Warmth…warmth pervaded her being at last. The years had changed Chantelle much. The strain of earlier sicknesses no longer showed itself. She had become a young woman, revealed in her long raven tresses, glowing ebony eyes, and nubile figure. Her lips were perfectly shaped, glistening soft and sweet. Shin shone a rare shade of bronze, smooth and unblemished. Silky, clinging garments hugged her tanned, graceful body. She had a fragile face that managed to be innocent and alluring at the same time, and her hands were small and delicate. But she was not frail, by any means. Not anymore. Arcanna had instructed her well in the arts of sorcery. Chantelle learned the basic spells with ease, and now turned to mastering the more challenging aspects of the Art.
She recalled Arcanna's parting advice as she made her way into the arid deserts of Aranoch. "Magic is not a tool for any to flaunt. The necromancers of the Eastern jungles profess to battle the forces of evil, but they themselves practice dark magicks and demonic sorceries. They are but one step removed from those they claim to fight. It is thus that only we of the Zann Esu pursue true magic, the only pure sorceries that stem from the primal forces of nature itself. When you go forth into the world to do battle against the foul creatures of the underworld that have invaded our realm, remember this truth. Remember that the uninitiated and those who do not follow the ways of pure magic are a fickle and barbaric lot. Do not journey with them at all; avoid contact if possible. A sorceress needs no others. Use the Light." This last was an enigma; Chantelle decided to figure it out later.
The sun's rays bore down on the desolate tract, beating it mercilessly with thoughts of revenge for some long-forgotten wrong. Unable to surrender, individual grains of sand quivered under the relentless assault. Heat wrapped around the young girl, and she felt content despite the overbearing incalescence. Compared to the freezing temperatures of her childhood, this warmth was a welcome pleasure.
As Chantelle walked across the sea of endless rock and sand that made up the Rocky Wastes, she noticed an abnormal number of vulture demons. Ugly, gray scavenger birds swooped across the sky, shrieking in horrible voices that resembled those of the witches of old. Their wicked, hooked claws only added to the image, though they were almost hidden by the thatch of sharp, patched feathers. The mutated avian creatures seemed to be congregating above an old waypoint, one of the ancient pathways constructed by the Vizjeri magi. The young sorceress realized they were waiting…but for what?
Then, a shout rose above the din of the squawking birds, a shout full of rage and pain and fury. A barbarian! The deep-throated war cry had to come from one of those prodigious savage warriors, so immersed within the legendry of Sanctuary. Curious, Chantelle slid toward the sound for a closer look. She had read about them, of course, but had never seen one up close. The sorceress watched from relative safety by a dried husk of a cactus, one of the only types of vegetation hardy enough to survive in the barren desert.
A sturdy, barrel-chested man stood alone, fighting off enormous beetles…scarab demons. The barbarian's bronzed face was scarred with swirling blue tattoos dedicated to honor and combat, two concepts held mostly highly by Bul-Kathos, the legendary barbarian king. His mouth was locked in a feral grin as he wielded two massive swords with graceful ease. The swirling swords were identical, with sleek contours and an extra long reach. Stained yellow with his enemies' blood, they nevertheless carried the red tint of his own bleeding wounds as well.
The scarabs surrounded him completely now, swiping repeatedly with barbed, scythe-like arms. It was easy to see that the lone man would soon fall. Only his superior combat skills and fighting experience kept the attackers at bay. Chantelle regarded his enthusiasm with melee fighting with more than a little disgust, but she couldn't bear to watch the heroic warrior die like this.
Retreating to the safety of her mind, the magic-user recalled her youth and the deadly snowstorms. Having never been exposed to such elements, the desert scarabs would surely retreat. Chantelle murmured quiet words. Her fingers traced arcane symbols in the air, giving the impression of a painting artist. Intense cold flooded her body, and her dark eyes faded to crystal white. The coldness left her, channeling into the sky. She smiled with elation even as exhaustion swiftly took her. This exhaustion indicated the successful casting of the spell, taxing the spiritual energy of the mage to shape the magic and give it form and substance. This particular incantation had taken many long years to learn, but it was hers now… Feeling peculiarly lethargic, she sat next to the tree, wordlessly watching the effects of her magic.
