SUMMER

Angkar: Wet season. Precipitation is common during the late afternoon and evening hours. Vegetation grows significantly during the summer, but flooding is a danger due to the monsoons that ravage the country. The rainforest sees evenly distributed rainfall throughout the season.

Ashoka: Desert: Extremely hot and dry. Violent, heavy downpours following long dryspells. Jungle: Hot and humid with frequent, violent rainstorms.

Morrim: Relatively hot and dry, but with a chance of thunderstorms from time to time. The heat may cause forest fires.

Soto: Hot and humid, tree cover is dense while ground growth is restricted. Thunderstorms see the most amount of rainfall during the season, and it can be very windy. On occasion, there are flash floods that can destroy homes and farms built on flood plains.

ANNOUNCEMENTS

March 30th, 2018 As you might have noticed, Elenlond has changed hands and is now under new management! If you have any questions, please direct them to DaringRaven! As for the rest of the announcements, including a season change, you can find them over here at the following link!

January 16, 2018 As you might have noticed, Elenlond has a new skin, all thanks to Mel! Don't forget to check out the new OTMs as well!

December 2, 2017 Winter has settled on Elenlond, bringing sleep for some and new life for others.

September 26, 2017 With the belated arrival of autumn come some interesting developments: new OTMs, a Town Crier and the release of the Elly Awards winners!

July 14, 2017 After a bit of forum clean-up, Elly Awards season has arrived! Head on over to make your nominations!

May 31, 2017 Summer has arrived and so has activity check! That's not all though – we also have some new OTMs for you and some staff changes!


WHAT IS ELENLOND?

Elenlond is an original free-form medieval fantasy RPG set on the continent of Soare and the Scattered Isles, which are located to the south in the Sea of Diverging Waters. The four chief nations of the western side of the world—Ashoka in northern Soare, Soto in western Soare, Morrim in eastern Soare, and Angkar, the largest of the Scattered Isles—continue to experience growth and prosperity since the fall of the Mianorite gods, although power struggles within the countries—or outside of them—continue to ensue.


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  • CURRENT EVENTS

    Angkar: To honour the reinvigoration of the ancient city of Mondrágon, the majestic Queen Eulalia has permitted the opening of a Coliseum where people from around the world and all walks of life can test their combat skills against one another. Many have already done battle in search of honour, glory, prizes and money.

    Ashoka: In an otherwise peaceful times, Ashokans are beset with the relatively minor inconveniences of wandering undead and occasionally-aggressive giant rock worms. There has also been some controversy over the recent re-legalisation of human sacrifice.

    Morrim: Rumour has it that Emperor Leofric de Hollemark is mustering forces for a war. Though the threat from Soto’s forests has passed, the forces previously employed in watching the forest now linger at the border. Rumours also circulate of a small group that has been dispatched to make contact with the tribes of the Do’suul Mountains.

    Soto: The Sotoans have defeated the fey and liberated themselves from Méadaigh’s oppression! Preliminary efforts have been made at rebuilding the city of Madrid, which had been captured at the beginning of the war. However, the Sotoans are hindered from recovery famine. Méadaigh’s magic caused summer to persist in the Erth’netora Forest through the winter. Her power has been withdrawn and the plants die as if preparing for winter – even though it is now summer. The Sotoans must sustain off what food they can get, what creatures they can kill and what can be imported into the city from Morrim and Angkar.

    For a fuller description of our most recent events, check out our most recent edition of The Town Crier!

    daringraven
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    SHADOW
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    Kestrel Sumner (Shadow)
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    Welcome to our home, a world in which anything can happen. From sprawling deserts and vast forests to massive volcanoes and luscious hot springs, Soare and the Scattered Isles are beautiful places just waiting to be explored. For the brave and the bold or the cautious and the wary, creatures of all kinds roam the earth, looking for adventure or for a place to call their own. Species of all kinds - the well-known and the unknown - thrive here, though not always in harmony.

    Elenlond is an original medieval fantasy RPG with a world that's as broad as it is unique. Calling on characters of all kinds, the sky's the limit in a world where boundaries are blurred and the imagination runs rampant. Restrictions are limited and members are encouraged to embrace their creativity, to see where they can go and what they can do. It's no longer just text on a page - it becomes real.

