Vhadya & Velocity (Closed)

[Mordelain]

“Then we are settled, then?”

Mordelain blinked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I am happy that I have been bested by my son at last. We have been waging a silent war amongst the echelons of culture in Fallien for the better part of two decades. It was only a matter of time before he overcame his inadequacies.”

“Inadequacies you inspired, no doubt. You are a despicable man, Mariachi, and I seldom resort to such petty comments after knowing someone for such a short amount of time.”

“Yet,” there was malice in the curl of his lips as he leant back from the table, his duties tending to the hosting done, “you trust my son without ever truly questioning his motives.”

“Mark my words Mariachi, Suresh will answer for his Machiavellian impulses soon enough.”

From his expression, Mariachi evidently missed the reference. Mordelain tried her luck with a more immediately relevant metaphor. She had been to Earth, but the people of Althanas would never know of those wonders witnessed on the continent of ‘Europe’. “You will be glad to know that I will make sure he is put before the Common Law and answers for his politick in due course.”

Mariachi raised an eyebrow. “I have greater chance of dying from a thimble of Niphena than my son has of being punished for his victories, Mordelain.” The old man waited, head cocked for the dancer to make sense of the poisonous comment. It was another attempt to gull her.

Fortunately for Mordelain, she had paid attention during her lectures, especially during those which pertained to the qualities of the countless poisons she might encounter in the course of her duties. Niphena was utterly harmless in small quantities, though immensely addictive. She smiled warmly. The freckles on her cheeks fell into the cavernous dimples that formed.

“I will ensure its three thimbles worth, then.”

This dose would cause his cold, infinitely black heart to stop beating in an instant.

“That’s more like it, a feisty, Fallien spirit,” he chuckled.

Mordelain could not quite work out why she hated the man so much for a simple theft. Had she longed for a new home so much in the absence of Junkyo that she had succumbed utterly to the laws of the desert? Was she bound in obedience with unquestioning fealty to the iconography of the Abdos, of Jya, of the Keep and the Mother Goddess?

“We do not have long left,” she gestured towards the tent, where Suresh was gathering various plates of food onto a large tray. He would have insisted he carry it to the table himself, his desire to respect his elders as stubborn as hers to upend Suresh in public was.

Mariachi looked out to the Oasis wistfully.

“It has been illuminating, to say the least,” her tone softened. “I will forgive Suresh for whatever tricks he has pulled, for whatever sheep skin he has tugged down over my eyes up until now, because whatever you did to him all those years ago has turned him into something you will never be.” She poured herself a dose of by now luke warm and thickening coffee. She swigged, rolled the cup in her shaking fingers, and then dropped the silver vessel to her lap where she ran her index finger over the mould.

“What might that be?”

“Suresh has become an honest man, something rare in this fucking city.”

Mariachi puckered his lips.

“I will admit I did not expect this coup to be so exciting. I will sacrifice myself to bring the Freerunners down; you remember that, Mordelain, swiftest of heretics, when the il’Arkmanham dances on your festering grave.”

The tension began to spark in the air, settling down between their glares only when Suresh returned to earshot. They instantly relaxed, let out a duet of false laughter and turned to their mentor and son respectively.

“I have brought us such a lavish array of the finest goods it will pale in comparison to whatever foul concoction we end up eating in the bazaar this evening,” he stooped to slip the tray onto the plate, and Mariachi and Mordelain both thawed at the sight.

For now they would eat as a family, before tearing one another part as the game of thrones continued.

[Mordelain]

The tray Suresh produced was full with an array of delicate porcelain bowls. Each was beset with a thin band of glass fragments around its rim, bound with a narrow silver band. To those keenly versed in Fallien culture, they belonged to the artistic school of the Karachi tribes, an irony lost on Mordelain’s still youthful knowledge pool. Mordelain was not sure what to admire more, the crockery or their contents. Though the small bowls and plates on the tray were numerable, they were only sparsely populated, so she settled for naming the colours and types of glass found in each piece as best she could.

“Oh Suresh, this looks fantastic, thank you!” She proclaimed, momentarily forgetting the sincerity and seriousness of their circumstance.

In Fallien it was customary to serve lots of small dishes of various foodstuffs to pick at as guests wished, as opposed to a set menu or large portions. This custom stretched only to drinks, sometimes breakfasts, where the sweets would be replaced with flatbreads, olives and humus dips and when guests retired to the hookah lounges after a banquet.

