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“Warshaper is a ker general, renowned for her role in the Rivermine Heritage War,” Fallem began, his tone slipping into the cadence of a lecture. “She led the offensive at Ironforge Pier in Sattaya. It was the final push that secured victory over the Sattayan and Sumin Armies in 619.”
Yu did not care about any of this. These places, the dates, the people; they were just meaningless echoes of a history that was not his. He had heard some of the names before, of course. Tria had tried to cram them into his head during her brief, misguided attempt to mold him into a scholar — or, failing that, at least a competent trader. But those lessons had ended abruptly after his return from Emery Thurm and Ayenfora.
“While many forces shaped the war,” Fallem continued, undeterred by Yu’s blank stare, “she became famous for her exceptional name. Warshaper. A ker, given an honorary dwarven name. Imagine that.” He let the words hang, watching Yu for a reaction. “To the dismay of certain political factions, she decided to carry it officially and did so ever since.”
Factions. Fallem meant wizards, surely. Yu studied the man, weighing his motives. A wizard, seeking help from a ker who had openly allied herself with dwarves? Wizards and dwarves did not forge alliances. As far as he knew, they barely tolerated each other’s existence. But this was about Fallem’s brother, was it not? Politics took a backseat to blood.
“Maybe you know her as Lorien the Tarnished?” Fallem added, filling the silence that Yu had let stretch too long. “She was with the Crimson Circle but left after taking up a position as Grand General for the King Brothers. She still travels north on occasion, either for private matters or business with the Circle.”
“Is she a founder?” Yu asked, steering the conversation away from politics.
“Second generation,” Fallem replied.
Then she was either powerful or … special, Yu thought. The Crimson Circle was world-renowned as an organisation of elite fighters, adventurers, and treasure seekers.
Yu had never met a member of the Crimson Circle Core in person, but he had known about the Crimson Baerras since childhood. Not because he had any particular interest in them, but because it was impossible not to know of Captain Herdin O’Rourke and Chepter Terralin if you grew up along the Barnstreams. Yu did not care for politics, geography, history, or much of anything, really, but there was not a day where the riverfolk would not let you hear it. There was always some reason to bring up one or the other wizard, always someone proudly declaring them “children of the streams”, as those born among the settlements were called.
O’Rourke and his crew were practically legends in the region. Living legends, actually. They were frequent patrons of the Barnstream Harbour Guild near Yu’s hometown and also, from what he had heard, of the Albweiss Mountain Guild as well. The Crimson Baerras were seafarers through and through. When they were not manning their ship at the Barnstream Harbour Guild or navigating the river networks south-east of the Albweiss, they could generally be found among the north-eastern settlements or in the Northern Midlands. Their influence stretched far beyond these hubs, though, with resting spots and outposts scattered across riverside settlements and deep into the Midlands, past the swamplands and the rivers that framed the Albweiss Mountain Range.
More than sailors, they were strategic artefact hunters. And unlike solitary seekers, the Baerras had the numbers to claim whatever they wanted. Their name carried equal weight in whispered dread and open reverence, spoken with both awe and unease by professional competitors and commoners alike. Key members often remained behind at the guilds, while subordinates managed the ship. These were the Baerras’ eyes and ears, maintaining contacts in the Midlands, securing high-profile assignments, and handling specialised operations in groups of selected individuals.
None of them, however, had been at the Albweiss Mountain Guild when Yu arrived the previous night.
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Image: Yu and Albweiss Mountain Guild [https://glasswizardchronicles.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/01/The-Glass-Wizard_Fantasy-Adventure-Magic-Webnovel-by-The-Duckman_Depressed-Wizard-Webseries_Psychological-Webstory_Charactrs_Yu_Albweiss-Mountain-Guild.png]
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By now, Yu had encountered all six resident guards stationed at the guild, except for Terbert. Terbert was supposedly integral to the guild’s operation, though Yu had no idea what he actually did. No one had offered any details beyond his name, not even his race. The only other thing Yu had been told was that Terbert “lived in the walls” and would appear “when the time was right”. You either saw him or you did not. Whatever the fuck that meant.
Meeting the other five had been a string of awkward encounters that had turned into an exercise in discomfort. Gurs Farr-Rah, a borman, had been as coarse and disdainful as any of his kind Yu had ever met. Built like a beast of burden, with dense muscle packed onto a squat frame, Gurs carried the air of something feral, something never fully tamed. His thick fur was the colour of riverbed clay. His face and paws were of a much darker brown, though marred by jagged white scars. The low-set, black eyes beneath his heavy brow made no effort to disguise their contempt. He had barely spoken during their introduction, but words had not been necessary. Yu had seen the curled lip, the stiff posture, the subtle flare of the nostrils. The disgust. So much for politeness.
