Ashur, son of Vaundel Bowman and Olun Fletcher, was probably a normal boy. His dreams for his future were typical of a boy - and some girls - his age.

He wished to follow in his parents' footsteps, in hopes of gaining honor and glory for himself and his family, sufficient to increase their standing in society. In fact, he hoped one day he might even become a squire, or better yet, a knight.

He had normal hobbies too. For the most part. Though he was unusual - and unfortunate - in that he was afraid of horses. Being afraid of horses would also be a problem if he wanted to pursue his dreams of soldierhood, he was a strong runner. Stronger even than girls his age, for whom being good at things like that could be expected. More typical of boys his age, Ashur was good at archery. In fact, he was among the best in his village, in spite of a small handicap he had. He enjoyed hunting, which again was perfectly normal, especially now that he was alone. Most of the times he slept, he would dream normal dreams - or nightmares - of everyday activities, mostly about archery, soldiery or hunting.

True, he was sometimes plagued by vivid nightmares of the Lost City, but surely, everyone had something like that. How could they not, when they lived within eyesight of the most cursed place in all the land?

All said and done, contrary to appearances, Ashur, who was at the cusp of manhood, was, as far as he knew, a completely normal boy.

There was the matter of appearance though. Specifically, Ashur's appearance, which was pretty sarding far from normal.

On the one hand, if somebody who had never met Ashur before saw him for the first time from his left side, Ashur would appear to be completely normal. Taller and stronger than most boys his age, but neither the tallest nor the strongest. Both of those categories fell to Motrus, a beast of a boy who was also Ashur's best friend.

Beyond that, Ashur's left side would appear like a typical example of village youth in south eastern Haval. Dark brown hair that fell in waves or curls. A somewhat crooked nose from a fight when he was younger. The left half of a downward-turning mouth that still broke into smiles on occasion. A blue left eye.

His right side, on the other hand, was where the problems lay. His entire right side, arms and even hair included, was streaked with horizontal, pale scars that tapered into what looked like huge claw or blade marks. On his upper body, the tips almost touched his spine in the back, and covered half the breastbone in the front. On his right arm and leg, the scars were more even, looking like rings. The effect was to make it look like Ashur had once been shredded to bits, then put back together.

Finally, there was his right eye. Rather than being blue like his left, his right eye was yellow like the sun. More than that, Ashur had noticed he had to concentrate to see anything out of it. If he didn't, it would de-focus so entirely that it was as if he was one-eyed. 

In spite of these abnormalities, Ashur was a normal boy. At least, he hoped he was.

In the end, worrying didn't really matter. He would find out for sure in just under two months. Ashur was almost at the end of his Testing Years, and spring next year would be his final turn at The Sifting.

Each year had been a different test. One year, he had been invited to take a nap, simple as that. Another time he had been taken for a walk in the Lost Forest, the strip of forest separating his village from the Lost City. It was normally forbidden for anyone not on patrol there, but Ashur couldn't really say why. It was maybe a bit quieter than other forests Ashur had been in, but aside from that and the closeness to the ruins for which the forest was named, he couldn't say why it would be forbidden.

This year would be Ashur's final test, reserved for the oldest boys and girls who had passed all previous tests. Until he had passed this unknown test, Ashur could not claim a surname of his own, and would be referred to by his parents' names.

Ashur missed his parents. They had been away for the past three and a half years, serving in the Sacred Army that guarded the Last Border. According to the stories,it was a series of walls and fortifications along a narrow strip of land that separated the ocean from the sheer mountain range known as Anur's Shield. By the time his parents would be released from their turn at this duty, Ashur would have a surname of his own. Or he'd fail the test. In that case, his fate would depend on what was wrong with him. Wrong with his soul. But if he was unlucky, he'd be exiled to some barren island, dead, or worst of all, taken over by the spirit of a demon.

Ashur's first hunt without either his mother or his father with him had not gone off to a good start. He could still feel the spit where it had struck his pant leg as he was passing across the village grounds. Ashur didn't think Yula had truly meant to hit him as he passed by her house, but the old bat refused to apologize anyway. Instead, she had carried on scowling and turning her nose up at him as always.

