Memoirs of Lisanna Wyn’Reliquie d’Corvin - The Mistbourne-Reliquin War

I, Lisanna Wyn’Reliquie d’Corvin, remember the day when my betrothed entered my bedchambers with the guard of the chateau I had come to call home in my time within the self-called Mistbourne Confederacy. He regarded me with cold, hard eyes that betrayed no love or joy reflective of the previous nights where he had made effort to paint me scarlet with his sweet nothings. Instead a determined man I did not know spoke the words to his soldiers, “Take this traitor to the dungeon.”

The Guard were unkind, but not unsavory with their treatment of me. I pleaded for them to stop what they were doing, for one to explain to me what was going on. Instead of offering me insight, they spoke foul things to me and struck me, demanding I not speak. I was thrown unceremoniously into a cold, stone cell beneath the chateau that had not seen use in a great while. This would be my home for many seasons.
My former betrothed came to see me several days later with what I could only describe as dignitaries of his own choosing. A Royal cabinet after a fashion. I recognized many of them as his friends and agents of subterfuge and intrigue that had worked on his behalf. He spoke to them while addressing me with accusations, declaring that I had been an informant of their enemy, my homeland, Reliquie. He spoke that for the security of their new nation, I and other natives of Reliquie would be put to the sword.
Before he left, he ensured I was provided proper food, drink and clothing. Additionally, he ensured I would not be without quill and paper. It is from these notes and musings that I now compose this memoir recounting my time as a political prisoner under the thumb of a man I thought I loved.

Relhnald d’Corvin is the name of the man who became the Mistbourne Kingdom’s first king. It is the name of my former love who imprisoned me. I would learn much later that he did so as a saving of face, and to protect me from the surging nationalism growing within the confederacy. Many of my contemporaries were not so fortunate, and unspeakable things were done to scholars and consorts from Reliquie. By imprisoning me, Relhnald had proved me a space to be safe from wanting hands; my punishment had already been dealt. All but those closest to Relhnald d’Corvin assumed that the “whore consort of Reliquie” had been put to death unceremoniously in a cold, dark dungeon.
I quickly lost my love for this man, but I understand his decisions so many years later. He chose to sacrifice me to achieve his goals, knowing that I would be unable to join him in this journey. I took petty solace knowing that the woman that attached herself to him was put to death for treason shortly after being declared his consort. Upon the nation’s founding, the allure of power attracted many, and she was feral with ambition.
Given the chance, I would not have stood with the Nation of Mist’s first King. He was not wholly incorrect in his judgement of me. From a purely objective standpoint, I was indeed a traitor to the budding nation. As his consort, I was to woo him and pull him from notions of nationhood separate from the Reliquin Empire. I would regularly write back to the capitol about the confederacy’s political climate and goings on. It was why myself, many consorts, and scholars had increased our number in the confederacy over the years. Reliquie was not caught unaware of the confederacy’s desires, and sought to curb them amicably.
My letters to my mother and the academy I studied at were intercepted, my maidens slain, and their bloodstained letters shown before a court of prideful fools as proof that I was a spy for the enemy. It was all for appearances however. I did not hide my writings from anyone, and it was commonplace for Reliquin natives to write back home. I still shake with unease when imagining the young girls carrying my letters being caught unawares by soldiers they had grown to trust.
My trial was the last time I saw the light of Corris for a great while. The jeering and scathing hate that spewed from the audience was noise in my ears as I struggled with the feelings of betrayal from the man I used to love. The judges stood over me, mocking my attire and accusing me of fashioning myself as a queen and overlord of the people. The dress he had dressed me in so many seasons ago was another tool the people would use to hate me with. One of the judges sought to expose me to the public, ripping the bodice and leaving me bare. Relhnald put his hand on the judge’s shoulder and let him know that that would be enough. A simple mercy, if he was not the man who drew me into that lie.
I was lead away to the “execution chamber” below the Chataeu. In truth, there was no chamber designed for such. I knew this to be the case, but at the time, my mind was rife with fear and uncertainty. Perhaps in that time he had had one designed for my slaying? Instead, I was returned to my cell, and given one of my other dresses to maintain my dignity. I was given quill and paper as a mockery, goaded into writing my letters to Reliquie now that I was in a dungeon.
I took this as an opportunity to record my thoughts, and current events that I was able to observe. Additionally, with paper and quill I was able to track the days that passed so that I would not be lost to the passage of time. Koiphew be proud, I did my due diligence.

