13 Wandering Paths

by Lilly_Snow

Summary:

In a grim but nostalgic state of mind, Galbatorix seeks to memorialize the comrades that enabled his ascent. Stories of the forsworn told by the man who knew them best.

Notes:

Trigger Warnings will be at the beginning of applicable chapters in notes. End-of-chapter notes are for author notes/character discussions.

Chapter 1: Intro: Contemplation

On the Thirteen.

Though they have all gone from this world, I can still picture them as vividly as if they stood before me. They followed me through our many battles, some falling to our enemies and many to themselves, to the very edge of possibility. No one in all the known hells amassed such a dogged and dangerous band as ours; a force of nature capable of gaining a foothold against a world that would have erased us. Without them, I would have stood alone against that flood, and I hold no illusions that I would have survived it. By this, I intend to honor them all.

Xanist, the grieving father.

Eltereth, the avenging woodswoman.

Beren the Beast and his employer, Balor Enduriel.

The Glaerun Twins, Gildor and Gelmir.

… Idril.

Kialandi, the large-hearted scholar.

Siyamak Windwalker, the disgraced and ancient sage.

Amroth, he who is haunted by flames.

The ever lost, Ellessar

Formorra the Sea Hag.

And, by my measure the greatest of them all, Morzan. My truest and most frightening companion. He who was bane to all who stood before us: The Red Menace, if you will.

In some way, I think I loved them (as much as I've ever loved anything). There were moments in our shared hell that shone through, moments of peace and laughter spent drinking around a fire with people for whom you would gladly die.

They were short-lived, but they were precious beyond imagination.

My old friend… I finally understand. In the twilight of his days, Morzan once came to me cast all in grim shadows and said, in a perfectly somber tone, "I feel them walking on my grave." I thought it was the product of his mounting madness, but now I know better. This chill, the sense of already being distant from the living world, like a ghost. Something about reality feels… unsteady; I feel the weft has begun to unweave.

I have no intention of succumbing to this feeling, whatever it portends. But, as a precaution and a final service, their existences must be portrayed as history never shall. I will show the whole and complete men and women they were, not merely the monsters I made of them.

Sva, eom celöbra fricaya pömnuria, thornessan eru maninar abr gatan vrangr theirra.

-:- -:- -:-

Chapter 2: Morzan: First, Last, and Best

Morzan

It is impossible to overstate my love, respect, and esteem for this man. There is only one other creature to whom I was closer, and I have lived without him for most of my life. Morzan was, and indeed in many ways is, the very definition of strength, tenacity, ferocity, and survival to me. In the past thousand years, there was not a man better suited to the blade, nor more earnest in its employ. He was as much an artist as he was a butcher. When one comes to know him well, every aspect of the man becomes easily understood.

Where precisely his story begins, even he did not know. He barely even remembered the father that sold him and his four siblings into the (very small and very illegal) slave trade. He never saw a single member of his birth family again. The chains they put on him weren't changed until they had bit into the skin underneath, leaving him with permanent scars that he covered always. He spoke only rarely of this period, only when deep in a bottle or in a fit of rage at some reminder of it.

By the end of his childhood, he had been acquired by a man to work on his estate. He detested the old wretch, but he developed quite the sweet spot for his daughter. She was five years older than him, a massive margin when considering a thirteen and eighteen-year-old respectively, but he was convinced she was the love of his life. He asked every day for the next six years if she would marry him. She, of course, refused. Still, the two fostered a bizarre friendship. When Morzan was nineteen, her father arranged a marriage to a wealthy lord approximately twice her age. As her last act of defiance before accepting this fate, she decided to take Morzan up on his offer of a romantic afternoon in the town.

It was on this very trip that his life would change forever. The egg couriers landed in the square just as the young pair were strolling past. They joined the throng, as any and all would, and waited. No one expected the- then very grown man- to be the one chosen. Most often, new riders joined the order young, between the ages of eight and fourteen. He never returned to that estate, and the young woman that had given him his chance passed away in childbirth a few years later.

His life had not prepared him in any way for becoming a rider. A grown man, standing closer to seven feet than to six, silent, with long raven hair and mismatched eyes (one so brown it was nearly black and the other a piercing blue), Morzan would have stood out in any company, let alone the highly organized and image-conscious Order. He floundered for a few months, both unwilling to stand up for himself but also unable to fit in. Until, finally, a fellow student made the mistake of taking his quiet for complacency. He unleashed such hell on the aggressor that he was very nearly expelled from the organization. Lucky for him, one elf in the city was famous for his even temper and a deft hand with trouble cases.

Oromis-elda maintained a measure of respect in my companion's view even after our defection, if only because he saw in Morzan that which no one had ever bothered to see: potential. He gave Morzan the opportunity to grow into his own, to acquire structure, skills, and confidence. It was here that Morzan found his voice, and at no point in the decades that followed did he ever refrain from using it again.

The main audience subjected to his newfound bravado was, of course, Brom. At the time, the two developed an almost brotherly relationship, with all the tensions and complex emotions that entails. Brom was much younger than he, almost half his age at the time, and saw Morzan's rapid growth and blooming confidence as a child sees any hero. Morzan was a difficult sort of sibling, but he was also fairly protective of his fellow student. He was a bully, but he was Brom's only bully. This may be immeasurably tragic considering how their bond ended, but I don't believe that in any way erases the simple beauty of this more innocent time.

Enter the death of that innocence~ I first met Morzan soon after he began living with Oromis. The moment I dismounted Jarnunvosk I was met with the most mischievous smile I'd ever seen, coupled with a baritone purr of "Daddy~". The only response I could think of was "Mommy?" to which he responded by simply shrugging, "If you want me to be~". Morzan's understanding of sexuality was firmly rooted in the logic of "if it's fun, do it" and the word 'shameless' cannot begin to describe him. He lived the rest of his life by exactly one person's standard: his own. He even insisted on keeping that first nickname well into our lives. From jokingly flirtatious beginnings sprouted the friendship that could (and did) outlast empires.

I saw him only rarely in those days, both of us busy on the path to becoming Shur'tugal. It wasn't until my defection that we truly became bonded on a deeper level.

The night I fled Ilirea, every rider within two days' flight was out hunting for me. I sequestered myself as best as I could, but I couldn't escape a man who was truly desperate.

Morzan was expressly forbidden from joining the search. So, of course, he flew farther and faster than anyone else. He found me first. I expected him to kill me. Instead, he put his hands out wide and with an exasperated air yelled out, "Daddy, what the fuck?"

So I told him every event that led me to that moment, every awful detail. The corruption of the order went down to its rotten core, and I was determined to rip it up by the root. He sat with me to absorb it all. When I finished he just flashed a smile and asked where we were going next. He surrendered his first home, his first mentor, and his first true friend purely because he believed in me.

The world never stood a chance.

He assisted in Shruikan's abduction and then fled with me into the wilderness. Durza preferred his leash long, so for a time, it was the four of us. As more members joined us, Morzan reigned as my de facto lieutenant. He was brash and fearless on and off the field. No group ever had such an asset.

Morzan was, in my very informed opinion, the single greatest warrior of the past millennia (seeing as I have either met or personally fought nearly every runner up for that title, I would take that stake with confidence). His talents came from more than raw power; the man simply had an instinct for battle that even a dragon would covet. He was fast, accurate, ruthless, and unpredictable. Fear of Morzan alone kept agents in line for decades. He was also clever and oddly philosophical if one caught him in the right frame of mind. He was always sure of himself, and never felt pressured to be understood or even acknowledged. And, even more, he was unflinchingly loyal. Only rarely did we fight, and these were unfailingly over hills upon which Morzan would rather die.

The reinstation of the slave trade, for example.

The fact is that, with a pitiful and ever-dwindling supply of dragons, we did not have the means to police the wilds as the riders did. Meanwhile, vermin came from all around to enjoy the easy profit. We opted to legalize the operation in hopes of better controlling it. When Morzan found out, he very nearly broke rank. I think he would have killed me right then and there if he could. I know he never forgave me; Morzan was not the forgiving type.

In his later years, he sank ever deeper into a rage so profound that it threatened to consume everything around him. I believe it was ****'s anger bleeding through their link. The only thing that numbed him enough to function was an endless supply of alcohol. We did not begrudge him his relief as, by then, the remaining thirteen were likewise suffering. There was, however, one brief period of lucidity: Selena.

Never have I seen a man so obsessed. He met her by chance on a trip for me. Apparently, he jokingly challenged this petite farm girl to a drinking match. She not only accepted but kept pace with him so well that she didn't slur her words when she took her winnings. He offered her the chance to escape her mundanity and she accepted. He introduced her to me as his wife, and I confess I was almost envious. She was lovely and earthy with a truly fiendish wit. He brightened so much in her presence that for an absurd time I thought he may actually be able to claw his way out of his despair.

But demons can only be repressed for so long. By the time little Murtagh entered the picture, the fires had certainly dimmed to pitiful embers. The day of the incident… he would not speak of it, but I could feel the ache in what remained of his soul. I could only remember the man he had once been, the man who cursed his cowardly wretch of a father and swore on every star in the heavens that he would be a better man…. A better parent. He never looked at the boy squarely after that day. Nor, do I believe, could he ever again face himself in a mirror.

It strikes me that his transformation was, without equivocation, my fault. He gave me his everything, and I repaid him with ruin and pain. His ghost is a powerful one in my thoughts, especially with Murtagh trailing defeatedly at my side. His spitting image that I personally put in chains. Were his father alive, he wouldn't hesitate to rip me apart, regardless of their no doubt nonexistent relationship. That was just the sort of man he was; determined to stick to his own standard regardless of what barriers were in his way.

His death was the worst blow of the past decades, bar none. Brom cut down a wretched shadow of the man and certainly took great satisfaction in overcoming his rival. I, however, lost the last man in the world I could trust. We buried him in his wife's garden at her side. The funeral was a dismal affair, his son draped all in black and shaking as he sobbed over his parents' graves.

My friend…. Above all, Morzan was my companion, as much my soulmate as Jarnunvosk, and one that I knew far longer. I most admired his strength, resolve, wit, and endless energy… and I will never blame him for his fall. History wants to paint him at his worst. His moments of brutality, though worth their legendary status, were acts of a man at war with all the world. In those brief times of peace, he was a truly magnificent man. And one I miss dearly every single day.

Stydja unin mor'ranr.

