I wish I have more to write aside from speculation, yet despite all my efforts, wraiths elude me. I have found no evidence of their existence, but tales of these beings are so commonplace and so consistent, I have no other recourse than believing them real. Are they the creatures of Morterran, fallen son of the High Father, as the church says, or are they merely regular Spirits with a more dangerous bent? I cannot say. The most surprising thing I have discovered on their nature, is knowledge of stories from The Broken Land, of humanity’s lost empire, which suggests even there wraiths dwelled. Stories persist of war between them and dragons. What a siren’s call of a story to discover, yet I am still left with fragments and conjecture! –From On the Nature of Spirits, by Felidas Markon, Scholar of the Otherside.

  Gwynfor blinked, Her vision blurred as she was met with the blinding light of the sun as he slid down the horizon. She stumbled back, hands working to lift her up as she tried to figure out what happened.

  She was hit again.

  The ground was hard and shot pain through her. She felt the impact of steel-toed boots hit her side. She rolled and heard herself cry out in pain, a detached thing she barely recognized as herself. A familiar pain, a situation all too familiar. So much had changed, and yet everything remained the same. Finally, she saw the source of her assault: a greasy looking man with strangled strands of hair and a bitter edge to his face. Vericho, supposed gentleman and mercenary. Gwynfor saw he had a sword sheathed at his side, and he looked to be in no hurry to draw it. Behind him, Gavin leaned against the wall of another nearby building, a crossbow loaded and aimed mildly towards her.

  “Hey there, little lady. Didn’t mean to startle you!” he said as he ran at her and delivered another kick to her legs.

  She fell, and clamped her mouth shut, and rolled away to avoid the next blow. She went to her side, grabbing for a weapon that was not there, and she cursed herself for not finding a new one or asking the Vessel for something. Why had she not considered that?

  “What do you want?” Gwynfor asked, dancing back from another blow. “Revenge? Just leave me BE!” Gwynfor bellowed. She did not deserve this. Why could she not just have an easy time of it?

  Vericho paused for a moment, clucking his mouth. “Now now girly. Yous were mean to me last we spoke. Ain’t right for yous to get away without some payback, wouldn’t you say” He advanced towards her, his club hitting against his hand like a clock striking midnight.

  What could she do? If she tried to run, Gavin would just shoot her with the crossbow. She lacked a weapon, and had no idea how to use her magic. She tried to find something, anything within her to make light, to blind him, to give herself any advantage whatsoever. She found nothing. He kept moving towards her, in no hurry at all. This could not be her fate. The blinds of her parent’s house rustled. A spark of hope flashed through her. She just needed a moment.

  Vericho was close enough to swing the club at her, and he did not hesitate. Gwynfor leapt out of the way a little too late, and felt it glance off her side. She let out a yell of pain and frustration, then turned as he moved to swing again and threw a punch at him.

  He hadn’t been expecting it, and took it to the chin, thrown askew and stumbling back like a drunkard. Gwynfor kicked at his shin, yelling and screaming. Vericho fell, but turned it into a roll, converting his momentum to rising back to his feet. Gavin was moving, his weapon turned towards her, but not yet striking, a warning to her. He did not wish to kill her–at least she hoped–but she did not doubt he wouldn’t hesitate if she threatened Vericho.

  Luckily, Gavin was distracted and did not notice her pad had snuck out the door. He hit the mercenary over the head with a frying pan.

  “SHIT!” Gavin screeched as he fell to the ground, hands overhead, writhing in pain.

  “PAD!” Gwynfor shouted. “I NEED A WEAPON!” She did not have time to see her father’s reaction, as Vericho came running at her with the speed of a bull, keeping low to the ground.

  He struck her before she had time to get away and they both slammed onto the cobbles, sliding with Gwynfor beneath him, her back scraped bloody. She hissed and began to claw at his face. He grabbed her by the shoulders, raised her, and slammed Gwynfor back down. The world vibrated and her eyes went fuzzy. She slapped him across the face, weakening his grip. She bucked and kicked and scratched him, but he was much larger and stronger than her. He hit her against the ground again. “THIS IS WHAT YOU GET FOR DENYING ME YOU ANIMAL!” His spittle fell across her face like disgusting rain.

