The sun rose to herald the beginning of a new day, oddly enough much like every other day. Yet in the nation of Andor and the city of Caemlyn, it wasn't any other day. The Queen had chosen to throw a carnival outside the city for her people, and many performers from not only Andor, but elsewhere, had come to participate. Even as dawn came, people were scurrying about, making preparations for when the city folk came out to visit during the day. Some were tumblers, others gleemen, others still were there to host challenges ranging from archery to bouts with staves. Many forms of entertainment were to grace the day for those who went.

 

As the sun rose higher, the first few people began to trickle in. Penants snapped in the air due to a northerly breeze, marking many different entertainments. Either from large poles that had been put up or from tents that had been struck. Of every kind of colour, the carnival resembled a common Cairhienin's garb the colours clashed so.

 

The sun had cleared the horizon for perhaps two or three hours by the time that the carnival grounds were packed with people. It wasn't the biggest ground, wedged against one of the cemeteries beyond the city walls no less. Yet such a morbid sight did little to diminish the high spirits of those walking about the fair. Children ran together in packs, while others took a slower pace as they saw the many wonders, heard the tales sung, competed in events that were being run.

 

There was something to be said for such tournaments, any man could compete. While nobles sons might be keen to impress their ladies with victories in the lathe duels, wrestling and staves proved attract a different sort of competitor altogether. Meanwhile, for the archery many hunters and foresters, along with some of the Queen's own guard, were competing for the prize of a silver arrow.

 

With clear skies above, there was little chance of the day being ruined with rain. The Creator himself seemed to smile on the day as many made their way about the fair, and many more continued to travel toward it. It might have still been the morning, but truly, the day was only beginning.....

Suraya paced in front of the wagon, occasionally glaring daggers at her… her… partner. If the sneer on her face hadn’t been obvious before, it became so at that thought. The woman just had no discipline what so ever. Did she expect them to become a renowned pair of performers by… by… squandering their hard earned money on liquor and men?! “Well, what did you think I was going to say?†she asked Sterre coolly. The other woman had just suggested that they should take the money they had taken from Fitch, and get ridiculously drunk in Caemlyn. Suraya snarled at the thought of it. Waste their money, would she? “We need that money to buy equipment and all that.†she barked. “and we need the time to practise. You could certainly use it!â€

 

Other people in the camp glanced their way, but one look at Suraya’s scowl and Sterre’s rigid back was enough to send them away. Suraya didn’t particularly mind the distance. It would only benefit them when the actual fair started. The had intended on working a little on a routine they could use in a smaller area than Sterre was used to, but obviously the other woman had other intentions. She sighed. It had all started off so brilliantly. Their first performance together had been messy but successful, and the more they practised, the better their performance got. They ended up making more money in a month than Suraya had expected to earn in a year, even if they had been forced to take it from Fitch without his knowing.

 

And then of course things changed. It turned out that they were both rather… stubborn. Without the distraction of daily performances it hadn’t taken Suraya long to get annoyed with just about everything that involved Sterre. The woman seemed to be the exact opposite from herself, and she seemed to take joy in doing everything differently from the way Suraya would have done it. To her frustration, things turned out just the way, and sometimes even better than they would have if Suraya had done them. And while she might have agreed that they deserve a break, she would most certainly not agree on taking the money they had ‘earned’ at the menagerie back in Tarabon. Suraya crossed her arms and glared at Sterre. She would not budge.

The weather was beautiful, the sunlight was dazzling, and everywhere there were happy people about. Sterre remembered such days from Tanchico and suddenly had a bout of homesickness to her old buddies. On days like these, they'd always gone drinking together. Suraya had other plans, however. Well, that figured. That woman was always practicing things that already went perfect, always nagging about improvement where none could be reached. “Well, what did you think I was going to say?" the other woman snapped. "We need that money to buy equipment and all that... and we need the time to practise. You could certainly use it!â€

 

Sterre frowned at the slight that Suraya was biting at her. She had been performing beyond what could be expected of someone who has joined a circus a mere two/three moons ago, and Suraya knew it. She'd done great, she'd strained to meet Suraya's demand on every turn and every idea, and now she got served such a comment? That was simply not fair. "Not as much as you need to let go a little and remove that stick out of your behind, Suraya," Sterre told her partner sweetly. "But if you don't want to come with me, fine. Don't worry, I'll be home before sundown."

 

As if she were planning on drinking away ALL of the money that they'd earned and stolen. Just a little bit, just enough for a happy afternoon. She'd gone through enough crap in the past few months already, she had EARNED this day off. She was through with being bossed around all the time; Suraya could be a real trial to live with and Sterre needed her relaxation and her alone moments, too. To get berated with every breath she took was not her idea of a fun time.

 

Sterre turned around and went into the wagon to get herself a handful of coppers and a few silver coins. "See you tonight," she spat, and turned to leave for the nearest tavern. Suraya could stick it where the sun didn't shine. Today would be hers.

The wheels turned onwards, rolling smoothly towards their destination of Caemlyn. It had been a pleasant trip, made even more so, Dilora found, by the presence of the gleeman, Malic. He had kept them all amused with his stories and fables from Ages past and his poignant voice conveyed emotion so well that when he sang a sad song, those present felt like weeping and when it was a joyous, carefree ballad, the hearts and spirits of the group were lifted. There had almost been a tangible moment of sadness when the first sight of the great city had come into view as it meant that after a while, the party would have to go their separate ways. Dilora felt she would miss all of them utterly and hoped their paths would cross again soon.

 

Beating rays of sunshine depicted all in a golden glow that is always associated with the height of summer: the grass appeared greener and smelt fresh and lush, the dancing ripples of light on streams and brooks adding to the hazy sentiment that lingered over the land in a moment of peace. Everyone felt it and felt at their ease, especially after the good breakfast they had enjoyed before breaking camp that morning. Dilora had been chatting amiably to the Gleeman, who she had taken rather a shine to during the course of their journeying together. After their rather unexpected meeting where his horse had been attracted to her mare, the ice had been broken and the two had spent a fair bit of time in each other’s company. Not to say that she did not get on well with the rest of her companions. Anton Averdal, the kind traveller who had graciously lifted her wagon whilst she fixed the broken axle back just outside of Baerlon, was his good-natured and good-humoured self, excellent company not to mention a surprisingly good cook. Alianna Karalev, the former thief-catcher, had opened up a little as the journey progressed and she got to know everyone a little more although if she was a little reserved or withdrawn, it was likely with reason.

 

Others had joined their entourage as well, although Dilora had not yet had the chance to make their acquaintance fully. She was hoping to do that when they stopped just outside the walls, but Dilora knew she did have some business in the city proper and was hoping she could find a tavern with a reputation for serving the best ales in the city to conduct it in - that and somewhere that promised the best apple pie in the region. A bump in the road made her swear loudly, getting a few odd looks from her companions but it made them look ahead to what was in the middle of the road.

 

Slightly off to one side brightly coloured pennants whipped and danced in the breeze, indicating some sort of festival or at least some sort of event taking place. Drawing nearer, Dilora’s sharp eyes made out the milling throng of people and the first faint murmurs of excitement and enjoyment emanated from the roadside. A carnival then, from the looks of it, was taking place. There would be far more people to do business with at a carnival and if it was a well-organised event with the usual beer tents, brewers and innkeepers would be competing for more business at the open air carnival and would have their best ales all in the same place. Ideal. With all in seeming concordance, Dilora turned Altie up towards the encampment and the brightly coloured flags with an even lighter heart.

 

Sounds of merriment grew louder as they approached and, as directed, Dilora left her wagon among several others, paying a silver Tar Valon coin to a groom to keep an eye on it, and Altie, her mare. Everyone else dismounted and looked around the variety of stalls and attractions to see what was on offer.

The journey was very pleasant indeed for Malic. The company he shared along the way, turned out to be better than he expected. Earlier in the days when he first acquainted himself with the original wagon crew, he couldn’t quite come to terms with the fact the crew was half made up of thief-catchers. Malic found his past experience with a particular thief-catcher that was intent on evil doings, to be a rare happenstance. Anton and Alianna turned out to be very different and Malic eventually came to like them, he might even go as far as giving them a small slice of his trust. The exception was Dilora, whom he found to be enchanting from the first minute they met.

 

Malic’s initial plans were to go with the wagon half way to Caemlyn, then split away and make his way up North to Saldaea. Making mental notes along the way, he sat alone one night and listed the pros and cons of staying with the wagon all the way to Caemlyn. The pros highly outdid the cons and he decided to stay, which the crew approve of a well…as well as his stallion Munch. The romance blossoming between Munch and Altie was a little disturbing at times, especially during the times of shuteye when all you could hear were the crickets and heavy booming gasps for air coming from the horses direction. It would be more heartbreaking for Munch than it would have been for Malic.

 

Back to the present time, He tied the stallion up to the wagon where Dilora decided to park and packed up a small sac of things from his belongings to take around the event that was going on. Hmm, perhaps I’ll manage to get a little high-wire practice done while I’m here. Malic threw his yellow cloak back on, hauled his small sac over his shoulders and spun to regard the rest of the crew,

â€Ok, choices choices…so where first then folks?â€

Leilwinn strolled among the masses, enjoying the peace of being away from her duties, if only temporarily. She was escorted by five of her personal guard, but they were not in uniform and they did not crowd her. It had taken exactly three nights of yelling back and forth with Toram to work out the compromise. She had wanted to go alone (or perhaps with him, if he would just stop yelling) but the Marshal-General simply would not hear of it. To hear him tell it, there were assassins lurking in every shadowed corner, all with an eye for her. In truth, most people would not even recognize her for who she was.

 

Her clothing was simple if well made, and she wore no jewelry. Her belt pouch contained no more money than a well-to-do merchant and she made a concerted effort to not walk around like she owned the place. Toram, on the other hand, looked as if he expected everyone and everything to remove themselves from his path and with haste. He was Andoran, but he had never actually been to Caemlyn, a fact that Leilwinn almost could not believe. Then again, she didn't exactly know everything about Toram's past. Pretty much anything that happened before he became her father's paige was a mystery to her. The pair had enough history between them.

 

"I want a turkey leg," Leilwinn said, standing on her tip-toes to try and look over the crowd. It was no use. Despite the fact that she was tall for a Saldaean, she still failed to even make it to "slightly short" for an Andoran. Leaning in towards Toram she lowered her voice. "Are you going to have to taste it for me, make sure theres no poison?" she teased.

 

"No, but I will be checking all pies and sweets. Can't be too careful, you know. Besides that, the carriage we came in has a weight limit on the axel, I believe. Don't want you bulking up too much before the trip home," Toram said matter-of-factly.

 

Leilwinn lauged and jabbed the tall man in the ribs with her elbow. It was nice simply being old friends and not queen and marshal general, even if it was only for an afternoon. Once they returned to the palace they'd have to be back in their roles and playing the Great Game with the other nobility invited to visit Queen Aralima and her great carnival.

 

"Ah ha! I see some. Come on! I want a big juicy one! And if you're nice, I might share," Leilwinn said and Toram frowned. "Oh, lighten up, you. Its a lovely clear day, we've got nothing but time, and its not like we're alone. What could possibly go wrong? Turkey time!"

