On AI Art

The admission that I have used generative AI in any portion of the process of creating my books is something that will, in our present cultural climate, cause a fair number of people to drown in presumption about what type of person I am and what type of “work” I’ve actually invested. I cannot combat presumption and I cannot prove what will not be believed. What I can do is talk about my perspective and my process. For those who are inclined to listen, you’ll find an open invitation to judge for yourself whether my efforts are worthy of your attention.

It would be ignorant to claim the inclusion of generative AI in my process brings no implications to bear. I know it brings many implications. I have a perspective on the usefulness of this tool and I have the open-mindedness to recognize some of my thoughts can easily be construed as hypocrisy. Like so many others, I do tend to view the effort I’ve invested as inherently valuable. I do also frequently apply this value to the end product as though it is the determining factor. I do this even while claiming the effort itself should never be it. I am guilty of looking down on what I deem to be “lesser” efforts while justifying what I deem to be “sufficient” efforts.

Beyond simply patting myself on the back and rehearsing mental reassurances, though, there is some honest thought to apply to the present situation. Changes - particularly changes with the kind of sweeping impact that large language models and generative AI impose - affect people in a variety of ways. Some ways are pleasant. Some ways are unpleasant. Some ways are beneficial. Some ways are harmful. I’ve taken some pages here to proffer some musings on these issues inasmuch as they touch on the work I’ve presented.

The Problem of AI 

There are many arguments against the use and implementation of so-called "artificial intelligence." While I would likely start the discussion by recognizing that "AI" is itself a misnomer, the broader discussion about the impact of its existence is still important. I would argue that the complex computational matrices being employed are not actually intelligent but are instead simply robust (perhaps in unexpected or even unpredicted ways). The larger concerns surrounding AI - more specifically generative AI - cover more topics than I will address here, but I have compiled a short list in an attempt to articulate what are perceived as the problems with AI.

Contention #1 : Generative AI cannot understand requests and therefore cannot employ any form of vision or intention in the creation of its outputs. 
I agree that generative AI is not a useful tool for revelatory self-expression. To whatever degree an individual presents an epiphany, the involvement of generative AI in the development of that concept would serve only to homogenize the idea with existing established concepts previously used to train the AI model. Only an exceptionally powerful and unassailable vision would be impervious to such an influence. This begs the question of why generative AI would be used in such development at all. The role of generative AI in this scenario is to bring the new concept in line with existing ideas.

Contention #2 : Generative AI cannot improve upon the existing depth or veracity of artistic expression and it furthermore cannot correct inaccuracies and biases which exist within the information used to train it. 
I also generally agree with this contention. It might be important to understand the vastness of the training data in order to contextualize this point properly, but even in the absence of that it is obvious that only the ideas which have existed and been expressed can be replicated by the mechanism used to collate such expressions. New expressions or new explorations into the vagaries of reality cannot be generated by this system. Whatever output is spawned by the system is definitionally a restatement or, at best, refinement. Because of this limitation, I think it is also fair to presume that the biases which already exist in the utilized data will be perpetuated in its outputs. 

Contention #3 : Generative AI hallucinates outputs that do not exist in reality.
This is not a conclusion I would have come to on my own. This point contradicts, to some extent, the prior point about the limitations of the expressive capacity of genAI. This phenomenon is observable, though, in actual practice. In fact, genAI frequently "imagines" outputs which do not seem to match the training data it is working from.

To my understanding, genAI is a system which predicts what the most likely pixel adjacent to the prior pixel would be. It does this based on the parameters of the data set used to train it. This is a greatly simplified explanation of what is happening, but in the context of this understanding of genAI outputs it becomes logical that some of these outputs would veer away from the constraints of the natural world. Some artists, after all, take liberties with the fabric of reality in order to express something beyond simply the replication of what is.

The functional problem created by this contention is that genAI output can't be "trusted" like something "real" could be (e.g. stock photographs). If using a genAI output as a reference, it is impossible to know whether the shadows or shading of the output follows reality since it is simply an interpretation of other creations.

Contention #4 : Generative AI imitates the style of copyrighted materials and imitating the style of copyrighted materials is bad.
This contention, while popular, is utter nonsense in my opinion. I believe that almost every artist that has ever existed has built upon the influences of those who preceded them. In fact, even if one imagined the very first man, Adam, to have been an artist, he also could only have followed after the artistry of the creator himself. The idea that replicating the style of another artist is in some way reprehensible is itself a deplorable form of gatekeeping. 

We are, all of us, influenced by the ideas and expressions of those who have gone before us. It is our responsibility to have some humility and recognize that we are not ourselves creator gods. We are merely human, with the ability to learn and grow like all other humans do. When we create, we actually innovate. When we express, we actually compile. When we explore, we actually only observe what has already been seen. To invent a restriction that imagines we could do anything without the influence of others is to falsely imagine it is possible to do so. It is not.

In this sense, the capacity for genAI to apply the style of talented artists to the raw verbal concepts we might present to it is simply a triumph of ingenious automation. This isn't a bad thing. It streamlines an arduous process that, for some, accomplishes much for no reason. Whether or not genAI is a tool which will benefit any specific effort is actually a matter of personal determination. Is the growth wrought from effort needed more, or is the functional output needed more? Only the people involved in each situation can know.

Contention #5 : Generative AI puts people out of work.
This is undoubtedly true. I would take exception to the allocation of responsibility, though. History is littered with examples of newer, better, and more efficient methodologies emerging within markets and workplaces. I do not think the rise of genAI is substantively different from any of these other shifts. Sometimes the way tasks are accomplished changes to accommodate a new approach. Sometimes the new approaches are robust enough that they affect far more than simply the task which inspired its inception. Clever people apply clever ideas in clever ways. As we peer back on other such shifts in how work is handled, we tend to view them favorably. We have the benefit of seeing how the change has benefitted all without the burden of worrying about the people who were forced to reconcile the change itself. 

Yes, genAI puts people out of work. It eliminates work. It changes the types of work needed. None of this is an inherently bad thing, given that appropriate concern and compassion is afforded to those whose entire lives and livelihoods are compromised as a result.

Contention #6 : Generative AI harms the environment. 
The word "harm" in this contention attempts to circumvent the process of analyzing the new impacts of these systems. Generative AI impacts the environment, certainly. There is an enormous new demand for compute resources in order to drive the computations of generative AI models. This has driven a rapid expansion of data centers which require incredible amounts of electricity to function. Depending on how this electricity is generated, this demand will have varying degrees of impact on the world around us. While the degree of the impact may be adjustable, the fact of it is certain. In light of this, anyone who views generative AI as an evil or a detriment to the state of humanity would naturally conclude this impact is equally terrible or unworthy. Therefore, whether generative AI harms the environment is really a discussion centering on whether its impact upon our resources is worthwhile. Is there any benefit derived from generative AI which offsets and justifies this expense?

Contention #7 : Generative AI inhibits human learning.

This is the idea that convenience begets laziness and laxity. There is observable truth to this sentiment, as many who incorporate automations lose the core skills which have been automated. The example of a student who relies wholly on a calculator becoming unable to perform calculations on their own springs readily to mind. A skill loss absolutely occurs when processes become automated and streamlined. 

This has a dual application, I think. In the case of an artist who aspires to hone and improve their artistic ability, I think genAI could certainly represent a net loss. In this case it is important to encompass the very skills the algorithm is replicating. Without the practice of working on and with these skills there is a very real danger that the artist will lose fundamental competence and may even find themselves handicapped or incapable in the face of their own inspiration. However, in the case of a product deliverable, I think genAI represents a massive overall gain. The creation of a product does not necessarily pander to the extension of personal skills. In fact, many such efforts only support such investments begrudgingly in order to afford the most efficient available path to resolution. In this example, genAI will embody a massive leap forward in efficiency. The lifecycle of production benefits enormously from eliminating unnecessary investments like developing individual skill sets. This is often misconstrued as contrarian and perpendicular to human learning where it should be recognized as parallel. GenAI is, in this scenario,  a work multiplier which allows more to be accomplished with less. This is a benefit to everyone involved.

The Problem of Time 

In my examination of literature there is revealed an event horizon breached by all who strain breath into thought. It is this: that our lives are limited; our time a finite resource. Eventually, we all must contend with the reality of capacity. I, like anyone, am capable of many things. In my youth, I had no concept of how many things and I passed the consideration of limitation off to the infinity of undefined potential. As I have expended my life, though, it has become increasingly obvious that my undefined potential has a definitive ending. These are fancy words to express that I can only accomplish so many things with my life. It is my responsibility to prioritize my efforts according to my increasing limitations. 

“Prioritize” is a hideous word. It is all restriction and measurement with no space for hope in illimitable creativity. Yet, it is also the fathom of existence; necessary to the core of our sin. It is essential to arrange all that I am according to the hedge of my life. As much as I might love my capacity to become an actual artist and divest my efforts wildly at such a realization, I also understand with accelerating clarity the cost of doing so. To become this thing will be at the expense of some other thing. The moments of my vitality are draining away. So, while the unbounded enthusiasm for all edification is life-affirming, the liability of mortality remains ever-present. I can, and must, choose wisely.

As I conceptualized the story I desire to tell, I allowed my mind to run free. Wherever it alighted became a concept worthy of exploration. In this heady euphoria I planned to write hundreds of books, thinking I had nothing but years to fill. I wrote lists, organized acts, and build a grand rendition. My only trepidation was for the style overlaid on all this substance. Awash in self-satisfaction, I daydreamed years away. I did not do so in futility. I simply focused my priority elsewhere - outside of narration. 

I am not now dissatisfied with the course of my existence - far from it. I am grateful, if anything, to be where I am today. Coming to this home once again, I am cradled by the wealth of concept awaiting renewed attentions. I have to decide now, though, what can be worthy of travail. It cannot be hundreds, I think. There are not enough years available. I don’t want to give any audience the anguish of an unfinished tale. At least, not if I can help it. 

