Mysteries of the Bow

MYSTERIES OF THE BOW
AN ELF’S GUIDE TO ARCHER LEGENDS ACROSS OTHYR
Completed 1270 AW

“I suppose introductions are the first order of business. My name is Enniol Brisbanya, an elf of Leeds and a rebel in imperial eyes. From a young age, beyond the wars and conflicts, before racial hatreds or lusts for money and power could mar me, I was devoted to the bow. It captivated me and shielded me from all else. Seeing the brilliant use of a fashioned branch and string fly arrows like wind and lightning struck a deep chord in my being. My father had been an sniper in the western guerilla army and, before his death at the hand of Kingdom troops, he imparted to me the appreciation and finesse of the bow, at once a tool for hunting, a weapon for killing, a point of pride in competition, and ultimately, if you were truly in tune with your bow as blood, a means of artistic expression. I came to realize the inherent power of the bow across all cultures, all spectrums, from the goblins of the Underlands to the angels of On High. The bow transcended species, alignment, even planes. It was a universal right, and as such it belonged to all. An epiphany struck me then. In order to learn the bow, and I mean truly understand, I had to see it used by all its savants and learn the great myths and histories which raised it to such prominence.

Not long after my father’s death, still a child even in human eyes, I began my journey across the better part of the continent in search of THE MYSTERIES OF THE BOW.

Eastland
Mufut and the Umbalat
My journeys first took me along the coastline and into darker woods than my native Leeds. The Umbala, as its known, is a primordial jungle harboring an ancient people known as the Umbalat. Many strange tales had been told around the campfires about the Umbalat, of their black gods and strange voodoo. I knew I had to swallow my fear if I was to learn anything about their archer demigod Mufut.

I managed to stumble upon an Umbalat hunting party which, despite tall tales, was most friendly, that is once they were certain I wasn’t from the One Kingdom. They took me back to their village where that night I was told in a broken Common the tale I had been seeking.

Mufut was a young boy when the One Kingdom first entered the jungles and began conquering the Umbalat. In all their many wars, the empire was ever in need of riches, and the Umbalat happened to sit not only on rich lumber but many hidden gold and jewel mines. Initially the Umbalat sought peace, agreeing to share their resources, but the empire didn’t want to split, they wanted to own. War broke out, one that the Umbalat in their small numbers could not hope to fight. They were broken and captured, the ancient temples looted, the shamans silenced, the people forced into harvesting lumber or mining gold.

In those darkest of times Mufut came into manhood, as dark as the jungle shadows, with eyes like a leopard. He rebelled, freeing those in his chain gang and escaping to one of the last untouched temples deep in the jungle heart. There a pact was made, or so it is spoken, and thus befell the All-Night. The jungle seemed to swell and shut every canopy, forever more blanketing its innards in darkness. Things became more dangerous, especially to outsiders, and the beasts and monsters of the Umbala grew more violent and aggressive. And within the angry jungle Mufut and his pack roamed, no longer entirely man, nor a beast, nor plant, something else. With his god-bow Obediah, a living, breathing weapon made of the temple stone and the jungle’s jugular root, he stalked the Umbala, killing any that was not welcome. He liberated his people and forced the empire out of the Umbala. They’ve tried reentering many times since, but each time the jungle darkens and strange calls are heard, followed by the twang and swift of arrows.

I had suddenly felt incredibly lucky, a young, lone elf wandering into a cursed jungle. It had been fortuitous that I’d stumbled upon the hunting party, though my new friends revealed that they had been shadowing me all along, intent on making me dinner. At my request for their tale of Mufut, they changed their minds. I am most shaken…

Gicha Hana and the Elven Masters of Bow and Song
With the Umbalat’s blessing I crossed into the Greater Sheyd, the woods of my ancestors. Long had the elves lived and prospered in this glorious woods, brimming with all manner of flora and fauna the likes of which I had not (and have not since) seen in all my days. The trees seemed silver and gold, the flowers like a dragon’s gem hoard littering the wild. The woods sparkled, and everything felt so clean and fresh. Just thinking on it makes me long to be back there, resting under a shady oak near a trickling stream in the perfect climate for napping.

