Day 1

I have determined to make a new start for myself. My old journals and everything else will be burned. All that is left of my past life are my six-shooters and my good friend Fritz. The rest have abandoned us.

We are staying at the Tattoo Birdie but we cannot afford it for long. Have to find work soon or hit the road. Don’t know why I don’t. We have been here long enough already.

Maricia (01.00)

The Lady Maricia Jen Faddak spent much of the early evening studying reports in her antechamber. The Moon Room, she liked to call it, for the holes carved in the white marble ceiling and shaped to match its phases. Pale silvery shafts of cloud-glow shone through the curved transoms and pooled on the floor to make this the brightest room in the apartments she shared with her husband – the White Chambers of Faddak, a suite of rooms made from white marble, set in the heart of the otherwise drab stone castle she had called home for the past twenty years. She sometimes imagined that this is what it would look like in the lands beyond the protection of the gods, with the brilliant moon lighting up the night-time almost as bright as the Day she had heard returning soldiers speak of.

Maricia herself was held to be among the most beautiful Ladies in the kingdom, and not just in the flattery that every noblewoman comes to expect. She was tall enough that she had to refrain from heels, so as not to overtop her husband, and her features were exceedingly fine for one of so young a line. Her eyes were unusually large, even for an orc, so that they seemed like twin pools of darkness that drank in everything they saw. Her hair, shimmering black, cascaded down the sides of her head and neck to the small of her back so thickly that one might think that it grew from the whole of her head, and not just the center and sides that was typical of her people. Tonight, she wore a simple high-necked gown of such pure white it seemed she shone in the darkness.

One document in particular troubled her: Mareed had suffered a dramatic increase in raiding over the past year and she doubted that Lord Kazarr could be convinced to do anything about it. True, Johnest could order him to take action, and Kazarr would bluster and stubbornly deny the issue’s ever having been brought to his attention but grudgingly admit that there might be something he could do. And then he would return to his own lands and within the month there would be another petition from his people on her desk.

Perhaps she could persuade the goblins of Mech’Ta to settle the land north of Mareed. They would do nicely as a buffer. Of course, something else would be needed to sweeten the deal, but –

The door to her right – made of genuine wood and therefore very expensive – flew open with a bang as Johnest stormed in, rage marring his normally handsome features. Of late there had been only one individual who could make him quite this furious. “You have been arguing again,” she observed mildly, not rising from her seat.

“That boy is a fool! Or he thinks that I am,” he said, voice harsh, anger flashing in his large, dark eyes.

“Well, it does mean a lot to him.”

“I do not care how much it means to him. He has no right to make such demands!”

“He is our son!”

“Not by law. Not by any law of gods or men.” Johnest began pacing impatiently in front of her desk. “I have treated him more than generously, far better than most would. He should be grateful and instead he grows more arrogant with each night!”

“The Conclave –” Maricia made an effort to calm herself. She had vowed that she would not allow herself become involved in this dispute between her husband and her son, but it seemed she would not be permitted a choice.
“The Conclave says that he will be very strong when he is grown to his full power. A little arrogance is to be expected. Especially given his birth,” she added reproachfully, to he who had never been humble in his life.

“When! When he is grown, not now! Right this moment he is still but a child, and – and…” he sighed, seemingly at a loss for words.

“Perhaps we should wait until later to discuss this,” she said gently. “When we have both calmed down. Has he brought it before you in court yet?”

“No, he has not, but I mean to have the matter settled as quickly as possible. Very well then, we shall discuss it later.” Johnest turned and left the room almost as quickly as he had entered.

She sighed and tried to get back to her work. It was not really Medoll’s fault. He had been so crestfallen when the Conclave had discovered that he was one of the gods’ chosen, and thus unable to inherit land or lordship. Maricia felt that this scheme of his that had caused so much trouble with his father must surely be an attempt to recapture the glory that everyone had said he was destined for.