I arrived in the confederacy during the time that rumors of nationhood began to reach the ears of the common folk in the empire. The university that I studied at trained politicians and agents of the Reliquin empire, so the students were mummering of our possible involvement in these important matters. Much to our surprise, many students were assigned to study leylines and the unique geography of the Cloudwall that dominates much of the confederacy’s land. It just so happens that the confederacy’s most prominent cities were also located in this region.
I was assigned as an anthropologist in the city of Crow’s End, with the secret objective of attaching myself to the castellan, Ralhnald d’Corvin. I understood why I was chosen to be this “anthropologist”, despite my field of study being Runecraft and Conjuring. I was quite fair, and my voice soothing and soft. I was learned in the ways of instruments and dance both for entertainment and display. The hobbies that had previously held back my academic advancement now made me choice among my peers for courting political rivals.
I could see the Cloudwall in the distance before entering its confines. We spoke among ourselves, “Was this gray, bleak, fog our field of study?” Our hopes and dreams of research and discovery grew as muted in color as the swelling mass of mist and fog that surrounded us the closer we came to Crow’s End. I had grown in the humid jungles of Vailya, but never had I seen such a lack of things to see. The fog obscured my vision and prevented me from appreciating the unique qualities of the region. We expected a town of ghosts. “How could anyone live here?” we thought.
Much to our surprise we found the town alive and bustling with activity. The alien nature of this mist was natural to them. We were the outsiders, we were the strange; they lived happily within the world they understood. The more studious among us took a great liking to the Hollow Sea. How I wished that I could have had their fortune of exploring its depths and magical mist. Instead I was to become one of these gray ghosts that went about living a life without beauty and color.
The ground beneath our feet was unsettling to many for its moist, loamy state. However having grown in the jungles of Vailya I found its moist, pliable form to be nostalgic. It reminded me of my grandmother’s homestead where I would often play and run barefoot through the underbrush, pretending to be a wild animal. Soldiers of the confederacy greeted us, and offered official escort to the embassy where we would be staying for the foreseeable future.
The Embassy was built after the fashion of Reliquie’s spires and steeples and brought us some manner of comfort to see such familiar architecture. We found rooms in which to stay, and met the diplomat in charge of the building. He had arranged for a ball to be held where we would be invited to attend and enjoy what Crow’s End had to offer us. We made bets with each other on how their dignitaries would dress, and what food would be served. Despite the dour atmosphere, our hearts were aflame with the passion of discovery.
The day of the ball saw us attending in our uniforms from the academies from which we hailed. These would come to be useful conversation pieces as the locals noticed their subtle differences that denoted our fields of study and expertise in them. The attire of those attending was more similar to ours than I had assumed. A Degree of function had to be maintained, and materials considered when in the misty lands near the Hollow Sea. Similar to the humid jungles around Reliquie, the confederacy had grown used to a warm, wet environment.
We were given the opportunity to explore and speak to others. I set out to find my objective, simply to probe him and understand what manner of man would court the dreams of nationhood within this meek confederacy. While I did not ask for him specifically, I did engage with those who I thought may lead me in his direction. I garnered many compliments from the attendees for my appearances and mannerism in speaking. In contrast, I found the mannerisms of the supposed nobility of this city to be unrefined and uneducated. How were these people to pursue nationhood?
My wandering caught the eye of a tall, handsome man dressed in finery that complimented his form well. He had neatly cut facial hair and a warm smile that put him at odds with the others present at the party. He did not gaze down at me like I was a child who had yet to learn the world’s ways, but instead sought to speak to me and learn as much from me as I desired to learn from him.
“I hope you have been searching for me this whole time?” He asked me.
His deep eyes and gentle smile captivated me, “If I have not been, then surely I’ve made some mistake…” I replied to the man I didn’t yet know. I was taken with Ralhnald as immediately as he was with me.
Ralhnald’s maids would come and fetch me in the night, so that I could meet him in secret. The cool nights made it harder to see, but also illuminated the mist with the shine of Devidica’s moons. From the top of the chateau d’Corvin the stars could be seen, and the glowing clouds of the Hollow Sea viewed for their splendor. We spoke for hours about the home he had come to love, and of my homeland of trees and exotic flowers. He regaled me with tales of the Hollow Sea and the deep mists of the Fell Welkin, and I spoke of the adventures my grandmother had been on. It was not long before I found myself living within the Chataeu, and often visiting his bedchambers.
I became Ralhnald’s consort and was seen often with him. My presence was divisive among the people. The lowly and common saw me as the perfect trophy for their leader to take for himself. The well-born thought me treacherous and unfit as a Reliquin native to be involved with him. As his consort, I now wore finery and was held to a higher standard. No longer was I a scholar who would place her feet in the mud where I might get sullied. Two of my peers took up the mantle of being my contact to Reliquin and the university, and delivering my letters. A task whose payment proved to be murder in the end.
To my own discredit, I knew the rumors of war would cease to be rumors soon. I had seen the people and their newfound pride when speaking of the “nation” of the Mistbourne. The Eastern side of the Hollow Sea had always been fond of the idea of being more than a Reliquin territory. It was the western side of the Hollow Sea that needed convincing, as they lived in the shadow of the much closer threat of the Klaimian Empire. Reliquie was just as close as Klaime, but separated by the mountains and jungles that made it seem so far away. The farther away something is, the more majestic and beautiful it becomes. To the people, myself included, Reliquie was just a beautiful nothing.
I had observed the reeves and governors of the western coast visiting my betrothed more often. They spoke with smiles on their faces, and their wives and consorts were a pleasant distraction from the growing distance between me and Ralhnald. Even if I was to be a simple pretty socialite, I was not dim, I saw these meetings for what they were. The Western board was becoming amicable to the idea of nationhood. I found myself caught up in the fancy of such an idea, as well. I imagined what great culture would arise from the autonomy, what new dresses I might wear and going on tours about the confederacy to meet many new people. My purpose may have been to discourage such ideals, but the passion in the hearts of the people was infectious at times. “I might become this man’s queen” I would muse to myself.
What convinced me that there was no turning back was Relhnald’s meetings with Sky Knights. They spoke of the responsibility of nationhood, and did not mince their words in how difficult this course of action would be for everyone involved. I was morbidly fascinated by the way they spoke. It was as if they saw each death and every person who would be harmed as a result of nationhood. Their words carried the weight of responsibility that a leader must have not only to lead the people, but to preserve their dignity. I credit these lessons as to why Relhnald did not publicly execute me, unlike the many others who were at the mercy of other men.

The last attempt that Ralhnald made to save me from the coming storm I could not see is when he offered to allow me, and my peers to deliver the letter to Reliquie that would be the formal declaration of Nationhood by the confederacy. No longer were they a Reliquin territory, but the Nation of Mistbourne. A similar letter was delivered to Klaime. To my knowledge, both letters were gentle in tone, and asked for negotiation on trade and political boundaries. As the letters left the chateau on horseback, I saw the worry and grief on Ralhnald’s face, and took his hand, squeezing it affectionately. He did not return the gesture, “a result of being woeful and tired” I said to myself.
When the confederacy sent their formal declaration to Reliquie, I was overcome with apprehension at what was to come next. Klaime had grown a reputation as a hungry, powerful that would devour anything they saw as useful to them. The annexation of Port Lassango was still fresh in our minds centuries later. The establishment of new townships and districts so close to our own holdings did nothing to alleviate those concerns. Klaime was a large, powerful nation that was experienced in maintaining, and taking land. We were but children in the playground of giants. Now that the confederacy was no longer a part of Reliquie, any aggression from Klaime wouldn’t be against Reliquie, but the now small, vulnerable nation of the Mistbourne.
I remember when the embassy was closed, and many of the students and scholars sent home. It was a dull affair. There was no light in the eyes of my love, and even less in the eyes of the students who had grown to love this exotic land. Without ceremony, in an office room of the chateau, the diplomats of Reliquie were told the embassies would be closed, and they were to go home with the Reliquin natives. They were the ones who survived persecution and death at the hands of a paranoid and vengeful people, even if at the time they viewed it as unjust punishment. I stayed with my love, because I thought he would protect me. My peers that delivered my letters stayed as well, having become good friends of mine in that time. Students and scholars who had come and were enraptured by their work also stayed, blind to the growing threat around them. A week after everyone left that sought to leave, those of us who remained behind watched as the embassies of Reliquie were burned.
Unrest stirred among the people at the sight of the scholars and students from Reliquie that remained. They were no longer the allies and kinsmen from mere seasons ago. Now they had become “other”, they had become “them” instead of “us”. In my naivety I had hoped my relation with the castellan, now King, would grant me immunity from these thoughts. But I had already come to know from my interactions with the upper-class that that would never be the case. I was not actually an anthropologist, but I knew enough of statecraft to know the lowly that saw me as a beautiful boon to their king were not the ones who controlled the country.
Some few days later I was cast into the Chateau’s dungeon, pridefully informed of the murder of my friends, and given a mock trial for the high-born to see. I was crushed by my betrayal and did not care for my health for several days. The only reason for living I had was to record my place in history from the darkness of a dungeon.