I passed through the pristine forests until I found the road from Fort Zealous heading up to Alistar. I readied my papers and prepared myself for a harsh grilling, for any imperial city is often very wary of outsiders, especially in the East with all the rebels and terrorists (and indeed I was the son of one, though my mission was hardly one of political or dangerous motivation).

As the trees opened up to reveal the city, my breath was stolen away. Alistar was once the capital seat of elvendom, marble spires rising from castles of magic stone and metal. I couldn’t think of any sort of equivalent except maybe my picture of On-High, with a thin lair of mist over all that flashed rainbows in the right light. Perhaps it hit me harder because I was an elf, but the full beauty was clouded some by the clumsy One Kingdom banners thrown over the gates and the mass of human guard waiting for me.

As I was interrogated and searched thrice over, having even been detained a day for having a small Umbalat good luck charm, I thought back on the many great stories in the days when empire and elf worked together to rid the world of the orcish empires. Those days, with a truly evil enemy to fight, people seemed better, if that makes any sense, made so by an unerring sense of right and justness in the wars they waged. However once the orcs and other evil was scoured from the land, the empire turned on its allies, and made elves and dwarves second class citizens at best, assimilating them and their strengths, discarding most everything else. Elven culture greatly suffered, but much was saved thanks to the elven military. See, the One Kingdom regarded anything not useful for war to be erroneous, but the elves were clever enough to hide their history, art, music and poetry in their martial disciplines. An elven swordmaster trains in a variety of moves that are actually salvaged dances and poems saved from the empire’s confiscation. Elven architects use several styles of frieze, sculpture and design that actually hold the secret history of the elves.

And, as I came to find, elven archers secretly kept every song since Raya birthed the race. You see during elven archer training, they’re required to hit bell-like targets, and hit them so well that they issue a certain ring. It hones them beyond simply shooting and hitting something, it refines how they hit something and exactly where. This is why elven archers usually only need fire one arrow at an enemy. I spent quite a long time in Alistar under the elven masters, learning of my ancestor’s music and songs through bow and arrow. There is even a special bow, reserved for only the greatest of archers, called a sune, which is both a precise bow and a harp.

During my time in Alistar, and it was several years, I heard many stories of elven archers. My favorite was the story of Gicha Hana and the Seven Suitors. To make a long epic short, Gicha was a gorgeous elf, even by elven standards, but even more so she was a gifted archer. People would come from all over Othyr to see her, or to see her skill. And it was sheer music when she fired, for she owned a sune and struck the bells in all the right places. In this way alone she was sticking it to the empire, because elven music was flourishing and being spread across many peoples, even without them realizing. However, and even better, the One Kingdom sent seven of their best bowmen to train under her. Gicha was very cross with them and difficult, hoping they would quit, but each was so captivated by her beauty they would have followed her over a cliff. She eventually did teach them the ways of her bow and the respect of the sound. As a final test, they were instructed to make a new arrow-song for her, the winner receiving her hand. But she wanted the song to be the largest, loudest, and most enchanting she’d ever heard. The seven suitors returned to the One Kingdom and began to train their students, and returned many years later with men who could fire nearly as well as an elf. Gicha had laughed that she could hear their music from the spires of Alistar and was most pleased, for now elven music is spread throughout most the southern world. She ended up marrying the youngest suitor and bore three sons and three daughters. Nothing too terrific in the story, but perhaps this is my favorite tale because my father was the last of those sons…

Overland
Captain Sky and the Air Force
The Overland is known for its many peaks, mountains and climbs, and is the home of the birdfolk Raptorians. They are a devote people and very kind, should you encounter a flock worshipping a friendly god. I was so lucky, having been directed to a flock by one of the Alistar masters. They worshipped Thorm Stormer, the god of revenge, which would have made me suspicious of their hospitality if I did not so trust my elven friend. However, when I finally managed to climb the correct peak, I was met by a great feast and archery tourney. And I must say, for a god of revenge, he might also be a god of celebration, for we ate and drank well!

