The Daughter of the Desert (Solo)

[Mordelain]

2939
The Daughter of the Desert (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=drWHj4N5_2E)


Part One of the Jya's Fall Trilogy


Sequel to The Heart of the Nomad (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?22406-The-Heart-of-the-Nomad-(Closed)&highlight=heart+of+the+nomad) and Vhadya & Velocity (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?23892-Vhadya-amp-Velocity-(Closed)). It heavily references events from those threads.


Harpies
"They say that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned -- well, if that's so, the harpies have three millennia of scorn pent up in each of them."
-Esseker Nomad

Before the wrath of Vadhya swept over Fallien and remade it, it is said that a female prophet from beyond the seas came and drew maidens of the tribes away from their scriptures, forsaking both Suravani and Mitra for a fabricated god. Instead of allowing them to perish in the Vadhya, Mitra swept the women up and twisted their bodies to horrid feathered beasts, a cross between woman and foul carrion bird.

Harpies commonly kidnap Fallien children and carry them off, screaming to their lair-nests. There they "eat" them, sucking out their life and turning them to ash, thus absorbing their youth. Harpies are incredibly vain, and cannot stand being called ugly (one in every ten harpies is actually good looking). Mitra had originally intended on forcing them to live short lives of misery and pain (particularly the molting), but the harpies' queen was clever, and discovered ways to keep living to punish the others of Fallien.


On the harpies, the "Desert Sirens", from A Rough Guide To Fallien. (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?18792-Rough-Guide-to-Fallien-1st-Ed.)

[Mordelain]

Prologue
Present Day, the Ruins of Kesta

“Why do you remain here, Mordelain?” asked the planes walker’s gruff mentor.

“I…” she began, before trailing off into silence. She contemplated her answer carefully.

Mordelain Saythrou had never truly felt at home on Althanas. For years, the Troubadour wandered the continents of the young world, struggling to find a place that welcomed her. After almost a century, she discovered somewhere that answered her cry. It was in Fallien’s swaggered embrace that the Troubadour now felt most comfortable. Though worlds had hurled their glories at her feet, only Fallien opened her eyes. Her heat and peoples had enticed her with tales, love affairs, and sorrows succour. Only in the beating flame of the desert’s heart did she feel at peace.

“Here in Fallien’s sway, I feel duty-bound,” she replied. Shackled was a word she had considered using many a time, until her own thoughts had freed her, and the pace of the Free Runner became her own. In duty, she found kinship, and in kinship, she found belonging.

“I am glad, because so you should,” her mentor said excitedly, his heavy girth shifting in the folds of his light, swaying brown robes. She threw him a dagger with her sincere eyes, before she settled back into a squatted position, and raised her partisan in both hands over her head.

“Can we continue now?” she sighed.

“Perfect, the Lathee style opens just like that,” he clapped, “stay like that as your enemy approaches. Show them no mercy, no malice, and no mindfulness.” The juxtaposition between the states she ought and ought not to take up caused the Troubadour to flinch again.

There was a lot to learn, and little time in which to learn it.

“I have been doing just as you asked you oath!” she clucked. She beckoned him to advance.

Suresh advanced brutishly over the sand like a charging wildebeest and brought his cane, a gnarled edifice of Liviol, down over the raised pole-arm. It caved, quite easily, beneath what he considered a gentle tap.

“No, no, no, Mordelain. That is no good. You will die every time to Radar’s downward strike,” the heavy man waved at the tall, lithe, and tanned servant away from the dust bowl they were using as a training ring. His flabby hands tinkled under the weight of many bangles and rings, emeralds, and sapphires catching in the midday glare. He would not let the swordsman set foot in the sand circle to test his pupil again until she showed some improvement.

Mordelain dropped her shoulders, her ego quite deflated. She pictured the meal she would partake in at the end of the day, and took a deep breath. The phantom aromas gave her just enough strength to redouble her efforts. With her usual defiant, stubborn, and feminine strength, she rose to the challenge of trying to satisfy her mercantile tutor.

“Okay, explain it again.” She dropped the blunt tip of her silver weapon to the sand. It thudded noisily and left yet another circular imprint on the desert floor.

[Mordelain]

“I am not going to repeat myself when there is no need,” he said flatly. After four hours of constant repetition, her wits ended. She did not want to waste any more time making foolish mistakes.

“You make it sound so damned easy,” she snarled, wiping her brow free of perspiration with the fur lining of her bracer.

“It is, Mordelain, it really is.” He replied wistfully.

“I would like to see you try and take the weight of his attack with my frame.” Her words lashed out like a cobra’s poison, hurled toxins with syllables of regret.

Suresh frowned, his beaten brow gaining several momentary furrows. He rested his hands on his hips with a patriarchal stance and shifted his gaze between pupil and instructor. If Mordelain had not known him better, she could have sworn she had bested him. In a game of words, she finally found an advantage, a small triumph, and a brief moment to relish in what victory would taste like when it finally came.

“Let me,” he gestured for his servant to hand the quarterstaff to him, and he took it proudly. It was a good five or six feet long, as was traditional for the usually ceremonial Lathee fighting technique.

“What are you going to do?” she raised an eyebrow, her words sarcastic, and her heart dropping.

“I will show you, and you will observe. You will take my lesson into your heart and you will learn it. Then, you will learn and learn it again.” He walked around the girl and spread his legs at the centre of the disturbed sand, from whence Radar had launched his pulled blows moments before.

“We are to continue as before, then?” Mordelain enquired as she stooped into her stance. She bent her knees just enough to give her leverage against Suresh’s heavy handed approach to sparring, more so than she had done before. With her mentor’s insistence, she was learning, but learning her own valuable lessons.

The bells on the tips of her headdress chimed softly with the gentle breeze that dropped down over the rocky outcrop to the south. It sheltered them from the harsher environment of the desert, and swept away the smell of body odour; the soft winds carried it away with the scent of dung and vulture carcass. In the wilderness of the east, with the mountains of the Zaileya rising up over the jagged edges of the natural pit, the scene was set for a long and gruelling day.

Suresh only nodded before he brought the quarterstaff crashing down into the shaft of the partisan. Though the tip still gleamed as brightly as the day he had brought it, its beauty had already begun to fade. She stumbled back and landed squarely on her buttocks with an undignified grunt. Crows, watching from the outcrop, broke into a cacophonous applause.