Leilwinn strolled among the masses, enjoying the peace of being away from her duties, if only temporarily. She was escorted by five of her personal guard, but they were not in uniform and they did not crowd her. It had taken exactly three nights of yelling back and forth with Toram to work out the compromise. She had wanted to go alone (or perhaps with him, if he would just stop yelling) but the Marshal-General simply would not hear of it. To hear him tell it, there were assassins lurking in every shadowed corner, all with an eye for her. In truth, most people would not even recognize her for who she was.

 

Her clothing was simple if well made, and she wore no jewelry. Her belt pouch contained no more money than a well-to-do merchant and she made a concerted effort to not walk around like she owned the place. Toram, on the other hand, looked as if he expected everyone and everything to remove themselves from his path and with haste. He was Andoran, but he had never actually been to Caemlyn, a fact that Leilwinn almost could not believe. Then again, she didn't exactly know everything about Toram's past. Pretty much anything that happened before he became her father's paige was a mystery to her. The pair had enough history between them.

 

"I want a turkey leg," Leilwinn said, standing on her tip-toes to try and look over the crowd. It was no use. Despite the fact that she was tall for a Saldaean, she still failed to even make it to "slightly short" for an Andoran. Leaning in towards Toram she lowered her voice. "Are you going to have to taste it for me, make sure theres no poison?" she teased.

 

"No, but I will be checking all pies and sweets. Can't be too careful, you know. Besides that, the carriage we came in has a weight limit on the axel, I believe. Don't want you bulking up too much before the trip home," Toram said matter-of-factly.

 

Leilwinn lauged and jabbed the tall man in the ribs with her elbow. It was nice simply being old friends and not queen and marshal general, even if it was only for an afternoon. Once they returned to the palace they'd have to be back in their roles and playing the Great Game with the other nobility invited to visit Queen Aralima and her great carnival.

 

"Ah ha! I see some. Come on! I want a big juicy one! And if you're nice, I might share," Leilwinn said and Toram frowned. "Oh, lighten up, you. Its a lovely clear day, we've got nothing but time, and its not like we're alone. What could possibly go wrong? Turkey time!"

Slipping out of the wagon, he offered his hand to Alianna to help her down which she took with a slight smile. They'd travelled together for quite awhile and even though she'd far from opened up, she was comfortable around them all now. Even Malic had warmed up despite how wary he'd been before. Not that he'd been overt about it, but it was one of the reasons he spent most of his time with Dilora during the trip. One of the reasons anyway.

 

Seeing the two already talking, Anton and Alianna joined them even as Dilora tied up Altie. Malic was the one who voiced what they were all thinking though, none of them were going to go off and do work just yet, or split up. After their travel, it'd be a good chance to relax and to spend time with one another before they went their separate ways, if they did so. While Anton had originally planned to head back north to the Borderlands, he had found himself wondering whether or not he might tag along with the wagon instead, if it went somewhere of interest that was.

 

"No idea, I doubt there are any shortage of things to do though. Lets take a walkabout, see what we can't find." Anton turned to Alianna with a grin, who in turn decided to lead the way. It'd be interesting to see where she took them.....

 

 

Imagine if you would, that in a vast and unfathomable void, there is a loom in the shape of a seven spoked wheel. This wheel, the Wheel of Time, is the source of what we call the Great Pattern. The Great Pattern is formed of individuals threads of different lives and places, objects and ideas, all coming together to form weaves of meetings and events that in turn link to one another to form the Lace of Ages. A thread may be linked to many weaves, and invariably finds its end in one.

 

While some would say the Wheel encapsulates all reality, this would be a mistaken assumption. Indeed, even as threads of reality entwine with one another to create events, around these threads are in turn entwined with more ethereal threads. These threads are the might have beens, the possibilities, futures that are yet to be woven, alternate worlds and indeed, tel'aran'rhiod.

 

A great deal of this we take on faith, for being part of the Great Pattern ourselves, we are but capable of ever knowing one tiny piece, the other threads we mix with to form weaves that add to the Great Pattern. Yet there are two beings we are aware of who are capable of perceiving the Great Pattern beyond faith for they are outside of it.

 

The first is the Creator, the being who created the wheel, gave it life with the One Power and planned the course of the Great Pattern. The second being Shai`tan, a being that was sealed away from the Great Pattern in the moment of creation. If these two beings had eyes, and the Great Pattern could be perceived from the outside in such a manner, it might resemble a shimmering web of intricate designs of every colour, every shade. Around each of these threads and weaves there would in turn be ever changing hues of possibilities, alternatives and dreams.

 

If one were capable of seeing the Great Pattern from the outside, if one's eyesight were sharp enough to pick out every individual thread, one might find a single thread that was of the darkest dark, one which has run the infinite length of the Great Pattern. It is a place that has existed since the moment of creation, a thread that is thinner than the others, one where the seal between the Great Pattern and the great unknown beyond it is weak.

 

In the Age that men have called the Third Age, the thread is known as the Bore. In the Age past, the Age of Legends, men and women of the time first broke through the seal the Creator had made, and then attempted to repair the damage. The attempt was of mixed success for a variety of reasons, but we shall focus in particular on the Bore itself.

 

The sealing of the Bore was achieved with seven foci, made of cuendillar which, like the Wheel of Time, can never be damaged within by those or from within the Great Pattern. Yet therein lay their weakness, for these foci were used to focus the powers of the male Aes Sedai to achieve the sealing. Linked inextricably to the Bore, the thin place in the Great Pattern, the foci are not entirely of the Great Pattern. So, Shai`tan has worked away at these foci, or 'seals'.

 

When one of the seven seals was shattered, Shai`tan could once again touch the world if in but a limited manner, manipulating threads and weaves in defiance of the Creator's plan. Yet, even as Shai`tan did so, certain... anomalies, began to occur in the Great Pattern. Bubbles.

 

These are not to be confused with vacuoles, bubbles within the Great Pattern that have always occured. Some hypothesis that vacuoles in fact originate as paradoxes of possible contending events from past, present and future, creating a bubble where time fluxes and passes at a different rate from reality itself until the Great Pattern can shrug them off, to be lost in the void.

 

No, these bubbles are entirely different. Originating from the dark thread, the thin place, the Bore, some believe these are formed from the very essence of Shai`tan, others that they are his dreams, or his intentions for the Great Pattern and the Wheel of Time when he remakes it in his own image.

 

If one had the eyes to see them if they could be seen, one could watch as they slip and slide, shuffling from one thread and weave to the next. Their course dictated by some form of gravity, they find their way to increasingly larger threads, greater weaves, ta'veren in particular exert pull on them. Then, be it due to design, fate or some form of sheer chance, the bubbles would burst. Entire weaves and their threads could be consumed by such an event. Those not consumed would have their threads set on alternate paths, unforeseen possibilities, be they for better or worse.

 

There was a bubble that floated through the Great Pattern. How long was a question that could not be answered, because time was a meaningless concept when one viewed the pattern from outside. What was important was the journey that the bubble took, a journey that lead it through a particularly large weave.

 

Hundreds and thousands of infintesimal threads made up its sum. From the earth to the breeze, the people to mugs of ale, the laugh of children to the smell of roasted turkey, these are but a few of the threads that wove themself into a place. The place was a fair, a carnival outside the walls of Caemlyn. Thrown by the Queen Amaryn for the masses to enjoy, many threads had come to form this particular weave.

 

As the bubble made its way through the weave, there was no sign, no warning. The weave shuddered even as every thread rippled, shimmered, realigning itself along an entirely new field of different possibilities, alternate paths, all in response to an outside factor, a new plan attempting to superimpose itself on the old.

 

The bubble had burst.

 

The result, chaos…..

Slipping out of the wagon, he offered his hand to Alianna to help her down which she took with a slight smile. They'd travelled together for quite awhile and even though she'd far from opened up, she was comfortable around them all now. Even Malic had warmed up despite how wary he'd been before. Not that he'd been overt about it, but it was one of the reasons he spent most of his time with Dilora during the trip. One of the reasons anyway.

 

Seeing the two already talking, Anton and Alianna joined them even as Dilora tied up Altie. Malic was the one who voiced what they were all thinking though, none of them were going to go off and do work just yet, or split up. After their travel, it'd be a good chance to relax and to spend time with one another before they went their separate ways, if they did so. While Anton had originally planned to head back north to the Borderlands, he had found himself wondering whether or not he might tag along with the wagon instead, if it went somewhere of interest that was.

 

"No idea, I doubt there are any shortage of things to do though. Lets take a walkabout, see what we can't find." Anton turned to Alianna with a grin, who in turn decided to lead the way. It'd be interesting to see where she took them.....

 

 

Imagine if you would, that in a vast and unfathomable void, there is a loom in the shape of a seven spoked wheel. This wheel, the Wheel of Time, is the source of what we call the Great Pattern. The Great Pattern is formed of individuals threads of different lives and places, objects and ideas, all coming together to form weaves of meetings and events that in turn link to one another to form the Lace of Ages. A thread may be linked to many weaves, and invariably finds its end in one.

 

While some would say the Wheel encapsulates all reality, this would be a mistaken assumption. Indeed, even as threads of reality entwine with one another to create events, around these threads are in turn entwined with more ethereal threads. These threads are the might have beens, the possibilities, futures that are yet to be woven, alternate worlds and indeed, tel'aran'rhiod.

 

A great deal of this we take on faith, for being part of the Great Pattern ourselves, we are but capable of ever knowing one tiny piece, the other threads we mix with to form weaves that add to the Great Pattern. Yet there are two beings we are aware of who are capable of perceiving the Great Pattern beyond faith for they are outside of it.

 

The first is the Creator, the being who created the wheel, gave it life with the One Power and planned the course of the Great Pattern. The second being Shai`tan, a being that was sealed away from the Great Pattern in the moment of creation. If these two beings had eyes, and the Great Pattern could be perceived from the outside in such a manner, it might resemble a shimmering web of intricate designs of every colour, every shade. Around each of these threads and weaves there would in turn be ever changing hues of possibilities, alternatives and dreams.

 

If one were capable of seeing the Great Pattern from the outside, if one's eyesight were sharp enough to pick out every individual thread, one might find a single thread that was of the darkest dark, one which has run the infinite length of the Great Pattern. It is a place that has existed since the moment of creation, a thread that is thinner than the others, one where the seal between the Great Pattern and the great unknown beyond it is weak.

 

In the Age that men have called the Third Age, the thread is known as the Bore. In the Age past, the Age of Legends, men and women of the time first broke through the seal the Creator had made, and then attempted to repair the damage. The attempt was of mixed success for a variety of reasons, but we shall focus in particular on the Bore itself.

 

The sealing of the Bore was achieved with seven foci, made of cuendillar which, like the Wheel of Time, can never be damaged within by those or from within the Great Pattern. Yet therein lay their weakness, for these foci were used to focus the powers of the male Aes Sedai to achieve the sealing. Linked inextricably to the Bore, the thin place in the Great Pattern, the foci are not entirely of the Great Pattern. So, Shai`tan has worked away at these foci, or 'seals'.

 

When one of the seven seals was shattered, Shai`tan could once again touch the world if in but a limited manner, manipulating threads and weaves in defiance of the Creator's plan. Yet, even as Shai`tan did so, certain... anomalies, began to occur in the Great Pattern. Bubbles.

 

These are not to be confused with vacuoles, bubbles within the Great Pattern that have always occured. Some hypothesis that vacuoles in fact originate as paradoxes of possible contending events from past, present and future, creating a bubble where time fluxes and passes at a different rate from reality itself until the Great Pattern can shrug them off, to be lost in the void.

