A/N: Still half term so updates are sped up.

evildictionaryninja: Thanks for sticking with me and being positive about this story.


Calasier Avamela Prologue

Noalith - Chapter 2: Escape

As long as he could remember, he had always hated being here. He hated those above and those around him. He hated the 'nurse' with her harsh words and harsh thoughts, She is not fit to be a carer. The Warlord that spawned me must have great hatred for us if he has given us that. He is no father.

He knew full well who his parents were. He had seen it in the thoughts of the 'nurse' what the two generals who brought him here told her. He was the result of a sexual assault by his father on an elf that was thrown to the Finned Crocodiles. He had never seen those generals again but he was glad of it. In his heart, he felt that he loathed them more than his cruel father.

That cruel father had not shown his face either, He abandons his bastard children in the lowest deck, the first to drown if there were a leek. He did not want to see him or those cruel thoughts he was bound to have. He would see them with ease and even thinking about what disgusting things lay there made him sick. His gift of the Rinatula (again, he had seen it in the 'nurse''s mind) had made him a tool, the reason why he was not killed, How many more were there? He wondered, sometimes, How many more were thrown to the Finned Crocodiles before their time had begun?

He was not always kept in the dark, wooden cell. He was sometimes pulled out, shoved into a cage and brought up to see into the mind of some captive they had brought to the hulk. That was all he was: an eye for the Rhunyle Sea Drow army. He had known this since he looked at the generals who brought him up. They were not Nestriv and Renewl, who were the highest soldiers, but one look into their minds told him everything he needed to know. Therefore, because he loathed them so, he had not told the truth about what he saw once. The fact that they unswervingly believed him was almost laughable.

Others in cells around him had gifts too: the power to see the present, future and past, the power to control movement and, in his case, the power to read minds. The healed-over stump where a right hand had once been was the proof of the Warlord's cruelty, his contempt for the lives even he created. His very existence was proof of that.

Here he was, overgrown dark long hair his only clothing (he would cut it at the first opportunity since he had heard the Warlord had long hair) and pale eyes staring (he knew his appearance from looking in the perceived image of those he saw). But he did not intend to stay. His dearest ambition was to use his abilities for himself and the memories of green lands he saw in prisioners' minds only fuelled them.

Now, at last, he felt he could manage it. A hundred years had passed since he had been locked away here and a hundred years had not been wasted. Every day, he had used his nails to carve a small notch in the wood above him. The 'nurse' never cared to check the cells so she was oblivious to the ever-increasing hole above her. That wasn't all. He did not know how long he would be on the run so he had trained himself thoroughly for it. He managed to train his body to not need food for months, to find the cold wood comfortable at his back, to not need sleep for weeks. He was sure that he was trained for survival.

At last, the light from the floor filtered through the gap and, after straining his extremely perceptive ears, he found that no one was above him. No one was moving anyway. He would have to take a gamble. Luck would be his only possible weapon and even then, not one that would give unswerving loyalty to him. If the 'nurse' came in his cell to bring him food, she would most certainly notice the hole.

So, he made a decision. Today was the day. It was all or nothing. He punched through the rest of the thinned wood and pulled his skeletal-thin body through (which became very useful when squeezing through it). His senses were correct; no one was around. He found himself in a dimly-lit pantry which he recognised from the 'nurse''s memory (and from the scraps on the tables) as the place where the prisoners' food was kept.

Acting on pure instrint, he grabbed a heavy chopping board and placed it over the hole. It would not do for people to realise he was gone too quickly. Luck prevailed for him. The light was so dim that one would never notice the board there, that was a perfect match of the wood floor. Something glimmering caught his attention but it was not a guard's sword. It was a sharp butcher knife. Again, without thinking it through, he picked it up and made for the door.

Luck stayed with him as he mounted four floors. He had near misses and always managed to hide in empty rooms before the Drows came within sight of him. His heart was fluttering as it had never done before. It throbbed within his chest, interferring with his hearing. Luckily, full Drows seemed not as perceptive as he. He was nervous, yes, but he would not back away now. He was daring but not overconfident. He knew luck would not stay with him for long periods of time and so, did not test it.

On the fifth floor up, he spotted something. Something he was sure would guarentee his escape. It was a small boat covered with oilskin coverings, probably meant from under-cover operations. It was supported by a small cart and stood below a trapdoor on the ceiling. He was about to go and investigate when a Drow came through a door on the other side of the room. Ducking behind a pile of crates, he glared at the Drow, who was piling supplies on the boat.

