Timbers creaked underneath Stephen’s booted feet. It melded with the sound of lashing rope, shouts, and snapping canvas to create the regular jumble of noise that accompanied a day on the sea. Added to this was the smells and feelings of salt spray and hard-working men hauling on lines, drawing in sheets and spars. The taste of saline was in the air.
Stephen loved it. He loved the work, the nights on a rocking boat, and even the brawls that usually took place, right about . . . now. “Oy! Hedrick! Wha’ dya think yer doin’?” a man shouted from the other end of the ship. “That’s MY belt ye’ve got there!” “So what if ‘tis?” Hedrick roared right back from behind Stephen. The burly man shoved past him and moved towards the belt’s owner. “Ye stole it from me, anyhow, you Giridian dog!” The offender pushed another man aside to stand before Hedrick. “Did not!” And with that, the Giridian lifted a fist and socked Hedrick cleanly in the mouth and snatched the belt. “There’s yer proof!” Hedrick paused, bent over with a hand to his mouth, then suddenly came up with a clenched hand to the Giridian’s stomach. “And there’s mine,” the bigger man declared, picking the belt up from where the other sailor had dropped it. Just like that, it was over. Stephen was surprised. Usually, these fights lasted far longer. He unobtrusively dropped the halyard in his hand and walked over to the defeated man’s side. “Jon, why do you always start these things?” he asked, smirking as he spoke. Jon was still bent double, gasping for breath. “You’re half the size of some of the men here, and the only thing ye’ve got goin’ for ye is your bellow.” “Aye, but ‘twas me belt.” “No it wasn’t.” “. . . no ‘twasn’t.” Jon picked himself up and turned back to his position at the jib. “I did steal it, though, fair an’ square.” He grinned. This was daily life aboard the Angel. Of course, being a common merchant ship, it didn’t live up to its name’s standards. The atmosphere was rough, and hygeine wasn’t very important to the men who worked on board it (except to Stephen). It was fast, though, and this is what made it a very good place to be if you were a sailor: people will pay more to have their goods delivered quickly. That meant that Stephen Whyplash got paid more, as well. He enjoyed the feeling of the waves. It was his life. He’d left home, leaving his father, at about sixteen years of age to enlist in the Giridian Navy, but was considered unfit due to a lack of strength. After that, he wandered from harbour to harbour, finally ending up in Efiel, the country beside Giride. There, he found work aboard a scummy boat called the Crableg. The captain didn’t want him and passed him off to the Angel in a few months. He was eighteen at the time. Now, he had two years of experience, a good friend in Jon, and had overcome his physical shortcomings. Almost. He was still not as heavily built as some of the other men, but had an agile body, good for climbing rigging. A shout rang from behind Stephen. “Whyplash! Get up here!” The captain waved at him from the helm. The young sailor dashed up the ladder to the rudder. “Shimmy up the boom and see ifn’ ye can spot Opal Harbour!” Captain Quinton ordered, and the words were hardly out of his mouth when Stephen flew towards and up the rigging. Quinton chuckled. “Overeager chap. When ye’re done, go down to the galley fer your dinner!” he added. Stephen didn’t hear. He was too busy dashing over and around ropes, swinging on lines, and flipping himself over spars. When he reached the topsail, he came to a halt, clinging to the flagstaff. Worry entered his eyes. “Captain!” he yelled. Quinton looked up. The young sailor pointed towards the north. The captain narrowed his eyes. Aye, he could see Opal Harbour, but it was what was over Opal that had him fretting. Black clouds rushed towards tehm from the bay. The town was a wreck, from what Quinton could see, and it was probably due to the devastating winds heading straight towards them. “Crew! Look to port! Bring her about! Loose the mainsail, ye layabouts!!” he screamed. Every sailor turned to look at the coming storm. Half suddenly froze with fear, and it took Quinton shouting again to snap them out of it. Quinton desperately spun the rudder wheel as Stephen helped the other men loose the sheets. Almost all at once, the knots fell loose, and the mainsail, with the topsail, blew open with a snapping of canvas. The ship surged forward, away from the storm. The immediate movement caught Stephen off guard and he was thrown off the spar he sat on. “No!” he managed to gasp before slamming into another beam. It knocked the wind out of him. A rope flew by his head. The agile young sailor snatched at it, the fibers burning his hands as he held on for dear life. The line threw him around the mast with the speed they were moving, and in a single moment, he saw something in the middle of the storm. A tall figure, wreathed in black rain and lightning. A wicked grin was on its face as it pointed towards the ship, and the clouds tore across the ocean. Then the rope turned, Stephen looked back, and the figure was gone. The clouds were still coming. Stephen came near to the mast and jumped off onto the rigging. Clutching the nets tightly, he moved downward slowly. The storm flew nearer and nearer. Stephen leaped from ten feet above the deck, not expecting a soft landing. He was right. And then the storm hit them. Within seconds of the winds first streaming down the sides of the ship, the mast snapped clean in half. Men shouted, the captain yelled orders, and Stephen struggled to rise from the planks of the deck. He looked up towards Quinton. The storm behind him framed his powerful build, the captain’s hair lashing in all directions as he spun the wheel. Lightning flashed all around. Quinton screamed something, and Stephen strained to hear it. “Caparaben! Take me! Leave the men! You’ve had your damned fun!” A lightning bolt finally hit their ship in response to those strange words, blocking Stephen’s view of Quinton. Stephen finally pulled himself to his feet and stumbled up to the helm. “Captain!” he cried. Quinton held tightly to the rudder, his smoking body slumped over the rail. “Captain!” Stephen repeated. The young sailor rushed to the dying man’s side. Quinton reached with a trembling hand into his coat and withdrew a silver medallion. Wordless at first, he pressed it into Stephen’s hand. “Take