The Heart of the Nomad (Closed)

[Mordelain]

The Heart of the Nomad (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0rDOUKGSqUY&feature=related)


2428


Spice Wars: (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?19554-Missions-From-il-Jhain-Abdos) Most of the spice farmers and merchants can interact civilly – its just the poor luck of an il’Jhain runner to have to deal with the worst tempered among them. A set of farmers have taken to sabotaging anything that might aid their rivals – up to and including the runners carrying their wares. Your job is to get the spices you’re carrying to their intended destination – the il’Jhain’s honor is at stake.

This is the song
The spice-tree sings:
"Hunger and fire,
Hunger and fire,
Sky-born Beauty—
Spice of desire,"
Under the spice-tree
Watch and wait,
Burning maidens
And lads that mate.

The spice-tree spreads
And its boughs come down
Shadowing village and farm and town.
And none can see
But the pure of heart
The great green leaves
And the boughs descending,
And hear the song that is never ending.

The deep roots whisper,
The branches say:—
"Love to-morrow,
And love to-day,
And till Heaven's day,
And till Heaven's day."

The moon is a bird's nest in its branches,
The moon is hung in its topmost spaces.
And there, to-night, two doves play house
While lovers watch with uplifted faces.
Two doves go home
To their nest, the moon.
It is woven of twigs of broken light,
With threads of scarlet and threads of gray
And a lining of down for silk delight.
To their Eden, the moon, fly home our doves,
Up through the boughs of the great spice-tree;—
And one is the kiss I took from you,
And one is the kiss you gave to me.

Vachel Lindsay.

[Mordelain]

Prologue



Bordering on miraculous, the women who have led Fallien since its destruction nearly six hundred years ago are strong and wise. Every time a girl child is born, she is blessed by the priestesses, and if she exhibits certain attributes, both physical and mental, she is taken to Irrakam and raised to become a priestess. Every priestess is trained to possibly become the next Jya. The wisest, most motherly of them will become Jya when the current Jya either dies or is no longer able to perform her duties as the mother of Fallien.


---

All the worlds have a grasp of money. This inevitably means that all the worlds have a grasp of trade.

Althanas it would appear was no different, as greedy as any other plane or dimension. Mordelain sat on her horse, somewhat bewildered by the glaring heat of Fallien’s rolling desert wasteland and sighed. She stared distantly into the horizon whilst she waited for her contact to make his timely appearance. The two story building of baked white clay behind her rose up high like an edifice to industry.

"The Abdos..."

It formed a scar on the inhospitable land at the heart of the vast city of Irrakam. She had been directed to it when she had arrived months ago. The twittering of hurried mouths which did not want to help a stranger had ushered her to its opulent structure. It still made her catch her breath when she turned a corner to meet it.

She had realised the moment she had arrived that there was more to the acquisition of work than she had been lead to believe. Earning a living as a foreigner in the deserts of Fallien was a difficult task to say the least.

"Xenophobia is everyone's right here," she said gingerly, through parched and cracked lips.

There were three doors into the central room, each clearly intended for employees or employers to enter. Which door you used depended on your particular affiliation to one of the three running factions that used the Abdos. Her limited understanding of trade speak had ensured she struggled to remember her own faction’s name. Mordelain didn’t worry about it too much, as long as they stabled her horse and gave her a pittance on which to survive she did not ultimately care. Being a messenger of the Abdos had swiftly given her purpose, which was reward enough. It was a pastime whilst she took stock of the land and searched for other Tama that might have taken refuge here after the Cataclysm. Pastimes however, had a tendency to become times and lives of their own.

The desert on the other hand cared very much. On the outskirts of Irrakam she could already see the danger, the sweltering heat, kicking up sand into a shimmering mirage or the allure of an oasis. Those deadly shimmers could turn into paradise or be an ant lion’s nest. She had seen those great towering pincers too many times to wish to fall into their trap. The desert cared so much it wanted to kill you to prove it. Mordelain had to fight a war on three fronts to complete each of her deliveries. She had done four such assignments in the last two days. Already the people of Fallien were whispering of a new il'Jhain that could streak from the Abdos to Jya’s Keep in a flash. They said she could be out to the lakes in less time than it took a housewife to prepare pitta bread in a roasting oven.

Mordelain patted the mane of her steed, comforting her before they made yet another perilous trek. She had donned white muslin in a wrap around her head, a traditional hijab of the strange Fallien religion she had yet to investigate. For the most part it kept the heat out, and abated the incessant need of the mosquitos and dung flies to break through every layer you wore to buzz in your ears. With idle eyes semi-closed to keep out the glare and to avoid ironic snow blindness from the white clay paint, she examined the to and fro of the morning crowd.

[Mordelain]

It is said that Jya is the living incarnation of Suravani, the moon goddess of Fallien who turned the land to desert so long ago for the greed of its leaders. In a way which astounds those around her, this mysterious woman seems to know a person's deepest thoughts and desires, and even seems to have foresight into the future. There are tales of magic and miracles performed by the Mother of Fallien, and those given her blessing are said to be unstoppable.

---

Strange faces and dishonest merchants surrounded her. With hearkening cries they proffering their wares forcibly, swimming like salmon against the flow of the tired and weary citizens of Irrakam. Many carried gourds or great wicker baskets on their heads, both as shade and a convenient way to carry goods and purchases to and fro. She had learnt very quickly, from the absent jingle of several of the gold bells she had on her cloth headdress that keeping your valuables out of harm’s and thieves’ way was a life skill you had to learn in the nomad cities very quickly. Whilst she was now lighter on her feet than she had intended to be, the harsh reality and speed of life here was invigorating. It had keened her senses and forced her to learn, to adapt, and to assimilate herself into this new and wondrous culture.

The hubbub of the bazaar was now her home. The herb sellers peddling Sweet Cicely, anise, marjoram and angelica from Corone through to the bread sellers, selling sour rolls and poppy seed bagels in thatched shelters on dusty street corners; these were her people. She had become their hero, like every other runner before her, fleeting, but inspirational and a life blood to the sands whilst she lasted. Finally, she drew her gaze over her assignment, and smiled wearily from beneath her muslin wrapped troubadour attire. Its loose ends flapped in the soft breeze and sandy air as it drifted in from the north down the boulevard.

“As-Salāmu `alayk, Mordelain,” he said cheerily, his bushy beard and velvet skin symbols of long service to the il’Jhain caravans. He held out large cloth bundle, tightly wrapped with yellow and red ribbon, sign of her title and of the farmer she had to deliver it to. She took it with open arms and a forward lean from the saddle of her mount.

“As-Salāmu `alayk, Suresh,” her return of the traditional greeting brought a smile to the man’s face, melting his distrust and unfamiliarity with strangers. “It is such a pleasant day for a ride over the dunes, do you not think?”

“Rather you than me I am afraid, a sandstorm is set to tear down from the Outlander’s Post by nightfall. You should ride swift, and return before the sun starts to set or you will not be allowed through the wall.” He patted the side of Mordelain’s horse with deep appreciation for her white skin and flaxen mane. If he had known she was from another world, he might not have been so docile around her.

[Mordelain]

Because of her wisdom and compassion, there are few citizens of Fallien who do not adore their ruler. Those who are resentful or rebellious towards Jya, tend to be members of the Cult of the Sun, a group of religious zealots who worship Suravani's enemy and brother, the Sun god Mitra.

Jya allows her people to be mostly self-governing. Each family delegates a member which speaks at all clan meetings, each clan delegates a member which speaks for the clan in regional issues as well as a priestess who represents their interests before Jya. Jya makes her decisions based on the wishes of her people.

Truly she is the Althanian incarnation of the beloved Suravani.


---

The Troubadour looked out over the sands then back over her shoulder at the imposing headquarters. Everywhere she looked, life was teeming. All about her, people were going to and fro and every one of them was oblivious of the other. She could pick out collisions, perhaps thefts wherever she looked. Chaos was everywhere. She turned to Suresh, tucked the parcel into her saddle straps and pulled the reigns into her ready and gripped hands.

“If this it to go the Karachi spice field, then I am sure I can make two leagues in that time,” she computed the distance in her head, allowing for bandits, dune drifts and run ins with creatures far worse. She nodded to re-assure herself. “Has there been any trouble on the road lately, with other runners or such?”

Suresh chuckled and stepped away from the horse. He folded his arms back into the gaping folds of his blood red robes and pulled his hood up. It was weighted so that it settled onto his brow and the gold ring of wrapped cloth on his head formed a sudden crown; it was a merchant’s wreath, and he one of the more renowned and welcomed and honest merchants in Fallien. “I am afraid so. The sun shines on you, strange one and daughter of the sand. We have lost too much business of late, so you must deliver those spices,” the daggers that struck Mordelain’s form told her all she needed to know about the urgency of her assignment.

“Then I shall ride like the wind and harder still,” she patted her steed on its side and whipped her stirrups inwards.

The subtle spikes alerted her mount and she galloped forwards, leaving nothing but promises, dust plumes and the faint scent of a cooling poppy bread pocketed to keep her sustained and happy on the road to nowhere. Suresh watched her until she was a speck on the horizon with a grimace and shook his head. His morning happiness faded with her farm, as it did whenever a ride of the il’Jhain left with his expensive and prized goods.

He hoped, as he turned back into the outer swell of Ikkaram’s bazaar that this delivery would be made. “If she does not, and she lives,” he chattered his teeth and walked on, “Faziah will have her head. She might even put her Niphena stocks to good use,” he chuckled again, but with more malice and contempt, before he vanished into the swell proper. Faziah was a master with poisons, and Mordelain, like many other failed employees would never even notice.

[Mordelain]

The Journey

---

It did not take long for Mordelain to ride out from the Outsider’s Quarters, over the grand theoganist’s bridge and onto the desert sands proper. It did not much longer for the immensity of the desert’s heat to permeate the folds of the muslin she had wrapped around her arms, head and legs. She blazed a plume of dust behind her, her eyes set firmly on the dunes, picking out any signs of landmarks in an ever changing landscape; it played tricks on unwary travellers, it moved to spite you.

