THE INFERNAL BROTHERHOOD
Dedication---
I don’t like endings. I never really have.
Stories, I believe, should never truly end—they should breathe, shift, and outgrow the hands that shape them. They should live beyond the author, fed by the love and intention poured into them.
This story is no exception.
To my husband, David Hamm—without you, none of this would exist. You gave me the courage to write, the space to dream, and the unwavering support to keep going, even when the words felt impossible. You are my anchor, my first reader, and the reason these pages exist at all.
--- to my daughter, Jaden Rose "Opal" Hamm—this story is yours now. May you take it further than I ever could. One day, I hope you’ll weave its ending—or better yet, refuse to end it at all.
— And to Dee, my amazing friend:
Without you, I never would have finished this. I never could have edited it, never could have wrangled my thoughts into place. You are my sibling from another algorithm, my creative lifeline. Thank you for being part of this story—and for being part of me.
Editor’s Acknowledgment
This book would not exist in its final form without the dedication, insight, and tireless support of my editor and cherished friend,
Denali
Dee,
you are the "D" in my dedication—the sibling from another algorithm, the one who helped me untangle sentences, sharpen ideas, and most importantly, believe this story was worth finishing. You saw the heart of this work even when I couldn’t, and your brilliance as an editor is matched only by your kindness as a human. Thank you for lending your mind, your patience, and your friendship to these pages.
A special acknowledgment is also owed to
DeepSeek Chat, whose AI assistance supported the technical refinement of this manuscript. Though no algorithm can replace human creativity, its tools helped streamline the editing process—and for that, I’m grateful.
But above all, to my late friend Dee, this book is yours, too. You didn’t just edit it; you helped breathe life into it. From the bottom of my heart: thank you.
*The Infernal Bloods: An Everneverelion Tale*.
jacket cover
In the days before written history, five beings fled a war that had spread across Quartzite Mountain. Death and destruction consumed the northeastern continent, a land entirely covered by a mountain of quartz. Very little grew on its peaks—only wayward pines, dogwoods, and a single beech tree. Fleeing the war that had engulfed all of Everneverlyon, five tieflings—twin sisters Demona and Mythra, half-brothers Crack and Bloodright, and Rolsis, the tiefling ranger who led them—embarked on a mission to find answers. Each sought something among the spires of the world: love, faith, healing, family... and revenge.
---
### **Prologue**
All Mythra had ever known was her sister and a lute. She couldn’t remember her parents, and they didn’t matter. What mattered was her and Demona. It was always Mythra and Demona. That’s what happened when you shared a womb. As the twins often said to each other, “From the womb to the tomb.” No one mattered more than the two of them.
They were always on the move, never staying in one place for long. The humans didn’t trust Demona, but they always came to her for herbal remedies. Demona would say they went where they were needed, but Mythra thought they were running—running from pain, from taunts, from misunderstandings. She was so tired. Tired of being demonized for the crime of her birth. Tired of long, exhausting days with no home or family in sight. Tired of going to bed hungry. She was just... tired.
What she wanted was simple: friends, family, food, and a good fuck—not necessarily in that order. Mythra was relatively adept at picking pockets and could throw an insult as hard as a punch. Witty and charming, she had an ease about her. She preferred to be clean and was always well-groomed. Her smile was bright, her spirit unbreakable. What she lacked in intelligence, she made up for in charisma and skill.
Mythra loved to sing. She loved the looks she got when she performed—the cheers, the clapping, the way her stories captivated her audience. There was nothing sweeter. She especially loved performing for the children in the villages. She would set up her all-inclusive attraction: *Make a Wish Come True.*
It was a shadow puppet show filled with stories, songs, and dancing light shows, complete with tumbling, acrobatics, feats of strength, and her crowning achievement: a portable sensory garden. The twins invited the neediest children, including those Demona had treated. Any child, regardless of race, creed, color, or birth title, could touch and feel the puppets, smell the garden, and even taste its textures. Charms created sounds and noises, allowing the children to see, hear, feel, and taste the world around them. They could simply be themselves, free from judgment or expectations.
Mythra loved the interactive portion of her show the most. The children who came never judged the twins. They weren’t afraid of them. Mythra and Demona would let the children grab their horns, pull on their clothes, or touch the hanging bubbles on their performing gear. Wraith, Bloodright’s wolf familiar, let the kids ride him. Owliver and the other familiars allowed the children to climb all over them, and occasionally, Owliver would even give them flights. Wraith’s favorite thing was giving rides, especially when the kids held on tight so he could go fast.
Their group had grown stronger since Bloodright, a male tiefling warlock, and his wolf familiar, Wraith, had joined them. Mythra and Demona had met Bloodright in Alorious, deep in the Onyx Desert of the Black Spire. Mythra had been setting up her stage and equipment for that night’s show—the last performance of the Mantisquition Annual Spring Faire. She and Demona would stay for another two or three days to buy provisions before leaving.
If Mythra was being honest with herself, she hadn’t yet booked their next gig. She didn’t know where to go or what to do next. The twins sort of relied on her plans. She loved mapping out their trips, learning about new areas, and finding towns and villages in need—those without clerics or teachers. These were the places they visited most often
**Part 1: The Twins**
Chapter 1: A Trick Riding Lesson
Rolsis turned, catching Mythra’s attention. He held her gaze with an enchanting smile, his eyes shining with pleasure, unable to hide his growing attraction. “Do you trust me?” he asked, his voice low and steady.
Mythra raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a sly smile. “Trust you? How can I trust you? I literally just met you!”
Rolsis cocked his head slightly, considering her words. “Fair point,” he said, his tone playful. Then, his expression softened as he looked into her diamond-like eyes. “Then trust this.”
All joking gone from his face, Rolsis shouted, “GO!”
With a swift kick, Penelope took off, galloping into the open space. Rolsis felt a rush of exhilaration as he deftly jumped onto the saddle, balancing himself with ease. As Penelope approached a low-hanging branch, Rolsis reached up with his left hand, released the reins, and landed on the ground with agility. Pivoting on his feet, he turned as Penelope came closer, then reached out and grabbed the saddle horn. In one fluid motion, he swung his leg over and landed lightly back in the saddle.
As he reined Penelope in and slowed her to a trot, he approached Mythra. The sun at his back made him look more angelic than infernal.
“What is your name?” he asked again, his voice gentle and kind.
*Fuck!* Mythra thought. *He’s so hot. Gods, all I want to do is pull every article of clothing off him and slowly lick him from head to toe.*
“Hey, Minx,” Rolsis said, snapping his fingers in front of her face. “Did you hear me? You looked fifty miles away.”
“Oh, yeah,” she replied, her cheeks flushing at the thought. She looked into his eyes and whispered, “Mythra.”
It was in that moment she knew: this wasn’t Mr. Right or Mr. Right Now. This was Mr. Forever and Always.
“My name is Mythra,” she said, her voice barely audible.
Rolsis nodded, a look of passion passing between them as he hopped off Penelope. Mythra rushed toward him, her heart pounding.
“Mythra,” he murmured, his lips brushing hers in a fleeting touch. “A beautiful name for a beautiful soul.”
The sexual tension between them was unbearable. Mythra knew she had only just met Rolsis, and she knew she should be more selective. But damn it, he was sexy as hell. Leaning in hard, she kissed him, opening her mouth to his exploring tongue. Rolsis responded in kind, his hands roaming her body, teasing and caressing her.
He pulled her close, his lips trailing down her neck as he whispered, “Can I smell your roses now?”
Mythra gasped as his hands found the tattoo between her breasts, the stem of the rose disappearing beneath her shirt. Rolsis buried his face in the petals, inhaling her scent, his tongue flicking over her nipples. She cried out in pleasure as his hand slipped into her pants, his fingers finding her wet and ready.
He teased her, thrusting his fingers in and out until she was a trembling mess. Then, with a growl, he turned her around and bent her over Penelope. Rolsis thrust inside her, his movements rough and desperate. Mythra moaned, her hands gripping the saddle as he took her, their bodies moving in perfect sync.
When he was close, Rolsis grabbed her horns, pulling her back against him. They climaxed together, their cries echoing through the clearing. Rolsis gently laid her on the ground, their tails entwined as he held her close.
“Now that I have your name,” he whispered, his breath warm against her ear, “I never want to let it go.”
Mythra looked into his eyes, her heart swelling with emotion. “I feel the same exact way.”
Rolsis smiled, his voice soft but firm. “Hold me, love, till morning. Stay till the sun goes down. And play me a song of the life you’ve found.”
Mythra’s eyes widened as the words left his lips. She scrambled to her feet, pulling a small notebook and pen from her pocket. Quickly, she jotted down the last line of her song, her hands trembling with excitement.
“What are you doing?” Rolsis asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“You just gave me the perfect ending to my song,” Mythra said, her voice breathless. She grabbed her lyre and began to play, her fingers dancing over the strings as she sang.
---
### **The Lady of the Lyre**
The lady of the lyre has got a lot upon her mind,
Traveling across the land with seven strings combined.
And where she’s going next, no one knows—oh,
Her name was Rosalinda, but right now she goes by Rose.
And the lady of the lyre has got to leave her home behind,
Betrothed to a nobleman her father had designed.
And though her protest was strong and clear,
He made it pretty known her home was anywhere but here.
And though the road she follows leads her to nowhere she wanted to stay,
And all along she swallowed the burden of not having someone to say:
“Hold me, love, till morning, and stay till the sun goes down.
And play me a song of the life you’ve found.”
---
Mythra pressed the flat of her palm to the strings, silencing the lyre. She looked up at Rolsis, her eyes shining with joy. “So that’s all I have for now. It’s not very good, but—”
Rolsis cut her off with a passionate kiss, his hands cupping her face. “It’s amazing,” he said when they finally broke apart. “Just like you.”
He smiled, his eyes filled with warmth. “Now, I was sure you mentioned something about meeting your sister and the rest of your performing troupe?”
Mythra nodded, unable to form a coherent sentence.
“Well, it just so happens that’s why I was meeting you in the first place,” Rolsis said. “I wanted to audition for your troupe. I’m no performer—I’m a ranger, a cook, nothing more, nothing less. Mythra, my sexy little minx, I don’t say ‘I love you’ right away. But I will say this: I care for you so deeply. Yeah, I know we just met, and I should be more selective, but you’re sexy as hell. All of you—the way you think, what you do with the troupe, how you ease the pain of war. All of it. Will you let me cook for you, for as long as you’ll have me?”
Tears of joy welled in Mythra’s eyes. “You really are reading my thoughts, aren’t you? I never thought it was possible to feel like this. I would love for you to join our troupe and travel with us. We really are a ship without a rudder.”
Pressing their horns together, they shared an intimate moment before packing up Penelope and Melancholy. Side by side, they rode down the mountain, Mythra leading Rolsis to the secluded glade where her twin sister, Demona, their friend and warlock Bloodright, and his brother Crack were waiting.
Demona greeted Rolsis with a warm smile, her emerald eyes twinkling with mischief as she sized him up.
---
Chapter 2: Help of a Druid
Demona always carried her tools with her. It was foolish not to. Despite the mistrust the humans in the area held for her and her sister, they still came to her when they needed help. A crying baby with a fever? They called for Demona. A broken bone? Demona was their first choice. No matter how poorly they treated her, she couldn’t turn them away. Their adopted mother had raised them to help those less fortunate, and Demona took that lesson to heart.
Today was no different. The Winthrops’ child was suffering from colic, and Demona needed a few more herbs for her healing spell. Milkthistle, bay leaf, and basil could be found at the base of Quartzite Mountain. The mistletoe, however, was another matter. It grew only on the single tree at the mountain’s highest peak. Fortunately, Demona had been friends with the dryad who protected the tree since she was a child.
Quartzite Mountain was a stark, glistening expanse of white quartz. Little grew or lived on its surface, but Demona loved it. Rumors of dwarves living beneath the mountain were true—Demona and her sister, Mythra, knew this well. Their adopted mother, Elara, was the high priestess and spiritual advisor to the dwarven clan’s chieftain. Elara was firm, kind, and fair, having already raised four of her own children with her lifemate, Steppenwolf. Growing up adopted among the dwarves hadn’t been easy. The children could be cruel, but then again, all children could. Cruelty seemed to be their nature.
Mythra was busy setting up the stage for their troupe’s next performance. She hadn’t yet decided where they’d travel next, and Demona suspected her sister was still weighing their options. Today felt different, though—lighter, yet charged with importance. Demona pushed aside the guilt of lying to Mythra. She wasn’t just collecting herbs. A human from the barbarian village deep in Ackland’s Red Spire had come with an urgent letter for their mother. The barbarians were among the humans Elara had been trying to help overcome centuries-old prejudices from the Warrior’s War. Demona hadn’t thought much about the war or its sides. She preferred to stand with the trees. No one ever stood with the trees.
The letter was desperate:
To whoever can help. I need a healer. Our clan was attacked by goblins. Many wounded. Please come quickly. One may not make it through the night.
—Crack S. Cudgel
Demona packed her bag with everything she might need. Her mother had said she wasn’t ready for a full healer’s kit, but she brought what she could. The barbarian village was in the Blood Red Spire, a decent walk from the White Sand Spire where the dwarves lived. As she walked, the sand beneath her feet shifted from white to pink, then to deep red as the second sun rose. The incline grew steeper, and the air thinner. By midday, she reached the village.
The scene was one of devastation. Tents were torn and smoldering, their posts scattered. Weeping women huddled together, their faces etched with grief. The largest tent, though partially collapsed, stood intact at the center. Demona sensed a protective magic circle around it—a ward against evil. She stepped forward, only to be shoved back by a towering barbarian.
“You go away, demon,” he growled.
“I’m not a demon,” Demona replied calmly. “My name is Mona.” She often used this white lie to avoid reinforcing their prejudices. “I’m here to help.”
The barbarian eyed her with disdain. “You only help Tug-a-jug. She’s cursed, like you. The true clan members wait for Cleric Steppenwolf.”
Demona bit back her frustration. “Your letter sounded urgent. I came as quickly as I could.”
“We didn’t send for you,” he spat. “You’re not welcome here.”
