~ Falskverden ~

[Iconoclast]

A Letter Home




Dear Father, Mother,

   I can only pray that this message reaches you, so that your worries and fears may be abated by the knowledge that Thola and I are alive and well. We were a day away from reaching Ramulai, escorting Thola safely to the Red Academy, when a mist enveloped us upon the road.  We wandered through the thick of it trying to extricate ourselves, but it was not until the mist dissipated that we came to notice a severe drop in temperature and snowfall.  We soon came upon a camp of Vistani, who informed us that we were no longer home, in Hazlan, but in Barovia, near the Grey City of Vallaki.

   My eyes have been opened to new depths of depravity that I had never fathomed, in my naivety.   As we approached the outskirts of Vallaki, where the Cult of the so-called “Morninglord” resides in a temple far too old to have been built by their own hands, and elves, dwarves, halfings, gnomes, caliban, run wild and amuck, for a moment I feared we had entered the Hell of Slaves. Mytteri yet shrouds these over-reachers and sinners from the truth of their origins and great sin. It is hard to believe that once we had all been brothers and sisters, in Torvender. They are blind to the cause of their own suffering and misery, and with such blindness, these cursed creatures, run wild and dangerous, inflicting pain and suffering upon law abiding citizens of Barovia.

   It is a wonder how the villagers have managed to maintain some resemblance of law and order, as the ever ubiquitous and pervasive chaos and corruption of Mytteri crashes against the cobble walls of Vallaki like an angry ocean. You can see the anxiousness upon the garda’s faces as they bravely patrol the outskirts of Vallaki, which is a bastion of chaos. They courageously, tirelessly, strive to impose order upon the mayhem, but the impending doom feels inevitable. After all, they have not yet given their obedience, neither heart nor mind, to the divine authority of the Supreme Emperor. Yet, many of the Barovians demonstrate a natural aptitude and inclination towards law and order, a faint shadow of who they had once been before the First Judgment and our loss of paradise.

   I do dare to hope, as idealistic and naive as it may seem to some, that the Barovians will convert to the one true faith, the Iron Faith. To this end, there is a Kontor representing the Western Mission of the Church of the Lawgiver here in Vallaki: Kontor Koltur. He is a wise man, courageous, as he is devout. He cannot do it alone, and for this just cause, I freely give my obedience to the Kontor towards this most noble and right purpose. As for Thola, she believes she will discover and unearth many valuable arcane artifacts, and only intends upon returning to her studies at the Red Academy once she has something to show for her adventure here, unplanned as it was.

Your dutiful son,
Ossur

[Iconoclast]

July 11, 770
Entry #1


   I have written a letter home, but there is much I chose to omit. The work I have found myself engrossed with since my unexpected arrival in Barovia is beneath me; at least, that is how my father would see it. I remember observing as a young boy our house smithy at work; I was in awe of the slave’s craftsmanship. I pleaded with my father to have the dwarf teach me the art and craft of forging steel, but was immediately struck across the cheek and reprimanded. I imagined the splendor of the First Men, our ancestors, who had been whole and complete, and I desired to forge armor and weapons befitting their perfection and grandeur. That this slave, this dwarf, cursed as he was, could be capable of such marvelous works of steel, taught me that even our inferiors yet retain some of their former aptitude and greatness, a faint whisper of the First People from which they descended from.  While the dwarven slave was a master of the forge and anvil, he and his corruptible kinsmen are incapable of mastering themselves. It is only natural and just that we, the Mulani of the Iron Faith, accept this grave responsibility of governing over those who lack the ability to self-govern. If they had been capable of self-restraint, they never would have over-reached in the first place, and we’d not all be forced to endure and suffer in this Faldverden.

Finding ourselves here, so far from home, it felt as if Thola and I had been dropped into the Sea of Sorrows, without a ship for sanctuary, surrounded by vicious, hungry sharks. Upon my third night in the western outskirts of Vallaki, in the presence of the Kontor, we were made victim to the barbarity and depravity of those who lack the ability to self-govern; we experienced, first hand, the result of when they are permitted to run wild and amuck, as Myterri encourages. Near a dozen outlanders, many Halflings and elves among them, stood shoulder to shoulder with cruel, taunting laughter as one of them summoned a gigantic monster composed of the graveyard’s earth. I could feel the ground under my feet tremble as the monster’s legs of rock and dirt approached us. The monster seemed to speak, claiming to be an instrument of our Iron Lord’s, but the Kontor, in his wisdom, saw through Myterri’s deception. The monster charged, and though I was afraid, I put myself and my shield between the Kontor and this most unholy adversary. As the mighty bouldering fists crashed into the steel, oak shield that doamna Zariska had just crafted for me, it felt as if all the teeth in my mouth had fallen out. I knew I could not withstand much more, but that was when the Kontor called out to the Iron Lord to protect us, and the Kontor became a most powerful vessel of iron and virtue, slaying the monstrosity.

   Many of the outlanders who stood and cheered at our attempted murder grew quiet in surprise at our triumph, but then became enraged with foul language bubbling with hatred.  Their jeering faces and filthy tongues were as hideous as their bodies are twisted and deformed, as some of them called out encouragements to their peers to murder us where we stood. Even in the face of such depravity and lawlessness, the Kontor approached the large group, undaunted. I have never seen such righteous indignation and courage.

   It was after this incident, that I knew that I had to give my obedience to the Kontor and remain in Barovia. I can only pray that my service will be of value to this most righteous and holy mission. May the Iron Lord protect the obedient and righteous.

[Iconoclast]

July 14, 770

Entry #2



I am in awe of the lush, thriving landscape of Barovia. Resources are overabundant, and so long as the local laws are obeyed, there are a multitude of natural resources to be exploited: beach, yew, oak, copper, iron, coal, silver, dear, bear, medicinal herbs, plants, and fungai, and so much more. Where my father adamantly disapproved of his son “lowering” himself to any real labor, Kontor Koltor not only accepts my industry, but encourages it. Myterri finds easy prey among those with idle hands and dullard minds, he is apt to say.

Much of my time is dedicated to travel between Vallaki and Krofburg. Krofburg, I was happy to discover, respectfully acknowledges upon a memorial in the center of the village the Church of the Lawgiver, for assistance in the rebuilding of Krofburg. It was there, as I stood before the memorial, that a vision came to me.

I saw myself with Mulani and Barovian laborers and craftsman, building a Fane into the mountain side near Krofburg, a place of true worship, an austere and beautiful beacon of hope for all people. I shared my vision with the Kontor, and expressed to him how I’d like to take a pilgrimage in order to pray and study other Fanes, so that I may attain the know-how and skills to one day construct a Fane here, in Barovia.

In the meantime, I set myself each day to task: carpentry, leather work, mining, smelting, and crafting weapons and armor, and the more esoteric practice of alchemy. It is from honing these skills, and studying architecture, that I pray and hope to one day build a Fane for our Iron Lord, so that His Will may be done here in Barovia, as it is in Hazlan, Nova Vaasa, and Blaustein.

While the malign forces of Myterri run rampant in this land, there is hope for mankind in the one true faith, the Iron Faith.

[Iconoclast]

July 15, 770
Entry #3



Barovian law is an imperfect law, grounded as it is in the secular. Yet, in the Supreme Emperor’s wisdom, the faithful are mandated to adhere to the secular laws when on mission in pagan lands. Upon our first day in Vallaki, our first order of business was acquainting ourselves with the secular laws of the land.

It was but a few days after that, that we came across a curious outlander man. I hesitate to call him a “man,” because he has yet to triumph over the trauma of his former enslavement to a group of elves that he calls Drow. He does not yet know the iron truth.

When we met the man his wrists had been shackled, his body improperly tattooed, defiled by elfish hand, and in heinous effort to prevent him from ever giving praise to the one true god, they cut out his tongue. Oh, the depths of depravity of Myterri’s minions, these foul drow!  That these drow have enslaved humanity!  They would turn the proper order upside down, making the vilest of sinners rulers over us all!  

He is a mute now, save for the words he writes, and he averts his eyes to the ground when spoken to. While I am accustomed to such deference in Hazlan from those destined by the most heinous sins of their forefathers to serve out their penitence through toil and servitude, what I cannot tolerate was when I saw a little, elfin man, which I now know to be one of these drow, approach Dina’Er and begin to inspect him as a farmer would his cow.

I could not believe my eyes when I witnessed the elf, first, squeeze Dina’Er’s bicep, testing his brawn, and then open his mouth and insert his thumb, examining the man’s health through his teeth. The elfin man then grabbed the mute by the head, turning it one way, then the other.  And the mute subjected himself to the wicked whims of this elfin drow.

I could not sit idly by as the mute was subjected to such evil. He has suffered far too much already at the hands of elves!  I intervened, in my righteousness, speaking loud for all to hear, should they have the heart to listen. I proclaimed that slavery was prohibited under Barovian law. The drow kept his features hidden, but there was nothing but impudence in his tone and body language towards even me, a Mulani, a nobleman of the Iron Faith. He was clearly uncomfortable with my drawing attention to him, but yet he refused to back down, turning his attention back to the mute, speaking in a sinister elfish tongue, and I could tell from the Mute’s expression, that he knew the language of this would-be elfin slaver.

The mute, Dina’Er, my compassion for his plight can only do so much for him. He will have to find the iron in his spine if he is to ever learn how to stand tall and be a man.  It disgusts me to see him cower before this elfin drow.

I must make report of this evil threat to law and order. The Kontor, in his wisdom, will know how to best proceed against this monstrosity of Myterri.  While Barovian law is an imperfect law, it is the law of this land, and it will be obeyed.

[Iconoclast]

July 22, 770
Entry #4


With a Burgomaster who worships one of the Iron Lord’s concubines, Ezra, my heart goes out to the men and women of Vallaki who serve as the only line of defense against the lawlessness and chaos of Myterri. If the man who governs this village has been deluded by the false teachings of “Our Concubine in the Mists,” the future of Vallaki is indeed in jeopardy.

