The City

Once, long before the return of the Elder Gods, there was a great and beautiful city. Their power came from their location, for the city was located at the head of the best pass in a great chain of mountains. Their wealth came from controlling the trade through this pass, and from the mountains themselves, which they mined for gems and precious metals.

Many in the city became wealthy through trade, but if one person gains gold, another must have lost it, and so the city had many poor as well. They were those who had been foolish, or unlucky in trade, and the widows and orphans of those who defended the city or the caravans of the merchants who passed through, and those who were born into poverty and squallor, for the city made no provision and gave no assistance to any of them. It was from this population that the labourers for the mines were drawn, and this was done so that the rich might grow richer off the labour of the poor.

For a time, the city was peaceful, and prospered, with its poor kept out of sight, too weary from labour to seek change, but change is the way of the world, and those who do not seek it nonetheless find it thrust upon them. First came rumours, whispers of horrible things, of civilizations destroyed, whole races extinguished, and the number of traders upon the road dwindled. But the city remained proud, and ignored the rumours, thinking them only tales of some natural disaster, blown out of all proportion by distance and time and the natural inclination of a storyteller to capture his audience's attention with the new and the grand.

A time came, however, when the rumours could no longer be denied. The tales became substantiated by eyewitness accounts, as first a trickle, and then an ever growing stream of refugees began to arrive. Some stayed a few days, some a few weeks, and some stayed on permanently, seeking whatever work they could. All brought stories of horror, and destruction, the worst far beyond anything the rumours had claimed.

But the refugees also brought tales of hope, of the Vernal Gods, raised from edifices of power, who fought back against the Soulless. The ruling council of the city discussed amongst themselves, and decided to raise an edifice of their own, for many of the city's population wished it, and even if it was no Vernal God, the edifice would still aide the city's defences. Spies were sent out to learn of these edifices, information was gathered from those refugees who had once participated in raising an edifice, and the best scientists and artisans of the city began to study and design and plan.

Months turned into years, and years into decades. Council members died, retired, and were replaced by new ones. Refugees came and went, bearing with them their tales of horrors and destruction. Families lost prominence, and others became wealthy. The Frostwings were one such family. Through a series of manoeuvers, they had taken over the most prosperous silver mine. Freslin Frostwing, called the Nightwing for his unusually dark plumage, a brilliant man, had taken over the family after over a decade spent traveling, and making a name for himself for his physical prowess in guarding his family's caravans, in addition to being known for his intellect. In his thirties, he was among the youngest members of the ruling council.

With less than a decade left before the Edifice of Power was complete, the council turned their attention to deciding upon the candidates to be raised as a Vernal God. Despite the fact that there were many learned people in the city, the ruling council, and much of the general population were very superstitious, and so they sought council from the mountain winds, believing that the winds would provide an answer. It was a system easily manipulated by those less gullible, and Freslin Frostwing's travels had left him with little false reverence for such superstitions. So it was that through trickery, through bribery, through intimidation, and through the exhibition of his natural talents, that Freslin Frostwing won the majority support he needed to become the city's Vernal God.

The Nightwing's Daughter

The Nightwing had one acknowledged child, a daughter called Seramee. Her mother's thread had been severed by the Fates when Seramee was still quite young, and her father's occupations and temper were unsuited for childrearing. Therefore, she was left in the care of a succession of nannies, tutors, and governesses, all of whom were far too much in awe of her father to risk denying his daughter anything. She therefore became quite spoiled, as is a risk with children who are not taught of their place and role in the community. Seramee had inherited her father's intelligence, and so she soon learned that, while she might treat those dependent upon her good will for their position as she pleased, it would serve her own interests better to be sweet and flattering towards her father.

She was born long after the construction of the Edifice had begun, and grew up on the stories of the Vernal Gods, and confident in the knowledge that her father would become one, for he shared his ambitions with his household before ever the time came to vote. She was only twelve when her father's future as the city's vernal god became official, and enjoyed the attention she received as the future child of a god.

And attention she received a great deal of. As she grew older, people wrote poems in praise of the Nightwing's daughter's beauty, her tutors and governesses praised her intelligence, and her friends proclaimed her the wittiest, most amusing person of their acquaintance. It was true that she was intelligent, and fair to look upon, and had long since learned to make the sort of cutting comments that would make others laugh, but she was also shallow, selfish, her conversation revolving solely around herself, her clothes, her jewels, her father, her opinions on the latest fashion or the latest romance, and her own ambitions.