it . . . Get it to Opal!” he gasped, then slid to the deck. Stephen fell to his side, tears streaming down his face. Quinton had been like his father. A barrel flew out of the hold and up towards the helm, driven by the winds. Stephen couldn’t see it coming, and it struck him in the side of the head. The young man blacked out. ***** A lone fisherman off the coast of the island of Devian reached down to haul in his net. It had been a long night, and a very small catch. He was tired. “Once I’m off this boat, it’s straight to the tavern, and . . .” he started to mutter, then hesitated as he saw something flashing in the water, in his net in fact. “What the . . . by the gods!” he exclaimed, tugging the net in as quickly as he could. It was a body! The flashing object was a medallion around the poor creatures neck. The old man put an ear to the boy’s chest. Nothing. He checked for a pulse. There was nothing there, either. The fisherman sighed in disappointment. Shame to lose such a young life, he thought. He bent over to look at the medallion. It was shaped like a leaf. An oak leaf, in fact, the sign of the Savior. He snapped it off the boy’s neck to have a closer look. Setting it down on the boy’s arm, he happened to brush the body’s wrist with his hand. There was a pulse. The man gasped. After a moment of horrified thought, he moved the medallion closer to the boy’s wrist. The pulse grew stronger. The man placed it on the wrist. The boy’s other hand moved slightly. “Oh, let him be alive!” the man whispered, and started pumping on Stephen’s chest. A few more seconds, and Stephen gasped, coughing water. He blinked and sat up. The other man’s eyes widened. “Oh gods!” he exclaimed again. “You’re alive!” Stephen blinked again. A confused look was on his face. Where was he? All he could remember was a storm, and something about a medallion, and . . . a jewel? “Who are ye? And fer that matter, who am I?” he asked, hesitating. The man sucked in a breath. “A sailor, aye?” Stephen paused at this. Was he a sailor? “I . . . don’t know.” “Well, no matter. Let’s get you back to the harbour, and clean you up. You were dead, after all!” What?
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Santena.
In the old language it meant protector. Provider. Caretaker. It was even sometimes used to describe Doranfather, and was a high sign of respect. This name had inspired Ironpaw’s entire life and cause, pushing him to become the king’s bodyguard and guardian. It also meant fire. Flames, heat, burning passionate fire. The kind of fire that would run rampant in a wild forest if you let it, the kind that could consume you in seconds. The kind that raged in Santena Ironpaw’s heart as his paws pounded the snow right now. The kind that made a warrior, a fighter. These two words (protector and fire) were carved deep into the hilt of the wolf’s broadsword. These two words were his identity. These two words were the sounds that echoed in his mind as he ran. Ran to save his king. Ran to save his brother. Ran to save the FoxWolf that he had protected for two years. Ran to save his apprentice. Ran to save his Lord’s chosens, ran to save the fox he’d brought up for two years. ***** Ithiniel’s parents were worried. Santena and Gethnoel both looked at the young white fox and nodded to each other, both having the same thoughts sent them from Doran. Santena spoke them outloud. “Mr. and Mrs. Fex, your son is the FireXenot. Do you know what that is? He must come with us. You must have noticed something different?” he implored. “No! Whenever a creature gets mixed up with you lot, he becomes all religious and wacked in the head!” the father protested. “He’s a normal teenage creature of West Region . . .” “I hate to interrupt, but you’re flat-out wrong on that one,” Santena continued. “Gethnoel has already blessed your son’s gift, and given him the Amulet.” He pointed at a flashing silver item on Ithiniel’s neck. “So has Doranfather.” Ithiniel’s mother panicked and dashed to her son, fumbling with the flame symbol and chain. “Take it off, son, take it off! It’s cursed by the gods, it’s . . .” she sobbed. Ithiniel shook his head and stepped back. “No, it’s blessed by Doran. The king has been teaching me. There are no ‘gods’. Calm down, father, let Master Ironpaw explain,” the fox said calmly. His father hesitated, then finally nodded shakily. “Your son is destined -- destined, mind you -- to be the greatest warrior in Clandoran. He is to become my advisor, body guard, and is to protect our kingdom from evil. He was chosen by Doran. He felt the call himself, and so did I and the king. We were led here. He wields the power of fire, already given him by the Almighty King, meant to help him. Show them, Ithiniel,” Santena added. Gethnoel stayed Ithiniel’s rising paw. “Only a little bit. It is for dire circumstances and good causes.” The white fox nodded and gripped his pendant, the “Amulet”. The necklace had been blessed by Doran, as well, and was an accelerant for His power. Quietly, he raised his paw. “Ithiniel, Doran’s xenot,” he whispered, and his sword ignited in a red flame. He focused, and the fire got hotter, turning blue. Finally, it swirled, turned white, and made a cross resembling the shape of the Clandonian landmass. His mother gasped and backed away. His father just looked confused. The fire vanished suddenly. Santena nodded in admiration. “Get away! Take him away, take that cursed child from me!” Ithiniel’s mother screeched. The young fox gaped and stepped back like he’d been hit. “Get him away! Witch child! The universe rejects you!” Gethnoel shielded the other two, and for good reason, for the parents had suddenly drawn curved swords. In one fell swoop, they had revealed their reasoning: Old Clandon had poisoned their minds. “Free Clandon!” the father yelled, and brought his sword down towards his son, his eyes turned black. The fourteen-year-old creature cried out in terror, but Santena’s own broadsword clashed into the older fox’s and threw it back. Ithiniel’s mother swung her weapon towards Gethnoel next, but the king’s mouth errupted into a frenzy of words -- “Et Doran’s uipta, luthen, pta cranathi!” -- and both foxes gasped, falling to the ground in two heaps. Black smoke rose from their bodies. In shock, Ithiniel didn’t move. “Are they . . .?” he stammered. Gethnoel shook his head. “Ithiniel, your parents were possessed by servants of