storm winds will follow

chapter one - the star

She had spent many nights listening. Gwendolyn had always been a listener, first to bardsong and stories of the past, when peace was inevitable, not unfathomable, then to the whispers.

Magic. It flowed in her veins, and while it made her life a nightmare most days, somehow, Gwendolyn was certain that she would not trade it for the world, in spite of the danger. She had made peace with it since her first awakening at a tender 12 years of age. Had she not been an orphan, perhaps her parents could have taught her how to control it better, as it had stood then, it meant she had melted a tin pot with her bare hands, and was subsequently thrown out of the orphanage and onto the dusty streets of Morvitzka.

Now, ten years after the fact, she had been resigned back to listening to the old stories she had heard so many times already, and out of the mouth of a handsome, but entirely talentless troubadour in a gaudy yellow jerkin, no less. He was going over the usual schtick, great emperor, 20 sons, yada yada... 

She had heard it many times at the orphanage, a reminder of the sacrifices made by the remaining kingdoms. Only four of the once 20 kingdoms were remaining now, most of the names lost to time along with any infrastructure left there, whole stretches of land, ghost land, tainted. Standing were Fenris, Mcragge, Caliban and Chogoris. Gwendolyn had grown up in Fenris. She knew she was not fenrisian, ethnically, but where she had come from, the nuns would not tell her.

The tavern was crowded, the air smelled of smoke and unwashed bodies, and she blended into the common folk fine if she pulled her hood in her face, in her shabby dress, that had seen more repairs than summers, dark cloak, and feet stuck in worn down boots that had once been fur lined, years ago, but they had been used when she bought them for a pittance. She was hugging a mug of bitter ale, sipping, if she drew it out, it would last her all night.

No Gwendolyn Fyr was no image of beauty, but she didn't want to be. Pretty girls drew the eye. She didn't. especially not in a place like this.

Her features weren't exactly unfavourable, big brown eyes and dark hair might have been enchanting, so she made up for it with lack of care about anything, really, and pulling the most sour puss expression the human face was capable of at all times. If the hounds got hold of her she would be condemned to a life of servitude.

Gwen loved her magic, but she cursed it as well.

In all the kingdoms it was common to collect mages. Not all mages, there was some intransparent system to it, separated few from many, sorted them, she had heard. For this, what remained of the royal house used the hounds, troops of witchhunters, recruited from the snowy tundras of the north, tall, blonde men and women with piercing eyes and wicked axes, white wolves as large as wagon oxen following sharply to their command.

Many times, Gwen had seen them roaming the streets. The hounds could smell magic, and it ran strong in her, stronger than most. She dared not to think what they would do with her if they caught her.

Perhaps it was because of this, that she suddenly felt... restless. Something bit at the back of her mind, and a jolt of fear struck through her and into the sticky floor beneath her. Gwen had learned quickly, that those kinds of impulses were not to be ignored.

She slammed three coppers, enough to cover her modest tab, down on the table and stood to leave. Gwendolyn weasled between the drunkenly stumbling mass of patrons, allowed her consciousness to open to the ebb and flow of energy around her, hoping to get ahead of the danger before it could become aware of her. The auras of the patrons glowed softly behind the door as she grasped the handle and threw her full weight backwards to overcome the obstacle.

Most colours were dull, the souls of the city people bleached out from long, tiring shifts in the pitch dark of the warp stone mines. The shimmering stones were beautiful, and a valuable source of industry in Morvitzka, but any mage worth their salt knew it dulled the soul to be around the stuff too much. Gwen could pick out those working with the material from any crowd, the only people worse off were those who snorted the stuff, their souls shone pale, sickly yellows at best, and at worse seemed to have faded completely, leaving behind a husk of a person, unsettling... no, upsetting to be around.