Rain fell from the clear sky, gradually hardening to pricks of ice, then into blocks of hail. The wind picked up speed, whipping the hot sands with a blinding force. A few vultures, still circling their prey, were quickly struck down from midair, crumpling into disparate heaps on the hard ground. The rest departed with all possible speed, hoping to find an easier meal. The unnaturally large insects likewise beat a hasty retreat when the freezing spikes impaled their rigid shells.
Chantelle suddenly realized that the man, clad in nothing but a tattered brown animal skin, would fall to the blizzard's effects just as the scarabs had. She tried frantically to think of a spell to counteract the swirl of blinding ice and snow, or at least partially shield him, but knew none. At that moment, however, the barbarian gathered the last of his strength and made a tremendous leap, propelling himself out of the snowstorm's range. The big man collapsed at her feet, finally submitting to fatigue.
He did not rise. He did not breathe either. Alarmed, Chantelle kneeled beside him, pressing her soft hands against his hard, muscular chest to check for any signs of a heartbeat. There was none. Had he suffered a mortal blow during the battle? Or during his escape from the blizzard? Her blizzard? She quickly reached into a side pouch for a healing potion, hoping it would be enough. The magic-user tenderly cradled the barbarian's head in her lap as she trickled the reddish liquid down his throat. Instantly she could see color returning to his ashen cheeks. Cuts and slashes closed up, and the deep wounds coagulated. The sorceress breathed a sigh of relief.
The barbarian opened his startling deep blue eyes. In the next second, he was on his feet, brandishing his twin swords with a snarl. Chantelle eyed the scarred blades that still dripped with yellow scarab blood. For the first time, the girl noticed just how much he dwarfed her, his swift and graceful movements belying his massive girth. His strong, disfigured face was not at all unattractive, either. Sweat covered his body, plastering a thin layer of sand to his back and arms.
The sorceress prepared a defensive spell to repel the man she'd saved. The warrior seemed ready to attack, but evidently remembered the earlier ice storm. Eyes narrowed, he studied her intently before asking in a surprisingly compassionate voice, "Who are you?"
Chantelle considered Arcanna's tutelage and her constant warnings against outsiders, "Approach with caution those who do not follow our ways. Some are honest, but most are untrustworthy. They may help you when it benefits them, but they can leave you on your own just as easily. It is better to rely on yourself and your own skill." She should heed her mentor's advice. But how could she ignore the man's soulful eyes, gazing at her with such serious intensity?
"My name is Chantelle," she told him shyly. The Zann Esu rarely saw men. Those they did see came from the male Eastern mage clans, always swallowed in layers of voluminous cloth, and just as covered with a repressive formality that discouraged intimacy. The barbarian's lack of clothing both appalled and fascinated her. Was he cold? Had he no shame, no decency? Why was he baring himself like this?
The barbarian suddenly grinned. "Well, Chantelle, thank you for saving my life back there. It was good you came along when you did, or I'd be done in by those scarabs. My name's Somme Tiras by the way, but you can just call me Somme or Tiras."
The sorceress couldn't help but smile at the man's amiable manner. His voice had a soothing quality to it. It was definitely pleasant. "Tiras it is then."
"So where did you learn that fancy magic? Where are you from?"
"Somewhere in the east jungles. It's a small village really."
"Well, I come from a small village too. More comfortable that way. What brought you over here? I'm sure it wasn't the nice view." Tiras waved a hand, encompassing the heaps of crumpled, stinking feathers, putrid innards leaking out of hard carapaces, and blood-soaked sand. Chantelle eyed the mess dubiously and laughed.