-:- -:- -:-

Notes:

Of course, had to do the first, last and most infamous of the thirteen first~ It just wouldn't have felt right to do it any other way. After this point they shall be in join order (so just the list in Ch.1 but in reverse, if that makes sense. Formora is next.

Review if you feel like it, just send an F if you don't.

Chapter 3: Formora: Salty Sea Hag

Formora

What can be said about this gremlin that she hasn't already shouted from the mountaintops herself? She was an angry wreck of a woman that never missed an opportunity for a fight. She wore her long, unnaturally red hair up and back at all times, mostly so her targets couldn't miss the glare of her vibrant blue eyes. She could have been beautiful if she ever stopped sneering and snarling at everyone she met. She was tiny, barely a hundred pounds soaking wet, which enabled her to practically float around a field like a demon. She had one of the most static journeys of all the thirteen; I don't think any power in nature is strong enough to change her.

She was born in a town on the southwestern tip of Alagaesia and left on the doorstep of an old fisherman. He died in her very early memories, so she lived briefly on the streets. When she was about eight years old, she ran into the man that would become her father and mentor; First Mate Squall and his long-suffering cat companion, Capt'n. The two of them led The Foul Strumpet with a crew of men who were more conscious of profit than discretion… pirates. Squall took her in as a cabin boy and his (unofficial) adopted daughter.

She became the woman I knew in those years at sea. She knew how to protect herself well enough to earn some respect, especially after the incident that earned her nickname. While in port, a man-made an unwanted advance. When he wouldn't take no for an answer, she bit off the top joint of his pointer finger. Her crew immediately hailed her as "Sea Hag" in reference to the legend of a cannibal ocean ghost. Soon enough she forsook the cook's apron strings to man the crow's nest as she was gifted (and cursed) with extreme farsightedness, at the trade-off that she never really bothered to read. She became a terror with a bow, often able to sight targets without them even noticing her. Her crew was her family, and she was their beloved little hellspawn.

Until the storm.

Driven north by a pursuit out of Teirm, Strumpet ran headlong into one of the infamously devilish storms that gather between Vroengard and the mainland. Their craft was simply ripped apart, sending nearly twenty men (and one cat) straight to a watery grave. Formora was the sole survivor when she washed up on The Island's rocky beach. She would still have died of her wounds had not the riders found her. As is, she slept through a fortnight and many of them believed she would never wake. Her mind must have latched on to *******'s in her egg because, by the time she woke, she had a dragon hatchling slumbering peacefully on her chest.

She was a haunted, rage-filled mess. She lashed out at everyone and everything. ******* did her best to keep her calm, but she was fighting a losing battle. Her training was a miserable experience. Her vision had made her a terror on the seas, but in a classroom, she was utterly useless. She also devastated her fellow students in sparring matches so badly that they didn't want to make eye contact, let alone partner with her. She maintained this cheery disposition straight up through her graduation.

After that point, I know almost nothing of what befell her; the only one she told was Morzan, and he refused to disclose the information. All I know for certain is that someone in a position of power brought her to a secluded place with the intent of her never leaving it. Morzan and I found her there, bleeding out in the Hadarac, a very injured ******* curled around her. By this point, we had exactly one eldunari that was actually subjugated, which proved to just barely be enough to save them both. She then turned all that listless anger into a beam focused on exactly one thing: vengeance.

Her time in the thirteen was marked mostly by unrest, both in our war and the decades of governing after. She never missed an opportunity to cause trouble for everyone (self-included). To call her a strong personality would be a disservice, she was indomitable. Morzan was very fond of the rabid woman, to the point where the two fostered an almost playfully violent…. Friendship? No one could take a beating like Morzan, but then few could give one like Formora! The two would often start raucous rounds of drinking songs and sea shanties that invariably ended in most of the others joining in (such a massive voice coming from such a tiny body!).

In her personal affairs, she was always private. I know she always longed to head back out to sea, but with *******'s failing mental state she could never bring herself to do it. She was also a deeply superstitious soul. As the wreck's sole survivor, she never really relinquished the idea that she was a font of ill-fortune for those around her. In fact, any symbol of bad luck, no matter how obscure, could send her into one of her rages. Her only soft spot was for the seemingly endless parade of stray cats that made their way into her estate. Her favorite of the bunch was a grizzled alley cat, a grey blob of fur with a missing eye and profound overbite, that she affectionately named, you guessed it, Squall. His descendants lived with her right to the very end of her life.

And what an end! The thirteen died from a massive array of causes, almost as if they were trying to outdo each other. Formora, the stubborn shrew, was one of the last surviving members. I know that her dragon died in an incident a week before the woman herself. I spoke to her only once before the end, and in it I understood it to be our last meeting. I understand better than almost any other the pain that ringed her piercing eyes, and the seething, impotent outrage. She decided to remain in her estate with a small cache of eldunari despite its isolated nature for one reason alone: slaughter. I flew out myself to see the carnage she left behind. The Varden's assault may have killed her, but it certainly cost them dearly. For every wound she suffered she struck back, killing droves with every tool at her vicious disposal. It was exactly the sort of curtain call she wanted.

It would be easy to write Formora off as a tragic case of anger consuming a person too far. In reality, anger was only a facet of the woman. She was brutal, but she was proud and brilliant too. She was skilled, world-wise, tenacious, and fearless. She fought like a cornered badger to protect her family, as disjointed and odd as we were. She never failed to tend to her dragon, even when she was lost in her own mind. In many ways, she was a big part of the fire that fueled the thirteen. I cannot picture our efforts without her.

-:- -:- -:-

Notes:

Oof, I love this broad. She's just... fun. So yeah! R+R if you've got the time.

Chapter 4: Ellessar: Lost and Found

Ellessar

Some people come into your life with a bang; others with a wince. Ellessar was certainly in the latter category. His life was an endless lesson in humility and not one that he learned easily. He was hellbound to prove himself, but at no point did he ever stop to consider if he needed to.

He was born the youngest of six siblings and the first boy. His father was a general who had earned a noble title after an illustrious military career. He felt a great deal of pressure to create a male heir to take on his burgeoning legacy. Ellessar became the epitome of a spoiled baby brother, becoming nothing short of a hellspawn to his long-suffering sisters. His every action was met with indulgence; he simply could do no wrong. Cut to him as a twelve-year-old menace to the household… and the newly-bonded partner of a pale-yellow fire-breathing lizard. His father was irate. (Shur'tugal cannot inherit titles as they must remain separate from the politics of their native land.) The rest of his family, however, was just glad to be rid of him.

His training was a truly humbling process. He learned quickly and in no uncertain terms that he was all but incompetent in every measurable way; confidence through the roof, but qualification sorely lacking. For the first time in his life, he was… unremarkable. His ego took this poorly, and no matter how hard he applied himself, the feeling of mediocrity never left him.

After my rather flashy exit with Morzan, the young rider thought he had an opportunity to prove himself. He ventured off into the wilderness to find us… instead, we found him. His bluster fell apart once he understood the enormity of the task in front of him. As I was ambitious beyond our means, I considered his recruitment a worthwhile investment. Formora had no patience for the boy, but Morzan was the one who finally got through to him.

Ellessar made a show of trying to match up to Morzan. This was a thoroughly hopeless endeavor; a once-in-a-generation genius is a difficult goal post for anyone. Morzan took the unwanted 'competition' in stride, encouraging his growth in more ways than I think Ellessar even knew. Finally, in a moment of rare approachability, Morzan gave the kid some much-needed advice, "You're trying to prove to me that you're enough of a man to be here. But here's your problem: you don't need to show me. Just show you." That moment proved quite transformative for Ellessar. After that, he made it his mission in life to stand tall on his own merit and by his own estimation, regardless of those around him.

He proved a harmonizing agent in the thirteen. He was not a specialist in any one field, which meant he fit easily into whichever role was lacking once we began to scout in teams. He worked consistently to become even more so, willing to take direction from his growing number of peers in whichever direction he most lacked. In the field, he was the picture of teamwork, if only because the surrounding stronger personalities would allow nothing less. Off of it, however, he continued to be a bit of a swaggering braggart, to the point that he became the butt of many jokes. If he ever resented the role as a comedic scapegoat, he never complained to me.

He died far younger than most of our brethren. The conflict with Surda had reached a fever pitch, open battle had been joined across the southern quarter of Alagaesia. Back in the control center of Uru'baen I made two critical mistakes: 1) underestimating the unpredictability of even amateur magic and 2) not covering more bases while I had the chance. I sent Ellessar to lead one of the final battles of the revolt. In the fight, an enemy magician managed to out-think Ellessar (admittedly, no great feat) without engaging in mental combat. All the eldunari in the world cannot protect you if an enemy spell slips right through your wards. I know not exactly what form the magic took, only that it killed Ellessar and his dragon instantly, plummeting them down into the fray where they crushed dozens of their own soldiers to death.

After that display, the battle turned into a disastrous rout and the rebels entrenched their holds so deeply that it would have taken nothing less than my personal attention at every single site to remove them. Morzan and I decided against this, as much out of caution as a simple lack of concern. A handful of squabbling pests were easy enough to ignore… but the loss of our third member was not.

He was one of the "children": the people who were barely out of their training when they left to join us. His loss struck us all profoundly, if only because none of us were expecting another to fall so soon after I took the throne. It served as a vivid reminder to us all of the capricious nature of fate, and the ever-looming disaster that hung over our heads. I took Ellessar's death poorly as it was my own idiocy and ego that killed him. His prowess had only really just begun to grow at the time of his death… and the days in which he could have reached his potential were stripped from him by one of his closest friends.

Ellessar was, if absolutely nothing else, determined to make something of himself. After spending his earliest days being praised for almost anything, he was determined to set a higher standard of accomplishment. Though he was able to eventually find meaning in small milestones, in the end, he died halfway along the journey of finding his true self. I like to think that he did achieve at least part of his goal before he left us: he became a man that no one could ever forget.

-:- -:- -:-

Notes:

Well well well, the first of the forsworn to die young O-o... not exactly a pleasant write. Then again, this is exactly why I wanted to undertake this project; these characters must have had complex relationships, and it must have affected them all when one of them fell. Now, as everyone's sense of empathy fades into madness, this effect no doubt had diminishing returns... but the earliest losses must have been rather devastating. I'd be interested to hear any thoughts on that subject in reviews?