After I was good and tipsy (we elves don’t get drunk as humans might), though I think the birdfolk were plastered, we stumbled outside for some sporting fun. Raptorians took flight, whirling and wheeling in the mountain winds, entering several formations, one in a V, the other an M, even a Q, bless me! Or maybe that Q was the rum. In any case, they were masters in the air, and with their special footbows they performed tricks whilst firing that I could only marvel at.

The next morning they showed me a more proper display, this time much more precise and without the birdy cackling a drunk raptorian is oft to release. Archers are best on the high ground, but even more so in the high air, and tactically I could think of few superiors to an entire flock of archers sailing by enemy lines, loosing arrows, reloading on the upswing, then raining down missiles again.

They spoke vaguely of a mysterious military spanning the whole Overland called the Air Force. It seems reserved should ever the birdfolk civilization fall in dire straights. All the flocks would gather on the tallest mountain in the Overland, what they called Redroost, and launch an aerial assault the likes of which has never been seen in Othyr. I think I ruffled their feathers a bit by asking just how large this force might be. Apparently their numbers are a secret, which only makes sense I suppose. I suspect QUITE a large number, as Stormnest held at least 10,000 raptorians capable of handling a footbow. Given the amount of potential roosts in these lands, they might possess a military akin to the empire’s in scope…

I heard many stories during my nights with the birdfolk, most drunken boasting of past deeds which were largely exaggerated. However, one story that kept coming up again and again, with the substitution of the hero’s name for one of their ancestor’s, goes something like: Captain Sky was the greatest archer, nay the greatest leader, the raptorians have ever known. Serving during the Winters War, he was a hero of the seven skies, and no dragon or demon could touch him. However, rising among the ranks of evil was a dragon known as Spittingdeath. After one of a hundred successful raids by the captain, the enemy sent Spittingdeath to deal with him. The dragon struck captain’s roost while he was away, killing most of his people, then laid waiting for him to return. Captain did return, ironically having just killed Spittingdeath’s brother Doomyawn. When the dragon saw its brother’s head being carried back, he flew into a rage and gave himself up before he could pounce and kill the captain. Sky was shocked to see his people destroyed, so he and his crew swooped in for some good old Thormian revenge. Though they were greatly outmatched by Spittingdeath’s sheer power, captain led a flawless strategy that led them to victory.

After every completion of the story, they pointed to the north wall of the gathering room, where an ancient black dragon’s head is mounted, perfectly preserved, startling even still.

Northland
Wolfson and the Veluvian Rangers Guild
My journey took me north from Stormnest, into the great tundra of the Northland. I should have tried to treat with the barbarian tribes a little harder, for surely they have an archer legend or two, but they nearly killed me when I tried and I ran the rest of the way to Veluvia.

As a fledgling city, its history has not yet afforded it many famous archers. However, there was one living legend that I did spend time with. They call him the Wolfson, a ranger of particular skill, with a helm of a wolf and a strange whistle that summons the canines. He was the founder of the Veluvian Rangers Guild who acted as master huntsmen in times of peace, which seemed to be very short in this frontier, and as scouts and guerilla soldiers in times of conflict.

I was privileged enough to go on a hunter with him, which quickly turned ugly when a crew of twelve frost giants sprung on us. I wasn’t sure of the relationship between Veluvia and the giants, but they didn’t give us much chance to parlay before attacking. Twelve frost giants! I thought we were goners. Wolfson didn’t seem very impressed and while I rushed to safety, and this must have been only a matter of thirty seconds, he felled half their numbers with a bow in the shape of eagle’s wings that I thought the raptorians might have liked very much. The other six giants began to bicker about who should go after him next, and who was a coward if they didn’t, and eventually they all fled with the Wolfson killed another. Strange creatures, giants.

We camped in the Marx Woll that night, after he called up some wolves with that whistle to keep watch for trouble. I asked if there were any legends worthy of note, when he informed me not so much of a legend as much as a game. The giants of Athas, when they were so inclined to celebrate, sometimes gathered and held a sort of lumberjack games, everything from tearing trees out of the ground to throwing rocks to wrestling dire bears. They also had something of an archery contest, except they used bows twice the height of a full man, and sometimes, if the storm giants came, trebuchets! The way Wolfson described it, I asked if he had seen one. Apparently he was kidnapped once and put on display as a sort of final challenge for the best in the games. Well, once released, he managed to kill a storm giant and his two frost competitors, earning him a ticket back to Veluvia unscathed and the magic whistle. Strange creatures, giants.