This is the crux of my presentation about genAI. There is only so much I can do. In my heart, I want to be a writer and I want to write the story I’ve envisioned. I wouldn’t give that away to anything. Not to learning some ancillary skill. Not to the mindless regurgitation of the common. So, yes, I employ genAI. It helps me create the images I believe I need without investing the time I believe I no longer have. It does not help me write, though it could. I don’t want it to. I am too jealous of my recitation. Telling the story is the thing I desire. 

The Problem of Production 

One of the fundamental conflicts of writing, in my opinion, is focus. There is a tug-of-war between concept and execution. When an idea is first encountered, it is pure and beautiful. The very first task is to capture a part of that beautiful purity by considering it. Capture it by ingesting it. Some would say to do so by meditating on it. I am certain the specifics differ for each artist, but I must to some extent embody the abstraction to give it a seizable substance. Until I can grasp the quintessence of the caprice, I can neither share nor present it. 

Once I have savored whatever portion of the purity I can master, I am now able to move from conception to execution. This is where we can commune together. Where knowledge is entertained. This is where the real work of the process exists - in bridging the consensual expectation to the peculiarity of the new. Which is simply to say that just as much as people desire the titillation of intellect, they equally require the strictures of expectation. Very few people are willing to engage with an idea that isn’t presented in a familiar or palatable manner.

Therefore, it isn’t enough to explore an idea. It isn’t enough to delight in cogitation. It isn’t even enough to caress proposition. The pure and beautiful idea must be translated into a form relevant to its audience. Without the work of translation, the idea itself retains no pertinence.  It is lost to the insignificance of the individual. There is no version of conception that meaningfully serves which does not involve the discordance of connection.

This begs reconciliation with the audience, because not every notion serves every audience. Not every thought should serve every audience. So, I as the writer must first discern the breadth of my audience. Who am I writing for and who am I not writing for? How much of my audience am I willing to stretch to reach? How much of the idea should be sacrificed to this effort? Because it is a certainty that some of the purity of the idea will be sacrificed. Also, what capacity do I have to negotiate this sacrifice? Some writers are better in the translation than others. One writer might experience profundity on an inexpressible level while another might rephrase the bromide into a revelation. There isn’t a standard judgment for either one. What I want to be and what I can be are matters of skill, desire, and intention. Any one of these three things can become a force which overwhelms the others to my detriment. 

I’ve used vague and inclusive wording to convey the struggle, but it is actually a simple thing. I am telling a story. Who am I telling it to? What parts of the story am I willing to sacrifice to make sure it reaches my audience? What parts of the story am I not willing to sacrifice? And, finally, how do I accomplish this work? This, I think, is the problem of production.

I write all of this as a person who has spent the better portion of 35 years wrestling for answers to these questions without grasping any functional resolution. I think that probably puts me farther from the archetype of an effective writer than I’d like to imagine. I have lived in a tradition of self-deprecation. I would practice this to avoid pride and embarrassment, but I must also grapple with the possibility that I’ve mostly just been sabotaging my own efforts. 

Again, all of this reasoning might be overdone. I still have to struggle to determine what art I can produce that is good enough. Good enough to share. Good enough to accept. When you’ve read my story and weighed it against the amount of thought I’ve invested into its presentation you might detect an imbalance. I certainly do.

When I create the product that encapsulates all of the ideas and struggles I’ve suffused into my writing, I want it to convey the interest I expect my labor to generate. This means some aspects of the product are going to have some standards. Even if my standards are poor, I still have them and I still want to meet them. This is a romantic way to argue the images I draw by hand, unassisted, are not good enough in my own opinion. When I approach the task of creating a book cover, I have certain expectations that I lack the skill to meet. So, the heart of the problem with production is the question: how will I make it good enough?

The Solution I've Used 

As a person who isn't trying to be an artist in the traditional sense - or who feels particularly interested in gaining the attached accolades - I've looked at the artwork I want as something of a hurdle to overcome or a commodity to obtain. This isn't to pretend that I am not proud of the work I've done in generating the images I use for my book covers and cards. I am immensely proud of what I've accomplished - and particularly so because I have done this with the enormous handicap of lacking any real training or practice in the knowledge and techniques I needed.

I've read ad nauseam that a person like me is not an artist and the images created by a process like mine are not artwork. I have made my peace with this assertion. As I look out into the world and observe any of the many talented artists who have devoted themselves to honing their craft, it is easy to honor these individuals as a separate class of talent and capability from what I possess. Any attempt to judge myself against them would result in the harshest critical reprisal. Mostly, I trace and color from reference which simply isn't the same endeavor.

But I am not hung up on being labeled an artist, nor do I covet recognition for some presupposed greatness. I am not great. What I am, and always have been, is a person who is rather adept at solving problems. When I started writing, I did so out of passion and interest. I wanted to tell a story and I spend most of my free mental energy imagining the details of the story I am trying to tell. I would love to be recognized as a writer, to be enjoyed as a writer, or even to be respected as a writer. These things sound incredibly valuable to me. I've pieced together my thoughts and plotted a course for setting these thoughts to paper and this is exactly where my interest in the process of writing meets its end. In writing and writing alone.

I found that there is so much more to the practice of writing than simply putting ideas onto a page, though. I can confess with very little reservation that every single other thing that I've been told is "necessary" or "essential" to the practice amounts to little more than an inconvenience or annoyance. These are just problems that it seemed like I must solve. Therefore, when I needed some kind of artwork to put on the cover of my book, my first solution was to position stark lettering in the middle of a black field. I thought that looked just fine. I was told otherwise.

Then I thought I would create a simple sketch which I, again, perceived to be rather fetching. Again, I was told this was insufficient to the task. I would not succeed in garnering the interest of any potential reader with such a meager effort. 

Then I was instructed that what I really needed to do was hire an artist to create a cover for me. I found this irksome for several reasons. First, I smarted at the accusation that the things I generated were somehow not good enough for my potential readers. Second, I lamented the very concept of enticing anyone with anything other than the purity of my own writing. Third, I lacked the resources to adequately fund such a venture (and I do not begrudge artists their due - I simply lack the due to bestow). Fourth, nothing about the proposed solution guaranteed any sort of success anyway.

I found myself paralyzed by these frustrations. It occurred to me that I might train myself in the discipline of creating a piece of artwork that would be deemed sufficient, but this seemed inordinately time consuming. With the advent of internet services I pondered the possibility of commissioning an artist cheaply, but discovered this would not grant the kind of rights I would need to actually utilize the end result. I thought I might convince a friend or acquaintance to generate the art as a gesture of goodwill, but then I became reticent to take advantage of someone in such a crass and self-serving manner.

Why do I belabor this point? Partially because it was so laborious for me. So many years of frustration and dissatisfaction have been invested into these problems. Perhaps more importantly, though, is because I want to endeavor to help you, the reader, understand the context in which I finally seized upon a workable solution. A solution that I found myself quite happy to grasp. 

While the world around me obsesses over spewing hate at generative AI, my experience is quite different. Generative AI was a breath of fresh air. For a relatively nominal and reasonable fee, I could sling prompts at the algorithm until it spat something back at me that approximated my vision. Taking this output as my baseline, I could quickly and easily trace and modify the image to create what I deem to be an exceptional end result with minimal hassle and time investment. This, to me, was a breath of fresh air.

I acknowledge that for many readers, this prior paragraph may be ugly and offensive. That I could create an image which I had developed neither the skill nor the proficiency to generate though traditional means appears to be raw sacrilege. Not to mention all of the suffering artists who won't be employed by my need for image assets. And generative AI "stole" art to train from (though I believe the courts have disagreed with this contention). And generative AI just stitches other people's work together without bothering to learn their techniques. And generative AI is putting us all out of jobs. And generative AI is the tool of the antichrist. And generative AI will destroy modern society as it brings on the Armageddon foretold from ages past.

How could I?

Despite my hyperbole, I mean the "how could I?" in earnest. This is a question worth wrestling with. How I did was in a few easy steps. First, I checked to see if the generative AI would leave me with any copyright issues to resolve. It would not. Then, I checked to see if I was capable of altering the generative output to suit my vision. I was. Then, I checked to see if this process could be accomplished within a reasonable amount of time. It could. These needs verified, I pushed forward and solved more of the issues which had long hampered my ability to present my writing to the outside world. 

It is likely any reader of this essay can surmise that I've also gained a fair amount of trepidation toward the process I've used in the face of widespread social pressure to its contrary. I understand that some people will not accept my work simply because AI was involved in any part at any point. It doesn't really matter what I say or how much I explain. Nothing will be good enough. I think that's sad, and perhaps a little bit hurtful. It's not really mine to control, though.

For the rest of my potential audience, the best I could think of was to simply share the details of my process so that you would not feel like you've been duped or deceived. To that end, here is a description of the step-by-step process I use to create the artwork you've seen on my book covers, within their pages, and (possibly) in my card game:

1) Imagine what the image should look like.
2) Interact with a generative AI tool and attempt to describe what I've imagined.
3) Render outputs and make adjustments until something approximates my vision.
4) Examine the chosen output(s) to determine what needs to change.
5) Trace the output and establish the lines I want while making adjustments as needed.
6) Bring the sketch to others to see what they think of it and collect any further changes.
7) Revise the sketch and repeat 6&7 as much as needed.
8) Create a new layer to add in what I call "hard shadows."
9) Create a new layer to add the base colors for the image.
10) Create a new layer to add the shading (using the original output for reference).

That's it. Aside from the composition being bound to whatever vision I have for the piece, you can make your own judgments as to what kind of skill or effort is required to get through steps 1-10. I promise it is not as much skill as an actual artist requires to make whatever art they are creating. What I am doing is generating a product to fill a need, and I am trying to be careful not to claim it is art. What constitutes art is a much deeper discussion that is probably best left to the artists.

SAD3

The monolith was actually nothing of the sort. At its birth it was just a building. None would describe it differently now at first glance. To see it as a monolith is more an affectionate allusion to the life it led. Pieced together from undistinguished stone and wood, the building was more a testament to its architect's prowess than an attempt to achieve the immortality it has enjoyed. All the same, it stands solemn and silent, stretching tall through time as a uniform presence bearing its history plainly across the face of timeless surfaces.