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    Life, What Cauchemar!; For Lilith | (TW: Sickness, rape)
    Topic Started: May 31 2017, 10:44 AM (212 Views)
    Chimaed
    Member Avatar
    Une Fillette a qui armes ne sont pesans; et devant elle vont fuyant les ennemis, ne nul n'y dure.

    ”You are invulnerable, you have no Achilles’ heel.
    You will go on, and when you have prevailed
    You can say: at this point many a one has failed.
    But what have I, but what have I, my friend,
    To give you, what can you receive from me?”
    T.S. Eliot, Portrait of a Lady, 61-65


    When Chimaed fell ill, she was taken to another room and Orion did not come to visit her. The sickness descended so rapidly that she did not remember being taken downstairs. Once she woke up in this bare, unfamiliar room, she thought she was trapped in a dream of suffering from which she could not wake. She pleaded with the walls for Orion to come wake her, but her only visitors were the mistress of the inn – who came infrequently, her care only barely bought by Orion’s gold – and whatever physicians Orion’s money and reputation could buy.

    Aone she sweltered away under the blankets, her nose stopped up and her mouth so dry from sucking in air that her tongue cracked. She tossed in the embrace of a fever, which rolled her bones into a raw dough of pain, which ran its sandpaper arms over her skin. The physicians came and fed her bitter tinctures and syrupy decoctions of hyssop and horehound. She thought these physicians were ghosts feeding her hell-food and she fought more often than not, except when she was too exhausted to lift a limb.

    “Orion?” she said when the door opened. But no, it was only some woman (Marion, the mistress, though she could not remember her name or position) come to bring her a thin broth.

    “He says he is busy,” said the ghost, sitting by Chimaed’s bed and lifting the spoonful of broth to her lips. Chimaed ate and it tasted of nothing.

    “Not busy,” said Chimaed, her gooey gaze travelling up to the ceiling, too weak to say it with any fire. Lapsing into her native tongue she said, “Not unless with some other whore.”

    Chimaed allowed herself to be fed, eyes hard at this ignominy. The heat of the broth often provoked her to cough, and the ghost often had to wait impatiently for her to stop. Then, in a twinkling, Marion was gone, and Chimaed was alone. Only then did she allow herself to cry, curled up under the blankets, muffling her tears in the prickling mattress. Again, she and Orion were escaping the palace – this happened often in this miserable room – and he ran ahead of her and lost himself in the crowd. Tumbling over the memory like water was a convulsive mantra: ”He left me long ago, he left me long ago.”

    So weeping, she fell asleep, to wake in distress. Freshly brought to tears, she coaxed her shivering limbs out of bed and squatted over the chamberpot to urinate, one elbow on the bed for support, her other hand tented tenuously on the floor. Too weak to stay in this position once the deed was done, she fell to her knees and doubled over. Her spinning head came to rest on the floorboards and so she stayed for a while, her brains tucked between her elbows, curled up like a child in its childish positions of sleep. Slowly, then, she turned her head to the side and saw something on the floor: a wolf’s head carved from a bone and hung from a cord.

    Chimaed had forgotten this trinket’s existence, but now dimly recalled how she had hidden it under the bed for fear that the ghosts would rob her of it. Seeking comfort, she crawled her hand across the floorboards and took it. It pulsed like a heartbeat in her hand; to her it was more alive than anyone who had come to help her yet. It gave her strength enough to climb back into bed and she fell asleep once more with her mouth open and the wolf’s head clutched to her chest.

    Days and nights passed. She did not get better, she got worse. She rolled over and over in the bed like a pig on a spit, she vomited with poor aim what little was left in her stomach. She struggled to raise a cup of water to her face and believed that she hefted the weight of a whole ocean in her hand. No number of blankets was enough, for she was cold, yet sometimes she became so tormented with their weight that she tore them off. She fell into wakefulness, she fell into sleep, and she dreamed – oh, she dreamed! There were dark, spiny demons in the tower on the Key, there were a thousand crabs torturing her poor body, there were was a village in the snow stalked by ghosts with white, staring eyes, there was an enormous wavw that kept coming and smashing her into the shore.