For three days the western gates of Vallaki had been shut, orders of the Burgomaster, on account of an unruly mob of peasants that he could not for the life of him control. Though I sympathize with the peasantry, simple hard working men and women as they be, that they were permitted to disrupt the day to day affairs of travel and trade through the western gate of Vallaki was but evidence to the Burgomaster’s inaptitude.

They were right to be outraged and their demands for justice, valid, nonetheless. The elfin thief, as they are prone to all matters of depravity when allowed to run amuck as they do here, is yet another undeniable proof that they are incapable of self-restraint and self-governance. The burden to set things right in the world is heavy as can be, but our Iron faith is resolute and our efforts to bring the men and women of Barovia into the Iron Fold will be unrelenting, no matter how arduous the challenge.
The elfin thief was at last apprehended, and yesterday I gave witness to my first example of Vallaki justice. It took place at the Market Square for public spectacle, which was appropriate. After the elfin’ creature was flogged, the Burgomaster thought it would then be wise to allow a mere farmer to then decide the final punishment of the thief. A dangerous thing to place such power in the hands of a mere peasant, but it was undoubtedly his desperate attempt to appease the mob that he has failed to keep under control. He likely fails to realize that he has only rewarded the mob for their unruly behavior. If you reward an unruly child with what they want, you only encourage the undesirable behavior to not only continue in frequency, but in magnitude, exponentially.

Whether or not it is too late for the Burgomaster remains to be seen. Myterri is a Great Deceiver, but perhaps Kontor Koltur will in time be able to save the Burgomaster from the false teachings which in turn result in an unruly peasantry. But I suspect that it is among the men and women who serve in the garda, who give battle each and every day against the lawless, chaotic forces of Myterri, which threaten us all in a myriad of countless malevolent forms, that the truth of the Iron Lord may come to be accepted into both heart and mind. Only in devout and dutiful obedience to our Iron Lord, can we ever be free from the internal torments of Myterri.  

[Iconoclast]

July 25, 770
Entry # 5
Gudkaedes Meskhenet's arrival



Three days past, I had arrived to a welcomed surprise at the western outskirts of Vallaki. The Kontor and my sister were in the company of a Rashemi man, a Gudkaedes Doukan Meskhenet. He and his sister, who has not yet joined us, are both devotees and have come to give their obedience to the Iron Lord’s Mission here in Western Barovia.

As night fell upon us as we were becoming more acquainted with Gudkaedes Meskhenet, the Kontor informed us that we were to remain outside this night, that we would stand our ground against the forces of Myterri.

As the moon began to shine in the Barovian night sky, a wild chorus of howling discord pierced our ears, giving rise to fear, I confess. Kontor Koltor’s commanding voice quelled our nerves, however. “Gudkaedes, link up!” he commanded, and that is what we did.  Gudkaedes Meskhenet and I formed a line facing west, from which the monstrous cries came, and with the divine blessings of our Iron Lord, the Kontor prepared us to give battle to the malevolent beasts of Myterri.

In a furious flurry, the Neuri were upon us. So unnaturally quick and strong, with vicious claws and chomping jaws.  So much blood erupted into the night air, but I had no time to consider whether the blood was the monsters or are own. And then it was over. We had prevailed, though the foes were strong. 

But not a heart beat later, did another screeching madness of discord announce the coming of another pack, and judging by the awful sound of it, I knew that it would be prudent to take shelter within the inn. Just as I looked to the inn’s door, prepared to retreat before the impending doom, the Kontor’s commanding voice squelched any notion of fleeing the oncoming charge.

Gudkaedes Meskhenet and I obediently linked up again, just before the ravenous pack came into sight. By the time the Kontor yelled, “Inside!” it was too late.
Thola’s magic had concealed her from the wretched beasts of Myterri, and it was her resourcefulness and cunning that we have to thank for somehow reviving us and getting us all inside the inn once the monstrous pack moved on.

But the Beasts of Myterri did not leave us on an empty belly.  Gudkaedes Meskhenet lost much of his left arm to the jaws of the beast, and we are fortunate that that was all that the beast had taken, before being drawn away to some other nearby hunt.

While Gudkaedes Meskhenet has lost an arm, he has gained our utmost respect. His obedience to the Iron Lord’s Mission is beyond reproach, and it is my honor to serve alongside the Rashemi. His story will reach the ears of Mulani and Rashemi back home in Hazlan. His heroic courage will inspire young Rashemi children to aspire to a life of service and obedience to the Iron Lord.

[Iconoclast]

July 30, 770
Entry #6



Missionary life is a day to day struggle here in Barovia. Each new day is laid upon the altar of our Iron Lord, as we devout ourselves to various industries. Thola is often hunched over a cauldron, or in search of scrolls that will enable her with study to master new magic. I spend much of my time mining ore, hammering copper into shape, curing hides and leatherwork, and I am learning how to read wood, which though dead, continues to breathe and move. A carpenter must learn how to read wood, understand how wood moves, as well as the moisture and dryness of the material. Water in the wood travels up and down the fibers, through the ends. While alive, these fibers, these tubes, transfer nutrients from soil to leaves and fruit. When a piece of wood has the grain structure running vertically, the wood will expand with moisture. If one makes the mistake of using wood that is too moist, the structure constructed will be unsound. It may look sturdy and sound for a short time, but as the wood continues to move, it will splinter or become uneven. Therefore, the wood must be dried, not outside, but indoors. Patience is required, to properly prepare the wood for carpentry, just as patience is required in order to accomplish our Mission’s ambitions here in Barovia.

Gudkaedes Meskhenet has recovered his health, and we have dedicated some of our time to martial training. As he learns to adapt to fighting without a shield arm, I have devoted myself to the mastery of the spear. It was in a dream that I beheld a mighty spear coated in flame, upon my first night in this pagan land, and the Kontor says the dream is a sign from our Iron Lord. After many failed attempts, at I last created a perfectly proportioned, balanced spear with a copper head. Though copper is a poor weapon against most foes, copper is useful against shadow fey which haunt the Sullen Woods.

I am not a true master of the spear, not yet. I have approached the Red Vardo offering them a finder’s fee should they find a true weapon master from whom I may receive final instruction. It is my hope that in the coming week I may at last find a weapon master who has the teaching I require towards complete mastery of the spear. 

[Iconoclast]

[Between the last entry and the most recent, the pages are filled with sketches of several Fanes, corresponding to Fanes constructed throughout Hazlan and elsewhere, including long lists of materials, tools, measurements, and diagrams of architectural equipment used by master builders.]


September 5, 770
Entry #7


I returned from my month long pilgrimage just in time to accompany Kontor Nathrack as he was granted audience with the Burgomaster, Svari Ionleus, and his Court. With the Burgomaster being an Ezrite, being granted an audience alone was some small victory. As to our request, we were certain to receive an adamant “No.” However, the outcome was surprisingly favorable, relatively speaking. The Burgomaster replied that his steward was responsible for handling such transactions regarding land purchase or leasing, which now offers us further opportunity to enter negotiations. We must now learn more of this steward, so we may know how to proceed forward with negotiations. Since the Burgomaster’s judgment is impaired by his misplaced faith in our Black Lord’s concubine, cunning woman, as she is, our negotiations may need to appeal more to the secular. After all, the building of a Fane would require many skilled hands, raw material, and would strengthen the local economy.

The Burgomaster, I have no doubt, just as it was written upon the alarmed face of Sentire Murgur when the Kontor was granted audience, would rather not have the Black Lord’s faithful present at all in Barovia, let alone Vallaki. It is out of fear of persecution from the Ezrites, that some of our Barovian faithful keep their faith hidden from their Ezrite Burgomaster. The Burgomaster and his Ezrites will be looking for any opportunity to lawfully remove us from the Vallaki municipality, no doubt. But we are not only a law abiding people, we are a highly disciplined people, and we will not falter upon our most righteous path here in the Grey City.

My vision is as clear to me today as it was on the day I first received it. I envision the building of a Fane here, in Barovia. If not in Vallaki, then elsewhere. On my pilgrimage I travelled from Fane to Fane, studying every aspect of each Fane’s construction. It is my dream to build a Fane here in Barovia, so that the people of Barovia may come to behold the supreme grandeur and might of the One True God.  No longer then, would our faithful be forced to pray daily without a proper place of worship. No longer would our injured and sick be forced to make the long arduous journey outside of Barovia in order to find a true priest. When my dear sister Thola was mortally wounded, I had no choice but to travel the treacherous road all the way back to Hazlan to receive help.

If the Burgomaster and his Court fail to recognize the legitimacy of our request, others must. In the meantime, I recommit myself to the duties of a Gudkaedes in service to our Western Mission.  There is much work to be done, work to be done in the name of the One True God, our Iron Lord.

Gudkaedes Fezim

[Iconoclast]

October 3, 770

Entry # 8



My mind is troubled. There is still no sign or word of Thola. Nor of Gudkaedes Meskhenet or his sister who was expected to arrive. When exploring this wild, heathen land, every day I come upon corpses, old and new. I now find myself having to approach each corpse with the dread that it might be my sister’s or another of our congregation. I am alone here in Barovia. A Gudkaedes in service to a mission that I fear is failing.

While I see the Kontor on occassion, it is a rarity. When I do see him, he preaches loud and clear, but to many a deaf ear out front of the Lady’s Rest in the western outskirts of Vallaki. Then, when his sermon is done, the Kontor retreats to his quiet room, and weeks may pass again before I see him again.

It is not proper for a Gudkaedes to question the Kontor’s resolve and devotion to our most difficult mission, but such worry-laden thoughts arise only in his absence from my day to day life and work.  

