Seeds of Destruction

Sean Saraman swept his small shop; the limp in his left leg was barely perceptible. The limp was the severance for a twenty-year career in Baron Stormslayer’s service. He had spent the years of service in the border skirmishes of Tarsk, defending the small city, or retaking it from the forces of New Braghney. An exciting, yet predictable service, ending only by an arrow to his leg. The few years he had spent traveling the world before his service had given him enough capital to open the shop he was sweeping, and to marry his true love, Jacquelyn.

Sweeping past the many wondrous items that lined the shop, he was quietly enjoying the time remaining to him. Each item in the shop held fond memories. They were not all treasures and trinkets that he had gathered from far and wide; most were but simple, mundane items that kept his shop aloft. So deep in his reverie was he that he did not look up when the chime over the door rung, and more of the summer’s dust came in off of the street.

"Hail Felderen II, benevolent rule of all of Melurbia!"

Sean continued his sweeping across the store towards the desk and cashbox. "Your greeting is thirty years too late, stranger. The last Felderen died on his throne. Killed by the Mage Barons."

"Stranger? Since when was I a stranger to you, Sean?"

He looked up. There was a woman there, tall with cold ice-blue eyes, and hair the color of the deepest ocean. Her beauty was matched only by the lines of concern that lay across her face. In one hand she carried a bloodied short sword, and in the other swaddling clothes of an infant.

"Blue. The years have treated you well. Far better then they have treated me."

"My father’s legacy," the woman replied. "I will always appear in my prime. Full of youth, vigor, and song."

"You are in trouble," Sean said. "I have not seen a wet blade in almost five years, and never in your delicate hands."

"Times change."

"And you do not even notice them. Here in Ghantra City, speaking the name you have uttered can get one killed."

"Sean, I have not come here to catch up, nor to speak of politics."

"I should have known, trouble follows you around like a stray dog," said Sean. "I would assume that the babe is the heart of it."

"Aye."

The back door opened, and a round woman walked out.

"Sean, I heard the bell, what…" the woman pauses seeing the woman with the dripping blade, and the babe. "Blue, get thee behind me, demon!"

"Jackie. This is no time for that. Blue is in trouble."

"'Tis not surprising, given her father."

"I am not here about my father’s business, Jacquelyn," said Blue. "Nor am I here to try to win Sean away from you. That is all in the past."

The two women eyed each other, as former rivals always will. Seeking to break the tension, Sean spoke; "Blue, what is the trouble? We are Plon’s faithful, we owe anyone in trouble a helping hand."

Jacquelyn opened her mouth to voice disagreement, but quickly shut it, when Sean glared at her.

"My thanks, Sean. I cannot keep my child; it would be dangerous for him. I want you to watch him."

"He is demon marked, as his mother before him!" Jacquelyn cried. "You cannot deny that heritage."

"Jackie. Let the woman say her piece."

"My babe does not bare any of the signs of the demon-marked. His father was a mortal man. I plead with you, Jacquelyn. We may not have seen eye to eye on anything in the past, but my son is innocent, as all babes are coming into this world. He needs love, and protection, two things I cannot give. Please, Jacquelyn, as a woman to another woman, do this for me."

Jacquelyn cast her eyes downward. "We are old, Blue! We may have only a decade left to us! We cannot raise this child, even if he were not demon-marked!"

"Jackie, Plon has not seen to bless us with a child," said Sean. "Perhaps he knew this day would come. This babe needs us."

"Thank you, Sean," Blue said. "Jacquelyn, you should have never worried about me being your rival. Sean has always loved you in his heart of hearts. I must fly."

"Wait! Blue, what is the child’s name?"

"His name is Aragon. Treat him well."

With the tiny child Aragon safely in Jacquelyn’s arms, Blue disappeared in a puff of smoke and a weft of sulfur. Sean moved over to his wife’s side.

"My love, what are we to say?"

"We tell them that he is your grandson, my husband. From a child in Tarsk. We do not tell them of his demonic nature, nor do we tell him of it. We must make sure at all costs that the boy does not stray from Plon’s teachings."

