wStOLEN PARADISEx

The bards and the seers say that the surest sign that a hero
will emerge is the presence of absolute darkness. Always, a
leader of strength and courage comes forth from the night
when everything seems bleakest. Where, then, will a hero
come from, when all seems bright and fair?

“Gleaming white on emerald hill, there sits our queen and

love,
Eiluned, eternal fair, reaching for the sky above.
Eternal walls of adamant, resist the dark without,
A haven still of hallowed life, behind the firm redoubt.

‘Twas Einon that founded her, of uncommon valor made.

Almighty bastion of stone, unyielding, strong, staid!
Led by his hand, she prospered true, became a queen of
men,
A home for all, we praise her strength and Einon’s triumph
again…..

Andras felt the last note of his song fall flat from
his lips. He cursed in his head, knowing what would
come next. The girl in front of him drew her final note
out, adding a graceful flourish of vibrato. “Showoff,”
he thought. As she finished, she scowled at him and
shook her head, her jet hair swinging in disapproval.
“I’m going to make you sing it again, you idiot,” She
hissed, her shrill voice a perfect imitation of the
fishmonger’s wife both went to for their produce. For
a moment, they stared at each other. His mouth
began to curve upwards at the edges, but he kept his
gaze stern. She glared at him and mimed chopping
the head off of a fish. That was enough to make him
snicker. “You would make a great fish=wife, Bran,”
he said, laughing at the look of disgust that crossed
her face. “You’d better watch your back if you’re to
talk like that. We fisherwoman carry some damn big
knives,” she replied. He laughed again. He couldn’t
imagine Branwen carrying anything more dangerous
than a dancer’s baton. “I don’t think you’re actually
strong enough to lift one of their cleavers,” he
teased. She responded by pushing him off of his
chair.

They’d known each other for as long as they

could remember, sharing a unique history. They were
the children of refugees who had come to seek
shelter in the white city of Eiluned. Their home,
Weyland, was a beautiful realm. The immense grassy
hills and grey mountains that framed the skyline
were renowned throughout the dominion of men. The
stately banner of the red dragon flew proudly above
the Weyking’s great stone hall. The innate beauty of
the land was no recourse to her people, however. It
is said that wherever light makes its dwelling,
shadow is sure to follow. Weyland was no exception.
Plagued by a bloody tribal war that had raged for
generations, Weyland became a living hell. The kings
were unable to restore order, and fell beneath the
rebellious onslaught of one of the warring clans. The
losses of the people were immense and tragic. There
was not a single family of Weyland that had not been
touched by death. Branwen had lost two cousins.
Andras had lost his father. Eiluned had been a
whispered word of hope among the shattered
remnants of humanity forced to inhabit Wey. Escape
was nothing more than a dream for most. The clan
warriors needed food, and who better to grow their
crops than the women and children of their defeated
enemies? The citizenry lived in a state of slavery.
Andras’ father, Cadblaidd, had been a leader of the
Free People’s Resistance, a ragged alliance of
farmers and tradesman dedicated to protecting their
freedom and that of their families. The men were
determined and bold, but they had no training in the
art of war, and no stomach for the black demons of
inhumanity that make their abode on the battlefield.

They fought hard and they fought valiantly, but

theirs was a doomed battle. Pressed to their last
refuge, they fought with the desperation of men who
have everything to lose. But it was not enough. At
the last, Cadblaidd saw that his fight was hopeless. In
secret, he commanded his most trusted companion,
Sior, to take his wife and to escape through the
mountains. Cadblaidd’s wife, Seren, had refused to
leave with the other women, and insisted still on
remaining by his side. Her love of Cadblaidd was
stronger than to her than any fear of death.
Cadblaidd knew this, and knew that she would never
willingly leave him. Still, he could not bear to doom
her by his actions. His love of her was true, and
extended beyond himself. To accomplish his goal,
then, he was forced to resort to trickery. In a lull
between assaults, he took Seren to his chamber and
made the most passionate love to her that had ever
been between man and woman. Near the end, he
gave to her a glass of ruby wine, which she drank,
thinking it their final drink together. She slipped into
a blissful unawareness as the sleeping drought took
its effect on her. Quickly, Cadblaidd summoned Sior.
He bade him carry Seren before him on his horse,
and make good their escape. Loathe was Sior to
depart, but he knew the reality of their situation as
well as Cadblaidd did. With tears in his eyes, he left
to ready his steed. Gently, Cadblaidd carried his wife
to the stables. Sior was provisioned and ready to
depart. With a final kiss on his wife’s sleeping brow,
Cadblaidd entrusted Seren to him. Sior did not look
back as he rode out through the back of the fortress.
He knew that if he did so he would be unable to
leave. Sior would never be counted among the
sensitive or the feeling, but his love for Cadblaidd ran
deep. As He watched them speed into the night,
Cadblaidd felt a deep regret. Seren had always
wanted a child, and he had been unable to give her
one. He felt a single tear slide down his cheek as his
wife rode off into the winter night.

When Seren awoke, she struggled madly with

Sior, demanding her release and return. Sior would
not yield, however. He knew that the truest service
he could render unto his master would be to fulfill his
command. He bound Seren’s wrists and rode on,
ignoring the lady’s protests. Seren would not be
ignored, however. She took to screaming and began
calling curses down upon Sior and his descendants.
Craven, she called him, unworthy of her husband’s
trust. She accused him of kidnapping her to justify
his own escape. Sior did not take heed to her words,
but out of fear of discovery, stopped. He placed
Seren upon the ground and gave to her a letter. It
was written in the ancient Weyscript, Which Sior
knew not. By this sign, Seren knew that it was
Cadblaidd who had written it. In silence, she read.
Within, Cadblaidd spoke of his reasons for sending
her away, his regrets for their unfulfilled life, and his
surpassing love for her. In her heart, Seren finally
accepted the bitter draught of reality. She knew that
Cadblaidd was dead. With wordless remorse, she
looked to Sior, her eyes begging forgiveness. Sior
returned her gaze and said, “Leaving him was the
most difficult deed I’ll ever accomplish.”

Their journey was long and hard. The mountains

of Wey in winter are no place for travelers. The
chilling wind and stinging snow bit into the very souls
of Seren and Sior. As they walked the craggy
palisades of the Cloudbiters, mightiest of the peaks
in ancient Wey, Seren came close to despair. She felt
empty inside, barren without the reassuring touch
and sight of her husband. An intense longing to rejoin
him filled her. In the deep reaches of the night, she
prayed for release. Sior, solid as he was, would never
be counted among the wise or sagacious. He helped
as he could, but he knew it was not enough. Seren
was on the precipice of taking her own life, when fate
inserted her fickle hand and warped the threads of
her tale. Two gifts were given her. First, against all
odds, they met with others who sought to escape the
horrors of Wey. A merchant, his wife, and their
neonate daughter had come to the mountains,
bearing what little they had managed to salvage of
their life in a cart drawn by a team of horses. They
recognized the badge of Cadblaidd, who had kept
their routes free for many years. Sior told them of
their flight, and they agreed to take Seren and him
into their small band. Sior was delighted, for he saw
this as an omen from the powers above that they
would escape. Seren, however, was not consoled.
She looked on the merchant’s young daughter with
tears in her eyes. She seldom spoke, keeping her
thoughts to herself.