The lives and culture which surrounded it inevitably tie their significance to its presence. Where once we might have noted its inclusion with passing indifference, we now count ourselves lucky to live and struggle tied to its presence. This is what makes the building a monolith. Not its stark reality, but the metaphor of what it has come to mean; an unlikely hero standing firm through the ages while life, love, ambition and death ignite and dissipate under its passive gaze.

How foolish we were to ignore it in bygone days. We missed its significance entirely. Only after time proved the true nature of this menhir did we deign to recognize the axiom. This monolith defines us.

SAD2

Ensign Miller was a large man. He was the kind of man who knew how big he was. He celebrated it. He flaunted it. His entire persona revolved around it.

He wore clothes to accentuate his size. Tight shirts and pants worn a little lower than the designer meant were carefully choreographed to project the image of his towering form. His clothing preferences worked well. Nobody who stood in the presence of Ensign Miller doubted that he was significant. He was not to be trifled with. His strength was a vast unknown.

He was the kind of man Scout Thompson would have reviled normally. On any other day, Thompson would have gazed out of his booth and judged Ensign Miller with the sharp wit of what could only be described as jealousy. His brazen presence was an affront to every other male seeking respect, power, or romance within eyesight. Although everyone instinctively pandered to the ensign, nobody cared for him.

At this moment, however, even Scout Thompson was glad for every single defining feature of Ensign Miller as warm thoughts of allegiance and thankfulness reassured them all that their gigantic, muscular friend was certainly more than enough to keep that door sealed shut.

Oh how much that door needed to stay sealed shut.

SAD1

I don't know why I remember her face. That look of jumbled resignation and anxiety seemed to reach out from the blurry confusion of the moment. When I think about it, I can't even begin to explain the strangeness of the connection we made. It was as though we shared a lengthy conversation about the moment and its consequences through an impossibly unlikely glance. Why wasn't I focused on the car, or the road, or the lights? Was it instinct directing my eyes? Was there some deeper explanation? It still haunts me.

Perhaps I could have unraveled the mystery if I weren't late for work. Maybe it wouldn't bother me so much if I had felt as thought there were time to stop and get involved. But I was late for work. That's why I drove so fast in the rain. That's why I pushed my way through the passing lane for eight miles longer than was legal.

My supervisor was already unhappy with me, I couldn't afford another black mark on my record. It's not that I really care what he thinks of me, but I need the job. It is a matter of simple fact that I cannot risk being written up again. I already know I'd be the first to go if there were any excuse to lay a person off on my team. I have enough on my plate trying to work back into the good graces of my superiors without adding another mistake to the mountain of bad decisions that have placed me in this precarious position. My dependability was the only trait keeping me employed. I wasn't about to let rain or traffic steal that away as well.

Trying to make up time on the road is always a frustrating battle, though - especially when the weather is less than ideal. My own law-bending aside, I can't believe how many people don't seem to understand the simplest rules of the road. I can hardly feel guilty about my position either. There wasn't anyone behind me. It's not like I was impeding progress like she was. Of course I tailgated her. What business does anyone have driving five under in the passing lane. It boggles the mind.

She wasn't exactly polite about it. We played the typical games. She slowed down to punish me, then sped up and slammed on her brakes when I closed the gap again. As if she was entitled to blocking any lane she chose with her oversized sport utility. Flashing my brights did little to motivate her. She wanted to get around the semi, I can understand that. Why wouldn't she just speed up and get it over with, though?

Minutes passed with excruciating slowness while I waited for her to ease past, miles disappearing with the effort while I watched the clock speed toward another unpleasant conversation with my boss. I couldn't push this too hard with the rain pelting down on us. I could barely see out of my windshield through the bleary streaks left by my old wipers, left too long unreplaced. Obviously I was pushing enough though. About halfway past the trailer, she seemed to finally get the hint and felt sufficient discomfort to move a little more quickly toward her end goal.

I sensed escape was near and sped up, pulling wide to the left and thinking I might speed through the gap as she slowly switched lanes. I didn't see the little smart car struggling through the mist of traffic in front of the semi. She didn't either.

As the woman changed lanes, a horn blared out and she over-corrected upon catching sight of the man in the little car she almost crushed. I lifted my foot off the gas as I saw her front end swing back to my lane, but she lost control on the thin sheet of water running between the lanes. The rear of her vehicle kicked out and she slammed on the brakes faster than the semi could accommodate. A loud crunch signaled their collision and the force of it sent her into a spin.

I found my brakes and thought how strange it was that her sport utility didn't flip over like it seemed it should. She spun around in front of my car until the side of hers found the concrete divider protecting the center of the interstate. It was as she passed in front of me, in a moment which should have been filled with panic, that I caught sight of her face. Her day was ruined, she told me. Why was I being so pushy? She could have been safe. I don't know what my face conveyed. It didn't matter, though, because my actions spoke louder than my looks. After a hard brake and a quick turn, I squeezed past the wreck and found the open road I was looking for.

I should have stopped. I just couldn't afford to be late for work.

C10(3) "The..."

"The Hatred Tribunal"
(WC 2185)

