Tera Stories!

"Traius! The prefect wants to see you."

Traius glanced up from his cup of wine. One of the new soldiers, armor not even knicked yet, stared back at him. The youngster fidgeted as he waited for the castanic to say something.

"He, ah, said it was important," the keener added.

Traius drained his mug. "It always is." He grabbed his scepter and flipped a gold piece to the popori bartender, who wagged his tail.



Traius jogged up to the prefect, saluted smartly, and stood at attention. The prefect didn't look up, but kept his nose buried in his scroll. Traius tried to wait patiently, but it wasn't in him. He bit his lip. He cracked his knuckles. Twice. Finally, he gave in and coughed sharply.

"Traius, I know you won't believe this, but I really did notice your presence. I'm trying not to screw up this report to the Justicars in Velika." The prefect muttered. "Of course, I apologize for making you wait a whole minute. Someday, when you're all grown up with prefect's pips of your own, you can make your subordinates wait. It'll be the highlight of your week."

Traius grinned.

"I received word from Velik's Vigil. The refugees at Lee's End reported seeing strange humanoids helping the Free Brotherhood. The troops at the vigil are stretched too thin to investigate, so I'm sending you. Judging from your hangdog look, a little exercise will do you some good. Besides, the refugees could always use someone to heal their hurts. Find out what you can and help the stalwarts."

"As ordered!" Traius barked, happy to have work.

"You're going alone, Traius. Don't enrage everything you meet. Be discreet."

Traius nodded, wearing his most somber expression, but his steel-gray eyes gleamed. The prefect must have noticed the glint because he glared down at the young mystic.

"More discreet!"

* * *

Lee's End was a farming community at the eastern end of the Freeholds. While independent from the Valkyon Federation, the farmers of Lee's End were at least friendly, unlike the rest of the farmsteads, which were loyal to the Free Brotherhood. The entire region had erupted into chaos a few weeks ago when the harvester golems went berserk, along with most of the beasts. Dozens died, and the farmers of Lee's End were pushed back into a tiny encampment where they held the line.

Traius had been to the encampment a fortnight ago when his squad took a shipment of supplies in. He knew the way. It was dangerous, but only if he was foolish. He timed his sprints when his foes' attention was elsewhere, rested behind concealment, and handily jumped past the wooden walls of Lee's End without getting caught.

He did, however, get unlucky. An enormous creature, rippling with muscle and fangs, snarled as it raised a greatsword over its head and attacked with a thunderous roar.

Traius ducked under the swing, then hopped back and cast two quick bolts reflexively. "What monstrosity birthed you?"

The creature snarled and slashed again. Its massive blade missed and sank deep into the dirt. Traius cast a quick curse, then smote the brute a mighty blow of his own. A howl of pain erupted from his enemy, who abruptly turned and fled.

"Hah! That's right! You'd better keep running!" Traius sneered. He felt much cheerier after days of inaction. A little scuffle was just what the he needed to work out the malaise. He watched the bizarre opponent race away, then stop near the fence line. Two more heads popped around the corner, then all three charged towards him.

"Ishara's twisted tongue!"

Power surged through him as a he cast a snare on the trio. The creatures stumbled and lurched as their feet refused to obey their commands, and they howled all the louder. Traius tossed them a cocky salute, then dashed towards Lee's End.

At least, that was the plan.

Traius bounced off the growling hulk of another massive swordbearer. He managed to avoid a strike that shook the ground, then teleported past his attacker.

"Time for a little help!"

Traius summoned an avenger to inflict some pain on his foe. He tossed a curse into the fight, thenran off. Overcoming four-to-one odds was possible, but not smart, and Traius was no fool. He pushed himself to reach the entrance to the tiny redoubt where the stalwarts were holed up.

Traius hurdled the wooden spikes and plowed into a very large baraka. "Good day, little man," the baraka rumbled.

Traius whirled around just as the four foes reached him. His avenger was gamely slashing at one, but the enraged monster ignored it. On the encampment side, Traius saw a sorcerer casting a spell and quickly stunned the abominations.

A column of flame erupted beneath them, the conflagration consuming their bodies. The sorcerer, a cute redhead, winked at Traius, who grinned back. Yes, boosting the refugees' morale was going to be his first order of business. And perhaps his second.

The baraka clapped Traius on the shoulder. "Are you all right?"

Traius took a few deep breaths to get his wind back as he thought it over. He looked at the smoldering piles of ash, at the lovely red-haired sorcerer, then back to the baraka.

"Actually, I've never been better."

Tethys raced along the gloomy road. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, but she kept running. They were behind her, not far. The devas pursued silently, remorselessly. Only the two vampirs laughed at her as they bounded after her. Tethys dimly wondered how they had the wind left to laugh.

If she could reach Popolion, she'd be safe. She could rest. The poporis could protect her and the federation contingent would listen to her. They had to. A sharp crack from behind made her stomach plummet. She glanced back and saw one of the vampirs much too close for comfort.

"Where are you going, sorcerer?" The vampir's urbane tones clashed with his leaping gait. "If it makes you feel any better, by all means run. I like my blood served hot, with just a hint of fear."

Tethys wanted to snarl something defiant but she couldn't waste the air. The vampirs wanted her angry; they wanted her to squander her strength. She couldn't afford it—the secret was too big to die with her.

Tethys rounded a corner and saw a chance to escape. The slope was steep and covered in the creepy vegetation common to the Vale of the Fang; treacherous, but she might lose her pursuers. She leaped up onto the incline, fingers digging in for more traction. Her fingernails peeled back against the loam and gravel but terror overrode the pain. She scrambled as high as she dared and froze. Her heart still beat a rapid dance against her ribs and her lungs burned, but she held her breath. The predators were right behind her. If she kept silent and they didn't look up, she might have a chance.

The devas took slow, deliberate steps as they silently stalked Tethys. The vampirs clenched their canes in their white-knuckled fists and hissed their agitation.

Go on, Tethys urged. You know it's a trick but it's a trick further down the road. Keep moving. As a sorcerer, Tethys preferred to rely on her own power, yet she and her colleagues had been quickly humbled by the vampirs. Tonight, the prey needed protection from the hunters and Tethys was prepared to humble herself further. She murmured a brief, desperate prayer to Velik. Goddess of the Hunt, confound these creatures and let me complete my mission.

Whether Velik intervened or the vampirs simply had other plans, they snarled a command at the devas and the group took off again.

Tethys waited as long as she could before her breath escaped in an explosive gasp. She had a chance now. She scrambled up the slope, ignoring the thorns biting into her flesh and the burning pain in her strained muscles. She worked her way up along the escarpment, just outside the crumbling walls of the vampirs' manor. There were guardians on the other side of the ancient stone, but the climb was too difficult to look for another route. The ridge was far above the road and offered good concealment. Tethys forced her burning muscles into action. She couldn’t stop, couldn’t rest. Determination and duty kept her upright and running. As Tethys pushed through the thorny bushes and snaring vines, she clung to one thought—alert the Mysterium to the treachery she’d uncovered. One foot in front of the other.

Popolion was close. If she could make it there, the vampirs couldn't stop her. She just had to keep going. . . .



Several hours and a handful of magical scrolls later, Tethys stood in the antechamber to Master Caleth’s sanctum. Caleth’s aide, Risart, glowered at her. He seemed particularly offended by the smudges of blood and mud and the tatters her fine robes were in.

“Magister Caleth is extremely busy,” Risart said. “This one is certain he would be delighted to speak with such an illustrious junior member of our order, but it may be a while. There is adequate time to wash away the stains of travel and don fresh garments.”

Tethys stormed up to the adjutant, so close that her nose pressed against his. She knew high elves craved their space, felt Risart tense and watched a tic shudder his left cheek. “This one,” she snarled, “has fought tooth and nail to bring word to Magister Caleth. If this one,” she thumped Risart’s chest, “doesn’t let me pass, I’ll beat you half to death and throw you out the window. We’ll see if you can fly before you splatter on the streets of Allemantheia.”

The tendons in Risart’s neck strained for a moment. “Very well,” he bit out. “One moment.” He walked over to the ornate doors and stuck his head inside. “Magister Caleth? The adept has returned. She demands an audience.”

Tethys couldn’t make out the reply but Risart’s head bowed once and he opened the door for her. “Proceed,” he said through gritted teeth.
Without a word, Tethys walked past Risart and into Caleth’s sanctum.

Bright and airy, the chamber had a commanding view of the High Elf city. Knick knacks from around the world decorated the shelves of tomes and scrolls. Caleth sat behind an ornate blackwood desk, shuffling through a veritable sea of parchment. Caleth glanced at the young woman, then leaped to his feet.

"Caleth is surprised to see you, Tethys, particularly in this state. What befell you?" He seemed shocked by her appearance.

“Forgive me, magister, but I have news that cannot wait.” Tethys reached into the deep cuff of her sleeve and pulled out a small vial. The liquid inside glowed an eerie green through the thick glass.

"What is that?" Caleth asked.

"An insidious draught—it overwhelms the vampirs' control of their bloodlust.” Tethys paused. “They're feeding on sentients."

Caleth appeared aghast. "Impossible. The vampirs drink the blood of beasts. They raise them for that very purpose."

"No longer." Tethys sighed. "Mencius and Nazkiir were both killed by vampirs—drained dry in moments."

Caleth stared hard at her, making her uncomfortable. Tethys couldn’t tell if he didn’t believe her or if he couldn’t believe someone would brew something so evil. "How is this substance involved?"

"I found cauldrons of it. I don't know if the effect is short-lived or if a great deal is required, but the vampirs attacked us when we stumbled across them." Tethys rubbed her throat. "I beg your pardon, but could I have something to drink?"

Caleth stared at her a moment, then bowed his head. "Of course. Apologies for the discourtesy." The elf walked over to the corner table and touched the side of a fluted copper kettle. It began to vibrate, and the sound of bubbling liquid filled the silence.

"There's more," Tethys said. She knew the magister wouldn’t like her next piece of news. "At least one member of the Mysterium is involved."
Caleth’s expression was congenial, but his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "Are you certain?"

"I didn't see anyone, but the vampirs spoke of him. They've struck some sort of deal—some secrets of blood magic in exchange for assistance brewing this concoction." Tethys knew many arcanists in the Mysterium coveted blood magic. Her warning would carry the ring of truth.

Caleth stood silently, watched the steaming kettle. After a long moment, he reached into several jars and put together the ingredients for the tea, mixing them with precision a pinch at a time. "These are serious accusations," he said after a few moments. "Do you have any proof? Something we can take before the council?"



Tethys shook her head. "Nothing, aside from what I saw and heard. It makes sense, though! How many of our order have longed to grasp the power of blood magic? Many gods struggle to possess it. Why should we be different?"

Caleth sighed. "Why indeed?" He poured the tea into a tall, ornamental glass and handed it to the exhausted young woman. "Let me know if it's too sweet."

Tethys sipped and sighed gratefully. The tea refreshed her aching limbs and weary spirit.

Caleth studied her for a moment, then spoke again. "I'm afraid the matter is quite complex, Tethys. A great deal is at stake, much more than the esoteric power of blood magic."

Tethys frowned and swayed. Caleth noted the change and nodded once.
"You said 'I'," Tethys murmured thickly. Her mind felt fuzzy and her vision blurred. "And 'me.' I thought elves never spoke like that."
"The time for formalities is past, I'm afraid. My vision of the future requires direct action, bold leadership—even sacrifice. I’ve little time for the endless courtesies and pretenses to which we Children of Karas are so prone. I saw an opportunity—and seized it!

“You see, the vampir aristocrats are so narcissistic. When someone advanced the idea of turning Poporia over to them, they were thrilled. But how to sway the other vampirs? You'd need something to guarantee their behavior. You'd need to control them—or control their fate.

"Naturally, when I was approached I was skeptical, but in the end I agreed. The formula I provided is ancient—older than every nation. It spreads quickly, but the cure is beyond all but a few. And for that not only did I earn a tremendous sum of gold but, as you suspected, some secrets of blood magic as well."

Tethys shook her head as she staggered on her feet. The delicate glass fell from her numb fingers, shattered on the floor. "You poisoned me! You're . . . a traitor?"

Caleth gently grabbed the woman by the arm and guided her to a chair. "Do sit down. You'll feel much more comfortable. The poison is painless but not immediate, I'm afraid. The taste is quite pleasant, however. The antidote tastes dreadful." The high elf stood back and watched her. "It's for the best, my dear. Your death will be the last anyone hears of this—until the federation comes to us, hat in hand, begging for our aid. And we'll give it. We'll send researchers and arcanists to study this 'strange malady.' Our foothold will be secured, and all for the price of a few choice ingredients and some tiresome vampirs." Caleth paused and frowned. "And you, of course. I am sorry about that, but the secret must be maintained."