Despite my solitude or the mission’s lack of progress, I have not been idle with my time. I have become a true master of the spear, having at last discovered through trial and error the crucial knowledge required for true mastery. I agreed to teach this knowledge to a Dementileus woman, who seeks mastery of the rapier. While Cossette's devotion to this path is unquestionable, it is questionable as to whether or not she will come to accept the Iron Truth. It is only through obedience and self-less duty to our Creator and Lord, the Giver of Law, that we can ever come to experience true freedom from the temptations and vices of Mytteri. So long as my pupil remains respectful to at least the laws of the land, and does not use what I teach her for unlawful pursuits, she will be safe from my reprisal.  But it is not this world she ought to fear, but the Hell of Slaves which is to come should she fail to bend the knee to the Iron Lord and His Church.

I do not possess the Kontor’s wisdom. No matter how many of the heathens I try to reach, my tongue is too unwieldy, my words a weapon too dull to cleave through the deceptive shroud that blinds the multitudes in this pagan land.

I also confess to moments of profound confusion and moments of angst, for I never dreamed of meeting outlanders as strange as these. They come from lands with night skies filled with strange constellations of gods and cities and histories that exceed the wildest of imaginations. I, a Mulani, a noblemen of Hazlan, a faithful, dutiful Gudkaedes of the Church of the Lawgiver, am but a peculiar and exotic foreigner in their eyes, just as so many of them are foreign to me.

It does seem to me that preaching may not be the means to reaching them, for these outlanders have been born into the deceptive web of Myterri from their first breath, each carrying with them a false history and view of the world that they presume to be true. While my spirit is elevated and moved by the preaching of the Kontor, it is because I already know the true history of this world, having had received such wisdom and truth from the start of my humble beginning in this Faldverden.  I already know that redemption and salvation can only be achieved through unfaltering obedience to the Lawgiver’s Church.

Mytteri holds this land and its people in its wicked grasp, and confounds the mind at every turn deceiving the multitudes in countless tongues. The Church of Ezra and the Cult of the Morninglord continue to baptize and gain new converts all to the wicked delight of Mytteri, which is the primeval evil behind every false god's face and teachings.

Though I fear our holy mission here is failing, I am resolute. I will press on, just as Gudkaedes Meskhenet pressed on in the face of the great Neuri who had taken his arm.

I have yet to sail to the island of Blaustein. There, I am told, is a Fane to behold with a Kontor who is wise and present in the lives of the faithful. Winter has come to Barovia, and as the cold deepens to the bone, it may be a fine time to journey by ship across the Sea of Sorrows.  I look forward to exploring the island and coming to know its people, and should the Kontor upon Blaustein require the service of a Gudkaedes, he shall have it.

Gudkaedes Fezim

[Iconoclast]

May 9, 771
Entry #9


I have returned to my former post in Vallaki of Barovia to discover that our Western Mission of the Church of the Lawgiver has made no progress. Not only has it made no progress, but as far as I am able to assess, aside from myself, the mission is in essence, abandoned. I could not bring myself to admit as much, when an Ezrite asked me as to the status of the mission. No doubt, the Ezrite was being smug, knowing full well that the Church of the Lawgiver has made no progress here in Barovia.

The Church of Ezra, however, has continued its “progress” unabated, no doubt helped by the fact that the Burgomaster is an anchorite himself. From what I have been able to gather in just a few days since my return is that the Kontor Koltur Nathraakt has disappeared without a trace. Even during my first stay in Barovia, the Kontor had been rarely seen, and Thola and I had been forced to explore the dangerous land of Barovia on our own. His absence is of no surprise. There has also been no sign of Gudkaedes Meskenent, his sister, nor of my own long lost sister, Thola.

The Western Mission is without leadership, and unless if the Church assigns a new Kontor to take the reins here in Barovia, there is very little for me to do. I am a mere Gudkaedes, a soldier of the Church. I possess neither the wisdom nor aptitude to lead a mission here, and I am afraid of what may become of me, should I linger too long, alone in this heathen land, without the wisdom and guidance of a Kontor. The guile and malevolence of Mytteri pervades every aspect and corner of life here in Barovia. Already, my mind is under siege.

Just yesterday, I was shocked to encounter what at first glance appeared to be a young Mulani man. For the briefest of moments, I thought I had discovered evidence of an active mission after all, that is until the man spoke in a foreign tongue, as he bowed in deference to me. Upon closer inspection of his tattoos, though similar to the Mulani of Hazlan, the tattoos suggest that this man’s origins are from far beyond. After some questions, I confirmed that he was not from the known world, but is an outlander from a land he calls Thay.

Just as bewildering, was that he claims to hail from House Fezim, just as I do, and that his assignment was to serve as a soldier to the Red Academy.  This man was on his way to serve his assignment at the Red Academy when the mist came for him, just as I had been escorting Thola to the Red Academy in Hazlan, when the mist came for us. I cannot make sense of it all, and as the night wore on, my confusion only grew worse as yet another man from Thay appeared within the inn. In a most bewildering conservation, this man from Thay even suggested that he knew of Hazlik, the Red Wizard.

The only power that could be responsible for so much confusion is Mytteri.  In my return to Barovia, instead of finding a Mission of Bane, the Lawgiver, I find these two men instead. For the time being, I am decided to remain here to observe and see what else I can learn. Though admittedly naïve, I still hope that in exploring the wilds of Barovia, that some clue as to my sister’s fate will be discovered. As to these men of Thay? I cannot say, but that everything about them is most uncanny and strange.

--Ossur Fezim, Master of the Spear, Gudkaedes to the Western Mission of the Church of the Bane, the Lawgiver

[Iconoclast]

The Manticore's Renewal



The Rashemi woman removed the hot, wet towel from the head and face of the Mulan man, as he laid back in the barber’s chair at Fortryllendeblaek og Kurbad.  After a few days among the heathen abroad, it was relaxing to be off his guard, a rare respite for the Gudkaede. After, she gently applied a lavender scented lather, before expertly placing the razor’s edge at the base of his neck, her steady hand shaving the blond hairs from his white, pale throat and the image of a Manticore, tattooed upon his scalp.

Eyes closed, his mind drifted to recent events.  For years, he had been carrying the weight of failure. He had failed to protect his sister Thola when in Barovia, disappointing his father, but worst of all, he was disappointed in himself. The Western Mission of the Church, so it seemed, had failed to establish a Fane in Barovia. So too, he believed, had he failed to protect the wise and venerable Kontor Naatharak when in service to the Western Mission.  When Vraylok Kyrillian’s servants had gathered last week, it did not register instantly that the man standing next to him, a whip at his hip, was Kontor Naatharak in the flesh.  It had been the Kontor who had inspired him to devote himself to the Order of Gudkaede, the god-links of the Church of the Lawgiver. He felt he could have fainted, the earth beneath his feet moving, at the realization that Kontor Naatharak was alive.

“Perhaps I am not doomed to failure, afterall,” Ossur Fezim thought to himself, as the razor’s edge slowly made its way over the smooth scalp, “and if the Kontor is alive and accounted for, perhaps Thola yet lives, as well.” 

The Rashemi poured warm water upon his shaved head, the scorpion’s tale of the Manticore swirling at the crown. She gently toweled him dry, then stood back, bowing. A fair man, and one who believed that obedience must be rewarded, both in the Iron Paradise as it is in Nordenval Village, Ossur placed a generous tip in her open palm, then placed a bundle of fresh food upon her table. “For your children.”  The weapon master grabbed his spear, then made his way up the path to the Fane. Noon service would soon begin. He would bend the knee, for there was much to be thankful for.

[Iconoclast]

The Unprepared


        “Truly, Gudkaede, I pray that your father will make a perfect match for you.” She hesitated, then added, “You deserve it.”
He offered his arm to her in reply, at the foot of the Kryllian platform. Seriyah Khorzavi accepted the escort, and laid her small hand gently upon him. His eyes lingered briefly, on her smooth skin, her lips, the flowering tattoos on her perfectly shaved, shaped head. All of it only accentuated her beauty.

        He escorted her under the October night sky to the Fortryllendeblaek og Kurbad, her simple touch upon the skin of his arm, heightening his senses. “Chamomile, peppermint, lemongrass, I recommend, after you sit in the sauna to sweat it out,” he said.  She unlocked arms with him, turning to face him, looking up at him.  “Thank you, Gudkaede. Once I am feeling better, perhaps we can finally visit the Relique together?”
   “It would be my honor and privilege, Seriyah.” 
   At that, she entered the spa in Nordenvall Village, closing the door behind her at the midnight hour. He looked up to the clear night sky, a half moon above, for a long while, and he wondered how few opportunities might remain to have her on his arm, at his side.  Within three weeks, his father, Satrap Cinar Fezim, would announce his decision as to whom his son would marry. Everything would then change. Everything.
   A heavy, heartfelt sigh escaped him, as the stars overhead reflected off his clear blue eyes. He made his way up the cobble, winding road, entered the oaken doors of Nordenvall Fane, and mounted the stairs, climbing upward and upward, until at last arriving.
   Removing his armor, stripping down to the bare skin and barefeet, tattoos that told a story, from his rite of passage into manhood, to his mastery of the spear, he walked to the middle of a wide open circle that stood under the heavens upon the roof of Nordenvall Fane.  Nobody but himself ever trained here.  For nine years, he would wake before the break of day, and spear in hand, he would ground himself and begin flowing rhythmically through the forms, as taught to him long ago by a foreign teacher.  His eye lids relaxed, his breath filled his diaphragm, and then, like a coiled serpent of spiritual electricity, it began to awaken and rise, stretching upward, as his breath expanded into his rib cage, and then rising even higher, up into what his teacher had called the ‘third eye’ of the weapon master. He felt the connection deepen, as if an invisible tether stretched through him, along his spine, through the soles of his bare feet, from the crown of his head, where the manticore’s tail spiraled up to the Iron Paradise in the sky.
   In perfect balance, in harmony with the spirit of the Divine Emperor, from which all true power flowed, the weapon master’s spear sang clear in the midnight air, Myterri’s Bane, the spear now bound to him in spirit, a whirlwind.
   And for at least a brief moment, suspended in time, he escaped the anxieties and troubles of the mind, flowing from one form into the other, as waters of the Saniset River.
   But then it was over, like a sudden thunderclap, his mighty spear slipped from his grasp, coming to a loud clamor upon the stone.  He walked to it, picked it up, and sat, crossed legged, the spear across his lap. For all his training, despite the countless dangers he had faced head on in service to the Lawgiver and Hazlan, he felt completely unprepared for this. 
   Love.

