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Male's name: Hrishikesk

Male's personality and/or brief bio:

He was a servant to the humans, him and his daughter were painted to say they were part of the village, he raised her by himself (under the watch of his owner). She was his world his everything. Life was good.

When she was a month old she was sold and taken to another village. Hrishikesh ran away from his owner to find her but since he entered the other village in such a rage he was chased out with arrows and spears.

He was labelled a rogue and a bounty was put on his head.

He decided to raise an army, for those who hated humans, then in one attack, destroy the village and take back his daughter.

As the commander he is very cold, strong and respected, not accepting any nonsense from anyone. Revenge hordes his heart and is all that matters to him.

He acts out of love. Although his heart is simply a shadow of the pure and just stallion he used to be.

*At the end of the story he is a lost soul, with nothing to live for, he hates life and is willing to give his to his beloved daughter when she comes to claim it. That is unless someone can show him the light... that he has something worth living for*

Female's name: Vasudhara

Female's personality and/or brief bio:

She grew up in a human village with no memory of her past home, she was happy, gifted to a young human and raised and loved as a family pet. They painted her to show she was owned as were all the horses which were owned by villagers in any village *thus why her father also is*

She grew up happy and strong, seeing humans as her family and she loved them, much like her father did before she was taken from him.

Then one day, her happy home and life. Everything she knew was taken away from her... what a pity she was such a kind and loving soul..

*at the end of her story she also becomes a shadow of what she once was, her only calling is to kill the stallion which tore her life apart no matter the cost. Nothing else matters to her anymore*

Your tale:

The moon was red. Glowing in the sky and illuminating the land with a taint of blood.

A strong stallion looked up at the moon with loss in his eyes. Blood was spilt tonight. The battle was over with him as the last survivor. Now there was silence. Hrishikesh sighed and looked to the floor blood dripping from his face, the burning village in the distance. The humans were dead. As well as his fellow solders but it was all in vein... his reason for fighting seemed to be no where to be seen.

"Monster!" Called a voice filled with vengeance and rage, the mare tackled him from the side then reared up kicking him in the side of the head. He fell and gritted his teeth jumping and biting her. Throwing her already injured body to the side. Then he looked at her. Could it be? he was in shock.

"How could you, all of them... gone. The women, the elderly, the sick. You monster have you no honour at all!" Vasudhara called to him with watery eyes. "Do not stop now. Take me too. Finish you started. I shall die beside them. To be with them again" she cried shaking her head and looking at the stallion with a look of pure hatred.

It was too late, his daughter, his reason for living. Would never forgive him. He had imagined this moment, over and over again in his mind... her running to him. Now that crumbled to dust. It would be less painful if she never knew...

Hrishikesh looked at her his once strong eyed turned blank and cold. "No. Stand up mare... death is not your destiny today." he stated flicking his mane and turning around and grunting. "If you want revenge, I will be waiting for you. Become strong, then avenge your family. Like I avenged mine."

He looked back at her one last time. 'I love you.' He marched through the valley a silent tear falling down his face.

Vasudhara stood up going onto one knee, the pain too much for her to even stand. With venom she bellowed after him making the Oath which would echo through his nightmares forever.

"I will I swear it! you will join your comrades in hell b@stard!"

So the hunt begins.

Male's name: Tuari (might be subject to change, due to end of the story, this is the one I'll be giving away, and the other person will have to choose to keep the name or not after reading my entry to see WHY the name is mailable at the end.
Male's personality and/or brief bio: (not required if you wish to explain this in the actual story) See story

Female's name: Orenda
Female's personality and/or brief bio: (not required if you wish to explain this in the actual story) Determined. For all else see story.

Disclaimer - The format I chose is a skeleton for what is now apparently going to be a novel series. Please note that all the scenes posted here are first drafts, not fully proofread (I did some but I've been writing for the past almost 12 hours straight, I need to stop looking at the screen for a while - may edit a proofed copy in later.

Also, as it is the skeleton for the first book in a novel, it is longer then I intended my entry to be, so after the entry will be a TL;DNR summery.

I apologize for the legnth and any typos you may find.

Further disclaimer - I have to post this in multiple pieces for length.


Your tale:



The Spiral war. The problem with telling the story of the spiral war is that no one fully understands it, to this day. You need to understand certain things about the Spiral War before you read any further, however. The primary one is that everyone will give you different answers. The Spiral war is a war of technology, a war of fist fighting, a war of words, and a war of magic. It spanned thousands of years, and nearly as many worlds. It started so long ago that I, as a historian, could not make even an educated guess. Well before the recorded history of my world began, that is, as near as I can tell. As to when it ended… Who knows?
You see, the spiral war was fought in time as well as in space. While it seems over in the here and now, there are battles that will not b e fought for hundreds of years yet. Some of the combatants have not yet been born. As near as I can tell, however, the range of years from 2032 to 2075 are a time of quiet for the Spiral War, a lull in the fighting. Many think it is over, but many are not historians.
Will anyone ever be able to compile first hand experiences of the war, beginning to end, in a single manuscript? Not a chance. Even a collaboration seems doubtful. This is why I warn you. Because you will follow this war with many narrators, all here to tell you about their section of the war, their experiences, their beliefs. All I can tell you as true is that you should be wary of any narrative that claims to give the reason for the war, the causes, or even the combatants.
From world to world that this war has spread, factions have risen to battle. People of all shapes and sizes have rallied to the call of the side they thin k is right, and all without ever knowing what that side is. Were we all even fighting the same war? It is hard to tell, but I think so. I think that we can find some interconnected accounts, threads to trace. I doubt we will ever find the true beginning, but I do think we can find enough to weave a tapestry of this war, to create a picture.
To this end, this narrative will follow the story of two combatants. A brother and a sister from a world rich in spiritual belief, but weak in magic and technology. Are they key figures in the war? They are in the same way that we all are and are not. They fought in it, they lived, they died, or will die, depending what year it is when you are reading this. I will not tell you how or when, mayhaps they will. They are as anyone in this war is, no more, no less. However, they are a place to start.
With that in mind, I hand you now to Iniabi, who shall begin you on the trail of the twins. Again, please mind always that no one has all the facts of this horrible war, and to be wary of any claims of certainty. I hope that you shall find the answers you seek about the Spiral War.


