FORM
YOU

name: Cordelia Cleopatra Chase

age: 19

height: 5'10 1/2"

romantic attachments:

YOUR CHARACTER

name: Brenna

age: not younger than 16, but no older than 22

height: 5'10 1/2"

preferred physical enhancements: A little stronger--like, so I'd be able to make a difference in a fight

romantic attachments: let him be gorgeous?

is there any role you would like to fill in the Game?: If I have to go out, I want to go out with a big BANG.

END FORM

-

Chapter Four:

"They love you because I love you."
 
 

Imani, as far as worlds generally went, was not very culturally integrated. That is to say, the folktales in one country stayed there, and the dress habits stayed there, and the songs and food and customs stayed there too. There wasn't much trade between separate continents, as extended travel by sea was considered only with trepidation and the two main land masses were far apart. The only countries that communicated regularly at all were Ayr- and Dorkris, and that was usually for more severe political liasons than trade--for instance, marriage.

Yet, all of the countries, even if they were, for the most part, unaware of it, were united by two things. The first force that united them was called the Web, and the people who inhabited the Web were rogues.

Scoundrels, minstrels, vagabonds, burglars, robbers, pickpockets, assassins, thieves, prostitutes, drug dealers, serfs and the general peasantry were what made up the Web of Rogues, and there was a universal agreement among all of them. They would never cheat each other. Killing was allowed, if the fight was for a good reason; conspiracies were allowed, if against a common enemy; assassins paid prostitutes for a quick time in an alley, or an inn, or a recently… vacated mansion, and drug dealers paid assassins to pick off customers who neglected to pay up.

There were ranks of rogues, just as in any hierarchy. There was a rogue for each street who reported to the rogue for their neighborhood; the rogue for the neighborhood reported to the rogue who ruled the city, and so on and so forth until the Master Rogues of each country paid their groveling respects to the Master of the World.

The Master Rogue of the World was not an easy title to come by or maintain. The one who currently asat upon his gold-encrusted throne was getting old--nearing thirty-five, in fact--and the only thing that had kept him alive this far was his relatively agile mind and the sword that hung at his waist. It was not his skill with the sword that was feared; it was the sword itself. Stolen from the king of a country on the other continent, it had been painstakingly smuggled back to him through the loyalty of sixteen choice rogues in his court.

The sword was the other thing that united Imani. It was called the Darkness Before Midnight, the Unsheathable Sword, the Philosopher's Grail, Defender of Faith, Lisha.

There was a long legend behind the sword that all of Imani knew in their own languages, and it follows as thus:

Once upon a time, before Imani was the Land of Faith and before the Web of Thieves had been spun, there was the first king, whose name was Oskyr. He had serving him a loyal mage by name of Hictyrr, and Hictyrr was so loyal to his king that he wanted him alone to rule the world.

Therefore, Hictyrr had fashioned for his King a sword by the most skillful swordsmith he knew, and when it was made, the sword was beautiful. It was so thin it was almost transparent, and it was so sharp it could cleave the air in twain. The hilt was made of pearl, and in it was burned a pattern of silver-coated sea serpents with eyes of jade. Along the delicate blade ran a pattern so thin it could only be seen when held up to the light of the full Moon, and when Hictyrr did this, he found that it was a Maze.

Alas, the sword was so whisper-thin it was in danger of breaking at the first strike of an opposing sword, so Hictyrr decided he must enchant it and bestow it with powers it had not previously possessed, so that it would lead his king always victorious in battle. He sent out messengers fast of foot and fleet of word to find the exotic ingredients that would make his spell possible, and in a year the last one had returned and lain the cedar box containing Dragon's heart at Hictyrr's feet.

Banishing his family to the other wings ofhis sumptuous dwelling, Hictyrr began the spell, meticulously reading the scripted words and following the instructions to the last sprinkling of lizard's bone; but alas, spells always go askew, and Hictyrr's, though valiant, was none different. His daughter's kitten had gotten loose, and crept into the room; and, being curious as all cats are reputed to be, decided to investigate. It knocked over thebeautiful cedar box containing the still warm and bleeding Dragon's heart, and the pumping life's blood, the last ingredient, spilled onto the floor and sank into the carpet.

Hictyrr turned and found the kitten licking at the last salvageable blood and went into a rage. The Dragon's heart, as everyone knows, is near impossible to obtain, and certainly not twice in any man's lifetime; therefore, Hictyrr flew at the poor kitten, intending to kill it and use its blood in the spell instead, as Dragon's blood is reputed to be so strong as to dilute the kittne's own.

The kitten, however, made stronger by the Dragon's blood, knew the malice in the man's movements and raised a razor-sharp claw to strike. The strength lent the kitten by the Dragon's blood directed its blow, and it killed Hictyrr just as Hictyrr's dagger slew it. Their combined blood flew through the air in the violence of which their wounds were inflicted, and fell onto the blade of the trembling sword as the last part to the nearly finished spell. Both Hictyrr and the kitten fell dead, but the sword was finished, although its spell was altered.

The sword is indeed a formidible weapon, though it does not guarantee the user invincible; and it now carries a clause, however inexplicable, of its own. The sword cannot be sheathed by any but those worthy of mind, heart, body and soul; and the sword has never yet been sheated.

The Master Rogue sat upon his gold-encrusted throne deep in the forests of Ayrkris, running a tentative finger down the undetectable maze on the naked blade of his sword. At long last he sighed, and stood, and went to see what his thieves had captured and brought home.