    She laid helplessly in the desert, burning, burning. She looked to the north, to the city that hung, inverted, over the mountains. Towers reached for peaks and peaks reached for towers. Orion was there but he did not come to save her, she who burned in the sands; he did not come from those towers which, even from this distance, could be seen writhing with life.

    What did come was this: the sands shifted…burning, burning…Something rose from the sands like the leviathan had risen from Etruria’s sea. It revealed itself bit by bit – fingerbones bleached by the sun, a whole forest of them gripping and relaxing in concert, above the yellowed dome of a mighty skull. Sand fell from the abyssal eyesockets, casting a veil over its body of a thousand ribcages and a thousand creaking limbs arrayed according to some infernal order. A thousand humans, killed by her, come together to make her pay for her sins! She, lying in the burning sand, she without a friend in the world!

    Chimaed woke from her dream into delirium. She woke into a night where she was all alone – for who would bother to sit beside her? She was being chased, but she was too weak to run. Her fingers wrapped around the bone pendant; she felt the fragment of perverted life quivering within.

    “Aputsiaq!” she cried, “Save me!” Then, with the mental motion he had taught her when she was a child, she released him.



    Free at last!

    Aputsiaq’s shadowy soul poured out of the amulet like smoke from a kitchen fire, which gathers up at the ceiling and spreads itself across. From this cloud, slowly forming into shape, gleamed eyes of red, more like gaps in the smoke through which flame flickered. With effort, her pulled himself into the form to which he was more accustomed: the wolfish head, the delicate forelegs and the billowing tail of smoke, curling round and round the room, round and round Chimaed like a diaphanous snake. A lick of red appeared on his forehead and blinked like a third eye. This effort of assuming a form was not in vain: it kept him from feeling like he was about to float through the cracks in the ceiling and out into death.

    Below him, Chimaed gasped his name. “Aputsiaq!” She saw danger bleeding from every corner. “Help me!”

    “After what you’ve done?” he growled, his voice as vague and billowing like wind howling around a house. Chimaed’s will anchored him, but it was weak and rotting. Aniketos tore through it as if it were string. “You are a fool,” he laughed, “Releasing me and all your efforts? Now I am free!”

    Chimaed’s mouth opened soundlessly. Aputsiaq could feel the movement of her mind. “You trusted me? How glad I am you did!”

    The last word twisted with a wrench of pain. As good as it was to be free, he already felt the exhaustion of being without a body. It was like trying to not fall asleep – part of him inclined towards succumbing, part of him fought desperately against it. At any moment he might nod off and lose himself, and the effort of trying not to do so caused a pain of the soul, far more desperate than that of the body, like a heartache.

    Thankfully, he knew from his studies how to keep himself from ascending: he must feed himself.

    He descended upon her, concentrating his will on making part of his body solid enough to touch her. Just as he had when she was a child, he crouched over her, he entered her, and he showed her what he was made of. Though it was not as nice as it would have been if he had had a body, he did feel his spirit inflating like a seal-skin balloon, and by the time he was done he felt stronger and more able to hold his own.

    Too weak and sick to outlast this fear, Chimaed had fallen from gibbering into silent catatonia some minutes ago.

    “I will find you again, dear,” he said to those blank eyes. With that he sailed away, slid through the cracks around the windowpane and out into the night.

    The city was strange and unfamiliar. Trapped in that pendant he had had no consciousness of anything but nothingness; he did not know what Chimaed had done in the months since he had died. There were only those in a moments when, taken by a habitual longing, she had touched the pendant and accidentally connected her soul to his, showing him a flash of the world he had inhabited. He was able to put together the edges of a narrative, and nothing more, and he did not know the city’s name.

    Invisible in the night, he floated all over the city, through alleyways and gutters, through homes and flophouses, through inns and brothels and the ships in the harbour. He searched for a dream that was right to provide him with refuge or a spirit susceptible to being scared from which he could draw energy or, better yet, a soul he could manipulate to his will and make his own.
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    Lillith
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    The night was cold.

    After the clouds swallowed the grey sun, a wet chill descended over Fairin, white ghosts threading around the cobble-and-whitewash buildings.