“That was not as before, damn you. You did that on purpose!” her childish protestations were smothered by Suresh and Radar’s joint laughter.

[Mordelain]

He had somehow seen through her body weight shift, and adapted his own strike to counterpoint her insolence. In Fallien, a fighting style was not to be adapted on a whim. When you fought with the strength of the desert, you fought with its history, its legacy, and its rules. To break them was to invite disaster.

The cackling bounced out of the bowl and echoed over the sand. It wavered in pitch and keenness as it flowed with the contours of the dunes. It echoed for many leagues more until it drowned in the immensity of the ruined landscape, broken long ago by jealous rage and fate.

“Do you think your next assailant will be so lenient Mordelain? Do you think bandits will pull their blows, swing their bardiche, and strike their blades lightly? Just so you can simply melt out of their advance?” Mordelain scrabbled with the dust as she pushed herself upright, almost certain the question posed to her was rhetorical.

“They can try,” she mumbled, too belligerent to remain silent.

“No, I did not think so. Lathee may be a ceremonial fighting technique used to settle scores amongst Bedouin warriors, but of all the arts in the military heritage of this island it is most suited to your needs. Now, take your stance again, and this time, do so as you are bloody well instructed!” Her mentor’s voice grew in intensity.

“Yes master,” she whipped. Mordelain had come to know the man who cared for her like a father enough over the years to know that his particular tone was very severe. It was to be revered; his commands followed to the letter.

“You are watching me, though. That will always be a sign of inexperience to a seasoned assassin.” He used the Tradespeak variant of the word, but Mordelain had seen Fallien’s deadly practitioners of silent murder enough times in her travels to know that what he actually meant. The assassin did not fight with his body; he fought with his blade. “You should be watching this,” he shook the quarter staff with a sturdy grip, “my weapon. Out here on the sands, or deep in the ruins of Kesta, it is your true enemy.”

He snapped it forwards and lashed Mordelain’s loosely held partisan with a swift rebuke of her ignorance. Unprepared for the blow, it slipped from her fingers and fell to her right, its tip illuminating the way home to her embarrassment and defeat. She had every mind to canter off and be on her way, to live out the rest of her life in the relative safety of Irrakam’s Outsider Quarter. She could take up her second calling and be a glass spinner’s wife, or a scullery house cleaner in one of the many hookah bars to be found in the cluttered, warren like streets.

If only he would let me, she mused in her gloom.

“Pick it up, come on!” he lashed at the back of her knees with a forward step that belied his heavy bulk.

[Mordelain]

Suresh’s heavy chin wobbled in unison with his stomach, perhaps too comically for Mordelain to realise she had even been struck. Warmth rose up her calf and she quickly retrieved her weapon, span about, and dropped instinctively into the stance Radar had shown her. A sudden vigour, a need to not lie down and die, quickly over took her body.

The bulky and silent servant clapped, quite happy to see progress at last. His applause dropped down into the pit from the top of the jagged outlay. The ferocity flaring in her eyes revealed to the world that finally, Mordelain Saythrou was ready to become a daughter of the desert.

“You have bested the perils of the desert without trouble before, Mordelain. Now you must learn to best an altogether more deadly foe – man,” he snapped forwards again, but this time Mordelain was ready for him.

Her partisan rose with its dry shaft horizontal, but firmly held between both her hands. It met with the downward strike with a silent cry that echoed in the Troubadour’s heart. Before the merchant could realise, she pushed up with a grunt and a flex of her muscular lower legs. The moment his weapon stopped being a threat and his guard broke she jumped back.

“Men are deadlier, by all means,” she whispered as her breath fought to return to her lungs.

Her weapon snapped down and clashed against Suresh’s over extended right leg. The padding he carried, both in the form of his heavy clothing and his second helping of figs easily absorbed the blow. He retreated, bowed, and smiled brightly with a chuckle in acknowledgement of her triumph.

“Deadlier, by all means…but?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow in anticipation of the assured witticism Mordelain had become quite skilled at delivering.

“They are deadlier, by all means, but they are certainly not always as terrifying.” Though a sharp pain that pierced her lungs, she managed to smile, even laugh as she leant forwards on her weapon. Its wooden shaft and metal framework carried her lithe form with ease. Suresh’s eye for a cheap purchase extended, apparently, to also buying the perfect item for the best price. It suited her in every way, as if it were an extension of her will, arms, and anger.

“Now my dear, let us continue your education with a dual approach to learning.” The merchant stepped back from the circle of dust, and bade Radar to return to his post. He handed the man his staff, and stepped up out of the rock formation. Mordelain watched him with a squint as he moved with the sun’s glare behind him. In the heat, the merchant almost instantly started to smell like baking alpaca dung. She wrinkled her nose.

“What do you mean?” she asked inquisitively. The warm kiss of the midday heat forced her head down and her gaze away from Suresh. She turned her attention instead to Radar. The man terrified her more than Suresh’s inevitable rebuke; he stood like one of the monoliths that lined the desert’s western wastelands where the harpies danced. He towered over her in every way imaginable.

[Mordelain]

“Radar will test the merits of your body, whilst I will test the merits of your mind.”

Almost as if the two men had rehearsed it for days, the tall Fallien born fighter stepped forwards. Without flinching, he trusted the tip of his staff into Mordelain’s midriff.

She lifted the partisan and spun it through several rotations to deflect its course away from its spine tingling conclusion; she moved just in time.

“Ugh,” she wheezed.

The clash of wood together echoed out over the sands. Her jaw snapped shut, her teeth clenched, and her veins exploding with adrenaline she never knew she possessed.

“Name the three leaders of the il’Jhain Houses?” Suresh’s question dropped down onto her shoulders and seeped into her ears like dead weight. She paused; just long enough for Radar to recover his weapon from overextending.

It swung into her chest with the force of a comet, knocking her off her feet, back into a bundle of flailing arms, and recklessly swung silver. Even Radar could not help but show a grimace, before he leant over her groaning, writhing, and dusted form to offer her a hand.

“I will repeat the question for the sake clarity.” The merchant repeated himself louder, prouder, and cruelly without recognition of his pupil’s discomfort. “Name the three leaders of the il’Jhain Houses?”

