The Elven Story of Creation

So it was that in the beginning the Great Ones ruled. Theirs was the realm of the pure, of perfect ideals, and they floated in the void and were the void. Timeless, the Great Ones co-existed in pace until the great war. It is said that each of the Great Ones grew jealous, and each sought to usurp the other until, as one, they rose up in bloody battle. For seconds or for eons they clashed, and their battles spanned across the stars. In the end Rem the Sire perished in an effort to protect his brethren, and thus we call him Rem the Slain. The body of the Slain One became the earth, and so was this place made. His blood became the oceans, his bones the land. And from his body arose his children. From his hands, Bromra; He of beasts and the hunt. From his sex, Lataleh; She of the harvest and life. From his crown, Somrahn; He of the sky and the heavens and all they contained. And from his slowing heart, the nameless and faceless one; it of death, and of the end of all things.

So the Great Ones left alone the earth, for it was the providence of Rem the Slain and his children, the Gods Themselves.

They set out to fill the earth that was their sire's body.

Lataleh kissed the earth and brought from it life. The ground flourished with trees and plant, and to each she gave a name and a purpose. From the clay of the earth, Bromra crafted animals to inhabit the world. Lataleh breathed life into them, and they covered the land. Bromra gave to each a role to fill, a way to thrive, and taught to each what it was to live.

Above them, Somrahn forged the sun, the moon, and the clouds, and these he seeded to grant rain and snow and light upon the earth below. He declared to never interact with his brethren, and he would provide his blessings to those below him.

And the nameless one, he without a face, lurked on the edge of things, and did not participate as the earth was made. When it was done, he said, What is this, that there is no one to appreciate out handiwork? So together the children of the Sire made the Elf, so that they might look in wonder upon all that had been made. Lataleh gave them love and life; Bromra gave them the skill of his hands; Somrahn gave them wisdom and thought. And to them the nameless one gave them death. For, as he said, if they are endless as we are, they shall be as us, and they shall never appreciate the gifts we have given them. So he gave his gifts to all that had been wrought, to elf and animal and plant and stone and sky and thought.

In time the other races came into being. From the moon came the vampire, and they worshiped her above the four who had been born of the Slain One. From the sun came man, and they were the youngest and proudest of the races. They did not acknowledge the old gods, and in time they created their own idols to worship. Though the sun and moon were in the domain of Somrahn, he turned his eye away from them, creations of his that had given rise to alien things. Though the others blamed Somrahn, in the end it was not, really, his fault, and nothing was done as man and vampire spread across the earth. The gods removed themselves; let the creatures war with each other as they may.

So it was.

Now, Lataleh never forgave the nameless one for his impudence and transgressions. The faceless one stole from Lataleh; its gifts a purposeful rebuke to her; blatant theivary. When came the time that Lataleh went beneath the earth to restore life to those that had died, winter came, and so the faceless one reigned. The cycle continued, with each year Lataleh weeping for her children who would die, and then raising them once again as the faceless one unmade her work, year after year.

So it was.

In time Lataleh confronted the faceless one and said to it, Because of you I shall never be happy. Because of you my children live in fear with the knowledge that one day they will die. And the faceless one said, They should not fear the end of things.

Stay out of my realm, Lataleh said, but it could not be so, for the faceless one had brought death to the world.

However, the faceless one felt for his sister, she who had come from the Slain One, and said, I shall grant you one thing, one deathless thing that I shall never visit. I shall never end its life and never bear its soul away to the comfort of its brethren in the time-after-life. It shall be yours to nourish and care for all the days of its life, and the days of its life shall be endless. I warn you though, that even if it should beg for death, I will not grant it that. It shall live outside of my grace and realm, and it will be yours utterly.

To this Lataleh agreed, and so the two gods lay together and conceived a child which Lataleh birthed. Yet from her womb came not anything that looked like elf or god, but a seed. Lataleh took the seed to the most fertile ground she could find and planted it there, and every day she nourished the seed until it sprouted, and year by year it grew taller and stronger until it was a tree, the mightiest tree that Lataleh or indeed the world had ever seen. Its trunk was wide, its branches thick and many, its leaves the green of emeralds, its flowers more beautiful than any other, their perfume wonderful and wild. Even in the depths of winter the tree retained its leaves, but its branches did not break beneath the weight of snow and the leaves stayed green despite the cold. Yet for all this the tree produced no seeds. It would have no offspring. Lataleh mourned this, but true to his word the faceless one did not come near the tree that was its child as he had promised.

So the deathless tree lingered throughout time. Many an elf has sought the tree, for it is said that its flowers scent can make any fall in love, and a taste of its bark will cure any ill, and that a drop of its sap will give eternal youth. Many have looked, and none have found it, for Lataleh hid her deathless child well.

Visitations

Misty and chill the morning dawned. Reia shivered when she woke. Summer was passing, soon to be replaced by the harvest time. If the humans insisted on coming still, well, that would be trouble for them. As the autumn marched into winter and Lataleh, Goddess of Seed, laid to rest the earth would lie cold and bare, and the elven lands would be impossible to enter. Let them try. Winter would claim them and the nameless god would take them into its fold.

 In due time.

Rahnn had already risen, the pallet and furs beside her were already cool. She dressed and left the shelter, stepping into the quiet bustle of the village. Some of the elves uttered greetings to her. Most remained intent on their work. Children ran about, chasing after terrified, whirring birds or play-fighting with sticks. A boy still too young to have horns almost ran straight into Reia. “Careful, Tamar,” she said. Tamar ran off without acknowledging her. Reia snorted.

Old Irah was on cooking duty that morning, so she lined up at the cookfires and took a bowl of grain porridge from him. “You alright this morning, Reia?” he asked. He sat on a stool made of woven branches, his one foot resting on the ground. His right leg ended in a stump above where the knee had been. The remainder of the leg was wrapped in cloth and propped on the stool, next to his cane. It looked ugly, a short little lump of thigh-shaped flesh sticking out of him. Useless. Reia could still remember the explosion of blood as the bullet struck Irah's leg, the way his face went slack as he collapsed to the ground, the ruin of his leg twisted out sideways. The healers thought he'd die, from blood loss or infection or worse. But the nameless god did not see it fit to carry Irah away then. Though wasn't it crueler to let him linger like this?