His words sounded dimmer and farther away the longer she listened. Tethys tried to keep her eyelids open, but they grew heavier by the moment.

Caleth's eyes shifted to the beautiful map of the word on his wall. Red dots marked key locations, vital to the Mysterium's success. He walked over and added another dot just east of Popolion.

"We seek power and the secrets of old," Caleth murmured, recalling the charter of the Mysterium, "knowing the price we must pay . . . or rather, you must pay."

But Tethys never heard him.

As the war against the argons grinds on, more and more young amani who were employed in support positions are being asked to commit to active military service. As the great foundry labors to turn out weapons and armor for a growing force, hastily-assembled training yards are not an uncommon sight in the shadow of the amani capital city of Kaiator. Neither are scenes like the one played out below between a new recruit and his veteran instructor.

When I saw the light of Balder's Eye glinting off the battle-scarred centurion's iron tusks, I was pretty sure my first day as a lancer might also be my last. He shook his head as I approached. "The last time I saw you, Nariiz," he drawled, "your face did not bear the tattoos of an eldest son."

"The last time you saw me, Furad, I had not lost three older brothers to the argons." I returned his cool stare with what I hoped was the proper degree of indifference-our childhood acquaintance couldn't be called a friendship, and now Kaia's idea of a divine joke was to make him my lance instructor.If I hadn't already sworn my oath to protect and defend...

"You've been working in the foundry since you abandoned your schooling," Furad remarked, looking me over. "Was fighting for your country an unattractive option for you?"

"I did my duty to Kaiator, Furad. And I thought three soldiers in one family was enough. It seems I was wrong. At any rate, I'm strong enough."

Furad snorted his derision. "A lancer is more than a brute with a long stick."He pointed out a rack of practice weapons. "Even you should be able to understand that. Pick up a lance and shield, follow me, and try to keep up." As he limped away, I saw that his right leg had been replaced with wood and steel.

I must have demolished a dozen straw targets before Furad would let me do more than strike forward, over and over and over again, stopping now and again to set my shield in front of me and hold against imaginary attacks. "Straw doesn't fight back, rookie!" he'd shout in my ear as I thrust the lance forward again and again. "Just imagine that's an argon at the end of your lance, and you have about two heartbeats left to live! Stand fast!" My shield, he assured me, would absorb much of the force of my imaginary target's assaults. It was my job to raise it between lance thrusts, in hope of intercepting teeth, claws, or bolts of magical energy.

"Catch your breath," Furad said after what seemed like forever, handing me a waterskin. "You did well enough. Those thrust and stand skills are the backbone of a lancer'sproficiency. Practice them every day until they send you to the front. After that, you'll get plenty of practice without trying."

My education continued. The shield, Furad informed me, was not only a sturdy defense, but a mighty weapon in its own right. Wielded properly, it could stagger a foe, weakening his defenses against your next attack while doing its own damage on the spot. I practiced the moves he taught me, but had my doubts about the ability of the battered practice shield to either attack or defend. "Don't fret, Nariiz," Furad assured me, "you'll have a real one before the day's out. And a real target that fights back, too." He thumped his steel-bound wooden leg, and his smile, when he looked back up at me, was not at all reassuring.

As the hours wore on, I was grateful for the long foundry shifts that had hardened my muscles and boosted my endurance over the years. When my older brothers marched off to the war, I'd stayed home with my parents, who were no longer well. I was too young to follow my brothers to the argon front, but not too young to leave school and become my parents' only support for the last years of their lives. Now Mother and Father were gone, too. I was the last of us, and if the argons wanted me, I was going to make them work for the pleasure of having me.

"All right," Furad told me finally." You can poke a bale of straw convincingly-let's see what you can do against something with teeth."

The training masters kept a menagerie of beasts for new recruits to fight. Some of them were rookie-eating machines, but the one Furad picked out for my first real challenge was an aging ghilliedhu with three blind eyes.

"Hit him!"Furad shouted as the ghillie came plodding from its pen, turning its great head to favor its remaining eyes.

I knew better than to tell Furad that the ghilliedhu had never done anything to me, but I hesitated just the same. The hulking tree-spirit took the initiative and knocked me aside with a huge wooden fist. I got up and hit it then, kept on hitting it, and finally made it mad. It turned an angry shade of red, stepped back and smacked me with the other fist, sending me onto my backside. Furad finished it off with a pounding lance charge before it could smash me flat.

"Did you see that he changed color, Nariiz? And the way he turned aside and pulled his fist back before he hit you?"

I pulled myself to my feet, head pounding. "He did what?"

"Every monster has 'tells,' Furad explained with a sigh at my lack of perception. "Things they do just before a certain kind of attack. Learn those, and you'll have time to get that shield up in front of you. That way you might not die until you get to the real war." He wiped dark ghillie sap from his lance with a tattered cloth. "Report back after roll call tomorrow, and I'll teach you to read tells. And how to charge, and how to rise from a knockdown, scattering enemies like kindling wood. And much else." He barked a laugh at my expression. "Don't worry, Nariiz-I'll leave killing you to a far harsher enemy." He took a seat on the low stone wall that surrounded the training yard and began unbuckling his armor.

I put down my weapons and rubbed one aching shoulder. "Why have you always hated me, Furad?"

"It wasn't just you," he said after a moment's silence."I hated your brothers, too."

"I don't understand. What did we do to you?"

Furad sighed and looked off into the distance. "You had each other. You did everything together. With my family wiped out by the argons, I was being raised by the Benevolent Daughters of Kaia. The Daughters were kind, but they were not my family. Watching your family, I felt the searing of envy."

"Do you envy me three corpses never sent home for their family to grieve over?"

"No, Nariiz. I don't envy you that, any more than you could ever envy me the loss of my kin. Or anything else." He rapped with his knuckles on the unfeeling leg.

"Then perhaps we are equals at last."

Furad snorted. "I'll call you my equal when you can charge into a pack of orcans, screaming a lancer's challenge, and leave their bodies smoking behind you." He stood up and gathered up his armor. With a curt nod, he strode off toward the barracks.

"Fair enough," I called after him."I'll try to stay alive long enough to be called your equal."

Furad turned his head as he walked away. "And when you can stand up to your foes and shelter your comrades," he said over his shoulder as he walked away,"I'll be proud to call you my brother."

Jahangir came out of his reverie, turned around, and looked down. A castanic slayer arched an eyebrow as she looked up and tapped her foot. Jahangir blanched, then clapped his fist over his chest to salute. "Well met! It's an honor to serve with the Vanguards. I'm grateful for the chance to prove myself. My name is-"

The castanic held up a closed hand, the signal for silence, as she shook her head. "Save it, Tiny. I don't care about your name. Not yet. You're not here to serve as a poet, herald, or bureaucrat, so save the fancy words. You're proud, I get it. You're amani. Comes with the territory." She looked Jahangir up and down. "Equipment check. Boots, sword, armor."

Jahangir nodded. The training leathers reeked of old sweat and showed deep cuts and bloodstains. The greatsword, on the other hand, looked new. No notches in the blade's edge, no pits from rust, and the grip was freshly wrapped.

The castanic consulted a scroll, then dropped it with a snort. "Let's keep this simple. You got your boots on, you can walk into battle. I'm Isaura. Do what I say, when I say, how I say. A pint of sweat saves a gallon of blood, so let's get going." Isaura turned and walked toward the practice field without another word. Jahangir hefted his greatsword and hurried after her.

"This is the Vanguards, Tiny. We're not infantry. We're reconnaissance and intelligence. The eyes and ears of the Valkyon Federation," Isaura explained over her shoulder. "It takes all kinds to make an army, but slayers make good scouts. We travel light, we hit hard, we're fast on our feet."

Jahangir couldn't argue with that. Isaura only came up to Jahangir's chest, but he practically had to double-time it to keep up with his mentor.

"Despite the greatsword, we're not mindless reapers who cut down foes without thinking. Any fool can swing a slab of metal. It takes skill to use your weapon to its greatest effect." As she spoke, Isaura casually unslung her own blade, then leaped into the air, coming down in a strike that would have knocked more than a few foes off their feet. "You have to choose your moment, when to follow up-" Isaura pivoted on one foot and swung the blade in a whirling strike, "-and when to focus your power!" The final strike would have eviscerated anything in its way.

Isaura's economical, focused movements led from one into the next. Jahangir tried to follow her lead, but his own attacks lacked Isaura's grace. He felt foolish and clumsy.

"In the Vanguards, we work with warriors. Lancers and berserkers have a hard time keeping up with us in the field, so you'll learn to follow warriors through their little dance, and do them one better. They grab something's attention, we tear it up from behind. Just like our twin-bladed cousins, we have to dodge out of trouble, rather than depend on a layer of metal between us and our enemies. The only thing leather armor does is keep our corpses in one piece for the recovery detail. I mean, think about it. It's not like it kept the original owner alive."

Jahangir chuckled. He liked this feisty veteran.

"So why are you here?" Isaura stared up at him.

"I am here to serve the needs of the-"

"I'm not some scribe from the Velika Guardian or the Castanica Chronicle. Speak plainly. I'm a soldier, just like you. I'm a slayer, just like you. Do you know how many old slayers there are?"

Jahangir's eyes darted around as he looked for a clue.

"Don't bother. It's damned few." Isaura spun the amani around. "Look over there, Tiny." Warriors and archers jogged around the compound, mystics, priests, and sorcerers miserably stumbling behind. "This is a recon outfit. The Vanguards are the first to fight, the tip of the spear. Slayers, however, are more than scouts-we're heavy hitters. When things go bad, we stand to. When it's time to retreat, we're the last to go. We fight, and die, that others may live." Isaura's voice dropped. "If you're here for the wrong reasons, you'll get someone else killed. Nobody cares if you die-you're still a keener with a spanking new blade. But if the mystic or priest buys the farm because you're playing hero, we're just pieces of meat waiting to fall. Now, why are you here?"

Jahangir stood quietly , eyes closed tightly as he gathered his thoughts. Isaura waited, which surprised him. "I'm here because the sky isn't meant to be black-green. I'm here because children shouldn't grow up in fear. I'm here because I've seen the wastelands along the argon front. The lives and dreams of so many are simply gone." Jahangir's eyes opened and narrowed as he bared his fangs. "Not again, not if I can help it," he snarled.

Isaura stared at him for a moment, then barked out a laugh. "Not bad, Tiny. You'll do." She grinned, then snarled, "Attack! Attack!"

Jahangir leaped forward, copying Isaura's movements, marveling at her speed. Her attacks seemed to chain together, fast and graceful and deadly. His own blade felt unbalanced, his swings too wide, his dodges too slow. Still, he ran through the forms again and again, while Isaura snarled out critiques. His blade was too high, his stance too narrow, his blade was too low-the list of faults seemed endless.

"That'll do. Drink this." Jahangir caught the flying waterskin and drained it.

"You're not bad, Tiny. Better than most keeners we see. You learn quickly. I like that. Remember, mind and body are one. If your will is powerful, your body can do amazing things. If your body is weak, your mind will be weak. You'll weary sooner. You'll lose that burning spark all slayers must nurture. You want to protect people? Great. That's your spark. Never let it go out, and let it fuel you when the odds are against you. Harness that power, Tiny. Savor it." Isaura quickly drained her own waterskin, then cast it aside. "All right, that's enough dawdling. Let's go again, and I want to hear that blade whistling through the air!"

"Wait, please!" Jahangir cocked his head, studied Isaura carefully. "Why are you a slayer?"

Isaura stared at her weapon for a long moment, her face a stony mask. She idly ran her finger along the greatsword's edge. "Because I used to have a daughter."

This is a "telling" by the high elf sorcerer Dektor, a Valkyon arcanist, recounted word for word to Kimar, a Baraka sage who studies elven customs. "Telling" fixes important events of the day in one's mind, much as a race that favors writing would use a journal.

Dektor, son of Ridic, a child of Karas, recounts this day all he has seen and known and done, lest some wisdom go unrecognized and be forgotten. As every night, we remember so that nothing is lost and we may remain as one.

