Rebirth

Editiir died without dignity in the camp of Raila au Airé Nailur Auvan.

In the Redglaze Forest, on the other side of the Jump River, Editiir cautiously made his way to the village-home of Raila au Airé Nailur Auvan, the Clan of Seven Screaming Faces, never afraid but always concerned.  They'd gotten their Clan name for a reason, just all of them had; the Clan of Screaming Faces was known for their brutal methods of handling traitors or spies.  He didn't have high hopes.

He slipped into the Village Center under daylight, with his hands held above his head.  "I do not come for blood," he says to the pair of elven warriors that approach.  "I come to speak."

The warriors draw their weapons and strike against Editiir, and as they fight, more and more pile out.  Editiir, even unarmed, is an extraordinary fighter, but eventually, he is laid low.  As he lays bloodied and dying, the legion elves step away from Editiir.  A single man, tattooed not in yellow but the same blue as Editiir himself, approaches.

"Airé Nailur Auvan.  Seven Screaming Faces.  You should have known better, traitor."

--

In Antigo, across the blue seas and secluded deeply in the Verdant Forest of Ullam, two dozen men and women, all young and bright-eyed, wrap themselves in leather dyed a deep shade of violet.  They take up what weapons they can find in peaceful Antigo -- in a place distanced so far from the civilized world  -- and, armed with clubs and stone weapons, rise up in the night, capturing what of their elders they can and bludgeoning the rest.

Fires go up in the town square, and the oldest of the two dozen shouts a prayer to Aelmar over the screams of what had once been family and friends.  As the night gives way into morning, the dark smoke reaches into the sky, a beacon and signal that reaches for miles and miles.  So far from civilization, it'll be days, if not weeks, before that call is heeded, if anyone comes at all.  But the two dozen, they know this.  And they'll be ready.

--

Tzechelakham stalked through fiery caverns.  This was home and refuge, a place that seemed to sit uncertainly between the world proper and the fires of Hell itself.  How long had it been since he'd set foot here?  Millenia, eons?  He wasn't certain, anymore.  But it was good to be back, and things were already falling into place.  The heroes, as always, did their best, and he, as always, did his worst.  If this kept up, the world would come crashing down around them.

Tzechelakham was pleased.

Elven Warrior

Editiir, Lawful Evil Elven Monk 5

Everett held the doll-thing in his meaty fist, even as it beat against him and howled for freedom.  Shirak muttered words about taking the thing hostage, and it continued to plead for mercy.

"Let me go," it said.  "Let me go or they'll hurt you," and quietly, too quiet for anyone to hear, it added, "and we don't want anyone to get hurt ..."

It slipped free and made a break for it, but Shirak had it one-upped; a purple-black burst of energy slammed into the animated form, and the figure fell to the ground, lifeless, motionless.

...

Deep inside the underground fortress, Blackwell awoke from her slumber with a shattered image in her mind.  "Sarah," she mumbled.  "What's ..."

She climbed from the mess of a bed that she slept in, and felt around the table for her glasses.  She had a horrible headache and an uncomfortable feeling.  She couldn't shake that picture from her head, and even worse, she couldn't piece that sundered image back together.  What ...

The men weren't proud, but they were practical.  After the witches had left (and well enough; they'd saved many lives, but fear was alive and well and hate came with it), they'd sent out young men with crude and worn weapons to finish the deeds and strip the goblin corpses of anything they could use.

No, they weren't proud at all, but they were practical, and even the crudest goblin tools could be melted down and made into horseshoes.

...

Tirel (his mother claimed, vehemently, that just because it was an elven name didn't mean it was dirty name) had been assigned the duty, and he hated it, but he did it.  He did it well, actually, and was more thorough than some of the other boys; he came away with a personal stash of gold coins (there weren't a lot on the goblins, but there were a couple, and he figured it was his right for the trouble!), as well as a wealth of useless, worthless, and shiny trinkets.  But what really counted was that he came away with a tiny sheet of paper, in a way.

Tirel was discovered unconscious with the parchment in his hand.  The words written on the parchment didn't seem to be from any recognizable language, and none of the town's Elders had any thoughts as to what it might be.  Those who spent any appreciable time reading the paper found themselves with headaches or worse, intense nausea.

The discovery of the paper was kept quiet for several days, and the gathering of the bodies and pilfering of their goods continued, until the night came that the monsters were piled high on the outskirts of town.  The pyre of bodies was set aflame.  The fire grew slowly at first and gained momentum, eventually reaching more than a dozen feet above the height of the pyre.

At the pinnacle of the flame, those who came to witness the spectacle claimed to have seen a murder of crows erupt from the pile of corpses, birds black as night as hot as the fire they exploded out of.

...

"The witches," Elder Mahogany mumbled, pressing the scroll case back into Tirel's hand.  "Take it to the witches."

Micam the Sunberry Salesman

It was days before Editiir had regained his feet, and when he did, the elf was already starved and dehydrating.  Sleep didn't come naturally to elves, and so he'd been awake and aware for the entire humiliating ordeal, just half-aware all the time, but he didn't trust himself to break away from the semi-conscious rest early.  It was a long time coming before he was certain that his body would be able to carry itself again, but eventually, he was able to regain himself.

It had become obvious to him much earlier that Ilitar and Sevadal had left him for dead, and although he was sure he'd have done the same in their position, he blamed them for it, he absolutely blamed them.  Just a few minutes back on his feet and he was certain that he didn't just blame them, he hated them.  Oh, he would have their skulls on his totem before he retook his place with the Clan, he was certain of it.  His wife and children would feast on their hearts -- but only if he got to them before they got back to the Clan.  He paced in an idle circle around the long burnt-out pit that the druid and warlock had left.  They'd definitely have taken the raft, and he wasn't certain he'd be able to make his own.  He was no craftsman; he was a hunter.

He would have their hearts, too, and they had no Clan to shelter them.

...

Editiir, Neutral Evil Monk 3