She had no true friends, for she was incapable of true friendship herself. Yet, she believed she possessed it, believed that her friends were friends because they desired her company, never realising that it was the status and benefits of her friendship they desired, or her father's favour for their own parents. A young clangoru maid named Holdda, whose father also served on the council, was considered her nearest and dearest friend.

By the time she was eighteen, many were coming to court her, for she was heiress to all her father's lands and money, and would come into that fortune as soon as her father was ascended. Therefore he was grooming her to take after his ruthless business practices, and had every intention of continuing things as they had been, only using his daughter as an intermediary. He was therefore reluctant to see her wed to someone who might someday wield an influence greater than his own upon his daughter, and so encouraged Seramee to find faults in all her suitors.

This was easier than you might expect, for Seramee, by this time, was not a match for any man of decent character, and there were few good men who were willing to seek her hand in marriage, even though it came with great wealth and privilege. So Seramee made sport of her suitors, with her father and her friends, and wondered whether she would ever find a man good enough for her, never thinking that it might be she who was not good enough for them.

The Horns

Seramee was twenty-one when the edifice of power was completed. Two great wings of finely wrought silver stretched impossibly tall from the city's central plaza. Each feather was of exquisite craftsmanship, detailed down to the individual barbule. Precious stones of sapphire and amethyst were cunningly worked into the stems and curls of the feathers, so that when the sun shone, the light would be caught by them, creating a glimmering aureola. They were named "The Whispering Wings" in honour of the winds which passed through them, and which murmured and muttered as they blew through the twisted silver.

A grand festival was planned for Freslin Frostwing's raising. Each council member was responsible for the planning of a particular display for the festival, and many worked, or made those of their employ work, in secret in the hope of their display being the most spectacular, thereby winning the hearts of the people. Freslin was no different, he would not even tell his own daughter his plans.

Seramee, her curiosity piqued, and wearying of idle speculation and the endless gossip regarding who would be wearing what to the festival, and who would be seen with whom, hatched a plot with Holdda, and the pair of them succeeded in breaking into Freslin's study to try to discover his plans. But they found little to interest them. His study contained a great many ledgers about the mines work, which Seramee had seen often enough, and a few personal mementos from his days as a traveller.

Among these last were two great horns. Seramee, bored and disappointed, took one down and blew upon it. She and Holdda were both surprised to discover that it made a sound like the moaning of the wind, and she found, upon further experimentation, that she could make it so that the wind almost seemed to speak. Seramee hastily replaced the horn, not wishing to ponder its meaning, and she and Holdda slipped off, each swearing to the other to keep secret what they had found. It was a vow that Holdda had no intention of keeping.

Here at last was something that could be used against the Nightwing, something beyond the petty dealings that all the councillors were guilty of. Here was a way to reveal the Nightwing unfit to be ascended, thereby opening the opportunity for one of the clangoru to be ascended instead. Here was something that made her attendance on the spoiled Seramee worthwhile, and a way to get back at her for all the caustic remarks born over the years. (Holdda was quite handsome by the standards of the clangoru, but in recent years the tall slenderness of the trill had come into fashion, and so Holdda had found herself constantly eclipsed by Seramee among their friends, and as the date of the ascension approached, even some of the clangoru had begun to embrace this style.)

So when Holdda returned home that evening, she went straight to her father, and told him what she had witnessed.

The Festival

The first five days of the ten-day festival were a whirlwind of gaiety and frivolity for Seramee, and she soon entirely forgot her uneasiness at her discovery. She was far too occupied by mocking her suitors, gossiping with her entourage, and ignoring the poorly clothed children who inevitably clustered on the fringes of the gathering, watching the festivities from which they were barred, and begging for the food they could not afford.

The sixth day dawned, cold and clear, with little to distinguish itself from the previous days. An operetta commissioned in honour of the Nightwing's Ascension took pride of place, and was followed by an elaborate formal dinner for council members and their families out in the square before the Whispering Wings, beneath an icy, starry sky.

At the end of the meal, Holdda's father rose to give the traditional toast, but before he could do more than stand upon his chair and lift his glass, a sibilant voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere hissed "The Nightwing liesss." Silence fell, broken abruptly by the tinkle of Seramee's wineglass striking the cobblestones as it slipped from her nerveless fingers.