When you drank your body weight in date syrup, coffee and spiced wine, you often had no need to eat anyway, and as such, the foods were often lavish and expensive to produce for most of the inhabitants of the island. Finger food had become a status symbol of sorts. Mordelain was enticed by the goods, but she was still quite full from her curry; her stomach dropped an uncomfortable reminder of her intoxication the night before.

She picked up a sugared almond laced with coconut flakes all the same, and popped it into her mouth with a childish grin. As she crunched into it, Mariachi took a date slice, and Suresh, as was by now predictable to his fostered daughter, picked up a date slice and wedged several almonds in between the cake and biscuit layers. He devoured it quicker than either of them could, and reached for a second amidst a torrent of crumbs and groans.

“That I will not miss…” Mariachi said slowly, between slightly more delicate and thoughtful mouthfuls.

“Let us not prolong this any further Mariachi. It is your turn to ask a question, so ask. Dates won’t save you from the eventual defeat, and the marzipan circles,” she traced a circle with her finger in the general direction of the concerned sweet to annunciate her point, “won’t prevent me from collecting on that debt.” Suresh chuckled, and despite her veiled threat, Mariachi only laughed, apparently pleased that she had taken the competition in her stride.

From Mariachi’s apparent age, she guessed he had at least a dozen tokens about the belt on his waist. She would only earn two from the coup, but that was a lifetime of work for some of the il’Jhain, especially when one delivery could often lose a rider tokens without any gain in return.

The old man nodded, finished off his desert and wiped his grubby fingers on the edge of the tablecloth.

“We have spoken of direction, tradition and the glass spinners, so let us speak of the deep running history that tells the story of my home.” History bridled on the edges of his words, exciting a sense of duty in Mordelain that she had felt many a time. She had felt it whenever she had recited the tales of the Kalithrism to a new crowd on one of the nine worlds, though she had not had the privilege for decades now. The pursuit of the perfect oratory performance, speech dramatics and storytelling were her calling, as much as making profit was for Suresh.

Mariachi was falling right into a trap Mordelain had not realised she had the gall to set. She was certainly willing to take hold of the moment and use it to her advantage now that it was presented to her. The thrill of a competition was undermining her usually stringent morals.

[Mordelain]

“Who were the Hatazista, and what is the significance of the group to the Exile Coradan?” Suresh shook his head, assuming the youth would falter beneath the immensity of the question put to her.

Mordelain, on the other hand beamed and smiled.

“The Hatazista were twenty three souls left after the devastation of Suravani's wrath. They were the survivors of the Vhadya, the sundering, the fall of Fallien beneath the wrath of the Mother Goddess.”

Suresh shook his doubt, glancing from daughter to father with a tense, clenched jaw and baited breath. The quickness with which she plucked the answer from her mind unsettled him. It unsettled Mordelain, though she did not give it away. She clenched her fist into a tight, painful ball to keep herself from shaking.

“Coradan,” Mordelain frowned, as if a memory she was drawing on was not something she wished to recall, “was my mentor. I was there, five hundred and eighty six years ago, and the significance of this number to him, is that he takes twenty two souls each year in raids against the Nirakkal tribes.”

What he did with those souls, only he and the Hatazista knew. Mordelain suddenly realised that Suresh’s political machinations and abuse of her power was not so naïve as she had thought. Suresh did not show surprise at the revelation, and then she realised why.

He knew all along that she was of the Tama, a world walker, a dancer of the Void.

This could only mean that he was one of the Ghubar, the sand golem, chroniclers of history.

He was part of Fallien's soul, and she was the cause of his pain.

When the Kalithrism was still young, and Althanas newly brought into the folds of the eight worlds as the ninth, Mordelain had been posted to the island of Fallien. It was her responsibility to guide its then grand civilisation through the transition of allegiance. Its civilisation was a spectacle to behold, and the location leant itself well to bondage to the Kalithrism. Through Fallien, Althanas could be tethered to Hudde, and thus forever joined in the union of worlds.

“You look surprised,” she said. It was an attempt to garner more of a reaction than a dropped jaw.

She was meant to proclaim the joining to its people, and to teach them the rules and tenets of the Kalithrism so that the people of Fallien could visit the other worlds, and the other worlds the people of Fallien. She was only a hundred years of age then, cast adrift as a novitiate, but experienced and wise compare to the young and gluttonous children of Suravani. They rejected her prophecies, ignored her offers, and cast her out of their cities, a common leper to be ignored, kicked whilst she was down and left to fend for herself out in the sand flats. She became a bug to be squashed out where the karuku-tal and the desert drakes prowled like kings.