Sean sighed, an old sigh, one of a man ready for peace and quiet, not of screaming infants. It was also the sigh of someone resigned to his fate. "Yes, my love."



2.

It was mere weeks after his tenth birthday. Aragon was sitting in a corner staring at something. His eyes, much like his mother’s, were ice blue, but his hair was a shimmering black.

"Boy, what are you doing?"

"I am watching the cat eat a mouse."

Jacquelyn smacked the young boy on the side of the head with her broom. "Desist at once! That is not how we act in this house!"

"You can’t tell me what to do! You’re not my mother!" screamed Aragon, holding his hand to his right ear. The broom came down swiftly on his other ear.

"Talk back to me, will you? The Book of Pure Thoughts says to obey your elders without question! Time for the contemplationary for you!" Jacquelyn grabbed the young man by his arm and threw him into the small closet. She slammed the door shut, and the darkness caved in on the boy, like a living creature. The small window at the top of the closet door allowed light to fall on the copper bell of Plon. It could chime in the wind, but was silent now. He was supposed to contemplate his sins, but he spent his time thinking on other matters. Dark thoughts best left to his own mind were there, struggling to get out. He had ceased praying to the Gods, especially Plon, years ago, when his prayers to be released from his strict grandparents were not answered. A dark smile crossed his lips. If one of Plon’s faithful were to see the demented grin, it would surely give rise for alarm, and for the closet to be burned. Such were the dark thoughts. Dark thoughts for a dark room, the boy thought, and he knew how to free himself of the hateful bitch that called herself his grandmother.

3.

The Bull of Irelia was a month’s journey away from the boy thinking of ending his grandmother’s life. His thoughts were also dark, but for other reasons. He was about to betray his master. The Mage Baron Alexandro was going to die. William Dunham was about to help it happen. He was a master of the guard for the Mage Baron. The simple look on his face and his muscles belied his intelligence, and gave him his appellation, the Bull. He had committed atrocities at Baron Alexandro’s demand. The people were being swept away from him in herds. Like sheep they were falling to the velvet tones of the priest Andarrs. The Bull of Irelia fell in with Andarrs for another reason. It was not money, not power that seduced him. It was the promise of better life for the people of Irelia.

Bull led the entire guard of the capital city of Ranree down to its lowest spire, to supposedly squash the rebellion that Andarrs was gathering amoung the people. Bull had given his life to the service of Irelia. To Baron Alexandro, it meant service to him. In a way it was, in others it was not. The betrayal left a bitter taste in Bull’s mouth. His horse could sense his skittishness, and was reacting in kind. His men all knew what to expect. They were of like mind to the Bull, though they had been trapped by Andarrs' flowery speech. A betrayal of the same intensity had not happened in near forty years, when the seven mage Barons destroyed Falderal.

The guard surrounded the mob of people around the priest Andarrs. His voice was amplified to godly proportions by Andarrs' prayers. "Hail, the Bull of Irelia, William Dunham! What say you?"

The Bull of Irelia looked at his men. They all looked to him for the word. One word and they would betray the weakling tyrant of Baron Alexandro. He cupped his mouth with one iron mailed hand, the other held up the flag of Irelia.

"FOR THE GLORY OF IRELIA, AND FOR WALLETHERE!"

The mob answered in one voice, raised to such a frenzy that even Baron Alexandro could hear in the seventh spiral of Ranree. They spoke just four simple words. Four words would forever change the face of Irelia.

"DEATH TO ALL MAGES!"

4.

Clad in black, the old man wept for the death of his wife. They had been married only fifteen years, fifteen good years. She died while on the roof of his home, trying to dispatch a bird that was trying to nest on their chimney. The church of Plon was nowhere near full; just people from the neighborhood. The blacksmith came up to the old man.

"Mr. Saraman, I am deeply sorrowful for your wife’s death."

Sean knew that the blacksmith, what was his name? Russell, that was it. He knew Russell could not express himself better, he was a simple man of few words, but the words he spoke meant volumes.