 

No, these bubbles are entirely different. Originating from the dark thread, the thin place, the Bore, some believe these are formed from the very essence of Shai`tan, others that they are his dreams, or his intentions for the Great Pattern and the Wheel of Time when he remakes it in his own image.

 

If one had the eyes to see them if they could be seen, one could watch as they slip and slide, shuffling from one thread and weave to the next. Their course dictated by some form of gravity, they find their way to increasingly larger threads, greater weaves, ta'veren in particular exert pull on them. Then, be it due to design, fate or some form of sheer chance, the bubbles would burst. Entire weaves and their threads could be consumed by such an event. Those not consumed would have their threads set on alternate paths, unforeseen possibilities, be they for better or worse.

 

There was a bubble that floated through the Great Pattern. How long was a question that could not be answered, because time was a meaningless concept when one viewed the pattern from outside. What was important was the journey that the bubble took, a journey that lead it through a particularly large weave.

 

Hundreds and thousands of infintesimal threads made up its sum. From the earth to the breeze, the people to mugs of ale, the laugh of children to the smell of roasted turkey, these are but a few of the threads that wove themself into a place. The place was a fair, a carnival outside the walls of Caemlyn. Thrown by the Queen Amaryn for the masses to enjoy, many threads had come to form this particular weave.

 

As the bubble made its way through the weave, there was no sign, no warning. The weave shuddered even as every thread rippled, shimmered, realigning itself along an entirely new field of different possibilities, alternate paths, all in response to an outside factor, a new plan attempting to superimpose itself on the old.

 

The bubble had burst.

 

The result, chaos…..

Nathan Eldar sighed even as sobs rent the air. Liara, his wife, had been dead for a full two months now, yet still his daughter could not reconcile herself. Nor should she, Tira was but eight summers old, old enough to know that her mother was forever gone yet unable to accept it. Kneeling before the grave, she wept uncontrollably.

 

As she had the time before, and the time before that, yet the girl insisted on going despite her inability to handle it. Nathan himself struggled a bit, yet a life of struggle had hardened him enough that he wouldn’t be giving in to tears. Light, they hadn’t even been able to afford a coffin for Liara, she’d been put into the earth with nothing but her clothes. Between the pair of them they’d been able to raise Tira, but by himself…

 

Holding his hand up before him as a sudden gust of wind swept him, Nathan cursed inwardly, the wind had been going north but now it was going straight into his face. It wasn’t gentle like before either, it was as if it were edged with ice. In fact, it felt like it had become the coldest winter day as goosebumps ran up and down his arms and legs. Strange, why th-

 

Why is it so dark?

 

Something compelled him to turn and look up, and he gasped at what he saw. The skies had been clear before, but dark clouds were blocking off the sun, and they were growing in size, rolling outwards. This can’t be natural, what is going on?

 

Spinning about as Tira screamed, Nathan yelped himself from shock as he jumped. Tira was screaming and struggling as she lay face first over the grave. Something had grabbed her and was dragging her into the ground! Jumping forward, he grabbed her legs and tried to pull, his daughter’s screams ringing in his ears. He himself was screaming out of fear, even as he strained, heaving with frantic energy.

 

Falling on his backside as whatever had his daughter released her, he pulled her close only to drop her and scream in shock, scrabbling back out of horror. Her face was a mess, bloodied and torn as if something had, had torn at it with their teeth!

 

Looking to the grave, Nathan froze. Slender hands had risen from the grave, straining as they pulled. It was as if the earth itself was giving birth to a squalling infant, yet it was no infant that emerged from the earth’s womb. Liara! She had been in the ground but a few days, yet the worms had feasted and clearly still were. A malicious grin on her face as she freed herself, the dirt could do little to hide the pale white of death, nor the increasing darkness as the sun was further obscured.

 

As he got to his feet, a weight crashed into his back and sent him face first to the ground. Flailing with his elbows, he managed to connect with whatever it was hard enough to knock it clear. Rolling on the ground, he was too frightened even to scream. A skeleton the size of a small man was getting back to its feet, staring at him with empty eye sockets that nevertheless conveyed a malicious hatred.

 

Hisss

 

Turning away, something landed on his chest putting him flat on his chest. Tira? The moment of hesitation was too long, her fingers at his eyes, grasping and tearing even as he screamed one last time.....

 

 

How those clouds had formed so quickly was beyond Anton, they were unnatural, spreading in size and further blocking out the sun. It was as if a great shadow had fallen over the carnival, similar to dusk where everything was grey and hard to distinguish before the darkness of night fell. People muttered to one another and thought aloud as they viewed the spectacle.

 

AAAAAIIIIIIEEEE!!!!!

 

Turning to the source of the sound, Anton recoiled in horror. A woman was being dragged across the ground even as she wrestled with a rope that was entangled around her neck. But there was no one else holding it, the other end was tied to a nearby picket where horses had been tethered.

 

Running over as did several others, he had a knife out and between them they cut the rope even as a rumble from the clouds above swept across the carnival. The rope struggled against them, even trying to ensnare them, yet a few cuts rendered it lifeless. Sheathing his dagger and taking up his stave even as one of the other men helped the whimpering woman up, Anton couldn’t help but think something smelt rotten even as other cries could be heard. Dark On-

 

The man who had helped the woman up suddenly cried, thrusting her away from him. Screaming in agony, he clutched at his shirt, ripping it open, Anton himself yelping as he jumped away in horror. The man’s chest had shapes moving in it, shapes that revealed themselves as they burrowed out of the man’s skin. Rats, so many that it was hard to believe the man’s shape could have contained so many, poured out of him even as he collapsed to his knees and fell to one side.

 

Even as the vermin raced about the ground at random, lightning split the air repeatedly in staccato strikes around the carnival, the thunder that followed rolling over them as it did so. Heralds for the rain that began falling from the heavens, a deluge that had Anton glad he was wearing his hat, not that his mind was on that.

 

People were running their way, screaming as they did so. Behind them… Creator help me that isn’t possible! Another lightning strike cleared any doubts, the light illuminating those who were chasing those who fled screaming. No wonder he’d smelt something rotten, corpses, some of which had been picked to the bone while others still had pieces of themselves upon their frames, were chasing and tackling those who were too slow to the ground, setting upon those that fell with unholy fury.

 

Turning about he ran towards the others even as he gestured even as he yelled. "RUN!!!!!"

 

 

Anton Averdal

Traveller

 

OOC: Read this before posting http://www.dragonmount.com/forums/viewtopic.php?p=80350#80350

Nathan Eldar sighed even as sobs rent the air. Liara, his wife, had been dead for a full two months now, yet still his daughter could not reconcile herself. Nor should she, Tira was but eight summers old, old enough to know that her mother was forever gone yet unable to accept it. Kneeling before the grave, she wept uncontrollably.

 

As she had the time before, and the time before that, yet the girl insisted on going despite her inability to handle it. Nathan himself struggled a bit, yet a life of struggle had hardened him enough that he wouldn’t be giving in to tears. Light, they hadn’t even been able to afford a coffin for Liara, she’d been put into the earth with nothing but her clothes. Between the pair of them they’d been able to raise Tira, but by himself…

 

Holding his hand up before him as a sudden gust of wind swept him, Nathan cursed inwardly, the wind had been going north but now it was going straight into his face. It wasn’t gentle like before either, it was as if it were edged with ice. In fact, it felt like it had become the coldest winter day as goosebumps ran up and down his arms and legs. Strange, why th-

 

Why is it so dark?

 

Something compelled him to turn and look up, and he gasped at what he saw. The skies had been clear before, but dark clouds were blocking off the sun, and they were growing in size, rolling outwards. This can’t be natural, what is going on?

 

Spinning about as Tira screamed, Nathan yelped himself from shock as he jumped. Tira was screaming and struggling as she lay face first over the grave. Something had grabbed her and was dragging her into the ground! Jumping forward, he grabbed her legs and tried to pull, his daughter’s screams ringing in his ears. He himself was screaming out of fear, even as he strained, heaving with frantic energy.

 

Falling on his backside as whatever had his daughter released her, he pulled her close only to drop her and scream in shock, scrabbling back out of horror. Her face was a mess, bloodied and torn as if something had, had torn at it with their teeth!

 

Looking to the grave, Nathan froze. Slender hands had risen from the grave, straining as they pulled. It was as if the earth itself was giving birth to a squalling infant, yet it was no infant that emerged from the earth’s womb. Liara! She had been in the ground but a few days, yet the worms had feasted and clearly still were. A malicious grin on her face as she freed herself, the dirt could do little to hide the pale white of death, nor the increasing darkness as the sun was further obscured.

 

As he got to his feet, a weight crashed into his back and sent him face first to the ground. Flailing with his elbows, he managed to connect with whatever it was hard enough to knock it clear. Rolling on the ground, he was too frightened even to scream. A skeleton the size of a small man was getting back to its feet, staring at him with empty eye sockets that nevertheless conveyed a malicious hatred.

 

Hisss

 

Turning away, something landed on his chest putting him flat on his chest. Tira? The moment of hesitation was too long, her fingers at his eyes, grasping and tearing even as he screamed one last time.....

 

 

How those clouds had formed so quickly was beyond Anton, they were unnatural, spreading in size and further blocking out the sun. It was as if a great shadow had fallen over the carnival, similar to dusk where everything was grey and hard to distinguish before the darkness of night fell. People muttered to one another and thought aloud as they viewed the spectacle.

 

AAAAAIIIIIIEEEE!!!!!

 

Turning to the source of the sound, Anton recoiled in horror. A woman was being dragged across the ground even as she wrestled with a rope that was entangled around her neck. But there was no one else holding it, the other end was tied to a nearby picket where horses had been tethered.

 

Running over as did several others, he had a knife out and between them they cut the rope even as a rumble from the clouds above swept across the carnival. The rope struggled against them, even trying to ensnare them, yet a few cuts rendered it lifeless. Sheathing his dagger and taking up his stave even as one of the other men helped the whimpering woman up, Anton couldn’t help but think something smelt rotten even as other cries could be heard. Dark On-

 

The man who had helped the woman up suddenly cried, thrusting her away from him. Screaming in agony, he clutched at his shirt, ripping it open, Anton himself yelping as he jumped away in horror. The man’s chest had shapes moving in it, shapes that revealed themselves as they burrowed out of the man’s skin. Rats, so many that it was hard to believe the man’s shape could have contained so many, poured out of him even as he collapsed to his knees and fell to one side.

 

Even as the vermin raced about the ground at random, lightning split the air repeatedly in staccato strikes around the carnival, the thunder that followed rolling over them as it did so. Heralds for the rain that began falling from the heavens, a deluge that had Anton glad he was wearing his hat, not that his mind was on that.

 

People were running their way, screaming as they did so. Behind them… Creator help me that isn’t possible! Another lightning strike cleared any doubts, the light illuminating those who were chasing those who fled screaming. No wonder he’d smelt something rotten, corpses, some of which had been picked to the bone while others still had pieces of themselves upon their frames, were chasing and tackling those who were too slow to the ground, setting upon those that fell with unholy fury.

 

Turning about he ran towards the others even as he gestured even as he yelled. "RUN!!!!!"

