“…One night.

The holy city of Basira fell in one night…

The crown jewel of our Itarian Empire, a monolith of industry and wealth from which the greatest works of men have come; Basiran Steel, the crystal waters of the Obsidian Towers, and the Grand Libraries where thoughts were lengthened and the divine texts were scribed. That was why the Emperor has coveted it so, why he poured every considerable resource our vast empire had into raising the city of Basira to the status it held. The greatest of our Legions guarded its gates, with musket and blade alike, but now the very age of order, our age of reason, teeters on collapse.

Over four centuries ago, when the blessed divines still walked the world, Itaria was a small and unremarkable nation, a land of kings, not emperors, and bereft of any notice. Then the King’s son fell deathly ill, and he was offered up to the divines and miraculously healed by the goddess Mherriam the merciful. In return for healing, the King was given a divine mandate from Astram, our all-father, to bring his order and the will of his children to all nations and people and so our first Emperor, Calsiyus Mazure the Great, did as was asked. He turned his army, the Silent Legions, to his once allies and friends, the other nations of man and made them bow before the divines. These squabbling nations became the noble houses and the bedrock of the great Empire we know today. The newly formed empire’s gaze turned to the rich desert firmaments to the east filled with the small, but industrious race of Goblins; and their nation of Numbruk quickly fell into subjugation. Before the sands even settled, the Emperor then turned his attention West to the forests of Talyia of which the noble Basador warriors of lore hailed; There he was slain in those bloody campaigns, joining his fathers among the guardians, and his young son who had been divinely healed by Mherriam, Reuslaz Mazure the White, took the throne.

Reuslaz finished his father’s conquest of Talyia, and then declared that Basira would be the next land to bow before the divines. It was the cradle of the firmaments, the birthplace of the divines, and the land of his mother, Empress Kul’sysa, but it did not fall against the gathered might of the Empire as quickly. Just like the tribes that called the frontiers of Basira their home, the land was wild and untameable. Every ridge and valley, every tree and river, had to be fought for with holy crusade after crusade, but it had to be done. For fifty years, the pagan tribes did not bend or yield, but as a heavy stone sits stubborn in a raging river, their will and strength eroded. The crusades pushed until they reached the great Yalitz river’s tributary, from which Peltra, goddess of the sea, is said to have birthed the oceans and seas of the world, and the remains of the holy city of Basira. Upon Emperor Reuslaz declared that the crusades were over. All the remaining lands to the West of the river were declared to be the frontiers belonging to the pagans, and all the lands to the East were to become part of the empire of Itaria, holy land of the divines. There at the junction, the great city of Basira was rebuilt as a monument to the Empire’s divine rule.

But this victory was short-lived however as a great wickedness had insidiously taken root inside our empire while its gaze was focused on the holy lands, the witches. Women who had the sight and ability to manipulate the divine threads of fate and life just as the Seven divines had, began to appear from among the people of our empire. The trickster goddess of death whom I will not utter her name, had grown jealous of her brothers and sister’s worship, and created her daughters out of spite. The curse spread. In a revelation spoken by the holy prophet Iskar, he foretold of a male being born with the ability to use the divine threads who would destroy the church and tear out the very bedrock of the Empire, the great deceiver, a wicked one. The Church of the Divines could not abide such power being wielded carelessly by mortal women, and with the prophecy of looming, the Order of Thelris with its Witch-Hunters was created. Then the great purges began.

The Witches, those cursed and wicked daughters of Yanthea, were hunted and burned. And their fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, husbands and children all joined them. The curse could not be allowed to spread, but as we burned out the darkness, the Empire began to crumble with it. Baby daughters fresh from the womb were thrown into the street or slain for fear that they may be touched with the curse. Wives were abandoned. Sisters were denied. Not a day went by that the air was filled with the smell of burning flesh and fear that gripped the Empire, but like a purging fire, it left us pure, but weak. And in that weakness, our enemies struck. The great nation of Anataria, the men of Ash, struck us heartily, and at their helm, were witches born within their lands. The power they wielded was terrible.

They slew the Legion in the hundreds, and even our noble Witch-Hunters struggled against their ferocity. The Empire began to lose ground, and much of the lands our forefathers had fought for began to erode and fade before the might of Anataria. Our Emperor, the twice great grandson of Reuslaz, Simun the first, made a startling and appalling declaration that rended our holy church in two. He declared that witches were now property of the Emperor, and that they were not to be harmed under threat of death. We threatened revolt, claiming that the Emperor was under the sway of Yanthea herself, but he quickly assuaged any doubt by baptizing himself in the divine waters in the holy temple at Basira showing him pure in spirit and intent. I cannot fault him for the choice he made, desperate times call for desperate measures to be taken, but I cannot abide our response. Before our holy church, he demanded that Witches were to be imprisoned instead and that their false divine power would be harnessed only in defense of the nation as penitence for their wickedness. They were to remain under the confines of the holy church, and would be under constant watch by those strong-willed and hard of mind and soul in the Order of Thelris. The witches would be stripped of all their ties and would never be allowed to be in the presence of any man alone, for fear that they may birth the prophesied male who would bring about the destruction of the holy church and our great Empire.