The guard assigned to monitor me was a soldier named Laen. She was young, and bright, and unfit for war. I assumed that she was preserved from the hardships of battle by a high-born father, and I was correct. Her father was one of the men in Ralhnald’s cabinet of advisors. Here in the dungeon she would be safe from the front lines.
I would often ask Laen for things to better suit my condition in the prison. Cushions by which to sleep. Blankets to cover myself when cold. Books to read and indulge in to maintain my sanity. She would shyly deny many of these requests at first, but over time would grant them. I never had a bed, but I did acquire enough cushions and quilts to make the semblance of one. A stool became my table, and blankets my carpet. It was as comfortable a dungeon could be for a woman who expected her own death.
Laen wouldn’t divulge much about the goings on above ground. She started reserved and unsure about what she may, or may not say. She was a poor source of information at first, but still a welcome change from the men who guarded my cell when she was not there. I would often ask questions to get to know her; Why had you joined the guard? What is your father like? What part of the nation do you enjoy most? These questions would slowly open her up to me, and through Laen I gathered much information about what was going on above me.
I learned of Reliquie’s declaration of War against the confederacy through Laen, who was aghast with despair. Everyone, myself included, was preparing for conflict with Klaime. But now Reliquie sought open conflict to subjugate what they saw as a rebellion. The Mistbourne Nation would fight a war on two fronts, and be crushed as soon as it was born. I could see the fear of death in Laen’s eyes. She may have had the heart to be a soldier, but it was only now that she understood where the point of a sword ended and began.
From Laen I learned that the council that had formed around King Raldnald was growing frustrated. Their failure to see the threat of Reliquie had to be taken out on someone, or something. My name was brought up often, along with my contemporaries that had been put to the blade. We were to blame for stirring Reliquie to take action, in their mind. They desired my blood to be spilled, but the priests of River forbade it; “Incur no debt” they spoke in ominous tones. To them, Reliquie’s aggression as the obvious result of the murder of their people, a debt to be paid to the Angel of Taking.
The growing church of River Relle within Crow’s End was not wholly unexpected, but surprising to me. I had assumed a nation would seek to venerate the second angel, or the patron of Crow’s End, Altre Mei. Instead it was River’s followers who gained the most traction, closing the funeral rites on the dead confederacy and giving way for the Nation of Mistbourne to grow. According to Laen, they set up sanctuaries for Reliquin Natives who had gone into hiding where they might be kept safe from the bloodlust of the childish nobles.
These sanctuaries were the cause of several of Ralhnald’s original cabinet being put to death. While they, and their loyal citizens were zealous and willing to commit atrocities in the name of national pride and security, the Church of River would not have it. The zeal of those seeking to kill pales in comparison to the zeal of those who know death. There were many deaths in civil conflict between the Church of River Relle and the towns where sanctuaries had been established, with most of them being on the side of whose foolish enough to challenge the Angel of Death’s Followers.
Following this civil strife, the men who ordered these attacks were discovered, and found guilty of treason for daring to attack their own people. Ralhnald was learning swiftly that the allure to grasp power and control was greater than a man’s ability to hold it. While this event stopped any formal aggression toward the Church of River and its sanctuaries, Laen would inform me whenever a group of ill-meaning people attempted to attack a sanctuary, and were ruthlessly made to return their portion.
It was these events of religious upheaval that prompted the larger churches and temples of Klaime to come and investigate. Along with their grand archpaladins, diplomats from Klaime arrived to inspect the nation that was swiftly collapsing under its own hubris. Harrowers were sent to monitor the churches and ensure they were following doctrine, and not the will of a corruptible state. During this time, I was visited by Harrowers from Klaime, and nobles who sought my execution. They asked what purpose I serve within this dungeon, and the nobles declared I served no purpose, and should be put to death for sparking this war. I found my voice and protested, declaring that I was an anthropologist, betrayed and turned chronologer. It was my duty to record the history of this nation as it entered a new era, even if this nation would see my repressed.
The nobles sought to argue that point, but the harrowers questioned them, “Did they have someone set aside for the record of history during such a momentous time?” The Nobles could not answer, and I offered the paladins my writings as proof of my purpose. The Nobles were taken to a private conversation with the Harrowers, where I imagine they received beratement that would put the fear of the angels in them until their final days. They had already cross the Church of River, would they then seek to cross Koiphew as well?
Some weeks later, I was relocated from the prison cell and placed in an office that might have been a place for records, or storage judging by the shelves and lack of bars. The door of the office had to be replaced with something that could be locked, and the office itself was not made to accommodate someone for sleeping, but it was a welcome change from the cold prison cell.
Laen was a meek girl, and following my rebuttal of the Mistbourne nobility she came to see strength in me and would confide in me her woes and fears. She did not like her father. He was a harsh man, who had desired a son as eager for combat as he. Laen divulged that due to complications during birth, her mother would not be able to bare again. She was discarded by her father like a used garment, and he sought fair maidens by which to birth himself a powerful son. Laen was his first child, but she was treated as an afterthought. She joined the military in hopes of becoming something worthy of her father’s blessing.
