The Scholar's Tale (Original Fantasy)

Book I, Chapter 9

"For the sake of whatever god you follow, do not walk with heroes. They draw disasters to them like a corpse draws flies, and you better pray you don't get saddled with a cheerful one. Their friends always die so they can 'build character'. I don't know how I'm still alive..."-Excerpt from A mentor's memoirs;

The Swordsaint...

I knew the stories, of course. You cannot adventure for centuries without the people of Midworld knowing you, or at least of you.

I studied the faded wounds on her face. How many duels had she fought to be marked like this, despite her prowess? She could only be harmed by blades, as projectiles and spells shattered against her, and other weapons were useless.

I had always imagined she would look...untouched.

'It's an honour to host a living legend such as yourself, milady,' Mharra spoke first, of course. I could tell he wanted to befriend her quickly, so he could stop using honorifics. 'Will your wife be joining us?'

The Swordsaint shook her head, a wistful smile on her face. 'We are not traveling together at the moment. She is pursuing the Chaos Company, to settle old scores.'

Mharra nodded carefully. 'If there is anyone who could...'

The Swordsaint snorted in an unladylike manner. 'At least she left a note this time. She used to go missing for months without me hearing of her. Bloody...' She closed her yes, sighed briefly, then smiled again. 'But I shouldn't bore you with my home life. Do we have permission to come aboard? I think a change of scenery would do everyone some good... and, if you don't mind me saying, I think you would also like to see some new faces, no?'

Three floated forward at that, chest puffed out. 'We are traveling showmen, ma'am! We see new people on every island, and on every ship that stops for us!'

'Oh? Then perhaps we should leave, so that you can have some time to yourselves...' the Swordsaint said slyly. Three hissed at that, one of his selves blurring forward to clasp his hands. The other two crowded around her.

'Please don't. I'm this close to throwing them three off the steamer, just to break the routine,' Three mock-whispered. We all heard him.

The Swordsaint laughed. 'Alright, alright! Just don't say I didn't warn you!'

Minutes later, the glowing ship, which was appropriately, if perhaps unimaginatively, named the Lantern, was floating alongside the Rainbow Burst, and its crew was mingling with us.

All of them, save for the Swordsaint, were Ghyrrians.

Ghyrria, the Lost Realm, was rarely talked about by Midworlders these days, except as a cautionary tale about being careful what you wished for. Millenia ago, Ghyrria had been a prosperous archipelago, which had lasted unusually long on the tides. The Ghyrrians had worshipped their ancestors in those days. Hardly unusual-Ancestrism was practised fairly widely even today, even if most of those who were not adherents saw it as families kissing their own arse. What marked history was what they did with their ancestors.

There is a saying about getting sick of good, usually told to spoiled, unruly children. I heard it dozens of times in my childhood, though you could never describe my young self as spoiled.

The Ghyrrians had apparently never heard of that saying. Their lands had been stable for centuries, their armies strong enough to drive off enemies, their defenses proof against nature's wrath. So, with no challenge and immediate threat, they had gotten bored.

They had felt their lives held no meaning, you see. Summoning their ancestors' spirits had brought no helpful answers, only advice to be content with what they had and warnings not to tempt fate.

The Ghyrrians had not worshipped gods back then. But they had seen all those other cultures who did, and who seemed so content and sure of themselves... surely, if they made their own gods, they could escape the endless ennui?

Godmaking, as you can perhaps imagine, is not an exact or safe practice.

The Ghyrrians had summoned all their ancestors, from the first settlers to people who had barely departed, and told them they had an answer now. An answer for everything.

The poor fools had only been too happy to help, and finally lay their descendants' minds to rest. They did not realize they were kindling in the furnace until the last moment, when the summoning circle revealed its full nature.

They screamed as they were consumed, for all that they had left flesh and pain behind long ago-or so they had though. There are torments not even the dead can escape. Three is proof of that.

The gods born of that atrocity and deceit were wondrous, marvelous-for they provoked wonder and marvel in all who beheld them. But they were not kind, or understanding of human nature. Not truly.

I have heard many names the Manmade Gods bear: the Listeners. The Watchers. The Shapers. The Mantlemakers.

But they can only be called monsters.

They snatched Ghyrria off the face of Midworld, and took it away, to a realm created by them that very moment-as us mortals count such things. We see time as a river, but to the gods, it is a lake.

The Fabled Domain, for it is a world where fables are true, no matter how horrific, is just as large as Midworld, but alien. There, the laws and patterns of stories reign supreme: villains win until the last moment, then fail abjectly. Helpers and mentors are around every corner. And heroes rise from humble beginnings with the fate of everything they know on their shoulders, whether they wish or not. They are chosen, not choosers, after all.

And so, the Ghyrrians received what they though they wanted. Now, even the lowest peasant's life holds meaning, for so do all stories. And they can never, ever escape the chains they made for themselves.

As such, I was quite shocked to see multiple Ghyrrians outside of their realm. They all slouched or sprawled on chairs risen from the deck, as if a burden they had borne all their life had been removed. And, perhaps, that was the best comparison. They presented themselves before anything else, courteous as all heroes should be.

Sahmui was the leader of their party. Tall, dark and handsome in a rugged sort of way, he wore plate so heavy it would have broken my back, and on his belt was a sword that spoke when it did not sing. On his back was strapped a round shield, polished to a mirror sheen, that could reflect all dangers directed at him, from weapons to spells to illnesses. It was the only reason to use both a shield and plate, he said.

Lhansyl was his second-in-command. Also clad in plate, he wielded a three-meter spear, with a dark green shaft and blood-red head. When it pierced an enemy, it bloomed like a rose, filling it with spikes that could not be removed by vise or spell, not even by turning back time.

Arhanne was their archer, though she said that was only her Mantle. After all, real archers had skill, while her arrows automatically sought a target's weakest point, whatever defences were in the way.

Rhonne was their infiltration specialist, which, in the business, meant former outlaw who hoped to escape imprisonment or execution through good deeds. I could only perceive her when she wished me too, and her mood changed like the weather. I wasn't sure whether the others were having better luck with their senses, and I could not spot any weapons on her person. Perhaps she did not need any.

Shaiam was the group's brute, though he seemed a gentle giant so far. He was clad in thick, gilded armour that left no part of him exposed, but that was to be expected. Homunculi rarely shared the limitations of the beings who made them up, so why leave any holes in the armour?

Finally, Whayzir was their mage. A wizard, to be exact, as he only drew upon his own power, and claimed not to use any arcane artefacts. Beside his staff, of course, but that was only for channeling and focusing power. Or so he said. I could not feel any source of power beside his mana, at least, which dwarfed mine like a lake dwarfs a raindrop. But then, Whayz, as he insisted to be called, was a battle mage. He shattered mountains and levelled the earth from horizon to horizon, so of course he had great power. I have always been... subtle.

'Forgive the prattle. You'd think we were villains with how he talked your ears off...' Whayz said with a sheepish grin from where he was leaning on his staff. 'We're used to, ah, sharing things about ourselves. At least this time, it's force of habit, and nothing more. I think.' He blinked owlishly, and seemed to concentrate on something far away.

A classic adventuring party... and the Swordsaint. Was she playing mentor without even realising? And could these six truly have escaped the patterns of their realm, or the Mantles that shaped their powers and selves?