 

 

Anton Averdal

Traveller

 

OOC: Read this before posting http://www.dragonmount.com/forums/viewtopic.php?p=80350#80350

Milton fumed. His tobacco stained fingers worked in furious, furtive movements: stuffing his pipe and striking flint beneath the bowl, while he inhaled the rich smoke to dull the edge of his agitation. He glared with unbridled anger at fair-goers, those able to enjoy the heat, rather than slave through it. His clothing was matted, stained and soaked through with perspiration. The remaining strands of hair clove to his balding scalp. The coin was lousy, the labour hard and the gratitude non-extant. Milton attempted to straighten his filthy shirt over his out-of-control girth. Pudgy fingers pulled, in a vain attempt to appear presentable as the young maidens walked by, their faces screwing up in disgust as they past.

 

Milton hated fairs. He had hated them as a child and he hated them now as a middle-aged worker. Something about all that pleasure at his personal expense gnawed at him. That is why he was behind a tent, leaning against a pole and filling his lungs with stress relieving poisons and chemicals. At every fair he wished that one child would injure themselves. If he was really lucky, perhaps the wound would be grievous. Light be praised if one of the insolent little pups happened to die. Every year Milton hoped and every year he was let down. Oh how he hated them. Many times he had fantasied about it. He would never have had the courage being ever the coward but his blackening teeth split into a grin at just the thought.

 

It was not until he heard the scream that Milton noticed the sun was not shedding it's customary light. The scream had split the air like a thunderclap and in his haste Milton had spilled tobacco down his trousers. This hardly mattered. Hopefully he would arrive too late and the child would be dead. The sight that greeted the evil coward was not as pleasing as he might have imagined. Through the dull grey illumination his mind recoiled at the impossibilities registered.

 

Vague silhouettes shambled across the fair grounds. Faster shadows wound in and out of stalls as impossible speeds. The screams of men, woman, children and animals alike pierced the chill air. Much of the scene Milton could not fathom, he could have sworn he saw a man explode into a torrent of rats: sworn he saw flags and ribbons snagging the unwary to suffocate the breath from their lips, or hinder them long enough for the silhouettes to fall upon them. A peel of lightning split the the clouds, that veil of mercy, filling the fair-ground with a sudden vivid clarity. The truth of things forced Milton's scream to add its pitch to the unholy harmony.

 

He hid within the tent, beneath a table, as evil descended upon them all. Milton was in a state of near catatonic shock. The dead walked. Impossible but he could hear them even now. The soft tapping of bone... the sound of soft, putrid decay dragging slowly over soil and earth. Flesh splitting like old paper, teeth grinding unrelentingly against bone. Several times he knew with certainty that blood was being smeared against the outside of the tent.

 

He shook uncontrollably, whimpering like a small and frightened child. Wreathed in darkness and cloaked in the tent's pitch. Blood dripped from his mouth, while he held back a cry, as he realised he was no longer alone. All hope of another person was short lived. A terrifying mockery of his own whimpers began to echo back at him: guttural and inhuman sobs. Reverberating through a hollow chest and long since decayed vocal cords. The choking cries ended abruptly and silence rushed to fill the vacuum.

 

Milton stiffened as he felt cold, fetid breath touch his cheek. Deep, rasping breaths sounded next to him. The blood in his veins froze and all colour drained from his face. There was a blinding flash of lightning, so close that it reached through the canvas walls. For one moment a deformed, face met his gaze. Piceous, malignant, eyes filled with the impotent fury of death. Veins played across sunken skin and bloodied teeth glinted as the rasping breath grew louder... and louder.

 

Darkness swallowed the scene, yet Milton remained paralysed by th lurid vision. A monstrous wail erupted from undead lips, so fierce and forceful that it shattered the paralysis of Milton's mind and left burst his eardrums. A small consolation... for no longer would he hear the sounds of feeding as black agony took him.

Milton fumed. His tobacco stained fingers worked in furious, furtive movements: stuffing his pipe and striking flint beneath the bowl, while he inhaled the rich smoke to dull the edge of his agitation. He glared with unbridled anger at fair-goers, those able to enjoy the heat, rather than slave through it. His clothing was matted, stained and soaked through with perspiration. The remaining strands of hair clove to his balding scalp. The coin was lousy, the labour hard and the gratitude non-extant. Milton attempted to straighten his filthy shirt over his out-of-control girth. Pudgy fingers pulled, in a vain attempt to appear presentable as the young maidens walked by, their faces screwing up in disgust as they past.

 

Milton hated fairs. He had hated them as a child and he hated them now as a middle-aged worker. Something about all that pleasure at his personal expense gnawed at him. That is why he was behind a tent, leaning against a pole and filling his lungs with stress relieving poisons and chemicals. At every fair he wished that one child would injure themselves. If he was really lucky, perhaps the wound would be grievous. Light be praised if one of the insolent little pups happened to die. Every year Milton hoped and every year he was let down. Oh how he hated them. Many times he had fantasied about it. He would never have had the courage being ever the coward but his blackening teeth split into a grin at just the thought.

 

It was not until he heard the scream that Milton noticed the sun was not shedding it's customary light. The scream had split the air like a thunderclap and in his haste Milton had spilled tobacco down his trousers. This hardly mattered. Hopefully he would arrive too late and the child would be dead. The sight that greeted the evil coward was not as pleasing as he might have imagined. Through the dull grey illumination his mind recoiled at the impossibilities registered.

 

Vague silhouettes shambled across the fair grounds. Faster shadows wound in and out of stalls as impossible speeds. The screams of men, woman, children and animals alike pierced the chill air. Much of the scene Milton could not fathom, he could have sworn he saw a man explode into a torrent of rats: sworn he saw flags and ribbons snagging the unwary to suffocate the breath from their lips, or hinder them long enough for the silhouettes to fall upon them. A peel of lightning split the the clouds, that veil of mercy, filling the fair-ground with a sudden vivid clarity. The truth of things forced Milton's scream to add its pitch to the unholy harmony.

 

He hid within the tent, beneath a table, as evil descended upon them all. Milton was in a state of near catatonic shock. The dead walked. Impossible but he could hear them even now. The soft tapping of bone... the sound of soft, putrid decay dragging slowly over soil and earth. Flesh splitting like old paper, teeth grinding unrelentingly against bone. Several times he knew with certainty that blood was being smeared against the outside of the tent.

 

He shook uncontrollably, whimpering like a small and frightened child. Wreathed in darkness and cloaked in the tent's pitch. Blood dripped from his mouth, while he held back a cry, as he realised he was no longer alone. All hope of another person was short lived. A terrifying mockery of his own whimpers began to echo back at him: guttural and inhuman sobs. Reverberating through a hollow chest and long since decayed vocal cords. The choking cries ended abruptly and silence rushed to fill the vacuum.

 

Milton stiffened as he felt cold, fetid breath touch his cheek. Deep, rasping breaths sounded next to him. The blood in his veins froze and all colour drained from his face. There was a blinding flash of lightning, so close that it reached through the canvas walls. For one moment a deformed, face met his gaze. Piceous, malignant, eyes filled with the impotent fury of death. Veins played across sunken skin and bloodied teeth glinted as the rasping breath grew louder... and louder.

 

Darkness swallowed the scene, yet Milton remained paralysed by th lurid vision. A monstrous wail erupted from undead lips, so fierce and forceful that it shattered the paralysis of Milton's mind and left burst his eardrums. A small consolation... for no longer would he hear the sounds of feeding as black agony took him.

Her mouth had fallen open slightly when Sterre made it quite clear that she had no intention what so ever to work with Suraya on their new routine. In fact, the girl just wanted to get drunk with their money. Suraya had been too stunned by Sterre’s response that she had been unable to speak before her partner had already turned her back. “Fine!†she shouted after Sterre. “Go get drunk then! Just don’t be surprised if I find myself a more dedicated partner in the meantime!†she huffed, her nails digging into her palms as she balled her hands into fists. “Ugh!†she exclaimed. “That… little twit! Thinking that everything will just come to her… why I ought to… Send her to my aunts for a crash course in ambition!†Several of the other performers and merchants that camped nearby spared her a few worried or amused glances. Suraya ignored them, for the time being.

 

Soon enough the argument was forgotten though. Suraya moved through a series of steps and twists of an old dance her mother had taught her, only more exaggerated. As she moved she started to think of ways to use fire in the dance. “I won’t find out until I try.†She muttered, still ignoring the looks she received. After lighting her practice torches she took a moment to relax, focussing on her breathing until nothing of the outside world penetrated her concentration. Then she moved. At first she did little more with the torches than swaying them to the rhythm she had in her mind, keeping her arms away from her body as she spun and jumped, swaying her hips in a way that would make her mother proud.

 

The dance continued, becoming more elaborate as Suraya incorporated moves from other dances. The Fair was forgotten as she worked hard, seat beading on her head and rolling down her back, partially from the fire from her torches, and partially from the physical exertion. Somewhere during her practise she started to smile, and before long the smile had turned into a grin. Who cared about beer and parties, who cared about fancy clothing and wealth? This was all that mattered, this dance, moving perfectly in a rhythm only she could hear. There were several people watching her, clapping even as though they wished to mimic the song she had in mind. She barely even saw them. She barely even saw the sky darken and she barely even felt the icy chill that sought to dry the sweat on her head.

 

And she was quite sure that she wouldn’t have noticed anything at all, if she scream hadn’t pierced through her concentration the way a needle would pierce through skin. Her eyes widened as she stumbled, almost dropping her torches in the dry grass. “Wha…†she started, looking at the empty space around her. She could have sworn there were people there before. There was no one in sight, but the screams and shouts told her they were still near. Someone shouted for others to run. Suraya didn’t but she did turn to look in the direction of that particular shout. What she saw there weakened her knees to the point where she had to sit down. “This is not… possible, this is not real.†She mumbled. This would be her mantra for as long as she needed it. “This is not real.†She mumbled as she saw a man burst open, rats pouring from her insides.

 

She couldn’t keep denying reality for long though, not with those rats streaming towards her. Her eyes widened even further as her legs found strength again, strength she promptly used to follow the advice she had heard earlier. She ran from the rats, which seemed quite determined to follow her every move. Her speed was hampered by the need to kick at the rats when they came too close. One of the repulsive creatures got a firm kick just as another bit her ankle. Suraya screeched, shaking her foot, trying to get rid of the creature. She could feel the blood streaming down her bare feet, staining the grass. “Get back!†she cried, bringing one of her torches down on the creature. It immediately let go of her, in favour of a less heated spot a few paces away. “Back I say!†she shouted, waving her torches at them.

 

The rats soon decided they preferred a snack that didn’t try to torch her. As one they turned their heads, sniffing in the air for something nice and juicy. They found it in the freshly risen corpse of a little girl that had been hobbling towards Suraya. She felt her stomach tighten when she saw the speed with which the rats devoured the girl. She started running again, away from the camp and away from Caemlyn, which had to be the centre of all this evil. Her aunts had always said that nothing good came from cities as big as this. She didn’t notice that her attempts to fend of the rats had created a small fire in the dry grass. The fire grew and grew, until it was as high as a man, and then it grew some more, until it was as high as two men. Then it split in two. If one would have looked at the flames, one would have sworn that at that moment, the two fire creatures grinned at each other. Then they moved, walking like men would, one following the young woman with the torches, and the other heading towards the carnival, which had taken on the shape of a horror show. Their steps caused the grass to wither and die behind them.

