Welcome to the World of Merab, where magic abounds!
In ancient days, the magic of Merab ran wild - flame and water battled earth
and wind, man and beast confronted one another, and magical creatures stalked
the earth. It was only after three powerful women banded together to harness
the worlds natural magic, that peace and prosperity reigned. From that day on,
Merab has been ruled by three Queens - descendants of those first powerful
women - one Queen on each of Merab's three continents. Nature has a way of
providing checks and balances, though, so while the women rule, it is Merab's
men who wield the magic.
Merab's three continents contain three very different types of magic. The magic
of the first continent, Emetra, is manifested in the elements: Fyre, Rayne, Aire
and Earth.
The Queens of Merab: Temair's Fyre
Queen Akasha has decided it is time to retire to the country with her four consorts.
This puts Crown Princess Temair in the unhappy position of having, in a limited
time, to choose her four consorts and take up the reins as Queen. She is NOT happy
about this.
Temair, along with her cousins Nuriel and Sorcha, must now go on an Emetran Tour and choose a man from
each of the four noble houses. Her first stop is Fire.
Because Temair has no interest whatsoever in choosing a man, Nuriel and Sorcha take up the task. Their
criteria is simple: he must be beautiful and romantic, like a hero from one of the romance novels Nuriel
devours.
Excerpt:
Temair placed her hand on Vashti’s arm and allowed him to lead her down the winding corridor that led to
the heart of House Flame’s power. She would have preferred to go to her chamber and read a bit before bed
– she would have preferred to be almost anywhere else besides with the insipid Vashti – but Nuriel had been
so excited when the young Fyre Lord had offered them the tour, that Temair hadn’t been able to say no. Now,
as they entered the large chamber, a sullen crimson glow lit the air painting everyone in its light with the
suggestion of heat.
She heard Nuriel’s indrawn breath behind her, and Sorcha’s little hum of approval and suppressed a
smile. Of course Nuriel would be entranced by the near naked men diligently working with the flames. Even
Temair had to admit they were an impressive sight. And Sorcha would admire the dedication of the men
training.
“This, of course, is the seat of our power.” Vashti had kept up his narration for the bulk of their tour. Temair
knew that most women would be caught up in the sound of his voice, the expressions on his boyishly
handsome face. She just found him puffed up and tedious.
She gave a little sigh and tried to look attentive.
“The men of Fyre,” he continued, “draw their magic from the sacred flame.” He indicated the deep pit
where the crimson glow originated. “Depending on the nobility of a man’s birth and the extent of his fire he
might need to be in close contact with the flame in order to access his magic.” He gave her a self-satisfied
smile. “I can access my fire from anywhere on the estate,” he murmured suggestively. Nuriel gave an
appreciative giggle. Sorcha gave a decidedly unladylike snort. Temair just rolled her eyes.
In an attempt to keep from giving voice to a rather sarcastic comment, she cast her gaze around the
chamber. Everywhere she looked, men were training. To one side, a good looking man was carefully
winding a whip of flame around his body. The flame originated in a pillar in one palm, crawled up his arm and
across his shoulders. It was clearly supposed to continue down his other arm and pool in his opposite palm,
but the man cursed foully as the flame sputtered, flashed over his torso, and then died.
Vashti laughed a bit mockingly, and Temair liked him even less.
In another corner a pair of slender youths shot balls of flame at each other in rapid succession. As each
mass of fire approached, the young man in question would attempt to capture the flame and turn it back on his
attacker. One of the combatants lifted a hand and closed a fist around his adversary’s fire ball, extinguishing
it neatly. Both young men shouted in victory, pausing in their mock battle to exchange a high-five that shot
sparks in a halo around them.
Temair had never really considered the military implications of Fyre House. It was obvious to her that the
men of Fyre were training to use their flame as a weapon, and from what she’d observed many of them were
becoming quite adept. She didn’t know whether to feel comforted by this development or, in light of the
rebellion, a bit threatened.
As the two young fire warriors danced around each other in infectious joy, another man entered the
chamber. Temair’s gaze snapped back to him as he gave one of the celebrants a sharp rap on the back of
the head and muttered, “Act like this during battle and you’d be dead.” The boys stopped their capering,
looking abashed. Temair paid little attention to their guilty looks. She was riveted by the new arrival.
He was taller and broader than most of the men in the room. His hair, bound in a warriors knot on the top
of his head, was darker than any she’d seen since her arrival at the Noble House, darker even than Vashti’s
deep flame red. This man’s hair was nearly black, the color of rubies over black silk.