    Lillith sat hunched, her forehead pressed to her knees. Her scrawny arms circled her legs, but it did little enough to warm her — shivers wracked up and down her limbs, and f’sure she’d catch a cold — but it was better than offering up her body again, writhing in stinking sheets and taken by stinking men.

    I had enough o’ that.

    All her gold was gone. Fate had snatched it right out o’ her hands as soon as she landed — an’ then she’d been jailed, thrown to rot in a cell along with that redheaded bitch. The girl ground her crooked teeth together, squeezin’ her eyes shut and pressing it against her knees.

    The world didn’t make sense. Not here, not livin’ amongst the two-legs. Life had been so much simpler in the waters — swim, kill, eat — and she’d had her Sisters with her, their singing-magics, drowned the very people that now beat her an’ took her between the legs an’ stole from her.

    Here, she was nothing.

    The bracelet was cold against her wrist, as ever. It clinked menacingly as she lifted a hand, staring at it with coal-black eyes; again, the mad thought o’ chopping off her own limb came to her, stark and red and bloody.

    But somethin’ inside her told her it wouldn’t work.

    Slowly she dropped it, fingers clenching around the hard bottleneck o’ wine. She’d stolen it from a merchant stall along with some measly bread — the remains o’ which were going wet and stale in her back — and her stomach clawed with hunger, like a ragin’ beast tryin’ to get out.

    The girl scowled an’ pressed it to her lips, swallowing the sour liquid with a twist o’ her lips. How two-legs enjoyed this was beyond her. She’d seen them enough in the streets — reelin’ drunkards that shouted at her, else stared at her with extinguished eyes — and finally understood them. No wonder they went to the bottle. It took all this shite away — how many two-legs had nothin’ to live for, scrapin’ and clawin’ for a life that would never get better?

    The girl put it down again, scooting closer to the wall and tugging her dress back over her legs.

    The wine warmed her some, at least — she felt her mind waver, her limbs slow an’ heavy — swayed a bit in the grey alley, eyes unfocused. She still hurt all over from the scuffle wit’ that redheaded bitch — her arms and ribs were mottled wit’ bruises, lips cracked, knees turnin’ all sorts o’ purples an’ greens.

    I just want to sleep…

    Shivering, she drew her thin dress closer; the once-bright fabric had been stained and dirtied to a dull, filthy blue, mildewy about the fringes. Her sandals were cracked an’ dusty, and she took them off and put them under her so no one got any ideas; the mist bit her toes with cold, turned the nails blueish, and she curled up into a ball, arms cradling her head. The wine made her skull spin — sloshed round in her ears, a dull fuzz pressing down on her brain. And gradually, she drifted off…


    ***

    The water was black — deep an’ dark.

    She couldn’ see — only smell, felt the ocean streaming past her gills and into her mouth; felt the far-off heartbeat of a dozen things, the dim luminescence pinpricking that deathly void. Blood seeped into her sinuses — intoxicated her — drew her forth in a ripple of fins, cutting through the deep like a white arrow.

    Her Sisters were making sacrifice.

    Slowly, the deep gave way to shafts of light — it was brighter here, a deep, rich blue; below, the depths of the Abyssine cracked the earth, furrowed it into black canyons. There the Old Ones lay, the Drowned Gods they gave praise to, the ones that had given them their Voices.

    Crae’onnog swam — saw the dim-blue city on the continental shelf, the sacred palaces of bone and volcanic offal, shell and sunken ships and spun, glassy sand — heard the call of her Sisters, that singing wail that propelled her forward.

    But it did not get any closer.

    She lashed her tail — strained with every muscle of her being — flattened her opalescent fins against her body, felt the water jet behind her — but the city did not move. She swam there in stasis, lost — below her, the abyss — above her, the endless blue — and had to stop, her body aching, heart pumping hard. The red of her gills unfurled, billowed in the current.

    There was something in the distance. A glowing, luminescent orb — but it had no scent — she could sense no heartbeat, no electric crackle of life. The mermaid froze and waited, gathering her strength as it approached. The thistle-garden of her mouth opened; she lifted the vicious barbs on her back and hands, a low, clicking warning issuing from her throat.
    Edited by Lillith, Jun 12 2017, 09:26 PM.
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    Chimaed
    Member Avatar
    Une Fillette a qui armes ne sont pesans; et devant elle vont fuyant les ennemis, ne nul n'y dure.