Year: 609 Narrator: Iniabi World: Natvaian

I have, in my life, made mistakes, decisions that my age has called upon me to regret. Do I regret what was done to the children? Perhaps. I regret that I had don e it when it turned out to be less necessary then I thought. I did what I did thinking that the future of my people was on the line, please understand that. Never once did I think that neither child would return, please realize this.
But I get ahead of myself. I am Iniabi, whose name means “The sun on which all life depends” to my tribe. I was the leader, and I was a father proud to bear twins. The children were met with mixed reactions from their very first sunrise by our people. Some viewed twins as a blessing and a good omen, as never before had twins been born to us. Others saw them as an ill omen, as I would one day have to choose one. You see, I am the chief of the Chohooke people. One day my eldest child would have to be chief, yet, which was the elder? My wife birthed them alone, and there in lay another complication. My beloved Aquene, whose name means peace, passed aware as she bore the children. When the babies screams went unquieted did the midwife, whom Aquene had cast out risk returning. She found the babes each in an arm of their dead mother, who had a serene smile upon her face. So some believed them ill for they blame them for the death of the greatest chieftess that we had ever had.
The war coming changed much for us, and less then we thought it would. The spirits warned of us the coming, a war that could swallow our world merely in passing. There was much debate amongst my people then. Some thought we should leave, either to flee or to pick a side, but no one could agree as to which side would ensure our survival. Others still wanted to remain here, to defend our land and the spirits it housed. None could agree, and finally all looked to me to decide.
This was the year 583. My children were five years old apiece. I understood the urgency of my people, and their unease. I could not tell them which side would win. All I knew was that we must survive. I took the path that would ensure the most of us would. I split the tribe into three smaller tribes.
The Shinkas were lead by my daughter Orenda, whose name meant Great Spirit. She was pale as her moon and the mother, and nearly as beautiful, even at five. We painted her and those who would follow her in the red and black of the Magician Tapisen, whose side she was to join on a far distant world.
The Hetones were to be lead by my son, Tuari, whose name meant young eagle. He was as dark as the night that helped his sister shine. We pained him in the red and white of the Magician Chikan, whom he would join.
I remained with those of my people who wished to defend out land, who wished to remain. We did not know that a Spirit caller from a nearby people would have reacted to the warning from their own spirits by hiding our world from the war. We did not know that those we sent off would never be able to return, for they had joined, becoming one with the war.
Each of my children was given an advisor, and there were many a tear filled hug before the two new tribes left forever. All of us were painted with the Eagle totem of our people, and decorated in the sacred feathers that were to en sure that we would find each other again some day.
It has been some years now. Nothing of the war comes to us, not even news. We shall never see our families who went a field again, and shall never know of their fate.
As for this narrative, a spirit had come to me when I was a boy, and gave me this parchment. He told me, ‘in the year 609, write on this parchment all you can about the last time you saw your children’. I kept the parchment always, secret and mine, never did I know it would be stained with my bitter tears. I do not know what shall become of this page, or of my heart, split in twain and cast to the stars, but I must do as my tribe demands. Perhaps one day I shall have another child who shall read this and know why they will always be fourth in my affection.


Year: 619 Narrator: Emaily World: Parisan

I have taken the name Emaily, my tribe will forgive me, I know. Most of us have to fit in to the world of Parisan, the land of lights. It is quite lovely here, or rather, it was, before the war. Madam Tapisen showed us images of how it had shone, I was enamored at once, and have pledged my life to her side, to restore the world to it’s former splendor. For this my tribe will not forgive me.
I was supposed to be the guardian and advisor to young Orenda. I lost track of her sometime ago, I am sad to say. Willful child. She was quite horrible actually. I do not know why her father chose me, he must have known that I hated the children. They should have been mine. Not that I would have been weak enough to die bearing them, mind, nor would I have been so stupid as to send Ahmady from the room. No, I would have bore him a strong son, not evil wicked little twins.
We had been here not quite a year when her cries became quite unbearable. Every day the little brat whined. She missed her father, she missed her brother. She did not have what it took to be the chieftess and we all knew this. When we all removed our feathers, and washed clear the eagle, she refused. She failed to understand that we had to fit in to survive. To have a future, one must be willing to temporally put aside the past.
For months she whined, and I simply could take no more. Magician Tapisen was bound to hear her, and to unravel what we had done, and then where would we have been? It would have all been for naught. So I found a lesser general of Tapisen’s and sent the little girl along with him. I told him that she was too young to fight and that he was to place her somewhere safe. I told her that he would bring her home, but only if she said not a word again until she saw her brother once more. She agreed, like the idiot she was. I watched them go and shook my head. Maybe my chances with her father were gone, however, Magician Tapisen was clearly going to win this war, and I would be at her right hand.
Parisan was to be the center of her plans to win, and I was it’s primary guardian. In a great many ways a city is a fair sight easier to attend to then a screaming child is. I did my duty, and I did it well. I protected her from invasion and attack as Tapisen traveled the edges of her troupes to rally them and fortify their battle spells. Finally some one had given me a task worthy of my skills. No babysitter was I. One day history will recall me as the great Hero of Parisan. That would be nice. I shall be the cause of Tapisan’s victory against the foul and evil Chikan, and shall receive praise equal to my worth at last. She has great taste in jewelry and clothes, perhaps that shall be the first of many gifts, for I shall win this war, win her heart, and win my place eternally in the worlds once she has won them.


