I can't quite grasp the situation. I'm too new to this land and these people. I know something important is afoot, and the whispers and driving me mad. My only consolation is that the locals seem just as bemused as I am, and toss their theories about like firecrackers. I'm going to spend this evening with my nose buried in parchments and books, and see if I can't sort some meaning from the history of Valorn.

It's a start.

I received a ring today from a new companion. He gave it as a token of our friendship, but it's harder for me to accept. In the traditions of my people, a ring represents far more than a token, for it signifies a binding circle. The complexities of this binding range from promises to property, and cannot be undone. The magi go so far as to enchant some such rings and offer them at modest prices, something I consider a breach of ethics, and have not yet seen in Valornian enchanters.

I've only just tasted lasting freedom after years within my father's holding, and I find it as intoxicating as any other forbidden fruit. I will not disdain this gift, for I value friendship and honor any expression of it, but I can't slip the coil of gold about my finger. I'll put it in the pouch from the light-fingered one, and hope my action doesn't cause the friendship to slip away.

If so, it never was worthy of the word.

There is nothing like this ocean in my homeland, although the wasting plains rival it in vastness, they lack the myriad life of the sea, confining creation's spark to the some insects, azall hornlings, skulk hounds, three forms of salt lichen, and a handful of beings that I considered myths. The folded land of R'theszyn keeps her waters bounded by stone channels or locked in the labyrinthine caves, and rarely squanders it beneath the eye of the sun. Even the streams that grace our canyons with tamarisk and water willow lie beneath a weave of succulent grass and cat-tails, flashing briefly silver only when the wind blows fierce.

Only the great river Alisangi meanders boldly, gathering the rills and rainfall into a wide, lazy waterway that nourishes the cities of my people. The pale Zazurei of the sunken tribes swear the Alisangi feeds endless waters below the wasting plains, and believe the subterranean sea binds the swallowed queen to her realm of death. It is true that the river empties into the seven sisters, a gathering of crystal towers whose roots sink deep, but the Zazurei love wild tales and trickery, as I know well.

The first Zazurei I met called himself Oosku, and claimed that if I were ever brave enough to venture into the deepest tunnels, I would find char dragons and their treasured diamonds, stone bats who moved only once in a score of years, and caverns of living crystal who kept the secrets of tomorrow in their lines and fractures. Being impressionable and somewhat in love with the motions of his fingers and murmur of his voice, I immediately withdrew from my father's house and quested towards the nearest caverns. Of course, since I was only nine years old, the house magi wouldn't let me leave our holding.

My yearning for the underworld never lessened, and here on Valorn I can't ignore even the smallest, most loathsome fissures, shimmying past them to what is often my death. I love the odd or mysterious, and anything that's new to me. This place means a great deal to me, and considering the manner of my arrival, I can't help but wonder if Valorn is the afterlife. I've the freedom of heaven on one hand, but with the other hand I bring death to abominations.

Light swells beneath the heavens and the sea quakes within the radiant hand of the moon. I'm a dark crescent upon the fine sands, a slim shadow weaving between the pulling tide and shifting earth, leaving behind only brief footprints and briefer ripples. I dance to the soft rushing of the first ocean I've ever beheld and the song of the wind over the dunes. My awe spills over, lending grace to my limbs that I, as a child called t'kas'nkh, the little clumsy-mouse, have never before possessed. The pattern of my motion, subtly reverent, pays homage to awesome beauty of this land. My sisters would gawk and giggle if they saw me now, but I'm alone.

It is not always thus; I've traveled with a fascinating people a time or two, and my newfound powers of telepathy allow me to engage in conversation at will. I'm beginning to establish a sense of my place within this world, and yes, I now am certain that Valorn is an entirely foreign realm. In spite of my homeland's... isolation...we'd certainly hear of Balthazar, or feel the repercussions of his presence.

A storm approaches with the rising winds. I welcome the rain, and clouds that chase the face of the moon. Tilting my head back, I slow my dance into a steady, turning circle and watch the darkness closing in, swallowing the moon's delight. The raindrops caught in the net of my hair begin to trickle down my throat, and I shiver for a moment. Moving with relative caution and a fair bit of haste, I make my way down the beach, seeking shelter in the rocks to the east.

I'm attacked. He throws himself at me from the darkness, teeth flashing his grim intentions, eyes white and wild with murder. His rapier slides through my leathers, scoring a deep gash upon my ribs even as my own blade strikes a countering blow. We exchange injuries furiously, circling in near silence, my breath hissing in my lungs and poisoning my stamina. I've just enough energy to dispatch him, kicking his filthy cutlass away before stumbling back into the rain.

