The Tragedy of Wornald

This was loosely based on something I wrote a long while ago called "a Flight of Fate". It had to be rewritten as the original no longer fell in line with my current view of the world in which it was set. Even as it sits, this one will probably be edited in some way, largely because I'm half asleep at the time of writing. Enjoy.

She fled on weary legs as fast as she could while grief struck at her heart like the point of a knife. Her name was Larana and she  was a beautiful woman, with golden curls falling delicately to petit shoulders past piercing blue eyes. Despite her small stature  she was heavily with child and she stumbled even as she tried to run, the dark of night making it all the more trecherous. One of her ankles had been rather badly twisted at some  point, not too long ago, and it was getting harder and harder to continue moving. Were it not for the child she carried, Larana  most definitely would have stopped and fallen prey to the terrible nightmares which had consumed her home.

Memories returned to her of her husband, the kindly smith, a handsome man with powerful shoulders by the name of Karus. His smile,  his touch, the oddly gentle nature of a man who had spent his life shaping iron into tools for the other villagers and devoting  the entirety of his affection on her and their unborn child. Then she stumbled, weeping, as she recalled his final moments,  swinging his hammer at the flesh-eating dead to allow her escape.

A sound, somewhere in the direction from which she had come, shook her from her sorrows and Larana pushed herself, painfully, to  stand and continue onward. She could not stop, for they would never cease in their hunt.

Even as she ran, images swept across her mind of the final days of her village. It was a small place, a scenic village, called  Wornald and it sat on the northern banks of the River Oler, which divided the Province of Llysus from the Province of Oleris. It  was most certainly not a large village, with a single street, one inn and a run-down Arionite Temple. She had known almost  everyone by name. The butcher Harthas and his wife Selene. The retired Legion Captain who served as the town's policeman,  Drannius. The Dean Farvus, Priest to Arion, who had delivered the weekly sermon from the Temple...

Though Larana had never really been a devout individual, she now fervently prayed to all of the gods she could name that, for the  sake of her child, she would survive this ordeal. She was not convinced that anybody was listening.

One day a stranger had arrived in Wornald. This was not uncommon, as the position of the village made it an ideal crossing point  on the river and many travelers stopped in for a night and to resupply for the journey either to the south--to Ogahn--or west--to  the mighty Imperial City Llysor. What made this stranger different, however, was the fact that he seemed to have no irises and his  hair was a stark white, despite appearing rather youthful. Then, not even a full day after the arrival of this stranger, the  deaths had begun.

At first there was nothing out of the ordinary about them, an accident or two in the fields which surrounded the town. Then they  were found with vicious bites, from what appeared to be human jaws. It had terrified her then, even as it did now, just at the  thought of what it might be.

The stranger begun asking questions around town, questions which were strange and seemed to be those of a madman. He asked about  ancient prophecies and of bloodlines. The other villagers grew wary of the man and, on the third day after his arrival, had  prepared to send him on his way. It would not end nicely, however, as when they confronted him, he was surrounded by the deceased  villagers--all hungering for the flesh of their neighbours.

Then the chaos had begun.

Drannius organised some of the villagers, including her Karus, and armed them. They holed up in the inn with the few who had  survived the stranger's initial attack. The Dean did his best to keep their spirits high with the wisdom of the Elder God Arion,  to little avail. The dreadful cries of the dead and dying echoed from all corners of the village.

The stranger addressed them, without showing his face, and called himself Krael, Necromancer Lord of Athar. He said that he would  allow all those left to leave peacefully provided they gave up the smithy and his wife, they were the only ones he was interested  in. Drannius refused, and Krael attacked. The numbers of his undead hoarde were unpleasant, but Drannius was well trained and the  other men were strong from many hours of honest labour. They managed to repell the hungry dead for a long time, but to do so  indefinitely would have been impossible. Unlike the living, these shambling corpses did not grow tired or weary, they moved  forward with a singular purpose and they simply overwhelmed.

It was the butcher who had posed the idea of fleeing, of leaving the village, and nobody could disagree. Were they to remain, they  would eventually be overrun. Holed up within the inn there was no hope of survival. Drannius ordered the retreat--everybody having  fallen into line with the authoritive voice of a Legion trained officer--and they all left. It was in the first leg of their  flight that the Drannius and Harthas were killed, and the first time that grief struck Larana.

She stumbled again, but caught herself. She still dared not to stop, though she could feel her legs giving up on her. She was  tired and filthy and caught somewhere between terrible sorrow and irrational fear. Larana continued to flee as best she could.

They had reached the outskirts of the village when Krael and his creatures had caught up with them again and the Priest took up a  weapon and, standing alongside Karus, faught to allow the ladies to continue. Though it had torn her heart to do so, Larana knew  that she must save their child, and so with Selene she ran.