Anyway, that's all for today.~ Rest well everyone :3

Chapter 5: Amroth: Trial by Fire

Notes:

Trigger Warning: Violence. This one is more intense than the others so far. It contains a higher volume of violence, (specifically of many human un-alivings in large-scale acts of war) Nothing is described with too much graphic detail, but I would rather anyone who could potentially be harmed by the discussion of these events skips this chapter entirely.

~ Please feel free to skip if that's not your thing ~

If you still want character info but don't wanna risk it, feel free to hit me up in the reviews or my P.M.s and I can give ya the spark notes free of charge! :3

Stay safe all~

Amroth

One of the few among us who was known better by deed than by name. Few people remember the nearly silent, dark-skinned, golden-eyed, distracted man on the fringes of our group, but everyone for an entire generation spoke only in hushed horror of the night Iliria burned. But, to better understand the man, we must trek back through his history. Many of the details and subtleties contained therein are utterly lost on me; not only was he a very quiet man by nature, but neither do his people disclose their private operations to outsiders. Understand that the details I lay out here were told only to me and in highest confidence; I do not believe he ever relinquished his secrets to another soul. I have tried to pair down details as much as possible out of respect.

He was born the son of a chief in one of the wandering tribes (he never disclosed which). I only know that their path often allowed them to interact with the northeasternmost fringe of the Empire. His closest friend and intended marriage partner at that time was a young girl whose name no one now knows. Their existence was fairly peaceful until they were defeated by another tribe. He disguised his then friend as a boy to protect her and ensure they would not be separated. Inevitably, their ruse was discovered and two things happened in rapid succession: she was betrothed to an older man of the absorbing tribe and he was abandoned; declared 'outcast' by the new leadership.

They abandoned him near the capital city so he would not die (the punishment is not about death, but about living on, isolated from the lifeblood of your home). He wandered into the city with nothing more than the clothes on his back. He joined the queue surrounding two riders out of curiosity alone. He did not expect to be chosen, nor had any of the very different faces surrounding him expected the scrawny, dark-skinned little boy to rise to a greater status than any king right before their eyes. He named his dragon after his first and only friend, a touching memorial to the life he thought lost to him forever. Even with this shocking twist of fortune, the tribe's punishment was still in full effect, and he felt every mile of their journey to Vroengard chipping away at his sense of self.

Very few Riders hailed from the tribes because of their isolated nature. And the few that did understood well what Amroth's designation meant. Thus, they left him largely to himself. This was no concern for Amroth; he spent much of his time with *******, telling her all that he knew of his home so she could understand him better. He especially told her of his smoldering hatred for the other band and his determination to one day repay them. He remained isolated from everyone, but took a ravenous interest in studies of all kinds, particularly the limits of the physical world. He became something of a tinkerer, and some of his earliest inventions remained in the elder's vaults up until they collapsed in our final battle. In all that time, he could never truly let go of his memories of his friend, or the urge to avenge her unfair fate.

Once he had graduated, he took an impulsive flight from Doru Araeba all the way to the edge of the Hadarac. He located the tribe in question and took it upon himself to wipe them out. He told me this tale exactly once in excruciating, mechanical detail. He sounded like a man half asleep, recounting the dream splayed before him. When their camp lay in flames all about him, he found and confronted their leader. He slew him, his son, and his wife, only then noticing something eerily familiar about the woman at his feet. He dropped to the ground and took his dying friend in his arms, staring helplessly as the light of life was replaced with only dancing flames.

It was there, in that horrific moment, that he first felt drawn to fire as more than a tool, but as an expression of himself. He was what many would call a "pyromaniac", though in his days of numbness he never allowed himself to explore it. His passion for heat and flame was stronger than any other emotion he possessed, the fervor of an artist, medium, and muse. He never missed an opportunity to cavort with his true mistress, and she never deserted him when he most needed her. He would come to etch his name in history with that very tool, but first, he needed to meet a source of direction.

He had the sense to remain in the wilderness after his blatant misuse of power. It was in this isolation that I encountered him. By then even I had heard hushed rumors of his atrocity, though I had no concept of what sort of man could have accomplished it. He invited me to share his camp and we exchanged brief accounts of ourselves. He seemed intrigued by my goals of toppling the old order, though he never deigned to tell me if it was out of genuine interest or an excuse to ply his trade. To both of our ways of thinking, it made no difference.

Amroth spoke only rarely, but when he did it was invariably an insight and asset to us. He was nothing less than a genius, though he expressed it only in blunt monotones. His instinct for mechanics created some of the most wicked traps known in any society ancient or modern, and his workings with fire charges were some of the most bone-chilling things I've ever witnessed.

One of his greatest and worst accomplishments was during our assault on Ilirea. It began in the earliest greying of dawn with us entering a network of tunnels used as bolt holes by elves during the time of the dragon war. Half of the thirteen labored under Amroth's diligent eye while the rest followed me deeper into the city. Many of the elder riders had residences scattered throughout, and many others were bunked in a set of buildings in their own isolated area. You can imagine the frightening hell unleashed when Amroth detonated his first masterpiece: whole swaths of the city were simply consumed by his chosen mistress. Many people who had access to the tunnels fled into them… only to be enveloped by the second wave. Nearly a quarter of the city burned that day, and those that remained understood our message perfectly. Barbaric? Perhaps. But, it proved extremely effective; we did away with a massive swath of resistance while simultaneously removing notions of further revolt.

As one can imagine, his flinty exterior kept him from developing many close bonds. Formora cited an intense discomfort with the man, "I get violence. Hell, we're all killers! But someone who can just… erase hundreds of people without even blinking? That's not natural." I was one of the only people in the world who can say they knew Amroth well, and even I never knew everything about him. I grew to understand that, in his fractured mind, there were the times before Her death and the times after. Before, he had as much humanity as anyone else. After, the world turned grey for him, and only his fire could restore the color.

This problem only worsened in the following decades as ******* began to fade away. He not only lost his bonded partner, but he also began to lose any and all memories of the woman whose name she bore; the woman who defined his life. It worsened until she was no more than a hazy shape at the edges of his past. His strongest memory of even that horrible night was of the flames themselves reflected in her eyes. He dove harder and farther into his experiments, pushing the limits of what could ever be considered possible. Finally, his own disregard for his safety caught up with him. Nothing now remains of his estate except for a burnt-out shell of stone and the scattered bones of his dragon. I can't begin to predict if it was some horrible accident… or if it was exactly what he intended.

Amroth stands out sharply among the forsworn for more than just his skin. He entered a gang of loud-mouthed ambitious youths when he was none of those things. He was silent, brooding, ambivalent, listless, and mature well beyond his years. His past haunted him until he was willing to throw away any hope of a future. His genius was overshadowed in the end by the horrors it enabled. I will not pass judgment on him, partially because of all the people in the world my morals are the least admirable. But, also, because I simply never knew enough of his heart to say if he believed he was doing the right thing, or if he was just releasing his pain on everyone around him. I will say that he had a fascinating mind, and (for better or worse) the world is not likely to see another like him.

-:- -:- -:-

Notes:

*Whew* By far one of the more gruesome bios of this group, and that is a massive shark to jump in the present company! I can't even deny that he's one of my personal favorites, both in design and application. He's just a very... unique vibe. R+R as you'd like, peace lovelies~

Chapter 6: Siyamak: Banished Scion

Siyamak Windwalker

This man was a legend long before I ever met him. He had an illustrious pedigree, was gifted in gramyre beyond many of his superiors, and then was disgraced and banished to permanent exile in a tower overlooking barren cliffs. He was spoken about only by elders and only in hushed tones. All the younger riders knew was a title in an ancient scroll, one he acquired for his… unique style of battle.

Siyamak was the sole heir of the then lord of Aroughs some 300 years before I was even born. He was a studious child, becoming the pride of his family despite his frosty disposition. At a young age, he was examined for magic, (as many nobles were and are) and found to possess the gift. He prospered with apparent ease at this, quickly outgrowing his tutors. When the egg couriers arrived in their rounds, his parents put in a request for him to be taken in by the order to foster his talents. This was, of course, rejected as only riders were permitted the honor. The desire that gripped him then was so intense, so consuming, that the hatchling within the egg latched onto him. In moments, the couriers' decision was overturned by sheer will. (He never disclosed exactly what became of his birth family though, as they were long out of power by my time, I can only assume that they lived the rest of their lives quietly and comfortably before handing off their title to an extended relative. As discussed previously, Shur'tugal may never hold a noble title, regardless of how they may obtain it.)

On the Island, Siyamak gained a reputation as one of the most promising mages in history. His mental acuity was second to none; so biting and sharp was his tongue that attempts to reprimand him often left the disciplinaries feeling as if they were the ones being punished. He was tall, pale, possessed of narrow features, and grey-white hair grown long in the elvish fashion. Truly, he felt more connected to the elves than to his own people; they were, after all, at the cutting edge of magical innovation. After all, it was this very fascination that would spark his downfall.

Siyamak was a scientist at heart. His experiments proved revolutionary to various fields of magic: his brief stint in medicine created a new methodology for surgery and his exploits into enchanted objects helped unravel extant examples from prehistory and apply their techniques to new creations. But nowhere was his interest more piqued than in magic's application in combat. Though he was naturally a weaker build he became (as many men before him) obsessed with physical perfection. He developed innumerable spells to aid in this quest; spells that improved strength, stamina, mobility, eyesight, reaction time… he left no stone unturned. He was warned more than once that his pursuits were a waste of his many gifts, that he would better serve the people if he returned to less selfish designs… but short of a direct order from the council of elders, no one could corral him.

His greatest achievement in this time is the very feat that earned him his name. A troublesome over-population of Fanghur caused the dwarves to finally entreat the order for assistance. No one expected the reclusive man to volunteer for the hunt, but no one dared refuse him either. He then displayed a skill only possible with both an incredible store of energy and a truly impressive feat of multi-directional concentration: wind walking. He dismounted his dragon mid-flight, as many a foolish rider has done over the centuries but, instead of plummeting to the ground, he flew in a controlled manner alongside his partner. The two danced together in a convoluted web, sometimes moving as one and other times parting to chase desperate prey. So complete was their coordination, so perfect their movements, so death-defying their flight! By the time they both retook the earth, they knew it would be as legends.

