Round 2 Team 8

[Silence Sei]

The team is The Mongrel and Erirag The Poet. Round starts at Midnight tonight, CST, and lasts for two weeks. Good luck!

[Erirag the Poet]

“N’ron tela rusverochor e’Alerar?”
Don’t they shoot lame horses in Alerar?”

The two elves were huddled over a table at the first Lindequalmё checkpoint that led into the heart of Podё’s territory. Neither of them laughed at the joke. The table was long and narrow, meant to be a workstation for injured elves. The woman who lay draped across the solid oak was much taller and wider than any body the surface meant to cradle. Erirag was covered in sweat, her hands partially under her as they gripped the sides of the wooden trestle. She huffed with gritted teeth, grimacing through her tusks as they worked. At one point a helpful elf maiden reached up to mop the sweat from her green brow, but the bard only swept away the arm. She didn’t mind the sweat or the way her auburn hair was plastered to her face. Instead she was happier to focus on what the field medics were doing, if they could call themselves sharogen. As far as she could tell, they were more butchers. One of the healers, the tall one with a crooked nose and ice blue eyes who had been called Amaron, deftly moved a scalpel and cut away skin that had turned a glistening black. Erirag’s blood bubbled up on her thigh, and as the elves moved to clean and mop the area she kicked out as she roared in pain.

“It wouldn’t be so bad if you’d taken the medication!” Amaron said, as coldly as the contempt in his eyes.

“Erirag not fool!” she hissed back, arching her back and tightening her grip as a wave of nausea and dizziness floated over her. “Tiny elf love poison orc! Erirag travel long way! Come to dumb place! Come help! You zanbaur not care.” She wailed then, miserable from pains both physical and emotional. How had it come to this? She’d never had an infected wound before and now her thigh was swollen, hot to the touch, in incredible pain, and the stench was unbearable. She was sure it was the fault of Ciato Orlouge. He had cut her while she slept but hadn’t had the courtesy to use a clean blade, she would bet on it. This was exactly why she never trusted a weapon. Her fists were so much more civilized.

“Re n’na atyaneire pilinie lye lavaya Lindequalmё sana he.” Amaron said, returning to the joke one of his assistants made.
She is not worth the arrows. We could let the Red Forest take her.

This only earned a snort from the other healer, an older elf whose blonde locks were just starting to grey at the temples. He began to sew the incision, swatting Erirag when her leg twitched away from his sharpened needle. He’d been sewing bodies for too long now, especially with the Corpse War still so fresh in Raiaera’s memory. He hadn’t had a patient as annoying as the bard, but he had more than enough experience to work through her protests. He found himself shaking his head, glancing up with a verdant gaze at his young apprentice.

“Ikotane Podё caeluva he vee’mool? N’uma.” He said. After a sigh he quickly stitched the last inch of incision before tying off the knot. “Re n’aa atyaneire fallanelye ria.”
So Podё can have her as a servant? No. It’s a shame. She’s not worth our healing either.

Now that they had finished, Erirag was leaning back on the board, her arms quivering and her moonshine eyes glazed over. The assistants were able to clean her of sweat and get warming lambskins to cover her up. When a particularly nervous elven maid brought her a cup, the orc could do no more than ask “What this?”

“Tea, white willow bark for the pain, ginger for your stomach.” The girl answered in a stronger voice than expected. Erirag had to give her some credit for her spirit. She stank of fear but one could hardly tell. Quietly, the orc accepted it and drank deeply. She was tired, too tired not to rest for a moment even if it meant giving these elves the satisfaction of seeing her weak. The healers looked at each other from over her legs, now relaxed and dangling from the table. The same thought was on both of their minds. What were they possibly going to do with the orc?

Finally, Amaron had the answer. “Ona he yassen peredhil.”
Put her with the Halfling.

[The Mongrel]

Siegfried used with permission


A Mousie scurries through spider webs,
She pokes through dust and beetle shells.
What does Mousie look for?
Does she seek Sparrow, who flies in the sky?
Does she seek Rat, who eats all the time?
Does she seek Spider, to confront her lies?
See the shape of truth, Mousie!
See though it hides in silk and shadow!
See that the Mousie and the Sparrow are the same.
Mutt’s Writings (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RFeEn4nEvHw)

It wasn’t exactly my intention, but I broke through the bloody foliage and into a camp little more than an hour after my group disintegrated. This one was different than the one on the edges; more elves rushed between tents with more purpose in their strides. The other mercenaries who filtered in wore masks of determination, rage, sorrow or pain. Those who had underestimated the forest or overestimated themselves would never see a camp.

I believed it likely that my cocksure companions were among the dead. I certainly didn’t see them getting their new assignments from the man who looked to be in charge. It brought me no grief; the clumsy fools had only slowed me down. Or perhaps I was simply ahead of them on the journey.

I could hear the screams and groans of the wounded who were lucky enough to make it this far and into the care of the healers. There were human whimpers, elven grunts, and… an orc? A she-orc. Either that or a large human of ambiguous gender who couldn’t swear adequately in any other language than Orcish (but Orcish is a great language to swear in, if you can hit the gutteral notes).

My head and shoulder throbbed in sympathy; I’d had a pretty good knock courtesy of a big Dur’Taigen. That wasn’t immediately going to kill me, so if I wanted healing, I would have to wait my turn. Considering I’m half Alerian and the healers are Raiaeran…

I didn’t really want healing. Not from those pompous assholes, anyway.

“Illara!”

A voice I barely knew but couldn’t mistake called out for me over the din of a few dozen shouts - the injured, the medics, the people in charge and the people who called for their newly-assigned groupings. A spectacularly shiny Bladesinger hurried to my side. His black hair had blue streaks in it, his eyes flashed hazel, and though his smile was weary, it looked honest enough. “Cormamin lindua ele lle, seler’ amin.”

“‘Quel andune, Siegfried.” His smile faltered a bit, and I’d kind of intended it to. After all, returning ‘my heart sings to see you, my sister,’ with ‘good afternoon’ is a little less than courteous. He’d written, I’d come, but that didn’t mean I was ready to reconcile.

My half-brother took my unenthusiastic greeting in stride, looking me over quickly when he reached me. I waved a hand, brushing off his concern as readily as I had his flowery words. I’d come to camp under my own power; I was fine.

“I apologize for not meeting you at the dock, sister.” I moved past green and white tents and suspicious elven eyes with him in step beside me. “Business in Eluriand held me up for ten days longer than expected.”