"Thank you, Russ. I appreciate your concern in this dark time of my life."

"At least your grandson is doing well with her death."

Sean looked at the young boy, who was sitting on the kneeler praying, like a proper young man. The black funeral garb made him look older, and complemented his light skin and dark hair. "Yes, perhaps I should check on him to make sure."

The blacksmith nodded to let the family grieve in their own ways. The old man sat next to the young man. He clasped his hands together, and said a short prayer. He then turned to the boy. They were alone in the church.

"You killed her, boy."

"Grandfather, what a thing to say! I could no more kill my grandmother than…" and his voice dropped and became menacing, "…I could kill you!"

5.

Half of his men were dead, the rest were either wounded, or demoralized. The citizens of Ranree were not fighters. The only other soul in the room at the top of the spires was the Mage Baron Alexandro. His energy was exhausted, and could barely speak, let alone cast slaying spells. The Bull of Irelia was covered in the blood of the house guard, those who had remained loyal.

"Even my own Guard Master betrays me?"

"You were a cruel and wicked tyrant. Do you remember the vows I spoke when you knighted me?"

A light came across the Mage Baron’s face, as both he and the Bull of Irelia spoke; "Forever true to Irelia, I will always be to you. To the people, and to the land, on these I will stand. Let no harm befall them, for they are all my kin."

With his left hand holding Baron Alexandro’s head, William Dunham’s right pulled back and as he swung he repeated, "Let no harm befall them…" and the blade fell across the tyrannical baron’s neck "…for they are all my kin."

The golden circlet rolled away from the lifeless head. It turned in a slow circle like water down a pipe, and stopped at Bull’s feet. He picked it up. A lone tear fell from his eye, and he quickly wiped it away with his freshly bloodied left hand.

"You have slain the mage, William."

"Yes, yes I did, Father Andarrs." The Bull of Irelia just stared at the circlet of gold in his hand.

"How do you feel?"

"Like a traitor. Take this damn piece of gold, take it and trouble me no more!"

"I could use a man like you, Dunham."

"What, a slayer of men? Bah! You speak of love and creation to the sheep, but to the Bull you speak only of more slaughter. Leave me out of it."

"There will be much to do, William Dunham. Now more then ever, Irelia needs you. It needs you to help structure it. With my spiritual guidance for the people, and your protection, Irelia could be a paradise. This crown of magic will be reworked as a thing of Wallethere, a thing of Divinity. The entire country needs this to be done, not just the symbols, but the people. Even you."

"Spare me the shit, Andarrs. You wanted power, and now you have it. Now leave me alone."

"You have committed many sins in service to the Baron. We could save your soul."

"Speak not to me of souls. Mine is lost beyond all hope."

"Nothing is so disgraced to not receive the forgiveness of Wallethere."

"You won’t give up, will you?"

"Not when I see a soul so in peril."

"You mean not when you see such a resource at your disposal."

"One and the same, dear Bull. All souls are a resource. A resource for creation. Help me create something better, dear Bull."

"You couldn’t be any worse then the Mage Baron."

6.

A carelessly left musical instrument was in Saraman’s shop. The young man was staring at it. There was just something about it. It seemed to call to him. The sweet sounds not yet produced rang in his ears. Not that he had ever heard any music beyond that which sounded at the neighborhood temple of Plon. The boy’s grandfather forbade him from seeing bards. This one seemed to come from nowhere. It was left on the stoop. The boy smiled. It was his thirteenth birthday, after all. Why shouldn’t he claim this gift?

7.

Langdon Kruz looked out of his tower’s highest window, down at the small village of Thorncrest. At one time he was a noble under Baron Alexandro. Now he was just a man, an extremely rich and powerful man. A man whose very words and gestures conjured mighty magics. Long retired from active service, he lived in the village he had grown up in. He spent his days creating items of power. He smiled in the morning light, one of the few pleasures left to him. His gaze fell over Thorncrest as it did every morn. To his surprise, he saw a cleric wearing the vestments of Wallethere-- the new town pastor. The last had died a few months back. Kruz looked forward to his renewed debates with the clergy. Always insightful, and intriguing.