As if it were a signal, everyone began to speak at once. Freslin's expression darkened, but his voice was calm as he gravely demanded "What is the meaning of this, Thorair?" Holdda's father regarded the Nightwing gravely, a sardonic expression crossing his squat face. "Why ask me, Freslin, when it is the winds who speak so clearly?"

Freslin's eyes narrowed in response, but did not rise to the bait and so Thorair turned instead to the pale Seramee. "Shall you explain what you and my daughter found, and explain why the winds, upon being asked who to vote for, spoke your father's name more clearly than anything had ever been heard before?"

"I-"Seramee began faintly, casting a desperate glance towards her father, her normal self possession having deserted her entirely. "But-" she stammered. "He would never- I-" Unable to face her father's darkening countenance at her fumbling words, she turned instead upon Holdda "You promised not to tell!" The cry burst forth from her lips, and Seramee immediately clapped her hands over her mouth, as though wishing to stifle the accusation that confessed to far too much.

Freslin roared with anger and leapt to his feet, upending his chair. With a savage blow he struck Seramee, sending her reeling, before he was forced to take to the air to avoid those who would have restrained him, his great, dark wings allowing him a measure of invisibility. Seramee, bewildered, one hand pressed against her stinging cheek turned first to Holdda, but her erstwhile friend turned her back upon the trill, and refused to look at her. The formal dinner was descending into a full blown brawl, and after Seramee failed to catch the attention of other friends, except a muttered "traitor" from a fellow trill, the young woman fled the square, heading swiftly for home.

Only to learn that home she no longer had. The great gates of the Frostwing estate were closed for the first time in Seramee's memory, and the guards along the walls would not even acknowledge her pleas to let her within. Freslin did not intend, it appeared, to give up his claim to ascendancy without a fight.

In vain did Seramee seek shelter with her erstwhile friends, none would open their doors to her. She was too proud to throw herself on the mercy of those whom she had once scorned, and too loyal to desire to make herself a tool of her father's enemies. In angered pride, she turned from the area of the city she knew best, and began to wander through narrower and narrower streets at random.

As the night deepened, weariness claimed her, and she sank down in a doorway, wrapped in her cloak and fell asleep.

The Lucidians

Scarcely hours later, Seramee was abruptly awakened by an icy, smelly cascade of used dishwater. She sat up, gasping in shock and outrage, to find herself almost face to face with a scowling clangoru woman. "Be off, you hussy. We don't want none of your kind here." Befuddled from lack of sleep, and in shock from her rude awakening, Seramee could only gape at the woman's rudeness and insinuations, and with a sniff, the clangoru slammed the door shut in her face. "Get! Or I'll set the dogs on ya!"

Hurriedly, Seramee rose to her feet, and wandered deeper into the poorer quarters of the city. She was dazed and weary and painfully aware that there was no tray of steaming breakfast waiting for her anywhere. A plan. She needed a plan, food, shelter, and space in which to regroup. A sign caught her eye, and Seramee slipped furtively into a dingy building that advertised that they purchased gold. She sold one of her rings to the shabby looking woman behind the counter for far less than it was worth, then turned and left. She had passed a few streets when she noticed that the crowd had thinned, and a few streets later, she discovered that she was being followed. Her ragged, soaked cloaked had thus far protected her from the attention of the thieves and cuthroats who thronged the streets, but her visit to the shop had betrayed her.

She was able to scream before they set upon her, but a strong blow knocked her unconscious as they reached her. Darkness claimed her.

Seramee awoke on a hard bed, covered in clean sheets, utterly bewildered. The few rays of light shining through the small window revealed a tiny room, sparsely. The only chair was occupied by a wingless woman, who looked as though she had been carved from golden quartz. She had been writing, but looked up when she heard Seramee's movements.

"Do not move" the lucidian woman said in a melodious voice, as Seramee struggled to sit up. "You must rest. You are safe here, though when you are feeling better, I would know who it is that my brother has rescued. I have done what I can for you, but it is not the season for arnica, and without it you will take some time to heal."

Seramee subsided back, her head throbbing. She felt surreptitiously at her waist for her money pouch and glanced around for the bag of jewels, her expression sharpening to suspicion when she could not see them. A flicker of some colour flashed across Recla's face, too swiftly for Seramee to identify, but the woman's tone was emotionless when she spoke. "Etarix managed to recover most of your things. They are on the table, beneath your wing." She paused a moment before adding with no more colour in her voice than before "We are not thieves."

