Realm Wars: The Earthen Warriors

[Gadreille]

In the Realm of Land

It was late into the night, and none could see the faint glow of magic eminating from the group of four, shrouded from sight by the thick forest canopy. It was an ancient magic that was only granted to the purest of hearts. This magic was supposed to be the salvation of the Realms; it was their only hope for survival. There was a member from each realm...A mer, an Avian, a Dragon, and a Centaur. The magic pulsed through their bodies, thrusting them up and down, side to side, their bodies trembling with the power. The Avian was the first to go. Her wings spread out wide, her arms thrown outward and legs pinned to the ground, her body seemed to melt into the blackness that arose from where her toes dug into the earth. A sigh escaped her lips as her life was taken from her, reaching out into time and space to find who was to be their salvation. The other three were given a moment of conciousness to grieve their fallen comrade; then they too were taken. The art of languages was pulled from Dragon, who had until the present been in human form. His human form fell away and suddenly there was a great, winged silver dragon, but even his greatness was not enough to save him. He died, and into the portal went his power to command all languages. The Centaur's eyes were blurry from tears as he saw his friend's life be wasted. No...not wasted. It had a purpose. Then the Mer, who was also in her human form, fell to the ground, writhing, her human form stripped from her, leaving her a literal fish out of water. She grasped at her throat, and the power of breath was stolen from her and sent to line the portal. The Centaur knelt, placing a hand over her eyes, closing them, but her pale blue lips showed no hint of life. Then he too, died, his spirit entangling into the portal as well. He was to be the voice of them all, though they were all there in spirit...trapped within that portal until those who came through saved them, or all perished trying.

---

Virginia, 1776: American Revolution


Simon was hopelessly lost in the Dismal.

He has barely escaped the fort with his life...orders had been to flee, and not get caught. Normally Simon was a natural at finding his way, but the Dismal was nothing short of evil; a tangled swamp with no beginning and certainly no end. He had wandered for days; bugs of all sorts had all but eaten him alive, and yet he could scarcely find anything to eat himself. He hadn't slept in two days, not daring sleep with enemy so close. If the red coats didn't find him, the Indians might. Simon wiped his brow, his black hair falling back into his face. He struggled to inhale, the heat and humidity so oppressive he felt he could no longer breathe. Finally, he fell against a log, curling up onto its roots to be off of the shaky false ground. A hysteric laugh excaped his lips. I'm going to die out here! He thought, laughing even as he thought it. He dreamed of home, and wondered if the farm was still standing. All of the landowners around here had been stripped to feed the continental army. Perhaps his family had fared better than the families he had run into...but as quakers, there was little love for them on either side of the war.

God if I get out of here, I'll stop fighting, he thought, but it was an empty promise to an empty god. Simon Carpenter was a fighter, it was in his blood. He didn't know why, but sitting still was not his style, and a reason why this swamp was going to eat him alive. He couldn't fight it, and inside he knew the best way to survive would be to sit still and wait, but he couldn't. Who could he wait for? A british soldier to take him captive, or worse? A native indian who could torture him for the pleasure of it? The off chance he found another patriot out here was slim, and even slimmer if he found one that wasn't worse off than he. No, he couldn't wait.

As if by magic, there was suddenly a light ahead...and a man, on horseback! Simon squinted, the back of his conciousness wondering how that man could get his horse to ride through this forsaken swamp. The man beckoned him forward, but Simon was wary. Against the light he was a mere silhouette, and Simon had no idea who he was or what army he belonged to. Simon moved to turn away, perhaps he could escape between the tangled trees where the horse could not reach. He felt that he was moving, but to his horror he realized it was not forward, but backward. Simon grabbed his rifle, swinging it over his head and behind him to try and sever whatever rope he had been caught with. He was being dragged through the sludge, and he cried out in realization that he could not cut the binding, and searched on his body for whatever rope the man must have tossed around him. He felt nothing, but suddenly instead of being dragged he was flying, flying past the rider who he realized, to his horror, looked like some strange beast of old, a horse body with the head replaced by the body of a man... he flew past him, into the light -

And then darkness.

---

In the Realm of Ocean

Lyra opened her eyes. She was lying on a bed of twisted kelp, in a private cove within her luxurious home. She had all the comforts of the Sea, but she had not slept well. She hadn't slept well since the disappearance of her beloved cousin, a mere three days ago. Her cousin had been a prominent voice in keeping the Realm of Mer out of the war, but with her absense, and little proof of what might have happened to her, Lyra found that doubt crept into her soul. She did not trust the Dragons, nor the Avian, and while Land pleaded for her people to remain distant, the war was still coming on to them. The times of standing on the fence were ending, and there was a choice she was going to have to make.

She had awoken with a shock in her heart, like when something really terrible happens in a dream and all one can do is wake from it. But Lyra did not remember the dream, nor had time to think of it. She brushed out her long emerald hair, pieces of it floating around her as it pulled away from the main mass. She was Queen Coral, and she had little time for fretting over dreams. Serpents all but lined her doorstep, and who wasn't dying facing these vermin, were dying on shore. She wasn't sure if the serpents were aligned with another realm, or just private monsters within her own very large one. She also didn't know who was responsible for those who had gone missing on the shoreline. It was common for those of Mer to come ashore, transforming into land bearing creatures so that they may interact with the realm of land. But this was something people feared to do now. Nearly a thousand Mer had gone missing, and she was responsible for their lives...or vengence of their deaths.

[Kyrt Malthorn]

Off the Coast of Venice, 1646: The San Barón

It was hard to tell if the swells or the cannon fire rocked the ship harder. Gabriel Antonio stumbled into the galley; there lay the wounded, wherever there was space to sit or stretch out. But those who could shrug off their wounds gritted their teeth and rammed bullets into their pistols, knowing it was perhaps their last act of defiance. Vainly, Gabriel knew. The bribes had fallen short, the San Barón was lost, and by sunup she'd be either sent to the depths or christened into a fleet under the flags of Venice.