 

Suraya noticed none of this, intent as she was on getting as far away as she possibly could. She ran, her torches still at her side, not knowing that she was quite a beacon for whoever decided to chase her. A sudden breeze brought the scent of burning things to her nose. She glanced backwards swiftly, not really seeing anything. She ran a few more paces before stopping dead in her tracks and turning again. The torches dropped from her hands to the grass, extinguishing immediately as if they too were thoroughly intimidated by the fire creature that was following Suraya around like a lost puppy. Suraya stumbled backwards, realising that the fire didn’t look like a lost puppy at all. It looked like one of those mangy dogs some shop owners in Bandar Eban always kept, which would chase an innocent child all the way to the other side of town if they felt like it. It certainly looked as though the fire thing felt like it.

 

Suraya screamed then, instantly turning and running faster than she had ever ran before. He’d warned her so often. Every time she practised the old gleeman had told her that one day she’d get consumed by her own fire. And it seemed that today was going to be that day. Rats and dead people were all fine, but to be burnt to a cinder by the thing she worked with every day? It was her worst nightmare come to life. “No no no no no no.†she muttered, running and stumbling, and then running some more. She didn’t look back to see if she was still being followed. There was no need for it. The fire wanted her dead, and it wanted her dead now. She was so panicked she didn’t even feel the first splashes of rain hit her skin. She didn’t hear the sizzling behind her, nor the roar that sounded like an exploding blacksmiths furnace. She didn’t feel the rain even though it poured from the sky now.

 

She just kept running towards a creek she had seen earlier. It had reeked like death itself and worse when they travelled past there earlier that day. She had figured it was attached to Caemlyn’s sewer system, but right now she didn’t particularly care. It was water, and fire and water didn’t go well together. Soon now. She could almost feel the heat of the creature on her back. Soon. There it was! Just a but further. With a desperate cry Suraya leapt forward, landing in the middle of the creek. She turned swiftly to see if the thing was following. It was gone. “Wha… where did it go? Where did it go?!†she cried out. It wasn’t until then she noticed that it was raining, and it wasn’t until she noticed it was raining that she noticed she was standing hip deep in reeking sludge.

Her mouth had fallen open slightly when Sterre made it quite clear that she had no intention what so ever to work with Suraya on their new routine. In fact, the girl just wanted to get drunk with their money. Suraya had been too stunned by Sterre’s response that she had been unable to speak before her partner had already turned her back. “Fine!†she shouted after Sterre. “Go get drunk then! Just don’t be surprised if I find myself a more dedicated partner in the meantime!†she huffed, her nails digging into her palms as she balled her hands into fists. “Ugh!†she exclaimed. “That… little twit! Thinking that everything will just come to her… why I ought to… Send her to my aunts for a crash course in ambition!†Several of the other performers and merchants that camped nearby spared her a few worried or amused glances. Suraya ignored them, for the time being.

 

Soon enough the argument was forgotten though. Suraya moved through a series of steps and twists of an old dance her mother had taught her, only more exaggerated. As she moved she started to think of ways to use fire in the dance. “I won’t find out until I try.†She muttered, still ignoring the looks she received. After lighting her practice torches she took a moment to relax, focussing on her breathing until nothing of the outside world penetrated her concentration. Then she moved. At first she did little more with the torches than swaying them to the rhythm she had in her mind, keeping her arms away from her body as she spun and jumped, swaying her hips in a way that would make her mother proud.

 

The dance continued, becoming more elaborate as Suraya incorporated moves from other dances. The Fair was forgotten as she worked hard, seat beading on her head and rolling down her back, partially from the fire from her torches, and partially from the physical exertion. Somewhere during her practise she started to smile, and before long the smile had turned into a grin. Who cared about beer and parties, who cared about fancy clothing and wealth? This was all that mattered, this dance, moving perfectly in a rhythm only she could hear. There were several people watching her, clapping even as though they wished to mimic the song she had in mind. She barely even saw them. She barely even saw the sky darken and she barely even felt the icy chill that sought to dry the sweat on her head.

 

And she was quite sure that she wouldn’t have noticed anything at all, if she scream hadn’t pierced through her concentration the way a needle would pierce through skin. Her eyes widened as she stumbled, almost dropping her torches in the dry grass. “Wha…†she started, looking at the empty space around her. She could have sworn there were people there before. There was no one in sight, but the screams and shouts told her they were still near. Someone shouted for others to run. Suraya didn’t but she did turn to look in the direction of that particular shout. What she saw there weakened her knees to the point where she had to sit down. “This is not… possible, this is not real.†She mumbled. This would be her mantra for as long as she needed it. “This is not real.†She mumbled as she saw a man burst open, rats pouring from her insides.

 

She couldn’t keep denying reality for long though, not with those rats streaming towards her. Her eyes widened even further as her legs found strength again, strength she promptly used to follow the advice she had heard earlier. She ran from the rats, which seemed quite determined to follow her every move. Her speed was hampered by the need to kick at the rats when they came too close. One of the repulsive creatures got a firm kick just as another bit her ankle. Suraya screeched, shaking her foot, trying to get rid of the creature. She could feel the blood streaming down her bare feet, staining the grass. “Get back!†she cried, bringing one of her torches down on the creature. It immediately let go of her, in favour of a less heated spot a few paces away. “Back I say!†she shouted, waving her torches at them.

 

The rats soon decided they preferred a snack that didn’t try to torch her. As one they turned their heads, sniffing in the air for something nice and juicy. They found it in the freshly risen corpse of a little girl that had been hobbling towards Suraya. She felt her stomach tighten when she saw the speed with which the rats devoured the girl. She started running again, away from the camp and away from Caemlyn, which had to be the centre of all this evil. Her aunts had always said that nothing good came from cities as big as this. She didn’t notice that her attempts to fend of the rats had created a small fire in the dry grass. The fire grew and grew, until it was as high as a man, and then it grew some more, until it was as high as two men. Then it split in two. If one would have looked at the flames, one would have sworn that at that moment, the two fire creatures grinned at each other. Then they moved, walking like men would, one following the young woman with the torches, and the other heading towards the carnival, which had taken on the shape of a horror show. Their steps caused the grass to wither and die behind them.

 

Suraya noticed none of this, intent as she was on getting as far away as she possibly could. She ran, her torches still at her side, not knowing that she was quite a beacon for whoever decided to chase her. A sudden breeze brought the scent of burning things to her nose. She glanced backwards swiftly, not really seeing anything. She ran a few more paces before stopping dead in her tracks and turning again. The torches dropped from her hands to the grass, extinguishing immediately as if they too were thoroughly intimidated by the fire creature that was following Suraya around like a lost puppy. Suraya stumbled backwards, realising that the fire didn’t look like a lost puppy at all. It looked like one of those mangy dogs some shop owners in Bandar Eban always kept, which would chase an innocent child all the way to the other side of town if they felt like it. It certainly looked as though the fire thing felt like it.

 

Suraya screamed then, instantly turning and running faster than she had ever ran before. He’d warned her so often. Every time she practised the old gleeman had told her that one day she’d get consumed by her own fire. And it seemed that today was going to be that day. Rats and dead people were all fine, but to be burnt to a cinder by the thing she worked with every day? It was her worst nightmare come to life. “No no no no no no.†she muttered, running and stumbling, and then running some more. She didn’t look back to see if she was still being followed. There was no need for it. The fire wanted her dead, and it wanted her dead now. She was so panicked she didn’t even feel the first splashes of rain hit her skin. She didn’t hear the sizzling behind her, nor the roar that sounded like an exploding blacksmiths furnace. She didn’t feel the rain even though it poured from the sky now.

 

She just kept running towards a creek she had seen earlier. It had reeked like death itself and worse when they travelled past there earlier that day. She had figured it was attached to Caemlyn’s sewer system, but right now she didn’t particularly care. It was water, and fire and water didn’t go well together. Soon now. She could almost feel the heat of the creature on her back. Soon. There it was! Just a but further. With a desperate cry Suraya leapt forward, landing in the middle of the creek. She turned swiftly to see if the thing was following. It was gone. “Wha… where did it go? Where did it go?!†she cried out. It wasn’t until then she noticed that it was raining, and it wasn’t until she noticed it was raining that she noticed she was standing hip deep in reeking sludge.

Gregor sat in a dark corner of the common room, nursing both a hangover and a mug of ale. Hair of the dog, he thought glumly taking a cautious sip and smacking his lips. The previous evening had not gone well and he was a bit surprised the innkeeper had not already tossed him out on his arse. The city was flooded with performers who could easily take his place but then again The Slaughtered Lamb was hardly any performers dream. Dirty tables, dirty floors and dirtier beds. Gregor eyed his mug suspiciously and then shrugged, taking another long pull. As if it mattered at this point.

 

You’ve done it this time, Gregor, he told himself sternly. No Gleeman worth his salt would forget the words to the Hunt for the Great Horn but last evening he had barely stammered through the Bargain of Rogosh Eye-Eagle. Not that the slimy crowd this place attracted had noticed. He’d quickly recovered and finished the saga but the slip had plagued him all evening. He’d fumbled with his lyre and snapped a string, the crowd had booed his rendition of A Pocket full of Gold and worse had barely noticed when he’d been too drunk to juggle.

 

Mistress Kaval, the Innkeeper had noticed however. He’d rather face a Fade than that woman’s fierce stare again. Caution would definitely be the better part of valor in this situation. Shrugging into his patched cloak he downed the rest of his glass and made his way to the door. Perhaps he'd pay a visit to the carnival grounds, maybe someone was looking for an aging, drunken gleeman. The streets were particularly quiet this morning he noted as he made his way to the gates.

 

Outside of the city he stepped into chaos. It was dark and he was suddenly amid a crowd of screaming and bellowing people. A bright flash of lightning momentarily blinded him. Blinking in confusion he pushed his way through the panicked crowd, wondering if he’d overslept into the next evening. But the common room had been empty and these people were more than panicked – they were terrified. A man half his size pushed Gregor to the cobblestones in his haste to get by. Gregor yelled as he was stepped on time and again but no one stopped to help the old man. Finally he managed to crawl aside, to relative safety and lay there panting, his head pounding and one leg badly bruised and bleeding from someone’s boot. What under the Light is going on? Is someone attacking the city?

 

The crowd began to thin and he was able to stand. He briefly considered retreating back to the city and the relative safety of the Lamb but thoughts of Mistress Kaval quickly made him turn away from the city , following the remnants of the crowd toward the carnival.

 

Funny but this far back in the crowd was eerily silent, many shambling or limping along beside him. His eyes weren’t what they used to be but he could swear the fellow beside him had slept in ditch. Dirt clung to his clothing and hair and his left shoe was missing. At least the screaming was muted here, a distant clamor which was certainly a relief to his still tender head. He stopped to lean against a stone wall and rubbed a hand across his forehead. He really needed to stop drinking, or at least slow down a bit. The sky flashed again and he glanced up just in time to see the bright hot light descending directly at him.

 

A few moments later another shambling figure joined the rest, this one’s colorfully patched cloak still smoking.

 

Gregor Binan

Crispy NPC Gleeman

Gregor sat in a dark corner of the common room, nursing both a hangover and a mug of ale. Hair of the dog, he thought glumly taking a cautious sip and smacking his lips. The previous evening had not gone well and he was a bit surprised the innkeeper had not already tossed him out on his arse. The city was flooded with performers who could easily take his place but then again The Slaughtered Lamb was hardly any performers dream. Dirty tables, dirty floors and dirtier beds. Gregor eyed his mug suspiciously and then shrugged, taking another long pull. As if it mattered at this point.