the Shadow, Doran’s foe. You must stay away from them,” the FoxWolf said gently. The young fox started breathing fast, to the point of hyperventilation. “Santena, quick, take him back to Karenian’s building site!” the king ordered, and the wolf scooped up his young charge. The general took off towards the east as rapidly as he possibly could. ***** Captain Santena Ironpaw knelt on one knee before King Gethnoel. “For your wonderful service and bravery in the face of Gulrag Northwind’s army and the recent ordeal with Kallenian Snapclaw, I appoint you my Crown General and personal bodyguard. General Santena Ironpaw, rise and take your sword,” the king commanded. He took a sword from the pillow offered him by a small mouse aide, and, before the other commanders and soldiers there to watch, placed it carefully in the captain’s back scabbard. Santena stood proudly. Only one year into service with the new king, and he was already Crown General. “Thank you, Your Highness . . .” The wolf paused and turned his face towards the heavens. “And thank you, Doranfather!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. The crowd there applauded, and Santena followed his king off the stage towards the cluster of tents that surrounded the temple and palace building sites. A few minutes later, sitting in his own tent, the new general took out his sword to examine it. It was a long, powerful blacksteel broadsword. Blacksteel was a very rare ore, and very expensive. The only exporters of the metal were the Mountainous Lands, and it was harder than diamond. It was imbedded in the pommel, as well, in the shape of a single flame. The flame had become the new symbol of Clandoran. It was repeated in Gethnoel’s crown, and in the silver and white gear that the White King and Santena now both wore. The sword’s hilt was plain iron, as Santena had requested. He didn’t want any fancy trappings hindering him, or making him a target for robbery. Carved deep into the iron were two words, written in the old script: qinthi karetia. The first meant “consuming fire”, and the second “protector”. Both were definitions of Santena’s own name. “How did he know . . .?” the black wolf muttered. He’d never said anything of this to anybody. ***** These things were pushing Santena onwards. The moment he’d heard when the king and apprentice had left, the general thundered out the castle gates, not even considering his injury. Two minutes later, Jennter had sent a regiment of soldiers after him, but the black wolf was long gone. Santena didn’t even think about the logic of his charging headlong into the full army of the Mountainous Lands. All he knew was that he’d seen all of the polar bears in the Mountainous Lands dressed in dark cloaks and swinging curved battleaxes, and that he had to stop them from reaching his king. Ahead, in the dark hills, he heard a roar, and knew that he was almost there. “No!” he heard, and assumed this was the king. “Doran, give me strength!” he panted, and a huge force propelled him over the next two hills, where he stood, breathing hard, looking down on the scene before him. Polar bears in silver armor, wearing dark cloaks, lined the entire opposite ridge. In the valley below, near Highlord Rock, three figures wearing white stood still against the pillar. No, four, and one was wearing black. Of course, it was a small country, and the Lands’ army only consisted of about fivescore creatures, but they were all gigantic and terrifying. Suddenly, the wolf felt a huge surge of courage within him, and he drew his sword as he charged down into the valley at the same time as the polar bears. This would have been suicide if the regiment from Karenian hadn’t made wonderful time, appearing a split second later. Santena didn’t notice this: he was too busy separating a bear’s axe paw from its arm. The creature roared in pain, exposing its neck, and Santena took advantage of this as well. The wolf roared right back. His sword was a flurry of destruction, an extension of his arm. The other creatures did not fare as well. Cries of terror erupted all over the battlefield as the polar bears destroyed the ranks of the castle regiment. In the center of the valley, Ithiniel and Gethnoel were wreaking havoc, but they couldn’t keep it up for long. It exhausted them. Santena forced his way through the carnage towards them. “Ithiniel! Ithiniel!” he screamed, thrusting his sword into the visor of a nearby bear’s helmet. The apprentice warrior fought his way towards his master. “What is it?!” he shouted. “Take the king and get back to the city!” the wolf ordered, parrying a battleaxe strike as his apprentice sheared straight through it. “No! What about you?!” “Forget me! Get Gethnoel, and that prisoner of yours, and get your damned tail back to Karenian! It’s no use if you’re both dead! Your power can’t last forever! Now, get going! NOW!!!” The young fox hesitated, then leapt onto and off of a bear’s back, landing beside Gethnoel. The pair grabbed the prisoner and fought to the edge of the battle, then broke away from the fighting. Ithiniel paused on the top of the hill. Santena was fighting for his life against four polar bears. He sliced across the haft of the first axe, then parried a sword’s lunge. In a final, desperate act, he gave a tremendous cry of, “The White King!” and dove, sword outstretched, into the center of the group, slashing left and right and taking two more with him, before a burning sensation and darkness overtook him. Ithiniel caught his breath as he saw his master’s broke body thrown across the battlefield. Frozen once more with shock, the fox watched as he lost yet another father, crying out in pain. Fury filled his eyes. “Nooooooo!!!” he screamed, snatching at his sword. Gethnoel grabbed the young fox, abandoning the prisoner, and ran off towards Karenian, dragging Ithiniel away from his second father. Tears filled Gethnoel’s eyes. Those same tears were reflected in Ithiniel’s eyes, seven times over. I'm assuming that at least one or two of you Clandonians have noticed that I started by calling Ithiniel a wolf, but somewhere ended up calling him a fox. I apologize, I didn't see this myself. He IS, in fact, a fox. I may change this in the first stories, but don't know if I'll have time. I liked the wolf image, at first, but gravitated toward the weaker fox later because Ithiniel's powers would make him too strong for the storyline.