  Gwynfor saw a bit of metal gleaming at his side. A dagger slightly unsheathed. She tried reaching for it. “Oh no you don’t” he growled and twisted her so that her arm cracked under the pressure, almost to the point of breaking.

  “OW!” Gwynfor screeched, vision still flooded in pain and dizziness. She hurt. Everything hurt. She kicked and barely managed to shift him. She hit the ground again. Everything was going quiet.

  The pressure lessened on her, and slowly sound and sight swam back to her.

  “Fucking Morterran cursed animal!” Vericho swore. He nursed a wicked looking cut on his arm. Her pad was sprawled on the ground five feet away. A cleaver lay between Gwynfor and Vericho, thrown aside apparently from her pad’s attack. The mercenary was glaring at Vericho. “Gavin, hold the prick down. I want him to watch, I’m pissed off.” Gwynfor saw Vericho lurching back towards her, as Gavin reappeared and slammed a knee into her pad, pressing him to the ground and lifting his head up by the hair.

  “NO! Don’t harm my girl. Take ME if you must!” He begged, tears and blood running down his face.

  “Oh no, yous ain’t my problem little creature,” Vericho muttered. He was drawing his sword. Gwynfor was so far away from the cleaver, from doing anything. “Shes the bitch I need payback on.”

  Apparently his chivalry was highly contextual. Gwynfor laughed at the thought, crazy as it seemed for the moment. She had no other recourse for the flurry of emotions which assailed her. “You think it’s funny? I’m going to leave you to rot in stone elf.”

  It was the worst fate there could be for an elf. Her ancestors believed that in death, if your body returned to the earth, you would be reborn again. Only in stone would one’s spirit fail to return. For what reason did that lump of a killer know that. She kept laughing, for what else was there to do?

  He was five feet away. She looked around. It was too late to go for the cleaver. He was three feet away, raising the sword. There were a few rocks around, could they do anything? A foot away, the blade ready to strike.

  LIVE WELL!

  The unicorn’s command soared through her entire body, and Gwynfor felt a sudden burst of warmth emerge from her chest. Light flared out from her, brighter than the sun, and yet it did not blind her. She saw Vericho’s sword drop in surprise, as he raised his hands to block the brilliance. Gwynfor leapt forward, caught the sword, and swung. She felt it impact, and something warm sprayed across her. She froze.

  The light died away.

  Vericho died.

  She saw him die. She saw the sword hit him in the neck, nearly severing the head. She saw that final look of complete and utter shock, before a glazed and nothing look became his tomb. She saw the body fall, as blood spurted from the wound, his body reflexively bucking back, spasming its final times. She heard the clatter of the sword as she dropped it.

  “No,” she said. She hadn’t meant to kill him. She had just been trying to stop him. But did he deserve to die? She was shaking. There were noises behind her, that she didn’t entirely understand. Words, she thought, but ones whose meaning could not reach her. She had killed him. Dylon had told her she had killed a soldier in the riot with her sling, but she hadn’t seen the death, hadn’t known for sure. This was different. Intimate. She saw the final moments of his existence, had taken it with her own hands. There was blood on her hands.

  “GWYN!” Her pad’s voice cut through everything else. She spun, and saw Gavin raising his crossbow at her, fury in his eyes. She leapt at just the right moment, hearing the thunk of his weapon fire. She grabbed Vericho’s sword, and charged at Gavin, and bellowed a battle cry as she ran.

  He worked to reload as fast as he could. He would have had time enough, were it not for her pad lunging at him. Gwynfor reached Gavin, and swung the sword, aiming for his hands. He deflected the worst of it, but had to use the crossbow, as the metal sheared through it, and ruined his one defense. Gwynfor kicked him and sent him to the ground.