On the sixty-first day of their flight, the second

gift of the fates was granted to Seren. Seldom, since
the beginning of their flight, did she show interest in
anything. On theing alone had meaning to her. She
kept the last letter of Cadblaidd close to her heart,
and often pulled it from her blouse to read it again.
She traced her fingers over the flowing script,
remembering the feel of his hands as they held hers.
Whenever she did this, the deep melancholy fell
upon her. She was a being without purpose, a shell of
a woman void of a soul.
On the fifty-ninth morning, however, a change
came over her. She seemed to the others agitated
and distracted. That evening, she asked Sior to fetch
her several herbs. When the merchant’s wife heard
the names of the herbs Seren required, a wave of
understanding and hope for her companion flushed
through her. She did not betray Seren’s secret,
however, lest it lead to an even greater
disappointment. Sior looked through the next day for
the herbs, hunting far and wide amidst the snow. At
last, on the eve of the sixtieth day, he had gathered
all that Seren required. In the light of the sixty-first
morning, Seren went alone to a mountain stream to
bathe. The one blessing in the midst of the hardships
of the Cloudbiter Mountains was the abundance of
warm water rising in springs from the heart of
Weyland. She disrobed, feeling the bite of the cold
air, and steeled herself for the possibility of a
disappointment which would bring about her mental
ruin. With a whispered prayer, she set about her
task. When she returned to her companions, she was
smiling, but tears streamed down her face.
“Cadblaidd’s legacy will live on,” She said.

Through many treacherous perils, they came at

last to the end of the Cloudbiters and borders of
Weyland there, they made a camp and made ready
for the Birth of Seren’s child. It was her desire that
Cadblaidd’s heir be born upon the soil of the country
that his father had died to protect. At last, he came,
a bright, strong boy with golden hair His mother
cradled him in her arms, seeing the continuations of
Cadblaidd’s features in the child’s soft face. The boy
had her eyes though, black circles flecked with
specks of bright gold. Of old, it was said that the
people of Wey who were born with this color in their
eyes possessed the gift of Foresight. Few believed in
the ancient stories, however. She named him Andras.
The change in Seren afterwards was immense. Once
more, she had a purpose. When she was recovered,
and the child ready, they set out.

From the foothills of the mountains, they made

their way south, passing through countries blissfully
unaware of the deadly struggles which wracked
Weyland. The merchant had many contacts indebted
to him, and he called upon their favor, receiving
shelter, food and supplies in exchange for the
release of debts. During this time, the child of the
merchants, Branwen, became greatly fond of Andras.
The two would wail unless they were placed next to
each other in the cart. At last, they reached the great
Valley of Peace, above which sat the white city
Eiluned. The guards in the out-towers of the city
stood perpetual watch, ensuring that the valley lived
up to its name. Sior, Seren, The merchant and his
family walked through the farmlands that bordered
the city, seeing the content that filled the farmers
who lived there. They reached the great gates of the
city, and applied for admittance. The Spellkeepers
heard their stories, and looked upon them with favor.
Thus it was that the Lady Seren, Andras and Branwen
came to the White City.

It was nineteen years since they had first passed

the great gates of Eiluned. The Merchant had
invested the remnants of his fortune, and once again
come to prosperity. Sior, worked for him for several
years, saving his earnings, and preparing to strike
out on his own. The merchant did not care to lose
Sior, who had become almost his equal in his
business, but understood his reasons for leaving. Sior
could never be at rest unless he had exercised his
body to its fullest extent. A farmer by birth, Sior
wished to spend his days in honest labor. During his
years as a fighter, he had learned out of necessity
the art of smithying. With the merchant’s aid, he
opened a forge, in which he made the finest tools in
the whole of Eiluned. His background as a farmer
taught him all he needed to know about the
requirements of a good, solid tool, and he hired
spellcasters to weave enchantments of durability
about his works. His reputation grew and he
prospered, hiring others of equal skill who valued the
esteem a quality product garnered.

Seren, too, found a niche for her talents. The fine

Weyland quilts which had once been a commodity of
the rich were no longer available due to the wars.
She began her own business, selling her quilts, which
fetched handsome prices. Soon she also hired others
whom she trusted to learn the secrets of her art.
Andras, her son, could have lived quite comfortably
at home, but he possessed his father’s restless,
burning spirit. On the eve of his eleventh year, he
was apprenticed to Sior, and began to spend his days
learning the art of the forge. In the heat and sparks,
he grew strong and skillful, showing an immense
aptitude for the shaping of metal. Branwen, graceful
and fair, spent her days in the studies of the arts,
dancing with extraordinary grace and painting with
the talent of a great master. Throughout the years,
Branwen and Andras were seldom far from each
other. They understood each other in a way few
people can ever hope to.

It was warm out as the two of them walked

towards Branwen’s house. Andras’ back still hurt
from where he had hit the ground. He glared at
Branwen. She was in rare high spirits, bubbling about
her latest projects. The song she had forced him to
sing earlier was to be her presentation for the feast
of Einon. Once every year, the entire city turned out
to honor the champion war-mage who had wrested
the land all about from the grip of evil, and brought
peace to the south. The story of Einon’s victory
always fascinated Andras. “In an age long past,
the dark queen Morwena held all the lands
which were now Eiluned’s. Einon alone had
stood to defy the dark queen. A tremendous
battle took place, and Morwena was defeated.
In her final hour, she was bested by Einon and
slain on the very spot where the Spellkeepers’
temple now stood. As the victorious Einon
stood over her corpse, he felt a great evil
emanating from within. Reaching into the
fallen sorceress’s chest, he plucked loose her
heart. The dark energy contained within
frightened even him. Quickly, he called to the
Great Eagles, his closest allies. He commanded
them to take Morwena’s body and bear it to
farthest reaches of the world. The heart he
placed within a carven stone urn, which he
sealed with his own spirit.
Then, with his victory complete, he began
a great work. He stood upon the hill where
Morwena had met her end, and summoned the
powers within himself. Einon then bound his
own spirit to the living rock beneath him, and
called forth from the earth a mighty ring of
stone, laying the foundation for what would
become the great walls of Eiluned. The very
sky shook with power as he completed his
enchantment. Einon then sealed the magick,
deigning that a portion of his soul remain
within the walls, to guide and protect the city
that would come to be…”
 A change in Branwen’s voice brought Andras
back from the realm of thought. “Shouldn’t Aeron be
here?” she said. Andras looked across the white
marble street. There was the shop that their friend,
Aeron, usually worked. They turned a good trade
selling fine garments. Tonight, however, the lights
within were dimmed. “Strange, “Andras thought,
“She should be at her busiest now. Nothing better for
making idiots spend money than an opportunity to
show off in front of idiots. And there were not a hell
of a lot of opportunities bigger than Einon’s feast.”
Andras’ tolerance for human stupidity was not
incredibly high, and, he was far from fond of anything
to do with the garment trade. Still, the oddity of the
situation piqued his interest. “Want to take a look?”
Andras asked. Branwen nodded. “It’s been awhile
since I’ve been to see her. “ They changed their
course, angling for the shop’s entrance.

“Locked!” Branwen exclaimed. And it was. A

stout padlock secured the door’s handles. They were
about to turn away when a hint of movement within
caught Andras’ eye. A figure within the store came
into view and motioned towards the side door. They
heard the door open, and saw a man emerge.
Branwen recognized him as the shop’s owner. He
greeted them with a smile. “You’d be looking for
Aeron, wouldn’t ye? Well, ye’ll have nae luck here.
She’s gone!” Branwen hid her surprise well. Andras,
however, was well and truly interested now. The
proprietor stood grinning at them drawing the
suspense out. At last, he could no longer hold it
within himself. He was practically beaming. “She’s
been chosen to serve the Spellkeepers! Hell of an
honor for her, but it leaves me right short! Ye
wouldn’t be looking for some work, would ye, Miss
Bran?” Branwen’s eyes lit up as she considered the
possibility. Andras caught this. He whispered in her
ear, “If you start working in a dress shop, I’ll never
walk you home again.” She responded by jabbing her
elbow into his ribcage. Laughing, they took their
leave of the old shopkeeper.

