Topic: Signs and Portents

Lord Ayreg

Date: 2006-04-26 23:03 EST
In the ancient days of the world, there was a Great City.

It was a city founded on the principles of law, and the ideals of good. Under the Light, the Great City had created the first bastion of brotherhood, kindness, and generosity. It served as a bulwark against the malevolent forces at work in the world; evil was rampant in Rhy'Din. Far, far more than the good, and just. The Great City was a shining beacon on the hill. The Great City was a shelter in the storm for any who did not wish to live under lawlessness of the age.

The city was well-guarded, and policed of crime. Three organizations worked in unison toward this goal, under the benevolent King and his beautiful, kind-hearted Queen.

The Militia were professional soldiers, hired and trained from among the citizenry to protect the walls of the city. From time to time, they also made sorties and excursions when word reached of robber tribes or demi-human packs of monsters rampaging the countryside around the city.

The Guardians served the Temple of Life, dedicated to the Prime Healer. They protected the Givers -- priests and clerics of the Temple -- from whatever would do them harm. Though some Givers were wiser, and experienced in the wielding of a mace or flail, there were many more who relied solely upon the protection granted by the Guardians. They were Paladins, dedicated to the protection of those who nourished the spiritual needs of the populace.

The Knights of Truth policed the city itself. Paladins, as well, but where the Guardians were the shield, the Knights of Truth were the sword. They rooted out crime and corruption wherever it lay, no matter how dark the hole or deep the crack it infested itself in. None were exempt from the law of the Great City. Nobles and city administrators, right along with the farmers and fishermen, could be called before a magistrate when the Knights of Truth did their work. Once sworn to the Truthbringer, any Knight of Truth could discern when a lie was told -- even if the one doing the telling did not know it to be a lie.

Within the Hall of Truth, there was a great dome. The floor of the dome was crafted from white, polished marble. A colonnade of white stone, expertly cut, led to a raised dias in the center of the room beneath the great dome. Upon the dias was the only real adornment to be had: a huge sunburst, cast and crafted in solid gold, set upon the dias. It represented the burst of Light into the world -- as given by the Great City.

The Dome of Truth held within it a woman, frequently seated in meditation upon the golden sunburst upon the raised dias.

She wore a simple robe, most of the time, and had a ready smile for anyone who came to offer her food or gifts. The gifts were almost always given to the less-fortunate of the citizenry, as well as any food she did not need for her own survival. She held no material things, save only the robe she wore and the clothes beneath. She was an old woman, wrinkled and bent. One might even go so far as to call her a crone.

She had a heart of gold as sure as the sunburst upon which she so commonly sat. Never a word passed her mouth that was not fully true. A kind tongue with a rosy disposition and an aversion of deciet were all fine gifts, to be sure, but she had another gift as well.

She served the Hall of Truth.

She served the King and Queen.

She served the Great City.

She was the Oracle.

Lord Ayreg

Date: 2006-04-28 22:13 EST
It was common for the High Truthseeker to visit the Oracle once a week. A courtesy visit, well and true, for she did reside under the Dome of Truth, in the Hall of Truth itself.

The High Truthseeker at the time was a hard-faced man named Bayle Haldebourne. At forty-three, his face was long and gaunt, with eyes so deeply set they seemed to look out from caves. There was no excess flesh on him, no fat at all; his skin was pulled tight over the muscle and bone beneath. He stood as rigid as an iron rod, with a gauntleted hand resting on the pommel of his well-used broadsword. Plate-and-mail armor gleamed like silver against his scarlet cloak and undercoat.

His voice was hard, but friendly enough. "Hail, Oracle, and fair weathers this week, I hope?"

"Fair, perhaps. I have foreseen a cloud coming to the Great City, Lord Haldebourne. The farmers will certainly rejoice in the rain for their crops, though the merchants would curse the skies, I imagine." She laughed. Her gift of foresight had helped the Great City in more ways than anyone could possibly imagine, and knowing the weather was a trifle compared to most of them. Even so, the Great City hasn't had a true need of the Oracle for some time, now, and her weekly visitations from the High Truthseeker had started to grow stale until they livened it up a bit. Now they talk of the weather, and of the prices of the markets, and which trader will lower his prices first to outpace his competitors. It had, obviously, been some time since the Great City faced a real peril.

The hard man nodded, his lips turning to a smile. "I will instruct my second, Seeker Gorgaron, to inform the populace. Our thanks to you, Oracle, for your continued guidance of the Great City." He gave her a formal bow, and turned on his heel to walk out.

He stopped and spun around again, as he heard the Oracle take in a shrill, gasping breath. Her wrinkled hand rose to her chest, and she laid her palm out over her heart. Her eyes had popped wide. "A child is born!"

"A child? Does your foresight show you something, Oracle? " He lurched forward, running to her side to help her sit down upon the golden sunburst set into the dias. "Be clear."

Her breath continued to be laborous, even as she spoke. "This I foresee.. and swear under the Light that I can say no clearer. From this day, the Great City marches toward pain and division. A shadow is rising -- the first of three, so it has not yet darkened to its blackest." A look of horror crossed her face. "And I cannot see if the Light will come after! Where the world has wept one tear, it will weep thousands. Suffering will come to us. It will be among us, and will wash over us, and we will welcome it until the last instant when we are undone!"

