View Full Version : Beneath the Mire
“Come on then, there’s notta thing to be afraid of ‘ol chap.” The voice was confident, strong. It held a sense of apprehension to it though, deep down. It knew better then to listen to itself, knew better then to allow the illusion of ease and peace to take the place of caution. “What’s the worse that could be about these old woods? Perhaps a demon or two, but that is why we have these.”
The man was an adventurer with a knack for finding trouble and weaseling his way out of it. Age had caught up to him though; many years of a troubling and hard life had found him slowly. The man, Sir Falco Derrian (knighted by the High Baron himself), was one of profound significance to the scientific community, as well as the magical community. His contributions brought about a different way of thinking for many scientists, opening up new courses of thought and schools of learning. For the community of mages that often used his services, he had offered ancient relics and puzzles pieces of times long forgot.
It was one of those pieces that Sir Derrian held.
A firm grip was wrapped around the ancient, cracking leather that served as the handle. The blade was easily three feet, making it a perfect length for a longsword or a hand and a half (bastard sword). On both sides the glint of the razor edge was pronounced, perfectly sharpened by hands far superior to any on Corone (or any of that age). The blade was of a marble hue, a swirling mix of platinum and black colorations which bent around each other. None could tell what the blade was forged of, not even those of the Radasanthian Mages Guild. Whatever the metal was it had proved not only near impossible to break but also highly resistant to spells of any sort.
The knight’s partner, Esquire Trysail, held its twin. The similarities were so close that hardly any could have told the two apart but for the pommel. Centered along the cross-guard were words of an ancient tongue. Both had the words, more like glyphs, but none could tell what either of them said. “Falco,” the man was hardly any younger then the aged adventurer. Instead of a solid head of platinum locks, Trysail had only a peppering of silver flecks. “Do you really believe that there are still demon’s in this land? The Ages have nearly passed; darkness had nearly passed now… I doubt that demons like those of old still roam the lands.”
“Is it better to be prepared or to be caught off guard? You should know well as I the answer to that,” The adventurer had seen his fair share of mischief, but in every quest his bodyguard companion had been there. Time and again the two had shared a meager bit of food or body heat when no other source of warmth was present. Time and again the two had displayed courage and valor that could surpassed any test possibly devised of any mind. “Lets be on, there is ground to cover still and night wanes yet.”
Overhead the shadows of the trees were casting their blanket over the two. The forests of Concordia were thick and lush, welcoming to only those that were brave enough to tame it. The sun was fading and night would be upon the two in short order, but the gallant adventurer had covered nowhere near the amount of space he had wanted. Sir Derrian pushed on through the underbrush, letting the branches and boughs of the smaller trees brush against him as he passed. It was the purity of nature that he loved, an environment that he always found himself back in. He attributed much of his success to the fact that he always loved the environment he was in and paid as much attention to his surroundings as he did to his task at hand.
“We won’t be making it as we once would have.” The bodyguards tone was a mix of sorrow and concern. Things were definitely changing as age found both of them. Neither were as strong as they once were, neither were a quick either. Trysail recognized the wear of age, the subtle changes in their bodies and minds. Despite the fact that both had kept near peak physical condition as long as possible, the old friend knew that both were nearing the age when adventuring would become less of a hobby and more dangerous. “Neither of us are in the shape we once where, least of all myself.”
Trysail always blamed himself when it came to who was slowing the party down, whether it was true or not. He had always felt inferior to the knight, applauding him at ever turn yet secretly longing for his success. “Nonsense,” Falco replied as he pulled himself up a small sloping hill with the assistance of the trees. “We can go just as far as we once did, perhaps even farther!”
His tone said otherwise though.
“I suppose we can stop just up here, at the top of this ridge. We’ll make camp and eat a bit. According to the map that Archmage Hintia gave me the ruins should be just ahead of us, about another days walk at our pace.” Hintia may have had faith in the two, but the Esquire had known the ease of the trip. Slowly he had recognized the difference in the tasks they were receiving. No longer did dragon’s lairs or golem’s dens come into play when they were briefed. Their expectations were diminishing with their health and vitality, though the elven mage Hintia had been very kind about it.
“Very good,” Trysail said as he shifted the weight of his pack on his back. It would be good to rest. His muscles were aching with the heavy burden he carried and the distance they had traveled. It was like old times again, but old times were just that… old times. “I’ll gather some wood then when we stop and you can set up the camp, just like we used to, huh?”
“That it is,” Sir Derrian replied with a chuckle. “That it is.”
Overhead the sky had turned a deep violet. Among the uncountable stars was the silence of a final full moon. Through the thick crown of trees Trysail was still able to pick out the concelations that he had come to know well over the years. The Bear, The Dragons Head, and the Weeping Mother were the three that he looked for most often. Only two of the three were seen. The weeping mother had faded with the passing of seasons, as the other two would do.
The cackling flames spit their warmth at the bodyguard. Time had definitely caught up to him, but he found comfort in the eternal smile of the stars. His hands moved as his eyes continued to stare, looking for the single star that he called his own. Somehow it was exactly where he remembered, always in the same place. It was just as much a companion in the duo’s travels as Trysail was to Falco. “At least time can’t take you,” he whispered to the star before turning over and dropping off to sleep.
Slowly the fire died out and true darkness took the two in its kind embrace. The nights were getting colder with the approach of winter and the fading of fall. Both adventurers were feeling it in their bones, in their worn joints, but neither would admit defeat yet.
~+|+~
The day had been long.
Both travelers had grown weary much faster then they were used to. With their swords now firmly attached to their backs, under the packs, they used both hands to pull themselves along. The knight adventurer was tiring quickly. Trysail was forced to help his companion multiple times; often the two were forced to lean on each other for supports. Yet still they went on.
“It’s only another mile ahead,” Trysail said as he scanned the map. The two had stopped for a break, dropping their loads and sipping from their water skins. “I say we rest here, take the remaining daylight and tonight to gather our strength and carry on in the morning.”
Sir Derrian did not seem to object. His eyes were dim with the strain of the hike through Concordia. He had convinced himself of a lie, a lie that was pushing him even still. Falco tossed a small twig away from him as he stood and brushed off the brown leaves that clung to him. “Then we’ll camp here. Just set up the bed rolls. There is no threat of rain, the sky is clear, so we won’t need the tents.”
Without being told to do so the Esquire stood and walked off in the distance. If they were going to camp there would need to be a fire to cook their food and for warmth during the night. Trysail wandered while lost in thought. Recollection swarmed over him as soon as he allowed himself to drift. Thoughts of the many times they had fought beasts, the artifacts of lore they had collected, even the types of people they had crossed. Each one held a special place in his mind, as if catalogued for just such a time.
“And now the Thayne give us this,” he said as twigs popped under his boots. The bodyguard was wandering more then gathering, allowing his quarry to pass as he dwelt on the past. A light breeze rustled through the trees, a breeze too strong to be present in such a tight forest. But that too went unnoticed by Trysail, just the fading temperature registered with a slight shiver. “Of all things, could this be the last for us?”
Meanwhile the old adventurer was too lost in thought. He was holding the blade of the ancients before him. Its marble surface was transfixing his gaze, stealing his thoughts. If only the metal was understood it would be just another mental trophy for the duo. But Sir Derrian knew deep down that the metal’s properties would not be explained to him but to one who would come after him.
“Such a beautiful sword,” he murmured as his bony hands ran across its surface. Even if the blade’s mysteries were never revealed at least he had discovered it, and that was almost enough solace to allow him peace. But it was sleep that came first, despite his curious and moving mind. His eyes shut with the sun still falling and remained so until the next morning.
“These runes… these runes are old…” the runes were not just old, they were ancient. The withering hand of the adventurer ran across them, the bony fingers finding their way into the grooves. They were of an age long forgot, that much the knight was sure of, but what age was the question. It was not the one they were in, the Age of Resurrection, but one before that. “Possibly from the Age of Dawn, or maybe Darkness. I can’t tell…”
While Falco was running his fingers over the ruins and loosing himself in thought his bodyguard was looking around. The light wind from days before had built slowly as they had approached the caves. Sir Derrian had been oblivious to the fact, shrugging it off, but Trysail had not. Across his arms goose bumps had formed and a sense of dread and unease had settled over him. He no longer had the marble sword in its sheath. It was out and at the ready.
His eyes were drifting past the archway that his companion was searching across. To either side the earth had been packed tightly, covered by possible centuries of vine growth, and looked deliberately placed. Overhead the crown of trees had been broken but just over the entrance.
Its like a dead zone.
Esquire Trysail reminded himself of the long ago adventure. When the two had fought a mage, the magical discharge from his death had created a ‘dead zone’ over the area. No plants would grow. No animals would make the area home. Even humanoids that entered the area had a sense for the lack of life. The worst affect was the inability for magic to be cast, a sort of void that would absorb any magical spells. Trysail felt the same there as he did at the entrance to the caves.
“Sir, doesn’t this remind you of the mage that—“ but the man’s attention was far from his companion. Sir Derrian was lost in his thoughts. Without responding he pushed aside the thick vines and wandered into the caves. The darkness was nearly overwhelming. “Falco, we need to use the orbs.”
“Your right, of course,” Falco responded. He quickly pulled out a small marble on the end of a leather thong around his neck. Rubbing its surface it came to life, glowing faintly at first but lighting brightly as its spell warmed. It was a gift of the mages, something that the duo had actually discovered and wanted to keep. It was one of the most precious rewards that they had been given, to say the least. Not having to bring either torches or carry them while exploring was extremely helpful.
“Lets be careful.”
Falco’s warning was slow in coming, quiet and aloof. His eyes were watching the walls, which were covered in ancient writing akin to that on the entrance. His steps were slow and deliberate. Instead of a quick stride as he was used to assuming he had taken a slower one, scanning both sides of the walls as he walked. To find something he recognized, to find something that was similar to a language he knew was all he wanted. The aged explorer held his orb up several times, each time a picture of the language was brought to his attention. It resembled something he had seen, ancient text that was in a book deep in the heart of the mages guild… but that book was not understandable, another possibly from an age before Dawn.
Deep in the darkness something rumbled. It sounded like the stones were groaning with pain, as if they were suddenly growing. Both of the duo stopped and stared into the looming void before them. There was that silence, the unbearable silence of a dead zone, and then the winds started.
From deep in the caves the sharp, bitter wind began to stir. It came as a breeze at first, and then quickly began to grow. Before the thought of stepping away from the cave depths ever occurred to either Falco or Trysail a wail of pain issued from the void. Shivers close to convulsions overtook both of the adventurers and neither could hold back the intense sense of loathing, despair, and dread that filled their throats. Their eyes bulged, threatening to explode from the intense pressure. Blood slowly seeped from their ears, their eardrums having burst. From the corners of their pale, thin lips a mix of drool, foam, and a tinge of blood oozed down the sides of their rough chins.
The scream they loosed alone could have killed them.
It was like the weight of the world was on my shoulders.
I was cold. I was wet. And I was tired. Through the dark streets of Radasanth I moved at a pace somewhere between a walk and a shamble. My feet dragged across the stone, the blackened steel gaiters covering my boots clicking against the rough surface. It was not like me to be so downcast but things on Althanas were quickly turning for the worse. People had seemed well at first, but the sanity of some had slipped before my very eyes. Though I had been enthused by the idea of adventure and the promise of change, things had gone wrong.
My hands slipped across the tattered shirt, its frayed edges showing the small cuts along my near-perfect chest. My dismay was just as strong about the state of my clothing as it was about my wounds. It had been a rough day, filled with fights, though they were much more dangerous then I had been willing to engage in. Magic had been the cause of my wounds, magic cast by a “curious” mage.
“Child, you do not know what you are truly capable of.”
The words still tore at my conscious. The man had been so damn determined, so damn persistent. He had started with spells of an emotional type, or so I supposed. Whatever he had started with it had tingled across my skin, like the hair rising when a cold wind hits you suddenly. Then they became stronger, and changed. Spells fell on me like rain, some were fire, some were ice, and one was pure pain.
I had run as fast as I could. But before I could get away the man appeared. Was I supposed to let him poke and prod with his magic? Was I supposed to sit back and ignore the fact that he was toying with my very being? I decided the answer was no, and reacted as quickly as I could. My sword had been cleared of its sling, which rested against the middle of my back.
Even the blackened wavering blade had no chance against spells. I felt helpless, totally unable to fight back. The man was powerful, or so I supposed since his spells seemed to never stop nor weaken. Every step away from the man made the spells strength increase until I thought that they alone would cause me to pass out.
“Dear boy, how long will you continue this farce. You feel my strength, you feel what I can cast and do. How much longer till you yield?”
Oh how I hated the idea of being powerless. Even with my body built and structured by the constant tests of strength I endured I felt weak. There may have been barely any fat on my body, each one hundred eight-five pounds almost pure muscle. But magic was my weakness, as I had come to quickly find… magic was the only thing that could overtake me as if I was a child.
Somehow, no matter how much I moved around or tried to escape, I always found myself back by the water. I had grown up by the ocean, living on an island off the Corone coast, Yerria. The island had been a burden. The seas were turbulent despite the calm night sky. Behind me I could see the lights of Radasanth giving off their alluring glow, casting light to drown out the stars overhead. Along the docks the stars were alight though, far less lights fighting for dominance against the darkness of night.
I could see the clouds lazily drifting towards the town. It would rain soon, the clouds were moving quickly. The wave’s lapping against the shore spoke of a downpour coming soon, a real heavy thunderstorm. I drifted unenergetically towards one of the many piers, my deep blue eyes having spotted a couple of people. Perhaps someone to talk to would relieve the depression I was feeling. Perhaps people would allow for a distraction from the inevitable.
Around the edges of my new leather coat I gripped tightly, pulling it closed. Holding it tightly across my body seemed to give me at least a little more comforts, a little more security. Winds tossed my amethyst hair back over my shoulder, the coat helped against the draft but did little for my own sense of comfort. “What am I supposed to do now?”
It seems you have failed.
“No, no I haven’t, just watch and wait…”
The two voices were in the void of darkness. The first was merely a voice being placed inside the other’s head. The other was a mage named Tallone. Tallone had been sent after Osato, sent to experiment and capture him. Experiment he had, captured he had not. In his hand was gripped tightly a small box the size of his palm with runes around it. Through it his thoughts were connected to another, to his leader, to his master.
Then where is he? Do you have him bound? Are you thoughts deceiving me into believing that he escaped somehow?
“No,” the mage responded with slight apprehension. His tone was solemn, tired. He had expended much energy to cast as much as he had, nearly depleted his store of spells in order to tempt the drifting soulless man. But the sell-sword had never attacked, not even brought his sword against the mage. Instead he had persisted in defending and escaping, wanting nothing to do with fighting the magic caster. His naïve sense of escape had saved him… one swing and the mage would have captured that empty void within him forever.
“He did escape, but it was not my fault. I tried, cast as much I could within a day’s period. More spells would have sent me into a state beyond tired, as I am now… I would not have been able to hold a bond to his empty soul if I had cast anymore…”
Enough excuses! the words drown out thoughts, causing the mage to fall to his knees. Both crashed heavily against the cobblestone alleyway, a puddle of unknown liquid splashing to either side of him. Tallone did not know what it was, did not care. His pants were soaked about the knees; his hands were clutching his ears and pushing. It was like the voice of his master had broken his eardrums. I do not care about your bloody weary body. If I command something of you I want it done… or have you forgotten of the hold I have over you? Have you forgotten your blood oath?
Of course the pawn of a mage had not.
Through powers as dark as those wielded by N’jal’s own brood he had forfeit his own person to The Nameless One. He had offered his very soul to his master, giving his life as a human over to the leader of the cult. Through a blood oath he had sworn fidelity, had sworn to forever protect and restore magic first and foremost. The second thing he swore was to forever hold his master, The Nameless One, before any other though, and that oath seemed just as important as the first. Tallone looked at the thick white lines that ran across both arms.
Scars of his past decisions; promises to the sinister and proof of such.
“No,” he responded with despair in his tone. “I have not forgotten of the oath I took, nor of the blood I’ve shed. Forgive me, I will not fail again.”