Mordelain squinted at Radar, unsure wherever or not to trust him after his rude awakening. When she made up her mind, she rose swiftly with a rush of air, and found her trust well placed as the Bedouin man retreated. He entered a neutral stance she recognised from her dancing forms and waited. Mordelain hovered, calf muscles tensed, and grip firm around her pole-arm.

“You are a <harpies’ bastard>, Suresh, I believe that is the saying they use in the Outlander’s Quarters.” She watched Radar’s grin reaction, and smiled herself, guessing she had learnt the correct curse phrase in her time well spent in the under belly of Ikkaram.

Her native tongue had no such word, though there were many that came close. Trade speak and Fallien were both brutally spoken, primal, and languages far from soft in intonation; so she had taken to using whatever curses she could to show her ever growing frustration with the men in her life. The Troubadours had never been a race to express their anger through conceited words.

“The leaders of the Houses,” she stepped forwards and kicked up the tip of her partisan into Radar’s waiting guard. He knocked it away and spiralled about, only to find the Troubadour retreated from the arc of his flat blow. “Of present, though I can recount all the leaders from the fall,” she dropped the partisan’s point to the sand and drew a circle, as was customary in her own art of dance, “are Îdhdaer, Faziah, and Azuban.”

“That is correct,” Suresh barked, only to clap and command Radar to continue. He mused over the many possible ways to test her knowledge of the desert and its people.

[Mordelain]

From what he had seen in the few short months, whilst they had worked and relaxed together endlessly, his knowledge might not be able to test her enough. She had a very keen mind for flora, fauna, and pathetic fallacy. Suresh curled his lips into a cruel smile. He wondered if it was keen enough.

“What next, master?” she said sarcastically. She kept her eyes firmly and assuredly on the warrior before her.

“What are the properties of Niphena?”

It took Mordelain only a split second to locate the small part of her mind slowly occupied by nothing but alchemical recipes and poisonous missives. She took a deep breath, and a sniff, and then smelt the properties of the plant; they were an acrid, leathery, and intoxicating flower that produced a potent by product from its roots. It grew primarily on the rocky banks of the Attireyi, just north of the Jya’s Keep.

“Niphena is a dry tubular plant which produces hypnotic trances in its investors.” Mordelain took the initiative, rising from her low stance to return his opening thrust with one of her own. Her weapon carried no more of a convincing argument at its tip than the flat end of a worn walking staff.

He knocked it aside with his bracer, swatting it away as if it were a fly. Radar snarled, finding her quick to anger, and quicker still to start to resent agreeing to this petty lesson. She in turn had gone beyond recognising that she was tired, gone much further beyond realising she was hungry, and had given up all hope of diving into an oasis to ease her woes. Suresh watched them both keenly. He silently picked out weaknesses in pupil and tutor with all the scrutiny of a desert drake descending to its prey.

“Who resides in the blue oasis?” his question danced in the winds, crashing onto the sand between the two dancers with heavy force. His tone could have awoken long slumbering gods.

“Karachi, spice merchant, and artisan of the device called a noria.” She dashed forwards, feigning one thrust into a harsher follow-up. Radar deflected the first, stumbled into thin air, and roared as the partisan pierced his abdomen. Red blood trickled along the intricate and ornate shaft binding, which turned quickly into black ichor and then oil like composite.

Mordelain almost seemed apologetic as she pulled her weapon from Radar’s body, but he soon quietened down. He touched his shaking fingers to the wound, smelt the blood on his fingertips like a dog enquiring as to the origins of a matted part of his fur, and then he shrugged.

Unfazed by the developments, or indeed the progress, Suresh continued to walk in a circle around the dust bowl in the ancient caldera. He scrutinised his employees for any signs of weakness.

“What does a noria do?” the merchant continued, seemingly oblivious to the unfolding look of concern on Mordelain’s face.

Mordelain darted a prudish look at the merchant, before she pointed at Radar with her free hand. “Can we not stop, he is injured!” she protested, but almost instantly felt as if something was amiss.

[Mordelain]

“Is he really?” he replied with a smile, his words seething with amusement through the curls of his greying beard. He shook his head and tucked his hands together in the small of his back as he walked. A scholarly visage covered his tired, sweaty form.

The sickly scent of alpaca dung and sand vanished, turning instead into the peaky smell of a man’s perspiration.

Mordelain looked back at Radar’s torso, which dripped with sweat and trails of blood from a renewed fold of skin. There was no sign of injury, except the stains of his fluids. She instantly realised why Suresh had insisted on the man joining them in the desert.

“What are you?” she mouthed almost silently. Wonderment sealed away her usual zest. “I have seen many things in my travels sir, but none so strange.” She wove a masterful lie into her words. She had known what he was all along, and that Suresh too was of the same kindred. She was playing a deadly game on the outskirts of Kesta with enemies as old as Fallien herself.

Radar tried to smile, as if he thought the gesture would appease her. He had tried and failed to explain what it was he was exactly so many times he had become afraid to do so again. He looked up to Suresh for guidance.

“Radar, my dear, is what the people of the desert call a Ghubar.”

Mordelain repeated the word repeatedly, feigning an attempt to get to grips with the pronunciation. She made a show of trying to place its significance in the long menagerie of strange memories and facts she kept fresh in her mind. She pretended to give in, and then curled her lip with a hint of confusion.

“We do not know anything of their origins, except that they are a rare and unusual people who dwell in the mountains. Occasionally,” he pointed at Radar, “they come to the cities. In this case, to Irrakam to seek work and to open trade routes so that they can resource materials they cannot acquire in their own lands.”

“I did not think anyone could live in those harsh landscapes, least not for long, or without divine guidance?” the question aimed at both, and indeed. All she had learnt since she had arrived on Althanas had taught her that the mountains of this world meant death. The Zaileya and the eastern fringe were out of bounds even to her talents.

Radar found his courage finally, “the Ghubar are a people born of the desert, literally.” He ran a dagger over his right breast; the motion formed a long, razor nail that dug into the flesh with a sickening tear. Mordelain looked away, but soon looked back, too unconstrained to fight the curiosity she felt swell in her stomach. She silently chuckled at the irony in the creature’s self-expression. The Ghubar were indeed born from the desert, but not just literally, as Radar believed.

