legends realm dreams <3 of 4>

From: bryan@stiatl.uucp (Bryan Donaldson)

Date: Thu, 11 Aug 1994 23:09:03 +0000

Dream #18 Isle of Sin

It wasn't the best of days to be at sea, but Captain Roule Trevize had
certainly seen worse.  He took the grey choppy waters in stride, and gazed
with his usual baleful expression at the slate-colored sky.  He made it a
point not to let weather upset him; what could he do about it anyway?
Better to get on with whatever business was at hand.  The weather, whatever
its temper, would pass.

And its temper looke irritable today; small caps of white foam now dotted
the water as the wind drove the sea before it.  Trevize's ship, the
Keelwave, yawed slightly as the quickening air currents stretched the
heavy canvas of the sails.  The ropes responded with a groan, and the
steersman tightened his grip on the wheel slightly.

"Looks like we may not make port by evening after all," came a voice
from behind him.  That would be Theward.  He turned and greeted the first
mate with a smile.  Theward was a rather comic figure, especially in a
high wind; his long beard seemed to be trying to pull him overboard as it
was whisked in several directions.

"Gods, I hope you're wrong for once,"  Trevize replied with a grin.
Theward was never wrong, and they both knew it; the Keelwave would likely
make port sometime in the night and wait until morning to dock.

Theward moved up alongside his captain and followed his gaze to the sky
off to starboard.  A large bank of black thunderheads was building there
in the east, and they were growig noticeably nearer.  "Looks bad," the
first mate commented unnecessarily, while Trevize was thinking the same.
He hadn't seen clouds that thick since a storm two winters ago off the
coast of Umbria, far to the west.  But such storms were common off the
shore of that country; to see a storm here, especially in late summer,
was certainly rare.

Well, he might have expected better luck, but he wasn't getting upset.
"Bad alright.  Have the men lash everything double; I don't like the
looks of this.  Wrong season . . ." he trailed off as a huge bolt of
lightning, followed by a monstrous roar of thunder, flashed to the east.
He looked meaningfully at Theward, who hurried off to see that the Keelwave
was prepared for the storm.

It took almost an hour to actually arrive; the clouds boiled closer until
they were almost directly overhead, and the sky changed to a greenish color
to match the sea.  From his cabin, Trevize heard the wind suddenly pick
up, leaning the ship to port.  He got up from his desk and headed above.

The rain hit the ship in a wave, and soon there were only three of them on
the storm-tossed deck; himself, Theward, and the hearty steersman.  They
gripped the rail and listened to the ship; a good captain can tell how
his vessel is weathering a storm by listening to the noises of the hull,
masts, and ropes.  Thunder made a continuos growling in the background,
and the deck was intermittently lit by flashes.  This WAS a bad storm; it
was the worst the Keelwave had seen, although her captain had been
through hurricanes.  Theward had a frown on his face, and Trevize knew he
was weighing the ship's chances if the winds got worse.  The hull
was shuddering, and the masts were creaking; no sails had torn yet, but
the ship was certainly not built to stand up to this degree of elemental
fury.

The rain blew near-horizontally across Trevize's vision, and stung his
cheeks.  It was a warm rain though; this storm was only a late summer
squall, however brutal.  His chief concern now was not whether the
Keelwave would survive, for she seemed intact enough, but rather how far
off course they would be when the storm finally let up.  Theward was an
excellent navigator, but even he could do nothing about where the storm
decided to leave them.

The wind and rain kept up for several hours.  The sails had long since
been furled, and the rigging brought down.  At times it took the strength
of all three men to hold the wildly jerking wheel, and once Theward almost
slipped overboard.  But at laaast the rain died out, and the scream of the
gale became only a mournful howl as it raced across the slick foredeck.

When the wind had turned to a stiff breeze from the southeast, Trevize at
last allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief.  He clapped both of his
stout men on the back, and turned to Theward.  "Not bad for our light
Keelwave, eh?  See if you can't tell me where we are before sundown."
Then he strode surely across the still-rolling deck and bedded down to
his cabin for a nap.  The ordeal had been exhausting, and he was no
longer young, He was awakened several hours later by his first mate.
Theward had changed his clothes and was long since dry, but he had a
worried look on his face that had Trevize immediately alert.

