Back Stories

Cygnus Veil:

Celine Veil was a happy-go-lucky elven girl that lived near one of the poles in the snowier regions of the lands. Her snow-white hair and pale skin reflected the snowy landscapes of her home. At the prime age of 30 years old, she was asked by her mother to deliver a message to her older brother down south. She was young, and after learning common, she figured she was ready to leave her village and trudge on into the world.

That’s as much as she remembers about her old life. Something went wrong and her small traveling party was assaulted by goblins. Why didn’t they slaughter her too? The white hair and elegant features? Femine innocence? The elven grace? She did not know either. The goblins were small, about as tall as her, and their ears, long and pointy, intimidated her as it made them seem bigger than they were. The goblins admired their new trophy, Celine’s ears reminded them of their own: they were abnormally long, even for an elf, and drooped about whenever she sobbed or was forced to do labor. Goblins would take turns throwing stones at her and laughing to watch her ears spike up with hate. The leader of this specific tribe banned any goblin from doing any real damage to her figure. For one day she could make a prestigious slave. Although they may have not conducted any long term damage on her body, her mind was another beast entirely.

She was desending into chaos, dreaming of murder, poisoning the ones who tormented her, watching them suffer as their primitive high-pitched squealing burned her inner-ear. The once happy elf, who dreamed to be the pride of her village, wishing to murder any who would continue to torture her. Then fate had become apparent, and one day while teaching herself how to sew her linen rags with a rusty nail, the corpse of a masked man was thrown into her chamber. He had a sigil of a star-eyed mask on his wrist. Curious yet cautious, she went through his pockets and found a document titled “The Words Behind the Mask” and a small vial of greyish goo. She hadn’t seen anything in Common in sometime. Placing it under her straw cot, she sat and waited for some goblins to take away the trash. She wondered why he was tossed there in the first place. Perhaps some idiot of a grunt thought her chamber was the compost, though he couldn’t be fully blamed. Once he was taken away, not before being stripped, poked, and prodded in front of her, she read through the document. Her eyes flicked across the text, then consumed it to hide all trace of a potential note from the outside world. It was a shred of the teaching of Norgorber. The evil god of poison and murder.

She was determined to finally break out of her confinement. It had been years since she has seen the sun and all of its glory. She was probably around 60 now, her more femine traits were developing. Even though there wasn’t much to be seen, she was coming along as a young woman now. She still had the vial, every so often opening it and wafting its nose-numbing scent into her face. The goblins had upgraded her from a prisoner and laborer to a more meticulous worker. She cleaned their clothes and repaired them. Cleaned their blood-soaked weapons and armor. The goblins never assaulted her in blatant sexual ways, besides staring and the occasional groping. Their chief was wise and taught his descendants to slow cook this elf to give away for a high price, or when she was old enough, to become their queen. Eventually something clicked in her head. She was able to understand the goblin tongue perfectly and one had been bragging to another how he would be the first to impregnate her. She used her sharp mind and current skill-set to concoct a plan.

The goblins butchered her name, calling her Cygnus instead of her mother’s maiden name: Celine. She forgot that original name anyway, drowned out by the gargled Cygnus. Cygnus found an appreciation for needles. She worked with them day in, day out. Her fingers, tipped with filthy long nails, plucked with circular scars from mistakes. She used one of her favorite needles, one with a broken clasp, and plunged it into the vial that belonged to the man from all those years ago. She grabbed one of the goblins who had just dropped off another pile of dirty clothes and pushed the needle into the nape of his neck. Using her free hand, she took one of the rags and pushed it deeper and deeper into its mouth. The goblin flailed, its pale and lifeless eyes stared off at Cygnus one last time before rolling upward. “It’s that simple?” she thought. She didn’t need the strength to mutilate these monsters when this substance did it for her. Another test: she stepped out of her room and peered into the hall, the dimly lit corridor was as bright as day, due to her low-light abilities. She had to remind herself she wasn’t a goblin. Her long ears didn’t help, but the darkness scared her. The beasts could see her, but she could only see hints of their bodies, and flames flickering in the reflections of their eyes.

