Balance and Shadow (The Spiritlands)

The Spiritlands

Volume I: Balance & Shadow

Timothy Linnomme

Contents Copyright Timothy Linnomme 2010

Published by Timothy Linnomme at Smashwords

Visit http://www.timothylinnomme.net for a full listing of titles and the latest information including up and coming releases!

Table of Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty One

Twenty Two

Twenty Three

Twenty Four

Twenty Five

Twenty Six

Twenty Seven

Twenty Eight

Twenty Nine

Thirty

Prologue

It had been harsh going for the leagues of distance out of the central lands, but they had made it to the northern travel way without any mishaps at least regarding their person. As far as the possessions they had, that was another story. Torroc and Meithei had little warning before they were forced to flee ahead of the hunt that had been launched against the both of them.

Dokk and Lios shall live and fight separately. Torroc clutched his staff made out of ravenswood, as black of a color that could be imagined. His horse was of fine mien, but it needed more rest then Torroc had allowed it; until they were safe, haste was of the essence. Meithei would have also been on a horse, but the son she had with her would make riding that way a near impossible task. As such, Torroc bargained away what silver and gold he wore in exchange for a horse and cart. Torroc was of the DokkAelfen, swarthy of complexion and eyes so deep of a shade of brown they could almost be called black except for what appeared to be red sparkles within them. Torroc had suffered some teasing when he was younger regarding that feature; they called him D’aeleth eyes or worse.

Aelfen do not wield staffs under any circumstances. It wasn’t as if Torroc sought out the staff; it was more like the staff called out to him when he passed by a Rivan forest. Ravenswood was the material of which black staffs were made. The day he wielded the staff was the day not only his troubles began, but also the day he became even happier then he thought he could be. Meithei was LiosAelfen, as fair in complexion as Torroc was dark. Her tresses were of the lightest wheaten blonde along with eyes a pure and piercing color of blue, although she was actually taller then Torroc. Though her features were definitely Aelfen, they were muted for some reason. Meithei had been told that there was human blood in her line in the past, but she considered herself LiosAelfen regardless of how she came to be.

LiosAelfen and DokkAelfen do NOT interbreed. Torroc had survived the excoriation of wielding the staff, but neither family line was about to tolerate this affront. Meithei had already made her choice when she had lain with him, so here they were tracking along the northern travel path on their way to…uncertainty.

*

Torroc had paid dearly in coin for the crude map he was given, but it had been worth the cost. From here, they needed to take this travel path west until coming to a mountainous place called the Borderlands; once through there, they would be able to hopefully find safety, or at least that was what they had been told.

The NorthHold was some place out of legend, what could have survived the Spirit War to be able to take up residence there? What few humans that had survived had cast their lot with the Aelfen and Dwarg and stayed in the central area where there was at least a modicum of protection. The SouthHold was also a place out of legend; their existence almost solely in the realm of alehouse tales, at least where ale was sold. Torroc and Meithei unconsciously pulled their travel cloaks closer and higher and not only to protect themselves from the rain. The ruined and shattered buildings and scatterings of bones were not lost on at least Torroc; this place once had been a Stedding, but it was no more. Occasional glimmers and flashes throughout the rooms told Torroc that this place was not yet fully abandoned. Even death was not freedom for those who lived here in the Spiritlands; upon death, your spirit came to be in these lands, doomed to travel or stay at the place of your demise as you chose. For other spirits though, their misery was only beginning if they had been people of note while alive. A dead staff wielder might be suborned into a draug or a shade or perhaps something worse. Most of the spirits wandering in the ruins looked to be nothing more then base charls. Some who wandered closer to the intrusion of the cart and the horse rider quickly retreated when they saw the staff the rider wielded. Conversely, Torroc saw no spirit that would be worth the effort to bind to him. This didn’t mean that the spirits weren’t in any danger though; a shadow staff wielder bound all of the spirits they could find regardless of who or what they were. Torroc so far had only bound the spirit of a beloved horse that he owned only so it wouldn’t become a Night Mare or the mount for a draug or perhaps even a Death Walker. He looked over to where Meithei was riding; she smiled back from underneath her cloak. As darkness fell upon the land, Torroc found an actively used Stedding, but its gates were closed. He managed to get the attention of the watchman there, but he and Meithei were told to move along; there would be no shelter for them in this place. Torroc was resigned to traveling on through the rain and dark; after skirting the Stedding, he picked up the path they were following and followed it west, always west.