“The boat was five days late. We would have still been en route if you’d been there, and then how could either of us have had any of this fun?” A particularly visceral scream rent the heavy air, and I raised my eyebrows at Sieg, who winced. We were both aware that it could have easily been either of us suffering under the healers’ ministrations.

We were both aware we would have been lucky if that were the case.

Siegfried already had his assignment; he and another Bladesinger would be protecting a few druids while they worked to cleanse an area to the east. He stayed at my side while I awaited my instructions and tried to make conversation, but a few flippant responses persuaded him to stop.

Perhaps neither of us were really ready for me to be back. Neither of us knew how to act or what to say.

“Erirag Songcrafter,” I read when I at last had my assignment. “Erirag… that’s an orcish name.” The person I loved best in this life had been a half-orc, and I wondered how much orc was in my partner. In all my years in Corone, I found that I liked orc mixes a lot. They were rarely quick on the uptake, but they were incredibly straightforward. If they didn’t like you, you found out when they took a swing at your face, not when they slipped some poison into your drink after months or years of flattery. It made them easy to deal with.

Songcrafter… an orcish poet. Who would have thought the world had enough room for two? Mutt had written hundreds of poems in his lifetime. How much more similarity would there be between my lover and this new face I’d yet to meet? The thought brought so much warmth to my heart that I almost didn’t hear my brother fussing.

“I’ll have you reassigned to my unit immediately.” Authority permeated his tone; he had every intention of using his rank to ensure his helpless baby sister didn’t get smashed into so much meat paste by the mean green murder machine. For an elf who claims to have moved past the hatreds of his forefathers, I think he still has some hangups.

“No.” I turned toward the healers’ tents. One of the screams there could have been Orcish, so it was a good place to start looking. “I’d rather an orc’s honest animosity than an elf’s false tolerance. Don’t die out there, Siegfried.”

“Illara!” he called after me, worried and frustrated. When I looked back at him his jaw worked, a thousand words trying to speak themselves without reaching his tongue. After a moment he sighed and his shoulders slumped a little. “Tira ten’ rashwe,” he murmured. Be careful.

I nodded and left him.

Finding the orc took less time than finding out I was assigned to her, and she was one incredible mess. Her cheeks flushed purple with fever and her temples and forehead were nearly yellow with pain; whatever her attendants had done hadn’t been enough. I wondered if they’d even given her more than a crude bloodletting and a poultice. I doubted it; my mother’s race can be total assholes to those they deem unworthy. Orcs, Alerian elves, people who put the first course’s fork in the place of the second course’s fork, and so on. We aren’t people to them.

She glared at me. To her, I was probably just another one of those androgynous flower-blooded bastards who were giving her grief. No you don’t.

I stood as tall and straight as I could, puffed out my chest, thrust out my chin, and walked with as much force as I could manage. “Kon,” I growled, thumping my chest. “Ashdautas Erirag Vrasubatlat.”

As far as Orcish goes, that was a polite greeting. I gave her a word to identify me by and told her I would kill her someday. Hopefully she’d be equally courteous with her reply.

[Erirag the Poet]

Kon. Erirag regarded the elf for a moment. The thing with dogs was that they came in many flavors. Was this grey-tinted mutt a stoic guard dog or a yappy annoyance? For now, Erirag had to admit she was equal parts impressed and suspicious. She’d never been hailed in her mother tongue by an elf, and while there was something not quite right about the way this one looked she was still an elf. Erirag hauled herself up to sitting with a grunt and nodded her head at the elf who seemingly knew the Black Tongue.

“Nar udautas, Kon.” She said warily, giving the newcomer a quick look over. She gave her the standards courteous reply but something didn’t feel right about bringing her into the orcish fold just yet. She was at least honest when she told Illara that she would not be killed this day. Erirag tried her best to speak in Common, letting her clumsy words spill from her mouth like ale overflowing a shallow cup. “Zanbauri send Erirag this Kon? Send Kon with Erirag name? Why?” Her leg throbbed as she slid off the trestle and stood, still two heads taller than the half-breed despite hobbled from pain.

Erirag shook her head before she let Illara answer her questions and held out her hand in a gesture of silence. It didn’t really matter how she knew her name, or why she was here. She figured the tea she’d been given was probably poison. It wasn’t doing a damn thing for her pain, after all. However, she’d been injured worse, and she’d known countless fools who’d been no worse for the wear when wounds got infected. If it came to it, she’d set herself on fire and roll through the Red Forest, setting her path ablaze on the way to the witch within. She’d cauterize this cursed land, just as sure as she’d cauterize herself. It may have been the fever, but it didn’t sound like too bad of a plan.

Smoothing down her grass and leather skirt, Erirag began to push past the swordswoman but paused and looked down her broad nose at the woman and sniffed. Her brow furrowed as she was reminded of the check in to the tent when she first arrived, and the elves fussing over her and what role she had to play for the glory of Raiaera. At the time she could only bemoan how everything was about glory with this lot. Didn’t they know the dead were rising up amongst the trees?

“We together?” she asked Illara, gesturing between the two bodies. “We go fight?” There was a lilt of hope in her last words. Surely the best remedy for her pain and samund was found in the fury of her fists.

[The Mongrel]

“We together,” I told her, honestly glad that she spoke Trade. I knew a few hundred words of her language and had a loose grasp on grammar and syntax (which made me about as fluent as the average orc, really), but I have a delicate elven throat. A day of choking on those rough and barbed consonants would rip it to shreds. Even if she knew some of my native tongue, she’d never get the subtle intonations around those huge tusks. Trade was a good compromise.

I stepped past her, deeper into the tent. The rancid stench of pus overlaid the bitter tang of medicine, drawing bile up to my throat. I forced it down; I’ve lived in worse and I needed to know just how bad her care had been. Blood-soaked rags told of crude surgery, a cup showed they’d at least tried some sort of remedy for either her pain or her fever. The dregs were a greenish-brown color; it was indeed a painkiller. Hell, a cup that size would knock me on my ass.

Neither the dose nor the actual medicine were anywhere near sufficient for an orc. “We go get clean water,” I answered her other question, nodding at the frustrated growl. Yup. Bitch work. I didn’t like it either. I was willing to bet that my brother had arranged for me to have something simple, close to dozens of warriors bristling with weapons, and relatively safe. They’d probably put the orc with me because they didn’t trust either of us and if we went and got ourselves killed (or killed each other), they really didn’t care.

I grabbed a couple of empty pails on our way out, leading Erirag toward the forest and digging into a pouch at my hip. I brought out two pieces of rough bark, each as big as my hand. I offered them to her. “Willow bark, from Corone. To help with pain. Good for fever."