-[ ]-

Months passed and Chulon fell into a routine. He rarely thought about his duty to the southern kingdoms any more, so deeply had he repressed his true identity. Outwardly, he acted every bit like a true believer in the Nhymiggai cause. It was a fine line he walked, twisting his disgust and hatred for the Nhimyggai into an apparent hatred toward the southern kingdoms.
Dremmech had relentlessly examined the minds of all his followers, keeping a sharp eye on them at all times. It was obvious he trusted nobody. As the time passed, his army grew, filling out with more and more eager recruits. Some were from other clans, but Chulon noted that Lom did not question or prevent their addition to the ranks of the Nhimyggai. Those who possessed knowledge of magic were more highly valued than the rest, and were promoted accordingly. Chulon exhibited no magical ability to his superiors, not wanting to rise in the ranks or appear as anything other than mundane now. Dremmech was descriptive enough of the Nhimyggai plans to eventually bring him all the information he would need. The only movement within the ranks Chulon did attempt was to ingratiate himself to Dremmech in the hope of attaining information more quickly.
He had come to fear and respect the power of the Nhimyggai as time passed. Though their magical abilities were questionable and obviously no match for the power of Dour Gujhest, he started to recognize a different power within their ranks. It was a festering sort of persuasion that seeped outward from their very presence. They were hidden and insidious, an aspect which might just grant them enough of an edge to seriously damage the order of the southern kingdoms. Little by little, Chulon was becoming a believer, but not for the sake of hope – for the sake of despair.
He began to wonder if simply bringing warning to the Ortakij would be enough. It would be difficult enough to secure their belief about a hidden source of power like the Nhimyggai. Chulon also recognized an arrogance in himself which would hinder any real preparation against the threat of the Nhimyggai. Once he revealed the Nhimyggai, there would still remain an overconfidence in the southern kingdoms – an unwillingness to believe there could be any power they may need to fear. The Ortakij had been burned by such arrogance before, the loss of Celeukra was a testament to this. Perhaps it was the Nhimyggai who has orchestrated that assault as well. But history would be no teacher here, the Ortakij believed themselves to have prevailed against the might of the northern tribes. They were vigilant, but unshaken.
The Nhimyggai respected the southern kingdoms, if nothing else. They understood the power of their enemy and it inspired them to leverage every ounce of cunning and strategy they possessed. Chulon thought it best to wait for an opportunity to not simply reveal the Nhimyggai and their plans, but to expose them in a moment of true power so the southern kingdoms would be able to see and understand the truth of their enemy.
Revealing Nhimyggai power would be a difficult task. As much as Chulon had come to respect the mysterious group during his involvement, there were very few examples of their ability he could directly point to. Theirs was mostly a campaign of propaganda and endless meetings. Over and over again, the recruits were hounded by Dremmech with generic messages of impending triumph. With every meeting Chulon felt a little more despair creep in. Every time they gathered to speak together about the inevitable triumph of the Nhimyggai, Chulon believed it a little more. He felt the weight of their philosophy enveloping his mind. It was suffocating, filled with a power and presence he had not experienced before. He searched out their words for the taint of magic, thinking they were casting some sort of spell on their audience, but he could find no hint of it. They were leveraging a power he had not experienced before, yet Chulon could not spare the honesty to contemplate it. Revealing his inmost thoughts would be too dangerous. So he took it all in instead, slowly sinking into despair as he came closer to Dremmech.
This routine was interrupted, though, when Dremmech announced a special induction to a secret meeting of the higher powers within the ranks of the Nhimyggai. There was another tier as Chulon had suspected and he was interested to discover who the players would be at this level. As part of their training and preparation for the war ahead, they were to learn new details about the grand plan of the Nhimyggai. Ponyeth assured them war was close at hand.
This new meeting was an enormous gathering, led by Tiernanuu himself. Though Chulon was extremely interested in discovering all he could about this new player, he could also feel a tinge of danger the minute he joined the assembly, as though the power of Tiernanuu's presence were a heat which singed him as he approached. He sensed this new player was far more potent a threat than the creeping presence of Dremmech. They would all be allowed to speak with Tiernanuu, Ponyeth assured him, it was the final step in their training and preparation.
“The Southern Kingdoms have made an error,” Tiernanuu began the meeting with a jubilant tone, “and our time of victory is at hand.”
Everyone fell silent in anticipation, wondering what mistake the great enemy might have made.
“For centuries, the three lands of Akij have been held together by the strength of their greatest bond. They respect each other. They hold each other up. They provide support and aid in times of trial. When the tribes of the north came together against the Ortakij with the biggest display of power this island has ever witnessed, the potency of their attack was dulled by this very bond. We took back Celeukra, we pushed their border south, yet the Ortakij were bolstered anew when the Jaltikij donated supplies and lands to the Ortakij. They were refreshed when the Sinzakij sent their own armies to the new border to support their patrols and build a new bulwark. We spent our collective resources, drained ourselves in the effort, and they were rejuvenated almost immediately. They recovered before we could lick our wounds and forced us to resort to trickery to stave off their recourse.
“The Hatred Tribunal, they called it, when we came together at last because we were united by our hatred for their kingdoms. They laugh at us now, emboldened by their eventual victory. They forget the sting of our fury. They mock our hatred as though it were a weak bond, unable to stand against the might of their mutual respect and admiration. We have learned to respect the power of their bond. We do not respect it because it is superior; we do not respect it because it is unbreakable; we do not respect it because we desire it. We respect it because we understand it and we understand our need to defeat it before we can at last be rid of their tyranny. This island belongs to us! It is ours not theirs! It is our birthright!”
The assembly leaped to its feet in thunderous approval, shouting their agreement in a cacophony of noise which inspired a smile from Tiernanuu.
“For years we have sown dissent amongst them, capitalizing on their differences. The Jaltikij hate the mages, the Sinzakij hate the priests, the Ortakij... the Ortakij are the key.” Tiernanuu paused thoughtfully. “The Ortakij believe in an ancient prophecy. They believe their king is the true king of the island and their lust for this prophecy's fulfillment makes them the most vulnerable. For centuries they have stood proudly against the armies of the northlands, fighting zealously for the hope of crushing our clans. Their dream is to unite the northlands so they can unite the southlands. They see this island as one kingdom – their kingdom, ruled by their king. The Jaltikij and Sinzakij rely on the might of the Ortakij armies to protect them from our attacks. They hide behind their brother kingdom, enjoying a life as free of war and strife as if we did not even exist. They have grown weak and soft, and the Ortakij know it. The Ortakij rely on the weakness of their neighbors, they trust in it. They know their kingdom is the only one with enough power to subjugate the entire island. They know once they conquer Vechtazul it will be a trifling matter to overcome the borders that separate their three lands. The Ortakij are filled with vision. But it is this very vision which will be their downfall!”
More cheering followed. Chulon joined in with every ounce of exuberance he could muster. Somewhere deep in his heart, though he knew no Ortakij soldier would ever admit it, there was a desire present to see the whole of the island united. Tiernanuu, though twisted in his vision, was not far from the truth with his words.
“Our spies have learned of a secret pact between the Jaltikij and Sinzakij, an agreement between their kings. The Ortakij have no knowledge of what is coming, but we will be prepared. We will use this pact to our advantage, opening the door to victory. Even now the leaders of the clans are gathering together to plan strategies. A sort of... new hatred tribunal. Dihloch has created a master plan which will tear the southern kingdoms apart. Their bond of strength will at last be broken and then, when the time is right, we will strike! We will pierce a hole through their hearts so deeply the names of the Akij will become a curse to our sons and grandsons.”
Chulon shuddered at the mention of Dihloch. He knew that name. Somewhere in the recesses of his memory recognition was sparked. He could not place his finger on it, though. Where had he heard that name before? It was not good, he remembered that much.
The meeting had ended and Tiernanuu was working his way through the crowds of recruits, touching their hands, looking into their eyes. Chulon was consumed with trying to pinpoint where he had heard Dihloch's name before. He pushed those thoughts down, trying to regain his composure as Tiernanuu approached. He needed to regain control, he had to find his starting point. He had to settle his mind. He could feel waves of deception coursing through him, and he shuddered at how suddenly and obviously he was out of place in this assembly. He needed to calm himself to subdue this distraction, but he knew the quiet he needed to regain his composure would give him away as surely as the doubts and fears overtaking him now. Tiernanuu still approached, looking into the eyes of the men around him. Chulon could not shirk or step away from this moment. He must stand his ground or lose his place in the Nhimyggai and perhaps his life as well.
He could feel Tiernanuu working his way through him, feel the presence of his inquiry before the man ever turned to look in his eyes. The situation was desperate now as the Nhimyggai's hold began to close around him, searching out his mind. Chulon was sinking fast. He had lost track of his focus, his training in the physical stream of power was failing him in this moment. He grasped reluctantly at the last option before him, forced to open floodgates kept diligently sealed since he walked away from Dour Gujhest so many years before. As Tiernanuu turned his gaze toward Chulon and grasped hold of his hand, Chulon dove mindfirst again into the stream of magical power, calling upon his training in the magic of presence to subdue and mask his innermost thoughts. His eyes met Tiernanuu's with confidence at last in that final moment. He was a Nhimyggai, nothing else. There was nothing concerning about Chulon's presence in this Nhimyggai assembly.
Chulon was amazed at how quickly his magical power came back to him. Like an old hand, he deftly wove magical deception all around himself, hiding away any hint of truth from Tiernanuu's insightful gaze. He could feel the power of the Nhimyggai seeking him out, but it was no match for the strength of his magical ability. He easily deflected and absorbed all inquiries, sliding through the moment with ease.
Tiernanuu paused, nevertheless, looking again at Chulon with interest. The magic so suddenly called upon was noticeable to the Nhimyggai. He could not pinpoint what Chulon was doing, but he knew with certainty that this man possessed strong magics. It aroused Tiernanuu's interest and he noted that he should speak with Dremmech later about Chulon, to find out what uses had been found for him.
As Tiernanuu moved away, Chulon let go of his enchantment, feeling the draining effect of magic, magnified by his lack of practice. He shuddered again, knowing this brief relapse into magic would cost him dearly in the days ahead.

C10(2) "The..."

"The Hatred Tribunal"
(WC 966)

-[ ]-

After agreeing to the demands of the Nhimyggai, Chulon was instructed to leave the armies of Lom and find a home in a nearby settlement. The warmasters he had formerly served did not question his leaving or raise issue with it. They were apparently familiar with such changes and knew better than to cause any dissention. Everyone he had formerly made acquaintance with seemed to act like he no longer existed.
This new life pressed upon him by the mysterious Nhimyggai was far more dangerous. Chulon spent his nights deep in meditation, focusing on the task of bending his mind so that his thoughts would not give him away. He began to see Nhimyggai where formerly he had only seen peaceful settlers. His instructions were to make a home, act settled and pursue mundane daily activities while he awaited instructions.
The simplicity of his new routine was frequently punctuated by secretive meetings where he and others were indoctrinated in the beliefs and ideals of the Nhimyggai. He learned his immediate superior was a young man named Ponyeth, who seemed little more than a boy to Chulon. He could sense magical ability in him, though, reckless and unbridled. Chulon imagined Ponyeth's ability was likely also largely untrained and unfocused. Apparently a connection to the stream of magical power was prized by the Nhimyggai, making it a reason for the promotion of its followers. Above Ponyeth was a darker man named Dremmech, who usually led their meetings and spoke vehemently against the southern kingdoms.
Dremmech also spoke of another superior named Tiernanuu, but Chulon had yet to meet this one. He wondered how many ranks the Nhimyggai has divided themselves into. It swiftly became apparent that his group, under Dremmech was wholly comprised of people who were local to the area where Chulon had been instructed to settle. He began to see Nhimyggai in places he had not formerly guessed to look. Their identity was obvious to him now, they were the members of any tribe who lived lives completely detached from the tribe's concerns. Ponyeth had told him early on to ignore the commands of the tribe of Lom. He was not a part of the tribe any longer. He was now a part of something much larger, something much more important.
Chulon was not yet sure how much magical ability the Nhimyggai held, he could not find opportunity to test it. As a whole, the group was very secretive and paranoid. They worked hard to remain unseen and unsuspected. Dremmech spoke about the necessity of this often. New recruits like Chulon were told over and over again to hide their allegiance to the Nhimyggai. They were never to speak of it. The mages of the south were always watching, he said, and Chulon later found it amusing just how true this was.
One thing was very apparent, though, it would take a lot of time for Chulon to gather the kind of information he needed. In the quiet moments, he wondered just how much time it would take. Dremmech's speeches were militant, focused on actions against the southlands. He spoke often about an upcoming campaign against Dour Gujhest. Chulon was recruited to fill out the ranks of Dremmech's army, which was being amassed for some form of offensive strike.
To single out Dour Gujhest was a bold maneuver. Chulon was immediately struck by the foolishness of such a plan. To begin with, the Nhimyggai would have to break through the vast defenses of the Ortakij kingdom. They would be faced with the power of Dour Gujhest long before they even reached the Sinzakij borders. Simply getting to Dour Gujhest would be an incredible feat, but once they were there, they would have to contend with the trained and focused power of an entire kingdom of mages.
Chulon knew from experience Dour Gujhest was well fortified. The White Council was ready and able to defend itself against an attack from these Nhimyggai. He began to wonder if the taste of magical ability had driven the Nhimyggai leadership mad. Yet, he knew it would be foolish to assume the failure of the Nhimyggai before he fully understood their capabilities. He was reminded of his battle with Ethegra. Once a friend, and one of the most powerful and solid mages he had ever known, Chulon could scarcely believe Ethegra had fallen to such temptation. If the Nhimyggai were behind Ethegra's conversion, perhaps there was something to their bold strategy after all. Did they intend to turn an entire kingdom of mages into demons?

-[ ]-

Months passed and Chulon fell into a routine. He rarely thought about his duty to the southern kingdoms any more, so deeply had he repressed his true identity. Outwardly, he acted every bit like a true believer in the Nhymiggai cause. It was a fine line he walked, twisting his disgust and hatred for the Nhimyggai into an apparent hatred toward the southern kingdoms.
Dremmech had relentlessly examined the minds of all his followers, keeping a sharp eye on them at all times. It was obvious he trusted nobody. As the time passed, his army grew, filling out with more and more eager recruits. Some were from other clans, but Chulon noted that Lom did not question or prevent their addition to the ranks of the Nhimyggai. Chulon exhibited no magical ability to his superiors, not wanting to rise in the ranks or appear as anything other than mundane now. Dremmech was descriptive enough of the Nhimyggai plans to eventually bring him all the information he would need. He had come to fear and respect the power of the Nhimyggai as time passed. The danger of his position was constant and pressing, so he did not wish to test his luck by attempting to gain recognition.

C10(1) "The..."