When Andras reached his home, however, his

suspicions were far from settled. Something simply
did not sit right with him. Quietly, he slipped into his
house. Seren, he saw, was already abed. Left alone
with his thoughts, Andras fell into a storm of unquiet.
It was true that the Spellkeepers took in young
women, to train as acolytes in the guarding of the
shrine to Einon. It would make sense if Aeron had
been chosen. She was the right age, and Andras
remembered that she was more than willing to leave
her parents. Ha, an understatement. Her parents and
she had lived in open warfare. The one time Andras
had visited her home with Branwen, their fight could
be heard out in the street. That! That was what was
bothering him. That was the sharp, dissonant
thought which pricked at Andras’ consciousness. The
girls chosen to be shrine-wardens were the most
level-headed, even tempered and intelligent Eiluned
had to offer. A description which Aeron simply did not
fit. She had a tendency towards the over-dramatic,
and could not keep the simplest secret. Why, then
had she been chosen? Damnit, it really didn’t matter
“why,” did it? Andras did not know why something so
trivial bothered him. He simply felt something wrong,
something… dark. Grumbling, Andras decided to
give it a new day’s thought tomorrow. He dropped
uneasily into a restless sleep.

Clang! If this isn’t… Clang! the most… Clang!

Goddamn… Clang! Calming... Clang! Thing… With
an experienced eye, Andras appraised his work. He
had superheated the metal, bringing it to a white
glow in order to join the two loose ends of the
heartbend.” Only a little more shaping now, and
she’ll be done,” Andras called to his assistant. The
boy responded with a grunt. Andras smiled to
himself. The boy was still a long way from having the
blacksmith’s muscles. Running the bellows must be
taking all he’s got. With a sharp hiss, Andras
plunged the glowing end of the horseshoe into his
salt barrel. He was rewarded by a shower of steam.
Perfect. He smiled when he pulled it out. There
wasn’t a trace of a fault along his joint. “There really
was nothing for settling the mind like beating the
shiesen out of a piece of metal,” he thought.
Somehow, the heat of the forge and the exertions of
the labor he put in cleared his mind more thoroughly
than the best herbal drugs. “This,” he thought, “Is
something the damn Spellkeepers will never have
the joy of experiencing.” He had still not settled his
issues from the night before, but a measure of peace
sufficient to overcome his doubt had filled his mind.
Grinning, he began the final shaping.

For several days, nothing more came of Aeron’s

departure. Her store hired a new clerk, a thoroughly
bubbly and annoying young girl Andras had no desire
to speak with, but whom Branwen took an instant
liking to. Andras had all but forgotten his misgivings
as the city geared itself up for Einon’s feast.
Merchants everywhere had their best and brightest
stock on display, and everyone went about preparing
their best for the great day. Even Andras, who
ordinarily took no more joy in preparing gatherings
than a hound did in finding a skunk, began to feel
some of the excitement. He was, in fact, totally
unprepared for the next twist of fate, which brought
home the hint of an explanation for his dark feeling
of unease…

Periphelion. Not a person, not a place, but a

time. As the golden chariot that is the sun wings its
way through the heavens in a grand figure of eight, it
comes perilously close to a small, graceful planet
dyed in brilliant hues of blue, green and grey. The
distance between the two at this point is a scant
ninety million leagues, immeasurable by man’s
standard, but significant to man’s sight. For this
distance is near enough to bring changes to verdant
planet. The brilliant rays of warmth and light that
flow from Sol begin to change their pace and
intensity as he comes closer. The time of his nearest
passage, the time of his greatest influence, was
named by an ancient people Periphelion, which is,
“God’s Nearness.” These ancients, however, and
their understanding of the machinations of the
heavens, had been dead and forgotten a long time
when Eiluned was first raised. Thus, these lofty,
astronomical musings would have been lost upon
Andras as he walked through Eiluned’s streets. He
did, however, note the unusual brilliance of the
Solset. Incandescent rays of copper, cerisine,
vermillion and amber citrine streamed forth from the
horizon, illuminating and painting the white marble of
the city in their reflected glow. The shadows cast by
this solset, already strange and ethereal, began to
coalesce in strange patterns that tricked and misled
the eye. Length, proportionality, depth and scale
began to have no correlation to reality. It was
understandable, then, that Andras took some time to
notice the peculiar shadow that had attached itself to
him.

Andras’ vision swam. The edges of his sight

began to bend and distort, blending the lines of his
view together. Suddenly, the image before him
sharpened, and he beheld an inexplicable sight. He
saw a strange shadow growing from his own feet,.
Somehow his own, but not his. Where before the soft
silhouettes of his trousers and shirt had flowed
loosely with the last winds of the western breeze,
there were now hard lines of steel and adamant. The
shadow before him bore bracers and greaves on his
legs, and a broad, armoured cuirass with wide
shoulders of angular plate-armor. Each shoulder was
capped by a single spike pointing outwards slightly
above the horizontal. Above the left shoulder, a
broad handle and crosspiece were fastened. Dimly,
Andras was aware that this must be the hilt of a
sword. The pommel, he saw, was not caped by the
typical jewel setting. Instead, two birds with
outstretched wings were cast at the base of the hilt.
Andras’ last impression was that the eyes of each
were set with some gem that allowed light to pass
through. As he sharpened his gaze on the tiny
pinpricks of light, he felt blackness take him.

He woke to see Branwen’s face inches above his

own. “What the hell were you doing, you dumb
queynt?” she hissed. “You walked right into the
fucking wall!” Andras’ first thought, surprisingly, was
not related even remotely to the temporary
distortion of reality he had experienced. Instead, it
was something along the lines of, “Her mouth has
more in common with a sailor than a dancer.” He
cringed and sat up, nearly running into Branwen.
Something in his expression must have alarmed her.
“Hey, what’s wrong with you?” she asked as she
leaned in to take a closer look. His expression
unnerved her. “Andras. Hey! Andras!” The sound of
her voice returned clarity to his mind. “I think I’d
better get up,” he said.
Within a few minutes, Andras could have passed
as completely unchanged. He walked home next to
Branwen, trying to assure her that he really was
alright. Branwen wasn’t one to show agitation
outwardly, but Andras had known her long enough to
pick up the signs. He tried to calm her, but he could
see from the twitches in her fingers and the way she
kept glancing behind her that he was unsuccessful.
At the same time his mind was in a frenzy trying to
process the information he had been shown. What
had been the point? Where had his vision come
from? And, primarily, what the hell had brought it on?
Branwen was leading him towards his home, but
what he really felt he needed was a trip to the forge.
Clear his head. Sort his mind. Branwen, however,
was intent on denying him that luxury. She was
adamant. “You’re. Going. Home. Now stop bitching
about your damn shop.!” It was, Andras reflected,
pointless trying to argue with a girl who was as
skilled as Bran in the fine art of swearing.

Seren was no better. The moment Branwen

spoke the word, “collapsed,” she was examining
every inch of Andras, fussing over the smallest
details. Branwen looked on silently, her hand folded
in front of her mouth. Andras knew, from experience,
that she was biting at the edges of her nails.
“Damn,” he thought, “she really is worried.” A
demand from Seren shook him loose from his
musings. “Bend down,” she commanded. Andras
looked imploringly at Branwen. “Bend down!” Seren
said again. With a rumble of disgust, he complied.
This went on for nearly half an hour, with Andras
repeating his protestations and Seren increasing her
ministrations. At last, finding nothing obviously
wrong with him, she relented. She did, however,
demand that Andras lay down. Andras, thoroughly
fed up at that point, conceded, as he knew it was the
only way to get his mother to leave him. Branwen
followed as he walked into his bedchamber. He
dropped onto his bed, let his head fall, and slowly
rolled over, coming to rest with his gaze on Branwen.
She stood with her arms folded over her chest,
glaring at him. The concern in her manner had been
replaced with something far angrier. “Are you going
to be honest with me now?” she asked.

