A New Dawn

[Flames of Hyperion]

The lookout in the crow's nest called "Land ho!" earlier this morning. Never in my life have I welcomed more two words so innocent-sounding as those; with all due respect to Captain Hezman and his crew, a ship is a small and constricting place to confine oneself to, especially on a journey of such length as ours. I cannot fault them in the slightest, however, for they have taken on board a useless landlubber such as myself and made him at ease as best possible, and I will no doubt miss their raucous company when I step onto the beaches of my father's land for the first time.

I will miss Nippon, my homeland and my family. My heart yearns for the familiar sensations, the smells and the sounds, like a sprightly zephyr yearns for the distant horizon. I can only hope that I find the chance to use the Nippon tongue somewhere in the northern continent, else I fear I will forget it by the time I return.

But I know also that I must do what is right.

It is hard to believe that it was a year ago today, that the Academy was almost destroyed overnight by forces that even now I find almost too powerful to comprehend. Oh we fought, how we fought... but for fighting, so many of us paid the ultimate price. And as hard to believe that it has already been a year since that fateful night, I still find it even harder to believe that I survived it.

Perhaps I should interpret this as fate, or perhaps I would if I believed in such superstition. As it is, I feel that I must grasp with both hands the second chance that life has granted me. I must fight once again, this time not to protect - for I have naught to protect anymore, not since I lost so much under those starlit heavens - but to reclaim what we have lost. I must fight, for her sake... and, indeed, for mine.

Ah, Elerrina, how I...


~ Entry in Ingwe's Book of Travels

A roughly calloused hand clapped him on the shoulder, interrupting the flow of words and very nearly causing him to blot out the last line. The dark-haired young man looked upwards, slightly startled, to meet the eyes of the aforementioned Captain Hezman. The sudden rush of adrenaline faded into a pleasant aftermath as he subconsciously relaxed, noting as always the remarkable colouring of his benefactor's eyes - azure blue as the tempestuous seas that they sailed. At the same time, it struck Ingwe nigh physically how small and insignificant he felt beneath the older man's powerful grip.

"We're making port, lad." The Captain's voice was as harsh as the elements he braved, but it masked a note of genuine warmth towards the youthful warrior-mage who had travelled with them on the long journey. "Thought you might want to know."

Ingwe nodded his gratitude in reply, setting aside his ink and quill and replacing the leather-bound tome into which he'd been scribbling. "Thank you," he spoke with equal warmth in his tone, his voice gentle and quiet but genuinely pleased.

Satisfied that all his possessions were safely stored where they should be, he jumped lightly to his feet from his seat against the mast. Savouring the sensation of the salty sea breeze hitting his face, a moment's pause ensued to inhale deeply of the crisp air, before he walked to the fore of the ship for a better view of the docks ahead and the low-slung city beyond. He was used by now to the spray of the prow as it cleaved through the rollicking waves, but the green hills on the horizon, marching steadily closer since dawn, were indeed a welcome sight.

"Scara Brae..." he murmured as he gazed upon them, thoughtful and pensive and, to be honest, not a little apprehensive.

"Aye, son," Hezman confirmed as he joined his young charge (for such was the way he thought of all passengers aboard his ship) at the bow. He had the advantage of a full hand in height and thirty years of experience, but looking down upon the dark-haired and dark-eyed boy, Hezman knew that even if he'd been in his prime he would have thought twice before making an enemy out of Ingwe. Friendly smile and innocently youthful face hid a mind as sharp as any sword, and by all accounts he was almost as skilled with the blades strapped casually to his back. On the other hand, it almost seemed impossible to antagonise the half-Nipponese; during their months of travelling, the young man had been nothing but polite and courteous, not a single complaint or angry utterance.

But never mind that, Hezman thought to himself, as he continued out loud. "Scara Brae, land of new beginnings. Or so they say. Myself, I just come to trade spice... who knows if what they say is true?"

The captain's laugh was a roar, hearty and jovial. Ingwe's was in stark contrast a modest chuckle, but nevertheless it conveyed his amusement perfectly.

As well as the hint of concern that underlied it.

There were other boats close by now, small yachts and pleasure craft that danced merrily around the caravel, inviting her into safe harbour. Crews exchanged hearty greeting, tales of the sea and tide spoken above the plaintive cries of the seagulls. Horns tooted and bystanders cheered, and doubtless not a few young boys were rushing home to their masters, bearing the important information that Captain Hezman's annual spice run was even now drawing to a successful close.

The grizzled mariner grinned in anticipation, knowing that there was a tidy sum in profit to be made this fine day.

"Glad to be off this boat?" he pressed of his companion. Ingwe, in turn, could not suppress a wry grin.

"Perhaps," was the response, voiced in such a way that it conveyed such great depths of meaning. The smile masked his worry well, and the self-deprecating humour was evidence of his humble nature. "Not so much as Hayate, though..."

Ingwe indicated skywards, and Hezman obligingly followed the outstretched finger. High above the bobbing ship, dancing amongst the currents with comparably more grace than his counterpart down below, the gyrfalcon was but a white speck against a broad horizon of cloudless azure blue. It was a good day to be aloft, and the proud bird was making the most of the opportunity to stretch his wings.

The captain grunted, both in appreciation of the weather and in slight annoyance at the sentiment. He could never quite understand those who hadn't been born to the sea.

"I was talking about you, son," he remanded, gruff and stern. It had not escaped his notice that Ingwe shouldered a history a shade darker than his average ale-guzzling seasick passenger, and certainly the youngster held it far closer to his chest. There was a paternal facet within Hezman's wearied mien that would not stand to let the young man be, and now, as their travels together drew to a close, he let his concerns be known. "Do ye think ye'll find her? The one yer looking for?"

Ingwe blinked a surprised blink at the unexpected words. Captain Hezman didn't look like your average intellectual... but the old man was definitely more perceptive than he let on. How he'd managed to piece together the various rumours and small slips of the tongue over the course of the long journey was beyond Ingwe's comprehension, but the warrior-mage both admired and respected Hezman not only for coming to the right conclusion, but keeping a tight lid on it until the very last moment.

"I do not know," he replied, his words dancing softly above the sea-spray and the hustle of the harbour. Leaning forward towards the bowsprit, his face was a bittersweet mixture of emotion normally so well hidden. Determination, anxiety, fear, hope... it was all there, as plain as any writ upon his clear complexion. Then, as Hezman watched on in cautious silence, it was slowly replaced by firm resolve, feelings filed away and purpose reaffirmed. "All I know for sure is... I have to try."

The captain broke into a wide grin behind his back. Only for a moment, mind you, but Hezman found it refreshing to see such courage in a landlubber.

By the time Ingwe finally turned away from the onrushing wharves and cobbled streets, Hezman had long given the orders for the sails to be reefed and for the Mistral Maiden to be brought in alongside her usual berthing. His crew were a trained and stalwart lot and knew their duties well; the ship responded daintily to his first mate's every touch on the wheel, as she glided like a graceful swan towards the longest of the piers.

Facing the older man, Ingwe bowed. It was an exquisite bow, a gracious bow... a Nippon bow. And then he spoke, polite and courteous once more,

"Thank you very much for the safe journey."

Simple words, to be sure... but not many of Hezman's fares ever remembered to thank him, much less in this fashion.

"No worries, lad," came the deep-throated reply. Was it a glimmer of sadness that touched Hezman's eye, or was it only a speck of dust in the ocean breeze? "Just do your best, stand strong and tall... and when you need to go home, we'll be waiting."

He clapped the warrior mage on the shoulder, man to man, friend to friend; this time, Ingwe returned the favour.

Five minutes later, the trade ship came to a halt in precisely the correct spot against the wooden pier. Ingwe Helyanwe was the first off the gangway, his light tread barely making a sound on the creaky boards as he crossed from sea to land. He never looked back, not at the ship that had brought him so far, not at her captain and crew who'd brought him safely here.