Year: 1213 Narrator: Sequoia World: Oakenvale

Children are the worst casualty of war. Those who die are to be mourned and pitied. What ever had been done by a child to warrant death at the hands of the war machine? And those are the lucky ones, the children who died. Far worse is the fate for those who live. Many a child is darkened to their soul by war. They carry wounds one can never see, wounds that one can never heal. The great mother will never receive their souls, will never guide them to the next life. A child who as seen death and survived is forever doomed to linger as a ghost when they do finally pass them selves.
These children had seen war, had seen death, and they still lived. Would that killing them had been a mercy, I would have failed them. I could never harm a child, even for his or her own good. I couldn’t. More, it would only hasten their eternal condemnation. By the time the orphans reached me, it was too late entirely for them. All I could do was to make what time they had left in this life as pleasant as I could. Or rather, I could soften some of the hard edges of war. There may have been happy moments, but they were far fewer then the ones in which the reality must be acknowledged.
I ran a shelter in Okenvale for the children that I could find. Never before had I imagined so many forms of life existed until I began taking in war orphans. Children from worlds I could never imagine filled my halls with their cries, and on some rare wonderful moments, their laughter. There were a few children who looked proper, with winged ears, gills at their necks, and lovely feathered tails to sweep along behind their properly clawed feet. There were some like I had seen before, With small feathered wings shuddering close to their backs like floating capes, and long hair of gold. Then there were the ones less familiar.
There was a male child, couldn’t be more then five or six, if I could judge so alien a race. He was four legged, with long hair, and a tail that was just as his hair. He had feathers, but they seemed not to be his own. His face was long, and his wide eyes sad.
There was a girl, his same age it seemed, who was at least upright. She had no tail however, and I did wonder how in the world she ever managed to keep her balance. She had long hair, properly on her head, that was a raven black. I remember her eyes too, proud, clear blue eyes. You could tell at a glance that this child had seen more then just death. She was defiant and quiet, I remember her well. She hardly spoke a word for the longest time. Except to the fourlegged male, and one other pair of children.
They were siblings, and amphibian like, more then anything else. They could stand upright, with legs longer by a measure of three then the rest of their body, and shorter arms, but they preferred to crouch with their knees splayed wide. The girl had green pebbly skin with brown eyes, and her brother had brown pebbly skin with green eyes, and both of them grew long hair from their chins and short hair from their arms.
Those four children were close, and especially worrisome, I remember. Always getting in to messes, and never could I suss out who had started it all. However, they seemed a great comfort to one another, and orphan children often formed groups, able to comfort each other in ways that I could not. Like with all of my children, I did my best to keep them safe, but I could not watch them every minute. They deserved proper parents, all the children I watched did.
Unfortunately I never did learn the names of most of the children I took in. Often they chose their own names, or in some cases, like with the little girl, who I had dubbed Nightsky, some of them simply refused to talk to me.
Nightsky had wandered in lost and alone. I had gone to her, wrapped her in a shawl and asked her what happened. She held the blanket close about herself, then walked past me, eyes fixed over my shoulder. I turned to see what she was looking at and spotted Darkened, what I had named the black four-legged boy.
The two came together, and I wondered if despite their odd differences, that they had known each other. I had intended to tell them then where she could go to rest, and to fetch some food for her, when Lenda, one of the girls with gils and proper tails came running in to me.
Always running that one. Her fine tail had gotten caught as she was, you guessed it, running, and a great many feathers had been pulled out. She fell as she ran to me, hurting her knees. I took her inside to patch her up at once, and spoke to her. With an eye gone, as hers was, and a landscape as ruined as the one we called home, she should remember not to run. As always, she told me that it was her fate to be a champion racer, and she had to practice. Of course with her tail wounded, she was falling even more often. For the next few months, I spent more time tending her skinned knees and hands then I did any other injury. At the time I was not, but now, I am grateful. Would that there were more times to look back upon where the worst I had to treat were scrapes and bruises from rambunctious energy of a child following her dreams.
As for Nightsky, by the time I had let Lenda race clumsily off, I found her sitting with Darkened and the pebbly twins. Darkened was talking to her, which surprised me. I admit that I paused then to listen, for he spoke little. How was I to know that Nightsky would speak far less.
Darkened was telling her a story. Were it not for war, he could have been a writer, and a prolific one at that, the poor thing. The story he told was so creative and filled with imagination, and told so earnestly, I almost believed that it could be the truth.
Darkened told her that he had not always been, as he called himself, a horse. He said that once he had been what he called a human. He had also been a twin, though he had not seen his sister in some time. He told the other children that twins had a special kind of magic, that when something was done to one twin, it had an affect on the other. That when he had done a spell to teleport himself, he and his sister both vanished and went to different places. That he was sure that when the magician Zaid changed him into a horse, that the spell must have done something to his sister as well.
The children listened to Darkened intently, and I slipped off. Believing in magic was a part of childhood, and I did not have the heart to tell them that it didn’t exist. They would learn that lesson for themselves all too soon.
Those four spent a lot of time discussing magic, it seemed, though the twins, whom I named Rocky and Pebbles, had the most to say on any subject. Often those four would stop my hearts by vanishing for as much as a day at a time. Thirty three whole hours not knowing where they were, worried that they were dead. At the same time, I could not search for them, not without abandoning my other wards.
They say trouble comes in threes. I would otherwise have counted that one day a two. Lenda was the first. Perhaps if that had not happened, I would have acted fast enough to save Darkened, Pebbles, and Rocky. To this day I cannot think of a way that I could have saved Nightsky. I still do not know what happened to her.
Lenda was running. Her tail was healed, and it flew like a banner behind her. Two of the others were with her. They were new children, having had come in the day before, and I had not yet given them names, and they had not given me theirs. Three lives were lost then, three ghosts born, but I will always recall that as the day I lost Lenda. Lenda ran and the other two ran with her.
One of them was faster then even Lenda. I remember watching, worried that Lenda would take it badly. Quite to the contrary, Lenda was laughing gleefully, and urging the others to race their fastest. I should have realized that they were going out too far, but they were happy. It was a rare thing. When Lenda ran, usually her face showed determination and pain. Though she was faced away from me, I could tell that she was smiling. War orphans have so little chance to be happy that I was enjoying their excitement too much to be fully as alert as I should have been.
It wasn’t until the sound hit me that my min d processed what had happened. When had the minefield come so close to our home? The stench of burnt flesh, the sound of silence after. Smoke was everywhere, blinding me as much as my own tears were. I sprinted inside to gather the children. I knew I would have to find us a new place, though I was too distraught to see where.
I gathered nearly all the children in the living room, and made them swear to stay. I had no clue what to say to a one of them. I did a head count and came up short exactly four.
Fearing the worst, I tore through the house, hoping to find them safe. Together was almost a given by that point. I had been right in assuming they’d be together. And in expecting the worst.
They were in one of the ruined rooms upstairs. I told the kids always to not play there, the floors were broken in places, but as usual, these four had done as they pleased, heedless of the danger. Nightsky turned to face me, determination in her clear blue eyes, and then she vanished.
I stumbled against the frame of the door, certain she had fallen through the floor, though I saw no hole. I heard no scream. Had her death been instant? Had I lost another child that day?
My mind was swimming. Had it just been Nightsky, had I not just lost Lenda and the new foundlings, I would have thought it simply a trick. I would have known better what to do when the other three approached me. I would not have stared and stood there stupidly. I would have stopped them. To this day I do n ot know what happened to Nightsky, but Leda, the new ones, Darkened, Rocky and Pebbles. Them I could have stopped. Could have saved.
Darkened came and further stunned my mind by nuzzling my face gently and thanking me in a whisper. I should have realized, should have. I was a confused overwhelmed blank. Rocky and Pebbles each hugged me tightly, and in their thick horse voices thanked me as well. Then they joined hands, and smiled at Darkened. He nodded and then the three of them vanished as well.
I found a hole in the floor when my mind clicked into gear again. I thought they had been standing forward of it, the three of them, but clearly I had been wrong. It lead to a blocked off room I had never been able to get into. I wanted to rage at them, to cry, to fall apart and ask them why they had ended their own lives by stepping into that hole, but I had other kids to care for. I had to force my tears aside. As for questions, there would be time enough for that when I died and joined them as a ghost.