Ashur had always known that the other villagers disliked and mistrusted him, but it wasn't until his parents had left to serve on the Last Border, far to the north-east, that Ashur had been made to feel just how little the others thought of him. Apart from his few friends, that is. Ashur felt compelled to remind himself of them. They at least didn't mistrust him for the strange condition he had been born with - horizontal pale scars in the shape of over-large claw marks that evenly covered the right half of his body. One such scar crossed over his right eye turning the iris a a deep amber, instead of the deep blue of his left eye. The discoloring even extended to his hair, which had two white stripes cutting across his far normal brown. Some of the other village youth had claimed that everyone thought evil spirits had marked him, even if they didn't go as far as making the claim he was demon-touched. Even for Ashur, the other villagers would have stepped in, at least for now.

Choosing then to ignore the incident with Yula, Ashur had continued, stopping only to pray to the appropriate shrines to pay respects and beg protection and leave to enter their domain before leaving town. The court of Cala, not being part of the civilized courts, were dangerous and unpredictable. Consequently, entering any forest was next to gambling with lit torches on a haystack. Still, hunting was necessary to feed the village, so the risk simply had to be taken by someone. And this way, Ashur got to be left in peace for a few days, when things got too hard at home. Like all hunters, Ashur had performed the necessary rituals of promise before leaving the warded territories. He'd have to perform more another ritual of thanks, delivering the tribute of blood before leaving the forest, and finally a purification ritual at the shrines before the village gate before he, or any hunter, would be allowed to reenter the village. 

So far today however, the hunt had not turned much at all. He might have to stay in the forest overnight, an incredibly dangerous prospect. But that was better than the alternative offering, if he came home empty-handed.

Had he perhaps made a mistake when he left? As Ashur had been performing the last prayer of promise, to the three great herself, a crow had landed on the roof of the small shrine. Though startled, Ashur had stayed very still, unwilling to upset the bird. Tradition held that crows and ravens were sometimes used as messengers by the goddesses of souls and dreams, respectively. Ashur did not want to take the chance that the crow was anything but. People disappeared or reappeared wrong often enough that he was not risking that.

They had stood there like that for several seconds, boy and crow, before it had cawed at him. Three times it cawed, and three times he flinched. Then it flew off, leaving Ashur with a chill running down his spine. If it had been a message, he did not understand the meaning.

He did, however, understand the dwindling pantry at home all too well. His parents had taught him better than to let it take so long, but Ashur had been putting off going for his first hunt alone. Today would just have to improve, or he would have to brave the night. Besides, the autumn air was crisp, and the skies clear. Those were undeniably good omens. At worst, surely the omens would cancel out? Telling himself that had made Ashur feel better. Good enough for the first step, and the next. After what might have been seconds, might have been minutes of weighing the omens in his head, Ashur finished the prayer to Cala, then set off for the forest, trying to outpace his doubts.

Now, hours later Ashur was having second thoughts. Was that a crow? It had seemed a little big, its beak a little wide, its plumage just a little too more prominent, than what he would usually except, but... 

A bush rustled just a few yards off to his left, cutting through Ashur's doubts. Ashur stopped dead in his tracks and listened silently.

Another rustle. Something small. A hare, perhaps? With glacial motions, Ashur readied his bow and put on the archery ring his father had given him as a parting gift. The ring was without a doubt his most prized possession. Made from soulwood, there was no finer protection for his firing thumb. Soulwood was precious enough that, if he ever were to sell it, he could probably afford a finer house than any in the village he called home.

He nocked an arrow in the customary male grip and, bow and arrow ready, Ashur closed slowly in on the source of rustling. Moments later, a hare sprang out from between the rustling bushes. It got barely two feet. Ashur suppressed a yell of glee. His spirits high, he made his offering. Blood dripped from the hare, seeping into the forest floor as payment for his permission to hunt. He breathed a sigh of relief. He wouldn't have to overnight after all.

