From the Worldbuilding Archive: The Rún

I started working on a new (shorter...) Airthai story, and decided to revisit these Worldbuilding posts - enjoy!

Worldbuilding Airthai: The Rún

While the Shadow have the female servants called Vídolf (Women of the Dark Arts), the Light has those called the Rún (or the Hidden Ones). The Rún, like the Vídolf, consisted of far more women than men. So much so, in fact, that a male Rún was unheard of except in the southwest of the Western Lands and Western Isles; where there was one male Rún to every five female Rún. Although gifted with a special talent for healing, they were human and mortal, although they were more likely to reach the age of one hundred and twenty than other mortals. This made their life spans shorter than the average Ciph life span by only about thirty years.

Part 1 – The Name: Why the Hidden Ones?

This name was given to these women for two reasons. The first is that they usually hid in plain sight, living as just another member of the community. Only when living as one of the Keepers or as servant of one of the rich families could they wear the garments associated with the Rún with more freedom. This was because they could then be kept safe from the Servants of the Lewjan who wished always to do them harm because they held such power. Those living in villages or towns serving the Light would be referred to simply as “healers” or even “the needlewoman”, because their talents were with needle and thread. By using certain signs, depictions of living things (like plants) and words, they could make cloths that could heal wounds and illnesses that most healers can’t.

These signs, words and other depictions made into tapestries, embroideries and even sometimes lace and cords, were only known by the Rún (and is therefore hidden). The knowledge of these signs is taught orally from one Rún to the next. This means that Rún, once they are known as such, takes up apprenticeship with an older and accomplished Rún either from their own or another village or go to one of the Keepers’ Houses to learn. Holt Haliern in the Midlands and the House of Rún in the Western Lands have the Rún with the most talent and are therefore sought after places to go to and learn the language of the Rún.

The best of the Rún can fashion cloaks that make the wearer invisible to the eyes of the Lewjan servants or those who want to harm them. More than one Rún would often work on a cloth meant to heal a specific illness or wound; as it is extremely draining work. 

Unfortunately the cloths’ abilities can also be drained and can not be used indefinitely. The healing houses usually have cloths to help lessen pain, help knit bones or serve as an antidote to some poisons. These can be used for cases where the medicine available is not working or simply to ease extreme pain.  

I came across this painting by Mary Cassat, called The Young Bride in the beautiful book In Praise of the Needlewoman by Gail C. Sirna.  

Worldbuilding Wednesday– A Dragon’s Freedom

Part 1: A backstory is needed and a hero steps forth

*Spoiler alert! If you haven’t read “A Dragon’s Freedom” you can click here for the free download (in Issue 5).*

The actual reason for writing “A Dragon’s Freedom” was to write about the life of the dragon Skáhag who plays such a vital role in the later years of the Midlands of Airthai. His death was actually the first thing I wrote about him (poor thing!) as part of the story of both the forming of Naeddre and the love story between Ameragh and Síldu. At that time I was writing a novel about the Midlands (no, it will never see the light of day in its current form – it was practice, or so I tell myself now) and I had built up the people of Naeddre’s mythology of Skáhag. But I needed to know where the dragon came from – and what it was doing in the Midlands in the first place.

Seat-of-Pants Worldbuilding

So, while this story was the first published, it was set in a world I already knew quite well. But, this was all written before the creation story of the world and the story of the sundering. I had just made up the Dragon Guardians on the southern coast and already had a vague story about a ‘not-very-nice’king of the Midlands who gathered dragon tears for riches. Now it was just a matter of putting the two together.

I wanted the dragons to be simply animals in the world (albeit talking animals). So, like any animal, it would be ‘good’ until treated in such a way that it lashed out. Skáhag had been mistreated during his life, and bound by magic to a master, so that his fight was as much against humans as the darkness created within him. When Ameragh sings to him a song that releases its bonds, his death at the hand of his master is bittersweet as he is at last freed.

By this time the (somewhat) secret language used by the Dragon Guardians and dragons was already present in Ameragh’s song (Here’s the song). I then decided that, because it was so powerful, that it was only known by a select few – the Dragon Guardians, the dragons and the Seafolk’s elders, although they knew it to a much lesser extent. This language was gifted to the Guardians and the dragons in much the same way the Tellerassar was given their own language. Therefore, if the king stole a dragon egg, he would need someone who could communicate with the dragon. Enter Nasja...

A boy called Nasja

The first scene of the story which popped into my head was the dragon’s nest and a boy stealing one of the eggs. At first this was supposed to have been done because of greed on his part (and he was older). But that didn’t sit well with what I had in mind for the rest of the story. For me it was a lot more striking to have him do something which is taboo for Dragon Guardians in order to save his family than simply do it for payment.

The next scene I wrote was of Nasja in the king’s palace. Although I needed a reason for him not to be able to escape, he probably would not have had a banged-up leg if it wasn’t that my own bad knee (the right one, not the left – see, it’s complete different…) was extremely painful that day![1]

At this point, I planned and wrote the rest of the story in a rough draft. When I had finished it, however, I realised that I had had Nasja basically act alone and didn’t really give him cause as to why he would suddenly, after a good ten to twelve years, decide to free the dragons and go home. I left the story to stew, pottering around every now and then and then turned my thoughts to some other short fiction and worldbuilding while I figured it out.

