do missions by herself for a little over a year now and she’d only been away from the tribe for a few months. Liax was at least ten years older than her and much more experienced, yet The Majra had still chosen her to the run the event and not any of the more experienced Calerian’s and she really had no idea why.

“How’s your outfit coming along?”

“It’s almost finished…I think.”

Liax laughed and then smiled at her, “I already finished mine, so why don’t we get out of the sun for a while and add some last minute touches to it, hmmm?”

Ira smiled and nodded, grateful for the help.

[Storm Veritas]

He didn’t know what to make of Fallien, but his initial analysis was none too pleasant.

The land was hot, and largely barren. He wandered for several hours through sand, and the hot sands of Fallien were remorseless. The first few hours in the sun were unmerciful, and wandering headlong gave him a sense of lost hope. After merely thirty minutes, he was surrounded by nothing but sand, the horizon stretching in all directions with nothing but flat stretched yellow. The sun felt hotter here, more for the lightened weight of his canteen than the humidity, although his dark suit fast betrayed his better senses. Soon enough the majority of his suit was tucked away into his satchel, roughly lumped in while only a cotton t-shirt and sleeping-sweat pants remained.

What the f*ck!? I come here for booze and bitches, and get miles of sand. This was NOT in the god-damned brochure…

Desperation was setting in, and he was happy to find the errant cactus or patch of grass. The cacti were actually tiny oases, although cutting them was far more difficult than he imagined. Drawing water was also a whore, and he struggled to hack up a few of the prickly beasts before he managed to garnish another sip of the nectar. His compass was his lone friend now, pointing him further south, further east. He was marching to doom, and knew not what lay before him. After some considerable rambling, a patch of grass, and a nap. Night had fallen, and he needed the rest.

~*~

Eyes awoke early, fear and trepidation forcing them open. In Corone he would fear dogs or bears. In known desert, the snakes and vultures and scorpions. In this godforsaken place, he knew not what to fear, merely that fear was an ally. Fear was a weapon to keep you sharp. Fear kept a man alive.

And there’s no shortage of f*cking fear.

He was up again, on his feet and walking on tired legs with the break of dawn. It wouldn’t be much longer. After a few short hours, before his shadow crept directly beneath him, he saw that glorious break. Mountains in this distance, thank you muchly. He would walk to them, knowing that with them would come change, something new, something that he would be able to work with. Food, if nothing else, as his belly ached for some sustenance.

Thank Christ. This place sucks.

He was spoiled from years of lavish living, long since removed from the hardships of a youth that aged him prematurely. The hard edged survivalist was gone now, and the aristocratic wannabe had no tolerance for roughing it. He needed food, a shower, a shave and either a massage or some sexual gratification. Either was fine; he wasn’t feeling terrifically picky.

He was fortunate to not have to meet the mountains. Before them came a second break, one which was closer. Tents lined the outskirts of a town, makeshift lean-tos were surrounded by large carts that streamed in from the west. Apparently he had missed the large road that had been beaten by feet over time, as well as the horses rented from somewhere by the shore. Fate was laughing at him from above. Such was life for the scoundrel; few would lend him pity. Self-loathing was certainly not beneath him.

You’ve GOT to be f*cking kidding me! How did I miss the path? Why didn’t they tell me? I should best never meet those pricks that took me here again, leaving me with little short of a smile. This had better be a HELL of a party.

Within the peripheral wall of shanties stood some more solid houses. They were composed of thick wooden frames and animal skins, skins of something large and terrible. Something he was glad to not come across in his travels. He moved in towards the town, fetching a handful of gold and a smile. Civilization appeared beautiful to the civilized.

His eyes caught hold of a comely one quickly, a tall sexy woman with a face of paint and some very tantalizing eyes. Fallien took a step up. She was comfortable, speaking to a shop-owner by name. Not a tourist. Perfect.

“Hey, honey. Name’s Storm, pleased to meet you. Don’t suppose you’d know a place a guy could get himself a shower and a shave before I buy you a drink?”

The high probability that she wouldn’t understand a damned thing he was saying never crossed his mind.