No. He had the future to look to. And it was laid out in front of him.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Hours ticked by like seconds as he wandered the streets of Scara Brae, savouring the sounds and sights like a connoisseur with an artwork masterpiece. It was all so refreshingly new; the hawking cries of the streetside vendors, the tantalising smells of the freshly baked breads and the delicate sweetmeats, the cheery calls between friends as they passed each other by in the wide and cobbled streets. Perhaps it wasn't quite all as innocent and rosy as he might have hoped, but Ingwe knew enough about city life and mingling with crowds to stay carefully out of reach of the pickpockets and small-time thieves, away from the ladies of the night (it was high noon, mind, but the description was apt) and their hulking minders.

From landmark to landmark he floated like driftwood on the tide, feasting on all that was novel and wondrous about his father's land of birth. He stopped by the Dajas Pagoda, superficially decorated in showy silver and gaudy gold, and took the time to marvel at the architectural similarities it showed to the tier-towered temples of home. He admired the flourishing hanging gardens of Valeena Castle even as he frowned at their military impracticality, comparing and contrasting with the defensive fortifications he'd known and studied. He blinked in surprise at the large number of taverns and pubs, all doing a brisk business even though it was still the middle of the working day, and marked out a promising-looking inn (not too shabby or raucous, but not too upper-class, either...) for the night's rest. From the serenity of the gardens to the bustle of the bazaar, from the stench of the docks to the fresh seaborne breeze on the top of the local knoll, Ingwe experienced it all.

He watched as a troop of City Guard marched past on a patrol, professional and authoritative in their immaculate uniforms, and respectfully made way for a Knight of Scara Brae, resplendent in the crimson red plate mail that was the hallmark of his station. He then ducked back against a wall as the same troop of City Guard came barging past once more, chasing after a small man in a black hooded mantle and a suitably thuggish mask, swearing and shouting and this time not looking quite so professional and authoritative. Ingwe contemplated aiding them in their cause, seeing the trouble that they were having in apprehending their nimble target, but managed to lose them in the unfamiliar city alleyways as he attempted to catch up. Of course, it didn't really help that he insisted on helping up every little old lady who'd been caught in their path...

Most of all, though, he observed the ordinary folk, the shopkeepers and the housewives and the prospective adventurers, Humans and Elves and Other-Less-Well-Known-Races alike. Their lot was not necessarily the best, but certainly they laughed and smiled as though it was. It gave him a warm feeling inside, knowing there was peace and happiness in the land.

All too quickly the shadows began to grow long, and from the top of an ancient guardtower open to the general public, Ingwe watched the city bask red in the rays of the twilight sun. He could see quite the distance in all directions from where he stood; the towering peaks to the north and the fringe of forest on the south, the city's fishing fleet scurrying home from the east and the endless plains on the horizon to the west. The dying light glinted off a large lake at the very edge of his sight, a gleaming jewel set amongst the green grasslands, and briefly he wondered to himself what other such treasures the island of Scara Brae held.

He would have to find out, Ingwe promised himself as he began the long descent down the flights of stone stairs. One day perhaps, when he had the time and the will for proper sightseeing. But for now, he would only let himself peer and ponder, for tomorrow he would begin his quest anew.

The inn he had picked out was cozy and warm, of the typically low-slung and sturdy structure that he had seen all day. The sign that hung outside the whitewashed stone walls proudly proclaimed The Southsider, a rather apt (if unimaginative) name for an inn that was after all on the southern fringes of the town. But the floor was tidy and the innkeeper friendly, and the tavern less of a bar crammed with obnoxious drunkards and more of a common room for weary travellers and hopeful adventurers. Ingwe wasn't quite sure of which category he fell into, but he knew that he'd chosen correctly when he found a quiet seat at the back of the room at which he could safely relax and unwind.

His dinner was simple fare; crusty bread, heady vegetable soup, a small piece of salted pork. Not exactly a feast fit for a king, but Ingwe was not gourmet-minded and the food settled comfortably into a stomach still adjusting to the continental cuisine. A small pitcher of water was supplied to wash it all down, and it alone remained, still half-full, when the serving wench whisked his empty plates away.

The light from the fireplace was dim and sleep-enticing, supplemented only by a few small candles placed strategically around the stone walls, flickering errantly and causing the shadows to dance to their music. Murmured conversations swelled and receded like ambient noise on the wind, occasionally breaking out into bursts of jovial laughter but never intruding on the privacy of those who chose to remain anonymous. The atmosphere was comfortable, intimate and warm, the communal ease that resulted from a combination of full bellies, cold ale, and good company.

All in all, it was a fine way to spend one's first night in Scara Brae, or so Ingwe thought as he reached under his cloak and into the travel pouch strapped around his waist, pulling out a slender tome that shone, ever-so-slightly, with subtle magic. Ink and quill soon joined it on the table; before long, his small neat calligraphy began to flow across the page, continuing the day's journal entry from where he'd left off that morning.

Nobody mind the naked flame dancing gently in the palm of his hand, please... it's only there because he needs it to write by.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Scara Brae is a beautiful city, though I suppose may be biased in my opinion. The whitewashed buildings and stone castle are straight out of the fairy tales my father used to tell to put my young sister to bed. The people smile with such open frankness, cheer and goodwill sown about like seeds on the wind. I have no illusions that a darker side does exist - the beggars are more numerous and more desperate than what I am accustomed to, the pleasure-ladies more haggard and less discreet, and in every dark alleyway a thousand hungry hands await the unwary. Much of what I have seen as commonplace in these lands comes across as downright rude or immodest to my sensibilities, and yet there is a freedom of expression about the city that I cannot help but admire. It is a beauty made even more so by its flaws, quite unlike the immaculate perfection the artists back home strive to achieve.

I wonder to myself if she felt the same as I when she stumbled upon this foreign land; whether she, like I, has found it necessary to adjust to this brave new world. The difference, I suppose, being that I have had three long months of sea journey to prepare myself, whilst she would have travelled here almost instantaneously. Thrust upon a blatantly different world like a crying newborn... but she was always the strong one, the bold one, the friendly one.

The more I think of it, the more I feel that she would have had little trouble at all, at least in that respect.

To this day I dwell, upon whether the dimension-warping spell that shook the Great Hall to its very foundations that night brought her here willingly, or whether she was taken against her will. "Come to Haidia, and you shall discover the truth," were the words that Thomas whispered into my mind before the spell closed and I lost consciousness, and to this day I have no idea what intent he had by uttering them. Is this a trap, an elaborate plan to lead me here or string me along? A false lead, for false hopes? Or is the truth really here for me to find?

And how little I know about these lands! I shall have to begin, as a lone mason builds his castle, one small stone at a time. I must expand upon my knowledge of the countries and peoples of this niche of the world. I must seek out the power behind that outlandish teleportation spell, in order that I may try to determine Thomas' motives, his intentions, and if some greater being pulls the strings behind him. I must find out what I can about this land Haidia, and, if possible, venture into it in search of answers.

Above all, I must seek to better myself, for that night, more than anything else that has occured to me in my twenty-three years of life, has served to drive home the fact that I am indeed powerless. I could only watch as the swarms of akki and youma overwhelmed the Academy's outer defences like a crimson tide. The brutish two-headed oni that destroyed the central tower and the windborne tengu that laughed as it fell. I fought for my life that night alongside so many others, and I could only watch in vain as she was led into the Great Hall, separated from myself by a veritable horde of goblins. How many fell beneath my spells and my swords as I sought to reach her? How many more rushed to take their place, all the while cackling maniacally at my helplessness?

I will never forget the look of utter blankness, utter hopelessness that she gave me, just before she disappeared inside the doors. And I can only hope...