Laen came to live within the Chateau soon, and did not go home to her family anymore. Instead of wearing a warden’s garb and armament, she would arrive in dresses and comfortable clothing. She had come to an understanding that so long she maintained this duty of “guarding” me, that the angels would preserve us both. I took what little joy I was affording in my imprisonment knowing that Laen was happy being my lady-in-waiting, rather than my oppressor. She was a noble girl who had wanted to be a noble girl, not a soldier.
Regular letters would go between myself and the Church of River, who would relay them to the Church of Koiphew. Laen told me that the paladins said they go to Grey’s Mark. Grey’s Mark is a nation in the center of the desert on the other side of Klaime from the Mistbourne Nation. I do not know why the letters would be sent there, but the paladins of River who came to collect them assured me that it was for the best. There was no correspondence between myself and whoever received the letters, so they were more like reports. Simple reports to let them know that I had not been slain.
I often wonder if Klaime’s involvement in the war hinged on my life. Communication between Klaime and Mistbourne had grown cold and infrequent. Klaime was no theocracy, but the Mistbourne’s mismanagement of the churches seemed to be a sore point between them. Imagine my shock when Laen came to see my in the morning, exclaiming that Klaime had joined the war. Surely this was the end of the Mistbourne, I thought, but I was mistaken. Klaime had not joined the war against the Mistbourne, but had rallied behind the Mistbourne, and vowed to protect their autonomy from Relliquie. Even I did not know that Klaime itself was Reliquin territory, and by standing with the Mistbourne, they were making their statement to challenge their former leaders.
The war had already began in earnest, but with word that Klaime was coming to bolster the Mistbourne with their considerable military Relliquie became worried and desperate. It is well known that Reliquie’s sorcerers are the best in Devidica, with the Reliquin council being legends among men for their power and control of magic. But we are scholars and researchers, not soldiers. But the universities were an extension of the state, and just as I had been deployed as a student agent, student soldiers were assigned to the ranks of Reliquin contingents. Youths whose hopes and aspirations were to discover new elements and ways to advance the application of magic learned only the horror of war.
I wonder if it was Klaime and the Mistbourne, or Reliquie more at fault for the untimely demise of students and scholars. Certainly Klaime and the Mistbourne did not need to put the universities and their academia to the flame, but if they did not, then Reliquie would retain a powerful resource capable of producing any one individual that could bring untold harm. Reliquie’s actions to deploy the universities could be seen as cruel, but if it meant a swift end to a war, it would mean a swift end to the suffering of others. Many have their opinions, but I am torn; not between who was correct in their actions, but who was more wrong.
Klaime and the Mistbourne hit a stalemate soon after entering Reliquin territory. The jungles were hard to navigate, and the magic of Reliquie was too potent to contend with in unfamiliar territory. Conversely, Klaime was a nation of mountains, and Mistbourne a nation of obscurity. They found comfortable purchase in the snowy mountains that divided the western and eastern sections of Vailya. A harsh, bloody conflict was fought over the mountain range that separated Reliquie from Mistbourne.
In order to claim the mountains, Reliquie sent one of the Reliquin council, Ondur, to bring Klaime and Mistbourne to heel. I deem myself lucky to be in this dungeon, and not have firsthand knowledge to the unspeakable things that Ondur must have unleashed upon the combined forces of Klaime and Mistbourne. I would hear from Laen that the peak of a mountain had been crumbled and the avalanche destroyed mountain passes where thousands of men resided.
I recall Bright Night pass as the mountain pass I took to come to Mistbourne from Reliquie. The gentle, snowy vallies full of animals with large eyes and ears curiously watching us as we traveled through. They were animals that did not know to fear people, and we were people that did not know to exploit these animals. The snowy landscape had always been a distant vision from the jungles, tainted with the ideal of “far” that made it seem so mysterious and beautiful now. It sparkling in the night like a bed of diamonds, and blinded us during the day. On either side of us were ominous clouds teasing the possibility of a blizzard, but the pass remained clear and lovely. For all its beautiful and grandeur, Bright Night Pass became a battleground where the snow became thick and red, until it was simply no more.
It was at this time that Laen informed me of Ralhnald’s declining health. He looked unwell, and the hardships of nationhood wore on his tender spirit. The sins he had gathered upon his shoulders were crushing him. News of defeats, or unrest from the towns of Mistbourne took more of him each passing week, until there was nothing left of him. I no longer loved him, but I could not help but weep at the circumstance. King Ralhnald reigned for two Years, five months, and thirteen days before he took his own life atop the Chateau d’Corvin, proud castle of Crow’s End.
Mistbourne would not instate a new king until after the war’s conclusion and they retained their nationhood. Instead a council of nobles rose to govern and manage the issues to the burgeoning country. Recourses were running thin, and there were simply not enough bodies to supply the war effort. Laen was a soldier, even if she was just a girl in a dress while she saw me. But a soldier must fight for their country. Laen had been the only person I knew until that point. She was my friend, and I was hers. I never heard of Laen again after her deployment to the war. I did not seek to speak to her father, nor would he tell me if I asked. But considering that Laen did not return to see me following the war’s end, I pray River has embraced her lovingly where her father would not, and that the debt of her soul lays on his head.

