Scenes from Athal

• Veilwoven (VIII)

  112th of Nemulum, 336 EA

  Ishikar, Athal

  There was a peacefulness to the Aether, a certain finality in the way that it wove together all that it touched. Belmaia steadied herself for what was to come, she walked into that soft bank of mystic fog outside her temple home, and she returned to a prayer.

  “Leatrin of all new things, Dokeoh of greatest change, Eleganth of the true zenith. Three most holy of the Stria Intranscendent. Forgive me, for in this world I have neglected my faith and halted against the rightly turning of the world that is your will.”

  The words tumbled out, mingling with the aether as only the truth long arrested and at last set free could. They echoed infinitely, through the space that was no space. She could feel the aether fraying at her edges. She was bare of any of the protective magics she typically cloaked herself in. She had chosen to enter that way. She had made herself prostrate. 

  “Please,” Tears shuddered from her eyes and wiped away into nothingness as she became disembodied. She began to raise, to yell into the void. “Tell me what to do! Guide me, you who lay out all paths! Guide me!”

  There was no response to her plea, no angel nor beacon of divine light to will her forwards. There was only her, fading from this world in the dejected remnants of a blasphemy against development that she had willfully engaged in for far too long. She was not sure how long she stayed, hoping for that sign. Time did not work that way, there. She only knew that at some point her self was no longer, and then it was again. 

  She felt herself reconstitute into an exertive corporeality. When she had feet to trod once again, she put one in front of the other. She moved, steadily forwards, and she emerged from the aether into the light of the morning sun.

  The two women Belmaia had welcomed into her home were waiting for her, in the copse. Their presence there, remaining to be at her side for this, spoke volumes.

  “You were in for hours.” It was a simple statement of fact from Svaljna. “There was no sureness that you would return, or else be swallowed.”

  “It needed to be that way.” Belmaia returned with a matched sureness. “It needed to be.”

  “Did you find what you were looking for?” Mepka asked, softened greatly in her attitude towards Belmaia. “Did you find your gods?”

  “No. Or at least, I’m not sure.” Belmaia thought a long moment, staring into the veil. “I think that might be the point, though. I am here, I did not die. My gods are the gods of the road and of the aether and of life, and perhaps I will find them out along some path I have not yet tread.”

  Mepka nodded in appreciation of the sentiment, as Svaljna smiled knowingly to herself. 

  Belmaia turned to give one last long look to the place she thought would save her and had instead had left her to fester and rot. She thought of her time there, of all the joys and eventual heartbreaks. She thought especially of Livia, as that wonderful girl she had been before she had been held in stagnancy. She gathered the packs she had collected, all the things of this world that she truly wished to carry with her into the next and the one after that as well. She took up with these new companions by her side, and with them she began a long pilgrimage to moving on.

• Intranscendent Embrace (From the Archives)

  Athalial folk hymn, original composer unknown

  The land of endless roads we tread,
  Where the Stria’s whispers guide ahead,
  Leatrin, Dohkeo, Elganth divine,
  Their teachings echo through space and time.

  Embrace the change, embrace the flow,
  For life’s a journey, we all must know.
  With open hearts and minds so free,
  We find our path to destiny.

  Potential blooms within our soul,
  A flame of hope that makes us whole.
  We all must weave the threads of fate,
  As seasons shift and worlds await.

  And in the culmination grand,
  Where journeys end and dreams expand.
  With balance found in every stride,
  We face the world with open eyes.

  Embrace the change, embrace the flow,
  For life’s a journey, we all must know.
  With open hearts and minds so free,
  We find our path to destiny.

  So sing with joy, and dance with glee,
  The Stria’s wisdom sets us free.
  On winding roads, our souls shall roam,
  Embracing change, and finding home.

• So Strong Were The Currents (One Shot)

  100th of Gnielm, 345 EA

  Tetherstraits, Athal

  The ship could only move one way, so strong were the currents. It was the Springbank, a proud vessel and well kept, and at it’s prow Davide was fixed.

  “Ye’d best be careful, boyo.” The voice came from out of the dark of the misty night, from one lithely sloven. “Ain’t nothing off that side that one such as you would want.”

  “Celisci, what in all hells is that supposed to mean?” Davide looked down on the quartermaster from his perch. “What the hell do you want, you drunk, coming by this way saying ‘one such as me’?”