No, you will not. If you fail again your life may be forfeit. There was a moment of utter silence. Except for the quiet whisper of the wind through the forlorn alley and the light click of someone’s heavy boots in the far distance; the mage felt alone. His thoughts were absent; his mouth was open and unmoving. It was punishment he expected, scolding he expected, instead came something else. You have given much towards this, for that I commend you and will spare you. However, you must not fail again. We need this being, this beast. Others like him have been taken in the past; others like him have given us a conduit to contact our Goddess. We will have him yet, before he can begin to summon any sort of magic, or powers, against us.
Remember, the voice continued. Osato Lysser may be the key to focusing our dark arts to a point of perfection. We may be close now, but it is not close enough. If we are to be the workers of our morbid perfection in Althanas we must be able to be able to perfect our arts. The Lady demands it.
The Lady.
Many of the members of the dark order, Black Rose Society, could not tell who exactly The Lady was. She was often used by The Nameless One. It was for her that they performed all tasks, did all heinous acts. Only once had she been referred to as anything but The Lady, and that one person died without an explanation within hours of using the other name. Since then none had spoken of her other then ‘The Lady’, most avoided speaking of her at all. Their connection seemed to be linked with her, somehow they were connected to her, and her to them.
Tallone shuddered as the link between himself and The Nameless One was broken. The dark leader had gone back to his business, whatever that was. None knew who he truly was, knew what life he led, or if they had even run across him ever. The mage himself only knew of one other member of the Black Rose, and he had been the one that had spoken the possible true name of The Lady.
N’jal.
The tavern was abuzz to say the least. Drunks were out in force, and the fact that it was the end of the average workweek meant only that they had just been paid, and they were cleared to have a hangover in the morning. I had taken to frequenting taverns and bars of all sorts. The people were always interesting, the drinks even more so, and adventure often sprung from a chat with a drunk. That night had been no different, except for the fact it was not a drunk that found me first.
Along the whitewash walls oil-lamps gave off an amber glow. It was supposed to give a sense of peace, I supposed, but it did nothing in the end but make the place a little dimmer. The lamps were flickering as people brushed against them, in some the oil sloshed about rather violently. The drunken people did not seem to notice the lights, or the well worn tables that they were sitting at. Some of them slipped on the greasy floor and some fell completely; each was greeted with an uproar of laughter.
“Ishha gunnda ta’ zet draat?”
I could not help but chuckle as the already extremely intoxicated man wandered to my booth. His hair was slick with dirt and grease. His eyes were cloudy with alcohol. His clothes were worn and old, stained with what looked to be a mix of spilt ale and old fish guts. It was hard enough for me to look at his mouth as he spoke, with yellow and rotting teeth being all that was inside, but to have the stench of him so close was almost unbearable.
“I just might finish this draught,” I responded as I sipped at the ale. It was nowhere near good, a bit stale actually, but it was definitely not what the man needed. Perhaps if I had a room with a shower, or a fresh set of clothes, then I would care to share. But another mug of ale… that was the last thing the man would get. “I’m sure someone over there has something they’re not drinking though…”
I was willing to say almost anything to get him away from me. His head turned, slimy locks slapping and sticking to the base of his neck. It took everything within me not to puke at the sight, much less stand up and walk away. Both thoughts crossed my mind though, barely restrained. He did not bother to turn back, and for that little blessing I gave a silent thanks to the Thayne. “This place is full of drunks tonight…”
Then he came.
It was not the first time I had seen him, not the first time he had come into my travels through Radasanth. But to assume he was following me had never struck me. Why else had he been at the tavern last night? Why else had I seen him across the street leaning against a wall as I ate at an outdoor restaurant? Putting all those together was over me though, for I did not think anyone would follow me.
The man was easily six foot tall and weighed probably just under two hundred pounds. His hair was long and silky, the last time I had seen him I had envied his hair. His eyes were a deep green with hazel tendrils running through them. Again envy had been sparked, because the man was handsome in a city dwellers way, something I would never be. Even as he entered, his hands pushed far into the pockets of his jacket, I was lost in thought about the day.
“To think, someone knows what I am. But how? And to what avail? This mage was pushing me, testing me, he wanted something… But what?” Thoughts were raging about the identity and purpose of the mage who had taunted me for all that time. He had a reason for casting so much at me, for ruining my already discarded clothing and pushing at my empty soul. But what was the purpose? While I dwelt on the possibilities behind of the mage’s intent, trying to put reason to the madness, he took his seat across from me.
“Osato Lysser?”
He was so quiet I almost jumped when he spoke my name. Where had he come from? How did he know my name? Why was he wearing a silver locket around his neck and a platinum collar? But before he could pose any questions the man continued speaking. While he talked I listened and observed. It was a trait I was learning quickly. To listen would most times bring about opportunities far larger then trying to interject at every turn. And observing I had found was the easiest way to understand and find weaknesses.
“Dear boy, do you know how hard it is to find you?” His question was underscored by relief. Perhaps it was true relief, perhaps not, I was not able to tell. Eyes were normally a dead giveaway when people were lying, or expressing emotions they did not feel, but his eyes were as cold as ice and as peaceful as a monk on the mountainside. “I’ve been searching for you for days now. You have been rumored to be one of the youngest drifters about, easily one of the most experienced to say the least.”
Bam! He had struck it! There is a single cord in everyone that if you could find it you would be playing music to their very souls (in my case my vanity). No matter how much bull you fed them, no matter how much you said made no sense, it was a matter of finding that cord. Once you struck it the deal you were making might as well have been set in stone. Unfortunately mine was a product of unadulterated vanity; the very vanity that I would say made my heart beat. Inflate the ego, compliment my looks or appearance and I was yours.
“Well, you could say that,” my mouth was moving a mile a minute. I hadn’t even thought of what I was saying before it was out. The smile that lit the man’s face across from me excited me instantly. If I had claimed a gender I would undoubtedly be wet or setting up a tent in this man’s presence. His smile, his very panache reminded me of… well… myself. And little attracted me more than myself.
“There are mages, Archmages even, that wish to speak with you.” Suddenly that inflated ego was popped like a kids balloon when it finds a tree. A flood of unease and apprehension fought against the elation from the man’s words. Mages had become the antithesis of that cord. The very mention of magic was enough to set my attitude about completely. This man seemed to sense such though. He moved closer and lowered his tone, as if speaking a secret that was a precious gem between the two of us alone. “You are wanted for some mission, not even I have been privy to the information, but they did promise a large reward. They told me to pass the information on the location of the Guild alone, but I can tell you that they are offering a large deal of money along with anything that comes of this.”
That was enough for me. I was sold. Despite the possibility of dealing with more mages, a ‘large sum of money’ would distract me easily enough.
Mages made my skin crawl.
Just thinking about the use of magic around me, or against me, was enough to anger me. But then an opportunity arises, a chance for a heinous amount of gold and possible artifacts of the past, and not even my guarded side could deny that. The man had left, what now seemed like hours ago, but his voice and promises had not left my mind. I was rolling it around in my mind as the wealthy rolled about a fine wine in their mouths.
You are really going to go through with this?
My own voice was arguing against me, as it did so often. Perhaps it was the voice of reason, or perhaps it was my conscious. Whatever it was it often arose when I was thinking hard on a matter at hand. This time it was no different. The voice, as I thought, was merely my way of talking through a problem, but with myself. What was so wrong with doing a simple task that the mages had for me? What could come of it? Surely if it was something that they needed me for there was the possibility that it would reap great reward.
And what about that mage that was hunting you? What about him? Are we so easily going to forget that face?
No. I would never forget that face, or the tattoos, or scars, which ran up either arm. Maybe he would be at the mage’s guild, maybe I could find him or a way there around magic. I had no delusions that the casters would give me information on how to defeat their only means of defense and offense. I also had no delusions that anything from the ancients would come besides perhaps a trinket to ooh and aww at later.
Either way nothing would be come of it if I had no sleep. I gently rose and stretched. The tavern had dulled considerably. Those who had been beyond drunk had passed out; the rest had either retired to a room or made their ways home. With a rap of my gold against the table I wandered towards the stairs on the opposite side of the common room. My equipment had already been waiting in the room, sword and armor, and all that remained was for me to find my way too them and I too would pass out for the night.
~+|+~
After my morning routine of exercise, a hearty breakfast, and a quick check to make sure I looked amazing as always, I left. The tavern had been good to me that night, neither fight nor flight had occurred and that was rare. As soon as I had opened the door the dank air, thick with humidity, struck me. The rains were coming across the ocean, bolts of lightning were flashing over the sea as the heavy clouds approached Radasanth. It would be upon the city by noon if not sooner.
My coat was a little tight across my chest, not made for someone with so much muscle I supposed. It was closed against the winds that were picking up in gusts from the ocean, carrying with them the scent of salt. It was both nauseating and alluring. It had grown up on the island of Yerria, off the southern coast of Corone, and had always known the smell of the water. The smell of salt, combined with the grime of the docks, was among that smell. It was the nauseating portion. But the old friend of mine, that sweet light wind, was often my lone companion. Together they combined something akin to liquor so sweet it burns as it goes down.
“Good day young gent.” I turned with a smile, broad and wide. The man was one I happened to run across often, one that I had seen every day for the past week. He was older, his hair long yet lacking that silver luster of age. “And how does this one seek to find you?”
Always such riddles of his tongue. It grew worse if a true conversation was to come about, but in the mornings it was normally fine to speak with him. “Wonderful, though the rains seem to be nearing quickly. Hopefully the city stays safe, as always. Anyway, I must part early this morning, my apologies. I have much to worry about today, much indeed. Good day Elder Rein.”
The man gave only a knowing nod and a secluded smile. If I had paid attention I would have seen his mouth moving as well. He had mumbled something, perhaps a prayer, perhaps a parting. I did not know either way. I had already turned away and picked up my pace, the metal gaiters attached to my boots clicking lightly across the cobblestones. Things were looking up, or at least I thought so. The clouds would come, more magic would come, but I was finding life easier and easier with the passing of time.
It was just as I had imagined it. The halls were broad. The floors were of a brown marble. Through the walls and floor alike mythril tendrils weaved like veins, giving a sense of royalty to the entire place. Along the walls were scrolls with runes upon them, at other places were paintings of people (old mages undoubtedly) and places, and from the ceilings were banners and streamers. The final parts of the decoration unnerved me. Why were there so many banners, streamers, and flags of other kingdoms and sovereigns?
Because the mages have conquered them as they will you. But those lands will get to keep their shells, keep up a visage for the world. You will be stripped of even that, and that empty place within you will be contorted and distorted for the betterment of some practice of magic.
The thought made me more then a little nervous. Instantly I remembered the mage that had been hunting me. My deep blue eyes set from the scenery, which embellished an already glorified monument to magic, and began to search the people. They moved like ghosts. Their robes, each of a solid color, covered them and then some. The ends ran over the floors giving them the look of floating as they moved (and me a humorous thought about why the floor was always clean). But what was most bothersome was the sleeves of the robes were wide and long and most of them were hooded.
“What are the banners for?”
I could not keep it to myself. Even with the distraction of the mages I found myself wondering again what all of the flags overhead were from. My guide, a slightly shorter and much smaller elven woman turned with a questioning look. I thought she was going to ask me to repeat myself, something I hated most of all, but then a smile broke out on her face. She was one of the fairest creatures I had ever seen; the fact that she was female meant nothing to me. Her skin was soft and milky white, her hair looked like the finest silk and was nearly black, and her eyes were sharp and contrasted her gentle face and blended well with her high cheekbones.
“Ah those,” she began, looking me square in the eyes before looking up to them. Her stride neither faltered nor slowed. “Those are pennants and flags of kingdoms and realms that those who study, or have studied here are from. Many lands are represented by those; much pride is taken in a few in particular. Such as the ancient flag of Elloren, the first united flag of Corone, and the dark banner of Ettermire (we have one drow student). That last was near impossible to attain, and I fear that obtaining and displaying such will give us a very negative reputation with the drow nation if they ever find out.
“You see, in the days of old, the Age of Dawn, this guild was established. The war against the demons that was taken up by human, elf, and dwarf was a true mess. Through the fog of battle and the reek of death, as the story goes, mages stood out. Through the confusion they cast spells to kill and heal alike, not only being the ones who the troops depended on for their morale but also who they depended on for their lives. As a tribute to all the mages great and small that had fought and died this place was established, as the warriors guild was. You will see that above the Archmage’s chair there hangs a picture of the first Archmage to run the guild.
“But enough about that,” she said absently, as if shrugging off a beggar on the streets. “We are here.”
I nearly gasped as she stopped, almost ran into her actually. I had been watching overhead as she had been speaking. Through the hall we had gone quickly, and as she spoke times seemed to slow. Her voice was a song so sweet that time itself bowed to her with awe, but held a reserve of power that danced across my arms and nape of my neck. I found myself standing before a double door, easily twenty feet or higher and made of a wood that I could not place. “You are expected, so all you have to do is enter. Good luck, and may the Thayne watch you carefully.”
“My thanks,” I responded as I ran a hand across the surface of the deep brown wood. It looked almost black. Across its surface scrawl of some ancient language ran, etched deeply to make grooves across its surface. There were no worn places on its face. If I had not just heard the story of the guild, its condensed version no doubt, I would have sworn that the door was still new. Yet it was of an ancient wood, imported from somewhere far outside of Corone for sure. “And may Am’aleh be merciful,” the parting was to no one, my guide having already walked away.
Despite myself I knocked, three times. The wood sounded hollow, but the voice that came in response sounded even emptier. As I pushed on the door the hinges, hidden from the naked eye, it opened more smoothly then any door I had ever seen. Awe at the building and its lore filled me even as I entered to speak to the highest ranking mage in the guild, already the field of magic was making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end.
I closed the doors behind me. Even before the click of the latch announced the door closed I loosed a sigh. It had taken everything within me not to turn and flee the room of the Archmage as soon as I had entered it. The feel of magic pulsing in the room coated my body like I was swimming in it. But it was not water that it felt like around me, but oil. Slimy and sticky I could not help but wince as soon as I had entered… but after that my composure had been kept, rather well I may add.
The Archmage was a human, surprisingly. His hair was as white as the purest snow. His eyes were old, cloudy, and a stone gray color. He looked like a ghost, not a man. But nonetheless he was the strongest and most dominant with his magecraft, probably having earned his position through not only cunning politics and the spin of a few words but with the dominance of every area of magic. He would be the one that I would hate the most, if I truly hated magic users. But I did not hate those that wielded magic, just those that used it against me.
He was not alone in that massive room of gold and gems though. To either side of him sat other mages, those that consisted of the council of the guild. Four high elves, four humans, two dwarves, and ten creatures that I could not place. One looked like a soulless being, probably was, because of the voids that were in his eyes (and the way he reacted upon my entrance). Of the other nine present I recognized only two other creatures, one a centaur (druid maybe?) and the other was a gnome (illusionist probably). However, of course they were not fully alone. Overhead was the picture of the first Archmage, though I still did not know her name. To either side of that one was pictures of all the Archmages that had held the throne of the magicians. Even the eyes of those pictures, long still in its frozen frame, had seemed to be working under my skin.
It was just a pleasure to be out of there.
Bissreaian, as I think she had mentioned her name being at one point, was waiting outside the door like a patient dog. My guide had returned, and with a smile. I silently thanked the Thayne for that small blessing at least; it would have been hell trying to find my way out of the labyrinth that made of the guild halls. “You look like it was horrible,” she mentioned as nonchalantly as a dwarf talking about rocks. “Surely it could not have been that bad. Did they give you something?”
Yes, yes they had. It was a map of some sort, definitely not the original one, but a very good copy of it. The council had told me that it was the directions to the ‘Cave of Woe’ as they called it. Supposedly it was a recently discovered entrance to… something. That was part of the task they were setting me on, to discover what was in the cave. None had known of it earlier, undiscovered for countless years. But how so?! I could not imagine anything going undiscovered still. With so many people calling Corone home, so many people in Radasanth alone, I figured everything had been discovered by now.
Apparently not though.
The main part of the task, besides the exploration and documentation of the caves, was to find a couple of adventurers. The names they gave me had been fixed in the back of my mind: Sir Falco Derrian and Esquire Trysail. When I gave no reaction to the names there was a confused look by two of the humans to the Archmages left (or my right), a slight break in their ‘holier-than-thou’ facades. Apparently the two were famous for something, but how was I supposed to know? I’d been on Corone for all of what… a month or so?