Her warnings had been ignored…

Suravani’s wrath had come shortly after. Mordelain remembered the forty days she wept for the lost.

“You expect me to believe you? You petulant wretch, this is some trinket of knowledge Suresh told you, a lie, a fabrication!” Mariachi slammed his fists, tightly clenched balls of rage onto the edge of the table.

Several of the date slices fell onto the tray. The date syrup vial clashed onto its side and began to lose its contents, though nobody came to its rescue. The café owners cast them a momentary, nervous glance, before they continued with their conversation. You looked, but did not intervene, lest you became the target for rage and deals gone wrong.

“I am one of the Tama, a people spoken of in the legends of Fallien. Few people have been gifted with an ancestral knowledge of our presence here all those years ago, and few still would still admit it.” Those few were the Ghubar, simulacrums made of sand that Fallien’s soul had created to keep its shattered world alive. They were memories, figments and dreams of the people that had died in the Vhadya.

Puppets of the gods, servants of a kingdom’s immutable desire to survive.

[Mordelain]

“When you spoke to me of the Tower of the Ghubar,” she did not look at Suresh, lest his shock at her betrayal of trust phase her composure, “it dawned on me that you must also know of the Troubadours. That you must also be one of the Ghubar, though the expression on your face tells me you are a sleeper, in denial, an automaton.”

Few Ghubar were afforded their full memories, a waking understanding of who, or what they were. When Fallien called for them, they listened, and through them She could work towards a new tomorrow.

Mordelain was terribly thankful she had never met Mariachi’s real self.

“The Ghubar are as much a myth as the Tama! Even the Fae and dragons in the sandstorms seem more real, you’ve heard too many stories meant to scare children and let the priesthood get away with their heresies!” The old man’s xenophobia came out of his mouth like a poison, thickening the air with coffee stench and nausea.

“How else could she know the answer, when not even I knew that,” Suresh interjected, his long years of experience haggling and bargaining with the wisest merchants in the world allowing his rage at his progeny to remain tightly sealed in the back of his mind.

Mariachi clearly had no answer in mind, as he went silent instead of resorting to his usually prompt and pithy sarcasm.

“The Troubadours are chroniclers, like the Ghubar. We age much slower than humans, for time on Junkyo is different. A year in your calendar is only a third of an annum for us, I am over three hundred years of age, but that is nearly seven hundred in terms of the youthful history of Althanas.” She was very much a teenager still, but relativity between the different races of Althanas meant that age was less of a burden or restriction than it was on some of the other worlds.

Suresh and Mordelain both reached for one of the upturned slices and devoured them with a slow relish. Only the awkward silence diminished their enjoyment of the fine baked goods, dates so sweet as this deserved to be relished regardless of the troubles of the world.

“I believe that makes it your question,” he finally whispered. His expression was one of a bruised ego. It was an expression Mordelain would relish for a long time to come.

Out of all the times and trials of the people of Fallien, Mariachi seemed quite intent on tripping Mordelain up on one period in particular. The old man’s focus was invested in the finer details of the event called the Vhadya. Its history was a legend, an omen, a fable amongst the survivors of the island. In Irrakam, vast murals depicted the carnage wherever you went, and out in the many ruins she had encountered hints at the former glory of Fallien’s civilisation. History was everywhere, and everywhere you went, you were walking in the footsteps of a legacy that would never fade.

“Choose it wisely…”

In the shattered peaks and battlements of the sand towers, there were mosaics more resplendent than any formed in the Blight. In sand blasted aviaries swarming with harpies, fickle, malefic creatures with breasts of beauty and claws of cruelty, there were juniper bushes and jazberries, thriving on long buried wells. Bright green and eternally living palm trees clinging to life in fractured courtyards of long dead viceroys dropped coconuts on bone dry and crumbling woodwork, preserved through the ages by the salt in the sand that slowly sealed it beneath the earth.

One of the most important lessons she had learnt from Suresh was that a Fallien native never, ever forgot. They wielded the Vhadya like a weapon, using it as an excuse, for the better part of five centuries to turf out foreigners and keep their walls high and their blades readied. Mordelain could not be sure if it was Fallien’s will being enforced through those Ghubar who still lived in Irrakam, or if they were simply just that bitter.

