Soul's Song (Chapter 1.3)

"Lad, how be your fath-" Marlon began, but was swiftly interrupted.

"The High Ariahlasa... I refer to him by nothing else."

"Aye," sighed the craftsman. "Lord Loral'anthas... There be talk among the circles lad, the Council(1) is being assembled, aye?" It wasn't so much a question but a statement. Darran was fondly attached to the dear man before him, but it was Marlon's networks that originally drew the young Ariah to him.

Darran replied tentatively, "The High Ariahlasa does not divulge such details to me Marlon. Not as if I really want him to, but you're not wrong. And I do not have the slightest inclination to care."

With a heavy sigh Marlon carefully placed the flute on the counter. He shook his head before continuing, "Not in my lifetime... Bah, but who be I to chide the son of the High Aria?" He fixed his gaze steadily on Darran, "As I said, there be talk. And there be sentiment. The city's circles be concerned that this be an unwelcome incursion by other lands, but can't string enough bravado together to speak up."

"The delegations are small, and each Sect will be escorted by our own," Darran explained.

"Aye that is welcome news, but sentiment be a boil that be ready to burst and hurt ye where ye least expect."

"And my Order is as closed mouthed as ever; I see the picture."

Marlon nodded, "But I'll see what can be done now that I have something to fight with eh? Spread a new sentiment to keep the aggressor busy, and let them exchange fists till the shadow of trouble passes on."

"You have a way with words old man," laughed Darran.

"As ye know I d-" Once again the shopkeeper was abruptly interrupted. This time by a high-pitched squeal of delight that made him grit his teeth and roll his eyeballs.

* * * *

(1)The Council was a gathering of the leaders of all the mystical disciplines throughout the lands, Ariahs being a sect that delved into the connection between the soul and the mystical energies that surround everything. The expression of the soul, and its link to these chaotic swirls of pure magical energy lay in the practitioner's artful and 'heart-ful' creations through creative works in art and music. However this link could never be achieved without the summoning of familiars, that in reality, formed the very link between the artist and the crafting of magic. But the Ariah's were only a small part of the varied mystical disciplines. Sages, Shadow Weavers, Druids, and many others each took a single seat in the Council's sixteen positions. Throughout the millennia that passed by since it's inception, the Council's gatherings have been few and far between, and it's rare for one to live to be in the same era as a Council Assembly. 'The Tamers of Chaos' became a commonplace term to refer to the members of the mystical sects, and each sect jealously guarded their own secrets; all the while manoeuvring against each other to gain leverage.

Soul's Song (Chapter 1.2)

Creaking open, a heavy oak door swung inwards. The incessant sounds of wood being sanded reverberated throughout a small shop-space. A slim counter lay almost across the entire room, curving towards the back end where there was another open doorway, from which, the rough sounds emanated. Shelving and wooden stands lined the walls of what was obviously the showroom; cradling dozens of finely crafted lutes, delicate wooden flutes, lyres of all shapes and sizes, and plethora of other more exotic musical instruments that a lay-man would have trouble discerning how they could produce a pitch. With purposeful intention, a large beautiful harp as tall as a grown man stood as a centre-piece, almost beaming with tastefully gilt designs that wrapped around its wooden struct like golden vines. Behind the counter stood a grizzled middle-aged man, sporting a large, bulky, and heavily muscled frame. In his over-sized arms lay a thin flute which he was gently wiping down with a small cloth that was dwarfed in his meaty hands. His gruff look belied his demeanor much.

"Mother's love grace ye," he greeted without looking up from his work; carefully tracing the designs with the edge of his cloth, "and to ye... " Added almost as an afterthought. "So lad, what brings ye back? One's honoured to have company in his old age, but for sure ye'd be out stamping on poor citizens with impunity eh?" His eyes glinted with mirth.

"Pah! They'd jump with just a sneeze from any one in a bleached-white smock old man," sneered a spectre in disgust.

The man ignored Goza. "Did ye have to bring that one?"

"He set fire to the conservatory the last time I left him alone. I fear every time I make a trip to the privy," said Darran with an exasperated sigh. "Father's light on you Marlon."

"Aye. Seems ye have a pest problem," guffawed Marlon while giving a sidewards glance at the invisibly fuming spectre.

"Aye... and larceny seethes in his soul," smiled Darran while mirroring the shopkeeper's glance.

"Do the both of you mind?"

"Go sulk in the corner Goza. Reach for nothing, touch nothing, and for peace do not breathe on anything. You have a nasty habit of not reining in your flames." Darran's voice was emphatic and mockingly stern.

"And if ye do... the old lady will have a few words with ye... at length," added Marlon and effectively shut the spirit up.

Reluctantly and in a huff, Darran and Marlon felt Goza's presence disappear from their immediate surroundings. Probably gnashing his teeth in some corner of the shop.

Soul's Song (Chapter 1.1)

THE town of Kelsa had always had a strange aura about it. The populace went about their daily lives like normal, good folk would. The crying of wares at the bazaar could match the busiest this side of the Alasian continent; peddlers gripping prized items of interest shook them at passerbys to somehow coerce them to have a gander. It was a day like all days. The riverside bustled with labourers bending their backs to make the day's loadings and unloadings. Up and down stream, the steady lines of rivercraft bumbled on their way to foist off their goods at other cities along the Golden River. Dockworkers that were not on their prescribed shift, lounged on the hard salty boards of the quay. A bottle of warm mead in on hand, and throwing about dice with the other. Visitors took all this in stride, it was another trade town on another busy day. Locals went about their business in quick strides to keep up with the pace of the town. So normal it almost begged to be looked at twice.

Shifty-eyed and wary, the town's guards went on their rounds with little mishap. The occassional ruffian or quick-fingered riff-raff provide some form of entertainment for these old veterans of past scuffles under their clunky belts, and scars hidden beneath their pride polished chainmail. Residents show their appreciation with flashed smiles and offers of food and drink to tide the soldiers' over till sundown, only to be politely refused and responded to with a grateful but curt waves of grizzled hands.

But it was not the town guard, nor the peddlers, nor the lounging dock coolies that made this riverport city vibrate with an almost mechanical feel. Underneath it all, a palpable sense of reverence and fear permeated through the channels of people that streamed through out the town as its lifelines.

Darran felt this keenly in his consciousness. Donning the familiar white robe, with the crimson emblem of his order beaming on his chest, he flowed along through his birth town like a white stain on a muddy path. It was not just him, the Ariah's as they were called went through the city on their own business like normal folk would, but that's where the normalcy ends. Residents bowed quickly whenever one of his own passed them by. Windows would stealthily shut themselves without visual evidence of anyone closing them. Unconsiously, the streams of bodies would curve around these white robed figures to avoid any form of proximity.

"Pathetic beings. One would think by now that they would have adapted. Such a fallen race your kinsmen are," sniffed a disembodied voice a little to Darran's right.

"Peace Goza! By the Father's Light: you're the anomaly here. Act like one, and be still," snapped Darran in irritation.

The spectre called Goza chuckled dryly, "Feeling a little peevish today aren't we young master Darran?"

"Let's just finish what we came here to do so I can go back in peace to my notes."

An overly audible sigh escaped from the spectre, causing the surrounding people to jump in surprise; wide-eyed and fearful.

"Please don't do that."

"My apologies, the thought of your notes brings out such joy in me."

"Goza..."

"Sorry."