The sweet and rich smell of burning tolsen weed flowed on the soft breezes wafting their way through the winding streets of the canyon city. The smell made its way through the gaps in the wooden walls of the small hovel to slowly fill it up with a comforting feeling. Today was the day of Tegall’s Rapture and most families in Alsira Thaenat were at home burning incense, praying to the gods, and partaking of feasts.

It was a day of celebration, as many families had managed to survive the bitter winter season and everyone wished to celebrate the hopes for the new year that was upon them. Those children who survived the harsh and bitter winters, where food was the scarcest, were given gifts to celebrate their continued lives. Couples celebrated each other’s lives with gifts as well and renewed their vows for the coming year. Those who lost loved ones during the winter were given alms and respite in the homes of their families or in public houses owned by the community so that they might continue on despite their loss.

Ghelta sat upon her straw-filled bed covered in threadbare and blood-stained linens she had managed to steal from the infirmary building nearby. She drummed her small and wiry legs against the creaking wooden frame of the bed as she chewed on a braid in her long, crimson hair. Papa Ylethus had just come home from early morning training with his warriors and was in the living area talking with some old man covered from head-to-toe in draping robes.

Ghelta grasped the wooden frame of the bed with her hands and leaned forward to stare beyond the bedroom door into the living area. She could see Papa Ylethus standing beside their dining table. She couldn’t see the robed man, but she could hear his calm and light voice coming from another corner of the room.

“I know you couldn’t be there. Please know that she holds no ill feelings for you.” The sound of the wooden floors creaked as the unseen man shifted his weight. “She knows you love her and her child in your own ways, Ylethus.”

“It still pains me.” Papa Ylethus leaned hard on the table, causing the furthest legs to lift slightly under his giant frame. He sighed hard and swiveled his leg up to sit upon a stool near the head of the table. “You know that I don’t mean any disrespect to you in my decision. Her path and my own weren’t to be.” He let both of his elbows drop to the table as he leaned forward. His hands were held with their palms up towards the unseen man. “Besides, as you mentioned, my hands are full with Ghelta.”

“Yes, they are.” The unseen man stepped forward and sat at the table across from Papa Ylethus. The tip of the robed man’s hood could be seen past the door-frame. “She is my daughter, and thanks to you I have a grand-daughter.” The robed man gave a half-hearted chuckle as he reached a skeletal hand towards Ylethus’ own and grabbed it up. “The heart wants what it wants. I know in your heart you still love her and her child. They are safe in Haaken Vaulthaen and you can visit them anytime you wish.”

“Were you able to give Eranii the gift I bought?” Papa Ylethus slowly pulled away from the robed man’s grasp and straightened his back at the table.

“Yes, I did. You know how Eranii is with tradition.” The robed man gave another chuckle, this one more warm than the last. “She gave the gift to Scythana as soon as I got it out of my pack.” He drummed his skeletal fingers on the wood of the table in a dance and lifted his index finger up sharply. “She loved it, Ylethus.”

“Good.” Ylethus lightly pounded a fist on the table and lifted himself up from the stool. “You’re right that Eranii could never really get the hang of tradition.” Papa Ylethus smiled and reached over the table to give a slap to the shoulder of the robed man.

“About tradition-” The robed man started and then paused in his words for a moment. The tip of his hood shot up to look Ylethus in the face. “You remembered her gift as well, correct?” The robed man bent his arm slightly to point at the door-frame. “She deserves just as much of your love as the child born of your blood.”

“Yes.” Ylethus gave a nervous laugh as he ran his meaty fingers through his long, brown hair. “What do you take me for?” He let his laugh continue into a roar.

“Scythana is being taken care of. Ghelta needs your full attention now.” The robed man lifted himself up and stepped out of view. “You are as much her savior as her father. Love her as you would Scythana.” The robed man made several floorboard creaks as he moved further out of view. The sound of the battered front door groaned open as the robed man said his last words. “I’m always here for you, Ylethus, as a father and as a friend. Remember that.” The door groaned and popped again as he shut it behind him.

Ghelta felt a growling in her stomach and clutched it for a moment, hoping to silence it before Papa Ylethus could hear. The richness of the tolsen weed smoke and the smells of cooking meats coming in from outside made her hungry. She knew she would have to wait until Papa Ylethus had finished the afternoon training drill before he could come home and start cooking their meal. She was too young to handle the knives and fires herself.