Seramee flushed. "I- I am sorry" she whispered "I only-" She broke off. "Who are you? Why did you..." She trailed off. The lucidian gazed at her a moment before responding "I am Recla Crk'zia. As to the why, you were in need. It is not our way to abandon those in need." There was an edge to her voice. Before Seramee could reply, an angry chiming rang from an adjacent room, and Recla departed, leaving Seramee to drift back asleep.

 
Compassion

In the weeks that followed, Seramee learned much of Etarix, Recla, and Recla's young daughter, Axia. They had come to the city as refugees, fleeing before one of the Soulless, and had been serving the poor of the city ever since. Recla worked as a healer for those who could not pay except in gratitude, and Etarix worked to organise the refugees, policing the streets with volunteers, overseeing distribution of food and supplies, making sure that those with talents and abilities found a role where they could use those abilities, rather than being forced into the mines.

Seramee had expected, subconsciously, to be waited on hand and foot during her convalescence. However the instant she could sit up without dizziness, Recla began setting her to the task of making small pots for the potions and salves that Recla sent home with various visitors. Seramee at first was deeply resentful of the labour, and did not pay much heed to the lumpen and lopsided containers she formed of clay.

As time went on, however, she found to her surprise that she enjoyed the work. There was something supremely satisfying about forming an idea in her mind and then drawing for that idea into reality, and then in seeing, as time went on, how she could make that reality more and more like to her initial idea. She began to decorate the pots before firing them, experimenting with colours and crystals to obtain different effects. Her work had a salubrious effect on her recovery, as her attention was taken further and further outside of herself.

One evening Recla was called out urgently to tend to the victim of a mining accident. Seramee, surprising even herself, volunteered to watch over Axia, and Recla gratefully left her daughter in the young trill's care. Shortly after Seramee had finally rocked the small lucidian to sleep in her cradle, and had begun working on a vase, there was a knock at the door. Seramee glanced out warily, but it was only a small, grubby human girl. She opened the door cautiously and invited her in.

"What is the matter?" Seramee asked. "Please, I need some more medicine for my mother" the child said. Seramee hesitated, looking around the room at the hanging herbs, the shelves of medicine, and bit her lip. She had no notion which one was the melancholic elixir that the child's mother needed. As the child began to cry, Seramee thought of the money she had hidden below the floorboard in her own room. With money, the human might purchase some melancholic from the apothecary. The thought brought a blush to Seramee's cheeks as she thought of the wealth simply sitting buried in the ground, while Recla and Etarix saved and scrimped and yet worked great good among the poor of the city. Seramee retrieved it, and sent the child off again with the smallest denomination of coins she had.

When Recla returned, Seramee presented the lucidian with the finished vase, beautifully painted in a delicate pattern of swirling feathers, filled to the brim with coins and Seramee's remaining jewels. "Please. I am sorry I did not think of it before, but now I see... I have done so little to deserve these, when you and your brother have been working so hard. Will you not use them to help my city?" Recla, glowing a warm beryl, nodded her acceptance.

Sacrifice

Events in the richer quarters of the city had not remained at a standstill while Seramee recovered. The Nightwing's fortress was fully under siege, and not a day went by without bloody conflict in the streets. Meanwhile, an ever growing stream of refugees came to the city, but now, instead of staying, many continued to flee, leaving horrible stories in their wake.

The council sought to raise Thorair's eldest son upon the Wings, but the power that rushed to fill the clangoru destroyed him. Some of the architects were questioned severely, and it was revealed that Freslin had persuaded them to make it so that any save those of his blood who sought to become a Vernal god upon the Wings would die. When the news inevitably spread to the general population, the city panicked. Some wished to use the Wings as a defense, in the hope that it would be enough. Some wished to flee. Others thought that the Nightwing ought to be raised, even if it meant rewarding his ambition and ruthlessness. Some remembered the Nightwing's daughter, and began looking for the vanished young trill.

The fear and tension between the factions on the council reached a boiling point three months after the disastrous festival. The chaos was sparked by the arrival of a battered outpost rider whose half-mad rambling spoke of tentacles and shrieking scarcely two days' ride away. A fresh offensive was launched against the Nightwing's citadel; agents of multiple factions combed the city streets for Seramee, and the populace broke out into rioting and looting.