Only the recent Jya had sought to change those ways, and the more traditionalist members of society, the il’Jhain factions included, had not taken too kindly to it. Mordelain realised now that she was becoming just another soldier in a secret war. All her work thus far in the city had been in pursuit of drawing out a Ghubar. She had found Suresh, but the Ghubar it seemed had been expecting her return. This was a dangerous game, and it was gathering velocity with every breath.

[Mordelain]

She felt inclined to go with her gut, but the realisation dawned on her that her gut was telling to cheat. A ghubar was a potent vessel for Shansi, the Thayne child of Fallien, but they lived on an echo, a dreamy cloud. Even those that had been awakened to their purpose, the named avatars could not truly comprehend the fact that they had died, long ago. Mordelain felt sick at the thought.

“What year were you born, Mariachi?”

Mordelain had to win. She had to make Shansi aware that she was here to help her, and not to bring wrath and ruin upon the people of Fallien once more. She had been blamed for the Vhadya, but she would prove her innocence if it was the last thing she did. After all, was it her fault that the people of Fallien had ignored her prayers, her preaching, and her words of warning? She had screamed to the heavens that the only way to save the island from the gluttony and sin of the hedonism on the banks of the Attireyi was to join with the Kalithrism, with the Void.

Suravani, the name the people of Althanas gave to the Goddess of Althanas had punished the children of the desert for their ignorance. Her will was to bond with the eight other souls that shared the Kalithrism, her will was to become one with the World Mind.

Sin had tarnished that bond.

She had screamed, a scream that Mordelain could still hear in her dreams.

The old man wrinkled his nose. There was a clear struggle on his face, as if a date were forming on the tip of his tongue. A Ghubar was unable to remember the time he had been born, at least, the time he had been born actual. Whenever a sand golem was destroyed, Shansi simply formed a new likeness, channelled the soul of the deceased back into the grains and the shards of glass that made its skeleton and sent a pulse of entanglement and illusion through the population of the desert.

Memories shifted, lives remained the same, the constant status quo kept Irrakam resplendent. The ultimate irony of the xenophobia expressed by the natives, was that only a third of the people of Fallien were people of Fallien. Only a third was human. The ghubar, though indistinguishable, made up much of the fabric of Fallien culture, from the il’Jhain to the guard of Jya’s Keep.

“What…year…were you born?” Mordelain repeated herself through clenched teeth. Her tone was menacing, dark, monstrous. Suresh’s non-chalant expression was swiftly replaced with one of disgust. He had taught Mordelain better than to be so callous with the traditions and rituals of the il’Jhain.

“Mordelain!…enough.”

“When…were…”

“Mordelain!” His deep voice barked, but it's power was dimmed by a power unseen. Something in Suresh's being was working against his natural instinct. Something was changing the machinations in his mind.

Some of the most prominent members of Fallien society were Ghubar. Suresh had been easy to find, his scent and his ability to be in so many circles without anyone ever questioning either his allegiance or his motives had been the first sign. She had cut his cheek whilst he slept through their previous night’s drinking, the trickle of sand had been the second.

The Tama did not ever suffer the effects of alcohol.

[Mordelain]

Mordelain’s grand deception had become so intoxicating she had seldom given the time to think about the consequences of her actions. All those long centuries of being taught how to act, to inspire, to trick and deceive, they were meant to save people. This, despite its importance in bringing Fallien back to life, did not feel like she was saving anyone but herself.

“I am…” Mariachi came close to overcoming his own creation, but the powers holding the sand together grew in intensity with one last effort. “Seventy eight.”

The cage of memories remained locked tight.

Mordelain felt the swell of power grow beyond necessity, until it seemed, for just a moment, to break through the skin of the old man. He coughed loudly, as if sand were stuck in his throat.

“That is the will of Shansi reforming your memories. She is overpowering your human instinct, key to keeping your emotions and actions real to the living members of Fallien. Soon, you will remember nothing of this day, and your life will continue as if it had never happened.” Mordelain’s sincere tone was accented by a rolling, eccentric collection of sympathetic gestures. She flicked the tufts of her hair sticking out of her headdress, tinkled a bell, and rolled her wrists. Anything to give her a brief respite as she unveiled the truth.

It made her feel good, and that was all that mattered. She was the one that had to remember.

A peal of thunder darkened the sky.

“You, however, will always regret this day.” The voice that came from Suresh’s lips was a deep, lightning bound echo. It reverberated in Mordelain’s ear drums, loud enough to make her head spin and her heart flutter.