And so they were. Requests flooded him for the opportunity to be his apprentice, but he refused them all. His research was sacred, his time precious, his peace paramount. Even when goaded by the elders, he did not relent. But the council did not stop there, they began to pressure him to reveal his library to their prying. He deflected endlessly until, one day, they took it upon themselves to barge in without his consent. There they exposed his journals on the other facets of his research; the myriad ways that magic could be used to destroy the world as we know it; to harm, to madden, to control, and to kill. The elders took no chances. They brought him to (a very private) trial. They argued about whether he should be killed or expelled or imprisoned. In the end, they decided that he was more valuable as a living asset, far too valuable to be slaughtered, but neither should he be allowed to bear the authority of a rider. He was exiled to a tower in an uncivilized region (the precise place I shall not name). And there he spent the next couple of centuries, endlessly theorizing but unable to put his ideas into practice.

Until.

I knew more about the man than most others (the reason is rather personal so I shall simply say that certain elders were rather careless with their personal offices if they liked a student enough). I was one of the few that knew the exact location of his prison. Once our path to rebellion was cemented, I knew for certain which side I wanted the infamous outcast to be on. Meeting him was one of the few truly nerve-wracking experiences of our war. I had no doubt that if I had misjudged his reputation, or erred in any way, none of us would leave that tower alive. With our few hoarded eldunari we were able to disable his guards and approach the spire. He greeted us rather warmly as if we were simply students, come to discuss current affairs. He then accused me, in a deadly calm tone, of trying to barter his aid for his freedom. I denied it. His freedom was a gift, no true artist should be so constrained. My band happened to be on a path with which I believed he would agree, and one that would welcome his expertise gladly. He sat in perfect meditative silence for several minutes. I returned his stare with what I sincerely hoped was confidence. Apparently, he was convinced because we left his tower with him in tow.

I am rarely wrong, but in my choice of Siyamak I am particularly proud. He fights like I imagine a spirit would, but has the disposition of a wizened scholar. He and I became very close in later years. Not personally, Siyamak was a self-admitted narcissist who saw no value in friendly bonds. He and I were very alike in terms of our approach to magic, and we contributed heavily to each other's research over the years. By necessity, mine took me down a path of anthropology (though the more… sinister arts always held a place in my heart) and he retained his laser focus towards perfection. His imprisonment had left him with an endless game of catch-up as he worked through all of his theorized experiments.

It was upon this path that he would meet his end. In a way it's fitting: no one could have defeated Siyamak… except for the man himself. It is a danger that all great mages have walked with razor precision: overuse of magic. One ill-conceived spell can destroy even the most powerful mage in the span of a thought. I do not know which of his creations did the deed as most of them were destroyed with him. His dragon lingered on for over a year after Siyamak's death; despondent, unmoving, and refusing to eat or drink. He wasted away under the weight of his own grief.

In the near century-and-a-half I have walked this earth, I only met a handful of men in Siyamak's league. He was a singular mind; an accomplished scholar, warrior, and wizard. He became an invaluable asset to our cause and to my later studies, many of which I would consider impossible without his insight. The only tragedy of Siyamak is that he, without a doubt, would consider himself a failure. He was one of the most accomplished beings in a field dominated by a species that could outperform him in every way… but he never truly attained his objective. Only results mattered to the man, and the end result of centuries worth of brilliance was utter ruin. Still, he has my unfaltering respect and admiration even though he also serves as a valuable reminder to tread softly on the unsteady ground of innovation.

-:- -:- -:-

Notes:

Did I make this entire character as an homage/riff of "Skywalker" and then just run with it? Yeah. Pretty much. Still fun as hell to write~ R+R if that's a thing you're into~ Peace and love, folks.

Chapter 7: Kialandi: Medical Maestro

Kialandi

Ah, sweet Kia… the first forsworn than I can comfortably call "charismatic". Kia was charming beyond anything our ragtag band of outlaws had come to know. Kia was pleasant, sweet, well-mannered, and kind. There was an innocence to Kia that most of us could only recall in our earliest memories, and some not even then. But woe unto the person that mistook that kindness for weakness! Beneath those golden locks lay a truly remarkable brain, and a core of tempered steel. To understand exactly why, I must relieve history of one great misconception, as it was Kia's fondest wish to one day do: Kialandi was a woman.

She was born to a particularly wealthy merchant in Teirm. Her life was privileged indeed, she had her every whim provided for. Until, of course, those whims turned to education and self-improvement. Her father had very strict ideas about her future, had picked her husband out within days of her birth. She longed to pursue her studies and to seek answers to some events in her earliest memories (the early signs of magic.) Her father dismissed her out of hand. She did manage to persuade him to bring her along to the feast hosted in the visiting Rider's honor (good opportunities for networking and all that).

This proved to be the greatest possible victory of her young life. **** chose her as soon she walked in the room, though he waited within his egg to see if she would come to claim him. She wanted to touch the egg, but her father refused. He even went so far as to raise a hand to her. Or at least, he attempted to. In an explosion of shell pieces, the raucous hatchling dove for the young lady and perched, snarling and smoking, on her shoulder.

Her father railed against the Order's precepts for hours. As a rider, neither she nor he had any choice in the matter: her training must begin immediately and would not conclude for many years. The egg couriers tried everything to make him understand, but he was too firmly entrenched in his view to see his daughter as anything more than his ticket into nobility. Kialandi did not bother to argue with her father. Instead, she packed what few things she could, sloppily chopped off her hair, and left for Vroengard to make a new life for herself.

She chose to socialize as a man, even though it was not her truer self. After a lifetime of people's expectations and limitations, she opted to live free of it all. In this new persona, she sank deeply into her studies, discovering a talent for magic and a fascination with the healing arts. She became a decorated medical student and she was widely respected by her elders and her peers. In all that time I believe exactly one person called her out on her clever ruse.

And what an evening that was!

A simple, passing remark at a dinner party tipped her off that I suspected her secret. She looked utterly stunned. Many of our peers were content to accept that world as it was given to them; they were small people with small concerns. I, however, could not help but notice the eccentricities of that strange, beautiful 'young man' that, when added together, led to a very simple truth. After this little confiding, we spent the rest of the evening discussing the finer points of healing, a field in which I was sorely lacking and that she generously offered to tutor me. I did not comprehend then how much this conversation meant to Kialandi. (It is tragic how low a woman's standards can sink when they've only ever been exposed to the worst sort of idiots.)

She proved to be nothing if not loyal.

She flew out to join us as soon as she was able. She had plenty of her own (perfectly valid) gripes with the order, though even she admitted that she would have followed me without them. She was loyal to me, not just to our cause. Her prodigious skill in healing proved an invaluable tool, especially with a reckless Morzan in tow. Even frigid Siyamak took a liking to her, again out of purely academic interest. But, more than any of that, Kia possessed a singular talent that no other in the thirteen performed half as well: she was likable. This seems simple enough, but it was a breath of fresh air to our taciturn and bombastic band. She smoothed over disagreements, soothed tempers, unbruised egos, persuaded, beguiled, bewitched, and outclassed any situation until it ended up falling her way. The woman was the definition of the iron hand in the velvet glove. She could also be a bit of a snob and more than a bit of a prude, though these were tempered by her unrelenting positive attitude.

Kia served us well, both as a spy within the order and then in a more hands-on capacity at the end of the war. I chose her and Formora to attempt the recruitment of Oromis, though I am not surprised that they were insufficient to the task. Once she distanced herself permanently from the riders she finally began to grow out her hair and dress more comfortably, often in a deep shade of blue. She also took it upon herself to form a sort of "club within a club" out of the thirteen's female members (Formora, Idril, Eltereth, and herself). She was the most outgoing of the four, and was also the only one that got along well with each of the other three. She calmed Formora, drew Eltereth out of her shell, and was so skilled with the little devil that we called her "the Idril Whisperer". Through the first half of my reign, she single-handedly directed the center of medicine in Uru'baen, though it was in its infancy in those days. She still faced a (frankly ludicrous) barrage of sexism that irritated her greatly, but she commanded respect by her mere existence. If she had managed to live longer, I think she could have worked out solutions to the unconscionable disparity between the various classes and their access to care.

Alas, she did not.

Kia was a giving person. When I asked her to fly into the Beor mountain range on a dangerous and very likely fruitless mission some fifty years after our war, she didn't hesitate. (This task was of a highly personal nature. Had I been in a more stable state of mind, I never would have sent her... but it is pointless to dwell on such things now.) I never saw her again. I know, from what little Morzan could piece together of the scene, that there must have been a battle between her and some opposing force. I can only assume it was Brom or one of his lackeys that arranged the ambush. Kia was a talented mage conceptually, but in an outnumbered duel she never really stood a chance. Bad luck and poor planning ended Kia, through no true fault of her own.

There are many aspects of Kialandi that I do not understand. I know that I can never comprehend what it's like to live as a woman, slotted into a life that doesn't fit you because it's not the one you chose (or would choose). But, even more than that, I can't imagine the mental gymnastics it would take to be shown repeatedly how awful the world can be, then still put forth the effort to find good within its every facet. I know that, even in her disguise, she kept in touch with her father for the remainder of his days. He never changed his opinion of her, always referring to her as a spiteful and ungrateful spinster, even when it was her medical knowledge that eased the pain of his twilight years. And yet, when asked, she always spoke kindly of him, as if theirs had been a nurturing, healthy, respectful bond. I can't decide whether to be impressed or to pity her… Of course, were she here, she would humbly refuse either. Then I shall simply say that I was honored to know her, and I am lucky to have the privilege of missing her.

-:- -:- -:-

Notes:

Another lovely example of one tiny character thing giving birth to a whole new dimension in development. I had a character whose name was very similar to Kialandi, so without even thinking I switched the names early on. Cut to me re-reading the series later to find a pronoun discrepancy! What to do? Invent a convoluted reason why both versions can be true, of course.~ R+R if you're into that!

For my folks who are curious about gender stuff: In Kia's case, this journey could best be described as a "disguise" she was afab (assigned female at birth) and identified as such throughout the process, regardless of how she presented. This was inspired largely by the story of Agnodice (a greek physician that, if you haven't heard of, you should totally look up because she's hella cool!) I did toy with the idea of her being trans, but it never felt like a natural evolution of her journey.

Chapter 8: Idril: ?

Notes:

Trigger Warning: Her death paragraph contains pretty disturbing concepts and imagery. And... honestly, Idril is herself a kind of disturbing concept... Stay safe folks.

Idril

…. Well. Where to begin with this one…

She was… she had a tendency… she always….

Let me start over.

Idril was a madwoman. So much so that it became a running joke in the thirteen. If you asked an outsider which member they would least like to meet in a dark alley they would say Morzan; an insider would say Idril.