Our leaders foolishly agreed to the Emperor’s wishes and the Witches were captured and made to fight against Anataria. The war was bloody and long, fought into an impossible stalemate and then like the ash from their homelands in a gale of wind, Anataria withdrew without a word. But instead of continuing the purges as they should have, the Witches were housed in their vile prison, the black-walled Bastion of Fen, where they have resided ever since and the Empire has remained in an era of uneasy peace until two seasons ago. But now like a candle wick in the night, Basira has fallen, and I’m not afraid to say that in our pride and foolishness, it was well-deserved.

An ashen fog crept from the deepest wilds of the West and blanketed the land, and with it came wailing akin to those in the deepest pits. Many falsely said it was the vengeance of the pagans, but even our enemies fled across the river of Yalitz into the holy lands with terror in their eyes. I swear upon the very divine text that daemons roam those mists! I hear it in the mutterings, and see it in the very eyes of the countless refugees arriving in the port each day. Though I hear our noble Legion has managed to hold the last waycastle before the port of Calsiyus and the Eastern edge of the firmament, how much longer can they hold? The Great Knight Yantian, Battle-Maiden Helgestia, and The Weeping Priestesses of Beran have all braved the mists in search of High Prince Abran and to end the madness, but none have returned, may the divines bless their souls. All is lost unless we take action!

We have indulged these witches, these wicked harlots of perdition for far too long and now we suffer from the wine bore of this rotten fruit! Disease and rot fill our cities, our enemies once again march against our gates, and yet we tarry. Should we stand idly by while our empire suffers? Nay! We must again purge these wicked ones from our flocks and cities as we once did, lest we all fall just as Basira has! What say you!?…”

-Excerpt from the sermon of Arch-Deacon Herndon, father of the church of Hevard, capital city of the Empire of Itaria.

The month of Fevair-2nd, 10th day of the 58th year of the reign of the great Emperor Simun the Third. II..X..1058

A scant creature huddled in the alcove off the main row. Her tiny jade arms held tightly against her shabby rag clothes in an effort to stave off the hot biting wind, her large pointed ears were worn raw and speckled with ash and sweat, and her round violet eyes were screwed shut. The goblin pulled her hempen scarf tightly around her small browning neck and lifted it over the apples of her freckled cheeks to fend off the stinging sand, but it was an all but useless gesture. Brenna let out a huff of exasperation, and gave a cursory glance down the row before a fierce sandy gale caused her to retreat back to the safety of her small alcove. Where in the pit was he? She thought.

Sand accumulated everywhere in the caravan, in every nook and cranny, and no matter how much was done to cull the oppressive sand, it lingered. The Great Caravan of Sebire was a traveling circus of debauchery that drew countless vagrants, refugees and locals from the four corners of the land to slake their darkest desires. The twisting serpentine rows formed from the multitudes of canvas and cloth tents bore small glimpses of streets, alleyways, hideaways, and nests that congealed with decay and mire. Once ancient white tents stained brown with dirt and filth varied in sizes from nothing more than small huts to some as large and elaborate as a multi-room inn in a larger city and all sizes in between. The caravan had settled into one of the larger craggy hillsides of the Numbrukian desert, tucked away underneath a mountain precipice that covered most of the town from the blazing red sun overhead.

Large ribbons of crimson and gray hung from wood poles outside the tents of various brothels each tailored to the plethora of clientele that journeyed to such a place. Stalls stinking of spice and meats of unknown origin cramped the main row that gouged through the center of the Caravan like a bloody dark wound. Slave markets and cages laid at the southern most edge, most exposed to the elements and watchful eyes. In the valley below the caravan, sat the ancient desert city of Sha’kak with its multitude of black stone towers piercing the heavens, wavering like ebony glass shards in a sea of red.

“Miss me?” Yaromir whispered in her ear.

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Brenna spun, her heart leaping in her chest, “Ya scared the dreck out of me! Wat took ya so long?”

The human boy smiled triumphantly, his steel blue eyes blazing in the golden light; he held out a moldy piece of bread as if it were a bar of pure gold, “You did great. The keeper didn’t even notice.”

“Why’d ya take so long then?”

“Thought you wanted to meet by the one with the black spot,” He shrugged, smiling as freely as the sun shone on a hot day, and pointed to the tent, “not this one.”