Morning followed the usual custom: oatmeal, honey, and tea to break the fast, then a meditative bath. After, exercise in the yard near the gates of town. This day wild boars vexed the gate guards and injured a traveling peddler. It seemed wise to cut exercise short and turn my disc upon them. Disc and master rejoiced in the new tricks we both have learned since our last real battle, and the pigs left with shrieks and blisters, those who left at all. Though it is a shame that children of Arun and Shara must disagree so violently, there is still pleasure in such contests!

It was Dektor's honor to join the supply party for scouts in the Temple of Dagon. In a place of power a wise man can learn much. We traveled safely until we found a fallen column, the first sign of the temple. There, one of the recruits caught the eye of a kamara that seized his leg with mighty jaws. Jorid drew the beast's attention-and that of its three friends-while Eruka hacked them with his axe and I flanked with Qijann.

"C'mon, hit 'em!" Qijann shouted. "Nothing they can bite off you that I can't stick back on!"



I encircled the creatures with flame while Jorid kept them pinned in place. Then I shot an arcane pulse through three of them in a line, dropping them like stones. Eruka split the shell of the last and it died as well. Qijann healed the boy, though his leg will be scarred forever.

"Don't worry, kid," I heard Qijann tell him, "Nothing ladies like better'n a big, nasty scar where something tried to eat'cha!" Qijann's success at his career is both indisputable and puzzling.

Except for a small facade, the temple lies beneath a hill. Tree roots have opened it to rain and leaf-green shafts of sunlight. Enormous columns that have stood since the time before stories are entwined with corded vines almost as thick as the bulwarks themselves. We ate with the scouts near the main entrance.

Perkai, a lancer and a good shield-mate, invited me down to the second scouting post, several layers below. "There's a mystery to the architecture I think you'd enjoy," he said.

We could have waited for the others, but Perkai was sure of the way. Or thought he was. When I noted his hesitation he laughed. "Place is a serpent warren and it wriggles like Ishara's tongue in Lok's accursed ear. Just let me figure out which coil we-" We turned a corner and blundered into a gula merchant and his sniveling laborers. They swarmed between us. Though Perkai held the fat merchant at bay with his shield, the minions overran him, hacking at his sides. I fell back to blast them with fire, then riddled them with blades of ice. Minions fell, but the brutish gula turned and leapt on me.

He hacked so hard with his great cleaver that I fell to the ground, stunned. I had a spell that would have got me to my feet, but I was too dizzy to cast it. This is how it ends, I thought. Cut off and in close quarters, sorcerer, only one mistake is needed. He raised the massive blade again. Another such blow would have finished me, but Perkai saw my desperation and charged, bowling over the last laborers on his way.

"Fall down, you carnivorous cow!" he shouted as he spitted the gula on his lance. We leaned against the wall and took stock.

"Still standing, eh?" Perkai asked.

"Living, but not lively," I replied. "It would be well to have a healing potion before we travel further."

"Blast and damnation," he snapped. "Who packs costly potions on a jaunt down a few flights of stairs?"

I sighed. "Not a castanic, it seems. Nor a forgetful elf. Here is a lesson. Let it not be forgotten!"

I used the flow of air to guess the central chamber's direction and crept carefully toward it. At last we found another flight of stairs, but down below we heard sibilant naga voices. We saw shadows, several small, one large. "I will kill the small foes if you can deal with the large one," I whispered.

Perkai smiled. "No way 'round but through! Stay behind me this time!"

And so it was. I cast a poisonous circle around the snakes. The little ones sickened, then burned in a burst of magma, clearing the way for Perkai to charge the larger one. Perkai hammered him, and his shield turned the monster's questing spear from us. The fanged warrior began a spell, but I struck faster than the snake and drove an icy needle into its heart. From the bottom of the stairs it was not hard to follow faint voices to the scouting post, where a mystic kindly tended our wounds. I never saw Perkai's architectural "mystery."

Let it never be said that Dektor, son of Ridic, cannot laugh at his own mistakes. Though I fought well under poor circumstances, yet I also recall the words of my teacher Kekos, son of Yerash. "A sorcerer's enemies should die at arms' length, not in an embrace." To this, I add my corollary: the lone sorcerer must strike swiftly and kill with one blow lest the foe strike back, for we have no shield.

I once relished delving alone into dark caves or trackless forests, but I reflect now on how lonely it was to fight without the aid of shields and healing. Some adventures are better shared.

This is all Dektor has seen and known and done. No wisdom must go unrecognized. Nothing shall be lost. In the name of Karas, I remember.

As she leaned forward to show Konei the move again, the sun set Liana's skin to enticing shades of light and shadows. Konei's mind could focus on only one repetitive thought: So beautiful... Castanics are so beautiful...

"Got it?" Liana stared down at him contemptuously.

"Um. Yes?"

"Good, then I'm letting him out. One, two-"

"Wait!"

"-three!"

The cage opened and the sabretooth leapt toward Konei. Terror froze his knees and he stumbled backward. Scrambling to his feet, he leapt to one side and rolled out of the beast's path, grateful he'd paid attention when they covered dodging. He slashed wildly, but couldn't land a good blow. The creature sat back on its haunches and pawed at the ground. What does that pause mean again...?

He hesitated a moment too long, and in the next instant he lay in the dirt, his lungs compressed and two huge tusks hovering over him. This is how it ends, he thought. In training. Fantastic. He closed his eyes and waited for the pain.

The weight on his chest lifted. Gasping, he opened his eyes. Liana steered the creature back to its cage with her stick and turned to Konei, eyes aflame.

"Did you even hear a word I said? 'When it paws the ground, it's about to swipe you with its big pointy claws,' I said. Paws, ground, claws, dodge! Attack from behind! Honestly, I couldn't have spoken any more clearly."

Konei opened his mouth, then closed it again and stared at the grass. His face grew warm under her disapproval.

"Ugh! Child! You know what?" She reached for the cage door, and Konei tensed.

"Since you refuse to listen, you can figure out this guy's strategy all on your own." She grasped the bar. "If I have to pull this one off you, you fail. I can't teach those who won't learn."

Wait, Konei tried to call out. His wounds still bled and his muscles still ached, but the door swung open anyway, so he unsheathed his weapons. The cromos sprang from the cage, both heads growling. Konei dodged and tried to run around the creature, but it kept up. His swords slashed the air like branches stuck to his flailing arms. He thrust the twin blades forward with a jolting motion and felt them sink into flesh. When the cromos halted and raised both horrible heads, Konei thought for sure that he'd won. A smile crept to his lips, but then he remembered the sabretooth. It's the pause, he realized. Swords still at the ready, Konei dove to the side, but seconds too late. One head slammed into his stomach, knocking him to the ground. He couldn't breathe, but when he saw Liana shake her head and step toward him with her steering stick, he forced himself to his knees. The cromos turned and bounded toward him. With a grunt, he plunged a blade into either neck as it rushed him. He fell backward and the creature collapsed onto him.

Air. Need air. Liana entered his field of vision just as it started to darken and shoved the beast off him. He rolled away from her, sputtering and gasping. His face burned and he dreaded her disapproval.

"You forgot again."

"I know." His voice cracked and he cleared his throat, his face burning hotter.

"That's a good way to die."

Konei nodded. His hair fell into his eyes and he brushed it back. Every muscle screamed. The sabretooth wounds throbbed.

"What have you learned?"

"Watch for the pause."

"Most of the larger, solitary beasts attack that way. Critters that roam in groups, though, usually fight in groups-meaning different tactics. That's next on our agenda, so let's get moving, kid."

He raised his head, a lock of hair falling into his eyes. Moving? Is that a joke? I barely remember my name. "Liana, I don't really...I can't-"

"You're doing really well, Konei." Her voice was encouraging-a tone he hadn't heard before. "You can do this. Come on." She smiled, then walked on, not waiting to see if he followed.

Konei didn't know if it was the encouragement or the smile-or both-but as Liana walked away, he felt the strength come back into his legs and the energy flood back into his spirit. If Liana believed in him, he'd best start believing in himself.

He hauled himself to his feet and jogged to catch up.

“Repeat it again, from the beginning,” the old Baraka said, not unkindly. And the boy replied:

Before all else were Arun and Shara,

Male and female,

Titans astride a void.

The Titans grew weary,

And slept.

Their sleeping bodies became the land of Tera,

Their tears the seas,

And then they began to dream.

Shara dreamed of Sikander the phoenix, first of the Sikandari

And Gorno, dark master of the Gulas and Vampirs

She dreamed Ur, god of the Wendigos, and Isren, Queen of the Faeries

And finally Saleron, lord of Prions, and Dagon, father of the serpentine Nagas.

Arun dreamed Karas, god of the Elves, and Zuras, first of the Devas

He dreamed Gidd, who made, then cursed the Humans,

And Amarun, creator of the Amani

Then Tithus, god to the Giants, and Elinu, mother to the Poporis.

Thus were the gods dreamed into being, six and six

And from the gods, the mortals began to spread across Tera…

“Did I get the order right?” the boy asked.

“Yes. And your enunciation is…improved, Konei.” The Baraka tilted his head, and the gravel in his voice faded a bit. “You have questions, though. I can see them in your eyes.”

Konei brushed his hair back. “If the titans—Arun and Shara—are the continents we live on, then what about the Island of Dawn between them? Is it a third titan? Or some other creation of Arun and Shara's?”

When the Baraka spoke again, his voice was rough with the sound of crunching gravel.

“Hmm, a potent…even provocative question, young one. Suffice it to say that you are not the only one to wonder this. It is…something to be discussed quietly. When you’re older.”

Konei’s eyebrows darted upward briefly, but he pressed on with his questions. “If we’re all just some titan’s dream, what happens when Arun and Shara wake up?”

“Ah…articulating the most fundamental question of philosophy. Sadly, after centuries of mortal history, we’re no closer to an answer than when Tithus made my ancestors and Gidd made yours.”

The Baraka turned around. “I hear the limping footsteps of your geometry instructor. One last question, Konei.”

“If our continents are really the Titans who created the universe, then the Argons…?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” The Baraka stood up and leaned over the table. “The Argons are not merely some threat from the Underworld seeking to conquer. My people have known run-of-the-mill conquerors for thousands of years—as have yours.”

The Baraka’s voice got lower, louder, more insistent.

“The Argons want to terraform northern Shara. Their aim is fundamentally simple and fundamentally wrong. They’re trying to obliterate the dreaming titans themselves…thereby ending the dream for all of us.

“Meditate upon that. Class dismissed.”

Every soldier in the Valkyon Federation wonders a bit about the berserkers. After all, berserkers relish the battles everyone else would rather avoid. Berserkers set free their emotions on the battlefield. When everyone else is trying to stay cool and keep one particular emotion-fear-at bay, berserkers are livid with rage... and not shy about expressing it.

Combine a natural curiosity about berserker rages with the carefully controlled moods of a high elf, and you have a recipe for gossip in the ranks. For two rank-and-file soldiers observing a high elf berserker in action, it's not at all clear what makes her tick.

"Is she really a berserker?"

"Are you kidding me? You've never heard of Naurene?"
"Should I have?"

Naurene paused as the other soldiers ran forward, running a gauntleted hand against the already-cooling cheek of her centurion.

"Your death will fuel our triumph," she announced to the dead bodies nearby. "Revenge is bitter food, but ever so nourishing, eh, friends?"

Bowing quickly to the corpses, Naurene picked up the immense axe from the ground next to the fallen man. "May your axe aid me." Then Naurene ran ahead, sprinting past the advancing soldiers.

As Naurene passed them, the soldiers heard her keening war-cry rise above the battle. Some later said it was like the howl of a wolf. Others called it a scream of an eagle. The wail persisted after Naurene crashed into the orcan barbarians, her axe spinning great circles as it cleaved them apart.

The orcan chieftain threw an incendiary bomb, which Naurene slapped away with the handle of her axe. The chieftain shouted an insult in his native tongue, and Naurene responded with a glare as she stalked forward, her axe dripping withorcan blood.

"I get that she's good with an axe, but... she's a high elf, right?"

"You never struck me as the prejudiced type, Brother."

"I'm not -- the elves are great, but..."

The basilisk nest was hidden at the back of the cave, just as the scouts had said it would be. Naurene rooted through the debris, and found the bloodstained robes first. She carefully set them aside. A few more minutes of searching, she found three skulls: one adult, two children.

"The woods should have been safer, friends," she said, holding the adult skull aloft. "Accept this petty act as recompense for our failure."

Naurene raised a mail boot above the basilisk egg. A quick crunch, then another and another, until egg shells littered the cave floor.

Outside the cave came low snorting and the breaking of branches. Naurene grabbed her axe and twirled it as she walked toward the cave entrance.

"So much for the children. Now for the parent."