How Mordelain had become a messenger was still somewhat of an enigma amongst the il’Jhain. Traditionally xenophobic, the culture had somehow taken to her over the many hundreds of refugees and would be adventurers. She considered this a boon at first, until she had completed several assignments for the il'S’liaka, the Dustriders, and several of the more seasoned of Ikkaram’s citizens had become jealous. Fortunately for the Troubadour the watchful eye of Îdhdaer Bireth, the elven leader of the Freerunners was firmly set on her. He had allured her with his company of outsiders, elves, dwarves estranged in Fallien’s motherly embrace with a display of geomancy she had yet to see rivalled.

The desert moved in the wake of the winds, but it ran from Îdhdaer like a fearful child, who scuppered its plans with his almost divine command. He had given her what she hoped would be the first of many tokens for her work in the il’Jhain to date, and promised her the belt that the messengers of Ikkaram wore to display their providence to the rest of the city folk. It was a simple leather strap, with sparkling silver buckles that had several holes along its length to insert the treasured tokens in it. These were often prized from the bodies of unfortunate messengers like gold teeth on the streets of a rough city.

“They will not prize them from me,” Mordelain whispered through clenched teeth as she crested a giant dune and started into a canter down the far side. She had cleared a league already, lost in thought and driven north to the Karachi spice field on instinct and the need to succeed, no matter the cost. Her own speed bewildered her at times, and she thanked her horse with a roughshod ruffle of it's mane as they went.

There was perhaps a hint of magic in that sense, as the belt, so Suresh had told her, would always guide her north to the promises of the Ruuya. Wherever she stood, where ever she cried, wherever she found herself lost in the sands of the motherland she knew her way. In the distance the dunes gave way to a plain of sand so vast it swallowed the horizon. In it, she could pick out jagged rocks, remnants of ancient cities perhaps and large black squares on the sand where flags marked out the territory of their respective spice growers.

She jolted with the movement of her steed, until its hooves stopped sinking into the soft sand of the dune and ran out onto the hard compressed flats of the Naira, the Lady’s Mantle. It ran north along the west banks of the river all the way to the tip of the island, where the Ruuya Spicelands were. Skirting up from the bridge to avoid the Nirakkal Bad Lands, only the bravest of messengers went further than the Karachi. Mordelain hoped that one day, when she had enough tokens; she would be given parcels to deliver to the Ruuya. There, the Bedouins who had tamed the waters of Suravani’s Oasis, whose wind women ran barefooted through the Zaileya Mountains lived ignorant of the ruins left in Coradan’s exile.

It had not been long since she had set foot in Fallien’s capital, but its legends, folklore and traditions already swarmed around in her head as if she had padded the dusty bazaars and the library catacombs beneath Jya’s keep all her long life. She already felt like sand ran in her veins instead of blood, as if the desert sand storm were her goddess’s breathe given form. Though all the names she recited and mapped out in her mind to keep herself awake as she rode further and further north were still myths, she hoped one day she would be able to say to the children of Ikkaram that Coradan truly did hide in exile in the ruins Aduyya, and that the Oasis to the north was not a mirage. She wanted to see the legends in the flesh.

“I will walk these lands as I walk my own, dancing tales of wonderment, preaching the way of the Kalithrism in the sunlight and the shadow,” she calmed her growing sense of apprehension at the silence as she passed the first checkpoint. The ramshackle mud stable with a barrack did nothing to reassure her. She swept past to make the hundred mile journey to the second. Soon these waypoints would end and she would discover who, or indeed what had been interfering with the spice deliveries. Somebody, she hoped had a business disagreement. She did not wish to encounter jinn or devils darker still out in the searing sands.

[Mordelain]

The arid and empty landscape soon became alive with strange rock formations. The desert became populated by occasional and dried bushes, which threatened to burst into flame beneath the midday sun. The image of Suresh scowling and tooting as he walked away brought a smile to Mordelain’s face as she slowed her horse’s advance and made a gentle pace into the outer reaches of the Dagger Spine flats. The rock formation divided the dunes from the edges of the spice fields. It was a two mile wide band which stretched across the western edge of the river from the sea to the glistening and inviting banks of the waters that guarded Irrakam to the south.

All across the dried, cracked earth wind worn rocks stood up like columns. They were sharp at the point, tapered into fine edges and vicious overhangs. Some pulsed, like the body of a caterpillar in and out, smooth and leering and deadly all in one geological oddity. To get to the north you had to travel through them, and though this was only the third journey this far from Irrakam, Mordelain still felt unearthed by their presence as if they were whispering broken promises of torture into her ears.

Her horse weaved in and out of them quite oblivious to the danger on all sides. Children in the streets threatened their play rivals with the perils of the Dagger Spine, shouting taunts about harpies diving down from the rocks to tear out curious eyes and bandits jumping out from the shadows to drive kukri into your ribs. Lies of devils prising open your soul to show your mischief to the world. Mordelain had chuckled at the tales as they were shouted in fifty voices at the heart of an excited gaggle of orphans only a week ago. Now she only felt foolish.

They had seemed like innocent old wives’ tales then but now she was here, and now the wind howled like a wolf’s cry through the strange formations, she was growing less certain they were not just taunts. They were as real now as the threat of death for leaving city limits without the correct documents tucked into her garments that allowed her faux citizenship as a foreigner in a strange land.

Halfway into the Dagger Spine her horse neighed, and came to a stop without her command. It shuffled it’s hooves over the cracked drought land and crushed an ox skull under its uncertainty. The hollow echo of the contact bounced through the tall spires and Mordelain felt them. She did not wait to hear the cry in her ears, and kicked her horse forwards even as the shadows rose up from nearby spines to roll into dives for her nape, her soul, her blood.

"Ride il'Jhain, ride!" She roared, whipping her horses reigns furiously. The dried leather snapped against the dusty mane and her hands, though gloved struggled to put effort and weight into her command.

She heard the cry only after the hooves of her steed broke into a desperate run. She weaved at lightning speed through the rock formations holding on for dear life, head tucked into the mane and heart racing.

She had run too many times in her life to be stunned or fearful in such a circumstance.

She had found herself on the edge of the knife often enough to just run and never look back. The behemoths of the Bulganin Woods, the Shadowkith of Petra and even the Fiery Jinn of Ixian all held a particular space in her heart to inspire terror in her merely at the mention. She always ran, never turning, always forwards fleeing. This new creature, though, was something new, something unfamiliar. She had heard amongst many tales about the winged woman of the desert. Some called them eagle devils, others, succubae, though she knew no such daemons would walk so far from the Firmament.

“Harpies…” she whispered softly, a smile on her face despite the ominous presence pressing into the small of her back. Her horse frothed at the mouth and took in the fear, its eyes frayed and yellow as the sun as its blood pushed its limbs into fervour of speed it didn’t know it possessed. “Not today, sisters, this spice will find its way to the hands of its buyer without your self-indulgence.”

As she broke out into the open sands once more, instantly feeling the drought flats give way to soft sand and gentle, almost non-existent gradient she looked back. There were four shadows, fell creatures on the winds, each with leathery wings and blackened skin. The shrill cry sounded again, a chorus of hunger, and Mordelain looked forwards.

She did not see the two men step out from behind a half broken spire until they swung their pole-arms up at her, and she fell backwards to hit the sand with a thud. The second assailant fired a sling up at the harpies, and one danger was replaced with another, a more sinister and bloodthirsty foe - bandits.

[Mordelain]

"What is this, Haloes?” The elder of the two said triumphantly, pressing a boot down on Mordelain’s chest to keep her writhing but firmly in place. His gap toothed grin and greasy hair, half hidden by a head scarf and years of living rough in the deserts only confirmed the Troubadour’s suspicions that she had leapt out of the frying pan, straight into a fire.

“A Freerunner,” the other remarked, his thick Fallien accent only decipherable on the merit of Mordelain’s exposure to the varied dialects in the Irrakam streets. “A human no less,” he spat. In Fallien, there was only one thing worse than being an outsider, and that was working for one. It was the lowest of the low; no matter how many pieces of paper you had proclaiming your allegiance to Jya or the faculty of the il’Jhain.

The bandit named Haloes settled his glaive’s tip softly onto the sand and rested his free hand on his hip. They both wore grey and deep red tunics, tightly wrapped with leather straps and white cotton fastenings to keep them clothed and to allow wind to flow between their meagre testicles. That small fact, coupled with the weapon and their festooning hatred of outsiders allowed Mordelain to arrive at the pained conclusion that these were not only bandits, but bandits hired by the l’Arkmanham. The third and suspicious member of the tri-partite il’Jhain messenger consortium were less secretive about their hatred of outsiders. They, unlike the Freerunners were not so welcoming and not so open to the progress of change.

“What shall we do with her Hasid? Take her tokens; boil her brains, spit on her grave?” The reply came with rhetoric Mordelain assumed to be part of their tribal tradition. She did not like the sound of any of the outcomes. She spat back, missing the man’s boot and gobbing on her own waist sash. “No,” Haloes leant forwards as much as his grip on his weapon allowed and their heads blotted out the flare of the sun. Mordelain squinted to get a good look at the features of her assailants. She had a memory that could recall the names of a thousand flowers on a thousand islands. If she lived, she would remember theirs as well. “Let us give her to Suravani’s will; the old fool will welcome an offering to the lapsing shores of his oasis.”

With her head still very much spinning from the impact of the sandalwood shaft slamming into her chest, Mordelain only barely managed to couple together enough words of Fallien to mutter what she hoped would be her bargaining tool. “As-Salāmu `alayk Haloes and Hasid. I bring you blessings from the Ikkaram tüccarları ve great Fallien annesi.” She would have continued but the sharpening pressure from his boot, which was laden with sand and caked mud forced the last of her strength from her.

“Enough of your talk woman, you have no right to sp-” before he could finish his idle threads, he fell forwards, his boot crushing the glass dust and shell shards instead of squeezing wind from another unfortunate bounty. He reached for the dirt and ran his fingers over the sand, as if he thought she’d burrowed beneath the earth like a scorpion or worm running from the garuda or the jinn dragons. “What devilry is this?” He hung his head, and stood slowly to glare at Hasid. “Brother, we have to tell Suravani’s viceroy that that elf has worked his magic once more. Do you know what he will say when we do?” He raised a shorn eyebrow, a traditional Bedouin mark of skill with a partisan and wrinkled his lips into an uncomfortable smile.

