Under the Ahviarynelle

I am an adventurer. I am magnificent and brave and cunning and...

No, actually, I’m a fraidy-cat if ever there was one. My lute and I have seen none of the dazzling, death-defying tales I sing of. Rather, we have seen the inside of many-a-tavern and pub, plus a few carnival sites. Jezzabell the Jazzier Minstrel—known in this part of Varisye as Jezz-Jazz—earns just enough coin to avoid having to find honest work. That’s a good thing, seeing as how I cannot sew or cook. I wouldn’t be much help on a farm—gifted as I am with diminutive size and a so-called black thumb—and the chances of me finding some kind and gentle duke to marry seem to diminish every passing day. The Ahviarynelle might look kindly down on a short red-head with a thief’s form, but not too many knights do.

Before I get ahead of myself (storyteller, remember) how and where, Dear Traveler, does one begin to describe this vast and varied realm of Varisye?

With the terrible beauty of the memorial at Arsys? With the fire rings of Montegollath? With the Onyx Bridge in Zepriin or the seven Green Keeps of Delaney’s Gorge? Or the creatures one is likely to see swooping among those cursed places?

Perhaps I should start with what you certainly will see from almost any point in the land—the Ahviarynelle.

The Great River, the Mother-Watcher, the Ahviarynelle is a dazzling ribbon of water (or something) which flows a curving path among the clouds. She changes colors everywhere. There are places, such as Shugoki’s Spike, where you can see her shift from purple to green to gold to orange to red-violet throughout three turns, or bends. (If it’s socked-in cloudy or rainy, well, you’re out of luck.) She is not always directly overhead, but she is there. People claim to have seen her light up with lightning during an evening storm. Other people claim to be able to hear her, though she is many kaftas’ distance in the sky. If one were to brave the steep slopes of cursed Mount Arsys, I wager they still would not get high enough to be on her level. Stories of dragons and griffins flying high enough to touch her waters are just that, stories. Regardless, to wake with the sun and find her emerald-green magic smiling down on you in the Downs is a wonderful feeling. Like nothing could ever be too bad in your life, so long as she’s flowing.

I suppose I’m like a lot of folks in that she gives me comfort. Gods and goddesses have failed us. Kingdoms and countries have failed us (the lands of plenty do not hold plenty for all). But she is always with me. Though I have penned many a thought and lyric on her story—tucked away in my knapsack—I think her origins should remain a mystery. For she is good. I truly feel that. And a good mystery has a magic all its own.

I’ve got two songs about our Mother-Watcher, the Ahviarynelle. Of course, visitors to this realm (as the joke goes) may not have the foggiest idea who or what I sing of. Though it’s difficult to imagine how they could miss seeing it—unless they are blind.

Singing and playing are what I do best, like I said. The notes and words I twirl take work. I’ve got the knapsack full of songs (some unfinished) to prove it. And now, Dear Traveler, it is my intent to relate the strangest tale of late, seeing as how it involves an Ehara hero who could not use his blade-skill (master though he is) to solve a problem.

Ah, I’ve gotten ahead of myself. You need the setting, first.

My cousin Perissloss (yes, we give her grief over her name) has been inside the map room of the Amethyst Oracle. According to the great map—which covers an entire wall—Varisye ranges 7,000 kaftas from the northeast to southwest corners. Without the aid of frightening magic (I am told there are many tiers of power) one would have to cross nineteen rivers and at least six mountain ranges, depending on which of the great roads they take. They would also have to pass through a number of queendoms, domains, and territories of unknown disposition. It would take years, and luck. To say the journey would be easy would be a liar’s claim. I tell stories, not falsehoods. Leave those to the knights and Dwarves.

I myself have never left this north-central part of the land, to the east of Mount Arsys and the city of Sealth. The villages and orchards and farms of this country, Tajra, keep me satisfied.

Now, if one looks at a map regarding this part of the world, they are likely to see a finger of land curling out into the Ilsic Sea. This area is covered by the Carpath Mountains and the lakes formed by their valleys. Lakes mean fish and a living, so there are a handful of fishing villages spread throughout. One of them, Horrvath, recently ran into trouble. Like I said, there is a certain irony in that a member of the Ehara kind—distrusted by many of my fellow Komens—provided an answer for a Komen village.

Regarding these folk known as Ehara, there are two qualities which give the average Komen (or Dwarf or Elf) a bit of a start. First, Ehara are quite tall. If I come up to the shoulder of your average man, then this average man might come up to the shoulder of an Eharan woman. Some are so tall they must duck under tree branches on the roads. They are not burly or bulky like some knights fashion themselves. Rather, their forms are rather thin. Not bean-poles, as they saying goes, but their form seems deceptive when compared to rumors of their possessing enormous strength. One song I borrowed from another artist tells of an Ehara fellow lifting a portcullis singlehandedly. I wouldn’t mind witnessing such a thing, provided I don’t have to go under said portcullis.

The other key thing you can’t miss is their skin color. Each Ehara has two—a main color and stripes of another hue, like tigers. I think you can see how it might startle someone to find themselves engaged by a woman of sky blue with stripes the color of blood—Komen blood—arrayed across her face. Additionally, they have no hair. I am told the women have a distinctly different shape to their faces, and sometimes wear adornment, but I have only seen one in my dreams.

There are a few creatures I wish I hadn’t seen for real, of course. A Grey Orc, even shackled up for crimes against villagers, is a frightening brute. So, sure, that’s part of the reason I keep to this region of Varisye. Things seem fairly normal, and Countess Torscha, the local ruler, is not too interested in collecting taxes from traveling entertainers. (There is a great story behind why she and so many of the rulers here are women, but that, Dear Traveler, is a tale for another day.)