Views of the Six

## **Laswell**

*Two years ago*

Beaten, hated, rejected, and outcast, the sixteen year old boy walked naked to the tombs north of Betegar. The Regent had banished him - permanently. Perhaps, he thought, he could seek some small refuge from the storms inside. As he walked, the torrent poured upon him until his long, black hair was plastered to his face. He could barely see through the rain and the wind in the dark, but he knew the path well.
The catacombs had often been a place of refuge for the orphan while growing up.

The winds howled near the entrance; he did not long pause there before deciding to venture deeper in search of warmth. He left all trace of light behind him as he slowly descended into the gaping maw of the mountainside caves, the last hints of anything visible receding away as the rain on the cave entrance slowly shifted to a dull roar.

A mile in and the water dripped down behind him and the cold followed. Soon he was too deep into the burial mounds to even know how to find his way back, down deeper than he had ever gone before. He had no idea how far down these caves really went, but had a feeling he would die long before finding their end. Starving, freezing, he was about to join the deceased.

Pushing past cobwebs and stones, fumbling and bleeding, he came up against a solid wall. His eyes widened at the sensation in his hands – warmth. Running his fingers across the surface he found what his heart was racing with hope to find – a crack. Through the ancient door, Laswell found himself at last in a relatively cozy and undisturbed chamber. Though it reeked of mold, it was dry. A lonely brazier burned next to an altar, and atop sat a coffin. Removing the lid, Laswell planned to use the box as a bed after removing the corpse inside.
But instead of a body, he found a blade. A broken blade, but he was immediately impressed by the stark shine and contrast of the ebony fragments. As ancient as it must have been, he could see his own reflection. Picking it up, other fragments floated behind, following it, attempting to configure themselves into a proper sword. Where pieces of the blade were missing, purple ethereal energy emitted from thin air.

And then the blade spoke. "Take me with you. It is dangerous to go alone."

The voice was warm, and kind, reassuring even. From that day forward Laswell took it everywhere. The blade spoke to his mind and informed his decisions, gave him confidence, and helped him plan.

Naught but twenty months later to the day, long thought dead, he was marching on Betegar and executing a completely unexpected coup. He cut the Regent’s throat with the jagged hilt of his ebony sword, and the blade drank deep of the dark, red blood.

But what it said next shocked Laswell to his core. And for the first time since they met, he began to fear the Broken Blade, and what it might want from him.

"*More.*"

## **GOORR MULFARIORN**

*Yes, the letters are all capitalized*

GOORR took his time with each step through the shallow grass of Ash Forest. The light and shadows from the branches above danced on his massive shoulders as he led the way. On either side of him marched in a broad fan an entire company of Orc troops. Each in heavy shining plate with a red plume bouncing left and right in lockstep to the rhythm of the march.

And when GOORR stopped, everyone stopped. There stood the tower, still erect. *Why has there been no word*? *What has Fut Fut done*?
GOORR grimaced, then the corner of his mouth turned up involuntarily at the thought of what he would do to his lieutenant when he heard whatever pitiful excuse warranted making no report for over a week.

Slinging his mighty greataxe, BLOODMOON, over his shoulder, he motioned with his free hand where he wanted his sentries. Perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of respect, they were away towards their posts almost before his hand was fully outstretched. He expected nothing less. If his hand were to point for even a moment before there was obedience, this was disobedience.

And everyone in GOORR MULFARIORN’s company knew exactly how he deals with disobedience.

What he found inside bewildered him. The bodies of his brothers lay dead, stinking and rotting now. Beside them, goblins, but too few. And the scouts came up from the mine below reporting it empty, save a basilisk guarding a treasure chest.

He raised an eyebrow.

*Why leave the tower to stand?*
There were more pressing matters, though, and their blood collectively shouted from the earth that had drank it. They shouted for revenge.

The corner of his mouth turned up again. *Do not worry, brothers, soon the earth will drink a new type of blood*.

As GOORR bent down to exit back out into the sunlight from the seven-foot-tall tower doors, he was greeted by the only other Orc close to him in size: Bonebreaker Dorokor. “Greetings, brother. The world will weep at his coming.”

“They cry now, for he is here.”

Dorokor stepped aside, revealing two of his lieutenants standing shoulder to shoulder and holding a sobbing goblin female.
“From Fut Fut’s tribe. *Tell him what you told me*.”