With their names I had been given a detailed description. If I had them in a line up of even a hundred people I’d have been able to pick them out without a second thought. “Yes,” I finally responded, smirking towards the woman. “To both really. They did give me something, this map and their best wishes. And it was that bad… or not bad exactly just uncomfortable. Surely you know what I mean.”
“Of course, being in the presence of such powerful mages is enough to make anyone a little uneasy. Even I, the time I went in there with them gathered, felt anxious and on edge.” Her tone was genuinely concerned, but that meant little to me. What was the concern of one who used a mask to hide what they truly felt, as I suspected all those in the guild were taught, or eventually learned. But her interpretation was wrong, by a large margin, from what I felt while I was in there. Let her believe what she wanted though. “So when do you start this task?”
“Let’s walk while we talk,” I suggested, feeling that shiver running up my back again. Someone’s magic was strong and in use, perhaps on the other side of the door. I did not know where it was coming from but did not like it much either. My toes began to feel cold, my fingers started to go numb, and before anything else got cold I stepped away from the door and down the hall. My elven guide skipped a bit to catch up to me, gliding in front of me to take the lead.
“So eager to begin are we?” No. Not quite. Something had been touching me, something to do with spells and magic. I did not like being helpless and being in the very proximity of so many mages.
“Yes,” I said quickly to save myself an explanation. “And the ‘task’ they assigned was just a search and rescue, and a little more searching. Though, I don’t feel like talking much. I think that unease feeling, being around so many… elder wizards probably, has made me a little sick.”
“Of course, then we’ll exit quickly, and you can take your rest wherever it is you are staying.” There was a matter of fact tone now. No, ‘why don’t you stay with us?’ or ‘perhaps we have a room’. Of course, I would not have taken it if it was the last bed in all of Corone, but an offer would have been nice at least. Apparently such hospitality could not come from the mages.
With pompous heads so far up their asses it was hard to extend a cordial invitation.
A year ago
“Demons are nothing but filth!” Ranger told himself as he passed through the grand archways of the ‘Citadel of Light’. The dark elf cleric was on his way to the Elders, making his way to present his case to them. “I have witnessed first hand what these ‘Elders’ have forsaken for far too long. They have turned their backs to the growing evils of the shadows, to the darkness that slowly consumes Althanas. This toleration can be stood no further, now is the time for war. Now is the time the powers of the light retake their positions at the head of the world, fighting back that which is engulfing our world.”
The elf pushed open the next set of doors, his silver eyes scanning briefly the white marble halls, the large columns passing a hundred feet into the air. His eyes caught but his brain did not register the pure beauty of the building, looking briefly over the doors along the corridors and passing them with the same, apathetic look he gave the rest of the Citadel.
“Halt,” came a command from before him, two voices acting and speaking in unison. Stopping short of the massive doors that lead to the grand assembly room the elf looked to the left and right. Two of the largest humans Ranger had ever seen before stood directly to his flanks. In their hands were the mighty double-sided blades the Citadel guards used most often. “You are not to go in there at this time. Please, wait for your announcement before commencing your journey into the Grand Assembly Room. If you would,” the man to the left spoke, nodding for Ranger to move back as the right man shuffled off in his full suit of armor to gain the attention of the Elders.
“How long? How long must I wait?” Ranger’s uncommon impatience was growing, the looming deadly feeling in the pit of his stomach beginning to expand its reign of terror into his midsection. Finally the two doors swung open, the gilded expanse moving as if floating above the ground.
“Ranger Nailo, Cleric of the almighty Pelor, Protector of the Citadel, Wielder of the Light, Defender of Justice, and Warrior against the Shadows,” The booming voice of the second guard rang through the hallways, bounding off the walls, fighting its way back to the man. “Ranger Nailo you are now present before the Highest Council of Elders, the Twelve Elders of the Light, Leaders of the Citadel, Pelor’s Conduits upon Althanas. May you go in peace and leave in peace also.” The guard extended his hand, inviting Ranger further into the room.
With a slight bow as he passed the man the elven cleric walked through the massive doorways, across the marble slats that created the floor of the Grand Assembly. Stopping on the large symbol of Pelor in the center of the room Ranger looked towards the ground, his eyes staying away till addressed by the Elders assembled. “You have come with a grievance young one, is that not true?” The voice seeped into his ears, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. Without waiting for an answer they continued, “Tell us what you wish to know, tell us what your quandary is and we will amend it if possible.”
Ranger’s serene silver eyes looked from the ground into the darkness surrounding him. It was obvious that they were not normally dealing with races whose eyes could pierce through the darkness, seeing them concealed in the shadows. A single bright white light pierced through the darkness from directly above, illuminating the single spot that one could stand, blinding sight to the shadowed figures.
“May I be blunt with fellow colleagues?” quite, sure, calm. With a light grunt, at the word colleagues, and a short yes, for the question, Ranger continued, “I have recently come from the world that you have forsaken, the world that you must not turn your back on. I have come as a living example of the power of Pelor, living proof of what the lord of the light can do upon the world if you only stretch your legs and leave this place. You have been held up in this cave of a building for far too long! Your powers that once extended far and wide are dwindling, and you care nothing for them. You sit up there,” Ranger slowly turned pointing to each and every one of them, “Sitting lofty and potent while the slaves of the Order run your errands, work your tasks. Is Pelor glorified by your wants and desires? Is his will fulfilled upon Althanas while you sit back and watch your needs be catered to?”
An astounded gasp filled the room, echoing through the halls, echoing from the shadows and resounding off the immense pedestals. “He can see us…” came a murmur from the right, “But that is impossible, we are cloaked in the shadows…” came a deeper murmur from the left.
“Not quite impossible,” the elven cleric responded to them, another gasp filling the room, “I was an elf of the darkness, a kin of the drow. I can see through the darkness, my eyes pierce it. Along with that come the heightened senses of hearing, allowing me to hear your hushed whispers, secret mumblings. You can hide nothing from me that you could a human. I am sharper and quicker, and you have admitted your own downfall.
“It is true you are cloaked in the shadows, but it is also true that people of your esteem and power should not be in the shadows. The light of the new day glorifies our lord, keeps us comforted. Yet you hide yourself from his light, dwelling like followers of ‘The Gatecrasher’, followers of ‘The Interloper’. Why? Why do you dwell in the darkness that our Order fights so hard to unveil and destroy? Why do you hide your faces from fellow members of the Order of the Light, fellow clerics of the Most High?”
A silent hissing of scorn flew from the shadows, piercing through them to the elf with every word he spoke. “You know nothing of our ranks,” came one response spit like venom, “You are nothing,” came another, “How dare you challenge our powers?” Finally the hissing stilled as Ranger turned to the faces of each one. “Where do you find that you should challenge us? Why do you stand alone, where are those that believe the same as you?”
The Elder stood layers and piles of deep blue robes with gold trimming folding before him, rolling out as he stood. A cruel smile lit his wrinkled wicked face as the others rose as well. “You stand alone and without hope. You stand against the twelve most powerful people within our Order; I dare say the world itself! And you come alone, without a witness, came alone without anyone to defend your word against ours. What are you to do now? Why, I could easily call the guards in here and—” the man was cut short, a small crack popped from the corner of the room, then another and another, spreading across the room itself.
“What is going on?” The elder roared as the lights within ‘the cave’ sprung on, vivacious and ready to serve. Their long decommission was at an end, the lights flickered and then flared to life, a roaring white flame at the center of every supernatural setting, eating away at the shadows, ripping at them with the might of the almighty Pelor. “I demand to know what is happening!” The Elder was kneeling; his hands over his eyes, just as his fellow Elders were, shielding their faces from the light.
“As you know I have come as a messenger of Pelor. But as you did not yet realize, I am more then a messenger, I am a harbinger of a new age, an age without your indolent tolerance, an age that will bring forth the death of the shadow and a permanent combatant against it. You are being stripped of your ranks as Head Elders and your power will be dispersed throughout the entire Order, given to every Elder throughout the entire lands of Althanas.” Ranger turned his back to the Elders, walking slowly and dramatically towards the massive doors. His task was done, dirty though it was.
“Your reign and relaxed grip on the shadows has allowed the youth of Althanas to slip to the shadows, leaving them in the wayside as you yourselves became more and more powerful. You brought yourself up while the rest fell away like sheaf in the wind! You have made yourselves gods among the Order, forcing men and women to bow to you, openly receiving gifts meant for Pelor, using the clerics as lapdogs to fetch your slippers.” The elf turned in a wide sweep, his cloak billowing out behind him, “Your reign has come to an end, and I am here to assure it. Pelor has spoken through me, you know it, I know it, and everyone throughout the Citadel knows thanks to your announcements upon my arrival. You have doomed yourselves to this fate.”
With that Ranger pulled the massive doors open, shining even more light in, bringing with it the calls of over a hundred Elders. Weeping in wails poured from chambers as Ranger exited them, a smirk of fulfillment on his face. “Assemble the militia,” the elf said with an air of authority, “Bring Captain Megrim to the Consulting Room and when the Elders are finished with the former Head Elders escort them to there as well.” The massive soldier, one of the twenty-eight bodyguards saluted sharply and trotted off, giving orders as he went.
“Now onto planning our war, the shadow must and will fall to our might…” Ranger thought as he trotted down the new, liberated hallways, a breath of fresh air, the tight hold of the tyrannical Elders ended.
“And so the great purge of Althanas shall begin anew. The head of the order shall be cast aside for a new order to take its place, bringing with it change. The tainted souls of the demonic shall be found and slain, being dealt with as they should have always been dealt with. The tolerance will fall like a mighty wind, bringing with it a massive wave of change. Death is the only course for the twisted; death is their only salvation. The fires of Pelor shall burn the wicked, envelop them in the flames of the righteous and cleanse their souls of the evil that inhabits them.”
~*~*~
War had come; the militia had been brought to bear.
Ranger’s leadership had brought about the gathering of the soldiers and clerics of Pelor, those that professed him as lord. This gathering had brought nearly five thousand strong to the ranks of the Legion of the Light. The elf had been more then pleased, he had been verging on ecstatic. General Megrim was the true leader, but everyone had taken to their ‘liberator’ as they called him often enough.
The fields of the Gisela were to be the purging grounds for the great Legions to work upon. A true army comprised of demons was to be their first opponents too. What blessing Pelor had given them. Yet something went wrong. Something had been twisted and cast aside. The same darkness Ranger had felt when he had stormed the Elder’s ‘cave’ had decended across the field.
Before anything could even be fulfilled, before the battle even had time to be underway, Ranger recalled everyone. The Legions were baffled by the hasty retreat called, and some were even tossed back into the fray by their zealous sergeants. It was then that the elven cleric first realized it. The demons they were fighting were no more evil then the Legions themselves were. Realization had dawned on him viciously, biting him in the ass as it had.
True sight found its way too the elf.
He saw that something about Pelor was wrong. He was the ‘god of light and strength’ but what did that have to do with demons? How was his affiliation linked to the demons of Althanas? Had the cleric not seen those of the Haidia exemplify the same characteristics that he himself was striving for? The battle and war itself had nothing to do with religious persecution against the light. It had nothing to do with demons tainting Althanas. Demons had nothing to do with darkness, humans spread it just as well.
~*~*~
Disdain had followed the retreat. Disdain against Ranger personally for what had happened in that first round. Things had gone and swayed the wrong way. People were not supposed to retreat from the field. The very first rule that had been established by Pelor himself was that to retreat meant death. Yet what had they done? Those that had not left had died anyway; those that had were even still threatening the drow with the punishment.
Ranger felt no remorse for those that died. Granted he was the cause, it was better for few to die then the very Legions be crushed for a cause other then truth. The drow was banished nonetheless. He was kicked out of the Citadel of Light, banished forevermore from the hallowed halls of the god Pelor. But what did it matter anymore? What did it matter if the voice of Pelor no longer went with the religious cult?
Not only did the voice of Pelor leave the halls of the Citadel of Light though, they left the mind of the once faithful cleric too. He could not help but feel the depression that came with their parting though. He could not help but feel the loathing and despair that took their place. Ranger’s head was filled with questions concerning the world of Althanas, concerning his faithlessness, and concerning the truth behind Pelor.
In his state of remorse he took leave from the comfort of Pandemonium’s Fist. His Lord Ithermoss – reincarnated into the wild human Rakh – was left with but a slight parting; the others did not even get that much. Ranger did not worry about how they took his parting though, for he meant nothing harmful by it. If they took it as such he would mend that bridge when the time would come. Ahead of him the city known as Radasanth lie, and something was pulling him towards it quickly.
The call of Fate.
But fate alone does not cause the normal people to stray. Something more was calling the drow, something stronger. Fate was just why he was straying from others, why he was leaving his life of comfort behind. Fate was not what was calling him, and had nothing to do with his leaving the Red Hand. Ranger did that much on his own; he had fallen away from a false god and brought the wrath of a cult thousands strong upon him. Brothers of the Red Hand were strong, but even they could not curb the raging appetite of such a horde (and Ranger would never have asked it of them).
Yes, he was alone once again.
Overhead the sun’s glory was magnificent. It was bright and powerful. The drow, once a creature who despised the light and all it stood for, had grown fond of it through his belief in Pelor. But as the light steps of the elven ex-cleric found their way through the great gates of Radasanth the sun seemed heavier. No longer did it comfort the drow, instead it gave him a sense of a burden. Ranger did not even want to lift his face towards it, instead hiding it under the hood of his cloak.
“Get out of the way old man.” Ranger cringed at the man’s tone. Strands of his silver hair were peeking out across his shoulder, it had been apparently enough to give all the impression of his age. The elf consciously thought about how he was walking, realized that the proverbial burden of the sun above was forcing him to lean over. Without any hesitation or protest the drow stepped to the side.
All around him the city of Radasanth was rising. As the front gates began to disappear, around corners and behind people the world of man began to grow. It was exactly like he had remembered; exactly like every trip he had taken in with fresh wood or raw ore from the Draken Lords hold but a week from the city. The whitewash was fading. Grime from the alleyways crept out in the shape of fans like a delta at the end of a strong river. It was Radasanth, no doubt, but it was getting dirtier by the month as far as the elf could tell. Ranger felt more pity for the people and their once grand city than anything. It had suffered through much, fought against much, and yet still seemed to degrade at a steady pace. Time would tell if the minds and wills of the Coronians would be able to hold on, or if the ever-shifting presence of unease would eventually come to fruition.
Around him people were shifting. The traffic moved like a stream, flowing and yet jerking slowly but with a purpose. Ranger had stepped aside because he had been slowing traffic. With apathetic eyes the drow watched people pass, continued doing so until one stood out. A gasp was all that came from the quiet drow as he watched something shocking pass by him.
It was an elderly human. His hair looked as if the color had been stripped suddenly, a flawless white. It was not natural from age, but supernatural. Around him were the robes of a cleric of Pelor. Flowing light-blue robes trimmed with golden borders. But around his neck was an ornament to Y’edda, his left arm bore one of Hromagh, his right Draconus. Ranger could not see what was hanging from either hand, or what was on the shoulders of the man. The one facing him looked like a mantis, he supposed Khal’jaren (thought he had little knowledge of the deity). At the back of his mind he saw the other side of the arm bearing Jomil and both trinkets having V’dralla and N’jal.
The man’s association with the Thayne was obvious. His robes coloration were most likely naught more than coincidence. Ranger watched him walk, people shifting around him without even realizing it, shifting away from what the drow was feeling. It was like the man’s body was putting off a draw that was tugging at invisible strings touching Ranger’s heart, cords of fate. Yet, at the same time, he expelled sense of dread, forcing people to bend around him instead of bump into him. Even a cutpurse who Ranger had spotted skirted around the man, giving him room but never even looking at him.
Quickly the drow stepped away from the wall he was hiding along. The shade was left behind and the glory of the sun found the elf. Disheveled and confused the elf followed the pull, no longer seeing the man but feeling the pull nonetheless. It was as if the Thayne person had hooked him and was dragging a cord behind him, knowing the attraction strong enough for his presence not to be necessary.
Bumping and shoving the drow made his way. Not even an apology was given to those around him. His mind was concentrated solely on the Cords of Fate.
