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	Chapter 2
	Chapter 2 -------------- Sec stirred, hauling himself back up to a sitting position against the cabin wall and brushed a hand over his short-cropped hair, squinting as he did so. ‘You think they’d at least put some beds in here for us wouldn’t you?’ Sec said, rubbing his neck in discomfort. Fane smiled sadly, ‘Assuming they want us to be comfortable, yes.’ Sec glanced around the room, looking at the empty chains where the Dreyhood man had been. ‘Still not back eh? I wonder why they had him chained up but they left us free?’ Fane raised an eyebrow, ‘Perhaps he’s dangerous?’ Sec snorted, ‘He’s a git; not sure about dangerous.’ ‘Appearances can be deceiving.’ Fane shrugged. ‘Anyone first meeting you, for example, would come to the conclusion that you’re just a short man with a bad attitude. But by the time you kick them in the groin and head-butt them to the floor, they’ve had time to realise their mistake.’ Sec smiled a little at this. The two sat in silence for a few minutes, staring into the dark corners of the wooden room while they lost themselves in thoughts and memories. Jests and banter were not sufficient to grant them any real lasting measure of comfort; their situation was a grave one, and they were in serious trouble. Finally the silence was broken by the door to their cabin swinging open again. Expecting to see their fellow captive returned, they both looked towards the door. Instead, a smaller man entered; one with soft blonde hair worn long around his shoulders and a clean-shaven jaw. He was indeed a very handsome man - even by the classical sense; with a sharp manly cut to his features, and slanted deep brown, smouldering eyes. He stooped low to place a pair of bowls on the floor, steaming hot and filled high with some kind of soup. As he rose to again he looked appraisingly at the two boys, scanning them for something. Finally his features softened and he glanced around just outside of the doorway as if he was searching the corridor to see if anyone else was within earshot. Turning back to the boys he spoke: ‘Eat up, it’s good stuff today.’ He said reassuringly … almost sympathetically. And then he left. The two boys looked at each other and frowned deeply in confusion. ‘He was Dreyhood, his accent was unmistakable.’ Fane said. ‘With blonde hair?’ ‘Lord Kondo has blonde hair, and he’s readily accepted as Dreyhood, even if his lineage is partly foreign.’ Fane said. ‘What matters is the accent; nobody Human has that accent, even in Zar. And Humans don’t tend to wear their hair that long.’ *1 ‘Which at least makes me feel a little better. At least we probably haven’t been captured by the Human army.’ Sec did seem relieved; he had a serious dislike for Humans, as the feeling had been drilled into him by his rather hard-edged Father. Fane stood up and walked over to the bowls of food that had been placed down for them. Crouching he saw with some surprise that they were not filled with gruel. ‘They’ve given us stew, Sec. Really good stuff too! Potatoes, vegetables, and it looks like Klath too!’ He exclaimed. *2 Sec looked confused, ‘Why?’ Fane brought the food back to Sec, and handed one bowl to him. ‘They probably want us to be healthy. Which … either means that we are to be slaves, or that they mean to have us in the next stew.’ Sec nodded solemnly. Neither of them needed to say which of the two was more feasible. In honesty, both of them would probably prefer the latter to the former. Slaves in this part of the world were not known to have pleasant lives. Neither of them wanted to admit that the likelihood was that they were going to be slaves, but deep down they were expecting the worst. --- It was some time later that Kern was returned to the cell. He was chained to the wall by the tall bearded Human who promptly left without saying a word. Kern, however, had a few words to say on the matter. ‘Oi! Come back! I’ve got an itchy nose!’ He called after the man. The door closed and Kern turned his grin to his two fellow prisoners. Fane was slightly amused by the man’s brave attitude. Either he knew something that the two boys did not, or he was putting on a brave face in a dire situation. ‘Damn Human, you’d think he’d have let me go to the privy while we were out there wouldn’t you? Not a loo break from here to the torture chamber, let me tell you boys, so relieve yourselves where you stand and take pleasure when your stink upsets their noses.’ Fane couldn’t help but laugh at this. He did not trust the man, but he found him amusing. Fane had an uncanny ability to make jokes and laugh in any situation, not because he was brave, but because he was afraid. Sec did not smile, however. ‘So?’ Sec pressed. Kern turned to Sec ‘So what?’ he replied. ‘You were going to tell us why we were in this mess. Who are those people?’ Kern nodded, ‘Slavers, but not of the kind yer’d expect. They be the kind that seek out young pretty boys like us, and lend us out to those with heavy purses.’ He paused when the boy’s expression did not change, and then went on, ‘Not to worldly are ya? We are to be the slaves of the manly love variety. That’s why they took us away just then; they wanted to test their wares – so’s to speak.’ He concluded; a dryly serious look on his grubby face. The two boys looked equally horrified. Neither could speak at such a horrible revelation; they simply sat with their mouths wide open. Kern burst into hysterical laughter, cackling madly as his chest heaved with the effort. Fane sighed, extremely annoyed at the prank, and waited patiently for Kern to finish. Finally, after a long winded round of ridiculous laughter, Kern settled down to a mild chuckle, his cheeks stained with the line of jolly tears trailing a clean line on his otherwise filthy skin. ‘I apologises,’ Kern said at last, in between bursts of conclusive laughter. Shaking his head he went on; ‘I just couldn’t resist; the looks on ya faces was priceless!’ ‘That’s not funny!’ Sec exclaimed at last. ‘I have I mind to beat you senseless where you hang, you bloody son of a Human whore!’ Something in Kern’s eyes startled Fane. There was a flicker of something dangerous - hidden well - behind the laughter. Something in Sec’s insult had deeply insulted the man, yet he masked it carefully. But then the flicker was gone without a trace, and Kern’s smile was back. ‘I am sorry, Sec, but you should lighten up. Our plight isn’t as serious as ya probably think, yet it isn’t exactly a bed o’ roses.’ Fane had lost patience with the man, ‘Well, explain it then!’ ‘Where should I start?’ Kern responded. ‘You could start by telling is what you meant; why were we taken?’ ‘Well … ya see, is like this. They wants somethin’ that both me and you ‘ave, Fane … something pretty unique. Tell me; in the months leading up to your capture, did ye do anything … unnatural?’ ‘Yeah,’ Fane said, ‘But I made sure to cover it over with leaves so that nobody would step in it.’ Kern chuckled, obviously impressed at the boy’s sense of humour. ‘Whats I mean is…’ Kern continued, ‘Did ya do anythin’ that other lads might consider impossible?’ Sec glanced sideways at his friend, then back to Kern, ‘What kind of a stupid question is that?’ ‘Yes.’ Fane interjected, remembering the day in the forest with his brother … remembering the hunt, when he had used his gift. ‘I did.’ Sec turned his gaze sharply to his friend, and Kern simply nodded. ‘Sec, I should have told you before, but my Father made me promise to keep it a secret.’ Fane said to his friend, ‘See I have a certain gift. It allows me to communicate with animals - sort of - to send messages of emotions through my mind to them … to make them feel certain things.’ Sec looked confused. ‘Magic.’ Kern said, causing both the boys to turn to him in astonishment. ‘There’s no such thing.’ Fane declared. Sec nodded, ‘That’s fairy tales.’ Kern sighed, as if he was charged with explaining a complicated equation to a pair of children. ‘No. Tis not. And yeh, there is such a thing. What did ya think ya were doing, Fane? Did ya think ya were some sort of pixie? Talking to animals like some sorry character from a storyteller’s fable?’ ‘I … I was told it was hereditary.’ ‘Close, and true in a way. Magic sometimes is.’ Kern went on, ‘I can’t explain it s’actly, but all of those stories ya heard growing up - about the sorcerer kings, an’ the battles of heroes and evil wizards … the stories ‘bout the magic users of the Odis Rainforests, ‘bout enchanted weapons and ‘ealers who can bring a man back from the other … well they are all very true, prob’ly.’ *3 Fane frowned, remembering the stories his Father used to tell him, ‘But those times are gone. Even according to the legends, magic was ruined by the Furalian Sorcerer Omax before he was killed, and it never returned.’ Kern raised his eyebrows and half nodded, an expression half of weary acknowledgement. ‘Yeh, and magic either returned or it never rightly left. I’ve never met anyone else who can do the things I can do, but I’ve heard whispers of such magicians, and now I’ve met our fine captors … who assure me that there are many like myself who can do such magics.’ ‘And which magic is that exactly?’ Fane pressed. Kern grinned again. It was a disarming, dimpled grin, and although his teeth were partially discoloured and rotten, it was a likable smile. ‘Basic trickery, friend Fane. I’ve not been schooled in my arts, so ‘tis a wonder that I can perform them at all, but my skills allow me to make people see things that ‘aint there.’ A moment went by while all considered the things they have been told. Sec simply stared at the empty bowls on the floor in front of them, obviously struggling to come to terms with this revelation. He looked as though he did not believe Kern in the least. Finally Fane asked ‘So what do our captors want our magic for?’ Kern half-shrugged, which was a difficult task for one chained to a wall by their arms. It ended up as a rag-doll spasm of his stretched arms. ‘That, I dunno. ‘Tis my personal opinion that they wanna use us in some war, or maybes to work as slaves.’ ‘And what about me?’ Sec asked, ‘Why am I here?’ Fane knew the answer to that already, ‘You saw too much. They probably took you to make sure that you never spoke of their existence.’ Kern interrupted, ‘Fane, listen to me. Ye have no reason to trust me, I knows, but I aint the one who ‘as ya captured. We are all in this t’gether, all three of us. Now listen … they’ll tell ya that they’ve captured us so that they might teach us how to prop’ly use our talents without harming anyone. They told me the same thing. But, I dun trust ‘em. What ever their intention, it must be one that benefits themselves in some way, else they would not go around grabbin’ young lads from their homes? They might well teach us; but then they will use us, mark me words. Who knows what they can conjure to control us, who knows what hypnotism they might use to make us do their bidding. We need to escape at the first chance we get. Do not trust them.’ There was little talking after that… the three boys sat in their places, Kern drifted off to sleep, Sec sat in contemplation, Fane in worry. The minutes slipped by into hours, and the silence was forgotten, giving way to the sound of the crashing waves against the hull and the moaning creek of the ship’s hull straining and bending against the fearsome force of nature’s most constant element. ‘I don’t trust him.’ Sec whispered finally, taking care not to wake Kern ‘He’s a scoundrel and a rogue, you can tell just be the look of him. He has an ill-favoured way about him.’ Fane’s eyes glanced down in thought, ‘That much I agree with. But we must trust him more than we trust those who have us in captivity. We are in this together, as he said.’ Sec sat back against the wall, shifting his weight onto the other side of his behind. He said nothing in response to this. --- The ship skipped across the waves like a thrown stone, skimming over the surface with speed and grace. The sea was rough in this part of the world, but The Grey Eagle managed it well. The vessel’s frame leaned slightly as it reached to, almost leeward of the wind, but against the choppy tides of the waves. Her sails were down and caught the wind, billowing like some giant white drapes against an open window. She was a beautiful vessel, not overly large or cumbersome, but sleek and well equipped for such long journeys as she was bound for, and those that she had experienced in her short past. She was endowed with square rigging, which was lashed fast by a series of tight ropes, causing the sails to form white sheet curves bending out towards the ship’s fore. Thrice-masted, but fitted only with relatively short beams, which were adorned by both courses and topsails, but lacked topgallant sails or higher; still, The Grey Eagle was well sheeted for a boat of her size. There was little deck space on her narrow form, but her maker had incorporated the certain aspects of roundship designs, which gave her a very high forecastle and poop deck (the elevated rear and fore areas of the ship), whilst retaining the traditional Ryadellian ship architecture of a classic Naovel Carrier. *4 At the forefront of the ship was her maidenhead; a large grey eagle sat atop the stone formation of a watchtower; it was wonderfully crafted, down to the individual lines in the feathers. Painted with fluid, elegant writing down the side of the vessel was her name in large, proud letters: The Grey Eagle. Fastest ship in