Gabriel shook his head against the images that endured in his eyes. Images engraved in his mind just moments earlier already seemed like a lifetime ago: the galleon had boarded them, and the deck was a bloodbath. It was only a matter of time until they got below deck and stormed the San Barón right down to her hold. He struggled not to laugh at the men in their last acts of denial.

He succeeded when he found himself sitting with his back to one of the galley stools, pouring powder down his barrel. He might see the end coming, but he couldn't bring himself to give up. That nature, his sword, and the buckler he dropped beside him; these three were all he shared in common with his father.

"Well," he muttered under his beath, surveying the grim situation, "if I lay down my life here... 'Tis to be four things we've in common, Father."

The cannons had abated, but the gunfire was louder, closer. Gabriel mused over his pouch of bullets: half a dozen, after the one he dropped into his pistol barrel and packed with his ramrod.

A man in the galley leveled his pistol at the doorway, but with three cracks, he was riddled with bullets before he could get off his shot. Gabriel ducked behind the kitchen cabinets, intending to get a shot at the attackers when they entered the room. But a thunderous roll of shots near deafened him. The the screams followed, then the next volley. Worst was the silence that fell. It seemed even Gabriel's heart stopped in that instant.

His eyes fixed suddenly on a swaying bit of silver: the cook had hung a crucifix from one of the cabinets. Gabriel wanted to laugh, and were it not for the footsteps of the enemy on the deck so close, he might have. His captain was dead, his crew mates were dead, his family were long dead. What more was a man? Lord, he laughed silently, Here you leave me with nothing, but if you've a place in mind for such as I, I'm of a mind to do most anything to keep my life.

He swallowed when he realized the severity of the prayer; the mirth but the irony that had brought a pirate, son of a murderer, to it. He shut his eyes, but as if in response, a light appeared, so bright he saw it through his eyelids. Cracking them open, he thought he saw vaguely the figure of a rider.

The Pale Rider himself beckons. Why not? Far cry above getting shot or hung.

It was only fitting to complete the irony. As his last sentiment, Gabriel rammed his pistol into his belt, grabbed up his father's buckler, and wound his fingers about the hilt of his father's sword at his waist. With no affairs left to leave in order, he rocked onto his knees and tumbled headfirst into the light and, he presumed, the Final Judgment.

A sailor from Venice glanced over the counter, muttering, "Could've sworn I saw someone..."

___________________________________________________________________________________________


In the Realm of Land

"Of course." Miasarco sighed audibly and openly for anyone to hear - had there been anyone left in the swath of forest that had been reduced to ash and smoldering logs. The whole length of the valley must have been an inferno. The lynx hadn't particularly cared for the war, but after returning from a visit to an old friend down in the marshes to find the whole area he had called his home a heap of char, he was beginning to find dragon-kind rather irritating in general, and the war quite irksome.

Though it could have been a wildfire. As a lynx - with the potential of divination - he had been raised to take nothing at face value and make no assumptions. He called the mysticism hogwash, but kept to the philosophy. Assumptions made for all kinds of irritation. Especially others'.

Should have figured nobody would bother leaving Miasa so much as a note as to where they'd gone to next. Then again, why should they? They didn't like him, and he didn't like them.

The lynx padded through the blackened underbrush, deft paws avoiding any crunchy-looking leaves - for noise was bothersome and unnecessary - and his agile figure giving soot-covered branches a wide berth - because getting sooty was doubly so. There was no one place he had called his home, but there was his Secret Place.

Which turned out to be a pool much shallower than he remembered it. Though he'd seen it full not two days ago, the sandy earth was dry and cracked around the edges, leaving little more than a large puddle at its center. The work of dragon-fire, too likely.

The side of this pool had been the place of his birth. And, since it was the only place that really meant anything to him, according to his mother it was the one place he could learn to practice divination. She said Miasa valued his life; she had been that desperate to think she'd borne an oracle. She'd had delusions of grander, not for herself, but for him.

He extended his left paw over the smooth, glassy water; about the left forearm was a silver band bearing a garnet, his birthstone. It was an insatiable whim to tempting fate to lay some kind of foretelling on him now that brought him to close his eyes, recalling and mentally reciting one of the ridiculous phrases Mother had always peppered him with: release yourself, become one with this place, this place dear to you above all others - he couldn't help even thinking it with a note of sarcasm - one with the Realm, with Land, look within...

Miasa, it is a time of change: you will sacrifice your home and travel in company on a great quest.

The lynx decided laughing wasn't worth the breath. The voice was not something mystical, it was his own. Time of change? Times had already changed, and what was more, he didn't have a home left to sacrifice, so that was a given. A quest? For what, a new home? No, he knew that stemmed from his troublesome urge to go do something. It was vague, meaningless, and ultimately just free-association thoughts spewed up by his subconscious.

Companions?

He'd always known he had a side bent on self-infliction, but he never knew it was that desperate. He told himself it wasn't loneliness. He even believed it.

His paw touched the surface of the water. Eyes flying open, he jerked it back, shaking the chill liquid from his paw pads. The shock had kicked him out of his reverie, at least. His whims about the place were gone. The label "home" had hung over the valley, in his mind, a word his mother spouted so often he accepted its meaning on faith. He wiped the slate clean indifferently.

The pond's ripples almost seemed to be pointing east, and his eyes followed them. He'd never been that way. It was as good a way as any, and any way was better than the middle of a burnt wood. He'd be less likely to get sooty elsewhere.

[Silver Wolf]

Modern Day. California, United States.

Crack.

The solid smack of wood against wood wasn't so random. There was a subtle rhythm behind the strikes, measured into steps that turned the exercise into a dance. Though in this dance, there was no leader unless one had the advantage over the other. Rather this was a give and take, a strike and block, the small group listening for the next order that might change the dance routine once more. Strawberry blond hair swept up in a short bun off her neck, Alya swung the staff up, grunting when her strike was met with the desired block. These exercises tended to be boring but as the master always reminded them, fighting was one step, learning the move well enough to do them without thinking was another. And it was proved when he tried to break her partners concentration, the staff the master carried swinging down in what was meant to be a smart rap to the taller males shoulder. So she could read the surprise and pleasure when rather than make his mark, his staff was stopped by her opponent trusting his own weapon behind his back.