"I found us, all right," Theward spoke softly, "though I can't account
for where we are.  Somehow, Captain, we've been driven far to the northeast
-- farther than our charts show . . ." he trailed off at the frown that was
on Trevize's face.  "I know, it's not possible, but there it is.  That's
what the stars say, and mapping by the stars can't be wrong."  He unrolled
a chart onto the Captain's desk while Trevize blinked the sleep away from
his eyes.  "As near as I can tell, we are about here," he indicated a spot
near the northeast corner of the map, far from the shores of civilization.
His finger rested in a large black area, a wide stretch of sea that had
never been charted by the mapmakers of Verana.  "Other than playing havoc
with our schedule, we should be able to make port without too much
problem . . ."  Theward paused again, for Trevize was scowling now;
nothing bothered the Captain more than being behind schedule.

"Well, nothing we can do about it," Trevize sighed.  "Go ahead and set
course for port.  We'll be late, but maybe our wares will still bring a
fair price."  He sat down heavily in a chair and stared darkly at the
ceiling of his cabin.

As Theward was rolling up the map, a shout of "Land ho!" came from the
deck.  The first mate shot a startled glance at his captain, who returned
an equally surprised look.  Both headed for the door at the same time,
and clambered out onto the deck.

It was dawn, and the cool breeze from the southeast had shifted around
to the north.  The deck was dry, and the sky was clear as the sun burned
the water on the eastern horizon.  In the crow's nest, a sailor was
indicating with an outstretched arm the direction in which land had
been sighted.  Trevize pulled his glass from a watertight pouch at his
belt and sighted into the north.

"It's land, all right," he muttered, "and we damn near hit it.  Theward,
have a look," he said, handing the glass to the first mate.

"Heh.  Doesn't look like land I ever saw before," said Theward after a
long gaze.  "If those are mountains inland, they're easily the tallest
in Verana.  What a godforsaken place!"

It was.  The ship sailed closer, and details began to come into focus.
The coastline was very rough, with almost no beaches; jutting crags of
dark rock extended straight into the water.  There was some plant life,
mostly near the shore; inland, only barren rock could be seen.  The
landscape sloped upward for several miles until enormous mountains reared
in thei dreadful, ragged peaks far above the ocean.  One look would have
told anyone they were impassable.

Theward was speaking.  " . . . could use a place to anchor for a bit to
look her over for damage from the storm.  Besides, the men need to
stretch their legs . . ." he trailed off as he realized his captain
wasn't paying attention.

"What?  I'm sorry, Thew, I was just . . . that land . . . it seems . . .
I don't know, strange somehow.  Don't you think?  I mean, look.  Do you
see any animals?  Looks pretty damn lifeless to me.

"But you're right, as usual.  See if you can find a good spot to anchor,
and we'll lower a boat for a walk."  Trevize went back to staring at the
weird landscape.

In a few minutes, Theward and the steersman had located a smooth stretch
of overgrown "beach" that would be suitable for landing the ship's dory.
Several sailors heaved the anchor overboard when the ship was about a
quarter mile offshore, and the men waited for the Captain to board the
boat so they could lower it.

The first landing party consisted of Trevize and Theward, with six
other sailors; after several minutes of rowing, they reached the
shore.  Trevize found the land near the water's edge to be pleasant,
on the whole; a light breeze was blowing in from the sea, and the floral
scent from the many flowers that dotted the rocks nearby was strong.

"A pretty spot, captain," one of his men smiled at him, and proceeded to
take a nap amid the flora.  Several of the men were for exploring, however,
and Trevize was of like mind.  He and Theward led the way as two of the
others joined them for a brief trek inland.

The sun was not yet high in the sky when the left the land near the
water's edge and ventured up in to the barren rocks, the foothills for
the huge mountains that lay in the distance.  All of them sweated a little
as they clambered over the broken stones for nearly an hour.

Theward stopped.  "Captain, you were right.  About the animals, I mean.
I haven't seen so much as an insect since we came ashore."

"Yes, and now the plants seem to have vanished as well," replied
Trevize, looking around.  It was true enough; nowhere could they find
a green thing of any kind, not even moss on the rocks.  It was odd, and
Trevize didn't like it.

As they rested a bit from their exertions, one of the sailors paused.
"Ho, what's that?" he asked, slightly out of breath.  "Can ye hear it?
Sort of a buzzin' sound."  They all listened, and sure enough, at the
limits of their hearing, they could detect a faint humming, unlike any
other they had ever encountered before.  It  buzzed in a steady,
whispering tone, so soft that they wondered if it was really there.
Then they started up again after a while, and almost immediately the
sound became louder.  They were nearing the top of a rise, and Trevize
slowed his pace, trying to determine the direction the sound was coming
from.  Unnervingly, it seemed to be straight ahead.  They walked on
slowly.