[Iconoclast]

Sleep As Elusive As Jei Aryubaani



Sleep had become as elusive as Jei Aryubaani and the days were so, so long and the nights even longer. Parchment in hand, he crouched down to slide it under Seriyah’s bedroom door at the Dancing Crane. She had been in her room, recovering for days, and he had walked up to her door more than once, but found himself seized by indecision, chiding himself for being such a fool. “Let her rest, you imbecile.”

He felt time slipping away. Even without being married just yet, he felt everything changing. He had written to his father asking, requesting, that before he finalized his negotiations that Ossur at least be conferred with, before deciding his son’s fate: his future wife. And while there was no correspondence, no reply as of yet, he’d catch looks and hear whispers around Nordenvall Village, suggesting in his sleepless state that his father was indeed at work, corresponding with potential wives-to-be or their respective rishads.

He had known this day would come, as it does for most Mulan of any status.  But he had not anticipated this matter of the heart. He had never felt anything such as this before nor had he imagined that such feelings as powerful as this were even possible. “Beauty is the beginning of terror,” a poet once wrote.  The line made sense to him, only now, years after he had read it. 

He stood up, the poem still in hand, leaving the Dancing Crane and a slumbering Seriyah behind. He walked to the fireplace, determined to feed the poem to its flames.  “What are you even doing, Ossur?” he chided himself. He knew he should close the door on the heart. To keep it all in.  Keep to himself. And so he threw himself into duties and his work at the artisan hall, his tasks abroad and at home in Hazlan.

And at the end of another long day, travelworn from his journey to Vallaki of Barovia and back, he found his feet taking him back to the artisan hall, where he had started the day. And there she was, laughing and hugging her sister, Azadeh. 

Seriyah.

His tongue grew heavy.  Ordinary speech failed him. He was grateful when Azadeh chirped, “Gudkaede!  Do you think you might be able to smelt some gold ore soon?  I have a project.”  He looked to the loom and could see she was happy at work.  Happy to have her sister recovered and well enough to be at her side.

He opened his leather satchel, shuffling through his papers. While most of his material had been transferred to the bank in Port-a-Lucine in preparation of a gilding project, he had left some supplies at home. HIs heart skipped a beat as he saw the poem mixed into his claims.  Seriyah standing just a few feet away, though the distance between them felt insurmountable. He handed Azadeh a piece of paper. “This is stored at the Iron Bank.” 

She bounced on her heels with excitement, plucked the claim from his hand, and was out the door, leaving Ossur alone with Seriyah.  Without thinking, without giving himself an opportunity to be sensible, he removed the poem from his satchel and handed it to her.

“Please, Seriyah.  Not now, but…when you are alone later.”

Seriyah immediately clutched the poem to her heart, just as her sister returned through the door. He felt a fool, a tired fool.

A moment’s touch,
A moment’s truth
You and I walking in Nordenvall Village,
Apparently two, but one flame, you and I.
Your beauty in the candles’ light of Blessed Fezima
We feel the flow of the Saniset here,
In Nordenvall
you and I, with the Black Lord’s sky
and the eagles hunting.
If your eyes are the arrow,
Let my heart be its mark
And I rendered your fool.

[Iconoclast]

A Father's Grief

Dear Father,

   I pray this letter finds you in good health and in the hands of God, the Divine Emperor. You may be pleased to be informed that your announcement has reached far and wide, having become the topic of many a conversation both around Nordenvall Village as well as Ramulai, and no doubt, your efforts are well known back home in Sly-var.
   I hope that you take it for granted, that I will do my duty to house and family, and I trust in your wisdom and authority as father and satrap to secure a marriage that will bless our family’s future so that it may produce many heirs and great wealth both in this world and in the Iron Paradise.
   I humbly submit myself to your wisdom and judgment in a matter as significant as matrimony. I also humbly request that before you finalize negotiations, that I be conferred with, especially if you discover more than one suitable match, and you find it acceptable to let me choose between them. I would be grateful and honored in the trust you place in me as your son.
   
With obedience and love,
Ossur Fezim

Had it only been a week since the letter was sent?  It felt much longer.  At dusk each evening, the gudkaede would enter the Dancing Crane to see if there was mail for him. His relationship with his father had become strained ever since the disappearance of Thola, his sister.

As he entered, the Rashemi hostess chirped up, waving him over. 

“Gudkaede Fezim, your father’s here.”

“You mean, a letter from him, jao?”

“Ikke, he has rented out the floor.  He and his retainers arrived while you were on patrol.”

He looked towards the stairs leading up with a flicker of hesitation.

“It’s the bottom floor.” 

He could smell smoke drifting outside before he opened the door to the den beneath the Dancing Crane. He loathed entering it. It was an unpleasant surprise that his father, known for his puritanical stance towards opium and their dens across Hazlan, would choose to lodge in one. As Ossur Fezim walked through the haze, he afforded the Mulan that he saw lazing about, some in a dreamy daze, some unconscious, a look of disdain, a look of judgment.

As he slipped through the tassels of the next doorway, leading to the suite, it felt that he had suddenly slipped into the past.

“Young Lord Ossur!” said an old familiar voice, one he knew from boyhood. Karn, his father’s most trusted, reliable house guard. The same Rashemi who managed Ossur’s martial training in boyhood. “By the Black Lord, you have filled out!”

Despite his apprehension, his father presumably just on the other side of the door, he smiled with affection for the old guard. “It is good to see you Karn. It has been too long.”

Karn’s expression turned serious in a flash, a glance over his shoulder to the door. “Your father is expecting you.”  He opened his mouth as if to say something more, but did not.  The subtle gesture was enough to tell Ossur that something was wrong.

“Best not to keep him waiting then.”

The Rashemi opened the door, ushering him in. The suite was large, but his attention was stolen by the sight of his father. He had aged.  But there was something more to it than that. His father rose quickly and before he knew it, he was in his father’s embrace. It had been years since he’s known any such affection.  Nearly a decade since he fell into his father’s disfavor, for having failed to keep Thola safe, she yet missing and at this point presumed likely dead.

He took a step back, his hands on his son’s broad shoulders. “By the Black Lord, you have grown. You remind me of your grandfather and the knights of old. But come, sit with me.” They sat upon the dais, upon seated cushions, plush and soft.

His father opened his mouth, as if struggling to find words. After an awkward moment, he said, “There is no good way to say this, and so I will just say it.  Dalav is dead.”

The words hung thick as smoke, in the air. “Dalav is dead.” His father turned his head, stealing a moment to fight back his tears.

It hardly felt real. His older brother, the first born and heir to House Fezim, had always lived a troubled life, one of debauchery and he was cruel to the Rashemi at the estate. Cruel for the sake of cruelty.  Not in accordance with House Fezim’s principals and views on how to manage a House and the servants in their care. With authority came responsibility. His father prided himself on how little disobedience was to be discovered among his serfs, and Rashemi of Sly-var knew that they could raise their families and have basic needs met, if they were fortunate enough to be accepted into Satrap Cinar Fezim’s service.

Ossur had been fretting that Dalav would be at the upcoming wedding, for he was insufferable when he was intoxicated, and he was nearly always intoxicated.

“How?  When?  What does this mean now for…” His father interrupted him.

“He was found in an opium den.” His father paused, then added, the grief palpable in the haze. “There was always a…a darkness, shrouding your brother.  Inherited from your mother.”

Ossur lowered his eyes at his late mother’s mention. It was another open wound he lived with, for his mother died while he had been banished from the estate. He was serving the mission in Barovia, deep in winter, the roads impassable for long stretches, when the news finally reached him–by then, she had already received funeral rites and had been sealed within the family’s catacombs.

“Anything at all, Ossur, on Thola?  Any sign or word?” He dreaded this question.  He knew it would be asked. 

With shame, another open wound, he answered truthfully. “No, father.  Nothing.”  His father widowed, his first born son dead, and Thola yet missing, no wonder his father embraced him after so many years.  Ossur was his only surviving immediate family.

They sat in uncomfortable silence, until his father spoke again.

“I have received a letter from Haurvarat, the rishad of House Khorzavi. Tell me about this girl, Seriyah.”

HIs heart skipped a beat hearing her name.  He had feared that Seriyah, whom he had fallen in love with, was already arranged to marry another back in Sly-var.  He had never dared to hope that Seriyah might be available yet for marriage.

Afraid to let his father know the truth pounding in his heart, he measured his words out as matter of factly as he could. “I first met her over a year ago, here in Nordenvall Village. Both her and her sister reside here. Seriyah is an artist, a painter, and she manages the theater here.  She is devout, proper, and an inspiration within our little village.”

His father stared at him, wanting more.

“Her cousin is a newly appointed Kontor of Nordenvall Fane.  Seriyah attends services twice a week.”

He knew what his father would also find important, essential, within any suitable wife for his son, especially now that Ossur would one day become satrap and rishad.

“Your brother was found dead in a den run by or connected to House Khorzavi.”

This news came as a harsh blow. Ossur had always known that his brother’s debauchery would likely be the death of him, but that it might now prevent him from being betrothed to the woman he loved was too much.  Even in death, his brother threatened his entire future and happiness.

“Father, Seriyah has nothing to do with any of their family’s opium business. Her passion is for life, for traveling, for horses, for literature, for family, for art and church. She has nothing to do with opium. Please, I know that if you will receive her, that if you spend some time with her, you will see for yourself just how perfect of a future mother to the heirs of House Fezim she will be.”

“Do you love this girl?”