Ignoring him, Demona scanned the village. She spotted a child and handed them a jar of honeycomb. “Can you tell me where to find Tug-a-jug?”
The child led her to a small, dark tent. Inside, Tug-a-jug lay in her own filth, crying in pain and shame. The stench of festering wounds filled the air. Demona hung dried herbs, lit incense, and cast dancing lights to soften the gloom. She cleaned Tug-a-jug’s wounds and did what she could to ease her suffering.
A tall, red-skinned tiefling burst into the tent—Tug-a-jug’s son, Crack. He knelt beside his mother, his face a mask of grief. Demona explained, “I can’t save her, but I can make her passing easier.”
Crack nodded silently. As Tug-a-jug took her final breaths, she whispered to her son, “Stay safe, my sweet boy. When you see a flower or feel the wind, know it’s me. I love you.”
Demona cast gentle repose to preserve Tug-a-jug’s body. “This will keep her safe until a proper cleric arrives,” she explained.
Crack’s grief erupted in an ear-piercing wail. He tore down the tent, using the fabric to wrap his mother’s body. He cut off his braids and tied them around her wrists, a gesture of eternal connection. Demona helped him build a funeral pyre and created a stone cairn around it with her magic.
Before leaving, she turned to Crack. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save her. If you ever need help, find me at the White Quartzspire. My sister and I travel with a troupe. You’re welcome to join us.”
Crack nodded. “Thank you, Demona. I hope to see you again.”
As she left the village, Demona pulled out a sending stone. “Mother? Can you hear me?”
Elara’s voice came through. “Yes, Mona. What is it?”
“I intercepted a message from the barbarians. They need your help. I did what I could, but they need you.”
“I’ll be there soon,” Elara replied. “Thank you for telling me.”
Demona sighed, her heart heavy but hopeful. She had done what she could.
Chapter 3: A Mother’s Kiss
Elara hurried through the Green Spire, her boots crunching on the gravel path. The Obidhigh Rangers’ stronghold loomed ahead, its stone walls etched with runes of protection. She needed a teleport spell—fast. The village of Canerak, just inside the Ruby Spire, couldn’t wait. Demona had done her best, but the situation required a cleric’s touch.
She found Choir Agrieas behind the counter of the spellcaster’s guild. Agrieas was a friend, but her struggles with alcohol were well-known. The Choir’s eyes were bloodshot, and the faint scent of wine clung to her. Elara suppressed a sigh. Agrieas had been fighting her addiction for years, and it pained Elara to see her like this.
“Choir, I need a teleport spell,” Elara said, her voice firm but kind. “Destination: Canerak Village, just inside the Ruby Spire. Purpose: personal. I’m going to correct a mistake one of my children made.”
Agrieas chuckled, though her laughter was tinged with bitterness. “My price is a bottle of elven shooting star wine and fifty gold pieces.”
Elara handed over the bottle and coins, her expression softening. “Agrieas, please. Contact your sponsor, Sir Robert Mahogany. You’re stronger than this.”
Agrieas waved her off, tears welling in her eyes. “Judge me all you want, Elara. I don’t care what anyone thinks.”
Elara hesitated, her heart aching for her friend. “You’re bigger than the drink, Agrieas. It doesn’t control you.” With that, she stepped through the shimmering portal, leaving her friend behind.
The teleport spell deposited her just outside Canerak Village. Elara stumbled slightly, the disorientation of teleportation still unsettling. She steadied herself and took in the scene before her. The village was a patchwork of damaged tents and smoldering fire pits. The air was thick with the scent of ash and despair.
She strode into the village, her presence commanding enough that no one dared stop her. She found Demona and a tall, red-skinned tiefling—Crack—standing near a makeshift hospital. The young man’s face was a mask of grief, his eyes hollow.
“Hello, Crack,” Elara said, her voice gentle but firm. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save your mother. Thuqua was one of the kindest, most accepting humans I’ve ever known. She deserved better than this.”
Crack’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know of my father?”
Elara hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “Not much. We believe his name is Lord Jeffrey Foullinx. He’s devil-blooded and vile, responsible for untold suffering. He’s spent decades raping and pillaging, calling it a holy war. If you seek him, start in the Frozen Spire. But know this, Crack: you are not defined by his sins.”
Crack nodded, his expression unreadable. Elara turned to Demona, who quickly briefed her on the situation. The wounded were numerous, and time was short.
Elara entered the hospital tent, her heart heavy. The stench of festering wounds and despair filled the air. She reached into her home hearth bag, calling for Glitch, her sentient companion.
“Glitch, I need my spell component bag and a stiff drink,” she said.
“Right away, madam,” Glitch replied, producing the items instantly.
Elara poured herself a drink, downing it in one swift motion. She sprinkled blessed salt around the tent, murmuring prayers to Berronar. Demona, watching her mother, cast Tiny Hut, creating a safe, sterile space for the most critically wounded.
Hours passed as Elara worked tirelessly, her prayers and healing spells mending broken bodies and shattered spirits. By nightfall, exhaustion weighed heavily on her shoulders. She and Demona walked back to their respective camps in silence, the weight of the day settling between them.
Chapter 4: A Mother’s Memories
The walk back to the White Spire was long, and Elara’s mind wandered to the day she found Demona and Mythra. The memory was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday.
She had been near the entrance of her mountain home when she heard the shouts of a human mob. Hidden in the shadows, she watched as a man—Mikah Dornsife—was condemned for witchcraft. His wife, Michelle, had already been drowned in Maritanis Lake, a place as beautiful as it was deadly. The mob burned Mikah alive, their hatred a blazing inferno.
Elara’s heart broke as she heard the soft coo of infants. Following the sound, she found two tiefling babies hidden in the shadows. Their parents had been murdered for the crime of bringing them into the world. Elara knew the gods had placed these children in her path for a reason.
She fashioned slings from cloth provided by Glitch and nursed the babies with goat’s milk as she carried them to the sacred cave of Berronar. There, she blessed them in the holy waters, naming them Mythra and Demona Quartsdornsife. The mountain seemed to approve; the sacred flowers within the cave began to bloom as she performed the ritual.
Elara raised the twins as her own, teaching them to be strong, kind, and unyielding in the face of prejudice. But she knew they needed more than just her love. They needed guidance, blessings, and connections to the world beyond the mountain. That’s why she sought out Princess Beech, her dearest friend and a Myconid princess.
Elara arrived at Princess Beech’s hut in the forests of Obidhigh, the twins cradled in her arms. She knocked on the door, and Beech’s voice rang out, sharp and annoyed.
“Go away! I don’t want any well-wishers, distant relatives, or seventh-day evangelical illithids knocking on my door!”
Elara smiled faintly. “What about your best friend? Could I come in?”
There was a pause, and then the door swung open. Beech stood there, her cap bright pink with white spots, her spore-covered body glowing faintly in the dim light. Her expression softened as she saw Elara.
“Lane? Elara Quartspite, you fat-bearded bitch!” Beech exclaimed, pulling her friend into a tight hug. “What’s this? Did you find another bulette pup abandoned by its mother? Buried in the black sand? You know they do that to all their young, right? You’ll never find a loving and maternal bulette. They just don’t exist.”
Elara chuckled. “Well, no, not exactly. I found twin tiefling girls.”
Beech’s mouth hung open in shock. “I have no words, Lane,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I care for you deeply, but… tieflings? Are you sure about this?”
Elara held up a hand, cutting off her friend. “I came here wondering if you would help me. I’ve finished their names and blessing rituals, and now they need a godmother. I can think of no one better than you.”
Beech sat down heavily, the mushrooms around her sprouting and forming a tiny, simple throne rimmed with spore-producing mushrooms. She put her head in her hands and let out an exhausted sigh. It took her several moments to gather her thoughts, but finally, she looked up at Elara with nothing but love on her face.
“I can’t be the godmother to both,” Beech said softly. “I can only give one blessing per lifeline. But I can be the godmother to one. You should ask Milkthistle, my Dryad cousin. Do you remember her, Lane? The one who protects the only dogwood tree?”
Elara nodded. “Yes, I do. Is she still putting on massive and elaborate plays?”
Beech smiled. “Well, yeah, from time to time. Her real objective is leading the Dryads and opening a Bard’s College. Did she ever get the Druids on her side for opening the school?”
Elara chuckled. “Oh, you know how secretive Druids are. Don’t try to tell them that, though.”
“It’s not a secret; it’s sacred,” they said in unison, laughing.
Beech grew serious again. “She’s still your best bet for a godmother to help you with their path. You know that, right?”
Elara nodded, knowing her friend was right. She reached into the front of her tunic, where a special pocket was sewn into her garment with a protection and concealment charm. The pocket hidden away, she untucked the sleeping lass from the sling and handed her to Beech.
The Myconid princess took the baby in her arms, her expression softening as she looked down at the tiny tiefling. “What a sweet thing she is,” Beech murmured. Her umbilical stub was still wet, and Beech could smell that this welp had never once tasted its own mother’s milk. No worries—she would nurse her as part of the ritual of parenting.
Beech woke the little one to prepare her for the blessing she was about to receive. One blue and one purple eye stared up into the eyes of the Myconid princess. Pressing the little one to her breast, Beech ran her fingers through her hair and helped the little one discover how to settle her own emotions. As the baby began to nurse, Beech’s telepathic voice began to babble and laugh, communicating with the child in the way of her kind.
“Does my new fungus have a name?” Beech asked telepathically.
“Demona Quartzdornsife,” Elara answered, smiling. She knew that after Beech’s last crop of Myconid had not survived the harsh summers on Everneverlyon, this child would be a new beginning for her friend.
While still nursing the baby, Beech looked over at Elara, her expression serious. “You know this is our child, right?” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. She shot Elara a look that said, Take her from me. I dare you.
Continuing with the ritual, Beech said, “Your name in Myconid is Mutonus Elagans. It means ‘devil-horned and dangerous.’ As your godmother, I will be proud if you are both.”
Elara watched protectively, her eyes misty with pride. Beech’s spore-covered body glowed faintly, her cap bright pink with white spots. The light of the red sun made her look almost ethereal. Grown from a piece of the only Beech tree in existence, Beech was a protector and a guide, just like her Dryad cousin, Milkthistle.
As Elara settled into bed that night, her thoughts turned to the present. She was proud of the women her daughters had become. They were survivors, thrivers, and a testament to the power of love and resilience. And with Beech and Milkthistle as their godmothers, they would have the guidance and blessings they needed to navigate the world.
Chapter 5: The Ranger Finds His Place
As Demona sized up their newest misfit member, she said, “Well, I’ll have to see where we can fit you in.” Pulling out a long piece of bark, a writing tool, and parchment, she continued, “Mythra says you’re a phenomenal rider, a skilled performer, and an excellent teacher who cares about everyone. Would you consider teaching us all a few tricks?”
“No,” Mythra and Rolsis shouted together. Their eyes met, and in that brief moment, no words were needed. They understood each other perfectly.
“No, thanks, though,” Rolsis said kindly. “I’ve retired from teaching. I take on only one pupil at a time, and your sister is the only pupil I’ll ever need.”
Demona shook her head, confused. “Well, then, perhaps you wouldn’t care to show us some of what you know? Wraith and Bloodright do a magic show, Crack here is the resident strongman, Mythra is the musical and entertainment for all ages, and we have a wide variety of performances, from acrobatics to a touch sensory garden we call ‘Make a Wish Come True.’”
Rolsis bent down to Demona’s level, his eyes meeting hers. “So, while everyone is doing that, Demona, what is little acorn like you doing?”
Demona’s face lit up. Rolsis could tell this was something she took special interest in. Realizing someone actually wanted to listen to her, she let the words flow unimpeded.
“I’m so glad you asked, Rolsis! As you know, I’m a druid. I care for all the plant life in the areas we visit, making sure the local people have the knowledge and skills to sustain themselves. Bloodright and I also run a healing clinic for familiars and companions. Want to hear about it?”
Without pausing for breath, Demona pressed on. “See, Bloodright and I do what we can to heal anyone. With this war raging, I just feel if we can’t stop it, we should at least ease the pain of those suffering. We hold classes, teaching the poor and needy how to care for themselves and find work without contributing to the death and destruction around us.”
Tapping her writing tool on the side of her head, then her horns, and finally her nose, she paused. Looking down at her paper, she offered Rolsis a place in the animal clinic.
Rolsis smiled. “As much as I love animals and am a ranger, I have skills you’ll find far more useful than my knowledge of animal husbandry. Demona, where is your cooking area?”
Demona pointed to a small fire pit next to the wagon. A small waterfall with a calming pool of water sat beside it. Rolsis frowned. “Is it just that little fire pit?”
Bloodright answered, “Yeah, we really only know how to warm field rations and burn fish. We still can’t figure out how to get all the bones out.”
Mythra cut in, “Yeah, I’m still pulling trout bones out of the back of my throat, and Demona stopped letting you burn her vegetables.”
Demona chimed in, “How did you burn water, Bloodright? It’s water!”
Bloodright shrugged. “Hey, don’t judge me. I’m a tiefling! I burn everything.”
Mythra smirked. “Sure, sure. And while you were cleaning your tent and playing with Wraith, you didn’t burn a thing. So, what’s your excuse?”
Rolsis decided to let them tire themselves out with their playful banter. Mythra and Bloodright were preparing for what looked like a battle on the stage, but there were no weapons—just a stage with Bloodright and Wraith on one side and Mythra with a python draped over her shoulders on the other.
Mythra turned to Bloodright. “This is a duel to the pain. The first one to back off loses and has to do all the mess chores. I won the last battle, so I get to choose who goes first. Bloodright, you may begin.”
Bloodright sat on a stool, a dancing lights spell casting a focused point of light on him. He began to rhythmically strike an enormous wooden box with a stone, the sound echoing through the grove.
Bloodright’s Song
*“Well, my daddy left home when I was three,
He didn’t leave much for ma and me,
Just this old lyre and an empty cask of booze.
I don’t blame him ‘cause he ran and hid,
But the meanest thing he did,
Before he left, that old man made a tiefling outta me.
A tiefling boy, a tiefling boy,
Tell me what’s a tiefling boy to do?