***

The furious scratch of the quill paused for what seemed like the first time in eternity, a pang of spasmic pain shooting through his writing hand. Writer's cramp, he realised, forcing himself to gently replace the quill in its stand before bringing the offending appendage up in front of his eyes. Upon his other palm, the dancing flame flickered once before dying, extinguished by a pulse of tired thought.

It wasn't often that he could bring himself to write about those events, and every time he did so, his mind was exhausted by the experience. It was as if it too was still trying to recover, still attempting to piece together the events of that night. Trying, and failing, as he came up time and time again against a blank mental wall that closed off whatever else was hidden behind.

Something was in there, that much he could sense. But for the love of all he held dear he could not figure out a way to reach in to it.

The room was obscured in darkness now, most of the candles having doused themselves for the night. Only the fire in the far corner of the room provided a semblance of light for the brave few who remained; a silently becloaked elf at the counter, a pot-bellied drunkard snoring happily as he slumped backwards in his chair, a nameless and faceless adventurer hunched over his pint in the opposite corner of the room, a young couple giggling conspiratorially as they cuddled in the doorway. The shadows did not dance any more so much as sway in disjointed time, mystical and ethereal as Father Chronos himself seemed to forget his designated duties. Sense had little meaning in this medium, where thought raged and dream ruled.

It was fitting, thus, that the shadows shrouded the expression he wore, so that none but he would feel the sorrow in his heart.

Just another traveller, just another story. How strange it was that every person had their own tale to tell, their own melancholies and regrets and tragedies locked deep within their souls. The elf at the bar, the adventurer with his tankard, who knew the reason that they roamed the world? The drunk at the table, the couple at the door, who knew what lay in store for their future?

Ingwe's eyes swept the dim decor, across the wooden tables and chairs and the stony walls. From spent candle to generic painting, from smouldering ember in the fireplace to the thin trickle of moonlight seeping through closed shutters. Seeking answer, seeking inspiration... seeking comfort, seeking reflection. They continued their journey, much as he continued his.

But there was no answer, there was no comfort. There was only harsh unyielding reality, masked behind an intangible veil of gossamer reverie.

It was all he would ever find.

Sighing, he picked up his pen once more; gently, the flame rekindled upon his palm.

He picked himself up from the wreckage of his mind, pulling himself back together piece by aching piece.

Slowly the words began to flow once more upon the bleached white page.

***

I can only hope, that she is alive, that she is well, that she does not live in constant pain or dread. I can only hope that she has reason to smile, that beautiful smile that even now remains indelibly carved into my soul. I can only hope that one day I will look upon her once more, and I will be able to lay my worries to rest.

I can only hope that I will retain the strength to fight on, until this hope is realised.

May the Gods be with her this night, and all nights.

For heaven knows she needs them far more than I.


~ Entry in Ingwe's Book of Travels

[Flames of Hyperion]

"Watch the steps, young 'un," the night clerk growled as the patron made his way through the low-slung doorframe. The rough edge to his voice wasn't necessarily intentional, but working the long nocturnal hours tended to take a lot out of a person, especially if your duties included both minding a dead bar and holding the inn door against rowdy adventurous drunks (as opposed to drunk adventurers, the difference being that the latter tended not to get rowdy, only moody). A glance inside the tavern told him that two customers still remained within; the lone elf at the countertop and the snoring drunk slobbering at a mid-floor table. The former the night clerk didn't mind, for the Elven folk tended to care for themselves if you left them well enough alone; the latter however rankled on sore nerves, for it meant that he would have to stay up all night just to keep an eye on the bar, and would most likely have to lead the man to his bed in the morning as well.

Ingwe nodded gratefully at the gruff advice, murmuring a polite "Thank you," quickly followed by a genuinely sincere "May the spirits smile upon you this night." That surprised the thin, balding man who watched him make his way across the cold stone foyer, for not many of those he dealt with had the kindness within them to say such words. The night clerk was nearing fifty years of age and had seen enough selfish greed and drunken obnoxiousness in his lifetime to view the world in a cynical and jaded light; it showed in the tired deep-set lines on his face and in the permanent scowl built into his glowering expression. But, for the first time in a long while, he found himself at a loss for a sarcastic comeback... and was that warmth that suffused his chest?

He shook his head wearily as the young man disappeared up the stairs, and told himself that he must be growing too old for the job. Things were quickly set right again when, soon after the elf finally left the bar to seek his bed, a sturdy kick to a groin and some well-chosen curses sent the drunk fleeing for the safety of his room as well.

***

Guests were supposed to use the lanterns provided at the base of the stairwell to make their way to their rooms. It had been hard-earned experience that leaving naked flames in the unattended areas of the inn - corridors and staircase in particular - was a recipe for disaster no matter how respectable your clientele. Thus the patrons of the Southsider were now issued with cast-iron lamps to light their way at night. It did not completely eradicate the threat of fire, but it did cut back greatly on the risks involved.

However, one often failed to notice such things if magic allowed you to create light itself in the palm of your hand. Such was the case with one Ingwe Helyanwe, who was halfway up the stairs before he realised why there were lanterns stacked so neatly and in plain sight on the ground floor. To his credit, he did think about backtracking to acquire one, but on second thought it wasn't really worth it, was it? He was too exhausted by now, both mentally and physically, to feel that it was a necessary task.

A muted flare, and the dancing flame rekindled upon Ingwe's palm. By its guiding light, he cautiously made his way up the spiralling steps, his footfalls echoing hollowly in the shadow-draped and resonant corridors despite his gentle tread. The young man shivered slightly in the chill of the waxing night as he pulled his cloak closer to his chest, noting wryly the simple brick and mortar construction of the walls and the fact that the cold seemed to seep inwards through them as if they barely even existed. Still, it wasn't exactly a long climb until the next floor, where the stairs opened up into a long, even darker hallway that at least had a thin threadbare carpet to cover the bare stone, but nothing much else to draw the eye.

His was room number 12, fourth on the left from the stairwell. It wasn't one of the more luxurious rooms that the inn had to offer; in fact, it was clearly a "budget" room, as was evident from the various nicks and scratches on the heavy oaken door that had been deemed unworthy of repair, and from the faded golden knob that required two heavy jerks before it would turn. On the other hand, he reasoned, it was certainly a sturdy roof above his head, and he dared to believe that he would soon long for the comfort of a proper bed as opposed to the treetop branches or stony tussocks that would be his regular mattress as soon as his travels resumed in earnest.

The hinges were creaky but seemed to be relatively sturdy; Ingwe carefully locked the door behind him and doused the flame in his palm before he allowed himself to scrutinise the room. It wasn't much, but it was home for the night; a small and somewhat cramped bunk with a faded patchwork quilt (At least it looks clean...), a conveniently placed chamber pot, coloured bright gold of all possible choices (Yeah, right...), and a low slung table with matching chair that had obviously been put to every use imaginable by the less scholarly inclined of prior patrons (Nice touch!). The wooden floor, though carpet-less, actually looked like it had been washed recently, which was a relief to the young man who was accustomed to removing his shoes indoors. This he did immediately, stripping off his light footwear and the thin socks he wore underneath before padding lightly over to the window, along the way dumping his heavy haversack on the table.

Ingwe's instincts did not lie; the snowy white gyrfalcon flapped his wings wide in greeting as his owner opened the drapes that closed off the dim room from the moonlit city beyond. It took a little effort to get the stiff window to swing open - it obviously hadn't been cared for in a long, long while - but eventually he managed to create a large enough opening for the large raptor to squeeze through.

For his troubles, however, all he received was a hearty nip on the hand.

"Ow," he gasped, hastily withdrawing his arm from Hayate's reach as the falcon glared at him reproachfully. A glance at the wound told him that while painful, it wasn't serious; in fact, it wasn't anything resembling what he knew Hayate could do to bare flesh. Which only served to baffle him further. "What was that for?"