I know this might sound hypocritical (believe me when I say that I am aware of the irony), but Idril's situation was entirely different from the rest of us. We became broken in various ways over our lifetimes… Idril came into the world lacking several functions vital for a healthy existence. For one, she utterly lacked the capacity for feeling. Not that she was dispassionate or unempathetic, plenty of the thirteen were. She did not feel anything: no joy, no anger, no fear, no pleasure, and no pain. On a separate note, she was evil incarnate. She knew right from wrong in the academic sense and chose, with purpose and ill intent, to do as much harm as she could. Not out of sadism, she got no gratification from her actions, but just because she was intolerably bored.

She never told us exactly where she was born, or any detail of her childhood actually. I think she considered it unworthy of mentioning. I do know the fate that befell her mother and Aunt, two witches living alone in an isolated stretch of forest. Idril, at barely six years old, was taught which plants around their home were dangerous to protect the child from consuming them by accident. She decided to prove the extent of their efficacy by testing them out. She then lived with the two murdered women in the same small building for two years. Eventually, a foray of soldiers found the house and brought the sprite to the nearest city. They questioned her for hours. Only one guard was convinced of her guilt and her demented nature. If he had enough time, he could have saved hundreds of lives… but fate is a cruel mistress, as we all know.

Two riders arrived in the city and were asked to assist in the interview. Normally, exercises of justice were outside of their jurisdiction, but in this very special case they agreed. They joined the interrogation and had only just begun to learn of the accusations when the situation was derailed entirely. The egg with them had its own ideas about how to handle the proceedings and chose the accused as their rider. This brought into play a little-used but utterly damning clause: any vestment of their previous life mattered not at all once they became Shur'tugal. This applied to any indiscretions: Riders were above the justice of any one society. She could have been brought to trial by the council, but she played up her innocence so well that they opted to give her a clean slate.

She was careful throughout her training to maintain a spotless reputation. The five-foot girl with short honey-blonde curls had an easy enough time, so long as no one looked too long at her utterly soulless hazel eyes. Incidents occurred, but they were never linked back to her. Her studies gravitated toward herb lore, and from this groundwork, she built a staggering repertoire of drugs that influenced the psyche. (All directly under the order's nose). It was with their influence that she approached feeling anything for the first time, and she grew psychologically dependent on them. I do not know how this affected her dragon. Even in those days, they did not speak. The dragon never learned to understand the common tongue. They were also blind and were thus eternally reliant on Idril for their sight. From what little Idril said, I may have some insight into how the two were drawn together. ***** hatched with an opposite affliction; they seemed to feel too much. They were trusting, almost completely innocent, easily overstimulated, and needed Idril's emptiness to balance their excess.

It was this complex duo that hunted us down with the intention of drugging our food stores. Only my paranoia and Siyamak's skill saved us all from a grizzly death. Once confronted, she was totally unbothered and even asked to join us instead. When questioned, she simply said that she was bored and she thought I had the potential to be interesting.

I almost regret facilitating Idril's release upon the world. Of my many crimes, it is, without doubt, one of the worst. She haunted the thirteen as much as the rest of Alagaesia, and we all took care to guard against her many tricks. Once, I willingly joined her in one of her benders in an effort to understand her. When I tell you I have never experienced anything like it… and she did this nearly every day! The sensations, though unpleasant beyond reason, were "interesting" to her. Idril's world was always in harsh disconnect to the world around her; she existed in her own, separate reality. I will not even pretend to understand the precepts upon which this world existed. I think, if I ever did, then I would truly know fear.

Throughout the years, Idril remained exactly the same. Feast or famine, she carried on her floating, distant, sing-song threats and morbid jokes. The only way one could measure the years was by watching *****. The dragon never reached out with their thoughts in the first place, so no one knew what was happening in their head (except Idril, of course). But one could tell that they grew ever more… unpredictable, almost as if they were more an extension of Idril herself rather than an independent being. She disclosed once that, after the banishing, her partner had stopped using her to see, choosing (either in madness or despair) to live in eternal darkness. The dragons of the thirteen would not go near them, much as animals fight approaching any danger. I find it easier to recall images of *****, mostly because I believe that my observations are not accurate to who they truly were (this has a fascinating implication for the limitations of even the most elemental magics, but this is not the place for that discussion). For example, I recall well that they gravitated towards sounds, particularly chimes and rattles. They accumulated many odd bits of junk in the dragon hold over the decades because of this, many of which Shruikan opted to never disturb.

Her death sticks out in my memory, no matter how much I try to avoid it. After a week of silence from her estate, I finally made the trip to investigate. (It wasn't unusual to not hear from her for many days after a particularly bad trip, but often she would need to be brought inside, fed, and given water after these.) I arrived at a scene from any sane creature's worst nightmares. Scattered around and within her home were corpses; men and women who had seemingly dropped to the ground where they stood and died. To a one, their faces were frozen in expressions of such raw suffering and animal fear, their hands clawed uselessly at their throats, at their clothing, but none were injured in any obvious way. When I reached the central chamber, the sight nearly made me sick: ***** was contorted in a painful-looking spiral, their maw hanging open in a long since silenced roar. Their sightless eyes gazed off into space but with a frenzied look of betrayal still obvious in their milky depths. And, in the center of four massive tipped-over cauldrons, Idril sat in perfect meditation, a look of such serenity and peace on her face that she looked exactly like a little angel. I destroyed the place and grizzly friezes within. I am the only living being who knows the truth of that event.

I could never unravel the mystery of Idril. Her ailment is unlike any I have ever seen. Plenty of humans are born with varying degrees of disconnect, unique cognition, or lowered empathy, but most of these go on to live perfectly healthy, satisfying lives. They see things from a new perspective, but they are still as much a part of the world as anyone else. Idril was not this. Or, if she was, that fact had nothing to do with the apparent malice lurking within her. Her psychosis was born of some innate misprogramming or circumstantial event of which I know nothing.

I felt a closeness to Idril, and frankly, I don't know what that says about me. As much as we were all relieved to be free of her, I can't help but miss her when I feel that creeping sense of… boredom.

-:- -:- -:-

Notes:

I know I say all of them are my favorite... but I really like exploring Idril, particularly the way the world responds to her.

Disclaimer: This character in no way represents any real community. She's just an asshole.

Chapter 9: Twins: Mirror Images

Notes:

Trigger Warning: 1) References to Child Mistreatment 2) Scene of Self Un-aliving told in disturbing imagery. Stay Safe Folks~

The Glaerun Twins: Gildor and Gelmir

This duo absolutely must be discussed in tandem. To separate them would be to defy the very thing that defines their existence. These two were an identical set of brothers, and this became both their most incredible strength and also their most desperate weakness. To explore the whole unhappy tale, one must understand the unprecedented depth of their bond.

They were born in Narda to a poor but stable family. When the boys were fairly young, their mother passed away, leaving them alone with their scumbag of a father. He terrorized them to the point that they were unable to leave their house for fear of what the wretch would do to them. During this time the two were utterly alone in a small building with a man they could only fear; they were each other's entire world. Until, one day, one of the twins reached a breaking point. They decided to make a break for it. The pair hid on the streets. A few days later, a gathering crowd drew the boy in; a crowd that just so happened to be awaiting the egg bearers.

This visit was more ceremony than anything else, for the eggs they carried that day were older than most others in the hold. The two eggs were twins as well, but with a fascinating wrinkle to this paradigm: the two shells were fused together. It was largely considered that the hatchlings within could never emerge, so the egg was treated as an ancient treasure; a trick of nature. As it happens, the dragons were just waiting for the perfect candidates; they both had to hatch together, after all. The four made history: twin dragons born to twin riders.

The relationship between these four was nothing like I'd ever seen. As they progressed in their training, they widened their mental bond to include the whole quartet. Information passed fluidly between them all like most people would exchange words. One would assume that this would blur their personalities into some sort of collective but, instead, it seemed to throw their slight differences into even sharper relief.

Gildor was a near prodigy with a sword, though he was less than studious. Gelmir could never quite put on muscle as easily as his twin, but he had an easier time reading and studying. But, even more than that, they became of one heart and one mind, a depth of relationship it took most graduated riders decades and centuries to fully master. The group became codependent; this happened often with young riders, but never to such a degree. No one would deny that it was a dangerous and unhealthy arrangement but, in their prime, they were stronger together than most any rider could hope to be.

Gelmir faced a near-endless parade of harassment from other students, particularly humans who saw his quiet frailty as a weakness. Also, neither of them made an effort to engage romantically with anyone which sparked a series of nasty rumors about the pair (the nature of which should be self-evident). The ever-protective brother did not take kindly to this. Gildor began to face so many disciplinary hearings (the last of which proved particularly severe as the other participant in the brawl walked away with severe head trauma) that the council was debating his expulsion. The twins decided not to risk separation; they deserted into the wilds before Gildor could be brought to task.

They established a small residence on the fringes of the central spine. They lived in relative peace until Gelmir contracted an unknown illness. Gildor did his best to care for his twin, but Gelmir's condition slowly worsened to the point where he could barely eat or drink. Gildor began to despair. Lucky for him, a rogue group of riders was right around the corner.

We discovered their situation when Gelmir was close to death. I offered Kialandi's expertise in exchange for the four of them joining us. Gildor was alone, without the brains of the operation available, and took the offer without hesitation. Kialandi was able to bring Gelmir around and we absorbed them both into the family. The twins were a precious and rare tool, one to be used carefully. They could communicate farther and better between each other and their partners which made them invaluable to our scouting missions. By this point in the war, we were specifically targeting lone riders in their flight patterns to and from outposts. The farther we could cast our web, the less likely that the riders would be able to zero in on our location. The twins were bound at the hip throughout this process; they did nearly everything together. The only exception to this was when Gildor was around Morzan while Gelmir would often gravitate towards Siyamak (the elder never seemed to rebuke him, much to everyone's surprise).

The assault on Doru Araeba was by far the most dangerous thing we'd done. It's honestly shocking that we only lost one member. Unfortunately, it was one of our youngest members: Gildor. The only warning we had was a brief and horrified mental shout from Gildor. He then expended all his available strength to protect Gelmir. Siyamak and I had just enough time to shield the rest of the forsworn before the explosion went off. It devastated the surroundings; shrouding all the world in madness and horror. Nothing was left of Gildor, nor of his dragon. Gelmir had to be hauled bodily from the field, catatonic with shock. He remained that way for weeks, laying in a bed and staring blankly into space.

I think it would have been better for all if he hadn't survived.

