City of IF

[Kalanna Rai]

Alrighty. Not sure where this one came from. I blame a certain videogame and my brain needing something to do. Oh and a big thanks to my rp buddy for letting me have Beri back. You know who you are. Anyway, enough rambling. Enjoy!
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Prologue- Welcome Home

The drunk staggered down the alleyway, his bottle sloshing as he waved it in the air. Every once in a while, he'd stop and take a long pull from the green glass neck, amber liquid running from the corners of his mouth in his eager haste. It had been a good day begging, his bowl had almost filled itself with coin. The sweet warmth of the liquor moved his rusty voice to song as he tottered along, rag wrapped feet stomping through the mixture of mud and offal that was the current surface of the street. No fine cobbles in these parts, only stench-laden soil and the roughest of accomodations.

The last rays of the sun clutched at the land, like a mother being torn from her children. And like a motherless child, the world would be helpless once ensconced in darkness. For that is when the things would come out of their hiding places to haunt the world of men. Things with fangs stained pink with the blood of the hapless, with claws still adorned with the rotting flesh of a former meal. But in his revelry, the drunk forgot this. Or, made bold by the strong spirit, chose to ignore the coming danger.

The sun vanished and night was suddenly upon him the only light thrown by the few guttering torches that the Guard used to mark where their patrol area ended. Suddenly mindful of the darkness, the drunk ceased his singing and clutched his bottle tight against his chest, heart now rising to a fearful tempo. His watery eyes flicked back and forth as his body began to quiver, the liquor leaving him without a shred of bravery to his name. He glanced over his shoulder, back at the torches only a hundred yards away. So close yet so far.

He turned his gaze in front of him, poor vision barely able to make out the Sanctuary in the deepening night. If he went back, there was no guarantee he'd make it till morning. The patrolling Guard were notoriously lax in the poorer districts and the torch light held at bay only the weaker or extremely sensitive creatures. There wasn't an aberration yet that had broached Sanctuary's walls. Plus, it was warm and dry and they fed you well enough. And if he smuggled his bottle in it wouldn't get stolen before morning.

Slowly he began to inch his way along the path, the sound of his heartbeat and breathing seeming over-loud in his ears. Footsteps were chosen carefully and muffled as he moved his way along, watery eyes darting right and left as he watched for anything that might come skulking out of the shadows with the intent to kill. And slowly Sanctuary drew closer and closer.

It hadn't always been this way. The old drunk could remember a time when a man and a lass could take a moonlight stroll, safe in the knowledge that the only thing they had to fear were the prying eyes of the wrong person. When picnics and parties had regularly been held by the silver light of the lunar lady. But then had come the Burning when the sky had turned scarlet and the sun had been as black as ebony. Magic had run wild, familiar herbals suddenly produced bizarre mutations, regular crops had failed while never before seen plants had thrived...monsters had been born.

Man-eating plants, undead feasting upon carrion, marrow, and not just the flesh but the souls of the living. The daylight predators were terrible, strong but rare, and the night had been lost to the seething multitudes of horrors. At first many, like the drunk himself, had thought that the creatures would vanish when the Burning ended. But if anything, a return to normalcy in the heavens had only strengthened the beasts. A sudden cry split the night and the old drunk froze, heart thudding like a rabbit, every muscle quivering.

A faint glow caught his eyes, the irresistible urge to investigate tugging what was left of the young man in the old drunks spirit. With a quick look around, he left the path to Sanctuary, heading up a small embankment in the direction of the glow. A song was rising, faint and tempting in his ears, beckoning him onward. His precious bottle fell with a soft thump in the grass at his feet, forgotten as he ambled onward and into the reaching branches of the trees.

The glow was like a mist, weaving among the stark trunks of the timber, the song following it like a wondrous counterpart. Mist and music, glow and song, were one and the old drunk had never heard anything sweeter, seen anything more beguiling. Suddenly the trees parted and there she was, the most unearthly woman the old drunk had ever seen. The mist wrapped around her lithe form like a garment, the glow rising off her alabaster skin. Silken silver hair hung down like a cloak upon slim shoulders and the song rose from her pale throat. She turned, lapis eyes twinkling as she smiled at him and with a delicate hand beckoned.

He took one step forward, then another, enchanted. He sighed, watery eyes locked on her form, and raised a withered hand in greeting. She beckoned him closer, her song pulsing around them...and then it was broken. The whine of a sword leaving it's sheath, a man's voice rising in a vastly different melody, a streak of ivory and leather as a form hurtled into the clearing from a different direction.