The question was not anticipated, taking Ossur by complete surprise. Did his father actually care for how he felt?  Or does his father still hold a grudge against him and his happiness?

Up until now, he had kept his love for her to himself, both afraid of it and uncertain as to what to do with it.

“Father, it is my unwavering duty to marry whomever you deem fit, and I trust in your wisdom and knowledge to secure for the future of the family the best of all possible wives.”

“That does not answer the question.”

“I have never lied to you, father, even when I knew it the truth would displease you.  I will not start now.”

“Yes.  I love Seriyah.”

There. He said it. It was the first time he had shared his love for her with anyone.

“Then I will agree to meet with this girl.  I will judge her on her own merits and not that of her family’s. Her dowry is 200,000 soulorbs, and given your affection for her, arrange for her to be presented to me.  Can you do this?”

“Of course, father.”

[Iconoclast]

The Etymology of Courage


The arrival of spring in Nordhazlan took the gudkaede by surprise, as he stepped out from the Monastery of the Iron Path. A Whitelady, freshly bloomed, reflected the moon’s light, grabbing his eye at once in the darkness of morning. The river’s water ran swift and gray from snow melt at higher elevations to the south west. It was yet a couple hours from sunrise, as he untied the boat and began carefully rowing to the other bank. Other than the smell of chimney smoke in the air, he could smell the pollen from the flowering Black Hawthorns across the region.

After tying the boat off, he looked upon a moonlit sleepy village.  It had truly begun to feel like a home, after years serving as a missionary abroad. The air was cold and crisp. This was his favorite time of day. Quiet, dark, the air clean, the ever present sound of running water.

He came to stand along the river bank near the long, stone bridge, statues of the Iron Lord silhouetted along its sturdy shoulders.  A faint glow slowly formed upon the horizon.  As the sun gradually returned, obedient to the Black Lord’s design, to illuminate the work and hearts of man, so that all may be truly seen and judged, the light began to shift through the distant clouds, hues of red, orange, and yellow.

It afforded some measure of reassurance in a world too often fraught by chaos, Myterri. The sun was both beautiful and obedient, as it cast its beams of light through Nordenvall Village. It never failed in its duty, no matter the length of day or night, and even when the clouds boiled and raged, the sun always returned.

And then there she was, walking across the bridge from the fields of Vraylok Kryillian. She came to stand before the obelisk of the Laws of Hazlan, a shaft of morning light upon it, dew glistening upon its etched face.  In the aura of the golden hour Seriyah’s beauty stole his breath away.

He came to quietly stand next to her, looking upon the sunlit script, the edicts of King Hazlik.

“Was your night restful, or spent on watch?” she asked him.

Bare shouldered, he could see she was cold, goosebumps upon smooth, unblemished skin, intricate blue flowering tattoos always in bloom. He removed and held out his wool cloak and she happily accepted, draping herself inside it with a rosy smile. It enveloped her, and he knew he’d always remember this moment.

“Too restless for sleep, but I do take some comfort in the quiet, early hours before sunrise.”

“Ossur, the poem…it has brought me great comfort to read it.  With me being so sequestered lately, having it with me makes me feel that we are together.”

He could not help but blush and feel foolish about the poem, but any self doubts were overruled by his confidence in sharing his heart with her.  He had been in the library within the monastery the night before, looking through a book of etymology.  He found it interesting that the root word in Vassi for courage, ‘cor’, directly translated to ‘heart’.  It would be cowardice not to have given her the poem.  And only now, that he felt true love, did he understand how ordinary language was ill equipped to convey anything as profound as the love he felt for her.  Only art, prayer, poetry, music could serve as any meaningful expression for the ineffable. In prayer each day, when the sun was at its zenith, he thanked the Black Lord for having created such a beautiful woman.

“While I have read poetry in my youth, I had never once been moved to write a poem–not until being moved by you.”

Her cheeks and soft smile began to glow in the morning dew, as she looked up into his eyes..

“Would now be a good time for our visit to the Reliquary?”

“That would make me happy, Ossur.”

He extended his arm, and as her light touch was felt upon his skin, he immediately felt tension release. He doubted any such charm spell from the wizards at the Red Academy could compete with Seriyah’s natural, effortless power over him.  And he was willing to fall under her spell.

He escorted her up the hill, along the quaint, cobbled path, past the Dancing Crane, past the estate of Bishop Taico, past the Iron Bank, and past a row of impaled, severed heads, their skin leathered hard, birds perched atop their skulls, singing with delight. A moral, good society required such measures–reminders as to the fate of infidels, heretics, and agents of chaos–Myterri.

He led her into a small door, off to the side of the large cathedral, at the crest of the hill. Through a long narrow passage, torch lit, he brought her to the reliquary.  He opened the door.  Several gudkaede were always on duty, guarding the holy relics, as pilgrims from the Monastery of the Iron Path made frequent visits, for their pilgrimage to pray before the holy spear of Blessed Fezima would be incomplete without also coming to lay eyes upon many other relics of the faith, including the armor and flail of the saint.  It was a source of great pride that such powerful artifacts had been accumulated, curated, and safe guarded for the public to experience at Nordenvall Fane.

“I have spent countless hours here, sometimes on duty myself, and so please, take the lead and I will be happy to follow.” 

She looped both of her slender arms around his arm, leading him to the first of many relics: the ancient armor of the Nameless King. He slid a ring onto his finger, a soft light began to warmly glow, helping to illuminate the intricate engraving upon the armor.

“This dates all the way back to the First Dynasty,” he whispered, in awe. He could see in her eyes, and the way she made a little ‘o’ with her lips, that the beauty and significance was not lost to her.  It was one of her most endearing qualities, that she felt deeply moved by life, history, and art. While he kept so much of himself hidden behind a stoic resolve, she was his opposite: overflowing with pure delight and emotion.

She led him to the next piece: the armor of Vosshik.

“Ahh, the armor of the great Rashemi hero, Vosshik.”

And so it was, that the two spent the next two hours walking and talking, discussing each piece, their lives becoming more and more entwined, connecting them to their proud heritage while also daring them to dream of a future together.

Seeing the towering, marble statue of the Lawgiver’s Reaping Angel across the room, her eyes flashed with excitement, leading him there at once.

With awe in her voice, “I love angels. You can see how much devotion and time the artist took, when sculpting this. You can see how much the craftsman cared.”

“And it still requires care, so that such works and relics as these by devoted artists can be preserved for generations to come.  The children of our children.”

“It fills my heart with warmth. I would love to return here with children in the future. It is my duty to ensure they know well and are proud of our heritage.”

Hearing her speak such words only further confirmed what was in his heart. “Seriyah, you will make a beautiful mother one day.  Both in passion and in wisdom.”

She beamed a smile and took his hand, “Only with you at my side.”

“And I with you. Church and family.  The beating heart of Hazlan.”

“Ossur, do you….” she signed, softly, “do you think your father will approve of me, even after the….”

It was his greatest fear now, that their future completely resided in the decision his father would make.

“My father is wounded by grief.  First my mother, Thola being missing, presumed dead, and now my brother.  But I believe he will come to not only approve but to adore you.”

He did not say this merely to offer reassurance–he knew his father would love and accept her as his daughter in law, if only they could spend some quality time together, without other distractions. Just the two of them.

“I suppose all we can do now is pray and be patient, though I worry, but at the same time, my excitement grows,” she replied.

“As my own, all the while, Myterri seeks to prey upon my fears.  Terrible dreams of you and I at a wedding, but it is not you I am being wed to. I know it is our duty to marry whomever our rishads say to, but it is only you who I love.”

“I would not wish to be with anyone else, Ossur.”

[Iconoclast]

Falling Eagles
Flailing Hearts


This was not how he pictured it.  Not what he had hoped for.

After their date at the reliquary, his spirits and hopes soared as the great eagles rose high upon the thermal waves of a warming blue sky. Love was reciprocated. Lady Seriyah Fezim.  He could see her name engraved upon a medal plate he'd make for her, to be placed above her door at the theater. He wondered how many children they might be blessed with.  How many daughters, taking after their passionate and wise mother.  How many sons, taking after their father, tall and strong. A proper Mulan family they would be. Devout and proud.

This was not what he had expected.

As Azoth Sepret, a recent graduate of King Hazlik’s illustrious Red Academy and a fellow of The Seekers of Jei Aryubaani, sat across from him sipping his tea, the idea to introduce his father to Azoth occurred to him. He had not seen his father since the night of his arrival, though he knew that he and Bishop Taico were getting along rather well together.

Ossur and Azoth made their way towards the Dancing Crane, just as Kontor Artaxerxes Khorzavi and Seriyah were exiting the ground floor of it.

“Your father is expecting us, Gudkaede,” the Kontor said, as he led Seriyah, his cousin, to the door of the den. Seriyah looked beautiful as always, dressed in her finest silks, appropriately formal, but also sensual, accentuating her curves.  But she mirrored what Ossur felt inside–nerves.

Arriving before the Rashemi, Karn, his father’s most loyal guard, the door was swung open, and their procession was escorted inside.

Upon the dais, sat his father, Cinar, satrap of House Fezim.  Next to him, lounging on pillows, was the venerable Bishop Taico.  His father did not even seem to look at Seriyah, instead staring intently upon the Kontor, who was serving as the representative and spokesperson for House Khorzavi.

This was not right.  Everything felt wrong about it.

Seriyah had told him that her cousin, the Kontor, had arranged for the presentation and meeting, but it did not quite register that the Kontor would be managing negotiations. He trusted Azadeh, Seriyah’s sister, when it came to the art of any negotiation.  With his and Seriyah’s future happiness at stake, and their future in balance on how well the Kontor performed in his role here, the gudkaede had a foreboding and mounting sense of dread.


His father, stern and stoic, was not the same version of the man who had just days ago warmly embraced him and asked him if he had loved Seriyah.  And Seriyah, in this room of brooding, stern men, appeared so incredibly small.  He felt for her in this moment, though he too was helpless to the forces that be.