When he did come around, he was… different. He barely spoke, except to whisper dreamily into whatever reflective surface he could find. This whispering turned to mumbling, the mumbling into full-blown conversations. To him, Gildor was very much alive. To the rest of us, they may as well both have been ghosts. Gelmir moved into an estate that should have belonged to the two of them; he always slept in "Gildor's" bed. Over the following years, his dragon drifted into the murky insanity that plagued the rest of them, though he seemed to fall faster and farther than the rest. He was distant, almost unresponsive unless he was provoked. Only then would he respond; raging mindlessly until the disturbance had run or perished. Gelmir began to line his estate with mirrors; the highest quality and clarity that he could find. He dressed in oranges and burgundies instead of his preferred greens; he ensured that Gildor would be everywhere he looked.

No one was surprised when the news came.

From what his few surviving servants were able to piece together, that day must have gone something like this. Into the morning everything was running smoothly as usual, until a maid accidentally damaged a mirror very near to where the lord of the house was walking. People heard perplexing shouts of "Gildor? Gildor! You hurt him! Bring him back!" echoing from far away before they faded to wails of anguish. The next thing anyone knew, the whole building shook with an indeterminable force. All of the mirrors, all of the windows, every single pane that could break did, shattering outward with such explosive force that they shredded anything in their way. The few survivors were either outside or in the servants' passages when the deadly missiles took flight. The place became known as "The Hall of Shattered Glass." Gelmir's dragon was never seen again, though I believe that he flew north. We searched for him in the months that followed, but no further trace of him could we find. Even if we had, it would have only been to put the poor thing out of his misery.

The tale of the twins is one of the most heart-rending to me. The only thing they ever wanted was to live quietly together...they never had that chance. Gildor was a charming and simple sort of man, friendly and compassionate. Gelmir was once one of the most inquisitive, gentle, and helpful people I'd ever known. Watching his deterioration was like watching myself from the outside; I too knew the agony of losing a part of yourself. But, for Gelmir at least, it was more than that. His love for Gildor went deeper than any definition of the word applicable to the common tongue; was more than love. Their codependence had dire consequences in the end but, in a way, it was also the idealized representation of a rider and dragon: two hearts become one.

-:- -:- -:-

Notes:

I love these two so much. The only problem is that (in the long project they're both from) Gildor dies so early on that it's hard to really get a look at both of them. I have no problem doing more solo stuff for the twins someday but, for now, this will have to do.

Re on the egg fusion thing: This does seem to be possible in nature, if only very rarely. In most cases, it seems that they would then be considered nonviable. Add a sprinkle of dragon magic (TM) and I believe we can toe the line of believability. If you disagree, that is completely fair. I acknowledge this one is a stretch.

R+R much appreciated~

Chapter 10: Balor and Beren: Unlikely Companions

Notes:

Trigger Warning: Passing reference to a self un-aliving. Stay Safe folks ~

Balor and Beren

These two were a particularly mismatched lot. It is easier to discuss them as a pair, as they knew each other before they became riders. This was not an unheard-of thing, though it was particularly uncommon. The two worked together in a symbiotic sort of loyalty, a blunt but efficient duo.

Balor was born first. His parents were poor residents of Dras Leona. When he was little more than an infant, his father was arrested and hanged as a thief. The gang he ran with took in the baby when his mother gave in to her grief. He was a large child, and he gained his footing in the group easily. He developed a talent for people and, more particularly, for business. He was almost cherubic, with dingy bronze curls and an easy-going air. This concealed an iron nature that, when combined with a shrewd and ambitious mind, made him a valuable asset to his family. He eventually gained a place in one of the brothels operating on the fringes of the city. He began as a serving boy; cooking, cleaning, running errands, but he was so well-liked by both the workers and clients that he earned a sort of "management" position. It was in this place that he met his lifelong friend, Beren.

Beren had no memories of his life before the street. He was a man of few words as is, and of this period he was particularly taciturn. I know that, at one point, he fell in love with a girl whom he watched starve to death in the gutter they called home. He dragged himself from the place and, eventually, ended up at the doorstep of Balor's establishment. The teen took him in, fed him, and taught him all he needed to serve as a bouncer and enforcer. Beren was as large as Morzan, (though he carried most of it in width rather than heigh) with dark, beady little eyes and a greasy mop of brown hair. His face was ever fixed in grim lines, and his temper was as delicate as any I've ever seen. He was forever rigidly loyal to Balor, though he never explained to any of us precisely why.

Their ascent was arranged entirely by Balor. He used his unstoppable charms to earn them entrance to a private gala in the Riders' honor. They posed as servants but, if I know Balor, he intended to gain something more from the experience. Even he could not have predicted that he would be chosen. Beren stayed behind in the city for over a year before joining him; the dynamic duo could not be separated so easily.

Their training was rather uneventful. Balor smoothed over Beren's many behavioral slip-ups and Beren protected the back of his generous employer. At the end of a Rider's training, there is a period where they must serve the order in any and every capacity: touring the cities, introducing themselves to noble dignitaries, running errands, mediating petty disputes. After this, they are free to pursue more personal matters as their duties lessen with each new rider. Many chose to be assets to the order in whatever capacity they may. Balor decided to retire in all but name; he still responded to the rider's call of course, but unless directly needed he sank his everything into the very venture in which he was most comfortable. Beren attached himself to his friend as ever he had, serving in a very similar capacity.

Over the next decades, Balor built himself something of an empire. He specialized in the pleasure market, though I know he was involved in multiple criminal enterprises as well. He had his hands in many a pocket by the end and was an almost too-perfect example of everything that was wrong with the order. Beren cared nothing for the wealth or status, sticking with his companion more out of plodding habit than actual interest. They would have carried on this way if not for an unexpected set of distractions.

The first wave of issues came from mine and Morzan's defections. The riders were slow to rise, but those with skeletons aplenty in their closets began to fear a mass inquiry. Balor especially stood to lose everything if even one thread of his web were uncovered. Then, as the frequency of our strikes increased so too did the reward for our capture; dead or alive. Now and again we were forced to subtly enter a city to obtain desperately needed supplies. Balor arranged to meet us on one such trip, quite politely inviting me to discuss the price of my survival. I laid out the math for him: side with the riders and guarantee that he would someday be crushed, or side with me and have the crown itself backing his ventures with no authority to interrupt him. He agreed to assist us, though I never put much faith in his loyalty.

For the most part, Balor assisted us in a financial capacity. It wasn't until the last raids and battles that they fully joined us, though they were a frightening pair when they did. Beren preferred blunt weapons; objects that he could flail about without much thought and still ensure that anyone who came near him would be crushed. Balor had a bit more control in his style, but only because if he didn't he would run the risk of injuring his effective bodyguard.

After the war, Balor returned to his business. He became a truly frightening force, one of the only forsworn who concerned themselves with politics. There was nothing he wouldn't do for a profit; I doubt even I uncovered every illicit activity of that one. He took on the title of Enduriel, something of meaning to him I believe. Still, odd things began to happen as ******* began to fade away. She and Beren's dragon were a mated pair throughout their lives, a rather unusual arrangement for dragons. Even without their sanity, they remained close, though it seems this closeness did not extend to her Rider. Her wit fueled much of his success and soon his own overindulgence began to eke away at his hoard. Meanwhile, Beren drifted further and farther down a dark, lonely hole from which he only emerged to lash out at the people around him. Whatever it was that so tormented him, he never expressed to another soul. Several off color rumours developed around the man… but this is not the place for them.

They perished together in the latter half of my reign. They were two of the handful of kills I attribute to Brom, though I give him no credit for it. Balor and Beren's combined strengths were profit and intimidation, and I wouldn't consider either of them duelists. Their deaths sparked, what I consider to be, the beginning of the end of the thirteen. The final five members hung on for decades after the previous death, each of them too cautious or too stubborn to succumb. But, after Balor and Beren the next three died each within a few months of each other. The Varden became emboldened and started hunting them down one at a time, first Formora, then Idril, and finally culminating in Brom's battle with Morzan. As to which informant could have enabled these attacks… my suspicions died with her, never to be confirmed.

These two were a dangerous, if unlikely, duo. Balor took the world in stride, using every wile at his considerable disposal to build an empire that is still very much in place today. If anyone in history were actually capable of getting blood from a stone, it would be he. Beren never made an effort for himself, staying always in his singular companion's wake. I believe that this existence is exactly what the man wanted, though I don't pretend to understand it. In summary, they were a pair of consummate survivors.

-:- -:- -:-

Notes:

Of the gang, these two probably have the least development? They tend to just blend into the background for me, I dunno... I'm not sold on every aspect of them. R + R?

Chapter 11: Eltereth: Righteous Wrath

Notes:

Trigger Warning: This one really doesn't pull punches. References to Ab*se. Descriptions of a M*rder. Indirect reference to r*pe. Overt Homophobia. Brief description of Self Un-aliving. If any of these will harm your overall wellness, please sit this one out. Stay safe folks~

Eltereth

There is something uniquely tragic about Eltereth. She maintained a philosophy of naturalism throughout her life, choosing to always exist in harmony with the world around her. Unfortunately for her, that world ran on principles of anarchy and suffering that rewarded the ambitious while degrading the content. She and I disagreed on nearly every aspect of life, and yet she fought with us more fervently than all but the most frenzied. Her story is one of dignity and nobility, and it began with as humble a root as any.

She was born in a one-room cabin in the untamed woods that once surrounded Isenstar Lake. Her father was a social recluse of the purest kind, choosing to settle with his wife deep in the heart of the wilderness. Theirs was a simple existence and they raised their daughter with all the knowledge she would need to continue it, should she wish. Her mother died giving birth to her baby brother Leon when she was around eleven. Their father took ill the following winter. Eltereth raised him as she had been raised, though the boy had frailer health than she. They would have carried on this way indefinitely had the soldiers not come.

The wilds, as an observant reader will note, have been drastically reduced since those days. The expansion of Gil'ead and the end of a long-running dispute between the elves and humans of the region drastically impacted the line and lay of the forest. Eltereth's home happened to reside in what once was an area of dispute. When this dispute was settled in Gil'eads favor, the land officially belonged to the city. The children were found by a scouting patrol and brought into the city (very much against their will). Eltereth intended to retain their home at all costs; it was the only way of life she'd ever known. Her arguments fell on deaf ears. Luckily for her, the pair of riders that had settled the dispute were still in attendance.