She looked up from her hands upon her stomach to the light filtering in from the window above Papa Ylethus’ bed. The light from the two suns climbing into the sky were given a soft orange glow as the smoke from all the houses rose up like a ceiling above the canyon city of Alsira Thaenat. Her home was upon one of the upper layers of the city, next to the Vhulkovyr barracks, the infirmary, and the quarters for visiting dignitaries. She could see streams of smoke rising up from the lower layers of the city like tendrils to the heavens above. Within each of those streams of smoke rising heavenward were the hopes, prayers, joys, and sorrows of every member of the Alsira tribe.

As she took in the sight through the small window, she could hear Papa Ylethus rummaging around in a pack he had dropped upon the dining table. She turned her head to see him lift an item wrapped in twigs and twine and set upon the table. He threw the empty pack over his shoulder and snatched up the item in one of his immense hands.

Ghelta pushed herself up further on the bed and crossed her legs in anticipation of Ylethus entering the room. She could hear his thunderous footsteps coming closer to the door. She grabbed one of her old blankets to drape over her knee and ruffled up the threadbare linens of her bed to make it seem like she had just woken up. She looked up to see one of Ylethus’ hands pressing the door a few inches further open.

“Ghelta.” His voice was soft as he entered the bedroom. He leaned in and saw her deceptively rubbing her eyes with two small fists. “Are you awake?”

Ghelta nodded and lowered her hands from her eyes, she looked up at him with a smile which melted Ylethus’ hardened heart within a moment. He stepped further into the room and crossed in front of Ghelta’s bed to sit on his own. The mass of old straw and broken wood groaned and snapped under his immense frame. He placed the bundle of twigs and twine on his lap while leaning toward Ghelta with a few more complaints from the bed.

“It’s the day of Tegall’s Rapture. Do you remember what that means?” Papa Ylethus leaned forward some more as Ghelta leaned the rest of the distance. She gave a nod and held her smile as he continued on. “You’ve survived another year and this is to be celebrated.” Papa Ylethus pulled the bundle from his lap and held it in one of his palms toward Ghelta. “You know that we don’t receive much to live off of. Most of the spoils of war go to my warriors or to the tributes we give to the Chieftain.”

Papa Ylethus swallowed hard and lowered his gaze from Ghelta’s eyes. He examined the dirty floor beneath his heavily booted feet. He looked over Ghelta’s ruined bed and saw her sitting in her favorite threadbare tunic that was far too large for her frame. He felt a twinge pulling at the edges of his eyes and quickly wiped a tear before it could be seen.

“I know most children want toys on this day or some kind of bauble to gather dust on a shelf.” Papa Ylethus gave a sniff and returned his eyes to Ghelta’s. “This gift is a commitment to you. It is a commitment to ensure your future so that you might survive many years to come.” He lifted himself up to his feet and stepped forward to place the bundle on the bed beside Ghelta. He turned and sat down on his bed. “I had it commissioned as soon as I took you in. I was just now finally able to pay it off.”

Ghelta looked at the bundle and then up to Ylethus, she held the same innocent smile upon her lips as she spoke to him in a hushed tone. “You don’t need to give me gifts.” She watched him wipe another tear from the side of his dusty eye. She reached beside her and lifted the hefty bundle to her lap. “Thank you, Papa.”

She looked from the bundle back up to Ylethus to see him nod permission to open the gift. Her tiny fingers flowed over the twine and grasped the knots on either end. With a flurry of activity, she undid the knots and began unrolling the twig packaging of her item. She stood on her bed and began rolling the twigs towards her feet as she took tiny steps backward to unfurl it more.

Within a few moments, she had revealed a fine leather scabbard adorned with polished iron designs. The black leather of the scabbard and attached belt reflected the light along its edges. She ran her hands across the supple leather and the cool metal until she grasped the leather-covered hilt of a blade sheathed within.

“Thank you, Papa. My very own sword.” Ghelta looked it over once more and then raised her face up to smile again at Ylethus. She looked back down to it and reverently placed it on her straw-filled pillow. She began to roll up the twigs and retie the knots on the bundle.

“Be careful with it. Remember what I taught you about blades.” Ylethus got up to his feet and wiped some of the sand from the fur-trimmed armor covering his shoulders. “I have two more drills to do and then I’ll be home. I’ll make you some sarkrass stew for dinner and then I’ll show you how to use it.”

Ylethus reached forward, leaning with one hand on the frame of Ghelta’s bed and grabbing her head with his other. He messed up her crimson hair beneath his immense hand and then pulled back to stand up straight in the center of the room. He stepped forward and grasped the door as he walked out.

