Sciurus Family/Alair

Alair Sciurus
Status:	Alive
Continent:	Beluaterra
Realm:	Riombara
Titles Held:	Viscount of Ardmore
Class:	Warrior
Honor:	*
Prestige:	*
Age:	*
Height:	5'8"
Weight:	130 lbs
Eyes:	Dark brown
Hair:	Wavy, dark brown

Lord Alair Sciurus is Viscount of Ardmore and the younger brother of Macrinus. He is quite ambitious but socially withdrawn. Alair chafes under his brother's leadership and is eager for a chance to make his own name. His patron deity is Loki.

Tales of Alair

On Strange Lands

Alair Sciurus watched the sun rise over the roofs of Donghaiwei and wondered how everything had gone so wrong.

By now the great battle would be gathering on the far-off continent of Atamara, once his home. All he had wanted was to join his elder brother Macrinus, who would no doubt be covering himself with glory. He knew the land better than anyone, it would have been so easy to raise a squad of infantry and cut a rough country path to the front swifter than a deer. But his father had refused.

He had not meant to argue with his father again that night, but the old man was deaf to reason. Too many winters and too many battles had stolen the temper from the steel of Sir Marten Sciurus, leaving him hard but brittle.

"We have spoken of this, Alair," said his father with tones of warning. "Your brother will represent House Sciurus in the field and you will remain here. There will be other wars. There are always other wars."

"But not like this one!" Alair had protested. "Every singer in the realm tells of this battle and how its like will not be seen again in living memory. Even the lowliest footman in this battle will be as exalted as any member of a Great House. Let me go and win glory for House Sciurus!"

"Singers do not die on the battlefield, and I alone decide what serves the glory of House Sciurus. This talk is over."

A madness must have seized him then, and Alair staked everything on one last desperate roll of the dice.

"Then give me my share of the inheritance, father, and I will seek my own glory."

It was an ancient request, one that by tradition no father of House Sciurus could ignore. For a long time Sir Marten said nothing, his face growing red with rage. When he spoke his voice was dark and heavy.

"Do not go down this path, boy. Do not speak words that cannot be unspoken."

"I am no boy, I am ten and seven, a man grown. I know what is mine by right."

"I will not allow this!" his father roared.

"Give unto me as thou wouldst give on thy deathbed," Alair replied. His voice was steady and even as he invoked the ancestral ritual. "I shall receive from thy hand, and go forth, and I shall become as one dead to thee."

By the laws passed down through the generations of their House, no father of Sciurus could refuse his son the Right of Inheritance. But the laws were cruel and his father had rights as well. He could take any action to protect the name of his House from dishonor, even the killing of a son. Now everything fell to Sir Marten, and to the gods.

"You know nothing of death," he said dully. "To a young man it is just another word."

Alair waited, and said nothing.

"You will have your rights, and your gold, and you will have my doom as well. I will not throw away coin to be trampled into the mud of a battlefield, nor will I send my own blood to be captured by the enemy and ransomed like some precious babe. You will take what is yours and you will ride to the nearest port. There you will board a ship and sail away from the land of Atamara, I care not where."

Sir Marten's tone did not change as he slowly drew the long knife at his waist. "And if from that day forward you set one foot upon this land, you will know what it truly means to be dead to me."

Just like that, dreams of victory and glory turned to exile and disgrace. Alair had pushed his father as far as he dared, he could not defy him in this and hope to live. When his father's men escorted him to the harbor and found the first ship leaving for Dwilight, Alair was put on it. The boy he had been was cast off, thrown into the sea and drowned. He was dead to his father and to his House.

Now the man who had climbed out of that sea watched the sun rise as one who had never seen the sun before. The soldiers his inheritance had bought, his Long Knives, milled around in the dawn light striking their camp. They were nearly wild men, from a land that was nearly wild itself. They are my men, Alair thought, and I will hone their cutting edge until it gleams.