Next week: Worldbuilding shape-shifters and magicians

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[1] Mine is banged-up from ballet, though, and not being kidnapped and dragged over a desert... Cold weather, however, doesn’t really care how you ended up hurting yourself. 

Worldbuilding Wednesday – Cities of promises and riches

Worldbuilding Wednesday & Behind the Story

In the next part of The Price of Freedom (to be posted next Monday), I return to one of the parts of Airthai I have only written one short piece about (that has seen the light of the blog). One of the flash pieces I wrote for NaShoStoMo earlier in the year, entitled “The City of Promise”, was set on route to one of the larger and richer cities of the Southern Lands – Marglóthborg.

City of Promise

While this piece started out with the quite cliché ‘young-man-with-father’s-sword-setting-out-to-big-city’, I wanted it specifically not to be epic or have the young man’s life influence a whole kingdom. He wasn’t going to overthrow an evil empire, dark lord or even gather great riches. He was simply a young man with an heirloom setting out to find work in a large city so that he could send money home to his family. I doubt there are many families on the whole of the earth that doesn’t have this story in some form or another in their family. His choice to become a guard for one of the rich families did mean, however, that he was able to send more money home than he would have if he had gone to work in the mines. I specifically wanted to write a fantasy piece where the hero of the story is simply a hero to his family because he could help care for them. Yet, he also makes a choice to go against his father’s wishes and becomes someone who earns his living with a sword.

Worldbuilding the Dry Bay – Marglóthborg and Black Harbour

Northwest of the lands of the Seafolk, after the Dragon Cliffs and Dhôr Mountains, lies a large, semi-desert bay area called Dry Bay. The land here is rich in minerals and metals and are known for its various kinds of mines as well as the extravagant lifestyle of the cities’ rich.

There are different kinds of mines in the parts situated around the Dry Bay. There are salt mines – some of the richest in Airthai and the salt of which is said to have health properties as well and are very costly and traded throughout the Continent. The most important mines, however, are those where dragon tears are mined – one of only two places in the whole of Airthai where this is done. The second is in Naeddre, where the tears of Skáhag is mined on a much smaller scale[1] and traded with the Northern Lands (the only time dragon tears have been mined where the name of the dragon is known). The dragon tears of Marglóthborg, however, have been laid down by generations of dragons before and right after the Great Sundering.

Black Harbour is named after the black rocks and sand found in the area – a reference of which is also made in “The City of Promise”. This is the most southerly part of the western coast of Airthai where this black ground and rocks are found and the harbour here is also the most southerly one from where ships can sail in relative safety around the Dragon Cliffs (accompanied by one of the southern dragons) to the harbour at Diuzisborg.

To read “The City of Promise”, click here.

A Map of Part of the Southern Lands

The Lands of Airthai after the Great Sundering

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[1] No pun intended.

Worldbuilding Airthai: The Rún

While the Shadow have the female servants called Vídolf (Women of the Dark Arts), the Light has those called the Rún (or the Hidden Ones). The Rún, like the Vídolf, consisted of far more women than men. So much so, in fact, that a male Rún was unheard of except in the southwest of the Western Lands and Western Isles; where there was one male Rún to every five female Rún. Although gifted with a special talent for healing, they were human and mortal, although they were more likely to reach the age of one hundred and twenty than other mortals. This made their life spans shorter than the average Ciph life span by only about thirty years.

Part 1 – The Name: Why the Hidden Ones?

This name was given to these women for two reasons. The first is that they usually hid in plain sight, living as just another member of the community. Only when living as one of the Keepers or as servant of one of the rich families could they wear the garments associated with the Rún with more freedom. This was because they could then be kept safe from the Servants of the Lewjan who wished always to do them harm because they held such power. Those living in villages or towns serving the Light would be referred to simply as “healers” or even “the needlewoman”, because their talents were with needle and thread. By using certain signs, depictions of living things (like plants) and words, they could make cloths that could heal wounds and illnesses that most healers can’t.

These signs, words and other depictions made into tapestries, embroideries and even sometimes lace and cords, were only known by the Rún (and is therefore hidden). The knowledge of these signs is taught orally from one Rún to the next. This means that Rún, once they are known as such, takes up apprenticeship with an older and accomplished Rún either from their own or another village or go to one of the Keepers’ Houses to learn. Holt Haliern in the Midlands and the House of Rún in the Western Lands have the Rún with the most talent and are therefore sought after places to go to and learn the language of the Rún.

The best of the Rún can fashion cloaks that make the wearer invisible to the eyes of the Lewjan servants or those who want to harm them. More than one Rún would often work on a cloth meant to heal a specific illness or wound; as it is extremely draining work. 


Unfortunately the cloths’ abilities can also be drained and can not be used indefinitely. The healing houses usually have cloths to help lessen pain, help knit bones or serve as an antidote to some poisons. These can be used for cases where the medicine available is not working or simply to ease extreme pain.  

They could make cloths that heal...