She turned, and gripped Haldebourne's arm. "I tell you now -- a man-child born this day stands at the heart of it! Find the child, Truthseeker! Find the child!"

Bayle Haldebourne, High Truthseeker of the Knights of Truth, and a man so hard as to make stone seem to frollic in glee... was shaken. He had never seen the Oracle like this, before. He left her there in the Dome of Truth and ran. He had to inform the First Prime of the Temple of Life, the Lord-Captain of the Militia, and the King. Something must be done. This child must be found.

__________


Elsewhere in the city, a baby cries as it is cleaned and wrapped in swaddling. The midwife croons gently, and lays the babe in his mother's arms. A grinning father, having rushed back into the room once that babe began to cry, strokes a happy new mother's sweat-soaked hair, and kisses her upon her brow. The baby was born at midday -- a good omen, in the Great City, to be sure. The mother, tears mixing with the sheen of sweat soaking her face, looked up to him and offered a tender, exhausted smile.

The midwife smiled, as well. "And what will the child's name be, sir?"

"A son," the man said gently to his wife. He paused for a moment, thinking. Looking up to the midwife, he continued, "Garen is a good name, isn't it? A very good name for a Corlagon."

Lord Ayreg

Date: 2006-04-29 13:03 EST
The child Garen had a pleasant, carefree life. His mother, Cenn Corlagon, was an apron-wearing goodwife who kept their front walk swept and the proper drapes -- heavier for winter, lighter for summer -- put up. Her dark auburn hair was commonly worn in a braid, and the fine wrinkles of age gave her all the more motherly of an appearance. She was a kind soul, gracious, and a fierce cook. She would often be seen laughing and exchanging gossip with other women, and she was the unofficial Head Mistress of her husband's kitchen.

Garen's father, Davram Corlagon, was a friendly man. Heavyset, though certainly not fat by any stretch of the word, Davram was the nominal owner of the Springrain Inn. Custom was common enough, if never truly heavy, but the inn itself was considerally smaller than most inns of the day. If stacked side-by-side with the Red Dragon, the entire Springrain Inn -- second floor with rentable rooms and all -- would most likely be able to fit inside the Red Dragon's common room with room to spare, and plenty of it. Still, there was something to be said for the cozy atmosphere, and Cenn Corlagon was never far with a plate of sweetcakes for any guests who felt like spending an extra silver or two on top of the normal rates for meals and board.

Garen himself, by the age of twelve, had been working at his father's inn as a stablehand. Mucking stalls, laying feed, and harnessing saddles was never terribly interesting to the boy, though. Oftentimes he'd be seen slacking around the common room, staring in wide-eyed wonder at the adventurers that happened by, and pressing them for stories from their excursions outside the walls of the Great City. One day, while enjoying a cup of mead while the custom was low, Davram Corlagon called his son over.

Pushing out a chair next to his at the table, Davram raised his voice to call out toward the kitchens were he knew his son was, no doubt getting into Cenn's illya berry pie. "Garen, lad, we should talk. Come on out."

"Coming!" Davram heard his son say, and a few seconds later the door to the kitchens opened and Garen came tromping out. He was a handsome lad, even then, and he had the dark hair prevalent among most male members of the Corlagon family. Only Uncle Jola deviated from the standard, having hair as red as his sister, Lana. Garen dropped into the seat, looking up at his father. "Yes, Da?"

"Son..." Davram started, slowly. He took a deep breath, pausing slightly to wet his throat with another sip of mead before he resumed speaking, "I know the life of an innkeeper isn't in your future. You're always too busy shirking your responsibilities to talk to those outlanders."

"I'm sorry, Da!" Garen said, looking abashed. "I won't do it again, I promise!"

Davram merely waved his hand. "It's alright, lad, it's alright. That's what living in this place is all about. Every man and woman among us is free to make our own decisions in life. I saw today one of those Givers posting an announcement up on the newsboard. Seems they're taking on recruits again over at the Temple of Life."

Garen's eyes popped wide.

"It's not exactly the kind of adventuring those strange outlanders do, of course, but it's also not mucking out stables and tending to goodman's horses, either."

"I could be a Giver? Or a Guardian, Da?"

"Aye, lad. If it's what you want."

His son looked thoughtful for a moment. His smooth brow creased deeply, as he considered. "Would I be able to come visit?"

Davram had to laugh, and he reached over to pat Garen on the shoulder. "I don't see any reason why you shouldn't be able to. You don't have to answer right away, you can--"

The boy spoke up, interrupting his father and nodding quickly. "I'll do it. I want to, Da. I do."

There was a brief pause, and Davram Corlagon nodded his head, slowly. "So be it. Tommorow, I'll leave the inn with your mother and we'll go to the Temple of Life to find out what needs to be done."

Lord Ayreg

Date: 2006-04-29 14:54 EST
(Inspired from a scene in First Knight. It's no less cheesy, though.)

Meanwhile.

In the grand palace overlooking the Great City, there was a great counsel chamber. In this counsel chamber there was a meeting of the heavyweights of the city. It was every bit as much of a parade of colors as anything else, but this meeting would not be without its point and purpose.