Though using Trade, I still spoke like an orc, a little low, a little harsh, with very simple words and barely-there sentence structure. After all, if I were half-crippled by injuries and infection, I’d appreciate someone who used language I could understand, especially if I were going out of my way to speak their tongue.

We left the camp behind, letting its clamor and bustle slowly dim to nothingness beneath the forest’s sinister rustles. White tents and colorful pennants gave way to crimson foliage and a sea of thorns. When I could no longer hear the snap of orders or the screams of wounded, I dropped the buckets and turned to Erirag.

“Fuck those bastards and fuck their horses for good measure.” Both the expletives and the suddenness of them brought a smile to my companion’s face, but nowhere near as much as my next words did. “How would Erirag’s blood sing to smash Pode’s teeth down her throat?”

She wanted to fight. I wanted to fight. Together we were going to kill.

[Erirag the Poet]

The delight Erirag felt was tangible. She huffed happily and stood just a bit straighter as she hopped over one of the fallen buckets. Her clenched fists rose to beat on her chest a few proud thumps. She was relieved that the elf didn’t want to play it safe or coddle her. Her glee was only magnified by her new companion’s spirit. It almost didn’t feel as if this Kon was an elf at all.

“Erirag sing from ancient blood,” she said with a guttural laugh. The chuckle both rumbled and lilted, as if the shuddering of a mountain could hide a schoolgirl. Her lute was in her hands from her back, her fingers stroking the stretched elf hide that covered the rosewood body. As a makeshift tune peddled around them, the forest grew thicker. The thorns beneath their feet were growing thicker, with game trails less noticeable as they traveled though they stuck to a main avenue likely forged by deer or dur’taigen.

“Art!” she sang, the tune slowly turning to a jovial jig. “Lulri ongob, bajat zahovar farkishi – hodhat jashat drautan afar flak!”
Fortune! Roses of iron, created like a diamond by the forge – thrown out to shine by the flame!”

After a moment of strumming the tune again more thoughtfully, she looked down at Illara. The visceral joy in her words as she suggested they forget the water and go for Podё. The Iron Rose was an apt title for the Kon, she decided. She wondered where all that iron came from. After all, Erirag had never met an elf who wasn’t as snooty as they were disposable.

“You elf? But you not lulgijak. Kon more like uruk. Erirag like it. But not know why?” She made a face as she glanced over the woman again. “Kon look different than lulgijak too. Just little amount.”

As they had walked, Erirag had the presence of mind to sweep the brush under their feet for signs of the more dangerous flora of Raiaera. She didn’t know enough to track anything here, but she at least had some knowledge of blood vines and soul flowers. It was enough that she was wary of any vine that moved beyond the wind, thorns with suckers, and flowers too beautiful for their own good. However, she never saw the gleam of light ahead through the trees.

[The Mongrel]

“More than a hundred winters ago, Alerelf man force his shati on Raiarelf woman. Kon born before next winter. From first breath, Kon lost, Kon trash, unwanted by tribe, unwanted by gods, unwanted by memory.”

That answered Erirag’s questions about my looks, with the easily understood subtext that my only choices in life were to be strong – be iron – or to be dead. I’d even managed to translate Unfounded’s mantra into orcish concepts. I was actually proud of myself at that moment; usually I needed weeks to convince half-blooded orcs that I wasn’t the same sort of flowery snit as the rest of my pointy-eared race, but within an hour, a full blood had not only freely granted that I had some iron to me, she’d compared me favorably to one of her own race.

I suppose the situation had something to do with her quick acceptance of me. I was probably the first person in Raiaera to treat Erirag with any sort of respect. I not only saw her needs, but I rose to meet them, and it wasn’t with a dismissive ‘you go, you smash.’

I think that’s the problem with most of my race; they’re so busy finding insufficiencies in people who aren’t like them to see that they really aren’t so great, themselves. Me? I’d rather an orc than an idiot – and the one I walked the Lindequalme beside was no fool.

"Why Erirag hunt in Red Forest? Why Erirag answer call? Lulgijakri deserve no orcish iron. Did Erirag come for Erirag?"

We stalked through the Red Forest, pressing deeper into its bloody brambles. Erirag kept watch around us for carnivorous flora and other unpleasant surprises, so I let my senses roam farther afield. My ears filtered out my partner’s heavy breaths and listened for crackling steps in the dead leaves or claws scraping in the branches above our heads. My eyes pierced the foliage, seeking shapes and colors that didn’t match the surrounding trees or temperatures that glowed too hot or too cold.

As such, I saw the light breaking through leaves and branches ahead of us. I suspected that it was once meant to shine soothing silver, but corruption or magical decay had turned it eerie blue. It called to me, murmuring assurances of vindication and validation, of power and freedom. It hummed, it sang, it mesmerized me, and I walked toward it.

At least, I walked until a massive paw grabbed me around the shoulders, hauling me back and up. A thorny vine whipped through the area I’d stood an instant before, little mouths gaping with bloodlust. It swung back at me, but my sword flashed out, finely-forged mythril that still glowed with starlight. The severed rusilek fell to the ground with a gory spurt of crimson juice, writhing weakly toward Erirag’s feet before it stilled.

The orc and I looked at each other for a moment, eye level for the first time. She held me like a rag doll, and I doubted she could tell the difference in weight. I’ve got iron to me, but her bicep was still almost as thick as my waist. “Nice save.”

“What Kon do?!" She set me down gently, letting my feet touch the ground before releasing me instead of just dropping me. If we weren’t on genuinely good terms, she’d have slammed me down or flung me. I really like how straightforward orcs are; it lets me know just how delicately I need to act around them. Right then, I was at a point where I could probably survive a mistake or two, but I wouldn’t make the mistake of thinking we were truly friends yet. We had yet to shed blood in battle together.

I pointed. “Light ahead. Blue. Magic. Erirag want stay here and Kon go scout ahead, or Erirag want go together?”

[Erirag the Poet]

“Together,” Erirag said in a grunt, nodding her head. Something wasn’t quite right. If the orc had to guess which of the two of them would be captivated by some magic in the woods, she wouldn’t have guessed the healthy, stealthy halfling. She was loathe to take her attention away from the brush and trees after Illara’s near-miss with the blood vine, but as they moved down the lane to the clearing ahead Erirag began to see glimpses of light. The bard fell out of step with her shorter compatriot, stopping to scratch the side of her neck as she stared through the dark copse of trees that massed before them. There was just enough space between them for the game trail that they followed to birth a true path, sheaves of slate stone erupting from the thick forest floor like nails clawing their way up to the surface.