“Fine,” she said, and thanked him for the porridge. She ate alone, trying not to look over at Irah and his stump. It made her leg ache.

It took her almost an hour to find Rahnn. She finally found him at the village's edge outside a small tent. There were no other shelters and no cleared spaces. Just the trees and brush of the elfland forest. “Rahnn? Rahnn, what are you doing here?”

He indicated the lonely tent. “The prisoner. I've been trying to learn what I can from him. He's been isolated for a week now eating nothing but water and bread. Hasn't heard a single elf or man speak to him. I think he'll be ready to talk now.”

“About what?”

“Mordania. What they have planned. Where they're going. What they're doing here. Anything I can find out.”

“And you think he'll talk. To you.”

“I think he'll talk to anyone at this point.” He moved to pull aside the tent flap and walk in. Reia grabbed his wrist. “Reia...”

“Let me help.”

He looked amused, the edge of his smile making his dark eyes crinkle. “How are you going to help? You don't know enough of the man-tongue.”

“I can rip out his man tongue,” she said. “If he tries anything...”

Rahnn chuckled and kissed her on the forehead. “Alright. Threaten him if you need to. But I don't think you'll have to.” He held the flap open and gestured for her to go in. Reia ducked under the leather flap and entered. It took her but a second to adjust to the dim light inside. The tent was small and smelled like damp earth, unwashed man and waste. Reia wrinkled her nose. The prisoner sat huddled in the back, ankles bound together and tied to the tent poles. Crumbs were scattered around him. He was hunched over himself, hugging himself and rocking back and forth very slightly, muttering to himself now and then in his harsh language. When Rahnn squeezed himself in next to Reia the three of them filled up the tent almost entirely.

Rahnn nodded to Reia, and she prodded the prisoner with the handle of her knife. He jerked his head upwards, staring at Reia with unfocused eyes. His cheeks were covered with a scraggly beard, his hair limp. He muttered something, and Reia thought she heard him say 'elf'.

“Shut up,” she hissed, and bared her knife at him.

Rahnn touched her on the shoulder and bent down to the prisoner's eye level. He spoke softly in the man's own tongue, a short sentence. From what little Reia knew of the Mordanian language he was asking a question. To his questions, the man said, “No.” So Rahnn asked another question, and received another, “No.”

Reia slapped him. “Answer him!” she snarled. It was in elven, but she knew her intentions were clear.

“Reia...”

She seized the man by the collar of his soldier's uniform and held the knife against his throat. “I kill,” she spat, using the few words of man-tongue she knew. “Kill.” The man's eyes fluttered back into his head and his mouth moved around silent words. He made a sound like, “Pleese.”

Rahnn touched Reia on the hand and she pulled her knife back with a jerk, and bared her teeth at the man. He swallowed, the lump in his throat bobbing up then down, and looked at Rahnn. How much easier it must be to trust him, she thought as she settled back on her haunches and Rahnn began to talk. He was a leader. A natural one. When he spoke, elves listened. He could lead a pack into battle or to the hunt. He understood people. He'd be chief one day, she knew, and maybe she'd be at his side as his mate.

More to the point, it was easier to trust someone when they weren't the one holding a knife to your neck.

It looked like the prisoner was cooperating now. He was certainly nodding a lot more. Reia recognized a few words, mostly 'Mordania' and 'men'.

“What's he saying?” Reia whispered close to Rahnn's left ear.

“He was part of a scouting unit,” Rahnn said back in elven. “He says more were coming.”

“He was the last one left of the scouts. The rest of them have no way of knowing what happened.”

“He said, in that case, that the larger units would delay their exploration.”

“You mean invasion.”

“It will be another three days, perhaps, before more arrive.”

Reia stood as best she could in the cramped confines of the tent. “Then why are we sitting around here? We need to set up defenses, send out scouts. We have the advantage over them!”

Rahnn nodded, then said something to the man, and stood to leave.

The man shouted something, and both of them turned to him. He stared at Rahnn with wide, pleading eyes. He made the “Pleese,” sound again, and then something else.

“He wants to see the outside,” Rahnn said. “To see the sun and the village. He wants to see people again.”

“No,” said Reia. “He does not belong near the village. Let him rot here and be grateful for it.”

“He can do no harm,” Rahnn said to her in a quiet voice. “I will keep him bound. Keep your knife to him if you want, but I will not deny him the simple pleasure of the sun.”

Reia looked at him, scrutinizing and wary. I cannot trust the man. But prove me wrong, Rahnn. You always have before. “If he tries anything,” she said, “I will kill him.”

Rahnn nodded. “Very well. It shall not come to that. I will be certain.” He spent a moment exchanging words with the man before untying his ankles from the tent pole and binding his hands in a length of rope. He pulled the man to his feet, forcibly, and pushed him towards the tent flap. “After you,” he said to Reia. She ducked out.

When the prisoner stepped into the sunlight he gasped, blinked, and shielded his eyes with his hands. Rahnn stood behind him, one hand gripping the man's shoulder. Reia kept her hand round her knife handle. Eventually the man pulled his hands away and looked around him. A tear rolled down his unshaven cheek.

Reia felt jumpy, on alert, as if she were hunting in the woods. She held her ears erect, eyes sweeping back and forth but focused on the prisoner as Rahnn guided him forward. She realized she was walking lightly on the tips of her hooves as if to remain silent in the presence of prey. But this man was no prey. He was weak and pathetic, a coward who had given himself up to the enemy and spilled secrets for fear of his life. He was a man. Reia had lost count of how many men had died at her hands. Try as they might they would never take the elflands. They never had. Still, she kept her grip on her knife. “Hurry him along,” she hissed to Rahnn. “I do not like this.”

All the while the man muttered to himself, or to Rahnn, though Rahnn never responded. The prisoner would pause between his inane man-tongue ramblings and then speak again, fast and feverish. “Is he mad?” Reia asked.