home’s fleet, and one of the most beautiful, Tyrius decided, and with a fine crew to boot. She had been his home for the past year and 3 months, but now, to his relief, she was about to sail him the shortest route back to his true home. Southkeep Island. Turning away from the sea he glanced around for the captain. Finding him in at the helm he called out across the deck. The Captain turned to look at him at the sound of his gruff voice. He was a tall, thin man, balding of head but not yet into his thirties, he usually wore lavish Captain-like hats to hide this fact. He had a rather strong look to him, despite his lean demeanour; his square jaw and well defined tanned arms betrayed a life of hard work at sea and land. Rather young for a Captain, but Tyrius liked the fellow all the same, as he was honest and he was well respect by his crew. ‘What now, wizard?’ The Captain demanded. The man liked to think he was the boss of this operation. Captains often thought there were. ‘I think we’ve been gone from home long enough, don’t you Captain?’ The man smiled, displaying a few missing teeth, ‘Aye, Sir!’ Suddenly he knew who was in charge. ‘Then tell the men to set sail for Southkeep, the quickest route home, Captain.’ He said. There was a general cheer from all the men - from those on the shrouds to those working around the tiller. They had been at sea for far too long already without any considerable shore leave. It would be autumn soon - and this far north, snow would cover the land long before winter. It was best to head back southerly in order to beat the icy winds and foul weather before they arrived. They could be home in little over 2 months, fair winds permitting. The large man smiled as his friend came up from bellow decks. Muirayn had obviously heard, and a wide grin spread across his young Dreyhood face. The blonde mage laughed when he saw Tyrius’ expression, as not even Tyrius’ large red beard could disguise his smile. The older magician slapped the younger on his shoulder and nodded. ‘Thank the gods for that,’ Muirayn said, ‘I thought you’d never give the order.’ While Tyrius was tall and heavy of build, Muirayn was slightly smaller and slimmer. Tyrius was a typical eastern Human: red haired and pale, massive in all directions and appendages, even his nose seemed bulbous and strong. Tyrius’s age could be placed at around 50 years, but in truth he was actually much older. Muirayn on the other hand was a slightly less typical looking Dreyhood male (his blonde hair for example, was something not typically Dreyhood), while still retaining some of his people’s features. He was relatively slim (though his muscles were very well developed and toned, he was still slim in girth), with bronzed yellowish skin tone and sharp but manly features. Muirayn usually wore a pleasant expression which only helped to highlight his boyishly good looks. He was, however, in his mid-twenties. Tyrius nodded grimly, ‘Well, we have the captives we came here for, and one thrown in to boot, so I think it best not to delay our return with any further searching.’ Muirayn agreed cheerfully, but his eyes betrayed a certain doubt. ‘Muirayn,’ Tyrius said to his student, ‘I know you feel for them, but this is the way it has to be. For the greater good, you understand that don’t you?’ Muirayn sighed and looked away for a moment, as if scanning the sea for the answer to the question. Distantly he could just make out the coast of West Ryadell on the horizon; an opaque shadow looming over them always, watching them from the blurred horizon of the spherical globe. ‘I do understand that now, Tyrius, but it doesn’t make it any easier.’ Tyrius searched the man’s expression for any hint of betrayal, but found none. Gwynia appeared from nowhere as she always did, silent of foot, just as she was usually silent of mouth. The lady was of a race known as Furalian, which meant that she was very tall and stunningly handsome. Her pale grey skin glistened in the clear light of the bright autumn sun, as did her powerful red locks, which spiralled in luxurious ringlets over her slender shoulders, like molten magma forming twisting rivers of liquid fire as it spread down from the summit of a volcano. Furalians were known for their beauty, no matter who they were. Moreover, it seemed as though Furalians were always beautiful yet also always noticeably different compared to Humans. For example, a common Furalian face had particularly wide-set eyes, high foreheads, and small noses, and Gwynia was no