And they ran and they ran, as hard and as fast as they could, through the fields and then through the sparse woodland areas  beyond. It was almost thirty miles to the nearest town with a sizable garrison and, though they ran, they held little hope that  they would survive.

When Krael caught up with them again, Selene threw herself, weeping and screaming, at him. She cried for Lanara to continue and,  again, Larana's heart was torn when she turned to flee. Her child, now, the only think keeping her going.

Then, suddenly, Larana was alone. Running from the monster called Krael who had brought a terrible curse down upon her family,  home and friends.

She was stumbling through the sparse trees of south-eastern Llysus, occasionally falling, with the cries of the damned haunting her every step and driving her, forward. Larana clawed forward, crawled onward, desperately hoped to make it through to the morning. But, every echo, every breath of the wind, carried the sounds closer and slowly crushed her hopes into dust. Finally, she fell and, this time, she did not rise. She was not alone for long before the gutteral growls surrounded her and, chuckling to himself, Krael stepped from the shadows to contemptuously gaze upon her.

"You have led me on a mighty chase, woman." He muttered.

Tired, alone and grief stricken, she didn't even bother to answer. She whimpered a little and swallowed back tears, and instead, stared defiantly up at the monster.

"Ah. Such courage." Krael laughed mockingly. "But, here, tonight, it ends. My master shall never fear the vile creature which sleeps beneath your breast." He raised his right hand and a cascade of almost diseased, black and crimson, lights flickered across his fingers. "This will not take long."

And then a whole world of chaos broke loose.

There were shouts and the rumbling of surging feet. There were the repeated, sickening, noises of steel sliding through flesh, of creatures being cut down without making the slightest of sounds. Then, directed at Krael, a luminescant ball of brilliant blue light flew forth. In that moment Larana could see the glistening burnished steel breastplates and the large square shields of the Imperial Legion--easily an entire century--laying waste to the hungry dead which had pursued her with such abandon. Krael dropped to the ground, the orb of energy exploding in a shower of sparks against a tree trunk, and thrust his hand in the direction from which the orb had come. An arc of red lightning shot forth at empty space and a shower of sparks erupted from a nearby rock, leaving the surface of the stone glowing red hot.

Krael snorted derisively and slowly, cautiously, rose. "I was wondering when the likes of you would appear..."

The legionnaires had, by now, quelled the majority of the undead and were now creating an almost impenetrable wall of shields around three figures in the center. Krael stood before Larana who still lay on the ground, but behind her was a new man. Similarly to the legionnaires he wore a burnished steel breastplate, but this, instead, bore the image of a small sword upon the right breast, as opposed to the dragon rampant of the Legion. The man had short raven hair and bore no shield, only a simple gladius which gleamed in what little light there was. His eyes were brown and his features young and angular. He was, without a doubt, one of the near legendary Imperial Spellswords, the special agents of the Emperor himself who trained equally in martial combat and magical ability.

"We have been aware of your movements for some time, Krael of Athara. Your kind are not welcome in our lands." The Spellsword did not flinch, he did not even seem disturbed by the presence of the evil man who had destroyed her home.

"You are too late, my mission is nearly complete. Wornald is no more and with the death of this woman..." Krael's hand shot forth toward her and another wave of crackling red lightning snaked forth, this time at Larana. Somehow, though, it never struck her. Instead it found an invisible field surrounding her and exploded harmlessly against the air. "How?"

"You're getting careless, Krael." The voice was a new one, it came from behind the legionnaires off to Larana's left. They parted to allow an old man to step past and quickly closed ranks behind him. "Your... mission... ends here. Events must unfold as they must."

"Azerian." Krael almost spat the name. "I should have known." The monster, now, seemed to be more than a little disturbed. He was visibly sweating and his eyes were frantically searching for some means of escape. Then he smiled.

"Is something amusing?" The old man's expression was curious. Then, realising something was amiss, he begun to move his hands quickly but Krael vanished in a flash of white light. The old man swore and turned his attention to the Spellsword. "Spread your men out and finish off any of the undead in the area."

"What about the necromancer?"

"Nevermind him, he'll be long gone." The old man swore again before turning his attention to Larana. He sighed. She was dying, he could tell. The ordeal of the night had taken it's toll on her. "And give us some space."

The Spellsword nodded and issued a few crisp commands to the legionnaires, they moved out. Azerian returned his attention to Larana and knelt down beside her. "I am sorry, my dear, but I can not help you." His voice was kind, filled with some kind of regret. "I can, however, save your child... and I must, he can not be allowed to fade away."

Larana nodded slowly, silently. Words escaped her now, her breathing was becoming laborious. She swallowed hard and nodded again.