“It’s a damned pain,.” Andras thought, “that she

knows me as well as I know her.” He rolled his eyes.
“Honest about what?” he asked in his sincerest
voice. “Do you really think you can hide something
from me?” she asked. “Mmmm, I don’t know, you’re
not that bright. Probably..” Andras replied. The look
Branwen gave him could have cut through glass.
“Andras, what the hell happened back there?” Her
face softened. “You know you can trust me.” Andras
felt a stabbing pang of guilt. Branwen had been his
confidante more times than he could remember, and
she had never betrayed his trust. Something inside
him, however, said not yet. “Branwen, look at me.”
She lowered her head, looking him in the eyes.
Andras saw something in her gaze he did not expect.
Pain. “You’ll be the first. I promise.” She broke off
her gaze. “Make damn sure of it,” she said as she left
his room. Andras watched her leave, saw her hurried
step. He didn’t, however see the tear sliding from the
edge of her cheek. He rolled back over, and turned
his mind to the problems at hand.

A quick mental check. Boots off. Skip the third

floorboard, which squeaked horrendously. Lift up on
the door hinges so that they wouldn’t squeal. Make
sure the edge of the door didn’t rub against the
jamb. One final look behind him to make sure Seren
hadn’t woken, and out the door.

A small pang of guilt tugged at Andras. He would

have preferred to leave with Seren’s consent. He
knew his mother, however. He sure as hell wouldn’t
get it as long as she thought something was wrong
with him. Andras loved his mother deeply. She was
his mother, and his only real connection with a father
he’d never known. Still, she could be annoying as
hell. Andras smiled to himself as he walked through
the streets. He left his boots off. The marble was
cool as the early morning air, and felt extraordinarily
soothing against the bare soles of his feet. A night of
thought had brought him to the following
conclusions. Firstly, that he was not insane, for an
insane man didn’t question his own sanity. Andras
smiled lopsidedly at this observation. The happening,
then, must have been some sort of vision. Secondly,
that something or someone had brought the vision to
him. “I sure as hell didn’t wake up asking for that,”
he thought with a wry smile. Thirdly, and most
importantly, that there was only one thing which
could have brought on his vision, his ancestry from
Weyland. How ironic, that The Red Dragon had
reached out through the years and miles, and found
him here, in the very heart of the white city. He
stepped up to a brisk jog. There was only one person
Andras trusted who could tell him about the seers of
Weyland. The sun was just rising over the far edge of
the city. “Good,” Andras thought, “Sior’ll be alone at
the forge.”

A thin sheen of sweat coated Andras’ skin as he

pulled loose the bolt on the door to Sior’s shop. The
faint sounds of the blacksmith preparing his shop
drifted toward Andras from the rear of the building..
That early in the morning, there would be no-one but
Sior in the forge. Andras stooped to put his boots on.
No sense filling his feet with iron scraps. Quietly, he
walked to where Sior was standing. The old
blacksmith was bent over an anvil against the far
wall. A memory suddenly came unbidden to Andras’
mind. When he was a little child, it had been a game
of his to try and hit Sior by surprise. He’d never quite
been able to do it. Maybe now that he was— A
sickening crack came from Andras’ chest. He looked
down in shock and saw Sior’s elbow protruding from
his sternum. “You still exhale like a wounded cow
before striking,” Sior said in a tired voice.

“You’re still a damn Jotunn,” Andras replied,

clutching the edge of the table to support himself.
This brought a slight smile to Sior’s face. Andras was
reeling. “The old bastard must have a skeleton of
steel,” he thought to himself.“ Sior still hadn’t turned
away from the steel work surface. “Heard you were
dying,” the smith said as he wound the crank which
wound the bellows. “Don’t you wish,” Andras shot
back. “I did have a problem though. Something you
might be able to help with. “ Sior kept turning the
handle, not missing a beat, as he listened.
“Foresight’s not something with rules, Andras,”
Sior said. “It’s something rawer. Deeper. Mages and
knaves who say they can see just what they want to
from the future are nothing but liars. There’s no-one,
Even Einon himself, as could ever be certain of what
they were going to see. Some people even had
visions and didn’t know it till they came true. From
the way you tell it though, it sounds as that’s what
you saw. Look at me close now. Andras,” Sior said as
he reached out and grabbed Andras’ shoulder,
“There’ll be a reason you were shown that. I want
you not to be working today.” Andras began to
protest, but Sior cut him off. “You remember me
trying to show you dances?” Andras groaned. Long,
long ago, Sior had done his best to teach him some
of the traditional martial arts of Weyland. It had been
his goal to teach Andras a series of sword dances,
combat exercises on the level of an art form. And,
given Andras’ not so spectacular levels of patience,
failed miserably. The demanding stances, precise
movements and discipline necessary had been
beyond Andras. It was, Andras reflected, the only
thing he had ever truly failed Sior in. damnit.

Light filtered hazily through the thick glass

windows, illuminating the individual motes of dust
that swirled through the still air. There were three
windows on the east wall, one in the shape of a
crescent moon, one in the shape of an eight pointed
lakshimi star, and one in the shape of an arbelos
scythe. The gentle light that came through the panes
lit a series of paintings on the far wall. Landscapes,
still lifes and portraits hung there. The ones towards
the left end were cruder, less refined and less
stylistic. As the line of paintings progressed towards
the right, the skill with which they were executed
increased, as though they were a timeline of their
artist’s progress. Branwen stood at the end of the
row of paintings, hanging her latest work. It showed
a figure resplendent in white armor, with a flowing
mane of golden hair. He stood on a cliff with bolts of
lightning behind, his eyes proclaiming defiance to all.
Einon. With a last glance to make sure it was level,
she turned and set her gaze on a sculpture near the
center of the room.

It was her opus, a slender form of a dancer in

mid-arabesque, gracefully captured looking towards
the heavens. It was her favorite of all her works. The
bronze of the skin and hair had taken her months to
complete, but the end result was stunning. Andras
had built the frame for her, and as she ran her hands
along it she could almost feel the shaping blows of
his hammer. She studied the details of the face,
looking at the fine lines of the girl’s profile. This
creation defied its metallic nature, seeming as light
and ethereal as moonlight. Branwen was so absorbed
in the statue that she never heard the door being
opened, and never heard the fall of footsteps behind
her. The touch of a hand on her back, however, set
her spinning around. A hooded man stood behind
her. For a wild moment fear lit her eyes, and she
tensed to run. Then the man lifted his, hood, and she
breathed a sigh of relief.

It was Gilles, one of the elder Spellkeepers. He

was responsible for most of the district that Branwen
lived in, and they had met several times before. He
smiled at her, and opened his mouth to speak.
Suddenly, suspicion returned to Branwen. She cut
Gilles off. “How the queynt did you get in here?” she
snapped before she remembered herself. She
dropped her head. “I mean, sir, how do you come to
be here?” as she looked down, she suddenly became
very aware of the flimsy dancer’s practice clothes
she wore. She turned and reached for a cloak that
hung on the wall behind her. Gilles spoke. “Such
language! I heard about young Andras collapsing the
other day. I know you two are close, and I thought I’d
look in on you.”
 Branwen wrapped the cloak around herself. It
was a fine garment, woven by Seren. Green with the
red dragon of Weyland on a crest, it somehow gave
her a warm feeling of reassurance as she put it on.
“That is well and good,” she said, remembering the
traditional tone for speaking to a Spellkeeper. “But
how, Spellkeeper, do you come to be in my
chamber?” Gilles smiled, and his expression
unsettled Branwen deeply. “Locks have no meaning
to servants of the light, my child. By your leave, I’ll
take my to my rounds now.” He said as he turned to
leave. “Damnit,” she whispered. She rushed back
into her house to grab some sturdier clothes.
“Damnit. Damnit.” Something was going on. She
needed to see Andras. She latched the door behind
her and ran silently out into the street, clutching the
cloak about her.

