The Miracle Blade.

Volume 1, Written by Merlin D. Psalm, Translation by Richard D. Ferris

By Merlin D. Psalm. (Translated by Richard D Ferris)

I say this as myself, the author-like figure of this story.

To be truthful this story isn’t even mine, but you’ll see my meaning of this in a moment.

My Father had a friend, a very good one, a brother who was constantly there.

Oftentimes he would tell me stories- He being my Fathers friend- of the mystical times, of when the Elves and Dwarves walked alongside Man, and how the Dragons went into hiding. Of where the Unicorns and their Magic disappeared to.

One day however, he came to me with a book he found at our local thrift shop. I opened it with glee only to be met with utter nonsense. There were only scribbles inside, and nothing more. But He, my Fathers Brother, encouraged me to look again. To see if maybe there were truly words in there. He believed that this book was a document that the Elves had left behind. One last gift to Man to prove they existed.

Time had passed, and so did my interest in the book. But quite recently my Fathers friend passed away. And to honor his kindness, his legacy, I set to translating the book in whole. This is still a rough translation, as even over the course of many years I have not perfected the language. But the document that follows is dubbed “The Blade that bore Miracles. Written by Merlin D. Psalm.

I feel it entirely required that I lay a few fundamental facts down before the inscription proceeds much further.

Benvenuto Gaia

The first land the All-Maker made. This map holds all the current kingdoms and towns that are known to Mankind, and Elven folk.

Concerning the Tall-Folk:

In this collection of tales, there will be many a time when the term Tall-Folk will occur.

Now, the term in itself is not a derogatory word, such as the term Man-Elf is considered. Rather it is the only word that can describe the folk of this nature proper. For in both stature and grace, one would be quite correct to indeed call them “Tall”. But this is not the origin of the term as many had come to believe.

And though many assume that the term came from the Elves, whom were the first of the lands, this is not quite the case. For indeed, it was the Elves who declared this as their proper term, as their own language held no word that could identify with them.

Rather, the term was born when the first child of the All-Maker was set upon these lands. For many who had seen him knew not what he was. He had the wings of an eagle, and yet the body of Man. He wore armor of dark crystal and moonlight, and carried a sword of Miracles. It was he who birthed the name Tall-Folk, and so it was assumed the name would die with him. But when the Men of no origin, or Tall-Folk as we now call them, first settled in the lands the Elves kept them in suspicion. Unsure of their heritage or merit.

But the short reality of the whole ordeal is quite simple. Tall-Folk in their actuality are no more and no less the same as you and I. Aside from their customs, which I will in fact cover in a later point in this dialogue. And much like us, they worship many, many things. Though the ones who are true seek their shelter in the arms of the All-Maker, and his son Jesu (Jesu, meaning the King of Lambs.)

Concerning the customs, the works, and the heritage of the Tall-Folk:

Now, earlier I had written that Tall-Folk were like orphans to the land, unaware of their heritage and customs. And what I have written remains as fact, for even the earliest records of the Tall-Folk are nothing more than balderdash. One of the only records with any information that one could consider of use would be a map that had once belonged to a land that is no longer there. A land that had been named Levantis, an Elvish term that had meant “Land of the United”.

But these facts will not be important until later.

The customs and cultures of the Tall-Folk can all be traced to their time here, as they had to create and explore new customs and traditions that were once foreign to them.

One such custom, which has since become the golden rule of the many who worshiped the All-Maker, was the rule of Shalom. The word in itself was more foreign to them than the Elves, as the word was of a Hebrew origin. The word means “Peace”. And so the Tall-Folk who practice this golden rule welcome any and all to their homes. They invite them to their porch to share 400 puffs of their pipes, and will make a pact of loyalty to those who smoke exactly 400 with them. They will expect nothing in return and follow through on their words.

A custom that the Elves see as foolish, but they pay them no mind.

One of the many works of the Tall-Folk is farming. And despite having no land of their own, they had managed to bring their Ironstalk seeds from their home. Ironstalk is a weed that has become quite popular to smoke. And much to its namesake, it is as hard as iron and only grows inside stone, and will die in soil. And though the records of its origin have been lost to time, there has been talk from a Wizard that the root was created when a blacksmith casted Iron over his wheat field to prevent wild animals from eating it. This Wizard was of course Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis the Great. And as he was a renowned Wizard, his word was kept in high regard, as none would argue with a Wizard. Lest he be a Wizard himself.

And to address the following:

Now the following is the collected account of many accounts (This is Merlin speaking to his many council members). As to say it was all taken in by one account is to cut the story much, much shorter than it actually is. As many accounts of this story have not been recorded as the ones who had recorded them were not present in a majority of these writings, but they were still working, if only in the background of the major events. But do not be dismayed, their accounts will be taken in the end, if not sooner.

(Of the account of the eyes of the great Wizard, Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. The 8th rate wizard)

My dear friend, it is with a great displeasure that I write this to you.

“Over on the wicked side of the world, where darkness breeds greed, and blood boils in lakes of eternal. A darkness stirred restlessly in a cauldron of hate. A dark king rises out of his slumber, as the Lockharts have so foretold, rising to power slowly. A corpse risen from his grave, adorned in armor of the darkest steel, forged with the darkest stars in the sky, with a crown of sleek diamond. And a blade that had thirsted for blood for the last four hundred years, ever since it had been cast away during the dark ages. King of the Ka’Thu, ally to the Jo’Ba, slayer of Men. The one who rebelled against the true king. Pupil of Yao Gon. The Dark Lord, Seol.

He has risen once more, and has commanded his armies to form, as the blade he had long sought after has been found after a era of searching. The blade of the true king, the Miracle blade, the sword that would make him king of all. His crimson eyes looked forward with an empty determination. And only his corrupt will to fuel him…”

The letter was addressed of course to the First Rate Wizard, Abion the Splendiferous. Though the letter was delayed by many moons.

But the perilous manifestations of this report takes place not in these destitute lands, as the very heroes of this story are safely tucked away in the cradle country of Polabee, in the city of Squire, in the town of Gash. Neatly stored away, aging as a fine wine, not yet aged to maturity, as their portions of the tale have not yet begun.

For as the Dark Lord rose to power, he had amassed an army that of which would match his might and prowess. For years, and maybe even centuries, he gathered a nation of his own. And to them he gave the name, Silence. And to the most trusted soldiers of his battalion he gave the moniker, Veil.

But as fate would have it in tales that are of this narrative, our heroes grew like a mighty oak. One, a Tall-Folk, being the son of the man who held arms to death and fancied adventure. The other, an Elven lad. Who was the son of a mother who much detested adventure and other activities of such grandeur.

Percy & Borealis were the names in which they received.

One was not known to the other, for as a child Borealis was taken afar to the wastelands. Presented to the frozen King Vareith as an offering of peace and fairness. But to the dismay of the people, for if it weren’t obvious, the frozen harshness took a pity on the child, and in turn raised it as his own. As he was casted to the frozen wasteland as an orphan as well. And such he had continued to thrive, despite everyone’s wishes. Vareith instead cast a curse on these people who sought to offer up the child to him. Thus the birth of the Tribith came to be, the Elves who cannot lie or deceive, with their hands forever cursed to do honest work in place of their wicked deeds.

It was around this time that the Dark Lord had found himself an equal in the form of the mage whom was named Null. An entity who had no face, and called from the darkest reaches that Seol himself strayed from. He brought the mage to servitude and gave him the name Ruth.

And as all this time passed, our story comes to a head here…

The first account of Percy & Borealis

Over in the daily what-abouts in the country of Polabee, in the city of Squire, in the town of Gash. On the first month of the year, on a Tusdis in the era of Tokken. That is when, and where our story begins. The most unlikely man was sitting atop a bench made of dark oak, smoking an Ironstalk weed through his pipe as he watched the crops of his neighbors sway in the crisp autumn breeze. Now ironstalk is a most unique weed, as it only grows from rocks and it’s as hard as iron, which made it ideal to smoke for a Tall Folk such as Percy.

Percy- being the name of the man on the bench in the city of Gash, in the city of Squire, in the country of Polabee- in case there was any confusion.

Each puff from his pipe made him only more anxious as he rolled the sleeves of his tunic to fight off the sweat of his brow. But for what reason would a Tall Folk such as Percy be troubled? He had a fine job farming for his neighbor, and was quite wealthy. He owned a home and the land around it, where he also grew Ironstalk and coffee beans. He was possibly the wealthiest man in the country of Polabee. But it wasn’t enough for him. He wanted more, he thrived for more. Perhaps that is why he was anxious? For the anxiety he felt was not one that would leave with the smoke of his pipe. No, this anxiety only brought emptiness to his life that he had not known was there. So puff after puff, he choked down a cough and a tear. Puff after puff, he reminded himself just how alive he was. Even if only a little.

After about his four-hundredth puff he saw a man walking down the road of his lane. On a bright and sunny day as today, Percy had thought that all things with a slightest ounce of sense would be indoors or asleep, or even perhaps down by the bay, catching fro-frogs with their kinsman. But the fellow that continued to walk down his lane seemed to be motivated with an untold purpose.

The man stopped directly at Percy’s house.

“Light Sky.” The man said, as were the greetings of an Elf.

(Though this Elf looked quite different to him, as his skin was a pale blue, and the tips of his hair were white.)

“Halo.” Percy replied, as was the greeting of the Tall Folk, with another puff of his pipe.

Which would have made exactly 401 puffs.

“A wonderful day for a puff, isn’t it?” The man-elf said, drawing his own pipe from his long cloak.

With a smile Percy invited the Man-Elf to sit on the bench for a smoke, remembering the rule of Shalom.