Speaking of which, I'll explain his fire powers later. - WhiteFire Santena’s eyes snapped open and looked around frantically. He’d heard a scream. “Where am I? Mc’Seron! Gethnoel! Vire!” he yelled, not even pausing to contemplate the dull walls and cots that surrounded him, struggling to rise against the bandages and restraints that stopped him from doing so.
Two aides rushed to his side, trying to hold him down. “Sir! Sir! Stop!” one ordered. “You’re injured!” Santena slowly stopped thrashing, breathing heavily, his paws still clenched. “Now, let us get out this shard of metal . . .” Santena interrupted angrily. “Where in Deathgates am I, and where’s the king? And where in the damned country is my sword?” the big wolf thundered, the fiery pain in his back increasing his rage. The aides ignored him as they went on with their work. “Doranfather help me,” Santena muttered, and felt his fury melting away. He waited for it all to leave, then spoke calmly. “Where am I?” “The secondary Karenian infirmary. We had to close the main complex because . . .” The ermine speaking paused. “Er . . . because the lord Jennter commanded it, right, Altic?” The other aide, a mouse, just nodded. “Where is the lord Mc’Kallen at the moment?” the general asked. “Go fetch the lord advisor, Altic! Hop to it!” the ermine ordered, and the mouse raced off. Santena noticed that both seemed nervous. They were hiding something, and that something had to do with Jennter and the infirmary. Never mind that now, though, he’d have to ask Jennter himself. Santena snapped back to the real world with a gasp of pain as the aide finally ripped away the shard of metal left from the first arrowhead. “Is it out now?” he screamed angrily. The ermine nodded, and wrapped something in cloth, setting it aside with some distaste obvious in his eyes. Santena grunted in pain and moved up on his cot for a more comfortable position, just as Jennter came through the door. “Lieutenant! You’re awake!” the advisor exclaimed. Santena huffed. Why did Mc’Kallen insist on calling everybeast by their preliminary titles in the rebellion? “Jennter, I’ve already told you, it’s General. No more of this ‘Lieutenant’ business. Now, what’s going on? And where’s my sword and Gethnoel?” Santena demanded. “The king has left to negotiate further with Tiren Letren, and your sword . . .” Jennter flicked his paw, and another servant rushed in with a bundle, placing it on the bed and scurrying back out. Santena tore open the cloth. Inside laid his sword, snapped in two pieces, clean through the middle. This brought back a rush of memories, blasting through his head all at once: huge armor, battle-axes, and thundering war-cries. “Did you say that the king went back to West Region?” Jennter nodded calmly. Santena strained and pushed himself to a sitting position. “When did they leave?” The general felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “This morning. They should be at the border now . . .” “Stop them! He can’t go!” Santena said, panicked. “It’s a trap!” “What do you mean?” the advisor asked. Santena shook his head furiously. “The Mountainous Lands . . . I saw their warriors wearing Old Clandon gear, with curved weapons!” Santena pounded the covers in rage. “Tiren Letren, that backstabber! Two years, and he can’t see that all Gethnoel wants is peace! Mc’Kallen, get your tail on this . . . now!” ***** Ithiniel was just as wary as his master by the king’s side. “Lord, I don’t think that it’s safe to be coming back into Letren’s territory, especially after what happened to Masters Mc’Seron and Ironpaw,” he whispered. The entire company was silent. The atmosphere was heavy, and prompted a creature to shut their mouths. “Nonsense,” Gethnoel replied confidently. “He wouldn’t dare do anything as rash as what you’re obviously thinking he will.” The silvery FoxWolf marched on without hesitation. In the distance, his bodyguard could see Highlord Rock, and beyond that, the now-menacing peaks of the Mountainous Lands loomed on the horizon. “Oh, I don’t think . . . I know,” Ithiniel muttered. “That pompous power-hungry fool. He’ll do something, all right.” This brought another matter to mind, of much more interest to the young fox. “Your Highness? Where is the Spokesbeast’s daughter?” “At the castle, in the second infirmary. Why?” Gethnoel looked at Ithiniel with a mischievous glint in his eyes, which surprised the fox. The young king was usually far more solemn. “Er . . . uh . . . no reason,” the apprentice stammered. “Just curious, that’s all.” The uneasiness returned. “Did you send a message ahead, sire, to meet at Highlord Rock once more?” “I did,” Gethnoel replied, the serious look back in his face. Suddenly, the easy-going attitude was dropped altogether. “Okay, maybe he will try something cranat. Rake, send three Swiftness Guild soldiers forward to clear the perimeter. Ithiniel, take an Instinct Guild with you and follow behind by forty meters. Earl Fent, that means you.” The ermine nodded and pulled his spear from his pack. “Move! Quickly!” Gethnoel ordered, no longer whispering. Ithiniel watched and waited for the Swiftness soldiers to start moving. When they’d dashed far enough ahead, the fox and the earl dove into the grass and sparse snow, making themselves relatively unseen and still managing to keep pace with the runners. After another four hundred meters or so, Ithiniel and Fent popped their heads up to check on the runners. They were gone. Ithiniel heard a scream of pain from his left, and dove back into the snow. Earl Fent had frozen where he stood. “What