Westland
Ninees and the Drow Scorpions
I lingered longer than I intended in the Northland, accompanying Wolfson on several of his adventures, and honing my own archery in the meantime. Still, the urge to experience more of the world pulled me away and I headed down the western coastline until, of course, I found myself in the west. Over the Meresoa Plateaus and into the deserts, I came across a Bedouin market at a nameless oasis. The people were rather wary of me, seeing as they had many troubles with the elves in the highlands north of them, but accepted me once I introduced myself as being from the east. In fact, my stories of archery up until this time became something of interest and that night the merchant Patakr took me into his tent as honored guest. I sampled many of the delicacies Patakr had to offer… and when done, payment was another tale. I told them of the Wolfson and, so pleased, Patakr told me of an archer’s legend to add to my collection.

As it is well known, the dark elves were western elves that split from other elves during the times when the One Kingdom began assimilating elven culture. Drow utterly refused, and would rather die and their culture with them then have it subverted. The Mab drew magic essence from the western forests themselves and reduced them to deserts in defense of her people. Since the One Kingdom took over the Ultus, they have been strangely silent, but most likely the quiet before the storm.

The drow are alive and stronger than ever, quietly building an army, so the Bedouin merchant informed me. And among the elite archers are the drow scorpions, dark elves with insectoid mounts that race the desert at night scouring for the hidden secret the Mab still seeks. Paktr’s own caravan encountered one, one lone drow scorpion, who was able to kill thirty of his men and twelve horses before being taken down, to say nothing of the scorpion she rode taking another seven cavalry.

Two nights later, another drow scorpion was at his tent flap, demanding the body of her fallen sister. Paktr has buried the body, as was fashion, and did not have it. The drow scorpion, who, out of tradition, told her name to every one she killed, proceeded to slay every woman in their caravan in retribution with scorpion-tail arrows. Paktr would never forget her name. Niness. She was about to cut all them men’s pieces off so that they may be women and also subject to her revenge, but Paktr managed to convince her otherwise with a choice bit of information involving an ancient well known to very few in a vanishing oasis that could grant wishes. She promised to return should he be lying, but she never did. Paktr once believed it a myth himself until he met a sage who took him there, back when Paktr’s son was ill. The well cured him with a wish.

Revengers of the One-hundred-handed God
I wished Paktr well and fled the desert as quickly as I could, not ever wanting to meet a drow for all the grim stories I’d been told both in the caravan and as a child. I made my way through grasslands and around a mere until I came upon an incredible city that spanned miles upon miles upon miles, and sometimes lifting just as high into the air. It was all of black stone, alien-looking, like nothing I had ever seen. I approached cautiously and met a lone priest, who informed me the place was known as Tlaloc. It was build by Those Who Have Left and acts as a haven for priests of forgotten, dead or unusual gods. I’m not sure what made me trust the priest, whose name was Bado, but I did, accompanying him to the massive city of black stone. It was clearly not built by men or elf or dwarf because of the massive size of the steps and the doors and the rooms, and it would have made even frost giants seem as mice.

Inside the cavernous halls, I met with several other priests of varying races, all of as strange a demeanor as Bado’s. The place was so big, each had a castle’s worth to themselves, though frankly I could barely stand to be in the place and I had just arrived. My hackles raised, I accepted an invitation to dinner, hoping food and conversation would ease my mind. It didn’t. After all he priests arrived, as they ate together, some having to take dinosaur-drawn carriages (as dinosaurs seem the only animal unafraid of the strange aura Tlaloc gives), I was starving. Unfortunately, dinner was delayed another four hours as the long line of priests each uttered a prayer to their different, strange and sometimes terrifying god. Bado’s god seemed one of the most normal sounding: The One-hundred-handed.