"The Hatred Tribunal"
(WC 1753)

It was a day like any other for Chulon. Lom's warlord had his people gearing up for another battle along their northeastern border. Gulala had made some headway into Lom's holdings there, supplanting their losses along the southeastern portion of the border where Lom had been pushing hard for the past few months. Confident they could maintain their new holdings to the south, the tribe of Lom was hurriedly rushing to the north to quell the advances made by their enemy.
Chulon had yet to see any familiar faces from the tribe of Gulala and though he consoled himself with the reminder that they were all his enemies, he found it a relief not to have to look into the face of any he had formerly pretended were friends.
The shift to the north would be advantageous to Chulon, moving him closer to the tribes of Kier-Ree-Tan so he could make a clean departure from the ranks of Lom's armies. Working his way into the inner circles of the tribe had the unfortunate side effect of making him famous amongst the warriors of Lom. Almost everywhere he traveled now he was recognized and hailed as a hero of the tribe. Though Chulon valued his access to the secret plans of the tribe, his fame made it more difficult for him to move freely now that he wanted to abandon this tribe in favor of another.
He had begun to wonder if his renown would translate into a reputation as a traitor. Perhaps moving from clan to clan had been the trait which had revealed other Ortakij scouts and allowed the clans to weed them out. This did not seem likely, though, because no apparent communication occurred between the clans in any form.
They did not make it to the front lines of the battlefield to the north, though. They were very close when an order from Lom came down through the ranks suddenly. They were to stop and wait. There was no explanation for this abrupt change in strategy and no apparent reason why it would be necessary. But no reason was needed for an order from the leader of the tribe. When he said stop, they would stop.
Chulon wondered if perhaps Gulala had been able to push back along the southern border, causing the warlord to reconsider his aggressive strategies. It seemed unlikely they would be told to simply stop if this were the case. If the warlord were truly concerned about an advance like that, he would have called for them to move back south or press their attacks more quickly. He wouldn't have told them to just stop and wait. Chulon felt there must be something else at work now. In all of his time with the tribes of Gulala and Lom he had never witnessed an action like this.
The army, unsure of what to do next, set about the process of making camp while they waited. Chulon busied himself with this task as well, inwardly hoping they would soon continue northward so he could make his escape from this group. He thought it best to feign his own death on the battlefield. It would raise the fewest questions. Tribal armies did not bother to check the dead or search for wounded. Any who were too damaged to return to camp of their own accord were left where they lay and no more concern was spared for their lives. A clean break like that would shield him from any of the potential difficulties Chulon had worried about.
The army had sat dormant in camp for two days before something happened. Chulon had plenty of time to worry about what might come next. After this time had passed a new group arrived in their camp. This group was strange to Chulon, the fact that they were so well-dressed was the first thing which struck him as very different. They had an air of importance about them and the warriors of Lom's armies gave them wide berth, shrinking back in their presence as though very afraid. This group was obviously of great importance, although Chulon did not recognize any of its members.
After making an initial inspection of the camp, the group settled into one of the tents which had been set up and began calling for warriors to come speak with them. Whispers began to circle through the camp about this strange intrusion. Chulon soon caught the name “Nhimyggai” being whispered repeatedly. He felt his hopes rise sharply. At last he was hearing some confirmation of what Pinmey had told him at Hearkendale. Were the Nhimyggai real? Chulon decided to take this opportunity to find out.
He asked around amongst a few of Lom's warriors, trying to see what they meant. But when he inquired about the Nhimyggai, he was universally met with silence. These men were genuinely afraid of this group. They constantly cast furtive glances in the direction of the tent taken over by the supposed Nhimyggai. He began to think he would get nothing other than blank looks and fear-filled glances when Chulon was called up by his superiors to go to the tent and stand before the Nhimyggai.
He wondered quickly what he should say to win their favor. If the Nhimyggai were all Pinmey had said they were, then Chulon wanted nothing more than to work his way into their ranks. He had begun to question the legitimacy of Pinmey's claims in his time in the north. For as long as he had been there, he had heard no mention of this mysterious group from anyone. Not even a vague whisper about it. Their sudden appearance here was stunning, almost unbelievable. They were like ghosts.
He stepped into the Nhimyggai tent.
“Welcome warrior.”
Seated before Chulon, the group had formed a circle. They all sat stoically, with no visible movement between the eight of them. Dressed as they were, Chulon found it difficult to determine which one had spoken as he entered. They were hidden behind rich, dark garb which covered them completely. Hoods hid their faces from his view, allowing him no cues to what the group was thinking. Wanting to avoid any awkwardness, Chulon seated himself immediately just inside the entry to the tent and looked forward expectantly, wondering what would happen next.
“We have heard you asking questions about our presence here.”
It was a statement, followed by a long pause. Chulon wondered if they expected him to answer. As the silence stretched on, he decided it best to do so.
“I have heard the name Nhimyggai before, but did not know if it was a name for myth or fact. I was simply curious if anyone else knew anything about this name.”
More silence. Not a single figure in the circle moved. Chulon calmed his spirit, focusing on his posture instead of the bizarre spectacle before him. Finally, they spoke again.
“The Nhimyggai are fact. The Nhimyggai are building an army. The Nhimyggai will destroy the Southern Kingdoms.”
Chulon felt it now. It was a sneaking suspicion when he entered the tent, but now he could feel the full force of it weighing against his mind: magic. Despite his long absence from life as a mage, he could still feel the pulse of magic as clearly as when he had practiced it. This group definitely had some magical ability. How much and how strong, he could not say without delving into a temptation he had sworn he would never again entertain. But he knew they were probing him with their arts, seeking something out, probably in his mind. Chulon stifled this realization and focused more intently on his posture. He caressed feelings of belonging and a hatred in his mind. He knew his facade would be discovered if he pushed his mind too far into the unfamiliar and offensive territory of hatred toward his own homeland, so he focused instead on a vague and generalized hatred, building on his own disdain for the tribes to fill his mind with dissatisfaction.
It was a dangerous game Chulon was playing, and somewhere deep inside of himself, he knew the risks. But he could not spare a conscious consideration for this fact. Both heart and mind were bent now under the will of the Nhimyggai and he brewed appropriate thoughts beneath his outward focus on his posture. The perfection and concentration he had learned through Laethecna aided him in this. It stemmed from his own being in a natural way, despite the lies he was trying to perpetrate. It was enough to quell the oppressive feeling of their magic. They must have been satisfied with what they found in Chulon's mind.
“What do the Nhimyggai desire of me?”
“Life, allegiance and obedience. You will fight for the Nhimyggai.”
It sounded like a question, but it was not. Chulon was being instructed by this strange group. He was expected to become a part of their group. There would be no denying their request, but Chulon had no desire to do so. He stood out amongst the warriors of Lom, he had no doubt this had sparked the Nhimyggai's interest in him. Now the wanted him. This was exactly what he wanted.
It was only a matter of time now before Chulon was able to discover what capabilities this mysterious group possessed. Pinmey had been correct, and Chulon was glad he had followed the monk's directions. The Nhimyggai were indeed powerful, but he could not yet say just how powerful they might be. If ever there were a serious threat to the Southern Kingdoms, Chulon knew he was joining its ranks. The fact that the Nhimyggai had been audacious enough to attempt to scan his thoughts proved to him they possessed serious magical abilities. Were they strong enough to challenge Dour Gujhest? Was their army big enough to take on the vast resources of the Ortakij? These questions needed to be answered before he attempted to return to Katarine.
Chulon was impressed that the Nhimyggai had been so successful at hiding themselves amongst the clans of the northlands. How did they accomplish this feat? It appeared fear and intimidation were a large portion of their strategy. The other Ortakij scouts must have been discovered by these Nhimyggai. Staying hidden from the Southern Kingdoms' view was obviously very important to this group. Chulon knew he would have to tread carefully if he intended to deliver a warning to his home in time.

C9 "The Lesser..."

"The Lesser Gods"
(WC 2039)

