Myth: Below the World

[Blind Molly]

Chapter One: The Beginning (http://www.sw-fans.net/forum/showthread.php?t=16538)

Chapter Two: Flight from the Forest (http://www.sw-fans.net/forum/showthread.php?t=18473)

Chapter Three: The Sea Awakens (http://www.sw-fans.net/forum/showthread.php?t=18497)

Chapter Four: Below the World

After fleeing from Bai-Ulgan, the seer known as Blind Molly, the Ankaarizad Calleh Ben-Sudr Al-Fard, and the young Fian Cailean Macgabhann found themselves at the Steelwood, the site of a nexus of elemental power known as the Circle.

The Circle was defiled by an evil sorcerer known only as Moreth, who was accompanied by a Necian warrior, Parsedion Denix. Denix realized the truth of his companion too late, and turned on him. The combined forces of the group were barely able to overcome Moreth, and as a parting shot he caused the honored dead of the Steelwood to rise from their overgrown graves.

Forced to flee for their lives, and no closer to solving the mystery of the strange sorceror or the apparent draining of magic across the land, the party is saved at the last minute by two strangers - a Man, Mandan, and one of the Syldar.

Exhausted and battle weary, the group rests on the banks of a small lake, south of the Steelwood. Denix departed quickly to return to his homeland of Necia, and rumors of war are beginning to stir across the land of Midgard. Necia rises against Ankaa, determined to conquer the southern country by land across the Hadar Wasteland, a nearly interpenetrate desert, or by sea, daring the dangerous waters in numbers unheard of in the recent past.

It is a time of upheaval and change. And things will be changing again for our adventurers, that much is certain.




The water was cool on her skin as she floated in the lake, the sun warming her from above. As though far away the Seer could hear birds singing, and the champ of horses.

Molly moved her hands slowly under the water, just enough to keep her face above the surface of the lake. It had been a few days since the incident in the Steelwood... incident? Catastrophe. And at this point the Seer wasn't even sure exactly who remained in the camp. She inhaled and exhaled with purpose, her sightless eyes staring up at the noonday sun.

Movement on the bank, a rustle and crack of twigs under a boot, interrupted her reverie and she lifted her head, blonde hair clinging to her neck as she changed her position in the water. "Who's there?" After a moment her feet found the bottom of the lake and she stood up, the water up to the bottom of her ribcage.

[Garren Goodfellow]

Garren's mouth hung half open as he crouched on the edge of the lake, one hand dipping an empty wine skin into the waters. The water lapped lazily around his wrist, the skin already full to over-flowing, but his hand didn't move. For an instant, he was transfixed by what he saw, as much by the woman's beauty as by the fact she had apparently risen out of the waters themselves. If you're a Glaucan siren, you're a little far from home...

“Just a thirsty traveller.” He straightened to his full height and took a swing from the skin, sharp eyes studying the woman all the while.

“You know, I've heard tales about ladies in lakes. You wouldn't happen to be hiding a sword under that slip of yours, would you?”

[Blind Molly]

She had a brief impression of a bearded young man at the edge of the lake, and then he withdrew from the water and the vision faded.

"And if I had a sword?" Molly remained where she was, though she stirred up a breeze so she could keep a general idea of the man's location. If he decided to put an arrow in her she would not have much warning.

What days these were, where she had to worry about people shooting her full of arrows. A month ago the idea would have been ludicrous.

[Garren Goodfellow]

“Then I'd say keep it to yourself. I've no taste for kingship.”

A grin tugged one corner of his mouth upwards, butstill the woman in the water stared at him with the same expression as before. Apparently, someone didn't know the Tales. Then again, he had just found her lying in a lake not far from the Steelwood. What a woman of her stature – obviously noble in breeding, given her good health and graces – was doing so far south was a mystery. Garren strolled slowly along the waters edge.

“If you don't mind me saying, you're rather far from home.”

[Blind Molly]

Where was Cailean, or Calleh? Or even Mandan, the archer who had helped save them from the dead of the Steelwood. The breeze died and she relied on her hearing to keep track of the man's footsteps, turning slowly to keep him in front of her as best she could. Hunting still, probably, and suddenly she felt like a fool to have left the camp at all.

