Rendering Nirayel-Wayward Fates

by Nathan P. Cardwell

  Less than a week earlier, he had slain a particularly nasty little Goblin in the Candlis Mountains, thereby completing a Quest that many had sought to complete, and failed. It wasn't that the Goblin in question was so tough. The challenge had been in locating the beastie.

  In fact, it had begun to appear hopeless. He had gone to sleep on the last night of the Quest, believing that he had failed. His allotted time had expired and there would be a ceremony of disgrace upon his return. This was nothing of real consequence. Many others before him had endured it.

  In recollection, Borin realized that his success had been pure luck. On the morning he was to begin his journey home, the Gob had literally stumbled right on top of him, just as he was waking up. He had performed no great feat. A simple sword-thrust had dropped the Gob and won the prize, with no more than a simple scratch along his left cheek to indicate that the Quest had been any more troublesome than the lengthy trek there and back again had been. Of course, said trek did include a form of travel he was most adverse to engage in, which is to say, oceanic.

  He looked back to the horizon. Land had been sighted several hours ago. Now he could see the ferryboats on their way to meet the ship. This was necessary, as the vessel was far too large to come any closer then a kilometer off shore. Upon sighting the oncoming boats, he experienced a brief sense of hope. This nightmare voyage would soon be over.

  He had tried desperately to secure a teleport while returning from the mountains to Candle Port. He had hoped to cross paths with a Wizard. Alas, there had been relatively little traffic along the main road. By the time he had reached the foothills leading back to the coast, he would have even settled for one of those disgusting Druids. It was certainly better than purchasing a gate potion. Most alchemy products were outrageous in price. Absolute highway robbery!

  He didn't actually hate Druids, per se. In fact, the ones actually living within the civilized walls of Arbitos weren't quite so bad. Oh, they were street trash to be sure, but they were at least housebroken. It was the rural aspect of both Druids and Rangers he found so distastefully common. They knew absolutely nothing of proper etiquette. It was one thing to sleep out in the open during such times as warfare, or even a Quest, but Rangers and Druids actually appeared to prefer such conditions. Now, how can one be expected to associate with that? he thought, thus evoking the memory of his father's last "chastising" lecture prior to Borin's acceptance of the Talisman Quest.

  ***

  "I'm most concerned about this unhealthy attitude you bear against our neighbors in Spurious Grove. It borders upon open prejudice."

  "Their Grove is less than a day's travel, but do they offer assistance in the protection of their own homes? No, they do not," Borin offered, answering his own question. "Besides, the Grove is nothing more than a glorified exile for what the majority of both High and Wood Elves consider half-breeds. If you wish to point a finger at someone for committing prejudice, I suggest you start with the 'pure' races."

  "Let's not begin casting aspersions on people who aren't even here to defend…"

  "Do you think for one moment I would be welcome in Lavish'nix, Father? No! I would not! Nor was my mother, who had dared to marry a Round-ear. She was shunned to the very day she died, an outcast to an entire race who 'profess' themselves to be above such discrimination."

  The Captain placed a gentle hand on his son's shoulder. "It is not our place to determine the hearts of others, Borin," he began softly. "You may well be correct. Neither High nor Wood Elves have ever availed themselves in matters of direct diplomacy, but only this morning, I received word from the Spurious High Council on the very subject of opening an Ambassadorial estate in Arbitos. I have sent word that we would be honored to open our gates to our esteemed neighbors. With luck, we should have an Emissary in Spurious within a fortnight. And by the end of the month, I hope to have received their Emissary."

  "I wonder what they're wanting from us," returned Borin dryly. "You don't suppose they've run short of people to prance about the wilderness hugging trees, do you?"

  The Captain sighed, shaking his head. "Whatever it is that has prompted this narrow-mindedness has nothing to do Pi'xylem or Lavish'nix. Were I the type to wager, I would bet my pension it has more to do with those snooty friends of yours."

  "They aren't snooty! They just know the dif…"

  "Calm yourself, boy," soothed the Captain in a weary tone. "The world is in turmoil enough. Let us , at least, be at peace."

  "…Yes, milord."

  "Though if it's not asking too much, could you at least refrain from referring to them as tree-huggers?"

  ***

  The Launches were much closer now, but as he went to reach for his duffel bag, an uncontrollable revolt broke out within his gut. He heaved far over the side while several passers-by took several quick steps back. From over his shoulder, he heard a number of sailors break out in riotous laughter.

  "Another Lubber bites the Brine!" yelled a Dwarven crew member. That response caused another group further down to start cackling.

  He wanted to crack a few heads open, just for good measure. He settled for gastric relief.

  Chapter Two-Apple, Oak And Oaf

  After carefully placing the last polished apple atop the pyramid in his display window, the portly Dwarven Baker released his held breath in a quiet sigh of relief. Fresh apples were out of season in Port Dwergus. As such, the baker looked forward to receiving a premium price, perhaps as much as a gold piece for each, and at least a platinum piece for each pie. Of course, the majority of stock would go into pies, but this display would no doubt serve to attract an even greater quantity of prospective clientele.