She tried to take the inviting opening, skipping forward a step to tag Rick before he could block. The jerk knew exactly what she was planning, even offering her all the space she wanted, before smartly rapping his staff against hers. She growled at the smart-ass grin, swinging the staff in hopes of sweeping his legs out from under him. Rather she found herself dumped on her back, a staff at her chin. The master had taken advantage of her focus on Rick to remind her of her fault. It only reminded her of how thankful she was they were practicing on a padded floor. The 19 year old slapped the staff away with the one she still held, annoyed at being caught off-guard. But it didn't stop the small smile when Rick offered her a hand, hauling her back to her feet.

An hour later, she was waving to the other students from her class. And nearly jumped out of her skin when Rick clapped a hand on her shoulder,"No hard feelings about before eh?" He was far too kindhearted that she sometimes wondered if fighting were such a good idea for him. Many might think the same thing, but she had retracted her thoughts one too many times after facing him with a weapon in hand. He was tricky, though so sweet to worry that someone was upset with him afterward. A hand brushed at sweaty bangs, shaking her head,"Nah, I'm alright. Should have known he'd pull a stunt like that after he tried on you."

The banter lasted for a bit longer, up until his ride arrived. And though he offered her a ride home, Alya declined. There was no reason even if it was getting dark. She knew the area and she wasn't that far from the small house her foster parents owned. The walk would also give the sweat time to dry and cool the heated skin from her work out. She adjusted the duffel bag over her shoulder, patting it proudly. After all it contained some of the practice pieces she used in the classes. The only one that didn't properly fit in the big bag was the staff, left hanging half out of the bag with the zipper holding it in place.

Rather than take all main roads, as she had told Rick she was, the next alley she reached, she turned down it. This alley was a back way to her house, or a shortcut but she was startled when a few feet down the long dark alley, there was a light ahead. What was even more confusing was the source of the light, being a man on horse back. She had drawn close enough to see him, though the light was too bright to make out his features. Alya swung around, deciding in one move that she was going to take the longer way, and act as though she hadn't seen the rider. Instead there was a confusing moment where she mentally knew she had turned around and started running. The next moment, she was blinking at the fact that the rider was still before her, and much closer since somehow she ended up running toward him. It was much like being a puppet, that she couldn't seem to stop running no matter how she tried to dig her heels in. An arm was thrown up, trying to block some of the light when it only got brighter, before she knew no more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Within the Realm of Land.

A leaf ruffled, one of few to be upset by the shifting of air of a long slinking body. The wolf slunk low, curving close to the bush but trying to slide beneath the leaves as much as possible. He had been trying to hide his passage though in the day time as it was, the black fur stood out against his surroundings. He had come from the burned land, and at the same time, managed to find a portion of land that was still untouched. For how long it would stay that way, he couldn't be sure. The soot that might be visible on others would blend into his fur if it had not been for the fact that he had cleaned off as much as possible. Wouldn't do to smell like burnt wood around healthy plants, it would stand out too much. And currently he couldn't let his prey, the small brown rabbit hopping innocently ahead, know he was there. Paws flexed, lowering himself nearly flat as he waited, knowing to bide his time. The burning woods had scared away or killed so much of the prey that he had been spending so much more time hunting just to keep a bit of food in his belly.

Hunting with a pack tended to seem so much easier when you were hunting on your own. But his own pack had abandoned him, believing him to be a weak link since they thought the puppyish blue eyes were blind, rather than easily tracking the twitching tail and plump body of the young rabbit. He was giving his prey time to think all was safe, the bounding slowing as the bunny stopped to nibble on a leaf or piece of grass along the way. When he had managed to lull the rabbit into truly thinking he was gone, he struck from behind the next tree, taking the food down in a slap of a paw and sharp teeth sinking on.

Now the same wolf was stretched out, completely satisfied for the moment. A plump rabbit, and a pair of squirrels had gone a long way toward filling his stomach again. Unlike the lynx's special place, this place was still a rich green, fur resting against soft green moss. It was the lazy pose of a well fed wolf, stretched out, tail curved over his legs, head settled on front paws. Cailean yawned, jaw stretching to reveal the sharp white teeth and pointed canines. He should probably be more worried about the impending war but it didn't quite have a big impact on his life right at this moment. He had no family, he was full for one in the last few weeks, and he was at peace.

[Crazy Hobo]

South London, 1546: Witch Trials

"And you do admit that on more than one occasion you associated yourself with Mistress Sutton, a convicted witch?" Edmund stared down the accused witch, a Mistress Pryne, with holy fervor. Many times, he was also called to act as a prosecutor for witches that he captured. This was mostly due to the inadequacy of most prosecutors when dealing with witches, but Edmund was more than happy to try the devil-loving wenches.

"That is true, but I plead to you that many, many others had relations to Mistress Sutton." The accused responded.

"That be the truth, except you were the only one to continue seeing her while she was being tried. You even visited her just before her burning. Methinks that and good Christian woman would stay far away from such horrid creatures." Edmund slowly paced around the chair Mistress Pryne sat in, thinking for a moment, "Even more damming is the fact that when you visited Mistress Sutton before her burning, you gave her something. It was discovered that the gift you had so willingly given to the witch was none other but a small doll. The only explanation is that you were helping her curse one last God-fearing soul before she was cast into Hades."

"Mistress Sutton was a close friend, nearly from birth. I simply wanted to give her back a very old keepsake from out childhood."

"On the whole, doubtful." Edmund scrubbed his chin lightly before continuing, "I must admit that this along would not be enough to convict you. Unfortunately for your sake, many a Christian soul has reported some of your odd nighttime sojourns into the forest south of here. What could you possibly have been doing out in the forest? Alone. At night." The accused began to answer when Edmund swiftly cut her off, "No! You shall not spin another one of your accursed lies. When I apprehended you, I also discovered many satanic tools that were seemingly hidden among your belongings. Your soul is wicked Mistress Pryne, there is no doubting it. The only way you may be purified is through fire."