The woman let loose an inhuman scream, her form horrible as her songspelled glamor faded. Emerald blood flew as the sliver blade sliced deep, ichor spattering the trees and making them smoke. The old drunk huddled, arms above his head, until the screams, songs, and sounds of combat ended. Only then did he dare look up, gaze upon the face of his saviour. "You...but...you're dead..."

The warrior turned, brushing hair whiter than snow away from the equally pale skin of his face, scarlet eyes blazing as he swept them over the form of the old drunk. His ear-tips twitched, gathering the sounds of the night around him and when he finally spoke, fangs were easily apparent behind his colorless lips. "So I was," the warrior said musingly "so I was." And turning, the white plume of his tail sweeping through the air behind him, he began to leave.

The drunk, spurred by what must be the spectre of a legend, scrambled to his feet. "Wait! Wait! You are he aint you? Alberion the Lyricist?" There came a small nod, acknowledging the name if not the title and the old man wheezed as he pressed forward, suddenly struck by a question he had to ask. "Where are your wings?"

The figured paused and turned to look at him. There was some puzzlement in his, Alberions, scarlet gaze. "I had wings? Ear-tips twitched, pale fur catching the light of the moon and silvering. A low rumble, a chuckle, issued from Alberions chest. "Imagine that." He took another step forward, blade coming free from the sheath on his back with a whine. A sliver flash split the darkness and a serpent, hidden against the dark trunk of a tree, fell riven in two. "It's dangerous out here old man. Isn't there a safer place you should be?"

"Sanctuary," the old drunk breathed, clutching his thin clothing tighter around his warped form. "I was headed to Sanctuary."

"What is this 'Sanctuary?" Alberions tone was light, even, the music restrained but all too apparent.

"Just over that rise. A place for any and all to seek shelter, be fed and have a warm bed for the night. Even tolerate your kind they will." The drunk didn't realize how his words could be interpreted until after he'd spoken them and the blood drained from his face at Alberions next words.

"My kind? And what exactly is 'my kind'?"

Licking his lips, the old drunk did little more than breath the word. "Seared."
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This is my new world. Here no one is safe after sundown and sunrise brings with it a whole new set of secrets. Here, a dead man is yet alive but not undead and the reason why may be the key to solving the problem that plagues the land. Here, a simple song can spell the death of millions. Welcome to the world of Tenragon, home of the Lyricist.

Have I got your attention? Good...

[Serge Wolf]

Wow, first I'd like to say this was very well written. I can't wait to see more personally. The whole thing felt alive and Spooky, with the atmosphere that you provided. The only thing I had to comment on is how I'd like to see more description of The Lyricist, I get the feeling he was partially Anthropomorphic, though I am not sure.

[Lilith]

I love this new world of yours Rai... it has tinges of others intertwined, .... yet it is it's own thing!
.....

*looks around* where's the rest of it damn it!?

(And if you don't get it from that.... KEEP WRITING IT!)

[Guest]

Hey your story was great
Im sorry if I wrote in the rong thing but im new!!!!!!!!!!
:) ;)

[The White Blacksmith]

Oooooo! *comments in chat*

[DeadManWalking]

TOTALLY FREAKIN AWESOME.

Great storytelling as usual.

This really does hurt my self-esteem tho.

I have a while before i get that good.

:-(


Can't WAIT for the next installment!

[Phantomfan]

Wow.

Heh... yet another freakin awesome Rai story.

Really interesting world you've got there... A new idea, but still touched with the Rai-ness of your other stories.

Can't wait to see more!

[Kalanna Rai]

Alrighty, here's your chance to get interactive. Roll up your sleeves, put on the splatter guards, and Enjoy!
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Chapter One: Places of the Heart

He leaned forward, shoulders at an odd angle as his arms streamed fully extended behind him, long fingers wrapped around the thick hempen ropes with an iron grip. Though the wind came from behind them, filling the sails of the SwallowSong, their forward progress was enough to push his hair backwards, creating a conflicting snowstorm of the strands. He was at the very prow of the ship, rising and falling as she cut through waves of silk with their lacy foam. The clean smell of salt water sliced into his nostrils, the sweet stench of human habitation growing clearer with every wave crested.

His keen eyes spotted the coastal village of Agaunte long before the lookouts, the thin gauze tied around them blocking the harsh glare of the sun alone. Flying fish leapt through the waves around them, escorting them in like the heralds of the sea, the gulls crying raucous welcome from their position on high. He smiled, bloodless lips pulling back to reveal ivory fangs as memories, sweet memories, were stirred by the sights, smells, and familiar motion of the ship. This place...this was, had been, would always remain...home...