different in this regard, as her eyes were huge, and set particularly far apart; moreover, her nose was what you might consider as tiny. Brightly coloured head hair was their hallmark (though they lacked body hair of any kind), coming in any shade you could imagine, including blues and pinks and even greens. In contrast was their ghost-like skin and pale, pale eyes usually tinted with the slightest hint of what ever colour their hair happened to be. They were usually at least 6 feet tall - even the women - and they were rarely overweight or even undernourished of constitution. These alien foreigners were highly sought after as slaves and warriors alike. Gwynia did not speak as she appeared, she merely nodded at Tyrius, her owl-like pale-cherry eyes extrospective as always. This was one area that the girl was quite unlike others of her race; in mood. While most Furalians were jolly lovers of pleasure and of all good times imaginable, Gwynia was a fairly solemn and stern girl, which Tyrius attributed to her upbringing on the very strange isle of Southkeep. ‘Are you pleased to hear the news?’ Tyrius asked her. ‘Indeed I am. Life at sea does not agree with me overly much.’ She replied. Her voice had a wistful edge to it, like the sigh of a solitary violin as it played out its last haunting notes. ‘And how do you feel about your first mission overall?’ He pressed. She smiled; a breathtakingly beautiful expression which displayed her immaculate teeth, ‘It has been fun, but I think I shall have to review it overall when we return to Southkeep. I imagine it has been a good deal more difficult for Muir here.’ She placed her arm around Muirayn’s middle as if to comfort him. Muirayn just grinned. There was a voice. A flash of power sung out, searing like a beacon of dazzling light inside Tyrius’ mind. He turned to the west, a fearful vacant stare in his eyes, the lines of his face deepened with concern … horror. He felt it - far off to the north-east as clearly as a flash of lightning lanced through his skin, electrifying his very blood in great shivering jolts. Gwynia turned to Muirayn with a confused look. Muirayn did not look back, but explained, solemnly: ‘I feel it too.’ Reaching back with a stern hand, Tyrius gripped Muirayn by the shoulder without looking at him. The clench of his fingers dug deeply into his muscles, and Muirayn would have winced were it not for the seriousness of their present situation. ‘Muirayn,’ Tyrius said, the urgency in his voice was commanding yet calming at the same time. ‘I know you feel it too, now listen. Just as you have been trained, concentrate on the elements around you and on passing the energies to me, and then let The Song come. You know The Song for this situation; we’ve been over it many times.’ Muirayn nodded, his bright eyes filmed with worry and doubt. ‘Believe in yourself.’ Tyrius urged, squeezing the young man’s shoulder even harder than before. Muirayn tried. Pushing his blonde shanks from his eyes he let the power flow through him, summoning the elements. He drew the power mainly from the wind and the sea, for which were the most abundant of the regional elements, and then the Dreyhood man began to sing. To hear The Song for the first time was an experience that many never forget. A few of the younger sailors on the ship stood with mouths wide open in amazement as the sheer beauty of the tone, the entrancing words which spilled out of Muirayn’s mouth like silken syllables spoken by the gods themselves. Even an untrained ear would warm to The Song, as if they had heard it before … in another life, or in the womb of their own Mother … the feeling was the same, even though the language was one unspoken in the common languages of Sheol. It was holy and it was enchanting, but it was forebodingly powerful and eerily nostalgic. To Kern, it was an unprecedented experience, just as it was for the young sailors, and as he watched from the shadows he could only wonder at what The Song was really doing. It was as if he was surrounded by the soft whisperings of friends and family, cooing in agreement, all breathing streams of liquid life, softening the weight of his troubled soul; they stilled the burdensome drums of his furious heart until it seemed not to beat at all. It was as if the hard corners of his steely memories had been sheered off by the soft embrace of a sliver of satin. As a matter of fact, Muirayn was very good with The Song. He enunciated it excellently, and sung each note perfectly; which was just as