  “One such as you, a right laced up child.” Celisci spoke out of the left side of his mouth, pulling off the bottle from the other. “Ain’t never done anything you weren’t supposed to do. It’s supposed to mean you’re yella, out here for hours on end staring out the side of the ship like you’d ever have the guts to move off the lane.”

  Davide stood to their full height and felt the heat flush up into them, that specific fire of spending long weeks in close quarters that had a tendency to burn down ships.  “The fuck you just say to me?”

  Celisci backed off from the man who was now yelling, but was split with a sharp smile all the way down.

  “Like you’ve ever been off the current, you fucking twat. You wouldn’t know your asscheek from an island, drunk son of a bitch.” Davide continued, sitting back down. “I could go over the side right now, and fare bloody well better than your sorry ass.”

  Davide looked away from the man he had deemed pissant, his first mistake of the night. 

  His body registered the impact before he truly felt it, and in a bare moment of panic he had been shoved off the stable prow and was plummeting into the swiftness of the depths.

• The Whole of the Athalial League (One Shot)

  38th of Nemulum, 412 EA

  Citadel of the Athalial League, Athal

  At the very center of the citadel of the Athalial league there was a door; a door which opened very slowly and only for a select few.

  Nicirin and Jolien should not have been privy to it, but nonetheless did stand in front of it through young circumstance and nepotism.

  “What are we doing here?” Jolien watched as the door unsoldered itself inch by fiery inch. “I thought you said this was going to be cool.”

  “It is cool,” Nicirin countered, taking his friend’s boredom too personally but wishing only for gravitas. “Behind this door is the whole of the Athalial League.”

  Jolien drew in slightly, to Nicirin’s quiet delight. “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Nicirin leaned back in feigned nonchalance, trying not to look around too nervously. “It’s something my uncle told me.”

  “Hmm.” Even as young as she was, Jolien knew that the word of a provost meant something.

  And so they waited, and waited, and waited under the red pinprick of light which was ever so creepingly pulling the door apart from the wall.

  And then, just like that, the magic had worked it’s course and the door began to rumble downwards in opening. Jolien started back, Nicirin leaned forwards eager to see what the Athalial league was all about.

  When at last the door opened, the pair were left speechless.

  Riches, piles and piles of riches enough to spark envy in a dragon. Silk fabrics in fashions totally foreign and coins minted in far off lands, gems which had no names on this cluster because they could not be found here. Above it all, there were a swirling, eddying mass of ornamental swords and tridents and crossbows most fine, weapons of war turned to gallery pieces and a potential trap for any would-be thieves all at once. 

  Vast wealth, left in such little regard as to be guarded only by a door which soldered itself. This was the Athalial League.

• Up Over the Rocky Ledge (One Shot)

  41st of Gnielm, 138 RI

  Salvora Peaks, Athal

  Crahy’s path was a dogged one, cragulous and intensely vertical.

  “How much further?” Urm called from the next ledge down.

  Crahy was tired of the question. “You can see as well as I can, so stop asking.” 

  Her sister went quiet for a moment, then, and Crahy took a glance down to make sure Urm was still following.

  Below and behind, there had only been the nipping of Ranavar’s dogs at their heels. They had held together well enough through that trial, there was at least that to be grateful for.

  Now though, moving hand over hand, they had escaped that. Crahy crested up over the rocky ledge, and turned to help her sister up behind.

  Now together, they could see their destination sprawled out across this plateau. A town, very simple in its construction, thriving against all odds of the heights. They saw homes and shops, they saw other goblin people like them.

  Reaching the top left them not at the end of their path, for what they had been on was no path worth walking, but rather at the beginning of a whole new life.

• The Weight of His Hammer in Motion (One Shot)

  135th of Gnielm, 131 RI

  Sandsheen, Athal

  Micai felt his breath, hot air of the waste sucking into him. He felt the beads of sweat, and the weight of his hammer in motion. The orc to his left folded in on themself, exposed chest caved. Already, he was arcing back for the next swing, and the one after that.

  Across the battlefield, a pulsing thrum mingled with the screams of elves and orcs alike. It was like the reverberation of a gong, like light to Micai’s moth. He carved his way through to it, unwilling to resist.

  He was at the very center of the battlefield then, called there as the king by a sorcerer all of gritted teeth and gnashing eyes. What he found there was a knife, slipped quietly between his plate, as he thrashed and screamed and bled and bled and bled.