Yrael, the Eighth Bright Shiner

(ooc: From here.)

Yrael opens the door of the bar and steps down into what seems to be a benighted floodplain. The calm, ankle-deep waters stretch beyond the grey horizon, its surface glimmering with the reflections of what hangs above. The inverted bowl of the sky glows with a multitude of stars. Every star that ever existed, shining down softly upon the waters in a great cloud of luminescence. They sing; they call to those below with promises of sweet rest, neverending contentment. They call for those below to cast off all of their burdens, everything that weighs them down, keeps them from that perfect happiness.

Spirits of the Dead, little wisps of light, rise from the waters in torrents. Some go eagerly, eternal peace finally within their grasp. Some go slowly, fighting every inch of the way, holding on to all the things they still wanted to do in Life.

(From here.)

The door he gallantly opened for her opened out into gently lapping waters, lit from overhead by a multitude of stars uncountable. So many together, they give off a glow stronger than the light of the full moon, singing softly of promised rest for those below. The insubstantial spirits of the dead rise from the waters, some quickly, eager for their eternal rest, and some slowly, fighting the pull even as they rise, foot by foot.

The two of them step down slightly into the water that only rises to their ankles, and Yrael closes the door behind them.

"As you can see," Yrael smiles. "I have been practicing even when not at the Milliways lake."

Despite the fact that the waters of Death aren't exactly the same as other water.

His time in High Bridge was quite refreshing, Yrael found. A large trading center of the Old Kingdom, with direct river access and a fairly straight way to Belisaere to the North and East, High Bridge was a bustling town where traders from even as far away as the barbaric North, past the Clayr Glacier. Yrael found he had no problem fitting in as another of the far-traveling traders. He enjoyed the morning wandering through the fresh fish market above the harbor, idly strolling through town. He whistled cheerfully as he crossed the bridge for which the town was named, with houses built upon it as thickly as any normal street.

As they, too, must try to make a living, many of the town's Charter Mages lived along the heavily-travelled streets of the markets, their signs advertising healing or protection spells for reasonable prices. Yrael could feel occasional Charter Magic being worked in some of the houses along the market street.

It was no problem to pose as a prospective customer knocking at their doors. Any Charter spells thrown at him before Yrael got to them would not register as anything unusual to any other Mages in the area, that way. There was that one Mage who thought she would get smart and try something with a rowan wand imbued with three of the Master Marks, but she did not have time to do anything with it.

All in all, it was a good day. The prices on the fish were quite reasonable.

---

The roads were busy between High Bridge and Belisaere. They had been becoming moreso since the King, the Abhorsen and the recent Abhorsen-in-Waiting had been making Necromancy a hard career path to pursue. Merchants and travellers no longer had to fear the Dead, or passing Free Magic creatures, so much. People who had never before left their tiny villages were traveling, wanting to see new places.

Yrael decided he would leave them to it, and struck off through the woods, heading directly towards Belisaere rather than following the road North before gently curving East towards the capital.

---

Belisaere was alive with the encouraging shouts of farmers who have had a bountiful harvest and are more than willing to take one's money in exchange for the surplus. Fresh vegetables and fruit stalls lined the crowded streets that led down to the harbors and the fresh fish and poultry stalls. Yrael moved among the people with ease, laughing a reply at a fruitseller who said that perhaps some oranges would improve his color. He grinned upon overhearing that both the Abhorsen and Abhorsen-in-Waiting were out of town on business to the Perimeter and to elsewhere, dealing with some trouble that had cropped up.

The northern part of the markets were reserved for more of what Yrael was seeking. A sleek, sleeveless dress of rich, deep purple, altered slightly to fit his specifications. A loose silk blouse that feels wonderful against the skin, in the shifting bright blues at the heart of a blazing fire. He even found a shirt of deep forest green for himself, wondering if anyone would have a heart attack to see him wear other colors than white. It wasn't as if he owned any clothes of his own, after all. What he made was what he wore. It might be an interesting experiment, owning clothing.

At a quaint little jeweler's shop Yrael was also able to find a simple bracelet of many different shades of gold before he decided he had been long enough from home.

It was the matter of a moment to gather his purchases, turn into a nearby alley, and step into Death.

