Unfettered - Part 8 - Purity

Traveling across the Savannah planes of Ogrimar was far easier than Bryne expected. Lorey taught him the basics of riding in less than a week. He'd affectionately named his stallion 'Koter', amusingly keeping the translation to himself. Along with Wrog, Hunter received some sort of medallion from the Trine. At each settlement they passed, they only needed to flash it to receive supplies, a place to rest, or directions. No questions were asked. They traveled well over twelve hours a day, keeping a quick pace.

In less than a week, they'd crossed the entire continent and found themselves at the western coast. News at the small port was quite interesting; Apparently, they'd been ambushed out of nowhere, killing a guard on duty. The day following the ambush, after word of a prison break reached them, a few other guards found tracks towards the eastern mountains, and attempted to follow the escapees. Whoever they were, they were hardly careful about covering tracks. Lorey deciphered in a minute's time that a party of roughly 6 had passed through, including a songwolf and at least one heavily armored fighter.

For a while, Hunter was torn between following the orders bequeathed by the Trine itself, or risking it all pursuing the assailants. It was unheard of to discard an order from the Trine; An orc would sooner file off its teeth or feed their dismembered leg to a warthog. Thus, It was agreed that the group would split; Bryne and Hunter would take a ferry to the prison island, while Lorey and Fallon followed the tracks northeast in hopes of heading off the assailants. Any plans of reconvening or communicating went unspoken; Bryne assumed the group had already made such arrangements before he ever came along.

Boarding the orcish ferry, Bryne found himself at sea for the second time in his life, albeit briefly. Less than an hour, just short of arriving at the island's dock, Hunter finally confessed to Bryne the true importance and severity behind the Trine's mission; The island was a largely secret affair, even among the Highborn. This unassuming, inconspicuous speck of land was where the Highborn kept prisoners that were meant to disappear. It was an oubliette, run by a particularly cruel family, who happily tortured their own kind. As he'd mentioned before, however, the prison had a special 'guest'; An elf of noble birth, who could summon the elements in the form of a powerful serpent. It was an elf that he'd heard Bryne speak of many times before, an elven princess named Mylleile.

The orcs had captured a water-elf noble, entirely neutral to the war, tortured her, broken her, and condemned her to an impending death. As they docked, Hunter explained in great detail how such a farce jeopardized their relations to elvenkind, potentially swinging the war in the Commonwealth's favor. They met with a pair of hoblins, whom Hunter began to interrogate. They left to investigate the prison itself. Bryne stayed at the dock, sitting at the pier. He stared into the quiet sea below.

When Hunter finally returned, a bit more pale in the face than before, Bryne woke from his slumber and wiped the frozen tears from his eyes. The ferry would return shortly after, returning the two to Ogrimar proper.

Breaking the silence, Bryne announced he'd no longer follow Hunter on his path. Hunter simply nodded, and told Bryne he'd wish the dwarf well. "You wouldn't want to follow the monsters that did this, anyways," Hunter added. Bryne asked no details; If something troubled Hunter, even more so than the scenes of demonic slaughter they'd already witnessed, then Bryne wished no part of it. He'd changed his mind since their hunt began. When Hunter asked where the dwarf would go, Bryne simply replied he did not know yet. The first thing he wanted to do is rid himself of these humiliating tattoos. At that, Hunter laughed, and handed Bryne a small vial of liquid. It smelled like a tasty tonic, but was viscous and burned when touched. "I've been saving that for when Lorey finally decided to leave," Hunter stated plainly. "You seem to need it more."

When they arrived back at the mainland dock, Hunter immediately gathered his affairs and headed east. Neither Lorey nor Fallon were to be found. The orc securing his ferry and the few remaining guards all just ignored the dwarf. Bryne gathered his supplies, his steed Koter, and simply let the beast wander where it willed while Bryne sat in thought. Caught between brooding and meditative, he drifted north.

For the first time in too long, Bryne listened inwardly for guidance.

Hugging this side of the western mountains meant he'd eventually reach a rough terrain, full of maze-like paths and sheer cliffs. His steed would eventually be unable to follow Bryne's travel, so he stopped at the mountains' base. There, he used a scrap of parchment and a half-full inkwell to write a note in the best orcish he could manage. This, he placed in one of the stallion's saddlebags, along with a few coins, and sent the beast on his way. Bryne turned around, and began his hike up the mountain alone. Koter was no more; The 'mutt' was now 'free'.

The note read: "This is my steed, a beast from the stables of Blackstone itself. His back is strong, and his hooves have gone far. Treat Freiheit well."

Unfettered - Part 6 - The unwanted and unforgotten

As Bryne traveled with his three new companions, he began to learn their stories.

Hunter, the orcish inquisitor with patchy skin, was actually not a full-blooded Highborn at all. Shunned by his race, the half-orc spent most of his youth proving himself to his more brutish cousins.  Entering the military theocracy as an inquisitor was more a means to an end, than a calling; He was hoping that divine magic could permanently erase the feeble human blood in his veins. Now, he wanders the harsh terrain of Ogrimar as a bounty hunter for the Trine (A name for the closest things Highborn had to a clergy; A quasi-military group of paladins). Bryne asked if such a past meant Hunter was more open-minded towards non-orcs. Hunter didn't reply. When they made camp that evening, Bryne noticed the half-orc mumbling some words to himself while smashing a log with his flail. Bryne didn't ask anything more of the inquisitor after that.

The human was named Lorey. When they'd found a small river to bathe in, Bryne noticed that Lorey's tattoo extended far further than the marks on his back and neck; From head to toe, Lorey was wholly smudged with black ink, intricate patterns in some areas, and clouds of darkness in others. Lorey was also far more talkative than the others, but only when they were at rest. His past was that of a human defector; Working as a regional adviser to troops near the border, Lorey was sick of a war he saw as petty, and decided to sneak into Ogrimar using some hidden drow tunnels. The plan backfired in every sense, and after barely avoiding fire from the humans and a slew of undead, he managed to get himself captured and enslaved by Highborn warriors. He made a point emphasizing that he was only kept alive because of his vast knowledge. After a generous amount of torture and questioning, he was passed on to Hunter at the half-orc's request. His philosophies and outlook on life have changed since.

Bryne was taken aback by the somewhat casual mentions of torture and change. Despite Lorey's straightforward and gruff speech, he expected more a reaction. Indeed, Lorey just sat there tinkering with his crossbow, and when queried about his torture, went right on to explaining his philosophy. All people should just accept the decisions and mistakes they make, he claimed. When prodded further, Lorey just stared into Bryne's eyes and said: "Not all of us have the luxury of a peaceful place to learn and grow." That was all Bryne got out of Lorey's past.

Bryne took his time approaching the third member of the group and his potential mentor. He began to notice that both Lorey and Hunter kept their interactions with her at a minimum. Soon, however, Bryne noticed that she began to loom closer to him while they traveled. Finally, he opened a dialogue.