was that?” Ithiniel demanded. No answer. He stood up to pull the ermine back down, and Fent fell over . . . probably because of the long bolt in his neck. “Oh, no . . . the king!” Ithiniel stood up and recklessly charged back towards the group, where soldiers were falling all over the place, pierced by the poisonous missiles. A thought entered his head, and the fox skidded to a stop. He spun around. There! Just as he’d turned, he caught sight of three black-cloaked figures peeking out from behind Highlord Rock itself. Quickly, the apprentice bodyguard switched directions and disappeared again. Quietly, trying not to step on any ice or dry grass, he stalked towards the tall pillar. Soon, he lay less than ten feet from the front of the pillar, breathing hard. Bolts were still firing, but thankfully, the king and Rake had gotten behind a pile of bodies and were firing back with Gethnoel’s longbow. The assassins were hard put to avoid the long, silver and red arrows, but they obviously had more ammunition than the king. Ithiniel flattened himself against the stone and drew his rapier. “Wait ‘til they shoot again,” he muttered. He heard the click-swish! of three crossbows firing from his left and right. The lithe white fox spun around the rock and crashed right into a retreating assassin. Before the Old Clandoner could react, his neck was separated from the rest of his body. The other two assassins raised their half loaded crossbows, but Ithiniel dashed forward and cut their strings, met by loud whines of resistance from the wood. The pair drew their curved swords just in time to block two rapid-fire strokes from the apprentice’s sword, and suddenly three more creatures in dark cloaks appeared from the surrounding snow. Now both sides paused. “Surrender, by Doranfather,” Ithiniel ordered. “Excuse me if I’m wrong, but you are the one outnumbered here,” the otter on his left rasped. “No, you are wrong. I have two on my side, as well,” Ithiniel laughed. “One.” He pointed to himself. “Two.” He pointed to his sword, then up. In the time they took to figure out what he meant, he whispered three words to the pommel of his sword, his paw, and his necklace. “Ithiniel, Doran’s xenot.” “What did you say . . . woah!” a rabbit gasped, and pulled out his knife and crossing it with his sword. The other four also assumed this defensive position, fear in their eyes. Ithiniel’s sword was glowing, as was his flame pendant. They were both glowing a fierce white. Unlike the light of the king’s power from Doran, this glow was all white, not silver, but somehow Ithiniel’s seemed more furious. Gethnoel’s words produced blunt power; Ithiniel’s had the look of strategic and sharp flames, flowing symmetrically around his sword and necklace. “Witch magic!” the rabbit yelled, then looked to his companions. “Cleanse Clandon!” All five assassins attacked with ten blades. Ithiniel ducked the first blow, then brought his rapier up and sheared straight through -- yes, through -- the S-shaped blade. It fell apart in two halves, and so did the otter’s knife a few seconds later . . . joined by the otter’s cloaked head. Two more strokes, and the rabbit laid dead as well. Now Ithiniel only face three opponents, and the fire was more intense than ever. His eyes had turned silver like Gethnoel’s. The fight had moved outward, now far away from Highlord Rock. Ithiniel froze, then turned and dashed towards the stone column. Confused, the assassins hesitated. Finally, an ermine started chasing after the fox, followed by the remaining lemming and wolf. The young apprentice warrior ran in a way that let the assassins catch up, but not catch him. When he reached the rock, he ran up the side, flipped backwards, and landed behind the lemming and ermine with a double strike that dispatched both. The wolf dropped his sword and backed up against the rock. The fire was gone now, but Ithiniel was terrifying enough that the larger, stronger wolf cowered against the pillar with panic in his eyes. “Please . . . don’t kill me! I haven’t fulfilled arka!” he whimpered. Ithiniel frowned at the strange word. “Arka? What does that mean?” The menacing tone was less, and the wolf relaxed a bit, but the panic didn’t disappear. “It . . . it is a set of guidelines that Old Clandon must follow. If its objectives aren’t completed, my essence will vanish into the universe, never to be retrieved! Please, anything! Take me captive, take my sword away! I’m only doing as told, I swear! I . . .” Ithiniel cut off the rambling creature with his sword point to its neck. “Fine. I’ll take you with me, if you throw away your sword and behave. I’ll have to tie you.” The wolf nodded gratefully, stepped to his sword, and threw it up in the air. Somehow, it landed tip first in the top of Highlord Rock. “Paws behind.” The Old Clandoner turned around, and Ithiniel secured his paws with a strip of leather. “Now, come with me. In front.” The wolf marched out in front of the apprentice, and in this way they made it back to the two remaining survivors. Gethnoel nodded in approval. “Always practice mercy. Rake, take this one, and we’ll try to get back to Karenian alive soon . . .” He was interrupted by a huge roar and clash of steel. The king spun around. His eyes widened. “No!” he yelled. “Doran, help us!” Polar bears. Hey, all! WhiteFire here. Sorry about the long wait. I've had a major case of writer's block, and haven't had time to work on the Legends site due to my working my butt off to get this podcast and newsletter ready for all of you. It's gonna be HUGE (to quote Donald Trump)!