The two exchanged names as they puffed. And the Man-Elf, to whom was called Borealis of the Waste, had stated that he was here on a most important business that could tarry no longer.

It was at this point when Percy stopped using the term Man-Elf, as the term was considered derogatory to many and was viewed as disrespectful. As the origin of this term came from that of the Dwarven Kin, who saw little to no respect for the Elves. But any Man who would join him for another four-hundred-and-one puffs was not one to disrespect. As he was now a brother to him, as was customary.

Borealis looked to him for a moment.

“My business is that of a lonely path, it is. An’ I have returned from the summit of God, the Hidden Mountain, with a quest.” And with that Percy’s interest was as piqued as a Jo’Ba pup.

Percy was near the edge of his seat as Borealis went on with his tale and query. Soaking in every word like it was gospel. For it very well could be.

“I bear a quest that will earn the ballads of every Alesis left alive, the brotherhood of any Orc. It will blind the eyes of the Veil an’ encourage the ears of the Nikolyph.” And with that he drew, from his cloak, a blade. A short saber of a grand design. Runes of an ancient language were engraved on the blade, the guard was forged of fine gold, and the hilt was made of a dark oak and leather made of Silven Silk. The pommel of the blade was made of crystal, one that he could not identify.

It was enchanting, and somewhat terrifying.

As the know-abouts of a blade of this grandeur were well and far beyond Percy’s knowing. He was educated the way seen proper, an’ he was raised to be mannerly, but anything that seemed to stretch out of the boundaries of his know-abouts, left him flummoxed. As was the common education of a common Tall Folk man.

But even Percy was keen enough to know that this sword had a story. And the man who held it was important to it.

“That my friend is a finely made blade. How ever did you come across it?” Percy asked, leering at the saber that was presented to him.

“I acquired the sword at the summit whilst battling against the forces of the Ka’Thu.” Borealis said, looking to the sky wistfully.

He looked to Percy once more, with a burning purpose in his eyes.

“The sword that lays before you is the blade that goes by one name. The Miracle Blade.

A sword that is both blessed an’ cursed. A sword that will turn nations to ants, an’ humble the kings an’ Queens! It is the very sword that will end the lineage of the Dark Lord Seol! That is my quest, an’ the purpose of the blade.” Borealis said with a passion.

Though he knew not the know-abouts of what he called Seol, Percy still felt inspired and in awe of his words. And made quite a rash decision, as was the nature of the Tall-Folk.

“One should think that they mustn’t venture lonely on a voyage of this grandeur! Wait here for a moment, I shall grab my cloak an’ travel pipe, then we should be off!” Percy said with much excitement. For he knew not why he said these things, or why he would agree to a task so close to danger, but he felt in his soul that this is what he was yearning for. An adventure of grand design. And so eagerly Percy had gathered his traveling pipe, along with the cloak that came with it, as well as a bag that he had filled with the basic essentials for travel and well-being and fashioned a saber of his own. His saber wasn’t as grand as the one Borealis fashioned, but it was the blade bestowed upon him from his father.

He left from his home, for maybe the last time, and locked the door tight.

Percy looked to Borealis with an excitement he had never known.

“Adventure awaits us, friend. Let us not keep her waiting!”

And with that, Borealis and Percy set off from the town of Gash, from the city of Squire, from the country of Polabee.

The crescent triplet moons of Benvenuto Gaia hung over the pair as they made their way through the backwater roads of Polabee. Passing by fields of Ironstalk and wheat, greeting and goodbying fellows on the road, each with their own quests.

Percy stared at the stars wondering which one would tell their story. Two strangers on the road to vanquish a devil! He scoffed to himself at that. Many he knew would assume he had finally gone mad. But his know-abouts were with him, so none could prove it to be so.

But over in the where-abouts of the eternal lakes of blood and sorrow, where wars ended and began, and where the Jo’Ba were born and the good Samaritan dies, a figure stirred over a lake of blood. Peering into the what-abouts of a certain Man-Elf.

And he was displeased.

The figure of which loomed over the lake of blood, where the lake weeps endlessly, where even the good Samaritan dare not tread, belonged to the Grand Adviser to Seol the Dark Lord.

And to him the name Ruth belonged.

He sat at the edge of the water’s surface and scratched his claw-like finger across it. Distorting the image that was set in front of him by an ancient black magic. A magic that even Seol was disgusted by.

A small crow landed in his hand as he called it. And out of anger, or possibly grief, he bit its head off. In both senses.

He uttered insults and curses to it as he chewed with vigor, causing the blood of the bird to flow from his mouth like an unpleasant waterfall.

“Curses be plenty, and curses be quick! The sight of those two make me quite sick.

Or is it worry that they hurry? Bah!” It muttered in a fit.

He turned to the lake once more, inhaling its essence.

“I had once heard that we only gain wisdom through suffering.” He growled with venom.

“Then I’m about to make them very wise indeed!” He screeched as he waddled back to the palace, in the lakes of eternal, where the river weeps endlessly, where the Dark Lord resides.

Telling the Dark Lord the displeasing news, for it was very worrying indeed. A foe armed with miracles and a pipe was surely not one to take lightly. And Ruth was ready to end the world to stop them.

Percy looked behind himself one last time. They arrived at Polabee’s gates and were ready-about to go further. The gates themselves were nothing to scoff at. They were constructed with mighty oak logs, and kept together by steel rods. There was a watchtower every tenth step that held a soldier or two.

The soldiers at the gates greeted and goodbyed them with a smoke of their pipes, and a clash of their swords and shields, as was custom for the battalion of the Red-Manes, which were the king’s guards in the country of Polabee.

They traveled far South, towards the colder regions of the land. And after a while, they began to hunt for their food that night. They had come across a small herd of Elk, and took them as their meal. They sat around their fire as the Coven Wolves came out in the night, howling to the moons as they hung above the world. Borealis and Percy each took a watch for that first night, with Borealis taking the watch closer to dawn, and Borealis taking the remainder.

From the account Borealis gave Percy, not much had happened during his watch, and so the two switched posts as the day advanced over the night. And so Percy decided that their morning would best start with a pot of coffee. So he delighted himself with knowing that he had every means to make it, as his bag held both the kettle and the grounded coffee itself, and water was plentiful. So Percy began to brew his coffee, intent to only drink a little. When in reality he had drunk two full cups before he fished out some dried meat he had stored in his bag. He saw no harm in this, as his watch was until dawn, and that was when they would continue their journey and hopefully leave the cold.

Percy was almost halfway through his watch when something of interest finally happened. A figure carrying a torch had appeared in the distance. Half asleep, and being unable to see in the dark, Percy had simply assumed it was one of the Polabee soldiers making their rounds across the border by mistake. Perhaps they were even lost? He decided to leave it be, and offer help if it got any closer. And after some time, it did. With it being closer, and Percy becoming more alert, he could see that this figure was hunched and shrewd, carrying a staff that seemed to be made of serpents, and was raising his free hand to the sky.

Panic surged over Percy as he realized what was approaching- a rogue wizard!

He began to shake Borealis harshly to wake him, before turning to the figure and drawing his sword. Borealis sprang to action in a matter of seconds and turned to the threat. His sword was not yet drawn.

“Foul spirit! Why do you taunt us? Come forth or flee. These are your choices.”

Borealis called.

But the Wizard did not stir, and remained where it was, raising its staff higher.

Borealis saw this as a threat, and raised his own hand to draw his blade.

It was at the sight of this that drove the Wizard away in a ball of flames and anger.

The pair came to realize that the common roads were no longer safe to them and packed up their camp.

But soon dawn came, and they ventured further South. Each tired and on edge from the events that had taken place the night prior. But soon dawn had left them, and they once again greeted the triplet moons.

That night however, Percy and Borealis found shelter at an Inn on the road where rooms were only a single Dashka, which was a common currency in the land. After they settled into their individual rooms they made their way to the fireplace. Where luck would have it, an Alesis was singing. Blessed were they!

They clapped along to the chorus, drinking their lobster-flavored ale, and smoking Ironstalk with the fellows in the inn.

They drank and smoked the night away. Leaving even the triplet moons jealous of the jolly that sat beneath their heavens. They felt mocked.

Percy staggered to his room after the Alesis had stopped their breathtaking melody.

Borealis simply walked up the stairs, as fermented beverages had different effects on Elves. In this case exactly, Borealis found that his skin had turned a darker shade of blue, and his teeth were physically wiggling. But the ill effects would be slept off.

And so the triplets fled to make way for their mother as the sun rose on another day.

The morning was a rough start-about for Percy. The ale sat ever so poorly with him.

While Sir Borealis was already keen.

The two met up by the fireplace early in the morning.

“Well the morning has never looked worse for you, has it?” Borealis chuckled.

“Least I don’t look as someone who got in a fight with a blueberry an’ lost.” Percy retorted.

The two chuckled at the others’ misery. As they made their way to the inn-keep to inquire about a possible breakfast, though it was soon that they came to find the inn had been deserted entirely.

“Well that’s concerning.” Borealis muttered.

“An’ very curious.” Percy agreed, lifting a silver pendant from the floor, which was seemingly dropped in a rush. A chilling hush fell over the very building itself, as a shadow loomed over it blacking out the windows, making it very difficult to see indeed, if not impossible lest the torches went out. The eyes of Borealis began to leap from corner to corner as he searched for the potential threat, though he saw none.

It wasn’t long until he found the reason why he could not see the threat. As it was not in there with them- rather it was above them! A deep guttural growl softly prowled through the rooms of the inn, as a faint drip-dripping could be heard pattering atop the roof. Borealis swiftly grabbed his companion and drew themselves closer to the ground.

“Be still! A Boggort looms over us.” Borealis whispered.

Percy, who had never seen a Boggort before, followed Borealis’s instructions and kept his voice to himself.