Radar and his kin was the desert.

[Mordelain]

“Ghubar in Fallien and indeed in the tongue of Radars’ kind means ‘sandy’.” Suresh gave up his vigil and shuffled to the edge of the dust bowl. He stooped to perch on the rocky outcrop with his fat tree trunk thighs swinging over the edge.

With the illusion keeping Radar’s true form breaking, something unexpected trickled from the wound. Instead of blood, golden sand fell down his torso as if he had just split open a sack of grain. It trickled to the floor, lifeless and odourless, and from the lack of pain on the man’s face, without having any effect on him whatsoever. Mordelain pulled a mock expression of surprise, and made a show of trying to mouth a question through flabbergasted gasps for hot, sticky air.

“I see this is new to you,” Radar said meekly. He ran his claw over his wound and sealed the cut shut with whatever magic held his strange form together.

“Mordelain is no stranger to the wonders of many a world, if the rumours are too wild to be believed.”

The Troubadour glanced at Suresh, biting her tongue long enough to carefully consider her response to his accusation. She had wondered how long it would take before people talked, and how much longer Suresh of all people could keep his mouth shut. Shansi, the al-Thayne’s soul was rearing her ugly head in the words of her mentor. If Mordelain were to use the spirit’s own creations against her, to locate the Tower of the Ghubar, she would have to play this game very carefully indeed.

She had come close to losing it once already; she could not afford to make the same mistake twice.

“You make such lofty demands on my knowledge so openly, Suresh. I think one question in kind is more than appropriate.” She shifted her body to face the merchant, and let her partisan fall to the right, away from Radar and the sun. “What do you mean by that, exactly?” her hot breath warmed her lips, burning away the last remnants of moisture from her morning meal. She felt so weary and sweaty that she wondered if there was any water left in her bones at all.

“I have heard you are of the Tama, a people that once visited Fallien, and whose name is still whispered through the bazaars of Irrakam.”

She was not as surprised as she expected.

“Perhaps,” she said softly. The expression on her face remained tactile, expressionless, and unreadable.

Suresh cocked his head, unsure how to proceed. Since the Cataclysm, Mordelain had presumed the history and legacy of the Troubadours and the Kalithrism, the network of worlds tied in common brother hood would have faded from knowledge. The people of the nine planets scorned her kind, blamed her kind, and shunned her kind. Why would Althanas, even throughout its long excommunication be any different? Shansi, once again, was channelling her will through the Ghubar, testing Mordelain’s tenacity and patience.

“How…”

Suresh rolled his eyes, and gestured for both Radar and Mordelain to rest their aching limbs at his feet. He sat crossed legged now, like a strange deity, or wise man imparting pains of knowledge to innocent minds. “I know everything that happens in the walls of Irrakam, and much that does not,” neither Radar nor Mordelain felt entirely at ease with the way he winked at them after that. Mordelain could only wonder what strange notion of conduct Shansi believed in, but it seemed unnatural and childish to her.

[Mordelain]

“She is a Troubadour?” Radar questioned. They both sat cross-legged like Suresh.

The merchant nodded, his chin wobbling encouragingly.

“You know about my people too?” she mock cursed, in her own tongue this time.

“Less haste, Mordelain, the Ghubar has lived on this island for much longer than any other. Many of their kind remember the desert long before it was a desert.” His tone became patriarchal, overbearing, and sycophantic. He was becoming too accustomed to correcting everyone around him. Mordelain grit her teeth.

“I remember it much more clearly than you could imagine,” the sand man said longingly.

“Explain yourself, both of you!” her cries lost their usual sternness, but were cries all the same for the sake of her masque. She was by no means a politician, and she was playing a game of thrones with kings of a dying empire. She looked between them, trying to remain placid. Her breath became strained, tested, and heated.

“Long ago, the Troubadours came to Irrakam. They helped us, guided us, and readied us. Though little of their input remains today, there are traces, murals in fact of brightly clothed dancers and singers in the Outlander’s quarters, and in the ruins over the mountains where the Exile Coradan dwells. Those artistic relics depict the enormity of their deeds.”

Radar scooped up a handful of the sand they had spared on and swallowed it greedily, an action Mordelain assumed sustained the creature, or perhaps healed it when it became…empty.

“When you appeared in the city many months ago, I could not believe my eyes, and in that respect, I could not believe my luck!” the fat merchant slapped his thighs, before he produced something from the leather pack by his side. Mordelain smelt the aroma before he tossed it, and moved to intercept the bundle of food wrapped in red cloth with grace and finesse.

Mordelain suddenly doubted her gambit in the Freerunner’s Café had been prophesied by Shansi after all. She swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to remain calm. If the spirit of the desert had cajoled her into leaving Irrakam’s safety, then she was in more danger than she first believed.

She closed her eyes and took a moment to compile her thoughts. Instinctively, she undid the bundle of food, and set it out on her lap. She draped the cloth, which was a headscarf as much as a lunch pale, over her knees. She ran her fingers over the fabric, and traced out the stitching. The image of the horse galloping over the silk burnt into her dark mind with golden threads, until it galloped away and left her with a recollection from three days prior.

“All the threads are coming together,” she whispered, afraid she might be overheard.

[Mordelain]

Three Days Ago
The Void - In Between The Nine Worlds

Today was the day that many things ended. Today was the day that many more things began. There were new paths stretching out ahead of Mordelain Saythrou. She was still uncertain which would lead her to her chosen destination. She had choices to make. She had hearts to break.

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

Mordelain had seen the worlds end, and all the worlds begin. She had stood at the centre of the Cataclysm as her home broke apart piece by piece. When the crystal spires rose from the core of Junkyo, she had been there chronicle the last days. She knew pain, suffering, chaos, and death as if they were old friends.

“I think I understand now,” she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

A lifetime spent searching for something that may never happen…
The final strand wound from her waist to her headdress, a spiral of colour glimmering with starlight. In Mordelain, Mordelain would find a journey to self-discovery. She did not know what would blossom from the arid dirt that had become the ground beneath her feet, but it would be an instinctive route to follow.

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

Each of the three routes lead to the same end game; destroying the gods themselves. Each lead to exoneration for failing to convince the council of twelve, seven centuries ago, to embrace the Khalithrism. She had to save Fallien, she had to restore it...

