After the Fall of Arachtballa

Scaalia lifted a small glowing orange piece of iron from the the forge with a pair of tongs.  Turning it over in the air he inspected it carefully before placing it upon the anvil.  His smith's hammer fell upon it rhythmically shaping the tiny piece blow by blow.  After a few moments what had been a small lump of iron was now a four inch nail, satisfied with it's shape Scaalia dunked it in a nearby barrel of cool water where it hissed violently as it took its final shape.  He scavenged another piece of scrap metal and thrust it into the coals of the forge. 

Working the bellows gave his mind time to wander.  When it wasn't bent to the task of shaping metal it constantly returned to the recent news of the fall of Arachtballa; swarmed by thousands of Consumed - Fallen stalking the hallways corrupting the solders within and sending them forth to do their bidding.  It had been less than a handful of months since Scaalia had left the mountain fortress of Arachtballa for the School of Seven Virtues.  Arachtballa had been home for only a short time but it had left its impression on him.  He could still hear the snap of the blue and white pennants in the wind, and smell the freshly baked bread from the bakery across the drill yard from the small forge he'd been assigned to. 

His gaze dropped into the hot glow of the forge as the faces of his former militia unit members haunted his memories; Mullens, Ten-Penny, Connigh, Tarts, Crannagh, Bags, and Mundsie.  Did they made it out? Were they sent to evacuate the civilians?  Were they Consumed and turned against Braemoor and the rest of Armandy like all the other damned souls the Mahori had subverted?  Had they turned upon one another, choosing to end the life of their wounded friends rather see them return as mindless versions of their former selves?  Scaalia could only pray that some of them survived.  He pulled the now glowing iron from the coals and began pounding it into shape, forming the beginnings of a "J" hook.  Simple implements provided the distraction he needed, and were always in demand around the school grounds. 

He hoped that the noise of the hammer would drive the visions from his mind, but it did not.  He could hear fragments of their voices in the ring of the metal; Ten-Penny's long winded explanations, and Tarts' exclamations over discovering something exotic in the pantries.  The voices changed after a while and were replaced with Bags recounting one of his grand escapades, late night at the local pub, with Mundsie's lilting and distinctly feminine laughter and Crannagh's bass rumble of a chuckle accompanying him.  Just when he thought his friends had left him for good he heard Master Smith Connigh speaking to him.  'You're swinging too hard, not so much force.' she said, as she had many times before when they'd been working in the armory.  He focused on his work; she was right.  He had pounded to iron flat, into a useless mass that was rapidly cooling.

Scaalia muttered to himself and quickly dipped the scrap into water to disipate the remaining heat and then dropped the mostly cool iron into the scrap tin for later use.  He made a warding and supplicating gesture with his hands as he left the small forge, "Barmorean give me strength."  Scaalia let the door bang closed behind him.  He shook his head a little, trying to finally rid himself of the phantoms.  He pointed himself towards the Bloody Knave, "Oi, I need a drink."

The Darkest of Days

Over and over, fingers worked to fold pieces of twine into concentric circles winding, around a shimmering bead placed in the center of the coil.  Scaalia and his siblings were busy winding the little sun charms that were traditionally crafted by their clan during this time of year.  This year supplies were short and so the charms they crafted were small but no less complex.  Their size was another reminder that the year had been tough and would only get tougher. 

Soon the snows would come in earnest to blanket the Lostwood.  With luck, the hanging of charms and the ritual prayers would remind the Sun of just how much the denizens missed her presence above the wood.  Hopefully after a time their devotions would warm her heart and she would brave the cold once again and emerge from the great cave that she had hidden herself in to melt the snows and warm the land once again.  It would take time, some years it took longer than others but those of the Lostwood knew that nothing with lasting power came quickly.

With this in mind they prepared for the festival on the darkest of days, when all the families of their clan would gather to celebrate.  It would be a day full of feasting and raucous celebration.  There would be a feast to honor the Sun when it was at its brightest to show their appreciation for the day light.  Following that the stories of their ancestors would be told, epic poems of how their clan had come to be.  As the sun set a great bonfire would be set alight to carry on the light of the sun and ward off the dark.  All around it they would dance and with the sound of their drums and voices they would call to the Sun to return to them, return life to the land, and end the harsh cold of winter.  The spirit of the celebration was most important; not the size of the fire, or the roar of the drums, but the love, and the joy of those who danced and sang.  As such the darkest of days was not so dark, and the light would only grow brighter as the year passed on.

Scaalia Bloodwood

Scaalia Bloodwood stood at the top of a small rise and gazed over the trees of the Lostwood towards the Citadel of Niallan. The citadel's presence was massive, a vast island of rock within the emerald green and tree bark brown sea. Eons of erosion had worn the surface of its stone towers to the same texture of any mountain. Even though the citadel was still miles off Scaalia could still feel it. It pulled at his senses whenever he was near. Faint as the perceptions might be he could almost see the Aether ripple and swirl around it even from this distance. Whenever he approached the citadel the faintest whispers of events from the last two thousand years played at the very edge of his senses simultaneously. They were like a faint echo heard but not distinctly discernible from the other sounds of the forest, except for the distinct impression of age that was left behind.

Scaalia's taloned grip tightened on the trunk of a nearby tree, the tips of his claws sinking gently into the rough bark. The wind picked up and tussled his mane. It carried the scent of travelers from outside the Lostwood - Humans from Braemoor likely by the smell of things. They would have goods for trading and news of the "outside" world as they called it. Scaalia began the decent back to the clan dwelling, eager to confirm the rumors that he had heard. News had reached even the heart of the Lostwood that the School of Seven Virtues had re-opened it doors to those who would take up the Path of the Hero. These traders might have information but there was only one way to know for sure. The spirits had told him that a journey waited in his future, he assumed that they had meant the trip, but something about that particular card reading hinted at more.

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