Burden was not the only thing driving the drow as he slipped through the crowds of Radasanth like a ghost. He wanted truth. He desired wisdom. But before all of that he just wanted to find his place.
Decade upon decade had passed. Ranger had seen three centuries and was looking like the most fit elf at his age. By human age standards the drow was equal to the upper fourties. He was feeling every bit of it. In every bone he felt his age, but covering that was the muscles of his youth – and better yet for the forced mining and training with the Red Hand. Behind every thought was experience, but with that came the yearning for more. Power had never been an issue with the drow. The lust for strength and dominance was only expressed in battles, and even then he practiced only to be on the ready for any war that the Red Hand may have been plotting for.
“Watch it!”
The man the spoke was silenced quickly. Ranger spun, despite the pull, and locked his eyes with the other. The human was dirty, old, and smelt like a horse. It took only a second for him to drop his gaze and push to his flank, disappear among the people. Radasanth was full of hard-asses and people that started conflict. Ranger was not a confrontational person, on average, but when he did he was impressive. The drow had come to recognize the society for what it was though, full of hot air and only acting as they had been razed and groomed to believe was right.
“Damned humans,” for the first time in a very long time the words returned. It was once again scorn for the race, be they a mixture of human and another race or not. The cleric was driven by an intense desire and it seemed the humans were only united in impeding him. “Take up so much room. Destroy so much beauty. And for what? For their own growth? For their very lack of self-control? Why?!”
Ranger rounded a corner. Knocked someone over. This time the person was a woman with a child. Luckily the child did not fall. The elf was getting reckless. He extended a hand, open and agitated. His eyes showed no remorse for her situation. Pale silver orbs looked at the young human girl with tears on the verge of falling. Her mother gave a stunned look instead of taking the drows hand. “My apologies dear woman,” Ranger was off. He did not have time to play at hero or good Samaritan.
It was at a near sprint that he rounded the next corner. His hood had fallen off his head and was flapping with the movement. His feet were softly padding across the avenues and byways. Like an apparition the drow moved. The twin swords, tightly bound across his back, were flapping against him. His spade, held tightly in hand, was held carefully and closely – he would not seriously wound anyone for his trouble. People did not bother standing in his way. They near leapt against the nearest walls when he neared. Those that did not move only felt a light brush of his cloak as he slipped by them.
He was close.
He was closing.
An ethereal glow lit the room. Through it swirls of color danced in a hurricane-like cacophony of wonder. Blues, green, red, and yellows of all hues swirled about. Flecks of pure white beamed as if the stars of the heavens had been set loose in only that room. Even more remarkable were the opposites of those stars, specks of pure void that swirled just as readily as the rest. As the epicenter of the dissonance was a crystal of the most pure form, a crystal that held not only a picture of the heavens above but the depths of Haidia as well.
Without the orb the room would have been far less remarkable. Its walls were old, a single table sat at the center of it, three broken chairs around that, and a single door along the back wall. Besides the orb and the black-wood box it was sitting in the room looked no different than a private wing at any lowly tavern in Radasanth’s slums.
Sitting behind the orb, in one of the chairs, was the man. His hair had been let loose from the confines of his hood and rested fitfully across his face and shoulders. His hands were as frail as any elderly gentleman would be expected to have. His nails were perfectly clean and trimmed, taken care of with age instead of let to go to waste. As Ranger burst through the door, pulled by the invisible cords of Fate and Destiny, the man’s face rose from the orb and caught the drow.
What caught the platinum eyes of the drow was in itself silencing and powerful. The elder man’s eyes were pure black, like the specks of void in the swirls of color. At the center of those, however, were simple pearl-like orbs of milk-white coloration. Beneath those eyes was a smile that could stop even the most reckless. His teeth were pristine, perfectly cared for and kept. They glimmered with the light from the orb, glinting as if the sun itself was reflecting from them. The rest of his face was smooth, no hair to speak of upon either his sideburns or his chin.
“Come.” The voice was distant, like in a dream. Ranger was compelled to obey it, could not help but follow what it so gently demanded. Barely noticing the door swaying shut, cutting off the last exit from Fate, the drow moved forward. His steps felt awkward, his stride a staccato dance, but most of all he felt like he was on fire. Before him was the man. His mouth opened again. “Sit.”
Without bothering to think the drow sat on the stump of a chair across from the elderly man, the orb between them. “I know why you have come. I have seen you for many years.”
Speechless. The forsaken cleric’s mouth hung open; his eyes were wide and could not stray from the man before him. However he did not want them to stray, it was as if the person before him was the most beautiful flower in the world, but to look away would cause an inevitable death. “The spirits have spoken of you, Puppet. Your god is false. Another will assist you though. Deep in the heart of Concordia is your path. The Interloper has used you. Redeem yourself. Follow the Thayne. Life in their grace. Die with them alone in your heart.”
“This other will guide you.”
“Seek the one with the violet hair. Seek the one with eyes like the void. Seek the end.”
Even as the words rolled over the drow, seeping into his very being, he felt overwhelmed. Before him was a seer, it was the only way. He spoke with choppy sentences, breaking the riddle cliché that others believed soothsayers used. But the words flooded the thoughts of the drow, flooded his conscious. His head was light, his eyes wide. It was all he could do to remain awake till the end.
And then he blacked out.
Was it all but a product of one’s imagination?
Could it have been nothing more then a hallucination? Or perhaps it had been an attack on the already unstable mind of a depressed drow? The actual event that had taken place, with the orb and the Soothsayer, was at the forefront of Ranger’s mind. It had seemed nothing more then a dream, a foggy memory of something long since left behind.
But around him the town of Radasanth was bustling. His eyes were blinking as conscious once again settled itself across his shoulders. It was a rather trite seen that caught his eyes. Citizens moved quickly, wagons rattled by loudly, the city seemed little more then a symphony of humanity. Unfortunately Ranger was caught among it, and with a quickly growing headache.
Blast. Once again the words came to bear. The drow could not help but reminisce over them. If the man had indeed been watching him for years why had he waited so long to show himself? If this Soothsayer knew what he was talking about, knew that Pelor had been a false god then why had he not done something about it himself? Violet hair… what kind of person has violet hair? Is he some troll or something? Some mutations turn his hair that color? ‘Puppet’. A bloody marionette he had called me…
The ex-cleric blinked. The sun was at least overhead. It had to have been at least noon. Its rays were as strong as ever, and the dark clothing of the elf only helped to soak them in. Silently he cursed Pelor, whatever the being may have been, and looked around again. People paid him little heed. Who would anyway? His clothes were whole though, his weapon was still with him, and his purse was still full. Other then his hair’s disheveled state and the lull of his head making him look drunk the other people were no better then he.
Though he still looked the part of a common vagabond.
“Here you go buddy, get some food or a shower if you can.”
As if to emphasize the fact that he looked like street trash, a handful of coins rained into his lap. There could not have been more then six altogether. Ranger did not even look up. Instead his eyes watched them fall like a golden spray and bounce against the cobblestones between his legs. Charity was the last thing the drow needed; he had coinage that could equal almost seven-thousand gold pieces with him.
“It is most—“ the words Ranger had formed in his head stopped suddenly. At the speed of thought the worlds seemed to flicker for a second. At first it went black-and-white. Instead of a young man with amethyst hair walking away, the drow saw the world as a picture, a hero walking among his people before a battle. Then it flashed again. Color flared back to life with a vivacity that was caused the drow to wince.
It was him, the man with the violet hair. Though the drow had not made eye contact he had no doubt that the man, or boy as it seemed, had a very deep color that looked like a void. “Hey!”
Without waiting any longer, for the young man had slipped through the crowd like a ghost (despite his long blackened-steel sword), Ranger leapt forward. He was on the chase again, this time it was a little different. He had his mission, he had been told what he needed, and he had found it. “Hey you, human boy! Wait where you are!”
((Both characters are controled by me, so bunnying will be used and make it go faster and smoother.))
Pity.
It was the soul emotion that came to the soulless sell-sword as he walked the streets of Radasanth. The people around him seemed to grovel for their lives. They held a constant smell, distinctly unique to the people of the bustling town. Those that walked did so with a sorry pace. They moved as if they were constantly being harassed or beaten from behind. In their hands they carried empty wicker baskets that weighed them down like a greatsword. Their stride was heavy, as if wearing full plate armor. The other’s were worse though; merchants, hawkers, guards, innkeepers the lot of them were bloody bastards.
I had ‘woken up on the wrong side of the bed’ as they say. Tell the truth there really was only one side of the bed to wake up on. The other three sides touched a grotesque wall. I think it was more the bed then what side I woke up on actually. It was little more then a thin layer of linen over the most course bit of hay the town had to offer. I still had pieces of the stuff in my hair, much to my horror.
And what do we have here? Gutter-trash of Radasanth, ignored and forgotten by the fellow… what the hell is that thing?
The slump was a rather deep hue of gray. Its ears were as sharp as an elves, and as long too. Its hair was a gorgeous platinum color but was rather unkempt. I sighed. No wonder it was in the gutters, it was not human. If I had learned one thing so far on Althanas it was that humans helped humans, not others. The heap of clothing and whatnots was definitely not human; it was most likely drow. Suddenly I had the urge to help it too, since nobody else seemed to want to.
Without slowing I dug six gold coins from my side purse. They clattered quietly as I shifted the pouch about. There was a significantly less amount of coin lately. If I had a soul it would have been screaming something selfish, probably. When you had only twenty coins to live on for who knew how long seven suddenly felt like a fortune. I shook my head as I dropped them upon passing.
“Here you go buddy, get some food or a shower if you can.”
He certainly smelt bad. Was it wrong for me to notice? No, I doubted it was. Was it wrong for me to verbally note it? That was a good question I could not quite answer. I knew a good bit of etiquette when it concerned any normal person. But this was a vagabond. What etiquette was ‘proper’ for someone that lived off handouts and off scraps?
“By the Thayne?” Behind me a voice called. If it had not been for the chills that ran up and down my arms I probably would have never stopped, much less heard the call. But midday on a humid summer afternoon in Radasanth should never even have the possibility of cold chills. My voice was a rumor of its former self. “It’s the beggar.”
“We must talk boy! We must talk as soon as possible!”
The boy’s expression was one of pure horror as he turned to meet the eyes of the supposed ‘vagabond’. Horror was a hard word for what played across his face though. For such a pretty man the expression could be described as little more then mute consideration. His hair was a long, silky violet. His eyes were the deepest blue that the drow had ever seen, but seemed empty. The boy’s skin was a tinted hue, something between light brown and sandy tan. With his mouth open Ranger could see that he was not used to be addressed so informally or at all perhaps.
“I… I don’t want any thanks, I was just doing a favor,” the boy responded.
It was a curious response, one that made the drow stop in his tracks as he clasped a hold of the boy’s shoulder. He looked over the boy quickly. His clothes were fancy; perhaps he was a lower noble. His sword was long, black, and serrated like the rolling waves. As he was looking at him he saw his empty coin purse, and finally his comment came to the light.
“No, no,” Ranger replied quickly as he shuffled with the boy to the side. Traffic was a volatile creature that was apt to bite when unable to lurch around an obstacle. The boy followed slowly, his steel gaiters clicking against the stone road. “I do not need the money, chi—human,” he thought better of calling him child, it would normally illicit an unfriendly response with humans. Quickly the drow dropped the seven gold pieces in the forcefully upturned hand of the human.
“I was told to find you; you are on your way to a mission of sorts? Am I correct? You are on your way out of town, somewhere out in the forests?” By the boy’s puzzled expression the drow knew he was right. His head was quickly clearing of the depression. He had found his key, his pathway was open. Though the oracle had been odd, he had been correct, and that was what mattered. “I am supposed to accompany you. What you are going to accomplish somehow correlates with my understanding of my deity, the false god Pelor.”
People pushed and shoved despite the two off to the side of the road, but Ranger did not really care all that much anymore. Instead he shrugged it off and left it at that. Worn, calloused hands rubbed at the mess of hair that flared wildly atop his head. It was not normal for the drow to look as disheveled as he did, but under the circumstances he had cared little.
Now, however, he was suddenly self-conscious. It was not standing up next to the boy that had done it, though the start contrast between the two would have made him laugh any other day. It was the fact that he was moving to a new life, on a pathway to something far better then what he would be leaving behind. He did not want to start out looking like gutter trash…
“Umm… that will be good then.” I had no clue how to respond to such a random and profound statement. The silver eyes of the dark elf were pulsing with excitement. It was apparent that he spoke the truth, or at least thought to himself that he did. “Well, I am going to Concordia, but my mission is for the Mages Guild of Radasanth. They want me to go look for a couple of people.”
Slowly the white knuckles grip on the coins in hand loosened and he replaced them with the meager thirteen. The fact that he had given back the coins alone meant a lot to me. If he was a true beggar then he would have kept them. If he had kept the gold then I would have assumed that all this hype about coming with me was an attempt to steal the money that I had left.
Generally I was not a suspicious creature, but much had changed since I had left the island of Yerria. There gold had been in abundance. It was not hard to pick up a random job and get paid well for it. There was never a lack of work in Yerria, never a night when even a mercenary would not have a soft bed to sleep on. In the rest of Althanas it was much different. Despite being a fairly good sell-sword, in my opinion at least, I had come across not only a short amount of pay but too a market that absorbed money like a sponge does water. To add to it beggars and thieves were, also in my opinion, the largest group of people in all of Althanas.
So when the man handed the coins back I began to take him seriously. He was a drow, I could tell that back when I had dropped the money in his lap. At the time his clothes had been little more then a heap of linen and dirt. His face was smeared with dirt, as where his worn hands. He was a worker, probably dug cemeteries or something like that. I came to the conclusion that he also had some experience with weapons, as two swords were strapped across his back.
“First,” I responded as I pushed against the side of the building, “you need to prove that you are who you say you are. How am I to know that you are not just another vagabond looking for a quick coin? I see you have swords, that is enough of an indication that you can fight… but I need to know that you are really a cleric.”
Ranger smiled at the boy’s precautions. He was not daft, and for that the drow could only thank the Thayne. Without giving the boy any warning the drow summoned a bolt of light to his hand. The stream was a foot long, two inches thick, and looked like lightning. “Ex-cleric,” Ranger responded as he created another one, loosing the man’s belt of his paltry coin purse. “That is the problem at hand. I am supposed to find the source of my confusion. I will explain much of what is happening later, if you will have me accompany you now?”
The boy’s expression was quizzical. The drow held up the coin purse, noting how his brow furrowed yet did not show surprise. He was good at controlling his emotions, very good at it actually. Ranger smiled and placed the purse in the man’s hand as he allowed the strands of light to dissipate. The manipulation of the light was a divine gift, instead of an arcane power, and it was something that the drow had originally attributed to the deranged god Pelor.
Now, however, things were different.
“What do you say human?”
The boy’s eyes looked around, past the drow. Ranger turned, following where he thought that the human was looking. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. When he returned the empty, crystal eyes of the man were burrowing deep into his own platinum eyes. He brushed aside a loose strand of silky, silver hair.
“If you wish to accompany me then by all means, follow. However, I’m not splitting the reward for the accomplishment of the mission. You wanted to follow, I did not invite you… remember that.”
Ranger shook his head as he nodded. “Do not worry about that, I have plenty of money waiting for me back in the Fis—at my house.” The drow was a miner for the former Red Hand, the Master Miner actually. No one outranked him in his endeavors, the former Lord Ithermoss having been reincarnated as a smaller human who had little interest in mining. “My name is Ranger Nailo, former cleric of Pelor.”
“My names Osato, mercenary for hire…” The title sounded funny to my ears. It was exactly what I was, but it still sounded odd. I did not move at first, however. The man said he had plenty of money; it only made me wonder how he had it and why he did not use it. Again his visage came to mind. “Lets start this little quest; I’m tired of being pushed by these filthy people.”
A few of the passing people bothered to look at me. They were filthy, I did not lie, but it was vanity that spoke, not me. A sigh passed my supple lips as I shouldered my way back into the crowd. Most of those in the busy stream gave a little leeway around me, not wanting to bump into my sword as I walked. It was the little comforts that I had to accept now, and that comfort remained until I made my way through the front gates of Radasanth.
On the horizon the entrance to the thick forests of Concordia were outlined by the falling sun. Night would come sooner then I wanted. We would have to camp somewhere off the road. Perhaps then, I thought, I could get a little more out of the drow.