I came across this painting by Mary Cassat, called The Young Bride in the beautiful book In Praise of the Needlewoman by Gail C. Sirna. 

Flash Fiction: Elgar

Here’s the flash fiction piece meant for yesterday’s Monday Fiction; but bumped to today as the photo of the “dragon egg” was just too brilliant not to share.

I first introduced Elgar in the piece “A Father’s Choice”. In this one, I had a look at the Talent/powers of the Khalné and the Khalvér and how they interact with each other when they have to try to win students hoping to be Khallahna over to their side. Tomorrow, for Worldbuilding Wednesday, I’ll take a closer look at these two factions that once formed the Khallahna.

Elgar

Elgar entered the hall with his heart beating in his throat. Today was the day he had been training for for five years. Today he would choose the path he will follow for the rest of his life. He was the strongest student in the group, the one with the most Talent. He took his place among the other students dressed in the same brown as he.

Né Parlegon, a near-bald, middle-aged man cleared his throat as he stepped up to speak to the twenty or so students before him. Dressed in a cream robe hemmed in red and gold, he stood in stark contrast to the large frame next to him dressed in deep purple. His voice was stiff as he started to speak. “Today I see before me not students of the Talent, but the future leaders of our world. This day will be the last day on which you will wear the brown of students. Today, you will choose your path.” Parlegon shuffled the papers in front of him. He hated the day the students had to choose which side of the Khallahna they will be part of. Most of them were still too young to know much about the world, let alone choose a path for themselves.

“Centuries ago when the world was still young, there were those with the Talent and they used it for the good of mankind and they were called the Khallahna. But on the day of the Battle of the Black Field there came a rent in the brotherhood of the Khallahna and the Khallahna was split into two groups. One, the Khalné, called the servants of Light. The other, the Khalvér, the servants of the Darkness.”

“I believe you mean ‘Servants of the Moon’,” Trialma interjected in the moment Parlegon paused for breath.

The Né swallowed hard. He knew the old texts. He knew “vér” meant “darkness”. He could feel the eyes of Vér Trialma boring into his back. Rather than start a fight, Parlegon continued with his speech.

“I will not lie to you. If you choose the path of the Khalné, your name will not be known. You will not be taught the spells and potions of the Khalvér that works on the minds of those they target. You may sit among peers and friends today, but from tomorrow, you will fight them as they fight you. It is not an easy road, but it is a necessary one. Make your choice well today. Do not be moved by sly words, but solely by the fire in you.”

Trialma had heard enough. “Your time is up, Né Parlegon. It is my turn to speak.” His voice was clearer than that of Parlegon, his accent one of a learned man. He never stumbled over his words, not like Parlegon who still had the alien accent of the northern city of Almiaka in Edaron.

“Brothers, sisters,” Trialma intoned. “You have learned how to use the Talent as a child learns his letters. Now is the time to embrace the power you have been given. The Né Parlegon wish to stand here and tell you to join them but not use the Talent you have been given. To use it only as he sees fit. To never slay anyone with it yet fight the Khalvér! If you are stronger in Talent, you will only be at home with the Khalvér. If you are weak, you will join the Né. Both roads have the same ending. Why hide your Talent when you can be powerful and make a change in the world? Join us, the brothers of the Vér.” He pointed to where other Khalvér entered the hall.

Elgar saw himself in a purple robe, his father at last proud of him, his people at his feet. His Talent harnessed to make him the strongest Vér in Trelkanor. 

Without a call from Parlegon, the cream dressed Khalné entered the hall on the other side.

The Khalvér stuck out their arms, clenching their hands into fists. The Khalné caught their breaths as if they were being strangled.

Elgar Ashwood gazed in horror at the gasping Né. He looked back at the stage. Parlegon was on his feet. Trialma had his hand out as well, a snide grin on his face. Everyone else watched the other Khalné, their minds being turned by actions, not by words. Parlegon did not gasp for breath, he did not struggle. He simply batted with his hand as if he was batting away a fly. Trialma’s arm shot back and the grin vanished very quickly. He tried to lift his arm once again, but found it pinned to his side.

“Release yourselves,” Parlegon said.

He saw the other Khalné make the same movement, some fighting the force with which they were held, most breaking the force easily.

“Release them,” Trialma said.

“A low blow, Trialma,” Parlegon mouthed and Elgar looked towards the Khalvér. Their arms did seem a bit stiff next to them.

Trialma turned to the audience of students, still not lifting his hand. Elgar looked around him, wondering if the others had noticed Parlegon’s power as well.

“You have seen our power,” Trialma said. “Now, make your choice.”

The students rose and started to file out of the door of the side they have chosen. Some said a last farewell to friends, others did not so much as look at those not taking their side. Only three joined the Khalné.

Elgar made his way to the left side of the hall where the Né waited. Parlegon stood by the door.

“Why have you chosen the Né?” he asked.

Elgar looked up into the black eyes of the man. “I saw how easily you released yourself from Vér Trialma. I saw how the Né pinned the Vér’s arms to their sides.” He rambled and took a breath. “But I wouldn’t have chosen the darkness even if the Vér had won.”