Torroc was starting to nod in the saddle and he could see Meithei nodding off too. An inhabited Stedding would have been nice, but that was simply not to be tonight. They made camp in the remains of yet another Stedding; Torroc found a building with at least some roof left. There was even some relatively dry wood in this place. Despite the risks, they had to have a fire; even though it was only rain that was falling, the air was still very cold. Torroc once more stopped to look at his son. He was mystified how his son could look so mixed in features; wasn’t it the man who dominated things of that nature? The boy’s name was Torvii and he had a naming necklace to announce that fact. His hair was as black as his father’s and his skin as swarthy, but no DokkAelfen would ever have green eyes. The baby was also large for being one of the Aelfen born, but Meithei had said she had some human lineage from far back. Torroc decided that he wasn’t bothered by the mixing; his son was healthy and hale, that was all that mattered for the moment. While Meithei fed their son, Torroc made a stew from meat they were carrying along with what edible plants that could be found in the area. When Steddings were inhabited, farming and other chores like that always occurred. The trick was to find out what land had been cultivated, and Torroc had no problem finding it. Like those of his cultural strain, he moved quickly and quietly through the ruins. Soon, the smell of the stew wafted all around the area where they were. They both ate their fill; there was no telling when they would have the time to sup like this again.

Torroc, are you sure that this place even exists? I am fearful that we are only relying on legend and ale talk.

Torroc took another drink of redberry juice. Redberry juice was tart in flavor with only a hint of sweetness; in most places that was all there was to drink. In order to have an alehouse, you had to have some place to ferment the ale. There was enough infrastructure in the central lands for producing ale, but out here, redberry juice was the only drink to be had besides water; Torroc had even seen redberry bushes in some of the boggy looking areas around the path they traveled.

The map I purchased has been right so far; of course, Steddings come and go. We would have been killed had we stayed. As risky as this travel is, we at least have a chance to live our lives in peace, even if it might be as a charl.

That assuaged Meithei to an extent, but Torroc could still see the worry etched into her features.

Hey, can you hear that?

Meithei raised her head and turned it in various directions, I hear nothing.

Torroc laughed, That is exactly what I hear; the rain has stopped. They both lay down to sleep on a pile of fragrant boughs Torroc had collected; they both promised tomorrow would be a better day.

…her name was Remba, and she had only started to be not that long ago. D’aeleth never ceased in seeking out those who would serve him best. The corpse was a strongly built female whose trappings had been looted from her long ago. Someone must have held her in some sort of esteem because there had been an anti-corruption spell cast over her. All it took was one tiny and infinitesimal spark from the god to animate the corpse and give unto it a name. Once animated, Remba lost no time in seizing raiment to cover herself and taking up what weapons that remained in the barrow. The weapons were largely only for show, though; a Death Walker’s deadliest weapon was its gaze; with it, they could kill charls essentially at will. Any charl killed in this way was instantly suborned by this creature and bound to it in the most unholy way. Any that those suborned killed were also bound; the limits of what a Death Walker bind was only limited by its power, and suborning charls increased its power. No base weapon could even injure, let alone kill a Death Walker, but a branded weapon could.

The mortal enemy of a Death Walker was of course a Dwarg. Their gaze had no effect on a Dwarg and a Dwarg forged weapon was feared by any of D’aeleth’s minions. To protect itself, it used those it had suborned; in death, those suborned could take a lot of damage before falling. It moved slowly and purposefully through the soaked ground. It felt the spirits here, but it was no shade or shadow staff; only they could bind stray spirits, but its method was nearly as effective. It smelled life here; so far it only had seven charls bound to it, but it knew it had the power to control many more…It slowly walked to the fire…

*

Torroc jerked awake for some unknown reason, but he knew something was wrong. None of the spirit wards he had set were disturbed, but there was still something amiss. Where were Meithei and his son? Torroc was quick to rise and grab his staff. He heard noise a ways away from the fire. There was Meithei. She was holding Torvii and it looked like several people in hoods were close by her. Why didn’t Meithei awake him when these people arrived? He watched as Meithei picked up their child.

Meithei, what are you doing over there? Who are those fellow travelers?