But there was still plenty time left in the day. Maybe the crow had been giving a count of how much prey he would be allowed to hunt, or the number of chances? He fastened the hare to his backpack and continued hunting.

Another hour passed however, before anything more than birdsong sounded through the dense forest. Every now and then, Ashur thought he heard a cawing off in the distance. A black bird flew overhead, too quick for him to identify.  Noon was far behind him by now. Then, another black shape flew overhead, crowing as it flew ahead of Ashur. His skin prickled. Soon after, Ashur caught a rising racket ahead. filled with nervous energy, he nocked another arrow and ran ahead on silent feet to see what was going on.

Ahead, hidden by a fold in the terrain, Ashur saw a boar running, the top of it's back skimming the ridge. Animal screams and grunts filled the air along with the thuds of the charging boar. It was attacking something, though Ashur couldn't yet see what. Boar was good meat though, and if it was busy with some other animal, Ashur might get two catches for the loosing of one arrow.

Ashur sprang up onto the trunk of a fallen tree and aimed for where he knew the boar to be. He loosed as it was turning and hit it in the upper back. It squealed and grunted in rage and pain, disappearing behind the trunk of a great oak. Ashur nocked another arrow and got to the edge of the terrain dip that was hiding the boar and whatever it was fighting. Before he had even registered what appeared before him, the arrow was already embedded right behind the boar's skull. The animal slumped even as color drained from Ashur's face.

The boar had been attacking a pair of foxes. One was plainly dead, and the other dying. This was bad. Very bad. If any luck remained to Ashur they were just normal foxes. But it was well known that the fey, who could interact with, but normally had no bodies in the physical realm would sometimes inhabit the shapes of certain animals, foxes included. Some of the stories even claimed that foxes had been made by Cala herself, to aid her in the war on demon kind, when the world was young. If these two foxes were fey, then Ashur could be seen to have failed to aid them. Retribution would surely follow. Seeing no way out, now that he had so stupidly involved himself, Ashur approached the fox, trying to think of something to do.

The second fox had stopped stirring. A quiet curse escaped his lips, cutting the silence. The boar stirred. Ashur drew his knife and shoved it into the boar's chest, finishing the beast off and making an offering of its blood at the same time. He would need to give a lot for this one

While the blood was draining from the boar's neck, Ashur turned his attention to the two foxes. Both were dead, as he had feared. Trying ever more desperately to think what to do, Ashur decided to bury them according to village custom, at the foot of a tree in the middle of the dell, in between the roots. Then he murmured a prayer to the god of dead children, even though these foxes were adult. It was the only death god in the chaos court.

Once finished, Ashur stepped away from the grave. Hopefully, if there were any fey spirits within, they would be satisfied by his efforts. He was about to step away when he heard a new sound.

Ashur stood still, straining to listen. It was weak, and somewhat muffled. For a second, he thought it had come from the grave, but stepping to the side revealed the source to be further around the burial tree. Walking around it revealed a small bush. Under the bush was a hole, and in the hole was a small fox.

"I'm sorry for your loss, honored stranger" Ashur murmured for a greeting to the whimpering ball of red fluff, using one of the customary greetings for fey, "It seems to me I have just had to bury your parents." He could only hope the customs were correct.

Ashur hesitated, unsure what to do next. Most of the other villagers would probably leave as quickly as they could, praying to Muyun, goddess of souls, as they went. They wanted nothing to do with any risk of spirits entangling themselves in their lives. Fox fey especially were known tricksters and mischief-makers. 

As he thought of the villagers, Ashur could almost feel the spot where he was spat on tingle. Memories of bruises from when he'd last been ambushed by the other village kids seemed to ache anew. Why should he care what they would do? Why should he mimic them? He tried so hard every day to just fit in. Keep his head down, survive. Get over his fear of horses and train to be one of the baron's archers. Get out of this stinking village and find a place his own. And they treated him with the same suspicion they would this fox. Now he was all alone in the forest, with no one to judge him. No one to tut or ambush him. So what if he did as he wanted for once in his life? 