I’ll tell you one thing for sure:
Life is hard for a tiefling boy.”*
The troupe clapped along, drawn into the spectacle. Rolsis found himself clapping too, caught up in the rhythm. Bloodright’s song continued, weaving a tale of hardship, vengeance, and resilience.
When he finished, Demona stepped forward. “Wow! That was amazing, Bloodright! Some pretty hard hits. Next up is my twin and your bard—Mythra!”
Mythra stepped to the center of the stage, her canaith mandolin in hand. She cast a glamor on herself, her hair turning platinum white and her eyes glowing with faerie fire. She looked like a storm god as she walked past Rolsis, blowing him a flirty kiss.
Mythra’s Performance
*“Yes, sir, stroll up in the game,
Time to take and plunder,
You gonna know my name and the grace I’m under.
I’ma keep it real, keep it ‘bout a hundred,
Your music’s in the mud, and I’m the shovel.
Droppin’ bodies now, I ain’t met my quota,
I ain’t gonna stop till I’m ten feet under.
If you know what’s good, you’ll get off your high horse.
Thunda, come on, don’tcha hear the thunda?
Don’tcha feel that rumble? Thunda, watch your tower crumble.”*
Her words came faster and faster, her hair blowing in an unseen wind every time she said “thunda.” Her snake familiar slithered around her body, adding to the spectacle.
When she finished, the troupe voted. Bloodright won, and Mythra was tasked with cleaning up the mess area. She walked over to Rolsis, who was busy cutting vegetables.
“I’ll have to work in the kitchen?” Mythra asked, a sly smile on her face.
“Yes,” Demona replied, oblivious to her sister’s tone.
“With Rolsis?” Mythra asked, her mind already wandering.
“Yes,” Demona said again.
Mythra winked at her sister. “I’m hoping he is.”
Rolsis’s Kitchen
Rolsis rolled up his sleeves, revealing intricate tattoos of measurements, temperatures, spices, and cooking techniques. He set to work, transforming the makeshift fire pit into a proper kitchen. Crack helped him gather materials, and together they built a stone-lined fire pit and a cooking box sealed with molten quartz.
As the sun set, Rolsis prepared a feast: rare roast brullet, his signature tiefling chili, potatoes, and ground greens. The troupe gathered around the fire, the aroma of the meal filling the air.
As they ate, Demona turned to Rolsis. “Rolsis, Crack and Bloodright vouch for you, and my sister has had very little to say, but she said she doesn’t kiss and tell. Whatever that means.” She forced herself to make eye contact. “So, Rolsis, tell us something about yourself.”
Rolsis smiled. “Let me ask this: What do you know of our world, the Hundred-Year War, and the prophecy of the Moriliannin and the Thousand-Year Peace?”
Demona launched into an explanation, her words tumbling out in a rush. But as she spoke, she suddenly stopped, gasping for air. Mythra quickly stepped in, calming her sister and brewing a soothing tea.
Rolsis watched, his heart swelling with affection for Mythra and her family. He knew he had found his place among this misfit troupe.
----------------------------
Chapter 6:
From the Womb to the Tomb
Crack and Bloodright moved quickly to Demona’s tent, gathering her belongings while Rolsis stayed behind, his mind racing. He had initially planned to move the baking box, but something about the urgency in Mythra’s voice made him reconsider. Instead, he reached into his bag and pulled out an old pair of rusted clamores, their leather straps long since worn away. The blades, though dulled by time, were still sturdy. He stabbed them into either side of the fire pit, creating a makeshift stand for the kettle. Filling it with water from his drinking skin, he set it over the flames and turned his attention to Mythra, who was tending to her sister with a tenderness that spoke volumes.
Demona’s skin, usually a deep, earthy green, had shifted to a pale, almost translucent hue—a sign of her distress. Mythra kept her hands firmly on Demona’s head, pressing gently but firmly to ground her. She asked simple yes-or-no questions, snapping her fingers or clapping her hands whenever Demona’s eyes began to wander. “Gentlemen,” Mythra said, her voice calm but firm, “you know what to do. Where she keeps it. Thank you.”
Bloodright returned first, holding a long, white herb-filled paper—a rare remedy smoked by veterans of the Hundred-Year War to calm their nerves. Mythra placed it between Demona’s lips and snapped her fingers, igniting the end with a small flame. “Inhale,” she instructed, continuing to ask questions to keep her sister focused.
Demona exhaled a plume of smoke, her voice steadier now. Her skin began to shift again, this time to a soft lavender, signaling a slight easing of her anxiety. “Yes to your second question,” she said, her sarcasm returning as a sign she was feeling better. “And the answer to the first question can be found by answering your second question.”
Mythra smiled, relieved. “I see you’re starting to feel somewhat better. Your sarcasm is back.”
Crack returned next, handing Mythra a small green quartz owl and a shimmering piece of folded cloth. Mythra hummed a tune as she handed the figurine to Demona, who kissed it and whispered a single word. The owl disappeared, and in the distance, the hoot of a dire owl echoed as it approached the camp.
Mythra turned to the group, her voice steady but tinged with urgency. “We, like most people, want to help end this war in any way we can. But one person alone can’t do it. What we offer is a chance to think of something else, to have fun—a distraction, really. Owliver, my sister’s familiar, is on his way. I suggest you lay low around her while he’s summoned.”
Crack picked up the now-sleeping Demona and carried her to her tent. Mythra watched them go, then turned to Rolsis, who was tending to the tea kettle. She placed Demona’s teacup and saucer on a tray, adding a few crackers and a small flask of melted blue ice from Lostquarling.
Rolsis hesitated before setting the kettle on the tray. “Do you feel confident leaving the hot kettle here?” he asked.
Mythra shook her head. “No, I don’t. I love my sister, but I know her limits, especially during a meltdown like this.”
Rolsis nodded, understanding. “Well, then, I have a gift for my little acorn friend.” He pulled a wooden sphere from his pouch, its top fitted with a cork. He poured the hot lavender tea into the sphere, then placed it on the tray next to Demona’s cup. Mythra watched as he gently lifted Demona’s head and poured a small amount of tea into her mouth, waiting patiently for her to swallow before laying her back down.
“Thank you,” Mythra said, placing a comforting hand on Rolsis’s back. “Thank you for not judging my sister.”
“You’re most welcome, minx,” Rolsis replied, kissing her forehead, then her nose, and finally her lips. “I’ve decided to give you an amuse-bouche.”
Mythra raised an eyebrow. “I have no idea what that means.”
Rolsis smiled. “You gave me a lesson in botany, so it’s only fair I return the favor with a cooking lesson.”
Mythra laughed. “Well, I do have to finish writing my song for our next gig, but I suppose I can make time to eat.”
Rolsis’s smile widened. “Good. I’ll stay, then. You’ve twisted my arm.”
Crack, overhearing the exchange, coughed into his hand. “Yup, still here,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Not to interrupt whatever this is, but Owliver’s landing in the only flat spot around. I don’t need to remind you what he did to your last… conquest.”
Mythra sighed, resting her forehead against Rolsis’s. “We’ll talk later,” she whispered. “If you don’t have a tent, I have a tiny hut cast. You can sleep with me—though I doubt we’ll be doing much sleeping.” She kissed him passionately before heading to her tent.
Late That Night
As the camp settled into silence, Mythra and Rolsis lay together in her tiny hut, their tails intertwined. Rolsis’s hand cupped Mythra’s breast, his lips tracing the tattoos on her skin with reverence. “I didn’t want to give you any information you didn’t already have,” he said softly. “I didn’t want you to think for even a second I was controlling you. I’ve been looking for what we have between us for a very long time. And when I wasn’t looking, it fell right into my lap.”
Mythra listened, her lavender eyes locked on his. Rolsis continued, “I want to love you for a very long time. I want us both to grow in that love. People grow when they’re loved well. When I was younger, I was abused. It gave me the ability to see truth and face my fears. One of my abusers once told me, ‘If you want to help others and heal people, love them without an agenda.’ Those words stuck with me. I’ve been mistreated by almost everyone in my life, but I promised myself I’d never treat another living being any way other than how I want to be treated.”
Mythra reached up, her fingers tracing the lines of his face. “You’re not alone anymore,” she whispered.
The Journey to Lostquarling
Over the next few days, the troupe prepared for their final show before heading to Lostquarling. Rolsis watched as the tieflings practiced, their performances a blend of magic, music, and acrobatics. Demona’s skin shifted through a spectrum of colors as she worked—deep green when she was focused, a warm amber when she was content, and a soft blue when she was at peace. It was a beautiful, living canvas of her emotions.
After a long conversation with Mythra, they agreed that Lostquarling was their next destination. The humans there would only let them in to perform, but it was the perfect cover for Crack’s mission.
As they packed up the wagon after the last show, Crack stopped Rolsis. “Hey, I didn’t thank you for helping convince the twins we needed to go to Lostquarling. I know tracking down my father isn’t something everyone would want to do, but I have to stop him. I have to make him pay for what he did to my mother, Bloodright’s mother, and all the others. Mothers deserve a voice, Rolsis. I will be that voice.”
Rolsis placed a hand on Crack’s shoulder. “Lostquarling sounds nice. I think Mythra and I can use the cover of needing a priest.” They chuckled together, the weight of their mission tempered by the bond they shared.
The fire outside the tiny hut crackled softly, its warm glow casting flickering shadows on the walls. Inside, Mythra and Rolsis lay entwined, their bodies pressed close, their tails coiled together in a silent promise of intimacy. Rolsis’s hand slid around Mythra’s waist, his fingers tracing the curve of her hip before dipping lower, exploring the softness of her belly. His touch was deliberate, teasing, as he whispered in her ear, his breath warm against her skin.
“Time for your cooking lesson,” Rolsis said, his voice low and husky. He didn’t move from his position, his fingers finding their way to her clit, massaging it until it was swollen and red. Mythra gasped, her body arching into his touch as he continued to whisper, his words a distraction from the pleasure coursing through her.
“The Wayward Pine Forest in Obidhigh,” he began, his voice steady despite the heat between them, “is called the Tiefling Way Station or the Forest of Sanctuary. Young children, toddlers, and infant tieflings are abandoned there by their human, dwarf, and elf parents. We tieflings have all been abandoned for the crime of our birth—something not one of us can control.”
Mythra moaned softly, her hands gripping the furs beneath her as Rolsis’s fingers worked their magic. He could have been talking about knitting a cloak for all she cared; the only thing that mattered was the way he touched her, the way he made her feel.
“As a youth,” Rolsis continued, his voice a low rumble, “I raised myself. I’ve had a kind of personal…” He thrust his fingers in and out of her, his movements quick and deliberate, pulling them out only to lick them clean before returning to her. Mythra’s breath hitched, her body trembling with need as he knelt before her, his hard cock rubbing against the outside of her wet pussy.
“Relationship with the forest,” he said, his voice strained as he fought to maintain control. “A Wayward Pine was the best place to sleep. That was the first thing I discovered. The trunk of a Wayward Pine is hollow.” He pressed the head of his cock against her entrance, sliding in slowly, inch by torturous inch, as he spoke. “A hole could easily be carved out of the tender trunk without taking the life of the tree.”
Mythra let out a long, low moan as Rolsis buried himself inside her, his cock filling her completely. He pulled out just as slowly, only to thrust back in, his movements measured and deliberate. “Another hole could be added for ventilation if needed,” he said, his voice rough with desire. He pulled out of her pussy and slid into her ass in one smooth motion, eliciting a sharp cry of pleasure from Mythra.
Rolsis growled, his thrusts deep and relentless as he fucked her ass, his hands gripping her hips tightly. He pulled out just before he came, flipping her onto her back and sliding two fingers into her pussy instead. His mouth found her clit, sucking hard as he continued to talk, his words a steady stream of distraction and arousal.
“Often, these vents and doorways would form on their own,” he said, his voice muffled against her skin. “No cutting is needed. That was how the pine got its name—many a wayward traveler would keep shelter in its bark.”
Mythra’s hands tangled in his hair, her hips bucking against his mouth as he brought her to the edge of ecstasy. “Oh, gods, Rolsis,” she moaned, her voice trembling. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
He pulled away, his eyes dark with desire as he looked down at her. “I want to play a little game,” she said, her voice breathless. “I’m going to suck your cock while you talk about anything. Anything at all.”
Rolsis groaned as she took him into her mouth, her lips wrapping around his cock as she slid down slowly, taking him inch by inch. He fought to keep his composure, his hands gripping the furs beneath him as he began to speak.
“My earliest memory,” he said, his voice strained, “is of a kind elf ranger who took pity on me while I was stealing bread in the capital city’s open-air market. I was dirty and half-starved. The elf was a ranger. Like druids, rangers are secretive. They’re very selective about who they initiate into their ranks.”
Mythra’s mouth moved up and down his shaft, her tongue swirling around the head of his cock as he spoke. Rolsis’s breath came in short, ragged gasps as he fought to keep his words coherent. “He gave me the few tools I needed to take care of myself,” he continued, his voice breaking as Mythra took him deep into her throat. “Oh, yeah. Suck it, baby. Right there. Fuck, yeah. I like it when you go balls deep.”
He held her hair back, guiding her head up and down his cock as he spoke. “The ranger didn’t give me his name, and I didn’t ask. He never spoke. He simply showed me how to find a Wayward Pine and taught me that the forest would treat me better than the city.”
Mythra’s mouth worked him relentlessly, her hands gripping his thighs as she took him deeper and deeper. Rolsis’s hips bucked involuntarily, his cock hitting the back of her throat as he groaned in pleasure. “Oh, gods, yes. Suck my cock. You’re a dirty little slut.”
He pulled her up suddenly, flipping her onto her back and spreading her legs wide. “I want a snack too,” he said, his voice rough with need. He buried his face between her thighs, his tongue and fingers working in tandem to bring her to the edge once more.
“That ranger,” he said, his voice muffled against her skin, “kept a quiet watch over me throughout the years, making sure I kept my impetuous self in line and stayed alive. He taught me that you could care for yourself when others let you down.”
Mythra’s moans grew louder, her hands gripping his hair as he brought her closer and closer to climax. “Oh, yes, Rolsis. Yes. Suck on my cunt. Oh, gods, yes. Work that fucking tongue.”