Jonarin kept up with the older Charter Mage as best he could. Ten years old and apprenticed now for nearly a year already, he mostly functioned as an assistant, when not simply instructed to stay out of the way.

But this was exciting! In the last twenty years or so, since the King had taken the throne, things had quietened down terribly. Nothing ever interesting happened, any more, it seemed. But today at sunset, Jonarin had been interrupted in sweeping the doorstep by one of the local men. The man had hurried up to him, saying something had happened to three of the other Charter Mages of the town. Someone coming along the road had caused an altercation of some sort, and, as the Mages were most often used as mediators in arguments between townspeople, they had been sent for.

The three Charter Mages who were easiest to be found had come and... the man had been uncertain exactly what had happened next. The Mages had yelled for the people to get away from the traveller, and had tried quickly to throw Charter spells of binding at it, but they had no effect. The townspeople were trying to get out of the way of the spells, heading for the gate, but the traveller somehow... and at this part of the man's story Jonarin starting thinking the man was embellishing the story a bit too much for even a ten-year-old to believe... the traveller had blurred and somehow was between the Charter Mages and the gates to the town, blocking their retreat.

The man had been trying to get out of the way, himself, at the time, but had seen how the traveller seemed to stay just short of contact with any of the Mages. He would get close enough to make them stumble back a few steps, yes, but not ever touching. The traveller, the man said, moved so fast the Mages never hit him with the spells they cast. Sometimes the spells would come so close as to seem to pass right through the traveller, but they would never hit.

As he rushed along after the Charter Mage, towards the gate, Jonarin wondered about what the local man had said, about how the traveller almost seemed to drive the three Charter Mages farther away from the gates and into the surrounding woods, making them step back or stumble with every movement: like a sheepdog with sheep, or a cat playing with cornered mice, the man had said.

Who acts like that? Jonarin had thought to himself, shaking his head.

Jonarin had quickly told the Mage he was apprenticed to, and the Mage had immediately headed out the door, a tense, closed look upon his face.

Jonarin wasn't about to miss whatever happened, if he had anything to say about it.

It was a lovely, crisp autumn evening for a leisurely hike through the hills just north of the Wall. The air held just the faintest hint of the coming winter, but was easily warm enough to erase the remembered chill of travelling through Death. Were the breeze coming from the South, Yrael could probably feel the lingering heat of high summer in Ancelstierre, but today the wind was from the North and the West, sending the cooler air over the Old Kingdom over the Wall into the summery south.

Northerly winds always bode ill for the Perimeter Scouts.

---

"Lieutenant! Report!" shouted the major to the out-of-breath younger man who approached, half-carried by another soldier. "What happened to you?"

"Broken leg, sir," the lieutenant managed to gasp out, "Fell crooked... trying to get back."

"You fell? Why? Where are the rest of your patrol?"

"Dead," he said, hoarsely. "At least, the Charter Mages. The rest I... don't know. We scattered."

Charter Mages, thought the major. Over half of all patrols into the Old Kingdom are Charter Mages. There're only a few things that'll go for a Charter Mage first, and neither of them mean any good for us. "What was it? Dead hands? A Mordicant?"

The Perimeter Scouts know better than to hold to the rest of Ancelstierre's scoffing attitude towards the Old Kingdom tales of magic and the walking Dead.

"No, sir," the young lieutenant shook his head, feeling dizzy. "I'd never seen anything like it. Some sort of creature, I'd guess." His brow furrowed as he tried to remember the details. "It was so bright, it was hard to tell what it looked like. It," he swallowed hard, "tore the throats out of Parker and Warren, and... just ignored us while it drank their blood, then it went for Simpson." His face wasn't just pale from pain, but from the sickening memory. "Our bullets didn't even faze it, and when it came at us, the guns stopped working at all," he finished, looking ill.

"An Old Kingdom creature, it must have been, sir," the soldier supporting the lieutenant spoke up, trying to be helpful and failing.

This is just what we need, thought the major, grimly. "Free Magic," he said, shortly. "Get this man to the infirmary before he passes out," he ordered the soldiers nearby, "tell those who're on watch to keep an eye out for any returning survivors, and call back the other patrols this instant."