Meithei just as quickly put down their child and slowly walked away from the area. Several of the guests now had their eyes on him, or so Torroc thought; it was hard to see any of their features under the cloaks they wore. There was something not right about the travelers, but Torroc couldn’t discern what. He was quick to notice that the five moving towards him did so with the exact same movements. The stench of corruption and death hit him almost like a visible wave. Only then did he see one of the cloaked travelers point at him. As one, the five converged on him in silence, but now Torroc was apprised of the danger he faced. That one is a Death Walker! Was Meithei okay? What about his son? Torroc lost no time in bringing his staff to bear. The one closest to him went up in flames; Torroc made sure to dodge the burning corpse as it fell towards him. Even as it was dying, the suborned corpse did its best to get to Torroc, but Torroc had no time to be revolted. Four more of the obscenities were shambling after him and he had to be watchful of the Death Walker’s gaze. He carried a finely made blade, but the Death Walker’s minions were very resistant to weapon blows unless the blows themselves were severely crippling. Despite the quality of the blade he carried, it would be of little use against a Death Walker. Torroc wasn’t a Dwarg or a warrior human well versed in armed havoc, so magic was the only way to truly destroy what now assailed him and defend himself. One of the minions slowly lunged at him with a feed fork; Torroc blocked the blow and blasted the undead in the face with a spell of cold. The minion tried to put its hands to its face, but Torroc was faster. A physical blow from his staff shattered the creatures head, robbing it of what little purpose it could muster. The minion slowly collapsed to the floor. Torroc saw a flash of blue off to his right side, but didn’t react until he was too late. A sword struck his right arm, cutting off his hand just behind the wrist. Torroc screamed as he dropped his staff and grabbed his maimed limb by reflex, but there was no need. He wasn’t bleeding from the wound; the stump was covered in frost. He looked to see who had delivered the blow; it was or it had been Meithei. Here blue eyes were now nothing more then two milky colored red orbs and her teeth were no longer human. Her mouth was now a bloody red maw with an inordinate amount of teeth inside; all of them looked pointed. Was she now some sort of vampire? Torroc never really found out as his former wife and the others that were so suborned tore him from the living. It took Torroc a long time to die as his screams echoed around the ruins of the Stedding…

*

It had been easy to call out the female from where she had slept. Killing her was no problem either. Remba’s new creature raised the baby to her mouth, but Remba stopped her. Baby charls were useless; such things were only suborned if they were in the way of the Death Walker’s spell. An infant had only the merest spark of power; even a shadow staff wouldn’t bother with such unless they had nothing better to do but that didn't mean Remba couldn't have some malevolent fun. The baby screamed as Remba placed her foul and dead hand on its chest and blew a breath of tainted air across its body; though her hand left no visible mark on the infant, the infant would remember her touch if it survived. Maybe it would swear allegiance to D'aeleth in the future…if it had one. The man was the primary target; a suborned staff wielder would greatly increase Remba's power. It was a shame that the woman cut the hand off of the wielder; it cost the Death Walker some power to reattach the hand after the wielder was killed. Even though it still had only seven under its control, the staff wielder gave it a lot more power then it had before. The Death Walker backtracked along the path the man had taken and assaulted the inhabited Stedding. It lost three more of the seven it had attacked with, but it left the ruins of the Stedding with twelve in tow including the staff wielder and his mate. It headed east with its grisly company; it wanted more minions with the least possible chance of conflict…

*

…The information passed down from generation to generation is what is inscribed in this tome. Know that we strive every day of every season to push the boundaries of what we know until one day we may perhaps mend the great injustice done to us…

…Djoggi the Father God was said to be a humorous and boisterous sort of god, but he was well learned and cared as much about his doings as any of that sort could; who on this mortal plane could really comprehend the doings of a god? Alas, I digress from what needs to be told…

…Djoggi was patient with his sister or wife or the Mother God, Ymarrh (or Ymarrleth), who was only interested in fun and frolic and was of a capricious nature. It is said that when his patience was ended regarding her, that was the thunder heard in the sky while the rain was her tears, a sign of her penitence and begging for forgiveness… Djoggi and Ymarrleth had a part sibling or uncle whose name was D’aeleth; he was as cold and uncaring as his sister was gay and carefree. It was said that it was Djoggi who created the peoples and other living things that walked the earth as sort of a puzzle; what would they become if left to their own devices? The people interested Djoggi so much that a lot of his time was occupied in studying their doings. In D'aeleth's realm, only the antithesis of life thrived, and so the inner spirit of the mortal beings went upon their demise. All that existed there was nether and frost along with a cold wind that capered over the desolation, the undead were largely immune to such things. All would have been well and all would have been satisfied with their lot if it hadn’t been for Ymarrleth and her capricious nature…

"Djoggi creates life and you only have it after he is done with it. Do you consider that fair?"

Up until that time, D’aeleth was satisfied with his lot; he liked the peace and quiet of his dismal realm, but deep down, he desired Ymarrleth for himself. If Djoggi can create life, then so can I, he thought. The very nature of D’aeleth and his demesne made it so that only abominations were created by him; they freely stalked the land killing and slaughtering with no remorse or pity. It wasn’t too long before Djoggi noticed the meddling D’aeleth was doing.

"Who are you to assail those I created with your abominations?!"

"As you create, so will I, and there is nothing you can do to stop me!"