“When did ya hear blackspot? I said Red and Yellow, remember? I swear ya never listen一”

He pressed his lips against hers. Her heart leapt as a spontaneous squeak eked out from her mouth. His kisses used to be gentle, almost innocent pecks, but they seemed to linger now, grew warmer, made the tips of her pointed ears tingle. Then a hint of the sour bread held in his sweaty fingers crossed her nostrils, and she deftly slipped it from his grasp while he was distracted. She broke their kiss with a mischievous grin and within a breath, she wolfed it down, tearing the loaf with her fanged teeth like a wild animal. It was the best thing she had tasted in weeks, and the lingering taste of his lips made it all the sweeter.

“That was so good. I-”

The pained hunger in his steel-blue eyes gave her paused, but then it quickly faded into another dimpled carefree smile. He made a show of licking the morsels from her open palm like a dog, eliciting a giggle from her as a shiver of pleasure curled up her spine. For a fraction of a moment she was worried she had pushed him too hard, that he would leave on account of her eating most of the food, but instead he patted the top of her head amusedly, brushing aside some of her dull ginger curls, “No worries Dandelion. I already ate my share on the way back. I’m so full I’m practically bursting at the seams.”

She frowned. She hated when he lied to her. He was terrible at it; he didn’t have a liar’s bone in his body, but that was also part of why she liked him. Well, that and he was strong and quick so none of the children messed with him. Though they were nearly the same age from what she could figure, he was already a couple heads taller than her. She wished she could be taller, stronger, like he was, but then that was what she used him for; to keep her safe. Goblin halfers didn’t last long alone in the caravan, and like all halfers, she had been completely alone before they met. None of the pure Goblins wanted to take her in, they didn’t take halfers. She could have passed for one if not for her ginger tresses, and her more human-like features; Her small button nose instead a large bulbous one, and her tiny slender chin. Hum children wouldn’t take her either because of her goblin features like her diminutive size, large pointed ears and jade skin. Her heritage was obvious, but she never did know her parents. None of the children in the caravan did.

Most of the children didn't have parents, and most were birthed from the whores who inhabited the brothel tents and then abandoned. She liked to think she was different, that her creation wasn’t the result of some random unpleasant meeting of two strangers in the dark belly of some tent, but she knew that probably wasn’t the case. Most of the whores were Goblins, and every time she saw one, she wondered if maybe she was looking her into the vacant worn eyes of her mother and didn’t even know it. It used to bother her, but she tried not to let it anymore. It was just her and her boy, just the two of them. They were going to run soon, get far away from here. Time was running out for her, and soon the boy’s strength wouldn’t be enough.

She was quickly developing breasts, and she was already rather large for her age, especially for a Goblin. She thought that was partially the reason the boy stuck around, she caught him peeking at her from time to time the same way he would have eyed a feast. She didn’t mind his gaze so much, as long as it made him stay. But if he noticed, It would only be a matter of a time before she garnered the attention of one of the slavers and she’d be dragged away into a tent. She didn’t want that life; She was meant for something better. She could feel it in the very depths of her soul. She would stay with her boy, her protector, at least until they could leave this place. She’d let him give her all the kisses he wanted for now. She wrapped her arms tightly around him, making sure to press her growing chest against his stomach, and gave an apologetic grin as she saw his cheeks redden.

“I’ll get tha food next time. Promise.” She lied.

“Don’t make a promise you can’t keep or curse on you. I can’t have you getting caught, I’ll do it kay?”

Now she would protest ever so slightly. “Why can’t I do it? I’ve done it before.” She pouted, cocking her head in a way that always made the boy’s nostrils flair.

“I’m faster.” He lied. He was faster than her, the advantage of having longer legs, but the way he said the words sounded wrong. He was hiding something. He inhaled deeply again, but instead of pulling her close, he pried her arms away from his waist, “It’s getting dark. We should get back home.”

What is he hiding? She thought, “I don’t want ya to get caught either, a’right?”

“They won’t. I won’t leave you, dandelion. I promise.”

There was a deep intensity in his voice that made her heart begin to beat fast once more. He said the words with such conviction that she felt like she could actually believe him, but that was ridiculous. Trust was a dangerous thing, especially in the caravan. She was only using him, pulling him along like a guard dog with a string, and giving him just enough in return so that he wouldn’t leave. Why couldn’t he see that? “What was that about making promises ya can’t keep?”

“I swear or the divines can send me to the pit. We’ll leave this place together. We’ll find a small warm home far away from here, somewhere cool for just the two of us, and I’ll marry you.”