Hey, all my Clandonians out there! (Even though there are like, four followers to this site. :P) I'm going to send out a newsletter for WhiteFire fans every month. The subscription page is on the more tab in the top right corner, under "Contact WhiteFire". It's called WhiteFire News, and will include at least one or two short stories, as well as news on upcoming story and series ideas. Also, any messages from you guys. (Not that I ge any) Well, check it out!
-WhiteFire An Explanation of the Governments of Modern Clandon (by country):
Therrenia: The simple breakdown is as this: Therrenia is split into four different, but small, territories. Each is ruled by a Quin (pronounced as shin), or governor. Overall, their decisions are dictated by the Raltin, who holds a position similar to that of a king. So, Therrenia’s territories are watched by the ruling Raltin who dictates decisions. Say that ten times fast. (Who says that explanatory posts can’t have humor?) However, it isn’t that simple. They follow a very strict set of ancient traditions, even though the new King Gethnoel attempted to extend the arm of the Set Laws, which will be explained later. According to these traditions, ten things are set in stone:
The Plainsterritories: The Plainsterritories lie in the east, on the coast nearest Therennia and on the border of East Region. For a description of the government, I must give a history, which I did not give in the briefer explanation of the individual countries and their natural tales. What I did tell you, reader, was that the Plainsterritories were ruled at first by a king. Ten kings ruled, for longer than Clandoran existed, up to the point when Mc’Kenthon Swiftblade was overthrown. Every one had been diverse in some way, and there were no restrictions on what animal could rule. Only one family had kept the throne for more than a generation, and theirs was the most stable reign. Kings weren’t very respected, and had no real power, except for in the village surrounding the castle and in the small army kept as a personal bodyguard to the king. This army usually consisted of jackals and badgers, the more powerful creatures. The last king to rule, until about thirty years ago, was Stripeslash Yetwar. He did nothing remarkable for his “subjects”, and was overthrown almost immediately by . . . Kallenian Snapclaw, a powerful jackal warlord. Of course, at the time, he was nowhere nearly enough to take down Norden Northwind, or his son Gulrag. However, he had his sights set on the Plainsterritories for two reasons: the many squabbling small-time rulers and king would be of no resistance, and . . . why would he want Clandon? It was cold and harsh, and he was an Eastern creature: the further east, the warmer. So, he built up a small army that was three times the size of Yetwar’s, rushed in, and quickly took the entire country with ease. Now, he’s set himself up in a dictatorship, likened in many ways to that of the Northwinds. So far, Snapclaw has refused any sort of a treaty, including the Set Laws, offered to him. It’s not unknown that he has his sights set on Therennian next. King Gethnoel Swiftblade, Spokesbeast Tiren Letren, and the Council of East Region know that he is there, and aren’t going to let it continue very much further, under their Set Laws, but are somewhat preoccupied with other matters at the moment. So, by definition, the Plainsterritories are under a military dictatorship. The Mountainous Territories: Unknown. Clandoran (north and south): Clandoran, formerly known as North and South Regions, formerly known as Clandoran, formerly known as Clandon, is currently ruled by a military monarchy. King Gethnoel Swiftblade, son of Mc’Kenthon Swiftblade the FoxWolf, currently rules under many names, including: the Rogue Captain, the White King, Icefurr Swiftblade, and others. Instead of a law set in stone for the country, this king trusts his subjects to make the correct decisions based on their instinct, their direction from Doranfather’s Spirit, and his dictation. However, Swiftblade did place into effect a police force, about twenty creatures in Force Guild and Swiftness Guild per village. Speaking of which, he also installed a “guild” system. This split his army and any advisors or messengers of his into five different categories, based upon where their skills laid: Swiftness Guild, Force Guild, Swordmasters, Guild of Instinct, and Distance Guild. The names are all self explanatory. Almost the entire police force is made up of the first two, and the infantry is as well. Advisors, generals, and councilmembers are usually Guild of Instinct. Archers and messengers are almost always Swiftness or Distance Guilds, and the Swordmasters are solely shock troops. It’s a military monarchy because that is the main outcome of many of King Gethnoel’s achievements: a stronger army. This is rumored to be so because of the overthrow of the original Clandoran empire, the death of the king’s parents, and the dividing of Clandoran into North and South Regions by Norden and Gulrag Northwind. King Swiftblade has vowed not to let this happen again, which causes him to be very, very intent on the destruction of Old Clandon (the cult) and Kallenian Snapclaw’s army. First, though, he has to smooth out the wrinkles in the Set Laws and help settle the war between East and West Regions. East and West Regions: Both of these have the same government, with one major difference that I will explain later. In short, each is ruled by a council. The councils have their own complicated sets of laws, that nocreature follows. No explicit history is to be given, except for this short synopsis: At the start of written history in Clandon, when the old language was just being eradicated, the whole continent was ruled by one king. Two groups of smaller, less powerful creatures split from the union. One went east. One went west. Each had the same basic idea, and both ended up with councils and no armies. Thus, they had to form alliances with the other small countries that had broken