“I cannot hear what he's saying,” Rahnn said. “I do not think it matters.”

They reached the village's edge. Some of the elves wandering about stopped what they were doing to get a look at the prisoner. A few of the children came close to him, staring. “Stay back,” Reia said. “Stay away from him.” To the prisoner, she showed her knife and held up one finger. “Tell him he has one minute. Then back to his tent.”

The prisoner looked around him, eyes wide, back and forth, and back and forth. And he spoke, so soft that Reia almost did not hear him. He said one of the words that Reia knew: “Kill.”

The sound of men's guns filled the air, the sharp crack-boom. Screams. Shouts. The stench of burnt gunpowder. Reia grabbed the man by the hair and shoved the tip of her knife under his chin. “What have you done?” she yelled. “Was this you, you fucker?” But he couldn't understand elven, so he only twisted his head away from her.

Mind mage, she realized then. He'd let himself get captured so he could tell the other soldiers how to find the village. He hadn't been mad, but speaking to soldiers over great distances. “Fucker!” The mage glanced at her, head still twisted away, and his eyes met hers. Reia dragged her knife across his throat, savoring the feel of hot blood running down onto her hands. She snarled and pushed his body to the ground. “Get the warriors together!” she shouted to Rahnn. He was already running through the village, shouting for everyone to arm themselves. “Arm for battle!”

Tamar ran towards Reia, shouting to her. “Reia, Reia! What's going to happen?”

She knelt down to his level. “We are going to kill the humans. You are going to help get everyone to safety. The children and elderly, anyone who can't fight off the men.”

“I want to fight!” Tamar puffed out his chest and fixed Reia with a severe expression. On the face of an eleven-year old elf without his horns it looked comical.

“Can you handle a bow?” Reia asked him.

“No, but-”

“Can you use a blade?”

“I did once before, but-”

“Could you kill a man without a second thought?”

“Yes!”

Reia shook her head. “They have guns, and they can kill you as easily as thinking. One day you'll help defend our home from the invaders. But not today. There will be plenty of time later to kill them.” Tamar scowled, but he didn't say anything and his shoulders slumped in a gesture of defeat. “Go.” He ran, thin legs flying over the ground.

The trees outside the village were swarming with men when Reia arrived, bow in hand. She whispered a prayer to the god of the hunt and let an arrow fly. It thrummed as it flew through the air and over the head of her target. Reia swore, then ducked low into the tangle of roots near the ground. Bark and dirt showered over her as a bullet struck the tree behind her. She winced. By a quick count she guessed at thirty men, and those were just the ones she could see from here. There would be more. She could hear them.

Reia scrambled behind the tree as another bullet struck the ground near her. The burnt stench of gunpowder filled her nose, so thick that it drowned out everything else. When this was done, she thought, the village would have to be moved, far away so the men wouldn't find them again, and far away from the metal smell of battle.

Up the tree she climbed, fingers grasping onto branches, hoof points digging into the soft wood. She nestled herself amongst the branches, watching the men below her advance. One arrow, and one man collapsed to the ground, a shaft sticking out of his belly. Before he'd hit the ground she had another arrow pulled back in her bow, her sights on another man. She found her mark just below his throat.

Through the shroud of brown and green in the forest, she saw a flash of orange and smelled something harsh and chemical. She looked to the rear of the advancing men. There she saw one with a long, heavy-looking gun venting steam. And when he held it up, it spat fire. “Kill the fire gun!” Reia screamed, and shot at him. Her arrow was lost in the tangle of low-hanging branches between the two of them. He was too far away, too well-protected. She heard her packmates shouting amongst each other.

Reia climbed back down the tree, slunk to the ground and circled wide around the advancing soldiers. She crouched low, almost flat to the ground; waiting, breathing hard, and when a soldier walked past her, not six feet away, she put an arrow through his leg. He fell screaming to the ground, and she dashed out and slit his throat before anyone noticed. Then she slipped back into the trees and moved on. Another arrow here, then there. Far off she could see others doing the same. They'd take the men from the rear and kill them before they realized what was happening.

And then she'd go back to the village make sure that Rahnn never hear the end of this.

She readied another arrow. She could see the man with the fire gun now, close enough that she could hear the steady hiss of the flames. The forest around him burned. Ferns, moss and leaf became delicate black skeletons and crumbled into nothing. Flames licked against trees, the bark sloughing off and sap bubbling like angry water. The ground under his heavy boots was black, grey, and dead.

“May the faceless one take you to an eternity of torment,” she whispered, and drew her arrow back, fletching to cheek. She straightened her fingers.

The moment the arrow flew from her fingers the soldier turned. For a second Reia saw herself reflected in the fiery lenses of the soldier's goggles. The liquid flames jetting out of his gun trailed behind him as he turned, tracing his movements. The air hung still, warm and heavy. And then everything was washed in white heat, so hot that she couldn't feel anything anymore. There was only the flames. She opened her mouth to scream (to scream, that's what she should do), but there were no sounds, just heat and ash. She couldn't see the soldier, the faceless soldier with his goggles and the red eagle of Mordania on his sleeves. Just the fire...

“Reia?”

She jerked her eyes open. She wasn't aware that they'd been closed. She was on her back, staring up at the starless sky. But where were the trees? Where were the signs of the battle that had just been fought? “Is anyone there?” she called out. “Anyone?”

She heard the whisper-quiet sound of fabric over grass, even though she couldn't feel any grass under her. From the still darkness behind her emerged a tall, slender elf. It was dressed in long grey robes, but its face was devoid of any features. “No.” She crawled backwards away from the god, but her limbs were stone and they wouldn't move. “No!” she yelled. Her heart hammered against her chest, but for how much longer? The god's eyeless face turned to her, but it kept walking, on through the darkened place and on and on until it was part of the black horizon.

“Reia?”

She opened her eyes. She was on the ground in a darkened shelter, a blanket wrapped around her. Smoke-stained timbers over hear head. Not trees and not blackened sky. Elves stood around her, including the village elder. “You are awake,” the elder said. In the half-light Reia could see that he looked drawn and weak.