Ossur clasped his hands behind his back, in an effort to conceal the nerves that shook him. The Kontor took a step forward, bowing his head.

“It is my honor and pleasure to introduce to you, my dear cousin, Seriyah of House Khorzavi.”

Seriyah bowed with due respect, but remained silent, as she had not yet been addressed.

Cinar Fezim did not even appear to look upon her though, instead speaking directly to the Kontor, further distressing his son, who stood helplessly by.

“I am pleased with the dowry offered.  But there is more to it than that.”

The Kontor’s red spectacles rested upon his nose, eyeing the satrap and rishad. The blood drained from Ossur’s face.  This was the moment he was in fear of.  His father was a wounded man, and he held some blame for House Khorzavi for the untimely death of his eldest son. And the Kontor was well known for the infliction of wounds, not the healing of them.

“My house is in mourning.  Has Ossur made you aware of this?”

Bishop Taico leaned back on his seat cushions, seemingly amused by the situation. Ossur looked from his father to Seriyah.  Seriyah bowed her head, a show of sympathy, but remained silent, as her cousin was her representative.

Ossur hung upon the Kontor’s every chosen word, as Seriyah and his happiness depended on what he would say next.

“I have been made aware of the situation, though I cannot fathom how that could have possibly happened.”

At that, Ossur’s hopes were speared, his heart flailing to the floor, like a wounded eagle with an arrow through it.  For in those chosen words, there was a tone of defensiveness, as if the Kontor was really saying, “That’s not possible. Not in any of our opium dens!”

The Kontor continued.

“Our sincerest apologies and sympathies, but what I do know is that this would not be the workings of true Khorzavi hospitality.” 

The eagle ceased its flailing upon the floor, feathers stained by its own blood, its heart cold and lifeless, for what Cinar likely just heard from the Kontor’s mouth was further denial that such a tragedy could ever occur within an opium den run by the Khorzavi. As if opium dens were a place of great well being, and never a place visited by those who suffered from the sobering reality of life’s more mundane aspects.  As if opium dens and tragedies did not go hand in hand in Hazlan or abroad, wherever it was exported to.

It might be said here, in this instance, that the Kontor’s own family pride came before tending to the grief and wound of the rishad sitting before him, and also came before his cousin’s happiness. But what was said, was said, and now there were no take backs.

Cinar forced a smile, replying, “I appreciate your concern, yet my heart remains wounded. I would not place all the blame upon House Khorzavi, but yet some responsibility must be acknowledged.”

“I want to meet with this sister.”

With that, they were dismissed.  Ossur was in a state of shock.  But before he left his father’s presence, feeling desperate, a last ditch effort to bring Seriyah into his father’s life, he tried to offer a suggestion to his father in the calmest voice he could muster: “Father, given your patronage of the arts, perhaps you might find time soon to visit Seriyah at her theater?”

To which, his father did not reply, other than to offer a curt nod, as if to say, “We’ll see.”

 Upon seeing how upset Seriyah was, when they stepped outside, he could hardly bear it. When he saw her happy, he felt her happiness. And when he saw her in distress, his own distress was doubled.

The two, alone, walked to the river’s edge, near the bridge, as night fell over Nordenvall Village. There was little to nothing they could say or do. Negotiations had begun, and so far, it was not progressing as they had hoped.

There were no eagles left alive in the skies over Nordenvall Village that night.

[Iconoclast]

Sisters


The pipe organ bellowed and shook the cathedral, the stained glass windows vibrating within Nordenvall Fane. He could feel the cold stone beneath his knees, rumbling as he knelt before the altar and the feet of the Lawgiver.  Kontor Khorzavi’s voice rang out impossibly loud: “We kneel before the Iron Sovereign to bind His servants together in the chains of marriage!”

Ossur, kneeling before him, facing his bride to be, a white veil concealing her face, the Kontor continued: “Blessed is everyone that FEARS the Tyrant!”

Behind the Kontor, the dark hooded choir sang: “Glory to You, O our Tyrant, Glory to You!”

The Kontor held a ceremonial whip and chains, and as he began to bind Ossur Fezim’s wrist to that of his bride’s, a dread descended upon the gudkaede. 

“O Tyrant, Who by Your might created all things and blesses us with Your purpose, we ask You bless this common cup given to them that are joined in the chains of marriage!”

With his ceremonial whip, he struck Ossur upon the back. “Now rise and proclaim your vow!”

As he staggered to his feet, the ground trembled beneath him, and as his bride came to stand with him, horror reached out to choke him, seeing not the face of Seriyah through the veil, but an ever shifting face: Azadeh Khorzavi, then Farah Quoa, then a Sepret who’s name he didn’t even know, their faces morphing into one another, dozens of shifting faces: all but the face of the woman he loved.

As he turned, eyes wide in terror, he could see that among the choir, were leering faces of the tainted ones: white haired Sithicans, red eyed drow, a winged, scaled woman, a Rashemi half-breed, wretched caliban, a feathered witch. Turning his head, gasping for air, he saw Seriyah, sitting in a pew nearby, tears streaming down her cheeks.

And then he awoke in a pool of his own sweat, gasping for air, bolting straight up, panting.  The Old Hag, some called it.  Night terrors. An anxiety attack in one’s sleep.  Myterri preys upon such tasty treats.

He threw himself at the wash basin at the monastery, ducking his head into its cool, fresh water, then lifting his head, he forced himself to breathe. He hardly recognized himself like this. Falling in love was maddening, and his hopes flailing dead from the sky the night prior, as the Kontor spoke as he did to his grieving father. Was his father, insulted by the Kontor’s representation of Seriyah, now turning a considering eye upon Azadeh, her older sister? While Ossur held her in high esteem, and counted her as a trusted friend, he knew a marriage between them would be loveless–just another duty, an obligation to be fulfilled. It was Seriyah, and only Seriyah, that he’d know happiness with.


Sliding into his silks, he went outside into the brisk morning air. Dawn was just upon the horizon, and there she was, at the same spot they stood the night before. But instead of the same crestfallen and distraught expression he remembered her having last night, it took him by surprise, as Seriyah was smiling and her spirits high. An eagle flew overhead, following the flow of the river, hunting for fish, as she turned to face him, a smile of endearment.

“You seem to be in good spirits,” he said, a puzzled tone.

“Jao,” she said, tilting her head to the other side, looking up at him, “Azadeh consoled me.  By the time I heard everything she had to say, and she heard everything I had to say, I just knew that everything's going to be alright. We gave our cousin a mouthful last night. But Ossur, Azadeh will take care of it! She’s met your father.  We’re all going to have dinner together.” He was surprised and relieved: a reason for hope, though he yet feared that his father was now going to be weighing which of the sisters he’d see his son wed to.

“Azadeh does have her charms, doesn’t she?”

“Mhm.  She’s such a wonderful sister, Ossur.”

Seeing her like this, her hope renewed, filled his lungs with fresh air again.  He felt he could breathe again.

“I know I shouldn’t get ahead of myself, but…can I show you something?”

“Of course, silly.”  He held out his arm and escorted her towards the docks.  He had never been called silly in his life, but somehow, coming from Seriyah, he certainly did feel foolish enough to earn it. He held his hand up firmly, helping her aboard the boat, and saw themselves back to the Monastery of the Iron Path. He led her to the entrance, where two flowering trees stood, their white and pink blossoms cascading down around them.

Her face lit up at once, turning, as if seeing it all in a flash of inspiration, the two of them, with all their invited guests and family upon the spring grass, the river flowing around them, Nordenvall Village, The Fane towering upon the hill over it all.

“Right here, Ossur! The ceremony.  It would be perfect!”

“There’s more,” he said, as he pushed the heavy oaken doors open, and led her down the first hallway, before taking a left, and then another left, leading her to an enormous oak, stained door.  “Have you been in here before Seriyah?”  She shook her head no.

He pushed the heavy doors open and led her into a vast hall, with two rows of tables and benches running parallel, and upon a raised dais at the end of the room, another long table.  It was where the monks and invited pilgrims had room to share their meals together, with ample space. Stained glass windows filtered hues of red and blue light through the room.

“What do you think?”  She took his hand in reply and led him up to the head table and they sat together, facing the room.  Together, it was almost as if they could see the tables occupied, food being served, families being introduced to one another, their honored guests.

“Of course, if you like the idea, I’d then make a large donation to the monastery and see if we could hold both a ceremony and reception here.”

Seriyah smiled softly, “I know how special this place is to you and it would be perfect.”


After seeing her back to the Dancing Crane, he was too excited to try to fall back asleep, and so he decided to take a walk, following wherever his feet would take his restless mind and heart. Black Hawthorne was yet in bloom, and he foraged from the tree through all four seasons, and so he found himself walking towards Ramulai through the Tuskmorke Skoven, filling his herbalist bag with purple flowers.

His life had been so routine prior to this February, and so the state he found himself in now was quite foreign. He didn’t remember entering the gates of Ramulai or walking past the soldiers on post. But as he looked up, standing in front of the Zravgev’s, stood the striking image of his young sister, just as he remembered her looking 9 years ago, before she went missing. Thola Fezim.

She stared at him in disbelief, and then her black umbrella tumbled to the wet pavement, as she rushed to him with outstretched arms.  He recoiled, in a state of shock and disbelief. Was he dreaming?  Another cruel dream. Or was he awake and this a ghost having at last arrived to begin her apprenticeship at the Red Academy?

Azoth Sepret, having just left the Red Academy and on his way to Nordenvall Village, appeared from the corner of his eye. “Is everything alright gudkaede?”

“Azoth!  Do….do you see her?  Or is this an apparition?”

Azoth gave a confused look at the question, but calmly replied, “I do gudkaede. I see her quite plainly.”

Thola melted into his arms, her cheeks wet with tears. Thola Fezim. She then hit him.  “Where have you been!? I’ve been searching everywhere for you?” 