Fallon confirmed she was a samsaran; She was of a race that others often had trouble categorizing. Many speculated they were born of the Mysts like many of the animal-folk. Others suggested they were altered by the radiance, and thus were a type of plane-touched, like the devilish tieflings or the breeze-kissed sylphs. Others still thought they were cousins to fey, like the gnomes or songwolves. Regardless, Fallon interjected, she was a long-lived being with many reincarnations and many pasts. This left her more sympathetic to the ways of elves and dwarves than most of the other races. When asked what she was doing in Ogrimar during a seemingly endless cold war, Fallon simply shrugged and replied "I go where life leads me, simple as that."

It was a terrifying revelation to know that Fallon was actually an arcane archer in the making, a profession that should have gotten her killed on sight in Ogrimar. Only the most elite of magi from the Commonwealth were allowed to practice the art. Arcane archers, beings capable of raining death and fire from a half-mile away, were largely acknowledged as the reason humans stood a chance against orcs in the first few waves of the war. "Although," Fallon added, "That was a life ago. I cherish the memories still, but this life, I'm still only a magus". Confused Bryne inquired as to how it was possible to have the memories of an arcane archer but only know rudimentary magus techniques. This launched Fallon into a night-long monologue about the nature of memories versus skill.

Much to Bryne's disappointment, Fallon's recognition of his kinetic abilities was only partially due to personal experience, and even then, only from lives past. The rest came from the magic she employed, and her skill in interpreting the crafting and form of spellwork. She saw the way he breathed, the way his hands moved, and the way the environment shifted. To a trained eye, helped with a bit of magic, it was easy to see how he weaved such effects. Lifting her bow, she demonstrated by firing a snowball at a faraway rock using her own magic; She used the magic of the magi, tying together wizardry and armed combat. With a grin, Bryne challenged the samsaran mercenary to a contest of marksmanship, both of them launching balls of ice and snow. He lost miserably.

In Fallon, Bryne felt more at home than he'd felt in months.

So the days went; Hunter's group was surprisingly generous with their provisions, and Lorey's knowledge of the land could easily be deemed superior to that of an orc born and raised locally. When they found a village, Bryne waited outside with Fallon, while Hunter and his enslaved human questioned the locals for new leads. Haphazardly, Bryne also learned that he'd been entirely wrong about how Lorey was handled. He'd thought that when Hunter barked orders, shoved Lorey around, and occasionally striking the man, it was a sure sign of his dominant ownership; Instead, Bryne learned that this was simply the way Highborn behaved with their respected kin. Compared to treatment by the locals, the bruised human was free, protected by the law and by Hunter from the ax of an excitable orc. They got their news, and left. There was no word of any elven summoner.

When the group came across a rogue troupe of goblins, chaos erupted. Goblins, Lorey informed Bryne, were not entirely extinct; They bred fast, and were exceptionally crafty, if not enslaved and carefully monitored. As they were ambushed, Bryne wanted to show he was not defenseless in a fight. Faster than he could even react, however, Hunter's group had already ducked behind cover, and goblins unleashed a barrage of bombs and flying rocks. Bryne limped for cover, extinguishing a fire that caught his pant leg, while the others were picking goblins off left and right with bolts and arrows. The goblins had no choice but to flee or charge. They chose to charge, and were met with Hunter's flail. With a dazzling display of martial prowess, the half-orc knocked them all back and stood his ground. Seeing an opportunity, Bryne recovered from his wound and drew upon his powers. He pushed the limits of his abilities, drawing waters from the very earth and air. Both Lorey and Fallon warned Hunter to back away.

After a sudden drop in temperature and an audible rumble, Hunter glanced backwards to find Bryne summoning a massive ball of ice. Expecting Bryne to roll the sphere, Hunter dodged sideways to avoid its path. He'd guessed wrong; With a thunderous roar, Bryne instead threw the ice-ball into the center of the goblin horde, who had but seconds to react. The ball exploded like a grenade, mimicking the goblins' bombs; Shards of ice flew like shrapnel, impaling several goblins outright and skewering the ones behind. Hunter, with no shield or cover, was pierced threw his abdomen and thigh.

After the battle, Bryne offered to mend Hunter's wounds, but was denied. Both Lorey and Hunter had similar magic, and had no use of his aid. Expecting a soured partnership, Bryne prepared to part from the group and be left to himself. Instead, he was met with respect, and a subtle warning that if he attempted such a feat again, Hunter would happily knock his teeth in. Lorey made no such threat verbally, but Bryne caught himself in the human's crosshairs several times.

Several more weeks passed. Bryne remarked that it'd soon be a year since he left Dweimdomus. Though seasons rarely diverged from the usual dry or wet in Ogrimar, he imagined there'd be good amounts of snowfall back home. The group continued to hug the western mountains, then the southern coast, in their travels. They found yet another town that'd been slaughtered by Hunter's elusive prey. This time, they needed to cover their faces with a cloth; Each and every victim had a stench so rancid, it was as if their innards had dissolved into pure decay. As Bryne overturned a body, and discovered hundreds of maggots swarming from their home, he pondered on the fates of Mylleile and the Honeyfin clan.

According to Hunter, his prey was some variation of demon, or a cultist capable of summoning them. However, he found no tracks to trace. Both Lorey and Fallon debated and argued what magic was in use, if at all, or what supernatural abilities were at play, if any. Bryne instead knelt down, and stared at the empty eyes of the deceased. He saw the purity of death.

"Daemons are far less popular among summoners," Lorey bickered, "But they're the best fit; None of the towns suffered the wanton destruction of demons." "I'm telling you, it's a witch or someone practicing their craft," Fallon retorted. "I've seen similar before. Some can even harness the souls for rituals." "There're no signs of a ritual, no circles, no binding spells," stated Hunter. "This was done for the sake of killing. But Daemons wouldn't just pop into this plane, and target random towns."

"Maybe they just needed to kill," Bryne chimed in. Still kneeling down, he froze to death all the insects he saw. "Maybe it's a compulsion for them. Not just a ritual, or a cause. maybe they just want everything to stop moving."

Hunter stared silently at Bryne for a moment, and stated matter-of-factly "Like a demon or daemon." The group continued bickering.

The day came and went, like any other. No further clues were found, as per the usual. Any and all divination used yielded little more than what they already knew. It was eventually decided by Hunter that the loss of life was too great for the Highborn to ignore. They needed to report their findings directly to the Trine.

Life Messenger • Part IV • Preparation

Preparation

About a week before school was scheduled to start, Shizuka brought her younger brother to the town’s shopping district to purchase all his supplies. As uniforms were also mandatory when he was a student of the Chinese school system, he was not phased by the rather lengthy process of buying his new school set. ShengJi was, as the tailor would repeat, a frail boy.

“Much too small for an eight-years-old…” the professional muttered with his measuring between his teeth, while both his hands were directing the boys’ arms to open. “You need to eat more, boy.”