Once dinner had officially begun and I had satisfied my great hunger, I began to speak with Bado of my aims at collecting legends of archers and learning of various arching cultures. He spat out his food and began to cackle madly. The other priests soon joined in and I sat most disturbed until they finished. It seemed that Bado’s god was an archer god and that my coming was destined by the Hundred-Handed One. He proceeded to tell me about his lord and master, and I quickly lost my appetite for desert. It seems he was a god of brutal and bloody revenge, more than anything I’d heard of Thorm Stormer. This monster Bado worshipped sounded too much like a demon, and a terrible one at that. Bado said long ago the Hundred-Handed One walked among the mortals of this land, striking down armies at a time with his many limbs and bows. Each bow was given a name and a special function, which, despite my saying it unnecessary, he listed. Strangely the last two bow names were Bado and Enniol. I’m certain he was playing a trick on me, or else I am part of some weird and worrisome prophecy, as Bado claimed. His god also had one-hundred bodyguards who accompanied him everywhere, called the Revengers. For long years they ruled wherever they chose to migrate to, killing whole armies with just their bows and taking up residence as kings. However, a lucky and stupid creature named The Unblinking Eye of Yarubotel banished the Hundred-Handed and slew his followers when they invaded its dark realm. A priest at the far end cheered as Bado told that part of the story, for apparently he was a priest of The Unblinking. Bado quickly got in a hot argument with him which turned into a battle of magic and brawn. I kept clear and, after being informed this was common dinner occurrence should ever one proclaim about the other’s god, I left. It was the middle of the night by then, but I didn’t much care, just wanting to be away from the most unusual people I’d ever met.

Alecto and the Harpy Snipers of Huma
My flight did not take me into any friendlier lands, rather ones just as grim and unusual. Passing through a misty wood where I swear children were giggling and following, I entered rolling hills encased in a horseshoe mountain range. In the far distance was a city and in the valley several clusters of light. I walked to one, a village by the name of Buckhorn. There I got a hot meal and a warm bed, genuine hospitality to an elf, after they pressed a holy symbol on my head and made me eat a clove of garlic. None the less, I enjoyed the inn, until I found out the land I was in was ruled over by vampiric houses. I had a mind to leave right then and there, but they said I was mad if I left at night. I agreed to stay, though could hardly sleep. Lounging in the common room, a man sat down by the fire beside me. We began to chat a bit and he introduced himself as Kasper. I told him of my collection of legends and study of archery, to which he was most interested. We talked a good, long while and then he offered something for me to add to my writings.

Apparently the bowmasters in these lands were the ladies of House Huma, specifically the fury called Alecto. She had trained an entire cloud of harpy snipers to guard he holdings across the realm, as well as to hire out as assassins. She was its supreme master, though, Kasper told, able to shoot a fly from a half-mile. Of all the sisters, and there were three, she was the most powerful, however far too trusting of family. I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but I jotted it down anyway. Kasper left soon after, hours before dawn despite my warnings, and I followed after once the sun was up.


Underland
Dak, iron-toothed goblins, and the Yuanti Manhunters
It was to my supreme displeasure that I recount my next experience, having been captured in the marshes of the Underland by Yuanti Manhunters. They are constantly seeking sacrifices to the dark god Kultuss, or Klss as they speak it, and thought an elf would make a perfect addition to their bloody altar-food. I was thrown into a cage with several goblins whom, admittedly, I was just as wary of. However, these were not the vicious goblins I’d heard tell of, but Timoks on their way up from the southland to enjoy the freedom and comfort of Veluvia (where goblins are accepted openly). I told them of my travels there, which greatly interested them, and we soon became jail-bound, as they said. Seeing as I thought I’d be dead by dawn, I mixed blood with them and joined in this sacred oath, a sort of “friends till the bitter end”.

As the Yuanti made off to their sunken altar in the marsh and began preparation for our deaths, singing loudly and blowing all sorts of alarming horns, I tried desperately to drown it all out. I asked the goblins if they knew any archer legends, to which they imparted to be the great tale of Dak (see the goblin notes on the forum for more details). By the end of the story, my mind again returning to my eminent death, one of the little buggers cried out and with a pleasant click the cage door opened. Goblins make wonderful rogues, I’d heard, and so it seems had just seen. We fled through the marshes, but at a crossroads I parted ways, hoping the divergence in tracks might help both our chances at survival should the snake-men come looking.