“He will ask why we did not see the Amulet of Stars-Blessing on her lapel,” the bandit replied with smarm. This was the third time this week a Freerunner quarry had slipped through their grubby mitts by the grace of the Wanderers. Though they had increased the frequency of their attacks on il’Jhain, they had adapted, like scuttling dung beetles learning the perils of sunken trap doors and spider jaws, and now they had learnt how to fly from harm’s way. The bandits shook their heads solemnly, and stared at the dirt where Mordelain had been pinned seconds ago.

As Mordelain fell through the ether the echoes of their final words rang in her ears. She longed to know what this Amulet was. How could it have saved her should she not have called on desperation and longing for another world to drag her, vomit in her throat and head in agony through the veil? Phantaria sang in silence to taunt her doubt. Then she saw Suresh’s surly grin and reminded herself you had to buy such wonders of the il’Jhain with tokens, respect, and a lot of journeys north through the Dagger Spine.

[Mordelain]

“Where are you going, Kales?” She whispered without words, the Phantaria soul dredging any sound from her motions and suspending her in an endless void. She heard it whisper an answer back, but instead of language, she saw her last vision as she had lain choking on the sand. She had turned her head sideways, her blessing affording her enough leeway to turn to catch a glimpse of where her horse had galloped off to. Selfish as the beast was, it had carried in three hundred feet in a dust plume before it fell out of sight over the last of the dunes.

She bit her lip, crossed her fingers and walked forwards. The nausea was comfortable to her now, nothing more than a knot in the stomach and a calling of pain in her brow. It had not been the case when she was younger, when walking to another world had made her violently ill for hours.

Everything went dark and for a brief, hopeful moment Mordelain expected to be restored a thousand yards north of where she had fallen. Ideally, she would be able to leap back onto her mount and continue with quicksilver in her veins to her destination. The rules of the Tama and of the Troubadours were not so lenient. She opened her eyes with a sigh as her boots scrunched on soft sand. Instead of a golden aura she was met with a dreary, pale and sickly green landscape.

“Hudde,” she muttered through clenched teeth. She crossed her arms over her chest as the temperature dropped, even though by any standards the land of exile and eternal night was still scorching. The flickering flames that burnt atop strange ziggurats and vast necropolis to long dead criminals cast a strange glow over the distance, and Mordelain picked out several landmarks to discern her location. She was south of the maelstrom, the vast whirlpool of sand that desperate people threw themselves into when they finally gave up trying to leave. She had brought many people here on their final journey in her younger years, it’s strange property protecting them from the harmful effects of walking on those not of the world of Junkyo.

This was the graveyard of the Khalithrism.

She walked forwards to the edge of the rocky outcrop. She pictured her assailants falling with satisfying screams into the unknown end that would await them if she had brought them with her, and then set herself and her sights on her task at hand. “You can still make it on time,” she re-assured herself, “even if your journey’s gone from one world to three.”

Without much thought for her own safety she stepped forwards once again, straight off the cliff and down. The wind blew up into her muslin and scattered it into tattered wings and angelic tendrils of colour against the dark backdrop of Hudde. She seemed to fall for an age before the sea grew so big in her vision she could not avoid its approach. She drew on the fragmented energies which kept the nine worlds of the Kalithrism together and pushed them from her mind, where they swelled with vigour and down into her feet. With a concentred effort she pushed them down so that she fell to the waves of dry dust like a falling spear.

As she struck the surface of the sea the Kalithrism called to her, and through the waves, she was drawn into the Phantaria once more. She relished the clarity of the silence of the void for a few brief moments. Beneath her a vast sea of blue and silver liquid rolled gently back and forth as if she were in a vast ampoule. Stretching out in front of her, though she did not know their names were the Windlacer Mountains. Their frosty and misted peaks signs of a winter from long ago. She could make out the distant shapes of dragons ablaze with flame and angels projecting oratory blades through the thunderous sky. Time was compressed here, and Mordelain was witnessing the battles of thousands of years collected together in one of many collages of the Khalithrism.

She soon forgot the beauty she was privy when she felt her stomach turn once more. The Phantaria vanished, shattering into glass fragments as polished as diamonds. With a rush of air, the lapping shores of Brede appeared. She instantly felt a pang of regret at having left her stave. She longed to have the time to return to the more familiar bazaars and residential boulevards to reclaim it. Today however, she would have to make do with a remembrance of the red brick front and the oak supports on every house and the Memory Tree at the centre of the city. She could feel and hear the Central Square through her connection to her stave, and she almost shed a tear for it.

“Be safe,” she said with her eyes closed and her heart reaching out to see through the gnarled length of wood. True enough, it waited for her, and satisfied that there it remained she pulled on the Kalithrism once more.

So close to the tall, maze like warren buildings of the Eternal Market she fell through Phantaria and spilled out into the Outrider Outpost, ten miles north of where she had fallen. All she could mutter as her face fell flat into the sand was how fickle Jaya was, even though she had never met her, and still didn’t quite get the idea of matriarchy.

Whatever she had done, whatever prayers she had recited, whatever blessing she had earned from her new mistress she was thankful for it.

[Mordelain]

Before she knew it Mordelain was on her feet and dusting herself off. Her backside was horribly sore, her muslin frayed, tattered and clod with dust so that it stuck to her skin like rough chainmail and she was without horse. Most importantly of all she was now without her load. Fortunately for her, Kales was a horse with its own hidden talents.

Suresh had ridden it himself for many moons, when he had been one of the il’Jhain. He had broken Kales long before he turned his fame into profit and his gold into an empire that spanned more of Fallien than Fallien knew existed. She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder at the smouldering horizon all the same, knowing that at any moment, she would see a blot on the landscape that would grow larger and larger until horse and rider were reunited.

She half wondered if the horse was not in fact a horse, but some sort of man trapped in an equestrian cage. She seemed to possess an intellect, or perhaps just a higher instinct that made her eyes sparkle and her neigh seem almost like words. Mordelain chuckled nervously, happy to be away from the bandit’s partisan and the strikingly bad breath of the man called Haloes. When she turned around to take in the poky structure that passed as one of the way points an il’Jhain runner could expect to frequent she lost all the hope and charm in her heart.

“I have seen more comfortable cells,” she muttered.

The outpost was a small square building made of high mud walls. It was bolstered with wooden stakes poking out from the top to scare away harpies from their ramparts. It was the same colour as the sand, but perhaps a shade darker from the layer and layer of urine, dung and water that had been caked over it each monsoon season to keep it upright. To the right side, next to two long wooden rails for horses to be reigned stood a small barrack, propped against the exterior of the wall with a small buttress surrounding its exposed flank. There was a trough by the rails but it was empty, buzzing with flies and full of rancour.

“As-Salāmu `alayk guardians of the sands!” She shouted, stepping closer to the stable doors to peer into the empty depths. The courtyard through the mud arch was empty, paved with once radiant marble and mosaics that had shone in the sun in a thousand shades of yellow and blue. Now they only shone with the dreadful aroma of horse manure, baked to the stone by the searing heat and drained of all moisture, to remain there forever, or until the sandstorms sweep them away. When no answer came Mordelain stepped hesitantly away and walked towards the half open saloon door which swung softly in the wind on easy hinges.

The two paltry windows cut into the mud of the barracks flapped with faded brown cloth. It was a miserable attempt at keeping out the sand on the inhabitant’s long stay of duty, before they cycled back to Ikkaram. As Mordelain stepped onto the porch she heard the creaking floorboards echo into the building, replied only with silence and the distant howl of the desert’s whispers. With nervous fingers she tucked her long black hair back into the folds of muslin and wiped the sand from the corners of her mouth. She did not wish to introduce herself with her unfortunate flight from her captors enforcing the desert’s presence onto every inch of her supple, eggshell skin.

“As-Salāmu `alayk guardians of the sands!” She repeated loudly. Her voice was carried into lofty heights of fear by the silence, the shutting of the door in its crumbling frame and the sense that at any moment, danger could pounce. She reached out with her left hand, fingertips splayed with curiosity and nerves and tensed as the worn wood came to a rest beneath her slender digits. It pushed inwards as she entered. She gasped as her eyes adjusted to the gloom that purveyed the meagre small holding.

There was a bed in the left corner. It was three high, nothing more than shallow recesses that were used only for sleeping in with thick woollen blankets and silk sheets to keep out the bitter cold of Fallien’s ironic night. On the right, a small kiln whose chimney cut into the corner sent its smoke up high. It still lingered with orange and cinnamon incense in its chamber. The smell of wood smoke and poppy bread reminded Mordelain that she was very hungry, until she was shocked by the unfortunate sight at the centre of the room.

[Mordelain]

The Price of Good Business

---


If she had not been expecting trouble, or not paying attention, she might have simply assumed the guards were being ignorant of their guest. Perhaps they had fallen asleep, the wisps of hookah smoke still spiralling up from the clove scented coal signs of a long morning spent in solitude with one another. Three weary souls, talking of home, wives, children, lovers. As she set her sights onto the backs of each of the men, who were sat at the table on rickety chairs, clad in the brown robes and headdress of the Ikkaram city guard, she drew together a scene.

The silver handles of the kukri embedded in each man’s back were clear indicators that members of the il’Jhain had been here. The polished hilt a clearer sign still that people meant to bring discord to the Ikkaram messengers. The dagger blow had been simultaneous; Mordelain could only wonder how three men had been set upon by at least three others when the only way into the barracks was through the door. Had they been so tired or cheerful their laughter and snores had drowned out even the most silent of footsteps? She shuddered, and slowly circled the table to look upon their death masks.

“Peaceful rest on weary faces,” she said softly, as if she were scared that her words might wake the dead. With slow movements, she leant in towards the table and picked up the scroll, and then stepped back with a rush of stale air. With careful fingers she unrolled the dry parchment and scanned the delicate script, set in Arial typeset and cast with a flourish of penmanship that could only have come from one of the il’Jhain scribes. They had a peculiar way about official documentation that somehow cast the strange Fallien alphabet in a light that even the novice linguist could understand.