Bayle Haldebourne, scarlet undercoat and cape to offset the gleam of his polished breastplate, sat brooding. As the years passed while he sat the title of High Truthseeker, the man had started to become more and more paranoid about the strange vision the Oracle had. A shadow is rising -- the first of three, so it has not yet darkened to its blackest. He rolled the Oracle's words around in his head often, and it was disturbing to him. The Knights of Truth had been directed to become more martial, more heavy-handed in their dispensing of justice. If there was doom to come to the Great City, he could not -- he would not -- allow the Knights of Truth to be weak, and to be soft. Not in the face of certain doom.

And it was certain. The Oracle had foreseen it.

This meeting had been called by Haldebourne, to discuss the status of the city, and the events twelve years past.

To his right sat the King of the Great City. A well-trimmed beard, near white as snow now, crested the jawline of the man. He wore his power so lightly, sometimes it was hard to remember he was a King. Indeed, it was this man's great-grandfather who had founded the dream that would eventually be the Great City that had become the shining beacon in the night.

Across from him, sitting on the right hand of the King, was the venerable figure of Broemere Du'Leran. A breastplate polished and gleaming every bit as much as his own was worn over a snow-white tabard and undercoat, with a matching cape worn draped over the chairback. Enameled in gold on the upper-right portion of the cuirass -- as well as embroidered in gold on the cape -- was the hand-and-eye symbol of the Temple of Life. Broemere Du'Leran, with his graying-brown hair, was the First Prime of the Temple of Life, and leader of the Guardians. The Guardians officially protected the Givers of the Prime Healer, for whom the Temple of Life was dedicated, but in reality they also served to protect the Great City from all threats. Within or without.

To Haldebourne's left, red-enamled breastplate worn over black tabard and cloak, sat the Lord-Captain of the Militia. He was a younger man -- Du'Leran and Haldebourne himself easily had ten years a piece on the Lord-Captain -- but hard as steel. The High Truthseeker had nothing but respect for the Lord-Captain, even if the Militia itself was somewhat.. unreliable, sometimes, as soldiers.

Haldebourne spoke, at last, answering a question that had been asked several seconds before. He cloaked his regarding pause by a sip of wine. "Twelve years, my comrades. Twelve years. That is how long we have sat on our hands and done nothing while this supposed scourge has been born, and is being raised. Twelve years."

The First Prime spoke, next. "And what are we to do, Bayle? Hunt down every male child in the Great City born twelve years ago on that day and have them put to the sword?"

"If that's what it takes!" he replied, slamming his fist down onto the table.

The Lord-Captain spoke quietly, but his voice was as firm as the trunk of a tree. "The Militia have been watchful, ever since you first reported it, Lord Haldebourne. There has been no action at the walls, save only the usual ramshackle attacks by gnolls and other demi-human beasts." His voice may have been quiet, but that never meant he was a soft man. None of those gathered for this counsel were in any way soft, though they may have appeared so compared to the High Truthseeker.

Du'Leran spoke again, "And how do we even know the child was born in the city itself, Bayle? Are we to march the army out into the world, and slay children now?"

"You would rather see the Great City fall!?" The High Truthseeker was filled with rage -- no... not rage. Zeal. He rose to his feet, and leaned over the table.

"No." The King said, at last, waving a hand. The effect of the waving of the hand had an immediate effect. Haldebourne retook his seat, and lowered his chin. "Where is it written in our laws that there are lesser people in the world, Lord Haldebourne? That those outside our walls are too ignorant to know what is right, and good, and true? That we should kill them just for existing? For what might happen one day?"

Haldebourne felt a heat rising in his cheeks, and a lump rose in his throat. "I did not mean it that way, Sire. It's just--" he swallowed, "--It's just that the Oracle says war is coming to the Great City. That boy born twelve years ago will be at its head."

"That's not what she said." the First Prime pointed out. He was silenced by a cool-eyed look from the King.

"That is exactly what you said, Lord Haldebourne. There will always be peace found on the other side of any war," the King said, firmly. "If that war is to come, then I will fight it."

"As will the Temple of Life." the First Prime declared.

"So shall the Militia." the Lord-Captain of the Militia echoed, half-a-heartbeat later.

The King nodded to the First Prime, and the Lord-Captain. Looking back to the High Truthseeker, he lowered his voice. The King was steel, tempered in velvet. He had a kind voice, though it was quite solid, and lacking none of the potency of his youth. "Not before, High Truthseeker."

The High Truthseeker nodded, quiet now. He wet his lips with another sip of wine, and stood again. "My Lords..." he started, formally. "...I will speak with the Oracle once more. And, after the report is made to her and guidance requested -- and you all as my witnesses -- I will resign from the role of High Truthseeker. My second, Seeker Tarowyn Gorgaron will take up the mantle of leadership of the Knights of Truth. He is old enough to bear the responsibility, wise enough to direct a course of action, and strong enough to see it carried out."

"That is your decision to make, Bayle." the King said, simply.

Turning on his heel and walking toward the grand doorway leading into the room, he was trailed by the flare of scarlet cape embroidered in black with the fist-and-heart of the Truthbringer. Bayle Haldebourne, Defender of the Light, High Truthseeker of the Knights of Truth then left the royal palace, and made his way to see the Oracle one last time.