“You…” she flinched, “finally heard me…”

Shansi filled Suresh’s body, draining the sand from his corpse and replacing it with a vestige of her being. The sound that accompanied her arrival was horrifying, a sub light symphony that tore at Mordelain’s sanity. His skin began to crack, and a light from within glowed through it, forming runes and farrows on every inch of his face and arms. Even his robes began to glow. The light was yellow, but laced with gold and eggshell and a quality of its own that defied description and metaphor.

“I have been watching you, Mordelain. You have defied me long enough.”

Mordelain could only watch in abject horror as the light in Suresh’s eyes, that familiar and welcoming, fatherly warmth died. His pupils burst into flame as Shansi possessed the Ghubar fully.

“I have been here for a century, plucking up the courage to do what I should have done all those years ago…” the Tama spoke through gritted teeth, back slowly arching under the pressure. “I have come to save you, Shansi.”

“You destroyed my land, my people, and my glory!” The roar was overwhelming, its power froze time itself. The café became a static cell, in which only Mordelain and the soul-Thayne of Fallien could move, speak, breath, feel.

“I tried to save you, Shansi, I shouted the danger Fallien was in from the rooftops of the tallest tower!” Her voice had fallen on deaf ears, too proud to consider that a stranger could be their only road to salvation. “I watched Suravani’s rage destroy the civilisation built on your back, a pain I have felt every day of my life.”

Althanas had known that it was dying, that it would remain forever alone if it did not bond with the Kalithrism. The laws of the Troubadour meant that an anchor had to be formed with the consent and acceptance of the people who would guard and build the portal. The vast gate that would serve as the entrance to Althanas for those who wished to traverse the Void would have stood as a vast and glorious monument to the glory of Fallien. They were too proud, arrogant, sycophantic and hateful to relent.

Too scared to be alone, the Thayne soul of the planet lashed out. Suravani screamed as the Cataclysm tore apart the Kalithrism and sundered the fabric of the multiverse.

What the Troubadours called the Cataclysm, the shockwave that had destroyed entire planets and devastated continents had only narrowly brushed over the surface of Althanas. The people of Fallien, close to the half formed anchor Mordelain had begun to forge had suffered the after effects.

If she had not thought so highly and blindly of the Troubadour's ability to bring light to the dark corners of reality, then perhaps, just perhaps, Fallien would not have suffered it’s Vhadya. The irony there, was that she had played God with those who viewed themselves mortal deities. It was only in recent years, after seeing the world of Althanas in it's natural state, that she had come to realise she had no right to spoil Althanas. The Khalithrism would have lived on without it, because even though the planet was ready, crying out to belong, it's people never would be.

“You brought wrath and ruin to Fallien!”

“In that mistake, I also brought you into being!” Mordelain screamed, a sudden swell of emotion fighting back against the oppressive presence of the Thayne-soul.

[Mordelain]

Chapter the First: The Siring

1 In the beginning, there was oblivion: a nexus within the vast emptiness of the cosmos. A being dwelled within the oblivion, and it named itself the Thayne.

2 From its hand, it created all it could touch. This material world was one the Thayne called the Firmament. The Firmament gave birth to a child; its antithesis.

3 The child was elusive, and mocked the Firmament. This became known as the Antifirmament, a realm of grey hollowness, an empty shell that still mirrors its mother realm.

4 The Great After was born of the Thayne's mouth, a place of revelry and jubilation. The Great Nether was born of the Thayne's foot, a plane of ultimate torment and suffering. The entrances and exits are such that they can only be opened by the Thayne.

5 Then, nearly as soon as it was created, the Thayne's creation began to die. The dead built up, and there was nowhere for them. They raped the Antifirmament, which was mirrored in the mother Firmament.

6 And so the Thayne blew a great breath, and created the Lands of Judgement. A great Pyre stood in its center, the measure that would determine a soul's next path.

7 But still the Thayne's child struggled. Its breathing was labored, and its heart weak.

8 This world was known as Bakh'Thayne: the first child after the Thayne.

9 It was then that the Thayne understood that one being could not control everything that it had made, and that its creation exceeded its own power in greatness. This angered the Thayne greatly.

10 In order to better control its new child, the Thayne ripped itself apart in its frustration. Thus, the holy word of Thayne no longer has a singular connotation.