well, as the spell would not work without unfaltering accuracy - such was the pressure of The Elementalist. All he could do was stare in wonder and try to read the expressions of the two mages. The older one seemed to be seeing something that the others on deck were not. His expression was at first, that of somebody confused and searching, and then it slowly turned more intense. His gaze deepened and his eyes widened, his brow furrowed and the sweat began to drip slowly from his forehead. No song came from this one, instead came such power and concentration that even Kern, unskilled in the arts of magic as he was, could feel it. And then The Song stopped, and the two men calmed themselves, returning to reality, and coming to face each other - they looked grave indeed. Gwynia could hardly contain herself, ‘Oh, for the love of the Gods, please share your vision with the rest of us.’ Tyrius snapped out of his reverie and focussed on the beautiful red haired Furalian woman. ‘Of course, I am sorry.’ He paused, catching his breath. It was plain to see that he was having trouble, even in standing upright. ‘Muirayn, you must have felt this one’s power? But it is far worse than you might think.’ Muirayn looked afraid. ‘How can this be?’ He asked. ‘I do not know. All I know is that this … this burst of energy was murderous. It was struck to kill, and it was powerful. It could be that this one has training in how to use such power, or it could be that they have gone unnoticed for so long that their power has grown out of control. Of course …’ He paused. ‘What?’ The Captain pressed. He had snuck his way into the conference early on in the proceedings without the others really noticing. ‘…Well … it’s very possible that this one has tapped into such power by accident. This could be triggered by the most heightened emotional states, only really ever seen surfacing in those who have suffered the most.’ Tyrius explained. Muirayn nodded, ‘Yes, I’ve heard of such things.’ Kern silently wondered who this person was to have caused such a stir; as if he wasn’t good enough - were his own powers were mere tricks by comparison? He almost felt insulted. He stayed were he was for a moment, hidden in the shadows of the open door amidships, which led down to the various cabins bellow deck. Tyrius stared up at the sky, the wind rustling his red beard like a solitary bush on the plains of South Minua. ‘Captain.’ He said with a sigh and a sad note: ‘Please inform the crew that we will be will not be headed home just yet. We head for the Human city of Midport. There they may get some shore leave, but watch them more closely than you have ever done, Captain, for although I’m sure they are loyal to the cause, drunk and ill-tempered tongues are doubly loose.’ The Captain nodded. He was not happy, that much was certain. ‘We have one last stop and one last capture to make before we can return home, Captain,’ Tyrius said, ‘and it will likely be a dangerous one … for I’m certain many others will have felt the tremor of power that we did, and they will not be so light handed with our friend. Moreover, they will not be light handed with us.’ Kern had heard enough, he would make his escape when they touched down in Midport. It was not far from his home city anyway, and the weather there was fair- temperate. Until then he had to stay free from the chains he had recently freed himself of, which would be a challenge to say the least. --- Kern hadn’t stirred in the past hour at least, if not more. He simply hung in his chains, his arms stretched upwards in what appeared to be the most uncomfortable sleeping position imaginable. His head bowed, allowing his chin to rest on his chest, which Fane was sure wasn’t a very healthy way to sleep. Sec and Fane had been discussing the various hideous possibilities that could be in store for them, and having exhausted their very vivid imaginations, they had turned back to the discussions about the whole idea of magic, and if Kern was in fact the slimy lying snake that he appeared to be. Fane wasn’t sure if he believed in magic; he entertained the idea that Kern could be joking, but then again he did have a habit of trusting people too easily, so some part of him entertained the prospect, and he had to confess that it did make more sense than anything else he could think of. He was in the middle of discussing history with his friend when it happened. It started as a warm pressure on his temples, and quickly escalated into a shocking jolt, wracking through