To the pair it had become clear however, that the reasoning for the ghosting of the inn was in fact the Boggort. They had fled long before it had arrived, and left a few supplies behind. Supplies such as the silver pendant that Percy had found a moment ago.

To their dismay, the Boggort had seen it fit to stay outside for a little while longer than they thought it would. The instincts of Percy screamed to him to run and seek shelter from this beast. But Borealis kept him from it.

“Even if we were as fast as horses, the Boggort would use very little effort to catch ‘an eat us whole! Keep your wits, Tall-Folk.” Borealis hissed.

The Boggort, who was unaware of the duo in his midst, began to simply take pieces of the roof to eat. As he found them, in his own wording according to this account, “Crunchity and delightful.”

This, of course, became a minor problem for the likes of Percy and Borealis.

Borealis looked to and fro for a possible solution, but could find none. His only hope was to lie flat and pretend to be a cadaver, and hope that this particular Boggort found such meat of poor taste.

Percy however, had another plan.

In a swift-like motion he rose and paced to the nearest torch, and he removed it from the wall quick-like. And with a solid swing, he threw it at the roof!

As the roof was indeed made of oak and straw, it caught ablaze much quicker than he thought it would. And it was at that exact moment that the Boggort took a loving handful of the burning wood.

It roared curses unknown to man, for despite its size, and fat, the flame still burnt his flesh. In a fit of rage, it scampered around the building, taunting it as if it were a living thing itself. It was not.

After five minutes of this, the Boggort had finally declared the building was no longer Crunchity, or very delightful, and made its way East towards the Elven towns instead.

Borealis, noticing the quick thinking-like actions of his company, placed a proud-like hand on Percy’s shoulder and let out a sigh of relief. His first of many on the journey to come.

After retrieving all their belongings, and a few extra items that were left in the Inn, the two set off once more. They made quite a decent trek further South, but now a little towards the East, before Percy finally asked.

“So, I might not have the best know-abouts, but where are we headed? I would assume the lakes of eternal where the lakes weep would be quite the opposite direction?” For they quite were.

“And to that you would have a solid stand on your know-abouts.” Borealis replied.

“We are set for the course that will lead to the marshes of Shao Bin. Where our next ally resides.” Borealis announced. Percy wondered for a moment.

“The marshes of Shao Bin? One would assume that we’d best hire an archer from the city. Why, they are the best archers in the land! With their gold tipped arrows, an’ their Tra’Kath mounts.”

Percy gushed. But Borealis simply grinned.

“Yes, they do have the remarkable work-abouts to them, but they lack soul. We do not seek audience with them. Instead we seek the court of the alchemist that sleeps in their swamps.” Borealis triumphed.

“An’ time must be short-spent on our traveling there. So be it with a heavy heart, we must trek through the path of the Frozen Wasteland to arrive there. soon”

Percy was taken aback. The Frozen Wasteland was a common ground of the land, as nobody dared claim it. No crop would grow, and the Jo’Ba roamed there. It was simply suicide to trek through those paths. Percy became anxious of the journey ahead of him and set his hands to work to gather his pipe. His heart sat in his stomach as he contemplated his vow to this journey. But still he trekked on with Borealis. Each puff of his pipe relaxed him just enough for the next step.

It was around noon-time when they stopped to gather their belongings.

The ill effects of the ale had finally purged themselves from their bodies, and so everything was a slight bit clearer.

They continued their trek with an uneasy determination. As the where-abouts of Polabee became lesser and lesser.

There ahead of them was the Frosted Wasteland. Where man dared not to tread and where the condemned lay down to rest.

Home of the Jo’Ba, where the volcano of the chilled god rests, and where the twin valleys of Fear and Death meet. It looked as if they were stepping into a different world altogether.

A flurry of snow looked to be the veil of the Wasteland, separating it from the rest of the lands.

And so with heavy hearts they stepped through the snow. Allowing themselves time to adjust to the new temperature, and surround-abouts.

Low roars could be heard underneath the seemingly silent greetings of the snow and wind.

Percy wished himself still warm from the ale, but took comfort in his pipe.

Borealis shook not, as Elves were accustomed to the cold from their years of banishment to the arctic during the Dark Ages. Though justified they remained bitter of it. But alas, that is a tale for another day.

Percy tried to look around, but was met with only more snow. And with a heavy heart and a shaking body, he followed Borealis through the snow.

The lullaby of the snow was a tempting one to indulge.

The scene around Percy all but made sense, and his know-abouts were seemingly left behind him. He trudged and staggered through the snow as he tried to follow his company. But each step left him lost. He knew not which were the way-abouts of veil or of company. He pushed further until he reached an obstacle of unprecedented scale. Before him lay the beast that silences nations.

The beast that Seol respects for its unbothered nature.

A Jo’Ba.

Percy’s know-abouts of the creature was little to none. But even he knew to turn from his path before he was found under its claw.

To accurately describe a Jo’Ba was near impossible, as any who did survive an encounter with one soon became mad.

Its body was that of a bear.

It had a tail of a scorpion.

The face of a spider.

The size of a whale.

All complemented with a shaggy, stripped pelt of a golden coloring.

Under his breath Percy uttered a curse in surprise and panic.

It was quiet.

But the Jo’Ba’s ears perked.

Percy stood there frozen like a statue. Afraid of everything in front of him. The beast slowly rose from its slumber. Snow fell off its pelt as it stood. And it let out a shallow growl. Alerting the other Jo’Ba of it’s know-abouts and where-abouts.

Slowly the beast made it’s way over towards Percy. Sniffing the air, and tasting fear.

It let out a humming purr as Percy’s heart raced.

As the hunt began.

The Jo’Ba lunged at Percy with a frightening speed. And though Percy was quick on his feet, after finally snapping free of the trance of fear, he only barely managed to avoid the massive beast, losing a small portion of the bottom of his cloak to its claws. Percy’s heart raced faster than ever as he made a mad dash further into the veil, calling for his company. But to no avail. To and fro they played their dangerous game of cat and mouse, Percy and the Beast. The land itself shook at each bound the Jo’Ba made. And Percy was growing weary of the chase. He could only barely dodge its advance after it had pounced.

Percy had managed to leave the beast behind after a mindful maneuver around a bank of snow. But Percy knew the beast would find him again. And became afraid for himself, and worried for he knew not the know-abouts of his traveling companion. Percy stood there panting as he gathered his know-abouts. He was only allotted a second to think, as the beast would surely find him by mere chance! He thought deeply to himself on how to unmake this situation. “Sturges!” Percy swore to himself under his breath. He could still hear the slight purr of the beast, as it continued its path of unknown know-abouts.

Rapidly imagining ways to avoid this callus beast, or to even kill it, though none of sense came to mind, Percy drew his blade and contemplated on how he could fend for himself. Getting into an altercation with it would surely result in his timely death. He grew anxious, and almost reached for his pipe. He shamed himself of the thought, for if he had puffed from his pipe, the beast would surely smell it! Which in turn, made him anxious all the more.

He stamped his foot impatiently on the ground. Only to hear the most glorious sound. Ice.

And it was that very sound that sprung-about a plan of a mad-like man in his mind.

Percy sat atop a small bank of snow he had made. Smoking a pipe of Ironstalk. One puff for courage, one for luck, as he recited an old-folk proverb he heard from the Elves.

“For I shall rain death like snowflakes on a cold winter’s day. Quote, Seol the Dark Lord.”

Percy muttered through his pipe, as puff after puff escaped his mouth.

“This proverb comes from the days before Seol had his voice destroyed by the Dwarven king in the Hearthfire war. Did ‘ya know that?”

He asked the invisible audience that was composed of the air around him.

“Well come-about! I haven’t all day, plenty to do an more to say!”

Percy screamed.

And then came the Jo’Ba in a beastly manner.

Percy rose slowly. Waiting for the beast to draw closer.

He let out a shallow breath as his nerves tried to call him to his senses. But his Know-abouts kept him fast.

After it moved towards him a few paces, he set off on a run. One with no direction and no obvious purpose. But the Jo’Ba chased him nonetheless, as it’s bloodlust only grew hungrier.

The beast made a foolhardy leap at Percy, and landed in front of him.

Just as Percy had wanted.

Percy let out a victorious laugh as the ice beneath it gave way instantly! It screeched as it sank into the waters below it.

Though Percy wasn’t as safe either. As the ice around began to crackle and snapple, giving way beneath him as well.

“Oh flooshganaggin!” (An old exclamation that had been seen unfit to use. Floosh-Ga-Naggin)

The waters pulled them down with a vigorous malice. It spared nothing to make them suffer.

The Jo’Ba flailed endlessly. Each second was spent suffering at the chill of the harsh lake.

Meanwhile Percy was struggling to keep his eyes open. For they felt frozen shut. Each attempt he made to open his eyes was an attempt in vain. And so he drifted endlessly.

Suffering each moment from the chill.

Until eventually, he heard a voice. Almost like a song.

Calling him from his icy tomb.

Percy awakened to a strange figure looming over him.

A woman whose skin was a light blue, with hair flowing as if she were in the water, and a caring stare.

A Nikolymph, who wore the smile of Shalom on her face.

Percy dared to say he saw an angel that day.

It is at this point where we switch over to the account of Borealis himself for a while.

Borealis wandered through the snow, searching for his company

when he heard a large crashing sound, followed by the screams of a Jo’Ba.

Borealis rushed to where he believed the sound to be in a mad haste.

And found only tragedy. He saw Percy’s pipe resting aside a large hole that led to the watery depths of the Frosted Wastelands. Borealis knew not the true fate of his company. But he knew that no Tall-Folk could ever outswim the pull of the wastelands might.