"Truly, Nuarta has smiled upon me this day!" he thought. If Kruz knew what the next month would hold for him, he would not be inclined to think in such a manner.

8.

The flocks of Wallethere bought the story that Father, or rather High Theocrat Andarrs Nethenil told them. It was not far from the truth, and would make a better legend anyway. Bull shuddered thinking about it. His recent missions were not the type he had in mind when he had signed up with the High Theocrat. Taking squads of guardsmen and chasing rogue wizards down. Chasing them to either death or beyond the borders of Irelia. What a thing for "One of Wallethere’s holy warriors, embodying all that a follower should: Purpose, Piety, and Humility." That was what the High Theocrat had said of the man who slew the Mage Baron.

Bull hitched his horse to run faster; the mage was using some sort of charm to escape. The wizard was on foot, but making better time then most of the horsemen. The sheep of Irelia assumed that it was a paladin of Wallethere that had beheaded the Mage Baron. No, just a life long soldier. One that had met every major head of state, and was now spending his days slaying the magi. Some deserved the death they received. Others did not. Bull did not particularly like mages, in truth; who in Irelia did? He just had differing ideas of who deserved to die than his men did. After slaying a mage, they would sing praises to their precious Wallethere, while drinking, gambling, and whoring.

The mage’s head left his shoulders when Dunham’s longsword swung in a gentle arc. Bringing his horse to a slowing stop, the Bull of Irelia turned in time to watch the still running body of the mage hit the ground. He frowned and dropped out of the saddle. He went over to the head and picked it up by the hair. Slowly he turned it and looked in its eyes.

"That will teach you to save orphans from a blazing fire with your water magics."

Bull dropped the head into a bag, and motioned for the guardsmen he was with to gather the body. He raised his water flask to his mouth, swirling the water around his teeth and tongue, trying to remove the taste of hypocrisy from his mouth.



9.

Missionary Telmar looked in awe at how far the heathen mage had tempted the people of Thorncrest. In the very center of the village was a giant glowing white tower. He knew that there was a former Mage Noble in the town. He did not know the man had corrupted the morals of the village so far. To have such an ostentatious, no, vulgar, display of the superiority of magi. He had his work cut out for him. Thankfully he knew how to put a town into its place.

The temple of Wallethere was in good repair, a good sign. At least the people’s hands were not idle. Idle Hands were Traad, the Desert Demon’s, playground. There was still hope. He got off the donkey, and slowly walked the stairs to the great doors of the temple. He gently and reverently took the key to the door out from his pocket. He placed the key into the hole and began to turn…

"Hello, Father!" Missionary Telmar jumped at the sound. He was startled out of his reverie. He turned to greet the overzealous faithful, and had another shock. The one standing behind him was clothed in the dark blue robes trimmed with black of a magi. The heathen Magi had greeted him!

"I’m glad that the church of Wallethere has sent such a sharp-eyed young man to this city." The stoic missionary just stared at the mage. He could not express the words of shock that were brought to him. A heathen openly speaking to him! His lips moved silently.

"Ah, a little overwhelmed at getting your own parish, are you? Can’t say I blame you. I’ve seen it before. The last pastor had trouble his first day on the pulpit, he was so overwhelmed. Well, I’ll let you get ready. I must speak to Harold Nevis, the blacksmith." The mage turned with a wave and walked off towards the forge of the village. He didn’t even feel the spittle flying from Missionary Telmar’s mouth hit the back of his robes.

10.