his head with such pain that he cried out. With it came the vision, knocking Fane back against the wall so suddenly that his head cracked hard against the wooden frame of the room. Sec started forward, reaching out to steady his friend, asking him what was wrong, but the words turned into mumbled echoes within Fane’s mind, overshadowed by the striking images which were so potent that they very nearly caused him to faint. In his mind he saw a girl. Her face was grimy and her long hair fell in tangled knots over her pale face. Her green eyes flashed in fiery anger, and such power came from her that Fane could neither ignore nor understand it. The hatred that emanated from this woman was tangible; it seeped out even across continents, her rage so harsh that it lashed out in murderous, unstoppable power. The hatred piled out of her, and the hatred became death, it became murder. Fane felt the loss of a human life caused by the hand of this creature. He could not see the death as it happened, but he did not need to, as the destruction that was released by this girl was like thunder roaring 2 feet over his head, the rumble of dark, dark clouds clashing together. Then the green eyes snapped onto him, seeing him, feeling him … and then reality returned and Fane slumped down onto the floor of the cell, unconscious. It was only a few minutes later when Sec managed to revive his friend. Fane came too - spluttering and gasping for air as if he had been immersed in water for the past 200 seconds. He clutched at Sec’s arm in relief when he realised that he was awake. There was a moment of doubt while he considered if it had all been a dream, but then he remembered the alien feelings of hatred and murderous rage, and then he knew it had not been a dream. ‘What happened? What’s wrong?’ Sec demanded. Fane struggled to find his voice in his tightened throat, swallowing a few times in between laboured breaths. ‘I don’t know … what was … it was a face, a girl, and there was anger, and power … and then … death.’ Sec frowned, not understanding, and understandably so. Fane shook his head, the perspiration had soaked through his thin tunic, and the sea-green garment clung to his chest in dark, glistening wrinkles. The vision had obviously disturbed him. ‘A vision.’ Fane said, ‘I don’t know what it was, but it was real.’ His eyes fixed on those of his friend, and finally he forced a smile, contrasting the frightened look in his eyes. ‘What ever herbal recipe they put in that stew, it’s some good stuff!’ He laughed. Fane, as confused and terrified as he was by the whole ordeal covered it well, as always, with an inappropriate joke. Sec, however, did not laugh. -------------------- 1 As already stated, the Dreyhood are by no means a separate race to Human-kind. They are merely a rebellion to the empire, who like to think themselves as separate from their Human ancestors. Because of their nature as a republic nation, they have adopted many individuals into their culture who shared their distaste with Human habits. Therefore, although the greater number of Dreyhood peoples resemble individuals of oriental descent, Horn is filled with a various mix of colors and nationalities. 2 Klath was a northern meat similar to the beef of a cow, but more nutritional. Klathla were bull-like creatures who at times stood on their hind legs to graze from the fruits and foliage of trees. 3 Everyone knows the story of Omax, which tells of a mighty Sorcerer who, when surrounded by enemies, created a magical plague to kill all other magic users but himself. The spell, somehow, was said to go wrong, and Omax ruined the genetic code in the lines of mages and Sorcerers. In the same way the story of Adam and Even of our world slowly became fable after many thousands of years, the story of Omax turned from legend into mythology. 4 The Naovel Carrier is a Ryadellian design of ship very similar to the caravela rotunda design of our own world. Typically, the only real differences are in the shape of the hull and keel of the ship’s form, tending to be slightly more symmetrical, fore compared to aft. The Grey Eagle herself is of a similar appearance to The Santa Maria of our own history, with a few major differences, being: the largely elevated forecastle and poopdecks; the addition of several studding sails on the main and foremasts; and the preference for a larger maidenhead in favor of a spritsail (whist retaining a large, triangular, flying jib).
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