+|+
“Sir, Osato is moving out of the city proper.” The man’s voice was crisp, sharp. It was the voice of confidence. The man behind it displayed the tone to full effect. He was a large man, broad shouldered, cropped brown hair, shadowed eyes as dark as his pupils. In his hand was a large staff with a small crystal atop it, the staple for mages. “Do you want me to follow him?”
Before the man was one of the mages from the council, a stern faced elf with a dour expression. A thick hand rubbed the smooth chin in contemplation. “Richard, we want you to follow them until they enter Concordia. Go no further and do not try any more spells on him. I think what you got out of the last bout with him was enough for now.”
Richard stood from his kneeling position, lifted his head, and smiled. The dour face of the councilman grimaced a bit. “I will do so then. When do you plan on using him?”
“Soon enough,” was the only reply the mage received. Instead of carrying on a small conversation the elf rose and left.
Night had fallen much quicker then either of the travelers had expected. Ranger and Osato quickly set up a small camp and gathered enough wood to build a fire. The drow had quickly gotten the young man to talk, pulling him into a discussion about the current beliefs of Althanas. Being a former cleric of a deity, the drow had many opinions about the nature of the higher powers. His inquiries mostly pertained to the Thayne, however, and what the young man believed in.
By the time the fire was lit and the rations each had brought with them were used, the two were again moving on to each other’s backgrounds.
“You are from Corone? Or somewhere else?” Ranger asked, finishing a bit of the bread he had torn off. There was still a small bit left, but not enough to count it as a meal. Accompanied by the water left in the skin at his side the drow had very little to supplement himself with. “You have an air about you that is somewhat… noble. Perhaps you are of noble birth?”
The boy curiously glanced at the fire. His eyes were empty, as the oracle had said, but the reflection of the dancing flames played across them all the same. When his head lifted again, a smile was brightening his face. “Not noble, though do you think I look it?” He turned his head, giving the drow a picture of his profile. A strong jawline, bright almost elflike eyes, the silky fall of his hair, it truly did appear that his background held the qualities of a wealthy house.
“I am actually from a small chain of island off the southern coast of Corone,” he said as he dropped to his back. “My island is called Yerria, one of the strongest of the many there. Actually, my background is unknown to me. You see… I’m what the world of Althanas could safely consider a… soulless being.”
Ranger sat up straight. His eyes looked at the side of the boy’s eyes, for the first time realizing why his eyes were so blank. Perhaps the old expression was true. Perhaps a persons eyes were the windows to their soul? And without a soul, those windows would be little more then a void splattered by color.
“My eyes,” the boy said, snapping the drow from his thoughts. “It’s what gives me away more often then not. They are apparently “empty” as I’ve been told, it’s gotten me into quite a bit of trouble in the past…” As he rolled over the drow diverted his attention, instead looking to the stars overhead. The clear sky was covered with the spots of celestial light, downplayed greatly by the waxing moon.
“The reason I don’t know my background is because most of it is from my “parents”, for lack of a better word. We soulless people don’t work like you, we don’t have parents… we’re spawned. After that we sit for a bit, and then finally come out of where the “parents” left us. Apparently that has to be in some cave somewhere around Yerria…”
Silence filled the gap between the two as the snap and pops of the flames sporadically attempted to break it. Eventually Ranger turned from the sky and back to the boy. “That is quite interesting. I am sure that I have never been in the presence of one such as you. You truly are an interesting creature of the Thayne,” Ranger said as he sat up. The boy’s grunt spoke volumes about his belief in the gods, despite the amulet of Am’aleh around his neck.
The drow began to tell his story, a sad story indeed. He began with his career as a miner, under the tutelage of Lord Ithermoss. He continued on, touching the topics of the beginning of his belief in Pelor to the eventual fall of it. Through everything he held at heart his true feelings, about the degenerating and often crazed talks he had with Pelor and especially the feelings of disgust he had with himself.
Eventually the embers were all that was left of the fire. And like the fire, reflection was all that was left of the conversation. Overhead the moon rounded the sky and the stars flickered, watching silently over the uneventful slumber of the two travelers.
“Child,” the voice was deep and seething. It was the voice of Pelor, a voice the drow prophet new all too well. Silently he cursed, not knowing how the once powerful ‘god’ creped into his mind. Ranger could do little but debate with the deranged entity. “What are you doing, you insolent whelp? What are you trying to accomplish?”
“So even the gods don’t know everything…” the drow’s tone was cocky, self-assured. Once Pelor had been a being, an entity that Ranger had not only adored but also revered. His tone had been something between worship and awe, a long time past. But the deranged voice and confused commands had brought the drow prophet to a point of disbelief. It was at that point that the voice slowly started to ebb and wane, fleeting thoughts that barely passed Ranger’s skepticism. “I am coming for you, false god. You have twisted the minds of countless for uncountable years. I know you for the false god that you are, and I will let your unabated lies carry the hearts and beliefs of humanity no further.”
“Ha, you? You are a pathetic drow, a warrior whose fate was sealed when you fled Alerar. You were strong when you were following me. You were strong when you were silent and unwaveringly faithful to me. Now you have returned to your pathetic nature.”
Ranger rolled the ‘gods’ words over in his head. Pelor’s tone was still strong and defiant, but it did not inspire the same sort of fear it once had. The god had lost his divinity when the prophet had given his belief over to the Thayne. He had lost his divinity when Ranger had quickly come to realize that the commands of Pelor were given by a false god.
“Be gone, I am a cleric of yours no longer. You are not a deity. You are a lone spirit, a plague that has run rampant too long.” The elf’s response brought a gruff snort from the voice. But it was a mere echo, a shadow of its former power. “I will find you soon enough, for the oracle has prophesized it… and I will destroy you.”
“Tel’Amnrach, you are too weak. Your companion is weaker than you. You will fail, broken cleric.”
~*~
“You cannot call me Tel’Amnrach,” Ranger muttered. His platinum eyes shot open to nothing. It had been a dream. It had been far too long since the prophet had dreamt, especially since Pelor had talked to him. He thought that the false god had been blocked completely. “Odd.” Ranger said as he stood up and looked around.
The morning light had not yet risen and the morning dew was freshly fallen. Overhead the clouds were thick and slow to move. Ranger sighed as he rose, blinking out the weak echoes of Pelor’s words. He gently strapped on his monks spade and threw his studded leather jerkin on over his plain tunic. “I will return soulless,” he whispered, “First I must procure provisions for our upcoming meals.”
I woke with the rising of the sun, always a pleasant though sudden way to wake. Dagger like streaks of yellow and gold pierced through the dense and dispersing clouds. The light flooded across the land of Corone, warming it with its gentle touch. Slowly I rolled over onto my stomach, grunting as I pushed myself up. A cool breeze was floating over the cropped grass, dancing and swirling around my feet.
“Ranger?” I asked, looking around in confusion. The spot the drow had rested in was slowly reviving, the blades of grass stretching upwards once again. The prophet’s weapon was gone as well. Could he have left during the night? Not possible. But he was gone, and after seeming so adamant about his ‘journey’. “Damn.”
All at once it came to me. He had been nothing more than a beggar, offering my coin back in trade for my trust. What a cowardly despicable… but nothing of mine was missing. I worked my hands across my clothing, dropping them to the coin purse at my side, and then looking at my wavy sword. Nothing was missing.
“I wonder where he went then?”
As I waited and pondered, I poked the ash with a stick. The fragile shapes of gray wood crumbled under the soft touch. Sighing I sat back. It was always so droll to travel alone, never having another to talk to. With a shake of my head I pulled out a small piece of bread and began chewing.
“I suppose I’ll just have to head back, since the prophet seems to have run off without me.” I was turned away from the horizon, looking back towards the way we had come. It seemed like a far trip, the city wasn’t even on the horizon anymore. “Oh well.”
“Do not fret, Osato, I have not abandoned you,” the voice was from behind and followed by a chuckle. I turned to see the drow, somehow only feet from the ashes. I had not heard him approach at all, and I had not even been lost in thought. “Good news, I have found food for the next few days, we will just have to skin it first.” In either hand the drow was holding two rabbits of incredible size, though neither seemed to have a single wound or be bleeding.
“Wonderful,” I said with a sly smirk. Where were we supposed to put those? They didn’t seem to be bleeding, so it wouldn’t smell too foul while we walked, but they were definitely not something that I wanted to be seen carrying. “I just ate a little, and figure that you would want to be on our way… so why don’t we save those for tonight?”
“Splendid idea,” Ranger said as he kicked aside the ashes, letting them swirl and spin with the gentle breeze. The drow seemed so upbeat, smiling even. His hair looked soft as silk; it too was dancing with the wind. But most especially, his silver eyes were alight and cheerful. Never again would I let someone tell me about the Alerar people… this one seemed no different than a human.
“Lets be off then!”
Solace sought the two as they traversed the dense Concordia forest. It was true solace, not the artificial peace that one was grated with alcohol or slumber. Ranger felt it all the way down to his core. He allowed the emerald light to flood over him, surround him fully and light his pathway. The light was put to further use as he moved through the dense undergrowth, the beams of manipulated light arching side to side like a scythe.
But the thoughts of the drow were elsewhere.
The words of Pelor were still biting at his thoughts, tearing at his conscious. He had known about Osato, known about the name Ranger had been given by the dying Ithermoss as well. Both pieces of information were gained far after the false god had been banished from his mind. It worried the prophet that the powerful being was able to garner information that was no privileged to him. It also bothered the drow that the boy, with whatever hidden powers he might have, was probably also known in full by Pelor prior to their meeting.
“Stop,” Ranger held up a hand to halt Osato from behind him. Something had moved ahead of them, something had brushed the light that filtered through the high canopy. The elf, even deep in thought, had recognized the motion. It was possible that it was a threat. The prophet was assured that it was not a creature of the forest. “Something is ahead.”
Osato fanned to the drow’s side, removing his heavy sword. The blade looked like it would be far from useful in the environment, but Ranger trusted his companion knew what he was doing. The drow, on the other hand, closed his cloak, pulled up the hood, and tucked his spade in tight against himself. Silently, the two waited and watched. The drow relied heavily on his senses, allowing his long ears to shift and move.
“There,” the mercenary said, pointing towards his right. Ranger turned, but had to quickly turn back as the whistle of an arrow whispered through the woods. In a flash a small beam of light was summoned, deflecting the arrow just enough to miss both the drow and the mercenary. “Damn, there are a couple of them.”
“Four,” Ranger responded. But only one had a bow, the other three were loudly walking through the underbrush. The drow knew they had to be human; none of the three closing was fleet of foot. “Watch yourself, I will return.”
And with that the drow rose and sprinted towards where the arrow had come from. Another shot from the dense brush, but was easily deflected aside by a bolt of light from the prophet’s palms. If the archer had not drawn a secondary weapon, the drow already had him pinned.
As always a true peace would never find a troublesome soulless mercenary. Time and time again I had sought something so profoundly relaxing as the gentle forest and fluttering breeze. But always, at the most inopportune time, something would go wrong and the façade of tranquility would be shattered. I was beginning to believe it was my fault. Everywhere I went people were bound to follow, and those that followed were bound to be hurt or try and hurt myself and my companions.
“Why now?” I muttered as the fleeting form of the elven prophet broke through a new shrub and ducked behind a large tree. The mission I was on was a simple one, a recovery of lost artifacts and exploration. Who would wish harm to me? Wouldn’t they at least wait till I had recovered the artifacts? “Who would be against the mages guild of Radasanth?”
The answer did not come.
Instead a long silvery chain broke into my peripheral vision. I moved quickly, ducking away from attack. It caught my sword nonetheless and wrapped around it, the heavy weight on the end dangling. Shock was all I could show as another attack came, this one from my other side. The arrows had stopped, but new ranged weapons were being loosed. A thin blade attached to very thin wire barely flew through the air next. What luck I had, barely ducking and turning in time to escape with my head yet attached.
“Where did that damned drow go?” But there was no time to look around. The final person showed themselves. It was moving quickly, shifting in irregular motions through the trees directly ahead. From behind I heard the slim kunai recalled to its master, and the chain attached to my sword was pulled firm. The one charging held his sword high.
Without hesitation I moved to. Not away from the fight, as most expect, but towards the identified aggressor. The chain on my blackened blade was given slack for a half second before I pulled full force against it. It gave just as I had expected, and just enough for me to twist the blade free. I turned from my blade and looked back at the nearest aggressor, his sword already falling.
In a blur mine caught his.
The man’s brown eyes widened as the swords clashed. His slim, small blade was nothing compared to the heavy sword I carried. But the man’s power. His arms rippled beneath the surface, muscles tensing and veins bulging. I felt the strength of the man pushing down on my blade. I heard the creaking of his blade against mine, and saw his begin to crack.
He huffed and bounded away, the heavy helmet atop his head concealing his facial features. But I knew he was human. The light armor he wore was mere plates of steel placed over a simple leather breastplate. His feet were similarly shod with steel gaiters like mine. His motions, however, were stiffer and more predictable. He was well trained and followed the training perfectly.
“So? Have you had enough then?” I said with a sly grin, only cautiously watching the man before me. Around me the other two were moving, coming in closer. Their footsteps were similar to the one before me, heavy and weighted. Out of the corner of both eyes I could see them breaking through the woods to surround me. “Well then, I suppose we shall continue.”
Fighting three people was near impossible, for any swordsman. I was far from an expert with the sword, and I had never seen anyone (including my former general in Yerria) defeat any more than two men at the same time. The worst problem was not the numbers, but the weapons of choice that the three used. Two men with mock swords were a problem all their own, three men with an array of odd weapons was a problem all its own.
I stood up to full height and with both hands on my blade. The heavy longsword was held rigidly, unwaveringly still. Silently I waited and watched, trying to keep them all in my vision.
Ranger shifted uneasily as the last brush between himself and his opponent. His spear was extended, the flat head of the spade level with the torso of the offender. The man was well prepared though. His bow was tossed aside, along with it the quarrel of arrows he undoubtedly had strapped to his side at one point. In his thin hands he held two swords, obviously of elven make.
Something sparked behind the drow’s silver eyes. Recognition. His platinum hair was loose and free, flowing around his shoulders. Without waiting, the calloused hands of the prophet clenched tightly and plunged the head of the spade towards the enemy. The man’s dual blades caught the shaft and pushed it upwards, away from him. Though the head was thrown away, the staff was far from safe.
The crescent blade along the backside followed through the swing. It was carefully leveled at the man. Fear flashed behind his covered helm, just before the blade made contact. The edge of the crescent barely split through the leather before the man leaped away. Great agility was a sure benefit of the man’s. His motions and actions were obviously something akin to elven.
"Throw down your swords and speak with me. I do not enjoy killing, but will do so if I must." Ranger's words were strong, resolute. The man on the other side of the mask turned his head sideways in a peculiar manner. The drow did the same, both looking over each other. "Do I know you?"
"Sir Nailo," the man responded, instantly dropping his swords into the soft ground and taking a knee. In a flash of motion his helmet was off and his long, honey hair was flowing around his shoulders. "I deeply apologize, we did not know that it was you. I am..."
"Lieutenant Frihaen," Ranger finished. Time for talk was at a minimum, though. Behind him the clashing of steel could be heard, and he knew the other three were yet fighting his companion. "We must hurry," he did not look at the man behind him, instead he charged forward through the trees.
Before him was mayhem. Three men were fighting Osato, each taking up a distinct advantage. The mercenary was wrapped at the waist by a light chain and weight. It was pulling him in an awkward direction while forcing him to engage the kunai wielder who attacked over his left shoulder.
In a flash of ethereal radiance all went silent. Ranger dropped his hand and let the sudden burst of light quell all thoughts of aggression. "Yield," he thundered as he walked towards the kunai wielding warrior. "In the name of Ranger Nailo, yield!"
The affect was just as he had expected. The three instantly dropped their weapons and bowed to the drow. Osato, still shaking from the sudden flash, blinked in astonishment as the men obeyed. While the men's heads were lowered he slipped out of the chain and shuffled towards his prophet companion. Ranger nodded to him before returning his attention to the three.
"Now," he continued, his tone much less severe and powerful. "Please rise, you have come a long way on a lie. I have much to ask, and time is passing."