They did indeed, though only one manhunter for me. He followed me through the entire Underland, as I fled desperately for the south. We fought several times, trading shots and skirmishing through swamp, jungle and wetlands. He eventually let me go, and I do mean let me go, for whatever reason. I suppose I was getting too close to guarded watches in the Southland, though I’d love to think it was one bowman’s respect of another. In any case, those were harrowing times. I did learn one thing of yuanti archers, though, or rather their weapons. They seem to possess a single arrow of a pink hue and strikes out like a tongue on the trajectory of an arrow for as many feet as an arrow would fly, then retracts back to the bow string. It was the strangest thing to watch, but I couldn’t take the time to really study it as it was being fired at me.


Southland
Archers of the Sistered Walls
I wandered the deserts almost to my death, hoping to meet a Bedouin caravan like Paktr’s. No luck, as the Southland’s deserts vastly dwarf any other. By Raya’s will I managed to find a shore, which sprung up rather suddenly and which I thought for some time was a mirage. Dhows made their way along it and I managed to flag one down as it anchored to cast its nets. I was brought aboard the Sunny Comb, an amber-sailed ship with a deep hull and a rather beautiful half-elf named Irlona as its captain. She was on her way to sell her catch in Inqara and offered to take me as far.

Inqara, as I found, is a magnificent city between two waters, a rare boast in the desert. On one side is the Sea of Ten-Thousand Tales and on the other the Shamshir Sea. Both sparkle like glass and diamonds in the light, which was finally making its way from behind the horizon when we reached harbor. It was a place of many stucco walls, stone reliefs, frescos, arches, arcades and minarets. I was in awe, more so by the wonderful assortment of languages, smells, and people. It seems in the Southland there are thirty different languages at least! I helped with the unloading of the fish and earned myself a night’s stay in the boat barracks. However, I happened to be invited into the captain’s quarters and I will write no further of that.

What I learned during the night was a unique history of Inqara and her sister city Ket. At their founding, a time before even the Winter’s War, a very wealthy and powerful family claimed the entire sea. To guard their claim, they made what would become the beginnings of Ket and Inqara, named after the two brothers who ruled them. However, as is wont to happen with humans, greed and envy overtook them. They began to fight over the ownership of the Sea of Ten-Thousand Tales and ever since, thousands upon thousands of years later, its people continue to do so. Having seen the Sunny Comb’s catch and the sea’s abundance, the ocean is truly worth its volume in gold.

Irlona spoke of a special type of archer that lines the walls closest the water in both cities. Through the magic of their bows, or perhaps their ancient bloodline, which relates back to Ket and Inqara, they are able to see and reach with bow shots the walls of the other city. The distance is nearly 1000 miles, yet still they are able, somehow. I had to know more about this strange and powerful archery, but the next day when I moved to get to the walls closest to the water I was stopped by the city guard, then thrown off the walls and into the sea for my insistence!

Muyyatin War Snipers
Thankfully, Irlona had me followed and was quickly there for my rescue. We sailed the sea for months afterward, and I was truly happy. I had considered putting aside my exploration of archery and settling with my love, but she insisted I finish what I started. We sailed to the Muyyatin, the City of War, where the alchemists, inventors and warsmiths dwelled. The crew was ill at ease to be in their waters, but Irlona would have nothing of it, and we made port.

She was the only one willing to step off the ship with me and together we entered a world like none other. Muyyatin was a city of gears and machines, of ingenious pulleys, switches and levers. With mathematical genius they were able to construct feats of architecture I’d never seen before, domes and arches and complicated temples in the shapes of animals, men and monsters. They lined the walls with things called cannons and guns, and scanned the skies in blimps armed with bombs. It so happened that Muyyatin was Irlona’s home town, and she directed me throughout its wide, machine-cramped streets to several places of note, most disturbing the Farms, where breeders worked tirelessly to create the best stock of orc, goblin and other slave warrior. Having had my life saved by goblins, I was a bit testy over it. Irlona then took me to the industrial district, but only for a quick glimpse of the factories before the guards armed with things called flame-throwers (I did not want to see those used!) moved us along.