He scribbled notes on the boy’s size and typed in a few numbers on the computer. A printed copy of the order came out with buzzing sound, which the tailor handed to Shizuka. She paid the deposit and was instructed to come back in about three days, to retrieve the goods. She smiled and thanked the tailor with a grateful bow, placed her hands softly on her brother’s back, and walked out while checking an item of a paper piece from her pocket.

It was still early when they arrive at the stationery store. Shizuka was following a strict order in amassing all the required elements, while ShengJi was exploring the aisles. He wandered into the library section, where he spotted almost instantly the reference and encyclopedia section. He left an invisible trail behind him, as he felt the brand new glossy book covers with his hand. After a few minutes, he located a large illustrated book on wild plants that he pulled out of the shelf almost instantly. He rushed back to his sister, his hands full with only that huge brick, and begged her to keep it. Shizuka was no stranger to her sibling’s passion for plants, after all, it ran in the family. Her mother instructed her on all the grounds keeping there was to their home garden, and she obliged happily. She smiled and picked up the heavy package from ShengJi. His eyes gleamed with eagerness.

It was nearing noon when they finished their business in town. Shizuka drove them back to the house, where the nurse was concluding her visit. They met on the doorstep. Shizuka inquired, as usual, about her mother’s health. The nurse looked down a few seconds, and she finally declared:

“I’m afraid her state has deteriorated. I would not know how to explain this… it is as if she was losing parts of her spirit every day… The illness isn’t spreading, as far as I can see, but she is not bettering either.”

ShengJi had heard most of the conversation, but did not quite grasp its urgency. He could only tell his mother was unwell. He threw his shoes behind him and quickly ran upstairs to see her. A light breeze was coming through a cracked window; the rose silky curtains were floating in mid air. Nadeshiko stared blankly at the azure noon sky. Her face seemed whiter than he remembered. ShengJi approached his mother’s bedside and placed his hand on her forehead.

Nadeshiko shivered as a melancholic smile showed. “Shuji-chan. My boy…” 

Life Messenger • Part III • Routine

Routine

Days went by peacefully. All of ShengJi’s fears of leaving his father’s motherland were vanishing. A well-oiled routine was in place, contributing greatly to the little boy’s sense of security. If there was one aspect of his life in Shanghai that he did not like, it was his father restless schedule. Never knowing if his father would be present for his birthday, or simply for dinner, filled the boy an early taste of loneliness.

Every morning, Shizuka cooked a traditional Japanese breakfast. The smell of rice and miso filled up the house and everyone waited patiently for the cooker’s usual ring (a simplified version of Kira Kira Boshi), indicating that the meal was ready. Right before lunch, a nurse would visit and run the usual tests on Nadeshiko. The verdict was always the same: “Her condition is not getting better or worst. She needs rest. Keep from overworking the body. As long as she is stable, you can hope for a few more weeks…”

In the afternoon, Shizuka went to school. ShengJi was lectured almost every single day, at precisely 12:25 p.m., or right before Shizuka’s bus, that he had to stay quiet and let his mother sleep. Whenever she did, she’d always have this strange look in her eyes, as if she was worried about something bad happening. Nevertheless, when he was alone with his mother, ShengJi spent most of his time in her room. Nadeshiko told him stories about warriors of the ancient eras, travellers and inventors, but she would also tell the boy about plants, flowers, their life and virtues. She sometimes fell asleep as she was talking.

When slumber took over his mother, ShengJi left to play in the garden or in the park near the house. He was truly fascinated by the unique shapes of leaves, blooming colours, and variety of scents. In a way that he couldn’t explain, he felt deeply connected to nature. Sometimes, he simply placed his hand on a tree trunk and sensed energy flowing from his fingertips to his whole body. His favourite tree stood gracefully in front of the house; a mature weeping willow.

Whenever possible, he found a new plant and collected a piece to lay delicately between the pages of an old encyclopedia. The day after, he showed his mother and asked more about his new treasure. ShengJi loved how his mother brightened up whenever she was observing or describing what was, in her words, “nature’s greatest gift.”

Shizuka came back home around 5 p.m. and always went straight to the kitchen for dinner preparation. ShengJi helped out setting the table; his sister always complimented the way he placed every piece perfectly aligned with each other, which made the boy quite proud of himself. At dinner, Shizuka often inquired about her mother’s health and asked if ShengJi had been nice.

A few weeks went by following the same scenario. Spring was growing with flowers shoots and vivid trees. The beginning of April announced important changes for ShengJi: the beginning of a new school year.

Unfettered - Part 5 - A Hunter and their prey

It took three days before Bryne found a nearby settlement. His groin was exceptionally sore. On the first day, his noble steed began to wheeze. His mare veered from where he wished, shook her head, and in one instance, nearly bucked him off. He could only empathize with her unhappiness of having an inexperienced rider, that mounted an ox to practice. That experience wasn't so pleasant either. The next day was worse. On the third morning, he'd discovered insects in his pockets, devouring his carefully packaged food with their large mandibles. His mare had broken free from where he tied her up. He spent several hours attempting to track her, only to find pieces of her tack on the ground, and a trail of blood. By nightfall on chance, he spotted smoke on the horizon and followed it.

On the fourth morning, hungry and cold, Bryne stumbled into the orcish settlement of Umnark.

A small town, Umnark only prospered due to its proximity to a somewhat large array of hills and the resulting runoff that fed their crops. Not quite close enough to the Western Mountains, where they might mine ores or enslave a dwindling population of goblins, nor far enough inland to be completely safe from human attacks, Umnark was a small town with only two exports: warriors and meat. Enclosed by a palisade and protruding spikes, Bryne approached its open and seemingly unguarded gate. He was met with the strike a flail, straight into his chest, knocking him to the ground and winding him. From behind the wall emerged an orcish warrior.

"Who goes there?!" the warrior barked. Bryne briefly checks his chest, making sure his chainmail was largely undamaged (and his sternum still intact), and got back up. Not just anybody could knock over a sure-footed dwarf. "I am Bryne Slagheart, a wanderer-" Bryne barely began, before the orc interrupted.  "Show your mark!" This time, the warrior pointed a sturdy looking composite bow at Bryne. From a human, that arrow would be another bruise. From an orc, it would impale his armor, both front and back. Begrudgingly, Bryne turned around, lifted his hair, and showed the back of his neck. It was enough to pass.

The warrior he met, as he quickly learned, was named Hunter. He wasn't just an ordinary soldier either; the emblem of the orcist faith marked on his chest meant he was a true Inquisitor, a lesser paladin of the orcish military. Bryne wondered why an orc would be so talkative with an utter stranger, let alone a dwarf. With a gesture, Bryne pointed to the rest of the town. It was only then Bryne noticed and understood:

Umnark was empty.