And a mile away in the town of Crescentia, villagers heard a keening wail from the woods to the north.

"Every berserker I've met-well, the whole point is that they go berserk."

"How observant of you."

"High elves always keep a lid on things. It's just how they are."

Bruised and bandaged, Naurene limped back to camp. She hung her axe on the peg outside the hut her unit had commandeered and went inside. Naurene emerged a minute later clad only in undergarments. Ignoring the cold, she walked barefooted to the stream, finished undressing, and began to scrub the blood from hair, from skin, from nails.

A few of the braver camp guards approached as far as the stream bank. "Tough day out there?" one said, his eyes looking everywhere but Naurene's face.

A grunt was Naurene's only reply.

"If you want to warm up when you're done, um, bathing, we've got a fire going in our hut..."
Naurene submerged briefly, then rose from the water, ignoring her clothes as she walked past the guards. Then she turned back and glared.

"Yes, a tough day. Tough for our enemies. Tough for the weak. Tough for the dead." She kept walking.

"So you're saying that because elves keep everything bottled up, they have more anger to release in battle."

"Exactly. They're under pressure all the time."

"But that's my point... what does a high elf have to get mad about?"

Unraveling the Collegium’s Biggest Secret

Part One
From the Velika Falcon:

Recent events in Velika have led the Falconeditors to wonder if some sort of secret large-scale military operation is being planned under the citizens’ noses. A number of key federation personnel have been hastily called back from the argon front, and other notables have been pouring into the city from all directions only to disappear into the lower levels of the Collegium Arcane. Repeated messages to the master arcanists have gone unanswered, and our reporters have been turned back politely but firmly by collegium watchdog Tysur. We’ve called on our ace investigative reporter, Gavrel, to dig deeper. His first report is below, and more will follow as his investigation continues.



Velika—The tension has been palpable in the quarter of the city that houses the Collegium Arcane. Military personnel have been stationed at all entrances, and only a select few arcanists are being admitted. My curiosity is piqued by the combination of military and arcane forces united to seal off Velika’s center of magical learning from all would-be visitors.

Well, not all—now and again, a hooded figure or two is admitted. If I’m not mistaken, the one I saw while standing outside in the shadows a couple of nights ago was Leander, brother of the Argon War hero Elleon, and a distinguished researcher and author in his own right. I suspected Leander’s cloaked companion to be none other than the celebrated Elleon himself, but maybe I’ve been covering conspiracies for too long. Or maybe not; I caught sight of Captain Dargarishas the doors swung shut on the pair. If he’s involved in this, chances are Elleon—his friend and partner in exploration—is in it up to his eyebrows. An anonymous contact inside the collegium told me, “All I know for sure is big doings in there. Someone has discovered something, and it’s got the whole place in an uproar—and as near as I can tell, it doesn’t have anything to do with the argons.”

I didn’t see the man I suspected of being Elleon again, but one of my associates managed to catch sight of Leander the next day leaving the flight line on a rapidly departing pegasus. Flight Master Adella wasn’t talking, but a few gold coins in the hand of the passenger bumped for Elleon’s renowned brother bought me some more information: Leander’s destination was Popolion, and his mood was one of extreme agitation.

So what’s critical enough to bring top military and arcane personnel to Velika at a moment’s notice, and secret enough to warrant barring the doors of the Collegium Arcane against the very arcanists it was built for? I don’t know yet, but I’m going to do whatever needs doing to find out.
—Gavrel

Part 2
From the Velika Falcon:

Falconinvestigative reporter Gavrel continues his series on recent events at Velika’s Collegium Arcane, and cranks up the excitement on what might be the greatest civilian adventure we’ve ever covered.

Velika Plains—Continued digging in and around the Collegium Arcane has uncovered a few more details about the recent top-secret meetings in the lower level library there. According to my source inside, bills have been arriving for the past four days from both continents for supplies and equipment, and even the hire of wagons and teamsters to take it all somewhere. But where, exactly, remains a mystery.

Moreover, who are the people mentioned in a mysterious hiring order only as Master Arcanist, Astronomer, Botanist, Teleport Master, Mythohistorian, Cryptozoologist (!)? Why does the hiring order include multiple scribes and “excavation technicians?” And why have junior collegium researchers been scouring an inland city for a sextant?



After some deliberation, I decided to follow up on the clue about the hiring of teamsters. A Lumbertown outfit known as Lek’s was engaged outside the city’s western gate by a minor collegium official two days ago, before they unloaded their wagons. Following the paper trail supplied by my contact inside, I spoke to Lek himself three nights ago at an inn outside the city. The next morning my pockets were lighter by a hundred gold pieces, and I was hidden inside a crate of soft goods heading for the west coast of Arun.

If you’re ever tempted to stow away on a wagon train rattling over rutted, pot-holed roads for two days, hidden in a wooden crate in a tightly packed wagon bed in stifling summer heat, I recommend you lie down in the shade and drink something cool until the urge passes. Nothing less than the greatest story I’ve ever been assigned could have convinced me that it was a good idea, and that was before I lived through it.

Despite being slipped food and water, and let out for a few minutes late each night by my new friend Lek, when we finally arrived at the coast I was exhausted, hungry, thirsty, and sore in places I hadn’t known I possessed. I was pretty happy to smell salt water, hear the lapping of waves on Arun’s western shore, and feel my temporary prison lifted into the hold of an airship headed into unknown (to me, at least) territory.

When all the personnel and the rest of the crates were gone, Lek freed me from the expedition’s spare blankets and tent canvas, and I walked unsteadily out onto a dock with a view that’s hard to describe and harder to believe.

I appear to be on an island ringed by immense cliffs over which seawater flows endlessly. Tall towers beam light into the sky on all sides. Balder’s eye is reassuringly visible, which probably means I haven’t left the world I know behind, but where, exactly, am I?
—Gavrel

Part Three

The Island of Dawn—Wherever I’d landed, I needed to find a place to lay low and get a feel for my surroundings. Judging by the size of the passenger compartment floating above the cargo hold, there hadn’t been more than a few dozen people on board, and a stranger was going to stand out like a stonebeak in a flock of bluebirds.

I looked around the loading dock and noticed a female elf giving me the evil eye. I snagged a load of tent canvas from a passing popori porter. “I’m with you,” I told him, and shouldered the roll of canvas between my face and the elf.

“Human’s with me, Axelle,” the popori told her as we hurried by. He walked me past some open ground where workers were erecting a pavilion, and gestured at me to drop the canvas.



I pulled him aside behind a tree and turned my back to the activity. “Where are we?” I asked him.

“A new place, never smelled in the world before,” he told me. “Still wet from the ocean that birthed it.” He held out a furry palm, and I filled it with gold pieces. “Mmmm. Tasty gold buys you a guide to the supply base,” he said, showing a lot of sharp little teeth and pocketing the gold. “I’m called Barzon. Never mind your name—I won’t remember it.”
“And information?”

“What you can ask before we reach the base, I’ll answer. South now!”
As we passed under a stone arch that looked awfully weathered to be standing in a “new place,” I looked up and saw an immense white-and-blue stone column in the distance, hundreds of feet tall. Out of it grew a lavender-colored tree that reached even higher into the sky, twinkling with a million lights. Around the column, stone fragments spun slowly, like an explosion that never happened, but was always imminent. “What in Arun’s name is that?” I asked him, stopping dead, and unconcerned for the moment about being seen or heard.

“No one knows! It’s new!”

“It can’t be new! That tree must have been growing for centuries!”

“Our world has never tasted its music,” he shrugged. “So it’s new.”
The rest of our conversation wasn’t a great deal more enlightening, and I struggled to get answers while running to catch up with him. That wasn’t easy, considering I couldn’t tear my eyes from the astounding sight of that column, that tree, and that frozen explosion. The island—they’re calling it the Island of Dawn—had only recently risen from the ocean between Arun and Shara, and after a series of hurried secret meetings in Velika, Kubel, Elleon, and Dargarish had assembled a hasty expedition to explore it. “Who knows what we’ll find?” Barzon enthused.

Unfortunately, we were about to find out. As we crossed over a bridge (more worn stone, mossy with age), a ghilliedhu the size of a modest house came crashing toward us, eyes glowing red in a disturbingly human face. Barzon screamed, and we ran in the opposite direction, straight into another ghillie, even bigger than the first, this one with six eyes and a single horn taller than a baraka. Barzon ran between its legs and kept on going, but being twice his size, that wasn’t an option for me. Neither was freezing in place, since the second ghillie was raising a giant fist to pound me into raw meat.

“Roll!” someone shouted, and I dropped and rolled in what I prayed was the right direction as the ground shook. I looked up into the rage-reddened face of the nearest ghilliedhu, and a moment later a ball of ice struck it just above the eyes with a sound like the shattering of a thousand wineglasses, and it flew backward, stunned. Two fireballs in quick succession hit it square in the trunk before it could regain its balance, and it reeled back and collapsed with a throaty death rattle that vibrated through my bones. The first ghillie followed it down in about three seconds to the one-two punch of ice and fire.



“I’m Viria,” said a tiny castanic woman with fiery-red skin, putting away her sorcerer’s disk. “And you’re in a lot of trouble.”
So that’s how I came to be arrested and held at the Expedition Supply Base until the arrival of the next airship, then packed off back to Velika with stern warnings from Kubel and other expedition leaders. Viria came to visit me, but she had no more idea than Barzon what this island was or where it had come from, and she claimed no one else in the expedition was any wiser. One thing they were learning quickly was that it was dangerous. I had to agree with her.
—Gavrel

News has reached the Falcon that while Gavrel was en route from the mysterious new island, the expedition was attacked by a wave of local wildlife led by what may have been demons. Many expedition members were killed, including the majority of the fighters sent to guard the researchers. Elleon is among the survivors, but Kubel is missing and presumed dead.

"Whose arse did we neglect to kiss to draw this duty?" Viator asked. The castanic archer tossed his long white hair in a futile effort to shake out the grit.

Makar, the gray-skinned baraka priest, thumped Viator on the shoulder in a gesture meant to be a pat, eager to make friends with his new squadmates. "A small kindness may reap a great reward, my friend. The exarch asked us to rescue his daughter. One cannot refuse, wouldn't you agree? Should we save Sabia, the rewards could be great."

“Uh, huh.” Viator winced as he rubbed his shoulder. "I don’t remember anyone asking you, priest."

Makar was taken aback. This was his first mission with the squad, so he expected to earn his place among them. He’d not expected rejection, particularly as he was there to serve others. Did no one value a priest’s contributions?

"Halwyn, your eyes are the best. Climb up that rock face and find us a clear path," Shirin ordered. The amani lancer's face was beautiful but stern. Makar found no solace in her violet eyes.

"Done." The slayer hefted his greatsword and dashed off.

Viator frowned as he looked around. "I thought we had orders for southern Shara. What are we doing here?”

Nerys rolled her eyes and pointed northwest. "It's a few thousand leagues that way. Get marching or shut up."

Viator smirked. "You're cute when you're mad. We should go find an oasis, get comfortable—"

Shirin wheeled on him. "That's enough! We have a mission. Your dalliances can wait."

"I would never! Not with him!" Nerys was apoplectic.

"Quiet, you two," Nerys hissed. "You're going to draw attention to us."

Makar smiled. He enjoyed the interplay between sexes, the dynamic energy not experienced among the single-gendered baraka. To his eyes, Nerys’s protests didn’t ring true, but as his words weren’t particularly welcome, he held his tongue.

Halwyn returned and reported the way clear. The heavily-whiskered human took a long pull from a waterskin. Makar was grateful not to feel the effects of heat as keenly as the others.

Shirin led her squad deeper into the desert. The sand was hot beneath their feet, but there were no sentries or patrols, so the group relaxed a little bit.

"We could rest beneath the shade of that tree." Viator pointed to a short tree with broad, overhanging leaves.

"We just rested," Shirin growled.

"I mean, we could wait while Halwyn scouts a back way into the kulkari village."

"Viator's motivations are suspect, but the truth in his words is clear," Makar observed. "This is a rescue mission, not a frontal assault."

The amani lancer stared at him for a long moment, her eyes narrowed. "Fine," Shirin said.



The soldiers settled around the base of the trunk, groaning audibly at the cooler temperatures. Makar unslung his pack and held Shirin’s lance while she did the same. Viator hung his waterskins from the handle of his dagger, which he drove into the tree trunk.

The “tree” convulsed and the sand seemed to shriek as it exploded all around them. Halwyn cried out in pain, clenching his eyes shut. Nerys and Viator, too far back to be harmed, leapt away from the eruption.
"Ishara's twisted tongue! What is that?" Viator said.