He leaned back into the room with just his head being visible. “Remember, Ghelta. You are loved and you are wanted.” He waited for her to return his gaze and nod at him. He smiled down at her and closed the door slightly.

She could hear his heavy footsteps as he made his way to the front door. Behind the creaking and another pop, she could hear him secure the lock and then walk away. She sat on her bed and stared at the sword upon her pillow for a moment. The smells of tolsen weed and cooked food wafted in all the more, making her feel a strange sense of comfort and longing.

Ghelta pushed herself off of the bed and onto the wooden floor with almost no sound at all. She looked around the room quickly and stepped toward the doorway to peer past at the front door beyond. Feeling secure that Papa Ylethus was actually gone, she returned to her bed and began reaching under the wooden frame.

In a few short moments, she grasped onto a small and well-hidden wooden box she had stolen from a visiting courtier’s luggage a few months previous. She lifted it from a small separation she made between the bed’s frame and one of the wooden slats holding up the straw mattress. With some flexing of her small arms, she raised it up and set it down on her bed.

With one more look around her and a silent moment to hear that the house remained silent, she lifted herself back up onto her bed and pulled the box towards herself. Her small fingers ran over the exotic wood covered in rich lacquer. She reached for the metal clasp at the front of the box and opened the lid slowly.

Within the box were several dolls she had made out of scrap linen, straw, and numerous baubles she had stolen over her short life. She tugged on one of her long and crimson braids and began to chew on it idly as she lifted each of the dolls from the box and placed them in a row beside her pillow.

Ghelta had seen many of the young girls of the city collecting dolls as they grew up. She enjoyed playing out little dramas with the dolls when Papa Ylethus was away for long stretches of time. The first doll she had was a wooden figurine of a goddess she stole from Grandmaster Toulam who watched over her once when Papa Ylethus was on a campaign for several months. She had dressed the goddess, whose name she didn’t know, in a small dress she had made from scraps of her swaddling clothes.

The other dolls were a mismatch of found objects with only the vaguest hint of a humanoid form. Some of the dolls had names while others would change names as she willed it for each of the dramas she thought up while being stuck in the house alone. She pretended that she was one of the skaldten she had seen when Ylethus took her to the leiggenskappf to hear tales from distant lands. It was her job to recite the epic tales of heroes and villains.

She always enjoyed those times Papa Ylethus let her go to the Hall of Heroes to hear the stories of the traveling skadlts. Being in the presence of the joys, and sorrows of warriors filled her heart with purpose. She did her best to remember the tales told and keep them going with her dolls. More than any of the tales she recited regularly, she tried her hands at making new tales that only she and her imaginary family would ever hear.

There was a juvenile pain that crept through her as she surveyed her makeshift family of dolls on her bed now that she’d brought them all out. Somewhere out in the city, there were numerous young girls getting gifts from their parents. Those children with loving mothers and fathers related to them by blood who cared and gave their all to their children. Those young girls getting new dolls to play with for the next year.

It was envy that began to boil up from within her for a brief moment. Those other children didn’t understand hardship like she had seen. Those other children were loved by those that brought them into this cruel world of pain and murder. Those other children received gifts that they wanted and would soon discard once new gifts presented themselves the next year. It was children like Ghelta who would pick up the pieces of the forgotten toys and dolls to make her own out of. It was children like Ghelta who lived in their shadows and made a life out of the detritus they threw away.

Ghelta caught herself as her face grew red and she stared up at her pillow beyond the dolls she had lined up. There the gift that Papa Ylethus had given her sat alone and abandoned. As she reached a hand toward the scabbard her eyes swelled with tears. As her hand seized upon the leather and lifted it to her lap she began to sob openly.

She knew how much it meant to him to give her this gift and knowing it at this moment made all of her envy drain away. The metalwork of the scabbard was a work of art that a skilled smith had spent months working on. Papa Ylethus had said how long it took for him to pay off the commission for this one-of-a-kind gift.

It may not be what she had wanted or expected, but even as a small child she could understand the importance of what she held in her hands. She held the scabbard close to her chest and finished her sobs. As hard as she sometimes thought her life was, she knew she was blessed. Many children died in this cruel world and others suffered as slaves to be trafficked by corrupt lords.

She may be an orphan, but she had a guardian that worked tirelessly to protect and keep her safe. Papa Ylethus may not be of her same blood, but he knew her soul far better than even her dead parents might have ever known her. She may not have full meals growing up like other children, but her stomach was always filled at the end of the day. She had a roof over her head and the chance to face the next day with hope rather than fear.