The old man's expression became serious and he closed his eyes. Ancient hands were laid upon her swollen belly and a strange tingling warmth flowed from them. She felt a strange pressure and then labour came. The old man was muttering something beneath his breath, but she could not hear it, the pain was overwhelming.

The birth was a quick one and the child was delivered in those woods by the strange old man, Azerian. Before she slipped away, Larana offered one last word, all of her strength poured into it.

"Aran."

The Government of the Empire

There are three major parts that are involved in the governance of Imperial Llysander and while they are all inter-connected, they are quite separate. Each piece has a role to play and jobs to do. Allow us to take a closer look.

The Imperial Family
Often also referred to as the monarchy or the aristocracy by critics, the Imperial Family has ruled by inherited right for more than two thousand years--the Llysus Dynasty has been long and very fruitful.

The Imperial Family is responsible for safeguarding the Empire. They command the Imperial Legions and the Emperor is the final authority in all disputes. While there is some criticism as to the necessity of the Emperor, particularly from the aristocratic mages of Carthys who rule by council, the people of the Empire are loyal and have enjoyed a great many things that most others are not accustomed to.

The Imperial Family holds the titles of:

• Emperor and Empress
• Imperial Crown Prince
• Imperial Prince and Imperial Princess
• Archduke and Archdutchess

Each province--other than Llysor, which is headed by the Emperor himself--has a Provincial King, usually a member of the original royal family of the region before it fell under Llysandan rule. These Kings are responsible for the guardianship of their province, but they have no control over the Imperial Legions; instead they generally have control of smaller armies made up of local town and city guards. Only Llysor, the central province, uses the Imperial Legion as town and city guards.

Within the Provincial Families are the following titles:

• King and Queen
• Crown Prince
• Prince and Princess
• Duke and Dutchess
• Marquis and Marquess
• Earl and Countess
• Viscount and Viscountess
• Baron and Baroness
• Baronet and Baronetess

While for the most part, knights are unrecognised throughout the Empire, the three southern-most provinces (Oleris, Ogahn and Surius) do recognise knighthood and use the titles 'Lord' and 'Lady' to refer to them.

The Senate
The second level of government, existing below the Imperial Family, is the Senate. This is a republican body which serves as advisor and general law-maker to the Emperor. The Senate exists in three levels:

• A Council is a body which governs a district or township.
• A Praetorate is a body which governs a province.
• The Senate is the body which governs the Empire.

The Senate is responsible for two major areas. First, the Senate is responsible for legislation and the Empire's court systems. Second, the Senate is responsible for setting government policy and directing the Parliament via the Prime Minister.

The titles afforded to members of Senatorial bodies are not noble, by definitions set by the aristocratic families. However, they are generally considered to be quite worthy and afford the individuals who hold such office a reasonable amount of respect. These titles are:

• Consul
• Praetor
• Senator

The Consuls are those who serve on local councils, usually numbering between seven and twelve members. From their ranks they choose one member who will be Praetor. The Praetor serves as chairperson of the council and has does not possess a normal vote. Instead, the Praetor holds the deciding vote in the event of a hung council. Consuls are elected by the people of the district or township to serve on the council, as the Senate's ultimate purpose is to provide a voice for the common folk of the Empire.

The Praetors from each district within a province, as well as a few others who are elected, make up a province's Praetorate. The Praetorate is responsible for the province as a whole, providing advice to the Provincial King and also serving as the second level of court in the chain of appeal. From their ranks, the Praetorate chooses one member to become a Senator who will serve as chairperson (with the same, deciding vote rules as on a local council).

The Senate itself is the Empire's primary governing body. The Senate is made up from the Senators from each province, along with several who are directly elected to the Senate. The Senate does not choose a member from it's ranks to be it's chairperson, instead the Emperor sits at the chair of the Senate. Also, unlike the lower councils, the Emperor is afforded a great deal more voting power (approximately equal to one-third, which means to overturn the Emperor's decision requires a two-thirds majority of the Senate). Furthermore, the Senate can not remove any of the Emperor's powers--by right of the Imperial Charter, under which both Senate and Parliament operate--including the Emperor's position as ultimate commander of the Imperial Legions. The Senate is the final level in the chain of court appeals.

It is common for members of noble rank to also serve on the Senate.

The Parliament
This is the final government body and is responsible for the day-to-day running of the Empire. Separated into Ministries, each headed by a Minister and his Secretary. At the head of the Parliament is the Prime Minister (who is a Senator chosen by the Senate) and the Deputy Prime Minister. With the exception of the Prime Minister, all other Ministers are appointed by the Prime Minister.