"No. I swear I am not a witch. I am a good Christian. This is some kind of mistake!"

"I think not. You will burn, I am sure of it. There is no doubt you are a witch an a sorceress. You must burn at dawn." Edmund was slightly distracted by what appeared to be a ripple in the air in front of him, "You accursed woman! What spells do you weave now?" Edmund cursed, drawing his sword as the ripple solidified into a white circle, a lone rider coming towards him, "She summons the Devil to save her blackened soul! You have no power here, horned one!" Edmund ran yelling at the portal before suddenly feeling his body yanked towards it, "The Devil shall no-"

And he was gone.

In the Realm of Fire
Nerroth stood silently in front of a gilded throne made of solid gold with numerous precious stones inlaid into the surface. The figure that laid gracefully across the throne in human form was beautiful to say the least. Nerroth nearly lost a few of her words, simply basking in her beauty. He instantly snapped his attention fully to her words when he thought he caught mention of a new area for his army to strike at. Wonderful. The raids on the Realm of Land were getting rather boring. Nerroth wanted to burn entire cities to a crisp. He wanted to feel Avians' bones break beneath his claws. He wanted destruction through fire on an untold scale.

"We are going to be launching a new offensive, Nerroth." The female said, her voice like honey, "I want you to lead it. You are a brilliant general, well if you could have better control over your violent streak."

"Thank you, my lady. I will work towards controlling that aspect." Nerroth said, bowing as he did so.

"Good. Now, I want you to gather your army and strike a blow right to the Avians." The female commanded, a smile crossing her lips. "To long have we focused on attacking the Realm of Land, we must move forward. You shall go to the northernmost tip of the Realm of Land and begin raiding any cities in the Realm of Sky that is within a day's flight. We need to strike fear into the Avians, for a mentally defeated enemy is a defeated enemy in nearly every way. Now go. I want you on your way five minutes ago."

"Yes, my lady." Nerroth exited the throne room as quickly as his human-form's legs could take him. The instant he was out of the room, he was already sending messengers to his troops. They would meet in Nerroth's cave opening and fly the instant that it was possible. Nerroth arrived at the cave opening not ten minutes later, a satisfied smile crossing his face. Ever one of his soldiers was present and ready to fly in their true forms.

"Now, you know I am not one to give speeches, so lets just go out there and kill. That's it." Nerroth turned towards the cave opening and bellowed. Two massive black wings erupted from his back, causing his human skin to almost explode off o his black hide. Nerroth began to grow rapidly, shedding his human shell in moments. Finally, Nerroth stood at his full height of nearly forty feet, which was considered large for the standing height of a dragon. With one last bellow, Nerroth hurtled himself from the cave opening and took to the skies.

[Ragter the junior greeter]

Early 18th century, Japan: Near a small village

Ise Tamura was staring at two things at the moment; one of them was a blade. The other one was similar to the blade, albeit it was much, much shorter; it was a dagger. After just a couple of moments, the girl let out a sigh; it seemed that she had once again completed a client's request. This client, although she didn't know it, was a bit of an upstart who wanted to rule all of Japan. His estate was fairly large and had a lot of armsmen, which meant that he would need a lot of blades.

He had requested her to forge the sword and dagger to see how good her skills in blacksmithing were. True, if she did learn of what he was planning, it was unlikely that she would keep supplying him with the blades; she was moral like that. She was, however, in the dark about them, which just might prove a bit costly. After examining the blade and dagger, the girl picked them up, wrapped them up in a bag(the townspeople didn't take too well to women carrying blades, even if they were just for a client), and headed off. "Ready for a ride?" she questioned of the horse that she stopped by.

It hadn't been that cheap to get the horse, but he cut travel time down immensely. Her legs still hurt occasionally after dismounting from him, but that was slowly going away. In response, the horse whuffed at her, and she gave it a smile. "I know, I haven't been giving you enough exercise, Ohoyami," she said to the horse, so named after one of the kamis of the Shinto religion. "You'll get plenty today," she added, before preparing the mount for the ride.

All in all, it was a good thirty minutes before Ise was on the horse, riding towards the estate of the upstart. Despite what one would expect her to do, ride sidesaddle, she rode just like any man would ride a horse. She didn't want to be the stereotypical woman, even in something like riding a horse. Her trip to the estate passed mostly in silence; then, nearing the estate, things got a lot more interesting.

An arrow jammed itself into the ground in front of her, and in alarm, Ohoyami whinnied, taking a couple of steps back. Ise, for her part, was holding in her fear well as she cast glances around. "What do you want?" she questioned of the attackers. "We want you to turn back now, and make sure to never meet with your client," a voice answered her; obviously, she looked in the direction of the voice. She didn't pay much attention to his physical details; the thing she noticed were the amount of knocked arrows pointed at her.

"Don't you think we could talk?" she questioned, getting off of Ohoyami, prepared to approach the man. Even if she was female, it wouldn't be right to stay on her horse while they had a conversation. "No. Just listen to me and leave, otherwise..." the man stopped speaking; light was permeating the area, and it hadn't been there before. A man was on horseback, and he was approaching her. In alarm, the man from before cried out and arrows shot out; some at her, some at the figure. None of them hit their mark; the instant the man on horseback passed by her, she felt she was tumbling. To where, she had no idea; she lost all sense of direction.

In the Realm of Fire

This is not your brightest idea a dragon told himself; he was going to desert his race. For far too long, his race had been waging this pointless war. Why could there not be peace between them and the Avians? Because dragons are, by nature, bloodthirsty and destructive he reminded himself; funny how things worked out like that.

Dragons varied a lot; the ones that were wise were usually rarer than the ones that wanted to crush the lightweight bones of Avians. He had killed his fair share in his time, that was true, but he didn't want to do it anymore. Hearing the fact that his people were planning a large attack on the Avians just confirmed his conviction to go through with it. He needed to get to the Avians quickly and warn them, before the army of dragons could get there.