11 It divided itself into seven entities, known as the Elder or Core Deities.

13 Draconus was the first. Ancient and armored, entropy would never take him.

14 Khal'jaren was second. A sage and scholar, ignorance would never repel him.

15 Jomil was third. Wise and mysterious, not even Khal'jaren could ever understand her.

16 Hromagh was fourth. Strong and fearless, another's prowess would never subdue him.

17 V'dralla was fifth. Charming and fair, age would never mar her.

18 Y'edda was sixth. Mercurial and cunning, the greatest snares could not slow her.

19 At last, there was N'jal. She was the slag, the cosmic leftovers after all the Core Deities had taken their form. She was the Nemesis. The divine anger that still burned against the first child.

20 N'jal coerced the others to believe that the child had to be punished, and brought on a great reshaping that lasted nearly a cosmic year. Such an Age has been termed the Days of the Torrent, or cosmic rebirth.

21 Realizing what evil had been done in their name, Khal'jaren spoke. "For good to flourish, that which is evil must be contained."

22 Hromagh, the strongest of them, unable to contain his own anger in N'jal's presence, raised her above his head and hurled the Great Woe, the Wicked One into a prison: a globe of rock, lit then with a fire struck by the heavenly forge.

23 N'jal scarred Hromagh then, and upon the scars were written the words "I shall return. Rejoice, O Al'Thayne, as time to rejoice shall be fleeting."

24 The Nemesis swore to bring anew the Days of the Torrent, and destroy the Thaynes' second child.

25 This second child is known as Al'Thayne, our world.

From the Codex of Thayne Lore, concerning the birth of Althanas and the formation of the Althanas Thayne in the Void of the Khalithrism.

[Mordelain]

“For good to flourish, that which is evil must be contained.”

A weight of history swung behind the words, with a clarity of meaning that was not lost on the planes walker.

Althanas, amongst all the worlds of the multiverse, was unique in that it possessed a soul so powerful and aware of it that it could create new gods from its own life-force. Whilst the souls of the other worlds in the Kalithrism remain dormant, with the exception of Junkyo, Althanas teeters between living, breathing and screaming its presence to the silence of the eternal void and personally guiding the creatures that walk on its surface.

Chief amongst its many traits, virtues and mistakes, is the will to care too much for its children. Whilst the Elder Thayne seldom interfere with the needs of mortals, working instead through champions and paladins to spread their teaching, the Al ’Thayne, what the children of the Hatazista call Suravani holds no such reservations.

All the floods and earthquakes, maelstroms and typhoons were the will of Althanas, guiding the course of history in some grand scheme none but her could understand.

“Those words have been spoken before, Shansi…by one of the Eldar Thayne…”

Khaljaren’s disgust at the formation of N’Jal was well chronicled, and formed a chapter all by itself in the vast tomes of Thayne history Mordelain had read in her long exile. In the libraries of Petra, the Whalebone Archives, she had learnt the deities of Bulganin and the fire spirits of Hudde…she had delved into the legends that depicted the Eldar Thayne’s trials and tribulations, and the long shadow games they played with their first child.

“Then they should be even more pertinent to you, despoiler of worlds." The intensity of her voice grew, but Mordelain could not be sure if it was her power overwhelming her very soul, or emotion bringing out a rage in an already troubled being.

When the Cataclysm had struck, the devastation caused to Althanas splintered her soul.

That soul, saturated with the souls of many thousands of newly grieving dead manifested in the Void as a soul-Thayne, a Thayne conjured from the culture and history of a geographical place. Althanas was unique amongst the Kalithrism worlds for being the first and only place in which such a thing could exist.

It had happened before, five centuries ago, when the island of Scara Brae had begun to manifest its own destiny and the Thayne Tantalus had been born.

“I cannot harm you, Mordelain, to interfere with the lives of mortals is against the Lore of the Void.” Shansi caused Suresh to rise, as if lifted on strings and not the merit of his muscles. Glowing brighter still, he drew the long khanda blade from beneath the bellowing red robes and dangled it between finger and fore thumb. He was being held aloft like a raggedy puppet, ready to strike under the automaton’s edict that gave the Ghubar life.

“So you would send your children after me instead?” Mordelain pounced, launching herself upright from her pedestal of cushions.

There was no way to avoid the confrontation she had been spiralling towards for the better part of a year.

“I will see you cast out from these lands, Mordelain. I will see you punished for your crimes. Nowhere in the Void shall be safe for you. Nowhere!”

The skies, blackened by the thunder and the temporary stasis in the moment erupted into a peal of sundering. Rain, so rare in Fallien’s deserts that it was often jokingly referred to as a myth fell in a great sweeping torrent, south to north, east to west, up and down.