Né Parlegon smiled. “You speak the truth, though you speak fast. You will be a good student.”

Elgar smiled and looked behind him at those following him. There were only  five of the students in brown behind him. The other fifty or so clustered around the doors on the far side of the hall. Suddenly, he was filled with fear.

“You do not have to be afraid,” one of the Khalné outside the door told him. “It is the same every year. We are enough as we are.”

Elgar looked back over his shoulder.

“You really believe that?”

“I do. Come, the day have almost passed and we still have much to do.”

Worldbuilding Wednesday: The Wíslic and the Elders

Last week I had a look at the Houses of the Keepers of Airthai. This week I’ll tackle part of the hierarchy of the Keepers: the Wíslic and the Elders. The Keepers started on the eastern coast of the Continent, in the lands of the Saerímavolk; and it is with them that today’s post gets under way.

The Wíslic and Elders of the Saerímavolk

Because most of the men of the Saerímavolk towns would leave the land each day for the sea, one of the women of the town would be chosen to act as the leader of the town. She was well-skilled in various kinds of knowledge; including the laws of her people and the ways of healing. Called the Wíslic, she would see to it that the town is run well, disputes are settled and trading is fair.

Various others – usually older than forty – would be chosen to help her in her work and provide schooling for the children of the town. These people were called the Elders and consisted of both men and women. Because the men were ‘married to the sea’ they were mostly called upon in these matters, while the women handled the land disputes and matters. Some even referred to them as ‘Sea Elders’ and ‘Land Elders’.

The most gifted of the girls were tutored further and then, of these young women, seven were chosen. Later one of the seven would be chosen as Wíslic by the people of the town. Although the daughter of a Wíslic may also become a Wíslic, this was not a strict tradition and had to be earned.

The Wíslic and the Elders of the Keepers

The hierarchy of the Keepers worked in much the same way as that of the Saerímavolk, as the Keepers were modeled on this hierarchy when it was started.  The Wíslic of a House, however, could also be a man. The Wíslic was chosen from among the Healers and the Scholars most of the time.

The Elders of the Keepers were chosen because of their level of knowledge or skill. Although most were older in years, some had been given the rank at a young age. One of the most notable Elders was the scholar and scribe Nëane, a Ciph from Ellanda.  He was sixteen years old when he joined the Keepers and only twenty-one years old when made an Elder.

Ameragh was also very young and was made Wíslic of the House of Eamidtheo before her thirtieth birthday; making her the youngest Wíslic of a House of Keepers. 

"Ameragh was the youngest Wislic of a House of Keepers"

Worldbuilding Wednesday - The Keepers: Their Beginning and Their Houses

The start of the Keepers was during the time of the Great Sundering, when there was a consensus that the knowledge of the peoples of Airthai must be kept in a safe place during the wars, attacks, earthquakes and floods across the lands of Airthai. At that time the greater libraries on the eastern coast of the newly formed Continent gathered together all the copies of books and annals and even artworks that they could. The people who gathered these books were called the Gatherers of the Keepers of Knowledge. Books and scholars even came from the Eastern Isles, brought on the trading ships for safe keeping.

When the Saerímavolk was attacked by the Flotaferan - which saw part of the Saerímavolk trek inland and form the Eargestreon - it was decided that a type of army should be formed from the surrounding peoples; who could be called upon immediately to keep their people safe. With them there would be scholars well-versed in the politics and the history of the peoples involved who could act as diplomats.

A fortress was built just north of the Saerímavolk lands and this was the first House of the Keepers. These Keepers later became known as the Eastern Keepers once other Houses were built.

The second House that was built was that of Holt Haliern, in the Midlands. The third and fourth houses, which were built nearly simultaneously, were the Houses of Théotriewe and Eamidtheo. These three Houses are all in the Midlands. Although the names of Holt Haliern and Théotriewe have stayed the same, that of Eamidtheo changed to Ameragh after the Lady Wíslic Ameragh's death. Because of this, and his great sorrow, Síldu did not return to this most southern House of the Keepers for many years, but stayed at Holt Haliern and Théotriewe.

In the Southern Lands, first the towers of the Khallahna and later the Khalné's Tower, along with the libraries of the countries of the Southern Lands, served as the repositories of the books and knowledge. Only after the Dragon Keepers had left the southern shores was a true House of Keepers, known as the Southern Keepers, started in the Southern Lands.

In the Western Lands, the first House of Keepers built was the House of the Rún; situated on the west of the Ealdbergs. A second was built on the western coast of the Continent. In the Northern Lands only one House was built; known as the House of the White Dragon.

The Sign of the Keepers of Holt Haliern

Next week: The Keepers: The Wíslic and the Elders (And I’m hoping to have the pre-Sundering map finished by then as well.)

Fiction Monday: Eldarion Whargahn

Eldarion watched his brothers disappear into the trees before he turned his back on the Rëaghor Forest. At the crossroads before him there were two choices for any traveller: travel through the forest or travel around it. Deep ruts led north and south, following the road most often used. But on this road, grass and weeds were matted where people had passed fled into the forest. The forest and its surrounds had been the Erewhar's home for almost as long as their tales remembered. He glanced behind him, checking that the last few stragglers of the Whargahn clan had disappeared into the shadows of the forest; each carrying only a small bundle of possessions. They had no time to wait for a cripple. He clenched and unclenched his hand around the green hilt of his short sword. At least he could hold the Khalvér back for a while and give his people a chance to escape a taint to their souls.

