Storyboards: Qethia

Qethia's past | Qethia's aquest | Qethia's apprenticeship | Qethia's title

Qethia's past

The fragrant tobacco smoke clung briefly to the pitted stonewall of the north turret before finally escaping into the still night air. A booted foot leaned against the rough masonry of the turret's window, its rusty bars still able to gleam dimly in the moonlight. Gloved fingers curled around one of the bars as if to pull aside obstacles emerging from an unknown future. The cloaked figure detected the faint, sweet aroma of a rare Tolnedran perfume well before the Lady Fidela flounced determinedly into the chilly room with its unlit fireplace.
"Sendar?" demanded the tiny Drasnian maiden, as though the echo of a cursed enemy's name hung in the air. "For all that we are and have been, why would you choose to throw your life away in Sendar? There's nothing for you there!" She stamped her foot at the lack of response to her latest outburst. "And put out that awful, smelly pipe! Father would absolutely..."
The figure at the window swiftly turned and finished the sentence. "Absolutely disapprove, of blowing friendly smoke at Belar's night sky? Such a minor offence, when Father's disapproval of me is so whole and well-earned already?"
Fidela's normally contentious demeanour melted swiftly into earnest grief. "That vile offence was not of your making! Please, how can I dissuade you from this mad and fruitless quest?" She held out her hands in supplication.
The figure lowered the rough woollen hood of the cloak. "Fruitless, say you? Name me one fruit sweeter than the belly of the foul Nyissan who took our mother's forbidden sweetness, skewered by a blade of fine Rivan steel! My mouth waters at the very thought!" A thin sword appeared from a half-hidden scabbard, and whistled and flickered maliciously before Fidela's slight, shivering frame.
"But mad, you even must admit! Leaving gentle courtly life in Boktor, to roam rough foreign lands unaided and unprotected! What would Father say?"
The sword was quickly sheathed. "Father would say, as he did say before the entire court of Boktor, that I am no daughter of his." Qethia chuckled bleakly. "And it is true, as all do now know."
Fidela's eyes overflowed with sadness. "Mother's dishonorable deathbed confession and subsequent passing has maddened our father," she moaned.
Qethia sighed, and placed her still-smouldering clay pipe into a tarnished brass vessel on the table. "And with sharpest irony, it was the drugs of Nyissa that loosened her tongue even as they eased her painful, lingering death." She looked intently into the face of her distraught sister. "Dear Fidela, I am bound for the famed training fields of Sendar. I will learn skills and spells there, as befits a ranger of the Western Kingdoms, for the day will come when I will need them. Until then, we will be able to send word from time to time, that news shall travel each to the other. And so, despair not. But leave I shall."
"No, I won't believe you! With your courage far beyond your tender years, you, of all women, will be run off by whispering commoners and prattling nobility? With your proud character, which I have known of a lifetime to be stainless and true,will you be thus humbled and driven away? You have ample means, together wecould find you a new home where you could be happy, and…" Fidela's voice trailed off as she realized the futility of arguing with her hurt and stubborn younger sister.
"Fidela. It is our father that bids me away, not the lowing cattle of the court or the common town tattlers. His pride was wounded mortally when the very spies he hired to protect our mother carried her secrets beyond her chamber. Their immediate dismissal was scarce compensation for their vicious and unprofessional gossiping of our Mother's dishonour." Qethia took a quick swig from a wineskin and continued grimly, "I may give those spies better payment one day."
She clasped Fidela tightly in an uncharacteristically close embrace. "Sister, do this for me." Qethia's voice lowered to a faint whisper. "Tomorrow evening at the first star, find some device to occupy Father's spies, that I may slip away undetected." Fidela returned the embrace fiercely, as if to bind their spirits together for eternity, then finally murmured her assent.
"And it may be that I am not long for the 'unaided and unprotected' existence that you foresee, Fidela. There are clans that recruit new members from within the realm of Sendar, to carry on their responsibilities and reputations. My strength lies primarily in my heart and will, alas, but I am dexterous and quick to learn, and can endure many miles of travel without rest or shelter from the elements. My half-Nyissan ancestry will allow my body to easily withstand hot southern climes with their fierce sun."