But now that she examined her surroundings, the place did seem more sinister. The sun still burned brightly, but now it was a terrible sort of warmth, like the flush of a feverish victim. The desert sands drank in blood greedily, indiscriminate against human, insect, or vulture. Red and yellow and black blood mixed together to create a disgusting brown solution. A large swarm of insect buzzed and hovered over this earthly nectar and the rest of the remains, exhilarated by the early feast. Eyes, terrible flashing eyes, watched the two across the desert. Her thoughtful detachment converted into attentive alertness as the possibility of a second attack that could be potentially lethal became evident.
The warrior patted her soft shoulders awkwardly. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
"I…" Her word was lost and scattered by the sudden rush of a hot wind. That was just as well; her task was supposed to remain a secret anyway.
Tiras' expression conspicuously darkened. "I… came here to earn money." Chantelle almost laughed, so serious the expression on his handsome face, but was thankful that she had restrained herself as he continued.
Tiras pensively resumed, not even noticing her inappropriate outburst in his melancholic mindset. "My family's not doing well back home. Our village's source of food, our family farms, was suddenly beset by continued crop failures. Not only that, but a series of droughts have plagued us as well. Even the plants still alive cannot be eaten. They've turned poisonous; even a small bite will turn you delusional and half-mad. My own sister, Hanna, hid away and ate a bowl of grain because she was starving. Days later, we found her frenetically attacking the dogs with a shovel. By the same time next time, she had died… I've been away for some time now. I hear my family's going to try to move."
"I'm sorry."
Tiras grimaced as he snapped back to the present. As if embarrassed for revealing so much, he quickly said, "That's okay. I don't even know why I'm telling you all this. It's my problem. Hey it's gonna get dangerous around here pretty soon, with the desert scavengers and all. Some of them are pretty big, nasty creatures. Why don't you head back to Lut Gholein with me? I'll show you around the city."
Chantelle hesitated. It would be a definite breach of her teacher's warnings, but what harm could there be? The man seemed honorable enough. He appeared to be familiar with the port city, and she needed a guide. Another guide might not be trustworthy, or charge exaggerated prices, whereas Tiras promised to be both interesting and capable. Besides, it would do benefit her to learn more about the desert cultures if she was to complete her appointed quest. She nodded once. "Okay."
She recalled Arcanna's parting advice as she made her way into the arid deserts of Aranoch. "Magic is not a tool for any to flaunt. The necromancers of the Eastern jungles profess to battle the forces of evil, but they themselves practice dark magicks and demonic sorceries. They are but one step removed from those they claim to fight. It is thus that only we of the Zann Esu pursue true magic, the only pure sorceries that stem from the primal forces of nature itself. When you go forth into the world to do battle against the foul creatures of the underworld that have invaded our realm, remember this truth. Remember that the uninitiated and those who do not follow the ways of pure magic are a fickle and barbaric lot. Do not journey with them at all; avoid contact if possible. A sorceress needs no others. Use the Light." This last was an enigma; Chantelle decided to figure it out later.
The sun's rays bore down on the desolate tract, beating it mercilessly with thoughts of revenge for some long-forgotten wrong. Unable to surrender, individual grains of sand quivered under the relentless assault. Heat wrapped around the young girl, and she felt content despite the overbearing incalescence. Compared to the freezing temperatures of her childhood, this warmth was a welcome pleasure.
As Chantelle walked across the sea of endless rock and sand that made up the Rocky Wastes, she noticed an abnormal number of vulture demons. Ugly, gray scavenger birds swooped across the sky, shrieking in horrible voices that resembled those of the witches of old. Their wicked, hooked claws only added to the image, though they were almost hidden by the thatch of sharp, patched feathers. The mutated avian creatures seemed to be congregating above an old waypoint, one of the ancient pathways constructed by the Vizjeri magi. The young sorceress realized they were waiting…but for what?