Withered Iris

 My senses are jolted awake by the inexplicable feeling of danger. I am going to die. I am going to die painfully, or worse. My eyes sting as they open to the world, desperate for information. However I am beset by the horrifying knowledge that despite my vision functioning, and my eyes burning as if I had awoken from a slumber, they will not reflect the world back to me. My eyes are functional, but I see nothing. My back is numb and the back of my skull aches. I'm on my back. I attempt to pick myself up but I feel myself drift. The feeling of gravity betrays what I know to be true and my sense of up and down is removed of me. I feel for the first time as my body is slammed down forcibly against a hard floor. Pain spreads through my body like the cracks in stonework growing. The pressure on various parts of me grows. My arms; My wrists; My shoulders. A brisk sensation crawls over me as I hear the sound of fabric tearing. I'm being striped. I'm being held down and striped. I'm robed of a sense of security that I didn't know I needed so badly until now. I'm going to be raped by my assailant, I believe. All evidence points to this, and yet my mind cries out against the possibility. I am being held down in so many places, what is holding me could not possibly have only two--even four arms. Whatever took me took me so suddenly my logical impulses tell me it could not be multiple coordinated people. Whatever is happening cannot be real. The pressure on me grows and targets other parts of my body. My stomach. My Hips. My genitals...


Where have I awoken? What terrible thing happened to me? I lay there, stricken with fear. I've been conditioned not to move, less I be assaulted once more. The "hands" for lack of a better description pinned down various points of my body, and when my mind gave up hope that my dignity would remain it had mercy on me. Whether or not I felt unconscious, or simply refuse to remember, I don't care. Never knowing that outcome is the only solace I desire right now. My body begins to ache from the way I had been brutalized previously. My lips are numb from pressing together tightly. I don't want to groan or cry out. I fear the punishment of showing signs of life. It craves Life. It craves my life, and whatever it can take from it. If I give it nothing, it cannot take from me. If I am nothing, it wont feed from me. I must starve this oppressor. I must survive. But I cannot control myself. When I attempt to inhale, my throat betrays me with the sharp, fearful cracking of my voice. I slam my mouth shut which sends pain through my jaw. But I know it's too late. I will suffer again.

But nothing happens. I opens my eyes to the same infinite darkness that tells me I am blind against my better judgement. I know I am not blind because if I were I wouldn't be perturbed by the inability to see. I would not expect the world to be defined by shape and color if I had never known the beauty of sight. So why is it that I have no memory of anything resembling an object, or a color? I know I have seen red, but I cannot bring it to bear in my mind. I am confidant I could draw a circle, but I cannot imagine the shape within the abyss that has become my mind. I am not blind, but robbed. Where once I could see, not even the memory of what that sensation is has been left to me. It is worse than if my eyes had been struck away.

Tears begin to well in my useless eyes and sting them before escaping the hollow husk I wish I could call a person. Hoarse, pathetic sound escapes my throat painfully. I cry simply because its the only expression of freedom I know. I wish my cries would attract the oppressor. I wish the oppressor would arrive and end the nightmare instead of continuing it.

As I weep my senses return to me slowly. The ground beneath me is soft, but not like fabric. It is soft and smooth and seems to be warm. I have not been brutalized, so I dare to rise. The shift in weight pressed my bare bottom into the ground below me. I explore the mass with trembling hands, finding ridges, curves and smooth surfaces. The ground directly near to me is warm, and comforting. The familiar warmth of a hug from another person. Meanwhile the ground away from me is cold and stiff, while retaining the same soft, smooth surface and curious ridges. I move to my hands and knees, crawling along the ground and exploring it. Some ridges are large, broad bows and arcs, while others are tighter, more round structures of varying width. Sometimes the soft texture is betrayed by a hard uncomfortable or offensive nature, just below, as if the softness was a layer overtop it. Other times the softness can be depressed and is pliant and even enjoyable to the senses.

As I crawl over this alien landscape my skull is accosted by a hard, firm object. Unlike the cold but soft ground below, this object in front of me is only hard and cold. Rough and callous.

"No!" I scream and fall backwards to my rump, kicking and trying to back away. My foot connects with the object that attacked my head, but that only serves to push me back farther away, sliding and tumbling over the floor that I come to realize is not a floor, but objects on a floor. Certainly something firm holds all the flooring I felt on top of it, but those things are freely moving and my force causes them to move with me. The previously comforting shapes flail as I do and fall over me. It reminds me of the oppressor holding me down and abusing me, and I scream more, flailing and fighting hopelessly against my own sense of touch.

But the shapes to not act with intent. Nothing dislodges me from my actions. I am free to panic and cry out all I wish. In my struggles I feel and learn the shapes. The more narrow portions of the floor are attached to the larger cores. These longer, freely moving pieces end in even more soft, lengthened shapes that caress, tickle, and scratch me in my struggle. But ultimately these feelings are my own to feel. The shapes do not act on their own, because the shapes are not alive.

When I calm myself with the solace of loneliness, I carefully move back to my hands and knees and creep toward where I was attacked. After each shamble forward I reach out with one hand ahead of me to search for what struck my head. It feels as if it is an eternity, but eventually my hand comes into contact with something cold, rough and firm. If I press my hand into it, it does not move. If I press too firming it event hurts. If I draw my hand across it I feel small sensations of something less than pain; the threat of physical pain, warning me that this wall I have discovered is not soft of pleasant to touch. I inch forward until my second hand make contact with the wall, and like a babe learning to walk, draw myself up along the length  of it until I am reminded by my legs just how long they've been still...

One for You (pt.2)

 When the fool man had made end of his tale telling, I bemoaned myself. I had learned nothing new. I demanded of him the whereabouts of such information. Where did this foolish tale spawn from? He gathered for me a script berried beneath his works and unrefined scribbles. A forbidden text. I cried that I should have him struck down for his heresy. He remained calm before my divine wrath, however, handing me the script. He was but an old man, and knew its contents by heart. For me, this would now be my map by which to purge the heathens who's dare construct an abode on the mount that is rightfully mine.

We departed the fool-man, and I had that my knights would lay fire to the man's building next he left. I would not risk that he may be hiding more heretic lunacy. For this reason we tarried within Everald for some time, and left upon laying fire to his library of lies. We purchased what supplies were necessary and left at dawn, mine knights casting the building into flames. My maids asked that we should save what books may be of value, but I quieted them, explaining that nothing was of value as it had shared the halls with blasphemy.

On the road leaving town we were beset by guildsmen from Everald who sought to overtake us and visit vengeance upon us for the service I had so graciously done the city. They toiled against my knights, but failed. Each was beheaded and left in the road as warning to any more would-be traitors that would dare to assault the future queen. Despite their exceeding skill, some of my knights did suffer injuries. We set ourselves in the road to camp.

As we took to our tents, traders happened by the road, seeing that their kinsmen laid slain before them. They sought contention against us, and I ordered them put to death. My knights were becoming tired and weary at the combat, but they strove on for the sake of my divinity. I divided the spoils of the traitors among my knights as reward.

By morning, my retinue sought to load the carts with their spoils and saddle the horses, but I forbade them. They were the tools of peasants, as we were far above them. I chastised my servants, that they had become so corrupt by the world during our time. I understood they were not born of divinity as I was, but being supplicant to the divine, they were required to be greater than mere peasants. My maids bemoaned the choice, mummering against me by secret.