Year: 974 Narrator: Sani World: Krosht

My name is Sani, and this is the story of my failure. I was given a sacred trust. A very special child had been placed in my care. He was to have a great destiny, I could tell. He would be the one to reunite our tribes. Or rather, that is what should have happened.
I took Turai and the others to the world Krosht where we met with the magician Chikan. We were joined in his fight, and soon saw that he had the right of it in the war. The evil wizard Tapisen had secreted away his daughter as a step in her plans to take over the worlds. The poor girl had been brainwashed. While Chikan seemed willing, on the surface, to abandon his daughter, and sought only to stop Tapisen from collecting more young girls, I could tell that he did worry for his child. Who would not? I worried as well for Orenda, having gone to her. Had we made a mistake? It became imperative that Tapisen be defeated as rapidly as possible if the girls were to be saved.
There was much to do, and I had to prepare Turai for his role to come. This was made harder by the need to keep Chikan from realizing how important Turai was to our people. I lied and told the magician that Turai was my nephew, and that I wanted to keep him close. Perhaps that is why the spirits did as they did. Because I broke my moral code and lied. But I am getting ahead of myself.
I trained Turai as best I could. He had to be a warrior and a leader as fast as possible to save us all. He would be the one to end this war, and that meant he would be the one to save his sister from the clutches of the evil Tapisen.
Three years we lived there. By the time he was eight years old, he was already a gifted warrior. I often worried about the glint in his eye, but I knew it was needful. He had to be hard. There would be time enough after for his sister and one day for a mate and children of his own to help him refind the softness and joy.
He took well to the warrior life style. If this was an extension of his natural inclinations, or if he was driven by the desire to be reunited with his sister again, I may never know. He took to painting himself further then we had painted him. Red lined with white ran down his body regularly, and he tied things into his hair. HE was quite the sight, and looked quite the little savage. Especially as the world was so hot that he often distained clothing all together. I was hardly able to keep the eagle on his chest, let alone a shirt.
He was eight. I was supposed to guide him, train him, protect him, and when he was eight, I failed. He had asked for a break in training. He did not ask for it often, but I felt the pressure of time. The spirits warned me my time was short, they did not tell me how short. So I pressed. I told him no break, and ordered him to complete an attack formation. He took the first steps, then with surprise in his gold eyes, vanished. Eight years old and he was gone forever, beyond where even the spirits could find him.