Near the top of the rise, they stopped.  The sound was quite loud now but
its source was still invisible, seeming to emanate from the top of the
rise itself.

Theward peered ahead thoughtfully.  "Look there," he pointed ahead,
apparently indicating the air in front of them.  "It's a bit wavy,
see?  Sort of unclear . . ." he had trouble finding the words.

But the others saw it now too.  The air in front of the seemed to sway a
bit, rather like heat waves from stone in summer; through the shimmering
they could see the landscape continuing to slope upward beyond it.  They
stood and examined the phenomenon for a few minutes, but could not find
anything dangerous about it.  After some discussion, Trevize led the
way through it.

What happened next he could never afterward successfully describe to
others.  Trevize's world blinked out, as if he had been utterly and
instantly snatched from Verana into another place completely.  He saw
forever in all directions, and yet saw nothing, for all was black.  He
felt vertigo, as if he were spinning at a speed that threatened to tear
him apart; but he felt no pain.  Instants crashed together and spun images
past him that he would never remember: a huge black ship with a skeleton
crew; a nightmare-faced demon rushing at him; a procession of black-robed
beings decending into a mountain fortress; a being that could only be a
god falling to Verana from some high place.  And all the while the buzzing,
the humming that crescendoed into a roar that would surely engulf his
senses!  He could not stand another moment of it.

And then it was over.  His head reeling with pain and confusion, he
staggered backward along a broken surface and fell, knocking his head
on something solid and remembering no more.

When he came to, his head was still pounding, but he recognized the
familiar surroundings of his cabin.  Theward, his faithful first mate,
was standing over him.  He started to sit up and ask what happened, but
Theward restrained him with a burly arm.  Feeling exhausted, he slipped
into a deep and restful slumber, with dreams of calm voyages and high
profits.  There was something about a mountain . . .ah, well, perhaps
it was best forgotten.

Dream #19 The Rider

The man rode thunderously across the plain.  He concentrated on nothing
except getting every possible iota of speed from his sweating stallion.
The great horse's hooves ripped chunks of soft earth from the ground and
sent them flying behind it as it hurled itself forward.  Inside his black
visor, the man's eyes narrowed as his gaze burned toward his destination.
It was a thick plume of black smoke that rose slowly from behind a rise
that lay in his path, about a mile distant.

The warrior (for he obviously was one) knew what the smoke meant, for he
had seen it before often in the last year of his life.  Somewhere ahead
a village was burning, and he could see the place in his mind as it had
been a week ago -- green fields, peaceful folk.  They would have no
defense against the marauding bands of monsters that now were ravaging
the countryside, and likely no warning either.  He had seen it before;
whole communities could be eradicated in minutes by the evil creatures,
and they were at their work again.

The man was a sight to see.  Any observer would look at him and immediately
the word "dangerous" would spring to mind.  He was dressed in black armor,
which was fashioned of both linked chains and interlocking plates.  His
helm and visor were black, with a red plume.  Even his horse, a huge black
charger, looked ill-tempered.  And his huge sword and riveted shield gave
mute testimony to his proficiency in the art of war.  The rider made a
great deal of noise as he rocketed up to the rise, but there was no one
yet to hear him.  He knew his horse could only sustain such a pace for a
short distance, but he was now almost arrived anyway.

He crested the rise.

The scene before him was all too familiar; there were the burning homes
and storehouses, too late to save.  Scattered throughout the village were
the bodies of common farmers and their families -- so many dead! -- and
the occasional monster, speared with a pitchfork or desperately hacked
down with axes and hoes.  Only one thing made this village different from
the others he had seen destroyed:  the creatures who vented their wrath
on the town were still there.

His anger rose as he saw them, and not slowing for an instant, he tore
his sword ringing from its sheath.

The monsters saw him appear over the rise like an avenging knight of
death, and they knew him; he had felled many of their ranks, and the
reward would be high for the mimion who could bring bring him to their
master alive.  They prepared to fight.

This turned out to be a mistake.  The knight simply rode down the first
four or five creatures that got in his way without a single sword stroke;
he was heading toward a large troll who looked (by his well-made armor) to
be the leader of this particular band.  Fearing that some monster would
manage to get close enough to his horse to hamstring it, he leaped clear
of the animal and commanded it to run.  It galloped back for the rise,
where he could return to it later.  The he turned furiously to face his
many foes.