I read the script given to me, an old text from before man discovered the folly of worshiping the angels. It was a tale about a hideous woman who was shunned by all. It found its contents unfavorable, as I did not wish to read of something so base. Despite this, I understood that this script held key to me finding the courtyard of fables that people believed was more grand than my palace. The strange script spoke of coming up the north side of the mountain, so we departed of the roads and went to the crest of the mountain.

I looked on at its stature. Even I understood the greatness contained within and upon it. Despite this, the mountain was nothing before the angels. The hideous wretch in the script saw the mountain and sought its power. She wished to appease the Angel of Storms by settling a high alter. It disgusted me to know such a horrible person existed that would blaspheme the glory of the angels to a mere, tangible object.

When we reached the northern coast, my knights warned me that we were to enter the territory of my father's great foe, the Skorina. A plant that grew and fought against the people of the land for dominance. He warned that we were no match seeing as the all of the nations armies could not prevent it's growth. I was no fool. Divine I may be, but a warrior I was not. I hearkened unto my knights and we stayed along the calm waters of the lake for a time as I studied the script I was given.

It was around this time one of my maidens discovered she was with child. I was furious, but more so with this vile land, and less so with her. Had this land accommodated me, she would need not lay with my knights. I discharged her and her knight. She would not be my maid any longer now that proof of her being sullied was so apparent. Some of my other maids protested, wroth with my choice. How. Dare. They.

I discharged all my maids from me that had laid with a man. Due to my orders, it was all of them. Several were well to be without me, and several expressed worry. What would their queen do without them? It did not matter, as they were no more my maids! My chief lady cried to me that I would not venture alone among the knights that were left. It was uncouth for a woman of my stature to be alone among men. I ordered that my knights stay with their women, and establish camp along the coast.

When I made known my intentions t continue searching, my maids worried for me. But I cursed them that they dare speak to me as if they could retain me. I was born of divinity. They were not my maids, but whores taken by men. It was not their place to counsel me. My knights protested, but they were still loyal to me, and by my divine right of rulership, would dare not seek to stop me.

After my former knights had proven themselves traitorous and trapped me with bound within a tent, I vowed that I would make this journey on my own. During the night I escaped my binds and took myself a weapon of my knights. I thought to kill each of my traitors, but seeing as their women may be with children soon, I relented and left.

As I wandered the forest I pondered at the strange feeling of the cold steel within my hand. Should I hand taken his belt to hold the sword by? Should I have taken his gloves to make my hand more comfortable? Hard, unsightly bits of flesh grew on my hand. My feet bore them as well. Had I never walked so much in my life that my feet could not withstand the soil beneath them? Unacceptable.

I do not recall how long I walked before night fell upon my face. My stomach made a disgusting sound. I was famished, and I had no food. I was cold, with no place to sleep. I did dare not make fire, or my knights and maids may find me. When did I fear being seen by another?

I awoke in the morning in the hallow of a large tree. My fingers and limbs denied my commands. It was because I was unsightly. The divinity within me was rejecting my grotesque appearance, for sure. But the only water was north, along the coast. When I could finally beckon my limbs to move, I crawled that way.

The sands were cold and uninviting. The water was more so, but I had to clean myself. I could not honor my bloodline while being so disgraceful. I observed my body in the cold waters. My flesh was milky white, and mostly devoid of blemish. But I could see taint and disgust crawling upon my appendages. My hands were growing rough, and my feet made me sick to behold. Was I not descended from divinity? Did my father lie and whore's lie that he might take more women for himself?

I forced the thoughts from my head and departed the waters, feeling worse, but I was at least clean. I shivered for a long while as I walked along the coast toward the mountain until the sun's golden glow warmed me enough to move. I was, however, again reminded that I had not eaten. I looked upon the script in my procession. The wretch ate berries and hunted. I looked to the forest and demanded that it reveal its berries to me. It did not.

I wandered once more into the forest. It was more comfortable here, as the trees and canopy prevented the warmth of the land from leaving once it had gathered. Berries, roots, and the flesh of beasts? Where could they be? I prodded around the land, demanding it show me its bounty. It did not answer though. I fell upon it, striking it in frustration. Before the whole land though, I was quite small. It still did not show me its bounty.

By night, I fell upon my face, cradling myself and letting disgusting sound escape my mouth. I begged the land. I begged the "judge of the land" spoken of in the script that she would provide for me. I begged the "judge of the sky" that she would bathe me in warmth. Neither the land nor its supposed judges answered. The lies of the heathen, of course, were folly. I cast the rest of the script to the ground and made fire of it. I cut the land and grew my fire with its spoil. I would, at least, be saved from dying a dog's death!

The fire burned, but my anger burned hotter. I cut the trees, the bushes and the soil about me till my rage was subdued by my exhaustion. I then collapsed to the ground in a heap of soil. It stirred angrilly against me. It groaned and vexed me. Why was the soil now mocking me? I dug and struck at it weakly until pain shot through my hand and my body. I retracted my hand to find stinging incests attacking me. I had disturbed their hive! I demanded that they leave me, but they did not, stinging me and seeking my life. I would not die a dog's death, I would die the death of a maggot!

The smoke and heat of the fire I had made stayed their rage against me, and I cast burning limbs upon their hive to defend myself. Because of the stinging insects, I could not feel the burns I had inflicted upon my hands. After I had calmed, and fell against to the ground and bemoaned myself. But then I found within me inspiration. I have been given the sweet savor of honey many times, and in my youth had asked from whence it came. My maiden explained that insects make it of the juices of flowers and hide it within their homes. Was this this home, or simply a garrison?

I bothered myself to see! I tore into the hive once more. Many of the stinging creatures had perished from the fire, but not all. Pain shot through my arms, and my body as I was assaulted again. Soon, though, a vile feeling coated my hands. It was viscous and uncomfortable, making every part of my flesh feel wrong and dry. But the coating prevented the assault of the insects on my hands. I put more over my exposed body and continued my assault until there were no more. The sticky substances on my I recognized as honey. I took it took my lips and drank of it. Chewy morsels were spaced between gulps. I was eating their young?