She crept down the hallway, listening for grouches and signs of movement. Another goblin appeared. She pushed the needle into its chin and released it. It’s mouth filled with blood, then with foam as it leaked out. Next to the pool of blood, she saw a rough reflection of herself. Her ears were perked up, like them, her pupils sharp, like them. Her once snow white hair had darkened and was streaked with stripes of dark purple. She was furious now. Her once elven grace had been transformed by these beasts. Her slight memory of who she was had been the only thing that hadn’t been taken from her. Her name, mind, language, and now looks had been stolen. She traversed the tunnels, hunching over as she was now about 5 ft. She stumbled upon the armory and something instantly took her gaze. A huge needle, or what she would find out later, a rapier. She used the rest of the goo and lathered the blade. She put together a mix of cloth to help hide her figure, and began her accent. She stuck to the shadows, only plunging her rapier into goblins she needed to. They would scream in pain, panic, run, slow down, collapse, then die. It was all so simple to her. She worked her way up, and up. Until she saw it, the night sky. Moonlight bathed her as she got chills from the outside breeze. She heard a call and turned around. The chief, or the past’s chief's great-grandson. It was frail and cowarderd under her. Her figure eclipsed the moon; her long ears casted shadows down below her feet. She turned her back on the goblin, and with a final goodbye in goblin tongue, she pulled herself out of the cave.

That was 65 years ago. Cygnus was now 135, 6 ft, and devoted herself to thievery and crime to get by. The presence of Norgorber still remains, but comes in impulses to kill. This was due to her only discovering a scrap of the sacred texts. What state would her mind be if she learned about the true teachings of her God? Thanks to her unbreakable pride as an elf who had slaughtered her way out of a goblin lair, she was saved from the depths of true evil. Was it her own actions that bred her pride? The goblin chiefs that kept her captive all acted the same way. They were boastful, bragging how when she comes of age, she would be truly in hell. It was probably her experiences with them that lead to her mind being this way. Another influence of her captivity. Adult Cygnus watlzes along the streets and travels. Her mind is fragile, it has been mended somewhat since her days as a prisoner. Only one could hope something doesn't come along and shatter it completely.

Sirin Veil:

“Fate is a fickle thing”, that's what my mother used to say back when life was simple. It was me, my father, and my mother. In a small house on the outskirts of town. My father went by Shingo, he carried a long sword, too long if you ask me. He called himself a Ronin, a wanderer. My mother was similar, an elf with abnormally long ears named Celine. I remember her smile, something about it always seemed ‘off,’ I suppose you could say. How my parents met I wouldn’t really know. Probably some plan the Gods had thought of who knows how long ago. But that’s the thing that never made sense to me when I was young. If the Gods brought them together to make me, why would they drive my mother away? Maybe she was free? Free to leave this ‘fate’ placed upon her. Why was I trapped here? I shouldn’t say “trapped,” I loved my father, very much so. But I wanted to see the world like my Mother.

She told me stories of her escapades. The people she met: a boy who with the kindness of his eyes would mend the minds of those around him, a homunculus made of metal, and even a dwarf who could control the elements. Even a monk who knew not of his past, but strived to create a future he would remember.

When she left I told myself I would never forgive her. We were happy, why wasn’t she? When she announced she was leaving, my father only nodded. She approached me, squatted down and put her hand on my head. She looked at me in the eyes, I remember seeing my tearful expression in the reflection of her purple eyes. She said those words, those five words, rubbed my head and left. She never looked back. Her ears bounced as she strutted down the fields of flowers and tall grass. I don’t recall how long I stared over that horizon, watching her slowly move farther and farther away. Suddenly my father put his hand on my shoulder, I turned and looked at him. The kindness in his eyes warmed my heart and comforted me beyond words. He led me inside our home and told me to sit. Then he pulled out a long skinny box.