  “Wait! WAIT!” he said, scrambling backwards, looking like a bunny surrounded by foxes. “Don’t kill me please, I did nothing to you!”

  “YOU TRIED TO KILL ME! TRIED TO KILL MY FATHER! YOU HELPED THAT MORTTERAN CURSED BASTARD!”

  “SO DID YOU!” He squealed, raising his hands and closing his eyes. “You killed Vericho! We should be even! Please, I don't want to die!”

  Gwynfor felt her pad grab her shoulder. She glanced at him and saw terror and, worse, fear in his eyes. She felt small, and saw even deeper a look of profound sadness and disappointment in her pad. She had killed a man.

  “Run, and if I ever see you again, I will kill you.”

  Gavin fled.

  Gwynfor stumbled, the adrenaline failing her, as she fell against the walls of her home.

  Home. She was home. She was alive. She had done it.

  She was breathing hard. Her vision was still blurry. She was bleeding and bruised. But she was home. Another shadow fell over her, and she felt two sets of arms help her, prodding her to move. She let them ferry her, felt herself draped onto a couch, felt its comfort like the embrace of a cloud. She jolted upwards. “No, I can’t rest!” she coughed, and saw blood come up with it. That wasn’t a good sign.

  Her pad pressed her back onto the couch. “Yes you can. We can figure something out, we can explain to the guards they started this, we can–”

  Gwynfor saw her moth rest her hand on her pad’s shoulder. She was staring at Gwynfor with that look only a moth could have. It was a discerning mixture of empathy and scolding that made Gwynfor’s heart flutter with fear and happiness.

  “Allvan, we can’t stay here,” she whispered, still staring at Gwynfor. She left him behind, though Gwynfor saw her moth’s fingers rest on his shoulder for as long as possible before she wrapped Gwynfor into a hug. “My little girl, what happened?”

  “I’m sorry moth. I’m sorry pad,” Gwynfor said, more tears welled in her eyes. “I messed up. I didn’t listen to you. I went to the Banishment and I–”

  “Shhhh, it’s alright,” her moth said, running a hand through her hair, and wiping tears from Gwynfor’s eyes. “We know, we understand. What happened after?”

  “Dylon imprisoned me, threatened me, forced me to help him hunt down a unicorn. He threatened to hurt you and Lydia if I didn’t help him. I had to, I promise. I had to!”

  “We know, you’re a strong girl. You wouldn’t have helped if you didn’t have a choice,” her pad said, voice resolute as a mountain and yet reassuring as a brook. “This ain’t your fault.”

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  Gwynfor swallowed, blinking away tears and snuggling towards her moth. “We found it, we…we…I lured it. Something startled it, and when it ran, Dylon tried to kill it. He succeeded, but not before it saved me. It…it gave me its Gift.”

  Her parents had given little in the way of reaction prior to those words. But those seemed to turn them to stone as a gorgon would. “This Dylon,” her pad finally managed. “He’s going to be after you?”

  “After all of us. We have to go.”

  Her pad nodded. “Marion, grab what we need. Take nothing unless it is of absolute necessity.”

  “Yes,” she said, standing up.

  Her pad went to the kitchen and wetted a rag. He turned back to her and knelt beside her, cupping her chin with a hand, and rustling her hair with the other. “You’re my strong young woman. I’m proud of you, despite your disobedience.” Gwynfor smiled, as he said the final words with mock lecture. “How badly are you hurt?”

  “I think I’ll live,” Gwynfor said, rubbing at her aches. It felt like these last few days had added more scars to her than the rest of her life had.

  He nodded. “Where are we going?” he began to rub at her face and hands, cleaning her wounds and wiping away the blood.

  “You and moth are going to Thyshar’Ra.”

  “Not you?” he said, noticing her lack of inclusion immediately. She regretted not lying.