The moon showed only half her face, but the light was enough to see by for the Erewhar. He glanced at the four stars that pointed south to where his people had come from so many generations before; before they had betrayed the Ahma on that fateful day – the choice that had led to their fall. He heard the figures approaching before he took his eyes from the stars. For a moment he wondered if the Erewhar would remember him.

Cursed vermin. Did they truly still think that the Erewhar would join them in serving the ever-cursed Lewjan? The Erewhar may have fallen once, but would never again stoop to that level. His people would be redeemed. He rested his eyes on the dark figures and felt the power of the Talent being awakened deep inside him.  

"Stay where you are!" he called to the figures, not expecting them to stop, but hoping that they would step into the road now that they know they had been spotted. Three of the figures did just that. He couldn't make out their faces, but knew the golden sigil they wore upon their breasts. There was no doubt about their identity – Khalvér; and Servants of the Shadow. For all he knew Alzer, the boy they had sent as messenger, lay dead on his way to the Khalné. Would the Khalné arrive in time even if they had received the message? He drew his sword a couple of inches from its sheath and said a prayer for the redemption of all their souls.

One of the Khalvér lifted his hand, but it was neither in greeting, nor in warning. Eldarion felt the air around him thicken and press against his chest, leaving his breathing laboured. He drew strength from somewhere inside himself. The Other, the Elders called the source that the Erewhar was able to draw upon. Part of the Talent that the Khalné used, but it was different in many ways: more potent, but also more unpredictable, and addictive like the Talent was not – tainted somehow by deeds long past. He already felt the Lewjan’s shadow calling to him. He did not move, but pushed against the Khalvér's magic. His breathing became normal once more and he drew his sword fully. They laughed when he took two steps closer to them and they saw that he stumbled as he walked.

"Fight me fair," he said and his voice rang out across the grassy field. He fought off a second Khalvér that tried to bind him, lifting his arm to keep his balance. More shadows appeared in the tall grass. He would never be able to fight them all off and live. His heart beat faster still and cold sweat beaded on his brow. Perhaps he was not meant to live through this night. A strange glow showed in the palm of one of the Khalvér, proving that he summoned his power from the Shadow.

The Khalvér strode towards him. Towards the woods. Towards his people. He had to save his people, no matter what the cost. Eldarion flung out all the power inside him at the Khalvér, striking with his sword at the same time and receiving a pounding in return that sent him to his knees and crushed his fingers around the hilt. He cursed himself for letting them know the extent of his Talent so soon.

The leader of the band of Khalvér, a Werlea, stepped forward. He drew his own blue-black blade from the sheath at his hip. The intricately wrought blade seemed to glow with the blood it had drunk before. Tempered in Ahma's blood, the word went about these swords. And what was Erewhar but fallen Ahma? What was he? He felt his heart quail and the Talent dimmed. The Werlea’s voice was emotionless.

“There will be no peace for the Erewhar. No life. No redemption. You will join with us or die.”

Eldarion’s blade was forced to the ground and cleft into the sand. There were too many, and they were too strong. What was so much of the Lewjan’s magic against his tainted Talent? His heart sank, his breathing slowed, crushed from his body by the Khalvér.

He felt a faint pulse around him. He took a quick gulp of air before it was pushed away once more. Eldarion closed his eyes and concentrated on the faint pulse of Talent.

Fear only seems to lessen the Talent you’re given, he remembered being taught. He pushed once more with all the might he had, joining that faint pulse. Three of the Khalvér dropped to their knees. By their howling he knew they had been stilled and left to face the Shadow’s Lord without their dark magic.

A Werlea stepped up to him. Intricate tattooed patterns partially hid the burst veins and discolouration around his eyes. From his belt he drew a short, twisted blade. The Servant of the Shadow laughed at Eldarion as he tried to lift his sword. But as he struck with his blade at the young Erewhar's heart, the stroke glanced away and threw him off balance. Eldarion’s grip around his sword's hilt loosened, and pain flooded his arm as feeling returned.

Eldarion glanced around, feeling the pulse of Talent grow stronger. Then he saw the figures in their light cloaks. The Khalné had arrived. There was a chance for redemption still. The Erewhar were saved. He was saved. 

Photo by Thomas Schaeffer

Worldbuilding Wednesday: A Map of Airthai

The following map of Airthai was inspired by T-O maps of Earth. It is not supposed to be a realistic representation of the world, but rather a symbolic one. It was only drawn and used after the Great Sundering of the Lands.

Just as there are four directions (north, south, east and west) and four seasons, there are also four stars that aid travellers in finding their direction and Airthai is divided into four parts. Three of these parts (the Continent and the Eastern and Western Isles) are placed against the fourth; which is the Sundered Lands. The map is therefore also used to show that the Sundered Lands are only a small part of the world and that its people would never be able to overrun and rule the whole of Airthai.