But the water had called to her, and her ankle had been sore. She trailed her fingers in the water. "And how would you know my home is not this lake? Perhaps I am a nymph." She had heard the humor in his tone, and matched it with hers, smiling.

[Garren Goodfellow]

“You've got the look for it, I'll give you that.”

Garren came to a halt and crossed his arms over his chest. He glanced about the clearing that surrounded the lake. There was no sign of a camp, no heap of travelling clothes and rations. Surely, this woman hadn't wandered out into the middle of nowhere alone, with no provisions. One eyebrow quirking upwards, Garren looked back at her.

“If you're a nymph, shouldn't you be doing something.. mystical?”

[Blind Molly]

"A nymph would not need to prove herself," Molly countered, and eased back down into the water and began swimming to shore, towards where she had left her mantle and thankfully not very near the so-called thirsty traveler.

Pulling herself from the lake, and dripping water, she called up the air and dried her shift, the water forming a puddle at her feet. Molly crouched and felt about for her mantle, but could not find it.

After another moment she stood back up, unsure where the man had gone. "Are you still there, thirsty traveler?"

[Garren Goodfellow]

“I've a name, you know. Garren Goodfellow.”

His voice came from behind her, as he stooped to pick up the cloak he'd guessed she was casting about for, patting blindly at the earth. He held it out towards her, watching with growing curiosity - and uncertainty - as she called on the power of the Air itself to squeeze the damp from her clothes. For every tale of divinity related to the Air magics, there were ten more about sorcerer's who used the Air magics to suck the breath out of their enemies lungs.

“Is this what you're after? The cloak?” He held out the bundle of cloth, feeling the weight and wealth of the weave. It was no peasant's shawl.

[Blind Molly]

"Yes," she said putting her hand out towards his voice and after a moment he put the cloak in her hand. Her mantle was bundled inside, and she freed it and pulled it over her head. Molly worked the laces of the bodice, tightening them carefully with nimble fingers.

"My name is Molly, Garren Goodfellow. I thank you for your assistance." She left the rest of her laces undone and tugged the cloak around her shoulders, making sure it was the right way up first. Her cheeks flushed a little as she was sure she was a mess, still getting used to dressing without the help of a maid.

[Garren Goodfellow]

While she dressed, Goodfellow turned to look out at the expanse of the lake. He'd only come looking to refill his skin, but now he was beginning to wonder if there wasn't something more to be gained from the unexpected detour. “So - Molly - what's a gentlewoman like you doing in a place like this? Surely you didn't walk all the way out here for a bath?” Years of travelling and living amongst a varied band of city-dwellers and country-folk had dulled some of the sharpness from Garren's accent, but hints of the Fian brogue still crept in here and there. “There's all sorts in these woods. Not the kind of place a lady should be travelling alone, if you don't mind me saying.”

[Blind Molly]

"No doubt you yourself are a man of good intentions," Molly replied, a hint of sarcasm in her tone, "Merely looking out for my best interests." Of course he hadn't killed her, nor tried to rape her, and he'd given her her cloak instead of stealing it.

She ignored his question and countered with one of her own. "You aren't headed north-west, are you? I would stay out of the Steelwood if I were you." The Seer remained where she was, not intending to lead this stray to their camp, and ran a hand through her hair. Its soft curls were soft no longer after weeks on the road, but at least she'd been able to keep it clean. Lice were not acceptable.

[Calleh]

"Nor does she travel alone."

A tall, swarthy man stepped onto the bank from the cover of a stand of locust trees, rolling up a scroll as he came. Calleh ben-Sudr al-Fard did not wear his armor, but one of his shortswords swung from his hip, and as he tucked the scrap parchment away he rested his free hand on its hilt.

"But the better-mannered among us know how to leave a bathing lady in peace."

Calleh fixed Garren with a vigilant look that was neither hostile nor hospitable. He would leave it to Molly whether he would drive this nuisance away or suffer his company.

[Garren Goodfellow]

Garren met the new arrival's stare with a curious smile. If there one thing more peculiar than finding a blind, Dalriadan noble-woman bathing in a lake, it was finding out that she kept company with one of the Ankaarim. What could have possibly brought such an unlikely pair together?

“I beg your pardon, good sir,” he dipped his head, though held Calleh's gaze with his own. “When I was growing up in Nifleim, I'm afraid manners were in short supply. Anyway, I only stopped by for some water -” he held up his wine-skin with a slosh. “Though I'd be glad of the company for a while, if you happen to be travelling south. Safety in numbers, eh?”