He had always been ambitious too, even for a Great Lord’s son. She could still remember when he had tried to climb the great Sunspear trees in the garden. She and Johnest both had demanded an explanation from him, furious that their heir would risk his life so, yet at the same time pleased that he showed such spirit. The young Medoll – gods! He could not have been more than seven! – had simply answered “To see the sun.” Ambitious indeed, few who were not soldiers saw it even once in their entire lives. Maricia herself certainly had not – she was deemed too important to risk on so frivolous a journey.

Nor could she bring herself to blame Johnest for his part in the problem. When she had first come to Faddak to wed its prince she had listened closely to the talk of the servants, to discover what manner of man she was to spend her life with. Johnest had turned out to be every bit as hot-tempered as rumour had him, perhaps even more so, but he was never violent. She supposed her father must have known all this, or he would never have agreed to their marriage no matter how advantageous it was for him, but it had not occurred to him that his daughter might also be anxious about her the nature of her betrothed.

Still, his temper had caused more than a few problems with the lords under his rule. Several of them seemed to believe that provoking Johnest to rage would make it easier for them to get what they wanted, but if anger clouded any part of his mind, it was mercy and not his wits that suffered. A few of them had even realised this.

She sighed again, realising that she would not get any more work done until she cleared her head. The clock on the wall showed that it was only just past midnight, plenty of time for a walk before the dawn.

Maricia chose not to leave the Moon Room through the door Johnest had used, that led deeper into their apartments before offering an exit, instead using the door at the far end of the room. Immediately on the other side she found herself surrounded by the black basalt that was more typical of the castle. The darkness of the corridors was soothing to her eyes after spending the past two hours in the Moon Room.

Her wandering feet took her near to the large chamber where Johnest held court with his lords, called, unsurprisingly, the ‘Great Hall’. She could hear shouting coming from within, from quite far away. Apparently, when she had suggested that he calm himself down, Johnest had decided to do so by venting his rage on young Lord Jeshkar Kavrail. The fool deserved it anyway – he had come to petition for a raise in taxes to make up for the poor harvest this year. Johnest would not give it to him, of course. If he did, there would be rioting for sure.

The sounds of anger faded away as she glided through the castle, eventually coming to a balcony overlooking the garden at its heart. Maricia had always found the gardens of Faddak to be a restful place; somewhere she could escape to for a few hours when she needed some time alone. From her vantage point on the balcony she could see far beyond the castle walls to the north where the ground dropped away from the plateau on which the Faddaks had built their castle. To the south, and her right, the view was obscured by the rising smoke and dull red glare reflecting off the ever-present clouds that signified the activity of Diolymn, the fire-god of House Faddak. She smiled faintly, amused – out of all the peoples of the Dark, only the Faddaks would worship a fire-god. His mark was even on their banners: a smoke-wreathed flame on a field of black. Behind her there was only stone, while ahead she could see nothing beyond the dense stand of giant Sunspear trees that rose at the heart of the garden, each of them many times older than her house. Their crowns stood high above her, piercing the thick, low blanket of clouds that protected them from the sun’s harsh glare. The priests called it the Shield of the gods. Without it they would be laid bare to the sky, and their lands would be overrun by the hordes of the gods of Light.

Murmuring a quick prayer of gratitude, Maricia lowered her eyes from the sight overhead. ‘That is not my concern,’ she thought. ‘I have problems of my own to deal with, starting with this ridiculous argument between John and Medoll. The priests can take care of themselves.’ She shivered. Perhaps she needed to visit the garden itself; the wind up here was certainly not doing her any good.

She stepped back from the balcony and strode to a nearby stairwell, descending perhaps a half-dozen flights or more she reached ground level and the garden itself. Much of ground here was carpeted by a messilia plant, its enormous dark leaf feeling invitingly smooth through her slippers. She slipped out of them and skipped forward, feeling almost a girl again. The atmosphere of this place was so undemanding that Maricia felt as though the weight of nearly twenty years as Lady Faddak had lifted from her shoulders the moment she stepped within its walls. She moved forward happily, almost dancing, and not even caring if the guards watched her from the battlements. It was strange, she had often thought over the years, that the one place in the castle – if any – that should belong most completely to the Faddaks themselves should call out to her with the voice of home.