No. They were giving me their young as tribute! Their maggots were the spoil of my victory! I ate them, and drank their honey from them, and sat down to the fire, falling into a restful slumber till the morning.

I made my way to the water again, bathing myself. It was not as offensive to touch the cold water because my body was so numb. I looked at myself in the reflection. My face was disfigured from the stinging insects assault. My arms, legs and body were covered with sores and my clothing upon the bank was sullied and unsightly. No more was I divine. I was a simple beast, forsaken by the world that she was destined to inherit. It was all because of the one who built an alter to the Angel of Storms above my palace. It was the fault of the wretch that sought to honor divinity with her disgusting mortal posturing. I cursed her aloud. I scorned her vile name. I reviled the day I heard of her. I vowed that I would find and destroy her alter, as her alter found and destroyed me...

One for You (pt. 1)

 While about the palace, within the grand spire upon which Dia is built, I found myself distraught by mine clueless meanderings. So much of these halls had encapsulated my tender years but wonder after their fashion I did not. For why were these walls made to be as the vines for the common folk's homes below my feet, if they were built upon such a grand mountain? For why had I sat so silently within the inner court, afraid to speak not for mine own safety but for the honor of another who was not there? For why had life been so serene in a tumultuous snow capped mount?

I am Princess, soon to be Grand Queen, Revillvia, of all of the Shattered Lands. From mine perch I do see this world's iniquity--what was wrought from the ignorance of man and given to the land before them to bare. It is my right that my desires be fulfilled, and I will accept no other outcome. For that reason I besought my father, Grand King of these Shattered Lands, and asked respite from the questions plaguing my mind. The senile man suggested I seek the answers not from he, but from the people below; that my heels be covered in the vile taint that the common trod each day. Preposterous. 

I had wallowed months, perhaps years in my curiosity, till I gathered my servants and my knights. I would not display myself so weak to such a useless King that I was to succeed by Divine Right. Mine maids and Knights found themselves perplexed, but it did not matter. I am their princess, and they are mine to command, so command them I did that they prepare the way down the mountain, crossed that fane of gemstone steps to the muck below that the pigs in the semblance of humans wallowed about in. I would bless them this once, for mine own pleasure, with my glory.


My first steps upon the gemstone terrace was met with the awe that it demanded. My Maids and Knights bowed as I took within my breast the open sky blessed to me by the Second Angel. It was a marvel to them that I would step about the palace, unprotected by its perplexing stone walls. It is no marvel. I am Princess, soon to be Grand Queen, Revillvia of all of the Shattered Lands. There is no fear that would beset a being so grand as I, the blood of Angels.

Each of mine steps was sharp, but beauteous as it was carried by the wind to the skies about the city that rested below my heels. I had truly been born for such glory, and I came to realize this more as I carried my divinity down to the slough below. It excited my pristine heart to think I would receive the worship I was due before my fool father passed me my rightful crown.

I was harrowed by my first upset as the ice of the mountains became the streams of the foothills. There was filth upon my heels. Mud, they called it. I had not seen such disgust since my time as an impudent child mixing my savor with the dirt of the perplexing courtyard I partook of each morning. Immediately my maidservant was dispatched to remove the taint of my boot. It was well until I had stepped upon another patch of tainted ground. Mine knights came to me next, removing the soil of me. The third time the scornful residue of earth that dare touch me drew my ire, and I removed it myself! Within me was the blood of the Angel of Storms and Sky. Such dirty elements would dare not touch me!

It was the eighth time that mine heels were freed of their disgrace that I chose to wear the vile ground's attacks as a symbol of strength. I would not falter under this loathsome world's attempts to break me! I strode with great dignity, though mine heels were soiled, unbothered by such feeble attempts on my sanity.

In the distance were the hovels the lesser beings lived within: the dens of filth from which my whore mother was plucked by my disgraceful father. Mine knights strode before me, allowing the lowly time to prepare their eyes for my glory. My maids went before me next, tempering the eye's with their lesser beauty. Finally, I shone brightly before them. In their disrespectful bewilderment, they made noise at me and my entourage. Happiness shone across their faces instead of the humility that should have driven their visages into the disgusting ground they toiled in with humility!

My face burned with emotion. I did not know its name, but I knew it burned within me. They were not worth my ire for their foolishness. Certainly they did not know or could not know how to act before one so grand as I. That is why I let them live, instead of ordering their execution. That is why I took their boisterous praise upon me the way I did. It was my prerogative, and nothing more.

Their delegate came before my secretary, beseeching my divine will of them. My intention was made clear that I was desirous of the knowledge kept within the stories and fantasies that they traded. These simple-minded fools did not understand my desires, however. I had no need of history lessons, for I was the maker of their history. Their teachings were useless as they were. Regardless, it had become dark with the shadow of evil that blotted the beauty of the Second Angel's divine sky from my eyes. A place was prepared of someone unworthy's home, that I might be settled within and comforted knowing my superiority to these common folk.

Upon the morrow I was treated to the finest food these folk could muster. It was passable, but not to my liking. Still, I was not so weak that I could not palette such pathetic tastes. As I took in my savor, I noted that the common folk sat round about their tables in a strange manner. I asked of mine maiden, why did they appear queer to me? She responded that they sat, more then thrice to a table. Tables made to hold more than three souls were an oddity to me, as I had never been placed among such at the Palace. Was this awkward practice the strange mechanisms of the poverty-addled mind?

I would not behold such strangeness before me while I took my savor! I commanded my knights that people would seat properly, no more than three to a table, while I was present. The foolish people found themselves perplexed, but obeyed my divine will, despite their lack of tables. When all was done, there was not any room for another soul at a table. All was as it should be, and whilst I continued my meal, mine maiden informed me that the eldest of the people desired my presence. Such impudence, but I relented. Upon viewing the sack of flesh, I understood fast that they wished to bask in my divinity before their time was done. I granted such a wish.

The Elder spoke to me, as I were a common fool as they were. They did not care of my status, because their care was upon the final hours of life they had. I could not order this fool's execution, for the punishment would be too little that I rob them such a meager amount of hours. Instead, I accepted the Elder's praise for my work making one of their silly tales come before their eyes.