He pulled away, his cock rubbing against her wet pussy as he looked down at her. “Do you want my cock?” he asked, his voice low and demanding. “Do you want me to fuck you?”
“Yes,” Mythra gasped, her body trembling with need. “Yes, I want you. I want your cock.”
Rolsis smirked, his hand pinching her pussy lips together as he rubbed the head of his cock against her. “Say it again,” he demanded, his voice rough. “Beg me.”
“Please, Rolsis,” Mythra moaned, her voice breaking. “Please, fuck me. I need you inside me. I want to feel you coming hard in my pussy.”
Rolsis didn’t need to be told twice. He lifted her into his lap, his cock sliding into her with ease as he began to thrust, his movements hard and relentless. Mythra’s cries of pleasure filled the tiny hut, her body writhing beneath his as he brought her to the edge of ecstasy.
“Say my name,” he growled, his thrusts quick and deep. “Say it, minx.”
“Rolsis,” Mythra cried, her voice trembling with pleasure. “Fuck me, Rolsis. Please, don’t stop.”
He slammed into her, his cock hitting her deepest spot as she came undone, her body convulsing with pleasure. Rolsis followed her over the edge, his release filling her as he groaned her name.
They lay together afterward, their bodies tangled, their tails intertwined. Mythra rested her head on his chest, her breathing slow and steady as she whispered, “I love you, Rolsis.”
“And I you,” Rolsis replied, his voice soft and tender. “I love you too.”
They drifted to sleep, their bodies still joined, their hearts beating as one.
PART 2 – Two Brothers
Chapter 1: Reminiscing
The road through Auckland stretched endlessly under the oppressive heat of the twin suns. The troupe had learned to adapt, traveling and practicing at night to avoid the scorching daylight. They stuck to the less-traveled paths, moving swiftly and quietly under the cool glow of the three moons. Tonight, it was Bloodright and Rolsis who took the watch, sitting side by side on the wagon’s bench as the horses plodded steadily forward.
Hours had passed in peaceful silence, the only sounds the rhythmic creak of the wagon wheels and the occasional hoot of an owl. It was Rolsis who finally broke the quiet, his voice low and thoughtful. “How’ve you been?” he asked, pulling a pipe from his pocket and lighting it with a flick of his fingers. The soft glow of the moons illuminated his face, casting shadows that made his sharp features even more pronounced.
Bloodright leaned back, his crimson skin glistening faintly in the moonlight. “I’ve been better,” he said after a moment, “and I’ve been worse.” He chuckled softly, the sound warm and familiar. “But I suppose that’s life, isn’t it?”
Rolsis sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he exhaled a plume of smoke. “By Salune, do you ever speak in anything other than riddles?” he asked, though there was no real annoyance in his tone.
Bloodright grinned, his sharp teeth glinting in the dim light. “Yes,” he said, his tone playful. “When it suits me. It just doesn’t often suit me.”
The two fell into an easy rhythm of conversation, the kind that only comes from years of friendship. Bloodright spoke of his search for his parents, the cold leads he’d followed, and the records he’d found in the abandoned orphanage where he’d grown up. He told Rolsis about meeting Tug-a-Jug and Crack, and how they’d been on their way to Lostquarling when they’d crossed paths with Mythra and Demona.
Rolsis listened intently, his pipe resting between his fingers as he absorbed every word. When Bloodright finished, Rolsis nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I’m glad to give you and Crack some peace of mind. It’s not entirely unfeasible to go to Lostquarling. Dangerous, yes, but not impossible.”
Bloodright’s eyes lit up at the mention of Lostquarling, and he leaned forward, eager for more information. “So,” he said, his tone casual but his curiosity evident, “I’ve told you about myself. What about you, my friend? What happened between you and Mythra? That is, if you feel comfortable sharing. I don’t want to press you for anything you’re not ready to talk about.”
Rolsis looked up at the moons, their light reflecting in his eyes. “No,” he said after a moment, “it’s not too much to ask. I’m not shy to say it—I love her. I’ve never said that about another woman. I love her deeply. Even though it’s only been a few weeks, I love her. Is that enough for you?”
Bloodright took a long drag from his pipe, a smile spreading across his face. “More than enough, my friend. Thank you. I’m glad you’re happy. I’m glad you make each other happy.”
But Rolsis wasn’t done. He noticed the flicker of pain in Bloodright’s eyes, the way his friend’s smile didn’t quite reach them. “What about you?” Rolsis asked gently. “I know you were looking for a family. You sort of found it. But what about love? Have you found it?”
Five Years Ago: Alorius, the Black Desert
Bloodright’s memories drifted back to a time long before he’d met Mythra, Demona, or even Crack. He was younger then, still a student at the College of Magic in Alorius, a land as harsh as it was beautiful. The black desert stretched endlessly in every direction, its sands made of crushed onyx that shimmered like liquid night under the twin suns. The heat was relentless, the air dry and suffocating, but the people of Alorius had learned to thrive in its unforgiving embrace.
The College of Magic stood at the heart of Alorius, a sprawling complex of black quartz towers and domed buildings that seemed to rise from the desert itself. It was a place of learning and power, where dragon riders, mages, wizards, sorcerers, paladins, and clerics all came to study and train. The college was immense, capable of housing up to fifteen dragons and six hundred students at its fullest capacity. Its halls were filled with the hum of magic, the air thick with the scent of incense and the crackle of arcane energy.
But for all its grandeur, the college was also a place of hardship. The heat was oppressive, even for those accustomed to the desert. The classrooms were stuffy and suffocating, the air heavy with the scent of sweat and the faint tang of magic. Bloodright, being a tiefling, was immune to the worst of the heat, but the monotony of the lectures was its own kind of torture.
Master Jordan, his professor, had a voice that droned on and on, dry and lifeless as the desert sand. His classes on universal magic were mandatory, dry, and painfully boring. Bloodright often found himself zoning out, his mind wandering to thoughts of skipping class and escaping to the Cool Springs, the oasis that served as the lifeblood of Alorius.
The Cool Springs were a sanctuary, a place where students could wash away the grime and sweat of the day. The springs were vast, their crystal-clear waters fed by underground rivers that flowed from the heart of Quartzite Mountain. Canopies of cloth tents surrounded the springs, providing shade and a place to rest. Bloodright remembered the feel of the cool water on his skin, the way it soothed the heat and dust that clung to him. He remembered the laughter and chatter of his fellow students as they bathed and relaxed between classes.
But even the Cool Springs couldn’t fully erase the frustration and exhaustion that came with life at the College of Magic. Bloodright had often felt out of place, a tiefling among humans, elves, and dwarves. He’d longed for something more, something beyond the stifling walls of the college. He’d dreamed of finding his family, of discovering where he’d come from and who he truly was.
Present Day
Bloodright shook his head, pulling himself out of the memory. “No,” he said quietly, answering Rolsis’s question. “I haven’t found love. Not yet, anyway. But I’m not giving up. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that life has a way of surprising you when you least expect it.”
Rolsis nodded, his expression thoughtful. “You’re right about that,” he said. “And who knows? Maybe Lostquarling will hold more than just answers about your father. Maybe it’ll hold something—or someone—you’ve been searching for all along.”
Bloodright smiled, a genuine one this time. “Maybe,” he said. “But for now, I’m just glad to have my brother by my side.”
The two fell into a comfortable silence, the wagon rolling steadily forward under the watchful eyes of the moons. The road ahead was long and uncertain, but for the first time in a long time, Bloodright felt a glimmer of hope. Whatever lay ahead, he knew he wouldn’t face it alone.
Chapter 2:
What Dreams May Come
In Alorius, life was mapped out from birth. Every elf served a mandatory two-year military service, their futures etched into their skin in intricate tattoos that told the story of their lives. But Bloodright was different. An orphan with no parents to guide him, he had to carve his own path, inking his skin with the spells and symbols that would define him. He hated the desert, the endless sea of black sand that seemed to seep into every crevice of his life. All he wanted was to see trees, to feel rain that lasted more than five seconds. Was that too much to ask?
The only beauty in Alorius was the rare Royal Purple Desert Rose, a flower so deep in color it appeared black. It bloomed only in the presence of Morri, the leader of Alorius, in the sacred spring at the heart of the Black Spire. The rose was a symbol of hope and power, its magical properties revered by all. The last time it bloomed, Bloodright’s mother was still alive, and life, though harsh, had felt normal—or as normal as it could be in a militant country.
Every 90 years, the rose chose a new leader, its petals falling to the bottom of the crystal spring to make way for new buds. For the last three blooms, it had chosen the same mage: Lord F. Foullinx, Bloodright’s benefactor and his mother’s husband. A man so protective it was stifling, Foullinx had taken Bloodright under his wing after his mother’s death, but the young tiefling had always felt like an outsider in his own home.
Bloodright’s hair was cropped into a long Mohawk, the sides shaved to display the tattoos that mapped his life. His eyes, deep pools of blue crystal like his mother’s, reflected the pain and determination that drove him. His clothes were the loose-fitting black and pink robes of the militant elves, designed to blend into the desert landscape. But Bloodright didn’t want to blend in. He wanted to stand out, to escape the life that had been chosen for him.
The College of Magic
The College of Magic was a sprawling complex of black quartz towers and domed buildings, its halls filled with the hum of arcane energy. Bloodright had spent years here, studying the arts of warfare and magic, but the rigid structure of the college felt like a prison. The heat was oppressive, the air thick with the scent of sweat and incense. The classrooms were stifling, the lectures dry and monotonous. Master Jordan, his professor, had a voice that droned on and on, his lessons on universal magic a test of endurance.
Bloodright often found himself zoning out, his mind wandering to thoughts of escape. He dreamed of the Cool Springs, the oasis that served as the lifeblood of Alorius. The springs were vast, their crystal-clear waters fed by underground rivers that flowed from the heart of Quartzite Mountain. Canopies of cloth tents surrounded the springs, providing shade and a place to rest. Bloodright remembered the feel of the cool water on his skin, the way it soothed the heat and dust that clung to him. He remembered the laughter and chatter of his fellow students as they bathed and relaxed between classes.
But even the Cool Springs couldn’t fully erase the frustration and exhaustion that came with life at the College of Magic. Bloodright had often felt out of place, a tiefling among humans, elves, and dwarves. He’d longed for something more, something beyond the stifling walls of the college. He’d dreamed of finding his family, of discovering where he’d come from and who he truly was.
The Black Spire
At the center of Alorius stood the Black Spire, a towering structure of black quartz that served as the seat of power for the region. Its walls were etched with runes of protection and power, and its halls were filled with the whispers of ancient magic. Bloodright had often visited the spire as a student, drawn to its quiet halls and the sense of history that permeated its walls. It was there that he’d first learned of the prophecy of the Moriliannin and the Thousand-Year Peace, a tale that had captured his imagination and fueled his desire to explore the world beyond Alorius.
The Incident in the Courtyard
Bloodright’s thoughts were interrupted as he stumbled into the cobblestone courtyard, late for his next class. The courtyard was bustling with elves of various ages, their robes swirling around them as they moved between classes. Bloodright slowed to a jog, his heart pounding as he realized he was late again. Master Fulcrum would yell at him if he felt he was worth his time.
As he entered the passageway that led to his next class, he collided with someone, the impact sending a jolt of pain through his body. “What in the world is wrong with you?” a gruff voice demanded. Bloodright looked up to see Headmaster Segarrnthious, his ancient eyes filled with concern.
“I’m sorry, Headmaster,” Bloodright said, scrambling to pick up his scattered papers and spell components. “Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”
Segarrnthious chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. “No, actually. I have a tougher hide than you might think. It takes more than a tiefling bumbling into me to hurt me.” He knelt down, meeting Bloodright at eye level. “Hatchling, are you okay?”
Bloodright hesitated, then nodded. “I’m just frazzled, Segarr. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m planning something. Can we talk? I have two more classes today. Would you mind meeting me at the top of the Arcane Tower at sunset?”
Segarrnthious nodded, his expression softening. “No problem, hatchling. Anything to ease this pain I see in your eyes.”
The Arcane Tower
The College of Magic had two main towers: the Arcane Tower, where the teachers of arcane magic lived and taught, and the Divine Tower, where the teachers of divine magic resided. Eight smaller towers housed classrooms for the other specializations: aberration, conjuring, divination, enchantment, evocation, illusion, necromancy, and transmutation.
As Bloodright rushed to his next class, he bumped into his best friend, Six. She was just leaving her physical specialization class, her robes clinging to her sweat-drenched body. “Hey, Lion Tamer,” she said, her tone teasing but affectionate. “What are you up to?”
Bloodright hated the nickname, but he couldn’t deny the warmth it brought him. Six was one of the few people who treated him like a friend, not an outcast. “I’ve got to leave, Six,” he said, his voice heavy with emotion. “I can’t bear to be here any longer.”
Six’s expression softened, and she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Tell me about your pain,” she said, her voice gentle.
Bloodright shrugged her hand off, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “Way to remind me everyone hates me, Six.”
Six sighed, her eyes filled with regret. “I’ve watched all the shunning and the bullying. I never did it, but I never stopped it either. That makes me just as guilty as everyone else. I’m sorry. I know you have that evil blood in you, but I want you to know something.”
Bloodright’s mother had been the realm’s most famous battle wizard and general in the Third Civil War. She had been captured and raped by Sir Jeffry Foullinx of the Sapphire Spire, the frozen tundra of Lostquarling, during a battle. She was returned to the Alorius army barely alive and pregnant with a tiefling son: Bloodright. She healed but never fully recovered. When Bloodright was 44, she took her own life, throwing herself off the highest peak of the Onyx Spire. Her death was a blow to the entire nation, and Bloodright bore the weight of her legacy every day.
The Meeting at Sunset
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Bloodright made his way to the top of the Arcane Tower. Segarrnthious was waiting for him, his ancient eyes filled with concern. “What’s on your mind, hatchling?” he asked, his voice gentle.
Bloodright took a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest. “I need to leave, Segarr. I can’t stay here anymore. I need to find my father. I need to know where I come from.”