"Doesn't matter," Shirin said. "It's not gonna stab itself." Shirin's lance gleamed in the sunlight as she charged the enormous reptilian monster.

Makar acted without thought. A word and a gesture surrounded the baraka and his allies with a powerful, though temporary, shield. Makar hurled a pair of magical bolts at the beast just as the glittering stream of Viator's magical arrows struck it. Nerys's fiery blasts seared the scaly flesh, but the beast charged, knocking Shirin off of her feet and tossing Nerys and Viator aside like toys. Halwyn leaped past the attack and swung his greatsword with a roaring shout. The blade cut deep into the monster's flank, and it bellowed before wheeling on the slayer.

Makar murmured a brief incantation and brought his friends back to their feet. As they moved to reengage the beast, he threw out a ring of healing energy, then raced back into range. Makar unleashed a stream of divine arrows and powerful magical blasts at his foe.



The beast whirled, its massive tail struck Shirin, Nerys, and Halwyn. Halwyn flew backward and landed in a stunned heap. Shirin bled from a gash on her forehead, but she covered Nerys. The sorcerer coughed up blood and swayed on her feet. Makar calmly channeled another circle of healing around the lancer and sorcerer, then quickly focused a different healing spell on Halwyn as the slayer scrambled to his feet.

A massive paw landed in front of Makar, and the priest found himself eye to eye with the furious creature. Before the gaping jaws could clench around him, he cast a fiery blast and leaped back out of range.

The reptilian monster groaned in anguish, but the cry was cut short when Nerys’s arcane pulse struck it just as Shirin's lance stabbed through its throat. The ground quaked as the beast fell dead.

Panting with exertion, Shirin studied Makar, then nodded. The priest smiled back shyly and gave her a salute.

As everyone took stock, their eyes came to rest on the castanic. "So...no more rests," Viator said sheepishly. "Got it."

To be continued…

Anxious to avoid further encounters, the squad made their way across the stone shelves that covered the kulkari village. As kulkari prisoners were often sacrificed and feasted upon, the exarch was understandably desperate to get his daughter back. Shirin's team was swift and nimble, but lacked the raw power for a frontal assault. The rescue would take cunning rather than brute force. Unfortunately, the kulkari were hardly stupid. Regular patrols swept the paths and every entrance was heavily guarded.

"It's a simple plan." Viator grinned. "We move along the cliffs, then jump down behind the patrols and their bulwarks. We eliminate any sentries before they raise the alarm, grab our prisoner, and make our way around to that side of the canyon." The archer pointed to the west. The craggy rocks looked climbable, unlike the sheer faces that made up most of the canyon walls.

"We jump?" Nerys looked dubious.

"It's not that far," Viator assured her.

Makar glanced over the ledge. “It certainly looks that far.”

"Not bad," Shirin admitted.

“It has the virtue of simplicity,” Makar observed.

"A stupid tuwangi could pull it off!" Viator insisted.

"That would explain why you can do it," Nerys observed. Halwyn and Makar chuckled.

"Makar and I will go first," Shirin said.

"Why does the priest get to go first?" Viator demanded. “I’m the vanguard here.”

Makar bowed, inwardly pleased with Shirin’s choice. "Among the blessings of the gods is a small spell that puts a foe to sleep instantly. The effect is short-lived but most effective for silencing startled sentries."

Nerys smirked. "I wonder if it works on smart-mouthed archers." Viator stuck out his tongue.

"Moreover, we don't need to clamber up the slopes to affect our escape. The power of the gods can safely transport us across the desert. We simply need to find the hostage." Makar bowed.

Shirin grabbed her lance. "Let's move."

***

Makar crept forward as silently as someone of his bulk could. His massive head inched past a makeshift wall and saw a tiny human bound to a stone column with coarse rope. Her wrists were rubbed raw. Dust and sand stuck to her sweaty skin, but she seemed unhurt. Makar glanced back at the others and nodded once.

Shirin slung her lance on her back and moved in first. When Makar made to follow her, Viator held him back and moved ahead of the priest. Makar was slow to anger but his patience was wearing thin. He was a soldier, a servant of the light, and a veteran in his own right. He deserved better than to be treated like a keener just because he was new to the squad. He reached out a massive hand and pulled Viator back to him.



“Stick to the plan,” the baraka rumbled into Viator’s ear. He pushed past the astonished castanic and followed Shirin. The girl appeared to be asleep. Makar stooped in front of her as Viator joined him. Shirin knelt behind the girl and used her gauntleted hand to keep her from crying out.

The girl awoke instantly and jerked against her bonds as she tried to back away. Shirin murmured, "Don't scream. You'll alert the kulkari."
Sabia's wide eyes glanced from face to face. She tried to look back but Shirin nudged her face forward.

"Relax," Viator said with a smirk. "We're here to rescue you."

"Oriyn watch over you, child," Makar rumbled. "Your father, the exarch, sent us. Pay my comrade no mind."

Shirin said, "I'm going to take my hand off of your mouth. Don't scream, don't speak. Just listen. Understand?"

Sabia nodded.

The aman stepped into view and saluted her. "Decurion Shirin, at your service. We're going to get you out of here."

"Thank you," Sabia whispered as tears welled in her eyes.

"Don't whisper," Makar said. "Whispers carry quite a distance. Simply speak in low-modulated tones."

Viator glanced at Makar in surprise.

Shirin smirked. "Well, well…someone finally managed to shut the castanic up." The lancer slit the ropes with a knife.

"I'm Viator," the archer said. "This is Makar. If there's fighting, stay close to him."

Makar’s expression didn’t change but the priest felt an immense sense of gratification at Viator’s newfound sense of confidence in him.

Shirin touched Makar's arm. "It's time for the blessings."

Viator backed up. "Don't you bless me! Gods are bad news. Everyone knows that."

"I’ve heard such words from many castanics," Makar murmured. "Send in Nerys and Halwyn. You stand watch in their stead."

An explosion shook the ground followed by a terrible silence.

Shirin grabbed her lance. "Move it—that was Nerys!"

Hooting calls and thundering drums echoed throughout the canyon. Kulkaris howled and roared as they raced toward the intruders.

"Oh, damn." Viator gave Makar a smirk. "You kill the half on the right, I'll kill the half on the left."

"No." Makar's deep voice was firm. "I’ve got to back Shirin up. We stick together!" Makar grabbed Sabia and pulled her behind him. "You’ll be safest behind us."

"Joke!" Viator rolled his eyes at Makar. "It was a joke!" The castanic hurried to catch up to Shirin—no mean feat, given her long stride.
Makar and Viator came around the corner to see Halwyn whirling his blade in an unending series of arcs. Kulkari blood spurted in thick gouts but the slayer was being forced back. Nerys hurled fiery death in every way she could shape. Shirin leaped into the fray, stabbing several kulkari with her lance, then knocking a handful on their backsides. Viator shot a trio of kulkaris attempting to flank the slayer, then drilled one with a blurred volley.

The odds worsened with each moment. A veritable sea of kulkaris rushed toward the soldiers and their young charge. Makar grabbed Sabia's hand and dragged her backward. He held up his staff and channeled a swirling column of energy for several moments. There was a brief flash and the other soldiers appeared next to him, startled, but out of danger for a handful of heartbeats. He raised his staff again, and appeared to hold it against a swirling vortex of energy. Halwyn, lost in his bloodlust, charged back into the fray, only to be jerked back by Shirin's powerful arm. Makar's spell went off, and the world went dark.

Makar heard waves crashing in the distance. The world brightened and he saw Valkyon Federation flags at an encampment. He smiled with satisfaction. They were safe. Viator burst into a cheerful dance. Shirin looked Makar over for a long moment, then gave him a very precise salute.

"You did it," she said proudly. "You got us out of there!"

Makar shook his head. Arrogance was not a strength. "I am but an instrument of the gods. It was not by my hands we were saved, but by my faith."

Viator patted the giant on the shoulder. "Your quick thinking didn't hurt either." He laughed and began dancing with the very confused Sabia.
"We still have a mission to complete," Shirin said. "Makar, see if the quartermaster has scrolls that can get us back to Velika. I don't feel like walking all the way back to Tulufan."

The baraka nodded and smiled. "As ordered, Decurion."

Viator disengaged from Sabia with a terrific flourish. "Then it's firewine for all my friends,” he looked directly at Makar, “even the priest!" The rest of the squad laughed. Makar was inordinately pleased until Viator added, “New guy pays the tab!” Shirin and the others cheered while Makar smiled. Makar didn’t mind; he’d finally earned his place.

Vanguards Lead the Way

Dark forces surround Castanica, from the fiery aberrations in Fyrmount, the cruel and plotting nagas on Serpentis Isle, to the gulas who'll sell you into slavery or eat you—cooked, if you're lucky. To stave off these foes, the vanguards patrol the jungles and caldera of Ostgarath. Drusus, a veteran warrior, explains the way of things to a new recruit...

“Sit down, lad. We've a few minutes before Varinia gets back. Welcome to the 3rd Vanguards! I'll wager walking circles around Ostgarath's sweltering jungles wasn't what you pictured when they urged you to volunteer. Hah! They get everyone the same way. You either sweat your horns off here or freeze them off around Kaiator.



“Don't worry. We'll train you up proper. Varinia and I have been stationed here for two years now. She likes it because we can make it back to most of the festivals in Castanica and she can see her husband and daughter. Me? I like walking my own streets when we're on leave rather than Velika's dull alleys and lanes or Kaiator's grim...everything. Although, we went to Chebika one time—craziest holiday ever. I watched an elin archer drink an amani berserker under the table. Lost a whole pile of gold on that wager…

“A lot of castanics end up in the vanguards, so you’re in good company. Makes sense. We bore easily, hate garrison duty, and love a good fight as much as any aman. Our home's threatened on all sides, and there's no better defense than a good offense. I read that on a baraka scroll once, so it's got to be true.

“Anyway, we've always been fighters, but with the federation, it's different. We've got the resources to not only strike back when hurt, but work to prevent attacks. If it was just up to the shadow council in Castanica...

“Besides, it's not like it's dull duty. We've seen it all and survived to tell the tales. Probably why the centurion sent you to us. We patrol a different parcel each week. We walked the Jagged Coast last week, which is never dull duty. The Red Lash pirates control a great grotto and they've built themselves up a massive nest of vipers. We try to kill a few of their veterans—the better to scare off their newest recruits—whenever we're nearby.



“How? Oh, straight forward really. Varinia's an archer and I'm a warrior. I leap into the heart of things, slash and strike until everyone's right furious with me—and then Varinia sends them all back to the dream in a storm of magical bolts. We're a good pair. You're a sorcerer, but you'll probably pair up with a warrior and fight much the same. The blade draws the hate and the might does 'em right. It helps to be agile, and we are, but timing's the key. You've got to trust your partner, more than any two lovers ever will. I keep Varinia alive and she makes sure ol' Drusus here gets back to wenching and drinking.

“There's beasts all around, and, yes, most of them want to eat your face off, but it's the thinking predators you've got to fear. Orcans won't win awards for poetry, but they make fire bombs that'll cook you quick enough.

Gulas are corpulent brutes, but they hit hard and are damned tough to kill. They're straight-forward, though. They want treasures or food. Nagas, on the other hand, want the same things, or they want to sacrifice you on some altar to Dagon. Hmph. Gods are bad news, every castanic knows that, and dead gods doubly so.

“Nagas mostly stick to Serpentis Isle, though the Kazuur Syndicate hires a few clawriders to smash captured ships to kindling. You'll want to avoid those. Blasted armored crabs the size of a tavern!

Still, nagas are predictability incarnate compared to those blasted arachnens. You've seen the drones all around here, but wait until you fight an ovolith. Spit poison, spew toxic clouds, stab at you with their legs, leaping attacks, or they'll just roll over you like a baker with a wad of dough. Can't ever tell what they'll do next. When we fight ovoliths, that's on Varinia. I'm too busy not dying to worry about actually killing those wretches.



“It's important work. Lots of walking, loads of tedium, and, occasionally, terrifying minutes that never seem to end. Still, if you can prove yourself out here, your next post will be anywhere you want. A vanguard can get things done—and castanics? Hah! We get it done with style."

This is part three of our series on local heroes, where we highlight the extraordinary actions of everyday citizens of the federation. Tyri and Kiro came to our attention after they killed a rampaging fangspawn near Pora Elinu—no mean feat considering it was easily ten times their size. This reporter traveled to Poporia to meet these soldiers, and get a sense of their daily lives.