Much later, a similar map was drawn of the Continent as a form of protest by a scholar from Trelkanor after the Khalvér and their Nightwatchers had infiltrated the country. In this map he placed the “Southern Lands” – of which Trelkanor is the farthest south – in the place of the Sundered Lands. He had hoped to get some sense into the rulers of the country and its people, but was stricken by the Illness shortly after the map was made public and most copies of the map was destroyed out of fear.

Other fiction: For Part 12 of Virgin for Hire, click here.

Some Worldbuilding and a Flash of Fiction

The Battle of the Black Field has been fought. The Khallahna has split into the Khalvér – Servants of the Dark– and the Khalné – Servants of the Light. Now, three centuries have passed and the great cities of Trelkanor, including Ahrlea, are haunted at night by servants of the Khalvér who spread fear, death and the Illness that can take memories or even leave your mind an empty shell.

Uninvited Visitors

“Who was it that ratted me out?” Gretha glared at the dark clad Nightwatchers in front of her. “Tell me!”

The Nightwatchers remained silent. One of them moved. He was taller than the other Nightwatchers and towered over the short frame of Gretha.

“You can at least do me the favour of telling me who it was that ratted me out before you take my mind!” She bundled her wrinkled hands into her sides, glaring up at the masked man as if he was a boy caught stealing apples.

“Do you have a daughter?” The Nightwatcher’s voice was muffled under the black mask he wore over the lower half of his face. The embroidered, golden sigil he wore upon his heart caught the lamplight.

“She’s long dead, ask anyone.”

“A son?” He stepped closer, cutting her off from escape from the room.

“Dead the same year.” Gretha didn’t move.

“And do they –”

“Don’t waste my time blathering. My whole family died of the Fever not ten years ago.” She stepped up to the tall man. “Some say the Werlea made it and the Watchers brought it. Everyone agrees the Watchers know when anyone dies – or when they get ill.”

“The Illness is given to those deserving of the punishment,” the man said and drew himself up.

Gretha looked past the man to where one of the other Nightwatchers was lighting what seemed to be thin twigs wrapped in paper with the flame of one of the lamps in the room. It smoked heavily and Gretha pulled part of her scarf over her face, shielding her nose and mouth.

“Do you do it here or do you take me away?” Gretha asked and felt her mind getting fuzzier by the second as she inhaled the strange fumes.

“We’ll take you away. We won’t just leave you here with the Illness. You deserve far worse.” The watcher’s voice was only a rumble and he snatched the scarf from her face, forcing her to inhale the smoke. Within a few seconds it had done its work and she blacked out.

“Bind and take her outside. I will search the place again.”

The Nightwatchers bound the old woman and carried her to their horses while their leader walked slowly through the small house.

Beneath the floor, Leandré could hear the footsteps coming closer and closer to where she lay hidden beneath the crude floorboards. Her great aunt’s voice had been loud enough for her to hear everything. She crouched down further, her knees digging into the loose black soil. Beside her was a pack, filled with clothes, food and other necessities. In one hand she gripped a large kitchen knife, ready to put up a fight if the Nightwatcher found the trapdoor. Smoke started to seep through the cracks between the floorboards. The smoke smelled both sweet and sharp at the same time. She tried to hold her breath, keeping her lungs filled with clean air as she waited. She had heard that the Nightwatchers – servants of the Khalvér – can only be killed by a wound through the heart or head. Head or heart, she repeated in her head. Her hands began to shake and she could barely keep the knife from falling from her grip. Her vision began to blur and she shook her head, trying to clear it. She could not tell if the footsteps were moving towards her or away from her. She dared a shallow breath, her lungs burning with smoke. Then world turned to pitch and she heard and knew no more.

Worldbuilding Wednesday: Good vs. Evil – Part 1

“We fight against the Lewjan's Shadow and turn to the Light. We guard ourselves and one another. And when a brother or a sister falls to the Shadow, we cry and mourn and beat our chests in anger because of the rebels and betrayers. And still we fight even when our strength lessens. And we use our Talents for the good of all the nations. Even the Lost Nations, though they know it not. Or perhaps they cannot comprehend it until they have been freed from the Shadow.”

The “baddies” of Airthai, Part 1: The Betrayers – The Lewjan:

Click here for the handy chart…

The Lewjan (lit. “Betrayers”) are those who have shunned the Light and have turned to the Dark. They have a hierarchy of lords and servants and each group takes their own name. The High Wíkla and the Lewjan Lords can bind some of the fallen dragons to them through blood and dark arts – they do not use the Dragon Tongue as the Dragon Guardians do.

It is said that the first Lewjan Lord has never been seen in the Lands of Airthai, but sends his servants to do his bidding. These Lewjan servants have been seen to fight against the Airus in various battles throughout the ages.

There are others who are also called Servants of the Dark, like the Fáll, but their story pertains to that of the fall of the Kingdom of Guldargan, and will be discussed on their own. The Scría (S’crí-iar in the language of the Tellerassar) will also be discussed along with the Tellerassar.

The Airus are the opposite of the Lewjan and they and the Ahma will be the focus of next week’s Worldbuilding Wednesday.