The creatures, mostly goblins and orcs, came at him in a wave.  He
braced himself and aimed a mighty stroke.  He sword sheared completely
through the bodies of two of the vermin, and with his shield he
backhanded another into senselessness.  A blade rang off his rear
shoulder plate, and without turning, he planted a metal-clad foot
into the unfortunate creature's face.  His anger driving him into a
fury, his sword became a whirling sliver of death.  Hardly even using
his shield for defense, he instead would slam it repeatedly into monsters
on his left side, throwing them back several feet.  After several minutes
of this, the evil band decided that with several score of their number
dead, they were not going to capture their hated enemy.  As they began
to break and run, the knight caught up to the troll-captain, who gave him
an evil leer and hefted his great hammer.

The warrior hardly slowed down.  He took the troll's blow straight on
his shield, then with a growl brought his blade over and down in a
smashing attack on its shoulder.  The troll's armor did not save him,
and on the back-cut of the same stroke the knight removed the creatures
head and sent it sailing.  Then he kicked the huge twitching body into a
nearby burning house.

Their leader gone, the survivors were fleeing, and the knight was feeling
the exhaustion from his efforts.  He leaned on his sword and surveyed the
damage, knowing that this place was finished.  Well, it was not the first
to be destroyed.  Carefully cleaning his equipment, he walked slowly away
from houses that were starting to burn themselves out now as the sun set.
As he had done many times before, he strove to remember the details of
his past, but once again only a few fleeting images surfaced in his mind
before he reached the beginning of his current memories.  A year ago, he
had found himself alone and wounded on the ricks beside a river in a
country to the southeast.  He had been covered with black inhuman
blood. . .

. . . and somewhere in his past, images circled: a richly decorated
bedroom; a great feast; a wall breaking inward to reveal a hideous
winged creature; and a horrible, unwilling flight through the night as
he was carried he knew not where.  And in the midst of them all, a word
that turned over and over in his mind:  Talthain . . .

Dream #20 Thuldrak Unbound

It came to pass that during the long imprisonment, Thuldrak of the
Calamar was searching one day for certain minerals and plants useful
for the creation of magic substances.  He was looking far outside the
city of Calenardhon, nearly in the foothills of the encircling mountains
around it.  As he neared the arcane wards set there by the Elder Gods
long ago, he felt his body grow weak and his mystic power fade, for such
was the nature of the wards.  They were fashioned so that any of the
Calamar who approached the mountains would lose their abilities for a
time, until they returned to the city.  In this way the Elder Gods
ensured that no Calamar would cross the mountains, for they were
treacherous and impassable without great power.

It was not the first time Thuldrak had made such a journey; often he came
out of the cities, for the need of materials for  his work was great.  On
this day, however, he had journeyed closer to the wards than before,
seeking precious hafirien, the fire-plant that grew only upon the slopes
of the encircling mountains.  He felt his strength wane and was forced to
stop often and rest; still he pressed on, hoping to find several of the
plants.

At last it seemed to Thuldrak that he must turn back, for his strength
was nearly gone.  Turning to descend, he espied a large cave opening in
the side of the mountain.  Then he was pleased, for caves have hafirien
in plenty.  Gathering his strength, he entered the cave.

Inside, a tunnel stretched away into darkness, but for the immortal
Calamar the dark was as day.  Striding forward, he travelled some
distance into the cave around many turns in the passage.  At last the
tunnel ended in a large chamber of utterly ancient rock.  Entering, he
stood amazed at the sight before him.

In the center of the room, suspended nearly two feet above the cavern
floor, was an opening.  It was not against a wall; rather it hung in
space, and light shone through it from another place altogether.
Gazing through it was like looking into another world, for Thuldrak
could see a landscape of low hills on the other side of the portal.
The edges of the gate flickered and changed with a red fire, making its
size difficult to determine.  It seemed to him that he could easily
step through.

All thoughts of finding his fire-plant were forgotten.  Thuldrak
considered where the mystic gate might take him, but not overlong.
He thought of the world outside the encircling mountains, of wide Verana,
and of the power the Calamar had held in ancient times.  Surely this was
a doorway into that world!  It might be that the Elder Gods knew nothing
of it, or had forgotten it.  Perhaps the Gods were too weak now to prevent
its discovery, or perhaps -- his heart leaped at the thought -- the
Gods themselves were no more.