He shouted orders to his squad and mounted his horse. Now the world would see how a dead man lives.

(8 May 2008)

On Training and Monsters

Captain Levin's greatest fault may have been his lack of imagination. Any other soldier might have turned a lost ear into a long, inflated tale of prowess and courage in the face of overwhelming odds. Levin freely admitted that his had been lost in a bar fight over a pair of dice that came up sixes just a little too often. Levin had no time for tales. He was decidedly unimaginative and uncomplicated, a career military man with a mind of iron and boiled leather.

Alair Sciurus watched now with fascination as the captain chewed a strip of sweetbark. The ruined stub of his left ear bobbed up and down in time with the slow rhythm of his jaw. At least it was more entertaining than watching his men. Levin had put the Long Knives through their paces, drilling them for merciless hours with wooden swords, but at the end of the day it was hard to see what he accomplished other than putting a few more dents into their already battered armor. From the look in his eyes it was apparent that Levin shared his commander's assessment.

"Will they be ready, captain?" asked Alair.

"No, sir, in a word," the captain replied, ever efficient. "They won't be ready tomorrow, nor the next day. If I had two months and a bottomless purse I could maybe train them to win a pie fight at a Mayfair."

"By all means, speak freely captain," said Alair, mockingly.

The captain continued as if he hadn't heard. "Some of the men know their way around a sword, I'll grant that. The rest know which end to hold. They'll stand against the countryside rabble, why not? But they won't be ready for monsters. No, sir."

Alair raised an eyebrow at that. "Captain, you surprise me. I had not thought you would be taken in by hysterical peasants' tales of things that lurk in the dark."

Levin now regarded his commander warily, as if sensing a trap. "With all due respect, sir, the commander is only recently come to our realm. He had not yet arrived the year the monsters nearly tore Morek asunder."

"I have heard the stories."

"Aye, sir, but there's stories and then there's stories. I took a wound early in the season and saw little on that campaign but the inside of a healer's tent. Cursed myself for an unlucky fool at the time, but maybe luck was with me in truth. I did see the poor boys came back from those battles, or what was left of them at any rate." The captain's eyes unfocused a bit as he brought back the memories. "I thought I had seen every way that men could take apart other men, even those mad western pagans." Levin spat on the ground devoutly. "But what had been done to those bodies was not something that men do. The survivors would say little, but every man among them looked as though he had aged twenty years in two months." The captain shook his head to clear it. "The commander will call it what he wishes, but monsters is good enough for me."

Alair stared at the captain for a moment, trying to take a new measure of the man. Of course all the soldiering of a lifetime did not make Levin any less peasant himself, but in many ways the man defied his upbringing. His hatred of pagans was bright and clear, the sentiment of a man who had only recently embraced Sanguis Astroism, Alair thought. Truly there was no zealot like a convert. The captain knew the names of his men and diligently saw to their needs, but he rarely drank with them and never gambled with them. It was not that the loss of an ear had dulled Levin's enthusiasm for games, it was that he never put himself in a position where he could take from the men under his command.

He treats them the way a father should treat his sons. Alair quickly brushed the thought away.

"Fair enough, captain. Keep drilling the men, to occupy their time if nothing else. On the eve of our march I will pay them and let them find entertainment in the villages. When the battle is joined, keep them in box formation to minimize losses and hold them together as long as you can. If our unit can not do its job, at least it can buy the archers enough time to do theirs."

With that dismissal, Alair walked back towards his tent. Winter had come to Morek and the roads were a deep, wet slog of mud and slush. It would be a full day at least to cover the treacherous march from Cailyn to Nimh, and who knew how long they would wait for more forces from Huanghai and Zhongyuan before the order to march was given. Alair suspected it would be time enough for tales of monsters to grow more hair and longer teeth.

Alair looked up for a moment to where the Bloodstars shone brightly in the west, then he let the tent flap close.