Qethia smiled faintly at a distant memory. "Remember, Fidela, how our rough country kin from the south found it most amusing to instruct their little city cousin in swordplay, as well as plant and animal lore? I felt then and there that I had found the direction to my true life, to the freedom that I secretly craved beyond all else!" She beamed at her sister and pirouetted gracefully. "You must admit that steel and leather becomes me more than silks and jewels. I shall leave my finery behind to adorn you instead, to help you attract a true sweetheart and husband at court one day. I know you have such dreams."
Fidela blushed. "But I have heard of such clans as you speak of. They say they are full of bloodthirsty murderers and thieves! What protection can they offer you?"
Qethia shrugged. "Not all of the clans are as you say, Fidela. One may join or not, and I have heard tell of a clan called the Adventurers that has much to offer to those who are accepted into their ranks. I may be so fortunate as to be selected. But they will not find me here as I am, idle in Boktor."
But Fidela would not be comforted. "And fierce enchanted warriors who hack and slash all who stand in their way, and rise again when killed in turn to continue their violent existence!"
"Yes, I have heard all such tales," rejoined Qethia, "but will be on my way, nonetheless. My path is chosen. Dear sister, from whom I have been only briefly parted since birth, be not lonely in my absence. For I will carry my affection for you to the very ends of this world. Should true adversity come your way, neither enchantment nor an army of enemies shall prevent my return to your side."
Fidela sobbed helplessly for a time, then slowly regained a measure of composure. Sniffling and looking up at her tall, obstinate sister, she sighed deeply in resignation. "If it's all the same to you, Qethia, I choose to remember you with richer garments and flowing locks. Did you really feel it was necessary to shave off all your hair?"
"It will be easier to maintain during the long journey ahead," smiled Qethia. "And, just maybe, it's the touch of Nyissan in me. Remember me as you wish, sweet sister. Let this be farewell in truth, before the truth is made irrevocable." Again, the sisters clung together in the gloomy stillness for a long, long time. Then, slowly, they parted but for their entwined hands and descended the damp stone staircase to their awaiting chambers and diverging destinies.

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Qethia’s aquest
The infamous Sendarian mist hung thick in the early morning air. Qethia could barely make out the signs on the now-familiar streets of Sendar. A few shadowy figures faded in and out of her sight, hurrying on their way to the market square or other more pleasant surroundings. A distant, forlorn howl came from one of the many stray dogs that wandered the city streets. Qethia pulled the thick Tolnedran army cloak closer about her lean figure and tried not to shiver visibly.
Ranger training had gone well for her. Despite her relative lack of brute strength, Qethia's endurance and dexterity with a blade had attracted the eye of a Clan recruiter. This was the opportunity she had mentioned to her sister Fidela, back in Boktor before her departure. The Adventurers Clan was all she had hoped, and more. The required training and questing had proven to be strenuous and difficult, but the camaraderie and frequent offers of assistance that came from the other
Clan members went a long way towards lightening the burdens of Qethia's new life as a Ranger. The Adventurers Clan's Hall was enormous and breathtakingly beautiful. It offered luxurious surroundings in which to sleep, heal between battles, and exchange outlandish tales of extraordinary adventures with the rest of the Clan.
Although she often longed for Fidela's cheerful company, Qethia's homesickness and melancholy over her family's lurid scandal had dissolved like wood smoke in autumn winds once her Ranger training had begun in earnest. This new life suited her well, and she found herself swiftly rising through the Clan's ranks.
Qethia turned down the damp, shabby alley where the Questmaster lived. The other people on the alley appeared more aimless and less prosperous than those on the main street. One indistinct figure limping along in tattered rags seemed to stare briefly at her, and then disappeared into the mist. Qethia's fingers curled instinctively around the hilt of her sword. With an unconscious sigh of relief, she passed quickly through the entrance to the Questmaster's abode.