Branwen pounded on the steel gate. “What the

hell is going on in there?” she yelled, peering
through the bars. She jumped backwards in shock as
Andras crashed backwards into the gate. He was
wearing a padded leather vest, and had a stout iron
bar in his hands. His eyes rolled unfocused for a
second, then centered on her. “Having my ass kicked
by a senile bastard. You?” without waiting for a reply,
he ran off yelling. More clangs followed, and Andras
came rolling back again. Branwen was still too
shocked to speak, So Andras spoke for her. I’ve
finally found a dance I like. Wanna see?” She nodded
mutely, and he got up to unbar the gate.. A scene of
chaos greeted her. The rear courtyard of Sior’s shop
was littered with ropes, hammers, blocks and tackle
and a plethora of other objects. Three of the forge
workers sat on the far fence, laughing and ribbing
each other. In the center of the courtyard, Sior stood.
He was arrayed in the same manner as Andras, and
had a green headband wrapped around his long
silver hair. His beard spilled out over the front of his
vest, and the massive sinews of his arms stood out
like bands of Iron. He was Bran thought, the very
picture of a proud warrior king of old. Strange how a
different suit of garments can bring out a different
essence in a person. Sior gave out a barking laugh.
“Think I’ll go easy on you cause the lady’s here? Not
on your damn life!” Branwen leaned in to whisper to
Andras. “This have something to do with last night?”
Andras nodded. “Later. I promised I’d tell you. Later.
Oh, and if Seren asks, I’m helping Sior check his
accounts.”

Branwen sat on the fence beside the three men.

They greeted her, having met her many a time as
she came to speak with Andras and Sior. “What’s
going on?” she asked. The man farthest from her
laughed. “The old geezer’s kicking his queynting ass!
If you’ll pardon the language, mi’lady” he added in a
slightly ashamed tone. “Pardon? Your? Abso-fucking-
lutely not.” The men fell about laughing. Joking about
how Andras must have been a bad influence on her.
She laughed. “I’m pretty sure it’s just the Weyland
speaking in me.” They laughed again, and turned
their heads towards Sior. They were just in time. A
massive thump and a groan from Andras announced
his latest failure to block Sior’s attack. He fell to his
knees, and yelled out “Yield!” Sior laughed. “They
don’t yield on the battlefield!” Andras rolled away as
Sior swung again. “Goddamnitwhatiswrongwithyou?”
he shouted. “You’re a sadist!” despite his shouts, he
was grinning. Branwen turned towards the men
again. “What’s with the mess?” “Something about a
real battlefield being unpredictable, never actually
having sure footing. The old man’s not teaching him
no pansy sword tricks, no ma’am.” He’s making sure
the boy can survive!” The man closest to her replied.
An icy chill sunk into Branwen’s stomach, destroying
her gaiety. She was certain now that something was
going on.

Andras was washing the grime off of himself in a

trough. The metal straps and buckles of his sparring
gear all needed wiping down too, or else his sweat
would corrode them. He sighed, and got to work.
“Doing this everyday is going to suck,” he thought to
himself. He began cleaning the leather with a jar of
oil and a rag. and pulled the liner out to wash it. He
slid out of the reinforced trousers and pulled out
another cloth to clean his skin. “Andras!” Branwen
shouted from around the corner. “Not a good time.”
He replied. “Sure. I’ll queynting flay you alive if you
don’t come clean with me.” She stood on the other
side of the wall which separated the feed trough from
the rest of the small stable. “Talk. Now. There’s no
one around. “ Andras took a deep breath. “Bran?” he
spoke in a quiet voice. “I’m listening.”

“You remember the old stories. Weyland seers.

The other night, I saw something. My shadow started
changing, and I thought I was losing my mind. That’s
what flipped me the hell out. I don’t know what it
means, but Sior thinks it’s damn important. He wants
me to be ready.” “That’s the reason for the fighting?”
 “Yes.”
“Andras?”
He paused.
“I’m scared. Something…”
He stopped scrubbing.
“Something happened. You know Gilles? The
spellkeeper? He came to my house today. Just
walked right the hell in. I don’t know why, but he
scared me. He….
He was looking at me. It really bothered me.”
Andras was silent for a moment. “I’ll go after
him.”
They were walking home. The sun was setting
again, bringing a familiar red glow to the streets. To
Branwen, however, the angles and lines of the white
marble were threatening and strange. She felt an
inexplicable longing for the soft contours of hillsides.
She walked close to Andras. His presence reassured
her, and made her feel vaguely as though he was at
her home in bed. She looked up at him, studying the
angles of his face. He was looking straight ahead,
and seemed to be concentrating on something.
Suddenly, he snapped his head to the side. Branwen
followed his gaze. On the right edge of the street,
there was a small sewer drain. “What?” she asked.
“Do you see the birds?” he replied. She squinted.
There was an image of two birds with wings spread.
“Damn, they’re tiny! How’d you see them? Andras
smiled. “I was looking for them.”

Gilles was gone. No one had seen him, and

Andras could not find any trace of him. The
spellkeeper’s temple was forbidden for anyone not
vested as a servant of the light, and Andras couldn’t
very well go in and pound on the doors, shouting
curses upon one of the order. Still, he kept up his
vigilance. He knew Branwen was not someone to get
scared over nothing.

A routine built itself. Andras spent the first hours

of everyday working the forge, as he usually would.
The last two hours of everyday, however, were spent
in the back of the court sparring. The men who were
off duty gathered to place bets and laugh at the
outcomes of the fights. Andras was nearly able to
fend for himself now, but he still hadn’t managed to
win against Sior. Branwen would come everyday to
watch, and to be the sole voice of support for Andras.
Her presence always seemed to make him fight
worse, however. The two of them left together every
night, walking through the sunlit streets towards
their homes. On the eve of Einon’s feast, however,
Branwen did not come. Andras waited for nearly an
hour after the time he left, but saw no sign of her.
Finally, it became too dark to delay any longer. He
set off alone.
The streets that night were dark. The moon was
hidden behind a thick veil of clouds, and the only
illumination came from the pale glow of the
magicked streetlamps. Something about the lights
gave him a growing feeling of unease. Andras walked
along, carrying a small charcoal sketch he’d made for
Branwen. Suddenly, at the edge of his hearing, he
heard a scuffle in the alley next to him. Something
about the strangeness of the night made him turn,
and look. The alley was dark, and he could not see to
the end. Suddenly, the moon came out form behind
the clouds, and he beheld a sight which snapped
through his mind like a rod of iron inserted into his
brainstem. His eyes dilated in unfeeling horror. The
moonlight revealed to him Branwen, laying in the
narrow street. A pool of viscous crimson spread out
from her spine, and her unseeing eyes gazed
upwards. Her clothes were rent, and her pale skin
was bruised. The long black hair her parents had
named her for sat lying in tangled disorder, framing a
horrific expression of shock that stabbed Andras
through his heart.