 

You’ve done it this time, Gregor, he told himself sternly. No Gleeman worth his salt would forget the words to the Hunt for the Great Horn but last evening he had barely stammered through the Bargain of Rogosh Eye-Eagle. Not that the slimy crowd this place attracted had noticed. He’d quickly recovered and finished the saga but the slip had plagued him all evening. He’d fumbled with his lyre and snapped a string, the crowd had booed his rendition of A Pocket full of Gold and worse had barely noticed when he’d been too drunk to juggle.

 

Mistress Kaval, the Innkeeper had noticed however. He’d rather face a Fade than that woman’s fierce stare again. Caution would definitely be the better part of valor in this situation. Shrugging into his patched cloak he downed the rest of his glass and made his way to the door. Perhaps he'd pay a visit to the carnival grounds, maybe someone was looking for an aging, drunken gleeman. The streets were particularly quiet this morning he noted as he made his way to the gates.

 

Outside of the city he stepped into chaos. It was dark and he was suddenly amid a crowd of screaming and bellowing people. A bright flash of lightning momentarily blinded him. Blinking in confusion he pushed his way through the panicked crowd, wondering if he’d overslept into the next evening. But the common room had been empty and these people were more than panicked – they were terrified. A man half his size pushed Gregor to the cobblestones in his haste to get by. Gregor yelled as he was stepped on time and again but no one stopped to help the old man. Finally he managed to crawl aside, to relative safety and lay there panting, his head pounding and one leg badly bruised and bleeding from someone’s boot. What under the Light is going on? Is someone attacking the city?

 

The crowd began to thin and he was able to stand. He briefly considered retreating back to the city and the relative safety of the Lamb but thoughts of Mistress Kaval quickly made him turn away from the city , following the remnants of the crowd toward the carnival.

 

Funny but this far back in the crowd was eerily silent, many shambling or limping along beside him. His eyes weren’t what they used to be but he could swear the fellow beside him had slept in ditch. Dirt clung to his clothing and hair and his left shoe was missing. At least the screaming was muted here, a distant clamor which was certainly a relief to his still tender head. He stopped to lean against a stone wall and rubbed a hand across his forehead. He really needed to stop drinking, or at least slow down a bit. The sky flashed again and he glanced up just in time to see the bright hot light descending directly at him.

 

A few moments later another shambling figure joined the rest, this one’s colorfully patched cloak still smoking.

 

Gregor Binan

Crispy NPC Gleeman

With the Fair going on outside, the tavern was bustling with activity. Therefore, it didn't take Sterre long to find a cute young man buying her beer. It never did; but ever since she'd hooked up with Suraya and had adopted the other woman's provocatively and glittery manner of dress, it had been easier than ever. In the beginning she had felt uncomfortable looking so flashy. She'd been a thief; catching attention had been a bad thing in the old days. These days, it bought her drinks and assured her interested looks from an audience. How times changed!

 

The beerbuyer today was a young man called Bart with sandy blond hair and large grey eyes. He looked as Andoran as you're probably going to get and she figured that she intrigued him with her Taraboner braids and her hazel eyes and low-cut black-and-silver shirt. "Are all girls in Tarabon as gorgeous as you are?" Bart slurred. He apparently was quite into his cups already and his pick-up lines were about the worst that Sterre'd ever come across. But he was buying her beer so she didn't have any qualms really.

 

"Of course not, I'm the prettiest," she smiled sweetly at him and subtley leaned a bit into his direction so he would have a better view of her cleavage. She wasn't a whore, not exactly. She just liked a bit of beer and a bit of teasing of the boys.

 

"I should have known," Bart flirted back. He was grinning a bit lopsidedly in a way that Sterre decided was rather cute. "You're the best thing that I've spent my coppers on all week. The beer might taste like piss around here, but it's the best pub in town. And it got me to meet you..."

 

In the pub, it suddenly grew a bit darker. A chill swept through the small building and Sterre looked up in confusion. For one moment she thought that perhaps a rainstorm had started outside, but there was nothing of the sort. The sun was still shining and there were still people... it just seemed... less bright, all of a sudden. And weird.

 

She looked up at Bart for confirmation while she took a swig of her beer. And then a few realizations registered all at once.

 

One: the mug she was holding was warm.

Two: people outside were screaming something about rats.

Three: her beer tasted extremely off.

 

"What am I drinking?!" Sterre exclaimed, setting her mug on the table as if she'd burnt her hands on it. Nearly as warm as tea, and the taste... She looked up at Bart. "What did you just say?" she asked him sharply.

 

He blinked those large babyblue eyes. "I don't understand, I said that you were the best thing that..."

 

"No, about the beer!" She thrust him the mug, daring him to take a sip with her gestures. He took it wordlessly and gulped a mouthful of it. He immediately spewed it out again. "Light that's awful! It tastes like-"

 

"Yes!" Sterre sneered. She was desperately looking around for something to rinse away the bad taste in her mouth. "Best investment of the week, right?"

 

There were more people coming to this conclusion around the pub, and shouts of outrage were bubbling up. Some people walked over to the barkeep and began harassing him, but the poor man looked as startled as anyone else.

 

And it became darker.

 

Before Sterre's unbelieving eyes, her mug began to levitate. It floated up in the air as if it were caught in a gleeman's trick with invisible threads that pulled it up. It floated above her head and hovered there for a moment...

 

Sterre was too late to realize what was about to happen. If she would have realized earlier, she would have stepped out of the way, but as it was, the mug simply turned itself over, pouring the yellow waste over her head and dripping over her face and back. She immediately reeked of urine. "Light!" she screamed in shock and revulsion. "What is going ON here?"

 

That goat-kissing trolloc Bart was laughing at her, but his laughter soon died as his own mug treated him to the same fate. He stepped out of the way in time to miss most of the golden shower, but apparently the mug was not done with him yet. As if someone were swinging it, the heavy glass mug slammed down on the back of his head, knocking him out cold with one efficient swing. Sterre screamed as she watched Bart sag through his knees like a rag doll.

 

One look into the pub showed more floating and attacking beermugs, and Sterre didn't hesitate. She was a thief, she knew when it was time to run away. She was fast enough; running through the crowd, fighting her way to the exit, wringing through the panicking crowd. Unfortunately she had been nearly at the back and more interestingly-reeking people had shared her idea, and there was no way of getting out.

 

"Blood and ashes!" Sterre cursed and turned for the window. She rushed through the part of the pub which was now mostly deserted apart from puddles of human waste and fallen tables and chairs, and then dove through the window. It was a good thing that she knew how to brace herself for impact and how to land on her feet; during her jump, she rolled over and was able to break into a run as soon as she was on her feet again.

 

Naturally, she was once again not fast enough. After three steps she was hit painfully in the back of the head. Spots danced before her eyes as something shattered against her head and wetness gulfed over her back. For one frightening moment she thought that it was blood running over her back, but then she realized that the trickling liquid would not be red, but yellow.

 

Yet it could become red soon enough if she did not get out of here fast! She nearly broke her neck over scuttling rats and screaming people, but Sterre did not care. She was fleeing. And fleeing was good. Bloody good.

With the Fair going on outside, the tavern was bustling with activity. Therefore, it didn't take Sterre long to find a cute young man buying her beer. It never did; but ever since she'd hooked up with Suraya and had adopted the other woman's provocatively and glittery manner of dress, it had been easier than ever. In the beginning she had felt uncomfortable looking so flashy. She'd been a thief; catching attention had been a bad thing in the old days. These days, it bought her drinks and assured her interested looks from an audience. How times changed!

 

The beerbuyer today was a young man called Bart with sandy blond hair and large grey eyes. He looked as Andoran as you're probably going to get and she figured that she intrigued him with her Taraboner braids and her hazel eyes and low-cut black-and-silver shirt. "Are all girls in Tarabon as gorgeous as you are?" Bart slurred. He apparently was quite into his cups already and his pick-up lines were about the worst that Sterre'd ever come across. But he was buying her beer so she didn't have any qualms really.

 

"Of course not, I'm the prettiest," she smiled sweetly at him and subtley leaned a bit into his direction so he would have a better view of her cleavage. She wasn't a whore, not exactly. She just liked a bit of beer and a bit of teasing of the boys.

 

"I should have known," Bart flirted back. He was grinning a bit lopsidedly in a way that Sterre decided was rather cute. "You're the best thing that I've spent my coppers on all week. The beer might taste like piss around here, but it's the best pub in town. And it got me to meet you..."

 

In the pub, it suddenly grew a bit darker. A chill swept through the small building and Sterre looked up in confusion. For one moment she thought that perhaps a rainstorm had started outside, but there was nothing of the sort. The sun was still shining and there were still people... it just seemed... less bright, all of a sudden. And weird.

 

She looked up at Bart for confirmation while she took a swig of her beer. And then a few realizations registered all at once.

 

One: the mug she was holding was warm.

Two: people outside were screaming something about rats.

Three: her beer tasted extremely off.

 

"What am I drinking?!" Sterre exclaimed, setting her mug on the table as if she'd burnt her hands on it. Nearly as warm as tea, and the taste... She looked up at Bart. "What did you just say?" she asked him sharply.

 

He blinked those large babyblue eyes. "I don't understand, I said that you were the best thing that..."

 

"No, about the beer!" She thrust him the mug, daring him to take a sip with her gestures. He took it wordlessly and gulped a mouthful of it. He immediately spewed it out again. "Light that's awful! It tastes like-"

 

"Yes!" Sterre sneered. She was desperately looking around for something to rinse away the bad taste in her mouth. "Best investment of the week, right?"

 

There were more people coming to this conclusion around the pub, and shouts of outrage were bubbling up. Some people walked over to the barkeep and began harassing him, but the poor man looked as startled as anyone else.

 

And it became darker.

 

Before Sterre's unbelieving eyes, her mug began to levitate. It floated up in the air as if it were caught in a gleeman's trick with invisible threads that pulled it up. It floated above her head and hovered there for a moment...

 

Sterre was too late to realize what was about to happen. If she would have realized earlier, she would have stepped out of the way, but as it was, the mug simply turned itself over, pouring the yellow waste over her head and dripping over her face and back. She immediately reeked of urine. "Light!" she screamed in shock and revulsion. "What is going ON here?"

 

That goat-kissing trolloc Bart was laughing at her, but his laughter soon died as his own mug treated him to the same fate. He stepped out of the way in time to miss most of the golden shower, but apparently the mug was not done with him yet. As if someone were swinging it, the heavy glass mug slammed down on the back of his head, knocking him out cold with one efficient swing. Sterre screamed as she watched Bart sag through his knees like a rag doll.

 

One look into the pub showed more floating and attacking beermugs, and Sterre didn't hesitate. She was a thief, she knew when it was time to run away. She was fast enough; running through the crowd, fighting her way to the exit, wringing through the panicking crowd. Unfortunately she had been nearly at the back and more interestingly-reeking people had shared her idea, and there was no way of getting out.

 

"Blood and ashes!" Sterre cursed and turned for the window. She rushed through the part of the pub which was now mostly deserted apart from puddles of human waste and fallen tables and chairs, and then dove through the window. It was a good thing that she knew how to brace herself for impact and how to land on her feet; during her jump, she rolled over and was able to break into a run as soon as she was on her feet again.