He remembered the cold currents off the sea pushing him in above the town. Circling the spire on the Chapel and striking the bell, letting all know that he'd come safely home again. Indeed the men of the SwallowSong had recognized him, had hailed him and waved him to their table when he had known them not. Though the younger crew had cast ill eyes upon him, dark sneers curling their lips, he'd proved able enough to win the respect of all on board. Especially one rainy night with a Quissary* had risen from the deeps and threatened the ship.

Now, with pounds of meat and barrels of the beasts' precious oil in it's hold. SwallowSong stood to make a pretty penny when she shipped out again. And Alberion had a long roll of its hide for his own use, it's teeth having already replaced the worn fangs that tipped the end of his weighted chains.

They were nearing the harbor proper now and others noticed the white figure at the prow, the armor strange and familiar. Greetings were called, arms waving as the Seared was welcomed home. Even without his wings, even carried by ship instead of wing, there was no mistaking Alberion. Agauntes' greatest son had come home again, had risen from his resting place on foreign soil to walk the cobbled streets once again. It was cause for celebration.

He smiled, returning calls as memories sparkled, diamond sharp, in the ruins of his mind. Not even death could rob a man of his home. The smile stretched wider, the wind growing sharper as sails were reefed and canvas groaned overhead, the creak of rope and wood. Soon enough they were anchored, tied to the deep-water docks, and he didn't even bother with the plank. Bidding the Captain and Mate farewell, he planted a hand on the railing and sprang over the side.

He landed easily on the wooden surface, a crowd gathering to see him. The younger children clung to their mothers skirts, wondering what made this monster-man special, why he looked so different. In truth, Agaunte was a rare place in Tenragon, a place where hatred of the Seared was weak and watery. Here, if nowhere else, Alberion had made a difference. He'd changed peoples' hearts and minds, not just their lives. He'd touched more than the surface and the village had come away richer for it. Perhaps this is why the Seared had made it one of their strongholds, the Chapel their place of residence.

The crowd parted for him, awestruck and wondering. He was dead, a few of their number had seen it with their own eyes. And yet here he was, in the flesh, his gear exactly as it always was, each weapon worn in it's usual style. All he lacked were the wings and even that was forgivable. After all, they figured, Death must have extracted his price for renewed life from the hide of the Lyricist. A fair trade?

His smile was more sedate now, his fangs hidden from the world as names and faces flashed into his mind, times gone by. Home. This was home. Nothing could take it from him, not even Death itself. His ears flicked constantly, picking up sound after sound as the snowy plume of his tail swept back and forth behind him in slight excitement. His boots echoed lightly on the cobbles as he made his way to the Chapel, the scent of others like him growing stronger and stronger in his nose. The Chapel, a bastion of salvation for his altered kind in a world that generally saw their existence as a blight.

It sat on high ground near the edge of town, looking down on the slope of the earth as the town curled down the mountainside towards the harbor and the sea. Nobody knew who had built the Chapel, certainly no human hands had work the seamless stone walls, carved the ornate stone guardians that crouched on the roof. Legend had it that if the Chapel was ever attacked, those carvings would come to life and defend it. But that was widely recognized as superstition. And it would be folly to attack it anyway...the Seared who lived within would take offense. And humanity were out-matched by the Seared.

Nobody knows exactly how the first of them were created. What mixture of sickness and the cures used to treat it produced the strange monster-men that retained their sanity, their humanity, despite the alterations on their bodies. They were taller, more muscular than men. The changes varied from Seared to Seared, but there were a few that appeared in them all. The vulpine ears that rose from their hair to catch the faintest of sounds, the wolf-like tails that gave them an advantage in balance. The short, sharp claws that decorated the tips of their fingers, the fangs that flashed in their speech and their smiles. And the pupils of their eyes, no longer round but square...seeming to hold endless quantities of time inside.

Alberion was different, his skin and hair bleached of color, so white they were virginal in their purity. His eyes the scarlet of spilled blood, the hue of the deep sunset, or the fiery heart of a ruby. Aside from that, his only color was the subtle silver shading on the tips of his ears and tail. Even his lips were a bloodless white, making the pink of his tongue and inner mouth stand out more. And he'd once had wings. One of only three Seared to claim such a feat.

Reaching his destination, he climbed the steps of the Chapel, the stone turning a pale peach in the waining light. He ran a tentative hand over the carved door, pushing it open with a light flex of his muscles. The crowd remained at the foot of the outer steps, slowly fracturing to carry the news to the farthest corner of the village and beyond. Alberion, meanwhile, strode through the place as the maze-like passage blossomed in his mind. It was like a letter written with lemon juice, visible only when the paper was exposed to flame. He found the stairs and began to climb, one hand on the wall as there was no rail left to catch him should he fall. It had never been a concern before. It was now.