Floyd the Questmaster, a wizened little man with dishevelled grey cowlicks and disconcertingly sharp eyes, greeted Qethia from behind a rickety oak desk.
"Welcome back, my dear!" he wheezed. "Such a pleasure to see you again. Ready for another quest, are you??" There was the slightest hint of a sneer in his voice, for Floyd knew all the questors in Sendar, and was well aware of Qethia's inexperience. She flushed with anger at Floyd's impertinence, but held her tongue and nodded demurely to the elderly Questmaster. "Well then, Qethia, I have just the quest for you! Head for Abdul's Armor Shop in Tol Rane. Abdul requires someone with your qualities-you're the perfect candidate to run this errand for him."
"I accept this quest," said Qethia, and then curtseyed to Floyd out of a deeply ingrained habit. Floyd smirked as if at a private joke. Then, as Qethia turned to exit the building, his features changed into an open leer.
"Do remember to send me a postcard, won't you, Qethia dear?" he rasped.
She whirled to look directly at the Questmaster, her face impassive. "Oh, you will be certain to hear from me again, Floyd." She headed again for the door. Floyd opened his mouth to reply,
then thought better of it, for Qethia's parting words had left behind the echo of a warning rather than a promise.
Qethia exited the Questmaster's home with a giddy mix of anticipation and barely-contained fury. Her temper, it seemed, was increasing in direct and alarming relation to her Ranger experience. Heading east down the alley, she stopped briefly within the shelter of a dilapidated doorway to check her inventory of supplies. Satisfied with her preparations, Qethia walked swiftly north to Main Street, then turned east to begin her long journey to Tol Rane. To Qethia's dismay, the mist had developed into a soaking rain. Aggravated but determined, she pulled up the heavy hood of her Tolnedran army cloak and sloshed her way towards Sendar's eastern gate.
The Elite Legionnaires at Tol Rane's city limits peered insolently at Qethia's dripping, rain-soaked apparel, but let her pass through the West gate unmolested. Belar had smiled on her journey at last and let the sun break through the charcoal-grey rain clouds. She pushed through the front doors of the Warrior's Guild, and, with a small bribe to the attendant, was led to a private room where she could remove her sodden garments unobserved. Qethia shook out her damp, cropped hair with a quick, birdlike motion, then tugged dry clothing out from her knapsack to wear for her encounter with Abdul.
The weathered shutters of the armourer’s shop were closed, and a crudely painted "Closed" sign hung crookedly on the battered front door. Undaunted, Qethia ventured a knock. One of the shutters moved almost imperceptibly. Again, she rapped on the door. A deep, irritable voice rumbled,
"Begone! I will conduct no business today. Return tomorrow!"
"I am bound to the service of Abdul the Armorer," Qethia replied to the unseen speaker. "Are you he?"
The door swung open suddenly. An enormous, dark-haired man wearing a rust-stained undershirt and soiled leggings peered down at her. He looked distinctly unwell. "Has Floyd taken leave of his senses at last? He would have me send a scrawny young girl into the saloons and bawdy houses of Yar Nadrak?" Abdul shook his head. "Let Floyd select another for this quest. You are not fit for the task. I will have words with the Questmaster!"
Qethia was unperturbed by this outburst. "Judge me not so harshly or so hastily, Goodman Armourer." She met Abdul's bloodshot gaze evenly as she unsheathed her sword. "Arm yourself, and I will prove my mettle and skill against a seasoned opponent." Her blade flickered eagerly.
Abdul groaned. "My ale barrel sustained serious damage last night, and I have no desire to engage in idle swordplay with a cub ranger!"
Qethia reached into the pouch at her waist and produced a vial of rust-coloured fluid. "This potion will restore you, and then you shall tell me of your task in better health."
Abdul took the vial from Qethia and squinted at its contents. "This is one of Elvira's healing potions?" he asked suspiciously.
"Yes. It's very effective," answered Qethia. She looked at the ailing armourer with amusement. "I need this quest too dearly to poison you before I learn what is required of me."
Abdul appeared to mull over her words, then finally unstoppered the vial and drained its contents. His bleary, reddened eyes brightened almost immediately.