Year: 4756 Narrator:Kaido World: Shuara

10:59 am. The door shook. I remember that. The door is rigged you see. Teleportation makes it shake. I turned. I will never forget my first sight of her. Skin as pale as the moon, eyes as blue as the sky during the day, hair as black as the sky at night. A black eagle was painted carefully on her arm. She was dressed in rags as a waif, and was thin as a wraith. Had she been older, perhaps it would have been love of a different type, but at once I felt that I knew what it was to have a daughter.
I wanted to scoop her up, to cuddle her, to love her. I wanted to take care of her, to feed her, to protect her. But those eyes said clearly that she would harbor no coddling. They shook me to my core, the determination in those eyes. Never had anything that wasn’t magical theory affected me so.
She turned, and some how I knew, I knew she meant to leave. I have yet to find a suitable theory to explain intuition and instinct, but she pricked all of mine. I called to her, to wait. She paused and turned to fix me with that blue glass stare. I asked her what she wanted. No words were needed to know she wanted something. No one had eyes like that who did not also have a goal.
She hesitated, and for the first time seemed unsure, for the first time, she seemed like the child she was. I knelt beside her to look her straight in the eye. Don’t ask me how I knew how to deal with her. The last child I had seen had been in a mirror, some twenty odd years previous. I took one of her hands subtly, felt how thin it was. I kept my voice level, as though speaking to a peer, though I had never had one of those.
I asked her again what she was looking for, and that close I saw fear and uncertainty in her eyes. She wasn’t going to speak, it seemed, but without knowing what it was she wanted, I was sure she would leave. I didn‘t want her to leave, not until I understood her, and the odd effect she had on me. So I began a mostly one-sided dialogue with her that I shall below chronicle.
“Can you speak?” I asked.
She had hesitated, then she nodded slowly, determination filling eyes that seemed older then she should have been.
“Do you want to talk?” I ventured.
She nodded again, this time with conviction.
“Is there a reason you do not?”
Another nod, and I could tell that I had pleased her. Warmth rushed though me at odds with the drafty room I was kneeling in.
“Is it a spell on you that keeps you from talking?” she shook her head, though something lit her eyes with hope. “A promise?” She seemed to think about that before nodding slowly.
Though more questions I was able to puzzle out the wording of the promise, to an extent. She was not to speak a word. So I simply taught her a way to talk without speaking. It was like discovering a brand new library for the both of us. She regained her ability to communicate, and I got to learn about her.
She picked up mental communication faster then I would have thought possible. Soon she had told me of her story so far. How she had been separated from her family, her father and brother, and how she wanted them back. She told me of how her last advisor told her that she would be taken to her brother if she didn’t say a word until she saw him, and how she mistook some one else for her brother, and spoke to him. She looked guilty, and again her age, as she explained how once she spoke to him once, she kept talking to him.
She told me about her friends at the last place where she had been, for nearly a year. She bounced and smiled as she told me about Don who she had mistaken for her brother turned into a great spirit horse. She grinned and sipped some water that I gave her as she told me about Pudd and Lil, twin mages. I sat her down and made her detail for me the conversations they had about magic. We had to pause long enough for me to get some groceries, once I had her vow that she would remain there, wait for me, and do no magic.
I had nothing for a child to eat or drink, save bread and water. Well, I had nothing for a child to drink, save water. Save bread, I had nothing for me to eat either. As good as my memory always has been, it seems as though I am forever forgetting to buy food until I am out.
I returned with perhaps more food then I had ever bought, having had no clue what she might like to eat. I bought three kinds of juice, as well as soda and Tiapia water and Jelly juice, which turns out not to be juice at all. I bought sandwich bread and long bleet bread. I purchased some meat and cheese for sandwiches, but also some vegetables and fruits for salads incase she did not eat meat. I decided on some candy because I vaguely recalled some one thinking I should have liked it when I was a kid. I bought some dark bitter coca, because it helped me think, and some thin crispy potato bread in a bag that looked salty. It was as I was paying that it occurred to me that in the future it might be meet to pay m ore attention to what I get when I shop, rather then just grabbing the same jug of wine and frozen dinner selection that I was used to. Which was when I realized that I had forgotten to get myself food, and had to return to the line once more.
Finishing with the paying, I juggled all the packages to a single hand. Would she have kept her promise, I wondered. I hoped she had, but a pit of dread inside me feared she would be gone.
With my now free hand, I fished out the somatic components from my pocket needed to do teleportation without setting off my alarms, and returned home with as much haste as I dared.
I found her standing on my chair with her hands braced on my desk as she stared at my scroll. I dropped the packages, startling her. As much as she might have taken all of my attention to that point, I was still penning that scroll. Panic filled me and I rushed forward. I snaked an arm around d her too thin waist and hefted her away from the document as my eyes scanned it. Once I was satisfied that it was unharmed I set her on the floor.
I winced and looked to her face, expecting her to cry or some such. I know better now, I know her better. Using mental speech she apologized politely as her eyes flickered back to the desk, burning with curiosity.
Thinking about that look, I asked her what she wanted to eat of what I had bought and showed her where to put away the rest. I did not want to let her out of my sight, then even more then before. I made her a sandwich, then with a shrug made one for myself. I luckily had two glasses. Not because I ever had company, but because I didn’t want to be bothered if one broke while I was deep in thought, which could, admittedly, last for several days and a whole jug of wine, which would, of course, require a glass.
I decided not to have wine in front of her. I poured us each a glass of grape juice and mused over the difference in taste and affect that the fermentation process had. As we ate, I made her finish recounting for me the magical discussions she and her friends had had. Telepathy made food far less of an obstacle to clear conversation.
I was astounded by what her friends and she had come up with. The applications and conclusions were sloppy, clumsy even, but for children, they were brilliant. I especially adored Don’s theory of mutual affectation of magic on twins. My dissertation on the subject is widely available by this date, so please note the origins of it here. I grant full credit to this mysterious Don. Save, that is, for the credit due to those who let me observe the actual spells in action.