Ghelta looked down at the scabbard in her hands and realized at this moment that what she held wasn’t just a sheathed sword but a tool to ensure that her future would be filled with hope and not fear. She realized that it was by this tool in her hands that she could protect not only herself but others and put the villains of the world to justice. In her hands she held the ability to tell more than any drama or story could ever tell; she could live her own epic tale of heroism and adventure.

As cool tears continued to stream down her face, Ghelta pushed herself from the bed and dropped her feet to the floor below. She held the scabbard in her hands and turned to stare back at her doll family on her bed. She tucked in her threadbare shirt-tail around her tiny waist and pulled the leather belt around her. She notched the buckle to the very last hole in the belt and tied it tightly around her, letting the sheathed sword fall to her hip.

Her tears began to stop as she felt the weight of the sword around her, like the weight of duty that a warrior must have to their tribe. There was something about the sword that made her feel like a grown-up as it dangled beside her exposed leg. She reached down with her left hand to feel the warm leather bindings on the hilt in her hand.

Papa Ylethus had told her often that a warrior’s chosen weapons must be consecrated with blood the first time they are drawn. In the blood is the oath to the spirit of the weapon that it will only be used for honorable means. By tasting the wielder’s blood, the blade and the warrior become one entity, with one will, and one celestial purpose. She didn’t remember all of the other things he had spoken about warriors and weapons, but this she remembered well.

With a flick of a leather snap, which held her guard in place, Ghelta grabbed the hilt of her blade and drew it forth. The klaive lifted quietly and easily as it slid on the fur inside the scabbard. She lifted the heavy weapon up to her face and stared at herself in the polished metal of the blade. Inside the weapon, she could see her wild, crimson hair and ice-blue eyes staring back at her. She held the blade with her left hand and wiped away the tears from her pale cheeks with the other.

Ghelta held up the blade still and once her cheeks felt dry enough, she held her right hand with her palm upturned in front of her. She lowered the blade towards her hand and with a wince, she drew the edge of the blade against her palm. Tears of pain rushed forth, but she blinked them away with her renewed focus. She finished dragging the blade across and raised it up as she clenched her sore hand into a fist.

Once the blood began to flow from her wound, she spread the blood across the flat of the blade with her hand. Once anointed with her blood, she lifted up the blade to her forehead and closed her eyes. She remembered that Papa Ylethus had said that every great blade must have a name. All the ancient hero's blades had names that skaldts remembered throughout the centuries. Even if only the wielder of the blade knew the name, every one must have something to attach its spirit to.

Ghelta opened her eyes and spoke softly to the blade she held against her small head. “I name you, Scythana.” She remembered the name from when Papa Ylethus had spoken to the robed man earlier. The name seemed important to Papa Ylethus and sounded pretty. This would be the blade’s name and she would keep that name to herself.

She lowered her blade and stared up at the row of dolls lined up against her pillow. Thoughts began to bubble up in her imagination that the dolls were her family and she was a warrior who had to protect them from some ancient monster like in the stories she had heard. She swung the klaive in her hand and lowered it towards the door of the bedroom. She could feel the weight of the blade in her hand and the power that flowed into her from it. She was a warrior now.

* * *

“-That is why we of the Vhulkhovyr caste must always be ready to lay down our lives.” Ylethus continued his speech as he reeled back from Ghelta’s earlier attack. He allowed the momentum she had imparted to his great sword to pull him down into an upturned swing.

Ghelta swiveled her klaive in her hand and pointed the tip upward. She caught her reflection in the worn and notched blade. She remembered the day that Ylethus had given it to her as a gift. She smiled as she caught her same crimson hair and ice-blue eyes in the reflection. The moment seemed to stretch on, but she soon saw Ylethus’ sword crashing down on her. She ducked into a backward roll avoiding the strike and not needing to parry.

“Well, I take that to mean you understand this lesson.” Ylethus lifted the heavy sword up from the ground and leveled it across his body. He took several deep breaths and shook out the strain from his arms. “Now onto the next one.”

Ghelta caught herself in mid-roll and sprung back to her feet. She flourished her klaive in front of her, trailing it from side to side like a snake about to strike. She analyzed Ylethus’ stance and prepared herself for his next thrust. Her smile turned into the grin of a predator who had the upper hand on their prey.

“Yeah. Sure. Keep the lessons coming.”

For the Skaldts II - The Music That Inspired This and Other Scenes in "A Cliff-top Duel"

Spoiler :

Ghelta's Flashbacks: In This Moment - Roots

Version 4.0.01