Reia pushed herself onto her elbows. “What – aaaah.” The rest of her thought ended as pain lanced through her body. She collapsed back onto the pad beneath her.

“Don't move,” Loram the healer said. “You've been burned.”

Reia flung back the blanket, ignoring the protests of the others. What she saw made her hiss in pain, or shock. Her right side, leg and torso both, were wrapped in cloth bandage. Now she could smell it too, the heady stink of poultice, blood and char. The smell of her failure. “What happened?” she asked. “The battle...”

“Two days have passed,” the elder said. “All is at an end.”

She groaned. The memory of the nameless one was fresh in her mind, and she half-expected it to slip into the shelter, bending its tall frame under the entrance and watching everything without comment, waiting and waiting...

“What happened?” she asked again.

It took a moment for the elder to respond. “The warriors could not keep the men from entering our village. In the end we managed to kill them all. We, and one very angry wurm disturbed by the sounds of guns.”

“Casualties?”

“Many.” The elder inclined his head.

“The faceless one lingered here for a long time,” Loram said. “Over forty elves we have lost, and more than just the warriors.”

“The rebuilding will take some time. Crops to be replanted, shelters repaired. Dead to be buried. I fear that we may not be safe here any longer. We may have to move deeper into the forest. Our brethren settlements throughout the land may not be safe either.”

Reia licked her dry lips. “Where is Rahnn?”

A flurry of glances passed amongst the other elves. The elder bent down and touched her hand gently. “Reia. He is not with us any longer. He-”

Reia pulled her hand back from the elder's dry touch. “Don't tell me that he died valiantly. Don't tell me he died. Don't tell me!” Not Rahnn, not Rahnn. Never him. He'd never lost a battle. Mordanian men died before him. He could not have been killed by one of them. He was going to be the chief one day.

The faceless god turned to her and moved on through the darkness. Not my time, but someone else's...

“Get out,” she managed to say. “Get out. All of you.” She told herself that she would not cry, because there was nothing to cry over, because Rahnn wasn't dead. He wasn't he wasn't he wasn't.

The humans would die for this.

She bit her lip and shut her eyes.

The world of MIGHTY

At a glance:

The First Union:
The western continent was once made up of nineteen competing kingdoms.  When the threat of the eastern Mordanian Empire grew too powerful for any one country to oppose, the western kingdoms united into a single power, the First Union.  The capitol of Harrington became Central City, the capitol city of the First Union.  The First Union is a constitutional democracy.  A president is elected every four years, and a governor resides over each of the nineteen kingdoms-become-provinces.  The First Union is famous for its team of mages residing in Central City, the Mighty Men, and the deathray constructed at the end of the Civil War with the southern provinces.
The north of the continent is hilly and temperate, while the south is more pastoral and warmer.  The southern city of Revival is a growing port town.

Mordania:
The eastern continent consists mostly of the Mordanian Empire.  Originally many smaller nations, Mordania subjugated them under the force of its powerful military.  The capitol of Mordania is Helmberg, the seat of the Emperor.  The current ruling house is House Rorian, which only recently came to power.  Succession to the throne is hereditary.

The Elflands:
Protected to the north by rivers and to the south by the Nightfangs, the Elflands are thickly wooded and nearly impossible to navigate.  The forests are fiercely guarded by the elven natives, and though there have been many attempts to conquer and contact the elves, none have succeeded.

Xima:
Also called the Cradle of Night, Xima is home to the vampires.  It was once known as the Glorious Kingdom, where vampire kings ruled the country from their mountain castles.  In recent years Xima has opened its borders to trade, though humans are understandably wary of the Ximians.  Though the vampires generally consume animal blood (cattle and chickens are the most common) and rice, human blood is still a favorite.  What humans once lived in Xima have long ago fled or been hunted to death.
The temple of Sacred Night is the largest of the temples on Xima.  Vampires worship the moon and believe that they are her children.  They fear the sun.

Yoreland:
Considered by many to be quaint or backward, Yoreland is isolated from the rest of the world and largely keeps to itself.  Much of Yoreland is made up of rolling hills and green pastures.  Moors is the only city on a comparable scale to the southern continents.  The Taltale mountains in the south are home to Malice Tower, the seat of House Malice.  The mountain where Malice Tower is built is not considered part of the country.
To the north lie the Shrouded Isles, a set of islands largely uninhabited and covered in perpetual fog.

Inoor:
Inoor is divided into three sections by the massive Mount Masongi; the west, north, and east.  A rich and fertile country, Inoor is nonetheless one of the countries least touched by the technology of the rest of the world.  The northern region is influenced by the First Union, which can be seen in the northerner's style of dress and the more modern city construction.
There is no central Inoori government.  Instead each region sends the wisest and most learned individual to a temple on Mount Masongi to discuss and guide state affairs.  Most cities and villages are self-governed.

The Sea of Snow:
Many small island nations make up the frigid Sea of Snow.  Winter storms plague the seas for most of the year, and permanent ice flows cling to the edge of islands.  The islands are rich in petroleum, metals, and other natural resources.
The islands are currently under Mordanian rule.

The Blasted Land:
A wasteland.  The remains of a former civilization are found here.

Questing for Adventure

“Come on, Quinn!” Neil bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, nerves jittering with excitement. He looked down the slope of the high hill to where Quinn was struggling to climb up. She pulled herself up the slope using protruding branches. Her feet slipped over moss-covered rocks and wet grass, but she finally, finally, made it to where he was, breathing hard through her snub nose and brushing the dirt off the front of her clothes. Her red hair was coming out of its tight braid.

“How much further is it?” she asked.

“I don't know,” Neil told her. “That's why it's an adventure!” He turned and continued walking, this time down the other side of the hill. It was grassy but steep, so Neil had to walk almost sideways to keep himself steady. It was the third hill they'd climbed today. The further they got from Dormer, the fewer people they saw and the more trees they found. Soon there might not be any sign of people at all.. They would really and truly be somewhere magical, then.