"What will you do to convince them though?" He asked himself, pondering that for quite a while. There is no time to think about it...action is needed now. I can think on the way there Tengryu told himself, before stretching his wings. Within a couple of minutes, the dragon was in the air and flying quickly towards the lands that belonged to the Avians. They would, in all likelihood, attack him as soon as they saw him; which meant he would have to be fast, and make sure not to injure any of them. Even if they didn't outright kill him...there was still the matter of them thinking he was trying to trick them.

Then again, they knew dragons were intelligent, and the Avians weren't likely to think they'd be stupid enough to send in one dragon to distract them. Tengryu was glad that, for his age, he was faster than many other dragons; that was one advantage on the army of dragons that were going towards the bird people. Another advantage was the fact that they would have to move as slowly as the slowest dragon, lest they leave him behind. He was also just one dragon, which meant it would be easier for him to get from place to place.

Hopefully...they know who I am from some of the battles I've been in. It should lead some credibility to me; dragons often don't just go to the Sky Lands on their own he told himself. He knew he was worrying a lot, which he normally didn't do, but it was unable to be helped. It was not every day that he left his people to try and make sure another race didn't get destroyed. Which would obviously happen(at least, it was obvious to him), if nothing was done about it.

[Guest]

Garret Woodlund cursed as the raging tempest whipped water like stones into his face. The severe heaving of the wooden ship, its protesting groans, and the taut creaking of the wet ropes. Every lurch and sudden movement as a wave slapped the cog like a whining child raised the bile in the back of his throat just a little more. He hated sailing, and while the Olive Bloom was a magnificent trading vessel, the nausea from moving randomly in three dimensions did not agree with him. Garrett hated stormy seas, stuck next to the main mast to minimize the yawing motions. It was cold, and miserable. It did have one redeeming aspect, to escape the forceful demands of Viola Da'Cola, his current employer.

If this was a normal storm, then this would have been tolerable. Not only was it one of the most violent bastards of spray and wind that he and even the ship's captain had ever seen, some insane fanatic galley from Naples had decided the Bloom's cargo and hull should belong to it about twenty minutes into the storm. Now, he and his men were getting knocked this way and that with sharp implements inches from each other scratching and bruising each other. A lightning flash revealed the dark varnished galley, now one hundred yards away.

“String the bows!” Forty English and Welsh archers strung some of the most powerful bows on the planet in unison, trying hard not to ruin their strings.

Flash.
Boom.

Forty yards? “Damn those heretics. Draw!” The straining of the forty longbows barely added to the deafening cacophony.
“Fire! Draw! Fire! Draw! Fire! Draw! Fire!”
Garret had to give those Napalese bastards credit, they could row fast. Three more volleys before that large witch loving, hell spawned hull with a shining metal clad rammed them.
“Fire, you God-forsaken scum!”
“Lichtson, Swarm those French whores the minute we get hit. Make 'em regret pissing of chosen of the Lord.”

Another flash revealed the galley a few yards away. “Archers, draw arm-”

Crunch!

The prow sheared deep into cog, and cutting the rope that held him and his gear together. Garrett staggered against the side. He grasped the rail, and screamed out another order as half his men slid off the deck and into the ocean.

“Make 'em pay! I want a new hell-spawned ship!”

A rogue wave crashed diagonally across the ship, tilting his side closer to the water while a black wall crashed against him. The world went black, and wildly revolving.


Aphria thrashed her tail in frustration in the huge empty gallery of the temple of the Moon. Once the worship of Hyslia, Goddess of the Moon, had been enough to fill the entire temple. Disciples had gradually built one of the most beautiful living structures in all of the Mer territory. Coral had slowly been planted across the stone ridge and grown into a tribute of the moon. High priestess Jessine had taken the slow decline of her followers with a passive apathy, lost in a wonder world of her imagination. Even if the temple was near the Deeps, olden mer had engineered the nearby trench to channel hot water throughout all the old workings and the now sealed catacombs. The slowly fading, flickering witch lights were also fading without proper care.

The deep moonlight lit the silver embossed stone symbol she had stolen from the deepest part of the catacombs over the altar. From what she understood, a sacrifice and a strong will bent upon devotion would bring a champion to the faith. Aphria smiled at the frantic tuna, also frantically thrashing, tied to the symbol.

“Isvil, ust fron bel a Hyslia. D'a mo res a lilo.”

A champion of Hyslia will come from a storm. Only a heart in the light belief is needed.

Or so Aphria thought. She wasn't quite sure how to translate the ancient language deep within the first high priestess's tomb. Her curriculum didn't yet include ancient Mer.

“Aphria!”

She jerked and shoved the stone dirk into the terrified fish.

“High Priestess?” Her hard began to pound hard as adrenaline began as the cold fear trickled down her spine. The smell of blood was much more potent this time than any other time she had prepared a fish. Hyslia, grant me a champion!

“How dare--” The old mermaid gasped at the engravings began to glow with a red light. She rapidly darted over with a strength born of desperation and pushed Aphria out of the way, chanting rhythmically in an strange tongue. The light began to illuminate the gallery, and everything started fading away in red.

[Gadreille]

Simon awoke with a start.

He opened his eyes, and there were large trees overhead. They were nothing like the twisted, gnarled trees of the Dismal...these were tall, no, giant, slender and fine, absolutely radiating with greenery. Simon almost thought it might have been a jungle, except the weather was not that of a south tropic island. It was cold, not in a winter sort of way, rather just as if this place rarely saw the light of day. How could it, with the large canopy above entangling within itself, so that no sunlight could get through? As it was, there was no sun, and the darkness bespoke of an early dawn.

Simon sat up, putting a hand to his face. There was drying blood upon his nose, and he wiped what he could away. He heard a faint beating, a rhythmic noise that he felt very familiar but couldn't quite place. He tried to stand, and was dizzy and disoriented; he had to use the trees to help him walk toward that beat. Though the sound seemed close, he found himself in a maze of bushes and weeds...though he always felt close to escaping, he always found that he would have to double back and go another way. It was almost as if this part of the forest was...reinforced, somehow. Simon thought about how useful something such as this would be to trap some redcoats, if they were still stupid enough to follow the patriots into the forests, anymore.