Djoggi heard Ymarrh laugh; he knew what had happened. Djoggi grew more and more enraged as monstrosity after monstrosity erupted from D’aeleth’s cold and twisted mind. Rather then see his creations obliterated, Djoggi was forced to meddle himself to keep the balance. Inevitably, battle lines were drawn between what both Gods had created; Aelfen, Dwarg and human went to war against Black Reaver and Druj and Lich and Troll and Giant and the Eastmen or Notmen, twisted creations of what D’aeleth called human. Despite the power of D’aeleth’s creations, they were losing the war that had been waged…

"For too long, you have sent me only the leavings of your work; only souls whose life has drawn to a close were given unto me. You will send me no more and you will suffer those you have already sent to me to be free in the lands of the living!"

Ymarrh at first laughed in her capricious way as D’aeleth suddenly cast out all from his demesne that he hadn’t created himself. With each departed soul, there also had been contained a miniscule amount of the power that the Gods wielded. A few beings cast out would have made no difference, but D’aeleth had cast out ALL that he had been sent. The delicate balance of power was shattered by this action as magic workings now had much more power then before while the cast out spirits made no secret of their contempt for the living. The humans and the other races that stood with them were forced to give ground as a living friend suddenly became a wandering hateful spirit or far worse. So fierce was the fighting that humans and Aelfen and Dwarg all considered each race lost in the war eventually called The Spirit War. There were many other names given to the war; KingsDeath was one of the names used, due to the fact what kings and rulers there were over the races perished in the conflagration. GraeAelfen and HochAelfen were no more along with what human rulers of note and the Dwargen king.

What great cities that had existed were nothing more then ruins buried beneath the ravages of time and further battle and inhabited by only the dead. All that remained were nothing but Steddings across the land, fortified as much as possible from the roaming spirit hordes. While the Aelfen and Dwarg disappeared into the now spirit soaked lands, presumed dead from the fighting, what humans that were left managed to hold pieces of ground that were fortified and protected. A sheltered valley surrounded by imposing mountain ranges became known as the NorthHold where Djoggi held sway while a flat and fertile valley to the south protected by Rivanwood forest became known as the SouthHold where Ymarrh was revered. Only in those places was a human relatively safe; even after the Spirit War, the dead and the spirits of those once living still wandered the lands so the fertile land forever denied to the living became known as The Spiritlands. The Wandering Green was denied to the living. Those who perished in the holds had their spirits protected by the father and mother god in Spirit Holds constructed within their respective habitation areas. As far as the holds were concerned, the Dwarg and the Aelfen no longer existed, victims of the Spirit War. Since both holds bordered on the sea, and there was no safe land passage, trade became almost completely seaborne. The end result of the spirits being cast out into the realm of the living was that there was now even more to assail the living besides D’aeleth’s creations…

…if wandering spirits and D’aeleth’s creations were not enough of a constant danger outside of the holds, the very weapons that could be found lying around posed their own threat. There was a living to be made gathering base weapons from the battlefields of yore, but the task also had its dangers. When D’aeleth cast out the spirits of those who passed on, the balance of power was upset, some say irrevocably. A minor spell became major while a major spell became almost apocalyptic in its effects. Such was the power of many spells cast on the plain of battle that the spirits of many were blasted into fallen weapons across the field. The foul and cursed weapons of that sort became known as Dâelswords; any such weapon found could be cursed as such. Those who wielded a Dâelsword became subject to the insanity and rage of whatever inhabited the weapon. Even if the bond was broken, the wielder could wind up as no longer sane. Oftentimes a Dâelsword wielder was killed by his or her compatriots once they understood what inhabited the weapon the one so affected wielded. Once the wielder was killed, the Dâelsword once more ceased to be a threat until someone else picked it up to wield.

Djoggi and D’aeleth each were responsible for the creation of weapons to kill each other’s followers; a Spiritsword not only was the bane of any of D’aeleth’s minions or of Spirit kind, it learned from all of those who had wielded it in the past and helped who so ever wielded it. A Spiritsword could never be broken and never lost its edge. A Soulsword initially behaved like a Spiritsword, but its evil would soon be revealed to those who raised one with intent. It was only by using a weapon with intent could whatever power within the weapon be activated. The Soulsword also was proof against D’aeleth’s spawn and Spirit kind, but it used up the life force of its wielder in the process. Soulswords were favored by the walking undead and especially shadow staff wielders; unaffected by the sword’s foul power, they used these swords to steal life from their foes. Unless the wielder was immune, a Soulsword wielder eventually died from the weapon itself, drained of their life force, unless the curse could be broken; upon its wielders death, a Soulsword once again became quiescent, but it used every wile and means to get others to wield it...only Weaponmasters would think of buying base weapons of an unknown nature; as it went, they only paid a base price for what was found because Zynologist services were costly and they never knew what they would find. A lucky find of a branded weapon could also be the discovery of a Dâelsword or Soulsword…