Lord Ayreg

Date: 2006-05-06 14:18 EST
Bayle Haldebourne, flanked by Tarowyn Gorgaron, were walking through the corridors of the Hall of Truth. It was a stark place; cold, and unforgiving. Much as the Knights of Truth had become. The populace shied away from them when they walked by, and gave them ample space to continue on. In truth, there had been complaints of brutality at the hands of some of the Knights of Truth -- clearly the work of the foul and beshadowed, to try and appeal to the King that their zeal could somehow be considered 'brutality' -- and already the citizens of the Great City had come to call them Keepers.

It was a preposterous outrage, Haldebourne thought. For as long as the Great City had stood, the Knights of Truth were known as Seekers. Seekers for the Truth. Not Keepers (as in "My brother's...")

Be that as it may, it was soon to be time to pass the mantle of leadership of the Hall of Truth to Seeker Gorgaron. An inspiring officer, popular with the other Seekers, and young enough to live to see the Great City through the darkness that was soon to come.

They strode past the large, gilded doors leading into the Dome of Truth. Sunlight filtered down through the dome on top of the building, and the white marble flooring and colonnade shone like they had just been highly polished. The two men, wrapped in the traditional red of the Knights of Truth, approached the raised dias, whereupon was inlaid the great, golden sunburst.

And the white-robed figure of the Oracle. She was older now, Haldebourne supposed, but she didn't look like she had aged a day. It was hard to look older when you've always known a person to have a wizened, wrinkled face, with hair as white as snow.

"Oracle, I have come to report the results of the council."

"They will do nothing. Still."

Haldebourne smiled. She was the Oracle, after all. "No. They will not."

She looked up. She was ever a beacon of shining happiness and light, but now she looked grim. "Lord Haldebourne, I have foreseen the birth of the second. A girl-child, and born of the earth. It came to me two night's past."

"The second?" Haldebourne asked sharply.

"Yes..."

"Tell me. I must know."

She hesitated, "...My Lord Haldebourne, I can speak only to the High Truthseeker."

Looking shocked, Bayle Haldebourn's jaw worked furiously as he attempted to find words. He was a hard man, and quite accustomed to having people jump when he said toad. "I am the High Truthseeker, Oracle!"

Tarowyn Gorgaron spoke, his chin lifted a bit. "With due respects to you, Lord Haldebourne, it is no longer your responsibility. You have abdicated the post."

Fury and outrage echoed across the older man's face. His lips curled into a deep, frowning sneer, and he instantly reached to his side to grab at a sword that was not there. He turned almost red from the anger bubbling inside of him, and Tarowyn Gorgaron set a hand onto his shoulder.

"Be calm, Lord Haldebourne. You were a fine and great leader to the Knights of Truth, and we will be lessened by your departure. You have served the Great City well, devoting your life to the cause of the Truthbringer, and the spreading of his word."

Suddenly, Tarowyn Gorgaron's voice took an edge to it. He was not a soft man, either -- very few in the Knights of Truth were soft. "But now your time has ended, Lord Haldebourne. Take to your estates, and enjoy the life of peace and retirement with your wife. To not do so would bring dishonor to all of the Seekers. Was it not your word to the King, and the leaders of the City, that you would resign from your post? Go now, Bayle Haldebourne, and do not sully the Knights of Truth with a lie about you stepping down."

In the end, he had to have two Seekers come and physically remove Lord Haldebourne. They would keep their mouths shut, though; he knew them well, and they would sooner die before bringing dishonor to the Hall of Truth in such a vulgar way. When all was said and done, High Truthseeker Tarowyn Gorgaron moved back to the raised dias whereupon sat the white-haired Oracle. He kneeled, placing one hand flat to the white marble flooring. Lifting his head, he leaned forward intently.

"Now.. tell me of this vision, Oracle, that I might alert the King."

Lord Ayreg

Date: 2006-05-10 12:17 EST
Later, Tarowyn Gorgaron had returned to the counsel chambers in the grand palace overlooking the Great City. He was recieved by the others courteously, though it would take some time before he was able to truly be a part of the dynamic of the august body. Not twenty minutes before, Bayle Haldebourne had been the High Truthseeker, after all.

"...Is that all she said" Broemere Du'Leran, First Prime of the Temple of Life asked, incredulously.

The Lord-Captain of the Militia spoke next. "I find this disturbing."

Du'Leran continued. "So the second of the great calamities is born. How did it go again, Lord Gorgaron?"

Tarowyn Gorgaron, now for all practical purposes serving in the role of High Truthseeker for the Knights of Truth (though not having sworn the Testimony yet) leaned forward on the table. His cloak still was still a simple field of red with the golden embroidery of the fist-and-heart, not having yet had time to take up the garb of the High Truthseeker. Standing on ceremony could wait, though, and he had to get back here to the counsel to warn the other leaders of the Great City.

"She said 'Born of the earth. Skin and hair and blood and bone of dirt.' There was more, but it was much the same as the first. Division, strife, chaos and, ultimately, darkness and death... Does anyone even remotely know what that's supposed to mean?"

"Not I." Said the First Prime.

The Lord-Captain of the Militia laughed, softly. "I'm just a simple man, High Truthseeker. I leave the Oracle's prophesies to men far wiser than I am." The younger man -- very nearly Gorgaron's age, himself, took a sip of his wine.

The King's chin dipped slightly, and he offered a faint shrug. "Some kind of elemental, perhaps?"