Everything moved so suddenly, the Troubadour barely had time to recognise what was happening. It was as, in the wake of being frozen; time in the oasis was trying to catch up with the rest of the world.

“Will you not let me help you Shansi? Will you not let me appease your grief?” She brought her kukri from its sheath and crossed it feebly against Suresh’s curved sword as the command to defend Fallien was whispered into his mind. He continued to float, approaching her over the table as the rain knocked the coffee pot, bowls and cups eschew.

Beneath the weight of the water, Mariachi began to quite literally melt. Whatever soul Shansi had used to power the Ghubar was plucked up from the sand shell and drawn back into the swell of energy that made up the soul-Thayne in the Firmament. A decrepit, bitter man would awaken in his bed in a few hours, unaware of everything that had happened here, and not missing a second as false memories replaced the blackness and doubt in his mind.

“My grief makes me strong, my anger, hatred, loathing of you and your kind keeps Fallien alive!”

Like a mother scorned, bereft of her child, Shansi lashed out with Suresh as her puppet once more. The flurry of blade strikes cleaved the air, and pounded against the limited skill the troubadour had developed in her short tenure as an il’Jhain. It had been Suresh that had taught how to wield the silver curved blade, and he had been a fitting man to test that knowledge.

Mordelain felt her strength waver, just as the khanda rose and fell in a dual-handed cleaving arc. She closed her eyes, and felt the sway of the desert vanish.

To be continued in The Daughter of the Desert.

[Mordelain]

Epilogue

Today was the day that many things ended, and many more began.

Time may hold sway over the here and now, but in the future and in the past it is easily malleable.

Mordelain had seen the worlds end, and all the worlds begin. She had stood at the centre of the Cataclysm as her home had been torn apart piece by piece. When the crystal spires rose from the core of Junkyo, she had been there chronicle the last days.

“I think I understand now,” she whispered.

Standing once more at the heart of the worlds, where silence was deafening and all the realms of the Nine convened in a primordial tapestry, she looked down at a fragment of Althanas and picked out the city that stood at the centre of a vast river’s tribute.

Irrakam looked like a mosaic, the bastion of the Mother Goddess splendorous with the glow of the cosmos.

“You had to fall to let the other worlds rise,” the metaphor played three histories in every syllable, which would take a chronicle centuries to unravel. Mordelain had only one moment, but somehow, the threads came undone and settled like three beacons, stretching as far as the eye can see.

One strand wound down to the island of Fallien. There, Mordelain could bring the Outlanders out of their shadowy pit, lead them to equality and bring about a zenith of progress on the golden sands. She would be happy there, a new found purpose giving her drive and hope.

One strand vanished into the shadows that loomed behind her. In those dark vortexes of nothing, she would find the abyss of uncertainty. On one of the ruined worlds of the Kalithrism, she could perhaps find a way to unravel all that her people had done. Perhaps, on Petra, or Bulganin, or in the dead markets of the Highway Quarter, she could find something to save the cosmos.

A lifetime spent searching for something that may never come to pass…

The final strand wound from her waist to her headdress, a spiral of colour glimmering with starlight. In Mordelain, Mordelain would find a journey to self-discovery. She did not know what would blossom from the arid dirt that had become the ground beneath her feet, but it would be a more instinctive route to follow.

“So many have died already, I can’t let this world perish too…” She had to live for herself now; she had spent far too many years in the servitude of others.

Each of the three routes lead to the same end game; destroying the spirit of Fallien. If Shansi continued, then it would not be long before her rage infected all the Thayne, and then Suravani too.

Althanas' could not survive another Cataclysm.

She had to bring a Vhadya to the soul of her new found home, and do it with such velocity that Suravani could not stop her.

Spoils:

Two il'Jhain tokens.

[Sagequeen]

Plot ~ 26/30

Storytelling ~ 8/10 - This was a very compellingly-written story; I found myself lost in it numerous times. The plot itself and the gradual revealing of it were beautifully done; I would never have expected Mariachi to be Suresh's father, nor the eventual revelation of all three of their places in a much larger world. There were a few slips in the unfolding of this tale, however; some questionable enough I lost track of what was happening. It wasn't that you should not have included the information you did; perhaps instead if it were more clearely presented and succinctly explained, it would have been easier for someone who had not read much about Fallien to enjoy the story just as much. The biggest example of this is reviewing the history of Mordelain and of Fallien intertwined; you attempted to reveal the past in increments. While this approach worked for the present action of the story, it did not have the same effect in the revealing of what had already happened. There was no gratifying 'ah-ha!' moment where it all clicked together.