Perhaps a dozen yards into the garden she passed through a large patch of pillar-plants with straight yard-high black stalks, to where they merged into leafless wintershade, the near lightlessness under the wintershade’s canopy prompting Maricia to stop momentarily and marvel once more at the beauty of this place. Over her years at Castle Faddak, Maricia had often taken note of the struggle for territory between the pillar-plants and wintershade in this part of the garden. Of late the pillar-plants seemed to be winning, while the messilia so prevalent everywhere else appeared to have given up entirely. For what must have been the thousandth time, or even the ten-thousandth, she wondered which would win in the end: pillar-plants or wintershade? Perhaps the struggle would simply continue until the castle crumbled to dust around them and the endless day came to burn them all. It was an ominous thought.

And then she was at the center of the garden, almost before she realised it, with nothing but the Sunspears themselves before her. They were an imposing sight, effortlessly dominating the garden with their presence, and no self-respecting House’s seat of power would be complete without them. Planted when the castle was built, the Sunspears served as a sort of marker advertising a House’s age and power and any rival family taking the castle would be sure to raze them to the ground. Her own birth family, House Pelto, was only three hundred years old and the Sunspears at the Maw were yet to pierce the clouds. Castle Faddak was an old place, and its Sunspears were rumoured to soar far above the Shield.

She put her hand against a trunk to feel the smoothness of its bark, but a noise caught at her attention. It sounded like breathing. Quietly, she made her way through the trees to see who it was, stopping by the surprisingly narrow trunk of a Sunspear in the innermost ring of trees. The mystery breather turned out to be her firstborn son, Medoll Ju Faddak. Once prince of Faddak and heir to one of the largest and richest lands in the kingdom of Therail, now, by the will of the gods, nothing more than a humble apprentice of the Conclave. At least, apprentices were meant to be humble, but not even Maricia could deny that her son’s arrogance was often irritating at best. He lay facing up at the sky with his eyes closed, apparently fast asleep. She turned to go, but he stopped her.

“Mother” he said in that quiet voice of his, “Stay, please.” His eyes still had not opened and she wondered briefly at how he had known she was there, but of course the Conclave must have taught him some of their tricks by now.

Maricia suppressed a sigh and padded over to sit beside him, this was not something she wanted to deal with right now. ‘I just wanted to think things over in peace and quiet. Was that too much to ask? I guess it must have slipped my mind that this is his favourite place too,’ she thought ruefully. For the first time since she had arrived he sat up and looked at her.

“You have spoken with Father.”

“Yes,” she admitted. “He is most displeased with you.”

“When is he not displeased at something?” the boy laughed bitterly. “It is what he does.”

“Please… you must not…” she struggled to find the words, angry at his lack of respect. ‘Damn him! Why must he be so difficult?’ “Do not think ill of your father. Johnest… he does his best, but… you know what the lords are like.”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Yes, I know how they are. You must speak to him for me.” His sudden change of tack caught her off-guard.

“About what? This project of yours? No, I cannot, I –”

“Please.” The naked pleading in his voice shocked her almost as much as the fact of his interruption. Medoll never allowed anyone to see him as vulnerable. “You must. I need this. He will deny me without your support, you know he will. The gods count me no son of his, and now that he has granted me lordship of Arazie, I fear that he will be especially harsh with me so as not to show favour.”

“That is your father’s choice, and his right. If any of his other lords came to him with such a foolish request he would deny them out of hand.”

“I am not any other lord! I AM his son!”

“Medoll!”

“Please, forgive me Mother, I… it is just… my towers will not be foolish. They will demonstrate the power of House Faddak for the whole world to see. Tell him that, Mother; tell him that I will make you both proud.”