Then, a shout rose above the din of the squawking birds, a shout full of rage and pain and fury. A barbarian! The deep-throated war cry had to come from one of those prodigious savage warriors, so immersed within the legendry of Sanctuary. Curious, Chantelle slid toward the sound for a closer look. She had read about them, of course, but had never seen one up close. The sorceress watched from relative safety by a dried husk of a cactus, one of the only types of vegetation hardy enough to survive in the barren desert.
A sturdy, barrel-chested man stood alone, fighting off enormous beetles…scarab demons. The barbarian's bronzed face was scarred with swirling blue tattoos dedicated to honor and combat, two concepts held mostly highly by Bul-Kathos, the legendary barbarian king. His mouth was locked in a feral grin as he wielded two massive swords with graceful ease. The swirling swords were identical, with sleek contours and an extra long reach. Stained yellow with his enemies' blood, they nevertheless carried the red tint of his own bleeding wounds as well.
The scarabs surrounded him completely now, swiping repeatedly with barbed, scythe-like arms. It was easy to see that the lone man would soon fall. Only his superior combat skills and fighting experience kept the attackers at bay. Chantelle regarded his enthusiasm with melee fighting with more than a little disgust, but she couldn't bear to watch the heroic warrior die like this.
Retreating to the safety of her mind, the magic-user recalled her youth and the deadly snowstorms. Having never been exposed to such elements, the desert scarabs would surely retreat. Chantelle murmured quiet words. Her fingers traced arcane symbols in the air, giving the impression of a painting artist. Intense cold flooded her body, and her dark eyes faded to crystal white. The coldness left her, channeling into the sky. She smiled with elation even as exhaustion swiftly took her. This exhaustion indicated the successful casting of the spell, taxing the spiritual energy of the mage to shape the magic and give it form and substance. This particular incantation had taken many long years to learn, but it was hers now… Feeling peculiarly lethargic, she sat next to the tree, wordlessly watching the effects of her magic.
Rain fell from the clear sky, gradually hardening to pricks of ice, then into blocks of hail. The wind picked up speed, whipping the hot sands with a blinding force. A few vultures, still circling their prey, were quickly struck down from midair, crumpling into disparate heaps on the hard ground. The rest departed with all possible speed, hoping to find an easier meal. The unnaturally large insects likewise beat a hasty retreat when the freezing spikes impaled their rigid shells.
Chantelle suddenly realized that the man, clad in nothing but a tattered brown animal skin, would fall to the blizzard's effects just as the scarabs had. She tried frantically to think of a spell to counteract the swirl of blinding ice and snow, or at least partially shield him, but knew none. At that moment, however, the barbarian gathered the last of his strength and made a tremendous leap, propelling himself out of the snowstorm's range. The big man collapsed at her feet, finally submitting to fatigue.
He did not rise. He did not breathe either. Alarmed, Chantelle kneeled beside him, pressing her soft hands against his hard, muscular chest to check for any signs of a heartbeat. There was none. Had he suffered a mortal blow during the battle? Or during his escape from the blizzard? Her blizzard? She quickly reached into a side pouch for a healing potion, hoping it would be enough. The magic-user tenderly cradled the barbarian's head in her lap as she trickled the reddish liquid down his throat. Instantly she could see color returning to his ashen cheeks. Cuts and slashes closed up, and the deep wounds coagulated. The sorceress breathed a sigh of relief.
The barbarian opened his startling deep blue eyes. In the next second, he was on his feet, brandishing his twin swords with a snarl. Chantelle eyed the scarred blades that still dripped with yellow scarab blood. For the first time, the girl noticed just how much he dwarfed her, his swift and graceful movements belying his massive girth. His strong, disfigured face was not at all unattractive, either. Sweat covered his body, plastering a thin layer of sand to his back and arms.
The sorceress prepared a defensive spell to repel the man she'd saved. The warrior seemed ready to attack, but evidently remembered the earlier ice storm. Eyes narrowed, he studied her intently before asking in a surprisingly compassionate voice, "Who are you?"
