On the island of the West Wind Iranor’s children grew; their mother played with them and told them tales; of mortals – their foolishness and joys and sorrows; of her mother Ellanna and the making of the world.  And she told how she herself had made the runes for her children.  ‘There are eleven runes, and these are their shapes,’ she said, drawing the outlines in the sand. The two children quickly learnt the shapes and sounds, and were able to put them together to make all the words they knew.

‘What clever children you are!’ said Iranor, delighted.  ‘As a reward I will do for you what I did for my other children: I will invent runes for you that will call up the sounds of your names for all time, for eternity beyond the end of Skorn itself.  For the runes are immortal as you are, and you and each of your runes will exist together forever.’

She made new marks in the sand: marks never before seen.  The first was made of two curved lines, down and to the left.  ‘This is ‘Orth’, and it is yours, Saranna.’  The second was a line upwards and one to the right.  ‘And this is ‘Ord’, and it is Drewin’s.’

The children looked in wonder at the marks in the sand.  ‘Mother,’ said Drewin, ‘are they really ours? Are they really new?’

Iranor smiled and hugged both her children to her.  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘they are yours, and only yours.  I have made them and given them to you, and no-one can ever change or destroy them.’

An Unfortunate Break-Up With My Brain


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