[Iriah Caitrak]

The rest of the day passed into the night seamlessly. More outsiders from different areas of Fallien, and some not even from Fallien, had filtered into the tribe. Small tents, large tents, family sized tents, all of them collapsible and all of them sitting on the outskirts of the tribe. People were milling about and talking to one another in Common, Tradespeak and Fallien, it was a mixture of cultures and peoples all in one place and for one week’s celebration.

A feast was being prepared; all different kinds of meats were slowly roasting over fires, their smell permeating the air. It would begin once the main event was over, which was soon approaching.

Ira paced restlessly in her room, nervous anxiety wearing away at the frayed edges of her nerves. Sure, she could battle Fallen, sure she could send a soul to it’s rightful resting place, but get her to do this and it had her on edge and worried about screwing up. What if no one liked it? What if she screwed up and fell over, or if one of the other people fell over? What if someone got hurt? Oh, crap, oh crap, oh crap!

“Ira!”

Ira’s head snapped up and she glanced over at Uriahd, who was standing in the doorway shaking her head at her.

“Stop looking like a soul just out of its body. Nothing is going to happen, everything is going to be fine. You have to stop worrying about it and you look absolutely gorgeous in your outfit. If I wasn’t already taken I just might’ve grabbed you instead.”

Ira cracked a smile at her friend and laughed slightly. She wasn’t sure if she was serious or joking about that last part but she didn’t mind.

“Thanks, Liax…”

----------------------------------

Outside the tent the darkness was being chased away by a large bonfire in the middle of the tribe, yet no wood was within it. Fallien being a desert country did not have much in the ways of wood and as such a fire like this would be impossible, if not for the magic of a Shaman. Gereint was the one keeping it alive and keeping it dancing and twirling about as if it were a real fire.

Walking in front of it he called for the silence of the crowd and within a few moments he had it.

“The main event, lead by Ira from the house of Shinkara is about to begin. This year’s dance of the dead!” Gereint said it once in Common, once in Tradespeak and once in Fallien so that everyone there could understand what was happening.

As he moved away from the crowd, the fire began to die down to nothing until only blackness remained, not even the best of sight being able to pierce though it. Seconds later is roared back to life with a vengeance and before the now blue flames stood around 10 Calerian warriors, some women, some men, each of them dressed in ceremonial clothing. Reds and blacks, fur lining the revealing clothing, their faces painted in runic symbols, their hair plaited with feathers and beads.

The steady beat of a drum soon began to echo about the darkness driving any conversation that may have been happening to silence. As the beat picked up the Calerian warriors began dancing in front of the flames. The light creating deep shadows on their faces and bodies as they twisted and turned in a dance of a story telling of life.

Out from the crowd came balls of light, floating through the air towards the large fire and the dancers therein. The dancers stopped and they too watched the bright, white balls of light come closer and stop on the other side of the fire. A blinding flash ripped through the air and where once the floating wisps had been now stood other Calerian fighters, dressed in black, their faces painted black and they held their bodies in twisted uncomfortable ways, imitating the Fallen, the dead souls corrupted in Purgatory.

The light of the fire flared red, a dark blood red as the Fallen closed in on the Calerian’s, who turned to flee in panic. Through the flames another fighter appeared. Landing smoothly on the ground in a crouching position, a hand out before her. As Ira slowly rose up, the sad and energetic cry of a beautiful voice rang out through the air. Unlike the others, though still dressed revealingly, Ira wore something akin to armour, her hair plaited with beads and feathers.

The words from the song were not important, the rise and fall of the notes and the speed with which sung were, creating an atmosphere of hope, of uplifting spirits. Two of the deformed creatures broke off from their group and attack Ira, their bodies twisting and turning in grotesque ways. With an elaborate flash the double bladed Naginata appeared in her hand. Spinning the weapon around, the warrior slashed at one Fallen and with the same momentum swung her body in a circle and took the other one in the gut. Both creatures fell to the sand and disappeared in a flash of white.

The sound of the drums increased in tempo and turned into the beat of the war drums. Turning to the others behind her, Ira raised her weapon in the air and mimicked a cry just as the sound of the singer rang out through the area. The Calerian’s behind her raised their arms in the air and in flashes of light they too formed weapons in their hands and with Ira at the head, charged into the ground of Fallen. And so began a dance of war where the Calerian’s slaughtered the Fallen, the battle lasting for a few minutes as the light of the fire, the tempo of the drums and the cries of the singer changed to match the battle going on.