(13 May 2008)

On The Nature Of Stars

Captain Levin stared into the night and struggled to remain calm. In over two decades of soldiering, he thought he had seen every way that a man could break down, but the change in his commander was making him more nervous every day.

Levin remembered how he had pegged Sir Alair Sciurus the minute the young lordling first marched into the recruitment center. Rash, hungry, full of piss and vinegar he was, looking to carve out a piece of the world. Dozens just like him. But this knight pup had shown a good eye when he enlisted seven of the most promising recruits in the building to fill out his unit. Levin had been intrigued by the lad's instincts, and by the loose strings of his money purse. Not cautious with his gold was Sir Alair.

But almost right away the trouble had started. Their march south to the front at Shomrak had been interrupted by news of monsters rampaging in Nimh, and of course the stripling knight would have nothing but to turn and throw his new army into the jaws of battle. The men had not been ready, it was plain to see, and Levin had protested as much as he dared. In the end he could do nothing but grimly order the charge on the fields of Nimh.

On the first day the Bloodstars had been good. Miraculously, the Long Knives had held together despite heavy casualties. Their young commander had acquitted himself well in what Levin suspected was his first real battle. But that night Sir Alair had contrived to redeploy his unit on the front line in a defensive posture. While the rest of the infantry moved forward to mob the small number of creatures, the Long Knives would not advance, instead guarding the archers from an enemy breakthrough and conveniently suffering fewer casualties in the bargain. The whole idea had troubled Levin. Their commander talked like a man looking to outsmart himself.

Sure enough, that night in the panic of the monsters' charge, the men had forgotten their orders and marched -- marched! -- to meet the fiends head on. The slaughter among them had been fearful, and none were standing as the next line of infantry came to their rescue. Levin shook himself out of the memory that was horrible yet familiar. After all, he had suffered many a highborn lord with rocks in his head, dreaming of war as some bloody great tournament. This lad seemed to have more sense than most and if one of his plans had failed, so be it. He would learn.

But one disaster followed another. Sir Alair immediately had ordered the march for Donghaiwei to refit, ignoring Levin's calls for patience and the snow that piled up in their path. Each morning Levin had brought his report, telling of another man fallen dead of his wounds. Each morning Sir Alair had listened, first grinding his teeth in frustration, then sitting in stony silence, and finally simply... disconnecting. The lad no longer sulked or pouted. Human emotion vanished in the way he clinically observed his troops; indeed Levin could almost hear the sound of beads clacking on a counting rack as each thought slid into place. And his eyes-- they reminded Levin of iron bolts, dull and hard.

"You are not asleep, captain," came a voice suddenly at Levin's side. A common man might have jumped completely out of his skin at the shock. Sir Alair had made almost no noise in the darkness.

"Aye, sir," Levin managed. "I was contemplating the Bloodstars before turning in."

"Were you." Sir Alair spoke with no emphasis whatsoever. "I too have contemplated the Bloodstars these many nights past. How brightly they do shine."

Levin had not truly noticed the red stars hanging in the western sky. Of the three, the Austere and Auspicious stars were faint and dim. Only the Maddening star shone brightly. Somehow he found this profoundly disturbing.

"In the east they have no Bloodstars," Sir Alair continued. "The people would think of worshiping three red eyes in the west as unspeakable blasphemy."

"Aye, sir," said Levin. And then, desperately: "What gods do they worship in your homeland?"

Sir Alair turned a piercing gaze on the old soldier. "I have no home, captain. I am reborn from the sea. Dwilight is my land now, and the eyes of blood that look down on us both will see me through to my destiny. When one day you stare into the eyes of your destiny, will you blink?"

Levin said nothing. He could only stand, rooted to the spot by those blank gray eyes.

Eventually Sir Alair nodded. "Very good, captain. In the morning we reach Donghaiwei where we will rest and repair. The new recruits have been trained enough. By sunset tomorrow I will have new orders for them and for you."

