Ala'a Dawnchaser's page

At just a few inches past six feet tall, Ala'a is short for an elf but still towers over most other denizens of Athas. Lightly tanned skin stretches over long, graceful limbs that move with the precision of a dancer. Long, black hair frames a heart-shaped face with delicate features. Her gray eyes flash and burn the color of fire when the spirit is upon her and she sometimes decorates her face and arms with paint that echoes the curling flames of a bonfire.

Her clothing is light and loose, designed for blocking the hot sun and allowing her to move swiftly through the desert. High leather boots, weathered but well-made, pair with tight-fitting trousers and a sleeveless top that bares her lean arms. A leather jack studded with carved bone fits tightly over her chest. Her hooded cloak is dyed a mottled gray to blend in with the sand during the day and night, but Ala'a has stitched scraps of red ribbon inside - when she dances the ribbons flutter like sparks from a fire.
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Clack-clack-clack.
As Ala’a watched from the scant shade of the ruined parapet, the elf child directed the herd of kanks through the chute, tapping a long wooden stick on the hard shells whenever one started to slow or wander. The sound brought back memories of her own childhood, grazing the Dawnchasers' kanks in the scant scrubland in the foothills of the Mekillot Mountains. Other members of the Sky Singers tribe had taken to trade, bartering with the slow races in the dark markets of Nibenay. But the Dawnchaser clan kept to the old ways, raising kanks and raiding the slow-moving caravans that traversed the wastes.

”Stay here, among the beasts, where their shells will protect you from the humans’ arrows,” her mother told her, the flush of battle visible on her tawny skin. “I will return when the fight is won.”

Already tall as a man, 10-year-old Ala’a crouched among the kanks and watched as her mother ran toward the cluster of elves and humans battling in the dusty wash. Her mother’s sword, Ash-Caller, rose and fell, painting crimson lines on the sand and the bodies of her opponents. The fight was over before it began. The elves would celebrate tonight, then carry the new trade goods to Nibenay for others to sell.
*****

Ala’a could feel her father’s eyes on her back as she twisted and swayed. The clan’s senior windsinger, Ula’ato hoped the ancient steps of the dance would lead her into communion with the same spirits that spoke to him. The larger tribe favored worship of the flickering flame, but Ula’ato thought the wind would lead the Sky Singers to a better path.

Muscles burning, Ala’a couldn’t care less about the future of the clan. All she could think about were the missed steps, the red flush of shame as the teacher corrected her. A hot knot of anger settled in her belly as she caught another glimpse of Yu’uko’s smirk. Bedding her fellow student had seemed like an entertaining diversion at the time. He’d thought it was more - it had taken a knife in the thigh to convince him otherwise - and now took every chance to embarrass her.

The fire in her belly bloomed, spreading heat into her veins as she leapt high. Legs folding gracefully into the fifth form, Ala’a swept her eyes across the crowded tent, wishing she could escape.
*****

The air throbbed around her, but Ala’a knew it was the beginning of heatstroke, not a sign that the some wandering air spirit had finally answered her call. After two days on the sun-baked precipice she was no closer to communing with the wind than she had been when she started. She knew she wouldn’t last another day - what would her father’s shame look like when she returned empty-handed?

Ala’a shook her head, eyes still closed, trying to banish the image from her mind. The movement stirred the air and she caught a scent - smoke. She opened her eyes and saw a thin thread of smoke rising from the bowl of incense before her. She’d brought it as an offering to the wind, but the sun refracting through the glass beads of her necklace had kindled it, turning the incense into food for the flame.

Ah, she thought, understanding blossoming as she leaned forward and inhaled the tiny flame. Burning, it ate the breath in her lungs before she exhaled, spreading fire to the scrub brush clinging to the cliff. She rose, legs unfolding gracefully as seed pods crackled and split on the branches, new life born from the flames.
*****

“You already have a wind singer to train and half a dozen dancers, father,” Ala’a said, shifting her pack to the left shoulder and turning toward the door of the long tent. “There’s no room for me here. And the fire calls me elsewhere.”
She knew without looking that the last comment would have put a scowl on Ula’ato’s face. Her mother had simply nodded and hugged her when she told her she was leaving. But Ala’a knew her father wouldn’t let go as easily.
“Then join the dancers in one of the other clans in the city, if you want to serve the flame,” he retorted, eyes flashing in anger. “Do not abandon your tribe and head out into the wastes a lone runner. Do that and you may never find your way back.”
“That may be, father,” she said, he gaze softening as she risked one last glance over her shoulder. “But I fire burns on the horizon and I must run to it.”
*****

Crack! Crack! Crack!
The weathered door of her room bounced and strained each time her brother slammed against it. But the agafari bar across the door held and eventually Tsu’uto gave up trying to break it down.
“Damn you Ala’a. I gave you the shield and I can damn well take it back,” he said, his voice shaking with rage and the lingering effects of the cayo dust he’d been snorting. “If I don’t pay Havel’s gang he’ll cut my hands off.”
Ala’a traced the the carvings on the back of the layered agafari shield as her brother’s pleas turned into defeated sobbing. When she was a child Tsu’uto had named each of the carved constellations for her, telling her stories about how he had used them as a map as he traveled the cities of the Tyr region. He’d gifted it to her on her 16th name day, before he’d left the tribe to smuggle spell components and mind-altering herbs with a gang of outcast elves in Tyr.
Visiting had been a bad idea, after all, she thought as she gathered the shield and her other belongings and move to a window that overlooked the alley behind the inn. The drop was only 15 feet or so, and it would spare her seeing the wretch sobbing outside the door.
*****