If anything, Hayate's glare became more admonishing. The proud bird spread his wings wide in challenge, perched precariously on the back of the chair as he stared down his owner. Beak bared, a sound not unlike a throaty hiss issued forth from ruffled neck, sibilant and menacing.

Ingwe saw this, and understood at last; a rueful smile spread across his face. He and Hayate shared a link, which while not telepathic, was definitely uncanny in their ability to comprehend each other beyond words and speech. Such as now, when the young man realised that his familiar was reproving him over his miserable conduct in the tavern below.

"Aye, I know..." he murmured, seating himself on the bed so that he could face the defiant gyrfalcon. Moonlight filtered in from the open curtains, pooling in a silky white puddle on the weathered floorboards. So perfect was the luminescence that Ingwe fancied he could actually see his reflection there; his eyes were inexorably drawn to the starlit heavens above... and the hopes and dreams they held beyond.

"I really should stop doing this, shouldn't I..."

Ingwe beckoned to his familiar, who seemed to relax subtly at the admission of guilt. With a grace that seemed rather out of place in a bird not in the sky, Hayate hopped and skipped over to his owner's outstretched hand, wings outspread not in anger anymore but for balance.

"I'll learn someday, Hayate, I'll learn." The words were spoken more to himself than to the falcon, but both mage and familiar seemed to recognise intuitively that they needed to be said out loud. Ingwe was not the most sociable of humans, and tended to build up his negative emotions behind a massive mental dam so that they would not show. Talking to the bird – an act that would quite likely be considered insane in any other society – was one of the few ways in which he could let them out, ridding himself of their adverse influence. "I can’t allow myself to get caught up too much in the past… I have to keep looking forward."

One smooth-skinned hand, pale under the moonlight and almost artistic in its bony structure, reached out to gently stroke the gyrfalcon's ruffled feathers. Hayate had fed well that evening, Ingwe noted, feeling the sleek ripple of powerful muscles beneath warm magnolia-white down. Tawny brown eyes viewed him pensively as a sound half-croon, half-chirr emanated from deep within the falcon's throat.

"Yup," Ingwe smiled, and a gentle light gleamed in his eyes. Moonlight reflected in his spectacles, perhaps? Or something, just a little bit deeper?

As if by common consent, Hayate fluttered off Ingwe's arm, and the warrior-mage stood up to draw the curtains closed again.

His cloak soon found itself draped over the back of the chair, and it was joined in short order by the white tunic shirt and trousers that Ingwe wore underneath. His travel pouch, however, he preferred to keep close at hand; he was a cautious man at the best of times, and it contained items far too valuable to be let out of reach. A similar philosophy applied to the two swords that he usually kept sheathed on his back. Together with the pouch, they found themselves slung over one of the bedposts at the head of the mattress, just above where Hayate was making his "nest" in preparation for the night's sleep.

Stripped now to his undergarments, a shining silver locket was visible where it nestled lightly against his chest. Shaped in the form of a pair of outstretched wings and worn on a thin golden chain around his neck, it usually lay concealed protectively beneath both cloak and tunic, hidden from the prying eyes of stranger and pickpocket. Every evening, however, before Ingwe laid his head to rest, the pendant underwent a curiously ceremonial ritual, initiated almost a year ago to the day.

With much care and heed, the young warrior-mage touched the catch and allowed the locket to swing open. Within was held but a single keepsake, a meticulously drawn likeness of a young woman with shoulder-length hair and a slightly self-conscious smile.

Whoever it was, she was obviously dear to Ingwe's heart, for the young man's eyes grew gentle and almost misty when they gazed upon her portrait. He could - and had been known to - spend hours on end without moving a muscle, almost as if through sheer effort of will alone he was trying to communicate with the picture. But the end of the ritual was always the same; Ingwe would close his eyes and murmur a few soft words, all the while clenching the pendant tightly.

More often than not, he would then quickly fall asleep, whether it be seated precariously in the branches of a tree, or huddled in a crouch against the driving rain with his back against a hard rock, or even if it involved slipping underneath the covers of a warm bed, in a cheap inn of just another town on the road.

Such was the case on this particular night.

[Flames of Hyperion]

One year ago, in the Eastern Isle of Nippon...

"We have to get to them!"

The cry was desperate, as was the rest of the scene as it played itself out around them. Dark ghostfire lapped greedily at the buildings just inside the outer perimeter, and the screams of those who had not made it out in time - for these were mostly student dormitories, and this was the dead of night - pierced even the gleeful war shrieks that were the last sound heard by so many.

The majority of students and masters at the Toho Institute of Higher Learning had managed to fight their way clear of the flames. But the peril they faced once they were out under the starry skies was no less mortal than the fate of those left behind. For a mighty army of kami and youma descended upon the shocked survivors, and by the time the watchtowers began to toll their ringing alarms the perimeter defences had already been overrun. The streets were choked with an overwhelming tide of the fierce and fey, their bloodthirst almost a physical manifestation as they screamed for murder and pillage.

Despite the circumstances, however, the Academy was far from helpless.

Here and there metal sang as a brave student faced his foes; here and there lightning singed and arcane firebursts kindled as an apprentice mage sought to open a path to freedom and beyond. Battle cries rent the air as pupils rallied around scattered masters, pebbles of resistance fighting against a furious flow.

One such knot had formed in the central courtyard around a certain young man, who danced purpose through the sea of foes with moonlit swords and flame-wreathed step.

He ducked underneath a serrated scimitar as it swept viciously towards his neck, his own blades flicking out at the exposed underbellies of the wielder and its partner-in-crime. Both were akki, small toad-bellied goblinoids no more than mischievous in their lonesomes but a merciless and cruel foe when goaded to war in their hundreds and thousands. Their blood was sticky yellow pus that clung to his short swords as they fell, though the tide of battle left him no time to clean his weapons as proper ceremony demanded; their bodies on the other hand almost immediately turned to dust, spirited away on the unnaturally hot and ashen breeze to be reformed at whatever cavernous mountain den they called home. It was a reality of life that no akki ever actually died, an unfortunate truth that was the root of both their recklessly fearless nature and their reputation as expendable cannon-fodder.

In fact, the young man realised as his dancing steps took him around a fallen pillar and deeper into the horde, the vast majority of the invading army was comprised of these akki. It led that abstract part of his conscious mind that wasn't guiding him through the fight to wonder where such a force had been assembled... or, perhaps more importantly, who had assembled it, and for what reason. Of course, there were present the usual oni, hideous bestial creatures that ranged in size and similarity from ogre to troll and even giant; but though they tended to cause pestilence and strife wherever they surfaced in the human world, they rarely showed enough initiative to raise an army of their own. And despite the attendance of a significant number of nezumi ratfolk near the back, and even the odd rogue kitsune or orochi (anthropomorphic foxes and snakes respectively) amongst the crowd, there was no obvious sign of a leader or a general to be seen… no trace of the guiding mastermind that must have been present to assemble such a powerful force on the battlefield.

"Oi!" The cry came from just behind him, and he recognised the voice of his best friend, Yoshi Sanada by name. Of a slightly shorter and stocky build than he, dressed in the ubiquitous white tunic that was the Institute's student uniform, the handsome young Yoshi was a deadly warrior both unarmed and wielding the nodachi that was his favoured weapon. Not to mention that he was also a skilled practitioner of fire magic, compliments of the dragon's blood that flowed through his veins. "You don't think you're going to do this alone, are you?" he laughed, the bloody moonlight glinting off his ichor-struck crescent blade.

Ingwe blinked once in surprise, and then smiled with all the thanks he could muster. Behind Yoshi ranged a handful of other students, close friends all, who had as one abandoned the idea of fleeing and turned to face their fears. A sustained barrage of spell and steel sent the surge of goblins scurrying for relative safety out of arm’s reach, and for a moment, he could breathe again.