Bryne questioned where the smoke had come from. Hunter pointed to the smoldering remains of the largest home in the town. Bryne noticed a foul stench in the air. Hunter only responded "You'd best not go near there" and left it at that with a grunt, before walking off towards another nearby home. Bryne noticed something strange about the hue of Hunter's skin, seeing a patch of strangely beige colored flesh amid the true green. As Bryne attempted to catch up to the inquisitor, he was quickly met with more unseen company. Two projectiles, he could only assume were arrows, whizzed directly in front of Bryne's face. In panic, Bryne summoned up his elemental forces; Droplets of moisture rocks, small unattended items, all began to rise from the earth as the temperature plummeted, creating an accompanying wind. When Hunter paused in his tracks, Bryne realized he'd made a terrible mistake.

Two more figures emerged from nearby houses. One was most definitely a human male, dressed all too similarly to Bryne; He too showed tattoos running up and down his flesh. The other was a female, neither orc nor human, but instead boasting solid white eyes and pale blue skin. in the heat of the moment, Bryne couldn't recall at all what she might be, or her abilities. The male pointed a small hand crossbow at Bryne's head, while the female boasted a similar bow to Hunter's. Bryne broke his concentration immediately, and raised his empty hands in surrender.

"You boast magic?" Hunter spoke. Bryne simply nodded, his eyes attempting to read each of them. Bryne nods to both his apparent associates. Both muttered some occult words, while Bryne braced for the worst.

In a matter of seconds, both associates began to rattle off information for their orcish leader; Their knowledge would utterly boggle Bryne. The human listed Bryne's likely recent history, everything about dwarf culture that would have been remotely relevant, and even the exact caravan (belonging to the Honeyfin family) that brought him here. It was surprising, of course, but far less interesting to Bryne in comparison to what his partner relayed.

The female samsaran (He'd had the time to recall, at this point; A strange race of reincarnating humanoids.) began to rattle off everything with regards to Bryne's abilities. "A kineticist," she began, "can channel directly from planes of the inner sphere for spell-like effects and offensive techniques." She listed, in accurate words, exactly what Bryne felt; She spoke of how he gathered powers associated with his element from around him, how he'd also weave strands of aether to perform telekinesis. She narrowed down his likely abilities to a tee. Then she began to list his every vulnerability, even things he hadn't known. Effective ways to break his concentration. What to do to subdue his power, and tells that he was about to use them. At this, Bryne fell to his knees, and grinned. He'd found a mentor. She was pointing an arrow at his face.

Satisfied with her explanation, Hunter gestured for Bryne to stand. He announced simple, "you did not do this," and turned his back. Confused, Bryne began to question the lot of them exactly what had happened in this small town. They were all surprisingly liberal with their knowledge. Bryne pondered for a moment if it had to do with an orcish belief he'd missed.

Hunter was hunting a monster- At least, he called it a monster- that had been slaughtering nearby villages wholesale in various ways. The creature(or creatures) left no tracks, nor was it ever spotted by nearby hunters or warriors, but it was most definitely intelligent. Hunter himself suspected it was some kind of demon based on its 'tastes'. One village was found with each orc beheaded, as if a creature actively yanked the skull right off with its teeth, but it left the heads upright beside each corpse.  Even outside the village walls, orc upon orc was followed, beheaded, and arranged. In another, every orc in the camp was found face down, with their face caved and bones shattered as if they'd fallen from a great height. In another, every victim was found with a horrified expression, reeking of necromantic energies, and arranged in a circle. In yet another, and the village that assured Hunter that Bryne was indeed not the culprit, every victim was found dead at the hands of their fellow orcs as if in a mass hysteria. The theoretical survivor of this massacre knelt down in the middle of town, and eviscerated himself with a sharp rock.

All of these were orcish villages. Orcs, who could take on five humans each and then their respective families, were massacred without resistance. Hunter lowered his head in respect, then put away his shortbow.

Upon hearing the grisly tale, Bryne understood one thing for certain: He absolutely needed to find the force behind them. More important to him than any elven summoner, more still than any blue-skinned mentor. He took a deep breath, and let it out with a cloud of frigid air. His eyes went glassy, and his hands formed fists. For the briefest of moments during this epiphany, he considered freezing all three of these strangers into solid ice. He absolutely needed to find the culprit; The one that could answer his question. Humans, orcs, elves or demons; Nothing mattered at all beyond t-

Another arrow whizzed past Bryne's head, clipping his ear. "Hunter," The samsaran spoke, alerting the orc. After another brief bout, Bryne was allowed to stand, now clutching his bleeding ear and most definitely broken rib. Bryne cleared his head of the strange thoughts that took him, recalled his standing as a dwarf in orcish lands, and asked Hunter quite simply if he could follow along. When asked why, Bryne simply responded that he needed to find a certain elf.

Unfettered - Part 4 - The Border to Ogrimar

Bryne felt caged for the first time in his life. Hissing frigid air, he had to remain as still as possible, naked, and utterly humiliated before the surrounding orcs. Moaning with pain, he bent forward as a black spike was driven repeatedly into his shoulder and back. The only other sound reaching his ear was the unbearable tack, tack, tack of a hammer driving that black spike. A little ways away, a line of halflings formed approaching a well-armored orc with a massive war-hammer at their side. Beside them, their mysterian mercenaries lined up, each submitting their arms and armor.

Again, Bryne's jaw clenched as the orc behind him hit a sensitive patch of skin. The orcs surely had a funny idea of a 'mostly harmless tattoo'.

Crossing the border was a harrowing process.

On the way to the border, Bryne didn't notice just how well the human side had prepared for war. In any direction he looked, he spotted a watchtower, whether it was a prominent stone structure or a camouflaged little fort near the top of a forested hill. Every few minutes along the way, the wagon master shot a magical flare into the air, while another halfling repeatedly sounded a small gong. Over and over, Bryne's ears rang and eyes watered. The halflings were making their presence as conspicuous as possible. Briefly, he resented leaving his underground home. The mercenaries seemed completely untroubled. What perplexed Bryne most, however, was that the halflings kept this up even as the hills and towers disappeared.

The forest broke, the grass grew shorter, and they began to approach a patchy, distorted, rocky and sandy earth. "Earth torn by magic and war," commented the wagon master. An earth salted by the worst mortals had to offer; neither trenches, nor hills survived. Bryne imagined the horrors that walked here, as he read from historical tomes. He wondered what the eldest must have thought of the time in their youth, when orcs summoned undead armies and humans tore apart the ground. He wondered how long it'd be before this earth ran red with blood again. When the wagon master spotted the orcish camp ahead, he ordered the caravan to an immediate halt.

Riding their iconic sapient wolves, the worgs, two orcish warriors approached. Bryne was ordered to stay back with the mercenaries, as the halfling leader negotiated. Soon enough, the wagons began moving again, and they road on to the orcish fortifications. To all sides, Bryne noticed the familiar presence of towers again. They'd crossed the no-man's-land. Every soul was deathly silent, even the oxen driving their vehicles. Instead of a gong or flares, the orcs' worgs gave a howl. It was responded to with another.