    Aputsiaq floated through a window and found a lonely sleeper, cuddled up in her bed. He passed over her, breaking her light slumber. She tried to cry out at the sight of his burning eyes but merely emitted a terrified rasp – and so gave up a meal of fear for him to go stronger on. Out under the door, through the branching hallways of this odd building, apparently full of tiny homes and holes in the roof, where many families and tiny children gave him the sustenance he needed. They would wake in the morning thinking they had suffered some terrible nightmare, though perhaps they would discover through talking that they had all seen the same ghost.

    Aputsiaq billowed down the stairwell and seeped through the door. Once outside he allowed his senses to expand (thus allowing his substance to disperse dangerously) in search of life. Ah, there was something! A little flame of life, wavering but bright, powerful but shaded like a lantern. Curious indeed.

    He pulled himself together and rolled his way around a corner, into an alleyway where he saw a pale little woman curled up on the dirty cobbles, a bottle of wine clutched in the crook of her arm and sticking straight up like a vanquishing spear. Though she was asleep – or perhaps particularly because she was asleep – he could get a feel for her. Her soul was split open with a longing, like a lily in full bloom, and he could tell that she was dreaming of the object that caused her such pangs.

    Intrigued, he descended and surrounded her head like a cloud. Gradually, he injected himself through her ear and filtered into her dream.

    ***

    Sometimes Chimaed had dreamed of the ocean. He knew this because he had sometimes followed her through these dreams as she plunged through the shallow waters in the shape of a seal, pursuing fish and playing with other seals. This dream took him deeper, into a lightless and almost lifeless sea. He billowed through the waters like a cloud of liquid pearl and gradually, through the darkness, caught sight of the dreamer floating in the water.

    At least, he had to assume she was the dreamer: he could feel the vividness of the dream increase around her, but she looked quite different. Just as Chimaed had her second form, so did this one, apparently: a whip-like fish-creature, white as the moon with a gruesome bloom of gills expanding from her skinny neck. Though, as Aputsiaq thought of it, watching the creature flounder in the water towards some distant city, this likely wasn't her second form but her primary one. That would explain why her soul had seem like a flame contained within a lantern – and then surely this city was what she longed for so seepingly.

    She turned about, catching sight of his pearlescent gleam in the waters. Her fins flared up in warning and she clicked at him. Unafraid, Aputsiaq continued to drift forward. His clawed little fingers tweaked at her brain and he altered the substance of the dream so that his voice emanated from all around them, warm and understanding. "Ah, to go home," he said, "What a pleasure it would be. It hurts to be torn away from that which you love. Trust me, I know." With each word the waters reverberated with caring and compassion which was so all-surrounding that it could hardly seem false. "What is it that keeps you back, sweet one?"

    Floating forward, he presented himself to her: a wolf's head, two delicate limbs that stood upon nothing, and a vague billowing mass making up the hind parts of his body. He shifted constantly, sometimes unnervingly, swaying like a charmed snake.
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    Lillith
    Member Avatar


    In the alley, the girl twitched and whimpered — she batted at her ear as though a bug had crawled over it, but soon enough fell still, drawn into that inky black of her dream, her body lost to the mists of Fairin.

    ***

    The apparition approached, slow and looming — and she waited, muscles taut and coiled, ready to take it by the neck and drag it into the crushing deep.

    It was a creature unlike any she had seen.

    It had the snout of a human’s dog — yet longer, and glowing a luminescent white; a patch of red made it appear as though a torch flickered and leapt on its forehead, not the cool greens of deep-water fish, but the warm hues of human fire. Two legs dangled from beneath its head, swaying like the long arms of a squid. The mermaid let out a few more clicks—this time below the range of hearing — and a tension wound her back when they did not echo back.

    Hollow.

    The ghost stared at her, unwavering. Its light bled out in her vision — like an uncertain reflection of the moon on black waters — and she fixed it with her flat, dark eyes.