So in an honor known to the Elves, Borealis took the pipe that was belonging to the fallen company, as now his party of two had become a sobering kamikaze of one damned soul until he reached the alchemist in Shao Bin.

And so with a heavier heart than he had from whence he came, he pressed on through the blizzard. Pushing through what the veil hid from him.

Neither party believed the other to be alive.

And for now, the account comes back to Percy.

As Percy fully came too, he was taken aback by the beauty of the Nikolymph.

She came to him with a warm drink of Waspberry-tea and queried him of his tale.

And he told her. Down to every detail. From the rule of Shalom, to the Boggort and the rogue wizard and to the blizzard. He confessed it all to her.

“An’ that is how I ended up here of all places.” Percy said.

“What an interesting start to an adventure.” She replied warmly.

Percy could only shrug his shoulders in a slump.

“It was not my idea to travel these paths.” He replied defensively.

“I just wish I knew the know-abouts of what became of my traveling company. He was a decent fellow to smoke with” Percy stated quietly.

And after a while, Percy shifted the topic to her.

“An’ why are you here of all places? I was taught that Nikolymph’s often populated the seas around Yao Gin, or Wicker. This is no place for anyone to really be.” He questioned.

The Nikolymph’s posture became sad and dreadful.

“I am but a ninth-sister.” She said.

A ninth-sister;

To the culture of a Nikolymph, only having a daughter was a curse on the family.

So to be a ninth-sister, meaning that a family ever only had daughters and you made the ninth, which was the unlucky number of the Nikolymph, for the ninth era of the lands is when the Nikolymph were hunted for sport by the Dark Lords Jo’Ba. Oftentimes ninth-sisters weren’t even named, as they never lived long. Each year they lived was another year celebrated by the fates who mocked their lives from heaven.

But Percy didn’t see it like that.

If she hadn’t been there, he would have surely died. And so Percy made a life-vow to protect this ninth-sister with all his life.

But he then remembered the current quest he had agreed to embark.

“You should join me on this venture! An’ prove to the lands that a ninth-sister can overcome this curse!” Percy exclaimed.

“But if your friend is surely gone. Then that means that the blade of miracles is lost as well.” She said.

And it was then that Percy had an idea.

“I tell you, as true as I breathe, that the Miracle Blade is not lost! For I have it here with me. An’ with it, we shall vanquish Seol!” He exclaimed, raising his sword to the sky.

Over at the what-abouts of Borealis, who kneeled defeatedly in the snow, lied a tale worth a telling.

It started when Borealis lost Percy;

He had trudged his way to the edge of the wastelands before he encountered a figure of malice.

A hunched man in a cloak who held a staff of bronze, not to be confused with the wizard they encountered earlier.

Borealis approached the man in caution ‘til he saw a face.

The face that had belonged to Ruth.

With haste Borealis drew his blade to relieve the world of this devil-spawn.

And Ruth cowered before the blade. With a laugh.

“Your blades as plain as you are. You seek to destroy, but know not the know-abouts of the cost. For if Seol is to be struck down, an influence will spread like a cancer. As a dancer across a stage.” He said, seemingly in riddle. But Borealis cared not for his words, as the only speech a devil knows is lies.

And so he charged at Ruth with the miracle blade.

Ruth knowing better than to challenge the fight-abouts of an Elf, armed with a blade that can cut through him with a miracle, cast a spell, rather than fight back. For he knew his own fight-abouts, and they were lacking.

He threw his staff to the ground. And it turned to a giant serpent made of bronze.

Borealis did not hesitate to strike it.

Each slash dented the snake heavily.

But the snake was fast.

It bit, and took hold of his arm. The arm of which was attached to the hand that held the blade of miracles.

The snake didn’t shake, nor did it even slither, after grabbing hold. It just held him there.

So in a swift motion Borealis dropped the blade and caught it with his other hand.

And summoning every ounce of strength he had left, he prayed for a miracle, and struck the snake.

And from where the snake was struck, surely and slowly, it began to turn to petals of rose.

Allowing Borealis to land harmlessly to the ground.

Borealis strode with pride towards Ruth, believing the spell to have been defeated.

Yet Ruth only laughed. As the snow beneath Borealis became dyed with blood.

Borealis took a single stride further, and fell to a knee. As the true effects of the spell made itself known.

Borealis cried out in pain as the very flesh that was knitted to his arm began to boil and bubble.

The pain was most unbearable.

“The fate of the gods goes against you, friend. That spell is known as Theos-Nosis. The only known cure to this disease, this cancer, is atop the summit of god! The very same summit from whence you came. In a state as sorry as yours, you’d all but survive the journey there and back!” Ruth screeched vigorously.

As the boiling began to settle, Borealis noticed eyes had begun to open on his arms, as little tendrils also sprouted and writhed from it.

Upon first instinct, Borealis sought to remove his own arm with the blade of miracles. But it was refused!

Borealis simply raised his head, and spoke. “Hear me, devil-spawn. You know not my know-abouts. Nor the strengths that come with it. An’ even if I must move the heavens to end your miserable existence, then so be it. But hear this. Seol will fall. If not to my blade, then to another!”

And with that Ruth took his leave. With his hubris satiated he believed the disease would kill him slowly. Making it a spectacle for Seol to enjoy.

And there Borealis was.

Kneeled in the snow, as we see him now.

Broken in body.

Vengeful in spirit.

And so the alchemist of Shao Bin would have to wait a little longer.

Turning back further into the wasteland, Borealis wandered towards the center of the storm.

Where the summit of god rested…

The following is believed to be the account of the Alchemist in the marsh, though some details and clarity are missing from these records.

Over in the where-abouts of Shao Bin, where the Elven and the Fei reign, and where streams flow from castles to seas, there resided an alchemist of great prowess and cunning.

The endless ticket-tocketh of the clocks on her wall constantly drove her mad. She had made plans to be rid of them, but still found them quite charming. So she dealt with them.

It was a constant state for her to be in such a rut. As the fear of throwing out a possible priceless treasure was unmeasurable. If she were to be rid of it, would she miss it? Or rather would it miss her? Many were the questions she would ask herself of these regards, and little were the common answers that ran out of her mind-shack. But still, that is how she lived, and she sought nothing more from her contentment.

So little by little she spent her days brewing her concoctions in the hut in the marsh in Shao Bin where rivers flow from castles to seas.

Little could be said wrong about her, as shrewd as she looked, none knew the know-abouts to complain of her in a sound mind. She was a kind and gentle-like woman to all who knew her. Almost motherly. But not without wrath for those who wrong-about those she holds dear. To them she unleashes a hellish-like fury upon their very homes. Not with words, or swords, but with potions of subtle expectancy. As she would never kill, as it was against her, but she would teach a lesson or two.

Through her life she was nary aware of adventure past the swamps.

And to her the lack of know-abouts was that of a sort of wonder. As she had made her own stories and tales to tell herself of what rested beyond the bog.

Tales of giants and dragons, who scorched the earths by their battles. Stories of the Sun and triplet moons, and how they were birthed. Songs of how the oceans came, as they were the tears of a titan who found himself lonesome.

Such spectacular tales and stories that were sung with song and merriness, all of which danced through her head as she worked her not-about life.

For deep down she longed for more. To see if her stories were true.

But she hardly had reason to go-about from the marsh that made her home. She hadn’t the slightest inkling of where to go, or who to go with.

So when a knock-knock-knocking came about her door, she felt her weary heart skip a beat as she raced up from the floor…

The account that will be told shortly is one that belongs to the Once-Elf, an Elven Man known as Faldor. Who was cursed, and cast away. As it was seen fit by Merlin to explain this presence before moving on…

“Inside my lair they will come. Yes, yes! For the storm outside BOOMS and Billows.”

It thought to himself inside the home-like cave he sat inside.

“A Man-Like creature with juicy meats and desirable fat!” It screeched to itself. The “It” in question being that of an unnamed Elf-Folk who had become corrupted with disease, and shriveled to a size that belonged not to it.

“To my cave-like homing they shall wander-about upon! And then, yes then, I shall feast upon the hearty and healthy!” It cackled.

Time passed as it rocked itself to and fro, waiting and waiting as the time passed-about without much a care. So to itself a tune it did sing.

The storm in which Borealis had trekked through was that of a divine blockade.

But still he pressed onwards, determined to use his own two hands to slay the devil known as Seol.

Before long he saw a cavern, in which it’s entrance was made-about with the shape of an eye in mind, and saw a light that came from deep within it. And so with a trip and a step he hazily made his way-abouts inside the cave.

In which inside the cavern, the very same that he had sought shelter in, he heard a tune. Sung by a shrill, chalk-layered voice. The kind of voice that seems to mock everything good.

“I’ve got a lovely bunch of random thoughts.

Bum-Dippy-Dum.

There they all standing in a row.

Dee-Dee-Dop.

Weird thoughts, Deep thoughts, Thoughts that fill me with dread!

Oh no!

Give em a think, they drive me to drink!

How do they get inside my head?

I’ve got a lovely bunch of random thoughts.

Bum-Dippy-Dum.

There they are still standing in the row.

Dee-Dee-Dop.

Big thoughts, Little thoughts, Thoughts that you’d never find!

I give em some ink, what do you think? The song it writes itself again!

I’ve got a lovely-”

The rest of the chorus was cut off by a scream that carried louder than the song, though it came from the same lips. Whatever it was began howling as a mad-like being. Thrashing itself on the ground and rolling violently.

“Can’t wait anymore! Hungry now! HUNGRY NOW!” It screeched to itself.

It began to bite its own arm, sobbing in pain, as eyes began to open on the arm. Tendrils then sprouted, creating holes all over it, as the tendrils wrapped itself around its jaw. Keeping it shut. It sobbed through a clenched jaw at the loss of its meal. And the bitemarks on its arm suggested it’s tried this before.