Both the NorthHold and SouthHold evolved a societal structure that worked just fine within the hold proper. Thanes ruled the NorthHold while Citizens were freemen who conducted much of the business that needed to be addressed. The lowest level of the ladder was the position of a charl. Both Citizens and Thanes owned charls; it was just the way that things were. A charl would stay such unless he was emancipated by his owner or joined up with The Spirit Guard. A charl could pledge to Spirit Guard duty provided an adult charl related to them made it so; it was perhaps the only thing a charl could do without their owner’s permission. The Spirit Guard, along with the mages, patrolled the mountain passes leading into the NorthHold, making sure no wandering spirits or worse found their way into the NorthHold demesne. To say that the work was dangerous was an understatement, but any who served for ten years in The Spirit Guard automatically earned the title of Citizen. The Spirit Guard Commanders answered to no one but their superiors; a charl so pledged to the guard was immune from retaliation by their former owners, so in its own way, it served as a delimiter. A badly treated charl might opt to join The Spirit Guard. Any that sought to enter the NorthHold besides a proven mage or dignitary became charls upon being admitted; it was a small price to pay for the benefits received. The NorthHold was under the protection of Djoggi, so any that died there didn’t have to worry about their spirit being suborned and turned against the living. The mountainous region outside the NorthHold was called the Borderlands. While this border area was nominally under Djoggi’s protection, death in this place still wasn’t a guarantee you wouldn’t immediately reanimate…in The SouthHold things were of a similar nature; Lords and Ladies ran the city while underneath them were freedmen and below them, charls. The SouthHold border was protected with Spirit Guards and mages, but also by the vast tracts of Rivanwood forest. Desertion from Spirit Guard duty was not only immediate banishment, but a price was placed on your head; whosoever brought back a deserter was paid ten in silver.

…it took some time after the Spirit War for the magical situation to regain equilibrium. The problem now wasn’t that there was a paucity of power available to use, it was the opposite of that. With the release of all of the spirits into the land of the living, all that extra power made even the simplest spells go awry. Up until that time, handcasting was an acceptable and adequate means for exerting control over the environment, but that changed after D’aeleth refused to take anymore of the departed. A handcast spell except in the most simple of circumstances could easily affect the one who cast it, not good if you were casting fire of the equivalent, so a means of more control was needed. At some point, it was discovered that certain forests called Rivanwood forests held in them wood that would make an adequate staff; a wielded staff could bring the excess magical power under control, and so staff wielders became the new mages of the land.

Where Djoggi held sway, his adherents were only too ready to do battle with D’aeleth’s minions and were well versed in binding and destroying what malevolent spirits that crossed their path…they became black staff wielders. Those who worshipped Ymarrh delighted in her constant joy and carefree mien...they became healers and scholars and adopted the white staff as their sign. D’aeleth’s magen followers were no less immune from the excess power in the land, so they adopted staffs as shadowy and indistinct as many of their forms, but since the Rivan forest would not tolerate their intrusion, some said that a shadow staff was actually made of bits and pieces of bones of the fallen that still lived in a way…they became shadow staff wielders. Even then, the matter was not settled; one standing between two that opposed it still was not enough balance. Black staff was similar to shadow staff in their capabilities of dealing with spirits while shadow staff and white staff were similar in scholarly studies. A black staff had their own power, but also gained power from what spirits they controlled; they were reluctant to study the magical arts, relying on their innate power instead for both attack and defense. The innate spells for a black staff wielder were fire and frost. Though it could be said a white staff didn’t really have that much power, they faithfully studied the penned wisdom of their craft. A white staff was able to break the curse of a Soulsword or a Dâelsword and though a white staff only reluctantly carried arms, the weapons they carried were especially deadly against spirits and those who controlled them; in addition, they were given control over air and water. To properly balance the way things were in the world, the grey staff wielders came to be; were they black staffs who took an interest in learning or were they white staffs that chose to bind and do battle? To this day, no one really knows, except that a grey staff stands in opposite of a shadow staff as a black staff does to a white staff, Grey staff wielders were able to bind like a black and peruse magical tomes like a white, but perhaps not; no one really knows the extent of the power that they wield. A grey staff could cast force and at a higher level of learning, doom. A grey staff wielder was far better versed in arms and other weaponlore then one of the black or white and many of their kind were able to learn Zynology.