Ashur turned back to the boar and carved off a piece of the boar's left foreleg. He lay it in front of to the fox kit, then waited. It took a short while before it reacted, but eventually a small snout peeked out from under the fox's tail and sniffed the air. Finally, the fox stood up on its forelegs and began to eat, tearing off strips of boar meat and coloring its white muzzle fur red with its blood. Ashur breathed out a sigh. This felt like the right move, folk tales be damned. He could probably take the rest of the boar and - 

The fox was hurt. A gash on its foreleg surrounded by fur matted with drying blood. It must have been hurt by the boar. That would explain why the parents of the little fox had died fighting the boar. They were protecting their child. 

Despite his apprehension and learned fear of the fey, Ashur reached out to it slowly with one hand, digging in his medicinal pouch on his belt with the other, and spoke in quiet, soothing tones. He retrieved a small roll of linen his mother had taught him to prepare before each hunt. It was treated with a poultice to soothe pains and aid in healing. 

The fox jerked back at first, suspicious of the stranger. Ashur almost left then and there. Eventually however, with patience and soft-spoken words, they both worked up their nerve, or so it seemed to Ashur, and he managed to bind the wound. The small fox stepped gingerly on the hurt leg, then dragged the last chunk of meat into its den and lay back down. Ashur left, deciding that he had spent any luck or blessing he might have had on this misadventure. 

Only as he was getting close to the village, the sky darkening, did it occur to him that if that had been a fey, he had most certainly caught its attention, and had risked the attention of the members of the court of chaos. Cursing himself for a thrice-damned fool, he hoped that he was wrong. That the crow - or as he was becoming increasingly sure, raven - was just a bird, and that the fox was just a fox. Or that if he wasn't so lucky, that it would be like one of those stories were the fey paid him back in kind somehow, and then the story would end there. With no further attention, and no further games that he would be forced to play for the amusement of whatever fey took notice of him.

In the south-eastern region of Haval, the second largest country on the Aylanian subcontinent, there lay an isolated village that was special in the way nobody wants to be special.

The village had no village god.

Not for lack of population. Every other village of its size had a minor god, connecting it to the court of the great god of will, Anur. In this way, the village had a certain protection from dangerous spirits, or worse yet, demons. In spite of its size however, the village had no god.

The wild woods, the forests surrounding the village on three sides, were also not to blame. Though ancient and deep, filled with competing spirits and fey creatures, with only a single road in and out of the village to connect the village to the rest of Haval, the village still ought to be capable of sustaining its own god.

However, the village had no name. Without a name, the seed required to birth a god was missing.

This begged the question, why did the village not have a name?

The answer lay on the fourth side of the village, to the east. There lay a second forest, distinct from and separating the other two that surrounded the rest of the village. No spirits nor fey entered there. Even regular wildlife was markedly less abundant there. The reason for this was plain to see for anyone who entered the village, even though the forest looked no different.

The village was at the western end of a long, gently curving valley that widened and deepened as it extended east. On the eastern end, in the middle of the Lost Forest, there was a small height close by a great lake. On that height sat the Lost City.

Abandoned since the Great Fall many hundred years ago, this city now hosted only a single being, a living storm of death, made by the spirits of the dead. The people called it the Great Wraithstorm, or simply the Wraithstorm, when they had to name it at all.

There were several types of spirits in the world, that could be more or less divided into certain groups. The divine spirits, with the three chief gods at the top of their hierarchy; The wild spirits and the fey; the demonic spirits and the human souls they tainted; and finally the souls of living and dead humans. The Wraithstorm belonged to this final category, but if they came too close to the city, it could consume any lesser soul that came too close, even divine ones. Therefore, the city did not have a name. Without a name, it would have no god. Without a village god, there would be less risk of the Wraithstorm growing beyond its current size.

It was in fact the duty of this nameless village to ensure as much. Most of the grain and produce it consumed was in fact given by neighboring towns as payment for this service. Otherwise, several of the villagers would hunt in the wild woods, careful to pay the necessary respects - and actual payments - to the spirits that dwelt within.