It began to beat its own head as if it were a drum.

“Stupid, stupid! Meats of flavor are not our own! No, no, no. We need a little flavor… Just a little flavor…”

It muttered wildly, as its hands set to work to retrieve a stone. It trembled as it lifted the stone above its own head, and swung down hard. Even after a strike like that, it was still conscious, and wild. A small streak of blood began to flow down its head, and drip to the floor in a nasty pitter-pattering way. Eagerly it tried its best to lap at the small pool of its own blood against the smooth stone floor. The sound of its tongue scraping against the stone was enough to make Borealis shudder in disgust.

But Borealis held back his fears, as this fate would be shared to him if he did not reach the summit. And so in caution he approached the once Man-Like entity.

“Light Sky, he who dwells in caves.” Borealis jested in greetings.

The other did not respond. Only stared. Staring with a newfound taste as it spat blood from its mouth.

“A Man-Elf.”

It basically stuttered the slur. But its intentions were clear.

It hunched over, as if a Jo’Ba on the hunt, and began to bear its teeth. It was growling through its throat as if it were savage.

And in return Borealis drew his blade.

“The Man-Elf holds Miracles?” It gasped, backing away in fright.

“Quite right. An’ I haven’t the faintest intentions of using them against you.”

Borealis threatened, quizzed on how this Once-Elf knew what his blade was.

It growled again, as water basically seeped through the gaps of his mouth that the tendrils couldn’t cover.

It laughed violently and threw itself on the ground again. Thrashing along the jagged rocks, stabbing them into his body without care. It stood up once more.

“Healthy meals are harder to come-about. Much harder than a Man-Elf with miracles in his pockets!” It screamed with venom in it’s voice, readying itself to pounce.

It was quick on it’s feet, but Borealis was quicker in mind. As it pounced Borealis stepped aside, letting it crash into the ground, as Borealis showed it his own arm.

“Quite fortunate for us both that I am no longer that of a hearty Elf that you seek to consume.”

Borealis announced with a smug expression, as the eyes and tendrils of his own arms became life-like once more and began to boil, driving him to his knees. It cackled at the sight of the helpless Man-Elf before he himself felt the boiling sensation, that was of course, from the origin of being of the curse-spell of Theos-Nosis.

The two Elves lay in agony in the cavern, the one having the opening of an eye, that rests in the center of the Frosted Wastelands.

“The summit calls for thee.” It said wearily.

“How can you tell?” Borealis wondered.

Slowly, and painfully, it lifted the tattered rags that made up his shirt. And Borealis gasped at the horror-like sight that was It’s body.

Eyes and tendrils, each moving violently, rested on every inch of his torso, leading up to the sides of his neck. Some eyes were gouged and crying, others had ooze dripping from them, and others seemed blind. The tendrils also looked different, as they seemed to have small bones sticking out of them, taking the look-abouts of a rose stem.

Borealis saw this and became afraid. And quickly rose to go.

But It grabbed hold of him. Not in a malice-like gesture, but a plea.

“Please sir. The hunger is too much.” It begged with a shred of humanity left.

“But I haven’t anything to eat-” Borealis started.

“Please sir! It’s too much!” It screamed, looking pitifully at the blade.

Borealis shuddered.

“Surely you don’t-”

“Please sir. Too much…” It begged.

Borealis knew there was no talking the Once-Elf out of anything. There was no compromise left to be made for him. In hell he had lived for who knows how long? And so with heavy heart, and weary hands.

Borealis lifted his sword once more…

Percy and Nine (Who of course is the Nikolymph of that who saved Percy, who chose the name for herself to spite the heavens) waited eagerly on the porch-step of the home of the Alchemist who lived-about in the marshes in Shao Bin. As Fro-frogs called in swooning mating calls, and flies buzzed through the skies. It had been a solid three days since Percy had come back from his icy tomb.

Another minute or three they had waited before they went back to knock-knocking again.

“Perhaps she has business elsewhere?” Percy guessed.

“I wouldn’t have guessed an Alchemist in Shao Bin to be so popular or busy.” Nine muttered to herself.

As they left the small home-like cottage they came across an olden-lady whom came towards the cottage, bearing baskets of lively fruit and candles. She dressed in the clothes of a mourner and bore no smile.

“Pray tell lady, whatever has you so beaten an’ pale?” Percy asked.

“The lady of the cottage is to be burned in the town for being a witch. A kind soul such as her would never have the malice-about to conspire with Seol. They believe her potions to be that of the works of dark magic. Made possible with the work-abouts of the devil himself! Such a tragedy.” She muttered and tuttered. Walking wearily to the cottage to pay her respects in advance.

At that Percy and Nine rushed madly into the center of the town where the burn-about was to be placed.

In the center of the beautiful town that sat aside the marsh that rested a little while away from Shao Bin, where the cobblestone roads met in the center, where the fountain of the infamous archer, whose name was near lost to time, rested.

There were the towns-folk who sought to burn the one that they had surely dubbed witch and traitor. There they had tied her to the fountain with chains of gold, and had readied a-plenty of logs to burn with. The crowd cheered and jeered as the torches were lit and the music played. Each chanted and demanded that she be burnt then and there.

“Down with the devil-folk!” They had cheered. And how so their cheers would have been righteous if only shouted at the right being.

The Alchemist, whose nose was blooded from her out-talk, gazed upon the people she had so helped over the course of her laugh. And she mocked them.

“Yes, yes! Burn the witch! Kill the one who healed your ailments! Know that I take each one of you into account for what is about to happen! Those who stood for me, and those who crucified me!” She shouted into the crowd. Though her words fell on deaf or mourning ears. Little was it known to the people however, that she had kept a potion in her hands, and was plotting to unleash it upon them. For she knew that not one man or woman would stand for her…

But what if that one were in fact two? A Man & a Woman? Tall-Folk, and Ninth-Sister?

Percy and Nine leapt to the fountain with nary a second thought. Each staring blankly at the crowd. Though the commotion seemed to stop the crowd, in a mix of confusion and complaint.

“What’s the plan?” Nine whispered to her partner.

“Improvise.” Percy muttered.

After a solid second the crowd began to shout at them. They called them friends of the devil and began to throw stones at them. Eventually a man spoke to them in a kind-harsh voice.

“Why do you defend the devil-worker?” He demanded.

Percy thought for a moment.

“The one you have tied-about to your fount is no worker of devilry.” Percy announced to the crowd.

“Instead she is one selected by the All-Maker himself! One chosen for a purpose that rises well above your own. An’ I have the proof here!” Percy drew his sword, allowing it to shine within the sunlight, giving it the illusion of a glow.

“The Miracle Blade!” He shouted.

The crowd fell silent. Some laughed. Some cried. Others hushed the children who asked questions.

“Prove it.” Said the unbelievers.

“Show us the work-abouts of the All-Maker. And we’ll let her go.”

Percy turned to the Alchemist with prayers in mind.

“Observe the gold-like chain that traps her. Surely I tell you a normal blade would be no good against it. I shall release her myself, then we ought to be gone from here.”

And with that saying being said in confidence, Percy felt anxious and afraid. For his plan would surely fail, as he had not the strength to cut a gold-like chain. Nor did he have a different plan to release her. And if he were to fail in front of Nine, then everything he inspired with his speech of rising above would be for naught. So Percy closed his eyes and took a breath. He raised his sword.

And prayed for a miracle…

Borealis wiped the blood from his blade in disgust and sorrow.

“Rest now, Once-Elf.” He mumbled soberly.

Further into the cave Borealis stumbled, pushing down the screams that ran along his throat. As true as the sun rises, Borealis sought to be far from the god forsaken sight of the creature that he had laid to rest. Blinking away tears as he trembled his way further still.

A moment or five later, Borealis found himself to be at the where-abouts of a set of stairs.

Knowing not the know-abouts of where the stairs where-abouts ended, Borealis took the first few steps of faith. Praying that the ending where-abouts of the stairs were that of the same of the summit. And so up the stairs he climbed. Soon finding the path of stairs led outside the cavern and wrapped around the mountain it rested in. Spiraling to the top of the summit.

Borealis braced himself for the long journey he had ahead of him, as he awkwardly climbed the stairs to the summit. Pushing past the blizzard of divine and winds that were as the breath of a mighty dragon.

He pushed through it with a smile torn, and a frame weak.

Walking through it with an untold weight that held him steadily down.

His breath became battered the higher he climbed.

His eyes froze shut from tears and blood.

He knew not the know-abouts of how long he would last.

But still he kept onwards to the top of the summit. One more time.

Hoping that Brother Death was slow to catch up to him.

The crowds demanding calls were seemingly endless. Each louder than the last as the so called blade made with miracles hung above the head of Percy, as he readied his arm to strike the gold-like chain.

Sweat dripped from his face without pause as he whispered a prayer to the All-Maker.

And then? He struck!

Oh! With such tender malice, he struck! As the resounding clashes of metal filled the air, the crowd gasped and were in awe as the chain split in two. The alchemist gasped in disbelief and terror, almost regretting cursing him along with the rest of the crowd.

The crowd shook with silence. Everything was calm. And yet exploding into a million pieces all at once.

In a huff Percy outreached a hand to the alchemist in mercy. Gratefully she accepted, and the trio came down from the stage with a breath of fresh air.

“Thank you.”

Percy whispered to the All-Maker in grace.

The crowd parted as they made their way-about down the streets. Unsure of what to do. For Percy had claimed to be sent from the All-Maker. But they believed the Alchemist was sent by the Devil. Many eyes passed them over as their where-about became the same as the city gates. Percy had not planned to go through Shao Bin, but the crowd was pressing them towards it’s where-about.