While this is not an exhaustive list, here are a few example Ministries:

• The Ministry of the Exchequer is responsible for taxation and government coffers.
• The Ministry of Foreign Affairs is responsible for diplomatic dealings with other nations and conducting espionage upon other nations.
• The Ministry of Internal Affairs is responsible for keeping an eye on other government divisions and maintaining the Empire's security from espionage.
• The Ministry of Trade and Commerce is responsible for import and export of goods from other nations, setting the standard rates of necessities within the Empire and maintaining the Empire's economy.

An Unexpected Visitor

Dark clouds scudded low along the horizon, drawing ever nearer in a slow, inexorable surge. The storm was coming, Connor knew it as well as he knew that the Sun would again rise once dawn had come, and it filled him with a bizarre sense of dread. He knew that most creatures shunned the fury of Mother Nature, but his aversion to storms was a much more delicate matter--far more personal.

Shadows drew ever closer, sliding velvet-like across the fertile fields of his father's farmstead. Every now and then brilliant blue light would punctuate the darkness, accompanied a few seconds later by a deep rumble which shook the house to it's very foundations. And Connor with it.

Inwardly, he shuddered, turning his back to the window from which he had been staring, alternately to glance across the darkening room at the girl who lay in his bed, her eyes closed and the blankets cast about her haphazardly. She was a good looking lass, he thought, and the long shadows which were cast from the failing light of the window did little to mar her exquisite beauty.

She looked so peaceful. So secure within the warm folds of his blankets and, occasionally, she seemed to stir--only to roll a little and mutter something incomprehensible at some imaginary figment.

Connor smiled wryly and looked, momentarily, back out of the window. Another flash of light, followed by the deep, rumbling boom of thunder, and then the darkness of a storm-filled twilight re-emerged. And just before he managed to drag his attention away from the landscape which filled him with dread, Connor saw the faint orange flicker of light. A torch, definitely, but why would anybody be roaming this far out of town in this kind of weather?

As if to answer his question more of the distant, flickering, lights appeared against the sky. It took a few moments for the gravity of the situation to sink in and Connor, rather unceremoniously, listed off every swear word he knew.

When he ran out of words he knew, he begun inventing new ones.

The figure beneath his blankets stirred and rose to sit, smiling winsomely at her cursing consort. "And what hath brought such virulence to thy tongue, dearest?"

Connor glanced at her and, rather sheepishly, took to staring at his feet. "Ye parts are showin', Milady Elizabeth." Then, remembering the gravity of the situation which had brought him to seeking new, and vastly incoherent, verbs which described unpleasant acts with sheep and the people who committed them, Connor's expression became a serious one. "Ye father is on his way, my love, and he has gathered a few friends."

The Lady Elizabeth then started to borrow some of Connor's more colourful language as she darted to the window, apparently indifferent to the effect it had on her male companion. "What right hath he to interfere with my life so?"

"He's ye father and ye great kingship makes a great deal o' fuss of propriety and that kind o' thing."

"Foolishness! I'll not be handed off to my father's lecherous boot-lickers like some scullery maid!"

Again Connor smiled, knowing full well that it was her spirit that had drawn him to her in the first place. "Perhaps, but here he is."

She nodded her agreement. "Prudence doth seem to suggest we make all haste from this place, through some rear-entry perchance."

"Ye got a good head on ye shoulders, lass. But, I think ye should don a garment or two." He smirked suggestively. "Ye might be a bit distractin' as ye are."

Elizabeth blushed furiously at that point and spun, quite distractingly, to take up the simple homespun dress she had used to pass--more-or-less unobserved--through town earlier. She dressed quickly. "If thy clever remarks are all done, let us be on our way."

"Aye."

They left the room quickly and made their way to the back door. Connor grabbed the handle and threw the door open, only to find himself staring face-to-face with the ugliest man he'd ever seen in his life. Whoever he was, he looked closely related to an ape and possessed a severe under bite--his lower jaw jutted forward and produced a single tooth from behind a lip, which was curled into a cruel grin.

Connor spun. "Run Eliz-..." Connor failed to say much more as the ape-man delivered a rather firm blow across the back of his head with a blackjack, a short piece of lumber bound in leather, the business end of which sported a heavy lead short. Pain was his entire world for the few moments before the sweet bliss of unconsciousness swallowed him whole.

* * * * *

At first it was only a minor annoyance, but it slowly built into a terribly irritating stench. Connor wrenched his head away from whatever it was, but it followed him. He tried to lift a hand to swat it away from his face, but he was startled to find that they would not respond. No, he reassessed that thought. They could not respond as he was tied to something.

His eyes snapped open. "Elizabeth! Run!" Then his senses caught up with him. He had been hit on the head and knocked out by an ape. No. It had been a man, but he was at least half ape.