[Blind Molly]

"Nifleim?" Molly's lips curved in a wry smile as she located her walking stick near her feet. "You are even further from home than I, then."

She turned in the direction of Calleh's voice and began picking her way across the turf and low shrubbery towards him. "We are traveling south," she added, "And if you wish to walk beside us I suppose we cannot stop you.

"Well," she said, reaching out and lightly tapping from side to side with the stick until it gently touched what she assumed was Calleh's leg, "We could stop you, but I'm sure it won't come to that." Molly put her hand out and located Calleh's shoulder, and oriented herself correctly according to how he was standing. She had a feeling they would need all the companions they could get on this journey.

In the lake... she had felt that things were going to come to a head, and soon. What that meant, exactly, she did not know. And then this Garren fellow had shown up... which was more than mere coincidence, she was sure of it.

[Calleh]

Calleh, too, was no believer in coincidence, but neither was he quick to trust. After all, by the Necian's account, Moreth had appeared as a winsome traveler in the wild, and even fair appearances could conceal foul intentions.

"Well, if Lady Molly will tolerate your company, then so will I," Calleh said, and he released his sword hilt to take Molly's arm. "The peace of God be with you, Garren Goodfellow. Our horses are tied by a brook some hundred paces away. We were meaning to be off as soon as Molly returned. Shall I help you with your gear?"

He asked less out of charity and more to confirm his suspicions that Garren owned nothing but the clothes he wore. Calleh doubted very strongly he was prepared to follow them into the storm that lay before them - likely eveen worse than the one they had just escaped in the Steelwood.

[Garren Goodfellow]

Gifted with the Ankaarim's blessing, Garren pressed his palms together and dipped his hands downwards, in his best impersonation of a pious man.

“You're very kind, but I've got nothing to carry but the clothes on me back. Oh, and this.”

He reached over his shoulder and for an instant he saw the tensing of Calleh's posture, the bunch of muscles as he prepared himself for what must certainty have been Goodfellow drawing a sheathed sword. What he produced was no blade or bow, but something that could nonetheless strike fear into the hearts of men – a lute!

“Had a run in with some bandits further north. They took me mule and me money, and even went so low as to... smash me poor girl here.”

The instrument was a sorry sight, neck half-broken and two strings severed.

“I was making a canny living telling tales on the road, but I suppose I should be taking this as a sign from your God up there, eh, my man?”

[Cailean MacGabhann]

Cailean swiped aside branches with his forearms as he emerged out of the forest into the clearing that surrounded the lake. The sound of voices had startled him out a nap he hadn't realised he'd fallen into and his pulse was now racing inside of his chest, as he was almost certain he'd arrive at the lake to find some hellish serpent had risen from the depths, with Calleh bravely – but vainly – swatting at the thrashing beast with his swords. Instead, all he saw was a man holding up a broken lute. He looked blankly between the seer and her swordsman.

“What's going on?”

[Blind Molly]

"Garren here was getting some water while I was in the lake," Molly said, smiling in Cailean's direction. "He's but a poor, wandering minstrel in need of companionship on the road south." Her tone had a slight sarcastic bent to it, but her smile removed the bite.

The blind woman tugged at her clothes in what she hoped was a discrete manner, and made sure her long cloak was covering what she was sure was a multitude of sins. "We need to be going quickly," she added, "I feel that we are very close to... something. An event." The Seer rubbed lightly between her eyes and added, "I was interrupted before the vision could become clearer."

[Calleh]

Calleh glanced again at Garren, but he held his peace. He had never been gifted with visions, but he knew them to be a fickle thing, even when they weren't being interrupted by traveling bards. If Molly were meant to receive the full oracle, she would have it sooner or later; otherwise, all their efforts to conjure it again would be futile.

"In any case, we must not hang about," the Ankaaric warrior-scholar said. Taking Molly's arm, he led the way back to the camp where the horses waited, the two Dalriadan horses standing lazily at their ties, Kuhaylah loose but tossing her mane impatiently.

Calleh stroked her neck and then helped Molly to climb into her saddle. "I regret that we have no horse to carry you, Mr. Goodfellow," he said, "unless Cailean wishes to share his with you."