Orcs were a surprisingly impressive bunch, for all the reputation they carry. To a dwarf, a human was respectable in times of peace (At least, for most dwarves; Bryne wasn't keen on them) and an orc was respectable in times of war. The humans so varied in nature from one being to the next that it's any wonder they managed a government together, let alone one that's earned the nod of other races. In war times, however, humankind permanently scarred the world in ways no-one could have foreseen. No soul extant should trust they fully know the nature of humans, and indeed this seemed to be how humans treated one another on a regular basis. To an older soul, humankind's sins far outweigh their virtue, but nonetheless each individual is treated with fairness.

With an orc, similar variation and creativity is possible, with one not-so-subtle difference; Orcs come from a world of pain and strength, and they're very aware of the fact. In war, orcs are ruthless, but respect the land; They merely slaughter those that look at them wrongly. To say, however, that an orc knows peace is an oxymoron; Orcs respect strength, in all its varieties, above all. That is not to say that orcs have not found an alternative to permanent civil war. To Bryne, however, the alternative was almost worse.

"You approach Highborn land. State your business!" The orcish paladin spits. After a brief word with the wagon master, the orc grunts, nods, and steps aside. "The Slag will need to be marked," he growls.

Once finished with the tattoo on his upper body, Bryne is told that he'll need to remain topless for several days, and once healed, never conceal the mark at the back of his neck lest he be beheaded. The halflings, thankfully, meet their inspection with relative ease. Their stores are checked and found acceptable. The mercenaries' contracts are in order. With an orcish escort, they would be guided to the next town where they may trade; It was the only orcish settlement where outsiders could trade. Bryne, on the other hand, was free to roam at his own leisure and risk. "Those marked are treated just barely above slaves," the wagon master warned. "But it's forbidden by their laws to kill you outright. Just make sure you stick to fairly populated areas, and don't do anything stupid." Bryne nodded, and looked around. With the orcish escorts carefully eyeing the halflings' mercenaries, it seemed the Honeyfin caravan had made this trip many times before. Strength, even hired strength, made sure orcs behaved.

Orcs don't refer to themselves as orcs, most often; They are the Highborn, and rightly so. Bryne saw it objectionable at best, but he'd heard other dwarves speak of the brilliant ways that orcs manage to keep other orcs in line: An iron law, hammered into place by the paladins of their religion. Orcs managed to make their reverence for strength into a tool to corral their own people; By having the strongest orcs become Paladins of the Trinity, they assured that every generation learned the truth of their belief: Orcs are the destined, perfect, strongest beings, forged into proud persons. Because of this, they've learned to value their fellow strong, perfect orc. Sadly, compassion and mercy are seen as a flaw, a taint in their trinity, an imperfection set in motion by their 'fourth god', a demon-like being. Regardless of their senseless beliefs, one cannot deny the effectiveness of orcish faith; In little more than an elf's full lifetime, orcs have dominated an entire continent, expelling most of goblinkind, kobolds, drow, duergar, and anything else in their way. Surprisingly, peace among their own kind meant orcs were allowed to develop social and productive lives, and become more progressive as a whole.

And then, humans came along.

The trek to town was long, but Bryne would not have to suffer it. He had a different deal with the halflings, as painful as it would be to part with such pleasant company. Instead, he used his money to rent a steed from the border garrison (A strong horse, thankfully), and took with him all the supplies he'd need for a week's trip. Instead of the grand Bazaar that the halflings were to visit, Bryne intended to venture further south into the heart of the continent. After all, he had a promise to keep for Mylleile.

Bryne regretted two things most, when he parted from the halflings. The first: He regretted not taking a bottle of their home-brew drink. The second: He regretted not learning how to ride.

Unfettered - Part 3 - Travelling with halflings

Bryne hated humans.

He hadn't had the chance to realize the fact, similar to how he hadn't realized that he fancied a strong female elf. After visiting just one port town, Bryne was assured that humans were simply not worth the trouble. He already knew he'd need to make peace with  thousands of eyes on his back, as dwarves were a rare breed on any land but their own. This none the less hadn't prepared him for the sheer unease of being surrounded by hundreds of pompous, loud, greedy beings, each of them pointing at him behind his back and whispering "what is that doing here?"

When he passed by a half-orc, they exchanged knowing smiles. Bryne quickly understood that this was simply the norm. The Commonwealth, so named to commend the gathering of multiple races under one (regretfully human-dominated) government, was not a land that strictly encouraged the blending of races. It simply tolerated them better than others. The moment Bryne found a halfling caravan passing through the port town, he latched on.

Halfling caravans ran like blood through both the Commonwealth and Ogrimar, bringing humans mail and goods from coast to coast across their own land (Aside from hired mercenaries, it seemed humans were too lazy to traverse such distances themselves). In a way, Bryne had simply gone from one trading nomadic clan to another. The Honeyfin clan, as he'd come to learn, was a halfling family of entrepreneurs and experts of the market. They were also exceptionally friendly to outsiders, from the mysterians and strix to the plane-touched and orcs. In fact, they'd naturally assumed Bryne was some form of undine from the way he could manipulate waters and cold.

Bryne immediately requested passage with them to the orcish continent of Ogrimar. When asked for what service he could provide in return, Bryne immediately offered his services as both mercenary and sculptor. To his relief, it was the latter offer that inspired cheers and awe among the merchants. "Dwarven craftsmanship at last!" They exclaimed, "Who knew we'd find a Slag that was also a respected sculptor?" Immediately, the questioning began. Reversing his role among the water elves, Bryne found himself garrulously telling his life story to the halflings from noon to dusk. By the time he was finished, he already presented them with a beautiful engraved plaque featuring the Honeyfin insignia.

Traveling with the halflings was a pleasant experience for weeks on end. They knew their route. Their homemade brew was strong and their bread filling. At each stop, Bryne found himself amassing many clients thanks to their expert showmanship, even affording himself some basic goods and chainmail armor. They'd only ever encountered a problem once; a small camp of bandits mistook them for a much smaller force. When Bryne, a fierce and rare dwarf, poked his head out of one of the wagons, he could see the blood drain from the human bandit's face. Never before did Bryne have so much fun as that day, when he froze solid the human's feet to the ground and watched him struggle to get away. Despite earning some nervous glances from the littlefolk around him, eventually they all broke into laughter as the human lost their boots and pants.

Afterwards, all the halflings began to question and test Bryne's abilities. Bryne found this somewhat irritating, though he couldn't quite think why. Perhaps the private nature of his power made him nervous. Nevertheless, he accommodated their requests. To his surprise, their prodding proved exceptionally fruitful.

Bryne learned that he had the ability to heal, not just sap others' breath away. Moreover, when the halflings asked him to levitate a frozen apple, he found that he could. In fact, he could levitate just about anything once he discovered the right 'feeling'; Over the course of a month, Bryne trained. He bowed down in thanks to the halflings. They waved, cheered and laughed from atop a floating wagon. Bryne discovered a gift for not just water and ice, but telekinesis.