The skies cleared as Borealis reached the summit. A divine-like light shone through the clouds, revealing the lush gardens that sat atop God’s summit. There were many a tree and river that stretched over the land.

Though fish didn’t swim there, rather they flew above the streams with their scaled wings. The fauna was unlike any seen before, as most there had been blessed by the All-Maker, making them sacred. One would be considered unclean to feast upon their meats, and wear their hides. So these creatures have been given the name Cov’Et. Meaning “The Summits Chosen Ones” in the Elven language. Several of these very beasts came to greet him, as they held him in high regard. But upon seeing the state of him they became afraid, and ran away. Arousing the Spirits.

The once cleared skies began to darken once more, as thunder crashed, and the lightning struck, as the winds beat, and the skies hid themselves behind their clouded covers. There came a spirit, he spoke for the needs of the fauna, and tended the trees. He was dressed in robes of white with a black leaf on the back. The spirit had wings on his feet, and had a dove covering his face. It spoke with a voice-like tender thunder.

“Child of the unclean, Borealis of miracles. Why have you come back to us? Seol remains in his world, and the lakes of eternal fire still flow.”

Spoke the tender spirit.

Borealis bowed his head in shame, and revealed to him his woes.

“I have become unclean an’ marked for death. Anointed by the devil himself.”

Borealis lamented.

“I have come with urgency to become clean from the serpents venom.”

The Spirit looked upon him with a kind-like smile.

“The season of your struggle has only just begun, oh child of mine. There are no impurities that rest upon you any longer.”

The spirit said, reaching a hand to his arm.

It burned as he touched the arm. The tendrils and eyes were acting out in rebellion to the divine-like touch. The eyes fluttered and swirled in a dizzying fashion, the tendrils extended to their full length, pulling his skin tight, as if it were a pulley to his flesh. The pain brought Borealis to his knees. The spirit took a step back.

“It is done.”

He said with a smile.

Borealis looked to his arm in child-like wonder. The spell-curse that had taken much of his time, and his peace, had no longer a place on the flesh that was knitted to his arm. With a resounding cry for joy, he rejoiced and sang praises to the sky. Before bringing his gaze to the where-abouts of the ground. Seeing his shadow.

It still held the resemblance of the curse-spell. As tendrils sprouted from its back, and eyes opened over its body. Borealis saw this and pitied his shadow.

The spirit gave him a small frown.

“I cannot undo the damage to your heart, my child. That kind of healing can only be done by you.”

Borealis placed a hand over the heart of his shadow. And smiled. The tendrils calmed, and the eyes began to close. He took a breath of peace, and relief, as his shadow blinked away a tear. It wasn’t perfection, and it wasn’t finished, but it was better. It was quiet.

And with that, Borealis thanked the Spirit. And offered it a goodbye.

He sat at the ledge of the mount, taking his pipe for a smoke or two before getting back on the narrow road.

In the dark corner of the world, where the lakes of blood bubble, and the crows feast on the dove, where the castles weep and the sun never rises, the Dark Lord sat atop his throne.

He sat there and followed the where-abouts of the Man-Elf, and became displeased.

Ruth had failed him once again. And with a snap of his fingers, he brought him forth. The forsaken servant looked at his master in pity and remorse. But said nothing. Conversation with Seol had been lost long since the Hearthfire war, when the Dwarvish king took away his voice with the swing of a hammer.

Seol looked upon the useless pile of vile flesh, that once was a noble man that stood before him. Now bitter and shattered. A scourge upon his family’s name and a stain that had sat next to him far too long. Death was too good for him. But life was undeserving. A compromise would have to be come to.

And so Seol drew his blade before him. The wicked Ruthar, shining in the black sun. Its curved blade made of dark steel and diamond shone a vibrant crimson.

Ruth saw this and became afraid. He knew the burden the blade carried, and sought not to test its fight-abouts. But he craved not a death such as this. Ruth begged and pleaded to his master, to spare himself of Ruthar’s curse.

But Seol only dropped a blade in front of his once servant. Demanding he fight for his life.

Combat was far out of his know-abouts. And magic would not affect Seol, as his disbelief in it protected him from it. And so the once-servant stood. Shaking in fear and betrayal. Told without words to fend for his life against a man - no- a devil in dark-diamond!

Seol dragged his blade - Ruthar- against the ground as approached, creating sparks against the ground. Each step was louder than the last, each one filled with a little more malice. And with one last mighty-like step, he struck!

Barely dodging the blade, Ruth fell himself to the ground. Crawling away like a rat or an ant. Scurrying as fast as his body would allow. Seol was disappointed in his once-servant.

But not for running.

No.

For making it too easy.

Each hall of the dark cobbled halls looked the same to Ruth as he ran. Torches of purple firelight barely illuminated the walls, allowing him to meet them upon a sharp turn. Each turn was sharper than the one previous.

After a while he came upon a large opening. And after letting his eyes adjust he could see clearer where his where-abouts have come to be.

Seol’s trophy room.

The walls were decorated in flags of nations, torn from battle, accompanied by skulls mounted on a plaque. Each one with a name engraved. Each one with a memory. There were cases of glass across the room. Each one had a wall of weapons in them. Each one from a different era, each one belonging to a different general. But there, on the far side of the room, was an empty plaque. With a simple mount meant to hold one blade. Labeled “The Lotus.” And on the mount, a small engraving that read simply, “The Miracle Blade.”

Ruth was intrigued by the room for a moment, but came to his know-abouts when he heard the thunder-like steps of the Dark Lord approaching.

Making himself scarce, Ruth continued to run further and further into the palace. Running faster than he ever had before.

Until it dawned on him…

The Dark Lord was surely faster than this. Smarter as well. He knew the palace better than he, for he himself built it out of the corpse of the Dragon king. This wasn’t a chase.

It was a game.

One Ruth was destined to lose at any moment.

And so the moment came. As Ruth stepped into a rather large hall, complete with pillars of bone, purple stained glass windows placed evenly on each side adding to six, and floors of marble that were stained red. Ruth came to remember this room. The confrontation hall, where Seol executed the Ninth-Sisters all those eras ago.

Where the screams echoed throughout the realm without pause for ninety days and ninety nights. Where he too would meet a similar fate.

Ruth once again heard the thunderous footsteps of the devil in diamond. And became afraid. Further there was nowhere to run. And making his where-abouts back would only meet Seol. He was trapped.

Ruth screamed to the sky in grief at his fate, and waited. Soon even the stained windows became full of his presence. Each window reflected the entity that was Seol, though he stood not in the room. A trick of the mind perhaps? Maybe. But the fear was real. Driving Ruth to mad-like tendencies.

Ruth casted spell after spell to shatter the windows. And yet his shadow remained hovering over the room itself. Taunting him. Mocking him. Making him fall deeper to despair and fear.

Ruth saw no other option. No other alternative.

In desperation and tired thought. He drew his own weapon on himself, not allowing Seol to condemn his soul.

As he lay in the pools of his own mistake, he took in the sight one last time.

“Seol was not my end.”

Ruth thought to himself…

Merry songs and voices filled the streets of Shao Bin as Percy and his company entered. They proclaimed the excellence of the blade of miracles, and the one holding it.

A feeling of great discomfort came over Percy. For he had boasted of his blade as if it were in fact he who was sent by the All-Maker, the one who sees all. Would the eyes of the All-Maker findst him guilty of treason, or would he bequeath understanding? Percy knew not the know-abouts of the acts he committed, or of the stories they would come to tell.

But little did it matter to him, meaning to say it didn’t bother him as much as his current situation. For the people sang of the blade of miracles that they believed honored them with its presence, as they knew not it was a farce. So Percy played along with the lie he created, as long as it kept them alive.

To the throne, the people did him bring. For the very king of Shao Bin had caught the chatter of his people from a swallow he had kept as his messenger. And so they were brought to his palace, Heim’Draug. Which means “The remaining scar.” As it was built during the Dark Era, and has stood proud ever since.

The king, in himself, seemed a humble enough man. He sat atop a throne of Ebenheim, a crystal found in the deepest of mines. And his palace was still constructed of the original dark stone of when it was first birthed. He was a Crescent, a being born of the moon, forgotten by his mother as she tended to her triplets. He wore robes of purple silk, with a small chain forged of Dashka, and wore a crown that bore horns. In the center of the crown there was a jewel of great renown, known as the Seekers eye. Rumors say that it allows one to see the future, but none can attest to this statement as the true know-abouts to it remain in the mind-palace of the king.

Though, despite his many riches, the king himself was nothing short compared to it. He had been birthed with a hard, sturdy frame that had a size to match. Granting him the nickname “The Giant King” by the Dwarven king during the Hearthfire war.

And when he spoke, it demanded authority and recognition.

“Eleos, traveler. Eleos, one who bears miracles. The walls of Shao Bin tell tales fast, and I have come to know that you bless our city with your visit.”

Spoke the king, using the term eleos- which meant mercy or compassion- with sincerity.

Percy thought best to himself to bow, or even kneel, to the king. But he was stopped as the king raised his hand. He looked to the young man that was Percy and found pity on him. Pity and sorrow at the tasks that lay beyond his know-abouts.

“You who seek to bring about the end of evil, to see it unborn, need not bow to an old man such as I am. One should see themselves touched by the hand of the All-Maker to be in the same room as the one who brings miracles. As I have lived to see it birthed, I shall live to see it die. A fate unworthy of a mere man.”

The king’s words hung heavy in the air as the reality of the quest Percy, Nine, and the Alchemist had embarked on seeped into them. Yet each held fast. Even in their doubts.

Percy had to fulfill a promise to a stranger.

Nine sought to prove to the world that a ninth sister could rise above their curse.