"What just happened?" Osato said as the helmets of the three were removed and their smiling faces approached the drow.
"Than Pelor sent you?" Ranger was sitting cross-legged in the small opening. Before him the four warriors, also resting, had replaced their weapons and were explaining their 'mission'. They had been sent, just as the prophet had thought, to hinder and possibly kill the duo. The revelation was disturbing, but Ranger could not help but feel more sorry for those that remained loyal to the god. He knew the men and women of the cult saw Pelor as a god, and were being used like a tool... just as he once was. "At least I now know that he is not near strong enough to touch me without using people."
The men shifted uncomfortably. Ranger had offered up what he had learned about the one they followed. He had given to each the weaknesses and slight quirks that had appeared over time. None, especially the Lieutenant had taken too kindly to the 'blasphemy' initially, but the prophet was once a widely known and respected thinker and cleric amongst their cult. What he said was hard to dispute, especially since he was one of the first in years to have the gods voice directly input in his head. But most especially because he was the one that had brought out the malicious intent of the former Elders, had brought their corruption to light, and had thrown the cult into a new age... a true age of dawn.
"Using people?" Frihaen asked. The elven warrior was on edge already, taken back by the words of the dark elf. He had never truly felt that Ranger's interests were ever fully in the path of their lord, but had set it aside. When the former cleric had come out about their lords voice directing his hand, he had been the first to doubt him. Why would the god of the light, designer of truth, bestow his will on someone who was a deserter and an outcast even among the drow of Alerar? "Are you saying we have been tools?"
Frihaen stood and paced away and back to the small group. He was on edge, even the men under his command shifted uncomfortably. Ranger could feel the tension. "Are you saying that for over eight hundred years a demon, spirit, or some entity has molded and perverted the minds of everyone that follows it? Why? Why would he do that? And when did he start?"
"I'm not sure," the prophet admitted rather dejectedly. He sighed heavily and attempted to catch the eyes of the pacing elf. But the man cautiously kept his eyes away from his, for whatever reason. "Pelor, or whatever his true name is, could have been doing this for over a century even. His guise is built strongly, a heavy shroud masks all his clever ploys and political movements. All I know is that I, just like each of you and all the others, have been used to move and shake Althanas in directions that gain this 'entity' power and reputation."
"That's why I don't believe in any god." Ranger turned, almost surprised by the sudden input from Osato. The boy was sitting against a stout tree, off from the small group. His face was sullen and drawn, he looked the picture of a pouting child. What caught the prophet's attention most, however, was the strength behind his voidlike eyes. Those eyes threatened to draw him in, absorb him. "They all use their follower's like toys... throwing them wherever they muse. Trust yourself, your own strength, leave the gods to their petty intrigues."
Frihaen was on Osato before Ranger was even able to blink. The elven warrior moved like the wind, danced across splintered branches and broken leaves like a ghost. His sword was drawn. But the sell-sword moved nearly as quickly. His own sword was being drawn just as Ranger loosed a beam of light.
The mercenary would have been dead. Instead of the elves sword sinking into the soulless boy's flesh, however, it had clashed with a flare against a prismatic wall. Osato, on the other side of the wall, had only two inches further till his sword would have cleared it sling and rounded in a wide arch to defend him.
"Enough," Ranger said as he rose. The meeting was not moving as he had thought it would. He let the barrier down, but only after the lieutenant had sauntered away. He may have been bitter, but the emotion was nothing compared to the awe that streaked the young man's face. "I need an answer," he continued, letting the leader of the small band shuffled away. "Will you continue to hinder our path, a path that we are committed to follow, a path that will be the downfall of your lord? Or will you follow and believe what I have put before you?"
The three humans snapped their heads to their commander. Frihaen's back was to them all, his hands lethargically hanging at his side. Around them the whisper of a foul wind slid through the trees. Whatever the answer, the former cleric knew it was more than time to leave their place. The winds were mimicking his former lords mind, they were cold and bitter... blowing gently but with a dark intent.
"We will accompany you," Frihaen said with a calculating tone. "However," he continued before any could move, "If you bring the wrath of a god down on our heads and are the cause of our death, be it by Pelor or his loyal followers, your soul will never rest."
"Understood." Ranger was relieved, to a degree. He knew that the four would be of little use once they reached their destination, but to convert former comrades to see the truth was worth it. He only hoped that they would not be wounded mentally or physically in any way due to following him. He already had the weight of the sell-sword's life on his hands, adding others would undoubtedly weigh down on his conscious. "Then we need to move, now."
The party of six made their way through the brush, moving a bit slower than the cleric and sell-sword had alone. But it was comforting having others with him, especially people that he had known from his past. It was almost nostalgic. He had traveled with the lieutenant before, had done many missions with the man and had watched him over the past few years as he had grown in rank.
In the past, when Ranger had taken the brunt of the Legions of Light to battle against the hordes of evil, Frihaen had been but a budding sergeant. He had been eager, ready to prove his worth, and had earned his rank on the field of battle. It was not often that a common soldier was promoted to the rank of a commanding officer. Frihaen was one of few that had done so in the past two decades. The other three were rather unknown to Ranger, three enlisted troops that had more than likely not accompanied the legions when they had marched that fateful day.
“My how ambitious humans are,” the elven prophet chuckled at his thoughts. The human’s capacity for advancement and growth are what had brought the drow from hating them to almost admiration. They had neither the life span of an elf, nor the beauty or grace in battle and life, but yet they proved themselves. The brunt of the Legion consisted of humans, with a scattering of high elves and dwarves. Ranger had been a lone drow amidst their ranks for as long as he had believed in Pelor. “I only hope they prove to be so easily swayed at the lieutenant. I only hope they are so receptive to the truth of their ‘lords’ deceit and lies.”
“You think yourself a righteous avenger do you?” The voice of the deranged god pierced the ex-cleric’s conscious. He winced at the voice, his steps and stride failing him for a second. Only the mercenary seemed to have noticed the misstep. A single brow fell in a questioning glance. Ranger returned the look with a shake of his head and a nod. “You think yourself a hero of the people. Fancy what they will think of you when you fall. Oh how they will laugh as they tear you piece from bloody piece, giving you a slow and painful death that you deserve. To the Legion’s eyes, to the eyes of the world, you are a heretic who had lost his mind.”
Ranger pushed aside the thought of those he used to know so well, those he used to be treasured by. They would accept what he had to say, they would accept the death of their lord. It would be a struggle, and he suspected many would fall in the process, but no cause could be more just than defying a tyrant. No cause could be more true than disposing of a fraud and replacing him with the truth and power of the Thayne, the true gods of Althanas.
“Fancy your fall instead, Interloper. Fancy what the afterlife will be like for you. Don’t look too much into my own death, for it will come when the Thayne provide it…” Ranger sighed as he passed through another thick brush, pulling himself along with the assistance of a thick tree. Once again Osato took notice, noticing how laborious the trek through the trees was becoming for him. Instead of ghosting through the brush and woods he was dragging along. The drow did not even bother looking at the boy. “Whatever the mercenary’s purpose is, he and I will be your end. Pray that you end quickly.”
“The Thayne! Bah! You believe in gods that have not proved they are real nor attempted to uphold their faithful on Althanas for centuries. If you are going to believe, believe in something that had given you your power… given you your strength… given you your success.” the voice of Pelor was weak though. Ranger noticed a quiver in its tone, a fear behind its words. Real or not, Pelor had not given him his power, he had slowly mastered it. Pelor had not given him his strength, he had earned it. But most of all, his success was not given to him; he had fought hard for it.
“Be gone,” Ranger fought back. “You are weak, you are nothing compared to the might of not only the Thayne, but those that follow them. You will see nations rise against your Legion. You will see them turn their backs to you. You will watch it all past the gates of the antifirmament, you will be a prisoner of those gods you curse and call weak… and your soul will rot forever with those you have damned.”
The prophet continued on, “You have given me nothing that I could not have given or fought for myself. You think yourself the reason behind my magic, strength, and success. I have taken what life had given me and grasped it. My magic was trained and focused myself. I sacrificed my body to the mines to build my strength, both physical and mental. And my success, it was purely based on the good graces and strength of the Red Hand and its leader Ithermoss. He alone showed me the way, he alone gave me the opportunity to advance.”
No response tainted the mind and thoughts of the drow. Once again his conscious was silent; once again he was left alone to ponder what would come next. In a day the small party would be upon the entrance to the cave. In a day conflict would once again rule the ex-clerics path and fighting for his life would become precedent. He only hoped that the soulless boy would be able to hold his own.
Night came and went. It was sullen, quiet, and unnerving. Nobody slept well, including Osato who seemed less worried than anyone else. Perhaps it was because he did not completely grasp the idea of fighting a god, or at least an entity that claimed to be a god amongst Althanas. Pelor was not a small trifle to be tossed aside. It was not some entity that could only touch the minds of the people, but one that wielded a power untested perhaps since the dawn of time. No one truly knew when the Legion of Light was founded, how it was founded, or if Pelor had taken over it or started it.
Whatever the case, everyone was on edge. As the group had neared the area in question a sudden, shrill wind had picked up. It was sharp and cold, both physically and ‘mentally’. When it passed, and it passed very often, a cruel shudder ran from the base of their neck to their waist. Everyone was forced to shiver, clenching their muscles as the feeling reverberated through their spines. Ranger, as strong as he was in both the physical and magical sense, was the worst off.
Only Osato was unaffected.
The drow had not stopped shivering fitfully since the wind had started. Something far more devious was passing than simple wind. It was like the very essence of evil had been bottled up and placed behind the party, pushed towards them to hurry them to an unspeakable evil ahead. Whatever it was that filled the wind, it was like nothing any of them had ever felt. Instead of being able to push it aside, shrug it off, or cast a spell to disperse it, the wind pushed ever onwards.
The morning sun rose slowly, hesitantly. Though it was bright enough to pierce through the emerald canopy, it somehow was stunted by the thick morning fog. All around the party the gray cloud hung glumly, soaking up not only the thin golden rays but the warmth of each person. Birds sang solemn songs, squirrels tittered and chattered in murmured secrets, and every little critter was still silent despite the risen sun. Osato was the only one, perhaps in the entire vicinity, that stretched and yawned and woke like nothing was wrong with the world. He stood and stretched, brushed his hair vigorously, and looked around.
What he saw was a slightly grim scene of degraded soldiers. The men were all staring at the ground, saying nothing to him or anyone else. They were munching quietly on their rations, barely nibbling at the edges of their compact little wheat bars. The lieutenant was gone, probably releaving himself or walking around. Ranger, however, was doing nothing. His arms were wrapped around his knees, his forehead resting on the top of them. He looked the worst.
“You going to be alright?” The ex-cleric’s eyes flashed a vicious light, his hands opened with a small light flickering at the tip of each finger. His eyes were tight, his face was firm, and his thin lips were pursed tightly. He looked as if he was going to tear the mercenary apart. Osato took a step away from the prophet with fear in his eyes, terror in his staccato step. “Ranger! What the hell?”
Ranger kept his glare on the boy for only a second further before his eyes relaxed and the light passed. He shook his head and the pallid façade returned. The drow dropped his head back to his knees and let the boy wonder. Osato stood over him, hovering by his shoulder just long enough to let the elven man raise his head again. The sell-sword cautiously took a step towards his companion and sat next to him.
“I… I apologize,” Ranger said as he lifted his head. His face was drawn, his eyes worn. A haggard voice was all that the elf had left. “Things are getting harder for me, harder for all of us I understand. The closer we get the harder it gets. You seem unaffected though, by the trip and this wind. Do you know why?”
“Not sure,” he responded with a shrug. Osato turned his head to and watched the other three. They returned to their hard breakfast and their drawn visages. “Whatever is in this wind, or whatever is causing it might be touching something far deeper than the surface. I’m not a philosophical sort of person, but it seems that everyone’s spirit is getting sapped from them. If this is a cruel sort of defense that your ‘god’ has devised perhaps it is meant to demean everyone and suck the persons power from their soul.”
The theory was odd, but not impossible. Ranger had heard of spells that stole the soul, powers that could warp the soul. If Pelor had truly devised such a wicked spell as a guardian for his location the prophet could only hope that it would be something they could overcome. “If you have no soul, like yourself, perhaps that is the only way to counter the spell or whatever this seems to be. The oracle did tell me that you would be the key to the success of this mission.”
“Ha,” the mercenary said as he stood and stretched. In the distance the crunching of the lieutenant’s stride could be made out. He was returning, everyone had taken what they needed for breakfast, and Ranger was beginning to stand. “Don’t get my ego up, it’s high enough as it is… how about we get this little task over with so nobody else gets hurt by this Pelor or this spell?”
Even with the cave looming before him, Ranger could not help but feel as if all of the tribulation over the past years was nothing more than a dream. The drow was lost in thought, devoid of emotion, standing before the entrance to the cave that would draw years of confusion to a close. It was almost nostalgic. The prophet saw before him his entire life, his entire existence, and the fate of a horde of once loyal followers failing. But what he also saw was a new and better path for thousands of people across Althanas.
“Should we wait here, or should we go with you?” The lieutenant asked. His voice was broken and lost, saddened and filled with uncertainty. Ranger had served with him before, but never had he seen him so broken and lost. He did not want to take the man with him, or the other three. The drow would not put others at risk. The oracle had not spoken of them, had given to insight as to what their purpose would be… or that they would even appear in his path. “We do not fear what lies within this… cave. If you are going to face our god, then perhaps we should accompany you as well?”
“No,” Osato’s voice was sudden and unexpected. His face was drawn, but not with the wear that the others had endured, but by something else. “I don’t think that you were meant to deal with whatever waits for us, or for the power of your ‘god’. Let me and the prophet deal with this…”
“You were not asked! Do not speak to me like we are equals, sword for hire scum.”
“Enough,” Ranger chimed in, stepping between the two. It was not the time to fight, not with ones that were not a threat to themselves. Though the prophet was worn, he was not without vigor. His mind and spirit were slowly being crushed by the ever present shadow of doubt, but his voice still held the command that had forced respect from so many in the past. “I will not have you fight amongst each other. Lieutenant,” he said, forcing out the man’s honorary title in a manner almost too astute for the situation at hand, “you and your men shall wait here, or wherever you wish. I will understand if we come back from this darkness and you are not seen. I would not linger with this wicked wind if I were in your position.”
“We are not afraid of it, nor what may dwell within in.” Again the voice of another surprised the drow. This time it was one of the soldiers, a man who’s name the prophet did not know, nor a face he recognized so easily. “I you want us to stay here, keep vigil, we can and will.”
“So be it,” Ranger said, turning from the small band. “But you must fare for yourself and your own fate before ours. Do not give into an eternal torment for our sake…”
And with that he turned.
~*~
Just as those before him, it was not the looming darkness within that intrigued the elf, but the runic symbols that played across the entrance. The stone arched, still and silent. But across it runes of ancient magic spoke volumes. Ranger was not able to make them out, being only a minor scholar of magic and long since dead languages. What he did know, however, was that the wind had all but stopped while he ran a delicate finger across the entrance.
“Lets go,” Osato said, his voice too firm, too resolute. He was to be the accomplice to the murder of a great entity, a veritable god, and his tone and word finally sounded as if he was taking the task seriously. The prophet let his silver eyes slip towards the man, taking in the steady breathing pattern and stolid façade he had chosen. Though he assumed a resolute appearance, the drow knew that he too must have been anxious within. “Nothing will get done if we just stand around here looking at the damned thing.”
Ranger wanted to laugh, so dearly he wished to even pass a smile, but neither came. His joyous attitude had long since slipped, along with it his sense of peace. The prophet nodded to the lieutenant and his men, parting his thin pale lips in a weak smile. He only hoped they would be alright outside the ghastly cave, he only hoped their fates would neither be sealed nor rest on his shoulders. But deep within, he knew they would.
“Let us be done with this,” he responded, his voice a mere whisper. “Let us be done with Pelor.”
Fear?
Fear is another simple emotion which drives the heart of men. Could I have felt it? Of course, if it had been something more real. As it stood I was to face some unknown “god” in a battle that was to determine the fate and future of an entire group of people. That so many had misplaced so strong an allegiance in a farce, a fickle entity… that so many could be manipulated so easily… that was what I truly feared.