Laughing darkly to himself, he summoned the remainder of his energy,
which was fading fast.  Stepping over the threshold of the portal,
Thuldrak departed the Lost City of Calenardhon forever.

Immediately upon his crossing of the doorway, the gate winked out
behind him; whatever magic had held it in place for centuries had
fulfilled its purpose.  Thuldrak turned and searched for it, but to
no avail.

With a rush of strength, he suddenly felt his power returning!  He
straightened up, and gazed fiercely about the landscape.  Certainly
this was not Calenardhon, for the encircling mountains were nowhere
to be found.

Then great was the joy of Thuldrak, for with each breath his strength
grew.  He was mighty in arcana lore, and he knew it; never again would
his body feel the yoke of weakness he had known in the encircling
mountains.  With a word and a gesture he cloaked himself in a veil
of darkness, and passed away to the northwest.

Who can say why evil recognizes its own?  Yet surely it was so for
Thuldrak, who alone of the Calamar escaped bondage from the Lost
City.  Crossing with unearthly speed over the plains, he came at
last to the place of evil known as Rok Tathgar, in the foothills of
the DragonDen mountains.  Entering the place, he discovered quickly
that his magic and might were more than a match for any of the
creatures that dwelt there.  He conquered them, and claimed dominion
over them, and they called him Gandrak, which is Dark Master.

Thus did Thuldrak make for himself a small realm in the DragonDen
mountains, and gathered a small army of orcs, rock trolls, and goblins
to do his bidding.  Often he sent them on forays into the surrounding
countryside or the mountains to learn what they could of the world.  For
it had been long since Thuldrak had walked on wide Verana, and the land
and the stars were strange.

It was in this way that Thuldrak came upon his greatest weapon; indeed,
the greatest that existed in the world at that time.  For it happened
that the caverns beneath Rok Tathgar, untouched for centuries, housed
none other than Valkyari, the Blacksword, forged by an elven-smith of
old.  How it came to rest there is not known, but the joy of Thuldrak
upon its dicovery was very great.  He held it up and gazed at its black
fire, and he smiled, naming himself Shedrach, which in the language of
the Calamar is the Overlord.

Then did the surrounding lands of Verana know terror.  With the unmatched
power of the Blacksword, the Overlord's armies grew great, and roamed as
they would, bringing fear and destruction far over the plains.  And he
began to raise new and dreadful armies using the very bodies of his
slain enemies.  With forbidden rites and terrible spells, he caused
them to rise from death and perform his bidding.  Great was the grief
of the inhabitants of Verana when they were set upon by their own kin!

With a new and growing power in the DragonDen mountains, the Dragon King
was troubled.  For he thought himself great, and ruler of all the
DragonDens.  Therefore he sent emissaries to the Overlord, demanding that
he explain his actions and accept the sovereignty of the Dragon King or
be cast out of his mountain fortress.

Then the Overlord was wroth, and would have assailed the Dragon King and
surely slain him; yet he doubted his own strength, being new-found.  Thus
he spoke to the emissaries with soft and cunning words, proposing instead
that a border be drawn in the mountains between the domain of the Dragon
King and Rok Tathgar.  To this the Dragon King agreed, for his closest
advisors counseled that it was best so.

So the spread of evil under the Overlord continued unabated, and his
power grew with frightening swiftness.  An invasion bourne on an evil
wind took the dwarves unawares, and their nation was overpowered.  Not
long after, the Overlord turned his dark gaze upon the kingdoms of
central Verana. . .

Dream #21 Nameless One

It is said by the wisest of men that the universe contains wonders
beyond the knowledge of any mortal being.  Living amongst these wonders
are the Immortals, beings of great power whose lives endure forever, or
so it is thought.  But like all things, the universe has its dark side:
realms ruled by the chaos of matter and energy and inhabited by beings
whose very essence changes like the wind.  Those who dwell in this realm
wield great power, and they despise all those who are not like them.
They therefore seek to enter other realms, such as ours, and change it
with their vile power to the chaotic substances of their own.