Delyth had not traveled far from Dour Gujhest when, with a pointed smile, she stopped abruptly and sat down. Phillip stopped as well, hoping to stay hidden off to the side of the road and a good distance behind her. Though it felt strange to be stalking this woman, his orders from the White Council were clear. It became obvious, however, that his presence was not as unnoticed as he had hoped. Delyth was staring directly at him, apparently waiting for Phillip to reveal himself. He wondered if this was simply a coincidence, if perhaps she had not seen him but was merely looking in his direction, but a raised eyebrow followed by a motion for him to come over to where she was sitting removed those doubts from his mind. Despite his great care in remaining hidden, she had somehow spotted his presence. Phillip felt embarrassed as he stepped out and walked toward her.
“Why are you following me?” She called out to him as he came close.
Phillip wondered what kind of explanation he could possibly give for his actions. Although his training told him to invent a reason and hide his true purpose for being there, his heart told him to simply be honest.
“It is my duty to learn how you were able to defeat a demon.” He looked into her eyes, hoping to convey some sense of trustworthiness. To his surprise, as she held his gaze she did not look concerned, timid or frightened by his presence. There was a distinct sense of curiosity behind her eyes, as though simply holding his gaze would tell her more than he was saying. Phillip didn't mind. He was suddenly struck by the simple beauty of Delyth's eyes and found it difficult to look away.
So enraptured was he, her next question went almost unnoticed. But then he realized she had been speaking and he broke her gaze suddenly, blushing like a young man and feeling uncomfortable with himself.
“Why do you think I defeated the demon? I simply said the demon does not exist.” Delyth cocked her head to the side and tried to meet Phillip's gaze once again. Embarrassed afresh, Phillip avoided her stare although those eyes felt like gravity wells drawing him in. He took a deep breath and mentally chastised himself for being so unexpectedly foolish and juvenile in her presence. Having regained a measure of his composure, Phillip pondered her response briefly.
“I suppose knowing the nature of a demon tells me you would not have survived unless you fought for and won your freedom.” Phillip was staring at the ground now, coldly suppressing both emotion and instinct in response to the feelings that her gaze had awakened within him.
Delyth sighed lightly and placed one of her hands gently on Phillip's downturned head in a consoling fashion. “I think you have assumed too much.”
He was struck by the clarity of this statement. He felt justified in his assumptions because they were shared by the White Council, as though communal consent created truth. If he removed those assumptions completely, though, what would remain? There was still an unanswered mystery. He knew Delyth had been stolen away from the town of Hearkendale, many witnesses confirmed it. He knew Delyth had survived, she was sitting in front of him now. He knew the demon which attacked Hearkendale had disappeared completely, he could find no evidence of it to track or follow. What did these three facts actually mean? Either Delyth was lying to him, or he was missing something.
“How did you survive the demon attack?” Phillip asked at length, looking up into her eyes once again.
She grabbed his gaze as he looked up, staring at him in a colder and more serious way now.
“I already told you I would not talk about it.” She replied bluntly and with a tinge of annoyance.
Phillip held her gaze defiantly, though, determined to fulfill his duty to the White Council. “I am sorry for my rudeness in following you and spying on you like I have. But you must understand, I cannot leave you until I answer this question. I am sworn to serve the White Council, so I must not fail.”
Delyth looked away toward the horizon. The day was waning, though evening was still hours away. Her hair was caught in the breeze, flitting around her face. Phillip was now struck again by her beauty. He admired her hair especially, intrigued by its color, and wondering whether he had ever seen such a vibrant shade of red before. She looked so vulnerable now, sitting there and contemplating the determination of his quest. Phillip thought he had been too harsh just now, pitting himself against her desire to leave the past in the past. He returned to chiding himself, feeling suddenly guilty about his treatment of a grieving widow. Her poise and grace made it easy to forget all she had been through, but remembering now, Phillip felt horrible about his behavior.
“Your White Council is dogged and insistent...” Delyth said finally, “...and inconsiderate and cruel. Do you have no creativity? Or must you try an force an answer to a question without one?”
She did not look at him. Phillip was once more rendered speechless by her insights. He was unsure of what to do. Never before had he felt so shameful and out of place in his work. He wanted to abandon his search for answers, but knew he could not. His oath needed to be fulfilled before he could return home. He was trapped now in a bad position, much worse than he had feared when the White had originally placed the burden of this quest upon his shoulders. He felt following Delyth any further would be nothing other than wrong but what then should he do?
“I would feel better if you walked with me as a friend.” Delyth broke Phillip's stunned silence. “I enjoy talking with you and I would prefer not to be alone right now.”
Phillip nodded, inwardly relieved to push off making a decision about what he needed to do next. Besides, it offered him an opportunity to do something nice for her for a change. Perhaps he could start to repair the hurt he was obviously perpetuating.

-[ ]-

Despite what Delyth had said, they continued onward for many hours in silence. Phillip brooded over his own behavior, still somewhat surprised and disappointed in himself. He could not think of any question to ask that did not seem to him immediately offensive and inconsiderate. Perhaps the gap between the Eclosei and Dour Gujhest had indeed grown to wide to bridge. He was consumed with his own concerns – with the concerns of the White Council and the mission he was tied into. It made him wish he could better understand the Eclosei and their motivations. It was this realization which eventually led him to his first acceptable idea of the day.
“Why do you worship the gods?” He spoke up at last, breaking the long silence. His question did not sound the same upon saying it out loud as it had when it was being formed in his head. Phillip hoped the honest intention of what he asked would come through and not the skewed connotations which could easily be interpreted from his choice of words. Delyth gave him enough time to worry about this before she finally answered.
“I think men worship gods for the same reason they study magic. They are born with the drive for power. They wish to rule over the world and shape it in some way. The gods offer a connection to this kind of power.”
“Why?” Phillip asked, then clarified, “Why do we want to rule and shape the world?”
“It is the way men were created. It's part of their nature.”
Phillip frowned at this thought. He was unhappy with the suggestion that mankind was somehow enslaved to some kind of hidden desire. “You think the gods created us so that we would rely on them for power? Why would they do this?”
Delyth laughed lightly. “I think we were all created by something far greater than the gods you know.”
Phillip was quiet for awhile longer and Delyth did not interrupt his train of thought. She had suggested there was something even bigger and farther beyond the world as most knew it. The mages taught there were four streams of power, Phillip had always assumed it was the streams which ruled over creation and the fate of the world. Perhaps she felt the same way.
“Do you know about the four streams of power?” He asked, not wanting to get ahead of himself.
“Yes, they are the guidelines for the third age of mankind.”
It was a matter-of-fact response, but Phillip persisted. “I have always thought these streams persisted through eternity, forming and perfecting life.”
“No, you haven't always thought this way.” Delyth said abruptly and with a measure of disappointment. “Men are not meant to know the true nature of their existence. I don't know why, yet your true purpose can be discovered if you know where to look for the answers.”
“I have not always thought this way?” Phillip noted the lightly scoffing tone of his voice. Delyth had always acted familiar with him, as though they knew each other in the past. Phillip could not think of why, he remembered nothing which indicated they had known each other before. Aside from this, he could not remember thinking any other way than what he had expressed except for the time before he had learned about the streams of power themselves.
“Nevermind.” She rolled her eyes. “The streams of power are simply a manifestation of order. They originate from the source of such things.” Delyth paused a moment.. “They will end with the source as well – and so shall we.”
“So you worship the gods because you believe they are somehow greater than the streams of power?” Came Phillip's retort. He noted the scoffing tone in his voice had not subsided and tried to force himself to be more caring.
“I believe in something greater than the streams of power, yes.”
They had stopped walking and regarded each other now with a measure of consternation.
“So the Eclosei are superior to Dour Gujhest after all. They are more enlightened?” Phillip could scarcely believe this was what he had said next. He felt himself living out the indignation of a schoolchild.
“I don't think the Eclosei realize there is anything beyond their Entat of gods either. They are subject to the order of this age, just as the mages are.” It was a comfortingly mild response, especially considering how heated Phillip had been acting.
“Why are you Eclosei if you do not believe in what they are doing?”
“But I do believe in what they are doing. They are seeking out the truth. I believe in what the mages are doing as well.” She placed her hand on Phillip's shoulder. “You needn't be tied down to the idea Dour Gujhest and the Eclosei should be opposed to each other.”
Phillip looked down at the ground. He had thought he might be a source of comfort for Delyth on her journey. He had thought some form of service he could provide would help ease her grief. How differently their conversation had gone. It was she who comforted him, offering small reassurances which touched his heart on a very personal level. Phillip wondered again if he really had known this woman at some point in the past.
“Why don't you return to Hearkendale?” Phillip asked suddenly. The question had only just dawned upon him, but it seemed an obvious one. If she believed the Eclosei and Dour Gujhest did not need to work in opposition to one another, why wasn't she returning to the mission her late husband had founded to bridge this very rift? “They worry about you. Your presence would help them recover and it might help you as well...” His voice trailed off.
“Hearkendale is no longer what it was meant to be,” She responded sadly, “There is no reason for me to return.”

C8(2) "History"

"History"
(WC 1313)

In truth, though, the king's real reason for naming his daughter had nothing to do with the protector herself. You've heard me mention the ancient book, well, it's the real reason the king chose to name her so.
“Years ago, before Tiala was even born, King Solonom discovered an ancient manuscript buried deep within the King's vault. It was apparent to him that nobody had read or even seen this book for a very long time, so he was naturally very curious about it. Through studying it, the King was able to discover many facts about our past which were quite different than what tradition would tell us. Now, normally nobody would know about this book or what it holds, because the King has kept it hidden away for years in fear of what the scholars might say about it but Tiala here, being a true daughter of the King, caught sight of this book one day and was also overcome by curiosity.”
Jaltizhetobek winked slyly at Tiala, who giggled lightly. “She stole the book away from the King for a time and delved into its secrets. And then she shared it with me, which was a great privilege and honor,” He bowed slightly before continuing.
“The book says many fantastical things. Much of it is difficult or impossible to read, but there are newer sections which chronicle many of the events surrounding the creation and demise of the Ancient Kingdom. Now, to be fair, there really isn't very much that's known about the Ancient Kingdom. We have our traditions and our opinions, sure, but true facts are few and far between.
“I think this is because there are so many different sides to the issue. Each of our three kingdoms has its own opinion about the Ancient Kingdom and tradition holds that the kingdom split because of these differences. Our ancestors couldn't see a way to live all together as one kingdom with so many different ideals floating about between them. That's why there was no great war or cataclysm which caused the separation of the Ancient Kingdom. All we know is the nobles came together in Calugress and mutually agreed to go their separate ways.
“The Jaltikij wanted nothing to do with the mages for some reason. Something about the dealings of Dour Gujhest had angered that entire faction, so they wanted to create a kingdom free from mages, a place where people could live and grow and develop without the influences of magic. It's a tradition that still continues today, as you know well, which is why poor Mesyth here has never set foot in our fair city and why she must be subjected to the noble's endless inquiries
“The Ortakij weren't particularly upset about anything, it seems. They were the faction that most desired to see the Ancient Kingdom continue. The Ortakij claimed to have the true King as their leader and wanted things to stay the way they had been for years. But it was not to be. Seeing that their beloved Ancient Kingdom would last no longer, they clung to the second prophecy as a vision of their future. They choose to believe that one day the true King – whose very heir rules over their lands – will reunite the three kingdoms once again in a new age of peace and prosperity.
“The Sinzakij did not trust the claims of the Ortakij and they did not like the way the Jaltikij shunned the mages. It was the Sinzakij, I think, who felt most strongly that a split in the Ancient Kingdom would serve everyone's interests best. I don't think the Sinzakij ever really wanted to see the kingdom divided, but they were able to recognize the vastness of the gaps forming between the three factions. There is a certain sense of wisdom in their call to draw up border lines and allow each side to take some time and 'clean their wounds' so to speak.
“But the ancient book sheds some more light on what happened at Calugress. Not a lot more, mind you, there are still many things left unsaid but it does give a deeper sense of why it was so important for these three groups to separate. You see, there was actually some kind of conflict that erupted within Calugress between the nobles. I don't know if it was just a friendly row or if more serious things were going on behind the scenes, but the ancient book says that many nobles were lost or killed almost over night because of this great argument. So, the truth is the nobles came together after this tragedy and decided they had to do something to prevent any more people from dying. It seemed the very heart of the kingdom was torn out overnight when they stopped working together and started attacking each other instead.
“Anyway, that's not really the point I was trying to get to. The really interesting thing the ancient book speaks about is the name of the Ancient Kingdom. Have you ever wondered why we are always calling it that? 'The Ancient Kingdom.' It seems so formal and nondescript. Well apparently naming the kingdom had become a big issue with the nobles back in those days. Something had happened which caused their king to decree that they would no longer use their true name – which was the Philosus. I don't know what it was, the book doesn't mention the event specifically, but there was something that happened which grieved them so much they were willing to give up the name which was their birthright. So, for many years they had no name and they sort of seemed to drift aimlessly. The book makes a point about how lost the kingdom was without a name to unite it. This continued until King Machal decreed that the kingdom would be known as Tiala – a new name to unite its people under a common cause.
“Apparently this Tial had done something for the Ancient Kingdom – stepped in somehow and saved it. Because she had done so much for them, King Machal wanted to honor her name and her legacy. There is even talk of an enormous temple which was to be constructed in her honor, so the people could come together and worship Tial, but they must have thought better of it, because there is no temple or even remains of a temple for Tial. It's all for the best, I suppose, since Tial isn't really a deity she probably wouldn't care much for people worshipping her anyway.
“But that's the real reason why Solonom named his daughter what he did. He, like many Kings before him, longs to see the three kingdoms reunited as one, setting aside their differences. He simply took the name King Machal had chosen and gave it to his daughter as an expression of the longing in his heart. It was also a very clever name to give to the daughter who would one day unite the Sinzakij and Jaltikij kingdoms through marriage. With two of the kingdoms linked as they will be, who is to say what the future may hold? Perhaps we will see the second prophecy come true after all.”
Jaltizhetobek stood abruptly after saying this and peered out his window. Mesyth was unsure why, since it was too dark outside to discern anything anyway. But he seemed contemplative, so neither one of the girls wanted to interrupt him. Then he yawned and turned back toward them.
“It is late, ladies, and you should be tucked away safely within the castle. Come, I will escort you back.”
Tiala looked a bit disappointed and Mesyth wondered how many stories she had hoped to hear that night. Neither one of them offered any objection, though. Silently, they stood and followed the burly blacksmith out the door and back to the castle.