  “I can’t go with you. I’m going to get Willow back, and after that..” she trailed off looking away. Her father kept staring at her. “After that,” she sighed, “I can’t go back to how things were. I am a mage now, and I know other things...” She thought of Atilan and the guilt flooded back into her. She hoped he was still alive. “They’ve hurt me, and I am going to make them learn their lesson. Lydia is right. The time has come to show these humans they don’t have the right to trample us.”

  Her father was silent as a statue, and just as still. She swallowed, feeling nervous. Would he try to stop her, could he stop her? He stood up. “I knew I should have never let Lydia near you. Your mother–moth insisted though.” Gwynfor looked up at his use of the Galadrin word. “But you cannot keep the chick in the nest for long. Eventually they have to spread their wings.” He moved quickly, and wrapped her into a hug. “Tell your moth at the last moment, a mama bear won’t be so keen to see you leave the nest,” he whispered.

  Gwynfor hugged her pad back, crying into his shoulder. “Thank you. I’m sorry pad, for ruining everything. What will happen here?”

  He let her go, shaking his head. “Mr. Greenwood already worked to end our business, we likely would be out of work soon anyways. I suppose I’ve always wanted to see the elder tree. This’ll be good for me.”

  Gwynfor heard footsteps descending. Her moth carried a few packs. She slung one at each of them. Both Gwynfor and her pad caught theirs. “We should hurry. Guards’ll descend here soon, even with how few people are out and about,” she said. Her gaze rested on Gwynfor. “Where to?”

  “Atilan told me to find a friend of his named Theothere, he can help us.”

  “The Vessel?” her pad asked. “How–”

  “Explain later,” Gwynfor said, not wanting to think about him or whatever that awful thing had been. She really hoped he was safe. “Let’s move.”

  Gwynfor left her home behind. It was an awful feeling, seeing it slowly fade into the background, before turning the street. She felt as if it should have been more dramatic, as if the sun should have cast his light upon it, or a choir sung them off. Instead they went on into the crowds as if it were any other day. A few guards were around, but they didn’t seem to be looking for them. No one had yet seen the brutal battle in the alley behind their house. It would be only a matter of time. They had to hurry. The scales in the leather pouch felt heavy to her. Was her safety and these coins worth the cost of the Vessel? No, but he did not have to be dead. She was a coward, leaving him behind to go help herself. What else could she have done? She kept telling herself she would have just been in the way, or would have gotten killed.

  The guilt did not fade.

  Soon, Iron Hill turned into Market Winding, and that into Dockside. The warehouses and smelteries burned the air with the scents of coal and fish and sawdust. They danced through streets and between buildings. Her parents were occasionally recognized, and some gave greetings, others shouted curses, and a few tried to strike up conversation. Her parents kept them moving. Once though, Gwynfor saw Kelan, another of the Wraiths. His face was bloodied and bruised, but he paused upon seeing them. He raised a fist in the air, and called out, “Mey’Thanam Du’Al!” It meant the richness of the poor, and had been a phrase Lydia had taught all the Wraiths, even those less inclined to love the elves. Gwynfor raised a fist to him as well. She hadn’t realized others were free, and more tears came to her. She wished she had more time, but instead she turned and whisked away down the streets. He would continue the fight here without her, until perhaps she could return.

  It took longer than Gwynfor would have liked, asking people around the docks if they knew Theothere. She could feel the questions behind their eyes, the suspicions. Since when did even the workers judge one another so? But, after twenty minutes, they found someone who knew Atilan’s contact. Gwynfor found him in a shadowed pub, filled with the raucous mirth of sailors. They were the people most unaffected by the ongoings of Redport. They were as the wind, they came into the city, brought the fruits of their work, and left, taking away supplies elsewhere to deposit. Tensions did little to stop the cycle of money they brought in. Theothere made for a plain looking man, stretched back in a booth, reading a worn book. Gwynfor took a seat in front of him, and he looked up at her with a blank expression.

  “Do I know you?”

  “No, but I know Atilan, he said you can help me.”