“So an adventure is just wandering until we find something?” Quinn asked. He could hear her close behind him, but she'd fall behind him eventually. She always did.

“No, an adventure is exploring. We know what we're looking for. The Nowhere Lands,” they said together. “And when we find them, there's all sorts of adventures we can have there!”

 “But what if the Nowhere Lands are just a story?” Quinn asked, as she always did. “What then?”

“But what if they're not?” Neil said, as he always did. “I don't want to miss out on that if they are. Besides,” he added, skipping down the hill, “where did the stories come from?” Quinn had nothing to say to that.

The landscape rolled on around them, endlessly green and lush. The Taltale mountains loomed behind them, dark and distant, their tops white with snow, their bases covered in trees and fog. Here and there little mushrooms grew, cream or red. Beneath a spreading oak tree Neil found a ring of mushrooms growing in a perfect circle. He pointed it out to Quinn. “A fairy ring,” he said. “A good sign.”

“Fairies almost never leave Nowhere.” Neil knew that despite the doubts she constantly voiced, Quinn knew the stories by heart. They all did. Everyone in Dormer and probably everyone in Yoreland grew up hearing the Nowhere Land stories. Maybe everyone in the world did. Nowhere was where magic came from. “What are they doing out here?”

Neil put his hand into the middle of the ring. It just fit. His palms came away damp, clumps of black soil sticking to his pale skin. “Whenever they leave,” Neil said, “they're on a mission. From the Autumn Elk, usually.”

“Or they just want to cause trouble.”

“But that still means they were here. And that's something.” The two of them moved on. The terrain became even wilder. Trees were taller, branches larger so that the sun was almost blocked out. They walked until they were hungry, and then they ate the apples and scones that they had stuffed in their pockets.

“Maybe we should head back soon,” Quinn said. “I don't want to be lost out here in the dark.”

“We won't be lost.”

“Oh really?” she asked, raising an eyebrow in such a fierce imitation of Neil's Ma that he found himself recoiling from her, but her eyes were sparkling with amusement. “Where are we now?”

Neil opened his mouth to answer before realizing that he wasn't quite sure. “Yoreland,” he said.

Quinn sighed. “So we're already lost.”

“No! We're not!”

“Let's go back. Neil, this is stupid...”

“Just a little further, Quinn, please!” This always happened, with him begging her to go on a little more, and then a little more, and more. “I know we'll find something soon! We already found the fairy ring. And faith is the key to finding Nowhere.”

He could see her considering it, frowning and crossing her arms, fidgeting. He knew she would agree to it, but she had to say it...

And at last she said, “Fine. A little longer.” A little longer brought them to a stream that babbled and glugged its way down the hill. Neil followed close to its winding course with Quinn right behind him. “This has to go somewhere,” Quinn said. “A lake, maybe. Lake Locks, I bet.”

That might be good. There was one story about a powerful mage from the Nowhere that had crossed into Yoreland through a lake. The mage, whose particular powers had let him walk through water without having to breath, had climbed down to the bottom of a lake in Nowhere and emerged in a Yorish lake.

The ground turned down once again. The stream grew thinner until it was just a just a trickle of water running down a stony staircase. Moss grew over the slippery rocks, and the low-hanging trees made a green tunnel. Halfway down the steep slope Neil slipped, the wet rocks flying from under him. He landed hard on his backside, and pain flashed across his back. “Aaargh.”

From further up the hill, Quinn gasped, then called down to him. “Neil, let's go back. We can try again tomorrow.”

He stood up, brushing the dirt and water from his trousers. His backside smarted, and there was a cut on his hand that he hadn't felt. He wiped the cut off, but it just stung more. “Look.” He pointed downhill. “We'll go to that bridge and then we can turn back.” Or he could convince her to go further. There was a tiny part of him that was sure, or mostly sure, perhaps, that any sort of quest for the Nowhere Lands would end in failure. If they were real, and they could be found, why had no one done it before? He'd discussed this with Ma and Pop and Quinn many times before. It took someone pure of heart or powerful in magic to find the Nowhere. Sometimes both. There must have been others before who met those requirements, but maybe, just maybe, he and Quinn were the first who really were the right ones...

The bridge was old, perhaps a hundred years old by Neil's guess. It was made of stone, an arc that ran over the stream. It must have been a cow path in older times. Perhaps it was still used. “Just under there...” His voice echoed under the dark stone bridge. For one moment his world was cool darkness, the echoing sounds of boots splashing through water, and the growing light at the other end. Then he was through, the green-tinted sunlight brushing his face and sounds returned to normal. Quinn came splashing behind him moments later.

“See anything?” she asked.

Neil frowned at the landscape around him. “No,” he admitted, heart sinking. Had he really expected to find anything? How foolish.

A sudden gust of cold wind at his back made Neil shiver. He wrapped his arms around himself as Quinn did the same. “Let's go back,” she said. They turned around to head back under the bridge.

The problem was, that was no longer possible.

The stone arc of the bridge was lined with golden light. A cold wind came whistling through bridge, and instead of seeing the other end of the stream, there was a winter landscape, all snow and bare trees. The cold wind stirred Neil's hair. Snowflakes drifted out, landed and then melted on Neil's skin.

“Oh my gosh,” Quinn whispered.

“This is it.” Neil stepped forward to the bridge. He hesitated for a moment and, ignoring Quinn's gasp, stuck his arm under the bridge and into the winter. His hand and lower arm became cold, but he could still feel the warmth of the late summer day beating down on the rest of him. It was a very strange feeling. “Should we go in?” he asked in an undertone. Before Quinn could answer something shuffled its way through the snow to the bridge. It was a man, or something man-sized, dressed in a long cloak and hood, head bowed against the wind on his side of the bridge. Quinn held onto Neil's shoulder, holding him back. The thing raised its head towards them, and with slow hands lowered its hood. Neil felt himself tense.

It was a man. An ordinary-looking man with long black hair, so dark it seemed to drink the light around him, and a tired but kind expression and golden eyes.

“A mage,” Quinn breathed.

“A fairy king,” said Neil.

“Children,” the man or the mage or the fairy said. He smiled. “How do you fair?”