"No..." Tarowyn Gorgaron shook his head. "We already thought of that. Elementals don't have genders, and the Oracle was quite plain that this is a girl-child."

"The Guardians have run into a few with distinctly female personalities." Du'Leran observed.

Gorgaron shifted in his seat. "Perhaps, my Lord First Prime, it is as you say. But the fact remains that it is not a commonplace occurance."

The Lord-Captain spoke up. "Do we have any other opinions as to the meaning of the Oracle's foresight?"

"We do not..." the High Truthseeker said, after a brief pause.

"Enough." The king said, firmly. "Without any other suggestions as to the meaning of this, we will have to assume that the second calamity is some kind of earth spirit. An elemental, perhaps, as I know of no other creature with dirt for skin, hair, bones, and blood. I will order an excursion of the Militia--" said with a brief glance to the Lord-Captain, who nodded grimly, "--to go and visit the local Confluxes."

"Sire, if I may..." Tarowyn Gorgaron started, cautiously. "Why act upon this one? And not the first foresight twelve years ago?"

"Because the first foresight spoke the birth of a human. We cannot, by our laws, put innocent children to the sword because of what might one day happen. Elementals, on the other hand, are a creature of nature... emotionless beings, and about as conscience of their whereabouts and their own existance as a cow grazing in a field. Kill the cow, and you'll have to pay the owner the cow's value -- but you do not get thrown into a cell on the charge of murder. Do you understand, High Truthseeker?"

"I believe I do, Sire." It made sense to him, as well. Such is why the Lord-Captain and his Militia have guarded against demi-human aggressors for some time. Gnolls and orcs and the like battered at the gates of the Great City from time to time, and were purged with extreme prejudice.

The King nodded, and turned his head. "Then our business is adjourned. Lord-Captain, prepare your men and arm the reserves. You have leave to march as soon as you are ready. Lord Du'Leran, if you would be so kind as to stay? I would speak with you alone."

Lord Ayreg

Date: 2006-05-20 11:45 EST
The militia assembled, armed, and marched. The Confluxes wherein the elementals grew into the mortal plane were well-known to those of the Great City, and many of the elementals had even helped build the strong, thick, high walls that protected it. Army though they may be, the Lord-Captain of the militia did not ride forth as a conquerer. Five hundred armsmen at his back (a sizable force, given the only real threats were demi-human tribes of orcs, gnolls, goblins, and the occasional pack of bandits) was enough to deter any threat, and to give him a great deal of leverage power when he did arrive at the Conflux of Earth.

Elementals were not well known for their oracular ability, nor of what little they had in the way of sentience being intelligable.

"We seek out an Elemental of earth, creature. Created a fortnight past. The Oracle has said vile things will become of its existance, and we have been charged with seeking it out."

"What you seek is of the earth." replied the elemental that the Lord-Captain had chosen to speak with. They had no true leader -- nearly any of them would have the exact same knowledge and authority over the others. It's part of what made Elementals such tempting targets for binding to powerful sorcerers and magi.

"Yes. Yes, it is. Will you take me to it?"

"What you seek is of the earth, though not from the earth. What you seek, you will not find."

"You would hide it from us, creature? Explain yourself!" Even as he said the words, though, the Lord-Captain wished he could take them back. He was growing as paranoid and hostile as Bayle Haldebourne did, and how Tarowyn Gorgaron acted now. Only Broemere Du'Leran and the King seemed to be the rocks of stability he had known them to be all his life.

"Cannot hide what does not have. You seek the air."

"We seek one of earth, not air. Please, creature, listen to reason. An earth elemental created some two weeks past. The Oracle has foreseen it."

"Then one is mistaken. The Oracle, or yourself."

"The Oracle does not make mistakes, and she does not tell a lie."

"Then it is in you the mistake lies. No creature of the earth has risen from this Conflux in the indicated time."

The Lord-Captain of the militia, one of the four high seats of the Great City, narrowed his eyes and clinched his fists in frustration. It was going ot take some time to find answers here, and he would not simply annihilate them all.

__________

Two weeks earlier, before the militia assembled and marched, there was a farm outside the city. Growing season had been long past, and the fields were simply barren meadows of mud, made in such a way by a recent storm that came in and blew out in less than two hours.

Vallena Polatei and her husband, Jermyn, were expecting another child. Their fifth! It would be a glorious time, and a day for cavorting all over the small town they lived at nearby, outside the walls of the Great City to the east. The midwife had told Jermyn, though, that something was wrong. The baby had not turned properly. She issued orders in a flurry, chaos erupting around the birthing room as Jermyn was brought in to keep his wife calm.

A knife. Blood. Water. A rag.

In the end, a tiny baby girl had begun to screech her protest to the world of sunlight to her father, wiggling even as she had been wrapped in her swaddling. Her skin was dark, very nearly a light brown like everyone else in their family (a heritage passed down from the mother's side), and her hair was like the others as well -- deep, dark brown. The midwife, crying, pulled the sheet off the floor and wrapped it up around Vallena Polatei's face.

"I am sorry, Master Polatei," she said, trying to be strong for him and his family. "You and your boys should not have to go through this without a woman as strong as your wife was. Have you any thought as to what to name the girl?"

"Adrianna..." he said, slowly, as if in shock. He craddled the girl to his chest. What sort of life would she have, motherless, with only a father and four older brothers to teach her to be a woman? "...after her grandmother."