  The fellow narrowed his eyes, he constantly moved his mouth, not to speak, but it seemed as a matter of habit. Gwynfor pulled twelve bronze scales from her bag and slid them across the table towards him. His eyes widened in surprise. “That’s Atilan’s bag. Why’d he give it to you?”

  “He was going to be here, but we came into a spot of danger, and he ordered me to leave and find you.”

  “Danger? From what?”

  “I… I don’t know. We were in the sewers and some…thing appeared. I think he knew what it was.”

  “And you left him?”

  Gwynfor looked down at her lap. “He told me to, I…I didn’t know what else to do.”

  Silence stretched.

  He sniffed loudly. “Suppose I’d do the same. I’ll go looking for him soon. Where do you need getting?”

  Gwynfor looked up. “Thank you. My parents will need passage to Thyshar’Ra. I need to get to Ghost.”

  He titled his head. “Few people need to go there.”

  “They have my friend, and I’m tired of letting them take people.”

  “Once you go to Ghost, you ain’t allowed back. That’s the rule.”

  “I’ll find a way.”

  He shrugged. “I can get you there. When?”

  “Right away.”

  “You in danger?” He didn’t seem worried, merely curious.

  “I got tangled up with the wrong crowd.”

  “You’re Lydia’s girl, one of the Wraiths.”

  Gwynfor nodded. He slid the coins back to her, and her stomach plummeted. “Wait–”

  “For you, passage is free.” He smiled at her. “Hope you succeed, would be a lift to the soul. Let’s go.” He stood up, and wobbled for a second. Then he strode out with a sure foot. Waving a hand he said, “Come on, little time.”

  Gwynfor saw her parents look at her. She nodded. They went on, following behind Theothere. He did not waste time, taking them to the docks. They stood and waited for five minutes, in the cold air as evening approached. He was speaking with several grim looking men, and was doing a lot of pointing and talking. Finally, he came back to them. “Right, Captain Marsters can take you two,” he said pointing at her parents, “to Thyshar’Ra. You’ll dock in Gallery for a few days if that's fine, but you can stay on the ship if you don’t have scales for an inn during that.” He shook his head, turning to Gwynfor. “And you may sail with Captain Havon to Ghost.”

  Gwynfor heard her moth sputter in shock. “Ghost?”

  Theothere eyed Gwynfor. “Thank you, we’ll leave in just a moment.” He nodded, apparently understanding. Gwynfor turned to face her moth’s fury. Instead, she was met with her tears.

  “Do you have to go?” her moth asked, cupping her chin, and wrapping Gwynfor into a hug.

  “They’ve cursed me moth. I can’t forget what has happened. If I go to Thyshar’Ra with you, I will forever leave behind a piece of myself. I won’t be happy until they get what they deserve.”

  “Gwynfor…” her moth breathed, petting her head. “Revenge, you shouldn’t be seeking that.”

  “I have no other choice.”

  “There’s always a choice.”

  Gwynfor pulled back, shaking her head. “Not for me, not after what they’ve done.” She turned, and began to walk towards Captain Havon. “I love you. I hope we will see each other again.”

  She knew her moth would try to stop her, try and grab her arm, and if she did, Gwynfor was not sure she could have fought. So she ran, and did not look back.

  “GWYN!” Her pad called, and Gwynfor realized his voice was strained by the effort to hold back her moth. “Be strong, my brave young daughter. Don’t let them change you too much!”

  They already had, both of them knew it from the body she left behind at the bakery. But the gesture was nice anyways. Gwynfor raised a fist to them, and followed Havon aboard his ship. She recognized it from one of the many Banishments she had seen. In the back of her mind, she had always wondered if she would end up a prisoner aboard one of them. Never had she thought she’d be a willing voyager. Her final step from the gangplank to the deck, felt like crossing into the Otherside. One step and her entire life was changed. One step, and she was leaving home. Thunder cracked, as the storm she had seen before entering the sewers broke upon the world.