Suddenly he made a final turn and found what he was looking for. The sea! The thick canopy of trees soon gave in to hilly dunes and then a sparkling ocean. He looked for the sunrise, but did not see it coming over the water. Still, it was getting lighter....he turned around and found that the sun was rising over the forest, rather than the ocean...

This isn't the atlantic... He thought with amazement. Where had he gone?

There was a groan, from somewhere nearby. Simon grabbed his long rifle, his dizzyness washing away with the fear of a foreign enemy. He looked around, and finally saw a body in the sand...it looked like a survivor of a shipwreck. He ran up, and fought the urge to help whoever was on the ground before him. He jostled the coming-to-concious body with his boot, and pointed the bayonet at its back.

"Who are you?" He challenged.

[Guest]

Garret was slammed through the rail by the crushing force of the water. The rope tying him down snapped a second later, nearly dislocating his shoulder. His right hand frantically grabbed for something, anything. He felt the strap of something, and held on desperately. The sensation of falling was not welcome, and the impact of slamming into the water knocked the breath out of him. Sinking was even worse, the pack pulling him down faster than the armor he was wearing. Even if Garrett did know how to swim, wearing mail more or less guaranteed his demise. The water wasn't quite as frigid as the English Channel, but the water was stealing the warmth from his flesh even as his lungs burned. It even Davy Jones was going to be cheated tonight. The water below began to glow brightly with a dark red radiance deep in the sea beneath him. The Devil wanted his due tonight, and Garret and his boys were apparently the midnight snack. Why keep the bastard waiting a for more seconds?

Garret kept his pride, a large black war bow in his left, while the pack in his right dragged him down to sea. He had always been curious to what the devil looked like, and if he could give him a good kick to bollocks before his eternal torment started. The red began to mottle in black and gold, and grew more and more intense. The Englishman's pride was content at his importance as the dark radiance of the Devil himself a-come thirsting souls blinded him. It all turned into blinding light.

The sun was shining brightly enough to punish the sinner's with God's wrath. A beautiful coral reef peeked out from below crystal water with a slight greenish tint as if to mock the blazing sun. White sand paid homage to their lord by radiating large amounts of heat, as if mocking the Emerald Sea that was so close. A tall range of white capped black peaks to the North wavered in the heat distortion, while the a dense forest not far from the beach promised shelter from the heat and the waves.

Garrett's half-limp body sparkled and shone from the beads of water dotting his mail and leather armor. They slowly dripped off the oiled armor onto the damp sand, and the waves tugged at his feet. His ragged hair was soaked in salt, and stuck out in all directions. Despite the heat, his armor was frigid, his face pale from cold, barely breathing. In contrast, every shallow breathe made his chest tight with fire.

“Cracked ribs, the Devil likes me.” Garret pushed himself up off the sand, off his stomach and managed to struggle of up to his knees. The mercenary captain tried to stand up on his right leg and immediately collapsed from pain. He managed to catch himself before his ribs hit the sand, but they still hurt. He rolled on his back and raised his head to look down. His right ankle had swollen up badly, a ship's rope coiled around it, and snapped from tension. He sat up slowly, struggling against the weight of his water logged clothes and armor, and unwrapped the rope. Blood rushed into his ankle more than usual, and it hurt, a lot. He tried to resist the urge to pass out, but blackness crept up against his stout vigilance and pounced.

Garret groaned a little and his right hand twitched as if he was firing a bow. Light had begun filtering through his eyelids into his brain. Some enemy of mankind nudged him against one of his cracked ribs, and his eyes snapped back open with a gasp of pain. His body instinctively curled around the site of the pain, and he looked at the strangely dressed, panicking young man with the strangest pike he had ever seen.

“Who are you?”

Garrett grunted noncommittally initially. Lots of people hated English archers for many good reasons, and mercenaries even more when weak. The accent was strange, and he gasped as his ribs twinged again. He had never heard someone who spoke English like that. A strange feeling of rage welled up within him as he took in the strangely toned stranger. It seemed like he was some heathen Moslem savage from the West, a kind he had never dealt with before. It seemed likely for some reason that he would torture a good Christian man.

“Thought hell would have been French.”

A burning throb burned behind his eyes exploded his rage, and he reacted instinctively to the slightly wavering pike before him. His right hand grabbed mid-shaft around the metal and wood bound together and pulled it down away from his face, burying the head in the sand. His legs lashed out at the same time, clipping the man's thighs with his left foot, as the stranger reacted. It missed, but Garret still had the advantage that the man's main weapon was buried in the sand, and he didn't have time to draw the sword at his side.

Garret ignored the pain as he drew a knife from his left boot, and gathered himself up to spring from his position on the ground. He tried to ignored the pain in his ankle as weight was put on it, and tried lunging at the stranger stumbling back as he went for the sword at his hip. He made it halfway when his right leg gave out with a sensation of grinding pain. The right hand holding the knife went nerveless and dropped the knife as he fell on his face.

[Crazy Hobo]

Edmund's eyes fluttered open. Something was wrong. He could feel grass and leaves under his face, but he could have sworn that not a moment ago he was standing in a building. His thoughts were still a haze, and for the life of him he couldn't remember what had happened just moments ago. As Edmund pushed himself off the ground he suddenly remembered. That witch woman had cast some sort of spell, most likely one that had transported him away so that she could make an escape. That crafty wench. If he ever found her again there would be no trial, he would simply run her through. Edmund banished the thoughts, for there was still the matter of finding out where the witch had sent him. The first thing he did was locate his sword buried in the leaves next to him, and check that his crossbow was still attached. Luckily both items were found quickly. Next, he took in the surrounding area. It wasn't like anywhere he had been in England, the trees were far too massive for that. Perhaps the witch had thrown him somewhere else in Europe, either way he would find out soon enough.

