Legends of Belariath
Sin
Deep within the summer seasons, deep in the lands of Belariath, a Torian encampment would be stationed. The lands about their encampment was a lush, beautiful forest, the tree’s stretching a good twenty spans at least. The clan known as the Tjian. This clan had been around since the Fallen War, known as a rogue groups, keeping itself distant from other Torians so that they were left at peace. Many others of their race saw them as traitors, not wanting anything to do with the renegades. A classic sign of their clan and their breed, was the fact that most carried the sign of Black or Crimson wings, very few being born with a different color. Barbaric traits also came with these Torians, most of the warriors and hunters actually being much stronger then the majority of Torians in the world, being buff and actually less intelligent. The Tjian Clan was far from normal after it had split apart, but it had always kept a wise, and strong Elder. Respected by every member of the clan, Elder Idenila had been around for almost a good hundred and seventy summers. She was the oldest of all Torians in the clan, except that of my self, Vandramath, the Storyweaver. This is a tale, the Last Tale that I speak to you about. Listen carefully about my words, for what I say is what will be the truth about this Bastard Child’s past. We had expected great things, but not this. This is His story…
Born on the hottest of nights, the wind blowing strongly outside the protection of the trees, none of the other Torians wishing to even dare flight at this time, so they huddled themselves to sleep. Things would remain silent, except for the winds over head, being muffled by the canopy. Suddenly, the cries of a woman would be heard. In a small makeshift tent would lay Triyna Stormdancer, and holding her hand would be her husband, myself. She was my beloved, my heart, and my very wings. The flaps of the tent would open, revealing the Elder who acted as our birth nurse. Exchanges of greetings would be made quickly, without the lack of formalness, and Idenila would quickly take knee in front of my wife, someone coming in behind her, Adren, to hold the hot bucket of water and many ripped clothes. A look was given to myself, knowing quite well it was time to depart the tent until after everything was over. This was one of our rituals. The father was to stay beside his wife until the birth nurse arrived, then they would leave and wait outside until everything was over. Taking a seat on a log by the large bon fire, I would begin to wait. Storms began to thunder in the distance, stating that rain and lightning would come soon. Things did not appear at their best, this was a bad omen. A child being born on such a disturbing night. Why would it have to be my child of them all as well? I planned on giving my child the task of which I held myself, the great role of Storyweaver. Hours would drug by very slowly, while I continued to wait. It appeared the worse had come. Maybe my wife had fallen pray to death, or the child, or both. The storm clouds overhead would begin to thicken, rain falling from them and crashing over the canopy of leaves, washing them down over the encampment. I would seek shelter by using my own wing to keep the rain from falling upon myself. With a crash of roaring thunder, then the flash of lightning occurring the same instant, I would hear the sound of a baby’s cry. My child had been born. Turning swiftly around and standing to my feat, I would wait for the flaps to open. I could still hear the child screaming, but why were they not coming out? It never took very long for you to be motioned in. Time started to drug on once again, and now I was worried. Finally, the flaps would open, showing not Adren like I expected, but Idenila. She would have the sadist expression on her face that I had ever seen in my life. As she spoke, she gathered up all her courage for her words, so she didn’t sound weak, or like any other women. Those words were the harshest things I have ever heard in my life, at the time. “Triyna is dead. Adren holds the child for now and is feeding him…” Hands would be clenched into a tight fist, the rain had ran down my face, soaking my hair to my face, causing my appearance to come as a rabid, insane man. Without saying a word, I would quickly go to the tent, throwing open the flaps to kneel beside my dead wife, hands taking hers. Cold and lifeless was she, and the pain inside of me was so harsh. I wanted to roar with tears, but I had to safe my courage. With her life gone, I must take care of the child. Turning, my eyes would fall upon the boy, nursing on Adren. This was common actually, one who knew the extensive arts of pleasure also knew of a spell known as Milk, which was used for the women who came to help the birth nurse. Incase the mother passed during the birth, the attendant would take the role as the feeder, but that is it. Arden’s eyes would look sympatric at myself while she held the boy, pulling him away from her nipple, a bit of milk still coming out of it. Handing me the child, I would take him very carefully. In all my hundred and twenty-seven summers, I had never had a child. I had never even though of starting a family. It was remarkable to hold such a fine, healthy boy, my son, in my arms. The night would pass, I allowed Adren to keep the child for the night so he may feed, and the following morning there would be the burial of my wife Triyna. Tears were wept, for she was a young Torian, but wise and beautiful. After the burial, everyone tried to make myself feel better by speaking great things of my son. It did feel wonderful, but only eased the pain a little. That night, I would sleep with my son, letting him sleep on my stomach. His wings were solid black, and beautiful. Wisps of brown hair was on his head, such a cute thing. Precious. I would listen to him breath, his heart beating, just feeling the tiny life upon my chest. I named him Artaris… Now, these are the most precious of times to list, but their not relative to what I have to tell, so I will skip ahead to when things started to get important, and more relative. It was going on my son’s fourteenth summer, and he had grown into a fine young man.