  She watched the entire time, as Redport faded away into the background, as the sea twisted and turned and bucked and bobbed, as her life before dwindled into nothingness. Her life before was gone. Gwynfor Flours, daughter of bakers, was dead. Reborn from the ashes was something new. A spark of vengeance and fire. She was Gwynfor the revolutionary, and she was ready to burn all to the ground.

  *

  It was silent.

  The night was dark. A beam of moonlight struck upon the earth ahead. It revealed a sight blasphemous. A unicorn dead in the dirt. Bugs buzzed around it, none daring to get close. A man walked towards it, cloaked in shadow, the hems of his cloak whispering through the grass, as he chanted quietly to himself. He paused, a few feet away from the corpse.

  The bugs descended upon it, feasting away at the white fur. They crawled through its skin, lapping at the dried blood, gorging themselves on its meat. They tasted foul, unicorns did. Purity incarnate and they didn’t have the decency to taste better than chicken. He laughed. It echoed through the empty night. The man knelt beside the unicorn, running his fingers through its fur, feeling the scars that slew it. He licked its blood from his hand. That was where all the flavor went. He smiled, as his attention turned to the horn jutting from the skull.

  Were this creature still alive, it would sense his being, and it would be strong enough to stop him, to prevent what he planned to do with it. Shame it couldn’t, being dead and all. The horn of unicorns were wondrous artifacts. Magically potent, and bearing the ghost of the living creature’s will. Yet a ghost could not make moral judgements. The horn still sensed purpose, passion, ideals. It was drawn to it as a moth to flame. The man drew a knife, and began to carve into the skull. Yet, passion was not unique to the good-hearted, to the true, to heroes. Idealism can be found anywhere. Finally, he wrenched free the horn from the dead beast’s skull, and wiped away the blood and sinew left behind. As he wrapped his fingers around it, he felt the thrum of power just beyond, sourced from the Otherside.

  His own power began to seep from him and into the horn. He watched as the silver began to bleed, corroding into obsidian. Dark shapes began to swirl around him, just in the corner of his eyes, red eyes and red mouths smirked humorless smiles at him. Like the sight of them, he could barely hear their thoughts, in the very back of his mind. Had he wished, the wraith’s minds could be made heard, but he preferred to leave them guessing to the contents of his mind. It made them better allies. What good was trust when you could rely on suspicion and hatred to keep you on your toes. It made them work all the harder so that they were not destroyed by the other for growing weak. Sickness did not breed success.

  The man raised aloft his hands, and thrust power through the horn. He reached out his senses and sought for the dead. He smiled, as he felt a soul still nearby, faint as it was. The unicorn had passed its Gift before ending. That was interesting. He would have to seek out this one, for he was sure Dylon would have never succeeded in his task. Yet, passing a Gift–even in death–took only part of the soul. What remained was malleable. He began to whisper a name, over and over again. It was possible to call ghosts without knowledge of their name, but it did make the process easier. Besides, he had helped guarantee the right unicorn escape, just for this occasion. So he spoke its name aloud, and felt the fragment of its identity hear him. It was drawn to that utterance, and he saw it appear, like a cloud of silver light.

  Waving a hand, golden Strands appeared and formed into a lead jar around the soul. He caught it as it fell, and could feel the icy cold flood into his palms. The jar was heavy with regret. All the better. There might have only been a small portion left, but it was more than enough to curse. He set the jar into a backpack, and stared down at the corpse. He could not have any person stumble across this. Questions would be asked about the missing horn, and questions always became bothersome. With a flick of his hand, a stream of silver fountained from the corpse, and the entire body deflated as the blood drained from it. He drove it deep beneath the ground. Then, he used that as a catalyst, and from there a garden burst forth, burying the withered corpse under feet of trees and bushes and shrubs. Flowers bloomed, heavily perfumed to hide the odor of rot.

  They were far away from any fields or homes or roads. Even if people had visited this place before, the man doubted they would recall it enough to remember where a grove had been. Satisfied, the Black Shepherd departed, and began to consider how these two new tools might best be used.

  The End of Act I