They were gathered. She finally had the band she had always dreamed of. Drums, lutes, mandolins, and even flutes. Seven Bards, total. She led them with an ethereal voice. They were highly in demand. They played everywhere. Her demonic parentage did not prevent the band from becoming more and more popular. It may have even helped. Of course it also helped that she was not restricted to this plane of existence to find the greatest performers. Crazy Chester the Wandering Jester, who played the drums, was her first-born son, but looked like a grandfather, completely wrinkled and white-haired due to the demon in him showing. She loved him with all her heart, but he wasn’t called Crazy Chester without reason. The others, were, well, less important to her. The band was missing one thing. A lead male singer. It was time to pick up her youngest son. She walked alone into the dark warehouse, her blue hair seeming to shed its own light. A hiss echoed from the shadows. She stood in the outline of the moonlight streaming through the windows. The shadows were alive, crawling around the warehouse.

"Miser."

A decrepit form stalked out of the shadows and looked onto her feminine form.

"Yessss," came the reply with a hiss on the "S". The creature was horribly twisted with evil, but obsessed with order.

"Tell me, feeder of blood. Did you do what I requested?"

"Yessss. I left the lute on the doorsssstoop."

She shivered from his speech. Not even her father’s demonhood had frightened her as much as the hissed words of this creature.

"Then take your fee," she stated, holding out her left wrist. The creature hobbled into the light of the moon. Its large black eyes looked at her pulse hungrily. Miser opened his mouth, and closed his crooked teeth around her wrist. A slurp echoed from Miser’s mouth, and he recoiled as his teeth rotted in his mouth.

"BITCH! What did you do to me?"

"I told you, my father was a demon, and acidic blood runs in my body."

"You trickkked me!!!" His hands sorted through his mouth, finding rotting, burning teeth, and ripping them out.

"I’m half demon. What did you expect?" With a laugh echoing around the warehouse, she disappeared. Miser sniffed the air, smelling sulfur. He frowned. All debts would be paid, fair is fair. A favor for a payment. He would get his payment…in full.

11.

The people of Thorncrest filed into the temple of Wallethere on the Sabbath. They had brought offerings, and welcoming gifts to the new pastor. Dressed in their finest clothing, they still bore the look of peasants. They were, of course, peasants. Missionary Telmar smiled and shook hands with every person to walk in. At the appointed time the church’s deacons rang the bells, signifying the beginning of services. Missionary Telmar lighted the brazier and swung it gently side to side as he walked down between the rows of pews. His face was no longer smiling; it was serious, as was protocol. He set the brazier down at the alter, allowing to continue burning throughout the services.

"Greetings, brothers and sisters! I am Missionary Telmar. I have come to save your souls."

"We are here to have our souls saved," intoned the people of Thorncrest.

"When I was informed that I would be coming here to Thorncrest, I was overjoyed. I am but a young man of only three decades, and to have such a congregation given to me is a great honor. Then I arrived." He paused briefly to let his last three words sink in. "I have realized why the Nethenil has sent me to Thorncrest! An older man would have a hard road ahead of him, one without an end in sight, one that may kill an older man. I have arrived to see a town in which every single man, woman, and child will be basking in the sun-parched hell of Traad!"

The congregation gasped; they held Wallethere above all. They were a pious group of peasants, and followed their god’s will without fail. At least, they thought they did.

"Among you dwells a sinner, a heretic, an unbeliever! A mere stone throw from the foundations of this very building dwells the most unholy of all things. A MAGI! One of those who ignore the precepts of Wallethere! He takes the precious life given to each and every creature with every spell. He steals the very essence of Wallethere to make shortcuts in the fabric of reality! The High Theocrat Andarrs Nethenil led the people of Ranree against the Mage Baron Alexandro! Yet here you sit in complete ignorance, and denial! There is a Mage in this town, yet he continues to live! I do not lay the blame at your feet, people!" He looked around, smiling. "But that was before. Now I have come to lead you back to the enduring branches of Wallethere’s holy magnificence. Your souls are in peril! Stop trafficking with the magi! Leave him now! For if you do not, your very souls will not dwell with Wallethere for eternity, but in the burning clutches of Traad!"

He turned away from the assemblage. He threw himself down at the roots of the Great Silver Oak, the holy symbol of Wallethere.