That dismissal broke the spell. Levin snapped a salute and walked briskly to his tent. Once inside, he secretly opened the flap a hair's breadth to watch as his commander continued to gaze unmoving into the west. He watched for a very long time, and his feelings of dread grew.

(23 June 2008)

On Partings

Alair Sciurus stared out over the ocean, into the west. "I am decided," he said to the steward. "Let me be that I am and seek not to alter me."

"But sir," flustered the steward, "of course you know that this is most unusual. If I am brought before my lord First Minister and questioned, what am I to tell?"

"Tell him the truth," replied Alair, slowly pulling his eyes from the horizon. "Tell him of our talk here. Or tell him I went mad and threw myself into the ocean. It matters not."

Alair turned his attention to the pier and the few ships laying at anchor here in Darfix. The roiling anarchy of this heathen port city frightened off all traders but the most enterprising or the most desperate. Here a "harbormaster" meant any man who could summon enough accomplices to knock holes in your boat while you attempted to cast off, unless of course you could meet his price. So different from the port of Donghaiwei held in the iron grip of the zealots of Morek, miles and miles away. So different, and yet both places held the same energy that made the very air of this continent shiver, the same promise of glory and power hanging just out of reach.

Aliar shook his head slowly. "I do not belong in Dwilight," he said, firmly. "My destiny is not here. I will trust my fate again to the sea, to bring me to rest where it will."

Faster than the steward could follow, Alair paced along the docks. He stopped at last at a small, plain merchant vessel and began talking with the captain. The steward did not hear most of their coversation, but as he approached the captain exclaimed angrily, "I said fifty gold for yer passage and not a copper less!"

Alair seemed undisturbed and offered the captain a leather bag. "And if I work for my passage?" he asked. "How far then will this get me?"

The captain peered inside, weighed the bag and finally spat on the dock approvingly. "Aye, this will get you on me ship, though it may be long before ye get off again." Alair nodded once and spat in the same place as if some sort of bargain had been sealed. The captain indicated his first mate and motioned for the young noble to board.

The steward had time only for one last warning as Alair stepped onto the gangplank. "He will cheat you, sir," the steward huffed. "He will hold you for ransom or murder you in your sleep."

And for the first time in almost a year, Alair Sciurus laughed. "You should know I have no name to ransom and no life to steal. I died to my father last autumn and now I die to you as well. Go home, you old fool, and ask yourself what it is that you live for. If I am ever reborn on these shores, I will find you and have your answer."

And with that he was gone below decks. Minutes later the captain paid off his extortionists, wrestled his boat free from the pier, and drifted away toward the open sea. The steward could only watch, and wonder.

(30 June 2008)

On Reunions

It was not unusual for military men to ask after a particular trading ship. Many trader captains were known in military circles for their reputations, political leanings, or ability to pick up bits of information at certain ports. Nor was it unusual for troop leaders to request permission to come aboard, the better to conduct certain dealings in private. It was so ordinary, in fact, that Alair never even bothered to look at them anymore. He did not notice immediately if a commander walked with a certain limp, or carried on his badge a certain device of a golden squirrel sejant erect over a divided field of red and silver.

But faces, those he never forgot.

"You," Alair breathed as he found himself face to face with his father's old lieutenant.

Barnabas, Captain of the Guard of House Scuirus, said nothing. His eyes quickly flickering, took in the whole of Alair's appearance in moments. Anyone might have been excused for at least showing surprise at the sight of a son of noble birth dressed in the dirty outfit of a common sailor. Barnabas, to his credit, restrained the impulse to slap his young charge.

"Come to finish me off, then, Barnabas?" Alair asked, mockingly. "I suppose my dear father will no longer abide the shame of a son who squandered his inheritance leading men to their deaths?"

Barnabas betrayed his struggle to stay calm only by a twitch of his mouth and another at his right hand. "Your father is dead, sir," he replied. "I'm to bring you back to Caergoth by order of your brother, Lord Macrinus."