[Garren Goodfellow]

Goodfellow waggled his fingers at the third arrival, who was by his looks and the lack of scowling on Calleh's behalf merely a squire to either one of the two nobles. “Vision?” Garren mouthed the word, his eyebrows lifting as his gaze met Cailean's. The boy stared back at him blankly for a moment before hauling himself onto his mount, whilst Calleh guided the Lady Molly into her saddle.

“Are y'sure you wouldn't like an extra pair of hands for the reins there, m'lady?” Garren asked, squinting at the glare of the pale sun overhead. “You look a little.. unsteady up there, if you don't mind me saying.”

[Mandan the Archer]

"You'd be surprised how good her balance is."

A magical breeze had gently carried the sounds of conversation from the camp site at Mandan's behest. He had slowed his approach at the sound of a foreign voice amongst it, compelled to dismount and approach on foot. He moved through the undergrowth with practiced ease and stealth, an arrow nocked to his bow and the tune that would summon enchanted fire to dance across the arrowhead ready on his lips.

When he emerged amongst the travellers, his alert had lessened, and the arrow had returned to its quiver, though he kept the bow gripped in his fingers. Calleh was a deft swordsman, and would no doubt leap into action should this new arrival be revealed as hostile; even so, Mandan was confident that with the combination of skill and the wind's magical aid, he would still be able to pierce the wayward traveller with an arrow before the swordsman's first blow fell.

He pursed his lips, and issued a deep, tuneful whistle; a breeze was summoned into existance by the music, carrying the sound to where his mount waited, patiently. Though his keen senses paid careful attention to Garren, his voice was clearly directed soley at the others when he spoke again.

"The road ahead is clear," he revealed, as the sound of hooves heralded the approach of Ysbaddaden. He extended a hand, the stallion coming to an obedient halt with his reins in easy reach of Mandan's fingers. In a graceful, fluid motion, he stepped into the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle.

He gestured towards Garren with a jerk of his head, gaze settling on Cailean specifically. "Will you be carrying our excess baggage, or shall I?"

[Blind Molly]

Molly pulled on the reins gently, and Kuhaylah stamped and turned towards Garren, rearing a bit and making him step back suddenly to avoid the horse. The blind woman sat the saddle expertly even though she was sitting sidesaddle with a leg hooked around the saddle horn.

"I'm not sure the horse likes the idea of carrying two," she said with a wry grin, and urged the Ankaarish steed forward, letting the others figure out if Garren was to walk, or if Cailean would have to give him a ride.

[Cailean MacGabhann]

Cailean shifted in his saddle, uneasy. Unlike the others, the idea of riding a horse – let alone having a horse to call his own – was entirely at odds with his life before they had left Bai-Ulgan. Who was he to say 'no' to this Garren Goodfellow, whoever he was...

“You can ride with me.”

[D'eryiel Rey]

A warm breeze drifted through the nearby town of Bramleigh, a welcome respite from the unnatural chill that had been clinging to the air the past few days.

Settlements this close to the fabled Steelwood were rare enough. Many thought the townsfolk mad for even venturing so close to it, much less making homes there. But the wide road running between so many neighboring lands was well traveled, or traveled enough at any rate. Travelers meant the need for rest, supplies, and market goods, and all that meant a healthy coin. Healthy, that is, should anyone be brave enough or foolish enough to live and work so close to cursed woods that literally looked as dark under the new moon as any other night.

Many locals laughed off the rumors about the place as superstition. Some even wore fact that they lived an arrow flight from the Steelwood like a badge of honor.

Events like the one several days ago, though -- when the wind from the north literally howled and carried the unmistakable smell of death -- made even the hardiest villager question the wisdom of their choice. In truth, few stores stayed under the same owner for much longer than a year.

Today, however, the open air market was bustling. A number of shopkeeps gathered in a wide clearing as a line of wagons trundled into view -- another welcome sign that life was returning to normal. As the wagons crawled to a stop, everyone's eyes swept eagerly over the collection of wares; cloth, leather, weapons, trinkets, food, wine.

And hesitated warily on a figure in a weathered, gray hooded cloak.

"Thank you," the figure said in a gruff, but polite tone. He extended a pale hand, two shades lighter than his cloak, and dropped a few silver coins in the driver's palm.