Her dragon hatched to the rancor and dismay of the lord who had just finished dismissing her. She turned on him triumphantly, only to be told that, in fact, their home's fate had just been sealed: she had a place to go. And, even worse, she was expected to abandon her brother to fosterage. She refused. So fervently in fact that the siblings became one of the only exceptions to the riders' isolated existence, provided that she never shared anything that was meant to be secret with her dependent.

Leon lived with Eltereth throughout her training. Her natural strength and stamina combined with her years in the woods meant that she took on physical challenges with ease. Magic was a much more difficult field for the girl, though she applied herself diligently. All the while, her roommate followed her along like a doting puppy; a shadow she treasured almost as much as her dragon. She taught him reading and writing alongside her and found that he had a bit of a knack for mathematics. This aided her in her own studies, but it also brought the younger child in contact with the man who would turn their world inside out.

He was an elder rider, only a step down from the leader council itself. His area of focus was rooted in geometry; a practice that drew young Leon to him with rapt attention. He began to spend long hours with the man, assisting in his filing, note-taking, studies… any excuse at all that he could find to see him. After months of eagerly chatting Eltereth's ear off about everything to do with the man… he suddenly became much more subdued. He slept longer, spoke less, only went out for scheduled events, and even then with grudging despondency. He bathed only at Eltereth's prodding and his eyes remained fixed on the floor. This new pattern of behavior was deeply concerning to his sister; at odds with everything she knew of him. Of course, she did not know everything about him. One day, after weeks of this deterioration, Leon failed to return to their room. Eltereth went looking for him at once. She combed every inch of his normal route, then on to all of Ilirea. When she did find him, it was already too late.

She told me the following story on the day that we met, and never in all her life did she speak of it again:

It was pouring rain in the dead of night. The alley was pockmarked with puddles where the paving stones had been ripped up over the years. Lying half-submerged in one of these puddles was an unrecognizable human shape. Only upon closer inspection did she realize that the mud-matted form was her baby brother. He had been mutilated with surgical precision and left for dead. He had just enough life left in him when she arrived to smile through bloodied lips at his favorite person in the world.

Eltereth went mad with grief. She was bedridden for two days after the event. When she recovered, she immediately wanted every scrap of information that had been found. In that demand she began a crusade that would lead her to the core of the rider's corruption. As the murder had taken place in the capital city (which then was home to all sorts of people from across Alagaesia) the jurisdiction of the case was a messy affair. Even more so, the exact… nature of his wounds made certain officials loathe to investigate the issue. To their way of thinking "certain types" of "lifestyles" just had "risks" associated, and if "those people" met with unfortunate fates then all the better. This "group" seemed to especially include anyone who engaged in any sort of physical experience for any reason outside of making more subjects for their masters, particularly if they happened to be of the same sex. Expressing this opinion to a grieving sibling of (what they perceived as) one such individual proved to be a dangerous blunder.

Eltereth took the investigation into her own hands. At first, she met only with roadblock after roadblock as some unseen force tried to mitigate her usefulness. She sought allies she could trust and managed to find one in a long-serving egg courier named Xavier and his human partner in work and life, Annabelle. With their aid, she gained access to records reaching back through decades and centuries and after over a year of concentrated effort, she found her breakthrough. This was not the first such case to be swept under the rug, though it was the first to concern a rider or their family. In fact, a series of eerily similar cases cropped up through the centuries, and they seemed to follow the path of one man in particular: Leon's beloved teacher. Eltereth gathered her evidence, circumstantial as it was, and brought it straight to the council. Surely they would be honor-bound to at least make a formal inquiry if such a beast could reside in hiding so long under their very noses.

She was mistaken.

The council not only dismissed her accusations with claims of inadequacy, but also insinuated that she was mad, called into question her ability to perform her duties, and threatened to evaluate her ability to remain Shur'tugal. She held no illusions of what such an inquiry would bring; she would be silenced as easily as every other victim. She accepted their hateful scorn with apparent humility, apologized for wasting their time, and promised to let the matter rest. She abandoned the city that very night with exactly one goal in mind.

She came to me with a heart full of vengeance and pain. As soon as her miserable tale began I recognized its inevitable conclusion from my own experiences with the elders. All she wanted was a chance to bring justice for her brother's killer and an end to the cycle of abuse the order perpetuated. We welcomed her with understanding, warmth, and empathy.

Her first target was, of course, the miserable wretch who had started her path. I wasn't actually present for his death, but Formora recounted his dying screams with gusto. That was the only kill in which Eltereth took any pleasure. She was, after all, a peaceful soul by nature. In the war, she fought with truly brutal efficiency, but she was the first to admonish our fellows for overindulgence. The siege on Doru Araeba and after it Iliria affected her greatly, putting a rift between her and the rest of us that never truly healed.

I recall that her dragon was named after her father. She seemed to suffer the least of the thirteen from her dragon's separation; her dragon was naturally a quiet and somber presence, so his silence was a seamless evolution. She said that she could still feel him in the lessons her father taught her, even if her actual memories grew hazy with time. She took a very spiritual approach to the distance, interacting with him as one would interact with any wild creature. In fact, as the years grew on she was closer to him than to any of us.

Especially, it seemed, to me.

I make no excuses for the way I have behaved. Or, at least, I make no attempt to justify it ethically; it would be incongruous to my nature to try. Eltereth came to understand my behavior as a monarch (and even more so in private) to be one with which she could not align herself. I don't particularly blame her for this; it was her nature to reject structure, dominance, violence, hatred: all prime tenets of the man I have become. She spoke against me in private and in public often enough that I considered it prudent to send her from Uru'baen. She chose to return to the site of her previous home and raise a new cabin there.

In that isolation, a change came over her. She expressed guilt over her part in my ascension and her helplessness to then oppose me. That coupled with her still agonizing grief led her to make a choice that many of us considered over the years. She and her dragon took to the skies, plummeting willingly into the unfeeling earth below. They died together instantly.

Eltereth was one of the few "moral" people I have known. This seems to have caused her an endless parade of suffering. Though I must admit, it also gave her a drive and purpose that people unconcerned with codes of action seem to lack. The period in which I knew her was colored always in grim lines and harshness, but I believe there was a strength and courage to the woman that sets her apart from the rest of us. She was as fine a person as I have ever known and, if gods there be, I sincerely hope that they honor her diligence with the reunion she so long desired.

-:- -:- -:-

Notes:

I know this one got pretty long, but I really didn't want to leave anything out. Ellie is one of my favorites, as a character and to write. She's a very subdued character so, in large projects, she tends to fade into the scenery. It's nice to finally give her space to fully exist, as painful as her story is to tell.

R+R if that's a thing people still do.

Chapter 12: Xanist: Protective Papa

Notes:

Trigger Warning: Disturbing concepts and imagery. Stay safe folks~

Xanist

This man… he has ever been a sore spot in our group's past. In his short stint with us, he made waves with his moral fiber that continued to rock us long after his death. I regret that things ended the way they did, especially since I once quite liked the man.

He was born to a life of privilege, though not to one of excess. His father was a noble of low status, a landowner on the fringes of one of the major cities. He grew up a well-mannered and respectable sort, clinging always to his father's side. His family was invited into town when the egg made its rounds and the young lad was especially eager to see a dragon in person. He got a much closer look than he originally intended when a glimmering silver hatchling emerged for him. His family was proud indeed, though they were loath to part with him. He kissed them farewell and made the journey all young riders make.

Throughout his training, he sought to be well-rounded in the many lessons handed to him. His multidisciplinary approach gave him a slower start than many, but his steady progress quickly outstripped many of the students close to his age. He took up with a private master, as many students do, and from her, he developed his skills even further. The two formed a fond friendship that lingered through many decades of their lives. She remained his teacher after he graduated, and she brought him along in her duties. It was on such a trip that he met the woman who would be the love of his life.

Riders rarely choose to marry humans. When they do, it is with the knowledge that theirs can only ever be a fleeting dalliance from the perspective of eternity. That said, the love Xanist found with Se'ren was as lovely as any ever told. She was "old" to be looking for a human husband, well into her twenties, but that still made her considerably younger than he. Xanist worshipped her, finding a lovely home for them overlooking the plains. They enjoyed the quiet, so much so in fact that they soon welcomed their lovely daughter Emily into the world. Xanist doted on his daughter whenever he could and in all ways was the picture of a loving father and husband.

Now and again, his duties would call him away from his family. Usually, this would be for no longer than a handful of days. However, one particularly hostile dispute along the western edge of the Beors kept him pinned in place for weeks. When he finally completed his work and began the journey home he was contacted by a member of the council. A mysterious illness had begun to plague the common folk, particularly in the region he called home. He was expressly forbidden from returning there.

He disobeyed.

He flew with all haste, only to find a smoking wreck where his hearth had once stood. Two riders, one an elder, were at the scene. They told him, with all sensitivity, that any sources of contagion had been ordered removed; including his wife and eleven-year-old daughter. Xanist lost all control, attacking the pair with abandon. He likely would have been content to perish in that assault, if only to join the ashes of his home, but unfortunately for him, a small band of saviors was close at hand.

The smoke originally drew my attention, but the battle that erupted after is what held it. Morzan and I watched just long enough to determine which side was which before joining in, and in that fight, the remaining elder never stood a chance. We healed Xanist, who was barely cognizant of us or anything, only for him to suddenly run into the building. He emerged with a blackened cloth doll in the shape of a rabbit and two tear tracks eking through the soot on his face. We stayed with him until the building burnt itself out, the only attendees at the grim burials of his whole world.

The rage he turned upon the order was born of fresher pain than the rest of us. His decades of amassed skill turned upon the organization with the ferocity only known to grieving parents. I think this pain is exactly why he was so drawn to Eltereth; both of them were the newest members and carried very similar burdens. As effective as he was in battle he was even more effective out of it, taking an active role in devising and coordinating our movements. It was because of this that we were eventually put at odds with each other.

Xanist objected very strongly to my philosophy, methods, and ambitions. He saw us as little better than terrorists ripping at foundations out of a need to destroy rather than for any kind of justice. He cited the wake of devastation behind us, the inevitably bloody uphill battle before us, and my final goal of taking the throne as evidence enough to condemn our little band. He made certain that I understood we would never see eye to eye on this subject and, if I pursued my objectives, he would become my enemy. I took these claims very seriously; so seriously in fact that I decided to accept his challenge. In our siege of Iliria, I arranged with Amroth and Siyamak that Xanist should not survive the assault. Amroth's masterpiece detonated, and Xanists honor-bound stance of opposition died with him in the blaze. Or at least, in some ways it did. His stalwart resistance may have been killed in its cradle, but the ideas he represented persist to this very day. Outside my fair city, this very morning sits an army determined to avenge past wrongs as if they have any bearing on the present. I believe that this would bring the old goat a fair degree of satisfaction.