We finished eating around the time that she finished telling me how it was that she had come to my door. Don and her had thought that since Don teleported when he was with his sister and wound up apart, that if she teleported without her brother it would bring them together. An admirable idea, but clearly flawed in many ways.
Before I could point that out to her, however, she asked about the parchment on my desk. I asked her if she could read, and she said that she could, but she hadn’t seen anything to read. So then I explained to her how different worlds had different written languages. We actually each have our own spoken languages as well, however, there are many theories on why we can understand each other. My dissertation on the accumulated effects of residual magic in folded space is widely available, should you wish to further peruse it.
So she agreed to stay if I would teach her how to read. She wanted to read, she told me much later, because she knew then that what I wrote involved magic. As it turned out magic lessons became part of our lives, and we settled into a routine.
Please take note that before she arrived within my home, I had been primarily alone for the past twenty some odd years. I had my studies, I had the occasional visit from a college, and sometimes hired some one from the village to run my latest dissertation to the committee. I had not realized I was lonely, or that my life was lacking in anyway until she came to fill the void.
Though the patterns shifted some as she grew up, and I simply grew older, much remained stable from when she was six and came into my life, to when she left me, more then ten years later.
I awoke earlier then her almost without fail. I would use that time to work, and usually to eat a square of bitter. She would awaken some hours later, and we broke our nightly fast, my bitter aside. When she got old enough she took over the cooking of breakfast, else I would often forget to do it at all. After she cooked breakfast, she would go into town to shop. Every day she did this once she was old enough, which was remarkably early. It was not always groceries, however. Early in she needed clothing, but more and more as she grew she bought books.
Never before had I actually seen my own works bound and neat. She read those copies, rather then the originals, which were always returned to me along with my pay. And we discussed magical theory until she decided that we should begin lunch. The conversation would either continue as we ate, or wander to other topics, like how she mistook a horse for her brother. She would get flustered in the cutest what when I brought it up, though there was always affection in her eyes.
After we ate, we would have magic lessons. I was, of course, more interested in the theoretic side of magic, as I always had been, but she was determined to learn all the magic that she could. I should have taught her a finder spell, saved her a lot of time and trouble, but I was selfish. She had brought a light to my life, and I was not ready to return to the dark.
So I taught her other magics. Grand, perhaps grander then I should have. Maybe I was trying to ease my own guilt. To this day, I am not sure. I taught her shape changing of herself, and how to force a change onto another. Always, always she visualized the lessons that involved self-casting, but never did she attempt them, for fear of disrupting her brother’s life unknowingly. I worked with her to be as sure as we could that she knew the spells, despite being unable to practice.
I taught her how to weave illusions for various senses, which she loved. I did teach her the basics, of course, like making a heatless light, a lightless heat, minor levitation, and healing. Or rather, I attempted to teach her healing, apparently there were some things that my young ward could not do.
We got into advanced magics near the end. Not as grand or showy, subtle devious things that took a lot of focus and skill. Mental spells to change a person ‘s memory, implant thoughts and ideas, mind control. Time travel, though that one came from a discussion we had on time travel theories, which itself came from our discussion on my dissertation on nonconcurring time streams. As I found that one too simple to bother submitting, and the one on paradox avoidance theory more worthwhile, I shall sum the theory up here for those of you for whom this is not common sense.
Worlds are arranged in rows, where rows denotes commonality, not organization in to straight lines. The commonality is time slip streams. Essentially, worlds in the same row move at the same pace in the same direction. It is easier, and thus, more common for people to travel between worlds in the same row. Indicators are lengths of days and years. It is possible, however, to change rows with effort, if one knows what they are doing, or has an unlucky accident. This is, of course, how time travel works, by finding and traveling to a row moving in the opposite direction, or in the same direction at a swifter pace. Thus, I found the topic to be too basic to publish, although we did ascertain a lot through conversation.
Though she was young when she was with her father, she recalled days and nights being shorter then they were with me. My time seemed to match with where she had been last, but the place before that she hardly recalled, so we were not able to pin down when precisely she had jumped rows.
She wanted to practice this and I warned her to be cautious. As I write this, the full breadth of what she had don e is becoming apparent to me. Oh, that remarkable child. She slipped back, I knew that. I warned her not to intersect her own path, to do nothing that would change what she knew, not to appear before herself. She swore to me that she wouldn’t, and after that she hadn’t. She fetched me my favorite slippers from the past, I had been missing them from before I had met her, and accepted it as proof that she had mastered the art. At the time, if you will excuse the unintentional pun, I was in awe.
Now however, now I remember, that little vixen. The dream. However but a memory spell could I have forgotten. When I had been sixteen, the age she was when she tried this reckless thing, foolish wonderful girl, I had dreamed of a girl with shocking blue eyes like the sky in side the moon. She had hugged me, thanked me with such gratitude that I had wanted nothing more then to be worthy of that thanks. She bade me help a scared child who was mute, should I find one, and then she pushed the memory to the back of my subconscious.
I hope she one day reads this and realizes that I now recall. I do hope she is aware how dangerous a trick she pulled, and more, I wish that she would return so we could discuss the ramifications in reference to my paradox loop theorem, which I am still working on.
She was seventeen, as near as we could estimate, when she left. I am still trying to work out how age should properly be counted outside one’s own row. Further, I did not know how many days in a year in the row she was born to, nor did she recall herself. We called it seventeen and we had a birthday celebration without words. At the end of it, she thanked me and hugged me as warmly as in that then still forgotten dream. She kissed me on the lips, and by the time I had formulated the thought that it was an inappropriate way for her to act, as I was coming to see her as a daughter, she was gone.