In the end, the Fallen were defeated, but Ira lay on the ground, a deep wound to her stomach and chest, the red light of the fire casting around her making it look like she was actually bleeding. The drum turned to a soft sound and the singer became sorrowful, her notes stretching and crying to each other. In the arms of a fellow fighter, surrounded by the remaining Calerian’s, she died and the light of the fire faded into darkness, signifying the end.

Moments later the fire returned to its normal colour and all the Calerian’s involved in the dance stood before it, taking a bow to the applause from the audience.

----------------------------------------

Ira laughed and smiled as she moved away from the flames. She was sweaty and sore and tired and downright happy. The dance was over, no one had screwed up, everything had gone perfectly and it seemed like everyone had loved it. She was going to be feeling it in the morning though and she had to admit, jumping through that fire had been one of the most nerve wrecking things of her life. Not only was it fire and in the back of her mind was the fear it would burn her, but if she hadn’t landed right it could have looked awful.

No need to worry about it now though, it was over and done with and had turned out great. Now she could relax and get something to eat soon since she was starving. But at the moment she really needed a drink. Smiling and talking as she went, Ira made her way over to one of the large tables set up hoping she could get herself a glass of wine to take the nervous jitter out of her muscles and help her relax.

[Storm Veritas]

Fallien was much more than what he had assumed of it at face value.

Most importantly, the drinks were terrific. He loved the little red glasses, although the blue ones with the sparkle weren’t half bad either. He had wooed the lovely lady over several, but failed when he tried to close the deal with her.

F*ck it, then.

Although the woman had blown him off – either confused by his lack of chivalry or simply disgusted by his forward advances – he was very pleased with the thoroughfare. Here, in the middle of nowhere, he lay witness to some truly breathtaking festival. The convulsion and coalescence of fire and dance and sexuality was incredible, the bodies undulating with the overt sexuality of bared bellies and fast snapping hips. The women were exceptionally stunning, with tanned skins that looked even brighter beneath the glow of amber fire. One of them caught his eye. The centerpiece, a nubile young starlet that had a lithe, athletic figure and flexibility that looked all too enjoyable.

No way, asshole. Way out of your league. Girl like that chases money, or power. You’ve got a little money, and a little power. Settle to the waitress whores.

His self esteem healthy yet in check, he did scoop one tender brunette into his arms. The waitress was stunned, nearly dropping her platter, but he laid it on the table as he took her in his arms. He spun her, danced with her, and watched quickly as anger turned to mere surprise, which then in turn melted into a scintillating desire.

“I like you.” She whispered, simply enough. “This your first festival? I like a man that can dance…”

Of course you do, pig.

“And a woman needs grace like yours to handle herself, which I am quite confident you can.” He smiled a bright flash of whites, and she moved a little closer, pressing her hips to his, pulsing her sex against the fast expanding landscape beneath his belt. That would do it, and her bedroom eyes unequivocally conveyed her total surrender. Not a moment was wasted. The darkness hid them as he walked her away from the dance, a smooth stroll to a small abandoned tent. As he walked, they faded from sight, the sounds of dance and song still loud and clamoring all about them. Hidden in plain sight.

There were few words in the exchange, but plenty of passion. Flesh on flesh, a lack of inhibition, and wild rolling bodies twisting over each other in the warm summer air. He loved the taste of the sweat off her skin, and worked quickly with her to ensure they both would finish together. Not that he particularly cared about her enjoyment, but word carried fast and he had to start somewhere.

He left the tent moments later, still tucking in his shirt when he saw the prize. That lovely woman, looking better, the masterpiece. She was sitting, facing away, and relaxing with a drink. He double checked to ensure he was cleaned, and used a quick spray of cologne to mask the scent of sex that sung from him. Now was a terrible time to approach her, although he was certainly thinking with the right brain. She hadn’t seen him leave the tent, as best as he could tell, and wouldn’t know what hit her.

Or so he hoped, sitting down.

“G’evening, lovely. I was stunned by the dance there, really beautiful, really artistic… yet sexy as hell. Let me buy that drink for you.”