Which tale was this, I wondered. The elder explained that upon the mountain from which I hail is a glorious court which the angels themselves partake of their savor, given to them by the mortal supplicants below. This was nonsense. There was no court higher than my very own, and certainly my servants served the blood of angels in me, but not the angels themselves.

As the elder spoke at me I came to realize their foolish stories had made them believe the lies of the wandering heart. I corrected the Elder, speaking that my servants had no other master before me. The Elder did not agree--the treasonous wretch--and insisted that I am proof living of the legend of a table that only seats three grand beings. He questioned why I sought only three souls to a table, and I answered because it is what is correct. To me I was shown that no more than three souls would sit upon the fane's arrangements whilst eating. As we spoke, the Elder's strange perception of my truths struck me. The Elder's tales were myth of my real truth. Was this the knowledge I sought, I inquired? The Elder did not know, but knew of another that might. The Elder was no historian, or teller of tales, but knew of one that lived within Everald's Core, who wrote of these grand events.

After I had partaken of my savor, me and mine setoff that we might seek this knower of tales and knowledge. Foolishly, part of mine knights warned it were a dangerous task to go so far. I would not allow such insubordination. They were cast from me and sent home, and my maids and loyal knights continued without them.

How long had my heels been scorned by the vile soil that had been named mud? I did not know, but it came to bother me again, and mine maids washed my heels and feet as we rested. How long were these strides I took upon myself to learn my curiosities? Was the land I was to inherit so large? Was this land so moist and uncomfortable? Why did the sky blot away as the sun left? Were their no illuminations prepared for my grandeur? This alien world that was mine to posses, but I questioned whether it was worth its retention, or discarding.

My legs, in all their divinity, felt pain within them. My chest felt pain, and I was covered about with disgusting fluid that smelled of the common folk. This was disgraceful that I would be allowed such turmoil, and I cast part of my maids away from my presence for their failure to harbor my perfection from the vile world. Never the less, even without their failure about me, I required that my divine heart stop beating within me so fervently. My loyal maidens removed their dresses that I would have the softest bed that could be mustered in such a disgusting world. I laid and attempted respite from the loathsome world, but gained little.

Upon the sun's radiant glow I woke to found my maidens in part of their number had been reduced. My Knights told that they ceased to breath in the night, because they were exposed. It was no fault of mine that they did not prepare proper quarters for me. I commanded they dress promptly to prevent the rest of their deaths, and a fire was made after the fashion of the lowly for them to return their warmth.

When all was ready, we began our march again. I would not be deterred from answers that belonged to me. Pain struck the heels of my maids and knights, but I shunned such horrid feelings. I was greater than the weakness of my supplicants. It was not until my maids called that my blood had been spilled that I took pause to observe. My sandals and their heels, had caused my flesh, my divine flesh, harm through days trodden upon the unprepared ground. I made such a sound that I could not describe, nor would I allow any other soul to speak of or hear again. The earth toppled me into its loathsome pores as I wailed, covered in vile, disgusting filth....

We made little progress that day, as I had needs to be cleaned and cared for to save me of my injuries. We made what the common folk call a camp. My maids cared for me, whilst mine knights provided for me. As night grew close, I ordered that my maidens, promised to be untouched by men all their days, lay with mine knights, that they would not die from exposure as they cast their dresses for my bedding.

The third day, we partook of vile savor that was not befitting of the ladies that we were, but was all the more nessicary that I overcome this weak, unworthy world. Again we set upon the road of sod that lead to Everald, the grand city of commerce that my whore mother was plucked from.

The ninth day came as a horrid sunburn. Glorious in its source, but treacherous in its working. Everald was before me and mine, but we were no longer the glorious parade that would bless the lesser beings with my divinity. We looked no better, and perhaps even lesser, than the common folk. For this reason I hid my beauteous nature. I did not announce that I was Princess, Soon to be Queen, Revilvia of all of the Shattered Lands upon our entry to the city.

The authorities and soldiers of the city whom guarded the trade that was rightfully mine from brigands and the lowly directed us toward a loathsome place called a tavern for our lodging. So full of filth and disgrace were their establishments that I ordered it be cleared and made well for one such as myself. My divinity I did not betray, but vast were me and mine's holdings that we could extort the usage of the building as long we saw it necessary.


It was five cycles of the sun and its blue sky that I prepared myself and mine that we be glorious to demand the knowledge being kept from me by this vile world. In that time, the tavern had become my palace and its workers my servants. The tables, ever so sinful, were replaced with proper tables and the image of glory was known within the building. Further attire was ordered and provided for me and mine maidens, that we not be disgraceful as the loathsome folk who slept among the vile dirts and muds of this world.

When I deemed we were ready, we set for this man I had been told of, that he would expound his knowledge to me that I no longer be plagued with unknowing. To a small hovel I was directed. Were I allowing the common folk to know my divinity, I would have them executed for the mockery, but I was tempering the people with my humble, serene nature, that they not know who I was.

Within this hovel I found an old man, but not so old as the Elder who directed me. In their senile age, the elderly treat me as one of their own. I am serene and humble, however, and will not betray my displeasure at their impudence. To him I inquired why it was so abounding that the sinful folk of the city sat more than three souls to a table. He gave pause, and asked why I inquired of its sinful nature. I would not be so low as to find myself lying to a lesser being, so I exposed my radiance, that he would know I was Princess, Soon to be Queen, Revilvia of all of the Shattered Lands.

This caused his lips to curl in a way I had oft observed. It was a self-soothing way the folk expressed their pleasure. Certainly he was in awe of my grandeur. To him I inquired again my question, and he spoke similar words to the Elder from who I was sent. But to my approval he gave more than simple ramblings of a tale that knew no reason.

To me, the teacher of fools told of the same court, where only three beings sat to partake of their savor. Mine palace was built in honor to this court, but before I could execute him for suggesting such a disgusting notion, he told that it was because it was the seating of the Second Angel, Airro Relle, that took place in this court. To him I reminded that her very blood flowed within me, and were he found a liar, I would render his holdings desolate for all time. In confidence and perhaps appreciation he spoke that it was within that court, that Airro's first appearance to the mortals was made. He began to regale me with a tale, explaining why three souls sat to a table within the grand palace...