“Oh! An interview? How thrilling! Well, I'm Tyri and this ferrety fellow with the greatsword is Kiro. And you're with the Velika Guardian? Easily our second favorite paper.” After blurting all of that in a single breath, Tyri pauses to refill her lungs.

Kiro looks much like any other popori. A dark furred mask frames his eyes, which follow my movements. It's not entirely clear how he manages to move with that greatsword strapped to his back. I ask how long they've worked together.

“Seems like forever.” Kiro doesn't blurt like Tyri, but still talks faster than my quill can scribble. “Got paired up originally to fight a mercenary incursion. Stayed together because we fight well. I slash and slice, then leap out of the way in the nick of time.”

“Then I blast them!” Tyri laughs, wiggling her fingers at me. “Works every time. Nature prevails.”

“Nature prevails,” Kiro agrees.

As sorcerers and slayers are both known for inflicting massive casualties on the enemy, I asked about the differences in their styles and tactics, and whether that helped or hindered them in a battle.

“Definitely helps,” Tyri insists. “We're both fast on our feet, which means monsters run themselves ragged trying to hurt us.”

“We're at our best when we can clump our foes together.” Kiro snickers. “One on one fights are fine—for berserkers. We win by attrition.”

“The more the deadlier.” Tyri giggles.

What about staying alive? How do these soldiers live to fight another day?

“Don't get hit,” Tyri says. Her tone suggests that she thinks she's talking to a rather dim candle.

“Keep moving. Dodge, jump back, slow them down—whatever it takes, but don't get hit.” Kiro grabs a pawful of his jerkin. “This isn't good for stopping much. Let the berserkers and lancers stand their ground; our fights are mobile.”

“Slow of feet always gets beat.” Tyri nods.

While their fame came from killing a fangspawn, Poporia's not overrun with such aberrations, nor is it all pretty flowers and cuddly creatures. Castles full of vampir nobles and eerie witches peer over the valleys. Not everyone in the federation’s comfortable with either group. The Eldritch Academy enjoys a first-class reputation as a school of magic, but what if the witches turned against Poporia? What if the vampirs wanted to secede? Pora Elinu’s renowned for its beauty, not its defensibility. With that in mind, I ask what sort of dangers threaten Poporia on a daily basis.

“Unemployed mercenaries. They think they can take what they want from us, that our size means we're not a threat.” Kiro's greatsword appears in his hand and he slashes the air on either side of me before I can blink. “Not true. Nature's claws cut deep.”

“Sometimes it's creatures out of balance. Too many predators, not enough prey. If a sabertooth gets hungry, it's going to eat something.” Tyri points off in the distance. “Fimbrilisks are the worst though. They're cruel and cunning. Whenever they grow too bold, we muster a force to make sure they'll never grow old.”

And the fangspawns? “Tough, deadly fighters. They're not part of nature, so when they encroach, we kill them.” Kiro chuckles. “Of course, it’s better to fight smarter, not harder. I backed ours over a cliff edge. While it snarled and growled on its back, Tyri blasted it.”

I ask how the fangspawn finally died.

“Acute sword poisoning.” Kiro winks.

“Nature isn't always cuddly,” Tyri reminds me. “Predators and prey each have their place. Our job is to protect that balance.”

Their job as soldiers or as guardians of nature?

“Yes.” Tyri shrugs.

“There's a difference?” Kiro asks.

In my travels, I've found Poporia to be an intriguing mix of beauty and danger, but as I reflect upon these soldiers' thoughts, I admit they're right. Life and death, joy and sadness, hardship and triumph are all aspects of the dream. These soldiers, and the thousands like them, fight so that we might experience them in full.

I ask if they have any final thoughts.

Kiro's advice is pragmatic. “Don't be greedy.”

Tyri's eyes flash as she conjures up a ball of blue flame. “Nature never forgets.”

Daarran, Aman Lancer

Daarran. Day 37 of detached assignment.
(Daarran is a veteran of the Argon Front, tasked with integrating lancers into special units across the Federation.)

I begin. Today we run, despite their weakness. Never has there been a sorrier bunch of keeners than these four. I'm their pivot, all around see my altitude, and yet they can't hold a simple line against a single charging kumas. If even one falls out or drops a lance tip into the dirt, I will drag them by the neck until the rest understand why there is no time limit on war. There is survival, and there is slavery. Middle ground is for poets and politicians. Soldiers serve...or dI continue. Furon has disappointed the squad yet again. "Dust in his fur?" I don't think so. Five leagues in he casts aside the shield to examine a crystal formation, then collects insects with a net. A net! Held upside-down over a cliff for discipline, he remarks on how pretty the clouds are on the rocks below. For this, I left the glacier?

The temptation to let go was strong, but no amount of gratification would be worth explaining his "absence" to Sersine. That Elf's eyes can freeze a campfire at a hundred paces. So calm on the outside, but all who remember her casting spell after spell into the oncoming Argon tide--blood flowing down her face all the while--know better. Even today's obligatory duel with that insufferable Castanic Shiriya--this time because she does not care for the curve of my horns--will be easier than explaining to the commander why I came back with fewer soldiers than I should have.

I ponder. Kubel walks among us. Sersine hides her excitement after meeting him, but her not-smile is happier than I've seen in years. Rumor says he seeks a cadre for an "expedition." - One that will challenge true soldiers and forge legends from common men. We who serve are lifted by his example--I will listen. Perhaps there is finally something worth doing on this continent.

Day in the life - Uchamba

Today, we delve even further into the culture of these clever creatures with a day in the life of Uchamba, the leader of the wendigo clan that guards the Thysrivvar -- known to the mortal races of TERA as the Azurice Shrine.

Unlike the wendigos of many other MMORPGs, which are often portrayed as yetis or other abominable-snowman-esque creatures, TERA's wendigos are massive, crystalline creatures with a penchant for equally massive, crystalline weapons. Also unlike their traditionally savage and dim-witted counterparts, these wendigos seem to be presented as clever, honorable, and brave creatures fighting not for pleasure, but for their very survival. For the full story of Uchamba and his clan's struggle for survival against their mortal enemies, the giants, click on past the cut.


The wendigos are one of the oldest races of TERA. Ages ago they ruled the frosted landscapes of Westonia and Lorcada, secure in their primacy. But now the world has changed and these massive, crystalline creatures struggle to change with it. Follow the thoughts of Uchamba, one of the last chieftains, as he tries to find a new hope for his people.

They don't hear my songs. The pink-skins, the tiny ones, the horned ones-even the giant-kin-my song can't reach them. They hear the growl of stone, the simple words, but miss the resonance, the harmony we wendigos make. My words are simple, but honest. We are strong and proud. There's no need for deceit-such lies are impossible if you can hear our songs.

I am Uchamba, leader of our clan and guardian of the Thysrivvar. In your words, it is called the Azurice Shrine, but that is such an inadequate description. Thysrivvar sings to all wendigos, it heals our spirits, and fuses our shards. It is our tie to the ancient dream of the mother and father creators. It is our legacy and our last hope for our future.

Today we fight. I do not wish it, we do not want it, but our survival depends on it, so today we fight.

We are strong. Our magic is ancient and primal, enough to crush foes with a single blow. But the tiny fire-skins come to steal our shards. They do not care that we need them to survive, only that they can exchange our shards for slivers of gold, so today we fight.

We are wise. We have protected these snowy lands for as long as our tales go back. Even in the bleakness of winter, life thrives and must be protected. The dracoloths know nothing of balance. Their hunger consumes them and they destroy all they encounter. Our lives are tied to the land, its heart is our own, so today we fight.

We are brave. Our ancient enemies, the giants, challenged the very gods of our world for supremacy. Their technology built an empire that has never been matched. The gods unleashed their wrath upon the giants in the Day of Fire, but we suffered as well. The ice melted, the crystals shattered, and countless wendigos' songs were silenced. Few giants survived. Those that still wander are bitter and angry. Their power isn't diminished, but they are isolated. Now they seek to punish all for their folly. They would destroy us all and steal Thysrivvar for their own dark ends, so today we fight.



I am Uchamba, leader of our clan and guardian of Thysrivvar. If I cannot find someone to listen to my words and hear my song, we will be lost. There will be no new songs for my people, only bleak oblivion.

My people go out today, but even if we are victorious, we will be defeated. Our numbers are too few. We have no allies; only enemies, only intruders who come for our shards. My people are angry, but their songs speak of fear. I have no answers. What comfort is there when each triumph is a terrible loss? They ask for answers, but I have none.

So, today we fight.

A day in the life of Gernakul the Dracoloth

This time around we're treated to the tale of Volorius, a devan soldier who makes a pact with an unlikely ally named Gernakul. Gernakul is a dracoloth, and as you can tell from the screenshot above, he's not to be messed with. Aside from decimating a camp of heavily armored soldiers and snacking on a overconfident sorcerer, Gernakul is possessed of a treacherous and nasty disposition, as Volorious soon learns. Read about his fate after the cut.




There are many reasons to fear dracoloths.Their size, strength and fiery breath (inherited from their draconic relatives) are reason enough. But dracoloths are callous, capricious and egotistical in the extreme besides. And they're very, very intelligent.

"A worthwhile partnership," Volorius mused as Gernakul tore a shank from a smoking baraka corpse.

Gernakul chuckled, foot-long teeth gleaming. "If you mean that you do manual labor while I sit back and eat, I have to agree!"

Volorius smiled humorlessly. "Good that you see it that way," he muttered, returning his staff to its harness and hefting a pick axe. "I'd heard your kind could be..." Lazy, he thought. "...challenging partners," he finished.

Gernakul cocked his head at the devan soldier. "Aaah, devan tact," he purred. Gernakul scooped up a leg with his tongue and noisily crunched the bone.

Actually, Volorius's commander in the Atel Akaadhad called dracoloths "shiftless creatures who'd rather intimidate the weak than fight strong opponents." From the older soldiers in his company, he learned the winged creatures were cocky even beyond their considerable strength, interested in nothing but the greatest reward for the least effort.

"Devans are always polite to faithful hirelings who don't intrude in our business," Volorius retorted as he drove the heavy pick into the hard-trodded ground.

Gernakul's eyes widened, and he raised his head proudly on his sinuous neck. "How hurtful," he replied. "To suggest I'd be interested in your grubbing around in the dirt!" The great beast laughed, smoke trickling from its nostrils.

A risky plan, relying on a dracoloth, but the potential rewards were great. The artifact he sought, a lost devan weapon from the Divine War,had been far behind enemy lines under a federation base. The commander had dropped his plan to extract it, but allowed Volorius to pursue his own.

And so Volorius had found Gernakul, paid him half a princely sum up front, and flown with him to the camp. The dracoloth's assault had been impressive; he dove from the sky and slammed into the camp's center like an immense fist, scattering federation soldiers like dolls. As Volorius killed those who fled, Gernakul lashed his tail about, impaling an officer and flinging him into a tree to hang like gory fruit.

A castanic Mysterium sorcerer gestured, and a fireblast burst across Gernakul's back. For a terrible moment, there was silence. The castanic smiled. Then a rush of wind cleared the smoke away as Gernakul vaulted his great bulk into the air, opened his jaws and roared out a roiling torrent of flame. When the flames died, there was nothing left of the sorcerer.



Gernakul had fallen on the remaining troops as they turned to run, bowling them over and then dismembering them, spearing one on his wing claw while he tossed another into the air on his horns. He had caught the soldier as he fell and bitten him in two with a single crunch. The battle had ended in moments.

"As your faithful hireling," Gernakul suggested, "I should stay alert for returning scouts or patrols!" Volorius nodded curtly and continued digging. Gernakul stalked away through the federation tents, still crunching away on the baraka's leg bone.

Volorius was surprised at the beast's tactics. Gernakul had stood watch each night on the way here, and now he'd thought of nearby troops. But the fighting was done, and Volorius had only dirt between him and glory. Once the dracoloth's footsteps faded, Volorius checked his pockets. A powerful poison bomb was ready at his hip, and a teleport scroll to bring him instantly home was in his jacket. Volorius smiled. Maybe the dracoloth was really loyal. Maybe it was just waiting its chance. No matter; best not to make assumptions.

Volorius had just uncovered the artifact when the tent next to him erupted. A horrified shriek mingled with a dracoloth's roar and the snapping of great jaws. The tent ripped loose as the dracoloth shrugged its way through. Gernakul leaned close to Volorius and spread his lips.