Dilation. The widening of eyes as they take in s

scene of shock. The widening of arteries and veins as
a spike of adrenaline impales the heart. The widening
of the mind as the consciousness expands to accept
the impossible. These, and a million other sensations
flooded Andras’ mind as the sight before him tore
into his nerves with the impact of a razored axe. He
could not look at her, and could not look away. He
could not accept what had happened, and could not
reject the evidence laid before him in stark crimson
vainglory. He wanted to scream, but could not. He
fell to the ground, his knees giving way before the
onslaught of unreality. He mouthed her name, using
the last of the control he had over his body. His
fingers loosed their hold on his knife, but he was not
aware of the change. Acceptance stabbed through
him, the shards of reality severing his control. In that
instant, it became clear to him exactly how much of
his own spirit was locked within Branwen. He was
incomplete, hollow, consumed by a void that he
knew would never again be filled. He was in this
world, yet, in that moment, not of this world. With
unfeeling eyes he looked, and with unfeeling touch
he crawled across the stone towards her body. How
long he lay there, his head inches from the pool of
Branwen’s lifeblood, no-one knows.

His mind hurtled back through the cosmos of

unfeeling eternity, drawn back to the cold streets of
Eiluned by a sound out of place, a sharp grating of
words against the bones of his ears. He lifted his
head, the pale edges of his long blonde hair stained
dark crimson with Branwen’s blood. The impressions
of sight returned slowly, and he saw, as through a
fog, a figure hooded and cloaked before him. Once
again, he heard the sound of a voice. This time,
however, he could discern the patterns of sound as
they coalesced into recognizability. “It’s time,” the
voice said, “for us to leave. Though ‘twas good of the
gods to grant us this amusing little diversion!” He
slowly reached for his knife, but slowed as a chorus
of rough laughter rang from the shadows. Andras
began to pick out other figures from amongst the
shadows. Nearly twenty men. Too many. Suddenly,
as though he his motion had betrayed him, the man
with the hood turned and looked on Andras. “What in
the nine hells?!”

His voice betrayed him. Andras looked with cold

fury on Gilles as he threw back his hood, revealing
the sharp features and grey hair that Andras had
known for years. His appearance was warped now,
twisted, as cold realization flooded Andras’ mind.
Aeron was not with the spellkeepers. Instead, she
had been sacrificed on the grim altar of this unholy
cleric’s perversion, a pathetic victim bled dry to sate
the twisted workings of Gilles’ mind. Andras
shuddered as he imagined the torments she must
have endured before her end.
Gilles gave a rough guffaw as he looked down on
Andras shaking with pain. “Look, lads! The little
puppy misses his bitch!”

Andras’ fingers tightened around the handle of his

knife.

Gilles looked down with cruel gaze, his eyes

taunting Andras. Every line of his face evoked a
stinging return of loathing from Andras. His perfectly
manicured hair and unweathered face, his smooth,
flawless skin and unscarred hands reminded Andras
of the privileged life that Giles had led, feeding off of
the hardworking members of Eluined like a corrupted
parasite. Andras himself had contributed to his
stipend, as had Branwen. Branwen! She had trusted
and praised the spellkeppers, and they had violated
her, forcing on her the ultimate brutality and
indignity. Andras felt blood flowing from his tongue
as he clenched his teeth, every muscle of his tensed
tighter than a clockspring of steel. Gilles began to
laugh. “See now! The little puppy’s got a tooth!
What’ll you do, pup? Bite me for ripping her open,
hmm? Scratch me for quenynting your little bitch? It
wasn’t only me, we all took a turn before the end!
Ha, come boy, show me what the little ones know!”
Andras felt his arm draw back, readying a strike. He
would rip Gilles heart, still beating, from his chest!

From somewhere deep inside of himself a voice

spoke to Andras. “Only a fool listens to his enemy’s
taunts.” Andras felt a sudden calm replace the fiery
maelstrom of rage that had been building within him,
the flaming tides of hatred receding, and in their
place a steel resolve forming, hardened and
tempered by the heat that had raged moments
before.. Andras’s expression changed as he re-
assessed the situation. Twenty. Too many. He would
need to be swift, accurate, and above all,
unexpected. There was no doubt In his mind that
every one of the men around him was a member of
the walking dead. He had every face memorized, and
knew that everyone would feel the brutal sting of his
blade. Not yet though. Not all at once. Not when he
was alone. He needed a diversion, and he needed it
fast. One of the men behind Gilles sneered, and
pointed at Andras, whispering some cruel joke to
another man. Andras decided. That man would be his
distraction. He drew himself up on his elbows, and
changed his grip on his blade. Slowly, he stood,
turning towards Gilles, his mind calculating.
Suddenly, with the speed of a striking viper he
whipped his arm around and body around in a single
fluid motion, turning to run as he slung the dagger
from his hand.

The blade traced a silvery arc through the night,

catching the rays of the moon along its razor sharp
facets as it whirled end over end towards its target.
With the sound of an axe splitting wood, the tipmost
5 inches embedded themselves in the man’s most
sensitive region. He screamed in indescribable pain,
blood spurting in fits from the severed end of his
nether regions. Every man in Gilles’ party whirled at
the sound, shocked by the screaming coming forth
from the man now writhing on the floor in agony. By
the time they understood what had happened,
Andras was gone, lost to the shadows of the night
like a wraith of dissipating smoke.

Andras had been wrong earlier. He had thought

that the empty void within him would never be filled,
but he was mistaken. He felt something entirely new
within him now, a cold, hardened resolve. He would
become an avenger, dedicated to the purpose of
taking back some small measure of recompense for
the crime visited upon Branwen. He swore to himself
that every one of her defilers would die, if it took
every drop of blood within his veins to see that it
happened. The things he had witnessed that night
would shake many of the hardest men that walked
the rougher streets of Eiluned. He realized fully now,
too, that if he had struck out at Gilles he would be
dead now, as surely as night followed day. Inwardly,
he thanked the voice that had stayed his hand. He
felt, somehow, without having any evidence, that the
voice he’d heard had been his father’s. As he ran
along the darkened streets, he silently thanked
Cadblaidd for his blessing.

Suddenly, he felt something tug at his shoulder.

He whirled, fists dropped low, ready and expecting
one of the men to be behind him. His gaze was
greeted, however, by an empty street. Something did
not seem right. His gaze swept the stones, searching
for something. Nothing, however, seemed out of the
ordinary to him. Shrugging, he turned to run again.
He had no definite plan in mind only a feeling that he
had to keep moving. He had some vague notion of
reaching Sior’s forge, and getting his assistance. He
took a step forwards, and felt the tug on his shoulder
again. Slowly, he turned. He felt a tug again, this
time stronger. It was pulling him towards the left. He
thought of the strange events that had befallen him,
and decided to surrender to the current of magick
that had enveloped him. He slowly walked towards
the wall on his left, feeling the pull grow stronger as
he grew closer. At last, as he came within inches of
the stone, the feeling became so strong that he could
barely stand it. He looked, and saw two tiny birds
carved into the stone.

Andras hesitated for a moment, not sure as to

what he should do. Then, with a sudden conviction,
he pressed the palm of his left hand into the birds.
They refused to yield under his touch. Puzzled, he
pushed harder. Still nothing. He began to try twisting
the figures, attempting a variety of combinations of
spinning and sliding. None yielded any result. He
decided to try pushing them again. He planted his
feet firmly, and pressed against the figures with
every ounce of his strength. He stood there for a
moment, straining, before they suddenly gave way.
He stepped backwards in surprise, watching as the
masonry before him began to slide inwards,
revealing a doorway hidden in the wall of the city.
Without a second thought, he walked through. With a
slow, disturbingly smooth motion, the door swung
shut behind him.

The snap of the door closing did not bother

Andras in the least. He had no way of knowing what
lay before him in the dark, but somehow being inside
the dark corridor felt right to him. Turning, he
surveyed the narrow passage. The light within was
dim and red, emanating from a row of dusty glass
lamps seated within the walls. The walls were, apart
from the lamps, plain stone without ornamentation.
Every surface was covered with a layer of fine dust.
“No way to go but forward…” Andras whispered to
himself as he began to walk down the passage,
breathing in the dry, musty air of a building made
long ago. The stone, he saw, was once bright white,
but had become faded and dirtied with the mold and
dirt of untold years. “Branwen would fucking hate
this…” he thought, and felt a fresh stab of pain.

