Title: The Elonian Chronicles

Author: Timeoffire45

Rating: T (for language)

Disclaimer: See Profile.

Summary: Set three years after Canthan Chronicles, Sylvia's sister arrives in Elona to try and escape her former life. Will she be successful, or will the weight of her choices crush her and those around her? Nightfall told on paper/computer screen. Slight-to-Major AU at times. Rated T for language.

A/N: I thought it was time for something new: something to replace Hope Today for the Lost Tomorrow, which I have basically given up on. Now then, given that there are SOOO many stories about Prophecies, I thought I would do one on Nightfall. Yes, I know, I should concentrate on CC, but this is essentially just an extension of that story (Don't worry, nothing will be given away... The two stories are stand-alones just as the campaigns are)... Also, as a warning, because CC is further ahead I am going to be working more extensively on finishing it. This will merely be a story for fun... In fact, the premise of the main character's personality was for entertainment value :-)

And now, 'tkillmeforthisTimeoffire45 proudly begins:

Chapter One

Contemplations in Istan

Istan is stupid. I hate it. I hate it I hate it I hate it. I hate its the fucking guts. I hate the guts of a country, how sad is that? Or a province, whatever the hell it is. Dumb fucking province. I want it to burn. Burn with an unquenchable fire until nothing is left but a barren wasteland. Then, I want to burn that too. Keep on burning it until there's nothing left but a hole in the middle of the ocean. Not that it would be much of an improvement.

A fly buzzes loudly in my ear. Did I mention there were bugs? Well, there are bugs. Lots of bugs. Bugs the size of your grandmother. Bugs the size of three of your grandmothers or one of your aunts. Bugs the size of a house. Bugs the size of your ego. Bugs so huge that they defy the laws of human understanding. They basically own this place, running around in swarms and killing anyone not prepared. Of course, the Sunspears are supposed to be keeping them in check, but the damnable things just keep pouring out of every orifice in the ground. Pretty, huh? Not.

I swat at the fly, trying to keep it away from me. Fifteen more take its place. Just great. I wish I knew magic like Sylvia, then I could fry these annoying things out of the sky. Then again, the carcasses would probably attract at least two hundred more per. Disgusting creatures. They deserve to rot in a swamp somewhere with the skale. Did I mention I hate bugs?

It's too hot here. My robes are sticking to my skin. Perhaps I shouldn't have worn my prestige vestments, and instead gone with a typical traveling robe. With a small amount of trepidation, I look down and examine the clothes I foolishly decided to wear: typical Northern dervish robe, with long sleeves and a heavy skirt. The material is three times as thick as it needs to be to ensure that I don't freeze in the Shiverpeaks, yet has been spelled so that it can move as freely as if it were gossamer-thin. The cloth is adorned with plated of metal around the chest and pelvic region, and four family crests hang down from chains on each side of the skirt, one on each side. Each crest, a dragon curled around a lightning bolt, weighs at least five pounds and has a blade where the dragon's tail forms the bottom edge. Twenty-five pounds of cloth and easily forty pounds of metal: nice thinking, Leah. Stupid, stupid Leah.

I'm Leah, in case you didn't get that. I'm the seventh child out of eight. Nothing special, right? Really, after number five, people just stop caring. Also, after number five you'd think parents would be satisfied: apparently not. Alia, my darling baby sister, is the eighth, and the only one beyond Adam and Sylvia who gets any attention. I love the girl to bits, but sometimes I wish I really loved her into a million tiny, bite-sized, easily-buried, burnable, unobtrusive bits. Honestly, sometimes the girl doesn't know when to shut up. Spoiled brat.

Anyway, like I sad before, my name is Leah: Leah Aracantus. I'm known in my family for being the cynic. Of course, if everyone stopped being so stupid then there wouldn't be any reason for me to be cynical in the first place. As if anyone is actually going to follow that. Oh well, one can hope, can't they?