Male's name: Chakani
Male's personality and/or brief bio: Chaka is a strong-hearted, stalwart male that really dislikes fighting. He would much rather be playing with foals or something, but his large size and intimidating looks mean that he's often dragged away from whatever it is he was doing to go and fight. He's surprisingly intelligent and an expert strategist, and even though he hates to put that skill to use, when he does, Chaka can almost always ensure that his side will win.

Female's name: Zeda
Female's personality and/or brief bio: Zeda is a quiet female that chose Chaka as her mate many summers ago. She may not be as social or as kind as Chaka, but she will get the job done. Zeda is extremely loyal, and her training as a warrior has bled over onto her life during peacetime, meaning that she often uses military tactics when none are needed. Even then, Zeda can be quite companionable, even though she isn't the best sympathetic ear out there.
Your tale:

Silence.

The once-thriving glade now held only silence, the cries of the wildlife that had once inhabited it now either dead or gone. Chakani stood in the desolate, blood-stained glade, saying nothing, just staring at the broken body of a foal lying in the middle of the field. He heard the gentle hoof beats of someone approaching, but he did not turn. He already knew who it was. "Chaka..." his mate began, her voice soft and barely audible. She came to his side, sorrow in her glinting blue eyes. "He didn't even have a chance, Zeda..." Chakani murmured, his ears pinned back. "Look at what we've done..." "Chakani. That wasn't us." "We're the ones that started this war. How many others were just like him, innocents that were caught in the crossfire?" Chakani turned to face his mate. "How many do you think we've killed?" He shook his head, the dark feathers in his mane quavering in the wind. The stallion looked into his mate's eyes, his own golden eyes glinting with grief.

"Zeda...what have we done?"

Zeda couldn't believe what she was hearing. Chakani had gone through much on this campaign, but he was one of the heroes of their cause. He had to be strong in this, otherwise, the warriors that came with them would lose their morale and stop fighting. If they stopped fighting, then their enemies would roll over them swiftly, leaving none alive in their wake. "No, Chakani. Anyone that died in this had to. We're doing this so that we can be free of those that oppress us. It may be gruesome, it may be monstrous at times, even. But we must keep going, Chaka. We must." "If it is to be like this...I don't know if I can keep going." "You mustn't think that. We've got to be strong." She nuzzled his neck, rubbing off a little of the creamy white and crimson warpaint that made him even more intimidating than normal. If Chakani, the strongest of them all, couldn't stand tall in this campaign, who among them could? What would happen to them if the great pillar that was their leader crumbled? She shook her head, the warrior in her burning through. "Don't you see? If you don't want this colt's death to be in vain, we must be victorious. Sacrifices must be made now, and he had to be one of them. We must press on!" Chakani took his eyes off the colt and fixed Zeda with that unsettling, grief-filled stare. "I love you, but....how could you be so heartless?" The words struck Zeda like a blow, and she pulled back from her mate. Chaka looked at the ground, ashamed that he had said such a hurtful thing to his lifemate. "I cannot fight anymore. I refuse to. If this is how it will be, then I cannot stand to continue." He smiled sadly and looked back up at Zeda. "You are the true warrior here. You are the one to lead them." Chakani walked out of the glade, leaving Zeda standing there, dumbfounded. She knew in her heart that Chakani would not be returning to camp this evening, and that she would most likely never see him again.

"No, my love. I only followed you."

It's short, but eh. >>

Male's name: Khalfan (Successor)
Male's personality and/or brief bio: In the story!

Female's name: Kiojah (Miracle)
Female's personality and/or brief bio: In the story!

Your tale:
Blood was a common sight in those days, and the putrid stench of death lingered in the air like a disease. Half rotten corpses were scattered across the land, and joyful crows circle the skies, singing about their daily free meals. The snow covering the fields where both Indian children and foals used to play in had been colored red, and to smile or laugh was considered a taboo. If anyone didn't believe in hell before, they now know of its existance...

There were three tribes in the land, each with their own customs and practices. At first, they managed to maintain a good relationship with each other, even trading goods between villages, and coming together to celebrate a good harvest. However, what started out as a peaceful discussion soon turned into an all out war as the chiefs of the villages tried to appoint a single leader to unite all the tribes into one village - as they were all capable in their own ways, it soon became obvious that whoever could lead the strongest battalion would be the most suitable to lead the greatest village.

It was the War of the Tribes, and it was one of the bleakest period in the land's history.

"Sister, if you understand, please let me go with a smile."

In response, the mare looked up at her older brother with large, sad eyes. She continued to help the humans with decorating her brother with war paints. After they were done and left alone, she leaned in to give the stallion a nuzzle; he had always been the one protecting her, fighting off bullies and chasing away stallions he disapproved of... He was the typical older brother, and like the typical younger sister, Kiojah loved him for all his flaws - his hotheadedness and stubborn nature, coupled with a 'I'm better than you' attitude.

"I'll be back, sister of mine," The stallion grinned, leaning into the nuzzle. Then, he returned the action before stepping away, as if prolonged time with his sibling will make him wish to stay behind. Puffing out his chest, he continued, "I am Khalfan! I am father's son, and have all the strength and courage he used to have! Please wait for my return, for I will return victorious and a hero."

His expression softened as he took another step back from Kiojah, his heart aching; he knew that she had a fear of being left alone... Even as adults, she would sneak into his stable and sleep beside him at night, and come observe him during his training. However, he was glad she was being clingy - it was easier to protect her, keep her away from things that would taint her innocent nature in these dark times. He will take all the darkness of the world, and act as her shield as long as he can breathe.

After all, she had almost died because of him when they were foals; at that time, he didn't know any better - it was winter, and the first time the both of them had seen snow. She had always been frail, and it was a miracle she even survived the first few days after her birth. However, Khalfan decided that she had to go on an adventure with him. As they walked across the ice that had formed over the top of a wide river, it gave way and they plummeted in... Only to awake a while later, surrounded by a herd of concerned unicorns.