At this news Alair searched himself for some memory of his father, some feeling, and found nothing at all. "Three years ago my father and brother died to me, and I to them," Alair sneered. "Tell me, what does my great brother need with a dead man to beg the scraps from his table?"

"M'lord's plans are his own," Barnabas ground out the words. "I'm only sent to bring you back to him. Sir."

"Well tell your lord to get used to disappointment," shot back Alair, sarcastically. "I can not possibly break my contract of employment with the captain of this fine vessel."

Now it was Barnabas who smiled like a wolf. "Sir, I think it's you who will find yourself disappointed. Your captain gladly tore your contract to pieces once he learned your life was worth more than a mummer's fart to an actual noble house. Your new career could now be called 'noble hostage', and if the captain goes unpaid he might be tempted to find out just how dead you really are."

Alair became aware of the ship's captain, standing just within earshot, punctuating Barnabas' speech by scraping his long knife over a whetstone. I am stuck again, he realized at once.

Alair changed his tactics. "Tell me Barnabas," he asked smoothly, "what great and honorable region is my brother now Lord over?"

"M'lord is newly created the Viscount of Wynford. Did I say something funny?"

Alair was now laughing too hard to breathe. Wynford! How could Barnabas not appreciate the irony of returning to the very region where three years ago he had placed Alair on a ship bound for Dwilight? Not glorious Riverholm, no, his father had wanted a quiet departure from the fishing piers of Wynford for his dishonorable son. And now he was going home though the same door, no longer the back door of disgrace but the front door of a warm family welcome.

"Why did you not say so, dear Barnabas!" laughed Alair like a madman. "By all means, take us back to Wynford, and to my long-lost brother!"

(29 September 2008)

On The Future

Alair sleeps, and dreams.

He is walking down a long staircase made of stone. Step by step he descends, passing floor after floor of an impossibly huge building. Servants are everywhere, busy at their errands. They pass him going up the stairs and he catches glimpses of them down long hallways. They hurry but they do not speak and their soft slippers make no noise on the stones. Servants in his father's house do not make noise, else they are beaten severely. Alair has never seen this building but it must be his father's house.

As he descends the servants are fewer. Their clothing is less rich, threadbare and tattered, their faces become ashen and lean. Soon there are no more servants, no more halls, no doors or windows. Only step after step after step leading down.

Now the stairs are gone and he is below. There are no rooms, only row after row of vaulted arches that march out into the darkness. The row in which he stands is lit by torches creating a single hallway of light that stretches before him and behind him as far as he can see. Somehow he knows this is a crypt, a resting place for the lords of House Sciurus since ancient times. A voice cuts through the silence.

"Wars are won by force of discipline, not force of arms." It is his father's voice. Sir Marten Sciurus speaks from the darkness not ten yards to Alair's right. His voice is clear and cold, carrying the faintest note of disapproval as always it did when he was alive.

Sir Marten continues, "The footman does not fight with his sword; he fights with his will. The archer does not aim with his bow; he aims with his mind. The horseman does not charge with his lance; he charges with his courage. These are the weapons on which a leader trains his men."

Alair looks for his father but the light of the torches blinds him. He could see his father if he just takes one step into the darkness--

And Alair is on a battlefield facing wave after wave of enemy troops. His men lock shields as he has taught them and hold their ground. The enemy crashes into their line and breaks like water on a cliff. Again and again they come, but the line holds. Alair shouts encouragement and rallies his men, standing tall in their midst like a hero of legend come to life. At the sight of him the enemy hesitates, falters, retreats. His men press the advantage and the rout begins. Alair takes one step back--

He is in the crypt again, peering uselessly into the gloom while a torch burns next to his face. Suddenly the voice of his father speaks again, now ahead of him and to the left.