C8(1) "History"

"History"
(WC 1481)

“Why were you named Tiala?”
Tiala stopped short at the question. They had been sneaking along the wall of one of the castle's courtyards, but the absence of guards had emboldened Mesyth to ask the question which had been bothering her of late. Indignant that the Jaltikij nobles had locked her new friend away in one of the castle's towers, only letting her out when they wished to ask questions, Tiala had insisted upon sneaking Mesyth away from the castle grounds to show her the city of Calugress. Mesyth objected weakly, but her desire to break the monotony, coupled with her intense curiosity about Calugress had made her resistance weak and half-hearted. This was the fifth evening they had stolen away late in the night.
Tiala was fearless, curious about everything and bold enough to poke and prod until she learned what she wanted. Normally Mesyth would have been scared to lurk through the alleyways of the city so late at night. Calugress was well managed, but no city was entirely devoid of criminal activities. Unsavory characters of all sorts could be seen conducting their evil affairs once the sun had disappeared from the horizon. However, Tiala handled herself with a singular confidence, brandishing her sword aggressively. She had assured Mesyth it would be acceptable for her to use magic on any attackers if they were placed in a dangerous position, but so far nobody had dared to approach them.
“I know some reasons,” Tiala said softly, not turning to look at Mesyth, “Why do you ask?”
“Well,” Mesyth collected her thoughts quickly, “In the temple at Mount Isteray, Tial is a well-known name, but it is not a good name. As priests, we were taught many things about the evils of Tial. We were taught to fear her return. Your name means 'of Tial' and I wonder why.”
“What do the mages say about Tial?” The princess asked after a long pause.
This was an unexpected question. Mesyth had to think about it. “I can't remember the mages ever speaking of Tial.” This suddenly seemed strange to her.
Tiala nodded as though Mesyth had answered her own question, but the young mage was still confused. She wondered if the princess was going to explain herself.
“I want you to meet a friend of mine,” Tiala spoke up again, resuming her walk along the courtyard wall, “Arnold Jaltizhetobek – a blacksmith of Calugress – he'll answer your question best.”
Mesyth stifled another question in her throat, thinking it best to wait until Tiala had answered in her own way before asking any more questions.
Arnold Jaltizhetobek was a huge man, larger than anyone Mesyth had ever met before. His appearance suited his trade well, she thought, taking note of how easily he wielded the massive hammers of a blacksmith. He let out a jolly laugh upon opening his stable doors and seeing Tiala there to greet him.
“Welcome young princess and friend.” He said, smiling broadly. “How can I assist my king's most favored daughter this evening?” The light of amusement danced plainly behind his eyes as he beckoned for them to come in before he closed the door.
“Meet Mesyth, mage of Dour Gujhest,” Tiala giggled with a flourish, but Jaltizhetobek's amused demeanor faded swiftly to seriousness.
“You have stolen the mage from the castle?” He asked earnestly.
“Well, I couldn't just let her sit there and stare at the walls all day...” Tiala put her hands on her hips authoritatively and frowned a little. “I thought you would be excited to meet a mage.”
Jaltizhetobek smiled again. “That I am, your majesty. That I am.” He looked at Mesyth, who stood shyly by the door. “She's a tiny thing.”
“Tiny but strong!” Tiala piped up, “She could defeat you as easily as swatting a bug!” Mesyth doubted this, but it elicited a jovial laugh from the massive Jaltizhetobek.
“That she could,” He agreed, moving back to his anvil to douse a chestplate he had been working on when they came to his door. “But you should both be careful. Without the king's protection... there are many here who would like to hurt this poor girl.”
Mesyth shuffled uncomfortably.
“Her name is Mesyth.” Tiala said, “She grew up in the temple at Mount Isteray and she wants to know why I would be named after the famous evil Tial.”
Jaltizhetobek stopped and looked again at Mesyth. “You were raised by the Eclosei yet you became a mage?” He seemed surprised. Mesyth didn't blame him for that, she knew she could never return home after such a betrayal. Jaltikij distrust of Dour Gujhest paled in comparison to the hatred she had grown up with.
“The Eclosei believe a great many things are evil.” Jaltizhetobek said after a pause. “This is their job.” He frowned, then smiled, then frowned again as he thought. “They aren't always wrong, you know, when they say something is evil. But, they aren't always right either.”
Mesyth nodded in agreement. She hadn't placed much trust in the teachings of the Eclosei. “I only wondered what is significant about this Tial. I know nothing of the name except that the Eclosei believe it evil.”
Jaltizhetobek nodded again. “I grew up in the Ortakij kingdom, did you know that Tiala?”
The princess laughed, “You tell me every time I come here.”
“Well, my father claimed a piece of land north of Celeukra, in territories held by the Ortakij before the great northern assault stole it all away from us. When we lost our home to the conflict, I was very bitter and angry at our enemies for what they had done, but my father laughed at me for it. He taught me to have more understanding for the clans of the north. See, they struggle just to eat every day. They fight amongst themselves and live in danger and desperation. To them, we are the evil ones – we have stolen more from them than they can ever take back. My father said we ought to pity them. Their unwillingness to form a treaty of peace with our kingdoms has condemned them.” Jaltizhetobek nodded to himself, his head bobbing up and down while he agreed with what he had just said. Mesyth found this trait amusing and it placed her at ease.
“See, there are always two sides to every struggle. We can see and understand our side clearly, because it's ours. We feel right and justified in what we have done and what we are planning to do because we understand our reasons. Our enemies are the same way. They feel right and justified in what they are doing because they have their reasons – reasons we may never understand. Just calling our enemies evil is convenient, but wrong. The Eclosei have stopped wondering what the reasons for things are. If they disagree, they just call it evil.”
Tiala found a nearby seat and Mesyth joined her.
“Tial has been called a deity – a goddess – but it is not true. King Solonom knows this and he wants to honor her memory because nobody else will. Our ancestors revered her because of her great power. They did not hate her as the Eclosei teaches now. You may have heard that she is a goddess, yes?” Jaltizhetobek looked at Mesyth, who nodded. “According to the ancient book, she is a protector. The gods are subject to her as are we. She possesses ultimate power over everything in the world – not to rule it as the gods would, but to protect it from chaos.”
Jaltizhetobek pulled a chair of his own over so he could sit and talk to them. “If the manuscripts are true, and she possesses ultimate power, then why would she allow herself to be maligned so by mankind? If her desire was to rule over us, then where is she? There are only two conclusions a reasonable person can come to. Either she is not all powerful like the manuscripts claim and the teachings about her are lies or she is not evil like the Eclosei claim and something has caused her to hide herself from us.
“Do you know why the Eclosei teach Tial is evil?” He asked without waiting for an answer, “It is because she neutered their deity, Smilles. She took some great power away from him. The Eclosei teach she did this just to spite them and make their cause suffer in the world. But this doesn't make sense. She is described as the protector, so if she did take power away from their god, it must have been because he was trying to misuse it. She punished their god and now they are pouting about it.”
Jaltizhetobek smiled broadly. “You ask why Tiala is named after Tial as though this were a bad thing. I can think of no better name to be given.