His name was Noalith and he was a thousand-year-old spy who would sail to Lindaria as a trusted politician and gather information of the actions of the Elves. He would be expected back in a year or two. Another spur-of-the-moment plan formed in his head. Raising the knife, he waited until Noalith had his back to him and crept swiftly across the wooden floor. Just as the Drow was putting the last of his bags into the boat, he struck.

The spy fell to the floor, his thoughts extinguishing instantly. A simple cut to the throat had been enough. The white blood spurted over his hands and onto the floor. He was shocked even with himself. He never thought he could kill someone this easily. But now was not the time to contemplate it. Hurriedly, he piled the body onto the boat (he would throw it overboard once far enough from the ship) and climbed in himself. Luck appeared to be on his side. Surely it could not last.

In the murky-smelling boat, there were rations enough to allow an ordinary Drow to last two months. He would last without them for longer than that. The two oars lay ready at the sides. The right one, he noticed, had a wrist-sized hole in the handle, perfect to put a handless arm through. Just as he had pulled the oilskin canvas around the boat, there was a call from above and, with a few dangerous rocks, the boat rose.

He remained stock-still as the boat ascended. If but one flap was lifted...He sat the dead Drow into a slumped sitting position and curled under the gunwale. His heart fluttered with nerves...and elation. Now, in the first shot, he was finally close to achieving his lifelong goal. He struggled to keep his breathing even and waited, keeping as still as he could.

At last, it stopped rising and now, surrounded with more shouts, it began to move forward. But only a small way. Now, it was being lowered. He felt like his insides had been left in the bay. He put both hands over his mouth to stifle any involuntary noise. Presently, the little boat touched the water and there was the sound of ropes being taken away, Alright. Now for the real escape.

He pushed his wrist through the hole, gripped the left oar and began to row.


He had not risked throwing the body overboard yet and it was beginning to smell. He considered wrapping it in some of the canvas and throwing it overboard. He somehow felt that the spy at least deserved some dignity in death. He did not know how long it had been since he had taken off. Had they realised he was gone yet? Had they sent out boats to look for him? Or had they not noticed? He felt more strongly toward the latter. The food was untouched and his stomach made no noise of desire of it. His ears were constantly alert to hear any possible threat over the lapping of water (so strange to hear with his own ears).

When he could stand the smell no longer (and when it occured to him that it might be hiding the scent of something unwelcome), he stood and began to dismantle the awning above him. He busied himself with wrapping the body in the burning hot cloth when a sudden warmth crept over his skin through his hair. He whipped around but saw only clear bright sky, a dazzling sun and sparkling blue ocean.

The oilskin slipped through his fingers as he stared around him. Nothing - nothing - he could have seen in a captive's mind would have prepared him for this. The full extent of freedom, laid out before him like a map, like a wildly-lifelike portrait. There was no dark shape on the limitless horizon to darken it. The sea cast light upon his dark hair and he was powerless to stop it. He was powerless to stop the tide gently carrying his tiny vessel across the water.

He was both astonished and frightened by it. It was the first time he had felt so small in his life. What was he but a malnourished half-Drow standing naked in a small wooden boat in this vast world? He could read the minds of Drows yet he could not read the sky, the tides or the sun. In fact, the sun, as though embarrassed and sensitive, would not let him look upon it for long and it burned his eyes.

The boat swayed dangerously as he sank to his knees. Such emotion as he had never felt before coursed through him, too fast and frenzied to rein any control over. He had seen the outside world in others' minds but had never expected it to be so wonderous and overpowering. It was nothing like he had expected. The others' interpretations had given him a false impression of it all. Everything was different now. The rank, stuffy air in the hulk was now the fresh sea air. The dim torches that gave light was replaced was the seemingly-everlasting sun.

A slight, pushing feeling pressed against his skin and hair; making him gave the smallest of starts. Then, he realised with a gasp that he was feeling the wind for the first time in his life. The strange life in the air that he had seen in the minds of captives. That, too, made him feel vulnerable. He wondered what a mother's embrace must feel like. It must be like this: gentle and unintruding but unstoppable.

These thoughts inspired delight and sadness at the same time. His emotions clashed spectacularly in those few moments. His body seemed beyond his control now. Something hot was trickling down his face. Raising his hand, he realised that he was crying. He could remember the last time he had cried. He had not cried when the 'nurse' and generals had beaten him or when he saw what he truly was in the 'nurse''s mind. Yet, now, bright tears were falling from his face to get lost in his hair.

Without thinking, he pushed back his long sheets of hair to bare his naked body to the air. The air responded with its loving wind and he felt as though there was no better feeling in the world.


A/N: Aw, a nice pretty ending. Next: Noalith meets Hari!