"The span of a man's life is but an hour to the gods," instructs Sir Marten. "Each year is no more to them than a single minute. Every day of suffering we endure flicks past in the barest fragment of a second. A truly great man will gladly bear his mere hour of mortal pain to gain an eternity feasting with the gods in their mighty halls."

Always lecturing me! thinks Alair. Does he think I know nothing? I learned the mysteries of the gods before I could ride a horse. I will walk out there and tell him what I think of his--

Alair is preaching to his flock in the town square. He is a holy messenger of the gods; some call him prophet, some whisper that he is part god himself. His voice carries out over all the throng, now raining down fear and fire, now falling low so that the crowd must press in to hear every word. When he judges their emotions to be nearly at a boil, he rips open his robe of rough homespun and picks up a short lash of braided leather. Methodically he begins to strike himself on the back, the arms, the legs. The sight of blood whips the crowd into an ecstatic frenzy of righteous zeal. He is dying for their sins, and they love him for it. Alair is jostled and he stumbles--

The dream-within-a-dream blinks out again and Alair shakes his head to clear it. The crypt is cooler now than it was. The torches still shine but their light seems not quite as dazzling as before. As he squints his eyes he can see a little further into the darkness on either side but still he sees no sign of his father. Presently the voice speaks again to his right.

"For every job there is a perfect tool," Sir Marten intones. "For every problem, a perfect solution. For every goal, a perfect strategy. Know yourself and you will know the instrument of your purpose."

Why does he keep moving around? Alair wonders. Does he not want me to see him? He reaches one arm out into the black--

With his arm raised in proclamation, Alair prepares to give judgment. His people have come to him, their ruler, asking for his guidance and wisdom. He is known far and wide for his unmatched ability to bring order and harmony to their chaotic lives. He listens to their problems, questions each party keenly, and then hands down justice that is firm but tempered with kindness. He treats them as a father should treat his children. The people hear his words and marvel at the insight behind them. His duty finished, he lowers his hand--

The crypt is growing uncomfortably cold. Alair hears the words, "The gods write no histories. All the works of our lives mean nothing if there is no man to remember them when we are gone." The voice is near. Sir Marten could be standing right behind him.

"You are dead, father!" shouts Alair. "Go away!"

"You might as well be dead too, for what little you have done with your life," says Sir Marten, addressing him directly for the first time. "I will go, but first you will answer me one question: Who are you?"

One by one the torches are burning out. He can see a black wall at the end of the hallway of light, far away but approaching quickly. He draws himself up straight and replies, "I am Alair, of House Sciurus."

"Is that all you are, a name?" asks Sir Marten, mockingly. "The world is shaped by deeds, boy, not by names. Who are you?"

The light is growing dim. Desperately he cries, "I am your son and the heir of your house!"

"My son is a lord in his own right!" thunders Sir Marten. "His infant daughter will be the heir of my house! Who are you?"

Now the darkness is closing in. Next to him the last of the torches gutters and fades. Suddenly Alair is calm, at peace with the darkness. He knows the answer. As the light dies away he calls it out into the void:

"I am the future!"

Alair opens his eyes. He stands in a nameless forest on far-off Dwilight. All around him the voices of his men cry out like lost children from the woods. They are scattered, ambushed by fell monsters before the first morning light. They never had a chance. I did not dream this, thinks Alair. This already happened. This is a true thing.

He takes a step and stumbles over what remains of Levin. His captain has been torn open from right shoulder to left hip but somehow still lives. Levin is trying to speak but the words choke in his throat. It sounds as if he might be begging Alair to come near, saying, "Close, close." But Alair knows that the word is not "close". The word is "claws". Long claws.

The cries of his men are swallowed by the forest as they are hunted down one by one. Alair has led them to this. He has failed. Surely this can not be the future? What can the gods mean to show him this? Behind him a fallen branch breaks with a loud crack and slowly he turns around.

When the creature breaks through the underbrush, Alair begins to scream, but he does not scream for very long.

(12 January 2009)