C7 "North"

"North"
(WC 2371)

“What do you know of the tribes?” Chulon sat with Katarine. It had been years since they patrolled together, but their comradery held fast. He knew that she would have valuable insight to help him in his attempt to infiltrate the clan structure to be found in Vechtazul.
“We know they are not very suspicious of newcomers.” Katarine said after some thought. “We have placed a few scouts in their ranks and the transition has always gone easily. I don't think they expect any of us would leave the comforts of home in favor of the harsh conditions they live in.”
There was something about Katarine's voice that gave Chulon reason to doubt what she was saying. It wasn't that he felt she was lying to him, he simply sensed she was holding something back.
“There's more to it... what else?” Chulon was blunt. Katarine had initially trained him in Laethecna. It seemed a natural course, he was the only one who had survived their mutual encounter all those years ago. He felt they still shared a certain bond because of it though. There was a respect Chulon had for Katarine which would never wane.
“You should know that most of our scouts have never returned.” Katarine looked him squarely in the eye. “They are accepted and they do fine for a long time. Many of them report very important things which help our defense greatly, but.... The longer they stay up there, the more likely it is they will just... disappear.”
“Disappear?” Chulon furrowed his brow at the vagueness. She wouldn't be vague unless there were truly no reason to speculate about what had happened to their scouts. “Do they become sympathetic? Or are they discovered?”
“I believe they are discovered. It doesn't make sense after all the time they spend in the group... they always report acceptance and companionship. We have tried many different means of introducing them to the life up there, exhausted all of our tactics. Somehow, they always lose contact and then they are gone. We send more scouts, but nobody ever sees these missing again.”
Chulon was starting to believe Pinmey's fantastic accusation about a magical society working within the bounds of the northern tribes. Katarine wouldn't make something like this up.
“Do you think there is another force at work... something more powerful and... insightful than the clan leadership?” He baited her, hoping to discover if the Ortakij knew anything of this society Pinmey had told him about. But Katarine shook her head in bewilderment.
“If there is something else at work in the northlands, we have never seen evidence of it. I don't know what it is, but scouting up there is a suicide mission. We don't ask our men to do it any more. Only those who volunteer are sent.”
Chulon sighed. He was hoping to glean some useful information before attempting to infiltrate the clan structure in Vechtazul, but so far he had only encountered fear and resistance to his plan.
“If there is something at work within the tribes, I will find it Katarine. I will find it and get out.”
Now it was Katarine who sighed. Chulon was capable, more capable than any of the scouts they had sent so far. But what he desired was a terrible risk. He represented a resource that the Ortakij could use. She felt strongly that if he wanted to re-engage the fight against the north, there were better ways to go about it. But she sensed there were things Chulon was holding back. He had motivations unspoken which drove him to this course. She could not approve, but there seemed little to be done to stop him. He had always been a stubborn one.
“If you must go, there are two things you should know.” She said at last, resigned to this unfortunate course. “Start with the tribe of Gulala. Our scouts there have always lasted the longest. But don't stay there. Move to different tribes. Stay moving. Don't settle in any one place too long. The only pattern I have seen is that once our men stop moving, they stop reporting back.”
It wasn't much, but it was a starting point. He had already relieved himself of all the valuables he carried. The things which held special meaning for him, he gave to Katarine for safe keeping. There wasn't much, just an old ring and the medallion he had earned from the Ortakij for surviving a demon attack. Katarine promised they would be waiting for him when he returned. Valuables of any sort would immediately raise suspicion from the clans. Nobody in the north had the means to possess such things.
Chulon decided to stay in Guervin for a few more days. Katarine had many stories to tell and if the clans were as dangerous as she was indicating, he felt it wise to enjoy what could be his last days in the civilized world. One of his favorite places in Guervin was atop the Ridgewall, so named because it overlooked the Ridge of Kemolen. He did not know who Kemolen was or what the significance of that ridge had once been, but the name had been passed down diligently through the generations. Chulon assumed it had more meaning to the northern clans who once ruled this region.
As he stood atop the Ridgewall and gazed out over the vast expanse that was Guervin, its five districts and magnificent heart, Chulon was amazed that a society as disorganized and chaotic as the clans were could have come together and manufactured such a marvel. Some said the magnificence of Guervin rivaled the beauty of Calugress. Chulon disagreed, much preferring the beauty of Calugress' intricate architectural feats, but even history showed kings of the Ancient Kingdom giving Guervin preference.
The city certainly offered more protection than Calugress. The latter was built piece by piece, slowly spreading across the Chixsin Plateau. Calugress lacked Guervin's high walls and protected gates. Sometime in the distant past one of the Jaltikij kings had decreed that a defensive wall be built around Calugress, but it was not integrated into the city and it lacked the feeling of strength that Guervin's outer wall exuded. The Ridgewall stood out from the rest of the city's sense of power, rising above the strong heights of the other, simpler walls. The Ridgewall was wide and arched, making a smooth curve around the city from its southern tip to its eastern reprise. As it made the journey from point to point, it rose smoothly into the air from the junction with the southern wall and then sunk down again to meet the eastern wall. Punctuating the length were three towers. What purpose they had originally served was unclear, but they were definitely part of the original design. It was the towers which had first revealed the hidden glories of the Ridgewall to Chulon. They were used now by Dour Gujhest to house its mages. The southernmost tower was for the Red, the middle one for the White and the northernmost tower was reserved for Ortakij emissaries. Once, Chulon had defined himself as a powerful White mage. When he visited Guervin for the White Council, he would stay there in the tower reserved for White Mages. It was well appointed and comfortable in that tower, which made it little surprise to Chulon that so few of the White ever bothered to venture upward onto the Ridgewall. Those who did, though, would always find time to return. He technically had no right to be on the Ridgewall now, but nobody would bother to question his presence.
Legend spoke of a great deity who had constructed Guervin for the tribes, as a place where they could come and settle their disputes. It was supposedly this same deity who had saved the Ancient Kingdom from falling into turmoil on countless occasions. It seemed there could be no other way this magnificent city would have ever existed, so hard was it to believe the clans could have accomplished it. But Chulon had his reservations about the legends surrounding this supposed deity. She was said to be a protector, given supreme power over all of the world, but if that were true why had she not been seen or heard from for hundreds of years? All gods made themselves known, from the greatest to the least among them. Chulon couldn't believe in some fantastical governor who never bothered to govern. Hard as it was to imagine, the clans had somehow come together in Guervin. Perhaps the power which had been invested into the creation of this city was the same mysterious power which was ferreting out the Ortakij scouts in the northlands. Perhaps there was more to the northern clans than any in the Southern Kingdoms had yet dared to imagine.
What would he find in the Vechtazul Solace?

-[ ]-

Several months in the tribe of Gulala had revealed many interesting things to Chulon. He had almost immediately confirmed the source of demons to be at the heart of the tribes somewhere. Gulala was at war with the neighboring tribe of Lom and he was almost immediately accosted by stories of demon attacks occuring even in the northlands. Apparently the leadership in Gulala believed the demons were coming from the tribe of Lom, which had long sought to overthrow them. Gulala survived by virtue of its size, but Lom was making distressing headway against them in recent months.
There was not much more to be learned from Gulala, they knew very little about the demons themselves. Chulon was not sure if the accusations leveled against Lom were accurate or simply guesses prompted by recent losses. Either way, it seemed apparent the tribe of Lom would be the best move for him as he continued his search. Evidence of demonic attacks was plainly visible throughout Gulala's holdings, leaving little doubt in Chulon's mind that he was closing in on the source.
Chulon feared bridging the gap between Lom and Gulala would be difficult, wondering if some hatred between the two clans would prove to be a roadblock. These fears were unjustified, though. Lom welcomed any who would defect into its fold, more than happy to drain resources from their enemy in any way possible. Chulon noted that survival was more important than origins, a tool he knew he could use effectively as he sought to uncover their secrets.
The clans were not as disorganized as Chulon had come to believe. Most of them maintained clear borderlines and established small towns across the countryside. These villages were transient affairs, constantly vulnerable to attack, but if a clan managed to put its neighbors on the defensive, as Lom had done, it would secure as much safety for itself as could be expected. None of the clans respected any other, though temporary treaties seemed to come and go with great regularity. Lom was currently allied with the two tribed of Plooryt and the tribe of Suspralty in their fight against Gulala, but Chulon witnessed firsthand many instances where members of Lom were almost openly plotting against their own allies, making plans for a new war after Gulala was defeated. It seemed to be an endless cycle. All of the clans were constantly locked in battle against each other for some measure of dominance. But there was no dominance to be had. Each clan could sustain a certain amount of power, but no more. Once they grew to a certain size, the clans would fracture from the inside out, splitting into different, new clans which were divided by their own separate interests. These divisions would eventually form into new official clans which would then proceed to war against each other all over again.
There was no rule of law to govern these groups and no central ideal to strive for. They simply chased after whatever appeared most attractive to them at the time. From his dealings, Chulon could clearly see that the clans did not recognize or understand their need for unity and laws because they constantly blamed all of their problems on the kingdoms to the south. In their opinion, if the southern kingdoms did not exist then there would be ample land and supplies to save them all from the cycle of war. Chulon shook his head inwardly at the purposelessness of their endeavors. Nothing Lom or any of the other tribes did would have any meaning or lasting value.
The quickest path to the inner circles and secrets of the clans was through service and displays of power. This was a benefit to Chulon, because he could easily climb the ranks to fame through the clans' incessant battles. It was not long before the leadership of Lom began to take notice of Chulon's incredible battlefield prowess. They showed favor by thrusting him relentlessly into more and more battles. It was primitive, but it served their needs, and he was willing to do what was necessary to work his way into their confidence. He felt comforted in his actions when he reminded himself that all who fell before him on the field of battle were ultimately members of the clans of Vechtazul. Anyone he killed would be one less marauder to harass the northern border of the Ortakij kingdom.
He continued for several months in this way within the tribe of Lom, helping their interests and ensuring they succeeded in all their warlord set his mind to. With the trained expertise of a Laethecna at their back, Lom made new headway against the tribe of Gulala. Chulon had hoped to see them unleash a demon or get some sense of where such attacks stemmed from, but his own prowess seemed to supersede any need the tribe might have for such assistance. This bothered Chulon until he made up his mind to move on from the tribe of Lom and pursue a relationship with one of the tribes further to the north, perhaps one of the eight tribes of Kier-Ree-Tan, which were the most unknown to the soldiers of the Ortakij. Perhaps it was time for some added risk.
Before he could make this move, though, things changed drastically for Chulon.