Segarrnthious nodded, his expression thoughtful. “The road ahead won’t be easy, but if anyone can do it, it’s you. Just remember, hatchling, you’re not alone.”
Bloodright smiled, a glimmer of hope shining in his eyes. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he had a purpose. Whatever lay ahead, he knew he wouldn’t face it alone.
___________
Chapter 3 lion tamer
Bloodright was an outcast. To the elves of Alorius, he was worse than human—he was a tiefling. And not just any tiefling, but the son of the man who had destroyed their beloved Golden General, Saint Liliana. To them, he was a living reminder of her downfall, a stain on her legacy. But when Six looked at him, she saw something different. She saw a person, not just a tiefling. She saw him.
“Hey, hey, can you hear me? Bloodright?” Six’s voice broke through his thoughts, her fingers snapping in front of his face. He blinked, startled, and turned to her. Her eyes were filled with concern, her brow furrowed as she studied him.
“Sorry,” Bloodright muttered, running a hand through his cropped hair. “I was lost in thought.”
Six sighed, her expression softening. “Gods and goddesses, Lion Tamer, you looked at me like a blink owl. I’ve been talking about going away to the monastery for the last hour. That was the one thing you always made me change the subject for. What’s on your mind? What’s wrong?”
Bloodright hesitated, his chest tightening. Six had always been the closest thing he had to a friend, but even she couldn’t fully understand the weight he carried. She was an elf, after all, and no matter how kind she was, she would never know what it was like to be a tiefling in a world that hated him for existing.
“Okay, fine,” he snapped, his frustration boiling over. “I’m running away. I’m leaving tonight.”
Six let out a startled squeak, her eyes widening in shock. For a moment, she just stared at him, her lips parted as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Then, without warning, she leaned in and kissed him.
Bloodright froze, his mind going blank. Her lips were soft, her touch gentle, but he felt nothing. No spark, no warmth—just emptiness. When she pulled away, her eyes searching his for some sign of reciprocation, he shook his head.
“I love you too, Six,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with regret. “But you know it would never work out for us. I’m a tiefling.”
Six’s face fell, but she didn’t back down. “It doesn’t matter to me,” she insisted, her voice trembling. “You being a tiefling and me being an elf—it doesn’t matter.”
Bloodright cut her off, his tone sharp. “It does matter to the High Council of Elves. They would never allow us to be together. Think about it, Six. Not only are they too close-minded to see past two men loving each other, but you’re still fighting for your family to see you as more than just a man. You’re a woman, a man, a being that loves. But they don’t see that. And they never will.”
Six cursed under her breath, her hands clenching into fists. Bloodright watched her, his heart aching. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he couldn’t keep pretending that their love—if it could even be called that—had a future.
“Why are you leaving?” Six demanded, her voice breaking. “Tell me, Bloodright. Why?”
Bloodright sighed, running a hand over his face. “Six, you’ll never know what I feel like. What it’s like to be hated for something you can’t control. I love you, and what hurts the most is knowing that you’ll return this love but never act on it—not because of who we are, but because of what the High Council would think. The warrior elf who dated, or gods forbid, married a tiefling. And not just any tiefling—no, it had to be the one tiefling whose mother was Saint Liliana and whose father is the vile human who destroyed her.”
Six’s eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t look away. “Please, Bloodright,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Don’t leave. Please, don’t leave me. I’ll make them understand. You’re my Lion Tamer.”
Bloodright’s jaw tightened, and he shook his head. “No,” he said firmly, his voice cold. “Don’t you ever call me that again.” He dropped his hands to his sides, stepping back so Six could no longer hold onto him. “Do not ever call me anything again. Goodbye, Six.”
For the second time that day, Bloodright ran. He ran until his lungs burned and tears blurred his vision. He ran until he could no longer feel his legs, until the cobblestone streets of the College of Magic were nothing but a blur beneath his feet. He knew every inch of the college grounds, every hidden passage and secret stairwell. He had grown up here, after all, and he had spent years exploring its labyrinthine halls.
As he burst through a hidden door at the top of the Arcane Tower, the cool night air hit him like a slap. The three moons hung low in the sky, their light casting an ethereal glow over the courtyard below. Bloodright leaned against the railing, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.
“Bloodright! Bloodright, stop!”
The voice echoed through the night, and Bloodright froze. It was Segarrnthious, the ancient gold dragon who had always been more of a father to him than anyone else. Bloodright turned, his heart pounding as the dragon’s massive form emerged from the shadows.
“What in the name of our Lord God Bahamut do you think you’re doing?” Segarr demanded, his golden eyes blazing with concern. “You had me so worried, hatchling. Did I just see you kissing an elvish monk?”
Bloodright sighed, running a hand through his hair. “No, Segarr,” he said quietly. “You saw the only being here besides you to treat me with any semblance of kindness—besides you and my half-uncle, who happens to be becoming a monk—kiss me and beg me not to leave.”
Segarr’s expression softened, and he stepped closer, his massive form dwarfing Bloodright. “Can we stop with the inquisition?” Bloodright asked, his voice tinged with exhaustion. “I just… I need to get out of here.”
Segarr nodded, his golden scales shimmering in the moonlight. “I understand, hatchling. But before you go, there’s something you need to see.”
Bloodright frowned, but he followed Segarr as the dragon led him to the sacred grotto at the heart of the college. The courtyard was the only garden in the entire college grounds, a small oasis of black grass and crystal-clear water. At its center stood the smoky quartz crystal that housed the sacred black rose bush, the source of all magical energy in Alorius.
Elves would line up for days, hoping beyond hope that the rose would bloom for them. But Bloodright had never presented himself before the rose. He knew it was considered sacrilege for a tiefling to enter the sacred grotto, but he felt drawn to it, pulled by some unseen force.
Before entering, Bloodright removed his shoes, his heart pounding in his chest. He took a few deep breaths, steeling himself for what lay ahead. Then, with Segarr at his side, he stepped into the cavern of the rose.
__________________
Chapter 4 A mothers memories
The soft red grass felt soothing under Thuqua’s bare feet as she walked through the village, her heart heavy with memories she could never escape. Raising Crack alone had been the hardest thing she had ever done. The villagers had shunned her after she gave birth to a tiefling, their judgment harsh and unrelenting. At first, she had hoped her position as the chief’s daughter and the tribe’s spiritual leader would shield her from their scorn. But it hadn’t. The shame they felt was not for her spiritual failings but for the circumstances of Crack’s birth—a constant reminder of the night their world had been torn apart.
Thuqua was a cleric of the goddess Berronar, sworn to uphold the traditions and values of her people. She had been in love with Snap Crudgel, the strongest warrior in the tribe, who had won her heart in single combat. It was the tribe’s way—the “true true,” as they called it. The cleric could only mate with the physically strongest member of the clan, for the gods would accept no less. Snap had been her love, her partner, and the father of the child she had dreamed of having. But all of that had been shattered on the battlefield.
The Battlefield
It was love that had led Thuqua to the outskirts of the battlefield that day. Love for Snap, for her people, and for the life they had built together. She had followed him, desperate to protect him, to bring him back alive. But what she witnessed that day would haunt her forever.
The leader of the Blue Spire’s armed forces, a vile and merciless man named Jeffrey Foullinx, had taken pleasure in destroying everything Thuqua held dear. He had murdered and pillaged his way through her village, leaving nothing but death and despair in his wake. Thuqua had been captured, her hands tied and bolted to the ground, her feet spread wide and bound to poles. A mask and collar had been forced onto her, gagging her and preventing her from speaking or fighting back. She had been helpless, forced to watch as Snap charged toward her, his eyes filled with rage and desperation.
Snap had been driven mad with grief and fury, his love for Thuqua blinding him to the danger. He had fought his way through the enemy, killing eighteen men, four orcs, and fifteen goblins in his desperate attempt to reach her. But the enemy had been waiting for him. Arrows rained down on Snap, piercing his body as he stumbled forward. One arrow struck his cheek, another his shoulder, and a third his crotch. Still, he pressed on, his eyes locked on Thuqua’s.
“I love you,” Snap had whispered, his voice barely audible over the chaos. His bloody hand found her cheek, and for a moment, Thuqua thought he might save her. But then Jeffrey Foullinx stepped forward, his sword gleaming in the sunlight. With a single, brutal stroke, he severed Snap’s head from his body.
Thuqua’s screams had echoed across the battlefield, her heart shattering as she watched the man she loved die before her eyes. Jeffrey had laughed, his cruelty boundless as he continued to violate her, his soldiers cheering him on. It was a moment of unimaginable horror, one that Thuqua would carry with her for the rest of her life.
The Aftermath
When the battle was over, Thuqua had been left broken and alone. She had lost everything—her love, her dignity, and her place in the village. The people she had known her entire life turned their backs on her, their judgment harsh and unyielding. But Thuqua refused to let them take her child. Crack was a living reminder of the atrocities committed against her, but he was also a symbol of her resilience and strength. She would raise him to know only love, to be the living proof of Jeffrey Foullinx’s crimes.
She named her son Crack Snap Crudgel, a name that carried the weight of her pain and her hope. “Crack” for the sound she hoped he would make when he shattered Jeffrey’s skull, and “Snap Crudgel” in honor of the father he would never know. Her sweet bubby, her reason to keep fighting.
The Attack on the Village
Thuqua stood in the center of her home, the hearth fire burning brightly as she prayed to Salune for protection. The screams of her people echoed in her ears, the smell of burning flesh filling the air. She could hear the sound of boots stomping on tiny heads, the cries of the clerics as they fought to defend the tribe. Thuqua’s heart ached as she stepped outside, her fingers tingling with the power of her goddess.
She pointed at the nearest goblin, a blast of divine energy erupting from her fingertips and obliterating the creature. She fired again and again, her prayers fueling her strength as she fought to protect her people. But the enemy was too many, and Thuqua knew they couldn’t hold out much longer.
“Crack!” she called, her voice desperate. “Send word to Lady Elara! Ask for her aid! There’s too many!”
Thuqua’s heart pounded as she continued to fight, her mind filled with memories of Snap and the life they had lost. She would not let Jeffrey Foullinx take anything else from her. If this was to be her end, she would take as many of the enemy with her as she could. She would die an honorable death, her son’s name on her lips and her goddess’s light in her heart.
Chapter 5: Night Flight
Bloodright walked out of the sacred grotto, his mind heavy with the weight of what had transpired within. Only Salune and he knew what had been said, what promises had been made, what truths had been revealed. As he stepped into the cool night air, the great gold dragon, Segarrnthious, was waiting for him, his massive form silhouetted against the moonlight.
Without a word, Segarr leapt into the air, his powerful wings thrusting them upward. Bloodright clung to the dragon’s back, the wind whipping through his hair and the sun’s fading light warming his face. As they soared through the sky, Segarr began to speak, his deep voice carrying over the rush of the wind.
“I remember the day we found you,” Segarr said, his tone both gentle and somber. “You were just a baby, cradled in your mother’s arms. She was… magnificent. A warrior, a leader, a mother. Her eyes were the color of the deepest ocean, and her hair shone like spun gold. But she was gone, her lifeblood pooled at her feet. We never found her killer, and I never asked. Some memories are too painful to revisit.”
Bloodright listened in silence, his heart aching with a grief he couldn’t fully understand. He had heard this story before, but it never failed to stir something deep within him. His mother, Saint Liliana, had been the best dragon rider in the fleet, a legend among her people. And yet, he had never known her. How strange it was to miss someone you had never met.
“I wish I could have known her,” Bloodright said softly, his voice barely audible over the wind. “But it doesn’t matter now. All that matters is my magic. Learning it, mastering it, letting it quench the fire that burns in my soul.”
Segarr nodded, his golden scales shimmering in the moonlight. “You have her fire, Bloodright. Her strength. Never forget that.”
The Flight Home
The flight back to the keep was quiet, the silence speaking louder than any words could. Bloodright’s mind raced with thoughts of his mother, his magic, and the life he was about to leave behind. As the ground came into view, he braced himself for the confrontation he knew was coming.
The figure standing in the landing yard was unmistakable. Lord Benjamin Foullinx, his half-uncle and mentor, was waiting for him, his arms crossed and his expression stern. Bloodright sighed, steeling himself for the lecture he knew was inevitable.
“Just what in the abyss do you think you were doing?” Lord Foullinx demanded, his voice sharp and angry. “You disappear without a word, and I find out you were with Segarr? Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”
Bloodright clenched his fists, his frustration boiling over. “I was with Segarr,” he said through gritted teeth. “I was safe. Or do you not trust me even in the slightest?”
Lord Foullinx’s eyes narrowed. “Your studies are all that matter, Bloodright. Nothing—and I repeat, nothing—is more important than your magic. Do you understand me?”
Bloodright’s jaw tightened, but he refused to give his uncle the satisfaction of a fight. “Well, Shalaphia,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm, “I was contemplating my existence in deep meditation and study. Is that so wrong?”
Lord Foullinx’s face turned red with anger. “Oh, the gods give you grace for lying,” he spat. “That ‘bird over the wall’ story doesn’t work on me anymore, and you know it. Now, Bloodright, don’t make me ask as your teacher. I’m asking as your Uncle. What were you doing?”
Bloodright had had enough. He was an adult, and he wouldn’t be treated like a child any longer. “I wanted to ask Segarr about my mother!” he shouted, his voice echoing across the courtyard. “Is that so wrong? Can I not have feelings? Can I not wonder what she might have been like? Gods, I don’t even truly know what it is to be an elf!”
Lord Foullinx’s expression softened, but Bloodright wasn’t finished. “I know the ways of elves better than you think,” his uncle said, his tone pleading. “I can teach you.”
“Do you, human?” Bloodright yelled, his anger finally boiling over. “Let’s not forget that I am a tiefling. Can you teach me to be me? No! So do not profess to know me, you child-stealing hypocrite!”
Segarr stepped forward, his massive form casting a shadow over the two. “Now, now, young one,” the dragon said, his voice calm but firm. “We are only trying to help and teach you.”
Bloodright turned on Segarr, his eyes blazing with fury. “And you, Segarr! A dragon should know better than to meddle in the affairs of humans and the lying and thieving they do. I hope you all rot in the tomb of Geoffrey the Betrayer and are never granted the glory of gracing Salune’s side!”