The twin half-elven sisters, Hitomi and Kendal Alatariel. The former was a priestess of Aurient, the Elven mother goddess, skilled in both the martial arts and elemental magics; the latter was a hawk-eyed ranger, dancing into battle with her twin scimitars singing death upon all those who opposed her. Despite the differences in their respective skills and appearances - Hitomi wore her golden hair long and straight and dressed in the flowing white robes of a priestess, whilst Kendal wore the light chain armour of a bladesinger and cut her hair short to match - they shared a certain tomboyish mentality that made them fearsome opponents in a scrap.

Hector Leitdorf, honourable, righteous, and military-minded almost to a fault. Second son of an exiled Salvaran knight, he was practically the only person at the Academy who dressed for battle in full plate armour. At present he only wore the cuirass due to having rushed out of his room upon hearing the first sounds of battle, but he wielded longsword and kite shield with a ferocity that scattered all before him like leaves on the wind.

Then there were close-knit group of warriors known as the "Academy Four", hailing from Nippon and the surrounding lands, amongst the best and brightest in their respective fields. Kohei of Satsuma was the son of a famous samurai lord, trained and skilled in the use of spear and sword. "Jack", a large muscle-bound man of easy temperament and great stature, powerful warrior of the southern islands. Hyun Kimang, archer/mage from the western provinces, known for his mechanical bent and puppeteering prowess. And finally, Ai Kurokage was a mysterious young girl born into the Izumo ninja clan, her motives and her methods both shrouded in mystery.

As one their gazes turned to the Great Hall, into which another of their companions – the psymage Thomas - and his followers had disappeared only moments before. The Hondo, as it was known, was a two-story wooden structure of post-and-beam construction, painted blemish-less white and gleaming red, topped by a gabled roof of lacquered ceramic tiles. It was blindingly obvious to all that could spare the time for analysis - of which admittedly there were not many - that the low slung hall was the only building not targeted by the invading army; the swarms of akki seemed to pass it by as if it didn't even exist, and even the congregating evil kami, drawn by the scent of blood to the battlefield, dared not approach.

Was it such a surprise then that Thomas had travelled through the centre of the horde unhindered? Perhaps not, but of more importance to Ingwe, he had taken with him a strangely unresisting young woman known to her friends as Elerrina.

As the goblin ranks began to close once more, regrouping their strength and regaining whatever courage they possessed, it somehow struck him that things weren't going to be quite as easy for them.

"May fortune favour the worthy!" he cried, raising his swords high in challenge and plunging headlong into the eagerly awaiting masses without a backwards thought.

***

Deep inside, he realised that there was already a ready answer to his question about who had raised the army. It just left the burning need to know... why.

Deep inside, he feared that he already knew the answer to that, as well.

Duck, parry, strike. His entire world became a swirling blur of steel and sinew, as he danced through the horde of red-skinned goblins that barred his way. His right blade nicked out to catch an over-extended akki in the stomach; ducking beneath a flailing spear, he then brought both blades up in a rising strike that severed a bird-headed kami's head from its shoulders. Separated from their body, the spirit's ten eyes blinked as one in shock, before the mystic energy holding it to the material plane dissipated violently into the burning sky. The piercing shriek let loose as the kami was banished back to the ethereal plane lingered in his ears and scarred his mind, but there was no time even to shake his head to rid himself of the keening aftershock and the pungent acridity of its “blood”. For every two steps forward that he forged, he was forced into taking an equivalent step back, and he grew increasingly agitated at the numbingly slow progress that was all they could make... all the while disheartened by the knowledge that the longer they spent trying to reach the great hall, the greater the chance that there would be nothing left to find once they reached there.

To his left, Yoshi inhaled deeply before unleashing a torrent of bright flame from between pursed lips. As the smoke cleared and the dusty remains of half-a-dozen foes disintegrated into sandy dust, Hitomi leapt into the gap in their lines, her staff singing through the air as it glowed with holy energy. A slavering ratman crumpled into a mass of dirty matted fur as the anointed wood hit him squarely on the temple, and an opportunistic akki that sought to creep under her guard met the wrong end of a powerful kick that sent him flying head over tail back into his comrades. But there were too many for her to hold alone, and only a sweep of Yoshi's blade kept them at bay as he re-entered the fray.

On his right, Hector literally forced his way through the crowd, taking a couple of arrows on his shield before decapitating an unfortunate kitsune with a single backhand stroke. Kendal darted out from behind his cover and loosed an arrow of her own; an akki archer in the distance screamed in agony before disappearing in a puff of sand. Just as quickly two more goblins were upon her, but her scimitars swept from her scabbards to intercept their blows, and her skilled ripostes disarmed them before Hector's longsword smote them both back to their homes on the hot dusty wind.

Behind him he could sense more fighting as his four other friends sought to protect their backs, a tight-knit knot in the midst of a crimson tide. Through sheer weight of numbers alone their foes threatened to overwhelm them; through sheer determination and pure willpower alone, they in turn threatened to force their way through, step by bloody step, inch by bloody inch.

Ingwe realised, and he knew that it was beginning to dawn upon his comrades as well, that they could not last. Their progress was too slow, their enemies too numerous, and their bodies all too mortal to be able to forge onwards much longer. Kendal was the first to stumble, breathing heavily; Hector's shield arm showed a number of shallow cuts and grazes where he had not been quick enough to guard, and the frequency at which Yoshi used his magic had fallen greatly from when they’d first joined battle. Even Ingwe himself was tired, his parries growing slower and his strokes leaden, although the thought of whatever was happening inside the Great Hall was more than enough to send the adrenaline surging through his veins once more.

He sensed, rather than saw, the mob gradually tightening around them like a hangman's noose. Suddenly they were fighting back to back; suddenly there was no room to manoeuvre with the goblins packed so closely around them.

A brief respite as the goblins stood off for a moment, knowing their prey was cornered and ripe for the taking. It was not much of a break, to be sure, but it was a grateful chance for the exhausted youngsters to catch their collective breaths amongst the ashy rubble that had accumulated in the centre of the courtyard.

"Damn," Hector swore, breathing heavily; it was an uncharacteristic outburst from the normally impassive young man. Beside him, Kohei echoed the sentiment, whilst Jack - the only member of the band who wasn't gulping down the blood-choked air like it was the saviour's grace - muttered something unintelligible but decidedly angry in his native tongue.

"Well, there are a rather lot of them," Yoshi remarked, dead-pan despite the paleness of his face and the blood seeping from a shoulder wound where a kitsune swordsman had managed to get through his guard. The half-dragonian eyed his wound disdainfully before turning to his best friend, who looked remarkably unscathed despite his ghostly pallor. Noting the determination that still blazed in Ingwe’s eyes, he was warmed a little inside. "It's do or die time. I'm going to..."

Ingwe straightened abruptly, vehement refusal on the tip of his tongue, whilst Hitomi spun on her heels from where she was glaring at the encircling foes with a blurted "NO!" It was Kendal, however, who caught everybody's attention, the younger of the half-elven twins managing a disbelieving gasp and an outstretched finger towards the centre of the academy complex.

"Oh my... gods..."

They all followed her gaze, naturally… just in time to catch sight of the central tower of the academy complex, the great Mage's Pagoda, as it callously and almost anticlimactically toppled over towards the waiting arms of the fires below. The echoes of its fall rippled through the ground like a seismic shock, laughing as it crumpled like a young child's plaything. And such it might as well have been, for the massive figure that loomed behind was no mere oni. It was an akuma of titanic proportions, vaguely humanoid in form if not in scale, both faces twisted into a bestial grimace as its bloodshot eyes - all three of them - gloated over the victory. The roaring laughter that echoed from within its massive chest set the entire earth to shaking and spawned a thousand cries of terror in response.

"Listen," Yoshi began once again, and this time he spoke quickly for it was imperative that they acted in haste. But even then Ingwe responded with a firm shake of his head.