“Very well then, if you will not be dissuaded…” he shook his head slightly in response. She stood, brushing dirt and twigs from her clothes. “Then I shall speak to him on your behalf. But, please, bring it before him tomorrow. I will have an end to this foolishness” she emphasized the word deliberately. “One way or the other.”

“Tomorrow! But that is not long enough t –”

“Tomorrow” she said firmly, and strode off before he could utter another word.

Maricia fled the garden feeling confused, overwhelmed. For the first time since her arrival it seemed alien to her, claustrophobic in spite of the open design. Even the dark of the wintershade did not excite her as it usually did.

Desultorily she retrieved her slippers, acutely aware of imagined eyes on all sides, desperately seeking a way to accomplish the task she suddenly found herself saddled with. Trying to convince Johnest to change his mind on anything was well nigh impossible, but this, this he had refused even to hear out. Nevertheless she would try her best. “He causes me nothing but trouble,” she muttered, unsure of which of them she meant. Probably both.

Johnest had been serious enough about calming down to go and have a yell at Lord Jeshkar, so if he were following his usual pattern he would be in the Little Tower – so named because it rose only a little way above the White Chambers in which it was situated, even though it was one of the highest points in the castle. He always went there when he felt that serious thought was required.

Johnest was indeed where Maricia had expected, staring out the south window when she entered, watching the smoke rise from Diolymn’s Mouth. “Is it not beautiful, my dear?” Maricia personally found that the glare hurt her eyes, but it was not done to speak ill of your husband’s god. “Impressive,” she murmured dutifully.

“Yes, Diolymn has grown hungry often, of late.” She said nothing in response, but stepped closer to be by his side. “Is there a problem? You look distressed.”

“I… found Medoll in the garden.”

“And? Have you convinced him to put this folly about towers behind him?”

“No, no, but I told him to bring it before you tomorrow when you hold court.”

“Good. Then it will be over with. I had hoped to spare him public humiliation, but so be it.” ‘This is it.’ She took a deep breath and plunged in. “Are you certain that you have given Medoll’s proposal due consideration? I feel that perhaps you may be overlooking some of its merits.”

“What merits? Have you taken leave of your senses?” he snorted. “If my heir had proposed such a fortress I may very well have agreed to it – I may have – but he must be treated as the Lord of Arazie, and as Lord of Arazie he proposes to overshadow the power of my stronghold!”

“But also as Lord of Arazie he can have no heir.” It hurt her to say that, but not only was it true, it would help both of them. “When Medoll… when he passes on, Arazie reverts to House Faddak.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded, “but have you seen the estimates of how much that monstrosity will cost? The boy would have me beggar my lands for him!”

“He must bear the costs, of course,” she said quickly, “but I have seen his plans too. Medoll does not plan to impoverish only us; he intends to seek aid from any lord he can lay hands on. In particular, he wants to borrow labourers from my father.” Johnest met her wry smile with one of his own – the first she had seen on him in days. There was no love lost between Houses Faddak and Pelto, despite her marriage with Johnest. “Do you believe that Medoll could persuade Lord Veshtar to give them to him?”

“Of course,” she purred. “Once construction is complete, those towers will make his grandson a powerful lord in his own right, and you know how ambitious my father is for his family.”

“Indeed. He sent you to me, did he not? But he already has a grandson destined for greatness. Once Kalter inherits Faddak he will be one of the mightiest lords in the kingdom.”

“Kalter has no reason to be grateful to him.”

“While Medoll will allow Veshtar to believe that he does? I see where you are going with this, wife. Veshtar is no fool, and however much we may all want to see Medoll do well, his plans gain nothing for House Pelto.

“Very well then, if I approve his petition he shall receive no aid from me. Medoll must negotiate his own funds, just as any other lord would be required to.”

“You will approve, I know it.”

“Enough! Do not push too hard or you will lose what you have just gained.” He held up a sheaf of papers for her to inspect, papers she had not even realised that he was holding. “Perhaps we should speak of other matters now.” His tone softened, becoming more amused. “Just how much of my land did you intend to give to the Mech’Ta?”