Now, before the pathway that I was ‘destined’ to travel, I viewed the closing of a proverbial door that would affect thousands. I would become the unsung hero of legends at the price of a few thousand lost and destitute individuals. What a price to pay. What a cost…
“Come on then,” I muttered. My words were torn, lost. My normally proud and strong tone, so resolute but moments before, was humbled by the sudden weight of my situation. This was a path not associated with my own fate. It touched the minds and souls of others, why was I apart of this? Was I to be a tool? Or was my blade and meager prowess truly required? “Let’s deal with this nor while our wits are still with us… if they were to begin with.”
~x~x~
The wind, it struck hard. At the entrance it had seemed so inviting, so calm. As soon as I and the prophet crossed the threshold, passing into the void, the shrill winds from the forests started again. Indeed, it had been a wicked spell devised as a means of defense. I, however, was resolutely and singularly opposed to it.
Ranger curled at my side. His hands were crossed over his abdomen. His silver eyes were filled with pain. Cruel disgust played across his face, and through a mask of undeniable anguish I could see his end. I saw the great prophet of the Thayne, helpless and torn. I saw a single man amongst thousands, he alone strong enough to call out his god, powerless and humbled.
Where were his gods when he needed them most?
They were missing – curiously absent in a time of great peril and need. Only I was there. I could do little more than dive towards him, throw him onto his side. His convulsing body caused the rocks to grind against his worn leather jerkin, the studded steel caps screaming in anguish as he moved. At the very least he wasn’t puking on his back, he would at least live through that. It would be pathetic to see someone so powerful die by drowning in his own vomit. But I feared what wicked torture his mind must have been fighting against.
“Ranger!” I screamed, despite knowing that an overuse of emotion could be my downfall. Though the strong wind was tearing at my mind, trying to throw me into fits of rage and sorrow at the same time, it was the void in my chest that I felt the most. Being soulless had saved me, sheltered me from whatever the drow was being attacked by. “Prophet…”
I turned at the sound of a banshee. From the depths of the cave a ghostly face appeared. It was a wizened elderly human, the face easily twice my bodies size. Its mouth was wide, consuming. I could sense wicked magic emanating from it. I could see thin ribbons of milk white spirit being greedily devoured by it. Yet, amidst it all I stood resolute in mind, attempting to keep my emotional composure. Despite it all, my knees quivered and my clenched teeth ground roughly together. I couldn’t even draw my eyes away to care for the drow, nor flee.
“Who are you?” Such command! Such power forced into so few mere words! It felt as if my ear drums were at the point of rupturing, and yet I wanted to hear more. The words boomed and rebounded endlessly through my mind. “It is not but a fearsome individual who can withstand my power. I believe one had not yet assended to my level, nor ever would. Enlighten me petty child.”
He spoke in riddles, confusing me with someone who understood or cared to understand. With the words tearing at me I could do little but ponder. Was this… thing, this spirit, the ‘Pelor’ I was supposedly destined to destroy? Was the power that of a false god? Was the final battle going to come and go so anticlimactically? Even facing the ‘almighty’ farce I let a fit of laughter escape.
“Why do you laugh, nave? This humor is not your mind being split, but your own sense of humor. Explain yourself!” His confusion, his anger, they only made me laugh harder. I turned towards Ranger, momentarily freed. The prophet was still, but behind a miasma of tears I couldn’t tell if his chest was rising and falling. “Stop your laughter!”
Had Pelor truly felled his ex-cleric and thrown me into a titter?
The sight of the prophet sobered me almost instantly. I turned on the ethereal head. “What’s so damned funny? This entire situation!” as my tone become stronger and my words more stolid, I walked towards the wizened man two steps. “I alone am able to ignore whatever magical curse you have created. I alone am standing before a great entity with nothing more than blind pride and a bloody sword!” My words echoed off the smooth stone walls and jagged floor.
“I do not follow; what is so humorous little human?”
“Alone,” I nearly whispered. My voice was quickly being drawn away. “I stand alone against you, a false god, a centuries old hack! I, a simple mercenary on a silly mission for a mage guild I don’t even believe in, much less like. I am forced to fight the ‘almighty’ Pelor!”
“Pelor,” the head snarled. Its eyes, and entire disembodied head, tilted back. It moved to face upwards towards the low roof of the cave. The snarled words twisted his haggard face, contorting his dry and cracked lips. In the presence of such rage I could do little but double over. I collapsed on the ground, my sword clattering loudly. “You see me as that deamon? Your petty mind has decided I be none other than a loathsome intruder, bend on usurping power?”
“If not… that… him, then you… are his lap… dog.” My words were forced through tight lips and grinding teeth. My pristine eyes were being pushed backwards. My stomach was rolling, and I feared that for the first time in my young, adventurous life I would die. It wasn’t the heroic death of honorable combat between equals – astride might warhorses on a field of battle. This was a pure, overpowering of a weaker opponent by a spiritual, impressively strong opponent.
“Lapdog! You insolent whelp! I will personally devour your pathetic soul!” The head leveled with a crippled, broken man. But he had presented a flaw. I had no soul that he could consume. What dreadful shock he would find.
“Hahaha!” I laughed as he sped towards me
“Such a naïve fool,” the spiritual head thought. His all consuming mass had swallowed me whole. Its ghostly teeth had scraped my mind, but I could have been worse for wear. The pain had receded. A lingering headache remained, all but a hazy memory of the encounter. Yet, I still heard him. He sounded almost omniscient, as if he was a god himself. “So simple minded he thought I, a mere trapped spirit, the once great Takaniashi of the White Heron. The demon below, though—“
“Hey!” I yelled, my voice bounded and reflected off the smooth walls. The omnipotent was silenced immediately, but I could feel his mind working. The thoughts were muddles and incoherent, but I could assume he was just as confused. Instead of continuing focus on the gloating voice, I forcefully turned towards Ranger.
The drows eyes were open, but still. His mouth too was open, a thin tendril of saliva dripping from the corner of his lips. I would have instantly thought him dead had his chest not been filling and releasing a steady flow of air. The prophet had lasted, fought through. Only time would tell if he was truly fine.
“Hey buddy,” I spilt through quivering lips. I never had a real friend before, but the prophet actually seemed to have cared. And as my fate worked, he was taken. “Hey, wake up.”
“Who are you?” It was the damned spirit. His voice was hollow, distant. Once powerful, it was his turn to be humbled. “What is this place?” He was disoriented, confused. The prospect amused me, but worried me at the same time. The last I remembered was that he had charged at me, and yet I was uninjured. “It has been far too long,” he said finally, “I have been absent a body for some time.”
Sheer terror played across my face. My arms swung around without my command. My body rose. Sleek fingers slipped through my hair, my fingers! But it all seemed so foreign, as if something else controlled my motion but I retained my senses. “Wha—“my half spoken word came out at a rasp, but was easily cut off.
“Now, now, do not be alarmed,” it was the voice of the ‘great’ Takaniashi, but it was materialistic instead of ethereal. I brought a hand to my still vibrating voice box. The hand was forced back down. “It seems that you are quite the unique individual. First you withstand my spell, then you spit your barbed words in my face despite facing your very death! Now, you house my essence within your empty body.”
“Aww, but I feel you resisting. You play the fool well. After centuries of guarding this cave, after years and years of being forced to protect that deamon for my failures, I am finally free! Dear Osato, fear not, for my intentions rest firmly on the destruction of this false ‘god’ and my own personal liberation.”
But, no matter what he said, I could not focus. Being soulless had saved me the pain and suffering of the spell. Whatever the base element was, I assumed it manipulated and absorbed intruders souls… but for what cause? Perhaps to extend the strength and power of the White Heron mage?
“You are correct,” my split voice responded. Where my thoughts not even my own? Was he able to tap my sub-conscious and have control of my physical body? “Yes I am, and not only that. With the recent, rare flux of soul, I have regained much of my former power. Cease your fretting for your prophetic companion. I can resurrect him better than any divine power granted by any blind, over emphasized religion.”
My arms lifted at the will of the great mage spirit. At the tips of either hand, small yellow-gold orbs began to glow. My fingers were splayed apart. I could feel a rush unlike anything I had ever felt before. My perfect, toned muscles were straining to the point of tearing; bulging as if strained from work. My breaths were heavy – rapid – but it felt as if I wasn’t getting any air. “It’s magic,” Takaniashi said aloud, obviously knowing my thoughts. “And this is but a weak spell, compared to what I know. Let your mind wonder at my power.”
Ranger’s eyes opened, soft pearl like tears rolled down the corner of them to his sharp, angular chin. His mouth was wide open, gasping. Across his face played the picture of a seriously troubled individual. What had he gone through to seem so lost and torn? How much of the mages spell had struck him, and at what great magnitude to force him into a stupefied expression of pain and loss? “You should be thankful that you did not have to endure the spell; you are the first and only to have been able to ignore it. A rare, chance encounter it is that you happened along with this one… and to kill the same daemon that I had as an enemy centuries ago.”
But chance was no longer a factor as far as I was concerned. Chance and coincidence were supposed pieces of Fate; but neither was real. Both were only people’s imaginations; much like good luck or good fortune… karma even. I knew what made the sun move, weather change, or gunpowder spark; to a savage mind it was misunderstood or magic.
I felt thoughts flooding my captive mind. My final sanctity was being overrun by my spiritual aggressor. In some way it was worse than the spell that sapped the soul from the others; this was the conscious, unwilling surrender of my body to an otherworldly host. Was he listening? What did he think of my opinion of him? Did he feel bad about being compared to a complex parasite? Whatever he thought he made no mention of it, instead keeping his focus on the groggy drow.
“Osato?” Ranger’s words were tossed out at a level barely above a whisper. His wide eyes flickered cautiously across my body and face. Through eyes not fully my own I was watching realization dawn. The prophet saw, or sensed something. He looked confused. “Are you doing well?”
“He’s doing fine.” My mouth, my traitorous voice, they worked fluidly for the invading soul. I focused as hard as I could, but only came to find layers of shimmering, prismatic colors blurring my “sight” to my motor functions and all other actions. The bastard’s magic had soaked in quickly, and he was determined to keep his footholds and handholds on me tight. “The question we would rather pose is whether you are doing well? In the years I have maintained that spell I have never once pulled someone back, nor has anyone not died from contact with it.”
Ranger shifted uncomfortably, and for good reason. His concerned expression drew into a fear and worry. “The voice and body before me belongs to the mercenary who came with me, but the words do not. I… feel that you are not an illusion, or masking your appearance… though I do not fully understand the feeling. So, who or what am I speaking with?”
I could feel my lips curl into more of sneer than a smile. The being within was completely in control of my body functions, down to the most minuscule of muscles. It was more than bothersome, yet at the same time felt refreshing. Within me was a soul, a weight unlike anything I had ever felt before, and the warmth that was flowing from it… emotions, feelings… passion. I could not explain the presence of the feelings after they had been nonexistent for so long.
“I am pleased that you asked,” my voice responded. Ranger moved to stand, slowly working his way to his feet. His calloused, worn hands ran across the walls. His nose worked at the smell of the dank, stagnant water that rested in pools further in. I tried to extend my persona to catch a drift of the smell, of the feelings, but was easily repressed and pushed back. “I am glad that you asked that, for now I can finally release many emotions that I have kept pent up for centuries.”
The emotions started to flood, emotions that were so foreign to me. I had not felt, not truly, but only reacted to emotions in the way I thought I was supposed to. It was almost too much…
~x~
Years ago, centuries by now, there was a great horde of daemons that flooded out of their underground abodes. These cave dwelling monsters ravaged the world, pouring through previously unknown portals across the face of Althanas. I, Takaniashi, was one of the elder sages of the Red Bear clan, a subsidiary clan of the Crying Wolves. I was charged with assisting in the defense of our homeland, what you now know as Corone.
The first place attacked was Terria, the supposedly impregnable bastion of the dwarves. It fell without even slowing the daemons approach. But it gave us nomads, barbarians as you perceive us, and the Raiaera elves of Concordia plenty of time to come to a truce. Unsteady terms were drawn between the clans, uniting us for the first time. In the few short days between the fresh alliance and the looming battle at Gisela, I spent my time, day and night, studying with the elven sorcerers. They were the most amazing practitioners of magic I had ever witnessed. But magic takes more than a day, and instead of forcing powerful forces to bend to my will, I watched and meditated.
From within the tree sanctuary we watched the horde move. They split from the great city and flooded the plains. It was a torrent of bodies and cruel intentions. But this great horde could not see us. We were scrying, using the trees of the forests as scouts, a theory I had never considered. I was quickly grasping why the elves hid like cowards behind their forests, why we could never force them to the plains. We excelled in the plains, our combat prowess unmatched, but they ruled the realm of magic with an iron fist. Even the fresh student, having studied only one hundred fifty years, would have been hard to defeat.
We relayed what we viewed to the joint commanders of the soldiers. We told them weaknesses, strengths, numbers, and movements. But all our forecasts were dreary, causing no great cheer for the troops. However, in the short study we were able to isolate certain leaders and more powerful ‘generals’ of the horde. Assigned to each of us magicians were one of them, our plan to eliminate the greater and let brute strength and tactics take the rest.
However, I was given the daemon we assigned the name Aerian. He was a powerful empathy, and from what we could view had control over mental and light powers. His troops were part of the few scattered orderly groups. I was chosen because I, too, was a powerful empathy and my spells catered to the soul. It was their idea that my chaotic empathy would be difficult to follower, and I could magically outwit the rather powerful beast.
I however… I was afraid. I will admit to it now, after centuries of this twisted imprisonment. I… knew I had no chance against the daemon. He, this Pelor as you now call him, was fully orderly, fully in control of his surroundings. The world’s heart beat to comfort him, as if every blade of grass bowed at his approach. I did something idiotic, and reached out with my limited ability with farsight. The horde was within a day from the battlefields of Gisela, and moving faster than we liked. I… I just wanted a final look at what I would be facing.
The daemon knew my lightest of touches immediately. I could feel his full attention turn on me suddenly, and his thoughts rushed to me, overpowered me. I screamed and clawed my face, trying to wake myself from the awful nightmare. My mistake had proved only one thing, the daemon was far superior to me. I would never best him if his power was so great; he could tear through my mind yes miles away… I went to the great mages of the elven people, pleaded, cried, and eventually was granted my request.
All I wanted was for them to take a look for themselves at Aerian.
When they did, they made no cry, made no scene at all. To them he was less than an equal. To them, he appeared my equal. I did not care. I was not going to fight. So, on the eve of battle, I fled. I ran to this cave, fortified it, made it my bastion from the world. From it I watched the forests burn. From it I saw the world change, time come and go. I was cursed though, for my eleven ‘friends’ had placed one on me. I was doomed to never leave my cave, my castle and keep. Here I would die, and yet live on so… unnaturally…
~x~
As the voice told its story, transposing his will and existence over the young Osato, Ranger shifted and scrambled for a more comfortable position. The cleric listened with patience. His body felt cold, tingly, and almost numb. He could feel it much deeper than skin deep though. Down, somewhere deep, it felt that the healing energies of the mage were toying around something. He assumed it was something metaphysical, a realm he had barely studied, perhaps his soul? He wondered at the lightness of his chest, unsure if he could tell if it was caused by magic of the mage or not.
“A coward caught and trapped by his own magic,” Ranger mumbled as the “great” sage finally finished weaving his tale of his history and lore. The history of Corone was not something he was not familiar with. However, to hear the firsthand account of one from the times, apparently one who was supposed to be a vital part of the Gisela battle. It was almost too much to believe. Ranger absorbed it all thought. The mage was an intricate part of the twisted web, centuries spun, that pulled countless towards Aerian. “I have a question, though,” the drow said loudly. “How did he transition from the daemon general to the ‘Lord of Light’?”
“An interesting story that one is,” the boy responded. But it was not Osato; it was the spirit of the great mage. He had worked so deeply in that he had control over everything, from the mercenaries knitted brows to exasperated sighs. “Though, if you are yet in need of rest after your episode I would care to explain. It is relatively simple, somewhat straightforward and easy to follow.”
After the defeat at Gisela, the forces of elves and humans fled. Behind them they left the dead and whatever wounded they could not rescue. It was a scene of death that could turn the stomach of even the most battle hardened of our warriors. To add to it, the daemons were devouring the bodies, gorging themselves on our dead and yet dying. By then, though, I was no longer one of them. I had scryed on the battle from this cave, watched the scene day massacre, but had remained aloof and… scared.