He climbed off the wagon with marked ease. His feet hitting the ground created a ripple in the crowd like a pebble hitting the surface of a lake. He nodded in thanks, as if the act of clearing the way for him was a polite gesture, and headed toward the tavern sign lazily swinging in the breeze at the center of town.

A flurry of muffled conversation surged through the crowd as the figure walked off.

"Wasn't that a Tr--?"

"Aye. Had to be, right? You act like ye never seen one."

"But didn't you see him pay for the--?"

"Aye. Thought he worked for Haelie, too. Guess not."

"But this caravan came from Edindale. Trow pass through here to leave, not come back."

The other merchant turned around to look at the mountains looming over the town to the south. He shrugged and said to his friend, "Maybe he's going home."

A few dozen yards away, the Trow stranger frowned under his hood.

[Weeta]

Things were bad. Things were really bad. Things were really really really bad.

The Mer stumbled over a rock and fell into the grass along the side of the road, laying there for a moment in the dirt... the dirt! She lifted her arm weakly and let it fall, punching the ground. She hated the land. Where was the sea? She was so lost.

So lost.

Weeta struggled in the dirt and fallen leaves for a moment, pushing herself up to her knees as the creak and groan of a wagon reached her ears. She tried to sit up, sweating under the cloak she'd found in the wood, an old musty red cloak that had some sort of beast sigil on it.

"Stop, stop! Pytyr, its a child, stop. The turnips can wait a moment." Weeta held up a hand to the large bosomed human who climbed down over the wagon wheel. She clucked her tongue, putting a hand to the Mer's forehead. "Ach, she's burning up."

"I don't want no plague," said the farmer, but there wasn't any strength behind his words and his wife quickly bundled the Mer up into her arms and settled her in the back of the wagon on a pile of root vegetables. The whole thing smelled like dirt. Weeta moaned, but was too tired to do anything about it, and instead snuggled down into the blanket the woman had given her, her ragged red cloak covering her head and her long Mer ears.

"We'll take her into Bramleigh with us, and see if anyone's missing a child. Maybe have the doctor see to her."

"Can't afford no doctorin' for us nor a stray," grumbled the man, but as the wagon continued down the road there was only the sound of the horses and the creak of the harness in reply.

[D'eryiel Rey]

The Trow stranger worked deftly through the noon feast crowd milling about the food markets and the Carrig du Lac Tavern. He considered the sign over the door, idly wondering how far the lake to which the name alluded was from town. Perhaps, he gathered, in the infamous woods that the caravan driver wouldn't stop yammering on about.

With that thought he looked over his shoulder, regarding the mountains with unmasked contempt. Those two merchants he overheard speculated that his destination must lay in the caves miles beneath their feet, in his people's homeland, Verbannen. Why else would a Trow travel all this way?

Why indeed.

In truth, had he realized where the caravan was going, he never would have gotten on it. But neither time nor choice were luxuries he could afford then. He grumbled, promising himself that he'd be moving along quickly enough. His stomach grumbled back.

He paused there a moment, keeping his head bowed under the oversize hood. Pale blues eyes focused on the ground in front of him. His gaze grew distant.

The stranger tilted his head curiously toward the road, staring between two houses at the empty, rolling hills beyond. Nothing moved but the breeze for the span of two heartbeats. Then a farmer's wagon rounded a hill in the distance, approaching far outside the town.

The Trow hummed dismissively and shook his head. Seemingly satisfied, he continued inside the tavern.



Under the shade of a tent awning a hundred paces away, a burly looking man with mottled black hair watched the cloaked Trow enter the Carrig du Lac.

The big man turned to the brown haired Fian next to him. Casting a sideways nod, he asked, "Did he see us?"

The Fian opened his eyes, glancing down at the wooden platform they were standing on. "No," he breathed as a smirk crept into his features. "He's ours."

[Weeta]

The wagon trundled up to Bramleigh and the goodwife suddenly clutched her good husband's arm. "Ye don't suppose that those rumors are true. That the dead are walking the streets of Bramleigh at dusk?"

He grunted. Before he could say anything in reply, however, she rushed on, "I could carve a turnip t' appease the spirits. Or two."