 

Naturally, she was once again not fast enough. After three steps she was hit painfully in the back of the head. Spots danced before her eyes as something shattered against her head and wetness gulfed over her back. For one frightening moment she thought that it was blood running over her back, but then she realized that the trickling liquid would not be red, but yellow.

 

Yet it could become red soon enough if she did not get out of here fast! She nearly broke her neck over scuttling rats and screaming people, but Sterre did not care. She was fleeing. And fleeing was good. Bloody good.

"Seriously, why is it everytime we go somewhere, something happens?" Leilwinn was crouched behind a table full of jewelry with a sword in her hands and an angry glare on her face. The rain soaked her skirts and made them heavy. It was more than a little difficult to move about and while she didn't want to make the situation even worse for Toram, she was beginning to worry she wouldn't be able to keep up.

 

"Quite," was all he said in response. He probably heard something though she didn't know how with all the noise from the blasted rain. A bolt of lightening gave her her answer. Straight ahead was a corpse in tattered clothes headed in their direction. She wondered if he could see them as one eye was clotted with dirt as it hung from the ocular nerve onto his cheek.

 

Toram sprang up and charged the moving body. Seeing no others, Leilwinn kept her position behind the table, watching. She kept both eyes on Toram but hefted the sword in her hands to get a better feel for it. It had belonged to the fallen strong arm that lay in a heap beside her. He was probably the guard for the jeweler or somesuch. Then again, he might have just been a customer. It didn't matter.

 

"Grrmmah."

 

Leilwinn didn't notice the sound. Nor did the notice the shuffling sound of the strongarm getting to his feet. She did, however, notice one of his meaty, bite-mark covered arms wraping around her. Before she could react, he had hefted her up from her crouched position. Instinct took over and she cocked her head to one side and thrust the blade over her shoulder. She heard the sickening wet sound of it penetrating the man's skull and she felt blood spurt and gush over her shoulder. His grip loosened but did not disapear entirely. Still, it was enough that she could get loose and move away. Turning to face her attacker, she saw that he was almost unphased by his face wound. With a look of horror she swung in a wide arc and beheaded the hulking form. The body dropped.

 

She glanced in Toram's direction. The encounter had only taken a few moments, but he was already sprinting back in her direction from the sound of it. She still couldn't really see him.

 

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she called out. Another flash of lightening and she saw that he wasn't. He was being pursued by at least half a dozen of the walking dead. And they were gaining on him.

 

Leilwinn Jasma

Queen of Saldaea

Unlucky traveler

"Seriously, why is it everytime we go somewhere, something happens?" Leilwinn was crouched behind a table full of jewelry with a sword in her hands and an angry glare on her face. The rain soaked her skirts and made them heavy. It was more than a little difficult to move about and while she didn't want to make the situation even worse for Toram, she was beginning to worry she wouldn't be able to keep up.

 

"Quite," was all he said in response. He probably heard something though she didn't know how with all the noise from the blasted rain. A bolt of lightening gave her her answer. Straight ahead was a corpse in tattered clothes headed in their direction. She wondered if he could see them as one eye was clotted with dirt as it hung from the ocular nerve onto his cheek.

 

Toram sprang up and charged the moving body. Seeing no others, Leilwinn kept her position behind the table, watching. She kept both eyes on Toram but hefted the sword in her hands to get a better feel for it. It had belonged to the fallen strong arm that lay in a heap beside her. He was probably the guard for the jeweler or somesuch. Then again, he might have just been a customer. It didn't matter.

 

"Grrmmah."

 

Leilwinn didn't notice the sound. Nor did the notice the shuffling sound of the strongarm getting to his feet. She did, however, notice one of his meaty, bite-mark covered arms wraping around her. Before she could react, he had hefted her up from her crouched position. Instinct took over and she cocked her head to one side and thrust the blade over her shoulder. She heard the sickening wet sound of it penetrating the man's skull and she felt blood spurt and gush over her shoulder. His grip loosened but did not disapear entirely. Still, it was enough that she could get loose and move away. Turning to face her attacker, she saw that he was almost unphased by his face wound. With a look of horror she swung in a wide arc and beheaded the hulking form. The body dropped.

 

She glanced in Toram's direction. The encounter had only taken a few moments, but he was already sprinting back in her direction from the sound of it. She still couldn't really see him.

 

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she called out. Another flash of lightening and she saw that he wasn't. He was being pursued by at least half a dozen of the walking dead. And they were gaining on him.

 

Leilwinn Jasma

Queen of Saldaea

Unlucky traveler

Jidar was having a bad day. It had started out as a very good day, but had quickly degenerated. If he were to be pressed for an answer as to why it was a bad day, he would have to say that it all started when a very attractive woman, whom he'd been making advances upon and had liked his bells very much, suddenly had rats rip out of her chest and stream through her mouth. Yes, that was a clear indication that he'd have to be using the sword at his hip. And he'd thought he was lucky to have leave from the guards to go to the fair.

 

Jidar unsheathed the sword and ran for the closest wagon. Once there, he put his back facing it, and prepared to defend there, where nothing could get him from behind. There was a brief lull in the action, giving him time to assume the Oneness and grasp saidin. For a moment he was stilled by the taint, but then focused. He was about to try killing those rats, when he noticed something. Or rather, two somethings. Big firemen currently setting people ablaze. Deciding that was a bigger threat, Jidar began to channel to destroy them.

 

It seemed his luck was still running around the same amount as when that woman burst into vermin. Instead of being doused by water, they were being reinforced from fire. Oh Rojor, why couldn't you have been around long enough to teach me that useful tidbit of knowledge? He sighed, frustrated, and released saidin. If it wasn't going to help him, no reason to feel the taint.

 

Because of his focus on the firemen, he didn't notice the well pail currently making it's way over to him. He did, however, notice when it hit him roughly in the face. It also got his attention when the rope took him by the neck and lifted him into the air. Oh, this brings back memories. He thought as he swung his sword at the rope. He was bloody lucky he'd kept a good grip on his sword. Dropping to his knees as the rope loosened, he gasped for a moment. He felt blood trickle from his nose and tasted blood in his mouth. His head hurt more than a hangover after a week of ale consumption.

 

And there were what looked like human skeletons heading for him.

OOC: I regret to announce that I'm no longer going to able to commit Malics posts for quite a while folks. I've found a live-in job which I start this weekend, and once I get there, very little internet access permitted. I hope to be able to recommence posting sometime in september. To make the story remotely believable, it's probably fair to say Malic disappeared without a trace. Perhaps he was taken hostage by the undead roaming around! But don't worry, he can take care of himself for a while!

 

Ciao for now :) (just when the story was becoming even more awesome too.)

ooc: alright...bit of a warning this is a REALLY long post so feel free to skip to the end bit if you don't wanna read on for like three pages about Alianna life before this...sorry...I'm still trying to develope her which is why that's included...

 

ic:

 

Happiness: an emotion foreign to Alianna before joining up with this group of travellers. Her back rested against one of the many crates loaded in the back of the wagon. A vague smile touching her face as the wagon bumped over the rutted road. In her contented state, she noticed not the hard floor against her bottom nor the unforgiving wooden crate at her back.

 

Anton sat across from her, idly fingering his quarterstaff- her own lay across her lap. Malic rode his gluttonous stallion up with Dilora and her mare. The gleeman had been a welcome addition to the three-some along the road, boosting their spirits with songs and tales told as if the audience were the King of Kandor himself. The king was dead now.

 

These three travelers, unknown to her when she joined them only a short while back, had began a remarkable change in Alianna. A change for the better?- she couldn’t have been worse when they found her: penniless and drowning her sorrows in the balm called alcohol. That balm had extracted a heavy tax from the middle-aged Borderlander, both on her purse and her health.

 

Since joining Dilora and Anton, and Malic of course, she had put on weight. Before eating regular meals with the wagon’s entourage, she had survived mainly on strong ales and brandy where she could get it. She had become a wretch; hollow-eyes, hollow-bellied, inebriated, unkempt and indifferent. The former thief-catcher who had held up against the worst sort of criminals could not hold up against the worst sort of emotions: grief.

 

Now she sat on the wagonbed, her hair cropped neatly at the shoulders, her clothes new and her face clean. In an attempt to make a clean break from her sorrowful past, she had changed her hairstyle. The braid of her long, dark hair was now replaced by shoulder-length locks which hung loose save when sparring with Anton. Her new breeches, coat and blouses were stiff cotton, cut in the Andoran style. Her breeches were loose enough to move easily in, coat tight and flaring at the waist and soft, clean white blouses. If one did not recognize her dialect or her face, no one would recognize her as Kandori.

 

She had made a clean break with her past. Everything that connected her to that crater in the ground was gone. Like a criminal seeking to hide from his pursuers in a distant town, she had disguised her nationality. Nothing from Kandor was left within her position. Nothing save her memories and the locket she wore around her neck. She had not been able to rid herself of either though she had tried time and again.

 

Sitting in the wagonbed, she had suddenly changed. A shadow had come across her face baring the still raw grief which prevented her from sleeping. Her knuckles were white as she clutched the locket, hanging between her breasts, in a death grip. She never noticed the curious and worried glances her companions gave her when she sank into her dark reveries.

 

The locket, silver and nearly as large as her hand, had cost dearly. She had received it from Dominik’s father upon their marriage and she had kept it around her neck ever since, removing it only to bathe. While all her earthly possessions had disappeared to that bottom of the crater that swallowed Chachin, the locket had hung about her neck, the only reminder of the family that had once been.

 

She had had two pictures commissioned roughly three years before. While Dominik had changed little since then, except that he had grey hairs, the picture was an exact replica of the man she had kissed farewell upon leaving the house. Her last words had been a warning to watch Henrik that he didn’t steal his father’s blade. She had never said she loved him that last time she saw him and that haunted her. As every person mourning a loved one does, she regretted reminding him of her love one last time.

 

Nine year-old Henrik had changed drastically since the painting had been commissioned. She had left the young boy racing towards a manhood he would never reach. He had emulated his father’s every action and mannerism. When she had said farewell to her son, he resembled his father more and more everyday.

 

There are many stages of grief. It is a circle in which every stage is repeated over and over again. In the beginning it is so strong it tears at the person’s very soul but as the cycle repeats itself, it declines in intensity though it never disappears. Only in death will grief every truly leave a person.

 

Upon coming to the crater, Alianna had been so shocked she had stood paralysed before the hole until sunset- over an hour. Next had been denial. All night she had wept at the edge of the pit, denying the reality in front of her. ’They couldn’t be dead! They couldn’t! They must have escaped the city before it was destroyed.’ But eventually all lies must come to an end- even those we tell ourselves. When the truth was inevitable, guilt repressed the shock and surprise. She blamed herself for leaving them to whatever monster had annihilated the entire city. In her grief she thought her presence could have made a difference. With blinding emotion coursing through her, could she be expected to see the obvious? Guilt was replaced by anger. ’How could they have left her! How was it that they were able to abandon her to such a cruel world while they slept in peace at last?’

 

From anger she had returned to shock and she went around the circle again. Like her monthly cycle, this had recurred many times and in the beginning she went through the circle at least once a day. In the morning she would be in shock that she was not waking at Dominik’s side and at night she would curse him for leaving her. The next morning had been the same and by the night again she despised them.