So, what is everyone else working on?

Á Agrai tellarias or s'agrélar silássa!

Fiction Monday - The Great Sundering, Part 1

Welcome to the first Fiction Monday on Hersenskim. This week starts with part one of The Great Sundering, the tale of how the lands and continents of Airthai became as they are today. An earlier post talked broadly about the Creation, the Sundering and the Diminishing, but in the following weeks I hope to post the new and much improved version.

The Great Sundering – Part 1

The Great Sundering of the Lands took place many centuries after the world of Airthai was first created. At this time the lands of Airthai was still united on one great continent that stretched from the far north to far in the south. During that time, the Betrayers; those called the Lewjan, had built a vast kingdom for themselves on the most Southern Coast of the Continent, and the Lord of the Lewjan was sending his armies and minions north to get more land and power - and in order to overthrow the Khallahna.

The Khallahna called all the Ahma together and they decided that they should ask the Creator to step in for them and save them from the Dark Forces amassing in the south. They not only wanted to save the integrity of the lands of the Khallahna and the Ahma, but also wanted to save the people north of the Khallahna's tower (for then there were only one tower in existence, not three as there is now).

All the Khallahna, the Ahma, and most of the peoples begged the Creator to save them from the terror coming from the south. Some people fled north in the hopes of getting far enough from the Lewjan and build new fortresses. The Creator hearkened to their prayers and with his mighty hand, broke the Continent into two where the great river of Eyreidja flowed.

Great mountains grew between the two continents and the sea boiled about them. The boats that were used on the Eyreidja River were of no use and soon purple-pink monsters awakened from the bottom of the ocean were also spotted in the new sea that was formed between the continents. Passage between the two continents seemed impossible.

 The northern continent was nearly void of all Lewjan, Werlea and other Servants of the Dark. The southern continent was filled with those serving the Lewjan Lord. But, just as some evil people remained on the northern continent, so some good people remained on the southern continent. The southern continent became known as the Sundered Lands or the Damned Lands.

 Those people faithful to the Light on the southern continent, asked for a land where they could be safe from the Lewjan, as they did not know how to build ships and could not get away. The Creator sent some of the Airus and led them to a secluded, fruitful valley called Ealdasah-elir and hid them from the Wíkla's sight by high rocky outcrops and mist that would blind any that did manage to find the tunnels to the Hidden People. These people are known as the Ealda.

Next Monday: The Great Sundering, Part 2: The Flight of the Seafolk.

A Drink of Water – Day 5 – April 5 – NaShoStoMo Challenge

Some Airthai fiction for today's NaShoStoMo challenge. Aran is a character I've had in mind for some time - and I think this may be one of quite a few stories about him. Also, having a pounding headache today might have had an influence...

A Drink of Water – Day 5 – April 5 – NaShoStoMo Challenge


Aran struggled along the dusty path and realised he was utterly lost. The sun sat wrong in the sky, the Red Mountains looked wrong, the road showed no sign of soldiers passing. He stopped and looked around him. Somewhere he had taken a wrong turn. He felt at his breast for the letter stowed there – a message he was to take to the Awíkla. He was to send news that a passage to the Lost Ones had been discovered and more soldiers were needed. A sudden gust of wind whipped the red dust around him and Aran shielded his face with the light coloured cloth which he wore around his neck. The valley which he had reached by taking the wrong turn was as desolate parched as the rest of the western part of the Sundered Lands.

He tried swallowing, but his mouth and throat was too parched. He felt at his pocket for the letter. He had to get more soldiers to the pass. He had to keep on running. But where to? The glare from the sun made his surrounds wavy and indistinct and he could not distinguish whether the small outcropping he saw was boulders or nomadic tents. He could see no-one and only the droning of cicadas sounded in his ears. Or maybe it was just his thickening blood that sounded a warning to him to get to water. He shook the dust from his clothes and looked around again. Would he have better luck continuing along this road, or to turn back?

In the end he plodded on, hoping some shade and water lay before him – and that he would reach it before succumbing to the heat. By the time he reached the next crossroad his head was pounding and the pain reverberated through his whole body. He wanted to cry, but even tears would not come. He squinted against the sun and saw a statue that gladdened his heart. It was a black stone dragon. The carved stone stood stark against the red and yellow stone of the surroundings.

The messenger stumbled to the dark pillar of stone. Surely in this wilderness the pillar would also show where a well is? He wiped at his face and neck as he looked around at the ground around the pillar until he spotted the low stone covering of the well. With his last strength he moved the stone lid and peered down. The low well was empty.

With a cry of despair Aran fell to his knees and started sobbing. Why did he have to die like this? Why would his god let this happen? He was, after all, on his way to the Awíkla! He was serving as best he could. The pain in his head and body intensified and he could not summon strength to stumbled more than a few steps at a time. Was there no one that could help him? He fell again and caught himself on bloody palms. Then he saw another figure approaching.

He forced himself upright and waited, not sure if the figure was even real. The figure was not wearing the light armour of the soldiers or the robes of the Awíkla. And surely a S’wíkla wouldn’t travel all alone in this wilderness? Then he saw the light blue band around the man’s waist. The man was of the Aíhla! Aran drew his knife from his belt and waited for the man to attack. He was a S’wíkla, after all, and would not die without a fight.