A silver sword with a black and white woven hilt. From that day I began to train under him. He taught me things besides how to use a sword. He taught me forgiveness, honor, restraint, and to trust in the fate laid out to me by the Gods.

Many years passed. My father was getting old, and I was pushing 20 years, 15 or so years without her. I would look up at the Moon and wonder where she was, what I would do if I see her again. That was when my father gave me my final gift. A weapon, a Naginata, a blade that I would use in this cruel world led by the Gods above. It was something I could use atop a companion I’ve made. A noble elk named Eksi, who I found in the nearby forest while training. I would ride him into town, whistling tunes my father would whistle as he cooked and fought. He told me “Sirin, to completely control your breathing and concentration, you must whistle. Whistle for the whole battlefield to hear. Show them your might, your confidence, your shimmer."

When I decided to leave, Shingo understood. He said he’ll wait for my return. How did he

Know I would come back? Perhaps it’s the stench of fate I will purge from my being. I am Sirin Veil, and I will create my own destiny.

Schariac Koi:

“You must leave this place, my little raindrop.”

“B-but I can’t just leave you Auntie!”

“Now!” with a shove the older woman wrapped in thick black cloth shoved the smaller child into the escape slide. As she rushed down she heard the screams and the booms of war behind her.

“Kury!” a voice called out, as she turned to see the lights flashing in the tunnels ahead. “They’re coming, sound the alarm! The Lunarians are here!” Kury nodded as she dashed towards a strange device. She didn’t know how it worked, the technology was Mantiskin, a race that shared the mountain with the Drow and Caligni that inhabited it. In total darkness, she lit a small fuse. Moments went by, then with a screech this device raced up a metal tube, then with an ear-ringing bang, the device blew near a large funnel that acted as a sound amplifier. She looked back at the tunnels, silence crept over the battlefield. She breathed in and prepared herself for what was to come.

With a roar, men poured into the tunnels, elves, draped in plated armor with swords and shields charged the forces waiting for them on the other side of the tunnel.

“For the Lone Star!” they yelled, some of them in robes flung beams of light into the caves. The others dressed in black winced at the light as they were slain. As Kury flung purple masses of gravity at the knights, killing some here and there, she realized how hopeless they were. She backed herself into a wall and waited. She drowned out the screams with the calming thoughts of her sister’s granddaughter escaping. But her mind was ripped back to reality as loud bangs and pops came from the ceiling and tunnels behind her. The Mantiskin, a race of small and revolutionary beings with the power of black powder belted the elven knights. She smiled, as this stubborn race heeded their call against a common enemy.

“Commander! We need reinforcements!” An elf in white and silver armor nodded as he ducked down behind some of the rubble. This knight was different, he carried a large curved sword and on his shoulder and cape was a large black sigil, the sigil of Fomalhaut. He put his hand to his head and called out.

“Dispatch, this is Herschel Veil, Knight of Fomalhaut. We need back up, we were met with unexpected reinforcements. Send it in.” A moment went by and a woman's soothing voice called back to him over the sounds of war.

“Roger Veil, sending in 03.” Herschel smiled under his helmet, stood and yelled out to his men.

“Stand strong! These wretched folk are going to be snuffed out by Fomalhaut’s might!” The remaining elves raised their swords and stomped the ground in unison at the name of the Lone Star. They ducked behind some of the cover. “Black out!” at that, the robbed elves waved their hands dispelling the light magic. Kury, at the other end of the tunnel, looked back as silence fell on the battlefield.

In the distance, rhythmic thumping echoed through the caverns. A light could be seen entering the tunnel, as only the displays of this machine illuminated the tunnel in red.