“M-Marry?” Brenna stammered as an indescribable warmth filled her; She felt like she was glowing as hot as the burning sun overhead. He wasn’t even giving her a choice; He had said the words as though they had talked about it millions of times before. She had never really thought about life after she left, never had a plan, she survived day by burning day. After she left the caravan, she always figured she would go on as she always had; stealing to get by, drifting from place to place, but the thought of staying with him had barely crossed her mind. She had never considered that he would want to stay with her, but now she could see that he’d been using her just as much as she was using him, and she felt stupid for not seeing it earlier.

She wanted to be angry, but instead it only left her breathless, dizzy. Marriage was not something that happened in the caravan; there were couples sure, but marriage? Marriage meant commitment, meant love, meant a family. But hearing those words made her realize she wanted all of those too, even more than food or coin. She craved love from a mother or father she never had, someplace safe where she didn’t need to worry about what to eat, and family, a real home. With each passing moment, the thought of him staying excited her more and more, like it had been some unspoken agreement or an inevitable outcome. She was so surprised by her own reaction she could barely speak, “B-But what about coins? We’d need coin before we leave-”

Before she could finish, he kissed her again. The sensation of his soft lips against hers was like fire in her veins and she felt like she was melting. Her breath came in ragged panting gasps as her heart pounded in her chest; It felt different from before. His words had sparked something inside her, something she didn’t quite understand; a craving, a need for his attention. She felt a hunger for his touch that was stronger than the hunger pangs in her stomach, and she didn’t understand why. She let out a soft coo of frustration as he broke their kiss, and he slipped a hand inside his pocket. He gave a cursory glance around and then to her surprise, he revealed a heavy leather bag filled to the brim with coins. Her inhaled breath caught in her throat.

“W-Where’d ya get all that!?”

Yaromir smiled proudly, “Been saving. A coin here or there when they weren’t lookin. Told you I was fast.”

“D-Dreckhead!” She cried as she cinched the bag close, “We’d only lose a finger, maybe even a hand if we get caught taking food, but coin? They’ll hang us for that!”

“You took the words right out of my mouth, Gobbie.” A rough voice chuckled from a tent nearby. She cried as the strong arms of the imperial guard reached out from an alcove nearby and wrapped tightly around the boy’s wrists. Yaromir kicked and spat, trying to wrench his arms free, but the man dressed in crimson robes was much larger. Still he fought like a wild animal; He managed to free one arm and spun, raking his hands across the grown man’s face. The guard howled in pain and responded with a jab that left the boy reeling. He collapsed to the ground. The guard chuckled as he wrenched the boy’s head up. The shopkeep they had stolen the loaf from emerged from a nearby alleyway, flanked by a few more guards with a wicked grin as he pointed at her, “And that’s his accomplice there. A gobbie with fiery hair, and violet eyes like amethyst…she’ll be quite a popular one, huh?.”

“And he’s a strong lad, he’ll make a good slave. Fine, do with the Goblin as you wish.”

She turned to run, and found herself face-to-face with another guard. They were trapped. Her arms were knotted tightly behind her, and she was forced down to her knees.

“D-Don’t you hurt her!” Yaromir growled, tears streaming down his dirty face. He spun around and kicked, landing his foot squarely between the man’s legs. The man let out a howl of pain, and struck down hard. The boy’s body went limp, the blow was so hard it made Brenna wince. One of the others lifted him up to his shoulder, and left.

“String him up instead.” The man gasped after him, wheezing in pain

Brenna was afraid. She knew her fate was much worse than losing a hand or even at the end of a noose. This caravan would do to her what happened to all the other girls. She would be thrown away in some tent, forced to do things that would stain her very soul, and they would take and take until she had no soul left to give. She’d be a husk, an empty soulless whore like her mother before her. She would have no one to love her, no home, no family. She felt utterly alone, but then she heard something.

As she was dragged behind the shop owner, hands bound in rope, she heard a song. A song with a beauty unlike anything she’d ever heard before. It was louder than any of the drunken songs flowing from the taverns or whorehouses, and it had a natural almost flickering sound that stirred the very depths of her heart. She searched for the source, only to find that the song danced with the fire of the torches lighting the streets. The fire made the song, and it was wonderful. She was entranced, all thoughts and fears of her fate gone like a flake of ash in the wind. As they drew closer to a torch, she could see little web-like strands dancing among the flames, vibrating with each hot gust of wind, and she instinctively reached out and clutched the strand.

Within an instant, the flame leapt to her hand, but it did not burn her. It danced, the song that it played like a flickering soft note as it burned away the rope, creating a new sound. The shop owner screamed in horror, yelling something in a foreign tongue she didn’t understand as she caught a strand of wind as it flitted by. The flame and the wind danced together, the song joining together to create an even more beautiful melody. The sand at her feet had a different melody, she added that to the song. She marveled at her own creation; she was creating something new, something wonderful, an orchestral piece fabricated from nature itself. But there was something else. Cacophonous Screams. So many screams. By the divines, what have I done?