"I'll clear the path to the hall," was his reply, and it was Yoshi's turn to blanch. Kendal and Hitomi both opened their mouths to argue, but were silenced by a single look... the look of a man determined to do whatever it took. "Save yourself for whatever might lie within... I doubt things will be any easier in there, either."

Yoshi still looked like he wanted to argue, but another glance at his younger friend told him that it wasn't worth it. When Hector nodded, slowly, sadly, and the reluctant acceptances from the rest of the group registered in his mind, he knew that there was truly no other choice.

The earth trembled once more, and his whispered "Good luck," was lost amongst the quaking as a second titan appeared alongside the first, this one human in form if not size and garbed in the flowing robes of an Institute teacher. Seimei, Ingwe recognised; the Academy's Head of Magics and perhaps the most powerful mage in the entire land.

"Look out!" Ai cried, from where she kept watch on a rocky vantage point, and the warrior-mage jolted back to reality to see the akki that were bounding across the scant metre or so of no-man's-land, eager for blood. The lead goblin went down with a shuriken in his throat, the next two were annihilated by twin lightning bolts from the half-elven sisters, but there were just too...

A massive explosion of dirt and flame, which rippled around their buckling perimeter like chain lightning. The advancing horde of akki stopped suddenly in their tracks, wavered for a moment...

And a second set of blasts, even more powerful than the first, threatened to engulf the entire courtyard. When the fires cleared and the dust settled, it was obvious that the terrified akki were in full-blown retreat... and all that could be discerned through the smoke was a pair of shadows and an angry growl.

"Who DARES attack my students..."

***

The ogreish oni snarled in anger and swung his massive iron club in a downwards arc, causing the wooden steps to splinter and shatter beneath the force of the blow as both Yoshi and Ingwe leapt out of the way. Not missing a heartbeat, Hector came barrelling through the gap they left, shield raised high and sword stabbing low. The stroke sent the ogre to one knee, and Yoshi finished the job with one clean sweep of his massive nodachi, beheading the oni so neatly that the body dissipated amongst the cinder-laden winds before Ingwe's murmured spell was complete.

Yukimura Musashi and Toshiie Yamato were the Institute's two greatest warrior-mages, and their arrival in the central courtyard had turned the tide of battle. A large number of the cowardly akki, thrown into confusion and disarray by the destructive spells, had begun to trample each other into dust in their haste to flee the scene. The tengu that had commanded the sky had been forced to retreat with an arrow through his infamously long nose, whilst even the titanic akuma had disappeared from the rubble-strewn vicinity... although so had the brave mage who had confronted him.

Despite their greater individual skill, the more stalwart foes that remained - mostly nezumi and oni, with the odd smattering of kami that still yet lingered on the battlefield - lacked the advantage of sheer numbers that the akki had offered. The fighting in the central courtyard consequently broke down into a number of small individual skirmishes, and though the flames still raged in the eastern and southern quadrangles, the arrival of the local daimyo's mounted samurai vanguard meant that even those opportunists who had stayed to loot and pillage were now entertaining thoughts of escape.

Upon hearing their tale, Musashi - the more warrior-like of the two masters - had immediately demanded that they leave things to them and retreat from the scene. The scholarly Yamato, however, read the look in Ingwe's eyes for the determination that it was, and overruled his partner on the proviso that they "all come back alive".

Everybody present had realised that the young warrior-mage was beyond such words, even if he'd nodded his mute assent, but none had the heart to overturn his decision. The single-mindedness in which Ingwe had exploited the gap that his masters created for him was almost brutally shocking, composed of speed and ferocity and sheer audacity as he threw himself headlong into the disoriented and fear-stricken crowd of goblins and allies. And yet they had all followed him willingly, nary a thought of abandoning their comrade... or the friend that he and they sought to save.

Another brief pause in the battle, and Ingwe chanced a glance behind him. To his surprise, the path from whence they had come was now relatively free of foe. Kendal and Hitomi were dealing the final blows to a bloated kami that strangely resembled a neon-pink fish with legs; Ai had nimbly scaled the back of an even larger oni than the one that Yoshi had just beheaded, and was gamely trying to slit its throat as Jack's power and Kohei's skill held it at bay. As Ingwe watched, a black-fletched arrow caught the oni squarely in the eye, and the ogre howling in agony was just the distraction the kunoichi needed to finish the job.

He turned his attention back to the fallen heap of furry flesh that was the first oni's headless corpse, and to the wooden doors that barred their entry into the great hall. Brown eyes glinted in a rare show of anger, and his rage seemed to channel outwards from his soul as he murmured a single, nigh-unfathomable word of power.

The ogre erupted in a bright blaze, fires seeming to feed off muscle and sinew, before a symbolic thrust of Ingwe's hands sent the burning hulk straight through the doors. They didn't splinter, they didn't crack... they simply shattered underneath the makeshift ram, flying shards of wood joining the bulky battered body as it crashed into the cool darkness inside. Ingwe was not far behind it, leading the way through the flame-licked frame into the strangely serene and peaceful interior, his companions strung out like hounds of war alongside and behind him.

Their eyes struggled to adjust, since the night outside had been graced by the starlit heavens and illuminated by the flaring conflagration that gorged upon what remained of the perimeter buildings. But when Ingwe halted his advance suddenly, it was not due to hesitation or fear, for those who were blessed with magic often found other ways to compensate… and the overwhelmingly dark presence in front of them could not be mistaken.

"Welcome," it whispered in a sibilant hiss, and even the most stalwart amongst them could not help but feel the chill running down their spines. Menacing, intimidating, ominous, powerful; the voice seemed to seep into every sinew of their bodies at the same time as it threatened to bring the entire building crashing down upon their heads. None could move before it, not brave Hector, not wilful Yoshi, not even Ingwe, whose determination to challenge it simply failed to manifest itself in action.

Two narrow slits opened in the darkness ahead, unmistakable as eyes albeit far too high up to be those of an ordinary being. Their smoky supernatural whites seemed to smoulder with barely suppressed power, thin pupils dilating rapidly as they took in those who dared to disturb it. But it was not the daemon that held them back, that prevented their bodies from movement and their throats from giving voice.

If the circumstances had been any different, the quiet, confident smile on Thomas' face may have been construed as a friendly one. As things stood, however, the fact that his hands were glowing with arcane power made it decidedly not so... and the fact that he was single-handedly holding back no less than nine trained warriors made it positively frightening.

He stood slightly in front of his fellow psymages, who in turn were ranged in front of what looked like a large obsidian mirror, recognisable perhaps to those trained in the requisite arts as a magical portal. Beneath the matching brown hooded robes, Ingwe thought that he could just about recognise one or two faces... somebody he had passed by in the hallway the previous week, the young woman who sat opposite Kendal in their survival classes, the rector's son from the first-year ball. What brought them together, here and now united under Thomas' leadership, he didn't know... and neither did he really care.

For after the first cursory glance, his attention was focused on the only figure amongst them not clad in the dirty brown. Thomas noticed this as well, and forestalled any questions that Ingwe might have with pre-emptive words of his own.

"Ah yes," he chuckled, and again it might have been amicable if his eyes had also been smiling. "I thought you might decide to follow us... in fact, Ingwe, one could almost say that you are nothing short of predictable."

The eyes of the young man in question smouldered with a thousand questions that he could not give voice to, along with a burning desire to tear free of his magical bindings and give Thomas' arrogant mien a piece of his mind. But it was Yoshi who replied for him, Yoshi whose dragonian blood had lent itself to such skill at overcoming restraints both mystic and mundane, Yoshi who had been so close to Thomas in their youth.

"Why!?" was the only word he could manage, before a twitch of Thomas' right index finger silenced him again.