It was with a sense of accomplishment he reached the top and stood in his usual perch. He stooped, gathering a long feather that had wedged itself in a corner, protected from wind and rain by the curve of the walls and bulk of the great golden bell that hung from the tip of the spire. It was one of his, gleaming alabaster with a subtle silvering at the tip.

He rubbed it wistfully before holding it up to the wind and allowing it to be carried away. Then, uncoiling the whip that hung at his left hip, he flicked his wrist and struck the bell. The iron tip ran against it, making it call out lightly, and Alberion struck it again and again. Finally, in full voice, the bell rang. And as the echoes fell across the harbor and echoed off the mountains, everyone knew he really had come home.

When he reached the ground level again, he was no longer alone. But it was not a crowd of humans that gazed upon him, but the gathered Seared of the Chapel. Their eldrich eyes flicked over him, astonishment, anger, and curiosity. Ears twitched. Tails twitched. Noses twitched. Fangs were exposed in smiles and curled lips, clawed fingers flexing. Armor creaked and weapons clanked as weight was shifted and the whole warrior community circled him, the lost one arisen and returned. Why had he come back when so many others had not?

At last one pressed forward, the image of him, the scent of him, bringing a name and a few flashes of memory. "Ulren..."

The grizzled Seared regarded Alberion with his one good eye, the other a pale and colorless orb, milky film reflecting the light. It was a wonder he had the eye at all considering how the deep scars warped that side of his place, furrowing the flesh like a plowed field. His mahogany mane was faded by time to a soft beechnut color, silver twisting through it like veins through flesh. His ebony talons twitched restlessly as his ears skewed and he scrutinized Alberion warily.

"Is it really you pup?"

Alberion looked into the piercing gaze of the one good eye that faced him, the limitless green pool that demanded the truth and all honesty. "I believe so."

"I don't!" A rangy youth, golden and black, shoved himself forward. Copper eyes blazed with blatant fury, ears flat to his skull and tail held stiff. "Make him prove himself Ulren. Make him Sing."

Murmurs of agreement flickered through the room, a few voices rising in dissent. Somewhere, deep inside, Beri knew what the unknown youth was asking was dangerous. The songs of the Lyricist were for battle, not for daily use and display. A few moments later, Ulren agreed.

"Fool Jamkar, he could bring the Chapel down around our ears! We didn't trifle with his power when he was last alive, we won't now."

The youth, Jamkar, snarled back at the leader. "But it's the only way to prove it's him Ulren. Of the Seared only Alberion had powers...make him use them."
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Alright. Your first choice...and challenge. Alberion is the only Seared with magic of any kind...and it's obviously powerful. Using it will undoubtedly prove he is who he says he is...but the consequences may outweigh the gains in this case. So what do you do? Use the powers and see what happens or appeal to the cooler heads of the community and wait out the hostilities?
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*Quissary. A type of sea serpent with a lamprey like head and several rows of long spines on their coils. One of the few 'ship-killer' serpent races, their hide is almost impervious to damage. Little is known about this deadly species due to the fact few ships survive the encounter. Prized for their oil, meat, and ivory.
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Hope you liked...and choose wisely.

[Phantomfan]

Personally, I'd really like to see what his powers consist- thus, use them!!! It really is the only way to convince everyone who he really is, unless there is another way...

But to heck with cool headedness! Let's see the powers!!!

[DeadManWalking]

You know, this reminds me of Spellsinger. From the Battle to the End. Except different.

Anyways, The best way to convince them wihout serious damage is to make a flash of blinding light.

That WOULD probably come under the category of combat, since it is useful in combat. Although if any of them dissolve....


hmmmmm...

idk.

but yeah, flash of blinding light.

[Kalanna Rai]

*looks around furtively, puts poll in place, sneaks out back*

Vote...

[DeadManWalking]

YAY FIRST VOTE HERE TOO!!!!!

[Kalanna Rai]

Votes? Any more votes out there? Tie-breaker please...

[Christalnightshade]

Quote: There was some puzzlement in his, Alberions, scarlet gaze.

Is the bold words in the right order? Isn't it ;Alberion's scarlet gaze?

How do I know, what you were supposed to mean in the sentance, it just doesn't sound right....

Why didn't I see this story before. I really like what you did in this story Rai. I'll be voting now. :D

Edit: Oops I made a three way tie.