Mordelain did not know how she could do anything of the sort.

[Mordelain]

She was a dancer, a teller of stories, and a messenger for the spice merchants of Fallien. Even though she had taken up arms, taken the ways of the desert to heart, she doubted she could ever amass the strength in her conviction she needed. She would require a Valkyrie’s grace to strike her partisan, shining and silver, at the heart of the priestess Jya.

The Void was cold, but the sight of Irrakam far below kept her warm in spirit. It smelt of lavender, thyme and peppermint. They were the three herbs that embalmed the Troubadours of her home when they died. When Junkyo shattered, the tombs of her people had vented their contents out into the cosmos – she could see moving shadows between the fragments of the worlds in silent screams. That terrifying sight had been one of the first things she had learnt to block out of her mind.

At least, in some small way, her family were watching over her.

“I guess I have no choice anymore,” she reached for the strand that fell down towards the city below. It was colder than the Void, like steel left in the frigid night. She pulled it towards her, so that the tension faded. In short time she started to drift towards her destination.

“I am coming for you, Jya. With your light, I will restore Fallien.” She imagined the high priestess atop her throne, and glared down the pillars that surrounded her. Sandstone crumbled, hearts shattered, and widows grieved for the fallen. They pledged to die beneath the sandstorm the Troubadour vowed under her breath to unleash. Death, after all, was all the handmaidens of the Jya would wish for when she found them.

They would die because of Mordelain’s mistakes.

As she descended to the city below she began to feel faint and nauseous. The pull of the Void’s winds ignited flames over her skin. Over the many long years since she first stepped between the worlds, she had become numb to the sensation. At first, she had been sick, overwhelmed, and frivolously ill. Time after time, she had appeared on another world vomiting and screaming in the blinding light and heat of her boon.

When she stepped out onto the sandy cobblestones of the Abdos’ courtyard, she chuckled at the thought of having once been so young and unprepared. Those early days of exploration seemed like a lifetime ago to the now wizened adventurer of the sandy island of Fallien.

“There you are Mordelain!” a voice boomed through the bustling crowd. In between the careening camel caravans and mobs of heckling merchants vying for custom, the Troubadour caught a sight of Suresh. She rolled her eyes. She was glad to have the time in the Void to recover from the ordeal in the café. She looked up at the sun, guessed the desert had rewound time, and stitched back together the damage the Tama had done to her home.

Suresh would not remember trying to slice the il’Jhain in two with a khaddar blade. Mordelain could only wish she had the same luxury of amnesia.

[Mordelain]

The Il’Jhain Abdos
Three Days Ago

“I have been gone barely an hour Suresh,” she returned with an equally boisterous cry. She wove through the crowd towards the gleaming white walls of the il’Jhain headquarters, and followed the imposing red mass of cloth and leather that set her friend apart from the pulsating life of Irrakam.

“Yes, but just under an hour ago the messenger returned from the Suravani Conclave.” He turned on a hefty thigh when he reached the centre of the cool inner chamber. The green foliage, cool air, and black and white marble flagstones set Mordelain’s heart at ease; she felt like she had come home.

She half wished she could let her guilt lie, and live out her life without ever having to atone for her past mistakes. She and Suresh would be quite happy together as they were.

“So soon can only mean that our request for audience has been denied, surely?” she slumped, the vibrancy in her usually upright stance vanished at the prospect of another political defeat.

She had already suffered one loss today; she did not think she could stomach another.

“No,” Suresh shook his head enthusiastically as he produced a small envelope from the folds of his robe. He handed it to her, and she took it with shaking fingers. “Read this, and read it with a happy heart!”

Mordelain tore open the sand stained paper, and peeled open the well-folded letter within.


Dear Suresh Al-jhahardi,

In light of your recent request, and the issue of the token to our viceroy, you have a dawn audience with the High priestess five days from now.

Yours,
Steward Nuhzar, of the Royal Palace

Mordelain dropped the letter to her side, and bounced up and down on the spot. Several people turned to see what the commotion was. They soon relinquished their interest, too busy going about their lives to wallow in someone else’s good news. It took her several moments to compose herself before she turned her attention to Suresh.

“This is excellent,” she beamed a smile so bright it could have put out the sun. Suresh shook his head.

“Not excellent, no,” he pointed up to the Abdos’s glistening white dome. “It is earth-shattering, and the people in there will soon hear your name and bow.”

Mordelain rolled her head from side to side, as if weighing up the truth in his statement. She was not doing it for the fame, but the prospect began to appeal to her.

“I would much prefer if the Freerunner Guild were given the credit for my encroaching success, but I guess it might be nice.” She goaded.

Suresh pushed her towards his cart disgruntled. “Come on, you, I think we both deserve a drink…” Together they mounted the wagon.

Mordelain pocketed the letter, and leant back against the rough wood. “Yes, I think we do!”

[Mordelain]

“I am so very glad Karachi afforded us the opportunity.”

She doubted Karachi would be as pleased, when the news finally came to him how she had abused his token to do what she was going to do.

“We owe him a life debt. We can put our plan into motion thanks to him,” Suresh produced another piece of paper, this time from his cavernous sleeves.

“What is that?” she asked excitedly. Several busy swells of scraggy looking men, some only boys, rushed around them oblivious to their presence. The city was already well and truly alive with the back and forth of communication and trade.

“It is a congratulatory message. We should go to the training pit at once, as promised, and begin instructing you in the ways of the partisan.” Suresh flapped the letter at his pupil eagerly. Mordelain realised whom the man was. He would train her to use the partisan he had gifted to her after she had obtained her first token for the Freerunners.

Mordelain frowned, not entirely comfortable with her good news shot down with bad spirits so soon. She had half hoped he had forgotten about his promise.

“I am not going to need it,” she puckered her lips and crumpled the letter into her pocket. It was worth a try, she thought.

“You wanted the sandstorms and the desert itself to speak behind your voice when you toppled Jya from her songbird perch, did you not?” Suresh’s voice struck only Mordelain’s ears, carried with crossed fingers and a school of magic the dancer could not quite understand. She heard only the radix behind it, and knew that their secrets were safe to discuss, even in the open and busy hallowed streets of Ikkaram.

“I get the feeling there is something else in that letter…” she stared at him with the fury of the sun.