When the caravan began to near the borders of Ogrimar, Bryne decided a private chat with the wagon master was in order. A sickly halfling, the wagon master was rumored to be plagued by some sort of disease that caused him to breathe a faint black mist- something he was determined to hide as much as possible behind a scarf, despite occasional coughing fits. Whatever the case, it seemed the affliction was harmless and benign to others. Bryne asked this chief whether he'd ever come across an elven summoner paired with an air elemental. He did not. Bryne asked whether he'd heard of a possible mentor for kinetic abilities. With a shrug, the leader claimed he did not know, but that there might be plane-touched in the northwestern mountains with a better clue. After all, it was a sign one was connected to the elemental planes. Bryne took note of this, and built up his courage to ask the halfling his third and final question: the one that troubled him since youth.

With a grimace, the wagon master replied: "You may never find an answer to that question. Even so, you shouldn't let such things influence your life in any great amount. Besides," the master smiled warmly. "Why concern yourself with such things when you now know you have the power to heal? Why concern yourself with the wrath of winter, when you could become spring's touch?" Bryne knelt his head and smiled back politely. His soul did not share the sentiment. "Perhaps it's a lucky thing that you're headed towards Ogrimar, anyways," the wagon master continued, "Whatever the case, you're sure to find your answer there. Just be careful with your life."

When the halflings reached the town nearest the orcish border, a gorgeous town by an azure lake, Bryne took notice of something strange. With every mile closer to the border, less humans came to greet the caravan. Indeed, hardly anybody showed up. This blue town had tall stone walls, and a beautifully constructed church (Though Bryne found it funny that the humans worshipped but one spirit). Instead, a dozen mercenaries showed up, armored and armed to the teeth; Catfolk brandishing dangerous rapiers and ratfolk wielding potent firearms. Bryne took interest in the latter; It told its own story of the relations between humans and the technologically advanced gnomes. His kind resented such devices, aside from the Fortress's cannons, but relished the technology behind them. Before Bryne could even reflect on the matter, he was informed that the wagon master wished to set off for the border immediately. Confused, he obliged and packed his tools.

The road to Ogrimar was quiet. Bryne noticed that all his talkative friends suddenly kept to themselves. gloomy and stern looks did not belong on halfling faces. Beside their wagon, the marching mysterians (A term referring to all the bestial humanoid races from the Mysts) kept their weapons at the ready despite their brisk pace. Any hour now, that border, the fabled no-man's-land
between the Commonwealth and Ogrimar, would come into view.

Bryne's blood rushed with adrenaline and heat; The air around him grew cold.

Unfettered - Part 2 - Crossing the seas

Unlike dwarves, elves greatly valued magic- possibly as much as humans, though it was still often perceived as a means to an end. Elves spent centuries honing magical talent into forms of wizardry that serve as the basic templates today. Their libraries could rival those of dwarves and gnomes, if it weren't for the nature of elven society. Instead, elves often only passed on their knowledge to their direct descendants, forming family grimoires and reputations that spread their names far and wide among their own kin. Elven families were held in prestige for the knowledge they passed down, with the boldest and brightest blazing a trail for others to follow. Elves and humans seemed to have very different views of royalty.

When Bryne first laid eyes on the princess above him, he knew he was either delirious or in love. Dark eyes and darker hair, she stared back at him. Her touch was calloused, but gentle. Her white robes were silken, but frayed. Her smile was practiced, and then she rose, and let another tend to him.

Mylleile was an elf of the sea, a stout flower usually wandering the Azura ocean. Water elves, as they were simply known to land-dwellers, lived most of their life only briefly touching the shore for trade or supplies. Myl's own family had grown their barge from a sapling off Elfheim's coast a mere two centuries ago. While Bryne drank their fresh water and sampled a surprisingly hearty salad, Myl explained the ways of the water elf in words few dwarves had the chance to record. She described with great passion how the druids formed her massive barge from a tree as tall as mountains, taking years to gently soothe and guide the still-living wood into a craft that'd continue to grow on the sea. She recounted the stories of the first crew to board their craft, leaving the mainland for a chance at fortune or adventure. She explained that she and her brother were of a family of summoners, but that her brother had recently gone missing, and was probably somewhere on the orcish continent.

When stars began to break through the evening twilight, Myl was still singing the tales of her solace-filled life. Myl expressed surprise and relief that a dwarf took such interest, despite a lack of parchment or paper to jot it all down. She concluded with a polite smile that she despised the nickname 'Myl'.

Bryne's cheeks grew rosey, and he quickly bowed his head in apology to Mylleile. For a half-century old dwarf, she remarked, he acted much like a human child, full of wonder. Bryne could only chuckle, then sip more tea. Perhaps it was because she was short and strong, or perhaps Bryne simply had a latent appeal to elven finesse, but Bryne couldn't help but find the princess fascinating. She commanded her crew with simple and polite orders. She showed Bryne her eldritch companion; A water elemental in the shape of a sea serpent, and the true discoverer of Bryne's capsized craft. She admired Bryne's handiwork, claiming that she had not seen such care put into a tree-sized canoe. Had she not noticed the respect he'd given the tree's remains, she might have had second thoughts about picking up a Slag (exiled dwarf). When Bryne offered his services to her and her vessel, he spotted the slightest twinge of disgust on her lips; "No thank you," Mylleile responded gently, "I'd rather never see a mortal tool harm our Liberra; You should next ask a dryad if she'd like to bake in one of your forges."

Bryne quickly excused himself, and claimed a need for rest.

It was clear that Mylleile's crew were wary of Bryne's presence. Despite their normally calm and professional facades, he caught wind of a few whispers and glaring glances. He learned soon that his presence was a disturbance upon the natural cycle of an elven barge; His lack of expertise often got in the way of various sailors, his appetite was rarely sated with just one serving of their food or water, and even his stool was deemed improper fertilizer for their beloved tree-barge. No sailing expertise could possibly compare to the way a water elf guided dozens of massive leaves to steer a small sea-dwelling city through the ocean. While his fancy for Mylleile quickly extinguished out of fear and neglect, his respect for her only grew. It was entirely her responsibility to deem where next this craft should go, and whether they'd meet with profit, monsters, or the end of a sword. Her patience with Bryne was well practiced; It was also her responsibility to deal with all others. She was the face, this barge the body, and each of her crew were a limb driving the beast forward.

One early morning, Bryne awoke with the whole vessel in a stir. Bryne left his pod-like quarters to find they had just made contact with yet another water elf colony, and were planning to board. Flares flew up into the air like fireworks, in direction of the distant vessel. When the other clan responded with flares in like, Bryne guessed that their colored lights were akin to a code or language. What he hadn't guessed was that the ship he was on, as massive as it seemed to him, was actually on the smaller end of things. As they neared, Bryne was sure that the elves were mistakenly steering their barge straight into a whole island. If Mylleile's was a small city, the colony they were approaching was a metropolis accompanied by surrounding towns.

Bryne kept to himself throughout the whole exchange. Though he'd picked up snippets of elven language on his journey, water elves speaking their native tongue was like a dialect all in its own. Before he knew it, a massive root shoved Mylleile's vessel off, and they were on their way again. "She's sick," Mylleile commented. It was the first time Bryne saw her frown. "Some strange curse or disease. Half of them are blaming some drow spy or hag, the other half see it as an omen of war." With a sigh, Mylleile concluded: "They were hoping for some aid, before resorting to harvesting her seeds. It's a shame to see her go..."