"Because," was the only answer he would receive, spoken simply and clearly yet with myriad enigma hidden within. But the daemonic visage grinned evilly behind him, and that was all Yoshi really needed to know. The small vein in his temple pulsed madly as the young warrior fought against the magics that bound him, but to no avail.

The ancient floorboards creaked in muted protest as Thomas turned away from his erstwhile comrades, towards the evil being that towered over the obsidian mirror... and towards the young woman who stood unresponsive before it.

"By your leave," he bowed in reverence towards the former, before indicating the way forward to the latter, with a quiet whispered, "After you..." Darker than dark, the portal of coruscating nether void loomed menacingly before them, as she took one step forward, then another...

... and only his alert senses and lightning-quick reactions saved him from the fireball that blazed past over his hastily-dropped shoulder.

"Yuka!" Ingwe cried, voice hoarse and desperate to be heard. His brow was covered in a fine sweaty sheen, his jaw line taut and muscles straining against the magics that bound him. It had been a supreme effort just to call upon the mana needed to cast his own spell, much less utter the urgent entreaty... and against his expectations, against all odds, she seemed to pause in her zombie-like trance.

"Don't..." he tried to continue, but now Thomas didn't bother to hide his irritation as his pupils flashed in anger and in power. The force of the psychic blow nearly shattered Ingwe's mind there and then; lesser men would likely have crumpled, reduced to a slobbering mindless heap by the mercilessly vicious onslaught. The confines of the young warrior-mage's psyche began to buckle and warp under the pain, the scream that forced itself through his lips agonised in the extreme.

As the eternity of pain finally subsided, he slumped listlessly against the spell that rooted him to the spot, and the daemon chuckled at the sight... a cruel and heartless sound that echoed hollowly across the wooden beams.

Thomas spun on his heels once again, urgency apparent in his movements and a wry distasteful expression displayed on his handsome features. "We must hurry," he remarked to his cabal, and they nodded assent and began a low murmured chant. Under the watchful eye of their leader and the great horned daemon, the portal seemed to shimmer once, a dark gaping maw opening wide to admit those who sought to enter. Then, as if the pent-up energy of a thousand pyrobombs were suddenly unleashed upon the chamber, a forceful blast of energy exploded outwards from the its core, the powerful shockwave nearly bowling over those who stood nearby and ruthlessly assaulting Ingwe's helpless band.

Small slivers of wood cut into Ingwe's exposed face, narrowly missing shattering his glasses as they lashed at his cloak and tunic. Barely he mustered the strength to raise his head; through blurry vision and foggy mind, he helplessly took in the scene around him.

His friends and comrades-in-arms, trapped by the spell that bound them to the spot, unable to do anything but stare paralysed at the spectacle in front of them.

The daemon, eying them hungrily as it watched over the proceedings, its presence obviously essential to the activation of the portal. How Thomas had summoned it - and why it even obeyed the psymage in the first place - was beyond Ingwe's comprehension... all that he realised through the hazy blood-streaked mist that clouded his mind was that some sort of sacrifice would be involved... one that would most likely involve either them... or the Academy as a whole.

But the image that his eyes lingered longest upon - and the one that would carve itself into his soul for the remainder of his days - was that of the young woman being led through the portal into the indiscernible morass beyond. Her face strangely blank and yet still so beautiful, the athletic grace of her movements enchanting despite their heart-sinking inevitability. Her shoulder-length ebony hair caught the puissant wind to expose the slender lines of her neck; similarly, the standard tunic that she wore ruffled raggedly, caught in swirling currents of mystic power.

Was it a faint trace of hesitation that stopped her momentarily on the threshold, tugging at her heartstrings like a desperado clinging to a lifeline?

Was it a tear that coursed down her cheek as agonisingly, inevitably, she walked over?

Or was it just his imagination, as he despairingly hoped that this was nothing but a dream?

As she disappeared into whatever destiny awaited her beyond, he felt his heart shatter, crystal shards sundered into a thousand separate pieces. His vision abruptly degenerated into darkness, fading in and out before threatening to disappear completely...

"No."

The whisper on the wind, and a gentle breeze touched the back of his ears, disturbingly cool given the fires that still blazed outside. As sanity and reason slipped from reach, along with whatever desperate flame had been keeping him struggling ineffectively against the bonds that held him down, he felt something else altogether take control.

"NO!"

All of a sudden, the daemon's body was ablaze, not with the dark baneful fires of the abyss, but with a sacred flame that practically seared the eyes with its intensity. At first, the daemon laughed, mocking the pitiful attempts of a mere puny mortal.

Then Ingwe's head snapped upwards, and his eyes practically burned with fury.

And the daemon's laughter turned to horror, and its horror to dire screams, as the flames incinerated the heat-resistant daemon-hide and began to feed on the vulnerable flesh beneath. Roaring in fury it reached out with one grubby, meaty fist to obliterate its tormentor from existence, at the same time as the one who had summoned it caught on to the fact that something was wrong. Angrily, Thomas opened his mouth, intent on punishing once and for all the insolent young man who just wouldn't give up...

... when the daemon quite literally imploded, sending sticky dark-green ichor splattering over the weathered wooden floorboards. One of Thomas' mages screamed in pain as the acidic daemon-blood began to burn into his skin; he quickly clammed up as his companions sought to attend to him, but the shrill echoes lingered in the moment of stunned peace that followed the being's banishment, alongside the daemon's one final bellow of rage.

At a later time, when the heat of the moment had subsided, Thomas would look back on that instant with wonder. It was obvious that the exhausted and relatively unskilled Ingwe, despite his not inconsiderable talent for his age, did not have the power to instantaneously banish a daemon from the fifth circle. And yet...

But there was no time for such thoughts. Within moments of the daemon's disappearance, the portal began to shudder as the magical bindings that tied it to the material plane collapsed.

"Through the gate," Thomas ordered through clenched teeth, struggling to contain the forces unleashed by the lack of daemonic presence long enough to complete his mission. As one his fellows obeyed, helping their wounded through the violently rippling obsidian mirror, leaving their leader alone to meet Ingwe's stunned gaze as sanity returned to the younger man.

Angry blue eyes met shocked brown, one mind struggling to maintain control contacting another that had already completely lost it.

A whisper in Ingwe’s mind.

And then an explosion like a star turned nova, that shook the building and the very ground it stood on to their foundations, bringing it crashing down around him piece by burning piece. The world turned violently white, a bright fiery blossom wiping the great hall from the map… and scattering Ingwe and his friends like leaves before the gale wind.

Only one of them would wake up there the next day.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Thin strands of wan moonlight still filtered through the thin curtains when his eyes flashed open, his breathing laboured and heavy and his body bathed in a cold feverish sweat. It was that hour of pre-dawn stillness so beloved by thinkers and dreamers alike for the tranquil peace that it brought, too early yet for the quickest rising of hawkers and street-goers, too early even for the chorus of songbirds that greeted each new day with their mellifluous - or cacophonous, depending upon your inclination - harmony. His head, on the other hand, was drumming to a different beat, pounding as if a percussive instrument of the gods themselves had been beaten within its taut confines.

"Owww..." he muttered softly, half pained moan, half resigned sigh, as he sought to gether his wits. One hand gingerly massaged his aching temples while the other fumbled fruitlessly for his glasses, very nearly sending him tumbling like a sack of potatoes out of the bed in the process. Nearly ten minutes had passed by the time he'd managed to find his spectacles, put them on, clear the sleep from his eyes and plant both bare feet on the cold wooden floor.

He wasn't really a good waker, Ingwe...

Stifling a massive yawn that threatened to unhinge his lower jaw, the young warrior-mage stumbled across the creaky floorboards towards the window, a muffled half-curse escaping his sleepy lips as he stubbed his little toe on the chair leg along the away. The air was tinged with a hint of the night's chill, permeating through the window frame and nipping at his slumber-tinted cheeks; a deep breath to clear his lungs caught the faintest touch of freshly baked bread on the whispery breeze. It was good to know that, at the very least, he wasn't the only one awake at this forsaken hour.