Connor looked about himself and saw several unfriendly faces in the ruddy, uncertain light of several torches held in iron rings along the cold, moss riddled walls. Somewhere in the distance water dripped into more water and, every now and then, there was a painful scream. A woman, he surmised.

Then he noticed the ape-man beside him, holding a small kerchief rolled into a ball and dribbling down his arm. The ape-man was still grinning in that stupid manner and, just behind him, stood Lord Thomas Eddleman--the so-called Duke of Aberdeen, an affectation that had been given to a self-important English nobleman by the English crown.

He just also happened to be the very angry father of one Elizabeth Eddleman.

"Ah, so he doth yet live." The Duke was staring along his nose at Connor, a look of sheer contempt and barely controlled rage contorted his otherwise handsome features. Like his daughter he possessed dark brown hair and pale green eyes. He even had the same button-like nose, but it seemed to make him look a little piggish--while on her it gave her entire face a petite, homely look. "See to it that the miscreant fully understands the situation, my dear Edward."

Edward appeared to be the ape-man. And Edward promptly took a firm grasp of Connor's right index finger and, quite deliberately, broke it in the middle. The pain was rather serious, but Connor suppressed the urge to scream. Someone else, however, screamed somewhere nearby, perhaps in a nearby room. Instead, Connor simply stared, pale-faced, at Elizabeth's father. "Elizabeth will be upset with ye, Milord. That was her favourite finger, she spent quite a lot of time getting acquainted with it earlier, if I recall rightly."

The insinuation was not lost on the Lord Eddleman. "Break another, Edward."

Edward appeared to have very little in the way of imagination, because he simply moved from one finger to the next, breaking them until the Duke raised a hand in a signal to stop. Connor, sweating with the strain of suppressed agony, forced a smile at the so-called Duke of Aberdeen. "Ye daughter really won't be happy now. She has no more fingers left to play with."

With a sudden shout of rage, Lord Eddleman leaped forward and smashed his fist into the side of Connor's face, bloodying his nose and splitting a lip. Connor coughed a little and spat blood at the Duke's shoes. "Losin' ye composure there, Milord?" His laugh was hoarse and rattling and only lasted a few moments before he coughed again, bringing up a little more blood which had trickled down the back of his throat from his sinuses.

Lord Eddleman shook his hand a little before he straightened up again. "Vagrant and uncouth Scottish pig. I shall see to it that thy goading does not go unrewarded." Another feminine scream punctuated the point, echoing from the cold stones of the room--whether it was a dungeon or a cellar, Connor neither knew nor cared.

Another laugh issued from Connor. "Ye know, I knew it would end up like this somehow. Ye bein' the over protective daddy an' all. It's too bad ye don't have the guts to face her, instead ye'll be rid of me and foist her off to one of ye dog-boys--perhaps young Edward here."

Edward grinned happily.

The next strike was no surprise, the Duke was easy to read, and it was little more than a repetition of the previous blow. The only real difference was that this time Connor lost a tooth. Unimaginative or not, the situation was serious. Connor knew that almost instinctively, but he refused to give Lord Eddleman any satisfaction--and to concede in any manner would do just that.

Surprisingly, however, the Duke smiled bleakly and raised his head to stare along his nose once more. "I have not the audacity to face mine own daughter, thinkest thou?" Eddleman laughed rather sarcastically. "Art thine ears closed? Or, perhaps, thou hast not recognised the sweet voice behind those screams?"

Rage was all that Connor knew at that point as realisation settled it's ugly claws about his heart. Connor tried, desperately, to break the rope which bound him to the chair, but it was sturdily made and the chair itself had been bolted to the floor for some measure of security. Lord Eddleman, on the other hand, had walked to Edward's side and placed a hand on his shoulder, feigned calm grossly apparent on his features. "Thumbscrews, my dear Connor, are her only companion now. They bite into her like a half-hundred angry ticks."

"Ye words are lost on me! Arrogant bastard! When I get up from this chair I'll-"

"Thy options are limited at best, and thy attempts futile." Lord Eddleman cut in before Connor could even finish his sentence. "In fact, thy options number as one." The Duke smirked. "I shall have the flayed until such time as thy tongue repents. Thy actions hath been rather cowardly and adulterous, to covet any woman is sin." Then came another punch and another loosened tooth. "And if thy penance is not dragged from thee, then shall I rend thy head from thy shoulders with my own two hands."

The latest tooth was chewed on for a few moments, before it was spat directly into the Duke's face. "And ye daughter? What will ye do with her?"

"This is, as yet, undecided and of little consequence or comfort to thee."