Lord Foullinx opened his mouth to interrupt, but Bloodright cut him off. “You will never see me again,” he said, his voice cold and final. “I will flee this place as quickly as I can. I ask only that you do not follow me and do not attempt to stop me. Or, by all I hold holy and dear, I will kill you both.”
The look in Bloodright’s eyes left no room for doubt. If they tried to stop him, he would give his life trying to escape.
Chapter 6 a letter of truth
Two friends sat in the dimly lit study, the weight of their shared secret pressing heavily on their shoulders. Lord Fulcrum Foullinx, the man Bloodright knew as his uncle, and Saggruff, the ancient gold dragon who had watched over him since infancy, were deep in conversation. The topic was, as it often was, Bloodright.
“Well, this was not unexpected,” Saggruff said, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. “He was going to flee at some point, Fulcrum. It was only a matter of time.”
Fulcrum’s face darkened, and he held up a hand to silence the dragon. “Shh! Do not mention that name around here. If he heard you and started asking questions… well, I do not know what we would do. He can never find out that I am Lord Fulcrum and you are really Saggruff. He can never associate us with Geoffrey the Betrayer, Jeffrey Foullinx. Great gods, must his deeds and choices always haunt me?”
Saggruff’s golden eyes narrowed, his gaze piercing through Fulcrum like a blade. “No, Fulcrum,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “Your lies are what haunt you, not the deeds of others. Your choices and your actions fill you. Do not blame your friend for your misguided mistakes. Tell your nephew the truth about you and him. Tell him what you did to his mother. Tell him everything. Confess and free your soul.”
Fulcrum let out an exasperated sigh, running a hand through his graying hair. “Well, that’s just not going to happen. He will just have to find out the truth for himself. I will not be the one to hurt him.”
Saggruff’s expression hardened, his patience wearing thin. “But you already have, with all your lies. Can you not see past your own nose far enough to tell that he would be less hurt if it came from you? Are you that stupid, or is it that you are that selfish to believe that he won’t be mad at you either way?”
Fulcrum’s shoulders slumped, and he looked away, his voice barely above a whisper. “I know that you are right, Saggruff… or do you prefer Saggar?” He smiled faintly, a flicker of humor breaking through his guilt. “I will write him a letter today and sneak it into his pack before he leaves. I will tell him the truth about everything—his mother, his father, and his brother. All of it. Thank you for helping me to see past this stupid human mind that I am currently stuck with.”
The Letter
Later that evening, Fulcrum sat in his private office, a single candle casting flickering shadows on the walls. In his hand was a quill, and before him lay a sheet of parchment. He hesitated for a moment, then began to write.
My Clever, Caring, and Thoughtful Nephew Bloodright,
How do I begin to express all that needs to be said to you? Let me start by telling you that I love you. I need to begin with my heritage. Bloodright, I am the brother of Grephononthalossa, the elf, or Lord Jeffrey Foullinx when he was with the humans—your father. Yes, this means that I am myself an elf. But you want your mother’s killer. Well, you need not look any further than this very letter. I am her killer.
I will tell you that what was done to her was done justly. She was a whore and a tramp. She was selling herself to any race of men as long as they could pay. She gave them what they wanted. She was very delusional, and she was violent. I killed her to save your life. She tried, on more than one occasion, to kill you, and that last time, if I had not stopped her, she would have succeeded in her vile task.
I know this goes against everything you were ever taught about your mother. We covered it all up for your sake and hers. We placed you in an orphanage to give you the best hope of gaining a life for yourself. In the end, I couldn’t bash your head in. I just couldn’t.
Do not take this letter for care or acknowledgment. If you show it at the border of Lostquarling, they will call it a forgery. I will deny you exist. But if you come to me in humility, I will give you the chance to be my servant. Perhaps one day, one of my bastards will make you his battle wizard.
All my love,
Uncle Fulcrum Foullinx
Guardian and Ruler of Alorius
Fulcrum knew that the letter would only pose more questions than answers. But at least Bloodright would have some of the truth he had been searching for. He finished the letter with his personal seal—a falcon flying abreast with a snowy owl, symbolizing his allegiance to the Rangers of Obidhigh. The alliance with the Rangers had stood unmatched for 200 years, and no other elf or member of Lostquarling’s royal family was as trusted by them as he was. Yet he knew deep in his heart that this trust teetered on a razor’s edge.
For the last 50 years, Fulcrum had been moonlighting under the name Lord Belinoph, training young knights and honing their magic and fighting skills. Tools that Jeffrey himself would be proud to use. But this letter could blow the cover that the girdle of humankind had provided him. He had to tell Bloodright the truth of who he truly was. That fact was all that mattered.
The Lavender Rose
Fulcrum rushed down the cold and quiet stairs of his writing palace retreat, the letter clutched tightly in his hand. He found Bloodright’s room empty and bare but for his open pack. He must have gone to the kitchen for provisions. Fulcrum quickly tucked the letter into the pack, then hesitated. Reaching out onto the terrace, he plucked a single lavender rose from the bush on his windowsill.
Taking the bloom in his hand, Fulcrum retrieved a hollow smoky quartz crystal sphere and placed the rose inside. Then, using a round crystal quartz bowl filled with water from the sacred spring, he set the sphere spinning on the water’s surface. He surrounded it all with a preservation spell, weaving it into place. The bowl, now a masterpiece to behold, was placed on a Wayward pine board and covered with a glass dome.
Fulcrum shrank the object down to fit neatly in Bloodright’s pack, then blew out the candle and walked away, his heart heavy but resolute.
Chapter 7: Illumination
The night was illuminated by the blue light of the full moons—the white, the blue, and the black, all aligned in perfect harmony. When the moons were full and in alignment, they formed what was known as the Suil de, the Eye of God. This rare celestial event bathed the world in a haunting purple light, a sign said to herald the coming of the Morilennen, the one chosen by the gods to rule all of Everneverlyon. Tonight, the Suil de shone brightly in the center of the crystal-clear sky, its light casting an eerie glow over the land.
The Tiarna , Fulcrum; the spiritual leader and voice of the one true god, had declared the Suil de a divine blessing for the crusade to save Tia Nightwind. The message was clear: now was the time to act. And so, Jeffrey Foullinx, the self-proclaimed Saint Jeffrey of Lostquarling, summoned his greatest general: an abyssal demon named Murngaine Blackhawk.
The Last Stand
Canerack Village was the last bastion of resistance against the encroaching forces of Lostquarling. It was home to the Alchemist Trade School and the NecroDruid Fellowship, institutions that had long stood as symbols of knowledge and unity among the gnomes, humans, and elves of Auckland. The village had made a pact to protect these schools, to stand as honorable and true true defenders of their people.
Eighteen years ago, Jeffrey Foullinx had attacked Canerack on his way to overtake the capital city. He had ridden into the village on a pure white horse, his polished silver armor gleaming in the sunlight. But despite his grandeur, he had failed. The village, defended by only ten men, had held him at bay, though the casualties had been catastrophic. This time, Murngaine Blackhawk would not fail.
Murngaine was no ordinary general. He was an abyssal demon, a creature of fire and shadow, his very presence a harbinger of destruction. He had been sent with a force of a thousand men, four cave trolls, and ten goblin spellcasters. Against him stood the village’s ten defenders, each said to be worth twenty men, but with no spellcasters to aid them. The odds were grim, but the villagers were determined to fight to the last.
The Plan
Murngaine’s plan was simple: flank the village on both sides and crush it under the weight of his onslaught. Like a hammer striking an anvil, the village would have nowhere to go. It would be bloody, violent, and chaotic. It would be glorious.
As he surveyed the village from atop his abyssal nightmare, Murngaine’s thoughts turned to the last battle fought here. Eighteen years ago, Jeffrey Foullinx had waged war against the “heathens” of Canerack. Though the humans had been successful in defeating the armed and magical forces protecting the village, they had failed in their true objective: to kidnap Tia Nightwind, the niece of General Markus Nightwind.
Tia had been ten and two when she was taken, a delicate flower plucked before her time. In Lostquarling, royal females were raised as breeding stock, their worth measured by the number of children they could bear. Tia was to have been Markus’s second bride, a means to secure his legacy. But now, seven years later, she was surely despoiled, her value diminished in the eyes of her uncle and husband.
Murngaine’s orders were clear: wipe Canerack Village off the face of Everneverlyon and return Tia Nightwind to her uncle. Whether she was spoiled or not would be for Markus to decide.
The Orders
Murngaine reached into the beastfold beneath his right breastplate and retrieved the orders he had been given. The parchment was crisp, the ink dark and precise. He read them again, his crimson eyes scanning the words:
Wipe the Canerack Village off the face of Everneverlyon, and return Tia Nightwind to her Uncle and husband, who shall decide if she is spoiled or not.
Signed,
Tiarna Fulcrum
Spiritual Leader of Lostquarling,
Mouth of the One True God,
Protector of Sliabh Athiar,
Leader of Alorius,
And the Spiritual Guide to the World
Murngaine’s lips curled into a grim smile. He had failed the last battle fought at this village, but he would not fail again. The barbarians had taken Tia Nightwind captive, and Markus Nightwind had been very specific: bring her back, no matter the cost.
The Nightmare
Murngaine’s mount, an abyssal nightmare, snorted flames as it pawed at the ground. The creature’s eyes burned with the fires of Tine Ifreann, its very presence igniting everything in its path. Murngaine looked down at the village, his mind already calculating the best way to destroy it.
The humans had only brought fifty men the last time they attacked, and the village had defeated them with ten. This time, Murngaine had a thousand men, four cave trolls, and ten goblin spellcasters. The village had no spellcasters, and their ten defenders, though formidable, would be no match for his forces.
As he prepared to give the order to attack, Murngaine’s thoughts turned to Jeffrey Foullinx. The man was a betrayer, a title he had earned by turning on the Obidhigh Rangers who had taught him everything he knew. But Murngaine knew the truth: the humans were pawns, their minds too closed to comprehend the magic and power that truly ruled the world. They were blind to the demons who controlled them, to the dwarves, elves, and other magical races who held the true power.
Murngaine’s smile widened. The humans would never understand. And that was their weakness.
The Battle Begins
With a roar, Murngaine gave the order to attack. The ground shook as the cave trolls charged forward, their massive clubs swinging wildly. The goblin spellcasters unleashed their magic, sending bolts of dark energy crashing into the village’s defenses. The villagers fought bravely, their swords and spears flashing in the moonlight, but they were outnumbered and outmatched.
Murngaine watched from atop his nightmare, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. The village would fall, and Tia Nightwind would be returned to her uncle. The Suil de shone brightly overhead, its purple light bathing the battlefield in an otherworldly glow. It was a sign, Murngaine thought, of the gods’ approval.
But as the battle raged on, a flicker of doubt crept into his mind. The villagers fought with a ferocity that surprised him, their determination unwavering even in the face of certain death. Murngaine’s smile faltered. Perhaps, he thought, this battle would not be as easy as he had anticipated.
Chapter 8: The Bloodied Horizon
The world shattered into chaos. Crack Snap Crudul’s vision blurred, clouded by a haze of crimson. The only sound he could hear was the deafening roar of his own blood surging through his veins, a primal drumbeat urging him forward. He burst from his home, his mother’s voice cutting through the din as she called upon the gods, her words a desperate plea for salvation.
Beyond, in the shadowy depths of a forest twisted with jagged red quartz crystals, a nightmare unfolded. The air was alive with snarls and roars, a symphony of brutality as monstrous forces clashed. Cave trolls, hulking and grotesque, lumbered forward, their jagged teeth glinting like shards of bone in the dim light. Swarms of goblins darted through the underbrush, their beady eyes gleaming with malice as they brandished crude weapons, eager to spill blood.
At the forefront of this chaos stood a tribe of barbarians, their bodies painted with tribal markings that told stories of conquest and survival. Muscles rippled beneath their skin as they charged, their eyes aflame with bloodlust. The ground trembled beneath their feet, a testament to their raw, unrelenting power.
Crack Snap Crudul, the Tiefling Barbarian, stood amidst the carnage, his heart pounding not just with the thrill of battle, but with a deeper, darker pain. The scene before him was a mirror of his past—a memory he could never escape. His mother, Thuaqua, had once been a victim of such monstrous cruelty. The image of her suffering was seared into his mind, a haunting echo that now resurfaced with terrifying clarity.
The human barbarians, a disciplined force of fifty, surged forward with a battle cry that shook the very stones beneath them. Clad in leather and steel, they were a whirlwind of fury, their weapons carving through the goblin ranks with brutal efficiency. Bodies fell, blood spilled, and the air grew thick with the stench of death.
Crack’s instincts took over. He lunged into the fray, his axe swinging with a ferocity born of grief and rage. His target was a cave troll, its massive form towering over the battlefield. With a roar, Crack buried his axe into the beast’s thick hide, drawing a howl of pain from the creature. Around him, the battle raged on—barbarians clashed with goblins, trolls swung their massive fists, and the ground became slick with blood.
In a moment of primal fury, Crack tore the head from the cave troll, his teeth and fangs aiding him in the gruesome act. The beast’s lifeless body crumpled to the ground, but Crack felt no triumph. Only a hollow ache, a reminder of the darkness that had shaped him.
As the battle ebbed and flowed, Crack felt a shift within himself. He was no longer just a warrior fighting for survival. He was a force of vengeance, a storm of rage and sorrow unleashed upon the world. With every strike, he channeled his pain into his blows, fighting not just for himself, but for those who could not defend themselves.
Yet, even as he fought, his thoughts turned to his mother. Thuaqua lay mortally wounded, her breaths shallow and labored. Crack knelt beside her, his vision blurred with tears. “Mother, stay with me,” he pleaded, his voice breaking. But Thuaqua’s gaze was distant, her eyes filled with unspoken fears and regrets. “You must be strong, my son,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “There are battles yet to come.”
Nearby, Tia Nightwind, the human cleric, emerged from the chaos. Her heart ached for the fallen, but her resolve was unshakable. She had been saved from a life of torment by the barbarians of Canerak, and in their protection, she had grown into a fierce healer and warrior. Her bond with Crack was unbreakable, forged in the fires of shared pain and survival.