  As he lightly sprinkled a mixture of honey and water over the perfectly shaped structure, thereby giving the already polished pile a bit of extra shine, a freshly rack-cooled pie floated quietly behind him, then whipped out the front door of his shop.

  A city guard rounded the corner of the adjacent alleyway, and the pie quickly ducked down inside an empty apple barrel. As the guard passed, the pie resumed its stealthy flight until entering the same alley the guard had just exited. It then paused, appearing to peek about the corner as if to confirm its successful escape. It then continued to float along until exiting out the other end of the alleyway, which opened onto the outskirts of town. Upon coming to a large oak tree, it rose and disappeared within the tree's thickly foliated branches.

  Feeling safe in the arms of the old oak, Jesterwolf, or Jester, as he is known in every tavern from Arbitos to Brinehaven, allowed the camouflage spell to drop as he carefully placed the pie in the crook of the tree. He then reached into his knapsack and withdrew several apples, depositing them inside a large hole in the upper trunk. The hole served his purpose for the moment, but being grateful for such warm hospitality extended by a tree in such obviously poor health, he promised himself to heal it before returning home.

  The Grove Elders had sent him to act as an official escort for some Arbitos military oaf who was supposedly returning via ship from one of those Warrior-type rites of passage. Of course, such Quests were never warranted, and seldom proved of any use other than to allow another Paladin or Warrior to swagger about as if they were Wildern's gift to Nirayel.

  So and So, Son of So and So, keeper of the flame of So and So, hath retrieved the mighty stinger of a dastardly Bixie who was no doubt bent on the destruction of the world. So now, so and so, Son of So and So hath hereby earned the title of Peon Guard. Finding this image to be most amusing, he almost lost his balance.

  He quickly caught himself, calmed himself, reclined against the trunk, and retrieved the scroll containing his assignment from the hole housing his recent acquisitions. He bit into an apple, holding it in his mouth while opening the document, and then read on down until he came to a particular stipulation.

  Be advised. Corporal Krue has not been available for briefing in this matter. Therefore, he will not be expecting you. For this reason, and due to the current nature of nego
tiations with Arbitos, it is imperative this extension of our goodwill be successful. Under no circumstances are you to depart your post without your contact.

  Jester had been waiting for this particular so-and-so for the better part of a week now. It had been his understanding that the Ox in question would already be here, waiting to go. Apparently this was not the case.

  After the first couple of days, a thought had commenced to loom in the back of his mind. Is it possible that in their infinite wisdom, the Council has miscalculated the Warrior's schedule? If this were so, then he would certainly not be the one to point it out. Such thoughts were best left unspoken. Besides, even if such a miscalculation did exist, surely they would have noticed the Warrior's absence by now. Surely they would have sent word. Surely they wouldn't just leave me here to rot!

  So, there he was, confined to a community of rude little round-eared Dwarves. There was little choice in the matter. The Council had spoken, and one simply does not question the Council. Whether Ranger or Druid, all Half-elves pay strict attention to the Letter of Edict. The consequences of an infraction could be most unsavory. It might be that one would only sustain a small sentence, such as Megalith Hub duty for three to five summers. A heavier sentence usually involved some form of missionary work for extended periods, and in the most unaccommodating reaches of Nirayel. There were also those true unfortunates, who, upon lacking the good sense to obey a direct Edict, would suddenly find themselves branded as Proscribe. Jester knew of nothing more severe than being cast out. Even death was better than a Druid with no deity.

  ***

  On his seventh Birthday, Nanna had gathered his belongings together, and had then wakened him before sunrise. "It's time yer about the business of yer own kind, Grub."

  "Nanna?" he had inquired sleepily.

  Rather than reply, she simply pulled him to his feet and dressed him, as if for a journey. Before leaving their tent, she tethered him with a stretch of rope about the waist. The other end she tethered about her own.

  All of the other tents and wagons were yet quiet. No one stirred at this time of day. There was no breakfast, no campfire, nor anything else of interest, save the full moon, which always posed a strange but vague attraction for the youngster, though certainly nothing of sufficient import to preempt a good night sleep. "Where we goin?" he had asked, shivering in the night air, and almost afraid of the answer. Was she getting rid of him? Had he done something wrong?

  "Yer of an age fer learnin."

  "Learnin?" he echoed, failing to see what might be gleaned from their unscheduled exodus.

  Abruptly, she stopped and faced him. She leaned heavily on her canes as she bent to address him, her knees and back creaking loudly in the process. "Yer in yer seventh Summer, with no sign of any to take ya fer their own," she began dispassionately. The lack of warmth in her voice had conveyed more to him than the content of her words. His eyes began to fill, and then brim.

  "I'm too feeble ta keep wiping yer snotty snout and still look after the others, too," she continued, seemingly impervious to his tears.

  "I can wipe my own snout!" he retorted defiantly, and then illustrated his point by doing so.

  "Makes no never mind. Yer still bound fer the Grove."

  At this he had actually balked. "Let go, you old Round-ear!" he shouted, setting both feet firm and pulling hard against the old woman. His rebellion was to be short-lived.

  She continued on without noticing, dragging Jester behind for several steps until he finally regained his footing, and followed obediently, if not enthusiastically.