The corridor wound downwards, further and

further, stretching into the lowest roots of the city. As
it descended, the damp moisture seeping through
the stones manifested itself in spots of stain, moss
and lichen growing on the white stones. As Andras
walked through the dank passages, a strange feeling
of unreality began to creep over him. The plants
covering the walls muted and softened the sounds of
his footfalls, deadening the sound to the point where
Andras barely registered any noise other than the
pumping of his own blood through his heart. In, out,
in, out, the diatonic rhythm of pulsed in his ears,
gradually fading to a monotone blur of noise just
below the frequency of perception. The strange scent
of the moss, sweet and earthy, began to fill Andras’
nostrils. He felt a deep peace, a deep sense of
wellbeing seep into him. It was like being within his
bed, the linens his mother had woven deep and
comforting. He smiled at the memory, nodding
absentmindedly as he walked. The colors of the moss
even reminded him of his mother’s cloth. Deep and
buoyant, it called to him. Leaning down, he ran his
fingers through the moss that carpeted the floor. Ah,
it was damp, but wondrously soft! A strange desire to
lay himself down on it came over him. Just for a
second, to feel the embrace of the green plants…

Dark. Dark and warm. The welcome heat of the

shadows was like a tonic to his nerves, relaxing the
frayed connections of his synapses in restful oblivion.
He slipped forwards, the floor rushing up to meet
him…
The sharp touch of metal on his bare skin
brought Andras back to the land of the living. He
snapped upwards, trying to gather the senseless
impressions his eyes gave to him into a coherent
whole. With a rush, the jumbled images in his mind
pulled themselves into focus, and Andras saw the
peril he was in. He tore the jacket that he wore off of
his back and clamped the material firmly over his
nose. The weave was rough, heavy and difficult to
breathe through, but it sufficed. Goddamn plant!
Nearly killed by a goddamn plant!” Andras yelled as
he kicked with his boot at the Moss carpeting the
passage. He cursed at the cloud of spores this
released, and ran forwards to escape their sopoforic
scent. When he paused to catch his breath, he felt a
trickle of fluid seeping from his neck. Andras brought
his hand to his neck, and then held it up to his eyes.
In the dim red light, the blood that mingled with his
sweat was nearly impossible to see. He felt his neck
again, tracing the outline of a thin cut. As he dropped
his hand, it brushed against a pendant hanging from
his neck. It was a tiny steel wolf, a gift from Sior for
his tenth-year. Suddenly, he understood. It had been
the sharpened ears of Sior’s gift that had broken his
skin and woken him as he slumped in his sleep, and
kept him from being lost here in the dark. Silently,
Andras blessed the blacksmith as he tied the ends of
his jerkin behind his head.

He ran, the red lamps at the edge of his vision

blurring into a single line of crimson. All of his
thoughts were centered on the idea that he had to
reach the end of the tunnel. He knew that at the end
of the tunnel was what he was looking for. He knew
that at the end of the tunnel was what Branwen
needed.

At last, he reached the end of the tunnel, where

a strange chamber greeted him. It was small and
square, about 20 feet on a side. The walls were
supported by slab sided columns, with a small alcove
between each pair of pillars. The alcoves were each
lit with a red lamp, flickering with a magical glow. On
the far wall, there stood a low stone table, laden with
bowls and other vessels, and an exquisite glass
sculpture lit from within on the center. The sculpture
captured Andras’ eye, and he strode towards it. It
was covered with dust, which obscured its lines.
Vaguely, he could make out the outline of a beast.
He scraped the grime away with his fingers, feeling
the facets of the glass catching and ripping the
edges of his fingernails. Andras kept scraping,
reveling in the feeling of cleansing that came as he
ripped the outer layers of his skin off. At last, he
stood back to admire his work. The sculpture, freed
from its prison of dirt, shone with a clear fire. It was a
dragon, magnificently wrough, rearing on its back
legs and scratching with its claws. Each contour of its
design evoked an emotion and feeling, from the
strong lines of its jaw and eyes, to the graceful curve
of its wings. The fiery lines of its design brought forth
and ignited a spark of recognition in Andras

It was Y Craig Droch, the Red Dragon of

Weyland.

Out of the corner of his eye, Andras noticed that

on the wall directly behind the sculpture two panels
were also made of glass, one lower and one higher.
and also lit from within. He leaned closer to take a
better look, and saw that on each side there was a
small neck of glass with a stopper in it. Something
about it pulled him towards it. He stretched his arm
across the table to take the stopper from the left
side, and accidently ran his arm into one of the
decanters sitting on the surface of the table. It
sloshed and spilled forth some of its contents, a thick
green liquid. Suddenly, understanding flooded
Andras. “HA! Aha YES!!” He shouted, losing himself
for a moment. He pulled the stopper loose from the
lower neck of glass and grabbed the container with
the green liquid in it. Carefully, he poured the fluid
into the tube, watching as the green liquid filled the
glass panel. The light from the lamp within changed,
turning a pale green color as he released the viscous
verdant liquor into its crystalline home. He stepped
back, and looked at his work. The bottom half of the
wall behind was now green. Excited, he returned to
the table, searching for the next container. He found
it quickly, a small flask of a pale white liquid. He
loosed it into the top, watching fascinated as the
fluid flowed through the glass and changed its color.
The top was finished! “Now, for the dragon!” andras
said.

He looked again. “No, damnit! It has to be here!”

he whispered as he searched the table. There was no
phial of crimson. He had searched every jar, and
searched every jar again. It was, simply, not there.
He looked at the dragon. It looked down on him with
unpitying eyes, its pseudo-aquiline gaze stern and
unmoving. Andras stared at it for a moment, , and
then turned, feeling a slight pull. He followed the
beast’s gaze to where it intersected the table. There,
transfixed by the dragon’s stare, sat a small vial. It
was unlike all the others, for it was wide and broad,
as though meant to receive rather than pour. It was,
Andras also saw for the first time, empty. He looked
on the dragon’s eyes again, and understood. “So,
this table is to become an altar……”

He pulled his knife from its sheath and sliced his

palm open. The scarlet drops came, flowing freely
from his skin, and he brought the phial up to collect
them. He felt impatience tug at him, and squeezed
the skin, willing the drops of his soul to flow faster. At
last, he had enough. He placed the phial on the table
and pulled loose a strip of his shirt from where it was
tied behind his head, in order to bind his wound He
searched the dragon for a moment, and saw the
catch. Carefully, he lifted loose the dragons left ear.
Inside, it was nearly full with a clear liquid. Muttering
a prayer, he poured his blood in. The dragon flushed
deep red, a far darker and fuller color than the blood
which Andras had poured in. It flowed to every color,
staining the glass a deep crimson. Suddenly, a yellow
glow filled the Dragon’s eyes, and a sharp CRACK
rang through the chamber.

Andras spun around, his instincts screaming. He

was no longer in the chamber where he had been a
moment ago. He spun his head, taking in his
surroundings. The sculpture of the dragon still stood
behind him on its table, but everything else around
him had changed. He was now in a chamber roughly
the same size, but lit by a single blue lamp on the
wall farthest from where Andras stood. On The left
side of the lamp, there was a great stone chest. Its
pull on Andras was nearly debilitating in its intensity.
He walked towards it, the hairs on the back of his
neck rising. He felt an electric presence in the air, as
though he was not alone within this chamber. He was
close now, only five or so steps. He noticed that the
floor in here was clean, devoid of the dust and moss
of the other corridors. Four steps now. There was a
carving in the floor, a complicated geometric knot
design. Three steps. There was a double layered
circle around the lamps and chest. Two steps. He
was about to step into the circle. One step. He raised
his eyes, looked on the blue glass of the lamp, and…

Andras felt a blast of potent magick as a mighty

presence rushed into the room. A gust of wind roared
through the chamber, and blew Andras’ hair around
his face. An aura of power and age untold filled the
chamber, as a white glow began to emanate from
the blue globe. Suddenly, stillness. Andras stiffened,
disbelieving., There, before him, stood Einon.