Lord Ayreg

Date: 2006-06-02 14:31 EST
Life on a farm was never easy.

Jermyn Polatei often worried about his daughter, Adrianna, growing up in such an environment without a mother to teach her the ways of being a woman. Without such guidance, Jermyn watched Adrianna grow and learn, and want to learn more. She did not like wearing dresses as other girls her age wore, and she cared little for the stylings of her hair. Even now at the age of five, when most girls would be toying with dolls, Adrianna was asking questions about what types of seed went into what type of ground, and in what season.

She was treated by her siblings no differently than they treated each other, playing pranks and picking fights. Perhaps a touch more vicious than her brothers even, citing the fact that Jermyn had to tan her backside more than once for biting.

Farm-raised children were tough. Adrianna Polatei was as tough as the nails she held sometimes while Jermyn mended a fence.

At seventeen years, Kell was the eldest of the Polatei brood. Best be eatin' all your supper, else we'll put you in a dress come feastday he would warn her. The boys were all good-natured, and despite Adrianna's particular brand of amusing brutality when the children brawled amongst themselves over the most trivial of slights, she had a heart of gold.

Walking into the kitchen, Jermyn dipped his hands into the water basin to clean himself of some sawdust he picked up on his arms and face from the woodshop. "Kell, I'll be heading into town later. Need you to keep a look after the place."

"Yes, father." His son replied, looking up from his book there at the table. The boys' mother, Vallena, taught them all to read and write, and Kell was teaching Adrianna now. "Taking in that crop of tabac to sell at market, are you?"

"The tabac, yes. I'll also be taking in a basket of those icepeppers to the Ayreg place. Had an order for one. Apparently, Lord Ayreg has a fancy for them, and his wife wants a special surprise for when he gets back."

The boy laughed, closing his book after replacing the bookmark against the spine. "The great, exalted, and pompous High Lord Fancy Pants, huh?"

Despite himself, Jermyn laughed, too. "Aye, lad, the same. Powerful man, though, even if I think he does own a pair of golden pantaloons."

"Everyone thinks he owns a pair, father. The Ayreg palace is almost as grand as the one the King lives in. He is a very wealthy man, you know."

"Which makes me wonder why the Lady Ayreg only wanted a single basket. I'd sell her a barrel with a little of the price knocked off, if it'd get the flaming things out of my barn."

"I told you icepeppers wouldn't sell well this season, father" Kell said, with a little twist of his lips that may have been a wry smile.

Jermyn chuckled, again. "So you did, lad. So you did. You know your business here, I'll grant you that. I'm going to head out now, Kell -- mind the farm while I'm gone, and keep a look out for your brothers and sister."

"Precocious little thing that she is. I saw her dancing around the sheep this morning, and I think she bit Tad."

"Tad likely deserved it, after he put that mensa dust into her hair last week. I swear I've never seen someone sneeze that much, and the last time I saw someone's skin with that shade of green they were an orc. Just make sure the place isn't burned down by the time I get back, aye?" Turning about, Jermyn Polatei picked his wide-brimmed hat up off the table and set it atop his head.

Kell chuckled softly, remembering that petulant little look Adrianna had. "That was funny, though, you have to admit. Good thing she went back to normal after the dust got washed out."

"Oh, aye. A very good thing." Jermyn turned, then, moving toward the door and opening it. Before he stepped out, though, he turned around one more time.

"Ol' Stell has been favoring 'er foreleg. Won't be able to drive her for long before needin' to rest her, so it may take me a few days to get to the city and back, Kell."

Looking up from his book again, the eldest of the Polatei children smiled wistfully. "Peace at last, then. Don't worry about a thing, father. We'll be fine. There's that old spear in the barn loft if a wolf comes growling at the sheep, and the tabac's already been harvested so the dogs can keep an eye on the drying shed. Just try to enjoy yourself, father."

"You're just like your mother, boy."

"I'll take that as a compliment, but don't be trying to take me out for a dance on feastday."

They laughed together. Kell was almost a man, now, and he would be a fine man indeed to head a household and run the farm one day. The boy was strong, good-natured, and quick with the wit.

Turning about, Jermyn Polatei left. It did not take long to load the four crates of dried tabac leaves onto the back of the wagon, the covered basket of icepeppers up to ride with him on the front, and to hitch Stell -- the family's robust old horse -- to the front of the wagon.

Clicking his tongue at the horse, he set out for the half-day trip into the Great City.

Lord Ayreg

Date: 2006-11-02 08:31 EST
OMG, an update!

Jermyn Polatei's wagon had been drawn to a stop. It had taken several days longer than he expected - indeed, even several more days longer than he had guessed and had told Kell - to reach the city. Rests were frequent, and he had to reshoe Stell twice, trying to find the exact angle she needed. Still, the ol' gal was going to be needing to be put to pasture soon. Jermyn didn't look forward to it. Horses, after all, were expensive.

Unless you were the Ayreg family.

Lord Jacyn Ayreg, ostensibly, was the second most powerful man in the city, second only to the king himself. There were rumors, of course, that the only reason he wasn't king, is because he didn't wish to be king.

"I'm sorry, man, but you're going to have to have more proof than your own word to get inside. We're a bit wary of strangers here now, given the hostilities from the demi-humans lately."