Suresh nodded, before he held it open for her to read. “It is an assignment from the Freerunner guild. The recent spate of sandstorms striking solely Freerunner il’Jhain took me by surprise. Until that is, I spoke to some accomplices and connections to discern the cause of the disturbance.” He tucked it back into his pocket, content that his charge had absorbed all the required information.

“What could cause sandstorms of such scale?” The chorus of merchant cries and hushed chatter between buyer and seller continued to drown out their words from prying ears.

“It is not as monstrous as that,” Suresh chuckled.

She pictured many things, beasts, swords, and mages, but none struck her as the source of such directed aggression. She gave in, because in the end, she only had to acquire the staff – she did not have to kill whatever had stolen it, or indeed, let her presence even be known until she stole it away.

“Then shall we depart?” she stuck out her tongue.

Suresh pointed at the distant saloon, “When your hangover is gone tomorrow morning. Then we travel to the sand pits of Kesta!”

[Mordelain]

The Ruins of Kesta
Present Day

Mordelain sighed, opened her eyes, and tucked into her meal. She got barely two bites into her bread before Suresh made to ask her another question. The fleeting scent of poppy bread soon found itself to be a distant memory.

“Ugh, okay, enough,” she wheezed. She dropped her bread to knees with a torrent of abuse and desperation. Sweat dripped from her brow, and tethered her furred cuffs to her wrists and her hair to her forehead. “I do not think I can stomach any more ‘training’.” Suresh chuckled with a boisterous, baritone rhythm.

“You have been doing this barely for three hours, my dear, and you have come so far!” the merchant waded forwards, seemingly splitting the desert with his advance, and offered out his hand to help her upright. “Come, once more, and then we shall continue on?”

“I…” she grumbled. She took three very large bites from her bread, set it to one side, and then took his hand. She lurched upright, her feverish hunger abated as she downed her food greedily. She missed the luxury of chewing through walnuts, almonds, and hesta grass laced into the thick, buoyant dough.

Reluctantly, despite the energy from her poppy bread finally coming to life in her tired bones, and despite the tiredness setting in quickly between every nook and cranny in her body, the il’Jhain agreed. She took several defiant steps backwards, reset her stance, and levied her partisan at the Ghubar. He nodded, ceased his mirth, and stepped so quickly into the dancer’s guard even Suresh had to dive awkwardly and clumsily backwards.

“Hey!” Mordelain roared. The slap of their shafts together knocked the wind from her sails. “That is,” she leapt over a low sweep, “not,” she ducked over a high swipe, “fair!” the partisan come down overhead and struck hers dead centre, and knocked her flying back. She could do nothing except bring hers parallel into the strike to prevent it connecting squarely, and painfully, with the centre of her temple.

Whilst hitting the sand full-force on her back was painful, it was considerably less painful than the alternative. She lay prone, dazed, and reluctant to rise into another short and bitter attempt at defending herself. She started to wonder why she had chosen this over lunch.

“Alright, I think I believe you now,” said Suresh, his voice echoed and halcyon amidst the piercing, scalding glare of the rising midday sun. The caldera that had served as their training arena had protected them from the heat in the early morning, but soon, with the sun directly overhead, there would be few places in Fallien that were not man made one could find sanctuary in. “Come.” He waved a pudgy hand and moved to the edge of the arena.

“You infuriate me so much sometimes!” she said churlishly, with a hint of sarcasm and mischief in her words.

She pushed herself upright, scooped up her pole-arm, and walked to the small bundle of articles she had set on the rocks for safekeeping whilst she was tested, prodded, and hit repeatedly by her peers. With swift hand motions, she scooped up the red cloth, the remnants of her lunch, and her coin purse.

“You still love me all the same!” the merchant cajoled over his shoulder.

Mordelain rolled her eyes. She deposited the bread, the small bottle of water, and the fruit he had brought into her satchel. She shook the cloth free of crumbs, and used it as a headscarf. Before long, she too was joining her companions on the climb up to the salt plains, and the ruins beyond.

[Mordelain]

No sooner than the group crested the ridge, the desert rose yet again before them. A motley group of jagged peaks, crags, and precarious ledges marked one final ascent before the sand returned proper. From then on, the flat sloping sea like terrain of Fallien’s harsh environment carried them north to the ruined tower.

“I keep asking myself why,” she shouted after him.

Mordelain had to slap her knees and catch her breath, quite stripped bare by the day’s vigorous exercise thus far. She would have caught it, had Suresh not slapped her over the back of her head with a precision strike from his camel beater. It snapped noisily, and she cried with a whelp of pain. She stood upright, one hand rubbing the wound, the other cradling her parcel of crumbs and meagre possessions like a beggar with his meal.

“Okay, there really is no need fo-” the irritation in her voice vanished sharply. Her mouth dropped, until her lips formed a little zero of surprise. Suresh went to strike her again for mocking him, until it dawned on the portly merchant that her expression was quite sincere.

“What is it, Mordelain?” he turned, slowly, and scaled the cliffs up to his more speedy companions. His gaze met with the infinite horizon and the solitary shadow that rose up from the beyond. A grand, fluttering, and nightmarish sight blotted out all the blazing sky, the midday sun, and the shimmering illusions that led many an unwary il’Jhain astray.

Suresh was never speechless, and when his only words were “Harpies’ dung…” Mordelain swallowed the lump in her throat and sprang forwards.

“Get down!” she screamed, arms flailing wilding, eyes ablaze.

Radar turned in a stoic fashioned, his unnatural soul unpaved by human emotion. He looked down with a piercing glare, until he read into the scenario, and dropped to his knees with a thud. He turned his neck awkwardly to look over the crest, and he too saw the vast flock of harpies rising up on fell winds from the ruins.

“By Jya’s grace,” he muttered.

The desert was home to many dangerous creatures, and many more mysteries besides. Whilst the harpies in the dagger bluffs to the west of the desert were notorious for swooping down from their aeries to pick off stragglers, the harpies of the mountains and ruins to the east of Fallien were different. They were the pureblood, sisters of the First Harpy.

“This is not good…” Mordelain said in a dry, matter of fact manner. Radar clenched his fists so hard they spilt sand to the ragged outcrop.