His skin was the fair, milky color of a natural red-head. Lighter even than the cream of Sorcha’s
complexion, and lacking her friend’s generous smattering of freckles. No, this man’s skin was flawless,
stretched like shimmering velvet over a set of muscles put on breathtaking display by the brief loin-cloth that
was his only concession to modesty.
Temair’s eyes helplessly traced the silky looking line of dark hair leading from his navel to the low band of
natural cotton.
She knew the exact moment he became aware of their group. He was warned by Nuriel’s appreciative
whisper of, “Oh, my.”
His eyes, the glowing blue of gaslight flame, flicked disinterestedly over them all. That incandescent gaze
dismissed Vashti contemptuously, skimmed over her entirely and lingered over Nuriel and Sorcha with
predictable appreciation before passing on in disinterest.
For the first time ever, Temair felt a flicker of jealousy over her friends’ extravagant beauty.
“Who is that,” Nuriel breathed, and Vashti heaved a put-upon sigh.
“That’s just Miach,” he muttered, clearly resentful.
“The eldest son?” Sorcha questioned.
“Yes,” Vashti snapped an irritated bite in his voice. “The glorious eldest son.”
Miach had strode to the fire pit and was holding one hand over the blaze.
As Temair watched a slender thread of flame wound up from the pit and wrapped lovingly around his arm.
Temair felt her own flame, a legacy from her Fyre Lord father, flicker deep at her core and blinked in surprise.
She’d never felt one of the elements so clearly.
Miach moved to face another man, also clad only in a loincloth and rope of fire, and bow respectfully. The
man returned the gesture, and the two shifted into graceful positions facing one another.
“What are they doing?” Nuriel breathed, as Miach and the rather lovely man he faced each raised an arm
behind himself, arching over in a pose that reminded Temair of a scorpion ready to strike.
“Fyeria,” Vashti answered in a bored voice.
“Fee-etta?” Nuriel questioned in her best little girl voice. Temair was too interested in the reply to roll her
eyes as she usually did when Nuriel went all helpless female.
“Fyeria,” Vashti repeated slowly. “It’s an archaic fight style that some of the more obsessive compulsive
males have adopted.” Most of the men who’d been training or just hanging around the area had moved to
circle the two combatants. One of the young fyre-warriors Temair had watched earlier began a rhythmic
clapping and was soon joined by the others. In seconds the chamber was filled with the deep clapping and
stomping of dozens of hands and feet.
Miach and his opponent stood poised for a long moment then, as if by some invisible signal, both
exploded into motion. The men passed each other in a modified cartwheel, bent arms used to propel them
upward into elegant, flaming arcs.
“It’s like the dancers at dinner,” Sorcha noted, and Vashti nodded.
“Exactly. It’s considered a cultural art more than a legitimate form of combat.” Miach chose that moment to
prove his brother wrong, springing lithely into a handstand and executing a series of leg-scissoring kicks that
knocked his opponents face from one side to the other. The other warrior dropped to the ground, and Temair
assumed the match was over, but she was wrong. Instead the fallen man caught himself on one hand, elbow
bent, and spun to knock Miach’s hands out from under him. Miach tumbled into a graceful fall, immediately
rolling to his feet to repeat the bent-armed cartwheel that seemed to form the base of the fight style.
“It looks pretty combative to me,” she murmured. Vashti gave her a startled look; she hadn’t had much to
say all evening, so apparently he’d thought she couldn’t speak. Nuriel nudged her shoulder and gave a soft
sigh.
“It looks pretty sexy to me,” she murmured back.
“Oh, yeah,” Sorcha added. All three women laughed quietly.
“Well,” Vashti interrupted rather loudly, “if you like that sort of base entertainment. Personally,” he took a
hold of Temair’s arm and began to lead her rather emphatically from the chamber, “I prefer more cereberal
pursuits.”
“Um,” Sorcha choked back a giggle. “Do you mean cerebral?”
“Right,” he responded. “Like I said.”
Temair didn’t bother to pay attention to the rest of the conversation. She was too busy looking over her
shoulder at the battle still taking place on the floor. Miach had paused, frozen for a split second while dodging
a spinning kick from his opponent. As she watched, his fire-whip curled the length of his arm, crawled over
his shoulder and pooled in his other hand.
He turned his head abruptly and their eyes met for one scorching second where he seemed to really see
her. Aside from her parents, no one really saw Temair when Nuriel and Sorcha were around, and Temair had
always liked it that way. Now, with Miach’s crackling black eyes burning into her, Temair couldn’t think, could
barely breath, and she was more certain than ever that being invisible was a good thing.
His attention left her with an almost audible snap as he turned back to his fight.