“Well,” said Neil, speaking for both of them. What should he do? What should they do?

“What are your names?” he asked.

“Neil,” said Neil.

“Quinnalus,” said Quinn. “Who...what are you?”

The man smiled again. “Call me Lorcen.” A fairy name. “What I am is a man on a quest.”

Neil nudged Quinn in the side, as if to say I told you so! What he said was, “What are you looking for?”

Lorcen stepped closer. He kept his hands folded into the wide sleeves of his robes. His hair blew around his face in the icy wind. His black hair and golden eyes made him look majestic. Though his hair covered his ears Neil swore that they had a pointed shape. This has to be someone magical. “Tell me,” he said, “have you heard of the Shrouded Isles?”

“Of course.” The Isles lay just north of Yoreland, but no one and nothing lived there but the hardiest or loneliest of men. Neil felt something tingling in his chest. He knew where this was going.

“What I seek is on the northernmost of the Isles, on the Edge of the World. It is something that I have great need of.”

Behind Neil, Quinn made a little “Oh,” sound.

“On the very end of the island, where nothing lies to the north but sea and ice, there is something that I need. An egg.”

“The Monster of the Islands' egg?” Quinn said, her voice quiet. “But that's just a legend...”

The man spread his hands and smiled at them, his teeth white as the snow behind him. “And you question that after seeing this? It is real, or it must be. Either way, it can be found.”

“Take us into the Nowhere,” Neil said. “Take us in and we'll accept your quest.”

“I cannot,” Lorcen said.

A sudden abandon seized Neil. He pushed Quinn's hand off his shoulder and stepped forward, his strides long. The wind from beneath the bridge howled and beat him back. Lorcen extended his hand, palm outward, and Neil had the impression that he was pressing his hand against a glass wall dividing the wintery Nowhere from the late summer in Yoreland. He reached out, grasping, trying to touch the edge of the divide, to get even one finger into that magical land. He felt his skin tingle, but he could come no closer.

“You cannot come in. It is impossible. Not until you do this thing for me.”

“Why can't you do it?” Quinn asked.

“I cannot leave,” Lorcen said. “I can only make requests of those pure of heart.” He inclined his head in a bow. “Such as you two.”

Neil stood still, heartbeats away from the opening. “Why do you need it?” he asked.

“To save the Nowhere lands. When I hatch what is inside the egg, my lands will be saved.”

The Nowhere Lands in danger...Neil could think of no more noble a quest. “Then we'll do it.”

Lorcen bowed again. “My eternal thanks. When you have it, return it here.” He looked at each of them in turn. “Farewell, and fortune light your way.” The scene began to fade, but Lorcen's golden eyes remained on them as he stepped backwards from the bridge. The golden light lining the bridge's arc shrinking as if some invisible hand were crumpling the winter scene up before their eyes until nothing was left but the empty underside of the bridge. The winds that kissed Neil carried a leaf-scented warmth. For a moment he said nothing, just brushed the droplets of melted snow out of his hair. Then, without turning to Quinn, he said, “So.”

“Are we going to do this?” Quinn asked him.

She'd said 'we'.

He turned to her. “Is that even a question? We can't turn down something like this! When will we ever get a chance like this again?”

“Never,” Quinn admitted. “But we need to get to the Shrouded Isles somehow. And what will our parents think when we tell them?”

That Neil hadn't considered. Clearly, Ma would never let him travel to the Shrouded Isles. She'd never believe that a fairy king from the Nowhere Lands had spoken to him either. She'd call him a liar and give him chores to do and that would be that. “We won't tell them. We'll go. Now.”

“Neil...”

“We won't be gone long! We can write them so they won't get worried. You know it's the only way, Quinn. Please.”

Quinn frowned down at her shoes, scuffing the heel of one with the toe of the other, but somehow she said, after Neil wasn't sure how long, “Alright.” She looked up at him. “I don't think you'd get far without me anyway.”

They walked back under the dark stone arc of the bridge and back up the hill, Neil's heart hammering in his chest, imagination alight with possibilities, as they made their way to adventure.

“How long do you think it'll take us to get to the Isles?” Neil wondered aloud as they crested the top of the hill again. “A day? No, a couple of days.”

“It might be close to a week,” Quinn said. She sat down with a thump and exhaled. “We need to get to the north end of Yoreland and find a ship or mage or something that will give us passage to the Shrouded Isles. And then we have to find the egg...”

“One step at a time. We'll get to the Isles first.”

“Right.”

Neil realized that his feet were sore and his legs felt stretched thin. He and Quinn had been walking for most of the day. He plopped down next to her. More rolling hills and emerald forests rose before them, receding far off into the distance. Somewhere out there were the Shrouded Isles and the egg that they sought.

“You ready for this?” Neil asked his friend.

“Aye. I am.”

It would be a long journey.

Judgment

The sounds of the alarm clock rang through the tiny room. Sullivan rolled over, mumbling and cursing as he flailed for the clock on his bedside table. He lashed out with a hand and solidified air sprang from his fingers. He heard the clock crash against the ground, still ringing. “God damn it,” he muttered. He got out of bed and turned the clock off. The glass face had acquired a crack. Sullivan groaned and put the clock back on its table. 7:30.

Five more minutes couldn't hurt, he reasoned, so he tumbled back into bed and shut his eyes. When he opened them again moments later over an hour had mysteriously passed. Yawning, Sullivan threw on his bathrobe. It wasn't like he had to be anywhere. Begging for work on the streets could wait.

Not begging. He wasn't a beggar. He was a mage, and he was asking people for the privilege of assisting them.

Breakfast was toast with margarine. While he ate Sullivan thought about the things that needed paying for. Bill still needed this month's rent, and in a few days it would become last month's rent. He needed to buy food soon, or he'd be back to plain pasta for meals, if he was lucky. Soup kitchen lines were something he refused to stoop to. And then there was his costume, which needed cleaning and repairs. Though it didn't matter if no one was hiring his services anyway.