“Where have I been? Thola, it’s been over eight years!”

“Wait….what?”

Though nearly nine years had passed, Ossur could see no sign of aging. While for Thola, she could see that her big brother has indeed matured, filling out into a man in his prime.

“Father forbade me to return home without you and I searched every cave and lair I could find, Barovia and beyond for years, Thola.  Years.  Even when our mother passed away…” he stopped mid sentence, seeing the shock in her face.  He was such a fool. But it was too late. It was said.

Anguish and shock reached her teary eyes. “What? What do you mean Ossur?”

The rest of the day was a dream, but a beautiful one, though he could hardly take his eyes from her.  They all found themselves back in Nordenvall Village, sitting outside for tea, and the entire day was spent with Thola meeting new friends. Azadeh took her by the arm, and by the end of the day, it was as if the two were sisters, having known one another for years. Eventually, when it was just Thola and Azoth again, she asked, “Do you love Seriyah?”

It had been their father just weeks ago who asked the same question.  As a gudkaede of the Church of the Lawgiver, serving at Nordenvall Fane, your feelings on anything are of no consequence. You had your duty until your dying breath.

“I love her.”

Thola had never known her brother to be frivolous with his heart or shown any real interest in any of her girlfriends growing up, despite the fact that they were always gawking at him when he would be out in the training yard with Karn. Her gaze softened at hearing his sincerity. “Then I need to meet her.”

When she could barely keep her eyelids open, he led her to the Dancing Crane.  She would need her sleep, before she’d be ready for the reunion with their father. After she washed her face, and changed into her bedclothes, he pulled the covers up to her chin, gave her a kiss on the forehead, and dimmed the lantern’s light.  Though weary and tired, he sat in the corner of the room, afraid to ever let her out of his sight again. Afraid that if he fell asleep, or if he awoke from this dream-like day, that she would be gone again.

Sisters.




//aspects of the marriage ceremony in the nightmare sequence is credited to the Kontor

[Iconoclast]

Family Reunion


“My Karn, you have gotten old,” said Lady Thola Fezim, having not seen her father’s loyal guard for many years.

Seriyah Khorzavi and her sister, Azadeh, stood nearby in the entryway, dressed in their finest and prepared to once again to be in the presence of satrap Fezim.

“Yes, old,” the middle-aged Rashemi grinned, playfully patting his exaggerated belly, “and well fed serving House Fezim.” At that, Thola smiled, but then tensed, chewing on her lower lip and looking at the door. The door was swung open, the guard ushering them within the den of the Dancing Crane. Holding her older brother’s arm to steady herself, Ossur led his sister inside, with Azadeh gently tugging at her sister, trailing behind.

“Thola!  My little lioness!” cried out Cinar Fezim, as he leapt to his feet, “You have returned!”

With a large sob, Thola wept and ran into her father’s open arms upon the dais. Quietly, as composed as he could, Ossur’s blue eyes welled up with tears, his cheeks soon glistening and wet. Seriyah rested her head upon her sister’s arm, pleased with the sweet moment. Azadeh held Seriyah in her arms, while watching on with a bright smile.
Thola took a step back, still embracing her father, but directing his attention to her brother. ‘Father, my brother has ever been my protector. We were taken by the mists to Barovia, stranded among the filthy heathen. I got so very lost…it wasn’t Ossur’s fault.”

Though Ossur had never confessed to it, he had given up hope that such a day as this would ever come to be.  He had, years ago, come to fear the inevitable likelihood that his sister was dead or lost forever, never to be seen again. And in truth, he had welcomed his father’s harsh punishment and treatment of him since, blaming himself for his failure. He bowed his head, his eyes averted.

“Ossur,” their father began, “You have made this family whole again. Thank you, my son.”

And just like that, the weight that had pressed upon him for so many long years was lifted away. Thola rested in their father’s loving arms.

“It was our Black Lord’s intervention, father, that I give thanks too for Thola’s safe return.” Thola stood next to her father, not having aged at all, since she had last been seen, while everyone else around her was nearly a decade older. “And I have enlisted the help of Seriyah and Azadeh, and others, so that we keep plenty of eyes on her so that she does not disappear from us again.”

At that, Cinar Fezim, the satrap and rishad of House Fezim, looked to the sisters. “Please bring Seriyah forward.”

Tiny beads jingled quietly as Seriyah stepped forward.  She bowed her head modestly.

“Greetings, my lord,” said her sister, Azadeh, stepping forward as well, with a bright smile and elaborate bow, as only one well versed in the decorum of true nobility might.

“My lord,” Seriyah greeted, softly.

“Rarely have I been so touched, as when I got to see your blessed reunion. My heartfelt thanks for allowing us to witness such a precious moment!” smiled Azadeh, her voice ever so confident and warm to the ear. It was as if there was always a silent symphony at play, a music without sound, in her presence.

Cinar smiled at her kind words, a stark contrast to the last time a representative of the Khorzavi House presented the fair Seriyah. He looked upon Seriyah, speaking to his daughter, Thola. “She is beautiful, is she not?”

Ossur, his cheeks yet wet from silent tears, looked from his father to the woman he loved. Thola’s smile brightened her eyes, as Seriyah’s cheeks took on a rosy hue as their attention turned to her. Azadeh held Seriyah’s arm, lending her younger sister by two years her own presence, energy, and confidence.

“She is father. I have gained two sisters, it would seem,” answered Thola. Cinar smiled and looked to Ossur. “My son, do you love this young woman?”

The burden of failures lifted from his shoulders, he no longer averted eyes from his father’s.  With unwavering conviction, he answered with clarity and sincerity, “With all that I am and hope to be, I do cherish and love her.”

The satrap then turned his attention back to the fair Seriyah. “And you, Seriyah, do you love my son?”

With a sweet sincerity that left no room for doubt, she replied, “With all my heart, I do."

“So…we have a wedding to plan, don’t we?”

Their prayers were answered. Ossur and Seriyah looked to one another from across the room. Ossur extended his open hand to her. Azadeh gently let go of her little sister, with a touch of reluctance, always cherishing having Seriyah at her side. Seriyah left her sister’s side to take Ossur’s hand, stealing him to herself.

With a voice wrought with unfiltered emotion Ossur bowed gratefully to his father. “There could be no more perfect wife and mother to our future heirs, father. You will come to adore her as a daughter.”

Seriyah tried not to cry too much, but small tears of joy could not help themselves, as she was elated.

“On behalf of my mother and father,” began Azadeh, “and my grandmother, the rishad of House Khorzavi, I express my great excitement for this union and alliance, my lord.”

“Lady Azadeh, I am pleased to have met you,” he replied. “But I feel I must be honest with you.”

At this, Ossur sensed something strange in the air, unable to predict what his father was going to say next, though perhaps he was going to admit that he had been weighing which of the sisters was the ideal match for his son. He continued, “When your cousin Artraxeres introduced you to me it was my intention to court your own hand in marriage.”

Ossur was floored. It had never once occurred to him that his father, widowed now for five years, would be lonely and ready to take a wife.  Had he been too self-absorbed in his own life to take notice? That his father would have, as many men do, fallen under the spell of Azadeh’s charms and beauty, came as a complete surprise.

His father continued. “But after searching my heart, I find that I still mourn the loss of my dear wife, Triza.”

Thola’s face fell, for while the rest of her family had had years to mourn her mother’s passing, Thola had discovered only days ago that her mother was dead. That her mother would not be back home in Sly-var, when she would eventually make her return, just didn’t feel real to her yet.

“Oh, my lord” replied Azadeh with such grace, “I am honored that you would have considered me, but what pleased me even more is that you have found even greater happiness in the return of Thola.”

“You are a fine example of a Mulan lady, Azadeh. But…I do have a business associate. A good man from a noble family.”

“You are most kind, my lord, and please, remember that I and all of House Khorzavi shall ever be close by your side now, with our dearest Seriyah in your care.”

“I could arrange an introduction, if it pleases you,” the strap continued to say. “He is a satrap under Vraylok Kryillian.”

A smile reached Azadeh’s eyes. Ossur recognized that look in her and knew her to be a woman with dreams, vision, and ambition. “Why, that is most kind of you, my lord. I would be most pleased to meet him, of course!”

“His name is Lord Jharos of House Pertzatis. Perhaps you have heard the name.”

Azadeh’s smile turned into a full-on grin at the mention of the wealthy satrap’s name. “Mhm! Of course, my lord. I make note of all the lords of the land.” 

At seeing that her sister seemed pleased by the prospect of this introduction and possible marriage, any worry upon Seriyah’s face was dispelled, appearing pleased and excited on behalf of her older sister.

“I recall meeting him many years ago, and even then he seemed very old. How old is he father?” asked Ossur, though he realized that perhaps it was best not to interject.

Cinar gave his son a small smile, and replied, “Oh, not much older than myself,” but Ossur knew that not to be the case.

“A perfect age, then,” said Thola, nodding, to support her father’s claim. Ossur let the question of the potential suitors' age drop, and he was grateful that it was not Thola, just returned to her family, being offered to the old satrap as a bride. Besides, Thola was destined for the Red Academy, and it would be some time yet before her father would be willing to marry her off. 

As Ossur and Seriyah left the Dancing Crane, hand in hand, along with Thola and Azadeh, Seriyah exhaled a huge sigh of relief.

“Is this real?” asked Ossur, turning to them. 

“It is my brother,” answered Thola. “Your long ordeal is at an end. A bright future awaits.”

“It is a joyous day,” said Seriyah, just as Ossur, unable to help himself, placed his hands on her hips and lifted her up. Seriyah issued a high-pitched squeak, beaming a smile as she was lifted into the air.

[Iconoclast]

Seriyah - The Moon Lover’s Flower


The very same night of the finalization of their marriage agreement, when all were fast asleep, save for the Gudkaede, he found himself alone in the short hours before midnight, staring clear eyed to the moon up above. There was an unusual red hue to the moon.  He gasped at the auspicious timing, for it was common knowledge that a moon-death symbolized the ending of one era and the beginning of another.