In ancient days, the magic of Merab ran wild - flame and water battled earth
and wind, man and beast confronted one another, and magical creatures stalked
the earth. It was only after three powerful women banded together to harness
the worlds natural magic, that peace and prosperity reigned. From that day on,
Merab has been ruled by three Queens - descendants of those first powerful
women - one Queen on each of Merab's three continents. Nature has a way of
providing checks and balances, though, so while the women rule, it is Merab's
men who wield the magic.
Merab's three continents contain three very different types of magic. The magic
of the first continent, Emetra, is manifested in the elements: Fyre, Rayne, Aire
and Earth.
The Queens of Merab: Temair's Fyre
Queen Akasha has decided it is time to retire to the country with her four consorts.
This puts Crown Princess Temair in the unhappy position of having, in a limited
time, to choose her four consorts and take up the reins as Queen. She is NOT happy
about this.
Temair, along with her cousins Nuriel and Sorcha, must now go on an Emetran Tour and choose a man from
each of the four noble houses. Her first stop is Fire.
Because Temair has no interest whatsoever in choosing a man, Nuriel and Sorcha take up the task. Their
criteria is simple: he must be beautiful and romantic, like a hero from one of the romance novels Nuriel
devours.
Excerpt:
Temair placed her hand on Vashti’s arm and allowed him to lead her down the winding corridor that led to
the heart of House Flame’s power. She would have preferred to go to her chamber and read a bit before bed
– she would have preferred to be almost anywhere else besides with the insipid Vashti – but Nuriel had been
so excited when the young Fyre Lord had offered them the tour, that Temair hadn’t been able to say no. Now,
as they entered the large chamber, a sullen crimson glow lit the air painting everyone in its light with the
suggestion of heat.
She heard Nuriel’s indrawn breath behind her, and Sorcha’s little hum of approval and suppressed a
smile. Of course Nuriel would be entranced by the near naked men diligently working with the flames. Even
Temair had to admit they were an impressive sight. And Sorcha would admire the dedication of the men
training.
“This, of course, is the seat of our power.” Vashti had kept up his narration for the bulk of their tour. Temair
knew that most women would be caught up in the sound of his voice, the expressions on his boyishly
handsome face. She just found him puffed up and tedious.
She gave a little sigh and tried to look attentive.
“The men of Fyre,” he continued, “draw their magic from the sacred flame.” He indicated the deep pit
where the crimson glow originated. “Depending on the nobility of a man’s birth and the extent of his fire he
might need to be in close contact with the flame in order to access his magic.” He gave her a self-satisfied
smile. “I can access my fire from anywhere on the estate,” he murmured suggestively. Nuriel gave an
appreciative giggle. Sorcha gave a decidedly unladylike snort. Temair just rolled her eyes.
In an attempt to keep from giving voice to a rather sarcastic comment, she cast her gaze around the
chamber. Everywhere she looked, men were training. To one side, a good looking man was carefully
winding a whip of flame around his body. The flame originated in a pillar in one palm, crawled up his arm and
across his shoulders. It was clearly supposed to continue down his other arm and pool in his opposite palm,
but the man cursed foully as the flame sputtered, flashed over his torso, and then died.
Vashti laughed a bit mockingly, and Temair liked him even less.
In another corner a pair of slender youths shot balls of flame at each other in rapid succession. As each
mass of fire approached, the young man in question would attempt to capture the flame and turn it back on his
attacker. One of the combatants lifted a hand and closed a fist around his adversary’s fire ball, extinguishing
it neatly. Both young men shouted in victory, pausing in their mock battle to exchange a high-five that shot
sparks in a halo around them.
Temair had never really considered the military implications of Fyre House. It was obvious to her that the
men of Fyre were training to use their flame as a weapon, and from what she’d observed many of them were
becoming quite adept. She didn’t know whether to feel comforted by this development or, in light of the
rebellion, a bit threatened.
As the two young fire warriors danced around each other in infectious joy, another man entered the
chamber. Temair’s gaze snapped back to him as he gave one of the celebrants a sharp rap on the back of
the head and muttered, “Act like this during battle and you’d be dead.” The boys stopped their capering,
looking abashed. Temair paid little attention to their guilty looks. She was riveted by the new arrival.
He was taller and broader than most of the men in the room. His hair, bound in a warriors knot on the top
of his head, was darker than any she’d seen since her arrival at the Noble House, darker even than Vashti’s
deep flame red. This man’s hair was nearly black, the color of rubies over black silk.