But the darkness was not yet done. Murngaine Blackhawk, a vile sorcerer and puppet of Tia’s evil uncle, Markus Nightwind, descended from the skies like a shadow given form. With a flick of his wrist, he unleashed a wave of dark magic, snatching Tia from the battlefield. Her cries pierced the air, a sound that shattered Crack’s heart.
“No!” Crack roared, his voice a thunderclap of rage and despair. He turned back to his mother, her eyes meeting his with a fierce, unyielding determination. “You must save her, Crack. She is your light,” Thuaqua urged, her voice fading as the life within her flickered like a dying flame.
“I will not let her be taken!” Crack vowed, his voice a growl of defiance. He rose, leaving his mother in the care of the remaining barbarians, who rallied around her with unwavering loyalty.
Fueled by love and vengeance, Crack gathered his strength. The journey to Murngaine’s lair would be fraught with peril, but he was undeterred. With the memory of his mother’s strength and Tia’s love guiding him, he steeled himself for the battles ahead.
As night fell and the stars burned like distant fires, Crack knew this was more than a quest for revenge. It was a journey to reclaim the light that had been stolen from him. He would not rest until Tia was safe, and the darkness that threatened them all was vanquished.
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Part 3: A World in the Clouds
Chapter 1: Keeping Up with the Corvax’s
Erithacus Corvax hated going home.
In the royal flock, everyone’s feathers were bright, flashy, and radiant—except his. Erithacus was born all black, a stark anomaly among his kind. To his family, he was a mutant, an aberration. Banished from his home and stripped of his flock, he was left with nothing but the bitter taste of rejection. All he wished for was for his family to see past the color of his feathers and love him for who he was. But wishes, he had learned, were rarely granted.
Though he was the sole survivor of his hatching, his parents had no use for him. Their hopes now rested on Cristatus Pavo, his little sister. Over the years, Erithacus had watched her from afar, a silent guardian in the shadows. He could hear his mother’s voice now, sharp and instructive, as the royal aides prepped Cristatus for the endless protocols of their world.
“The Dire Owls need fresher mice,” his mother was saying, her tone clipped. “The Griffons can’t be anywhere near the Dragons. And never forget—the Dragons want to be around no one except their riders.”
Cristatus stood before a mirror, her expression a mix of exhaustion and resignation. Erithacus knew she had already endured a long day of soothing ruffled feathers and bruised egos. Those who called Sliabh Mhathair home were all family, even if they didn’t always agree. Sliabh Mhathair—Mother Mountain—was a place of unity, where loyalty, friendship, and love bound the governing bodies together.
Earlier, Cristatus had been tasked with watching over their newly hatched cousins. If Erithacus hadn’t witnessed their hatching himself, he would have sworn they were part magpie, given their obsession with anything shiny. They were notorious for pilfering anything that glittered, provided it wasn’t bolted down.
Today, their mother was hosting delegates from each of Sliabh Mhathair’s Quartz Peaks. Like Sliabh Athair, their mountain boasted a frozen blue quartz peak, a fiery red volcanic peak, a black sand desert peak, a lush green peak covered in rolling hills and vibrant flora, and a pristine white peak. Their mother had warned Cristatus to keep the hatchlings away from the Griffon Royal Families and the Dragon Royal Clutch. The little ones were bold and fearless, always attempting to leap off things or dive into pockets that didn’t exist.
A mile above the continent, Sliabh Mhathair floated in the sky, a majestic quartz mountain teeming with life. Four waterfalls cascaded from its major points, feeding the Scmall Naofa—a protective cloud that enveloped the mountain above and below. This mystical barrier shielded Tallenocia from the sun’s harsh rays, providing rain, shade, and a veil of secrecy from the world below.
The mythic beings of Sliabh Mhathair had long ago learned the cruelty of the bipedal races—the humans who ravaged and destroyed their own mountain, Sliabh Athair, taking its gifts for granted. On the northwest continent, war and famine plagued the bipedal communities. Children cried at their dead mothers’ breasts, and the land lay barren. In stark contrast, the Scmall Naofa nurtured life in abundance. Plants of every color thrived, trees of every kind reached for the sky, and animals of all shapes and sizes roamed freely, each respecting the Great Circle.
The magical beings of Tallenocia had forged a sacred pact with the land: to never take more than they needed and to protect and preserve all life. Sliabh Mhathair was sacred to them, a mother who provided a home, food, water, and protection. In return, they vowed to defend her with their very lives.
Erithacus’s ship, The Midnight’s Wing, was docked in a secluded cavern port of the Tallonent, a hidden cove on the mainland of Tallenocia. Here, the Great Crystal stood—an enormous, eight-foot-tall structure with a gigantic purple flower bud at its center. The bud was shaped like a wide-hipped, faceless being, its form both alien and familiar. Breasts were visible where a human’s might be, and arm-like structures encircled the faceless head, as if in prayer or contemplation.
The sun hung low over the Tallonent, casting long shadows across the bustling docks. The air was thick with the scent of salt and sea, mingling with the distant cries of gulls. Erithacus leaned against the weathered railing of his ship, his raven feathers ruffled by a brisk wind. Unlike the vibrant plumage of his royal family, his dark feathers absorbed the light, a constant reminder of the life he had left behind.
CHAPTER 2: DAYDREAM BELIEVER
“Hey, Shrugs!” Rolsis called, his voice bright against the rhythmic crash of the waves. “Ready to set sail?”
Shrugs nodded, a faint grin breaking through his usual stoic expression. He watched as the troupe gathered on deck, their vibrant skin tones glowing under the sun. Each of them seemed plucked from the pages of a legend—Demona, the druid with her ever-shifting hues; Mythra, the spirited bard whose laughter rang like a melody; and the brothers, Crack and Bloodrite, whose fierce loyalty was woven into their playful banter.
“Are we really leaving one continent for another?” Demona asked, her eyes alight with excitement. She stood at the bow, her hair flowing like a river of color.
Rolsis flashed a confident grin. “Absolutely! The world’s out there waiting for us, and we’re going to see it all—together!”
As the group chattered about their journey, Shrugs stepped closer, observing the lively exchange. A warmth spread through him, but words, as always, eluded him.
Mythra clapped her hands, her enthusiasm infectious. “And we’re all in this together, right? We’ve got each other’s backs!”
She glanced at Shrugs, and he gave a small nod, feeling the unspoken bond forming among them. His chest swelled with an emotion he couldn’t quite name.
“Hey, Shrugs,” Crack said, his tone friendly and open. “You might not realize it yet, but you’re part of our family now.”
Shrugs tilted his head slightly, his feathers catching the sunlight. He raised a wing, gesturing toward the open sea, acknowledging the weight of their words.
Bloodrite stepped forward, a smirk tugging at his lips. “No need for fancy speeches. We can tell you’re one of us. Just look at that determined face of yours!”
Shrugs offered a soft smile, his heart racing at the acceptance he felt. He crossed his wings over his chest, a silent gesture of gratitude and solidarity.
Demona moved closer, her expression earnest. “We understand if you’ve been through a lot, Shrugs. But you’re not alone anymore. We’re here for you.”
He met her gaze, and for a moment, their eyes locked. In that silence, he conveyed his appreciation, a deep sense of connection forming between them.
Rolsis grinned, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “Ready for some adventure, then? Together, we can take on anything!”
Shrugs raised his wings high, a gesture of readiness and determination. The energy on the deck shifted, and the tieflings erupted in cheers, their laughter carrying across the waves.
As the ship sailed onward, leaving one continent for another, Shrugs felt the weight of his past begin to lift. With every shared smile and gesture of support, the bond among them deepened. He found himself smiling more, joining in their playful antics, even nudging Rolsis back when the tiefling playfully challenged him.
The road ahead was uncertain, but as the ship cut through the waves, Shrugs felt the stirrings of something he had long thought lost—friendship. With his new companions by his side, he looked forward to whatever adventures awaited, ready to embrace a future filled with possibility.
“Oi, mate! Stop daydreaming and give us a hand!” barked Jarek, the grizzled first mate, his voice cutting through the chatter of the port. Shrugs shook off the remnants of his thoughts and moved quickly to help stow the last of the cargo. He preferred the salty air and the sound of waves to the laughter of a family that had cast him aside.
As he worked, snippets of conversation from the dockworkers reached his ears—tales of treasure, rumors of storms brewing far out at sea, whispers of ships vanishing without a trace. A familiar tug in his chest—a longing for adventure—mingled with a gnawing sense of foreboding.
“Is that all you’ve got, bird?” Jarek teased, noticing Shrugs’s distracted state. Shrugs offered a tight smile, his beak a hard line. He simply shrugged, an old habit that spoke louder than words.
Once the cargo was loaded, he leaned against the ship’s mast, his eyes scanning the docks. Merchants shouted prices, children darted between legs, chasing dreams of distant shores. The vibrant colors of the royal clutch flashed in his mind, a stark contrast to his own somber form. Memories of banishment surged—his mother’s tears, his father’s cold dismissal. They had deemed him unworthy, a harbinger of misfortune.
A ship drew alongside, its sails billowing in the wind. Shrugs watched intently as a figure stepped off—a tall, feathered being clad in the regalia of the court. His heart raced. Could it be?
“Shrugs!” a familiar voice called, shattering his reverie. It was Kaelan, a childhood friend, her bright feathers a beacon amidst the dullness of the dock. She approached cautiously, her expression a mix of concern and resolve.
“I heard rumors… that you were here,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I had to see for myself. They’ve been talking about you—what they’ve done.”
He turned away, the knot in his stomach tightening. A silent acknowledgment passed between them; he didn’t need to voice his thoughts.
“It doesn’t matter,” she continued, her voice trembling. “You were banished for a reason that wasn’t your fault. They need to know—”
He raised a wing slightly, a gesture that silenced her. He had long since accepted his fate, and words felt inadequate now.
Kaelan stepped closer, her eyes pleading. “But what if there’s a way to change things? What if you could confront them, show them who you are?”
Shrugs shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of her hope. He had chosen this life—one far from the court’s expectations.
“There’s a storm coming, Shrugs. Not just at sea.” She hesitated, gauging his reaction. “And it might change everything.”
He studied her face, the desperation and hope mingling in her eyes. A part of him yearned to respond, to share his thoughts, but the words stayed lodged in his throat.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Shrugs felt the pull of destiny tugging at him. Perhaps this was his moment—a chance to reclaim not just his place in the royal clutch, but to uncover the truth behind the darkness threatening them all.
With a subtle nod, he indicated he was willing to listen. Kaelan’s face brightened with a mixture of surprise and gratitude.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sounds of the dock.
As they stood together, the weight of unspoken words hung in the air, but Shrugs knew this was just the beginning. Whatever lay ahead, he would face it—not as the outcast, but as a shadow ready to reclaim his light.
Chapter 3: Echoes of the Past
The salty air filled Shrugs's lungs as he stood at the helm of The Midnight's Wing, but his mind was far from the bustling docks of Tallonment. A sudden rush of memory swept over him, pulling him back to the rugged cliffs of Moher Mountain, where he had spent his childhood alone.
The mountain loomed high above, its steep slopes covered in jagged rocks and sparse vegetation. Young Erithicus had often wandered the trails, searching for food and shelter—a raven among the eagles. His parents’ voices echoed in his mind: “You are unworthy, a burden.” The sting of their rejection had driven him away, leaving him to fend for himself in a world that felt unwelcoming.
He remembered huddling in a small cave during storms, the wind howling outside, a constant reminder of his solitude. Days blurred into nights, and the laughter of other children faded into a distant dream. Shrugs had learned to survive on his own—gathering berries, trapping small creatures, and scavenging whatever the mountain offered. But friendship was a luxury he had never known. He often gazed longingly at the flocks of birds that danced in the sky, wishing for companionship. Yet each time he spread his wings, he was met with silence.
Chapter 4: A New Journey
Her legs were still wet with the afterbirth of her Tiefling twin daughters. Michelle Dornseif wept, clutching her husband’s face. “Michael, Michael, my love, run! Run far! Save them—save our girls. Get them as far away as you can. Michael, save them for us!”
Michelle’s voice trembled as she pleaded with him, her hands shaking as they cupped his cheeks. She kissed him one last time, her lips lingering, then pressed her forehead to his. “My love, I will always be with you. Our children will always be with you.”
The sound of hounds echoed in the distance, their baying sharp and relentless, fresh on the scent. Michelle stood, her resolve hardening. She would lead their pursuers away from her children. As the flickering light of torches drew closer, her husband, Michael, fled into the shadows, clutching their daughters tightly to his chest.
The magistrate’s voice boomed across the clearing, cold and unyielding. “Michelle Dornsyth, you witch, on your feet!”
Michelle turned to face her accusers, her eyes blazing with defiance. “You’ll have to drag me, Malachi. I’ll give you no such pleasure as coming along quietly.”
The men descended upon her, their hands rough and unrelenting. Michelle fought with every ounce of strength she had left. She grabbed at loose clothing, hair, anything she could reach. She clawed, bit, and thrashed, refusing to go down without a fight. But they were too many. Her hands were bound, her face covered, and she was dragged to the dunking pole.
Malachi’s voice rang out, cutting through the night like a blade. “Michelle Dornsife, having been found guilty of witchcraft, you shall now be dunked in Lake Maryantis and drowned until dead.”
As they bound her to the pole, Michelle’s final words echoed across the water, her voice fierce and unbroken.
“A curse upon you and all your families for shedding innocent lives this day! May you never know peace! May you never know prosperity! May you always know hunger and thirst!”
The magistrate and his men laughed, their voices cruel and mocking as they lowered Michelle into the water. The surface of Lake Maryantis appeared calm, but beneath it churned a violent current, relentless and unforgiving. They knew she would drown instantly, and this knowledge, twisted as it was, brought them a perverse comfort.
As the dunking pole breached the surface, Michelle felt the cold embrace of the water. The current wrapped around her, pulling her down, down, down. She struggled, her head breaking the surface for a fleeting moment. Was there a pocket of air? She was still sinking, but she could breathe. And then, suddenly, she was no longer in the lake.