Tirran, who had been the first to meet Yu’s party at the guild entrance, seemed to rank second only to the watch-captain. Unlike the borman’s open hostility, Tirran had been civil, measured, even, though that did not make him any less unnerving.
He was the first omira that Yu had ever seen up close. They were a beastkin race Yu found particularly unsettling — tall, sinewy gestalten draped in bristling fur that stood in stark contrast to their unnatural poise. Their bodies and features were not beast-like, but monstrous: Their elongated limbs were powerfully built, and their almost skeletal hands ended in sharp, semi-retractable claws that clicked sharply as they shifted. It was a subtle yet distinct sound that struck the deepest chord of discomfort in Yu.
Tirran’s claws were as black as his skin and fur. It was a deep, smoky black, shot through with streaks of muted gold that caught the orb light when he moved. His elongated snout, the bared black fangs, the unnatural angles of his joints — the intelligence in his movements made them worse. Unlike other beastkin, who carried either the weight of raw muscle or the effortless grace of natural hunters, Tirran’s movements felt … eerily calculated. His every movement carried the suggestion of something restrained. There was no good way of describing it, no singular thing Yu could point to. But something told him that Tirran was not simply being himself — he felt … like a lie. He was adjusting, modulating, slowing and dulling himself down, very deliberately reducing his presence as to not scare the utter shit out of everyone simply by being there.
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And then, there were his eyes. Not just foreign. Not just beastlike. But utterly, utterly wrong. Lantern-lit citrine, slit-pupilled and sharp. They did not look or study. They held not the gaze of a guard, or even that of a hunter. Behind them was something that measured. Something that dissected.
On Tirran, those eyes just looked … wrong.
Very wrong.
It had been the first thing Yu noticed, and he had known right away that he would never ever in his life get used to it. Tirran had sat with them for only a few moments, mostly questioning the party about their journey: Had they seen anything unusual? Encountered any strange figures along the road? Orks and beasts were expected, yes, but had there been anything else? Traces of witches? No? Good. And just like that, Tirran had excused himself, slipping back to his post outside.
Yes, he had been polite.
Yes, he had been sociable, even.
But there was something deeply wrong about his eyes.
His words were reasonable. His tone, calm. His posture, respectable. His mannerisms, restrained. And yet, while his body moved through all the expected motions, his eyes did something else entirely. They never stopped moving. Never settled. Never focused where they should. They flickered, darted, and snapped from point to point, like they were disconnected from him entirely, driven by something else. It was as if Tirran was a normal person – a guard saying guard things and doing guard things with his more or less normal guard body – while some other presence, some senseless beast, had latched onto him from the inside. And this beast had taken control over his eyes. And it had been wreaking havoc with them ever since.
Tria had never mentioned the eyes when she had educated Yu on omira. Or had she? No, he would have definitely remembered that. Would he not? Well, then again, how would anyone describe this? You could say unsettling eyes, you could say pupils flaring, but there was just no way to truly capture the degree of disturbing Tellin’s eyes caused, to convey the sheer amount of raw horror they evoked, not with words.
Well. The one thing Tria had definitely spoken about, at length, was their hunting practices.
Unlike the bormen, whose strength came from sheer bulk and brute force, omira relied on speed and cunning. They were hunters through and through. Born with scent markers undetectable to most other races, they could recognise and coordinate with one another even in absolute darkness and across vast stretches of open land. Their exceptional sense of smell was one of many advantages that made them fearsome hunters and unyielding trackers. If you knew one thing about them, then you knew that an omira did not lose a trail.
Above all, hunting was more than survival for them. Hunting was an integral part of their culture. When a ruunar, which was the general term for a child omira, came of age, they were cast into the wild alone. This was the Trial of the Hunt. They had to endure, to track, and to return bearing a kill worthy of their pack’s respect. Only then were they truly accepted as a member of the pack. Only then would they belong.
Omira packs were hierarchical, but leadership was not based on age or lineage. Respect was the only currency that mattered, and it was earned solely through skill. The strongest or most capable hunter, known as the … — what was it again? Yu forgot. Something like Great Hunter, just, well, in their language. Anyway, that one was the leader; the male or female who demonstrated the most prowess in hunting and handling the pack. And if, at any point, another proved stronger, leadership shifted. With that, omira hierarchy was fluid and highly competitive.