When a shore bird perched itself on Liberra's branch, Mylleile promised to drop Bryne off at a safe port. She claimed that she'd need to continue her search for her brother. Bryne bowed his head and promised that he'd return her generosity by searching the land for her sibling. "If you find him," Mylleile warned, "Keep to yourself and try not to judge him too harshly. You can tell his mood from his Air elemental. Just tell him," she scrunched her nose, "that Myl sent you."

With that, Bryne found himself on a massive floating leaf headed towards a port town.

Unfettered - Part 1 - Introducing A Dwarf

The tale of Bryne Slagheart is an easy one to summarize; A dwarf leaves home, returns home, and leaves home again. However, just as the quality of any novel is leagues ahead of its description in the words of a reader, Bryne's story poses a complexity both boggling and beguiling compared to his current worldly image. The feared dwarf known as 'Winter Death', with a beard permanently draped in frozen icicle-like hair, began his journeys far different than what his image or titles imply.

To start, Bryne's name was not his first; All dwarves change names upon departure of their homeland. Traditionally, most dwarven families possess names that reference either their work or, more commonly, a mineral or metal. An exiled or departed dwarf must somehow include the word 'slag' in their surname, usually replacing any reference to metal or mineral. Bryne's original surname was 'Eisenhardt', or Ironheart; His original given name was not 'Bryne', in reference to brine, but 'Kalt'. Though somewhat against the norm, the name was quite literal at his time of birth.

Bryne, then Kalt, was born cool to the touch, foretelling the power he'd harness later in life.  Kalt Eisenhardt was well loved, raised properly, and an ever-valued member of the dwarven community. As a craft, he learned to sculpt. His apprenticeship and youth came and went without complication. His first true creation (Another tradition of the dwarves: one's first approved creation was a sign that apprenticeship has ended and self-guided training has begun) was a bust of his father's bald head, perfectly carved from marble. His father used it to showcase helmet designs.

Just short of adulthood(Around middle-age, for a human), Kalt unleashed his innate power for the first time. Whilst chiseling one of his works, Kalt accidentally struck a finger with his hammer. Recoiling and groaning in pain, Kalt quickly pressed his bruised digit under running water. His eyes closed, his jaw clenched, and his mind briefly wandered while he cooled off the injury. He pondered to himself: 'Why does cold numb the pain?' Then, without warning and without will, Kalt's abilities sparked to life. Something snapped within him mentally and emotionally, a sensation he could only describe later in life: He felt, as if for the first time, aware of blood rushing through his veins, he could hear every minute sound echoing off the walls around him, and like he'd just discovered the art of walking. It sent a chill through him; his breath was visible, his body chilled, and his finger was utterly numb. He attempted to withdraw his hand, only to find that it was frozen in place, along with the rest of the stream it was in. In his next breath, every surface around him sparkled as if it'd just been powdered with snow and frost. He was quickly overwhelmed.

Kalt stirred again after what seemed like hours, forcing his tired body back up. Every inch of him stung from the cold. It took some time to gather his focus in the face of pain. Thankfully, he had his tools nearby to chisel himself out of the ice surrounding his hand. Miraculously, he'd avoided frostbite. Kalt had very little time to reflect on the day's events before others came bursting in. With every pipe within a mile now bursting with ice, the dwarven waterworks wouldn't recover for days. Despite it all, Kalt came away chuckling.

Kinetic abilities, hydrokinesis in particular, were not inherited through blood. They were not effortless abilities to hone. And, between this dwarven library and that, they were poorly documented. It'd be fair of any intelligent creature to assume this was grounds enough for a dwarf to leave their homeland and risk traversing the Teal Seas. After all, where else would one find a mentor? If a dwarf had true reason to leave their colony, they could do so with blessings granted they changed their surname in accordance to their laws. This would only be half-accurate in Kalt's case.

Kalt reflected, long and hard, on his newfound power. Dwarves were not strangers to magic; It simply wasn't nearly as valued, in contrast to other races. No honorable dwarf could cast metal melted through magical means, could weave baskets with accelerated hands, or compose poems with a floating pen, and present it as their work. Such affairs were only used in times of war, if that, and practiced in private. Kalt also practiced privately. In time, he could already reliably reproduce the effects he desired. His parents naturally assumed that such powers were tied to a spirit; It'd become a running joke between his mother and father after only a week that his father's crude skills in bed let a second soul slip  in. Had Kalt no desire beyond honing his skills, he could have happily stayed and placed his own brick upon the Great Wall surrounding their land. Kalt saught something different instead; Kalt left to search for an answer to a strange question, one that lingered in his mind since early youth.

He made a dugout canoe. It was hardly adequate for travel over the harsh and frigid seas, but it was hardly the way of dwarves to have a navy at the ready. He found and copied some old tomes written by an elven shipwright and a sailor, found the largest tree he could, and spent the greater part of a year carving the vessel out and preparing to launch. When the waters were at their calmest, alone and ready, Kalt left home. He adopted his new given name from the saltiness of the sea, and in reverence of the sea's great spirit, lest it be his final resting place. He changed his surname in accordance with dwarven laws. He left his mother with a kind and lovingly written letter, and the rest of his fortune after paying for damages to the waterworks infrastructure. He headed northwest, towards orcish and human continents, and where seafaring elves might meet him.

On the third night, Bryne Slagheart sailed directly into a storm.

Life Messenger • Part II • Okaeri

Okaeri

The plane arrived at precisely 7:53 a.m. Its descent onto the Kansai International Airport's transit track unfolded without anything out of the ordinary. As the machine was coming to a full stop, ShengJi was staring outside the window, feeling thankful that land was nearby again. The same lady came to help him with his small suitcase and held his hand until they arrived inside. She brought him all the way to the receiving area, where family members, business partners, and taxi drivers patiently waited for their passenger.

Since ShengJi had nothing more than his carry-on, he was escorted towards the crowd. He was desperately trying to spot his onee-san’s long hair and kind-hearted smile, but he could not seem to locate her. His chest felt like it was clattering from the inside. At the same moment, the flight attendant let go of his hand gently, which enhanced the little boy’s discomfort. The seconds following seemed like eternity to ShengJi. He felt his abandoned hand become moist, as his eyes looked around the crowd rapidly.

A delicate hand waved around to his right, dressed in a lovely plum-coloured dress. She was there. Shizuka…onee-san! ShengJi rushed to his big sister as if he had finally found something he had been searching all his life. She greeted him with bright eyes and open arms. “I’ve missed you too, Shuji-chan.” She patted his back in circles, which always reminded the little boy of how she used to care for him as a toddler.

“Shall we go, little brother?” she asked, grabbing his hand and suitcase. ShengJi’s answer was quick and positive. All feelings of anxiety had lifted from his chest. “Yes, I couldn’t wait to see you again, onee-san.”