The fire burning in her eyes illuminated the gith as they leapt over their fallen comrades. Four lay dead in the sandy canyon, killed by Ala’a’s blood-covered blade or scorched by her magic, but half a dozen remained. Too many, she thought, as she clutched the ragged hole over her ribs that one of the dead ones had made with its obsidian spear.
She dodged a spear-thrust and leaped over the whistling sword of another gith before a third smashed her with a stone-headed mace. She felt the bones in her shoulder crushed as her shield fell uselessly to her side.
“Hikkash vikkar tokkraz!” she screamed, cursing the gith with the tongue of fire as they moved in for the kill.
A clap of thunder answered her screams. The approaching gith jerked and fell, eyes bursting as a stroke of lightning blasted apart their purple flesh. Ala’a dropped to her knees, blood loss causing her vision to blur. A robed figure approached, using a tall staff to push aside the corpses of the gith.
“Faruush … kakkar … vosh,” Ala’a whispered, unable to raise her sword.
“Soft, soft, my lady of fire,” the old man said, kneeling and placing a cool hand on Ala’a’s brow as he pulled a fruit with strangely mottled blue skin from his pack. Piercing the skin with a fingernail, he squeezed a few drops of the juice into Ala’a’s mouth before twisting the fruit into two halves that he pressed into the wound in her side. The nectar burned like acid as it trickled down Ala’a’s throat, but her vision began to clear.
“Quite a lot of trouble you have found for yourself,” the old man said, a grin spreading across his weathered face. “Lucky I arrived when I did. If you are feeling up to it, perhaps we can move on to an oasis I know not far from here. Then we can discuss a way you might pay me back for such a timely rescue …”
*****
“Alright. A share for Voss, a share for Duuk, a share for me and a share for the lovely Ala’a.”
Ala’a couldn’t help but smile as she took the small sack of ceramic and silver coins from Marek. The Urikite trader met her smile with one of his own, white teeth flashing as he raised a mug of thin ale for a toast.
Ala’a raised her own mug before throwing back a mouthful of tart sapwine. She considered her companions and - not for the first time - marveled at the twist of fate that found her sharing a table with a dwarf, a half-breed and a human.
“To a journey well-run,” she said, holding her mug out for Voss to refill. The half-elf grimaced - the closest she’d seen him come to a smile - and poured another measure of sapwine into the ceramic vessel. A former slave, Voss had had his tongue cut out by templars before his talent with the Way grew strong enough for him to escape.
“You were the only one running, elf. The rest of us had sense enough to climb on a kank,” Duuk said. The dwarf’s smooth, tan skin was flushed from the broy he’d been drinking. He’d be passed out under the table soon, but seemed to be enjoying himself.
“And yet I still had to stop and wait for you sand crawlers,” Ala’a said, throwing a glance at Marek. The human was as slow as the rest of his kind, but more quick-witted than most. Not altogether unpleasant to look at either, she thought, as she took another long drink of wine. Perhaps later she’d see how well he could dance …
*****

Ala'a stared at the small porcelain urn. It seemed impossible that her mother was gone. Her long, lean arms, her black braids, the soft skin below the below her wind-chapped collarbones - all gone, reduced to ash to be scattered on the wind.

"Vengeance will not bring her back, daughter. It was Muuton's damn feuds that led to her death. Do not seek more blood that must be paid with your own."

Ula’ato's grief was etched into his face, as if the tears had carved away the flesh like acid. He seemed old, suddenly, as if the week since her mother's murder had taken decades from him.

Ala'a pushed him away with a sneer.

"You want peace? Now that someone has murdered my mother and more than a dozen others of our clan? If that's what the wind tells you then I could not be more thankful I cannot hear its counsel."

She picked up Ash-caller and shook it free from its leather scabbard. Dried blood had caked on the carved bone sword, marring the long, straight blade and the razor-sharp edges her mother had honed so carefully. Alma'ata had fought to the last and her father had put the sword away without cleaning it.

"Izzarak!" Ala'a spit the word, her tongue twisting into the fire's speech as her anger swelled. A spark landed on the blood smeared across the blade, bursting into flame. Shouldering the pack with her mother's armor in it, she let the burning brand lead her into the night.

She ran half the night before making camp, eager to put the Dawnchasers and Nibenay behind her. There were no answers there - the chieftain's advisers had questioned everyone they could and still had no real idea who had slaughtered their clansmen while the bulk of the tribe was away from the city.

Some thought it might have been the Clearwater elves, eager to put down a competitor, but Ala'a could not believe other elves would engage in such butchery. No, her silver was on House Stel. The Urikite merchant house had been feuding with the elf clans for years and would not hesitate to stoop to murder.

Summoning another spark in the darkness, Ala'a set her mother's sword alight once again. When only ashes remained on the ivory blade, she set to work with her whetstone. Urik, then, though she thought she might stop off in Altaruk or even Tyr beforehand. Her brother ought to know, she decided. And Marek had talked of running a caravan to Tyr, hoping to capitalize on the demand for weapons and food in the wake of Kalak's death. He was from Urik. Perhaps he knew someone - or was owed a debt by someone, more likely - who could help her find answers.

* Personable and outgoing but willing to cheat the stupid as a matter of course; prone to impetuous action while relying on a quick blade and quicker tongue to help her out of trouble; slightly hyper-active and stir-crazy
* Never a particularly devoted student, she is broadly skilled but not very focused; she's become practiced at lying, sneaking and observing others by doing those things frequently; she's just as good as she needs to be at most other tasks
* Pays lip service to typical elven prejudices, but as something of an outcast herself she's willing to give most individuals a chance to prove her wrong

Otuuk fe! Kank rider!
Gotii Outsider
Egotti Less than an outsider
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Athuum Sand crawler
Jukkete City dweller
Ud’Raan Half-elf
Kuu datto Swift as a human