Despite the magic they wield, a staff wielder is still spiritcharl, able to be killed and suborned by spirits and those stronger then they; rarely was a staff wielders afterlife existence peaceful. Shadow staff wielders and shades always sought to suborn staff wielders to add to their power. One of the deadliest scourges of the Spiritlands was the Death Walker. Fresh corpses were the primary target for these powerful followers of D’aeleth; only an infinitesimal spark from D’aeleth was necessary to animate the corpse. It’s burning red eyes glowering fitfully within the eye sockets; its gaze able to kill and suborn. Those it killed became slaves to it as any others killed by the slaves, limited only by the Death Walker’s amount of power.

… It was said that during the Spirit War, the Dwargen forces were hard assailed by D’aeleth’s minions and many fell. What magic the Dwarg had was no match for what the shades and other foul creatures possessed. In a tone of rage and disgust, the Dwargen King muttered a foul oath to the effect that the Dwarg would give up all but their innate magic for superior force of arms, and so it was; the Dwarg built their own Spirit Hold to hold the souls of the departed Dwarg, forever protecting them from the scions of D’aeleth. As such, the Dwarg no longer were spiritcharl; even the gaze of a Death Walker didn’t affect them. Few could stand against a Dwarg in combat, including most of D’aeleth’s creations; even the basest Dwarg forged weapon could strike a spirit as if it was still living and even kill it with enough damage, but the question still remains: was this enough to prevail? The Dwarg haven’t been seen for the longest time…

The Aelfen were also spiritcharl; most suborned became shades under the dominance of D’aeleth, but many of D’aeleth’s creations underestimated the resistance and resilience of the Aelfen even after losing all of those who led them. While LiosAelfen and DokkAelfen were not open and sworn enemies, the DokkAelfen as the LiosAelfen abided by various unspoken rules regarding their conduct. Dokk and Lios stayed separate in both living areas and in battle formations. Dokk and Lios trained at different weapons in order to complement each other; while Lios were better shots with a bow and excellent with a sword, the Dokk excelled with a Spirit blade or hand knives in the dark. It was said that a DokkAelfen could be like a shadow in the dark, passing by unseen by any or striking from out of nowhere with animal swiftness. The most important unwritten rule was the most severely punished by either a mass hunt or direct reprisal from the families involved; DokkAelfen and LiosAelfen did NOT breed with each other, though there was no problem with either racial strain breeding with humans. At one time, there was internecine war between Lios and Dokk, spurred on by the GraeAelfen and HochAelfen who called themselves superior over at least their Dokk brethren and sought to make them no more then charl or slaves, but that ended when both GraeAelfen and HochAelfen perished in the Spirit War, leaving the two strains in an uneasy sort of truce. There was another matter on which Dwarg and Aelfen were in pretty much of an agreement: The Dwarg had lost so many to foul magic that they regarded most any magic wielder with contempt; a staff wielder could as easily be assailed by Dwarg as they could be marginally tolerated. GraeAelfen and HochAelfen wielded magic power, but their haughtiness and prideful and excoriating mien brought death and doom to many an Aelfen in the war as many of them were suborned into deadly shades; Aelfen only tolerated staff wielders as long as they were of mostly human stock. An Aelfen who raised a staff of any sort risked disavowal or worse from Aelfen kind against their person; the death of the magic wielding Aelfen taught those alive that Aelfen could not be trusted with such power ever again…

Of the Dwarg or the Aelfen there is no more trace; they haven’t been seen in either hold for generations. They probably all perished in the Spirit War; despite the spiritcharls attempt to make sense of what was now happening, there simply was no sense to it. There was one and only one lesson to be learned from all of this, at least if you wished to survive in the Spiritlands or prosper in one of the holds…

…There are no kings and queens; no quests to be undertaken and no princesses hand to win in marriage. The only quest is simply to stay alive only until you are dead…and no longer.…

Excerpts from the History of The NorthHold Tome –

I

Morning came slowly to the northern Spiritlands; it was as if the land only reluctantly welcomed the light. But as always the northern lands always lost the battle. Except for a blanket and the remains of a fire, there was no further trace of what had occurred last night. The plaintive wail of a baby could be heard, but all that would accomplish would be to attract the predators both living and possibly nonliving from the surrounding woods. The uniform noise of the area was broken by the sound of a heavy wagon being pulled over some ground not exactly meant for the task, but whatever was pulling it was more then up to the chore. By parts and degrees, the wagon made it up a slight rise and now was fully on the northern travel path. What was pulling the wagon generally looked like a horse, but it definitely wasn’t a horse; the best way to describe it would be to call it a large horse shape constructed out of dirt and stones and twigs. The wagon it pulled was equally as odd in its own way. Its sturdy construction and lack of any real sort of ornamentation were what would initially make one forget what they had seen except there was no one here to do even that. Judging by the tracks left by the wagon, it looked to be hauling a heavy load of…something, but whatever was inside the wagon was covered over with a large piece of thick white cloth with myriad stains upon it. Once the wagon was fully on the path, its driver slowed to a stop to have a look around; she drank redberry juice from a leather flask.