As-Salāmu `alayk Monod,

They come once again, torches blazing, hounds barking. I do not know what to do. 'they take my spice, and the il’Jhain die to their blades. Is this the price of good business?

Help me brother, please,

Karachi.

She re-read the letter, ignoring the blood stain embedded with a fingerprint next to the signature as long as she could. She wondered more importantly if the bandits that had tried to pin her to the dunes with their leaf shaped partisans had been involved. Suresh had spoken of raids on the spice fields, as had many other il’Jhain amongst the ranks of the Freerunners. Witnessing it with her own eyes, she could not begin to compute what risk she was now in. With shaking hands she tucked the scroll into her fur-lined glove and bowed. Though she was no expert in life and death from the position of the kukri, all three of which were embedded between the shoulder blades the men were truly beyond help.

“I will help your brother in your stead,” she said absent minded, making another promise under the light of one sun she was starting to doubt she could keep. “Perhaps if I had ridden harder and faster, like I promised the old fool of a merchant, I could have helped you…” though even as she said it, her lip stiff and her eyes sullen from the haze and stagnation in the barracks, she did not truly believe it.

Thinking it okay, Mordelain helped herself to a glass of the date wine from the clay jug that rested by the bunks and drank it thirstily. Though stale, the sweet ichor ran down her throat and invigorated her with an instantaneous sense of gratification. Fallien liquor was a curious oddity, even amongst the nine worlds, because it was the only liquid known to never satisfy thirst. Even with ice, even with fervour, it could only inebriate, and never placate the arid taste buds and tongue of a nomad. It had other properties, by all means, but it required many more glugs to experience those. She set the jug down with a clang, wiped her lips with her furry tassel and bid farewell to the guards.

"It will have to do for now," she lamented.

As she walked back out into the sun the searing heat, cast to one side by the cooling shade of the mud hut returned full force. With a furtive glance to the right, she forgot about the risk of heat stroke as her horse trotted into the territory of the outpost, almost pre-destined. She was never glad to see someone else suffer for her own safety, but Kales’ struggle over the sands was something she was very glad for indeed. She ran to her and embraced her neck as though she were hugging a tree. Its warmth, and the smell of equestrian mane excited her, and she almost wanted to cry with joy.

“When we get back to the Outsider’s Quarters, I am going to feed you the finest grain and buy you a saddle fit for a stallion, because you are the only horse for me!” She patted her mount affectionately and came about to her right side.

She mounted with a quick step, having learnt the art of riding quickly following several awkward moments in public when Suresh had first attempted to teach her to tack. “Then I will make sure Suresh never whips you again,” she shuffled in the saddle and adjusted her muslin. The groggy and sweet taste on her lips brought her attention to the left saddlebag, from which she pulled with shaking hands a large poppy seed load, still warm, though by the sun’s grace and not the kiln’s kindness. She tore into it manically, forgetting her table manners in favour of fighting near starvation.

[Mordelain]

The taste of wheat and poppy and butter on her lips were heavenly, and she kicked Kales with a gentle tap of her stirrups to drive her forwards. Slowly they cleared the outpost, the satisfaction of sustenance mingling with freedom to lift her weary mind out of the gutter. She polished off the first half of the loaf with three greedy swallows and struggled to breathe between dough and sand. It got everywhere, and the citizens of Ikkaram had grown used to finding salt accompanying food when they did not wish it to be seasoned so. With precision, she nestled the remaining half on her lap whilst she reached for the map she kept in her right glove.

Alongside the belt she had been given an il'Jhain compass parchment when she had pledged an oath to the Freerunners. It had been her main source of information since she arrived. It displayed spidery lines of her planned routes, magically enchanted to change at the touch of her employer and the will of the Abdos. She held it up to the wide open horizon that set out the next leg of her journey and sighed with relief as the landmarks matched those on the paper.

They travelled for three miles before cresting the last of the gentle dunes between the Outpost and Karachi’s spice field. Of the many dozens of territories along the western banks of the river, Karachi was the first, ending in Saravesh much farther north before the Dead Lands. Beyond those lands were of course the Ruuya and the open waves of the violent sea. The dust trail Mordelain had found herself on quite by accident was a sign of irrigation at work. The shifting sands became solid soil, dirt, but by another name. Two long fences, stretching a thousand yards left and right of the road loomed suddenly, separating the land on either side of her advance into two massive paddocks. In their fertile grounds slouchy camels grazed amongst the bewildering array of furrows, troughs and desert flora.

A well versed traveller in farming practices might have expected to see the fields full of workers, clad in light robes and digging and working beneath vast parasols to shrug heatstroke and famine off their backs. Karachi however had mastered the art of constructing noria to irrigate his land. Spread over the paddocks, there were several such devices; great wheels pulled in circles by what Mordelain believed were creatures the farmers called oxen. Whilst she could never hope to learn the hundreds of names for each spice that grew around them, the mechanics of irrigation she could understand and appreciate.

They welled up water from deep underground caves and collected them into aquifers just below the surface of the paddocks. From their number, and the bounty of his crop of late, Mordelain assumed that he had all but mastered their secrets. Their trundling noise added to the silence of the desert, suggesting life and community even when there was none.

“Strange,” she mumbled, tucking the map into her robes before returning to her bread. She bit into it pensively, as if she were using the chewing motion to piece together the fragments of a particularly enthralling mystery. Her mind found itself wandering back to Karachi’s letter she had discovered in the abattoir of the Outpost, and she set her gaze onto the large door archway on the south facing wall of the spice farm’s central and only building. “Stranger still…” she added, picking out the elegant murals on the outer surface of the building, which was heavy mud lattice over a sturdy sandalwood frame, as all the buildings in Fallien were, except for the palaces and forts, and those of the scattered envoys and the wealthy. She had expected sheds, stables, store houses, but to be greeted with only one large compound, three hundred yards wide on its visible wall was a strange thing indeed.

As she pulled up before the large double doors, she noticed that ‘Karachi Sollum’ was painted in white paint and three languages on the curve of the arch. In the shade of the wall she dismounted, and started to pull off her muslin wraps to reveal the purple and leather garb of the Troubadour in all its splendour. Even with its light smattering of dust, she looked like a regent’s daughter or a priestess of Suravani’s temple. She draped it over Kales’ saddle and absent minded unstrapped the bundle of spices from her side. She whinnied as her load was lightened, or perhaps under the comfort of Mordelain’s hand as she patted her down with her free hand. The horse's hot breath ran down Mordelain's back as it tried to veer around to nuzzle it's rider.

“We will be home before nightfall, Kales,” she promised, finishing the bread in her mouth between syllables.

She turned and stepped forwards, trying to maintain the façade that she had not just risked life and limb to deliver her goods to his door. With a shaking hand she pattered out a loud knock on the worn wood. It was a series of sounds that she had been taught to deliver by the Freerunners, a code of sorts so that even if she were to fall to the perils of the Dagger Spine or the claws of the harpies, no rival could take up her load and profit from its continuance. She had considered that small fact no comfort, but it was nice to know that the price of good business was infallible when its actioners were brutally murdered.

[Mordelain]

2498

The door opened slowly as if the opener was still uncertain about the sounding of the code. Through the crack in the grand entrance, Mordelain’s glittering eyes and youthful smile met with an old man’s, a moustache as bristly as a cactus and a face as wrinkled as a date returning the intrusion with a stern grimace. He pulled it open more after he had inspected the visitor, measuring up her belt, parcel and erratic headdress with suspicion and distrust. He waved her inside and in a blur of movement, she was set upon by a waft of cinnamon and oranges, much like the incense which burnt in the outpost.

What she saw inside Karachi’s home was not what she had expected.

“They will see,” he said coarsely, his voice tempered by age and wisdom, but also fear and weariness.

Something, Mordelain guessed was out to get the spice farmer and his abode.

“I…bring you a parcel from Suresh,” she held it out, oblivious for now to the dark overhang and the beautiful and well hidden garden courtyard that sat at the centre of the large square compound. A trickle of running water sounded through the silence, which came from a large silver embroiled fountain in the heart of the square. She looked hesitantly at the tall palms and the fig trees then back to her host. He took the parcel with gruff and eager fingers and walked back inside.

“Save your greetings,” Karachi said, setting the parcel down on the edge of the fountain before disappearing into the alcove on the left wall. There were two such hovels from what Mordelain could make out, circular indents in the walls that formed a sleeping quarter to the right, a kitchen to the left and a separate space behind a salmon pink wall divide she assumed lead to a private part of the courtyard. The half domes were laden with shelves, bunks and bundles of books and scrolls she guessed were his ledgers, recipes and auditing papers. “Sit by the fountain, you must take a message to the Abdos. It is urgent.”

She strolled into the courtyard and looked up through the roof which was opened to allow the sun to shine down and cast a glow onto the crystalline waters. It was then that the reason for the defended building dawned on Mordelain. Though the noria were easily repairable, to build noria, you required a water source. This was the source. Karachi had built his home on top of an oasis, its remnants trickling through the wrought iron frame and silver plating of the fountain. She leant towards it to inspect the images in the metal, which depicted jinn striding over the desert and people running and screaming from their daemonic assailants.

Trailing her eyes over the beautiful mosaic which surrounded the fountain, in resplendent jade and navy blue that moved with the sunlight she sighed. For business competition to come to murder was simply out of the question, but she could see why any man would covet this heaven. The gentle wind fell into the courtyard as it whistled over the building, its dying strength enough to rustle the tree canopy and sway the ferns and palm spruces in their terracotta pots. A clash of metal and clay swung Mordelain around to the left chamber and she caught the bowl as it rolled into the sunlight with a quick stoop. She rose and peered around the corner. She juggled the crockery uncertainly, until she gave up and set it gently onto the tiles with sheepish stealth.

“Are you alright Karachi?” Her voice trailed into soft melody, unsure wherever or not he had a title she was not aware of.

The old man coughed before emerging with a tray in his hand laden with delicacies. At it's centre stood the customary tall silver coffee percolator and two small espresso cups; they were silver too and beautifully engraved with spiralling swirls and as he drew closer, elephants and more exotic creatures still. He nodded to the small mosaic table by the fountain, nearest the door but already set with two chairs. The pattern was a simple geometric design of diamonds, arranged into the circle frame in a star pattern. The black and white shades in the metalwork stood in stark contrast to the rainbow of ocean colours of the tiles and flora in the courtyard. They seemed out of place as much as she did.