It was fitting that the path leveled and led to a small mausoleum. The circular building was formed in marble and glass, catching the pools of light that spilled from the russet canopy like wine on a mirror. It was blush and blood, and the closer they got they glimpsed the dark lines of lead along the glass that traced out a scene. The color had long since faded from the glasswork, leaving only a vague outline and the barest hints of detailing that had once told a story in stained glass.

You’ll never tell that kind of story. You are so small compared to the epics. You’re nothing but an insect.

The sudden upheaval of criticism stopped Erirag in her tracks. She stood at the edge of the steps of the tomb, staring at the Raiaeran script that edged the top of the doorway. Morning glory vines twisted along the columns outside and sprouted and tunneled in the groove around the arched doorway. The violet flowers opened like trumpets.

Far more majestic instruments to sing battle songs than an old lute played by fat, flailing fingers.

The words resounding in her mind were framed in her inner voice, more eloquent than she knew herself to be but fully understood. What had she done since she set out to find greater stories than could be told on the mountains of Alerar? She’d merely been killed, injured, infected, and left in the presence of humans who would never understand her, befriending half orcs and half elves, completely segregated from the only family or tribe she’d known. For all the kinship she’d found out in the world, here she stood in front of a beautiful hall of death and remembrance for beings much older and greater than the either of them, and she stood there alone.

Erirag had been forming an answer to Illara when the vine had struck, and the words she had found were lost. Now, her heart beating wildly in her chest and a sense of unease and great loneliness creeping in on her shoulders, new words came crashing down. She gasped as if they’d been running for days. Erirag tried to make her body smaller, hunching down as her doubts began to grow.

“Erirag came for nothing. Erirag have no use for Raiaera, for lulgijakri. Erirag just have bad dumb songs and shame. Erirag no urukhai.” Her voice was soft, her words choking. It was the deepest lament she’d ever voiced, and she truly felt that it would be her last.

[The Mongrel]

Here they sleep beneath the sky,
Brave Singers of Light who fought the Death Song.
May the Stars smile upon their rest,
And they defend us as in life, in death.

The inscription carved into the red-stained marble sent a chill prickling up my spine. There was old magic on this tomb, easily corrupted magic. Rumors at both the base camp and the checkpoint spoke of walking dead among the Lindequalme’s trees. They’d suggested that the undead were Pode’s doing, not leftovers from Xem’zund’s devastating march through Raiaera. If that was true, where better to raise the dead than at a tomb consecrated to the elvish pantheon, where a score of vengeful warriors lay waiting for their chance?

What better targets to sic them on than an elf they’d only see as Alerian and an orc?

Erirag’s voice, thick with despair, broke upon my thoughts, banishing them for this one: I could not afford to have a seven-foot tall siege machine having an emotional breakdown today. But I felt like I knew the source of her turmoil; I’d heard it hundreds of times before. My companion was lost and misbegotten, friendless, faithless, and forgotten. While I would never be as convincing as the man who had brought me into the Unfounded fold or as eloquent as the half-orc I had steadfastly loved, I had dealt with similar breakdowns, sometimes under supremely dangerous circumstances

I tilted my head so I could look at her. Sweat and sweltering humidity had her hair clinging to her skin, her lungs choked on the fetid air. “Erirag Erirag. Erirag here, so Erirag decide what Erirag is. Uruk, noldo, shara, shakutarbik. All different. All same. Erirag sing from blood, from iron. Erirag have shame? Then Erirag sing louder. Sing truer. Sing of living, because Erirag alive. Sing of knowing, because Erirag sees. Sing of steel, because Erirag went further, grew stronger.”

The hazy orange light of the Lindequalme, lanced through the shadows of the leaves and danced on the orc’s skin. She didn’t straighten, didn’t acknowledge my attempt to reassure her, so I raised my hands a little to exhort her to confidence. “Erirag not urukhai? Then be death itself.”

A contemptuous voice slithered into my consciousness, as beautiful and powerful and cold as a rushing river during spring's thaw. My brother’s voice. ”You would compare orcs and elves equally? No wonder you went and found worth only among the unworthy, if you can think of the green-skins any better than rooting swine. Miserable halfbreed.”

My mouth twisted. I’m going to stab him when I get out of here.

That thought vanished into smoke when metal and bones started to rustle behind me. With targets close, the dead stirred from their sepulchers. Perhaps they thirsted for living blood or hungered for living flesh. More likely they just wanted to slay living enemies. They were consecrated as eternal guardians of Raiaera, but with their conviction corrupted, their targets were us.

“Let us shed blood together. Or will long-dead lulgijak kill Erirag today?”

[Erirag the Poet]

From within the monument, the Canad had woken from their mythical slumber. It had been meant for them to stay asleep forever, with the magic in their relics and memories to feed the enchantment on their tomb. Their legacy had kept the grounds safe, the arch of the doorway a haven for travelers for centuries. Now the doorway bulged and strained, the looping vines and stalks of morning glory snapping and shifting as the Bladesingers behind the door shoved. After a moment of silence, the doors burst forth, spilling the mythic champions onto the terrace.

Four tall, armor clad elves emerged and immediately the time that had seemed to stand still while whispers tickled at Erirag’s senses and brought down her spirit was brought back to life. Two of the figures leapt towards her. One was a woman, who seemed familiar somehow though Erirag couldn’t quite tell how. Most of her face was obscured behind a gleaming helm that protected all but blonde braids that fell freely. Her mythril armor was studded with gems, and pauldrons encrusted with quartz points glowed the same strange shade of green as the edge of the claymore she held in her hands. Her partner was dressed more in robes, though he too was lavished in crystal and wore the face mask. He had a longsword at his side, though twin daggers flashed in his hands as he began to weave a spell.

“What Erirag?” she asked, her voice as small as her hunched form. She rolled to the side just as a slash of green flame leapt from the sorcerer, standing tall in the face of the paladin that brandished her blade at the orc. “Erirag duumpat.” As far as she was concerned, she was doomed. They were all doomed. The voices in her head were growing louder, distorted by the sound of her heartbeat. Her forehead was burning, sweat pouring down her back. Her leg was bleeding through the wrappings, and she was growing less and less sure of herself. She somehow felt that she would die here, alone. However, there was one voice coming through, that of the half elf. Illara had a point. She was going to die, but it wouldn’t be at the hands of a frilly, wine drinking, flower sniffing elfson.