After he'd eaten he looked through his mail. Bills, mostly. Adverts from banks and other companies. A flier promoting a sale at a furniture store. An official-looking creamy white envelope. Sullivan slit it open, frowning, and pulled out the folded letter. The Harrington seal, a cross-bearing horse within a shield, was at the top of the letter, along with the very formal heading Mr. Sullivan J. Andrews. “Ah, shit.” It was a court summons, for the next morning at Central City Superior Court due to the matters of 'disruptive vigilantism and obstruction of justice during recent police actions'. “Damn damn damn.” Sullivan threw the letter across the room and watched as it fluttered to the ground a foot away from him. This was the thanks he got for trying to help? Maybe he'd botched it up, sure, but he'd tried, right? That's what mattered, right? Sort of?

Sullivan dressed, though it took him longer than usual to do so. He spent the day wandering around the borough of Anna's Downs, stalking the poorer streets with his sign. Mage for hire. Sullivan the Sensational. Extra, extra, please for God's sake give him money...

Most of the problems he saw were poverty and depression, things that punches and powers couldn't help. Not immediately, at least. Some of the people gave him strange looks for the cape and sign. One kid on a porch threw a stone at him. Sullivan had been on the street for several hours before hearing the cries of a woman being mugged. He gave chase to the man who had stolen her purse and managed to stop him for a short time with a forcefield directly in the middle of the sidewalk. It then took another minute of wrestling the man (who was shorter but much stronger than Sullivan) to get the purse back. “Let that be a lesson to you,” Sullivan said. The thief rubbed his shoulder where Sullivan had driven blunt forcefields repeatedly. He returned the purse to the woman.

“Thank you,” she said. She looked around thirty, and pretty, for the most part. Her legs were nice, anyway.

“Just doing my job,” he said. He doubted the woman had much money with her, at least not enough to cover rent, anyway. It seemed rude to ask. Hadn't she noticed the 'Mage for Hire' sign? Would a kiss from the rescued damsel be too much to ask? But she did pay him. A single one mark bill. A proper hero wouldn't need money for the good deeds he performed and would have rejected any offered charity. But he needed the money, so he took it.

Nothing else happened that day. At six o'clock Sullivan made his way to the nearest bar that didn't look like someone was waiting to knife you as soon as you walked in, and plopped down in an empty stool. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of flat beer and stale sweat. Blue-collar workers in flat caps and suspenders sat side-by-side with men in suits, skinny ties and fedoras. There was one other caped superhero in the corner, a pointy-nosed and chinless blond man with a hangdog expression, nursing a martini. “What'll it be?” the bartender asked Sullivan.

“Beer. Fieldson's Original.”

The bartender twisted the top off the bottle and handed it to Sullivan. He silently passed the bartender the bill the woman had given him. “Thanks.” He took a long sip, slumped forward in his seat, and exhaled. The knowledge of his court hearing that he'd suppressed all day came bubbling back to the surface. He pulled a face and took another long sip. Maybe this was the universe's way of telling him that he wasn't cut out for the superhero thing. He could go back to an ordinary job somewhere. Perhaps he could move back home to Emerson. Or he could move away from Central City to a place where there weren't so many government heroes.

A man in a suit was speaking to the mage in the corner. “Did you hear about the scuffle in Princeshire?” the man asked.

“Heard? I was there.” The mage spun his empty martini glass around on the bar. “It was more than just a scuffle, too. Had to call in the Mighty Men.”

“Get outta town.”

“They did. I was the first one on the front lines fighting Father Famine. Nasty piece of work, that man. Has some power that lets him suck the life out of stuff.” Sullivan walked over to where the two men were conversing. A new villain in town? This could be a big break for him. “Anyway, battle was a bit of a stalemate until the Mighties showed up. Grace and the Battery came in to fight him, and then they called in Starbright from the Reserves.” The mage noticed Sullivan hovering outside the edge of the conversation and nodded to him. “Save any lives, hero?”

“Close enough.”

“You missed the action in Princeshire today.”

“I heard. What happened to Father Famine? Did the Mighties get him?”

“Nah,” the mage said. “They had him cornered, but he did something to the Battery and made him collapse. Ran right past him before Grace or anyone else could get him. Police are searchin', and Panopticon's supposed to be lookin' too.” The mage looked at him. He'd sewn what looked like a metal fist onto the lapel of his uniform jacket. “Did you really miss all of it?”

“Yeah.” Mentally Sullivan kicked himself. Princeshire! Of course that's where any burgeoning supervillain would go, not the slums of Anna's Downs. It was only petty crime there. Such a place might have the right ingredients for brewing the resentment, frustration and hostility in a young mage needed for a villainous life, but no one would use it as their secret fucking headquarters or anything. “You met the Mighty Men, huh?”

“Oh yes. Pleasant bunch. But that's not the life for me, no sir. I like working on my own. It's not a living, but it's a good hobby.” And he waved the barkeep over for another martini.

Sullivan slept poorly that night, his mind full of concern and worry for what would happen at the courts. What could they possibly do to him? Levy a fine? Force him to stop hero work? Whatever. They couldn't strip him of his powers, and that was what mattered. With that vaguely comforting thought, Sullivan drifted off to sleep. In the morning he drank instant coffee that still somehow managed to taste burnt and debated whether to wear his hero costume or a suit to the courthouse. Given what he was being tried for, the cape and boots seemed inappropriate. He walked Superior Court in Yorktown. By the time he got there his feet were smarting from walking almost three miles in dress shoes and he realized how hungry he was. “Damn damn damn.”

Superior Court was a white stone building, featureless except for the wide stairs in front and the statue of King Bennett II, the legendary king-become-judge from the days of the Kingdom of Harrington. The statue stared down at Sullivan, scales in one hand, sword in the other, its blank white eyes harsh and judging. Sullivan kept his head bowed and jogged up the front steps, past the other morning stragglers and through the winding halls of the courthouse. He slipped into the appropriate courtroom and found a seat in the back. The room had a high ceiling and high windows. Keeping in theme with the court's exterior, the room was bare of any decorations except for the First Union and Harrington flags hanging on the rear wall. The rest was all white painted walls and plain floors. Despite the early hour – it was not quite 10:00 – it was already full. Men and women in smart suits, reporters or lawyers or curious civilians, filled the pews in the back. Nervous-looking people – the accused – sat closer to the front. The judge himself sat behind an elevated podium, dressed in white robes. He looked bored.