Shizuka had learned to drive since ShengJi had seen her last. They embarked in the dark blue vehicle, and after a long time stuck in the airport traffic, they finally hit the road to Kashihara, where their mother’s modest home was situated.

Years ago, the whole family lived in the effervescent city of Tokyo, where Nadeshiko had studied nursing. Shizuka was born as a gift to a loving marriage, in spring when the cherry trees blossomed and shivered in the morning wind. It was such a beautiful day, imbued with peace and calm, that Nadeshiko implored her husband that they name her as such, Shizuka, which meant quiet in her native tongue. The little girl had grown honoring her name, as she was as beautiful as flower blooms and as relaxed as a snoozing kitten.

Quite the opposite, ShengJi arrived in autumn, the season of dying leaves. Nadeshiko’s water broke as they were travelling by train, which made things rather complicated on the way to the hospital. He was born in the evening, after long hours of hard labour. His first breath in the world was joined with a loud and painful scream, proof that he was alive. Nadeshiko, who had promised a Chinese name for her newborn son, chose to call him life.

They arrived to Kashihara around 10 a.m. “Just in time to start preparing lunch,” thought Shizuka out loud. ShengJi passed the fence, walked down the short pathway, and pushed the front door. He had not been to this house yet, as his mother’s move took place a few months ago, when her health had once again deteriorated. “It feels like home,” he noticed, even though he knew not the grounds, he somehow could sense his mother’s aura lingering everywhere around the place. Nadeshiko might have been ill, but she always loved flowers and the courtyard was filled with them, probably planted carefully by Shizuka’s hand. The relaxing perfumes filled the summer air while the colours glimmered in the morning sun. ShengJi’s fears of returning to Japan had completely lifted.

The silhouette of his mother was waiting for him in the entrance. She was maintaining herself with her hand on the wall. A joyfilled ShengJi hurriedly took off his shoes and ran to his mother’s arms.

Jiliade • January 15-16, 2018

Life Messenger • Part I • Returning

Returning

17 years ago, in the ever-busy Shanghai airport.

A little eight years old boy was holding a small suitcase flabbily. ShengJi was terrorised at the thought of going on this journey. The tall glass walls of the airport felt like a cage, or maybe an aquarium, filled in with an overwhelming amount of rushed people. “This is not where little boys are supposed to be. This is not fair,” he thought to himself.

“Fu, why must I leave?” he asked, his eyes fixated on his father’s impressive silhouette. A man, rather tall in comparison to his comrades, with a soft, yet dark, look in his eyes, was standing beside him, peeking furtively at his watch hidden under his traditionally white doctor uniform.

“You have no choice,” he answered sharply. “Your mother needs you.” A slight sound in his voice might have given away his concern, but ShengJi was too little to understand such emotional cues. All he could see was his father’s usual proud and stoic face. The same he had when terrible news needed to be transmitted to his patients. The boy mumbled to himself, knowing his father would not listen: “But… I wanted to stay with you...” He took his hand away from his father’s and squeezed it in a fist, battling for his green eyes to stop filling up with tears.

A few days ago, a letter from Japan had announced that their mother was gravely ill. She requested that her dear husband and lovely child return to her, as she missed them terribly. She had always had a weak physique, defective organs and low immune system. ShengJi was expected to go as soon as possible, whereas his father, who was giving an important speech that month, could not leave right away. By the age of 30, the young woman was in bed fulltime, waiting for time to go by. Her teenage daughter, Shizuka, requested to stay by her side when her father had to transfer hospitals. He had studied medicine at the University of Shanghai and was highly esteemed by his peers in the medical community. At the request of his doctorate professors, he had returned to his hometown to share his researching skills and experience. This decision had, of course, divided the family in two halves, boys to China, while girls stayed in Japan, the motherland of his wife, Nadeshiko. Before her health issues had taken over most of her life, Nadeshiko was studying to become a nurse; when she met Dr. Sōshin on during his Japan seminar and heard him speak, she just knew he was special.

However, this time Nadeshiko’s illness was more problematic and she had been given a delay on life. Of course, little ShengJi knew nothing of the terminal nature of her mother’s health issue, which kept him in the dark as to why it was so important for him to return to her so quickly. He hated being away from his dad and he hated being alone on a plane even more.

An odd taste seemed to linger in his mouth, so the boy tried to swallow, but nothing changed. He could not tell how deeply afraid he was. The bell rang resonating through the airport corridor like a screech in a cave. He gave one last look to his father before he was softly pushed on his back. “Go on, son.” The flight attendant verified the card around his neck, picked up his luggage with her other hand, and called kindly to him: “Mister ShengJi? Nice to meet you. I will help you get on the plane. Follow me, would you?” She stretched her hand, covered by a light grey fabric, matching perfectly with her whole set. ShengJi gave her his hand. With a last look behind as he was walking down the gateway, he saw the back of his father’s white coat vanishing through the crowd.

Jiliade • January 14, 2018

The Blind Mage and the Elven Princess • Part I

A forest at the break of day

Leaves of gold and blood sparkling

Dew covering every inch of greens

A lone man walks the dirt

Barefooted

He wanders, but sees not

The rays rising through blind him no longer

His deep blue and grey irises have extinguished

“Hide” is in his name, and in the heart of nature

He disappears and slumbers

Droplets keep on falling delicately

Over a maiden’s ivory visage,

Wise eyes of pine green and golden hair

Tangled with her tears, and she fears

Lost once more, she is

“Worry not, believe,” she attempts

As voices in her mind resonate deeper

With greater echo, they invade

Not even the forest’s whispers can

Calm her shattering soul

A stray elven princess

Of an everlasting kingdom

She fled the walls, the stones

As her heart was seeking

Wilderness

An encounter of a rare coincidence

She falls onto a sleeping body

Caught by her despair, she had not observed

The lone mage napping lightly

Head against a century old tree

“Oh, my apologies, I did not mean to

Awake your eyes, pardon me, Sir…”

Says she, flushed and rushed

Breaking the silence of dawn

Of a crystalline sound

Surprised, his heart skips

But none of his reflexes fail

In a matter of seconds, his staff brandished

Calculated trajectory

Angled perfectly

A worried shriek warns him

His manners are gone, and of shame, replies

“This is no way to greet a lady,

I beg your pardon, Miss…?”

A soft and shy mumble answers his request

The maiden’s name has such a ring

The mage was speechless

He could not see her loveliness

But, maybe, could he feel…?

Wavering hands approached rosy cheeks

Slowly, he pictures her traits

Colourless, but emotion-filled

Soft as silk, warm as daylight

What could bring such a beauty to these woods?

“Lost?”

He risks

“I must admit… I am astray.”

She cries, flowing with anguish anew

Skies emptying increasingly above them

The morning storm is on way

“Please do not fear, milady.”

He stretches a pale hand

An silly invite, she may reject him

Rain showers play their melodies

“Shall we dance?”

Jiliade • January 10, 2018