Setting ~ 9/10 - This was almost perfect. As a reader, I could see the places you described, and that tells me, as a judge, you saw the places as you wrote them. Your awareness of the world in which your characters lived this tale was superlative. There were few instances I had to go back to read things again - one of those was when Mordelain and Suresh slipped into the secret entrance where they would soon teleport to the coffee house.

Taking the setting even further, you truly brought the culture of Fallien to life; it was interwoven within the story, driving it. You used native words, and even the native language to draw the reader into a totally different world, yet did so in a way that was an invitation - not a barrier. I have no criticism for this part. It was masterfully done.

Pacing ~ 9/10 - Brilliant. You moved the story along in such a way I was kept on the edge of my seat wondering what would happen next. You were able to draw in elements that weren't necessary to the plot, and do so in a way that kept your delivery suspenseful without dragging it down. With that said, the ending, Mordelain's confrontation with Sanshi seemed to move a tad bit too quickly, only to be broken into by the Codex of Thayne Lore, then it was flying again to an abrupt end. PM me if you have any questions and want my ideas on how to address that.

Character ~ 22/30

Communication ~ 8/10 - Your shining moments here were in the 'Game of Thrones' exchanges between Mariachi and Mordelain, and their dialog in general. I could sense, from what they said alone, the tension and eventual hostility. Extremely well done. I wish the exchanges between Mordelain and Suresh held that much truth and significance, but they were mostly unmemorable - not bad, not exceptional. However, since a great part of this story was involving the exchange between Mariachi and Mordelain, it boosted that considerably.

Action ~ 7/10 - On the whole, most of this made sense to me; the characters' actions reflected who they were. Now then - for Mordelain, you had a slip and contradicted yourself. It was the introduction of your story that presented her as suffering the effects of the previous nights' dervish. Had your narrator and the other characters made outside observations on how she seemed, it would be different, and the eventual revelation the Mordelain does not suffer the effects of alcohol would have been perfect. However, at some times, she was directly presented as feeling the effects of it.

To go deeper with Mordelain, I see her actions as logical: she had everything to do with the Vhadya, even though her intent was good, and she wants to, in what way she can, make up for it through helping the soul of Fallien.

Suresh was solid. Mariachi I only had one issue with: he dissapeared during the confrontation with Sanshi. I'm not saying he needed to stand on the table and do a dance, but a simple explaination of why he didn't react in any way to her manifestation would have sufficed. That's a rather big hole in a major scene of your story.

Persona ~ 7/10 - I was a little confused by Mordelain at times. As I look back over her specifically, I see that I'm asked to take leaps to accept her development where some of her memories or helpful narration would have provided a bridge. While she is a light hearted girl, it's curious she was at once so serious as the game began. It was as if she were a different person, instead of the same person with a different mood or purpose.

Suresh was solid; he held his own and you were able to work in thoughtful details without dragging the story along. He was exactly what he needed to be for this story.

Mariachi remains a somewhat mysterious character, with a great secret revealed. He was well written and played his part nicely.

Prose ~ 24/30

Mechanics ~ 7/10 - I notice a lot of 'it's' in the place of 'its.' It was rather common throughout the story. Beyond that, straight mechanics, the mistakes were varied and need only thorough proofreading to catch what you already know. For example... bowel was used twice for bowl. Biiiiig difference in meaning.

Clarity ~ 8/10 - On the whole, very good. However, the parts where you go into Mordelain's history and the history of the Vhadya and Fallien in general required several readings for me to grasp it. I think the whold ending would have benefitted from a little more explaination given more clearly.

Technique ~ 9/10 - You silver-tongued devil, you. I don't need to tell you about similies and metaphors, nor do I need to lecture on allusions and personification; my only caution is to use such things with a deft hand so that they don't overtake the story and make it about the exact grade of silver with which your tongue is gilded. I think that Mordelain's actual identity could have used a bit more foreshadowing, but not necessarily Suresh's or Mariachi's. By virtue of what she is, their own revelations follow easily.

Wildcard: 9/10 - Highly, highly enjoyable. This was a great read and an amazing look at the culture and landscape of Fallien. Well done!

Judge's Choice Nomination.

Total ~ 81/100

Spoils awarded: Two il'Jhain tokens

Mordelain earns 1337 EXP and 250 gold.