And the Alchemist? She sought to dispel the rumoring of her conspiring with the devil, Seol.

The king sat solemnly on his throne as he considered the party in front of him.

“You three will indeed have a solid chance at ending the poor devil. If ever you seek refuge, or require a blade, the gates of Shao Bin shall remain open until the Dark Lord makes his move. But move quick, the tide has shifted in our favor, if even for a short while.”

This puzzled, and encouraged the trio as they had come to ponder their own party size. So Nine spoke up, unrealizing she was in fact making history as the first ninth sister to speak to a king.

“What do you mean, your highness?”

“You may save the formalities for when I come to earn them. To you, those who bear miracles, the name Ni’Moe is fitting enough for the time. And I have seen the tides shift, in the passing of Ruth.”

The king spoke.

The entire palace fell silent, aside from a collective gasp from every living entity in the room, aside from the king. Whispers of excitement spread through the halls, and soon to the town.

The air became grave however, as the king also said that this would only stop him a little, meaning it would not stop him at all. But it was a start that they much needed, as he-being Seol- was now without his second in command. And this was in fact a victory, even if his true fate remained unknown. Seen only by the king and Seol himself. It wasn’t long after he announced the news before the king decided to retire to his chambers, as he had become terribly distressed at the sight of Ruth’s fate- as the two were brothers once.

The despair of the king was left to be an unknown sorrow of the kingdom, as they had celebrated the fall of Ruth. And yet, those close to him, them who were left in a grave, knew his songs of woe. And they comforted him as he slept…

As time went by, and the cold no longer nipped,Percy had no need to stay in Shao Bin any longer, the trial of the she-devil had already become a long old memory to the minds of the people, and so the party had seen it fit to leave them on good terms. They took nothing from the kingdom with them, and said no words to their people. They had gone quicker than they had arrived and none were the wiser until the king would call them for an audience a day later. And in so, unbeknown to them, they had thus lived out the words of the prophets of Shao Bin;

“Not a single breastplate would be pierced in the war of the holy blade, not a single drop of blood would be shed. There would be a slaughter of spirit, and will.”

As they had not even considered the armor of Shao Bin for safety, nor taken any additional weaponry.

Borealis found himself waking in the back of a carriage. For on the narrow road he had met a farmer who had also seen it fit to travel the path that lay-about in his direction, since the cold no longer nipped, and word of Ruth’s fall had spread.

He took in the sights of the easy countryside as they passed it by, watching the ironstalk sway in the wind, bowing to its might. For once, he could rest without worry.

The carriage in itself, for those who were curious, was held together by ropes and prayers. It wasn’t meant for the full journey of the path, and was already showing sign of it. It was made of a light oak, and had a carved pattern design. It was being pulled by a Rattle’Back, a strong-like beast that heavily resembled an oxen. But rather than having a normal tail, it had one that much more resembled a rattlesnake. It shook whenever danger was near, no matter how little the danger would be. Its horns were also misplaced, as they more resembled that of a deer. But it was a dependable creature, and one that had been in the farmers family for generations.

The farmer himself- unknown to Borealis- just happened to be the grand-father of the Alchemist who resided in Shao Bin. And so he passed the time by sharing his stories of adventure and misfortune with Borealis, who was so inclined to listen.

The farmer told him stories of the first Elf to hold a miracle, this Elf being named Faldor of course. The farmer relayed the stories of his many adventures. Of how he wiped all but one titan from the lands, and that titans tears are why they had oceans. Tales of how his miracles once revealed the summit of God. And the tale of how he cursed the land, to create the frozen wasteland.

They exchanged tales after a while, with Borealis revealing to the simple farmer that he was now the one who bore miracles. This however did not interest him in any way, as instead he had shifted his topic of interest to smokes, and continued to remark on the plentiful uses of Ironstalk weed. Which, of course, prompted Borealis to reach for his pipe.

The two stopped for the night, as it had come quicker than the other nights had and caught them by surprise. The fire was being fueled by the nearby Ironstalk crop, without the permission of the owner of the land, but without their knowledge either. The two spent the night at the carriage.

The leaves rustled as the winds began to pick up.

A small, faint drizzle pelted them as they slept.

The fire died down.

The birds stopped their songs.

A stop-stomping sounded from the dark.

Something had come back ‘round.

A Boggort!

Borealis sprang to as he noticed what was coming his way, and urged the farmer to follow. But the farmer was stubborn in his ways and refused to leave his carriage. So Borealis wished him well, and parted from him into the fields under the cover of rain.

The Boggorts steps drew closer as it rounded the mountain side and came to meet the farmer. There was an attempt to struggle, and a decent one at that. For the farmer had managed to stick his pitchfork into the Boggorts hand before it could wholly grab him. Not that this stopped the Boggort, but it was an attempt more than many could make against such a beast. It was then that Borealis could get a clear view of it, as it consumed the farmer whole. It had a dark grey skin color. With a fat, twisted face and yellow jagged teeth. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot. But what really caught Borealis’s attention was the burn on its hand. It was the very same Boggort that he and Percy had come across in the inn! If only he had truly dealt with it then, then this poor farmer would have remained alive!

Borealis began to reach for his blade, unsure of what the most logic-like action should be taken. So he waited. And followed the Boggort through the field, as it began to walk the path.

Many plans began to take form in his mind as he stalked the beast. But none were made with logic in mind, not that he really cared about that. But one that struck his fancy, was perhaps the most logical of all. And so Borealis set it in motion.

“Aye, pig for brains!” Borealis called to the Boggort.

The Boggort, of course hurt by these words, turned to see his accuser, and saw Borealis standing in front of the field.

Now, it is at this point that we will address the Know-abouts of a Boggort. A Boggorts know-abouts are so abysmally small that they might as well not exist. An infant would be smarter than a Boggort. Even Ninth-Sisters hold more respect than a Boggort. To call one “As wise as a Boggort” is to call them very stupid indeed. And it was that level of intelligence that Borealis was depending on.

For upon hearing the insults hurled at him by Borealis, he set off on a steady sprint towards Him.

The chase was exactly what Borealis had anticipated, and found joy in himself that his plan would not fail. They ran for a mile before Borealis began to see the results of his genius.

The Boggorts pace began to grow weary, and the mud from the field was slowing him down as he slid to and fro, here and there and back again. Causing the earth to tremble and shake each time he fell. Borealis saw this as an opportune moment to begin the next step, and he drew his sword, and prayed for a miracle. He swung with all his might, but still barely cut through the Boggorts fat. But he managed to get the blade free from its body before it could become trapped.

And now it was a simple process of repeating this until it dropped. It might not have been the fanciest way to deal with the Boggort, but it was the most reasonable one he could think of.

And so, Borealis and the Boggort continued this game of cat and mouse through the muddy fields. Until eventually, the earth’s tremble betrayed Borealis.

He stumbled and placed his foot poorly-like in the mud where he could not pull it back.

Borealis cursed under his breath and tugged with all his might, but to no avail. He saw the Boggort rising in the distance after its most recent crash, and drew his sword readying himself to strike on foul footing.

The Boggort was close enough to smell, and was only drawing closer, when Borealis tried to free himself one last time. But the Boggort was quick when it saw him distracted, and grabbed him.

In a panic, Borealis swung wildly at the Boggort before striking its eye. In a fit of rage and pain the Boggort threw Borealis, and he went ten feet away from the Boggort and crashed into the side of the farmer’s barn. As they had run so far that they no longer were in the heart of the field.

Borealis was left on his hands and knees, sword still in grip, but he was now bloodied and bruised.

Next to the barn there was what looked to be the living-house of the owner of the field, and this commotion seemed to raise him from his sleep. The farmer was a Dwarf Kin, with solid white hair and a muscular build. In his hand was an axe made for war.

“What’s all this then?” Called the Dwarf upon seeing Borealis in this sorry state.

“Light Sky, Dwarf Kin.” Borealis coughed, remembering his manners.

Before another word could be spoken between the two, the Boggorts roar rang out through the fields.

“Sturges! You led a Boggort to my barn!?” Cried the Dwarf Kin.

“Possibly…” Borealis muttered through gritted teeth as he rose to his feet. His left arm refused to cooperate however, and so he was left with his right.

Borealis took a deep breath, despite it resulting in a sharp pain in his ribs.

“I just need one miracle…” He whispered to himself.

The Dwarf Kin saw Borealis stand to fight, despite his state, and marched to him from his porch.

“Taking a Boggort in your state is suicide.” He commented.

“An’ running from it is the same.” Borealis countered.

Borealis straightened himself and raised his sword to the sky, as the Dwarf watched on.

It was then Borealis felt it, the miracle coming forth. He need only call on it and it would be his. But he did not. And instead, in anger and pain he called forth something vile. Something wretched. Something that the Holy Blade should never call upon. And so Borealis committed the unforgivable taboo for the first time, and he called down a curse from the Miracle blade.

“The ground will burn, the sky will tear, Your soul will scream, but who will care? Within these lands of endless glory, I cast you to the Crimson Purgatory!”

And with his plea, and with his command, the sky turned red for those he damned.

Lightning struck and thunder roared, as the sounds of a thousand widows mourned.

A hole in the earth was formed in front of them, as the Boggort came upon them.

The Boggort saw the sky and felt afraid, as a legion of dead came forth in parade.

They came from the hole in which was formed, and to it they dragged the Boggort toward.

And though it cried and yes it squealed, it knew surely that its fate was sealed…

And with that the sky returned to night, with the undead leaving them in much fright.

“You… You are he who bears Miracles?” The Dwarf muttered, astonished at what he just witnessed.

“I apologize for the field, Dwarf Kin. But there was no other way to deal with this Boggort.” Borealis stated, disregarding the question given to him.