"That was a charitable act, if not entirely selfless in nature," Abdul grinned despite himself. "I know the price of that potion. Here then is your quest, headstrong girl ranger with a sword. You shall seek out Vella the dancer in Yar Nadrak, and return to me with the black leather ribbon she always wears." Abdul scratched himself indelicately and peered at Qethia. "Don't look so relieved. Vella doesn't give up her possessions easily, and her personal inventory of daggers is formidable. You'll have to step lively to keep all of your pretty, young parts."
"Indeed, I am attached to my parts, sir," replied Qethia dryly. She bid Abdul farewell, then headed for the noisy markets of Tol Rane. There were some crucial purchases to be made before she dared to face the beautiful and deadly Nadrak dancer.

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Qethia’s apprenticeship
A knock came at the door of Qethia's sleeping quarters. She rubbed her eyes and sat up blinking in the darkness. As awareness flooded her of what and where she was, she lit a candle, pulled on her robe and opened the door. Her Clan superior Rylas stood before her in the dim light of the hall.
"Good morning, Qethia. As you know, it is our practice in the Adventurers Clan to have our new recruits serve an apprenticeship to a higher ranking Clan member. That person has been selected for you by the Council. Dress yourself in your training gear and follow me."
Qethia quickly ran to change her attire, then obediently followed Rylas down the torch-lit hall to a door almost identical to that of her own room. Rylas knocked, and a tall, red-haired young man with piercing green eyes answered. He looked fully awake and ready for anything. Rylas spoke to them both.
"Maochro, we have chosen Qethia to be your apprentice for a period of three months. In that time, you, as mentor, are expected to pass along the benefit of your greater skills and experience. As you are both Rangers and both of Drasnian descent, the arrangement seemed appropriate. I am certain that you will both gain much from the apprenticeship."
Maochro bowed before Rylas and answered, "It will be as you say. I shall set an example for this young recruit as befits our esteemed Clan."
Rylas nodded thoughtfully. "Excellent, Maochro. The Council has great confidence in you." As he turned to make his way down the hall, he added, "Oh, and be sure to warn Qethia about your pet Gandaharian elephant, Belar. He's picked up some undesirable habits, particularly around our female Clan members."
Maochro tried to look wounded. "Surely you jest, Rylas? I trained him myself, from a pup!" He turned to Qethia and said, "Don't worry about Belar. He's just, er, friendly. Come along now, follow me to the Clan's training area. And please, call me Mao."
Fortunately for Qethia, Belar the elephant vanished from the premises the very next day, leaving only a few deep stains in the Adventurers Lounge rug. The apprenticeship slowly blossomed into a full-blown friendship between the two young rangers. Over the next three months, Maochro taught Qethia many useful fighting skills- how to parry a sword thrust, block powerful blows with a shield, and evade a dangerous opponent. Even better, she was learning how to use sorcery, which she found to her delight to be as useful as her quick sword in battle. However, there was much practice involved in the ways of the Will and the Word, and Qethia had to control her frustration over the slow, gradual process so as not to anger her patient mentor.
Maochro sat attentively in a high-backed chair and watched Qethia focus her will onto the platinum cutlass that was her current weapon. Over and over, she attempted to curse the cutlass, to no avail. She turned to Maochro in vexation.
"I feel so inept, Mao. Nothing's happening!"
Maochro smiled. "Keep practicing, Qethia. It won't get any easier unless you do." He looked around the practice room furtively, then said quietly, "You're doing better with your training than most of the apprentices I've had, Qethia. But understand that using sorcery is a completely new concept for you, and you must apply discipline to channel that strong will of yours."
Qethia nodded at her mentor, and gritted her teeth. She focused once more on the cutlass in her hands. This time, she harnessed her unruly will and let it build slowly, until she felt she could hold it back no longer without exploding.
"Curse!" she commanded, and felt the power of her will fly out and surround the weapon. A light blue glow emanated from the cutlass. In her surprise, Qethia tried to drop the weapon, but to her shock it remained in her grasp as though it were welded to her hand!