“Superego, Eclipse Project: 03. Initiating Combat.” With that the mantiskin opened fire, blasting away a hail of bullets. Some missed, some clinked right off its armor. “Browsing catalogue, category selected: Evocation. Spell selected: Fireball. Modifier: Maximize.” The machine stepped over the rubble the elves were hiding behind. Raising its arm, it’s pointed metal ears illuminated red as a crimson electrical energy rose up its ears like a Jacob’s ladder. The humming got louder and louder as the hand of this monstrosity got brighter and brighter. “Casting spell: Maximize Fireball.” With that a wave of fire erupted out of the machine's hand. Kury clamped her eyes shut and braced, the mantiskin squealed and hissed and screamed as they were eviscerated alive. The fire scrapped the walls of the cave, caused rubble to fall and block the entrance to the escape slide. The machine wurred, as its hand hissed and dripped with molten metal. The machine turned, and walked back, stepped over the barricade, and made its way up the cave from which it came. The knights roared, as they vaulted over the barricade and pushed their way deeper and deeper into the darkness.

The girl, at the bottom of the slide, sobbed quietly. Clasping her necklace, she wiped her tears and pushed on. Schariac Koi, the last survivor of the Koi line, pushed out of the mountain and made her way to the city at the center of the world. The one place her Aunt would talk to her about day in and day out.

“I swear Auntie,” she said as she ran, gripping her fist, “I won’t become like them.”

Cloque of the East:

Context:

Every few years, the Swarm-mother, Hilrythil the Horned, sends off scouts to venture into unknown lands. In hopes the information will further the final plan to emerge from the caves of the Mountain of White Leaves and gain power to rival the races under the sky. Four mantiskin are promoted to Que, and sent off in the four cardinal directions. This tale follows Clo, a mantiskin who was chosen like some before him.

Story:

The bell rang, Clolin sat up and hopped out of his cot. Scrambling, he grabbed his torn cloak and swung it over his spiny back. Clolin was a mantiskin. A race that lives deep in some mountains. With large eyes and antennae, he scanned the room so as to not forget anything. He nodded to himself and ran off out of his small divot in the cave wall. He looked out and up, a large array of ladders, rope bridges, and structures built into the walls themselves. A cave dimly lit with various candles and magic light. He made a run for the main spire, a winding and dangerously built structure in the center of the city. He gripped a small silver pin on his chest with his four fingers. Some time later he climbed the tower with its spiral staircase; side by side with his other chosen cadets: Flilin, Zizilin, and Quinlolin.

Time passed, the cadets sat before the Swarm-mother. The gate to the outside world looming above them, roars of the crowd are soon snuffed out as Hilrythil the Horned herself raises her arms to silence them. She lifts a veil off her face, revealing large, smoothed horns protruding off of her head. Two pointing up behind her antennae, and one pointing down below her mandibles.

“Clo, Fli. Zizi, and Quinlo. You are the chosen. Spread forth, from the shadows and the light. Bear the works of your ancestors.” With that she motioned to someone to her left and right. “Ghiflar and Polar!” They walked down the steps with a large metal tube, shaped strangely but intentionally atop a cloth. Ghiflar went to the left side of the line while Polar the right. Each standing in front of a different cadet. The Swarm-mother raised her voice once more. “Fli, you are now Flique of the South.” Flique bowed as he accepted his gift from Ghiflar. He glanced to his right and made eye contact with Clo and Zizi. “Quinlo, you are now Quinloque of the North.” He repeated the same steps as Flique. Then the two larger mantiskin carefully turned around and returned to the Swarm-mother’s side, each grabbing another cloth with slightly different shaped metal. They returned to the line of cadets. Polar approached Clo and Ghiflar to Zizi. “Zizi, you are now Zizique of the West.” Clo gulped with anticipation. “Clo, you are now Cloque of the East.” His eyes scanned the hunk handed to him. The two Lars bowed as well and returned to Hilrythil’s side. The queen outstretched her arms. “Flique of the South. May your journey be jaded and your soul as so. Don’t flinch at those who can’t see you but you watch with craving eyes.”

“Yes Swarm-mother!” Flique reached for a horn his back and with a wince snapped it off. He then pushed the horn into the back end of the device to act as a grip.

“Quinloque of the North. The cold and heat are not your only enemies. Be wise more than fast.”