“Tell me what news of the Abdos,” he said, less a question, more a command. She sat with her back to the large double doors and crossed her legs to allow herself the momentary pleasure of resting without the threat of winged devils leering down over her shoulder. He set clumsily opposite, all the while avoiding eye contact and trying to hide the sides of his face with his turban and headdress. She knew enough of the desert culture beyond the confines of the Outsider Quarters to know that Karachi was an oasis druid – a glass weaver, one of the few folk of Fallien who possessed magic naturally. How could someone so powerful be oppressed so easily and readily by bandits and thieves?

[Mordelain]

“The Abdos rides as swift as it’s runners to a bright future,” she said with customary observance of her position and its requirements. There was much she could say, but much more she could not. At least not to a stranger. He adjusted himself in his seat and folded his robes below the waist so that his bare legs were not showing. She stopped herself from smiling, and from leaning to see if the rumours that the Bedouin wore no underwear were as true as the urchins of Ikkaram suggested.

“You will have heard of my troubles I am to take it?” He continued his charade of keeping out her gaze, and went about pouring the steaming coffee into the small cups with the attention of an artiste at work and the patience of a saint. Much like tea in Scara Brae, or the consumption of mead in Bulganin or Breen, coffee in the desert was as much a bonding ritual as it was a relaxant and stimulant of long winded conversation. The tray was laden with sweet delicacies and luxurious goods from all the corners of the island; finely ground carob powder, date syrup in long vials and fruit preserves. Rarer still, there were falafel tarts and crystalline ginger and small cubes of marzipan on crushed oat and arrowroot flour shortbread.

After her long ordeal, it was a veritable feast.

“I read your letter you sent to your brother,” she reached into her robes, but stopped as she caught sight of his eyes.

Karachi had two unusual traits to his appearance; the first was his tanned skin, which was much darker than most inhabitants of Fallien. The second were his eyes, one green, one red, which now they shone with fear. It was a look, a twinkle, a shudder in the heart that she was all too familiar with. “However, I fear you did not send it…” she unfolded it slowly, allowing the bells in her head gear to tinkle softly. She swayed her head to make them play their song, and he felt calmer as she read the message her brother had received, perhaps moments from his death.

“I did not send that letter,” he said coarser than ever.

“Then who did, Karachi? Who would wish you dead, your family hurt, your business failed?” She asked with genuine curiosity, and nodded politely as he extended his cup laden hands and took it with grace. She kept it to her chest, and let the aroma drift into her nostrils like a draught of smelling salts. Ground coffee had become quite a treat for her, something she enjoyed with Suresh on his sun roof long into the golden sunlight of the humid evenings. They watched the skies darken together, and the birds flock south, and the children flee home as their parents heckled for them to come in before the night came.

“I have many rivals; it is only natural when so many spice farmers and merchants work in such close proximity. Though the ships bring goods from afar, there is much demand for the spice of Fallien, so only the best gets to the docks in the hands of the il’Jhain, as you will well know.” He leant back in his chair and pulled off his headgear, revealing two bruises on his left cheek, clearly from a blunt instrument or side swipe. “When I became Jya’s royal signatory and obtained the sole rights to supply spices to Scara Brae’s Royal Court and the Rangers in Corone, several of those rivals did not take kindly to the appointment.”

Giving in to temptation to take in the caffeine and the bitter sweet taste, Mordelain examined the man’s wizened visage with curiosity befitting a small child looking upon an ancient and venerable fable. His skin was much darker than the hood had shown, and his eyes, though dual coloured, possessed a universal golden sheen to them that suggested omniscience. They in fact displayed his allegiance to the Bedouin of the east, who dwelt alongside the Exile Coradan and kept vigil over his treachery. They were a hard wearing people, whose traditions were stranger than her own and much older still. He was the polar opposite to her pale skin, elongated eyes and supple tone. She was lithe, he ganger; she was graceful, he forceful in his motions.

“Why did you not send work to the Abdos and seek the aid of the Freerunners?”

He rocked his head back and laughed as if the notion were absurd. He looked back into his cup and swirled the contents wistfully, before downing them in one gulp. He was a venerable man well accustomed to the consumption of stimulants, which perhaps contributed to his jittery hands and the erratic mood. Mordelain hoped as much at least. He picked up a marzipan slice and gestured with his free hand for his guest to help herself. He stuffed it between his moist lips and ate it noisily, crumbs rolling down his lap between wet and soggy mouthfuls.

[Mordelain]

She reached out with a polite bow to take one of the vials of date syrup. With caution, she dribbled it over the back of her hand in the customary fashion of the upper classes seated in their secluded cafes. It was warm and satisfying on her skin. She set the vial down carefully and sprinkled three pieces of ginger onto the syrup, before sucking it from her body greedily. Karachi nodded with satisfaction that his guest was being satisfied, before he leant back into his chair once more and folded his hands over his lap.

“The Freerunners will do nothing, because it is two merchants well in the coffers of your elfin employer that have been forceful in their methods. I cannot, and have not left my home for two months, chained to the defence of these walls and the creation of glass guardians to see off the bandits they send when darkness falls.” He cleared his throat and licked the crumbs from his lips. “I must speak with the Abdos Viceroy himself, to put an end to the spice feud before it turns into all-out war.”

Mordelain could not believe that the Freerunners would simply stand back and watch their clients kill one another. War was always distasteful as far as resolutions went; she had to do something, if she could. She took a marzipan cube and finished the rest of her coffee before savouring the thick and creamy almond texture, laced with mint with barely contained glee. She shook her legs like a little girl at solstice and then composed herself for the severity of the news she was hearing.

“I will deliver a message to the Abdos, by all means, but I must also ask who the bandits were sent by? The guards in the outpost were killed by kukri, il’Jhain kukri at that. If they are framing messengers and trying to indicate that you are being besieged, when I note that your walls are well polished and radiant in the sun and the surrounding paddocks I see no flames, then we must be wary.”

Karachi furrowed his brow, surprised to hear a woman speak in such plain and simple and tactical terms. Though he was not beset in the xenophobic ways of the city folk, Bedouin tribes still placed men as thinkers, and women as artisans and creators; both equal, but very much different in their society. He smiled, re-assuring himself that he was not dealing with a simple minded errand girl and pulled out a piece of paper from his robes. The white and unblemished parchment stood in starker contrast to the blue tiles, and to his black, dirtied and well-worn robes.

“The two nearest spice-fields belong to Surdaya of the Irrakam house Jared, and to the unruly farmer Mohammed. Both men born in Fallien and wary of my people are to blame for these tricks. I could not say why they resort to these games, the wisdom of Jya will see through them soon enough.I think by then though, too much damage will be done.”

He held out the parchment and Mordelain snatched it into her hands.

“Give it to the Viceroy of the Abdos as soon as you return to Irrakam, and if he does not believe you show him this,” he fetched out a small pin, with an eagle motif on its head and she took it too. “It is my symbol of council on the mercantile court, he will know what it means. It is a summons he cannot ignore.”

“I cannot just leave you here, Karachi. What if they resort to more blunt methods? They killed the Jya guard in clear daylight; they will not hesitate to do the same to you, surely?” She expressed genuine concern, but also, a concern that if he died whilst she was in tandem between the spice fields and the city limits, she would lose her reputation, and not receive the token for her endeavour.

“Don’t worry about me child, they have besieged me and played tricks with the wind for many weeks. Despite all their efforts I have not once heard them press their blades against the walls, nor set foot in the paddocks to tear out my crops. They have however been quite successful in stopping any messengers getting to the spice fields, and interfering with any deliveries I send with private couriers…” he trailed off into deep thought, rubbing his chiselled chin with his fingers before setting his cup down onto the mosaic table.

“By what divine guidance did you get here?” He asked with a hint of accusation in his words. She stumbled with a reply, but settled on a wink.

“I am the fastest of the Freerunners, or so they say. Suresh’s steed bore me here, through harpies’ lair and mausoleum sorrowful. She will spurn me back to the Sun Goddess’s bridge and cross me into the Outlander’s Quarters by nightfall too.”

Seemingly content with her answer, Karachi stood, and Mordelain followed suit. He stepped away from the table and waved behind her to the door. She did not need to be familiar with the customs of Fallien to know that she was kindly being shown the exit. She nodded politely and turned to leave.

“Then may you be faster still, and bring me peace, and the city’s merchants better fortunes. Your kin’s reputation and lives are at stake, Freerunner. See to it that order is restored and that the spice can make it to the city walls, and to the frontiers of the lands beyond without any more blood being spilled.”

Mordelain vowed to, and promised her own pantheon of strange gods that she would succeed in her assignment.

[Mordelain]

The Toll of a Long Road

---


The first thing that entered Mordelain’s thoughts as she stepped out into the searing heat was how rippling the horizon was. It formed a vast wall miles long of impenetrable mirage. It told her all she needed to know about how dangerous, and indeed how foolish it would be to attempt to cross the Dagger Spine and the Shifting Sea without luck, a lot of water and the grace of Jya herself. She shook her head, and longed to turn on a heel and step back into the cool and calm serenity of Karachi’s Oasis. She would receive no welcome if she did. A business man deranged, that is what Karachi had become, and his words span into a storm in her stomach; something was stirring in Irrakam, and she did not like the sound of the swell.

“I am afraid you journey alone, Kales,” she said glumly, a cheeky grin on her face, arms dangling loosely and emptily by her sides as she approached her steed. If she were made of sterner substance she would have braved the deserts duty bound to her oath. As a planes walker, however, she had another path available to her, and she knew deep in her heart that her steed, once spurned south would be home more than likely before she was. With a loving embrace she draped her arms over Kales’ mane and ruffled her pointy and dainty nose through the roughage. It smelt of warm sand, glassy kilns and manure but it was a comforting scent all the same.