The Aíhlaê drew closer and, when he was nearly ten metres away, spoke. “I am Leshem,” he called and revealed his face from beneath its light colouring. “You are lost?” he asked before Aran could answer. “I have not seen any other Awíkla here,” he called and stepped closer. “You look near death, friend, let us help you.”

Friend? Us? Aran glanced around – and saw two other figures approaching in the distance. The rush of blood blocked out all sound as the man who called himself Leshem walked still closer. When the Aíhlaê reached for his belt, Aran attacked with all the strength he had left, and struck straight for the Aíhlaê’s heart. His blade struck true and he fell on top of the dying man before forcing himself to his feet to face the other Aíhla who were approaching. Aran pressed his left hand to the ground as he got up and felt mud between his fingers. He glanced down, saw the Aíhlaê’s water skin spill its contents into the red dust, and realised that the man had not reached for weapon. But it was too late.

A Father’s Choice

Some Airthai fiction


Here’s a piece I have been working on as background to a bigger piece (perhaps a novel, hint-hint) set in the Southern Lands of Airthai. It takes place about thirteen centuries after the Sundering of the Lands and about two centuries after “A Dragon’s Freedom”. Where the Eastern and Midlands have the Keepers, the Southern Lands had the Khallahna, who split into the Khalné and Khalvér after the Khallahna War. At first the Khallahna all followed the Creator, but the Khalvér followed the Werlea after the war, while the Khalné followed the Ahma (the Werlea’s antithesis).

A Father’s Choice

“Sir? Your son is here to see you. May I send him in? As you wish, Sir. After you, Young Master, your father will see you now.”

Elgar smiled at the retainer and pulled at his shirt and light cloak before stepping into the large office. He knew his red eyes still bespoke of much sorrow, but he would look his father in the eye, looking for the same pain there.

“Father,” he greeted the man behind the desk. His father looked much older than he remembered, as if he had aged fifteen years in the five he had been absent from home. “I came as soon as I could.”

His father kept on writing, not even looking up as he dipped the quill in ink, not saying a word to the young man he hadn’t seen in five years. But Elgar knew better than to speak again. That much he could remember. After nearly ten minutes of silence his father placed the quill aside and looked up at his son. Elgar took after his mother, his hair an indistinct shade between red and brown, his eyes a striking blue offset by his fair, freckled skin. A strange look indeed. And now, a hateful one.

“You came to pay your last respects?”

“Aye, sir. I only got the news three days ago and came directly from the tower with all speed.”

His father steepled his fingers under his chin, looking him up and down. Elgar at first stood proud and tall in the cream and gold cloak of the Khalné, but then realised that the look in his father’s eyes were one of disdain – and of fear.

“Damn you, child!” he shouted and Elgar took a step back. “You went and chose the bloody Khalné?”

Elgar frowned. To him the Khalvér had never been an option. The Né served the Light with their Talent; the Vér served the darkness with magic and spells and turned the Talent into a deadly weapon. He swallowed and tried to speak to the raving man in front of him.

“Sir, if you will – Father! What did you expect of me? To choose the Vér? You know what Mother thought of-“

“You will not befoul her name or memory, you spoiled little brat! I sent you to the tower because I had to, not because I wanted to. You know the Khalné are treated not much better than the Ahma? But the Khalvér and Werlea – people look up to them!

“People fear them, Father. I will not be feared because of my Talent.”

His father sat back down and poured a dark liquid into a glass. He took a swig and stared at his son. “Who knows you are here?”

“Father?”

“Answer!”

“My Né brothers. I came straight here and did not tarry –“

“Good. And now you will leave for the Western Tower with all haste and never return to this house again.”

“Father? But-“

“You are no longer my son.”

The words hit him like a blow to the stomach that left him without any breath.

“Please leave.” His voice was softer this time. “I’ll give you money, my fastest horse, but you have to leave here. Now.”

“I don’t understand, I –“

“You’re not meant to, Elgar.” He took another swig of the liquid. “And there is no time to explain everything.”

“Please, Father –“

“I… I… I promised you to them, Elgar.” He lifted tear-filled eyes to his son.

“To whom?”

“The Vér.” His voice was just a whisper.

Elgar looked at him in disgust, finding no words now.

“You were ill, just after you were born, you see? They said, they said they can heal you, that they know of a potion –“

“And in return for their witchcraft you offered me?”

“I gave you life!”

“You betrayed the house! You betrayed me!” He bowed mockingly. “Goodbye, Father.” He left the room.

He took another swig of the dark fluid. There had been another promise as well. He had become a Nightwatcher, spending his nights tracking people with the Talent that stood against the Khalvér. He didn’t do the killing himself, not usually. But the work still took its toll. It was never what he had wanted. But he had given his word and would never be free from them. Never. But they had saved his son. They gave Elgar back his life and now he was healthy. He didn’t have a choice. Not then, not now. He sent Elgar away again to save him. Only the Né could keep him from harm now.