“You know that that is not always the way it goes.”

“Well, we do not have a daughter, and even if we did no orc would ever deign to marry a goblin whatever the circumstances… Perhaps if they were allowed to work on Medoll’s towers?”

“Oh? Why would they want to do that?”

“Goblins never want to miss out on anything,” he said dismissively, turning back to his contemplation of the view. Johnest seemed to have completely forgotten Maricia’s presence, and he began muttering half under his breath, obviously caught up in what was to him the most pressing problem of the moment. “Who could I give to Diolymn? There are no prisoners left from the last raid… hmm… perhaps… No. I must ask who he wants.”

Maricia crept out quietly, not wanting to disturb him, but when she reached the base of the Little Tower – only one level below – he called out to her: “Don’t forget to close the door, dear.” She shook her head in bemusement. Even if she lived to be a thousand she would never understand this family. But she did close the door.

Tesses

The Tesses exist in a "Psycho-emotional Visualization Matrix", an infinite plane of featurelessness. Not so much characters as commentators, the Tesses often appear to introduce new chapters of the comic. Each represent an aspect of the author's personality. There are six Tesses in all each named after the personality aspect they represent: Artsy, Pessimist, Anth (short for Anthropologist), Priestess, Hacker, and the one without a name.

Artsy Tess

Artsy is the most flamboyant of the Tesses. Obsessed with Artwork, writing, and everything creative, Artsy can be thought of as the "muse" of the group. She is also the most mischievous and unreliable. Early in Novella, Artsy steals a purple kimono from sleeping Anth, despite the fact Anth was wearing the kimono at the time. For this and other reasons, her relationship with the other Tesses is strained. This especially true with Pessimist, although the two share a bizarre kind of respect.

Due to her obsession with all things creative, she doesn't concern herself with economic and health concerns. Artsy is known to forget to eat and sleep during her creative reveries. Her favorite food is high-end dark chocolate.

Artsy (left) and Pessimist (right).Pessimist Tess

Pessimist is the most practical and reserved of the Tesses. She often dresses in business formal and is a stern taskmaster. Pessimist insists on extensive planning an preparation before embarking on any task. This often causes friction between her and Artsy, as the latter of the pair prefers to do things off the cuff. Artsy once described her as a "stale loaf of dry Wonderbread".

As her name implies, Pessimist has a pervasive negative outlook. She is convinced that without proper planning, any effort is doomed for failure. The more fantastical the effort, the more she is convinced of it's eventual failure. Pessimist is cited as the primary reason for delays in the comic in previous years.

Anthropologist Tess

Anthropologist is the quietest and more academic of the Tesses. Her clumsy name has led Artsy to refer to her as "Anth", much to Anthropologist's annoyance. She often spends her days reading books about cultural Anthropology in her study. Despite the interest she takes in the subject, she often falls asleep while reading. Artsy took advantage of this once to steal a purple kimono from Anth. Her favorite subjects are Ancient Civilizations, particularly Ancient Egypt. She also is fascinated by far-east cultures including Japan.

Despite the taunting from Artsy, she does not dislike her. Anth prefers to see both sides in any conflict and resolve them calmly. For this reason she often tries to resolve arguments between the Tesses, particularly Artsy and Pessimist where she has met with limited success.

Priestess Tess

Normally calm and serene, Priestess spends most of her days meditating. More accurately, attempting to meditate. Scwabbles between Artsy and Pessimist have often frustrated her efforts.

Hacker Tess

Skilled in all things electronic or mechanical, Hacker Tess is rarely seen. It is assumed that her job as a Software Consultant takes most of her time.

Unamed Tess, "Samara"

Considered the most dangerous in the group, this character is shown chained at the wrists and ankles. She isn't known to have a name, although some refer to her as "Samara", due to an uncanny resemblance to a character from the file The Ring. It is implied that she once held a stranglehold on the others, although the details of this are scarce.