The bard screamed, fury and power in her lungs and charged. She swatted at the claymore, batting the blade to the side even as it sliced deep into her arm. She’d been dealing with pain for hours now, and the cut was dulled by adrenaline she’d been feeding on since infection had taken hold of the letters carved in her thigh. She was tired, and weaker, but still angry enough to cause damage.

With the blade out of the way, the elf was left before her. Surprised eyes widened behind the mask, maybe green but darkened enough so that Erirag could not tell. The claymore was abandoned and the elf ducked as Erirag tried to grab her face. The damage of the sword was done. Erring looked and saw an aura surround her forearm. It was as if Podë’s red mist from the other day was engulfing her flesh. While she paused and stared, the sorcerer had prepared another spell. A verdant flash of light struck her and suddenly the entire world was awash with red and pain. Erirag gasped and fell to the ground. There, she began to see.

[The Mongrel]

Bladesinger and Spellsinger advanced on me, mirror images of the pair who attacked Erirag. The Spellsinger raised her hands for the first time in Stars only remembered, raising dusky voice to the heavens to call upon the powers that fuelled her. ”Aaye Megillion,” she started, calling on the Silver-Star to strengthen her companion’s arms and swiften his feet so he could slay the enemy who had encroached upon Belegwain i Beleg and purify it from her breath.

Racist bastards. You’re out of touch with the world and definitely not calling upon the Stars right now. My sword seemed to agree. The starlight that lingered in it from the earlier fight in the Dur’Taigen mansion tinged an angry red and rippled up and down its length.

I had little time to worry about the mage. The Bladesinger stepped toward me, a wall of mythril plate and military training. Though just awakened from centuries of slumber, his steps were sure and straight, his sabatons stamped upon the ground, driving me back before he ever leveled his longsword at me.

We stared at each other over our blades, watching for the slightest flinch or weakness. His golden eyes flashed contempt for the mangy halfbreed who dared challenge him, with her flimsy armor, her half-trained stance, and the rage in her face. I stared at him, noting the winged helm, the fact that every aspect of him still gleamed after gods knew how long asleep, the confidence in his posture and the stern set of his face.

”How fitting you should meet your death at the hands of one of my eminently worthy brothers-in-arms,” Siegfried’s voice spat into my ear. ”I never could tolerate you enough to put you out of your misery myself. And how I tried.”

“Shut up.” I wasn’t sure if I was speaking at the Bladesinger’s judgmental glare or my brother’s words.

”You don’t think I protected you from Father for your benefit, do you?”

“Shut up.”

”And don’t think I didn’t see you shadowing me, trying to be me. How could a wicked, weak little worm like you ever think you could rise above the ground?

“SHUT UP!” I raised my sword, slashing at the armored figure who stood before me. Each of my blows struck with vicious speed, seeking vital organs. I didn’t care of this armored son of a whore was my brother, or one of his esteemed ancestors, or someone completely lost to history. He would fall before me like a birch before the lumberjack.

Except he didn’t. He brushed off each of my enraged attacks with stoic indifference, sweeping me aside again and again. He barely shifted his stance, matching my swiftness as though he was outmaneuvering a slug. He didn’t attack, merely defended. Behind us, lost in the staccatto of violence, the Spellsinger kept droning on.

Suddenly, her voice fell silent. The world rushed and warped around me, as though I was under water. The orange and blue that gleamed from the Bladesinger’s armor in an intricate dance sped up to angry, blinding blades of light. My feet and arms fought through the air like it was molasses, and a thought slowly dawned on me.

She wasn’t invoking speed for him. She was taking it from me. That seemed to be the Bladesinger’s cue; he batted my sword aside as if it were a bee, then brought his sword around.

His fist and pommel smashed against the side of my head, sending bright lights exploding across my vision. My equilibrium failed and I fell, crashing and tumbling with all the coordinated grace of a wheel of cheese through the musty dead leaves and twigs that scraped and scratched my face. I ended up with a root stabbing into my spine, dizzily gazing at the branches overhead.

“Mousie forgot promise,” a sad rumble murmured into my ear. “Mousie die here. Not come back to Mutt. Not come back home.”

My heart broke into a thousand pieces at my mate’s lament. Where Siegfried’s taunting had only enraged me, I had no armor against Mutt, so his words cut right into my core. I laid in the leaf litter, dazed and deserted, bleeding and broken. Distantly, I could hear heavy boots crunching ever closer.

You were supposed to come with me. You promised.

“Cannot come so far as you. Mousie should have stayed in Corone. Mousie does not deserve all that Mutt gave her.”

“No,” I whispered, watching a stern silver soldier slowly fill my vision. “Mousie deserved nothing.”

I waited for the stab that would end me. Be careful, brother? Did you mean that I should take care to die?

[Erirag the Poet]

Whether it was by the Spellsinger’s magic or the rage of the fever, Erirag thought she could see thick vines rising from her wounds, glistening with her blood. The elves would trap her in this forest to die as all things here died. Eventually she would be nothing but flowers and dirt. As Illara fell across the short yard, Erirag saw the gilded greaves of the knight move to where her massive sword had been cast. It was over, they were dead. The bard found herself thinking that it would be nice to rest, to succumb to her illness and fatigue and fall asleep on the forest floor. Her death may be more merciful that way.

Nar mat kordhishi.

The orcish phrase was one she had not heard in some time. The voice was familiar and as Erirag raised her amber eyes from the scramble of dirt and grass, she saw a figure standing before her. The grey orc before her was clad in iron armor, a spear grasped in a heavy hand. It was the image of Otto Bastum as she remembered him, when they faced foes for Lornius. She pursed her lips, growling at the image. She had thought of Otto as her brother, but her death in front of him at the hand of Ciato Orlouge had pushed her to hide away. It had been years now, she thought. She’d humbled herself, sure, but he didn’t have the right to judge her. As the elf began to step towards them, Erirag grew angry, and ashamed, but mostly confused. Was this elf coming for her now, or Otto? She didn’t know, or care. She wasn’t letting her win.

“Vanwacca innas atsa alyё sûl sui gwÎ..” the incantation was dying down and the image of Otto solidified, as if before he was simply the fog rolling in the morning before a hurricane. Now the half orc felt real and stepped toward Erirag.

“You disgust me. I thought we were equals. You’re just a beast.” He said.