"Well... I think I actually have the order itself, if that will do?"

"Signed by the lady?"

"Yes, captain."

The man in the burnished breastplate frowned, lifting a hand to idly flick at the dangling knot of rank hanging from his shoulder pauldron. "I'm a lieutenant, not a captain. Let's see this document."

Turning, Jermyn dug around in the back of the cart, tearing through the box he kept all of the recent orders in. Hopefully, he wouldn't have left it behind. He's done that from time to time, but without it this time, he--

Ah, good, here it is.

He turned, handing it back to the lieutenant with a simple smile. The guardsman peered at the document, eying it warily, scanning it with hard, hard eyes. He was a man accustomed to battle. Most of the men in the Great City were. One did not simply have peace at this time of the world. One had to earn it.

"That's the lady's signature. And the Ayreg seal. Alright, then. One barrel?"

"Yes, lieutenant."

"Carry on, sir."

Through the open portcullis, Jermyn Polatei angled his wagon - and ol' Stell - into the Ayreg compound. With walls nearly half the height of the Great City's surrounding walls itself, and about half as thick, it was a fortress unto itself. Second only in size to the royal palace, of course. Stell was brought to a halt, and a young stablehand in white livery with a green slash from right shoulder to left hip came out to hold her reins. She wouldn't need stabled, of course, but nobody wanted a horse running around all over creation, right?

"Over there, man," shouted a guardsman, lifting his spear to point toward a small servant's entry into the kitchens. "They can take your delivery there, and you can accept payment there, too."

A thing that was done quickly. Jermyn stood, hands folded patiently in front of him, while one of the Ayreg family clerks counted out a number of coins on the scales. So far, it was up to one gold mark, with several silver marks. The going rate of icepeppers was extraordinarily high, which is why Kell didn't anticipate there would be a good demand for them this season. Most of the major icepepper crops up in the northern provinces, on the outlying stretches of the domain that the Great City can afford to defend, were eradicated.

Nobody knows by whom or what, yet, but the Regent of the North was investigating the affair.

"I will take it from here," said a decidedly feminine voice, lilted in a strange outlander accent that was somehow a cross between a dulcet purr and a dangerous, contralto rumble. "You may return to your accountings, Gerald."

The Lady Talana Ayreg was... quite often a woman that defied categorization. Her image was youthful, as it had nearly always been. Nobody can ever remember her looking any younger, and Jacyn Ayreg had continued to age normally. Her features were sharp, though, with high cheekbones that could cut, and a tapered, too-sharp jaw, gave the impression that her head was almost heart-shaped. A simple tiara was typically worn, glittering in silver to hide within the brilliantly silver tones of her hair.

Talana Ayreg was an exceedingly beautiful woman. There were rumors, of course, that she was a child-bride. Others said she was a vampire. Others said she was a half-elf, while others kept her as being some kind of bastardized half-breed of a demi-human. Whatever the truth of the affair was, neither Jacyn nor Talana herself had ever come out and publicly denied or confirmed any of the rumors at all. She was shrewd and cunning, he was insightful, powerful, and potent of spirit.

And, to be more specific, both were dedicated to the causes and ideals espoused by the Great City. They did not always take the course of action that was deemed what might be considered right, or good, or true from time to time, no, but the prospect of good and evil were more than arbitrary lists of morals and ethics.

Carefully, Talana resumed counting the coins, keeping her vividly green, sparkling eyes leveled on the counterbalance. "Hello again, Jermyn."

"Mi'lady."

"How are your sons?"

"They are well, mi'lady. Kell used to speak often of you, when I brought him last time I delivered icepeppers for you."

"Ah, yes. Dear Kell. He must be quite the strapping man, now, yes?"

"He makes me proud. Would make his mother proud, too."

"Ah... yes," she said, turning her eyes up once to glance at the farmer. Her lips curled in an almost imperceptible little smile. "My condolences are continued, even now, Master Polatei, for the loss of your wife. She was a beautiful woman."

"My thanks, mi'lady."

She turned back to the coins, counting them out again. He was not so uneducated on the ways of banking, though. She had already counted more than enough coins out - indeed, almost double the price - and then, with the sly removal of a crown, back down to less than half of the going rate, only to count back up again. She was... stalling.

"It must be hard on your farm. Without a woman."

"We have Adrianna. And she's a hellcat, too, I'll tell you."

"Yes... your wife's last."

Nothing else was said for several minutes. He blinked, growing a bit more awkward every few seconds that she kept her strangely unblinking, vivid, inhuman eyes pointed at him.

"Yes, mi'lady," Jermyn shifted his weight from one foot to the other, "her last."

Seemingly satisfied at last, Talana Ayreg turned away from the coin-counting scales, twisting her body to more fully face him. She was small, he could see, but there were very subtle things. Lines in her skin that could be seen through the mesh between opaque pieces of fabric in her dress, near her elbow, her shoulders, her collar bones. It reminded him of the way the muscles creased the skin in his horses. Talana might have been small, but there was strength in her compact size.

"Thank you... for taking care of my needs, Master Polatei."

He shifted again, glancing back over toward the door. "M'pleasure, Lady Ayreg. Icepeppers don't get great demand this season, what with all the--"

"Shh..." she had said, placing a too-warm fingertip against his weathered lips. She had moved while he was examining the exit, plotting his escape, and had, in that one series of steps, made an escape absolutely impossible. "I have other needs, Master Polatei."