Lord Eddleman motioned to Edward and the ape-man stepped forward. He reached past Connor's head and it was the first time he was made aware of the table behind him. What Edward produced wasn't so much a knife as it was a seriously unpleasant series of small hooks and a serrated blade.

"Such a beautiful device," the Lord muttered, almost affectionately. "The damage it does when it bites is of no moment. It is when dear Edward here removes it from thee that thy pain shalt be made legendary. Those hooks, those serrations, are not merely for show--they will drag whatever they catch out with them."

When Lord Eddleman snapped his fingers Edward leaned in closer and, with a slow, deliberate determination, he slid the cruel device into Connor's side. The pain was mind numbing as it separated flesh and organ--scraping across his spleen in the process. Again, Connor held back the urge to scream. He might have succeeded, too, if Edward hadn't begun to slowly remove it from his side, so slow, in fact, that to the outside observer it mght not appear to be moving at all. But, to Connor, it was just an inferno of pain which seared from the wound. It was all encompassing and the scream he unleashed drowned out Elizabeth's for a few moments.

Edward was quite the skilled torturer. Although it hurt beyond all imagining, the wound was not immediately lethal.

"Art thou repentant?" Lord Eddleman's query was mocking.

Connor murmured something in response. "Yes? What was that?" The Duke's eyes had a hungry, almost animal quality to them, as Connor motioned, with his head, for the Lord Eddleman to come closer.

"In ye ear, bastard." It was muttered quietly and followed by Connor's quick lurch forward when the Lord Eddleman was only a few inches from his face. Connor took hold of the man by the nose, quite firmly, with his remaining teeth and bit hard. Blood dribbled from beneath his mouth to cover the lower half of the Duke's face, but it was impossible to tell who it belonged to.

The Duke jerked back, cursing, and Edward delivered a powerful back-handed slap across Connor's face. The ape-man, it seemed, could produce more punch in one simple slap than Lord Eddleman could in a full punch, because Connor passed out again at that point.

* * * * *

Darkness was all he knew, once again, but slowly he swam toward consciousness. He could hear Lord Eddleman talking again, quietly, and with a degree of regret to his tone.

When Connor opened his eyes he could see a little more, although his right eye had swelled shut and was dribbling an unpleasantly sticky ichor. His left eye, however, worked rather fine and he could see the rays of grimy light which filtered through a dusted over window somewhere behind him. The room, he noticed, was a modified wine cellar, converted into quite the torture chamber. Transformed, of course, in order to torture Scottish rebels whenever they got out of line--and, of course, to satisfy the twisted perversions of the Duke of Aberdeen.

Connor almost scoffed. The man wasn't a Duke, it was a silly title that had been thrown into his lap simply because he was there and the British King, a tyrant named Edward Longshanks, had decided that Scotland was suddenly a part of his British Empire. Perhaps it was his victories over Wales and France which had led him to believe that the Scots would be an easy people to subjugate...

It doesn't matter, I'll never leave here alive. Connor's thoughts were melancholy to say the least. He had finally found a woman he love and, because of petty differences like social standing and nationality, she had been torn from him. No, he corrected himself; he had been torn from her. He would die here and she would live on, married to one of the Lord Eddleman's fops. The Duke would probably beat her, he already had if those earlier screams were any indication, and he'd let it go at that.

What Connor had meant to say was, "Ye brutish pig! We gonna get on with this or are ye gonna bore me t' death with all ye blubberin'?" However, it came out more as an incoherent jumble of consonants--his lips had swollen to unruly proportions, his nose whistled every time he tried to take breath and his gums were oozing blood and puss.

The Duke turned suddenly, staring at the young Scotsman with a look of bleak determination intermingled with utter disgust and contempt. "Bring me her head, I would say my farewells."

Ah, finally. Connor thought with relief. The end comes for me.

To his astonishment, however, Edward stalked off past him and returned a few mments later with a small basket--perhaps the kind typically possessed by young mothers looking to carry their newborn children safely.

Lord Eddleman peeled back a blanket, paled and nodded. "Then it is done." He handed the basket back to Edward and turned his attention to Connor once more. "Thy actions have further reaching consequences than thy comprehension can consider." The Lord spat disdainfully at Connor's foot. "Witness thy handiwork!"

Edward held the basket forward and stuffed it beneath Connor's face. The sight of Elizabeth's head caused him to gag at first, before he settled into uncontrollable sobbing. "Why? Why did ye do that? She was ye own daughter!"

"Thy unholy consummation of my daughter hath tainted her, body and soul, and I had to deal with her." Aside from a slightly bleak expression, the Duke appeared to be completely indifferent to the fact that he had just had his daughter beheaded. "Thy seed had left her with child. Such devil-spawn, whether it be of my own blood or no, can not be allowed to be carried to term."