It felt like the words she’d been saying to herself, but coming from him it felt stranger. Perhaps it was the time or the distance, but she wasn’t sure if it were something he would actually say. His presence felt shrouded in darkness, much like her own. Maybe this was how life ended, Erirag thought, with all your regrets coming back to haunt you. That thought made the orc furrow her brow and lift herself off the ground. What exactly did she have to regret? That she had found brotherhood in unlikely places? That was worth celebrating. The fog that came with the Spellsinger’s magic made her feel as if she needed to surrender but there was a force stronger than the illusion of defeat. Orcs were practical, their sense of honor bound by orcish reason. The feelings inflicted on her were those of humans and elves, and for a moment Erirag had lost herself. In Otto’s last words she found her true spirit. The illusions wanted a beast? She would give them a beast.

As the knight faced Erirag, the orc raged and gnashed her teeth. She grunted loudly and then reached for her opponent. The elf maiden danced out of her grasp and brought the pommel of her gigantic sword down to Erirag’s head. The orc caught the blow with her shoulder, brushing off the pain and shot her hand out. Meaty fingers grasped around the faceplate of the mythril helm and while Erirag couldn’t crush it in her grip, she managed to rip the millinery right off the head of blonde hair. It was discarded, thrown aside as it tumbled and clanged on the tiled walkway that led and slowly sank into the forest. The sound of metal on stone echoed through the trees, punctuated only by the heavy heave of breaths the opponents took and the rustle of wind in the leaves. Erirag hardly paid attention to it. Her ears were filled with the pounding strike of her heartbeats and the leftover whispers of doubt the spell had placed. Bright blue eyes watched her, exposed without the shadow of armor to hide them. Erirag had been right. She did know this face.

This was the same elf that stared at her before her dreamed death just days before. This was the elven face that knew her name. Now she said nothing, merely lunged, slamming her forehead into the orc’s chin. As Erirag was pushed back by the force of the assault, the paladin once more brought her blade over her head to strike. Erirag twisted, moving around the dropping edge. Faster than she could have imagined moving in her state, fueled by the chaos that raged inside of her, Erirag found her grip around the maiden’s throat. She jerked. She twisted. There was a snap, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a gasp, and the Bladesinger fell, the green light that had engulfed her weapon dying out as she did.

It was as if she could feel a weight drop off. Looking down, she saw the vines and mist she’d seen pouring from the open slash on her forearm were gone. A jet of heat and bright light jetting past brought her attention back to the fore. The Spellsinger was still alive, moving back as if he meant to hide behind the marble hall. How dumb this mage, Erirag thought to herself with a zealous grin. He couldn’t hide. None of the ancient Bladesinger, not a single one of the Canad, could hide from her wrath. And why should they? They were only going to die. It shouldn’t be something to run from. There were worse things than death lurking in the crimson light pouring through the trees.

[The Mongrel]

A blurry figure filled my vision, looking down on me. Through the warping and distortion of the Hinder spell, the blurred vision that accompanied the new dent in my skull, and the hostility of the forest itself, I could almost see my half-orc lover standing over me, ready to punish me for the sin of leaving the land of his rest.

See the shape of truth!

A woman’s whisper resounded through my head, chasing away the pain and the fog. The world stabilized in my vision, the unnatural weight fell from my limbs. Urgency and command rang in her tone; I couldn’t not focus.

Cold, hard metal pressed down on my ribcage, forcing a breath from my lungs. The Bladesinger glared down on me from beneath his gaudy winged helm. His sword hovered over my chest, ready to drop the fatal blow. When he spoke, his voice might have been sharper than his weapon. “Have you any final words, Tel’gothra?”

What a gentleman, wanting to hear me beg for my life before he took it. I opened my mouth to swear at him instead, to curse him and his ancestors and his descendants. The words that fell from my lips were far different than I intended.

“Though shadow wraps around me, I stand in woundrous light. The Stars shine bright above me; I do not fear the night.” It was a prayer to Aurient, the Star-Mother, invoking her protection against the forces of evil. The blue and red light cast by the mausoleum vanished, replaced by a silver-white blaze. The entire clearing glowed with the light of ten thousand stars.

The Stars were listening… and they had answered me. I guess sometimes even the gods are forced to use what’s available, even if it’s not their first choice.

The Bladesinger’s eyes widened, his sword lowered, and the weight on my belly lightened. I took his surprised recoil for all it was worth, wrenching my body away and darting up the gnarled and twisted remains of the corrupted ash tree I'd landed beneath. Both elves stared up at me, naked shock written upon their features. The Spellsinger raised her hands once more, starting to weave her arcane words.

“Aaye Megillion doesn’t work when you’re praying to Pode.” I sheathed my sword, grabbing my bow from my back and nocking an arrow. Below me, the Bladesinger gripped his sword and started to chant, so I retracted the grip on my boots and kicked off, sliding away as though the branch had been greased.

My brother’s voice murmured in my ear, desperately trying to distract and discourage me, but I pushed him aside, just as I had earlier, just as I had half a century ago. I am not an Alfheim, and the Alfheim have no power over me.

I lined up my target and let fly three shafts, one after another. Aaye Cuarye, Swift-Star, Nimble! Let my arrows fly true. My target - the mage - dodged one humming bolt and blocked a second magically. The third spun through her eye and burst through the back of her head. I let out a whoop of triumph and leapt from the tree, executing a graceful backflip just because I could.

My sword - glowing as brightly as the consecrated building - came to my right hand as my feet touched the freshly shining marble, followed by an iron dagger in my left. The Bladesinger glowered at me, equal measures confused and angry, but he started marching forward, sword held defensively in front of him.

“Let me show you how an Aaye Megillion really works, whoreson.”

[Erirag the Poet]

“You friend know Erirag, how?” she asked as she advanced on the Spellsinger. He flipped the daggers his hands, letting them spin and dance as if they had life of their own. She couldn’t see his mouth, but with elves you can see their sneer radiate from the eyes as if their contempt was a spell in itself.

“Podë has given us many gifts,” the Spellsinger hissed, the sound muffled from beneath his mask. The garnet set along the bridge of the nose gleamed for a moment and then flashed as brilliant silver light erupted from the right. The mausoleum was glowing as if it had been filled with stars, and the elf before her raised his hands, using his arms and robes to shield his vision from the light. The bard saw her opening and moved forward, blindly seeking the mage. Her fingers brushed the soft robes, buried themselves though she could feel the unyielding plate of armor beneath them. Sneak elf, she thought as she wrapped her hand around his upper arm and jerked him closer so that she could grab at his face as she had his partners.

His knives whirled out, trying to cut her neck. The sharp bite of blade on her cheek distracted her, and she waved away his attacks, not wanting to lose her eyes. Erirag could see better now, the form of her opponent beneath her coming into clarity. She was sure he was recovering more quickly, and as the point of one of his enchanted daggers buried itself in her wrist, she let him go and stepped back reflexively. The mist swirled from that wound as it had her arm before, though smaller. In her mind, the doubt made another surge. The orc found that this time, however, her resolve was strong enough to banish the guilt, the uncertainty, and move back to her purpose.