And surely, with Thola having just returned to the bosom of their family, his father having forgiven him after so many years of Ossur carrying the guilt, and now his betrothal to Seriyah, it was indeed a new beginning.

As the tides are affected by the mysterious power of the moon, so too did the Gudkaede find himself drawn to Hazlan’s border and beyond, to a familiar oasis upon the sandy dunes of Muhar, Har’akir. There was no threat of clouds or rain here, ever, and he could observe the coming lunar eclipse without interference.

His feet knew the way, for he had hunted for hides at this same oasis many a time. He craned his head, blue eyes to the sky, as the moon turned red and then eventually darkened and vanished into the black veil of the night sky. The stars that now adorned the sky since the Great Upheaval, shone brighter than ever, and that was when it caught his eye.  As if moonlight was gently glowing from a flower nearby, uneclipsed.

He crouched down and with the precision of a botanist, removed the flower with great care.  The Moon’s Lover flower. His thoughts took him to her, Seriyah. A memory.

—-----------------------------


“Full moon” he pointed.

“My favorite,” said Seriyah.

Watching Seriyah in the moon’s light, she was so incredibly endearing and soft. Her silhouette, a pale softness of a marble statuette of old. A living testimony to the Divine Emperor’s power and wisdom when creating such a woman. 

“It affects the tides, as much as it affects ourselves, some claim.”

“I wonder if we have any writings on such. The moon and the stars,” she mused.  He was a fool under her spell, as she stood next to him, bathing in the moon’s glow. Her button nose, pouted lips and large eyes with long, pale lashes–sweetness and innocence. Purity. He knew it was well worth it, having abstained from women all these years. He had saved himself for her.

“Is there a book that your sister has not read?”

She laughed. “She will probably know of one.”

As Seriyah continued to admire the moon, gazing into the moon’s light with awe and wonder, he admired her instead, his eyes following along her skin, the delicate, esoterically designed tattoos of teal and blue, resembling flowers and vines, as they blossomed and crawled their way over her cheeks and the smooth, crown of her shaved head.

“Have you been to the top of the observatory tower at Midway Haven?” he asked, as Seriyah began to unfurl his cloak that she had been wearing, not wanting to leave him in the cool night air without it.

“I have not,” she answered. She handed him back his cloak, as they came to stand before her door at the Dancing Crane. “You must stay warm, or else I will worry.”
She continued, “Perhaps,” she considered, “we could obtain some sort of viewing tool, like within an observatory and sneak it atop somewhere high, like the Fane! It shall be so very fun!”

Ossur smiled in a manner that only Seriyah could inspire, so much so, for smiling was not his face’s habit, that his cheeks began to hurt.

The Gudkaede, as very tall as she was so very short, laid a gentle kiss upon her forehead. She took his hand for a final squeeze of farewell, closing the door behind her as her cheeks blossomed.

—------------------------


The Rashemi half-breed bowed her head submissively, holding forth a fine, ivory box. Though it was hard to look upon such a fey-blooded half-breed, the Gudkaede was not without compassion for Jazene Voss. It was unlikely that her mother had welcomed the fey’s seed and that Jazene was the product of rape. Being bequeathed to the Church of the Lawgiver, Nordenvall Fane, upon her lord’s death, had brought the half-breed into his orbit. And as such, he did feel some moral responsibility as to the half-breeds spiritual well being.

“My Lord Fezim,” she presented, “the items you requested.”

He opened the ivory box’s lid to peer inside.  He smiled, and without ever having to lay eyes upon the half-breed, removed his coin purse. “How much was it?”

“Two thousand soulorbs, my Lord.”

He handed over three thousand.

“Disobedience demands swift punishment, while obedience merits reward, but your true reward, should you continue to remain obedient and upon this very narrow path, will be admittance into the Iron Paradise. Remember this, always, as no doubt temptations will seek to lead you to the Hell of Slaves.”


—-----------------------


He found Seriyah in the company of Azadeh the following afternoon, both sharing the protection of a black umbrella, outside the Dancing Crane. They had not yet begun to plan, in earnest, for the wedding, and so he asked if he might steal Seriyah away.

“Oh, Azadeh gets me all the time, and you are always so busy. I’d love to enjoy your company, Ossur,” beamed Seriyah.

“Oh, no, I shall be stealing away Seriyah every once in a while, but for now I’m happy to leave you to it!  Besides, I very much want to hear what you will plan, hm?”

With that, Azadeh kissed her younger sister on the cheek, withdrawing from the shelter of their umbrella to take her leave. She chirped, “I will see you soon!” and skipped across the bridge towards the Vraylok’s fields.

Ossur offered his arm and Seriyah smiled, taking it. “Will we sit in the monastery and get out of this rain?”

With much to talk about, now that they had to prepare themselves for a life together as husband and wife, they knelt in prayer before the altar of the Lawgiver, at the Monastery of the Iron Path.

Heads bowed, they held each other’s hands in prayer.

“We humble ourselves at the feet of the Divine Emperor, from which all that is proper and good flows. We thank you for answering our heartfelt prayers, and that I have been found worthy of not only Seriyah’s love and affection, but also her hand in marriage. I pray for your guidance as we now prepare ourselves for the sacred union of matrimony.”

Seriyah squeezed his hands intermittently, following his prayer, and then began her own, her voice soft and sincere.

“I pray you will bless our union with strength, patience, and understanding. May our love deepen with each passing day, and may we always cherish one another. I ask for your blessings on our wedding day, and the days to follow.’

Their voices joined as one with ‘Amen.’  He helped her to her feet and they went to sit in the warm glow of the chapel’s candles.  They had the chapel to themselves this day and it lent itself perfectly to such an important moment in their lives.

“I know we have some important planning,” Ossur began, “but I also feel it is important that we talk about marriage.  Seriyah, your happiness means everything to me. Both our lives are changing and will continue to do so, especially once we are husband and wife. I want to know what is important to you, for your continued happiness?“

“I think that is the right thing to do. There is plenty of time to plan, but once we are married it will be forever, mhm? I know you wish to build a Fane one day, and I will support this dream.  I wish for children.”

He nodded. “Forever,” he said. “It is true that I had a vision, many years ago, of building a fane in Barovia, but life changes, dreams change, and I can think of nothing more important than building a family with children with you. Here, in Hazlan."

Seriyah smiled, more than pleased. “If this is what will make you as happy as I shall be.”

He always told her the simple truth of it. It was his way. “It was not until you came into my life, that this new dream, this vision for the future, revealed itself to me.”

“Do you think you shall continue with your duties as a Gudkaede?” she asked.

And they continued talking, asking questions of one another on how to run a household, manage serfs, parenting, confiding with one another as a husband and wife should, the sun came to set and no longer shone through the stained glass windows that depicted Blessed Fezima baptizing Hazlan with spear and fire.

“Is there anything else that you want me to know, that is important to you, before we are married?” he asked.

“Hmm…” she considered. “What is important for you to know…..I love you!” and she snorted a laugh into her hand.

“Oh Seriyah, I will never tire from hearing those sweet words form your lips.”

“I am so pleased to hear.”

He smiled playfully. “And that you have a little snort hiding in that laugh, I had no idea.  We have much yet to discover with one another, don’t we?” His gaze could not help but to drift across her form, a flash of hunger in his eyes.

“We have the rest of our life together to do so, hm?”

“I know we have planning to get into for the wedding, but….remember how we spoke about the stars, the moon, and the observatory?”

“Jao?”

He offered his hand and together he led her up the cobblestone path that twisted and turned, until leading straight up the hill to Nordenvall Fane. It had been raining so much as of late, he prayed that the rain would stay away just a moment longer, long enough for this moment he had planned for. He led her to a locked door, far to the back of the mighty cathedral, one that rarely saw foot traffic. He was not sure what the other gudkaede would think, if he were observed leading the fair Seriyah up to the roof in the middle of the night, but he did not have to worry about any rumors, as the hallways were quiet and their presence unnoticed.

They climbed and climbed through the stairwell, until at last, he opened a door. Seriyah gasped in surprise and delight, as he led her outside atop the Fane, the night sky stretched from horizon to horizon around them.

He presented her with a finely carved ivory box. Slowly, she peeled the box open, breaking into a wide smile. “Oh Ossur.”

He watched her face, knowing that this moment would be etched into his memory until his dying breath. Seriyah took the Moon Lover’s Flower from the box, raised it to her face to sniff and take in its perfume. She then tucked the bloom behind her ear, removing from the box a letter:

Dearest Wife To Be,
   There is a legend of a flower, so unsurpassed in beauty, that only a rare few dare to believe that such a flower could be in all of God’s creation: ipomoea alba, “Moon’s Lover Flower.”  I too was among the skeptics, until my destiny brought me to you. Upon the midnight hour, after my father blessed our union, my eyes were stolen by the dying light of the moon. Seeing how auspicious it was, I felt myself pulled, as the tides were pulled, towards that distant oasis among the sands of Har’akir.  As the moon eclipsed, marking the end of an era and the birth of a new day, my heart led me to behold the Moon Lover’s Flower. There is only one woman in all of creation worthy of receiving this gift.   
   You are my stars and moon, my love.
My heart. My soul.  My body.  I pledge all to you and our children to come.
With undying devotion,
Your husband to be,
Ossur Fezim

He watched her as she read over his words. “Oh” she sighed, fawningly. “Ossur, you are too sweet to me.”

He placed a hand on her cheek. “And only in you, Seriyah, have I discovered parts of myself that I never knew were there. I love you.”

“And I love you,” she replied, leaning her cheek into his touch, appearing as if she might cry. She laughed a little, as if giddy or embarrassed, from the unconfined affection.
 
She then lifted the telescope, and together, they turned clear eyes to the starry heavens above.
[/size]


//Dialague taken from screenshots between involved characters, and character description based on player's own wording