An eye and a smile for the pretty one. Veritas forgot entirely the name or look of whoever he had just savaged within the tent merely fifty yards away.

[Iriah Caitrak]

The alcohol was good in her blood. It took the edge off; it made that slight shake that had travelled throughout her muscles after the dance was done go away. The cool night air against her sweat slicked skin helped as well, creating goose bumps along her arms, legs and stomach, basically anything that was bare to the air, which was quite a bit of her in this outfit. She didn’t mind too much though, modesty was not high on her list of things and everyone else was still wearing their outfits. Plus, it felt great to have the night air caress skin and the shivers that went up her spine felt divine.

The bench she was sitting on suddenly dipped a bit and Ira caught someone out of the corner of her eye. Looking to her right she saw a rather handsome looking fellow. After he mumbled something she barely understood, not only because it was in common but also because he was drunk, Ira politely brushed him off by pretending she didn’t understand him. He made a very blunt show of what he wanted from her and Ira just turned her back to him, not interested at all.

Men could be gross creatures sometimes, especially those that lacked the charm of Fallien men. They knew how to treat a woman, knowing she had the pick of the litter from basically any guy around, they knew they were the ones being chosen.

Feeling the rise of the bench, Ira turned back to her normal position. Her back resting against the wooden table behind her, her arms spread out on either side resting on the table. Grabbing her drink, she downed the rest of the glass, letting the blue alcohol caress her tongue before she swallowed it. It was definitely a strong, acquired taste, but she loved this stuff. She could drink herself to the ground and not care about it, in the morning she wouldn’t have a hangover and she’d be ready to the do the next tomorrow night.

At the sound of yet another voice by her, Ira turned her eyes and watched a rather handsome figure approach her. His hair was messy and about his face making him look sexy as hell and unlike most of the Fallien males he was tall. Boy was he tall. Calerian’s as bred fighters were taller than the rest of the tribes of Fallien but the other tribes were much shorter.

He had a nice smile too, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

There was something about his eyes that was a little off setting; it was as if they tried to tell something that he tried to hide.

He spoke in common, which gave away the fact that he wasn’t from here if his pale skin hadn’t already done so.

Her eyes changed from their swirling silver to a deep forest green as a light blush graced her cheeks, “Thank you, but this isn’t a tavern. It’s a festival, you don’t pay for anything here.”

She smiled at him and poured him a drink in an extra glass she had sitting there and placed it on the table. The blue liquid glistened in the clear glass as she motioned for him to sit beside her, moving the large platter of meats, cheeses, breads and some fruits and vegetables she had behind her between them. Ira didn’t know why she elected to have this stranger sit beside her and not any of the others.

“My name is Ira of Shinkara,” She extended her hand to him. It wasn’t normal Fallien custom to greet people like this, but she knew it was so in other regions of Althanas.

He had very interesting clothes; she’d seen some people wear them when she’d been in Corone. That being said, he must have been extremely hot wearing them. At night it’s not so bad and can get downright uncomfortable, but during the day it can be brutal to someone who isn’t used to the heat and sun.

[Storm Veritas]

When she turned to him, she looked with the eyes that sparkled, beautiful things that held a faint promise and even perhaps a kindled interest. Storm smiled back, a genuine thing from the eyes that he rarely was able to enjoy. The foolish, fast-manipulated girl in the tent was ancient history now, something to be forgotten no sooner than a fleeting glance from this vixen. His eyes were on the prize now, and when she spoke to him he heard more than ordered noise. Sultry, sexy tones, something scintillating, something real.

“Ira, it’s a pleasure. I suppose that trying to disguise myself as a local would likely be a waste of time. My name is Storm, a visitor from majestic Radasanth upon Corone.”

A pause. He smiled, waiting deliberately.

Look comfortable. Don’t be intimidated by her beauty. Smile, look at those pretty eyes. Don’t rush.

Confidence was in the ability to hold attention. He resumed after merely a fleeting moment.

“I came here to see what was described as a dazzling show, but you, my dear Ira, have surpassed my wildest expectations.”

Another smile, and a good sip from one of the blue liquids. Very sweet, smooth, and only the hint of alcohol. Hopefully that was the strongest poison in the concoction. He was confident in himself, but any strange drugs that the locals enjoyed could be stronger than he was prepared for. Additionally, he tended to get a bit unpredictable amongst the harder stuff.