Chantelle considered Arcanna's tutelage and her constant warnings against outsiders, "Approach with caution those who do not follow our ways. Some are honest, but most are untrustworthy. They may help you when it benefits them, but they can leave you on your own just as easily. It is better to rely on yourself and your own skill." She should heed her mentor's advice. But how could she ignore the man's soulful eyes, gazing at her with such serious intensity?
"My name is Chantelle," she told him shyly. The Zann Esu rarely saw men. Those they did see came from the male Eastern mage clans, always swallowed in layers of voluminous cloth, and just as covered with a repressive formality that discouraged intimacy. The barbarian's lack of clothing both appalled and fascinated her. Was he cold? Had he no shame, no decency? Why was he baring himself like this?
The barbarian suddenly grinned. "Well, Chantelle, thank you for saving my life back there. It was good you came along when you did, or I'd be done in by those scarabs. My name's Somme Tiras by the way, but you can just call me Somme or Tiras."
The sorceress couldn't help but smile at the man's amiable manner. His voice had a soothing quality to it. It was definitely pleasant. "Tiras it is then."
"So where did you learn that fancy magic? Where are you from?"
"Somewhere in the east jungles. It's a small village really."
"Well, I come from a small village too. More comfortable that way. What brought you over here? I'm sure it wasn't the nice view." Tiras waved a hand, encompassing the heaps of crumpled, stinking feathers, putrid innards leaking out of hard carapaces, and blood-soaked sand. Chantelle eyed the mess dubiously and laughed.
But now that she examined her surroundings, the place did seem more sinister. The sun still burned brightly, but now it was a terrible sort of warmth, like the flush of a feverish victim. The desert sands drank in blood greedily, indiscriminate against human, insect, or vulture. Red and yellow and black blood mixed together to create a disgusting brown solution. A large swarm of insect buzzed and hovered over this earthly nectar and the rest of the remains, exhilarated by the early feast. Eyes, terrible flashing eyes, watched the two across the desert. Her thoughtful detachment converted into attentive alertness as the possibility of a second attack that could be potentially lethal became evident.
The warrior patted her soft shoulders awkwardly. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
"I…" Her word was lost and scattered by the sudden rush of a hot wind. That was just as well; her task was supposed to remain a secret anyway.
Tiras' expression conspicuously darkened. "I… came here to earn money." Chantelle almost laughed, so serious the expression on his handsome face, but was thankful that she had restrained herself as he continued.
Tiras pensively resumed, not even noticing her inappropriate outburst in his melancholic mindset. "My family's not doing well back home. Our village's source of food, our family farms, was suddenly beset by continued crop failures. Not only that, but a series of droughts have plagued us as well. Even the plants still alive cannot be eaten. They've turned poisonous; even a small bite will turn you delusional and half-mad. My own sister, Hanna, hid away and ate a bowl of grain because she was starving. Days later, we found her frenetically attacking the dogs with a shovel. By the same time next time, she had died… I've been away for some time now. I hear my family's going to try to move."
"I'm sorry."
Tiras grimaced as he snapped back to the present. As if embarrassed for revealing so much, he quickly said, "That's okay. I don't even know why I'm telling you all this. It's my problem. Hey it's gonna get dangerous around here pretty soon, with the desert scavengers and all. Some of them are pretty big, nasty creatures. Why don't you head back to Lut Gholein with me? I'll show you around the city."
Chantelle hesitated. It would be a definite breach of her teacher's warnings, but what harm could there be? The man seemed honorable enough. He appeared to be familiar with the port city, and she needed a guide. Another guide might not be trustworthy, or charge exaggerated prices, whereas Tiras promised to be both interesting and capable. Besides, it would do benefit her to learn more about the desert cultures if she was to complete her appointed quest. She nodded once. "Okay."