"'Oo I 'avesum'in' b'twn my t'th?" the monster gurgled. Between immense teeth, a pair of horrified popori eyes looked out for a moment. Gernakul chuckled, then his great gullet moved and the eyes mercifully disappeared.

"So, this is the object of all my hard work, is it?" he said, inclining his head towards the artifact.

Volorius gritted his teeth before he spoke. "Yes. Now, if you're done playing, do a final perimeter sweep while I prepare it for transport so we can leave." Though of course I won't leave the same way you do, he thought.

Gernakul raised his head reflectively. "Hmm. No, I think not," he drawled.

Volorius's breath caught in his throat. "I can't pay you the rest of your fee until we return," the devan said, as calmly as possible.

"Oh, but you can," the dracoloth growled. Volorius's hand flew to his pocket for the teleport scroll. Even as his fingers slid inside, a huge foot slammed down on him, driving him into the torn earth and pinning his arm.

Despite the pain in his spine, Volorius turned his head to face the dracoloth's huge, staring eye. "You idiotic beast!" he hissed, ribs grinding, "The artifact's not for you! You can't possibly-"

"You dare tell me my interests?" The dracoloth roared. "You call me a beast?" With a flick, his great horn tore open the pocket with the scroll. "I don't need the trappings of your feeble civilization, so you assume I can't read?"

Burning slaver spattered Volorius's skin. Those nights you stood watch, he thought. He felt the blood rush from his face, scrabbled desperately with his free hand for the grenade, saw the great wing claw tear away his arm.

Over the roar in his head,Volorius murmured, "Y-you said you didn't want..."

In his ear, Gernakul purred "I never said I didn't want it-just that I didn't want to dig for it!"

Volorius rode a wave of laughter into blackness.

Remember in Vein

TERA vulcans are quite a bit different from the vulcans familiar to most sci-fi and fantasy fans, though the former do have pointy (if rather large) ears. Head past the cut to read the lore and get a glimpse of our exclusive screenshots.




The vulcans are demonic soldiers from the mists of TERA's past. Today, only a few remember how to summon or control them. Follow a vulcan juggernaut as it guards the Timeless Woods on behalf of its Lokian masters, and you'll see how fragile the ability to remember can be.

I trudge. Back and forth, head down, horns in front. Trees, road, rocks. Always the same.

The cruel ones put me here. They tell me when to walk, when to stop. They smell... fresh. Sometimes I want to crush them. Consume them. But it's not allowed.

So I trudge. Like I did yesterday. And the day before? I try to remember, but... it's like trying to stare through smoke.

Two figures on the road ahead. One with armor and a pointed stick. The other in fancy clothes. Not cruel ones. They smell sharper. Blood on them. Some of it theirs, some of it from the cruel ones.

They run at me, and the pointed stick stabs my side. Arrrgggh! A swipe from my arm, and the armored one goes flying. Then the fancy-clothes one tries to light me on fire.

As I burn, my veins run red, and I start to remember.

I remember why they call me juggernaut... because I crush the puny under my iron-shod feet! One stomp, and the armored one goes careening-and he won't get up so fast this time. A century ago, I razed the entire city of Bel-Shaddar! Two mortals is hardly a challenge!

You cast flame at me, sorcerer? I, who once incinerated the mighty towers of the giants, who left scorched bootprints from ocean to ocean? I laugh at your lukewarm magic, then hurl a fireball of my own to show you how it's done. That's right, mortal. Those robes don't look so fancy when they're on fire, do they?

The lancer is back, cowering behind his shield. You want my attention? Fine, human, you shall have it. I've faced your people before. During the massacre at Theleb, the stronger humans used to push the weaker ones in front of me to slow me down. Futile!

A charge from the lancer, but I leap to the side. Yes, human, I'm faster than I look. And that leap takes me closer to your burned-but-breathing Sorcerer friend. A slam of my fist, and he breathes no more. I learned dark wizardry at the feet of the gods, mortal -- did you really think your spells could hurt me?

The lancer charges again, and his lance burrows deep into my belly. This ends now! I grab his lance, yank it out of the wound, break it in half, and cast it aside. Then I grab the human and do the same: break in half, cast aside.

No one left to fight! Perhaps those cruel ones, those Lokians, will provide a worthy challenge. I start striding toward them...

...and again, I trudge. Back and forth, head down, horns in front. Trees, roads, rocks. A broken, pointed stick on the ground. Is that new?

A day in the life of a Naga Clawrider

Today, we'll give one of those baddies a bit more character with a tale spun by one of TERA's own writers. This exclusive day-in-the-life story is told from the perspective of Silvatuhr, a typical Naga Clawrider -- one of the elite Naga soldiers who do battle from the backs of massive crabs. Silvatuhr explains the extreme risks he took with his own offsprings' lives in order to become a Clawrider, and then he cavalierly outlines the penalties he doles out to those who disrespect his race and his order.

Don't take our word for it -- skip past the cut and let Silvatuhr himself fill you in.




Naga clawriders are deadly foes. Take an elite naga trooper, already twelve feet of armored muscle and serpentine grace, and mount him on a crab the size of a tank, and as strong. The clawrider's connection to his mount is mysterious, but so powerful that the rider will die if his mount does. As to how they're connected, nobody who knows the secret has lived to tell it.

Note: Baraka scholars struggled with the naga language for decades before finally concluding that nagas just sound like they're from TERA's equivalent of New Jersey.

It's a great honor to ride crabs. You work for it, you know? When you start out, you're just a spearwyrm or a guard. Then if you're lucky and smart, and you work hard -- you work very hard, you know -- because you have to earn it. I worked for 15 years to become a rider. You have to study and practice a lot. Can't make any mistakes, yeah? One mistake and someone loses a head. Squish! It's not pretty.

We do assaults and glitzy things like that, but most of the time we're there to stop fights before we start. A clawcrab is really intimidating. Any three of us can cordon and clear a small town in minutes, even towns with garrisons. Most soldiers just drop their weapons when my claws are snapping in their face! But it's a real job driving crowds of people out of a town and off to the slave pens. Real slow and tedious.



But what do you get for all this hard work? Respect. I get respect from my broodkin, the commanders, the priests... everybody knows I worked hard to be where I am. And that's what's really important to me. I wanted respect and now I have it. Everybody knows I'm the best at what I do.

You know what they had us do as a test when I qualified to ride? They took our mates' eggs and put them on the ground and made us pick them up and put them in a nest. And they kept our mates there and made them watch. Talk about pressure!

Some of the riders quit on the spot. Not me -- I climbed on and went to it. The first five were easy. I used the mandibles. The last three were hard. They made me use the big claws. The rider before me failed. I felt for him, I really did. His mate was furious at him.

Not me. Slow and careful, and I didn't even break the skin of a single egg. You learn the light touch so that when you need it, you can use the heavy touch.

And we have that, let me tell you! Funny story -- these gula pirates we were trading slaves with, they came into the harbor like always, right? Most gulas, they're fine. The Kazuur Syndicate knows we have a system, and they stick to it. But this captain, he was angry because the Commander docked him for bringing in a bad load. Really sickly lot -- mangy poporis, elves so twiggy you could light them on fire... this one amani, his horn literally fell off when they tossed him on the dock!

So this gula got real angry. He actually threatened the commander! I couldn't believe it! Well, the commander stayed as smooth as freshly molted skin. He invited the gula crew to a roast on the beach. Gulas, they don't know how to say no to food, you know?

The gulas showed up on the beach, the captain acting like he was finally going to get his. So the commander made this nice speech about how strong people have to stick together and stick it to the weak ones, and how showing your strength is good because it shows people you have pride. The gula captain nodded along, thinking he was getting the royal treatment... until the commander lit the bonfire.

That was the signal, see? Me and the rest of the riders, we were waiting in the bay under the ship, just close enough to see the light. When the fire lit, we swam up under and took it apart. I mean all the way! The other riders started sawing through the hull. I climbed up on deck and started snapping the masts. Gulas were howling and jumping for the water. I snapped two or three of them in two before they even hit it.

After I finished the masts, I dug into the... whatever those cabins are called, at the back of the ship? Anyway, I pulled out somebody who'd been smart enough to stay hidden and snipped him up into a few pieces. Then, real carefully, I snipped off his head and threw it at the gula captain on shore.

Now remember, I was out in the bay, and the ship was on fire and sinking. And I used the big claw.

The head landed in his lap. Light touch, heavy touch. See?

Today, Massively brings you the latest Day in the Life TERA lore snippet, and with it a deeper look into the world of one Bardragul.

Bardragul, in addition to being grossly overweight and in need of a toothbrush, is also fond of trading slaves and playing with his food (which is usually sentient, alive, and aware of the fact that it's about to be a Gula's next meal).

Head past the cut for more on this Red Lash brigand and the grotesque family of TERA AI monsters to which he belongs.


Gluttonous and cruel, Gulas are infamous for their criminal networks and their hunger for the flesh of sentients. Unlike Kumases, Gulas aren't driven merely to consume, but to seek out specific tastes and experiences. It's more than a passion-it's a compulsion. For those in the grip of such an obsession, cost is no object and obstacles are just bumps on the road to satisfaction. For Bardragul, a Gula at the peak of his power, nothing gets in the way of the perfect meal-not even death.

A dull roar filled the stone caverns. A ship was returning. Bardragul chuckled, a resonant sound, full of contentment, for he knew the ship contained two things he desired above all else-piles of gold and captured slaves. Though not a formal member of the Red Lash Brotherhood, Bardragul was embedded in their power structure. Ships cost a fortune to operate, and crews mutinied if not fed well, plied with grog, and paid on time. Transporting slaves to the Kazuur Syndicate on Mistmoor Island cost even more. Bardragul's gold and vast underworld contacts made it all possible.Even pirates needed a banker.

Bardragul's massive claw snapped idly as he considered his lunch. Yesterday's centaur hadn't really been all that different from horse-even the arms. And horse was an uninspired choice, no matter how well it was seasoned. Eating poporis certainly seemed to please the orcan pirates, but Bardragul rarely found them to be worth the effort. He needed something exciting today...something spicy.

A surly orcan bosun stomped into his chamber to announce the ship's arrival. Bardragul growled and raised his snapping claw. The bosun took the hint and fled. Nobody wanted to join the Gula for lunch.



Most of the slaves would have to go to Bardragul's debtors. The Kazuur Syndicate spent a great deal of power and money on his behalf. The results weren't perfect, but Bardragul had no right to complain. When his competitors were roasting over a hearth, he'd be the one turning the spit, for centuries to come. He had time now, time to sample everything. "I keep my palate," he'd admonished the arcanists before they worked their tenebrous magic. His mortal life, and a small mountain of gold, had been a small price to pay for eternal life.

Small price indeed. His sense of smell and taste were unimpaired, and he had a very nice new claw to replace his hand. It made dealing with debtors much easier, and gave him some credibility with the pirates. No one was anxious to have their hand-or worse-snapped off.

High elf? Bardragul gave the idea some thought. The flesh of the desert dwellers was delicious, though the males were decidedly dry. His mouth didn't water-a sure sign that he wasn't impressed.

A pair of nagas slithered into his chamber, leading a string of slaves, and dragging an Aman. Bardragul glared pointedly at one naga, who blanched.

"He isss unharmed," the naga hissed. "Mossstly. He fought hard."

Bardragul nodded. Amani were notoriously difficult to enslave, but commanded staggeringly high prices. If their will was broken, they could do the work of ten humans; if it couldn't, there was always the arena.... This string of prisoners was his cut of the pirates' latest venture. The undead moneylender ran his eye over each of them. Fine specimens all. Mostly humans, Bardragul observed glumly. They were adequate slaves, but it took a talented chef to make them into something magnificent.



He got to the end and leaned over the lone castanic. There were a few bruises and a jagged cut along one cheek, but he wasn't permanently damaged. The castanic even managed a smirk. Bardragul chuckled. He liked slaves with spirit and castanics were certainly spicy.

"Take the humans and the aman to our syndicate allies. This clears my debt to them." Bardragul's claw snapped the chain binding the castanic to the others.

"What about me?" the fiery-skinned fighter demanded.

Bardragul laughed. "Let us discuss the matter over lunch." He turned to the nagas. "Take him to the galley."

The castanic's howls and shrieks echoed throughout the grotto as the nagas dragged him away. Bardragul sighed happily. Another culinary experience awaited him, a feast of flesh. He had time to savor it; he had all the time in the world.