As the screams of the flock reached the caldera, the group fell silent, stooped low, and tensed every bone, muscles, and inch of skin they had to tense. Along with the Exile, the Harpies of the Cult were the primary reason the eastern frontier of the island was inhabitable. Mordelain dreaded to think what would happen to them if they became harpy foray.

[Mordelain]

“Suresh…” she whispered, several times repeating herself until her voice caught the wind into his ears.

She made a motion with her hand that resembled firing a cannonade, and mouthed ‘gun’ several times. It took him a moment, but he nodded enthusiastically to show that he understood.

“You do not need to ask me twice,” he said softly. He turned slowly, a quizzical and terrified expression on his face. Though he too was of the Ghubar, Mordelain’s intervention in the oasis café had undone some of Shansi’s work to sedate the merchant’s verdant enthusiasm for life.

Suresh was one of the few in Irrakam who had been fortunate enough to profit from the recent turmoil caused by distant wars and civil strife. Alerar and Raiera, Corone and Scara Brae, all the other countries of Althanas had turned to Fallien for aid. Jya had relented only in allowing trade to increase, and food and building supplies to ship from the city to aid the refugees of the respective battlegrounds. She sent no troops, no weapons, and no galleons abroad. That had not stopped the countries that called on the sand kingdom from sending weapons the other way.

“I was thinking it the moment I saw them.” Suresh clicked his fingers, and with a flash of green veil fire, he bent one knee under the appearing weight of his new and prized possession.
“It is times like these I am grateful we are so stubborn,” she frowned. They argued with one another incessantly, except on matters concerning the application of force to a problem.

“Now what?” he mouthed, not entirely sure what even a six barrelled hand cannon could do against what appeared to be hundreds of enemies. It fired with considerably less virile foes in mind.

Mordelain crawled across the rocks slowly. She was careful with every moment to avoid cutting herself on the ancient stone, until she crouched next to the merchant. “We wait,” she said. “When the harpy flock has fully taken flight,” she traced the movement of the black swarm north, which was away from them, and from harm, “we should be free to enter the ruins.” She flicked aside her newfound attire, and peered out across the sands with all too comforting eyes.

How true that would be was not something the il’Jhain could swear on, but she had learnt a thing or two from other Freerunner veterans to know that when Harpy Cults took to the winds, they did so to hunt. When a Harpy Cult hunted, everyone save the Matriarch would be in bloodied revelry for hours, perhaps days.

That left the most dangerous Harpy of all standing in the way of their success. The planes walker sighed, resigning herself to a long overdue reunion with the woman who had been her undoing centuries ago, before the Vhadya. Atop the tower, the Heretic had spent many a lifetime plotting her revenge.

It dawned on Mordelain now, that Shansi had cast that thread in the Void. The Thayne of Fallien had leaded the planes walker out into the desert to face off against her ancient adversary. It dawned on Mordelain now, that the wielder of the Tower of Ghubar was the cruellest of women…She smiled weakly.

Reva Featherblood’s time had come.

[Mordelain]

The Tower of Falling Sand, Aerie of Reva Featherblood
Present Day

Reva Featherblood was beautiful once. The people of Fallien had adored her kindness, and her benevolence, and her ability to forgive. She was the island’s most caring, beloved, and longest serving judiciary. She was also its most virulent, loudest, and stubbornness protector. When Mordelain had come to the oasis of beauty and abundance to tie the land to her so called ‘gateway to tomorrow’, Reva had engaged in a battle of wits with the eleven other members of the council, and seen to it single-handed that they would reject the Tama’s good intentions.

She still scorned the moment she realised her mistake.

With a guttural growl, the harpy queen ran her claw about the rim of her skeletal goblet and admired the still rising sun through the gaping windows of her aerie. Atop the world, she could see the entire desert, and as the fire dance of a new day greeted her, she spat back at it. She was as hateful and sinful as the day and night before. With her brood departed, she had a few hours to herself, in which to dwell in hatred and thought. Whatever they returned with would only satisfy her for a few debauchee hours of revelry – the hole in her heart, newly torn by the shifting sands of the desert would require something much more wholesome to fill.

Her eyes pierced the illusion of the heat, and caught the bell-adorned woman that cowered behind the distant rocks. It was the third time Reva had seen her, and the third time the sight had brought her nothing but pleasure. She had seen them once when the group had crossed the river. The second sighting came when they had crested the ridge. Her scouts had reported a third sighting when they crossed the Nirakkal plains to meet with the ruins of Kesta.

“Six centuries is a long time to wait for a chance to repay an old debt, Junta.” The insult fell in a pool of vitriol and bloodied wine to the dusty floor of the chamber. With a flex of her bone-laden wings, the harpy approached the balcony and set down her vessel on the heavy and reinforced bulwark. “But I will waive the interest on it for daring to insult me in person.” She took a deep breath through shrew like nostrils, and leant out into the open air.

Behind Reva, the faded tapestries and grand bookcases creaked and groaned beneath the weight of a century worth of dust and neglect. When the harpy had taken over the ruins, she had quite literally thrown the previous tenant out the window. His corpse was still at the foot of the tower, nothing more than a shattered skeletal remaining surrounded by half-burnt books and fettered ideals. Despite the somewhat cannibalistic nature of the fallen women of Old Fallien, there were no corpses or bloodied remains in the upper reaches of the tower. When they had finished their feast, they swept away the ash and dust that remained out over the battlements.

Mordelain would receive no such courteous treatment, however. Very rarely, Reva partook in an old ritual known as the Quickening. During the ritual, she would forgo the soul drain of her sisters, and consume the flesh, blood, and even the bones of her victim in an orgy of madness and incantation. When she had finished, she would emerge from the tower, smothered in blood and detritus, and walk through the Nirakkal like a carnal spectre. With her sacrifice consumed and offered, she would walk through the thinly disguised veil at the heart of the glass plains and stand beside the al-Thayne of Fallien at last.

“Then the time of the Cult of Mishra will be at hand,” she snarled.

[Otto]

Plot: 20/30


Storytelling: 7/10
Your thread has three strong points – it expands upon the story already established in the two prequels, runs several themes in parallel (Mordelain’s immediate training, periodic reflections on her past, and her developing plans for the future), and ends with a bit of a cliffhanger.
I honestly think, however, that it could have gone further. A face-off with Reva would have been a fine (and epic!) way to end the thread – and still hook a reader on for more in the sequel with the promise of unfinished business with the Jya. So although there was plenty going on in this thread, it did not progress the (overarching) story in a really significant way.