Content with her goodbye she stepped away and slapped the steed on her side. Her response to which was a whinny and a quick start into a galloping turn. Before Mordelain could wipe a single salty tear from the canal of her lip, Kales was fading into nothing down through Karachi’s paddocks, garnering a few absent minded stares from the still trundling oxen. Carrion birds circled overhead as if they were expecting the riderless messenger to keel over, and their cries pierced the gentle silence cast by the wind as it picked up smatterings of crystalline sand, keeping everything constantly moving, everything constantly new. She prayed silently that Kales would indeed live up to Suresh’s promises once more, and that she would be the ‘pigeon horse’ once again.

With heavy feet she made to follow the horse through the spice fields, each step an arduous task as if her muscles rejected the idea of getting further away from the shade. They resisted her, reminding her of the sweet crystalline fruits and hams they knew Karachi had in his cool house. Though she had taken her fill, they left a taste on her tongue that would linger for a long, long time, a wonder that could not be bested by anything the nine worlds had to offer. When she cleared two hundred or so feet from the palisade walls she looked up at the circling birds and covered her eyes from the glare of the sun.

With a lull in her senses she felt herself fall through the folds between realms and descend into the silent skies of Phantaria once more. It was a rush of blood to the head and a twirl of emotion without feeling she never tired of, never ceased to be excited by. Her eyes shone when she opened them, reflecting the intense light of the spherical balls of fire that surrounded her. She was suspended in a sea of suns, each one brighter than the last, each one hotter than the desert. Once, she would have cried at such a spectacle, but she knew its secrets now. She named them each in turn, nine in total, and rekindled a brief moment of connection with each of the Kalithrism planets. With a kick, she back flipped through the nothingness and extended a finger out towards a green sun that burnt with sulphur, forming a vision of the sickly green sands of the world it warmed with feeble glow.

“Hudde,” she mouthed, before the sickness rose in her chest and she fell out of Phantaria onto cooler climes. The familiar smell of death hit her nostrils seconds later, replacing the candour of the date leaves and the hot fence varnish of Karachi’s spice field with the eternal scent of exile, abandonment and hopelessness. She arrived upright, for once, and standing on the same plateau she had fled to from the bandits’ clutches hours before. It was one of the few places she felt she had a connection to, which allowed her to anchor her walking to this spot, above any other. That bond allowed her to arrive dutifully and timely into safety. She let out a long sigh and folded her hands over her chest to try and rub some warmth into them, forever surprised at the juxtaposition between the planes.

“I’ve never been glad to see you, but today, I greet you with great relief…”

[Mordelain]

Hudde had been one of the last worlds to be bound to the vortex, dragged into alignment by the Troubadours too many centuries ago for Mordelain to contemplate. When the first war broke out between Bulganin and its Behemoth Kings, great creatures bore of the primordial spirit of their world the Tama saw to it that a place where the immortal tyrants could be contained was brought into the Khalithrism. The deserts of Hudde they had decided were a perfect prison in design and location. They sealed the Phantaria gate to the desert realm from anyone other than a Tama. In time, tombs and necropolis and barrier domes had risen high on every rocky outcrop as new inmates were brought to their doom on the lonely walk.

Mordelain had tried to learn their names and who resided in them. There were so many hovels and warlock caverns and gods in sarcophagi it was a futile task, one that could drive the stoutest mind insane. The pyramid on the horizon however was very familiar, burnt into her mind like the still lingering halo of the Fallien sun in her cornea. It was the resting place of Alfas, the Troubadour who Danced Death. It was his dance and breaking of the Oaths that bound their people that had caused Junkyo’s destruction. The planet’s spirit, which had leant its will to the formation of the Kalithrism in the First Days sundered itself to spite the usurpers, who had become daintily dressed and fair haired gods amongst the denizens of the nine worlds.

It accused the Tama of becoming nothing more than self-proclaimed prophets of the ‘good will,’ sick on the power they possessed to walk from danger and into divinity at a moment’s notice. Alfas had been one of the few Tama that had agreed, and he had tried to warn the council what Junkyo was intending to do. When the crystal spires erupted from the planet’s surface and the Cataclysmic of the world ripped through Phantaria's heart, it was his laughter that echoed on the winds of change. His dance was still today performed in the streets as they burned.

Mordelain traced the detail of the pyramid with judgemental eyes, which narrowed into slits of contempt. She saw echoes of her own people’s mistakes in the political machinations of Fallien’s citizens, and started to wonder if she had any right to be part of such turbulent and changing times. She guessed in the end each player in the great game had to make choices about what moves to make, and like Karachi, who had chosen to castle his walls and wait for the storm to pass, she too would have to make her choice. Would she stay and aid the Freerunners to prosperity, or rise to Karachi’s challenge and deliver the message that may well start a war between rivals, kings and scholars?

“War underserves an end for any man,” she recited from her fables, the long ballads of the Troubadour that she had recounted to a thousand souls on a thousand islands in her short years. “That does not justify one starting in one man’s name,” she continued.

She did not entirely know what it meant, but it was justification for her to deliver Karachi’s pin to the viceroy. She would take her token, add it to her belt, and then find the tools to better unravel the mystery of the spice wars and the business world she was still so unfamiliar with. She could just about fathom noria, and the art of preparing sweets from rose petals and coconut shavings but the exchange of goods for money was beyond her. On Junkyo there was only creation and story, fable and artistry; there was never a need to buy because through the charity of the other worlds they had everything they needed. People threw food at them practically, offered them fine silks in the streets to sew together for their continued performance.

“Now all I get thrown at me is excrement, stone and sand,” she said solemnly, turning her back on Afras’ Tower to face the setting sun.

Pulling on the faint scent of Phantaria once more she allowed herself to draw in the connection between her anchor and the next step in her journey back to the Outlander’s Quarters. The sulphurous air of Hudde was exchanged for the heady and humid heartland of Bulganin, lashing vines and drum beats in the knot root glades north of the planet’s largest tree city. She did not linger long, needing only the touch of the dirty, murky, dangerous water to kindle hope in her heart and to send her back into Phantaria and then on to Fallien.

[Mordelain]

The great fork in the Attireyi River was a welcoming sight. Without turning to look Mordelain knew that she was standing on the northern tip of the island on which Irrakam stood. The crystal waters and the muddy embankment in front of her went left and right around the bastion city and flowed south, beneath the great bridge and down into the sea many leagues away. The heavy, deafening toll of the great bells of Jya’s Temple rang out their peal overhead. She turned to gaze up at the impregnable walls of the mother’s citadel. Against the sun, Jya’s golden and pearl white heights shone almost with their own radiance, sparkling and bedazzling on the sky line wherever one looked from the city.

Six hundred years ago Fallien had been devastated by some still unknown tragedy. Suresh had told her that it had happened, but not why. To see the Outpost and the Irrakam architecture rise so beautifully and wonderfully now at the foot of their matriarch’s temple seemed to instil a sense of great achievement in the Tama. Even though she stood amongst barren trees, twisted up righted roots with bulbous tubas and gourd fruit dangling from their branches, she felt that life in Fallien was so very much alive. Though the Ruuya housed many tribes and the tribes of the Mitra inhabited most of the eastern side of the Zaileya Mountains, it did not sing as loudly as it did here.

Mordelain padded over the craggy outcrops with youthful exuberance. She wove, despite her fatigue with grace between the plant life which clung to the bountiful shores of the Attireyi, slowly approaching the walls of the keep to rest a delicate palm against the scorching surface. Through concentration she ignored the heat and felt the pulse of Althanas through the painted sand. She did not care for women gods or men clad in pious robes, but the symbolism spoke to her in a thousand tongues.

All she cared for was life.

She was so very glad to be alive.

She set her headdress straight and padded the sand of Hudde’s fell winds from her attire before making her way anti-clockwise around the base of the Keep. Arnabiss pounced and sprang out of sight as she progressed over the ruptured landscape, hand outstretched to steady her advance and eyes bouncing along with the strange creatures. They were called hare cats by the foreigners in the city, and she had come to grow fond of their sight. They would not have looked at all out of place on Bulganin, or even in the bazaar of the Eternal Night, a place where every manner of creature, cute and deadly could be brought, traded or stolen. It did not take her long for the creatures to fall from her thoughts, replaced instead with languishing heat, the sweat rolling down her spine and the dizzy sensation that came with hunger, tiredness and the onset of heatstroke.

She kept an eye on the clumps of dried leaves and herbs that clung to life in the shallow shade beneath the trees. When she ventured out on the south side in sight of the great gates of the Keep, who would unsheathe their Nirakkal forged glass blades if she dared to step onto Irrakam proper she found what she was looking for. There were many strange herbs in the wastelands of Fallien, all of which held properties some would call wondrous. Some induced sleep within minutes; others brought the dead, the Artra and the succubus to heel.

The delicate leaves of the Larkspur were an aid for many things, including indigestion, heat fatigue and general cornucopias. She checked the underneath of the flower’s head, to ensure that she was not in fact picking the deadlier cousin that went into the creation of the poison Kanyaa’dhe. Satisfied that her knowledge would not fail her to an abrupt and painful end, she picked several of the leaves and ran her nail across them to release the liquid. Whilst she waited for it to ooze out she picked the flower, a yellow dandelion like head with a white, fluffy centre and blew the seeds away. They drifted for several feet before coming to a rest on the sand, struggling like trapped fish in a net to be free of the glass dust. She ate the yellow leaves, which tasted of onion and pepper whilst she waited.

[Mordelain]

“The desert gives and the desert takes,” she said chirpily as she sucked the leaves dry.

Suresh had told her about the slow warming effects of their medicine. It would be at least half an hour before she felt the calming effect, before her stomach stopped churning and her head stopped spinning. She tossed the husks back to the dirt. With a delicious smack of her lips she declared her satisfaction as her immense thirst was temporarily sated, before making her away over the rocks down to the shore. Her descent was followed by an ascent up and around the crag rise to the outskirts of the Outsider’s Quarters. Her hands became quickly calloused and dry, grasping at sandstone, dried skeleton moss and Narayan roots through the rising pain.