Maochro applauded. "Well done! That's exactly what should happen. You will find that a cursed weapon will prevent enemies from disarming you in battle. However, you're going to have to visit the healer or find a sorcerer to remove the curse before you can release that cutlass." He looked at her thoughtfully. "We may want to take care of that before dinner. Unless, of course, they're serving those leathery Algroth steaks again."
Qethia laughed merrily. "I'm going to miss having you as a mentor, Mao, even if you do have questionable taste in pets. You have a knack for diffusing my impatience and my temper, which is a rare gift, I can tell you. It has made so much learning so much easier."
Maochro stood up and bowed deeply. "One does one's best. Now, let's go find that healer."

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Qethia’s title
The bustling Sendarian port city of Camaar, the base location of the Adventurers Clan, had quickly become a second home to Qethia. She found herself charmed by its colorful citizens and well-kept park grounds.
The sunshine felt warm on her face as she lounged alone on her favorite wrought-iron park bench, blowing delicate smoke rings into the still air. She looked surreptitiously over her shoulder to make sure she wasn't being watched. The Clan's trainer had insisted that all apprentices and interns give up smoking for the duration of their training, but she couldn't resist the flavor of her favorite tobacco for long. It wasn't as though she had so very many vices to enjoy, Qethia mused idly as she watched two pale yellow butterflies flutter together in erratic circles above a clump of purple coneflowers.
The sound of angry raised voices coming from the Adventurers Tavern shattered Qethia's reverie. She took a last, brief puff from her clay pipe, then extinguished it regretfully and sauntered toward the source of the rapidly escalating argument.
Ordici was spitting mad. "It's not as though it'd be the first time you'd bought a keg of ale for an underage clannie. Don't act so morally superior!"
Maochro shook his head violently. "You can't handle your drink, Ord! I've seen you in action, you're a disaster. And besides breaking the local law, it's against Clan regulations!" He turned away as if to put an end to the matter.
Ordici was not so easily dissuaded. "And I suppose parking that elephant in the Adventurers Lounge just got you tons of approval from the Council!" Ordici's face was scarlet with anger.
"Belar was very well behaved, I'll have you know!" sputtered Maochro. "Wasn't he, Qeth?"
Qethia, having witnessed numerous such conflicts between the two rangers, simply yawned, then added, "Not so well-behaved that he didn't try to introduce his trunk to my cleavage the minute your back was turned!"
Maochro muttered something less than courtly in response about women who smelled of tobacco, then stormed down the still-crowded street with young Ordici in close pursuit.
Qethia shook her head in mild annoyance and took a seat at the end of the polished wooden bar. "A tankard of strong ale please, Maewin," she called to the tavern's owner, who greeted Qethia with a familiar wave and a smile.
Qethia was about three-quarters finished with her second tankard of the potent brew when her nostrils detected a whiff of a distinctly unwashed someone fast approaching from behind. Before she could react, she found herself accompanied by a scruffy, ardent and spectacularly inebriated stranger who was easily twice her age.
"Ehhh, what a nice bit of stuff!" the man belched unsteadily. "Looking for a sweetheart, Missy? Lemme buya lil drink and we'll be good pals, just youuuu...and me."
Qethia suddenly burst out laughing even as she automatically reached for her dagger. "Uncle Xak, you dog! How are you?" She gave him a fond hug. "Still uncontaminated by soap, I perceive?"
"S'bad for the skin, ya know," Xakyar grinned, suddenly not as drunk as he had originally appeared. "So how is life in the famous Adventurers Clan treating you, Qeth?" He ruffled her short-cropped curls. "Did they tie you to the barber's chair, then? You look so different. I had to look twice to make certain that I was offending the correct young lady!"
Qethia shrugged uncomfortably. "No, uncle, the haircut was my idea. I didn't recognize you at first either, with that billy goat's beard." She motioned to Maewin to bring a round of ale. "And the Clan's been a haven, in answer to your first question. How fares my aunt, and your brood of hellions, my cousins?"