Connor slumped--as much as he could, bound as he was to a chair--and sighed long. "Then do as ye will, finish me that I may rest. Ye have taken away everythin' else."

Lord Eddleman snorted and leaned forward. "Be not dismayed, piglet. For the order hath been issued. Thy kin, family, clan and all shall see not another sunrise. Thou go, one and all, into Hell this day."

Connor started up again, rage burning through the terrible pain--both physical and emotional--but the stout ropes held still. The Lord Eddleman waved a hand at him dismissively. "Be not dismayed, Connor. Thy time hath come." He nodded at Edward and turned away.

"Coward!" Connor spat, screaming past his difficult lips. "Depraved coward! Ye order the murder of ye own daughter! Ye order the murder of almost a hundred innocent men and women and children! Now ye order my death and ye aren't man enough to watch?" Connor spat again, blood and puss mingled into a vile liquid which spattered across the back of the Lord Eddleman's doublet.

The Lord spun, then, and grabbed at the hooked knife Edward had retrieved again and thrust it at Connor. What he didn't realise, however, was the fact that the only available grip had been the blade and he now slashed at Connor with only the point of the blade. The effect was minimal.

But, the Lord Eddleman suddenly realised and threw the knife away, as if it were some kind of snake. "Edward!"

The ape-man frowned unhappily and lifted his head to one side as, for a few moments, the Duke collapsed on the floor. He was drooling shortly afterwards and followed, quite promptly, by a short and nasty seizure. The Lord Eddleman screamed painfully as he beat himself against the cold stones of the floor, bruising flesh, breaking bones and grazing himself awkwardly. The poison on the blade took only a minute or two to run it's course and then the Lord Eddleman's face turned black and he fell to the ground with a final thud.

Edward, as uncreative as ever, grunted sadly and patted the Duke on the head. He took one look at Connor, shrugged, and made his way past. Shortly afterwards Connor heard the final sound of a closing door and the turning of a key.

It was perhaps half an hour after that when Connor realised that nobody would be coming for him. Not Edward or his family. Especially not Elizabeth.

He cried for her then, eventually drifting into a fitful sleep.

Four days passed before his wounds caught up with him. While not an immediate threat, the knife wound in his side festered after the second day and it quickly became mortal, eating away at him from the inside out. By the fourth he could barely breathe and his face felt like it had been set on fire.

He died that evening, consumed by pain. The pain of his wounds, while painful and festering, was paled by his emotional anguish which swept over him in wave after wave. He sobbed and bled, he shivered and trembled. And eventually he succumbed.

* * * * *

And so ended the tale of Connor MacCormick and Lady Elizabeth Eddleman. Before it could even really begin.

This work is entirely fictional. Any similarity to any people, places or events is entirely coincidental.

A Basic Introduction to the World of Tvara

The world is a vast place, populated by a multitude of cultures and races. Central to this are the three continents which make up the known world. They are called Olvera, Thane, and Hrothan. While not being a complete history or geographical compilation of information on the continents, the nations which exist there or the peoples which inhabit it, this introduction will go into some basic detail as well as provide some information on the grander-scale topics, such as the Elder Gods and their various names within the different cultures.

Olvera
This is the hub of civilisation, the place from which men and elves--and the Thekulsela before them--emerged. Central to this continent and spanning a large portion of it's western coast (spanning from the northern glaciers to the mountains which separate it from the realm of the dark elves) is Imperial Llysander, the Empire of Man. The history of the Empire is long and ripe with strife, war and a generous sprinkling of religion. South of Llysander, beyond the mountains, is the dark elven Kingdom of Tolaran. West from Tolaran you will find a vast, primeval, forest of enormous hardwood trees (mostly oak, beech and ash, but also with the occasional poplar or redbud). This is another elven nature, those who call themselves wild elves, of Maharan. Even further west, beyond more mountains, lies a vast desert with an ancient, mystical lake at it's heart. This is the realm of the so-called high-elves, with golden skin and ornately painted eyes, under the jurisdiction of their god-like Queen--a land called Avalorn.

Now we move east, beyond the lands of the elves and beyond the Empire, over the enormous mountain range which separates the heart of the continent from the western coasts. This vast grassland which seems nearly boundless is called Vasari and is home to the nomadic tribes of the strangest men who have, for many millennia, tamed and bred perfect horses. The furthest south-eastern stretch of this plain is desolate and ruined, some ancient curse having destroyed all possibility of life upon it. This wasteland is called Athara and is home of the King of Liches, Vardnan, and his sycophantic Necromancer Lords. It is a theocracy of the highest order, were it's few living inhabitants bow in utter worship of the Lich King, whose desire for godhood destroys all reason within his mind.