It was one of her father's agents, Harallel, who found the young woman. She had come across a bracelet with the Frostwing design in a jeweler's, and had been tracing it through its many owners ever since. She was given Recla's name at last, and stopped by the apothecary one evening intending to question the lucidian woman sharply. It was her great good fortune to find Seramee there, surrounded by several children of various races, telling them a story. Their parents, members of Etarix's peacekeeping force, were meeting with the lucidian siblings in a nearby building to discuss plans to evacuate their quarter efficiently.

Harallel ordered Seramee to come with her, explaining that her father wished to speak with her. Seramee, concerned for the children, agreed to come peacefully. Harallel then drew her sword, and prepared to execute the children, that there might be no witnesses. Horrified, Seramee snatched up the vase she had made from the nearby table, and shattered it over the other trill's head, before flinging herself between Harallel and the nearest boy. Suprised by this unexpected opposition, Harallel swung her sword wildly, and Seramee took the full force of the blow across her chest. With a sudden fury, Seramee clung to the sword, pulling it against her to prevent Harallel from using it. With the last of her breath the dying trill screamed for the children to run.

Harallel, thwarted and furious, fled the scene of her crime, leaving Seramee, bleeding out, alone.

Beauty

Etarix carried the dying trill maiden through the streets of the city. A cloaked lucidian woman he had never seen before guided him, and they somehow passed through the chaos unheeded. He laid Seramee at the foot of the great Whispering Wings, which were eerily silent. A great stillness spread throughout those who had already gathered there, as they turned to stare at the bleeding trill at the base of the wings.

The cloaked lucidian raised Seramee's hands above her head, placing her palms flat upon the joints at the base of the wings. There was a flash of power, that no one could later recall being the same colour, and Seramee's eyes snapped open.

The trill rose gracefully and sprang into the air, her great wings lifting her aloft. Though she was still recognisable as Seramee, every feature seemed more true, more lovely than ever before. She was taller, her wingspan was greater, and her feathers themselves seemed to gleam with many hues. With outstretched wings she seemed to catch the wind in such a way that she hovered in place above the outstretched silver tips of the Whispering Wings. The cloaked lucidian woman likewise rose, albeit with no visible means of support, and the pair held an animated discussion, thought not a word of carried down to the gathering crowd of witnesses. Seramee turned towards the west, where what looked like a great storm was gathering, then looked eastwards, where dawn was just beginning to break over the mountains.

"You must all go." Her voice seemed to ring out from all directions, in every corner of the city. "Take what food you can carry, what tools you will need to build a new life in some distant land" Some in the crowd began to disperse, while others stood, murmuring in wonder or fear. Her voice was heard even in the Nightwing's mansion, and Freslin Frostwing took poison rather than face a world where he was not a God.

Seramee beckoned to Etarix, and the lucidian found himself drawn towards her in the air as if upon the wind. "I wish for you to lead them " She told him. "You know how to lead, you have ideas of how things ought to be done. I would see you put them to use." "But you-" the lucidian man began, halting when Seramee shook her head, her gaze full of regret. "I have another duty." Seramee smiled sadly at Etarix, then squared her shoulders. "Go now, and prepare." She turned back to the cloaked lucidian, her expression serious, as the winds lowered Etarix back to the ground.

Etarix stared a moment longer up at Seramee, now deep in consultation with the cloaked lucidian. Then he squared his shoulders, and began to argue, threaten, and cajole the crowd into dispersing, recruiting some of the more able among them to assist him.

When the square had emptied, Seramee took from the pocket of her skirt a shard from the vase she had first gifted to Recla, and then broken over Harallel's head. By some chance, it had fallen there in the fight. After gazing at the piece a long moment, she clenched her hand firmly about it. When she opened her hand, all that remained of the shard was a glittering heap of dust upon her palm.

With a breath, she sent the dust flying out towards the rising sun. The tiny facets of quartz that had been hidden in the clay and the glaze caught the light of the dawn and held it, forming an exquisite lattice of brilliant light that solidified gradually before Seramee's gaze. With a sweep of her hands, Seramee sent a ripple through the bridge, splitting it into three separate bridges that broadened and stretched across the sky, passing over the mountain to the lands beyond where no Soulless had yet come.

And so it was that when the hour had passed, and the city gathered in the square, Etarix led them to safety across the Aurora. Seramee watched her city go, then took Tzaraziko's hand, and prepared to fight the Soulless.