 

While the world is cruel, the laws of nature and time showed her compassion. Over time the cycle slowed and lessened its power over her. She was lonely in this world without her husband and son. She ached for them, yearned to once again lie in her husband’s arms, yearned to hear her son’s laughter.

 

The sudden jerking of the wagon, signifying a halt, dragged her from her bitter memories. Turning from the others who were now stretching stiff legs and back and massaging sore bottom, she wiped a tear from her eye. Collecting her quarterstaff, she jumped down from the wagonbed to the others.

 

Lost in her grief, she had not noticed the great cacophony, only a crowd in the heights of merrymaking could create. Violently, she shoved thoughts of Henrik, brought about by the joyous shrieks of other children, away. She didn’t want to grieve anymore. Peace! All she wanted was to be completely, blissfully happy.

 

Sweat from man and animal filled the air, nearly drowning out the mouth-watering scent of food. At that smell, her stomach grumbled loudly, reminding her that she had not eaten well at breakfast and now it was mid-afternoon. She could almost taste the roasting mutton she smelled.

 

Anton smiled and indicated she lead the way, so lead she did. First thing they stopped and bought pies from an old woman, hawking them to the throngs of people attending the carnival- for it was obvious to Alianna that that was what it was by the crowds, menageries and competitions taking place all about them. While licking grease off her fingers not long afterwards, she was painfully reminded of the few coppers left in her purse. The drinks she had used as a balm to her sorrows had left a burning hole in her purse.

 

The four travellers meandered through the jostling crowd, watching performers, competitions and seeing exotic animals on display. Several quarterstaff competitions caught her eye and remembering the few coppers she had left, she finally agreed to meet her companions at the wagon later that evening and joined in one of the competitions.

 

The men, waiting for their opponents, eyed her askance. They did not bother to hide their amusement when she asked the organizer of the competition to add her to the list of competitors. The organizer, however, was not amused but rather was irritated by her request.

 

“Miss,†he said condescending enough to almost through her immediately into a fit of rage “you cannot possible hope to compete here. Every man here is far stronger than you could possibly be.†Her face grew scarlet- in rage rather than embarrassment.

 

“This is a competition of skill. Not strength. I am quite confident in my ability to compete with these men.†When the man began to question what he should do when her husband was upset that she was hurt, she cut him off. “I am not afraid of being injured, nor should you worry about my husband. I don’t have one.†’Or at least not any more. Why did you have to die Dominik? Why did you leave me here?’

 

Resignedly, he scratched her name onto the bottom of the list. “You will be fighting that man over there.†he said pointing to a brute watching the current match. “Between the two of you, you can figure out the prize.†The look he gave her was hardly one to install confidence so she scowled and strode over to her opponent.

 

He was a big man, at least two inches taller than herself- meaning he was at least six foot. It was his bulk, though where he really dwarfed her. His shoulders were broad and he had enough scars to name him some sort of street tough or perhaps a bar bouncer. It hardly mattered, she would have to be quick and force him to keep up with her without being able to use his strength.

 

Upon learning that she was his opponent, he barked out a laugh. Glowering, Alianna made her bet. “Five crowns to you if you win.†“I’ll match your bet, bitch.†he scoffed. She had to win now. She did not have five crowns.

 

Finally, their match started. Alianna kept her guard high as her biggest hope lay in keeping the offensive and preventing him from using his strength. He took no guard, preferring to stand arrogantly before her, the butt of his staff grounded in the dirt. That mistake would cost him, she would make sure of that.

 

Almost as soon as she had set herself in her guard position, her stave came crashing down towards his skull. The quarterstaff spun, whistling through the air as her failed attempt as his head became a jab at his ribs and then spun to a swipe at his knees. Quickly it was discovered that while he was much stronger, she was much quicker, less foolish and more skilled. Anton’s tips and encouragement had helped her greatly. He remained on the defensive, desperately trying to fend off her assault, unable to move quickly enough to attack.

 

As they fought, Alianna clearly dominating the match, the skies darkened, though she barely perceived it. With a loud crack and crunch of wood meeting knuckles, her stave rapped his fist. He dropped his staff in pain and in a moment, the butt of her stave rested on his broad chest and he was groaning over being bruised all over.

 

The former thief-catcher grinned at the astonished, and horrified, looks of the men who had witnessed the match. “You owe me five crowns.†Then, her defeated opponent did something completely unexpected- he keeled over as he began to stand.

 

He came crashing down, knocking her down with him. With a vile curse, she twisted under his weight trying to wriggle from under the mass. “Get off me, you bastard! You’ve lost so you’d better flaming-well pay your debt! Get off me, whore’s son!†Her curses availed her none. He did not budge. Why wasn’t he moving? And why wasn’t the crowd coming to her aid?

 

Just then, a loud scream pierced the air, chilling her bones as if she had looked a Fade right in the eye. More screams pierced the air and shouting arose. Besides the stench of the bodily odour of the man on top of her, she could distinctly smell smoke.

 

With a sudden sense of urgency, she struggled harder. Finally extracting herself from the man, she saw why it was that he did not move and why the crowd had gone so silent. There standing straight before her was a man, holding a bloody knife from which blood was dripping, staining the dirt. Her former opponent lay on the ground, face down. But even with his neck mainly hidden by the ground and his own self, Alianna could see that the throat was cut so savagely it had nearly severed the head.

 

Rooted to the spot in terror, she stared at the obvious murderer. Something wasn’t right about him. He looked as if he was two weeks dead and reeked of it too. Bits of his flesh were hanging from his thin frame and appeared eaten by the swarm of flies which hovered around him, feasting on the living flesh. Not once did the man swat at a fly, he ignored them even though they should have been driving him insane. The rags the man wore were in no better condition but what frightened her most was the fact that he was missing both eyes. Both were half eaten in their sockets and it seemed impossible that the man could have killed as he could not possibly see.

 

As the man advance on her, he moved stiffly as though he had sat very still a very long time. It hit her that this man was not alive- or at least had no beating heart or functioning brain- when in the distance she saw a skeleton chase and stab a woman to death not twenty feet from her.

 

In a hopeless gamble, she threw herself at the ground, trying to regain her quarterstaff. Reaching its solid wooden shaft, the terror within her gradually crept away replaced by a cool confidence. ’I shall join you soon dearest Dominik and Henrik.’ With that, she stood and face the living dead.

 

ooc: whew...it's up now...first attempt got deleted :cry: so I had to retype it and it got longer...lol...this is definitly my longest post ever 2,500 words!

Mysti petted the neck of her horse, they where on the road from Tar Valon to Caemlyn, on the wagon was a new addition, a cage containing pigeons. Her love didnt know why but he trusted her and didnt ask, with those she where to send reports of happenings along the road, as well rumors to an Aes Sedai she met while in Tar Valon.

 

Mysti smiled up at the sun, in some way by doing this she felt she was part now of the help the white tower gave to the world, those magnifisent Aes Sedai. Fideling her reins she thougth she would always remeber the meeting as if yesterday, belive it having an Aes Sedai as guide to what must be the most powerfull city there be.

 

She smiled at her love, her past forgoten mostly, he had made it easy, she wanted to please him, to make him happy. For him it wasnt a problem giving up her past, forget of disaproving parents and gowns, there where freedom in traveling the road as they did, no scraping and bowing, no lady this or that.

 

Mysti was brougth out of her thougths by the dogs bark as he ran after a rabit. She smiled as he came back empty, the dog has been her companion for some years now, as the horse.

 

 

...days passed and turned to weeks as the travel continued...

 

 

It was with glee that Mysti looked up on Caemlyn rising infront of them, they had heard rumors of the feast there down the road. Her love needed work and would go into the town finding an inn for the nite, but she would probably have bether luck outside to get any tatooist jobs.

 

She had removed some of her equipment from the wagon adding them to her sadlebags over the dogs back. The horse was now tied to the wagon, she would walk into the city in the evning. Whistling on her betrusted friend she moved into the crowds to find an empty spot to work from.

 

Seteling down she soon got customers and watchers, smiling she got to work, a'vron was content with beeing scratched behind the ears by some children. The big dog most of the time behaved as a big teddy bear.

 

Mysti enjoyed the sun warming her back as she worked on a flower tatoo, it was inspirering. The only warning she had before everything changed from one moment to another was a growl from a'vron, a cold wind brushed in over the group around her, the sky was darkening and sudenly there where lightning.

 

Mysti put the final streak to the tatoo and huridly put her things into her sadlebags, not taking time to put them on a'vron she simply tossed them over her shoulder as she got up. There would likely be rain soon with this weather change and she wasnt dressed for it. Before she could finish thougth it came true as well and she was soaked in a moment.

 

There where screams filling the air and Mysti looked around confused seeing peoples fleeing from what was the center of the carneval and in her as well as every other direction outward. a'vron was barking and sudenly she saw rats among the peoples, tugging on his neckless she started runing towards the city, for safety and to find Gladius, he always knew what to do and she was lost.

 

The dog was beeing rabid in his leash and sudenly he yanked loose, Mysti turned to look where he was going and to call him back and froze in terror. There was a half consumed body walking at her and in the next moment both the dead man and a'vron went to the ground as her dog tackled him. The following high pitched yelp cut through her bones and then her dog where still.

 

A tear slid down Mystis cheek as her thougths told her she needed to move, to get out of there. She was taking a step back when she saw movement in the dog, only when he stood and looked at her...his eyes where dead and foam where coming out his mouth as he walked snearing towards her. Mysti backed away slowly her feets draging, this couldnt be true...it was in terror she looked at him jumping towards her taking of from the ground and she crossed her arms over her eyes ...the next moment she expected him to land at her tearing only some wonderfull feeling filed her..

 

..was this dying..was this how it felt...only she could still hear screams and she shivered beeing cold. Mysti slowly lowered her arms and saw a burning dogs body laying on the ground, thoug the flames was growing.

 

She finaly shook loose of the nigthmare and fled, runing as fast as she could towards the city screaming. Here and there she would kick away the random rat closing on her. She could feel goosebumps on her body. It was so cold...she was wet and the wind was freezy.

 

She ran past a sobing woman and turned on instinct when she heard the same woman scream in horror behind her. Mysti looked wide eyed as a firery creature consumed the woman before seemingly looking at her and starting to move.

 

Mysti cried for help even before she managed to turn and run even faster for the city, her legs and sides where aching, and she was gasping for air. Cant give up cant give up roamed through her mind, she could feel the heat closing behind her and cast a look over her shoulder only to stumble on something and finding herself rolling over the ground till she crashed hard into the spoke of a wagon. She could hear bone break and for a moment she saw red spots as pain spread through her legs.

 

"No no no...please..." though she hardly thougth her pleeding would help as the creature closed on her. It was all she could do not to watch as it bendt towards her and she closed her eyes only to feel that feeling of warmth spread through her again as the heat disapeared. In wonder she looked up and watched the creature so close grasping for her, seemingly angry though there was as if an invisble wall separating them.

 

Mysti could but lay there and look hoping whatever where keeping the creature from her life would hoild, praying to the creator someone would come to help her, tears streaming down her cheeks silently as her sore troath couldnt muster to scream anymore.

 

 

ooc anyone want to come along thats fine...Mysti is a future kniting circle gal and unaware of her ability to channel so her channeling is on pure need without her having any control of it...curently there would be some shield or something.