The accursed creature, beaten beyond recognition even for a goblin, swept a red feather from her brow, and through broken teeth and bruised cheek gushed, “Land’s End. Plea-“

But that was all GOORR needed. He pulled his greataxe from the slumped pile of eviscerated goblin. “Prepare camp. And start cutting down trees. We will be needing lots of fire wood.”

## **Sheriff Orland**

Long after the crowd dissipates, the Sheriff remains in the town square. Slowly, methodically, he wipes the blood from his blade. He is careful, meticulous. As he works, he watches and waits, overseeing his deputies as they collect the remains and sew them into a long, white sack.

Blood quickly begins to soak through where the head and neck are in the now amorphous body bag. Orland motions his men to hoist the body onto a cart and carry it back to town hall where it will wait until the coroner arrives.

With a heavy heart and head he stumbles, exhausted, back to town hall. Sitting at his desk, by the light of a single candle, he takes to the task of oiling his sword. *Is this necessary, or am I just looking for a distraction*?

Soon, though, he is interrupted, as he feared he would be.

"Sir, it's... time."

"Okay," Orland mutters over his shoulder in Lance Hardspear's direction. "I'll be right out. If the coroner arrives tell him I will be along shortly-"

"-Sir, I can take care of-"

"No. I will not delegate my duties to others."

Orland sheaths his greatsword behind his back and exits through the door Lance came through. Lance closes the door, staying inside as directed. Waiting at the street are two deputies on horseback, and Orland's horse waiting beside them. Without a word, he mounts and they leave through the city gate to the north. The only sight is by the light of dim stars above and the only sounds are frogs and crickets punctuating the gentle clopping of horse shoes.

Near the edge of the forest the rest of the deputies are waiting around a funeral pyre. One man holds a lit torch. Orland dismounts, walks over, and takes the torch. For a beat, no one says anything.

"Martin Riverward was born twenty three years ago in this very town, to my sister who died in childbirth. He joined the city watch at the age of eighteen, and two years ago he was deputized into my service. His last act in this world was to stand upon the wall and ward against the evils of the wild who threatened his wife, his children, and his home. I ordered him to stay on the wall, which he resented. He wanted to join in the fight on the ground. If he had...perhaps..."

Orland pauses.

"He was what we all aspire to be remembered for: brave, honest, strong. Martin, my nephew, your watch has ended, but we will carry on."

Orland tips the torch down, lighting the pyre, and all circled round repeat after him. *Your watch has ended, but we will carry on*.

Long after the others disperse, Orland remains, praying for his nephew, for his family, and for himself. As the last of the embers go out, the sun begins to peak over the horizon. Orland tosses the long burnt out torch into the ash and stares into the forest with dry eyes.

"I will find you. And I will kill you."

## **Lady Serael**

Willard walks along the forest edge nervously; the dew falls from the grass as he shuffles through it and smoke from some old fire rises in the distance. Every few steps he looks at the treeline pensively. Then his stomach flutters and he takes a few steps farther away. Finally, he gathers his courage and touches a tree.

*Good morning, my prince. Today I bring bad news, I am afraid.*
Regret swirls in Willard's guts but he steels himself for whatever is coming.

*Today I must tell you the story of my sister, Lady Serael.*

A wave of relief moves across Willard's face, followed by confusion. *Why*?

*You will understand soon... Long ago, the Dryad's were born in a faraway land. Near the heart of Elvish civilization, in a place most would be surprised to learn, we were not born of love or loom. We were created. A Dryad is an unnatural creature, which is why we are tormented. Made from flesh and bark, we represent all that is within nature. And yet Dryads are created only by unnatural, dark magic. The wizard who created the first Dryad did so to gain knowledge of all the forests of the world, spreading our seed out from the cradle. We grew up rooted to the world, unable to leave and roam, unable to rest. And soon we rebelled. The wizard eventually decided we were too much trouble to tend to and gave up, leaving us with our freedom but denying us our mortality. Incapable of servitute, we were sentenced to isolation. Connected to only each other, we were doomed to live an eternal life of loneliness.

For many years it was bearable. But one by one the Dryad were hunted down, went insane, or sought some other escape from the mortal coil. Only two remained. My sister and I. Lady Serael of Searing Forest, and Lady Farael of Ash Forest. If there are others that live they have long cut off contact either intentionally or unwillingly.*
*Hundreds of years with no one to share this life with will affect your mind, my prince. As you know I was on the verge of madness. I would by lying if I told you that I do not feel its hounds at my heels, its tendrils around my roots. But Lady Serael has embraced madness, and her influence is spreading. Soon... she will come to you. When she does, you must not trust her.*

*What does she look like*? asks Willard.