“Yes, Swarm-mother!” Similar to Flique, he grabbed a horn from his shoulder and snapped it off.

“Zizique of the West. We are not the only creatures who control the shadows. Keep eyes wide and let your consciousness flow”

“Y-yes Swarm-Mother!” Quinloque with two hands cracked a horn from his chest and pushed it into the back of his device as well.

“Cloque of the East. The stars gaze upon those who tread with caution and passion. Use them as your guide as they use you as an idol.”

“Yesss Swarm-mother…” Cloque grabbed hold of a large horn on his head and broke it off. He pushed it into the end of the device and held it steady. The device was something that had been developed for ages. A metal device that came in different sizes and varieties, with small metal spikes and fins to aid the shooter, and the wielder's horn as a grip.

Cloque glanced at his finished product. It was smaller than the rest of the tools given to his companions. He was about hand sized, while Zizique had a medium sized weapon with a blade attached at the end. Flique had a fairly long device with a slender frame. Finally Quinloque had a large device that would be tough to load and prepare quickly.

Then the Swarm-mother spoke a final time. “Now rise my children. Ascend to the light and into the sky!” The tip of the spire was basked in light as various spikes were pulled aside. A rope flew down to their feet. With a final goodbye they rose up, to lands unknown.

Visivia Veil:

The embers crackle, the orange glow off put by the purity of the snow. A woman hunched over her knee sits by the fire. A snap and the rustling of leaves nearby makes her turn her head ever so slightly. Standing, she pulls her sword out of the fire. A beautiful display of art and war, the wavy blade warps the fire reflection as she points it towards the grey cast sky. A blade almost as tall as her stands true.

“It used to be simpler, back when I sat-in during grandfather’s council meetings.”

The wind howls across her face, blasting her grey hair behind her head and ears. The movement grows louder, her eyes narrowing as she counts the foes.

“I would play with the quills, doodling in my little notebook. Spinning it around my thumb.”

Wolves, six in total, spread equidistant around her. She holds her sword tightly with both hands, slides her foot back behind her and points the tip back by her heel.

“I remember seeing him. The Star’s Sword. The armor shined beautifully, sure, but his blade was unmatched in all of Dwi Luni.”

The wolves growled, their snouts pulling back revealing yellow chipped fangs and bloody gums. One lept out, with a step, she pulled her massive sword up and through the beast, splitting it in two. The blood arched through the air as it slid off the sword’s edge.

“He was murdered by a Twilight Devil no less. He went by the name of Skiller, a joke perhaps, but I do not care to know.”

The second wolf slid across the snow and made for her ankle, but with mastered skill she slid her foot out and brought her blade down diagonally with a booming swipe.

“Fight dirty, lie, cheat. That is what Twilight Devils do. It’s all they know”.

From in front and back, two lept simultaneously. As if it was instinct, she rolled into the snow, pulling her sword close. After a moment she stood and jabbed through the first wolf. The wavy blade careened through its throat, then with a grunt she twisted the blade upward cracking the jaw and the tearing muscles that kept it strong. She turned, having the pummel pointed towards her thumb, she pulled upwards over the back of her shoulder, hurling the disseminated wolf at the other that pounced with it.

“I will become the next Star’s Sword. Not for any shallow excuse like justice or revenge. But for the betterment of my home.”

She lifts the blade out straight and plunges it through both the wolves lying along the snow. As she begins to remove the blade, the final wolf pounces and rips open the back of her dress. Underneath the tattered chainmail is a large black sigil that hugs her shoulder blades and creeps across her collarbone.

“The curse has choses me just like my grandfather. I shall become worthy of its trial and become unstoppable.”

The wolf begins to paw away slowly, licking its bloody teeth and rubbing its dripping claws in the stained snow. She turns, her eyes flaring grey as the dirty snow itself. She raises her sword and with the force of the Moon itself…

“I, Visivia Veil, bearer of the curse, shall become the Star’s Sword and purge any in my way.”