Sooner or later, everyone has a first day, be it at school or on the job. Thuul, a baraka archer, meets his new regiment and guards Kaiator as he fights off the argon invaders. As with many first days, Thuul learns a lesson -- but he teaches one as well.

Thuul smoothed the feathers on each arrow as gently as he could, a task made more difficult by his massive, battle-hardened fingers. Those fingers were practiced enough to not require Thuul's eyes, which instead gazed down at the wreckage of the last day's battle. And the last week's battles, and the last year's battles. The federation can't seem to seize the valley. At least the argons can't seize it either.

A far more graceful hand patted him on the shoulder. "Leave the arrows for now, Thuul. You're supposed to be off duty, and I want you rested for night watch." Thuul'scastanic sergeant grabbed an arrow from the ledge, smoothed out the fletching with three quick swipes of his fingers. "You're no good to me drowsy. Besides, barracks time will let you get to know your new comrades."

"A salient point, sergeant. But...have you read Bruhn?"

The castanic raised an eyebrow halfway up his head and broke out into a grin. "Maybe things are different on the home front, but we don't have a lot of libraries up here..."

"You'd like him, sir. Bruhn was a hero to my people in the early days--after the giants were gone and we baraka had to make our own way in the world. He was no librarian, but a peerless archer. Bruhn was one of the first baraka to demonstrate that we could be more than scribes and bookkeepers."

"Fascinating," the sergeant said, failing to suppress an eyeroll. "And this Bruhn told you that fiddling with arrows was more important than making friends in your new outfit?"

"Not in so many words, sergeant. But the Third Tenet of Bruhn says simply: 'You cannot improve the arrow once it leaves the bow.'"

"That's either deeply profound or completely wine-addled, Thuul. How many tenets does this Bruhn have?"

"Five, sir. Shall I..."

The castanic raised both palms in front of him. "No, no, that's all right. Ten more minutes out here, and then I'm ordering you to make some friends in the barracks. We might not be as scholarly as you, but when you're stationed on the wall, you tolerate your mates or you go crazy."

"Yes, sergeant."



Ten minutes later, Thuul descended the battlements to the barracks. And ten minutes after that, he was lumbering back up the stairs again, responding to the bugles that warned of imminent attack. A quick glance from the crenellated wall showed argons snaking through trenches and craters on the valley floor, their sleek bodies emitting an ominous cyan glow. I'm learning to hate that color, but it certainly makes archery in the twilight easier. Further down the line, the sergeant shouted "Fire at will, mates! Stay in our arc!" Thuul fired arrow after arrow, picking off argons one by one as they strode closer.

A voice, amid the tumult: "You're shooting quickly, Thuul."

"Is our arrow supply limited, sergeant?" Thuul asked out of the left corner of his mouth, his right cheek held immobile by the bowstring and arrow.

"Lots of arrows, lots of bad guys. Just don't waste 'em, eh?"

"Fourth Tenet of Bruhn, sir. 'The arrow left in its quiver never hits.'"

Thuul braced himself for an imprecation from the sergeant-castanics have an impressive set of vulgarities-but he was running down the line, pointing at something below. "War machines, mates. Get them before they're in range!"

Thuul's bow tilted skyward, and each arrow made a graceful parabola before falling amid the armored monstrosities crawling toward the ramparts. These arrows are no good against such a machine. But even argon machines must have crews...I hope.

The war machines paused in the center of the valley.

We didn't hit every crew member on every machine in the same moment, so why are they all pausing...? Thuul ducked behind the wall just before flames crashed against the battlements like waves from an angry sea. Third Tenet of Bruhn, Thuul thought. An arrow makes a poor shield.

Thuul's comrades weren't all so fortunate. Some simply fell backward, their bodies a charred ruin. Others writhed on the flat top of the wall, screaming for healers.

First Tenet of Bruhn: The archer's eye is on the target. Thuul rose from the crouch and kept shooting, slower now, charging each arrow with magical force, then releasing it with the gentlest twitch of his fingers. Each arrow made a crimson arc as it sped toward the war machines. Through the shadows in the valley, Thuul could see movement among them, but he couldn't tell what kind of movement.

The sergeant's voice again: "That's it, Thuul! Make every shot count-those things take a long time to reload!" Then he, too, was shouting for healers to tend to the burned archers.

Silver-blue forms-running on all fours, I think-sprinted from deep in the valley straight toward the battlement, moving faster than the swiftest horse. "Runners, sir!" Thuul shouted out of the corner of his mouth as he took aim at an empty spot in front of him. Second Tenet of Bruhn: Aim not at the target, but aim at where the target will be.

The sergeant was back at Thuul's side, shooting his own bow at the argon sprinters. After a moment's shooting, both Thuul and the sergeant found themselves grinning. When hit, each argon would fall in a clumsy tangle of limbs, often knocking over one or two other argons. "Keep it up, mate," the sergeant said. "Keep the last few off the wall!"

Casting aside his empty quiver for a spare, Thuul peered into the gloaming, desperately willing his eyes to pierce the darkness. Then his bow snapped upward and he barked at the sergeant: "One breath, then shoot at the war machines-sir."

"But it's too dark..."

Thuul charged up an arrow with all the magic he could muster, then sent a glowing shaft as deep into the valley as he could. Thuul hit nothing, but the glow from the arrow's magic revealed metallic forms crawling across the surface of the the war machines. The sergeant's arrows started picking them off a moment later. The duo worked like clockwork until the argons retreated later that night, with Thuul's arrows casting enough light for the sergeant's arrows to hit.

"Good thinking, rookie."

"Fifth Tenet of Bruhn, sir. 'The good archer hits the target, but the great archer knows what target to hit.' Or what target to miss, in this case."

The sergeant laughed as the two started preparing arrows for the next attack. "You might need to write a sixth tenet someday, Thuul."

Today, we have a new treat for all of you anticipating TERA's Western release: a bit of lore outlining a day in the life of the leader of the fimbrilisks -- and yet another BAM -- Ebonathis.

"What the blazes is a fimbrilisk," you ask? We'd love to tell you, but they seem to be rather enigmatic creatures for the time being. What we do know is that they are large (read: holysweethellthatthingisbig), scaly creatures vaguely resembling balrogs with an affinity -- and appetite -- for arcane energy. Today's piece of lore puts you into the shoes... hooves... scaly-talon-foot-appendage-things of the leader of this formidable race for a rousing good time of devouring arcane energy like it's candy. So jump over the cut for the full story.


Territorial by nature, fimbrilisks like both open spaces to see possible rivals and the security of walls to help keep them at bay. They gravitate to ruins, cliffsides, and hilltops. Ebonathis secured his position as alpha fimbilisk many years ago, winning the hilltop ruins in Popolion as his home before the vampirs had even finished fleeing the crumbling manor. Fimbrilisks can taste arcane energy, and Ebonathis enjoys the delicious residual energy left by the vampir nobles, though not as much as he enjoys an unwary sorcerer.

Ebonathis paced back and forth across the gouts of arcane energy bubbling up from the ground. From his hard-won hilltop domain, he watched the other fimbrilisks duplicate his movements within the confines of their smaller, lesser territorial boundaries. He ignored their jealous imitation and stepped slowly and deliberately, letting the arcane energy cascade along his shoulders, back, haunches, and tail. The tingling energy satisfied and invigorated every inch of his scaly armored body. Well, almost every inch-his stomach rumbled a protest.

The taste of arcane energy drifted up the knoll at the same moment he heard a far-off battle cry. A challenge! Ebonathis instinctively tensed for battle, then hesitated when no rival attacked. Someone else's problem then. Any competition between other fimbrilisks for position was of no consequence; Ebonathis had already won the only location worth competing for.

But that arcane taste... This battle wasn't between two fimbrilisks; this battle meant a wandering morsel had come to the knoll. Just the thing for his petulant stomach!

Ebonathis had just decided to step down from the hilltop and claim whatever morsel had wandered into the knoll when he heard the death throes of the battling fimbrilisk downhill. His brother's quick demise meant this was no easy meal. A sizable group of two-legged morsels or one very powerful morsel approached. Either way, better to let them fight their way up the hill, tiring themselves along the way.



Returning to his repose, Ebonathis opened his mouth and tried to drink in the blue-tinged energy, but knowing the morsel was out there, found his usual intake unsatisfactory. Ebonathis roared in displeasure at his hunger and at his wait. Patience, he steeled himself as more battle sounds and tastes wafted up from downhill, nearer this time.

He tasted them in the air before they stepped around the crumbling wall before him. Ebonathis stared at them, sizing up the three morsels who had fought their way to the top of the hill. Three on one-he liked those odds. The first was armored almost as much as Ebonathis was. Rival. This one would slow Ebonathis from his feast. The second carried a pair of claws almost as large as Ebonathis's own. Small. Ebonathis paid him no mind. The last, however, crackled with arcane energy. Tasty. This morsel, Ebonathis wanted and he wanted it now.

The rival morsel charged as Ebonathis roared. The small morsel somersaulted behind, but Ebonathis kept his eye on the prize. He had fought arcane morsels before and knew they liked to stand back shooting fire while their brethren bashed and clawed away at Ebonathis. Ebonathis spat fire at the tasty morsel. Two quick slashes of his front claws knocked the rival morsel backwards. Already weakened...perfect. Ebonathis reared back and pounded his chest. He slammed the ground then deliberately stomped forward, his front claws flattening the morsels in huge clouds of dust.

After the bulky beast had gone past, the armored morsel sprang back up and poked Ebonathis in the back, but Ebonathis was more interested in the arcane one lying still on the ground. Such a fragile thing-fragile, yet tasty.

Ebonathis closed his eyes and savored the taste. His stomach now sated with arcane energy, he turned back to his routine pacing. But something niggled at the back of Ebonathis's mind; something he'd left unfinished. A poke in his flank, he turned and remembered the other morsels. Two on one-he liked those odds even more.

Penned by Stacey Jannsen, Day in the Life -- Kumas takes you inside the one-track mind of the titular creature as he attempts to make a meal out of a wayward Popori and finds himself face to face with another (equally hungry) BAM with a similar goal. Head past the cut for more, and don't forget the three new screenshots in our TERA gallery.




Kumases are creatures so defined by hunger that they're not even really alive unless they're hunting or eating-and they eat anything and everything around them, be it plant or animal. Food is the only reason to open one's eyes. Consuming is the only excuse for consciousness, and they rely heavily on their sense of smell to alert them when consciousness is required. Other kumases are either irrelevant or enemies, depending on whether food is present.

The scent struck him first. He could always tell by the scent that food was nearby.
Kiyo opened his eyes. He waited for movement. The land around him was barren by the very nature of being kumas territory, so movement would stand out.

There.

A subtle rustling in the distance, then a flash as it ran closer. Kiyo held his spot. His sheer mass kept him from being quick, and he'd long ago learned that being too eager meant the food got away and the Hunger lasted longer-the deep, permeating need that could not be quelled so much as distracted. He remained still.

The food drew closer. He could see now that it was a Popori. Scarcely more than a bite, perhaps two, but it would do for now.

Kiyo heard another noise. Extra food? If so, the Hunger could be distracted even further. Another kumas seemed to have come out of nowhere and was heading toward the Popori. It was a foolish move -- it would scare off the food -- and a foolhardy one. To menace the prey of another was madness!

The enemy waddled closer to Kiyo's meal. There was a risk that neither of them would get the food now, but if it could be preserved, Kiyo would preserve it -- and Kiyo meant to have it. The food seemed to have not noticed them yet. Kiyo ambled toward the other kumas, maneuvering his body between his prey and his rival. The other kumas pretended not to see Kiyo until pretense was impossible. Then it stopped and bared its teeth.

Kiyo would not be swayed-he had smelled the popori first. He straightened his spine to be as tall as possible, spread his girth to be as wide as possible, and tensed his muscles to be as dense as possible. He rolled his eyes and gnashed his teeth. His enemy did not back down, but mimicked his actions, motion for motion. Another dominant demon, Kiyo realized.

They would have to fight for the food.

Kiyo hurled himself at the enemy, silence no longer a concern. He knocked it flat with the sheer force of his bulk. The enemy pummeled Kiyo with huge hands and feet, then rolled out from beneath him just in time to feel Kiyo's head brought up sharply into its stomach. It howled and backed away.

Kiyo sniffed. He looked around and sniffed again, but the food was gone.

The enemy, was now just another kumas, and suddenly very small. The two growled at each other, then walked their separate ways.

Kiyo found a spot on the barren ground and sat. As his eyes closed, his body slowed down, and the Hunger dulled. All was quiet once again.

He opened himself to the scent. There was no food, but more would come.