Slipping behind the thin veil of beige floral-patterned curtain, Ingwe rested his elbows on the cracked plaster of the window ledge and peered out upon the halcyonic world outside. Only a few specks of candlelight tainted the pale grey cobblestones, bathed as they were in the ghostly light of a timid crescent moon, the vast majority of the city shrouded in peacefully deep slumber.

He stayed there for what seemed an eternity, gazing out like a sentinel owl upon the dream-tinged cobblestones from his own personal vantage point. Seemingly absorbed in the scene as time passed him by, unmoving and unresponsive to the slow ticking of the second hand... with the sole exception of his muddled thoughts as they plummeted through reflection and memory into the tattered remnants of what had been a tumultous and murky, and yet strangely bittersweet, dream.

Part of him wished to sigh a melancholy sigh, while another part wanted nothing more than to hit something in frustration. A slight frown touched his features, annoyance at the emotions that raged within his soul, but a pair of deep breaths soon restored his inner calm. He reached for the locket around his neck; it was warm to the touch and reassuringly comforting, and he allowed himself a gentle smile behind lightly closed eyelids as he gathered strength and courage.

The fact that he could not remember anything beyond entering the Hondo mattered not. He would discover the truth behind it all, he swore to himself, reaffirming the silent hope that had sustained him throughout the half-year since. He would learn the reasons behind Thomas' betrayal, and he would find out why Yuka had followed his erstwhile friend into the depths of the underworld... and, if need be, he would drag either or both of them back into the light in the process, though an entire legion of daemons may bar his way.

On the eastern horizon, the darkness began to lift, the sky began to lighten. The red sun rose to greet the day reborn...

Ingwe opened his eyes to face a new dawn.

***

"It was not he," the voice rasped, grating harshly on Thomas' nerves. Six months spent in the company of daemons and other nether worldly denizens, and his human-honed sensibilities still struggled to cope with life in Haidia... but, he had to admit, he was getting better at it. A firm nodded assent, indicating his own opinion to the rest of the brown-hooded figures assembled in the cavernous chamber, before speaking up himself.

"Nipponese mages are sometimes granted spiritual guardians from the Pantheon of Beasts, in order to enhance their abilities," the psymage clarified, his tone authoritative in a subject that he had obviously studied well. "On extremely rare occasions, such as in times of great need, it is not unknown for this guardian to manifest itself of its own will. Such was the case with the subject in question... the threat posed by the daemon Natosatael was sufficient to cause the spirit to react violently in an attempt to protect its host body."

"So the mortal knows nothing about this... nothing at all?"

The voice that replied was undoubtedly daemonic in origin, angrier than the one that had spoken before. Natosatael - the snake-eyed daemon of the fifth circle that had been summoned to aid Thomas' dimension-warping spell - had been severely weakened as a result of his forcible banishment, and six months later was only just beginning to regain a bare minimum of his once vaunted strength. Vengeance burned in those slitted smoky eyes as they bore deep into Thomas' soul, for Natosatael was not only known as a powerful being, but a cunning and bloodthirsty one as well.

Even the psymage could not resist a cold chill running down his spine as he nodded once more, and he thanked his lucky stars that the daemon's anger was not directed at he, for Thomas knew that he could scarcely afford a foe as powerful as Natosatael at this early stage of his plan.

"It is very unlikely," was the measured reply. "Unless he has managed to attain powers comparable to thine own in this short a period of time..."

There was nothing quite like subtle flattery. For a moment, Thomas thought about explaining further - for example, the fact that such a manifestation of the guardian spirit was only known to occur if the host was sufficiently powerful and the bond between human and beast sufficiently strong. But a second's thought brought him to the conclusion that the knowledge was probably best kept to himself... for who knew when it would turn into a useful bargaining chip?

Natosatael scowled in return as he sensed the impudent manling hiding something from him, but just as the psymage recognised the folly of openly antagonising the daemon, so did the daemon realise that, in his current weakened state, he was no match for the prodigious talent displayed by the young mortal. So he too bided his time, filing away every last nuance, every last tidbit that could be inferred from Thomas' words. For if it was one thing that an immortal being had in great abundance, it was time... and Natosatael was nothing if not patient.

There was time enough in all eternity to punish he who had dared defy him... and there would be enough left over should it prove necessary to discipline the newcomer as well.

One other person in the chamber kept a close tab on reactions to the words Thomas spoke, albeit extremely discreetly and with great care. The young raven-haired woman who stood slightly behind and to one side of the psymage wore an emotionless mask set like stone upon her face that never wavered, never faltered... but, for a brief instant not caught by the flickering candlelight, there was a flash of recognition within her blank black eyes.

A heartbeat, and the pendant around her neck seemed to glow with warmth. A mere speck of hope in a land full of darkness, to be sure… but it was there nonetheless.

Just to be absolutely clear... the daemon-banishing act performed during the botched rescue attempt was not of Ingwe's will or of his power in any form. In fact, he was pretty much unconscious at the time.

[AdventWings]

Very sorry for the late Judging. I won't make any excuses and cut right to the Judging. ^_^;

Story

Continuity - 8

You capitalized on the "Stand Alone" feeling of how Ingwe got to Scara Brae and what happened during the first few days. In fact, while you can certainly insert the flashback into any other threads, putting the backstory during the dream sequence helped the readers to catch up on the Nipponese's history well.

Setting - 7

Frankly speaking, there was a bit too much passive observation to really warrant a higher score. However, it served its purpose well in your writing style.

Pacing - 6

Perhaps it was the writing style, but I feel the story development tended to become drawn out as you tried to describe every single detail that popped into Ingwe's mind or what scampered by in his vision. Go easy on the passive visual observations - they can serve well to give a unique feel to the atmosphere of the story, but too much spice can cover the food's true flavor.

Writing Style

Mechanics - 8

Excellent and well done. However, there were a bit of repetition in details that were a bit redundant that caused the story to stretch out and become tedious to read. Nothing drastic and quite readily remedied by reading over your writing from time to time.

Technique - 7

I love the way you use metaphors and personification to describe your surrounding. Had these techniques were used to describe more active passages, this will be an extremely interesting read.

Clarity - 7

I believe this thread may have suffered from a Literary Device Deluge. Too much technique can confuse the readers needlessly, so you might want to prune out some unneeded devices in some paragraphs. I do not mean setting a limit on how much technique to use per paragraph, but try to get a feel of how much technique used would be enough to spice up the text.

Character

Dialogue - 8

The broken speech patterns and casual asides helped to create an almost passive-receptive dialogue style in your writing. Speaking little but conveying unfathomable power - this is where a lot of new writers strive for when they try to flood their character's posts with spoken words in an effort to make them stand out. In fact, I think that Ingwe spoke even less than Captain Hezman himself.

Action - 7

I love the natural flow of movement of each characters in this story. While some parts are a bit confusing to understand, I sense that each one did according to their roles a bit rigid, however subtle they appear. Try harder next time!

Persona - 7

Throwing in personality quirks of each person (and even that of the tavern!) helped to enhance the reading well. If it wasn't because the story was already drowning in literary devices, these quirks and odd behaviors would really stand out more.

Miscellaneous

Wild Card - 9

I just love a well-told story. While it was more or less a series of observation scenes, this read was a nice departure from the usual Hack-n-Slash of the Fantasy Roleplaying genre.

FINAL SCORE – 74!

((Rewards + Spoils))

Flames of Hyperion receives 250 GP and 1200 EXP! Apparently, one of the old ladies Ingwe helped while he was chasing after the hooded guy slipped him a pouch of money as a show of gratitude. Or maybe it was that guy who bumped him on the way into the Southsider that wanted to get rid of some dirty money...?

dun Dun DUNNN...

[Witchblade]

EXP and GP added!