One by one people came before the judge. Most of the matters were very simple ones; minor thefts or speeding in automobiles or blowing up street vendor carts in a magical battle. A lawyer in the front of the room represented each case, delivering minimal arguments for the accused while the judge doled out punishments. Sullivan watched with increasing nerves as they were passed out. Extensive fines. Prison. A day in the stocks. The bad coffee in his stomach churned as his guts twisted themselves into knots.

Finally, the judge called out, “Mr. Sullivan Andrews.” Feet leaden, armpits stinging with sweat, Sullivan walked to the front of the room. It seemed to take forever. The judge's podium loomed far above, impossibly tall, the judge's face stony and still as a mask. Sullivan stood by the lawyer, who shuffled papers around, pulled out one sheet, and frowned at it.

“I think we can do something here,” the lawyer asked Sullivan in an undertone. There was something about the man that reminded Sullivan of a weasel.

“Mmm.”

“Mr. Andrews,” said the judge. His voice boomed off the blank walls. “You stand accused of interfering with police actions, leading to the escape of a thief and criminal. How do you plead?”

Sullivan really wanted to say, “Innocent.” But the fact of the matter was that he had gotten in the way of police action. Perhaps 'obstruction of justice' was an exaggeration of terms, but still...

“Guilty.” The word hung heavy in the air for a moment, as if with his voice Sullivan had solidified the air into a forcefield.

The judge said nothing for a while, so that Sullivan began to squirm. The lawyer beside him shuffled his papers again and coughed. “Police protocol and Harrington law dictates that, for the severity of your crime, you receive four years in prison.”

Sullivan felt the bottom drop out of his stomach, plummet through the floor and down below the earth's surface. Four years? Four years of wasting away as a criminal? He turned, helpless, and gaped at the lawyer, who eventually took his cue and spoke up.

“Ah, your honor,” said the lawyer, “Mr. Andrews here may have gotten in the way of police action, but, ah, according to the same police records his actions saved the life of two hostages. Surely that's worth something?” He sounded like he was pleading.

The judge squinted, considering for a moment. A line of cold sweat traced its way from Sullivan's armpit down his side. He rubbed at it, flinching.

“Would his honor consider a fine of an appropriate amount?” the lawyer asked.

“No!” Sullivan shouted, louder than he meant. He swore he heard every head in the room snap up to look at him, felt the iron stares of everyone on his back. “I can't afford to pay a fine,” he said in a lower tone, hoping that only the judge and lawyer would hear him.

“Mr. Andrews, you are a mage, correct?” the judge asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you a superhero?”

“Not registered, no. Vigilante.”

The judge stroked his chin. “If you want to be a superhero, Mr. Andrews, then perhaps community service will suit you best. Learn how to use your powers to the benefit of Central City, and a little bit of discipline and healthy respect for authority.” He paused briefly. “One hundred hours.”

“I don't think-”

“Take it,” the lawyer hissed at Sullivan. “I don't think I can get you much better. Agreed, your honor.”

“One hundred hours service.” The judge banged his gavel. “See the bailiff on the way out, Mr. Andrews. Next, Mr. Donald Wood...”

Sullivan wasn't sure how he managed to walk away from the front of the podium. He was both very aware of the fact that they were moving, but utterly uncertain how. They felt odd. The bailiff in the corner of the room took down Sullivan's information and provided him with police groups to report to for service. It was all very mechanical and Sullivan realized when he stepped out of the courthouse and into the dazzling late morning sun that he wasn't sure why there was a sheet of paper with addresses and voiceline numbers written on it.

Community service. Well, all things considered, it would have been much worse.

It would be best to patrol the streets again to look for people that needed his service. Perhaps there was still work to be done in Princeshire after the battle with Father Famine. The police might want help finding him. But somehow Sullivan couldn't summon the resolve. He'd be doing plenty of service soon, anyway.

It wasn't yet noon, so the bars in affluent Yorktown were all closed. Instead Sullivan found a restaurant and slumped in to an empty table. It was a couple of decades old, if the style of the place was anything to go by. The charm of the varnished wood, polished chrome surfaces and comfy booths was lost on Sullivan, and he ordered a coffee from the young, bored-looking waitress on duty. When it arrived he didn't drink it, but stared into the mug, as if the rising steam would inscribe an answer for him upon the air, however brief, before twisting and dissipating into nothing. Really, he shouldn't be complaining. He wanted to be a hero. What did heroes do but help people? He was being given the opportunity of a lifetime. This could be it. This could be the step into real honest to God registered superhero work. So why did it feel like a death sentence?

Because it was still punishment. Despite his powers and his good intentions, the law still frowned on him and what he'd done. It wasn't enough to be blessed with unnatural skills, oh no. Those skills had to be put to use as the government saw fit. Or at least, in ways that did not conflict with the government's interests. Bullshit. Shouldn't mages be above the law? Sullivan took a mental step back and analyzed his strong, if brief, argument. No. That was a slippery slope. The next logical step was a mageocracy where only the strongest survived and villainy reigned supreme. The collapse of society.

Sullivan took a bracing gulp of coffee. The warmth slid down his throat and washed around his empty belly. He put the mug back down on the table, put his hand close to the steam, and concentrated. The elementary particles above the drink were unstable and energetic, rattling around faster than he could get a grip on them. He cupped his hands into a rough ball shape, willed the air to solidify. The air resisted him, rising between his fingers. Then it began to congeal. Sullivan drew his hands away, and a steam-filled orb floated above his mug. Grinning, he plucked it out of the air and turned it around in his hand. Then he crushed it between two fingers. The forcefield cracked and dissolved along with the steam within it.

I bend reality and destroy plausibility.

When his drink was done he dug out the last few coins from his pocket and dropped them on the table and, not quite disheartened, left.