    Ah, to go home, and its voice was honey — thick, rich, filling; it glutted the waters around her, a physical presence in and of itself. The mermaid bristled, gills lashing, but it was of no threat to her; she could not hurt hollow things, and they could not hurt her. And so she let the apparition speak, accepting it within the mad logic of dreams. What a pleasure it would be. It hurts to be torn away from that which you love. Trust me, I know, it hummed, and through its words she could hear the high keening of her Sisters, felt her heart crushed by longing.

    Crae'onnog lifted a diaphanous limb — and to her sick horror the bracelet was there; not as a slim, silver thing, but as it truly was. It bit deeply into her pearlescent skin — had swollen and lengthened to heavy chains, a fisherman’s net that ensnared her arms and fins, choking around her neck. And they anchored somewhere deep below her — and of a sudden she understood why she could not move, could not get any closer to the City.

    A hideous shriek rent the waters, full of wrath and blood. As she lashed, great red blooms of it billowed upwards.

    Cursed, Crae’onnog hissed.

    And she spoke — not in the primitive grunts of human Common — but her voice as it was, every word serpentine, a fatal song that had ensnared many a soul. It was as terrifying as it was beautiful; the crash of a wave against jagged rock; a boiling storm over a ship; guttural and cruel as it was high and unearthly.

    I have been cursed. And what agony bled through her sonnet-voice; if the ghost’s words were those of honey, then hers were a widow’s wail, piercing the water as the creature’s had done. And yet it held a whetstone edge, a glint of a hidden dagger.

    By a human woman. A trapper. She chained me, and I will kill her. The bonds bit deeper; a mist of red floated up to that expansive blue, swallowed by the water.

    And who are you, creature? Her cruel eyes fixed him, thin mouth stretching taut over thistles of teeth.

    Who are you, that comes to the Abyssine?

    She did not fear it. For she was used to dealings with the unearthly — the drowned Dead and their white, bloated bellies — all the low cries of things best left unseen, the many-eyed gods that writhed at the bottom of the ocean.
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    Chimaed
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    Une Fillette a qui armes ne sont pesans; et devant elle vont fuyant les ennemis, ne nul n'y dure.

    She was trapped, a ball of chains and struggling flesh. Her voice was the unearthly wail of legends, but Aputsiaq, being himself and being dead, did not bend to it. She was rendered helpless yet she was not entirely so – there was a fight in her, a desire to change her fate in the world. In other words, she was perfect.

    Who are you, that comes to the Abyssine? she asked.

    Aputsiaq did not answer. He gathered up his substance and then sailed forward like a cloud under a strong wind. Manipulating the threads of her dream, he swirled around her like a whirlwind and tore through the chains with his teeth as if they were nothing more than paper. They fell away, shattered, and sank into the inscrutable depths below.

    Only then did her answer, wrapping himself around Lillith like a scarf, his voice now soft and personal. "I am Aputsiaq. Once I was a king but now I am nothing. I am still strong, however. I will rise again."

    He tumbled around her to look her in the eyes, looking at her like a dog who trusted her, but also like a man who trusted her. "Who are you, my lost one? And this – who are you to let anyone stop you?"
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    Lillith
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    It was then that the Creature flew at her.

    On instinct she recoiled, teeth flashing in the waters; but the chains bit deep, sending up another cloud of blood. She tried to bite the creature as it enfolded her, but nothing clicked between her jaws. An inhuman shriek left her. And then —

    The chains fell away like shredded kelp. It shocked her to feel the lightness of her own body: a film peeled off her milky eyes, nostrils flaring. Crae’onnog lifted a hand, marveling as the raw flesh of her wrist knit together.

    The wounds were gone.

    Before she could burst away in a ripple of fin and muscle, the Creature ensnared her once more, though his presence was not biting and cruel. Instead it was as a warm current, and he turned, and gave her his Name.

    Her lips peeled away to expose thistle-like teeth.

    "I am Crae’onnog," she answered in her musical voice, and it felt good to use her Name, and not the names of land dwellers. "Once I was a Sister to gods, but now I am nothing. I am still strong, however. I will rise again."

    She tilted her pale, translucent head, letting out a series of throaty clicks.

    No one will stop me,” she assured him, her voice suddenly flush with anger. Her fins flared like a sail. “I will not rest until the one who did this to me is dead. And then I will give her body over to the old gods, and she will live on as my servant until she rots.