His skin was the fair, milky color of a natural red-head. Lighter even than the cream of Sorcha’s
complexion, and lacking her friend’s generous smattering of freckles. No, this man’s skin was flawless,
stretched like shimmering velvet over a set of muscles put on breathtaking display by the brief loin-cloth that
was his only concession to modesty.
Temair’s eyes helplessly traced the silky looking line of dark hair leading from his navel to the low band of
natural cotton.
She knew the exact moment he became aware of their group. He was warned by Nuriel’s appreciative
whisper of, “Oh, my.”
His eyes, the glowing blue of gaslight flame, flicked disinterestedly over them all. That incandescent gaze
dismissed Vashti contemptuously, skimmed over her entirely and lingered over Nuriel and Sorcha with
predictable appreciation before passing on in disinterest.
For the first time ever, Temair felt a flicker of jealousy over her friends’ extravagant beauty.
“Who is that,” Nuriel breathed, and Vashti heaved a put-upon sigh.
“That’s just Miach,” he muttered, clearly resentful.
“The eldest son?” Sorcha questioned.
“Yes,” Vashti snapped an irritated bite in his voice. “The glorious eldest son.”
Miach had strode to the fire pit and was holding one hand over the blaze.
As Temair watched a slender thread of flame wound up from the pit and wrapped lovingly around his arm.
Temair felt her own flame, a legacy from her Fyre Lord father, flicker deep at her core and blinked in surprise.
She’d never felt one of the elements so clearly.
Miach moved to face another man, also clad only in a loincloth and rope of fire, and bow respectfully. The
man returned the gesture, and the two shifted into graceful positions facing one another.
“What are they doing?” Nuriel breathed, as Miach and the rather lovely man he faced each raised an arm
behind himself, arching over in a pose that reminded Temair of a scorpion ready to strike.
“Fyeria,” Vashti answered in a bored voice.
“Fee-etta?” Nuriel questioned in her best little girl voice. Temair was too interested in the reply to roll her
eyes as she usually did when Nuriel went all helpless female.
“Fyeria,” Vashti repeated slowly. “It’s an archaic fight style that some of the more obsessive compulsive
males have adopted.” Most of the men who’d been training or just hanging around the area had moved to
circle the two combatants. One of the young fyre-warriors Temair had watched earlier began a rhythmic
clapping and was soon joined by the others. In seconds the chamber was filled with the deep clapping and
stomping of dozens of hands and feet.
Miach and his opponent stood poised for a long moment then, as if by some invisible signal, both
exploded into motion. The men passed each other in a modified cartwheel, bent arms used to propel them
upward into elegant, flaming arcs.
“It’s like the dancers at dinner,” Sorcha noted, and Vashti nodded.
“Exactly. It’s considered a cultural art more than a legitimate form of combat.” Miach chose that moment to
prove his brother wrong, springing lithely into a handstand and executing a series of leg-scissoring kicks that
knocked his opponents face from one side to the other. The other warrior dropped to the ground, and Temair
assumed the match was over, but she was wrong. Instead the fallen man caught himself on one hand, elbow
bent, and spun to knock Miach’s hands out from under him. Miach tumbled into a graceful fall, immediately
rolling to his feet to repeat the bent-armed cartwheel that seemed to form the base of the fight style.
“It looks pretty combative to me,” she murmured. Vashti gave her a startled look; she hadn’t had much to
say all evening, so apparently he’d thought she couldn’t speak. Nuriel nudged her shoulder and gave a soft
sigh.
“It looks pretty sexy to me,” she murmured back.
“Oh, yeah,” Sorcha added. All three women laughed quietly.
“Well,” Vashti interrupted rather loudly, “if you like that sort of base entertainment. Personally,” he took a
hold of Temair’s arm and began to lead her rather emphatically from the chamber, “I prefer more cereberal
pursuits.”
“Um,” Sorcha choked back a giggle. “Do you mean cerebral?”
“Right,” he responded. “Like I said.”
Temair didn’t bother to pay attention to the rest of the conversation. She was too busy looking over her
shoulder at the battle still taking place on the floor. Miach had paused, frozen for a split second while dodging
a spinning kick from his opponent. As she watched, his fire-whip curled the length of his arm, crawled over
his shoulder and pooled in his other hand.
He turned his head abruptly and their eyes met for one scorching second where he seemed to really see
her. Aside from her parents, no one really saw Temair when Nuriel and Sorcha were around, and Temair had
always liked it that way. Now, with Miach’s crackling black eyes burning into her, Temair couldn’t think, could
barely breath, and she was more certain than ever that being invisible was a good thing.
His attention left her with an almost audible snap as he turned back to his fight.