Can’t have that with this tight little package here… This one’s gonna be work!

He stood, smooth and tall and confident as he finished his drink. A slow deliberate few steps brought him even closer to her. God, she even smelled sexy. A little chatter whispered sweet flatteries to the lovely maiden. That was easy. The way the flames’ light licked her skin in the darkness cut deep channels to accentuate her muscularity, her athleticism. He was taking a big risk going straight for the Alpha Female here on Fallien, but he’d rather roll the dice at the high stakes than bother with the faceless pigs for days. He slowly stood back, allowing the light to work for him, painting him in his best light. This was simple enough.

The music had slowed significantly, the bang of the drum now replaced largely by the cry of a tight-strung viola. The crowd had thinned a bit, although heaps still stood by the periphery of open space surrounding the fire. An empty floor.

Perfect. Use these fleet feet for something useful.

He extended a single hand to her as he bowed a bit, the upturned palm an unmistakable invitation.

“I imagine you’re quite tired, after that spectacular show, but how about, well… maybe one more dance?”

Another smile. He was actually smitten a bit. In the background, he could feel the eyes of jealous Fallien inhabitants burning through them.

Jealous much? Don’t blame you pipsqueak freaks. Blow me.

[Iriah Caitrak]

The blush upon her cheeks easily deepened as he spoke to her. She could feel the rush of blood, the heat on her face. It was not something that happened often, but this gentleman just had something about him. His very body language, his voice; she loved his accent, whatever it was. He said he was from Corone, so perhaps this is what the locals there sounded like, she didn’t know, the only thing she knew about Corone was Concordia forest and the town of Underwood.

The one thing she loved about him was not once did he look upon her anywhere but her face and in her eyes. Oh she was sure he’d looked her body over before, heck everyone who’d been watching the dance had pretty much had a rather nice view of her every curve. But right now as he talked to her, he talked to her like a person, like he was actually interested in her and not, well, and not getting laid.

As the beat of the music changed, the drums stopped their relentless and fast paced beats to let in something slower. Something sultry and sad all at the same time and she’d barely noticed it until he offered his hand for a dance.

“And here I thought you’d never ask.”

Placing her much smaller hand in his, Ira watched as his fingers closed gently around her hand, basically enveloping it. He had such long fingers. His palm was worn with calluses too and that was the first hint she got that he was perhaps a warrior or fighter of some kind, which just made him that much more interesting.

Following him out onto the dance floor, a rather empty space in front of the fire, Ira moved in close to Storm. Her body brushed lightly up against his every time they swayed together to the music. Her head rested just under his chin, pressed against his chest. She could hear the steady rhythm of his heart like this and if she wasn’t mistaken it was beating just a little fast. She loved dancing like this yet had never been able to do it with the shorter men around here.

“I love your name, Storm. In Fallien your name would be Saekr and would mean one who changes like the weather, which doesn’t mean much in Fallien. The weather never changes much here, but I have been to Corone for a short time.”

Breathing in deeply, Ira closed her eyes and let herself relax against him. She hadn’t realized she’d been that tense until this moment. Beneath the thin shirt he wore, Ira could feel the gentle shape of lithe muscles. Her free hand was even resting on his stomach, her fingers lightly caressing up and down the hardened muscles there. It always fascinated her how a man’s body was all hard muscles compared to a woman’s softer curves.

[Storm Veritas]

It was smooth, sexy, nice. She was magical, her body smelling salty sweet in the night air. Things had cooled down a bit, but the night was still very warm, and it felt good to be close to her. The eyes burned through them both, the outsider and the stunning beauty. The difficulty lie merely in deciding which was sweeter: his inevitable conquest or the jealousy of the natives. Both were wonderful.

The festival had been more than he had hoped for, and things were shaping up nicely. The trip had been long and yet not overwhelming, the journey through the desert incredibly hot and yet happily behind him. Despite the horribly unfortunate misgivings of his directions, all was well.

“You’re beautiful…” he whispered, sliding his mouth to her ear. Even it was delicate, nubile, beautiful. Her neck, long and swanlike, was equally tantalizing, and Storm moved slowly. He pressed his lips to her neck, gently suckling at the salty skin. Sweet, tender, wonderful, and he took her lack of resistance as acceptance.