It was only a mile walk along the buttress walls. Mordelain traipsed with a skip and arms prancing through the melange of rubbish, spice plants and shanty towns. All wonders of life which had grown out of the discarded food from the parapets of the city. She had promised to be back before nightfall, yet from the searing sun, it was no later than three in the afternoon. The hopes of Suresh’s face being slapped with surprise kept her tired, aching limbs moving, and her heart beating in its pallid, sweaty cage just long enough to count.

Her advance garnered the attention of the mud covered fishermen and robe clad women, tall and gangly and without substance to their form. They peered around rickshaw hulls, trade relics with Akashima and over mud walls greased with straw, oil and pig muck to stare at the strange creature that walked openly through their home. Though the feathers in her hat were crooked and her skin was porous and covered in red patches from salt rub and bruising, Mordelain stood out amongst the squalor almost in a divine light. They whispered of Jaya’s priestesses lost, reincarnations and strangers daring to break the code of the Outsider’s Quarters by venturing out of the walls. She bowed where was needed and danced over rock and excrement with agile, beautiful steps. Her sandals, barely recognisable as fine, Bulganin leather slapped against the dirt and pattered out a rhythm which the Tama hummed along to.

As she turned the curve of Ikkaram, to accompaniment of slop buckets falling from the walls and reengage merchants exclaiming the quality of the questionable goods on display on neck ropes, she was graced with relief and the presence of the titanic bridge which connected the centre of the city with the mainland. There was a massive wooden structure leading from the shore up to the gatehouse, a zig zag of rickety wood built no doubt by pressganged foreigners to give the glass weavers access to the shore. It also served as access for the workers who lived in the shanty towns to be able to tend to their stables, kilns and abattoirs. There was a steady stream of unwashed and in some instances, enrobed people trotting up and down the walkway. Gulls called their cries overhead and as Mordelain closed in, dogs began to bark and the great bell of Jya’s keep sounded once more.

“Four O’clock,” she muttered, keeping loose track of time to sign her assignment documents when she returned to the Abdos. The people of Fallien were fond of paperwork, as much as the shanty town dwellers were fond of cooking rat and clothing themselves in discarded bed linen from the refuse of Ikkaram’s envoys. It was annoying ad tiresome, but she understood why there were so many forms to sign for the slightest of errands; records were valuable.

She approached the heart of the slum town which grew up around the foot of the great walkway.

“As-Salāmu `alayk,” several street merchants proclaimed with false joy the very second she stepped into the central street. It was a long mud furrow which ran in a curve along with the city walls. As Mordelain waved them away in turn, her hands careful to swat away unwanted attention and to keep pick pocketing fingers from her wares, she could hear them scoot away with a bow and repeat the same traditional greeting to anyone and indeed everyone they crossed. She had not looked at what they were selling, but from the odour, which burnt her tongue over the sluice of the mud and the sewers she was thankful her curiosity had not gotten the better of her.

Orphans ran past her laughing, bare feet nimbly dodging rubbish and splashing in the drying waters of the great river. Music drifted out from the tents and grander looking shacks that had built up over the long years around the walkway’s base. Military men, perhaps looking for off shift entertainment wandered in between the streams of workers and paupers, coffee beans in their purses and marzipan in their satchels to trade their trinkets for the treasures of others.

Mordelain bowed at them politely as she passed, not wanting to draw unwanted attention to her by forgetting her manners. They nodded back, catching the silver buckler of her il’Jhain belt and deeming her worthy of their presence. She wove through the pulsing masses, by now quite used to the smell and came at last to the foot of the ascent back into Ikkaram. She found herself confronted by two gruff looking men with skin as dark as chocolate, both armed with partisans twice as long as their bodies.

[Mordelain]

Without thinking she reached into the folds of her attire and pulled out her Exit Pass, the document that allowed her to leave the city under the jurisdiction and providence of the guilds of the Abdos. The left guard took it with a snatch, his heavy beard shaking like the gruff bellow of an ox. Mordelain tried to look official as she remembered her first few weeks in the city. The guards had chased her from the Outsider’s Quarter to the estuary ruin of Kithdir on many an occasion, shouting and heckling at her from horseback as she skitter leaped between the realms like a will-o-wisp. He scanned it, checking for nothing more than a signature or seal from one of the messenger houses, and upon seeing the Freerunner symbol he chuckled sardonically.

“You may pass,” he said in a monotone voice, befitting the rigid attire of stewed leather, deep brown tunic and a polished steel kukri at each waist to compliment his pole-arm. Neither wore helmets, only turbans, adorned with a large owl feather running up the front of their headdress. She bowed and took back the papers before slipping between them to begin the ascent upwards. Very quickly she started to catch hints of clay and cinnamon drifting down over the wall. It was the scent from the shisha cafes that overlooked the steady flow of traffic between the city and the desert, where highbrow envoys passed comments from sedan sofas and piles of satin cushions stitched with elegant gold spirals.

By the time she reached the top of the walkway she sighed with relief as she felt the hard stone of the bridge beneath her feet. To her right, it crossed the crystal waters and turned from cobble into dust and wasteland. To her left it split into two paths, each veering off in respective directions into the two halves that made up Irrakam proper. North of course was the true Irrakam of Fallien, home of Jya and the trueborn. South, which is the road Mordelain trod along was the ragtag assortment of strange architectures and tradesmen brought from all the corners of the world to make their fortunes in a new land.

"Home..."

The sound of busy streets and artisans dancing with ribbons in the hot afternoon sun warmed Mordelain’s heart. The relaxing, calming effects of the Larkspur took a grip of her innards and soothed away the fatigue from her journey. She walked with a pleasant and almost docile smile on her face as she wove her way through the crowd heading to the intercity temple for afternoon prayer. She did not need to look over her shoulder to picture the great glass dome, resplendent in the sun and ablaze at night with torchlight to admire its splendour. Though she had been gone only a morning she had started to long for this strange place.

She took two left turns into the residential district of Harrah before looping round through the elven alleys and leafy arches of palms and chestnut. A right turn brought her through a sandy furrow in the island where the stone buildings gave way to wooden shacks, clad with iron and smattered with industry. Dwarves lived here, though she seldom saw them, busy as they were beneath the city in their bombastic forges that you could hear exploding at all hours.

“Home at last,” she said with a long gasp of air, a slouch of her shoulders and a rub of her sweaty brow. She did not look a pretty sight but she smiled at the sight of the Abdos. Even in the twilight, it stood truimphant. The vast courtyard in front of the familiar three doorways that lead inside was unusually quiet for this time of the day, occupied only by two carts, loaded with crates and tended to by two weary farmhands in straw hats and jade sari. Their tanned flesh seemed to shine in the heat, their backs crooked, hands dirtied by hours of hard toil. Mordelain scanned the many wide streets that ran away from the courtyard, each turning into a bazaar selling everything you could imagine and turning back into residential districts and calm, shaded date nurseries.

Without thinking she approached the Abdos and waltzed through the Freerunner entrance bold as brass. The cool rush of air from the constantly whirring fans overhead, turned by pulleys and gears blew away her growing sun stroke and welcomed her home with pomp and facetious promises of a comfortable bed and a cold bath in lavender and fennel scrub. She crossed the white and black cheque tiles and patted the large statue of the first il’Jhain to die in the Nirakkal.

She approached the reception desk of the Freerunner Outpost.

She unbuckled her belt, shook it free of sand and dropped it with a heavy clang onto the mahogany veneer of the counter. The receptionist looked up with a start.

"Good evening," her surprise quickly turned into the calm and collected masque of duty, powered by the sight of a runner and a belt which no doubt needed to be filled.

[Mordelain]

Epilogue

---


By nightfall, contented by a long sleep and another token in her belt Mordelain strolled through the Hussein Bazaar wearing little more than a white sari and a dull white shirt. She had procured them from Suresh’s stores whilst her attire and her uniforms were laundered on the banks of the Attireyi. By day, Irrakam was a well of life and activity, busy hands trading and laughter and conversation to be overheard everywhere you went. By night it was another place entirely. The sand shook with laughter, the stones crumbled with joy, the very waters under the great bridge churned with excitement.

Lanterns hung from every available pole, casting dancing lights over sandstone walls and jovial faces pilfering the tables of spices. They were piled high in careful mountains, a rainbow of culinary colour. Mordelain could literally not keep her concentration on one stall for more than two minutes before something else caught her attention. She strolled from one side of the street to the other, eyes wide as chapattis and head spinning from the delirium of choice, selection and the long swirl of names that she ran through to try and keep on top of Fallien’s bewildering lexicon of plants and roots and animals.

Suresh trailed after her slowly, politely pointing out pronunciation errors whenever she exclaimed something in harsh trade speak. Every now and then he coughed politely and pointed at things he thought she might like.

“I take it from this childish bewilderment that you want to stay in Irrakam?” He pressed inquisitively, hands tucked into the small of his back and smile turned flat and dull. Mordelain was not fazed by his tone; she simply stopped to inspect a stand with a red canopy that was piled so high with precarious mosaic bowels it looked as though it might topple over with the slightest breeze. She traced the zig zag pattern on a red and gold fruit bowl and touched it with careful fingers, as though it too might fall apart if she got too close.

“I have an allegiance to uphold with the Freerunners, and with you Suresh. I will not abandon them now, not until the viceroy sends word of his decision regarding the trouble in the north.” She picked up the bowl and without haggling, which confused the merchant standing behind the table in the half light of an oil lantern’s glow, paid for it in hard coin. The man mouthed objection through his heavy moustache and ochre attire but settled on a shrug as the strange women walked away.

“You will let me teach you how to defend yourself, if you were thinking of going out into the desert again, won’t you?” He expressed the same concern he had done all afternoon, ever since Mordelain had recounted her journey and all she had heard from Karachi.

Mordelain cocked her head back and laughed loudly. She had known Suresh only for a month, but he already acted like an uncle at best, an estranged father at worst. She shook her head and cradled her purchase with care. It was cool, contrasting the humidity of the night sky and the gentle twang of cool breeze nicely. They broke out onto a wide street, lined on either side with simple wooden wagons laden with foods from all the tribes of the desert. Mordelain suddenly found herself famished, and ran to the nearest to buy whatever was being offered.