off. Using their allies’ resources and strength, East Region and West Region became stronger and larger, soon opposing each other and the rest of united Clandon. Soon, they forced their ways in towards and through the center of united Clandon, creating the first North and South regions. Soon, they were at war, even with the Set Laws that the king of North Region had set in place. Now, only a few things have changed: the first war ended with North and South pushing together, forcing the East and West Regions out and becoming Clandoran. Then, another war took hold, after the installment of Spokesbeasts in Western Clandon. Finally, King Gethnoel was successful in bringing the East and West under the protective shield of the Set Laws. The Set Laws: The Set Laws were put into effect under the rule of Harken MacKay, king of North Region, before Clandoran, after United Clandon (which was essentially a bunch of creatures with no ruler). They constituted five things that would help all the countries bound by it to stay under some sort of code. At first, it was only accepted by South Region, which eventually created Clandoran. East Region and West Region refused and ended up attacking the North. However, BECAUSE of the Set Laws, South Region came to MacKay’s aid and drove East and West apart. A few centuries later, King Gethnoel finally convinced almost the entire landmass to join, except for the miniature countries. He still continues to send envoys to the Plainsterritories and Therrenia. The Laws have many sub categories and fine prints, but these are the main principles of the main body:
Old Clandon (cult): Old Clandon originated only half a year after King Gethnoel took the throne. Nocreature knows for sure who started the cult, but it’s said that he was part of the rebellion. Old Clandon believes three things:
Old Clandon is a clan of powerful assassins, who are divided into a strict hierarchy. Each assassin is given a level. First comes the Divine, or the leader of the cult. After him come the Shamans, or top generals. After that come the level ten assassins, all the way down to the level one servants. Each assassin, no matter their level or rank, carries a double curved sword and multiple throwing knives of the same make. All wear black cloaks, the “color of perfection”. --SPOILER ALERT-- These rogue fighters also carry poisonous crossbows. Along with these, they have an array of dangerous poisons and different types of darts and bolts. Each wears a special patch with a number and the Old Clandon symbol. Well, there it is: every government and hierarchy and religion in Clandon, excepting the Mountainous Lands. I’ll let that one be a surprise. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it! Also, I hope it explained some things that were confusing, like the Set Laws and Old Clandon.
Gethnoel Swiftblade paced back and forth, back and forth in his throne room. “Where are they? They’ve been missing for five days!” he exploded. “I specifically told Santena not to launch an attack yet. The company should be back now!” The nobles near the king came nearer, trying to reassure him. They all knew that Santena was his best friend and advisor, and if the wolf was lost, it would be devastating to him.
The king was not easily reassured. “Leave me, all of you. I need to think -- and pray.” The nobles and lords hesitated. “Go!” he commanded. Hesitantly, they finally made an exit out the nearest door. Gethnoel fell the the floor on his knees, tears that he’d held back in front of his men finally pouring out of his silvery eyes. “Father,” he whispered. “Bring back my brother.” ***** Well, at the moment, his “brother” was running for his life . . . again. Just half a mile from Highlord Rock, Santena and Lieutenant Mc’Seron were dashing through the snow on an open plain. Sergeant Vire had already been caught by the sparrows and eagles they were on the run from. Santena was trying to yank his horn from his belt. “Lieutenant! Split, crosspiece!” he commanded. This was a common order given among the Swiftness Guild: what it meant, when two, three, or four runners were pacing together, was a simple but effective straight split. If two, they instantly made a full 90° turn. If three, one kept up the forward dash, while the others split off. If four, the extra runner fell back at a full halt, then joined the second on the right side. As ordered, Mc’Seron skidded to a stop, then took off at full speed towards the south. Santena quickly mirrored his action. Overhead, he heard the whistle of wings as the larger, heavier eagles spun over head, trying to check their speeding recklessness. The sparrows were able to turn, but without their backup, didn’t continue after their enemies. The eagles had crashed into a cluster of trees. “Haha!” Santena gasped triumphantly. He’d been running as fast as he possibly could for over half an hour, and nothing had worked. Quickly, though, before the eagle troops recovered, he dove into a nearby cave, rolling over on his . . . “Aah!” . . . right onto his back wound, tearing it back open and ripping off the bandage he’d remade that morning. “Damn it!” he screamed, then slapped a paw over his mouth. Silence answered his outburst. He held his breath. Still nothing. Five more seconds, and he was going to move. Nothing. He burst from the snowbank and cave, taking off back to the east and Kerenian. He’d have to trust Mc’Seron to find his own way back. ***** His fur was matted to his body, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. Kerenian was just there, right on the horizon! To gain speed, Mc’Seron ripped off his sword, belt, and chain mail hood. “Doran . . . help me!” Thundering paws and loud roars were bearing down on him. ***** Gethnoel was still on his knees, after two hours of prayer, when a loud, urgent knock sounded at his door. “Come in!” he commanded, standing and wiping the tears away. The oak door flew open and crashed into the wall -- followed closely by Santena. The black wolf stumbled to the floor, his face