He stopped abruptly, pulling back to smile at her. She truly was magnificent, and made him feel every bit the champion he remarked himself. It may not have been love, but it was a connection he felt strongly, perhaps more matched and challenged by this woman than any he had known.

He moved back, gazing at her, looking into those eyes. Bright, beautiful, intelligent. She forced a smile onto his face, something amazingly genuine. Not the façade smirk that he leant those that he secretly despised, but rather something real. Something largely unfamiliar.

You’re magic, beautiful. F*cking dynamite.

“Show me this place…” another whisper, leading and yet direct. She was stunning, and he was smitten. They were adults, and there was passion. His heart even fluttered when she turned, and they walked to the periphery of the dance floor, the makeshift space of dirt, hand in hand. Was this really happening? Could it be real?

Before he was allowed to pinch himself, all hell broke loose.

[Iriah Caitrak]

Show him around. Oh yes, she’d show him around in the direction it took to get back to her house from here and that was exactly what she’d planned on doing. A small walk around the tribe with only the stars and the moon to light the way and then to her place. A few rather naughty and descriptive thoughts immediately crossed her mind about what she could do to him there and what kind of person he may be in bed. Whether he was the gentle, slow kind, or the dominant, rough kind. Either way sounded extremely appealing to her but she was hoping he’d fall more towards the latter.

With the light smile on her face, Ira began to lead him away from the crowds and away from the fire towards the shadowy areas of the tribe now deserted. She didn’t get too far. She stopped dead in her tracks as what felt like icy fingers gripped her heart and squeezed it to the point of bursting. She gasped slightly, her hand flying to her chest as her body froze in place, her mind refusing to believe what she was sensing.

It couldn’t be happening, it couldn’t be real. But it was.

“Fallen! Pratihan vas!”

Ira turned her head back towards the fire, watching as the confused outsiders stood around and scared Alerian’s began racing for the protection of their homes, which couldn’t help them now. Calerian fighters looked towards the distance and Ira knew from her senses that they were coming from the west, but there was too much panic, someone needed to take charge of the situation. People were screaming and running for cover while others were looking around in confusion and not fully understanding the whole situation. This was a disaster in the making and it could only get worse unless someone did something.

“Calerian fighters to the bonfire!” Ira yelled, “Protect those who cannot fight! Alerian’s to your homes and take the outsiders with you!”

Turning back to Storm, Ira didn’t know what to say to him. This was supposed to be a day of celebration, and she had been having the time of her life. Now she was going off to battle and innocents could end up dying.

“Go somewhere, anywhere to get away from the bonfire. We’ll keep them busy there.”

Not knowing what else to say, Ira let go of his hand and raced off towards the bonfire. On the way there her half swallows materialized in her hands and she was met by a force of fifty or more Calerians who already had their weapons at the ready. It was surreal and so much like the dance they had just performed and like that moment, Ira found herself leading them here as well. Only these were not choreographed moves with a planned ending on who was going to live and who was going to die. This was real battle where anything and everything could happen and in the end of it she was not planning on being the one lying face down in the sand.

Looking to the west, Ira saw the most frightening scene of her entire life. A force of at least one hundred Fallen were descending upon the tribe and heading straight for the mass of Calerians. Their grotesque, withered and burnt forms so much like those they had just danced to a few hours ago under the light of the fire. Their weapons growing from their very bodies and large vacant holes resided in their chests where their hearts had once been. A Calerian’s true enemy, Fallen, souls that had become trapped in Purgatory and lost their humanity to the slow decay there. Souls that somehow found a way to break out into the physical plane where they could hurt anyone and anything and only a Calerian could stop them.

Ira raised her weapon into the air and gave a fierce battle cry, one that was followed and drowned out by those behind her. And then at the head of a force of fifty, Ira raced towards the army of Fallen. Adrenaline was pumped into her blood, sweat broke out on her body anew and anything besides the battle was lost in a clash of metal and the sounds of the dying and dead. After all, the true horror of being a Calerian can only be witness on a real battlefield like this one when you can see your friends die before you then listen to the cries of their very soul.