His comrade kills me. It's a dirty, gruesome struggle, but I'm grievously wounded and doomed from the start. My blows don't seem to slow him down, and perhaps the pain strengthens him for he wounds me three times in rapid succession. In the end, I'm trying to escape, choking on my own blood as I crawl across the damp sand beneath the suddenly raging storm. Aware of my death, I strike a final blow to the pirate's belly, and take his in return. The screaming winds carry me to my death, but cannot keep me there.

I run for a time, staggering like a wounded goat, leaving behind a trail of snapped grass and the scent of my injuries. Attack is inevitable, and comes in the form of a lithe, dappled brown cat. He sidles up to me from behind, ears pinned back and black tufted tail lashing. The ridge of fur down his spine is erect, snapping with energy, and his long fangs glisten. I don't stand a chance, for his first strike severs the tendons in my left leg. Collapsing to my knees, I unsheathe my sword and swing a clumsy blow at his retreating flank. I scarcely ruffle his fur, but his next strike kills me.
..........................................

Memory comes, sweetly flawed, and subtly troubling. Sensations of guilt, the fingers of regret caressing my soul, and hot tears than spilled long ago. Fragments of images; from Halah's drowning in the Well of Desire to the brightness of the stars upon the wasting plains, and the gentle eyes of my silver pony as we ran away the first time. More bitterness than I can swallow rises in my throat, and I gasp for breath.
..........................................

When the darkness washes from my eyes, and my spirit and flesh reknit into one unit, I'm standing at a crossroads before a city, and nearly swooning with deja-vu at the sight of a massive stone. I live again. Something is wrong with me; it's hard to focus and color keeps smearing across the lines of roads and buildings and faces. As I move, my balance shifts and I stagger clumsily with no clear intent. I can't concentrate, or even think. Nothing seems real, not even my feet. Strangers offer me help, their accents lilting and entirely foreign.

“It's death,” they say, more cheerful than the situation warrants. “Nothing like death to make one a little woozy.”

Soon enough, I'm seeing clearly, and realizing that through some mysterious transaction of the universe, I've been sent or summoned to Dundee for the express purpose of dying until I'm strong enough to live. Seems simple enough, and I start with slippery darkness and pest control beneath the city. It's a stinky job, but there's plenty of us to do it.

I'm gnawed to bits at least six times, beheaded by a human miscreant, and oozed to death by something green. My familiarity with the magic monolith increases as I die and die again. The pattern becomes frustrating, but I've nothing else to do. I seem to have little in common with the other adventurers, and though many of them offer suggestions and bless me with gifts, I'm still alone. I never learned how to build a life, apparently, and am suited only to strife.

Arrival in Valorn

I awake beneath a bitter mid-day sun, my hair tangled with chaff and summer dry flowers, and dusty with the earth that cradles my aching body. It takes more will than strength to push myself upright, and pain intensifies with motion until it's like a sickness beneath my skin. I breathe as deeply as the pressure on my ribs allows, taking control of my bones and muscles and the pacing of my heart. My eyes begin to focus on the environment, and my senses reel again.

Nothing is familiar, except the sound of my heart beating, and the feel of the wind upon my hot skin. Lumps of grass stand brittle and golden about me, swaying and hissing in the hot breeze, producing the illusion of liquid metal or a sea of light. Smoke rises in the distance, a thin thread that disappears into the vast, indigo skies. I swallow, my throat tight and sore from the screams ripped free in my falling, and shudder with the memory.

It seemed like I fell forever, twisting and clawing at empty air in a futile effort to safe myself, the echo of the stone tiger's scream fading as the bronze ripples of cliff became only darkness. I knew my death, and saw the face of the swallowed queen, mother of death, come to claim me. No spirit is more feared among my people, nor more storied. I knew my death, but here I stand, unbroken.

I'm also unarmed. A pace away from me lies the broken haft of my spear, posing as a splintered ebony stick. I eye it with dismay and survey my immediate surroundings. A lumpy brown bag catches my eye, and reveals upon further inspection ten small vials of liquid and five beautiful rounds of metal. Nearby I discover battle weapons, such as those used by guards in the City of Winds. They number a sword and shield, cloth armor and woven clothing to replace my tattered silk tunic and torn leathers. Last, I discover this book, writing itself with the words of my thoughts, and in the script that so vexed my tutors.