"Oh, my god! Hear my prayers! The people of this hamlet know not what they do! Have mercy upon their souls! Take them unto your paradise, and instead take MY soul to Traad! They do not deserve the fate that is in store for them! They were led astray by the lies of the Magi! They have been oppressed and had magic worked against their holy works! In your wisdom see that they are spared the tortures of the burning desert for all eternity and let them dwell amoung your roots and feel the shade of your branches! Take my pure soul to Traad and take their unknowingly sullied souls to you!"

Missionary Telmar collapsed as the tree began to radiate a warm, soft, white glow. "Go in peace, my children, and remember the teachings you have been given."

Frightened at the sign given from above, the congregation filed out of the double doors, leaving donations in the coffers by the door for just that purpose. Once they had all left, Missionary Telmar looked up from his false collapse. He waved away the glow of the Great Oak. He smiled, a twisted grin of a trained manipulator. The methods that the High Theocrat had initially used in the city of Ranree worked. A minor blessing on the holy symbol, along with the offer of his soul in place of the sinners, it would always work. These illiterate peasants had never seen a true cleric at work, and knew little of their miracles that would flow from him. Of course, they would not come to any but the most faithful, but the people did not need to know that.

12.

The Bull of Irelia sat in his tent, not even three days away from the capital of Irelia, Ranree. The soft glow of several torches illuminated the interior of the tent. It was a tent fit for a Mage Baron, and it had once been just for that. The Mage Baron would stay in this tent during festival times, leaving it only to sit in the hot sun to watch his warriors collide in tournaments. Dunham was doing something no one else in the entire encampment was. He was reading. It was a think pile of scrolls that had been gathered for him by the soldiers in his command. Each scroll was just a part of the entire teachings of Wallethere. He had gradually accumulated the entire book of the teachings of Wallethere, parts here, and parts there. It could possibly be said that it was even more complete then the hardbound copies that were common in temples. William Dunham, the Bull of Irelia, read them every night. Not for piety, but trying to find a justification of the deeds he had committed in the service of the High Theocrat. He did not like Mages, but who in Irelia does? The thought of cutting the head off of a man who had just committed an act of heroism, and revealed himself as a mage in the same moment, did not sit well with the Bull. Someone who would willingly sacrifice themselves for the good of less fortunate people did not strike Dunham as someone who deserved death. He had not slept well since he had cut off the Baron’s head. Thoughts of betrayal and hypocrisy would crawl into his tent when the sun went down. He was losing more then sleep. His armor was looser now, and his sword swung a little slower. Not a single soldier noticed these differences. Even if they had, they would not challenge his authority. He was undoubtedly the greatest swordsman in Irelia, possibly all of Kaerith. In his younger days, to settle a bet between Baron Alexandro and Baron Randolph, he had taken on one of Baron Randolph’s greymen. If it had been alive, he would have killed it five times over. The duel lasted from twilight to dawn, but he had won. Back then he was more willing to put his life on the line. He would decline to fight a greyman, not just from the lack of his strength, but on general principle. He was a firm believer in the working ethic of Wallethere, the one thing that still remained. If honest work, or honest fighting couldn’t accomplish something, it was not right in the Bull’s mind. Even if what these Magi did was not with their own hands and strength, they did not deserve to die. The only ones left were of little power, and most of them lived at peace with the communities that they were part of, yet the Bull of Irelia would slay them for the merest hint of magic about them. That was what was bothering him about it. How many died from his blade, due to that smallest hint, one that may have been imagined, because one William Dunham was afraid to betray another master?

13.

The young man of just fourteen years sat on a corner in Ghantra City. He was wearing black leather leggings, with a matching vest and lopsided hat. His long-sleeved shirt was blood red, and cut in a high style, with ruffles at the chest and wrists. On his lap lay a lute; he was picking at it idly. His talent was not with the lute, it was with his voice. It was described as angelic, or ethereal. His range was incredible, the high notes did not elude him, nor did the ones that were low. He had started by singing the songs of Plon, which were the only ones that he knew. He had expanded his repertoire. He now knew bawdy bar songs, drinking songs, songs of other gods, songs of heroism and villainy, even some songs of other races, most notably dwarven. The deep songs of the dwarves appealed to him; they were somber without being about gods, or work. A dwarven love song would last for half of an hour, and was deeply moving, when done right. Of course he was the only human he had ever heard to get one right. But that was not what he was playing at the moment. It was a work of his own devising, a song about torture, and persevering under conditions unbearable.