"You will not, you hysterical woman. Those are for th' market. All o' them. No undead skellingtons are goin' t' stop us from selling these vegetables." He whipped up the horses, which had absolutely no effect on the ponderous creatures, and finally pulled the wagon to a stop across from the tavern on the single main street of Bramleigh. He set the brake and climbed down, letting his wife make her own way off the wagon. "I'm getting a drink before we set up the stand."

She clucked her tongue at him, but said nothing else, picking her way down the wagon wheel and walking around to check on the 'child' in the back. "I'll see you to a doctor, if you want child."

Weeta looked around muzzily as the goodwife helped her down out of the wagon, keeping up a stream of pleasant conversation. "Who are your parents? Have you been alone long?"

"N- no..." She hadn't been alone long. There had been many people around before. In Necia. Stupid Necians. "Where... where is this?"

"Bramleigh, dear. Nearest the Steelwood." The woman's words meant nothing to the Mer, who had no clue about land marks. She guessed that it meant she was a long way from the sea, though, which made her even more sad. "Here, let me help ye with your cloak... oh!"

The ragged red cloth hood slipped down, Weeta's ears springing out from her unruly mop of red hair and marking her as clearly not human. The farmer's wife didn't know what a Mer was, however, and thought perhaps what she had was a young Fian.

[D'eryiel Rey]

Five men walked up to the front steps of the Carrig du Lac, two fian and three human, each wearing either a sword and/or several daggers clasped to their leather armor.

A cluster of patrons emerged from the tavern. The formerly jovial conversation they were having inside fell silent as the two groups almost collided. The locals started to apologize, but abruptly moved aside as they noticed a lack of peace knots on any of the strangers' weapons. A few more people outside quickly ceased their loitering and shuffled away in kind.

The biggest man of the five, almost large enough to be an orc, gestured to two his men. One of the humans unslung a crossbow he carried on his back as he and and a fian took up position on either side of the double doors.

The burly human looked flatly at a villager was was hesitantly watching nearby. "Lunch is over. Go home."

The doors swung open with a heavy shove to mixed reactions; a few gasps, a few sudden scrapes of chairs against the floor, a surge of hushed conversation.

"Son of a trog," a voice growled into the awkward silence of the room. Several eyes turned slowly to a table against the far wall. The gray cloaked figure sitting there had drawn a few uncomfortable glances when he first walked in, particularly once he pulled back his hood when his meal arrived. He had long hair whiter than his skin was pale, and several gold and silver rings lined each pointed ear.

The orcish human and a fian walked toward him, leaving the third of their trio behind at the door. The customers at each table they passed started to rise and head out in their wake, but stopped and sat down as the man standing by the door casually gripped the hilt of his broadsword and shook his head.

"Good to see you, too, Rey Rey," the leader greeted the trow with a smirk.

"Cobb," the trow replied darkly.

"You made a good run of it, D'eriyel," the fian added. "It's over. Tell us where it is and you can be on your way."

The trow laughed heartily. "Yes, surely, all is forgiven. That sounds like Marl. Don't patronize me, Arym."

Neither of the men facing the trow seemed to appreciate the humor. "Do you really want to do it this way?" Cobb asked. He scowled and shifted the grip on his sword, ready to draw. The fian, Arym, gave Rey a pointed look, making a show of flipping a carved magical charm end over end through his fingers.

D'eryiel strummed his fingers on the wooden table, leaned back in the wooden chair, glanced around at the planks on the walls and floor, and sighed.

[Blind Molly]

Molly tolerated riding at best, but with Kuhaylah beneath her it was almost becoming enjoyable. The horse needed no correction and her gait was smooth as she followed Calleh on his Dalriadian steed. The Seer could feel the mare wanted to be in the lead, but was content for now to follow, on some level aware of her cargo and Molly's special needs.

Of course, being blind didn't mean she was helpless, and Molly had been riding since she was a little girl and had a system worked out that allowed her to be almost competent on horseback. But it was nice not to have to concentrate so hard, and let her mind wander a bit back to the lake. Still, the more she thought about it, the less she was able to glean from her experience, and finally she gave up.

Molly touched her heels to the horse's flanks and drew up alongside Calleh. "How long is the journey to Ankaa?" She turned her head towards him, clutching the saddle in front of her while the reins lay loose against Kuhaylan's neck. "The Hadar Waste scares me, to be honest. So much land, and so little water..." She shuddered.