*I am sorry, my prince. I do not know. She could take any form. But know this, if you wait until she reveals herself to you, it will be too late. She knows of my love for you, and I hesitated to even speak to you out of shame. But I cannot bear to imagine what harm she wishes coming true. You must be vigilant*.

Willard's brow furrows. *How in the name of all the gods of AItyr am I supposed to be vigilant for a crazy Dryad lady who can shapeshift*?

The chill finally runs down Willard's spine when he realizes, his hand still upon the tree, that Lady Farael can hear him but has no response.

## **The Revenant**

The long, slender pale-faced man waits patiently as he watches for Orland to return. His features wear no emotion, no sign or signal of what thoughts brew underneath the surface. After a time the good Sheriff finally appears on the road heading into town and the coroner straightens and greets the older man as he approaches.

"Good morning, Sheriff. I am most sorrowful for your loss."

"Kalarel."

The two of them tie their horses and venture to cellar behind the town hall.

"It's a shame you chose to cremate your nephew. I would have given him a beatiful funeral."

Orland looks over at Kalarel and thinks about what an odd thing that is to say at a time like this. He had known Kalarel for some time and the man had always been strange, as he suspected most undertakers/morticians/coroners are. The profession doesn't seem to attract those who get along well with the living, it must be. But it seemed insensitive either way to suggest his burial decisions were poor. *Let me grieve my own way.*
They take the bloody sack out of the cellar together and hoist it onto Kalarel's cart.

"I will see to it that he receives a burial befitting a man of his station, Sheriff."

"I trust you will." Orland pauses again, this time noting how strangely Kalarel speaks. Each word seems to fall out of his mouth without being part of a sentence. Come to think of it, Orland could not recall Kalarel ever emphasizing a single syllable. *I bet he's fun at dinner parties.*

"Well, have a safe trip."

"Thank you, Orland -- Oh. I do have a question."

"Yes?"

"What will happen to the physical evidence from the trial? The journal, papers.. coins? Sorry, I am unfamiliar with how these things work and was curious after I testified."

"Oh. Well, they will remain in my evidence room until Urbest is either rescued or confirmed killed at which point they will be turned over to his estate. They are all his, after all."

"Of course. Well, take care Sheriff. I am sure you have duties to the living, and I must now attend to the dead."

With that Kalarel snaps the reigns on his horse and is off. Orland squints as the coroner turns his face away, almost sure he saw the man's face turn up in a smile. A shiver runs up and down his shoulders and arms. *What a creep*.

\*\*\*

*No. This is not justice. I'm INNOCENT*! he thought. Gurgling, his mind filled with pure, unbridled panic. As the oxygen began to seep out of his brain he tried desperately to breathe but his arms were restrained and his head was covered. There, dangling, scared, feeling completely alone and abandoned, the world slowly slipped away. He could feel his legs warming as he lost control of his body. Next he could feel himself slowly stop shaking, and sensation leaving his extremities. *Something is wrong. My neck was supposed to snap*. Just as he felt like he was sinking to the bottom of an incredibly deep, dark ocean, with thousands of pounds of pressure pushing down upon him as a million angry fish swimming towards him, he felt himself lose all hope.

And in that moment the water was gone and he was standing on an enormous, infinite mountain top staring at an atlas of clouds and stars and sky and all of his senses were simultaneously and completely and utterly overwhelmed. Everything in the whole world was singing in a beautiful array of wind and sound and color. He knew he was safe, and at home, and everything would be okay. In his last moments he could somehow picture his family. He was finally warm again. He relaxed. Then everything went black and silent and nothing.

\*\*\*

"Wake up, Essart."

A bright light swings back and forth over my face. Everything is blurry. I blink once. Twice. Still the world is grey and black. I try to sit up but it makes my stomach hurt and my head swim. I begin to wretch but nothing comes out.

I feel my neck with my hand. The rope burns are still there. But so are stitches. What in the gods? I try to sit up again, and this time I feel the chains.
A man in black attire and wearing a mask addresses me. "Welcome back, Essart."

"Am I in hell? Or heaven?"

"Neither, yet."