Thus did it come to pass that the Calamar in their arrogance summoned a
being into our world ages ago, to battle with the Elder Gods and
establish dominion for the Calamar.  The being they summoned, however,
was unlike anything they could have imagined.  The power of their call
into the realm of chaos attracted the attention of many of the denizens
of this place, but one in particular decided to cross.  The name of this
being is unpronouncable in any known tongue; its power, however,
was staggering.  This being was none other than the personification of
Chaos itself -- not infused with the power of chaos; it WAS Chaos.  Yet
even the great power of this being was limited in our world because
the summoning was not fully complete, due to the presence of Order
embodied in the god Darsia.  It was for this reason that the Dark Power
focused its wrath upon the God of Law and, spending most of its energy,
was able to kill Darsia.  The battle was great and it weakened this
nameless power sufficiently enough to allow the other Elder to defeat
it and send it back to dark realm.  The cunning of Chaos, however, is
without peer.  The dark power sensing its own defeat projected a spark
of itself outward.  Escaping notice of the Elder, this spark found its
way to the body of one of the many living creatures on Verana.  Devouring
the soul of this creature, it took up residence in the body thus
permanently establishing an anchor for itself in this world.  Over
the millenium it has transferred itself from being to being, building
up a following and preparing for its full return.  Today it could lie
in anyone.  Searching for the items it needs to effect its return.
Should it succeed, Verana will be thrust into a dark void of chaos and
evil, perhaps never to emerge.

Dream #22 Margeth

Margeth.  The very name conjures up images of the endless rolling hills in
the region east of the Darsian Rift.  Green stretches as far as sight
reveals, and trees are prized for their rarity.  Stretching from the
frozen Tolbain Mountains in the north to the barren Shadow Hills far to
the south, the Plains of Margeth are interrupted only by a scorched brown
smear that is the Great Darsian Desert.

For some few who still remember the land's history, the name Margeth
also brings a face.  It is the face of G'mavin Margeth, the revered
father of all maratasen.  Perhaps no other historical figure calls up
such vivid memories; the clan-chiefs of the maratasen hold Margeth to
be nearly a god, for he alone forged the tribes into what they have
become today.

G'mavin Margeth was a huge creature.  Standing nearly eight feet tall,
he could lift and carry a reluctant horse across a rushing stream alone.
He was closer to a cat than to any humanoid creature, and some whisper
that he was the first maratasen, that his father was a great lion that
roamed the plains.  His body was quite shaggy, much more so than the
maratasen today, and at times he would take to all fours and run swiftly
over the plains in search of prey.  In battle, his ferocity was
unmatched.

In those days the Darsian Desert was much larger than now, for its
eastern marches reached the Endless Sea, and to the north its sands
nearly lapped the foothills of the Tolbains.  The true plains region
was only in the southeast, where the desert ended in rolling green
hills.  It was here that Margeth made his home, and the first maratasen
people dwelt under the open sky.

As the maratasen grew more numerous, Margeth knew that the plains would
not hold them, and he took thought for a way to make room for all the
clans.  Furthermore, the people were enduring increasingly strong attacks
from the foul creatures that issued from the Shadow Hills by night.

How Margeth came by the Orb of Dalinoar is a mystery, but soon he was
using its considerable power to actually drive back the desert and bring
forth fertile, green fields from the earth.  All along the northeast
border he roamed, changing huge expanses of sun-baked earth into the
long, lush grass of the plains.  The people were overjoyed, and began
moving into the new lands, spreading far and wide into the regions they
inhabit today.  Years later, when the Orb was lost, the Desert would
again begin to consume the plains, but for now theo Orb's power held
them fast.

Margeth organized the maratasen into armies and taught them the art of
battle.  The people loved the thrill and ferocity of combat, and have
excelled in it ever since.  They drove the creatures from the Shadow
Hills shrieking back into their dark lairs, and now spread unchecked
all across the plains.

After many years Margeth knew that his time was upon him, and he knew
he must soon die.  Therefore he prepared for a final foray into the
desert, hoping that the power of the Orb could deliver some final blow
against it.  He took the Orb and his eldest son and journeyed northwest
out onto the scorching sand, disappearing from his people forever.

But not from their memories, stories, or songs.  When the stars are
bright and uncounted above the Plains of Margeth in summer, many a
maratasen voice will lift to G'mavin Margeth a song of praise, of a
battle chant.  And somewhere, the great father ot the maratasen hears
them and smiles.
--
Bryan Donaldson                    bryan@stiatl.salestech.com
Sales Technologies, Inc
3399 Peachtree Rd, NE               If one is born into an era of decadence,
Atlanta, GA  (404) 841-4000         one may as well enjoy it while it lasts.