I finally lose my patience with the fly and bring the scythe in my hands up in a deadly, glittering arc. The two-feet-long, curved blade of folded steel slices the insect cleanly in half. It doesn't even have time to buzz a goodbye to its friends before it lays on the ground in two quivering masses, its legs twitching spasmodically. Tiny white puddles of what I assume are fly innards ooze into the dirt. I can feel my chocolate-brown eyes drying as the dead body indeed attracts no fewer than fifty other flies to feast on the corpse. Disgusting.

I can't believe I volunteered to come here. What was I thinking? Did I want to go insane? Honestly, I only just got off the boat and already I miss the endless squabbling at home, the constant lack of attention, the infighting. Joining the Sunspears was supposed to get me away from all of that and take me far, far away. I mean, I'm the only one in my family with respect for the Elonian artform known as the Dervish; I'm the only one who dares to worship all five gods as equals and not one as superior to all the others; I'm the only one who knows how to kill someone with a scythe in less time than you can blink. I'm the only one who doesn't hold a scythe backwards or upside-down, for that matter.

A high-pitched, whine-like sound fills my ear. I swat at it, and I fell as well as hear something make a faint squishing sound. Looking at my hand, I spot the small corpse on my fingertips surrounded by a corona of blood. You have got to be kidding me. A mosquito. Within seconds, two hundred of them are sucking my blood like the little vampires they are. More swatting doesn't seem to be helping the problem.

Did I mention that I really hate bugs? As in, if I could abolish one thing, it wouldn't be evil, it would be bugs? Well, last time I checked, mosquitoes were bugs. One of the most annoying of the lot, in fact. Especially in large numbers. Just like they're appearing now.

I really do hate Istan. I've come to the conclusion that burning it will not do: I want to burn it, turn the rivers to blood, and sow the fields with salt. Should be effective, eh? Of course, it might not be enough to satisfy me: maybe I could take the bloody, salt-ridden ashes and dump them in the ocean? Nah, that would probably piss off too many other people. It's not the people here I hate so much, it's more the place itself.

A large, ebony-skinned man sporting heavy armor, no helmet, a rectangular shield, a machete, eyes the shape and color of rotted berries, and no sense of fashion snorts loudly; it looks like he's attempting to scratch himself beneath his armor. If I'm not mistaken, and I dearly hope I am, he's trying to scratch his ass. I'm torn between laughing insanely and retching my last meal onto the dry, hard-packed dirt.

Then he picks his nose.

Opinion of Istanians is quickly declining. Exponentially. Wait, is he... Oh gods, no! Please tell me he isn't doing-

Without even so much as a grimace, he pops his trophy into his mouth.

-that... Laughing insanely is loosing lots of ground at this point. I am officially grossed out. No, seriously, the stale bread and over-salted meat they fed us on the boat is threatening to see the sunshine again.

Tearing my eyes from the disgusting example of human life I'm being forced to share oxygen with, I gaze forlornly at the boat behind me. It's a classic from the Istani Navy: long, sleek, powerful, two central masts holding a gratuitous number of sails for the size of the ship, and four bombards spaced evenly across the deck. Not something I would want to go up against. From what I've heard, the only ones who try – and usually fail, though they try nonetheless – are the Corsairs. When I first heard their name, it seemed almost ominous: the Corsairs. It held a distinctly villan-y... -esque... quality to it: one that was only fueled by the stories of their horrific exploits. That was, of course, until I learned that "corsair" was just a way to say "pirate" with an extra letter; so much for that fascination. The canvas flutters invitingly in the wind, beckoning me back onto the ship. Seems like the two of us are of the same mind: the sails and myself.

I hear a loud crunching noise coming from the general direction of nose-picker: it sounds like someone eating a beetle or a rock. I don't look; I don't want to know.

My eyes move skyward, taking in the blue dome above me. Seagulls shriek defiance, trying to find some scrap of food left unattended. In a deep, dark corner of my mind, I notice that there are more of the flying rats than usual. Normally, I'd expect to see around thirty to fifty of them; today, though, there are easily two-hundred of them circling around our little beachhead. The plethora of scavengers becomes even more evident when one of them drops a little present on the head of my afro-ed friend; he doesn't jump, or even seem to notice for that matter. Instead, he goes back to scratching his ass. Just... ew.