“Po-day not smart,” Erirag taunted the elf, brutalizing the witch’s name. “Smart boss know important gifts not worth giving to worms. Keep gifts for self, squish worms. Worm only know how crawl on box. Never really open it.”

The Spellsinger growled and lifed his chin and hands to the sky. As he began an incantation that would surely reduce the orc to nothing but a memory, Erirag leapt forward. She landed in a crouch and reached for the only thing she could reliably grab, the longsword at his side. As she ripped it out of it’s sheath, it pulled the elf forward. He stumbled right into the orc’s forward stab. The blade found itself resheathed in his neck, his song cut off with the awful sound of a wretch and hollow gasp, blood spurting from beneath the mask as it bubbled out of his mouth. Erring ripped the weapon from the body and raised it high, hacking down at her victim as he slumped to the forest floor. The edge bounced off the armor beneath his ribs, sounds of metal clashing ringing out sharply until finally Erirag aimed her blows and began to hack away at the back of his neck, intent on removing his head.

[The Mongrel]

“Aaye Megillion, Celebelen, Astald!”
Hail Megillion, Silver-Star, Valiant!

We closed, slashing at each other quickly and viciously before backing off. We circled, me low and loose, him tall and forceful. One on one, he would never match me for speed or agility; there are advantages to leather over full plate. If I was quick enough to catch him in the armpit or the knee, I had a chance. If I let him get a good hit on me, I was done. There are advantages to full plate over leather.

“Hyandamin naa Aman thar llie gothrim.”
Bless my blade against thine foes.

My sword sparkled and gleamed, responding to the ambient, ancient magic and the incantation that unlocked it. In response, the Bladesinger started humming, a low tune in an ominous minor key. Red and orange flushed along his blade, granting him whatever boons the Witch could grant. I took a little comfort in the consternation that slipped through his cold countenance; her power wasn't granting him the utter and immediate victory he wanted.

“Cora talwiamin e'dagora salka.”
Direct my feet in the dance of battle.

We closed once more, swords clanging and scraping across each other with blinding fury, ten times faster than our first clash. My blade sang and his crackled, Star magic and Forgotten magic fighting for dominance in the microcosm of individual combat while gearing up for the forest's soul. When the sun set on the Day of Burning, would it still be the Lindequalme, or would Belegwain i Beleg be born anew?

“Naia pustamin a'sina thaur ndengin!”
Guide my blows to destroy this abomination!

The Bladesinger's song rose to its crescendo at the same time as my invocation ended, and I shoved myself away from him, sliding across the mildly-cracked marble as though it were ice. Even so, a blast of air that sliced sharper than steel slashed the skin from my knuckles as I dodged back.

I was back on him before he could start another song, a barrage of starlight and skill. My swords struck at him faster and faster, testing his skill and maneuverability to the limit. He presented himself as a fortress, but I wanted to crack him like an egg.

His life of swordsmanship and the blessings of Pode gave him an edge, let him block me or deflect my strikes off a well-armored arm or shielded shoulder, but I was wearing away at him like spring's thaw melts winter's ice. With each exchange he grew less cautious and more frustrated, with each futile swing he extended himself more.

Finally, he sent me skidding back, an embodiment of impotent rage. He was using his fine mythril blade as a machete, not as a fine instrument of death.

Messenger takes Tower.

With a final burst of celerity, I rushed him. He swung for me – of course he did. My shortsword screamed against his longsword as I blocked it. I leaned back, letting momentum take me through his legs. My dagger plunged into the opening between his groin and his thigh, digging in and carving along the armor's groove.

His blood washed the courtyard's tiles, red as the mist, red as the trees, bitter and metallic and slick. He looked at the blood, then at me. He would not recover from the injury I gave him, but in his mind, he still had a chance at taking me with him.

“Don't. It's over. You're too slow to hit me and you'll pass out in another minute or two. You'll only die tired. Die again, anyway. The ancient consecrations have been restored; you won't be getting back up in a hurry.”

He tried mumbling a song, but as his blood rushed from his body, his voice failed him and he fell to his knees, still glaring at me. Still wishing me to die. I wasn't sure if it was because his resurrected instincts told him I was an enemy, or his living training giving him the same conviction, or if he felt betrayed that the gods of his life answered me and failed him.

“You aren't half of what you think you are, worm.”

“And I'm not a quarter of who I will be,” I answered. “I don't blame you for this, Bladesinger. You didn't ask to be raised by an enemy. You didn't ask to be her pawn. I hope you walk again in starlight, if you earned it during the life you lived.” I had won; I could afford to be charitable.

Eventually he collapsed beneath the weight of his own restored mortality. In the mausoleum's starlight, he was again a guardian of his people. Perhaps that was all he ever wanted to be. Maybe he was just trying to defend his home from the orc and Alerian who intruded, and Pode gave him that chance.

I cleaned my dagger. The sounds of carnage coming from behind the crypt sang of Erirag's success; neither of us had died this day. We had slain smarter, stronger opponents. We lived. We were strong.

But I wished I hadn't led us to the light. Stars still danced on my sword, each asking a question for which I had no answer.

Why would they choose me? The Lindequalme crawled with Bladesingers and heroes, the worthy. I was an impure mongrel, an outsider, a criminal. But twice now, the Stars had let their magic answer my call. Something had removed the Hinder spell and healed my injuries.

Why?

[Erirag the Poet]

“How Kon never say she do this? Kon make lots bad go away.” Erirag’s voice called out as she emerged from behind the building, nothing but a bloodstained mythril mask buried in one meaty fist. She was staring at Illara with wonder on her face, her large square jaw gone slack. Shaking her head she stepped past the porch of the tomb and towards her accomplice. There were a lot of questions on her mind, as well. Why would Podё send her the vision of this Bladesinger? How could she know that Erirag would stumble upon the tomb, and furthermore why would she care? If it weren’t for the healing light of Illara’s star spell, Erirag would be dead by now, she knew. Somehow the festering wound of her leg was gone, save the fetid wrappings that still clung to her thigh beneath her skirts. The small slices from the daggers the Bladesinger bore were nothing compared to the wound that Ciato Orlouge had left. Still, Erirag wasn’t sure if she should be grateful or afraid.