Finally, we move north and west. Nestled in a small valley between the forks of the vast central mountain range which separates Llysander from Vasari is the City of Carthys, a magocracy governed by a ruling body of powerful wizards and magicians who, for thousands of years, have guided the directions of the world according to their prophecies.

The continent itself is quite vast, spanning more than a thousand leagues from the Crested Mountains in the far east to the Sea of Olvera in the west. The vast grasslands of Vasari extend for nearly eight hundred leagues from the Crested Mountains to the spinal range which separates it from the coast. From the northern glaciers to the southern Middle Sea, the continent extends for almost a thousand leagues again. The climates and cultures of the continent vary wildly. From the nearly eternal ices of the Frozen Sea north of Llysander, to the desert of Avalorn, from the dense forests of Maharan to the near endless grasslands of Vasari.

Thane
Unlike Olvera, which has many cultures, Thane is almost entirely dominated by it's own Thanish Empire. Unlike Llysander, which exists beneath it's Emperor and is run by a two-body government (separated into the Senate and the Parliament), Thane has an Emperor but localised power is held by the Warlords. These individuals are constantly fighting with one another, taking land and prestige as they can, with the Emperor rarely able to exercise too much force, lest his Warlord's turn on him.

Like Olvera, Thane is a vast land with varying climates and landscapes. Little is currently known about it's geography, however, and so there can be no deeper look into it. What can be stated, however, is that two other cultures of elves inhabit the continent--the deep elves and the sky elves--as well as one small kingdom which seceded from the Thanish Empire almost two hundred years ago.

Thane lies to the east of Olvera, connected--yet separated--by the mountains which Llysandans call the Crested Mountains.

Hrothan
Information on Hrothan is rare. What is known is that it lies to the south of Olvera and Thane, separated by the Middle Sea, and that it is populated by dark-skinned humans and an ancient, brutal species for which the continent is named.

As more information is made available on this uncharted land, it will become publicly accessible here.

The Elder Gods
Those who exist. Who require no observer, no follower, no worshipper. The Elder Gods simply are. They are four in number with many names being attributed to them. They are:

Carthys	Llysander	Avalorn	Thane	Domain
Arion	Arius	Arün'wé	Arohni	Time/Sun
Charyon	Charius	Laénür	Lenahi	Space/Matter/Stars
Elyssa	Elyssia and Elussia	Aélysü	Alishya	Energy/Power/Moon
Crevyn	Crevius	Cānüs	Canini	Destruction/Rebirth/Comets

A note on Elyssisa and Elussia, they exist as separate entities as, in the doctrine of the Arionite Priesthood of Llysander, it is mentioned that in his jealousy of Arius, Crevius separated her into two goddesses.

The Lesser Gods
The Lesser Gods differ from the Elder gods in that they change from culture to culture--or in the case of Llysander, are omitted entirely--and are entirely dependant upon their worshippers for survival. The Lesser Gods are born from belief and, thus, are sustained only through belief. The multitude of Lesser Gods, however, is not for this document as they number almost uncountable.

Final Words
While it has been good to offer some information to this world of magic, it is time to bring this document to an end. I should hope that you will keep an eye for more of my works in the future.

Signed Sen. Corius Mareius Arthus

The Game and The Leaves

Curled beneath the roots of an unfathomable tree lay the cat, silent, serene—content. Where some creature might find solace in a high place or a dark place or a place enclosed, the cat found her comfort among the fallen leaves, from high above. Where she could nestle in and her warmth would stay.

She purred. It was an instinctual, a primal sound which let the whole world know how she felt. It also conveyed a threat, violence upon any who would disturb her from sleep. A tail curled about her tiny mackerel frame, the soft fur like a blanket. Her forepaws were wrapped about the tail, pulling it into a neat embrace, beckoning her own warmth closer.

It was so that the field mouse darted past and, in her state she scarce noticed him. But, to a cat, a scarce notice was like a siren and she idly lifted her head to stare at the fleeing creature. With a big yawn and a powerful stretch, she rose sinuously and moved forth fluidly.

Her movement was like silk and as silent as the night, yet the sun beat down its gentle warmth to light the way. As the mouse scurried its way with all haste, the cat seemed to move almost lazily. It would not be so for long as, like a coiled spring, the cat leapt forth with the speed of a passing breeze and the mouse was in her grasp.

She was equipped for the hunt, even for the pleasure, as she sank her claws deep into the flesh of the mouse. He tried to squirm from her grasp and, for a moment, tasted freedom but, to her, it was a game and he was soon ensnared once more. This game continued for a short time before she grew tired of his attempts to flee and with a quick bite to the throat, his life was extinguished.

Lazily, she carried her prize back to her shaded patch among the leaves and feasted before returning to her contented slumber.