I wasn’t sure we were going to make it up that last rise; I would have hated to dump off some of the load I have here.

All that the beast pulling her wagon offered in reply was a cross between a grunt and a hiccup. The woman driving the wagon looked as if she would fly away in a stiff breeze, but looks could be deceiving. A battered staff of grey rested beside her while what looked to be a small sword was belted to her waist. Skin roughened by the elements covered a face which many would have called ugly; while one eye was milky colored and pale resting in the center of a horrific scar, the other eye was of a washed out grey color and always darting around. She was forty four seasons old, but she looked way older then that. No one really knew her name; she had long become inured to people calling her hag or a walking horror or even worse. While most all the clothing about her looked like cast off rags or the pickings from a garbage heap, there were some things about her that were out of place. Why would one so homely have possession of a silver barrette or a silver comb and mirror? What about the colorful bows that this woman wore in her thinned and scraggly looking hair? Her teeth were yellow and crooked and marked with decay, why would she have such a brushing set with her? The woman was a study of a conflict in mien. When she looked into the mirror, did the woman see another face then the one she had? No one really knew. She remembered that once she had a name, and it wasn’t ‘hag’ either.

It took her a moment to remember back that far. Yes, at one time, she had been called Lady Tran. The only acknowledged child of a wealthy Lord in the SouthHold, she got everything when her parents died. She had so much money, she could have whatever she wanted and do whatever she wanted; for some years after she came into her inheritance, she lived the life of scandal and debauchery; what did she have to worry about? At some point, she had tired of the endless play for some reason. She and her entourage had passed by a stand of Rivanwood with its ravenswood and foirwood and stelenwood trees; it was a stelenwood tree that called to her. At first, she thought to order someone to cut the branch that would eventually become her staff, but she had been told that she would have to do the work herself. By the time she was done her soft and pink hands were bloody ruin with a few nails torn or missing, but she didn’t feel ashamed because of the work, she felt more ashamed by the way she had acted before undertaking this arduous task. Lords and Ladies in the SouthHold set the fashion trends, but none were about to follow the path of Lady Tran. It was as if she had changed overnight; no more wild parties or socializing. She at times locked herself in her room for days on end after various sorts of tomes were delivered to her. Before, she would be as painted as would befit a Lady, but now she didn’t care how she looked. A Death Walker had somehow made it into the SouthHold and was hiding in a building. The SouthHold Spirit Guard attempted to kill it with no success. What white staffs that could be found were equally as unsuccessful at destroying the abomination, but Lady Tran sent the filth back to D’aeleth where it belonged, earning the first of many scars both physical and otherwise. Despite the service she had done for the SouthHold, she was called to task by the High Council.

The SouthHold is a place of learning and of healing; only ones who wield the white staff are welcome here.

They had banished her from the SouthHold after what she had done for them! She did have one final laugh, though; after she bought the sturdy wagon she now used, she had given away her wealth to the slaves in the city; many slaves became freemen as a result of her largesse. She had forgotten when she had first taken a load of found weapons to a Weaponmaster for sale, but she decided it was a way to make a living while having solitude as a sort of solace for her pain. Once there had been someone else that she had met and loved, but they were long dead; love could conquer all he had said, but apparently not a killing spell from a shadow staff. She had even borne his child, but his death made her fully realize how dangerous the life she had now chosen was. There had been a solution to that problem, but it forever hardened her heart to any such emotions again. Her ‘horse’ was actually an elemental she had rescued from one of D’aeleth’s minions; whether an elemental could be suborned was a matter of conjecture, but the creature acted as if it was in pain from whatever the shadow staff was doing. She had felled the Shadow Staff with a bolt of doom, and since that time the elemental was happy to do her bidding. The creature was as mutable as the earth and stone from which it was made. Despite her ruined eye and the scars of battle that forever disfigured her countenance, Lady Tran was not some feeble old woman without defenses. When her staff was of little use, there was a sword she carried by her side in a battered and barely serviceable sheath. Learning the art of Zynology had been costly as learning to use the sword, but both paid off in their own way. She knew this was a Spiritsword when she first examined it. It was very well seasoned; like weapons of this sort, it never grew dull and could never break. This particular weapon used fire and frost and lightning to damage or kill that which it struck and adapted to the size of the wielder, a definite advantage for these times.