“Po-day,” Erirag started, gesturing with the helm. “She strong. She have many snagaz – these not most strong. Lulgijak in some bad trouble, too many troubles for Erirag and Kon fix.” She paused, thinking back on the spell that Illara had cast that seemed to give them an advantage over mages far more powerful than they. They had no right to come out alive in this fight, and the ease at which they’d dispatched their foes gave Erirag equal measures of pride and unease. To top it off, as she gazed at her partner, she saw a glint of silver in her eyes. It was as if all the starlight stored up in the sword, in the mausoleum, in the spell that Illara had woven was sleeping now in her sight. At least, Erirag was sure they’d been green before and eyes didn’t just change like that, did they? Maybe they did for elves, and it was just something she’d never known.

“Well, Kon maybe okay. Kon got magic like luljigak but heart like urukhai. Kon uruk, just look too much like elf. That okay. Lots things more important before beauty anyway.”

She scratched her head, looking back at the mausoleum. There were plenty of options in front of her. She could continue on in the quest to cleanse the Red Forest to see what happened, to gather material for the epic she would write, to die honorably in battle against the Red Witch. She could loot everything she could and go home with a bag full of mythril and gems to sell and be filthy rich, or at least rich enough not to have to raise any more barns in Corone for a few seasons. The second option sounded better the longer she dwelled on it.

She had plenty of enemies here in Lindequalmё, sure. The Red Forest was a brawler’s paradise as Podё continued to raise the damned and the dead. In the end, she just couldn’t compel herself to care about the elves. They’d made this mess. This sort of awful never happened in the mountains of Alerar, as far as she were concerned. Erirag was a practical, straightforward orc, and she could tell that this would get muddy with politics once the witch was felled. No, she thought, she would much rather leave the elves to their own doom and find a better story somewhere else.

“Erirag come to see Red Forest. It ugly. Too many elf problems. Erirag gonna go home.” She finally said to Illara. Even as she said it, something inside of her choked up with dread. Podё was certainly a manipulator or a liar, but one thing she’d gotten right was that Erirag wasn’t really sure where home was anymore, or if she even deserved to have one.

[The Mongrel]

“Kon have no magic,” I explained to Erirag, though I was not sure she would believe me. “Tomb have magic, old magic put on it by very powerful shamans.” Star priests, but the idea was the same. “Kon know the words to make the magic work, but it is not part of Kon.”

Then again, how would I know? Out of fear and bitterness, I had never made an effort.

More important in the moment, I had been accepted as an orc by an orc. There was no higher praise Erirag could have offered me, especially since I'd just been another lulgijak such a brief time before. “Erirag give Kon much honor. Kon would gladly fight with Erirag again.” I thumped my chest, a staccato beat of sincerity.

I looked to the south-west, deeper into the heart of the Lindequalme. Pode lay within, as did her minions. If I turned around, I would likely survive. I'd be reamed out by the sergeant for not completing the task assigned to me, and then if my brother made it back to camp he'd tear into me as well, for going to fight when that wasn't his intent for me. Even though he'd summoned me to Raiaera for the Day of Burning. (Brothers don't make any sense.)

I wiped a stray lock of hair and about a gallon of sweat from my brow. “Kon can't go back with Erirag. Kon have questions, Kon have... Kon not know word. Kon not know what. But Kon need go in forest. Maybe to death.” Probably to death.

I looked to my companion, who nodded in silent understanding. Sometimes alliances ended abruptly, and that was all right. It didn't make the fire we'd faced worthless. “Kon have home in Radasanth now. Have tribe all across Corone. Not born into tribe, tribe formed by blood. If Erirag go to big city in Corone, go to bad part of town. Ask around for Mongrel. Kon's tribe will find Erirag. If Kon live, we will eat much meat and drink much mead.”

“If Kon die in forest,” the green giantess mused around her tusks, “Erirag sing to tribe of victory here.” The orc turned to go, making her way to the trail that had led us two urukhai to the crypt in the first place. Within a few steps I could no longer see her, a few seconds after that her footsteps faded into the eerie rustling of the forest.

Utter stillness fell upon the clearing. A cool wind blew, lifting the Lindequalme's oppressive heat and sending the blood-read leaves skittering over the cracked marble tiles. It bent back the branches overhead, letting sunlight flood the little clearing for the first time in gods only knew how long. The life-giving light kissed my face and hair, then concentrated into one bright spot on the edge of the clearing. A path unfolded before my eyes, and I knew that I would follow it to whatever end it led. My mouth went dry and suddenly my light leather armor seemed oppressively heavy; I had no death wish. I just couldn't see another way forward.

My eyes drifted from the path to the crypt, to the figures carved around its broken doors, to the inscriptions that warded off evil and the silver light that still sparkled across its glass. Then I drew my sword and began my journey anew, this time asking the gods' protection.

What could it hurt?


“Though shadow wraps around me,
I stand in wondrous light.
The Stars shine bright above me;
I do not fear the night.

Though I walk into peril,
Though waves roil from the deep,
The Stars shine bright above me;
I do not fear to sleep.

Though death stalks with his sickle,
His minions I defy.
The Stars shine bright above me;
I do not fear to die.”

Finito. Spoils Requests:

Erirag: An ornate mythril helm, set with seven carats of garnet.

Illara: Star-kissed sword: Illara's mythril sword is imbued with starlight. It will glow when drawn against undead, evil, or cursed creatures, and does twice its normal damage when it strikes them.

Star-lit sight: Illara is able to see the safest route through wilderness.

[Max Dirks]

This was the best written thread of the second round. Mechanical mistakes were minimal and your clarity score was only hurt by some semi-colons. There were certain places, Mongrel, where a connecting word (like but) would make the writing flow better than ending the thought with a semi-colon. Other strengths included persona and communication. The ongoing banter between Illara and Erirag was excellent. Mongrel, you truly showed the depth of your character as you adapted to Erirag's manner of speech. Storywise, the major fault was the ending. After your romp, it was disappointing to see the characters go their own way. It was anticlimatic. Another area for improvement is action. As I mentioned on the way to Boston, it was somewhat unclear who was attacking who during the primary battle with the dual Blade and Spellsingers. You also could have improved both your communication and action scores here if you would have combined efforts.

Team 8 Judgment

Story: 5
Setting: 5
Pacing: 6
Action: 5
Communication: 6
Persona: 7
Mechanics: 8
Technique: 6
Clarity: 7
Wildcard: 5

Total: 60/100

Erirag the Poet receives 767 EXP and 96 GP
The Mongrel receives 767 EXP and 96 GP

You both advance to the finals!

[Lye]

EXP & GP Added!