This mindset shaped how they saw the world beyond their own kind. Omira had no regard for the social structures of other peoples. They recognised them, of course – titles, bloodlines, wealth, bureaucracy – but they did not respect them. To understand how to speak to them, you had to know this: When interacting with other peoples, the omira decided for themselves who among the outsiders was worthy of respect and attention, and ignored all else.
There had been a brief moment where Nion and Kal summarised all of this for Jerakill, who had never encountered an omira before. It happened just after Tellin had left the common room and the guild chef started bringing out trays of steaming hot drinks.
As they talked about omira, none of them mentioned the. eyes. It had unnerved Yu even more. But he had not known how to address his distress, either. So, he participated in the conversation as if everything was just. fine. With the commotion of the day and the exhaustion of the night settling in, no one was in the mood for deep discussion or any more disturbing realisations. But for a brief, drowsy stretch, as the warm fireplace and the hot makbar jolted him awake, Yu threw in his share of the boring and basic cultural notes.
“So they also chose who your leader is,” he eventually summarised.
“Right,” said Jerakill.
“Remember that.” The others seemed content with that, but Yu was not done. He had saved the best for last. “So, there is this one story about this really stupid king — whatever his name was, from I Don’t Know. So he was at war with some omira packs. And when he showed up to negotiate peace or whatever, he expected to talk to their leaders. But the Great Hunters of the packs, they just ignored him.”
Yu paused, letting that sink in.
“Instead, they talked to his generals. See, the king had, of course, brought his best guys for protection. And because they really were THE. BEST. GUYS. at whatever they did, fighting and leading armies and such, the omira basically respected everyone more than the king.”
He looked at Nion and Kal, “You know this one? The story?”
Nion frowned. Kal shook his head.
Yu turned back to Jerakill: “So obviously, this pisses the king off, and there’s no peace discussion. Then, the next time he goes back, he only brings, like, Division Useless. No generals, no commanders. Just some random soldiers, basically. And this time, the omira actually talk to him.”
Another pause. Then, Yu delivered the twist:
“But they also realise he’s utterly defenceless. So, yeah. They pretty much killed him right on the spot.”
A beat of silence.
“The. End.”
It was so stupid. And that was what made it so funny. It was hilarious, on a bad day. On a good day, it was the best war story he had ever heard.
Right now? Yu was not picky. He would take any dumb joke to gain pretend relief from Tirran’s eyes, or Gurs’ disdain, from the harsh guild chef, and from the creeping, gnawing panic that this was his new life. That the Albweiss Mountain Guild was not a fresh start, but a frozen forever prison that he would never be able to leave on his own.
So Yu waited. He looked from Jerakill to the others. Expectantly.
Nion shrugged.
Kal just stared at him.
Jerakill, with his ever-blunt masked expression, said, “What about omira who fail?”
Yu hesitated. “What?”
“The ones who fail the Trial of the Hunt,” Jerakill said. “Or lose their pack’s respect. What happens to them?”
Yu frowned. “What?”
Did no one hear the story? Why did no one laugh, or say anything, for that matter?
Jerakill just repeated, “Do you know what happens to them?”
Yu’s stomach dropped. He suddenly had the creeping realisation that they had all just … patiently, politely waited for him to finish. The way you listened to a child, to whatever dumb shit they needed to get out of their system so they would finally shut up.
What the fuck was wrong with them?
“Banished,” Yu snapped.
The silence stretched.
Saltcakes.
It was like throwing saltcakes in front of humans.
Fine. Whatever.
Yes, they got banished. While omira packs lived, hunted and quarrelled amongst themselves, their exiles sought release for their instincts in other ways. Losing their pack did not mean losing their nature. And exiled omira only ever took up one profession. They became assassins.
Untethered from their old lives, they honed their hunting skills into something even more ruthless. They were both paid and feared for their ability to track prey across vast distances with relentless determination.
Tirran had to be an outcast.
But there was no way to know why. Had he failed his Trial of the Hunt? Or had his exile been for something else entirely? Had he roamed the continent as a contracted killer for ten years, or only ten days, before taking up residence with the Albweiss Mountain Guild? There was no way to tell.
But the moment he had loomed over Yu during their introduction, when those erratic, twisting eyes had briefly halted and locked onto him in absolute stillness, Yu had known one thing with absolute certainty. He had to fear Tirran more than anyone else.
Tria had taught him about omira for a reason. Even though none lived in the Barnstream regions, even though none would ever be permitted to settle there or even just to set foot within the villages, she had drilled their hunting practices into him. Because in the lands where omira packs roamed, they hunted fina.
And if Yu was not a bastard wizard, then he was a bastard fina.
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