"Ahh, your aunt is well," replied Xakyar as Maewin set two full tankards before the pair. "She's happiest digging in her garden, of course, and we all stay out of her hair when she's in there. And lo, my two eldest offspring are becoming civilized! Harbrek got married to the Mehndars' girl, Kisela. They have a fine son already! And Ehrlam is studying medicine in Boktor." Xakyar looked very proud. "He's making excellent progress, and will have his own practice soon!"
"How remarkable!" Qethia mused. "Imagine, Erhlam healing wounds, instead of causing them. And Cytrim, has he ever come down from that apple tree?"
Xakyar sighed. "No, except to sneak into the house at night for supplies. A steady diet of apples must become tiresome, after all. If I didn't know better, I'd swear he was part Dryad." He gave a sudden start. "I'd almost forgotten my news for you! Have you heard from your sister Fidela recently?"
Qethia shook her head. "No, not a word for over three months." She looked at her uncle worriedly. "Is my sister in some danger? Quick, tell me!"
"No, nothing like that, Qethia," Xakyar replied hastily. "Fidela was so miserable over your departure that she went to the royal family of Boktor with your tale of humiliation and disownment. They were most sympathetic, and she was taken in as a lady-in-waiting by our queen. Your father, they say, never shows his face in public any more, but instead sends his spies and servants out to satisfy his petulant demands. Anyway, about four months ago, Fidela disappeared from the royal court, with not a word of warning to anyone. Porenn will only say that she is well and resting, away from city life." Xakyar lowered his voice. "If I didn't know how scatterbrained your sister is, I'd suspect she'd joined the 'national pastime' of Drasnia."
Qethia nearly choked on her ale. "A spy? My sister? That's too absurd!" she giggled as she took another swig from her tankard. "More likely, she's been spirited away by an eager suitor. And if the queen says she's safe, I can believe it." She looked relieved, and flushed with ale. "Thank you for the news, uncle."
Xakyar looked sadly at his niece over his ale tankard. "We all know why you joined the Adventurers Clan and began your ranger training. Don't let your anger consume you, child. I tried to warn your mother before her marriage that she'd be miserable with that ice-blooded cur, and so she was. Try not to judge your mother too harshly, Qeth. It was an awful marriage that should never have been but for the lust of your father and the ambition of our parents. Perhaps her Nyissan lover was able to show her something of true tenderness between a man and a woman."
Qethia's eyes flamed. "Oh, I know what he showed her, all right. I intend to watch it lie bleeding in a ditch for about ten seconds before I gut him slowly with my favourite dagger."
"I fear for your future, niece." Xakyar let out a forlorn sigh. "Do you remember what Erhlam used to call you when you were children, playing at knights and dragons?"
Qethia fought off the emotional demons that were stealing her attention and looked fondly at her uncle. "Yes, of course I do."
Xakyar suddenly looked like an old, tired man, showing little of the vitality she'd always admired in him. "You all had fine, fierce titles. He was 'Erhlam, Swordmaster of the West'. Harbrek was 'The Mighty Godslayer'. And you were 'Qethia, Maiden of Mayhem'." He looked at his niece fondly. "Do your Clan mates call you that?"
She made a face. "They do sometimes, uncle. They like such titles around here, and I had that one handy, you see. But anyone else who addresses me in that manner runs the risk of nasty scars and severed plumbing."
Xakyar laughed uproariously. "Time and training certainly haven't mellowed you, Qeth, and no mistake! But please, on your next quest in Drasnia, can you visit our apple tree and tell Cytrim he can come down now?" Xakyar looked at Qethia imploringly. "Your Aunt Pelitha would really like to have her youngest son back."
"I will, if you think it will help," smiled Qethia wickedly. "I chased him up that tree with my sword four years ago for throwing rocks at a neighbour's cat. If he has no better wit than to remain there...well, the Dryads ARE always looking for a few good men. Although I hear they're not picky about the 'good' part." She reached for the bar tab, flung some silver coins onto the counter, and then walked out from the tavern's darkness into the Sendarian sunshine arm in arm with her favourite uncle.

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