I feel very deeply for Xanist. In part, I believe it's because I empathize with his sense of betrayal and anguish. An even deeper part of me knows that he was correct; it is almost a greater betrayal of the very things for which we fought that I should be here, now, while he is gone. A just world would have our positions reversed, old friend… of that, I have no doubt. But that is not our world…. And all we can do is pursue our visions of a better one to take its place before departing this life. In this I know I have failed; both him and myself. He was a better man than I could ever hope to be, and I sincerely regret his loss; it was the act of a weak and self-conscious coward. I'm man enough to admit that now… for what it's worth. I can only hope that he was able to reunite with his beloved family, wherever good men go.

-:- -:- -:-

Notes:

The very last of the forsworn done~ This one is affectionately referred to by wifey as "Papa" Xanist. Will there be more? Who knows! But as I've been posting these on a day and tomorrow is my anniversary, we shall have to wait to find out~ I need to know if anyone has favorites/least favorites of the gang~ R+R please?

Chapter 13: Bonus: Reverse Uno!

Notes:

AN: The unofficial bonus chapter, as per requested by our neighborhood Rat. I have no idea if this is coherent, but maybe someone will enjoy it :p

Xanist

We have opted to undertake this story in "reverse join order" so a certain Morzan can have the 'final' say. I shall endeavor to do the task justice.

To say that our founder was a complicated individual would be a gross understatement. Galbatorix lived a singular life; one that took him to the edge of what most men could survive. He pursued his idea of justice with single-minded determination and, even though we disagreed on the ethics of his ambition, sought to do what he believed must be done. Very few if any can claim to know him well, even among the thirteen. The world has never known such a man, and - I am inclined to think this a positive- it likely never shall again.

Eltereth

His life began in a less-than-glamorous haze. His mother, Margery, was already a widow in her twenty-fourth year and had her young son Kaur in tow. She fell in love with a handsome stranger who had just arrived in town. He plied her with gifts and poems, and did everything in his power to seem like a storybook prince. When she announced her pregnancy, he disappeared in the night. It was into this 'scandalous' scenario that a young Galbatorix was born. It was the dead of winter and his mother was sure that the premature infant would not survive. ( I don't know if that should be "sure" or "hopeful"? ) As much as I can't forgive what he became…I can't imagine coming into the world already unwanted.

Beren

His life with his bitch mother was messed up. She drank to dull the pain and screamed at Torix whenever he came too close. He grew up looking a lot like his dad, so she never wanted to see his face. She never told him anything about the man, which is bad enough, but she also openly blamed him for their lives. He spent a lot of time alone… knowing the guy, that makes too much sense.

Balor

He survived much of his childhood by isolating in his attic room. He would read anything he could get his hands on. He often sat and imagined an endless, fantastical world… empty of anyone but himself. When he was a young lad, Kaur disappeared from the house overnight. His already unstable mother was distraught and all but collapsed with the strain. He cared for her, not out of love…. Come to think of it, I can't understand why he would. The man we came to know would have left her for dead, of that I am sure…. But he was only a child after all.

Gildor

His opportunity for change came when he was about ten. The riders were coming to town and a street festival had been prepared in their honor. His mother told him not to go out but-

Gelmir

He disobeyed.

Gildor

He didn't make it far though! She noticed him sneaking out and followed him into the crowd.

Gelmir

When he heard her shouting he bolted, not paying attention to where he was going until he stumbled straight through the crowd surrounding the riders. He even slammed into Xavier, the elven egg courier.

Gildor

Before anyone could make heads or tales of the situation, the egg made its decision.

Gelmir

The two bonded fast, both desperate to fill an ache that they'd never even understood. The lonely child would never be lonely again.~

Gildor

Torix referred to Jay as "little friend" for many weeks as they journeyed to the Island and began their training.

idril

jay wasn't born a man.

but he was him.

(he only ever talked to torix, so no one needed to know.)

but I know.

…

they never told anyone.

jay was kind…

weak.

torix was quiet….

they wouldn't have survived in the wild.

Kialandi

Okay, Idril, I think that's enough. Thank you for… helping. I can take it from here please.~ Galbatorix struggled in the early stages of his training. He was lanky and ill-balanced, with a scathing tongue and fathomless dark eyes that commanded attention. He devoured knowledge voraciously and trained harder than any other student. He came to blows with a rival named Grahm and, in the fighting, injured him with magic. He then went on to train under an ancient elf named Thalon. This master refined his training until he was ready to rejoin his peers. By seventeen he'd grown into quite the charmer, all traces of his previous awkwardness dissolved into an unassailable, mischievous charisma. He then used that newfound charm in everything he undertook, privately and publicly.

Siyamak

The end of his petty concerns enabled the onset of greater woes. He became the private student of the then leader of the organization, Vrael. Ostensibly this was because the elder valued his talents and saw him as a viable future leader, but privately the old fool only valued his… appeal. Vrael was not the first elder to leverage his position for personal gain, but he was perhaps one of the most adept. He brought the younger man into his web without discernable effort and began to teach him everything he needed to become Shurtugal. It was during this apprenticeship that he became acquainted with Oromis and his tagalongs. He also fell quite completely under the elder's spell. He had not the experience to question why a multi-century old god-among-men would bother himself with a random teen. Gakbatorix's ego was ever his worst blind spot.

Amroth

This arrangement was doomed to failure. Galbatorix entered Vrael's personal study and there found accounts of atrocities committed by the organization. When he confronted the elder, Vrael attempted to cow him with discipline; he failed. Torix then made his way on foot through a blizzard to Oromis-elda to request his aid but was refused. Oromis believed that bringing Torix's findings to the council would only result in the student's destruction rather than justice for the guilty. In desperation, Galbatorix arranged to flee the city with Jarnunvosk but was stopped in his preparation by a fellow student and an elder. He played off his journey as a hunting trip and the elder insisted on joining him. He convinced the other student to assist in the murder of this elder, but their battle drew the attention of a nearby urgal party. The students were overmatched and, in his last moments, Jarnunvosk gave the rest of his strength to his rider. Moments after, his chest collapsed under a mighty blow, and his eldunari along with it. Only Galbatorix survived.

Ellessar

He wandered in the wilderness until he collapsed. When he re-awoke in the rider's holdfast, he nearly despaired… but, instead, he made a plan. He requested a hearing with the council only to ensure that Vrael wasn't actually present. His request for a new hatchling was a distraction. He took his window to kill an elder and flee the city. At some point he met that freak Durza. Then Morzan tracked him down and the two of them stole Shruikan to use as a weapon. They started recruiting vagrants and drifters, which is how they met all of us.

Formora

Together, we fucked shit up! Fourteen underdogs went up against a multi-millennia old order and we won! He may have been a slaggy, soggy cunt about it… but none of it would have been possible without Torix. His planning collected the eldunari, his talent broke them, and his bitchy monologuing put us all to sleep before big battles. But really, without him every single one of us would have ended up dead or worse out there. He's fuckin' scary in a fight, one of the only people I know who is good at killing people the old-fashioned way and inside their own head. He's more like a demon than a person, and that comparison only gets more true after he took the throne. We all sort of went mad together.

Morzan Mommy

Alright, mother fuckers, strap in; the rest of this story is mine to tell. Daddy became king and I became the queen~ … Ok, technically I was his "chief advisor" but we all know what that means. Surda happened, which was bullshit, and then Brom started his tantrum *ahem* I mean, "rebel group". We did our best to consolidate power, but that's a little tricky to do with enemies on all sides. Daddy spent most of his time working against threats rather than taking care of the empire… and I won't deny that it shows. Every friend we lost pushed him farther into his own head (a pretty scary place to be) until he was almost unrecognizable, even to me. We didn't talk as often as the years passed. I went bat shit, after all, and he wasn't far off himself.

Say whatever you want about Torix. Hell, I don't think I ever heard a rumor that was worse than the reality. But I also know that he doesn't give a shit about his reputation. All he ever wanted was to do better than what came before. We ended up worse than they ever were, but in the beginning we meant every word. He gathered up the shattered dregs of our family and gave us something to hope for again. He's a genius, a monster, a leader… and my best friend. I believed… not just in our cause but in him. I believed that he really could do anything in the world, and all with that same cocky grin plastered on his face. I loved him 'til the day I died.

???

…. And now we are left with the ashes. Vidira iet uses his once-noble intentions to justify all manner of atrocities. In my early years, I bought into his self-deceptions, but no longer. His flimsy hopes hide only a nostalgia for a glorious past long lost to him, a past filled with camaraderie and ambition instead of disgraceful decay. His days as the voice of Alagaesia'a future are just as dead as Jarnunvosk. I see the creeping husk for what it is. He despises me for this knowledge, but he is incapable of altering reality without unmaking his very self. I know his name, though it is unutterable, and it reveals a sense of abysmal despair set deep within his shell. I would pity him, if not for the years of countless injuries inflicted at his whims. The man is all but dead already; he has only to realize it.

And, when he does, I will be there to finally put him out of his misery.

-:- -:- -:-

Notes:

AN: and that's a wrap folks~
Obviously, this bio for Torix is non-canon in several ways. This thing was more about test driving all of the forsworn's voices than the story itself, but I worry that affects clarity? I'd be interested in hearing opinions in reviews~

Special thanks to my wifey for putting up with me reading this whole thing to her while she played elden ring XD and for her incredible help developing everyone. I couldn't do anything without this lady~

Fair winds, fricai.

Notes:

Hello all~ I am beginning this project as a companion piece to a larger work. That said, I believe this one may actually be of more interest to a larger group, so I decided to post it.

For its relationship to canon, many of these characters were created at least in some respect before Inheritance dropped. As such I have made attempts to consolidate the two, as canon is law, but in areas where this was not wholly possible or in the event that they contradict later releases (which is essentially guaranteed) I ask your indulgence and patience, dear reader.

Also, if anyone else is suffering from Inheritance withdrawal, I highly recommend checking out the Arcaena and Paolini Fans 2 servers on discord. Such a lovely bunch of nerds they are!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Fanon Forsworn - Expanded IC verse