“Of course,” she added as an afterthought, turning back to Suresh with a bowl of steaming rice and hot lamb stew to show for her money. The infusion of cordovan and thick broth like texture practically made her swoon, and she held out her mosaic bowl for him to hold whilst she shovelled it down her dainty neck. Her eyes shone in the torchlight, little portals into the strange mannerisms of an outsider in Ikkaram. Suresh simply shook his head.

“We do not have long then. Do you have an assignment?”

Her cheeks were too full of soft, melt in your mouth meat to answer, so she shook her head with a grin.

“Then you shall come with me at dawn, north to Kesta. There we shall see what use can be made of those hands of yours about a pole-arm.” He rested his hands on his hips as if he were measuring up a new recruit to the military and then huffed. He adjusted his headdress and robes and pulled out a silver kukri with a flick of his wrist. Mordelain jumped, nearly tossing rice down her shirt with surprise.

“This is a gift, from the Freerunner armoury. I have sent your partisan to your room in my apartment; you can collect it when you return to sleep.” He handed it to her and she wolfed down the last hunk of lamb, laden with the mint that had settled in the sauce before accepting it.

Her chest fluttered as if she had been given more than a dagger. It felt as if Mordelain Saythrou, the wandering Troubadour had finally found a home.

She felt as she had finally been gifted with the heart of a nomad.


Spoils:

+ Kukri (http://cdn1.iofferphoto.com/img/item/136/440/683/15-1-2in-overall-fancy-dress-kukri-knife-dagger-57f83.jpg): A steel kukri purchased from the Freerunner Armoury in the il'Jhain Abdos, for the price of 15 gold. It was a gift from the merchant Suresh to Mordelain, so that she can learn to better protect herself in the harsh wilderness of the desert.

+ Steel Pole-Arm (http://www.northstarzone.com/sitebuildercontent/sitebuilderpictures/43BK488.jpg): A 6 foot steel tipped pole-arm with a black shaft and cross inlay below the weapon's tip. It has a small spike on the base, for balance and to counter-thrust. It was purchased from the Freerunner Armoury by Suresh.

+ il'Jhain Map (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v257/OzymandiusJones/RPGs/Althanas/fallien.jpg): A rectangle parchment roughly 30 centimetres by 20 enchanted to show Fallien to a messenger, as well as his current assignment and the route required to most safely traverse the sands by approved routes of their house.

+ North Gate Belt: A belt with a silver clasp with several circular holes in it to mount tokens, Freerunner currency and status symbols amongst the il'Jhain. It is enchanted to give the wearer (not just a messenger) the innate sense of knowing where north is at all times.


Token: First Delivery
Token: Spice War Mission


+ Mosaic Fruit Bowel (http://www.siiren.co.uk/components/com_virtuemart/show_image_in_imgtag.php?filename=resized%2FHandma de_Red_and_4d42f2f5d1a9c_250x200.jpg&newxsize=200&newysize=250&fileout=): Made of sugar glass from Nirrakal, this fruit bowel is a delicate piece of artwork as well as a convenient vessel to keep fruit fresh and aired in.

+ She of the Desert: Average knowledge of Fallien's flora, fauna and it's customs.



Loses the following dances:

• Becalming Admiration: If in a city, or near flowers, the aura extends ten feet and calms non-evil humans with euphoria and a desire to lessen their attacks against her.

• Subtle Emancipation: If near water, ice or glass, Mordelain is surrounded by a mirage of swirling lights and heat, which averts eyes and attention but not sound.


- 178 gold (for the weapons and goods purchases. The weapons, though not normally awarded to people of Mordelain's rank, it is appropriate for her continued success as a messenger for her to receive the proper tack of a Freerunner and to be trained in self defence before she continues to investigate the interference with spice deliveries, and the mystery of Karachi's Oasis.

[Amen]

The Heart of the Nomad

This is going to be a full rubric judgment with full commentary, and I’ll definitely be making notes on continuity, setting, and character development both because you requested it and because they’re of particular note here.

Plot Construction – 21/30

Story – 4/10

I think the best advice I can give here, especially for this thread, is “let the story drive the action.” As I read this, I couldn’t help but feel as though the story took a back seat to the locations, which in the end left me a little disappointed. I didn’t really feel the immediacy of Mordelain’s delivery run, or the threat of the bandits, or the horror of discovering the bodies, or the looming threat of war.

Strategy – 8/10

Excellent use of your character here. Seriously. Mordelain fits this prompt so well and you use her brilliantly – a planeswalker is probably the best messenger/delivery girl you could ask for.

Setting – 9/10

AWESOME. I’m 98% positive you set out to write a love-letter to Fallien, and it worked. Everywhere your character went, I could imagine it. You made excellent use of smells and food, you kept the heat in mind, the world was populated and believable. It’s hard for me to find feedback to give you here. You’re definitely channeling Earth’s middle east, which is understandable, but I think adding more fantastical twists to your descriptions will help remind us that this is not Earth and these are not the people of Iraq or Saudi Arabia or Egypt. I like what you DID do in this regard: mentioning the alien threats in the desert was a good touch, and your minimalistic approach to describing the harpies actually makes them terrifying. I can only think of one other minor gripe: you describe Irrakam as humid. Is it? From what you describe otherwise, my mind is drawing me a picture of a very arid place, windswept, dry. I know the river is there, but I think describing more of the flora and fauna near and around Irrakam would be useful – humid places tend to be rainy and rife with vegetation, which is okay! Maybe Irrakam is more temperate than the rest of Fallien, but I didn’t really get that sense from what was written here.

Still, very very good. Maybe TOO good (I’ll address that later).

Characterization – 17/30

Continuity – 8/10

Again, excellent work. This thread absolutely builds upon the Althanas mythos, and aspects of it will absolutely make its way into my own work with Fallien. Not only does Fallien interact brilliantly with itself and its inhabitants, it interacts with the rest of the known world as well (you mentioned the Rangers factor into the spice trade). Watch Mordelain’s reactions, though, she came across as strangely wishy-washy and unaffected by what’s going on around her. For example: at first it seems like the weight of finding a bunch of dead bodies is on her, and then it just melts off when she finds snacks. This COULD be a facet of her character, considering her nature as somebody that sort of drifts from place to place as a thing, but if it is it needs to be addressed a little more directly.

Interaction – 4/10

See above. Mordelain’s reactions to the world are a little jarring at times; they don’t quite seem to click. She seems…drifty, like she’s just wandering from scene to scene to observe things, but she’s not quite cemented in the events she’s a part of.

Character – 5/10

Some things you do really well here, others I found myself wanting more. I can honestly say I don’t know Mordelain after this thread. I know she’s basically good, I know she has a strong sense of duty, I know she’s more likely to run from danger than fight – but I don’t know WHY. And there are larger facets of her character that elude me. She has the amusing recollection that Bedouins are rumored not to wear underwear, but is she amused by it? Is she sexually interested in Karachi, or is it more childish than that? I don’t really know. Everything I can gather about her character is given in scant bits and pieces, and who she is as a person is only ever hinted at, never really elucidated upon.

On the other hand, there were moments in the story that hit me like snapshots. For example, in the epilogue she’s eating when Suresh asks her a question, and she shakes her head while grinning. The image is a good one, it’s a real one, and it’s actually pretty – I can imagine her in that moment and I like her. I think if you could focus on those snapshots, it’d be much easier for the reader to say who Mordelain is.

Writing Style - 20/30

Creativity – 6/10

Beautiful descriptive language, absolutely wonderful world-building, but I would need more from a story to give you a ten here. You spent so much energy building me this remarkable world, but you didn’t leave enough creative energy to fashion compelling events within that world.

Mechanics – 6/10

Eight out of your twenty posts had minor mechanical errors, but nothing major. They were often things that are easy to overlook in proofreading: tense confusion in post #3, wrong “its” in post #13. Sometimes I think the wrong word got swapped for the one you were looking for, like “festooning” instead of “festering.” Overall? Not bad.

Clarity – 8/10

There were a few spots where I was momentarily flabbergasted and didn’t know what had just happened. For example, when Mordelain is captured by the bandits she up and disappears. It was just as jarring to me as it was to the bandits; I couldn’t figure out why the poor guy flopped over until I read past it, then went back and went “oooh.” I think you have to dumb it down a bit for me.

Wildcard – 7/10

I liked this! Setting was brilliant, continuity was brilliant, and you’re on the right track for drawing your character for the reader. I think what would have really made this thread is a compelling story – something besides the setting to draw me in, a strong REASON to explore these well-created landscapes.

TOTAL: 65

Mordelain gains 1300 EXP!
Mordelain gains 30 GP!

Mordelain gains the following spoils, with the ability gains and losses pending RoG approval:



+ Kukri: A steel kukri purchased from the Freerunner Armoury in the il'Jhain Abdos, for the price of 15 gold. It was a gift from the merchant Suresh to Mordelain, so that she can learn to better protect herself in the harsh wilderness of the desert.

+ Steel Pole-Arm: A 6 foot steel tipped pole-arm with a black shaft and cross inlay below the weapon's tip. It has a small spike on the base, for balance and to counter-thrust. It was purchased from the Freerunner Armoury by Suresh.

+ il'Jhain Map: A rectangle parchment roughly 30 centimetres by 20 enchanted to show Fallien to a messenger, as well as his current assignment and the route required to most safely traverse the sands by approved routes of their house.

+ North Gate Belt: A belt with a silver clasp with several circular holes in it to mount tokens, Freerunner currency and status symbols amongst the il'Jhain. It is enchanted to give the wearer (not just a messenger) the innate sense of knowing where north is at all times.
Token: First Delivery
Token: Spice War Mission

+ Mosaic Fruit Bowel: Made of sugar glass from Nirrakal, this fruit bowel is a delicate piece of artwork as well as a convenient vessel to keep fruit fresh and aired in.

+ She of the Desert: Average knowledge of Fallien's flora, fauna and it's customs.

Loses the following dances:

• Becalming Admiration: If in a city, or near flowers, the aura extends ten feet and calms non-evil humans with euphoria and a desire to lessen their attacks against her.

• Subtle Emancipation: If near water, ice or glass, Mordelain is surrounded by a mirage of swirling lights and heat, which averts eyes and attention but not sound.

[Letho]

EXP/GP added! Mordelain, welcome to the next level.