    Pleased at this mental image, she leveled her eyes at him. “And you, King Aputsiaq, who took your crown? How is it that you were once a king, and now a lowly eel?"
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    Chimaed
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    Une Fillette a qui armes ne sont pesans; et devant elle vont fuyant les ennemis, ne nul n'y dure.

    At his command the water whispered her name with a chorus of a hundred voices, lauding her like a queen: Crae'onnog, Crae'onnog, Crae'onnog...

    Willingly, she played off his own turn of phrase, and soon after revealed herself to be a necromancer. Aputsiaq had to keep himself from chuckling in satisfaction. Could he have landed in a more perfect head?

    When she called him a lowly eel, he almost rose up in rage. Indeed, his pearlescent dream-stuff briefly flickered with a rash of red sparks, which were quelled in an instant. He had to remind himself: had he not called himself nothing first? If she asked him whether he had been angry, he could say that it was nothing to do with her, that the reminder of his situation stung like ice on the wind.

    "There was one who I trusted and made my Queen," he said darkly, shadows coursing through his body like snowmelt, "But she took the power I gave her and betrayed me. It was she who killed me and reduced me to this spirit. She has imprisoned me – for how long I do not know – and I have only just escaped. Her name is Chimaed."

    Involuntarily, the water reacted to her name, echoing it in disdain: Chimaed, Chimaed, Chimaed...

    Aputsiaq shook her name away. "But she does not matter. She will pay her due, in time."

    Aputsiaq now lowered his head slightly, taking on and expression of deference, like a stray begging for food. "I came to you to beg your help. I have wandered the streets of this city, lost, looking for the right person – and only you had a mind so open and capable. You were the only one I have seen with a power worth noting, and the strength and intelligence to use this power as it should be used. I am weak now, Crae'onnog, but I spent my life learning the secrets of the art."

    Need he even say what art? They both knew: the essence of it vibrated wordlessly in the water.

    "This I could teach you, if only you would help me."
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    Lillith
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    It angered him.

    She watched him cooly with her coin-flat eyes, tilting her head as he explained. Oh, she could see it: she knew the knife of helplessness and betrayal. To once be mighty, and now to be… this.

    She wondered what King he had once been. Now, looking at him—sad, frail, little more than a worthless eel—she felt a sort of disgust well up in her spirit. The very same she felt when she passed by the beggars in the alleys of Etruria. Once an old man had made a grab at her; she’d thrown the husk of an oyster at him and hissed, running away as he called her a whore, his sad veneer ripped away.

    I will never beg, she swore to herself. I will never become so lowly a creature.

    But the name of his Queen gave her pause. Her gills flared, head tilting.

    Chimaed?

    She knew that name. It struck her in full force: Chimaed! The dark woman! The boat -- calling for her Sisters -- the great, swollen glimpse of a Leviathan she saw instead...

    Chimaed, Chimaed, Chimaed, the waters whispered.

    Would she reward her if she brought this spirit back to her? Or, no-- had she sent this spirit? If it truly was the dark woman, then certainly it could not have been a coincidence. She'd not met another two-legs with the name Chimaed; then again, she hadn't spent long among them, but from what she gathered it was as alien as her own.

    He pleaded now, and in her mind, his white-smoke muzzle became the face of the old man that had grabbed her, stinking and toothless, his face like a shriveled nut.

    Whore, he had shrieked, when she was not useful. Her basket bounced hard against her thighs as she ran, throwing a wrathful look over her shoulder. I’ll fuck your cunt, girl…

    She stared at him, thoughtful, as though weighing his words. At length she wriggled forward, the fans of her cheeks flaring, one webbed finger reaching up. Its cruel nail parted the smoke, as if she wished to caress the man’s cheek.

    I sense great strength in you,” she hissed. Her eyes lit like twin moons. “It is no small thing, a two-leg that can wield the Old Powers. I did not think they existed.

    Teach me, her heart sneered. But she bit down her pride, parted her lips. “I cannot use my true magics… in the form I am bound. But if I could…” A pleased clacking came from her throat. She drifted backwards in the water with ease, fins flaring.

    Tell me, Aputsiaq, what is it you ask of me?"
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