He looked up when he heard a coin clink into his bowl. Standing before him was a woman who almost made him rethink his denial of the gods, for there was one standing above him. She was taller than most women he had ever seen. She was clad in a deep blue that wanted to clash with the ice blue of her hair and eyes, but couldn’t manage it. She was beautiful, and had a lute over one shoulder. Behind her stood the most motley bunch of individuals the young man had ever seen. One must have been over sixty and clad in a jester's clothes of garish yellow and red. Another was dressed in loose-fitting, all-white clothing with overly large black bunches of cloth where buttons should be; he had his face painted white with his eyes hidden inside dark circles, and carried a flute in one hand. Another was dressed more for teaching at a place of higher education, rather then slumming in the worst tier of Ghantra City, and had a violin case in one hand. A fourth was clad in black leather armor, and was the only one obviously wearing a weapon. It was a sword of extremely high quality, and possibly magical. Across his back he carried a mandolin. Another woman was dressed in the manner of a traveler, with a cloth wrapped around her head; almost hidden in the volumes of her dress was a tambourine. The last member, trying to look most like he belonged to the shadows of the allies, looked like a small-time thug, and carried a lute much like the young man’s. The beautiful woman bent down and looked into the boy’s eyes, making him skip a beat, and fouling his words as they came out of his mouth.

"Aragon." She spoke with a subtle voice, but one that conveyed authority.

"You know my name?"

"Yes. I know more about you then you realize. I’ve been watching you from afar. It is time."

"Time for what?"

"It is time to leave. You have learned much in this last year. It is time for you to strike out on your own, Aragon."

"And why should I listen to you? You aren’t my mother."

The woman smiled as if enjoying a private joke. Aragon eyed her, on guard for a flicker of something, he wasn’t sure what though. "You have talent, Saraman, but little skill. You still need to learn much, I can teach you."

"And why would you do that?"

She smiled that little smile again, throwing Aragon off guard. "I need a lead male voice for my band. You have the potential, but not the knowledge. The knowledge will come, but talent and potential are a bit harder to find."

"What’s in it for me?"

"To see more then this rotten core of a city. We could give the world a laugh, a song, a story. Join me."

He sat and considered. For his entire life, he had dwelled on the tiers of Ghantra City, but what sort of life would it be? A hard one where he would eventually have to take over the shop. One where love and singing would be hard to come by. The life of a traveling bard would be wondrous indeed.

"What sort of things would I have to learn?"

"Oh, a little bit of this, a little of that. How to have light fingers, how to speak with a forked tongue, a little bit of the arcane, a little bit of life. The world is a bard’s oyster. Come and seize the pearl with me, and my band, young Aragon."

To travel, and to learn of the arcane magics! Aragon could see through her words, like she wanted him to. To learn of picking pockets, seducing women, and magic! Magic! The power of life…and of death. To learn of anything, and everything. To be one of those who lived life to its fullest, to love life as if it were to be unending, and to possibly learn to fend off death itself! Ah, the dreams flashing through the young man’s mind! To be young and alive at this period! To live life with these seven bards! To find love and danger at every turn, what young man could not resist such an offer?

"All right. I am your pupil. Teach me to live life, to fend off death, and to steal the pearls of the world!"

14.

And with these words seeds of destruction were planted. The words and deeds of these men and women would change the face of Kaerith. Many things will come about-- some of them blessed, a good deal more of them evil. Such are the lives of mortal men and women. Those that are blessed or cursed to see far into the future would not see anything but potential from all these people for the great goods, and great evils. It always comes down to words and deeds that plant the seeds of destruction in the fertile soil that is mortality.