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hrough the years, Shakra Amal has become intimately familiar with the many kinds of smoke: the hickory smoke she uses to cure meat, the sweetness of incense, the vicious smoke from burnt itchweed, the friendly smoke of campfires....The past few nights, however, her dreams have contained a different kind of smoke indeed: the black, oily smoke that heralds war. It is a simple living she makes, and one that suits her. When Commandant Esse's soldiers need a guide through the more-poorly-mapped forests and little-known mountain paths, they turn to Shakra. She's gotten to know a number of the soldiers quite well, in fact; and rarely do they ever remark on her old, pale hair (though some have made envious remarks about her height). Lately, when she's gone to trade her furs, uneasy rumors have reached her ears: Mages from the west who can bear to use their gifts to kill. Enemies. Marshal Rahen gone mad, or his executioner, or perhaps both. Commandant-errant Miris gone missing--now that one's worrisome. She met him once as he passed through, ready to assume the governorship of Moruhan (a task she didn't envy him). A reasonable man, she judged him, though his eyes held the wellsprings of past pain. Traders shifting their routes. And smoke. Always the smoke. Burnt villages, burnt lives. Hearsay, surely. Isn't it? [GM's note: I imagine Shakra might be a bit *behind* on the news, because of the limited speed of communications, but fairly well aware of what's going on. Moruhan, formerly an Ezinen was recently made a Qenaren protectorate.] All this shifting about, all this worry, is affecting her trading some, and her family's more. Especially their finer leather goods, the specially trimmed, tooled, dyed or patterned ones. Those sell best to known merchants, who are taking them to familiar markets. Besides, luxury goods sell better in untroubled times. She almost wishes her family lived farther from the pass, when she hears rumors of trouble, like there have been, even if it would make trading more difficult. But her father won't hear of it. Some members of it may wander, but the family home has been here for generations. In fact, she reflects, they survived First and Second Blackrock nearly intact--a remarkable feat for any family. It's a sobering thought, though; as a child of Canton Birechan, she remembers the devastation, the long slow years it took to rebuild. Today, after her day's work, she returns home to find a message hung from the door. The wax is crumbly, bearing the seal of Birechan. Probably from one of the local commanders. She reaches for it, trying to judge if the light is sufficient, or if she should wait to read it until she is inside, with a lamp lit. She wonders what the commander might want this time. Probably nothing out of the way, of course. Still, there are those rumors. And the dreams. There is, after all, always a chance that something more that talk and nerves is behind all that. She decides to try to read it. After all, if the light is too bad, she can always go in and read it. The light is fading, but then, as a tracker she's used to working in low light--and these military types always write in strong black ink, not the thinned stuff she's seen some merchants use. She judges the light bright enough after all. Scant moments later, she hears a purring voice: "Many pardons, lady. Am in need of assistance, I." Look around though she might, however, Shakra can't find the source of the voice--female, and foreign...perhaps even from the west. "What kind of assistance do you need?" she asks, feeling a bit unsettled at being unable to see the speaker, or even place where they might be. Her free hand moves just the tiniest bit closer to its dagger. She considers the phrasing of her next question briefly, and decides to be forthright. "And who are you?"
Forward: Shakra's Prologue 2 Flame image courtesy of Mystiqal's Animated Icon Library.
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