  They had traveled the entire day, stopping only briefly to rest and eat. It was dark by the time they reached the Grove proper. Campfires dotted the surrounding landscape as they entered the forest where many Elves of questionable parentage were cast away, to be kept separate from decent folk.

  As they approached the center, Jester spotted a party who were neither Human, nor Half-elf. These were smaller, slimmer. The adults and children alike appeared almost frail, though something about their bearing suggested otherwise. As the old woman and Jester passed their group, he heard the youngest speaking to an older Elf of his own kind. The child was perhaps a season or two younger than Jester himself.

  "I heard them speak about sending disobedient Rangers on Missionary Quests."

  "We do not speak of such things here, Merfee. It isn't proper."

  "And they were talking about something called a Proscribe?"

  "I said we do not speak of such things here!"

  "They do."

  "They know no better. But, as your blood is not tainted, then you shall heed me and not speak of such things in public. I will tell you of it later."

  "Yes, Father."

  "What business have you in Spurious Grove?" demanded a Ranger, running quickly to meet the old woman and boy.

  "I bring ya one of yer own," declared the woman.

  "We're not taking any new Neophytes this season, milady. You should have brought the child before Spring Semestris."

  "He is both orphaned and without sponsor. Woulds't thee still turn him away?" returned the old woman in an uncharacteristic bearing of both strange speech and vehement posture.

  The guard appeared momentarily daunted. "Please wait here. I will find an Elder."

  As the Ranger made his way back to the center of the Grove and to the Elder Oak, Jester turned to face the Wood-elves. He was met by the cold stares and the unwelcome posturing of their entire collective, save one.

  The younger boy stood as innocently as Jester himself, offering a similar smile of acceptance. Neither was yet acquainted with such things as ethnic intolerance.

  Jester stepped forward, bowing deeply at the waist as the old woman had instructed him to do upon greeting new people. As he returned to an upright posture he began to introduce himself. "My name is Jes…" He cut himself off, as he was now facing the backs of their entire assembly. All except the youngest Wood-elf, who, oblivious to his own Elders' rejections, had stepped forward, and was now repeating Jester's ritualistic bow of respect.

  "My name is Merfee. We are well met, Jes," he smiled. His smile was short lived as he was quickly yanked about.

  "I brought you to witness the perils of diluting the Wood-elf line! Not to make friends with their kind!" scolded the older Wood-elf.

  At this, Jester himself was jerked roughly about by the old woman. She offered no reason for her actions, but held him close to her all the same.

  ***

  The Council's policies, though certainly strict, were designed for the overall betterment of the entire Spurious community. To the rest of the world, half-bred equated to less than half. Until this changed, Spurious Grove could ill afford less than an optimal performance in all areas, including discipline.

  Unfortunately, he had not arranged for the provisions allowing an extended stay in this festering rat hole. Had he been in the wilds, there would have been no problem. A Druid may sleep where he will and forage a feast. And even if food was scarce, he could just conjure what he required.

  However, the cobblestones of civilization provide little to forage. Furthermore, the use of spells for conjuring food is a violation of some sort of marketing treaty. It had something to do with undermining economic stability, or some such, and to top it off, the penalty for such a crime is death, whereas the penalty for stealing is no more than a few weeks in jail. Go figure.

  Absolute nonsense! is all Jester could discern. Just another example of civilization's folly. If food is plentiful, then why sell it in the first place? Is it not everywhere, to be picked from the very flora itself? Neither Wildern nor Natura demands any levy on such gifts. What's next? A toll on water? A tax on the very air we breathe?

  He had considered teleporting out, grabbing the needed provisions, and then popping right back. Then he recalled the Council's edict. Under no circumstance am I to depart my post. Ahh, there's that infinite wisdom again.

  Still, he did feel a certain twinge of guilt. It
was specifically against Wildern's teachings to take what wasn't his. I had no choice! Would you have me starve? His thoughts were subjective, and not intentionally a prayer, but even as he thought it, he cringed. Oh … all right! I'll send restitution to the Baker as soon as I get home!

  He checked the sun. Almost dusk! He had heard the boarding calls for the ship from Brinehaven, but had been busy locating nourishment during the call for Candle Port. By now the launches should have already returned. With the apples secured, he quickly prepared to check the incoming passengers from the last group of ferries. I've probably missed them!

  As he was about to drop to the ground, he froze. A faint, yet specific scent wafted upwards. Wognix? he thought incredulously while sniffing the air for more information. Yes. Two, maybe three. What in Wildern's name would Dark-elves be doing here?

  It was fortunate that the tree was so well covered in leaves. Jester's eyes cut through the darkness well enough, but the eyes of the Dark-elf were crafted by Darkness, for darkness. He wanted to look for the hell-spawned Elves, but his nose told him they were close-so close, that it was more than likely they would see him first. It was fortunate they were upwind. If it had been the other way around, he would most likely be dead now.

  He listened, but heard little. Then he caught the scent of another. Another Half-elf? The entire situation was rapidly unraveling. He must at least warn his own kind, yet he could ill afford to broadcast his location without knowing where they all were. He wished he hadn't allowed the invisibility to drop.