His sister was motionless and barely breathing, but she kept muttering "Save Khalfan" until her voice was hoarse. Nobody could reach her, and her little body shivered with cold, but still, she kept calling for the older brother she loved and respected. Weighed with guilt, he had prayed for the great spirit to save his only sibling with all his heart - if she recovers, he would do anything for her for the rest of his life... Then, as if his payers were being answered, Kiojah finally opened her eyes, and smiled weakly at him.

"You're okay... I'm glad." She managed to utter before her eyes closed again and she drifted back to sleep. Those were to be her last spoken words, as she lost her voice permanently... To this day, Khalfan had never forgotten.

"See you again, my sister!" Khalfan forced the words out of his mouth as his human climbed onto his back. Taking one last glance at Kiojah, he gave a loud war cry before galloping away to join the rest of his brothers on the battlefield. When the stallion was out of sight, Kiojah finally let her tears flow - little did she know that she would never see her beloved brother again...

Well, I will not state who won the war, because I had always thought that everyone lost - the humans who started it, and the Soquili who fought bravely beside their two-legged friends. My name is Kiojah, and I am the granddaughter of the Kiojah in the story - my granduncle didn't die in the battle. He vanished for years because he was captured by another tribe and forced into hard labor. Still, he worked hard until the war was over, determined to keep the promise he made. Finally, he was released and the first thing he did was to return to his old tribe... Or what was left of it.

Among the few huts and stables that were still standing, he found my mother - she looked more like my grandfather than my grandmother, but the moment their eyes met, he understood. As the grandmother who shared my name died soon after giving birth to my mother and my grandfather died in the war, my granduncle Khalfan took my mother under his protection... A few years later, I was born.

To this day, Granduncle still insists on having body paint on his body... In fact, I, myself, is a proud warrior with similar body paints on my pelt to remember the horrors of war. Khalfan had always told me how much I physically resembled the sister he doted on, but resembled him in spirit. I disagree, however, for nobody had called me 'stubborn'... Yet. On the other hand, I am more cool-headed and calm, like my grandmother.

From a young age, I had always thought that it is my duty to pass on this tale to whoever is willing to listen. This is a story about family, and love. This is a story about war, partings and suffering. Most importantly, this is a story about a history that we can learn from. Although the Kawani village was established after, and peace reigned currently, we must be ever vigilant... After all, peace is very much like spider's silk - strong yet weak!

I thank you for listening to my tale, and I shall leave you with some parting words... Peace is worth protecting, if not for yourself, for your children and your children's children. I hope that you, my listener, applies this concept to not only these lands, but to every other land there is out there.

Male's name: Warm Earth
Male's personality and/or brief bio: He is gentle and guiding to his sister. He has a white tongue and knows how to soothe her strong and stubborn will. His purpose is greater that he's ever known...and soon to find out how important his role is..

Female's name: Stone Heart
Female's personality and/or brief bio: Steadfast and mighty, a force to be reckoned with. She would tornado through the evil in the land, if it wasn't for her grounding force, her brother. Without him...she might kill all in her path..

Your tale:

The land was cold and white. Inside the Great Tee pee a fire raged, large enough for a Soquili to stand in. A mare normally the color of pure sand, stood painted with ancient markings, and bound in the wrappings of a warrior. Beside her, a stallion normally the color of cheery oak, stood painted with similar markings.

Like the rising smoke, a sound began to rise inside the tee pee. Ancient rattles and the sound of drums echoed out the entrance and throughout the valley. The song was fierce and held the wordless cry of war.

The two painted shamans began to dance their way around the fire, moving with precession and fluidity. They were graceful, as they moved in mirroring points around the fire, honoring each wind, north and south, east and west. Each called out in an ancient tongue, speaking to the spirits that had taught them who they were. Their song told of history and ways of the old. It was the greatest tribute…for a mentor, a friend, the great Albino Wind.

Albino Wind was a wise spirit who took on the form of both an eagle and a wind Soquili, his coat was the purest white, with a bone colored beak. The beaded jewelry he had worn told stories of his past lives and the wonderful places he had been. He had lived in the Kawani tribe with pride. When one day faced with a young filly who’s eyes held something alluring and strong, his heart was set. An almost equal passion was given, for the young colt that was born by her side. By the mothers request, he had taken on her and her brother as students in the ancient ways. Both had turned out to have the rarest of traits.

Stone Heart was what he saw, filled with unbeatable strength and will, and a heart to protect the elements around her.

Warm Earth was the makings of a great and nurturing soul, one whom promised to raise up his sister every chance he had.

Now….he was gone…found slain, his blood drained on the outskirts of the village.

Both sets of dancing hooves hit the ground with a perfectly timed thump, right as the beating drums ended their mighty song. A small pearled tear fell from the mares eye, beading on the sandy earth below her. When she opened her eyes, the life seemed to be gone from them. They were cold, heartless, she would stop at nothing to find Albino Wind’s killer.

Warm Earth stepped up beside his sister and breathed lightly into her ear. “Come, it is time we leave.” his very breath somehow soothing her. Only he could sate her thirst for blood…if he wanted to. He had his own vengeance to seek, but would make sure it was as his mentor would of wanted it to be.

As the two stepped out of the tent, the village chief stepped up to them, garbed in his ceremonial headdress and skins. He had an old wooden bowl filled with red and black paint. Reciting a prayer, he hooked his thumb into the red paint and painted a red eagle on the stallions chest. Then without missing a stroke, he jabbed his finger into the black paint and painted a black eagle on the mares chest.

The symbols stood for blood and death of the innocent Albino Wind. He bowed to them both and moved out the way, standing next to tribe as he silently watched them leave.

One thought rang through the painted mares mind, as the two pushed from the earth and began to head in pursuit of the trail left by whomever took the life of her father…

Let the hunt begin…

In the distance, a mother wept as she watched the footprints fade away from her, from both the living, and the dead.