She pointed out one particular factory and explained that was where the war snipers got their ammunition. Apparently they used special arrows with explosive tips, powerful enough that even a missed shot could clear a dozen enemies. The war snipers were often called in at the outset of wars to remind people never to bother Muyyatin, a tactic that usually worked. In prolonged affairs, like the struggles with the Lich Amons, the snipers were used to weaken enemy foundations and blow open the thick, stone barriers mummies and the rest made their bases behind.

One Kingdom
After several years on the Sunny Comb, I felt the need to continue to the final land yet unexplored… the dread One Kingdom. They looked unkindly on non-humans, especially mixed blood such as half-elves, but Irlona refused to leave my side. She gave the Dhow to her cousin and together we made out way back north, completely avoiding the Underland bogs for fear of again meeting my yuanti counterpart.

Entering the One Kingdom undetected would have been easy, but I checked into Fort Lions none the less, knowing all too well what could happen if I was caught without stamped papers or worse if Irlona was caught without papers at all. It took three weeks of dirty looks and snide comments waiting in that fort before her papers were delivered, but Irlona took it well, the Muyyatin in her weathering those worms easily.

On the road towards Edmark, where we could find a ship to Norfeld and the imperial archers academy, we were waylaid by bandits. Irlona proved an excellent swordmaster, but we were soon overtaken. They were not kind to her, or me, but if any good came of it I have to believe it was what little I gleaned from them between their filthy jibes and small talk. Apparently the rogues of the land were gathering together, each at once an individual cell and part of a larger whole, with a mobile leader by the name of the Highway King. He was supposedly the most cunning and ruthless brigand around, able to talk his way up a lady’s skirt or out of a jail cell, and fight his way through anything else. I was skeptical at best, but he apparently kept quite a few guerilla snipers in his employ, some of which were our captors.

Raya be praised, and I don’t often say I’m happy to see imperial knights, but they did come to our aid, rather by accident, as the men of Fort Lion were on their way to Edmark and happened to go chasing after a hart well off the road. All the brigands were killed, but they kept us tied up all the way to Edmark, insinuating we might be covert operatives of the Highway King. I think they might have done things to Irlona, as well, during the time I was taken into the woods and interrogated. I vowed revenge… and I swear Fort Lion knights will pay before the end, especially Sir Pendas.

Once in Edmark, their fun had, they released us. We spent several days in the elf district, a shoddy section of town and a poor place for elves to live. Once rested, we found a spot in the bottoms of a grain barge headed for Norfeld. I did not want to go any further, just turn around and flee the empire, but Irlona demanded, angrily, that I finish what I started. Out of respect for her I entered Norfeld and visited the academy. I managed to do so while in disguise as a man seeking admittance, though it was not easy to keep up the appearance. Irlona had a much easier time, for obvious reasons. It was alarming how much better we were treated when thought human. After showing them my skills, the headmaster gave me a full tour and several demonstrations.

Quite honestly, they were the poorest archers I’d seen the world over. The one trump they did have was their numbers. The academy must have had over forty thousand attendees, to say nothing of its many graduates scattered over imperial lands. With so many arrows in the air at once, it’s nearly impossible to miss a target. Their training, from what I could tell, was nothing to do with the individual, and everything to do with the probability of hits within the groups of archers as allocated by the imperial army.

We left with false promises of my enrollment and fled the One Kingdom forever more. I find myself now back in the woods of the Greater Sheyd, with plans to make for Veluvia in the next year or so. Irlona is curious about a realm full of snow and the people are tolerant enough. I hope to see my goblin liberators, as well as the Wolfson.

I wish the best for you, dear reader, as does my wife Irlona. And our daughter Cida does also. I learned much in my travels, though feel, even a world trip later, there is so much more to learn. Each new experience adds to the skill and appreciation of archery and life. Becoming a husband, a father, a rebel, a citizen, a teacher, a writer, alters my perceptions on everything and makes me a better elf. May new experiences fill all your days.