“No, no. The field can be replanted, I don’t rely on it for survival, more of a time-killer. But all that… For a Boggort?” The Dwarf replied skeptically.

Borealis took the Dwarven Kin’s words to his heart, and felt remorse towards the Boggort. Even a slight pity. He didn’t regret what he did, as to live in regret is what the world expects of him to do. Instead he vowed to himself to reserve the Miracle Blade for Seol himself, as to not corrupt it further. As he had already committed the unforgivable taboo once, and doing it again would set him on a path to ruin. And so he asked the Dwarf if he could reside with him until he was well to travel. The Dwarf, whose name was Gerald the third, took pity on Borealis and took him in. He closed his wounds and made his bed.

But that is not to say Borealis would freeload in this home, quite the contrary. For when he was well enough he began to help with the chores, and replanted the fields alongside the Dwarf. Now this took a while, as the encounter with the Boggort left both Borealis and the field in less than good shape. And so in fact, it was a thorough month of strengthening for Borealis. Leaving the cold nip of winter behind him for a while, and welcoming the first rays of spring. Marking exactly 31 days since he first met Percy on that bench in Polabee.

This of course, set sourly with him at the reminder of a lost one. In his honor he took the pipe that had once belonged to Percy and smoked 401 puffs in his name.

When Gerald queried about the reason for 401 exact puffs, he simply replied.

“In honor of my brother, I do this.”

And so, Gerald took his own pipe and smoked 401 in solidarity of the fallen. As he too had lost someone close to him. This was, of course, over the course of 100 years ago. During the Hearthfire war. He lost many good men during that war. And it was that very reason he felt obligated to Borealis. For yes, he fought Seol in the war, but he did not finish him. And that was an error-like stance that needed correcting.

Now as time went by, and one month turned to two, until they totaled to 3 years. Borealis had seen it fit to better his plans to conquer Seol. During this time, he kept his vow to refuse the Miracle Blade, but still he taught himself to wield it better. And as he was learning this, he was still repaying Gerald, who didn’t mind the extra help on the farm. And so the season of caravan and trade were upon them, and many adventurers passed them by and traded with them.

Upon the lot, there was a Wizard who served with Gerald in the war. His name was Pilgrim, the Lotus. He was quite adept in his territory, that being destructive and creative magic. In fact he was the only wizard in the land who could use both magics without outside help from the Divine.

The three men bonded over a sincere hatred of Seol, and had vowed to each other to take him out at any cost.

Their devotion to it was so strong that Pilgrim agreed to teach them magic if they taught him to use a sword and axe! And the spells Pilgrim would teach them were far from basic, and were usually only taught from the prestigious academies in the land. Never in anyone’s lifetime had anyone seen such determination against a common foe. But such was the devotion of the three men, who held nothing to lose.

Now it had been an additional month since the vow was made. And each man had made their respective progress. And they had gathered wealth from their crop by travelers with coin.

Word spread like fire of their abundance, and eventually it reached the ears of Seol himself. And He, that being Seol, was unaware that the very Elf he had such rich rumors from was the very same Elf he had sought to destroy hardly a season ago.

And so a messenger was sent for him and his party, to celebrate their wealth and offer a trade. For Seol, though he may be vile and cruel, was a business man at heart (If you so believed he had one.)

But the messenger would not arrive for several days. And in that short lot of time, there came a party of three to the farmland. A queer bunch, in a most interesting way.

For with them there was a Nikolymph, a Tall-Folk, and an Alchemist.

And to them they made themselves known.

Percy, over the time spent apart from the company he had thought to be dead, had also made a name for himself as a sell-sword. His lie to claim the blade of Miracles had not yet been quelled, and so he sought to make a different name for himself to avoid unwanted attention, such as the glare of officials sent for him by Seol himself.

And so he let his hair grow wild, and his eyes became sobered. His voice as well began to match his smoking habits, as it was deeper with a slight rasp. And to finish his wild-like appearance was a beard sat on his face.

He was by no means the proper-like Tall-Folk that he was hardly a season ago.

Though the attention wasn’t brought-about by the rest of his being, but rather the golden ring on his finger.

Nine, in a similar regard, had become much more spoken-out in every way. She looked ready to debate the very color of the sky itself if asked. A behavior not common in Ninth-Sisters. As they made themselves meek, as to not make a fuss.

She even fashioned a blade, and shield. And an intricate golden ring on her finger.

Her wavy hair was less calm, and resembled more of a rapid river. For those who had never seen a Nikolymph, it was captivating.

All while the Alchemist seemed reluctant to stay in her ways. Unchanging, and untouched by time. In the most particular sense as well, she seemed to have taken quite an interest in the party’s story as a whole, though many details were unknown to her.

“Time seems to have treated you well, Borealis.”

Percy remarked, taking in the sight of the spoils they had claimed.

“Too true. While it looks like you’ve aged much older than you should have.”

Percy chuckled.

“I suppose it’s been all the stress you left me with.”

The two drifted over to the small barn and recalled their own adventures.

Borealis explained how he was plotting to deal with Seol, and how he was training to destroy the Dark Lord some time soon. He also explained the curse that had fallen-upon him, and how the spirit of the All-Maker had ridden it from him at the summit of God. And news of how he had killed the Boggort they had encountered, and how he helped Gerald bring business back to the farm. Of how Pilgrim the Lotus came and was teaching them the Arcane.

Though he didn’t believe it was, Percy’s news to Borealis was equally important.

He reported on how he was hunted by a Jo’Ba, and how he used his wits to escape it. How he met Nine and helped her decide to change her fate as a ninth-sister.

He re-told the tale of how he and Nine saved the Alchemist. How they were paraded around the city because they thought he bore the Miracle Blade.

He explained how he slowly fell deeply in love with Nine. How he found a new reason to love her with each morning, and how he decided to propose to her on the eve of the day they met. He told the story of how he became a known swordsman, how he defeated the bandit king who held the eastern provenance -Levantis- captive.

He explained how mere-like luck had managed to keep his ruse alive for so long. And that he only let it live on so hope wouldn’t become lost to the lands. For he himself truly believed that Borealis was still alive.

While they revisited the memories that they had made, a lone messenger of Seol, who had been sent in advance, arrived to them. The messenger did not know who they truly were and delivered to them an official summons from Seol himself. They offered him hospitality in fear of displeasing Seol before they planned to strike.

The summons were that of a simple manner. Discussion over wealth and property. A trade to put it simply. For Seol never summoned those he did not see as an asset.

And so after the messenger left, they began plotting once more.

“How shall we answer this?”

Gerald asked the company.

“It’s still too early to strike! We cannot plan anything for this visit, it would be foolish.”

Borealis stated.

“We could play it civilly. Take the long road?”

Nine suggested.

“A sound idea. But what does that look like for us?”

Percy asked, stroking his beard.

“We could accept his offer? Take the trade, and offer business?”

The Alchemist suggested.

“I’d rather die than give that damned snake a single crop!”

Gerald protested.

“Then we don’t.”

“What do you mean Percy?”

“Seol is always looking for another soldier, right?”

Nine raised to her full height and locked eyes with her to-be-wed.

“Percy.”

She pleaded.

“So we give him a Soldier. I am already a known sells-word-”

“Percy!”

“It wouldn’t be hard for me to get a rank in his army. One that puts me close to him.”

“This is insanity, Percy!”

“Do we have any better ideas?”

Gerald chimed in.

Nine spun around, staring daggers into Gerald’s soul. Gerald met the expression with concern, and a sober tone.

“Surely you realize it could work. A spy would give us the edge in any situation.”

“What if he gets caught? Or killed in an entirely different battle? Then what?”

Nine countered swiftly.

“It’s too risky.”

“So is going in without an offer for Seol.

Borealis replied.

“As much as I detest the idea of sending you to him, that might be the most effective course of action.”

Borealis said, looking around the room grimly. The silence that followed was haunting as everyone grasped the situation. Nobody could counter Percy’s idea. It was simply perfect in all senses. He would kill Seol’s influence from the inside of his own army. And the others would meet him at an appointed time to finish Seol himself. With the Dark Lord none-the-wiser. They went over every detail they could. Every flaw or possibility of failure. And found none.

So Percy rose from his seat, wished them a goodnight, and sought to prepare himself. Nine rose to be with him, but looked to the table one last time.

“If anything happens to my husband, I will kill each and every one of you for making him take such a risk.”

“A risk that he offered.”

Gerald snapped.

“If anything happens to him, I will gladly pay for it in my blood.”

Borealis stated before Nine and Gerald could get in another shouting match.

Nine didn’t even acknowledge his comment, her eyes were fixed on Gerald. But she didn’t waste her time on him and went to Percy.

Borealis stared out the window and made his way to the porch of the house. Evening had just left them with the night and so the stars came out in a plethora. The triplet moons hung in the night sky, almost mocking them with their unchanging ways. Though their was comfort in their consistency. He pondered everything they were planning, truly pondered it. He called to the All-Maker for help. He pleaded for an answer, and prayed through the night for guidance. When a still small voice said;

“Go.”

But he did not. He stayed at the barn, as he was not listening to Him. His ears had been deaf and his eyes were blind to these things ever since he cast the curse on the Boggort. He had not yet asked for forgiveness for it, and had been stubborn in his ways.

And so the party settled in for the night. As the next day would surely be the beginning of the end.

-The End, Volume 1.

And as the first volume comes to an end, I say again as the author-like figure, that Merlin had written a great deal more in this document. And I promise to upkeep the legacy entrusted to me and translate it all.

But until then I must bid you all farewell, as I am growing very tired.

Light Sky, traveler. As the Elves would say.

And I pray to meet you in the next volume.