He was dressed in a simple blue robe, free of

ornamentation save for a simple pattern at the
sleeves. His hair was white, long and free flowing.
Shock flowed through Andras, and he dropped his
knife to the floor wordlessly. “Your mask. You won’t
need it here.” Nervelessly, Andras loosed his shirt
from his face. “M’ilord.“ he bowed. Einon gave a sign
with his hand, telling him to rise. “I’ve been
watching, Andras. You’ve done well, but your task is
not complete.”
“M’ilord,” Andras began again.
Einon motioned for silence. “Not by far. There is still
much to do. Come, take what you need, and finish
what you have been chosen to do.”
Andras walked forward, head bowed. “M’ilord… I
understand that I have been given a task. I
understand that it is my responsibility. What I do not
understand is why I was chosen.”
Einon placed his hand on Andras’ shoulder. He could
feel a tingling sensation, but no touch. “He gave a
slight smile. “We never do. Usually, it must suffice to
know that there is a duty, and understand we are the
one charged with completing it. But this once, I’ll
give understanding some help.”
He pulled up on his sleeve, and showed to Andras a
small tattoo on his forearm, in the shape of a red
dragon. “Now. You must go!” he said as the outline
of his figure began to fade. “It all returns to blood,
dust to earth, line to line, family to family.” Mists
swirled, and the light began to grow. “You are my
continuance, Andras! Do not disappoint me!” And he
was gone.

Andras woke, as from a dream. A grim set was in

his eyes. “Time to sweep the streets,” he said to
himself.
He lifted the lid on the chest, and saw the
fulfillment of a prophecy. Within, there was a set of
armor, whitened, hardened steel with flowing lines of
temper juxtaposed against angular joints of
construction. As a metalworker, he knew that such
work was far beyond his skill. He had never seen
anything to rival it. It was, in a word, flawless, more
akin to a piece of carved crystal than a creation of
steel. A thin film of oil covered it, keeping it free from
the ravages of time. He hefted it, feeling the
comforting weight of the metal. A thrill ran through
him. This armor, this very same leather and steel,
had forged the destinies of thousands. Suddenly, the
weight of his responsibility crushed down upon him.
He could not be the lone avenger, striking only for
the single life that had touched him. He was the
protector of all, charged with the solemn task of
taking into his hands the power of god, to judge sins
and end the life of his fellow men. As he lifted his
armor onto his shoulders, these thoughts were in his
mind. His path was a road high and narrow, and a
misstep to either side would doom not only himself,
but untold others. He saw the faces of those who
lived around him, seeing a vision of them gazing
upwards at him as he bound the straps of the armor
tight.

He pulled the gauntlets on tight, feeling the

supple leather of the palm. After so many years, they
were still soft and flexible. He threw his hand
upwards in a block, then swept downwards in an
elbow strike that led into a spinning kick. He almost
laughed. “It’s so goddamn light!” He worked his way
through a few more moves, getting the feel of the
balance of the armor. Satisfied, he turned back
towards the chest. There, gleaming dully, was
Einon’s sword. He lifted it, examining the work. It was
plain, devoid of ornamentation save for the pommel.
The twin birds, Symobl of Einon, were there. Just like
in Andras’ vision. “Now, I’m ready.” He thought to
himself He felt the same tug that he had before,
pulling him towards the table agin. He turned, and
walked back towards the sculpture of the dragon. He
knew now that it was the key. He placed his hands
upon the stone, and looked into the beast’s glowing
eyes. He felt himself rising, and felt his sigh fade.

He was in the street. It was dark, the moon

hidden behind a thick veil of clouds, and the only
illumination coming from the pale glow of the
magicked streetlamps. Something about the lights
was disturbing him. “This…. This is the street
where…” Suddenly, he saw a figure materialize from
the gloom. His breath caught.
 It couldn’t be. She….

He saw the first man rush from the alley, saw

her head turn. Suddenly, time stopped. In that
moment, everything became clear to him. The things
that he had seen before, they were not truth, not
actiuality. Rather, they were a vision of what might
have been. He had experienced foresight, seen with
the eyes of the future that which has not yet
happened. His heart rate slowed, as his mind once
again recreated from the ashes of destruction a
picture of hope. That was all the thought he had time
for. His body slammed itself loose from the confusion
of thought and pushed into the realm of reaction and
reflex. Before he knew it, he was on top of the first
man, Kicking with his left leg to open distance as he
threw his arms upward to draw his sword. Spinning,
he brought his mailed fist down hard across the
man’s head, shattering the skull. The girl screamed,
jumping backwards from her would be assailant.
Andras did not even register it. The rest of the men
were upon him now, and every action, every
movement, every thought was directed towards his
survival. He saw a tide of faces flash and fall, saw
countless leering visages recoil in surprise. He felt
the bite of blade upon bone as his weapon sought his
enemies’ hearts.
 It was not enough, He began to flag, began to
feel the strain of fighting so many men. They
weighed down upon him like a burden of stone,
pulling him towards the earth, sapping his strength.
At last, he lost his feet, and fell upon his back. In a
flash, one of the men, the same one who Andras had
castrated in his vision, leapt upon Andras, placing his
knee on his neck holding a rusty knife to his throat.
What in the hell have we here boys? A pretty lad in a
suit of armor, eh? dressed up for Einon’s festival? Ha!
Gilles, what you want we do with this little prick?
He’s gone and frightened our rabbit away.!” Gilles
stepped into the light. Finish him. We’ll need to move
soon, need to open the gates for the Laurentians.
Pity about the girl, she did look tasty, eh m-“ Gilles
was cut short by the removal of his head, a massive
blade catching the words in his throat and ripping
them loose in a spray of crimson ichor. The men
whirled about, straring in shock. It was all the
opening Andras needed. He drew his arm upwards
and shattered the man’s elbow, rolling over and
throwing him to the ground. He leapt to his feet,
stabbing downwards with a quick slash of his sword.
With a tiny flash of grim humor, he noted that the
man’s scream came from the fact that he had been
again castrated. “Fate.” Andras smiled to himself.
Then there was no more time for thought. He was in
the middle again, fighting against insane odds. This
time, however, he was not alone. Next to him, the
girl from the street danced in and out of the combat,
a gigantic blade grasped in her hands. With nearly
poetic delicacy, she severed flesh from tendon,
reaping the souls of the unholy priesthood. At last, it
was over.
 Andras stood, looking at Branwen. she was
covered in blood and bruises, but very little of it was
her own. They were panting, oput of breath and
exhausted. Slowly, by mutual consent, they slumped
and dropped to the ground. Andras looked at her.
Then reached his hand out and took hers. She held
his hand tightly, her muscles shaking. Andras turned
his head, and looked past her. He pointed to her
blade. “Did you know what that thing is?” She shook
her head no. “I-I just grabbed it from the shop over
there….”

He smiled. “It’s a fish cleaver.”

Andras: Man

Branwen: Fair Raven

Einon: Anvil

Eiluned: Idol

Cadblaidd: War Wolf

Seren: Star

Sior: Earth-son

Aeron: River

Lakshimi: Greek

Arbelos: three-pointed