Edmund instinctively raised his sword at the sound of voices and brief combat. It seemed that others were here as well. Perhaps natives, and perhaps other Christians that the witch had sent away with her demonic spells. Edmund quickly began to zero in on the sounds, emerging through the forest to gaze at the sea and two men, one lying on his face, the other with a sword in hand. It seemed there had been a fight, or there still was a fight, for neither seemed to be dead. Edmund sighed to himself, and directed his crossbow at the standing man. He looked like a heathen from the West, and those men could not be trusted. They worshiped false gods and engaged in barbaric rituals. He would be better off dead, but Edmund at least had to question the man first. Although, the heathen seemed to be already guilty of something, for the man lying in the sand looked to be from the blessed shores of England, although he could never be sure.

"I suggest, heathen, that you lower that blade now. That is unless you do feel the need to die at this moment for I will be quite happy to oblige you, if you so choose."

[Ragter the junior greeter]

Ise's head hurt...though, that was probably the least of her troubles right then. The last thing she remembered was tumbling...it was difficult to remember what it felt like. Gingerly, the girl pushed herself up, casting glances around. "...Ohoyami?" she questioned, a frown on her face. After a couple of moments of standing there, she went over what had happened.

Did a Kami save me...? If so, then where am I? And why me? she asked of herself. Thankfully, she still had the blade and dagger to protect herself if need be; she had the feeling that she would need both items in this strange land. "This doesn't look like any place in Japan that I know of..." she muttered to herself, before pondering what to do now. It certainly wouldn't be intelligent to just wander off in this place, and yet, she had no idea what this place was, so it wasn't as if she had much of a choice. Just as she was about to go walking off in a direction though, she paused and frowned.

She thought she had heard something, a voice in English. She had met with ones who spoke English a few times, and thus, could speak it well enough. The voices didn't sound exactly happen with each other though. After a moment of thinking, Ise took the sword and dagger out of the bag she was carrying, for it sounded like there was, indeed, some combat going on. After the weapons were out, the woman headed in the direction the voices were coming from, before yet another voice interrupted.

Heathen? she questioned to herself, quickly ducking behind a tree; she wasn't very familiar with them, but...the man had a crossbow, which she knew was a powerful and dangerous weapon. She looked at the two men that seemed to have been fighting before; one had bayonet, a weapon she didn't see all that often in Japan, while the other had a knife, though he seemed to have dropped it. She surveyed the scene for a moment, thinking; should she interrupt them? Surely it wasn't a good idea, considering they seemed ready to tear each other apart, but...she had to figure out what was going on.

"I realize that this isn't the best time, but do any of you three Englishmen have any idea how I vanished from Japan and came to this land?" She questioned of them in crude English, mispronouncing some words, as she came out from behind her hiding spot. At the same time, she made sure to hold the sword she carried in a guarded position in front of her, while keeping the dagger stuffed in the obi which held her kimono together, keeping it on the right just in case she needed to move quickly.

[Gadreille]

Things moved too quickly for Simon. The man in the sand had actually dared to grab his rifle and bury it in the sand...how had he known it wasn't loaded and ready to fire? He had then attacked, and Simon feared for his life. This man was wild, unfamiliar, almost savage. The man was also damaged, and his attack was futile. He fell into the sand. Simon stepped away from him, pulling his rifle out of the dirt and facing it toward him once more. But then he heard a yell from behind him, and he spun around.

There were two others approached him, yelling in strange forms of English. He could hardly understand the woman, whose english was so butchered he couldn't comprehend half of it. Was she native american? Though in some ways she had similar traits, she just didn't look like native american women. For one, she was not dressed like one. Also, her skin was paler, her frame more slight...no, not a native at all. Who was she?

The other was a man, who seemed to be speaking British English, but it was almost as if he were reading from a book, rather than speaking as a normal british soldier. Which left him with one question...where the hell am I? Simon swallowed his fear, and took a breath. He would get to the bottom of this.

Suddenly, Simon's mind burned with the image of a great beast. A large lizard, winged, speaking words in his mind that he didn't understand. His head ached, and he released his weapon and clung to his skull. Simon fell to his knees, hearing the strange words in his head as his eyes saw nothing but read and an image of that beast. It seemed an eternity before the pain went away, his vision fading to black and ears no longer ringing with strange noises.

When he opened his eyes, everyone else seemed to have suffered the same pain. "What happened?" Simon asked, and though he realized he was not speaking English or any other language he had ever known, he somehow had the ability to speak it. And the others had the ability to understand it. A sudden realization washed over him. Stories of portals to faerie lands were laughed at among the people of america, except by some of the scottish settlers. But this was definitely not America. "Where the hell are we?"

[Kyrt Malthorn]

It seemed to Gabriel as though he drifted from one dream into another, first of falling, second of a gargantuan creature speaking gibberish, and finally a series of shouts. Something about heathens in one. He opened his eyes and blinked into the brightness, wondering foggily where he was.

Bits and pieces came back to him. The galley of the San Barón. She'd been boarded. Cannon fire, friends shot or cut down. Perhaps they'd sunk the ship - perhaps he had not dreamed at all, and the creature speaking nonsense had been a sea serpent.

Then why was he lying down in fresh air? At last he remembered the light and the beckoning rider.

Not a rider, he realized slowly. He thought he'd seen such creatures in the old bestiaries - but they could hardly have been real. He didn't know what the horse-man was called, but the speaking creature had been a dragon, certainly.

He tried to lift his head and get a view of where he was, and a stab of pain shot from the back of his head; the fog lifted from his mind as he came to full awareness. Those fuzzy thoughts must have flooded him in less time than they seemed; someone was still talking, not far off from the sound of it. With a cautious hand he identified the lump on his head now causing him pain - and the rock that caused it. He had either fallen for real, or been weaker from his injuries than he thought. There was no blood, though.

The headache he expected when he moved, but he had to know where he was. He found himself in a cove of trees. From out of sight in one direction, someone was still talking. Though he remembered this voice speaking in the Brittish tongue, he now heard it speak another language entirely. The dragon's tongue. More disturbing, Gabriel understood it as though he had heard it all his life: "What happened?"