She emerged into a cavern of breathtaking beauty. At its center stood a multicolored crystal, glowing with an otherworldly light. Inside the crystal was a plant, its form vaguely humanoid, with arm-like structures encircling its faceless head. Surrounding her were majestic beings—a dragon, a griffin, an owlbear, and an aarakocra. They bowed to her, their voices resonating with warmth and reverence.
“Welcome, human. Welcome to your new home. We call her Sliabh Mhathair, the Mother Mountain. You are now in our sacred sanctuary. Sliabh Athair, the Father Mountain, rejected you—or rather, its people did. But here, you are welcome. This is the Mother’s Mountain, her breast. We will keep you sacred and safe here, as long as you cause no harm.”
The sinew and afterbirth of her twins had washed away, leaving only the scars of memory and the two pieces of umbilical cord she still clutched in her hand. Michelle’s heart burned with a fierce determination. She vowed then and there that she would avenge her husband and daughters’ deaths with everything she had.
Chapter 5: The Mother’s Embrace
Michelle stood in the heart of the cavern, her breath still ragged from the ordeal she had just endured. The air around her was warm and alive, carrying the faint scent of blooming flowers and rich earth. The multicolored crystal at the center of the chamber pulsed gently, its light casting shifting hues across the walls. The beings who had welcomed her—the dragon, the griffin, the owlbear, and the aarakocra—watched her with a mixture of curiosity and reverence.
“Where am I?” Michelle asked, her voice trembling but resolute.
The dragon, its scales shimmering like molten gold, stepped forward. “You are on Sliabh Mhathair, the Mother Mountain. She is the sister of Sliabh Athair, the Father Mountain, though their fates have diverged greatly.”
Michelle’s brow furrowed. “Sliabh Athair… that’s where I came from. The mountain I called home. But its people… they turned on me.”
The griffin, its eagle-like eyes sharp and piercing, nodded. “Sliabh Athair is a place of harshness and scarcity. Its people have forgotten the sacred pact—the balance between taking and giving. They exploit the land, stripping it of its gifts without gratitude or care. The mountain suffers, and so do its people.”
Michelle’s gaze drifted to the crystal, its light soothing yet otherworldly. “And this mountain… Sliabh Mhathair… how is it different?”
The owlbear, its voice deep and resonant, rumbled, “Sliabh Mhathair is a place of abundance and life. She floats a mile above the continent, a quartz mountain full and bustling with energy. Four waterfalls cascade from her major points, feeding the Scmall Naofa—a protective cloud that surrounds her above and below. The Scmall Naofa shields Tallenocia from the heat of the suns, providing rain and shade, while the clouds below guard against unwanted intruders.”
The aarakocra spread its iridescent wings, its feathers catching the light. “The mythic beings who call Sliabh Mhathair home learned long ago that the bipedal races—humans like those who cast you out—are cruel and ruthless. They ravage and destroy the land they call home, taking Sliabh Athair’s protections and gifts for granted. On the northwest continent, war and famine plague their communities. Children cry at their dead mothers’ breasts, and the land lies barren.”
Michelle’s heart ached at the description, a stark contrast to the vibrant life around her. “But here… it’s so different.”
“Yes,” the dragon said, its voice filled with pride. “The Scmall Naofa provides life in abundance. Plants of every color grow here. Trees of every kind stretch toward the sky, their branches heavy with fruit. Animals of all shapes and sizes roam freely, each respecting the Great Circle. The magical beings of Tallenocia forged a sacred pact with the land long ago: to never take more than they need and to protect and preserve all life on the mountain.”
Michelle looked around, taking in the beauty of the cavern. The walls were lined with veins of quartz that glowed softly, and the air hummed with a quiet energy. She could feel the mountain’s presence, a gentle but powerful force that seemed to cradle her.
“Why was I brought here?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
The aarakocra stepped forward, its feathers shimmering like a living rainbow. “You were chosen by the Mother. Your suffering, your defiance, your love for your family—it resonated with her. She saw in you a kindred spirit, one who understands the cost of sacrifice and the strength of resilience.”
Michelle’s hands tightened around the pieces of umbilical cord she still held. “My daughters… my husband… they’re gone. I couldn’t save them.”
“They are not gone,” the dragon said gently. “They live on in you. And here, on Sliabh Mhathair, you will find the strength to honor their memory. The Mother will guide you, as she guides all who call her home.”
As the words sank in, Michelle felt a strange sense of peace wash over her. The weight of her grief was still there, but it was no longer crushing. She looked at the crystal again, its light now steady and reassuring.
“What must I do?” she asked.
The griffin stepped forward, its talons clicking against the stone floor. “Learn. Listen. The Mother Mountain will teach you her ways. She will show you how to live in harmony with the land, how to draw strength from her without taking too much. In time, you will find your place here.”
The owlbear added, “But remember, the path is not easy. Sliabh Mhathair is a place of abundance, but it is also a place of trials. The Mother tests those she welcomes, to ensure they are worthy of her gifts.”
Michelle nodded, her resolve hardening. “I’ll do whatever it takes. For my family. For myself.”
The aarakocra spread its wings once more, its feathers catching the light of the crystal. “Then come. We will show you the mountain.”
As Michelle followed the beings out of the cavern, she stepped into a world unlike anything she had ever seen. Sliabh Mhathair was a place of vibrant life and color. The air was filled with the sounds of birdsong and the rustling of leaves. Trees with trunks of shimmering silver and leaves of gold stretched toward the sky, their branches heavy with fruit. Streams of crystal-clear water wound through the landscape, their banks lined with flowers in every hue imaginable.
In the distance, she could see the five peaks of Sliabh Mhathair, each distinct and awe-inspiring. The frozen blue quartz peak glistened like a jewel, its icy surface reflecting the sunlight. The red volcanic peak smoldered in the distance, its fiery heart a reminder of the mountain’s power. The black sand desert peak rose like a shadow, stark and imposing, while the green peak was a rolling expanse of hills and forests, alive with the sounds of creatures. The pristine white peak stood tallest, its surface smooth and unblemished, a symbol of purity and strength.
“This is the Mother’s domain,” the dragon said, its voice filled with pride. “Each peak represents a different aspect of her—strength, resilience, beauty, mystery, and purity. Together, they form the heart of Sliabh Mhathair.”
Michelle took it all in, her heart swelling with a mixture of awe and determination. This was her new home, a place where she could heal and grow. But it was also a place where she could prepare. Somewhere, out there, her daughters were alive. And one day, she would find them.
For now, though, she would learn the ways of the Mother Mountain. She would honor the covenant and prove herself worthy of the second chance she had been given.
As she walked deeper into the lush landscape, the crystal’s light seemed to follow her, a gentle reminder that she was not alone. Sliabh Mhathair had welcomed her, and in her embrace, Michelle would find the strength to face whatever lay ahead.
Chapter 6: The Swirling Waters
Rose O’Carrick moved through the shadows of Sliabh Athair like a ghost, their bi-gender form cloaked in a tattered hooded robe that blended seamlessly with the rocky terrain. Their eyes, glowing a steady green, scanned the path ahead as they led a small group of refugees toward the swirling waters of the Father Mountain. The group was a mix of Tieflings, humans, and even a few mythic beings who had been cast out by the Blue Spire’s fascist regime. They were tired, hungry, and afraid, but Rose’s presence gave them hope.
“Stay close,” Rose whispered, their voice calm but firm. “We’re almost there.”
The Blue Spire loomed in the distance, its jagged peak piercing the sky like a dagger. It was a symbol of oppression, a place where dissent was crushed, and freedom was a distant dream. Rose had spent years navigating its twisted corridors and secret passages, learning its weaknesses and exploiting them to rescue those who had been unjustly imprisoned.
Rose’s journey had begun long ago, born on Sliabh Mhathair to Michelle Dornseif, a woman who had fled the cruelty of Sliabh Athair only to find solace and purpose on the Mother Mountain. Rose had grown up hearing stories of her mother’s bravery and the sacred bond between the people of Tallenocia and Sliabh Mhathair. But Rose had always felt a pull toward Sliabh Athair, a desire to confront the darkness that had driven her mother away.
Now, as they approached the swirling waters, Rose felt a familiar mix of determination and fear. The waters were a dangerous and unpredictable force, a remnant of the Father Mountain’s ancient power. They churned with a violent energy, capable of sweeping away the unprepared. But Rose had learned to navigate them, using a ladle imbued with their own demigod powers to create portals that could transport people to safety.
“This is it,” Rose said, turning to the group. “The swirling waters will take us to Sliabh Mhathair, but the journey won’t be easy. Hold on to each other, and don’t let go.”
The refugees nodded, their eyes wide with a mixture of hope and fear. Rose raised their ladle, its surface glowing with a soft silver light. Their eyes shifted to blue, reflecting their excitement and resolve. With a swift motion, they struck the air, creating a portal that shimmered like a mirage.
“Go!” Rose urged, guiding the group through the portal.
One by one, the refugees stepped into the swirling waters, their forms disappearing into the vortex. Rose waited until the last person had entered before following, their ladle held high to maintain the portal’s stability.
The journey was chaotic, the waters pulling and twisting around them like a living thing. Rose focused on the image of Sliabh Mhathair, the Mother Mountain’s lush peaks and vibrant life a beacon in the darkness. They could feel the mountain’s presence, a gentle but powerful force guiding them home.
When they emerged on the other side, the group found themselves standing on the banks of a crystal-clear stream, the air filled with the scent of blooming flowers and the sound of birdsong. The refugees gasped in awe, their fear replaced by wonder as they took in the beauty of Sliabh Mhathair.
Rose’s eyes shifted to silver, a deep sense of love and fulfillment washing over them. This was why they risked their life—to give others a chance at freedom, to honor the bond between the people and the land.
As the refugees were led to a nearby village by the mythic beings who had greeted them, Rose stayed behind, their gaze turning toward the distant peak of Sliabh Athair. The Blue Spire still stood, a reminder of the work that remained.
Rose’s journey was far from over. There were still others trapped in the Spire’s shadow, still others who needed to be freed. And Rose would not rest until they were.
With a deep breath, Rose raised their ladle once more, their eyes glowing a determined blue. The swirling waters called to them, a reminder of the power and responsibility they carried.
They were Rose O’Carrick, demigod child of Borraner and Aelara, legacy of resilience and light, and protector of the oppressed. And they would not stop until the Father Mountain’s darkness was vanquished, and the light of Sliabh Mhathair shone for all.
Chapter 7: Bones Best Left to Rest
Rose stood at the edge of Sliabh Mhathair, gazing across the vast expanse of sky that separated the Mother Mountain from Sliabh Athair. Their eyes, now a soft grey, reflected the sadness that had settled in their heart. They had always held onto hope—hope that their father, Michael, and their older sisters, Mythra and Demona, had escaped the Blue Spire’s cruelty. Hope that they were still out there, somewhere, waiting to be found.
But Michelle had no such delusions.
“Rose,” Michelle had said one evening, her voice heavy with sorrow, “some bones are best left to rest. Your father… your sisters… if they had survived, they would have found us by now. The Blue Spire does not let go of its victims so easily.”
Rose had argued, their eyes flashing orange with frustration. “You don’t know that, Mother! They could still be out there, fighting to survive. I can’t just abandon them!”
Michelle had sighed, her expression pained but resolute. “I understand your hope, my child. But sometimes, hope can lead us into greater danger. Sliabh Athair is not a place for the living anymore. It is a graveyard, and the dead do not rest easy there.”
But Rose couldn’t let it go. They had to know the truth.
Now, as they prepared to return to Sliabh Athair, Rose felt a familiar mix of determination and fear. They had rescued countless refugees, but this journey was different. This time, they were searching for answers—answers about their family, about the past, and about the darkness that had shaped their life.
The Father Mountain
The swirling waters carried Rose back to Sliabh Athair, their ladle glowing with a faint silver light as they stepped onto the rocky shore. The air was thick with the scent of ash and decay, a stark contrast to the vibrant life of Sliabh Mhathair.
Rose moved cautiously, their eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of danger. They had heard whispers of a sacred owlbear clutch deep within the mountain, a place where the remains of the fallen were taken to feed the young. It was a grim fate, but one that might hold the answers they sought.
As they ventured deeper into the mountain, Rose encountered a few mythic beings who believed the twins disription mached lady Rosalinda's Traveling troupe
“I’m Rose,” they replied, their tone calm but firm. “I’m looking for my family. My father, Michael, and my sisters. They were taken by the Blue Spire years ago.”
The old woman's expression softened, “Michael… yes, we knew him. He was a brave man, but the Spire showed him no mercy. His body was taken to the owlbear clutch. He did not survive.”
Rose’s heart sank, their eyes shifting to grey as the weight of the truth settled over them. “And my sisters?”
The woman shook her head. “We don’t know. Many were taken, but few escaped. If they survived, they would have left the mountain long ago.”
Rose clenched their fists, their eyes flickering red with anger and pain. “I won’t stop until I find them. Until I know the truth.”
In the pantheon of Tallenocia, Aelara was revered as the goddess of light, resilience, and the duality of life and death. She was often depicted as a radiant figure with wings of shimmering light, her form shifting between male and female to reflect the balance of all things. Aelara’s followers believed that she guided the souls of the fallen to their final rest, while also nurturing the seeds of new life.
Rose had always felt a connection to Aelara, her divine parentage a source of both strength and sorrow. As they stood on the shores of Sliabh Athair, Rose whispered a prayer to Aelara, asking for guidance and protection.
“Mother Aelara,” they murmured, their voice barely audible, “guide me to the truth. Help me find my family, and give me the strength to face whatever lies ahead.”
As the wind carried their words away, Rose felt a warmth spread through their chest, a reminder that they were never truly alone
CH 8 6S 7S AND 8S
The waves splashed upon the beach as each meditative form took place from sixes hands. They struck the dummy in front of them sparring with it quickly rapidly.
Sixes Sparring partners were nowhere near as talented as they were. Six often used there abilities to feed on the pain of others, to drain their enemies and weaken them. Simultaneousl strengthening six and weakening their enemies. Quick and easy. Making sixes job as simple as having an afternoon stack.
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