plastered with terror. “Santena!” the king exclaimed, rushing to his friend and catching him before he fell. “What happened? Where’s the company I sent you with?” A group of medics rushed past the open door, followed by Earl Fent, Lord Rake, and Ithiniel. The latter group dashed into the throne room. The medics were carrying a body wrapped in white cloth. “He’s unconscious,” Fent determined quickly. “Call those medics back: we have another one.” “Another one?” Gethnoel asked worriedly. Rake nodded sternly. “A certain Lieutenant Mc’Seron, Swiftness Guild, was severely injured. We found him right outside the center point of the kingdom. Broken back, crushed leg, but no blood. It looked as if he’d taken one, and only one, strong blow. Just one bruise.” Rake shivered. “What creature would be powerful enough to do that?” he wondered quietly. “Only a few, Rake.” A new face entered the room. “Captain Icefurr, in that part of the country where they’d been coming from . . . I can guarantee that Mc’Seron was attacked by a bear warrior,” Jennter Mc’Kallen stated matter-of-factly. “And a powerful one, at that.” “Lord Jennter!” the two other lords chorused, and came to one knee with a fist on their hearts in an ancient sign of respect. He nodded, and the pair rose again. Jennter was Gethnoel’s primary advisor, and the only creature who still called him “Captain Icefurr Swiftblade”. Whenever he walked into a room, he instantly commanded respect from the lesser lords. His powerful frame and myriad of scars across his face spoke of his older role, only a few years ago. His arms and sword didn’t compare to that of Santena’s, but right now, he looked to be the most powerful creature in the room next to the unconscious wolf. “Didn’t you hear the lords, Captain? Call those medics back.” Earl Fent yelled down the hall in a voice that was deceiving in relation to his considerable age. “Get back here, doc!” Even in the traumatic situation he was in, Gethnoel couldn’t help letting a grin flit across his face at the sound, and the speed at which two medics charged down the hall and into the throne chamber. They took Santena by his arms and legs, straining to lift him, but managed to move him out of the room with looks of determination plastered on their faces. “Damned heavy wolf,” one muttered. “Watch your language in the presence of the king!” Lord Rake commanded. He turned back to Lord Jennter and Gethnoel. “A bear? Polar? Why would they be so close? And why did this one attack one of our soldiers? Under the Set Laws, this is a declaration of war between the Mountainous Lands and Clandoran . . .” Earl Fent immediately interrupted. “No, it isn’t. The Mountainous Lands and the Plainsterritories were excluded from the Set Laws three years ago, due to their refusal to cooperate with the main Clandon landmass and Terrenia. The Lands’ emperor believed that his empire was just fine without us when King Swiftblade sent his request for the old rules to be restored, and Kallenian Snapclaw almost attempted an attack. After Gulrag Northwind destroyed the ancient ways, put into effect centuries ago, he also got rid of the Set Laws. Therefore, we have no right to attack them back unless they actually encroach upon our territory. Which they didn’t,” he added. “But they did! At least, the Mountainous Lands were on West Clandon land, which is protected under the Set Laws,” Lord Rake argued. “Which places the issue under Western rule. Therefore, we can’t do anything, my good lord,” Fent said resignedly. “Only Tiren Letren, and I have a menacing feeling that he isn’t going to.” “But he might!” Gethnoel exclaimed, a vague idea forming in his mind. “If we perhaps . . . . convince him with a mutual outcome of letting this continue any further than it already has. We’re going back to West Clandon. Call Ithiniel.” Ithiniel was soon collected, and the king, a troop of one-score soldiers, and the lords Fent and Rake set off towards Highlord Rock once more. Meanwhile, back at the castle, something terrible was about to happen. ***** Lieutenant Mc’Seron woke to the most horrifying sensation: he couldn’t feel anything but his shoulders and face. No matter how hard he strained, all that greeted his feverish efforts but a tingling feeling and a growing pain in his upper back. He was in the Karenian palace infirmary, surrounded by empty cots. The fox pulled his head forwards with a tremendous amount of effort. “Oh, Doran . . .” he muttered woozily. What had happened? Then it all rushed back to him in one wave: he’d been running towards the city, to warn the king about . . . the Mountainous Lands! They were coming! He had to . . . “Who’s there?” Nothing greeted this question. Then he heard it again: a slight swishing sound, like a moving cloak. Next, a small rasp of steel on steel, like a dagger being drawn. “Who’s there? In the name of the High One, come out!” Still, nothing. He laid back down shakily. “Stupid brain, playing tricks on one creature,” he murmured, but didn’t quite believe it himself. He was wrong. A bright knife descended from over his head, flying towards his skull. The last thing he got to think was, Oh, no. Old Clandon! A Note from the Author: I am soon going to do an explanatory post about a few things: The Old Clandon cult, the Set Laws, and the government systems of each individual country in Clandon, including Therrenia. If all you Clandonians out there have any other questions, be sure to ask in the comments! Alright. Here you go, few followers that I have!
I'm officially changing my handle. No longer shall I be Icefurr. I am . . . (This is going to sound abnormally geeky) WhiteFire! Alrighty, now, see ya . . . but I'm not changing the site's URL. Bye! |
AuthorI love fiction, fantasy, roleplaying, and reading. Nice to meet you too. All of my tales are little kid-friendly, except perhaps a few stories in the Rogue Captain universe. Those are more geared towards teens. Check with your parents, just in case. Archives
August 2019
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