Gabriel crouched and crept toward a tree with a low split in its trunk, and cautiously peered through the 'V' they formed.

"Where the hell are we?"

That same voice - this time Gabriel caught a glimpse of the speaker. The man was armed with a rifle the make of which Gabriel had never seen; same for the finely curved blades a girl carried. There was a blond man with a crossbow, and the final man seemed to have pulled a dagger on the bewildered-looking one with the rifle.

[Silver Wolf]

The young girl struggled. stepping carefully through the forest. Or what could be called a forest. When she had woken up, she was in this blackened land, the scent of burned wood and plants heavy in the air. Already a bad step had sent her stumbling, sometimes even tripping over an invisible object, that her legs and arms as well as other parts of her were spotted with soot. Hell, the living forest wasn't all that far off, she could see all the greenery. But when she had woken up, it had been in this dead land. Warily, green eyes swung left and right, trying to track whether anything was around or if anything was following her. The burned section of land seemed just as it was, dead, without a single living creature seeming to be anywhere within it. Still she strove to move onward, drawn to the bright green of the living forest, to escape the soot and the heat.

A few more paces, and at the same moment the rest felt that strange pain, so did Alya. She crumpled to her knees in startled surprise and pain, the bag she had been carrying clunking down at her side even as dirty fingers pressed against her temple. Just as fast as the pain had come, it vanished but it still left her wary and now even more dirty, even her fair skin streaked with black. It was almost unheard of to hear Alya curse, but she snapped one out, before struggling to get up again, hauling the bag up as well. She was thankful that whatever had happened, she still had her bag because among a change of clothes and some minimal supplies like her wallet, she had all her practice weapons. She couldn't be sure how useful they would be, or how long they would last, but she felt better having them.

Finally, some blessed shade, the 19 year old Cali girl pausing under the first shade of a living tree. She had been trying to puzzle over what had happened but she couldn't really make sense of it all. There had been something strange about that rider she had seen, but not one for fantasy, she wouldn't have placed it. The trees were thick enough that she didn't know quite how close to the shore she was. But once leaving the blighted land behind, she could just catch traces of a salty scent in the air, a scent that seemed familiar. And familiar of even a scent felt safer than the unknown of what creatures would be lurking in the living forest.

She was so preoccupied with finding the source of the scent that she was startled when she stumbled upon an older man (Gabriel) looking at something from behind a tree. As was common when you didn't want to be heard, something happened and the moment she caught sight of him, a foot found a branch, cracking as she stepped. A soft curse and she backed up a step,"Uhh, hi. Something interesting out there? Should i just back away now?" Hopefully she would have time to run if the stronger was violent, the outfit one she could see someone cos-playing in but somehow he wore it differently, as though it were his occupation. Which was strange since the clothes seemed really old fashioned.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Stomach no longer growling, though it wasn't completely full, the wolf rose. He stretched long and comfortably, enjoying the warmth in the air and the patch of sunlight he had stepped into. Everything felt so peaceful right now, and with it came a wolfish smile, ears perked up. Curiously his head tilted back, sniffing the air, testing if any other prey were near by while he had been resting. Right now, with the threat of more land being burned, he took all the chances he had to keep his belly full to keep moving strong. It wouldn't be any good if he were to be attacked and lost because he was weak from hunger.

A trace of a scent reached his nose and Cailean slunk forward. This wasn't quite a prey, but the scent was unfamiliar as he hadn't smelled this species in the last day or two. And the scent now was fresh as though the cat were just passing through. Cailean was a loner but one he knew was normally part of a pack, might have more information than he could gather in the sounds and scents he came across.

So he settled into the comfortable state of tracking the scent, staying down wind of the lynx out of habit. So unless Miasarco were listening for anyone, he would not hear the wolf until Cailean had slunk into the path just ahead of him. And so when he came around, the black wolf sat calmly by the edge, a shadow within the shadows. Blue eyes were nearly slits, his head cocked and gaze not quite focused in the direction of the lynx. It was always a useful ploy, making others think he were blind, because he got varying results. Either they treated him more carefully because of a perceived weakness or they would try to take advantage of it. His head raised, sniffling the air as though he had only just caught the scent of the lynx, head cocked,"You smell of the burned lands kit." Also fun, even if he didn't know their ages, taking on a fairly informal title, like calling Miasarco a 'kit' or kitten. It added to the blind theory and his ears perked, tracking the lynx sideways without quite looking at him.

[Kyrt Malthorn]

Gabriel's head snapped to the young lady emerging from the wood, taking in her features, her weapons, and the un-stately condition of her attire all in one, broad, wide-eyed glance. Instinctively he lifted a finger to his lips, indicating silence. Though, by the time sense reached him, he had no idea why he would have done such a thing - she was just as strange as the rest of these gathered persons he was watching.

She was a young lass, and as such any man of honor should warn her, he thought. These men had been fighting just a moment ago; it was unthinkable to allow a young maiden to wander into their midst before the event had been sorted.

The situation was tense, and Gabriel's mind raced, and every faculty of his five senses were peeled for anything. Any number of outcomes could be decided in the next few moments - and that didn't even begin to explain the mystery of who they were, and where, not to forget how or why.


* * * * *


"You smell of the burned lands kit."

Miasarco cast the strange wolf an askance gaze, pausing in his tracks. He knew the eye color was odd, but didn't know enough concerning wolves to associate it with blindness. At first he took the off-target stare, only the ears tracking him, as a trait he was much more familiar with: apathy. That was something he was used to dealing with.

"Your grasp of the obvious is inspiring." Miasarco plodded on a few more steps.

The realizations only hit him, slowly, thereafter: apathy was not a canine trait, and it was not apathy in this wolf's voice. Though he didn't usually associate with canines, he was tired of walking, and banter could be amusing. He sat right where he was, looking over his shoulder in the wolf's general direction; his ears tracked the wolf's in turn.

"You seem to be short a pack, pup."

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