Standing a good five feet six, and his wings reached a grand size, full and beautiful. Long brown hair would lace down his shoulders and back, but his eyes were slightly bad for close vision, so a pair of spectacles was given to him as a gift from our resident instructor. My son was not one of the more barbaric of the clan, but one of the intelligential spawns. He had begun reading at an early age, but now he deprived himself of fun, games, and the other children, dwelling himself with the Instructor all day and half the night, or just into the books which he borrowed all the time. Pretty soon, his quest for knowledge was fulfilled by the instructor and the books within the clan. Those tomes were not enough, and he thirsted for more wisdom. Seeking out myself and the Elder, he would question us on many things, and we would answer them. Times came when even we had no answers, and were stunned that he even asked such questions. His thirst for knowledge led him to ask even other clan members, but they held not the answers he sought. Being disappointed, Artaris would travel with us but to himself. As the summers grew, so did his isolation. He grew dark, and secretive. One fall, we camped close to civilization by his request, so he may venture off for days on end so he may learn what he could. Finally, he returned, with many books, tomes, scrolls, and much information. Isolating himself in our travels, he would only read and sleep, and travel. This was his new way of life. His only way of life. I began to worry, I had seen this once before, and it had been different. He was becoming an Idenila. On his twenty-third summer, I had spoke to Idenila and the council. It was time for his Rolebirth, and we knew not of what would fit him. Idenila had the perfect idea, and voiced it to everyone. Why doesn’t he become the new Elder? Everyone was astounded, and many voices disapproved. But her words were law, and so was mine, but I didn’t know if I wanted this. Sure, if he was becoming another Idenila, then things would be left in good hands, and the clan would prosper. But something was not right about my son, something I couldn’t put my finger on. Summoning Artaris to the meeting, Idenila spoke his Role. He would say nothing, bow his head as if he accepted, then walked out. It was not something any of us had seen. Taking my leave, I followed him to speak one-on-one with my son. Finding him isolated from the rest of us by a hill, I sat down and noticed he was reading a book on different sorceries. His current page held the arts of Necromancery. Unsure why he was reading such a thing, maybe for just the knowledge, I shrugged it away, and addressed the matter at hand. I asked him what he thought of his role, and he said he accepted. He would wait for Idenila to announce it to everyone before he takes his place. I also tried to have a conversation with him since he had been so secretive as of late, but not to any success. Finally, giving up, I left. This was not something I had dealt with very well. The day that Idenila announced that she was removing her title of Elder, and bestowing it upon Artaris Stormdancer, the entire clan was in an uproar. One of the Council members couldn’t stand this, so he put my son to Trial. This was the first sign of trouble that lead to the End. Artaris accepted. Yes, he accepted. A Trail with Councilmen Ruthegan. I couldn’t believe my ears. That day, they faced off in a meadow, Artaris just standing there with a tome in his hands, his eyes transfixed on his opponent. Ruthegan was one of the more powerful of the Clan, surpassed by myself and Idenila. We all sat and stood, stunned by the on coming battle, and everyone knew who the victor would be. The councilmen would raise his hand, his lips mumbling an incantation to conjure up a ball of flames, launching the fireball in my son’s direction. Dashing out of the line of fire, Artaris would begin to charge Ruthegan with amazing speed, something we didn’t think he had. Standing before the councilmen, he would raise his hand, holding his fingers a bit oddly. With a quick jab, it hit his heart. Ruthegan would raise a brow, and then begin to laugh. Everyone joined him. Idenila and me would just sit together, silent. Suddenly, Ruthegan’s face went red, then purple, he couldn’t breath. Clutching his heart, he fell to his knees. Eyes bulged, gasping for breath, his voice cracking. As his body shook and spasm on the ground, he would finally come to ease, eyes closing in death’s wake. Artaris, opened his book and began to head back to the encampment while the others gathered about the dead Torian’s body. Stopping, he would raise a hand, not turning to look, his voice cold, yet stern. ”Leave him, he does not deserve burial. Oh, and Idenila, you take his place in the Council. That is my first order as your Elder…Any else care to Trial me while I’m here?” Everyone remained silent, stepping away from the body. Giving a curt nod, he would begin his walk back to the encampment, everyone following. Yes, that was the beginning. Soon, others also started to challenge Artaris, not liking his methods. He didn’t want them traveling as much, he wanted them to make permanent settlements. One by one, the Clan started to be weeded out of the weak as he called it, and soon, only the strongest was left. Calling a meeting one-day, Artaris had the entire Clan gather in the middle of the square as he called it, everyone asking each other what was going on. Artaris came to stand before them, his eyes cold and grey. “You all are weak, wanting to stick to your foolish ways. Everyone wished to challenge my authority, and now look where they got. I know what everyone thinks of me, and what you have planned. I know of this treason, and as it, I am going to counter it so. Death, to everyone.” Those were the last words that everyone had heard. For now he stuck, with the wrath of gods, upon them all. The small village that had created had been turned into a flaming waste, bodies lay in the streets. I could not do anything, but stand and take it all in. The women’s screams, the children, the warriors. No one stood a chance. He was just too powerful, even for us. Tears would stream down my face, my cheeks on fire, and burning from the close heat of the flames. Finally, he came face to face with me. I was the last. My own son, standing before me, a dagger in his hand. His voice was cold, yet so calm. He was very aware of his actions, and not regretting them one bit. “Father…”, he said “It is your time now. Be with mother, but you also deserve this. I’m afraid this is for the betterment of the clan.” The last thing I felt, and the last thing I would ever feel before the blackness took me, was the cold steel, stained with the blood of the others, sinking into my heart. I didn’t resist, I didn’t fight back. Those words, “for the betterment of the clan” left me with nothing to do. I was too loyal, even to my own murderous son. Falling to the ground, I closed my eyes, feeling death embrace me in its cold hands…