As she surveyed the area around her, she could smell a stench she knew only too well. How many Death Walkers and other such spawn had she sent back to D’aeleth since that first one? She had lost track many years ago. One had been here very recently, as recently as last night perhaps. She was tired though it didn’t show externally. Last night as she traveled, an eye Druj chose to challenge her right to exist. She had lost some life force in the battle, but her sword through the D’aeleth spawned obscenity had ended the fight. It cost her more power to feel like even a modicum of herself afterwards, but she couldn’t help but notice the weapons scattered on the ground. They ranged from base weapons to branded ones, a very good trove. There were also some she could tell that were cursed, but it fell to those who gathered weapons for a living to take the good with the bad in the hopes one day there would be nothing left of the foully tainted Dâelswords or Soulswords. She was about to leave with her now heavy load when she saw something almost hidden by the dirt. She knew it was there, but why was it trying to hide from her? She raised her staff ready to cast a spell if the need arose, but there was no need. She finally grabbed the elusive weapon and half laughed and half cursed her folly. At one time it had been a decent quality broadsword, but that was before the elements had gotten a hold of it. What wasn’t pitted and rusted was corroded beyond all hope of repair; barely two finger widths of metal still held the blade onto the hilt. She made as if to cast it aside, but there was…something about the sword. What Zynology skills she had learned would not avail her in determining just what sort of blade this was; it was as if her attempts only slipped over the weapon instead of seeing its heart. It would probably take a dedicated Zynologist to discover that information, but maybe at some point when she had the money to waste. She shrugged and placed the sword with the other weapons she had collected...

The battle with the Druj had left her in dire need of rest; that was why she didn't chase down the piece of D’aeleth filth and kill it. She was about to move one when she heard…something within the ruins of the Stedding. Steddings were another peculiarity of the Spiritlands; no matter how hard you assailed the living, it was the natural order of things for the living to come together for protection and improvement of their lot in other ways, but a thriving Stedding one day could be charnel and death the next; any Stedding that grew too large or prosperous would inevitably become the target for D’aeleth’s minions and often times would be destroyed. That never stopped other ones from springing up in their place, but who or what had made that sound? All she had to do was follow the skulking animals to the source, and that she did. As she climbed down from her wagon, most of the animals gave way, hating as they did the smell of human, but some of the larger creatures were not so easily spooked. A Dyr-Wolf was an exceptionally large wolf like creature that was said to not fear anything that crossed its path. She was only able to drive it away with lighting from her staff, costing her even more power. The blanket looked warm, but it was also was thoroughly sodden from the elements. She had her staff raised in case this was a Restanti, but that wasn’t the case this time. When she pulled aside the blanket, a swarthy face with black hair and green eyes was appraising her in silence. How in D’aeleth’s name did this happen? She already knew the answer. Some poor unfortunate ran into the Death Walker that was here, but at least they hadn’t gone down without a fight; the remains of two of the Death Walker’s minions lay on the ground. Baby charl was essentially worthless to any who lived off of the spirit of life; even a shadow staff would not go out of their way to suborn them unless they wanted to make a Restanti; there was one shadow staff she knew who enjoyed torturing babes, at least until she found them. All wasn't what it appeared to be here though; she could feel the cold that had touched this infant. Was this yet another foul plan of D'aeleth? If that was the case, it would be better to kill the infant but she had once been a mother. On closer inspection of the infant, she couldn't help but softly laugh because though the cold of a Death Walker had touched it, the baby didn't appear to be affected by it. She would have known if the cold had infected the spirit of the infant, wouldn't she?

She had no idea how she was going to take care of the boy while she was out here but she had made up her mind. She would take the child with her figure out what was needed later. The baby cried as it was removed from the blanket and exposed to the cold air, but once she had dried and restored the blanket to some semblance of its primary use with yet another spell, she once more wrapped the baby inside of it…and then froze where she was. She had driven off a Dyr-Wolf to get to the child, but now there were three of them present. They didn’t appear agitated or hostile; two of them were sitting on the ground while a third one stood erect. The one that was standing was the one she had driven off earlier. She felt…something as the wolves stared at her, but she wasn’t sure what it was. Some further noise caused her to raise her staff to strike. The babe was held with her right arm but her staff was in her left hand, ready to do ruin on a moment’s notice, but it looked like she wouldn’t have to fight. The two other wolves that approached were too small to be Dyr-Wolves, but she felt a mental force coming from the new arrivals. You have decided to let him live but beware…he may repay life with either death or the salvation of the living. That said, the two strange wolves left along with the three Dyr-Wolves, leaving her once more alone. She shook her head as she clambered back onto her wagon; Dyr-Wolves were