Setting: 6/10
The setting was only really described later on, so around about half of the thread did not portray or implement it in any meaningful way. The earlier posts were missing substance as a result. Thing is, the opposite can occur – mentioning the environment once at the start, and subsequently ignoring it, can mean it fades away from the reader’s mind. Incorporating the setting every couple of posts can keep it alive for the whole thread.
It also didn’t see much use – it afforded a bit of cover, some elevation, but not much more. It could have figured more prominently in contributing to Mordelain’s fatigue during training, or the juxtaposition between the Void and her sudden return to the bustling streets of Irrakam.



Pacing: 7/10
Playing around with the timeline posed some risks, but I think you pulled it off (and it contributed nicely towards an intriguing story). Your posts are always packed with content and description, but they flow nicely and rarely feel congested.
Still, the combat/training was perhaps a little sluggish overall. Nor was there a great deal of variation in the pacing, or at least, nothing that persisted long enough to really affect the reading. Mordelain’s time in the Void didn’t really feel any different from that spent training by the ruins of Kesta, or in the Il’Jhain Abdos. And while the pacing did hasten with the appearance of the harpies, that was short-lived.


Character: 22/30


Communication: 7/10
Diverse, responsive, vibrant, and believable. I’m pretty sure you know what you did right here, so I’ll leave the praise at that. However, it did suffer some as a result of issues concerning the ‘clarity’ and ‘mechanics’ sections, so see please see those.
There was one specific instance which quite irked me, which was Mordelain’s feigned ignorance of the Ghubar (post 8). The way her it was written, her reaction seemed so blatantly insincere, so obvious, I just wanted to scream at Suresh for being so dense. I’m sorry, but I think this part lacked your usual skill and finesse.



Action: 8/10
I like to see action used so well, and so pervasively. It was as important as dialogue was in communication, and thoughts were for persona, while it also expressed Suresh’s bulk and Mordelain’s athletic grace.
I’m having trouble finding a bad thing to say about how you juggled action and dialogue during the combat sections. I guess my only advice would be that, as you are quite a verbose writer, be sure that over-descriptiveness does not detract from action which would benefit more from concision and abruptness – not that this was really an issue either, except perhaps in the second last paragraph of post 3.



Persona: 7/10
Again, Mordelain’s bluff did not seem consistent with the level of skill which is given in her profile. I did not want to see deception, I wanted to be deceived – until, perhaps, a single tell or sign known but to the reader would confirm my suspicions.
Radar was also a bit flat, in terms of persona. I know that Mordelain and Suresh have had two more threads (at least) for me to become acquainted with them, but they shone in this thread as much as the others. Radar just didn’t seem to be given quite the same level of attention, but I also have the feeling that he is integral to the story.


Prose: 20/30


Mechanics: 7/10
I’ll start with the typos. Only saw the occasional one, e.g.; ‘oath’ vs. ‘oaf’ (post 1), ‘fashioned’ vs. fashion (post 16), ‘leaded’ vs. ‘lead’, and ‘foray’ vs. ‘fodder’ (or something like that, since “became harpy foray” doesn’t make much sense – post 17). I also came across a few nonsensical sentences: “She watched Radar’s grin reaction” (6), also, “the question aimed at both, and indeed” (8).
I also saw some instances where the sentence made perfect sense structurally, but did not mean what (I think) you meant it to. See: “Mordelain is no stranger to the wonders of many a world, if the rumours are too wild to be believed” (9; this mean that the wild rumours say she is not a planewalker), and also the use of ‘inhabitable’ vs. ‘uninhabitable’ (16).
Last of all, maybe just watch your syntax. In post 5, use of the pronoun ‘he’ could easily be interpreted so that the dialogue “You have bested the perils of the desert without trouble before, Mordelain. Now you must learn to best an altogether more deadly foe – man” is spoken by Radar, rather than Suresh.
By and large, your writing was free of mechanical mishaps. But they were there, and there was quite a variety, so you may wish to proof-read future threads to up your score here.



Clarity: 6/10
I would have to say, this was probably your weakest area. You took a bit of a gamble, juggling so many things at once, not to mention the non-contiguous timeline. While I was able to make sense of (most of) it by the end, unfortunately, this was only achieved after re-reading a few posts. I was freewheeling for a bit too long before you finally bridged the gap between this thread and Vhadya & Velocity – it began to feel like I should already know why Mordelain was at the Kesta ruins, as well as their significance.
Otherwise, there was some confusion which arose as a result of some things under ‘mechanics’, and also, with the placement of Suresh and Radar in the first few posts. Is Radar meant to be in there to begin with, and then gets replaced by Suresh? Or has that already occurred?
Oh, and why does the Jya have to die? I’m not familiar with Fallien, so I have no idea what’s going on with that. Sure, as a judge, I probably should know the lore well enough to make sense of it, but I’m of the opinion that anyone reading the thread should have some understanding of the why.



Technique: 7/10
So all that stuff I said in the first paragraph of ‘clarity’? It also made for a rather intriguingly presented story. Something about the fractured nature of its structure reflects the converging, enigmatic threads of this story, where each answer simply leads on to the next mystery. I also think that it provides some refreshing variation in the story, allowing relevant parts of the past to present themselves in light of present events.
On a smaller scale, your writing benefited from the odd bit of metaphor (“threw him daggers with her sincere eyes”), anthropomorphism (“Crows, watching from the outcrop, broke into a cacophonous applause”), exaggeration (“infinite horizon”). They worked well enough, and though I didn’t come away with one outstanding example to praise, I’m glad you didn’t force it, either.


Wildcard: 6/10

I just needed more from this thread. There was a lot of set-up, with very little pay-off. I look forward to seeing how it all pans out in the next instalment.


Total: 68/100



Mordelain receives 1850 experience and 235 gold. As requested, and in compliance with character level restrictions, an ability boost for Mordelain's desert endurance is approved. This provides an increase to her stamina to 4x that of an average, healthy, 20-year-old human female "only when in desert environments or flaming other worlds", and reflects the continued conditioning of role as an Il'Jhain Runner.

[Letho]

EXP/GP added.