Lifting his hand, Jermyn wrapped his calloused fingers around Talana's slender wrist, pulling her hand down and away from his face. "Mi'lady, please. You are married!"

"Yes."

Before he could say another word, Talana's hands closed into fists near the collars of his shirt, and pulled him roughly down into a kiss. Jermyn Polatei had been farming and working the earth for all of his life; he couldn't quite pull a tree root by itself without some oxen, but he was a strong, strong man. This woman shouldn't have been able to manhandle him like so.

She was aggressive, and demanding. And, yet, so gentle, and so entirely wholesome. It was wrong to lay with another man's wife, but she made it seem so right.

Resistance did not last much longer.

Lord Ayreg

Date: 2006-11-07 12:56 EST
Lord Jacyn Ayreg, Blessed of the Light, Defender of the Truth, Shield of the North, High Seat of House Ayreg -- was a man with sensibilities and techniques, with an imposing aura, a commanding demeanor, an intimidating figure, and a strong sense of right and wrong. He was a brutal man, a hard man; one of the old knights of the Great City, he was once Lord-Captain of the Militia until his 'retirement.' Even in retirement though, he never ceased to rage against the enemies of the Great City. He had dedicated himself to the furtherance of the Great City, of the Rule of Law, and the lofty principles of Justice. Even nearing the bitter age of seventy, he still had the appearance, virility, and vitality of a man thirty years his younger.

Some said his techniques were inhumane. He brooked no patience for evil, giving them no ground with which to ply their dark trades. Wherever villainy was found, Jacyn Ayreg was there with steel drawn to cut them from society like a surgeon cuts out a cancer. He was pitiless and merciless, though he took no particular pleasure from annihilating evil. It was simply how it must be done. Kill them first, or be swept asunder in an unstoppable wave of chaos and darkness.

House Ayreg was the most powerful House in the Great City. Even moreso than the King's own House, in terms of the number of retainers available to him, the size of his coffers, and the area of his holdings. If Jacyn Ayreg had wanted to be King, he would have been King. As it stands, however, wise as he is, the High Seat of House Ayreg could never bring himself to tear away from the fight. The King himself, after all, would never be seen on the battlefield no matter how strategic the plan of action is. Lord Ayreg was known not only for attaching some retainers of House Ayreg to Militia patrols when they were dispatched to deal with demi-human insurgents terrorizing the countryside, but from time to time on some of the more important missions (such as when an entire contingent of Militiamen were dispatched to quell a nomadic group of orcs that had been slashing and burning in the Western Regions) he would accompany the unit himself, oftentimes simply seizing command from the Militia captain.

By and large, this behavior was overlooked. After all, as former Lord-Captain of the Militia himself, Lord Jacyn Ayreg was known and respected, and there were few who could match his ferocity on the battlefield, and none who could question -- let alone match -- his tactical thinking.

"They're up to something," muttered Lord Ayreg, "I don't know what, and I don't know when, but I can feel it in my bones."

Talana Ayreg, delicately tapered chin resting lightly upon the knuckles of an upturned first, regarded him cooly. "They are gnolls, Jacyn. They are incapable of true coordination."

"That was true in the past. I'm not so certain now."

"You worry much."

"So you say, wife." Taking up the heavy single-edged knife, Jacyn Ayreg sliced down through a thick cut of meat, separating it from the rest of the beef, then impaled it upon the tip of the knife and lifted it, tearing a bite off with his teeth before setting it back down onto the plate.

She watched him pointedly. Silver hair was drawn back, held atop the crown of her skull by an elaborate hairpin in the shape of crossed swords. Emerald-fire eyes, too vivid and brilliant to be natural, appraised him evenly.

"What is it?" he asked, taking another bite of the beef, tearing down through the cooked meat and ripping it off with an abrupt, sudden jerk of his head.

Talana Ayreg's voice never changed; it was steady, her appearance never changing either. Sharp point of her jaw there upon small knuckles, silver hair reflecting the light away in colorful patterns across the walls. If she were nervous in the least, those bright green eyes never betrayed it to Jacyn.

"I am with child, husband."

Jacyn paused in his movements for only a few seconds, and then continued eating his meal. The two sat in silence for some time, though there was nothing awkward in the least. Talana sat, staring at him impassively while Jacyn ate.

Wiping the sharp point of his beard clean with a rag, he spoke at last. "When?"

"The child will come during the winter."

"A boy?"

She nodded, wordlessly.

"An heir. So. Have you given the child a name?"

"Yes. It is a name that compliments and fits both of our ancestries, paying homage to your father as well as mine. As is custom."

"One day, wife, I will finally understand your customs." Jacyn rose to his feet, wiping his hands with the rag before throwing it down to the table. "What is the child's name?"

Finally, she released one of her rare smiles. It was a strange gesture on the face of the woman who so typically had a permanently neutral expression.

"His name will be Jodiah, my lord."

Lord Ayreg

Date: 2007-09-06 03:02 EST
The events that transpire next are written out in the following thread...

And the Cradle Will Fall

...Just ignore any contiunity mistakes between what's been established in And the Cradle Will Fall and Signs and Portents, compared to Reflections of What Was. I'm not as uber as making sure my story stays straight the whole way through. :D