Putting my revulsion towards men on hold, I examine the skies again. The number of gulls is bothering me, though I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why. There's something I remember hearing about them, but it was so long ago –

"Ravens of the ocean."

The voice comes from somewhere perhaps three inches behind my left ear. It's soft and inviting, but it's cold: oh, so cold. Cold in a way that sends shivers up and down my spine as if a ball of ice was dropped down my robes, cold in a way that conveys unfeeling, hard logic. I can't help it: before I can regain full control of my faculties, a terrified scream rips itself out between my lips and into the muggy air.

I whirl around in a circle to face my assailant, my single braid of hair whipping in a furious arc. In the same instant, my hands clasp the handle of my scythe from my back and bring the blade to rest against the throat of the young recruit who had, until a moment ago, been inconspicuously standing just behind me. Her face registers no shock as steel presses in on her trachea. A chill emanates from her slate-grey eyes that pierces me as if I've been run through. Her pale, fluorescent skin casts an almost otherworldly glow around her in the harsh sunlight, a glow that is absorbed by her jet-black hair. Her eyes have a feline, almost predatory, slant to them.

"Sailors call them 'ravens of the ocean,'" she continues, holding my panicked gaze and sounding as if death by throat-slitting is something she faces every day, "because they tend to gather just before a battle on or near the water. They feast on the corpses of those left behind for an easy meal. It's quite brilliant, really: they wait for some lowly, earth-bound creature to do the dirty work for them, then reap the benefits.

By the way, my name is Neriana. Neriana Darktide."

I blink. I blink again. Here is a girl whom I am threatening with possible death, and she's prattling on about seagulls. Then, quite abruptly, she introduces herself. Perhaps she's insane? Perhaps I'm going insane? Or maybe, just maybe, the whole world has gone insane? No way to tell, really.

"Um..." words fail me briefly, "I... I... Uh..." Gods above, I sound like an idiot. "Erm, I'm Leah... Aracantus."

"Ah, an Aracantus?" she asks, her eyes lighting up, her tone thawing slightly "It's a pleasure to finally meet one of you, especially after the unfortunate happenings with your parents. How many of you are there now? Eight, I believe? I'm surprised I haven't met one of your brothers or sisters before."

This just too... I don't even know what to call it. It's finally beginning to register in my mind: I'm having a civil conversation with me pressing the blade of a scythe against the other person's throat. It's just too... too... too surreal. I can feel a pressure rising in my chest, threatening to shake my ribcage apart in its insistence. It builds and builds and builds, until I think I can bear it no longer. Finally, the dam breaks.

It starts as just a giggle: small, simple, and almost insane-sounding. Next thing I know, I'm chuckling like a moron. Then, without warning, I begin laughing in a high-pitched, unnatural, hyena-like tone. My laugh finally transmutes into full-blown gales and howling. If anyone is looking on, they probably think I'm having some kind of nervous breakdown or that I'm in grotesque amounts of pain. Nobody, and I mean nobody, would think that I'm literally laughing my ass off.

"You can move your weapon at any time, if you like," Neriana said smoothly, her face still locked in an emotionless mask with a quirked, humorless grin. I would expect someone who is staring down the wrong end of a scythe to be slightly nervous, but her exterior was as calm and cool as a few moments ago.

I'm still falling out, my knees about to buckle from laughing so hard. At some point, her words break through my hilarity and I drop my scythe in a cloud of dust. Gods above, I'm acting like such a freak. I need to get a grip: Neriana, the only person whom I've met who seems to not be mentally inept, must think I'm completely bonkers by now.

"No, I don't," she says calmly, placing a hand on my shoulder, "you're the most sane person I've met here so far. Koss over there," here she gestures vaguely in the direction of gold-digger, "is just a gibbering idiot."