"Sir," one of them said, dread already audible in his voice "I think they've come back."

The major, his mind already on the letter he will be sending tonight to the Abhorsen, whirled to look at the distant gate under the Wall, where a number of soldiers in much the same condition as the lieutenant now being shuffled off to the infirmary were stumbling though, back onto the Ancelstierre side of the Wall. None of those the major recognized bore the Charter Mark upon their foreheads.

He should have known not to expect any good from a night when the northerly wind blew down across the Wall.

---

The Free Magic creature, the Bright Shiner

(Who would not fear the Nine Bright Shiners, highest of the high?)

wandered unhurriedly north through the woods. The night was cool and the moon was high and bright, an orb of mirrored sunlight in the night sky. As he traveled, Yrael hummed a serene little tune composed by the current Abhorsen's great, great, great, great aunt. Or was it her great, great, great, great, great uncle's daughter? Ah, memory. He smiled to himself. Soon, his path will intersect the Old North Road and he shall make his way up towards Roble's Town.

Yrael rests in a grey haze. Like the River, but warm. Maybe not Death, but Life, or somewhere in between. He is comfortable enough. A young child, its gaze quiet and wise, leans over Yrael, speaking gently.

"Do not worry, little brother. We will take care of you.
Now is when you should sleep."
No!
The haze disappears into darkness. If something were there to see in the blackness, it is too dark to see. Soon, the darkness is just as comfortable as the grey haze. It is peaceful, at least. A loud voice rouses the darkness, insistently calling it back to light.

"Now is when you should wake, little brother! Do not worry. We will take care of you."
No, you will not!
Yrael stares at the elderly woman calling him, blinking in the sudden brightness. A young woman, laughing, strides over to him and pulls him to his feet, causing him to stumble a bit. Her voice is a cheerful laugh.

"This is where you should go." She points into the hazy distance and gives him a little push. "We will take care of you, little brother. Do not worry."
No!
Yrael wanders in the brightness. No landmarks show that he has gone any distance whatsoever. Soon, though, he sees a middle-aged man, smiling openly at him. His voice is smooth and warm.

"We will take care of you. Do not worry, little brother. This is what you should say."

The man begins to sing. The song is compelling and beautiful, a wonder to hear. Once the rhythm and melody are familiar enough, Yrael joins in without a thought, wanting to know this song of such beauty. When the two voices meld, Yrael can hear that it is the Charter that they sing. He stops singing, cutting off his voice with a cry of surprise and shock. He goes away, quickly.
No, I will not!
Seated before him is an old man, bearded and somber. With a deft flip of his hand that belies his apparant age, he tosses a small stone to Yrael. On reflex, Yrael catches it.

"Little brother, do not worry. We will take care of you. This is what you should think." As Yrael examines the stone, Charter Marks flare along its surface: Marks of binding. Yrael drops the stone in surprise and distaste, and turns to glare at the old man, but he is not there anymore.
I will not let you!
Instead, there is a fierce-looking woman, tall and imposing. She holds a mirror before her.

"This is what you should be, little brother."
He cannot help but look.
"Do not worry. We will take care of you."
No!
He stumbles back, away from what he sees, turning to run. Haze envelops him. He is nowhere, with nowhere to go, running from nowhere. A shape. There, in the distance. A tall lady with arms outstretched. She will help him. She will have pity, and let him go.

He runs into the lady's welcoming embrace. She holds him, running her hands through his hair, soothingly.

"Shhhhhh, shhhhhhh. Do not worry. I will take care of you."
Yes.
Yrael looks up at her, finding his reflection in a tear upon her cheek.
Yes.
"This is how you should die, little brother."
Yes.
Her kiss is cold.

You already know about the stars...

*Yrael says as he opens the door of Milliways on the stretch of grey water that is the Ninth Precinct of Death. He looks odd in the glow from the multitude of stars. He's wearing the deep green and black suit for which he asked the bar. Golden thread emboidered into the fabric shines as he steps out into the water. He is, of course, still barefoot. Yrael turns, holding the door open for Svava as she steps through.*

It will not take long, but it may feel like it. We should come into Life a little ways outside of Belisaere. The shops close early for the celebrations of the night, then there is a parade at dawn.