Suddenly, I don't hate Istan quite as much as I did five minutes ago.

=_=_ANDSOITBEGINSMWAHAHAHA_=_=

Neriana and I have spent the last two hours talking. Mostly, we've both been commiserating about how much we miss home already. She claims to have three brothers, all older than she is, all of them choosing to become devout monks: healers and protectors of the sick and dying. As she talks about them, fierce shivers went up and down my spine despite the hot, sticky air.

"You would not believe what I have to deal with, being the only necromancer child. I'm, essentially, the antithesis of everything my brothers stand for, and I get a lot of trouble for it. One time, as a prank, my brothers all got a bunch of raw meat and dumped it in my bed. I was so furious at them that I actually pieced it back together, animated it, and set it after them. The best part? I got to take the blame for the whole incident. Don't get me wrong, I love my brothers to death, but sometimes they can be right pains in the ass.

"As for my family in the past," she continues, "we were never really a powerful or truly influential guild. Our method of gaining power has always been to ally ourselves with the more prominent guilds of the time, forming an alliance of sorts. In around 900 AE, we committed what few resources and troops we had at our disposal in aiding the Luxons when the Kurzick-Luxon conflict began. Instead of garnering power, though, we instead acquired a steady flow of Jadeite. Despite the semi-precious value of the stone, it was soon determined that the alliance was not truly beneficial for the guild, and the scope of our aid was drastically cut. To this day, we still receive small shipments of Jadeite in return for a few troops and what little gold we can spare. After that, we tried to align ourselves with the Ascalon's Chosen guild, but they refused us. Now I'm here, an offering to the Sunspears, in hopes that I can help my guild as well as my family."

A gentle prodding sensation starts somewhere just above the base of my neck. Something is niggling at the back of my mind, trying to force its way out. It's something that's been bothering me, something that I've forgotten yet shouldn't have. Neriana pauses mid-sentence, seeming to have noticed my pensive expression.

"You're wondering how I was able to answer your questions before you even voiced them, aren't you?" she asks in her cool, calming voice.

"And how you did it just now." I confirm with her.

"I would have thought it would be obvious: I'm a telepath." Here she pauses, looking at me as if to gauge my reaction. I'm mildly surprised, but then again, I've heard of weirder things in my life. I nod slightly, and she continues with more confidence to her tone.

"Believe it or not, mental abilities in my family are quite common. My father, who's an elementalist, is pyrokinetic—and I swear that's not as redundant as it sounds: it means he can conjure fire even when he's exhausted and worn out simply by willing it. Anyway, my eldest brother, Dorian, is empathic: he's a monk who specializes in healing prayers. Finally, my youngest brother, Thommis, is clairvoiant, and he uses it to help with his protection prayers: he sees the damage and stops it before it happens."

"Wow... That's just... Wow," I sound really intelligent, don't I?

"Don't worry about it: I've had people run screaming for the hills when they find out. Sounding mildly stunned isn't an issue. And, no, I don't do it on purpose," her face takes on a slightly hard look as she reads my mind yet again, "it's more like background noise than anything else. In fact, it's something of a curse sometimes. You would not believe how annoying it is to hear the thoughts of people like 'gold-digger' over there, as you so eloquently called him not too long ago. Mostly, it's just grunts and internal complaining about how long he has to wait until his next meal."

"And what about you?" she asks, "Anything 'special' about you?"

"Not really. I'm just your average 17-year old girl. My family is... well, let's just say they're interesting. Most people hear my last name and assume I'm some sort of stuck-up bitch. Well, they're half-wrong: I'm not stuck-up."

Neriana giggles slightly, her frozen features thawing further so that a smile can crack through.

"Well, good. Perhaps if the two of us stick together, we can keep each other sane. Then maybe we'll have a halfway decent chance to survive this pimple of an island."

Somehow, this feels like the start of something wonderful, terrifying, and exciting all at once. I can't help the smile that forms on my lips in return.

=_=_ENDCHAPTERONE_=_=