I do not doubt that the others watched this land as I did, watching and waiting over the course of years. But not all the daemons were milling about or terrorizing the animal life. Aerian was building, consolidating his power base and cementing his probable rule. If he had wanted to, it would have been little more than a mere thought to transfer power of the army to the beast. It would have been slow but he could have taken mental dominion over half the horde before any trouble would have risen. He, however, has always played a background role, letting others have their immediate fame and power, while he built a legacy.
His small unit was quickly adapted to a different climate and setting. Other daemons were mere monsters, scavengers, seemingly mindless. Aerians worked his will, raising some of the wounded and placing them under his teachings. His name changed to Pelor, and to his humans and elven followers he was a god. Great profit can be made by a deity, not just material either. Cult followings are excellent tools for twisting the minds and remaining rivals from contention. Aerian saw this and enjoyed it; he took little time in losing the followers onto the dwarven caves.
It was not to destroy them, however, for that was a fight that would not be won. He unleashed them in a more devious way. Touching the minds and souls of a person was far more damaging than physical harm. One could, logically, create a devoted slave, expand one’s own power and never have to actually be seen or heard by the vast majority of one’s following. For years of war against the three hidden races, it was more practical than trying to run them out.
When Radasanth the Savior, the Brave of Heart, the Starlight came, it was shouted that the ‘Lord’ Pelor’s light came with him. A daemon hailed the deity behind a savior? It was ludicrous, but I could do nothing beyond hide. If I had feared him before, I was terrified of him by then. He held sway over my country men, people he had fought years ago in the bloodiest battle on Althanas now praised him. They built way stones along the roads as they rebuilt the island. My only reason to rejoice was that the religion had not seeped into the true mythos of the world.
Aerian was never put on the same level as the almighty Thayne, but that did not trouble him. He was not one for fame, instead wielding his will to remain in power and at the hearts of the people. Profit turned to abundance with time. Though the lightbringer from Alerar had helped run the daemons from the island, Aerian was unaffected. He had already retired to his mire, using a passageway within this tunnel. He had moved through me and my wards, taking only a small entourage with him back to Haidia and his home lands.
Meanwhile, he directed his followers through a church hierarchy – nothing is more powerful that a hierarchy of elders within a cult setting. His religious zealots followed his every command, and passed them down to the lower ranks. Places were razed in his name, but good was also done in his name. it was not long for him to shift face and turn to other daemons. The Legion of Light wielded ‘Pelors’ light against the creatures of darkness, demons. These demons hunted down were rivals, others growing in power and closing politically – an all new battleground, one Aerian ruled long before – to eliminate the resting, powerful daemon.
When your opponent can read minds it is difficult to corner him. When his pawns are as deadly as his castles, the tides can turn quickly to his favor.
Ranger felt as if he was going to release what little contents were in his stomach. Such hatred, bigotry, all because a low daemon was in the business of removing political rivals by twisting the truth. So many lives, so many lives… The prophet could only imagine how many thousands had been touched by the cruel demon in the centuries since. More than ever he held a dire urge to destroy Aerian; no matter what it took. With an unsteady hand on his abdomen he shuffled forward, sparks of light flaring from the ends of his fingers.
Osato winced at the sudden illumination. How long had it been since the great mage had seen true light? How long had he been a prisoner of his past mistakes and untimely cowardice? Time was unaccountable. The elves of Corone had long since changed. The writings on the great woods had long since been burned, or been grown over without constant care. Ranger held the light anyway. He could see in the darkness of the caves, apparently so could the mage despite being in Osato’s body, but it was for the comfort more than anything.
“I see you are prepared to continue?” Takaniashi asked. He let the mercenaries hands fall from his face and looked into the silver eyes of the elf. The two remained locked for only a mere split second, passing intentions and trust; gauging each other. “Then we must move deeper into the recesses of the cave structure. Sentries still stand in wait, guarding what their master told them so long ago. Be prepared.”
“Demons from the past?” Ranger asked. “Then they are either powerful or slumbering. Nothing material could last so long without true nourishment.”
“Prepare yourself either way…”
~*~
The further into the cave the worse it became. It was a macabre scene of centuries of desolation. Piled along the walls were skeletons of hundreds of humanoids in all different shapes, sizes, and races. Easily identifiable were the corpses of multiple dwarves, probably seeking treasure or a new home. There was plenty of treasure, hordes of artifacts and ancient weapons. But it was by far no home to welcome anyone to.
“What is all of this?” Ranger voice was low, cautious. He moved, searching with both hands through the bones. Floating around him were five orbs of light. “Are these previous intruders? Is this almost what I would have become?”
“Indeed. It would do no good to leave them at the entrance.” Takaniashi replied while looking over the bones himself. His face was drawn, almost sorrowful. And odd emotion from someone who’s own spell had taken their lives for his life. He turned to Ranger and grunted. “Oh, yes, plenty of those little creatures wander in,” he commented over his shoulder. In the hands of the drow was a squirrel skeleton and next to it a small bird.
“This is disgusting, yet saddening. How many people have mistakenly stepped into this doom?”
“Do not make it seem that they were so helpless. I have not put down the spell for that wind you forced yourself through. They all felt it too, could have gone around it, or stopped advancing. Instead they moved towards it. It is their own fault.” The voice was so impassive, unforgiving. It was that uncaring tone, which moments ago was pity, that sent a wave of shivers down the prophets arms. “Ah, here we are. It has been a long time, luckily the Thayne were in good dispositions to have timed this all so perfectly…”
From the pile of dead Osato’s hands retrieved a pair of swords. Both gleamed softly despite the lack of light, their blades forged of unknown material. Ranger could not place it, but it was a mix of some dark black metal and a soft blue metal, swirling around each other. The twin blades were ancient, masterwork weapons wrought in a time long since forgotten, by hands long since lost. The drow watched as the blades were shifted end over end, the great sage testing the weight and balance all over.
He pushed them both firmly into the ground, the tips of the blades piercing the rock without hesitation. Osato bent down again and retrieved a pair of leather sheaths from the dead bodies, which were evidently rather fresh. After strapping on the sheaths, and placing the blades within them, the eyes of the soulless mercenary caught those of the drow.
“These are relics,” he said, as if the ex-cleric was not aware. “These blades were amongst the greatest made, forged by the elves of Concordia. They were meant to be given to the greatest of the generals fighting the hordes… blessed by the great Thayne Hromagh himself it is said.”
~*~
The pair traversed further into the caverns, through corridors long since forgotten. It was like nothing the elven prophet had ever seen before. The walls were pristinely smooth, almost as if something or someone had taken a dreadfully long time to ensure its perfection. From the walls no algae grew, no plant life of any form, something he had not even seen within the busy halls of Pandemonium’s Fist. Furthermore, there was no webbing from spiders, something that even the Fist gathered in the tunnels less used. It was disconcerting, sending more worry through the already uncomfortable drow.
However, they continued anyway, making their way towards the rear of the tunnel system. Ranger questioned whether there was even an end to the path they were taking, and what might be at the end. The prospect of seeing Aerian was still looming in his mind…
~*~
The tunnel stretched before them, widening to a wide chamber. At the end of the chamber were two stone, no taller than waist high, glowing scrawl dancing across surface. However, the ex-clerics eyes did not dwell on them, but along either side of the wall. Bastions of the past waited for those brave enough to venture to the end, those able to pass through the great mage’s spells. They were, however, not demons that Ranger expected.
“Gargoyles,” Takaniashi said, stoic and still, as if reading the drow’s mind. “They are the guardians of the once great daemon. They are the slumbering servants, forever trapped and locked into his service. A century has passed since they traded their mortal coils for an everlasting servitude to the devious ‘god’. Now they wait…”
Before his final words were spoken, with that unsettling double voice flowing from the thin lips of the mercenary, the first two on either side stirred. Like watching a statue come to life, literally, the two opened their eyes. Golden orbs were given sight to the world below. Wings once stone faded to a soft gray color and stretched. Claws dug into the shelf, pushing heavily into the perch they had been waiting on for so long. The two stirred, shifted, heads cocked to the newcomers. Ranger held little doubt that they were the first to ever traverse so far, and that the gargoyles were more than a willing adversary.
“Now they stir,” the drow responded with an unsteady tone. “I assume we will have to deal with them before being allowed to move further on our path?”
The first of the two to move leapt towards the chamber’s roof, flapping its heavy wings. The second was not far behind. Overhead the two circled, cries of ancient anguish screeching and bounding from wall to wall. Ranger began twirling his spade, the titanium head whirling. To his flank the body of Osato shifted away, giving both enough space to fight unhindered and not too much that they could not still assist each other.
My body shifted into a stance I had not ever assumed. My hands rose before me, and in them the glow of magic began to form. I despised it, feared it, and yet my body was an avatar for one of the most powerful mages to live. I pushed, I prodded, I attempted to force my hands down and to grasp the swords that were around my waist. They were comfort, they were what I wanted to hold in a fight… not some amalgamation of some ancient mages will and hope that the spells cast would not simply fizzle out and die before cast.
“Damn your magic,” I screamed at the spirit, but his power was overwhelming. It surged through my body, pulsed through the soul that was not my own. In a split second the hands that were raised before my eyes were engulfed in a heavy glow of purple and black. What powers the mage had summoned I did not know; his mind was overpowering mine, his thoughts aloof from my own.
“Remain calm child,” the voice of the man settled my fears, as if his will overtook my own. I looked through my eyes, watched the scene unfold as if I was a third party, a simple observer standing along the sidelines. But it was my body that was being threatened. “I have not been out of practice so long that I cannot yet best these simple threats. Your body will come to no harm, vain child.”
Vain? I was not allowed to dwell on the thought before the first of the two reanimated creatures dropped towards us. He side stepped, allowed the razor sharp claws to miss my flank by mere inches. The hand closest to the beast lashed out and struck it against its lower back. The glow that had been summoned faded and surrounded the beast in a ring, tightening down instantly around its scaly wings. The screech that resounded in response was deafening.
The great sage twisted around, watching as the ring wrapped its victim tightly. With the wings of the gargoyle immobilized it was helplessly suspended above the ground. Unable to flap the bat like wings it fell and clashed with the ground, sliding and bouncing as it struck the hard stone floor. It was not dead though, and I could feel another rush of power flood through my body, again unsure what it meant.
Instead of finishing the reanimated creature, however, my body shifted towards the second one that was threatening Ranger. In the time it had taken for Takaniashi to remove one from the fight, the prophet had torn open a wing and forced his own to the ground. It was not without the ability to fight though. It struck at the drow as he spun the staff with a grace I could hardly ever hope for. The clash of titanium and claws echoed and rebounded through the open chamber.
The great sage opened his other hand, pushing the magic that danced like a flame towards the assailant. In a blur a streak of purple flashed, striking it around its shoulders. The blur formed another tight circle and close around its arms, holding not only its wings but its arms down as well.
“Prophet,” my voice called, “Do not destroy them, for if you do the next string will be summoned. We must crush those yet on the walls, break the rock before they take form and have the ability to fight.”
The drow looked to the walls. Three more gargoyles were stoically perched on either side, their stone faces drawn and still. Ranger instead turned his vision to the two that were struggling against their magical entrapment. He extended his own hands and let the light that he commanded so effortlessly wrap both in a brilliant cocoon. They would not be moving anytime soon, and it would allow both myself and him to focus on those yet stone…
Magic was a complicated entity, almost as if thriving and moving of its own volition. I could see the swirling entity grow, shift, evolve into something more. Threads of power intertwined before my vision, threads of power that was summoned from… I could not tell where it was coming from. However, I could see that the spell that was being called forth was not an easy task to perform. What was wrong? Why was I awestruck by the power that I feared so much? Was it because I had a different point of view? The magic was not being used against me, not being tested on me, but instead being woven by the soul that had forced itself into me.
In what seemed like minutes the spell had been summoned. It was an intricate orb of black, blue, purple, and emerald strands. What each was, what each represented I could not tell, but I knew that the combination of the four was powerful. I could feel it, could sense the magic even without being in control of my body. As if I was in control, as if I was feeling it personally, my arms were streaked with goose bumps and a small shiver forced itself from my neck to my lower back.
“You do not appreciate magic I see,” Takaniashi muttered as he made my head turn towards the gargoyles on our side. “You have had bad experiences with it; I can feel them, sense them. The magicians of your age are different than those of mine. Had you been a creature of our time, we would not have toyed with your… uniqueness, but would have harvested the power that you could possess.”
What was he talking about? What power did he mean? Having no soul was not a power, it was a curse. I could, obviously, be overtaken by powerful lingering spirits without being willing to them. I could not control my own body when they took over, could not focus my thoughts enough to remain myself. How would that have possibly been a boon in the times of old? How would that have been harnessed?
“Time dear boy, you will realize. Till that time, you will have a slight immunity to magic once I have finished using your body for the will that the Thayne have provided for. It will linger within you. These strands are powers focused by the soul, focused by powers summoned from The Tap.” What he was talking about made no sense, but I listened and remembered. I watched him pull a single strand from the weave and the spell moved forward.
It flooded my vision. It was a streak that arched towards the yet inanimate beasts on our side. The spell struck the perch below the creatures, pushed through the rock, seeped into the cracks that twisted through the wall. The original strand that had been pulled, however, rested before us. I watched as my hands pulled at the magical cord, allowing for the power of the spell to be dispelled in an instant.
An explosion rocked through the walls. Veins of light that shifted chaotically light the dull chamber just before the walls were torn apart. The stone statues erupted and crumbled as they fell like an avalanche to the smooth floor below. Ranger had done his own work on the other side…
His hands snapped open and the light that had formed at the end of his closed fingers and in the center of his palm exploded. The beam that shot from his hands tore across the stone statues themselves, instantly destroying them and creating a cloud of dust as the beam moved on. The prophet’s power I could not see, no threads came to my vision from his spell…
“That’s because his power is something higher than the worldly base that magic is founded on. He harnesses a strength from the Thayne, a divine power that comes from the gods themselves… there is no weaving of the natural entities that make up the world, but a direct link to the powers that the gods themselves wield.” The explanation was all I needed. It was direct, to the point, and offered good reason why I hardly ever felt strange when he used his powers.
“Now,” my voice said as my body turned away from the destruction. “What are we to do with these two?”
Ranger let the dust of the destruction settle and drift around him. The dust coated the ground, coated the walls, drifted in the still air and mingled with the sour scent of the long stagnant pools. The taste of the dust clung to his tongue, dried his mouth. It reminded him of the years of mining he had taken part of for the glory of the Red Hand, being covered in crushed rock, having the constant taste of debris and metallic tinge. But it was hardly as important as what the two had done. The enemies that would have tested their skill and would have torn them apart before they were given the opportunity to destroy Aerian, were destroyed and removed.
The platinum eyes of the drow turned to the soft eyes of the mercenary. Ranger let his eyes play across the unique child long enough to embrace the sense of peace that the great sage held. It was all he needed, all he required to know that the boy that had been overtaken was safe. Instead of talking to him, or them as it was, he looked back to the dim light of the spell that he had manipulated around the original two.
“Let them rest there,” he said with a sigh. They had no qualms with the servants of the false god, no need to further destroy those that would be released soon enough. The gargoyles had given their life and souls to the demonic entity long ago; they had suffered enough in their time. “We have business with the ‘great’ Aerian. I am not certain as to what deal they made with the disgusting deamon, but they are no longer our concern. My spell will remain till I am no longer present; I am unsure how long yours will remain though.”
The sage laughed, his voice split and disconcerting. The laughter sounded mad, as if the spirit within was a psychopathic coward in his age. Uncomfortably the prophet looked back to the boy, seeing the glow of Takaniashi behind his eyes. “My question was rhetorical.” His response forced a look of confusion across the drows face. “My spell will remain for far longer than your own. And the longer it lasts, the longer it will close, eventually smashing bones and organs. We have nothing to fear from them, for they will be dead within a day.”
“The most they can do is attempt to escape while they have their ability to move,” the sage continued, “For when we make contact with the waystone we will be transported to the underground, beneath the mire of Haidia. Are you prepared?”
Ranger took a few steps away, leaving his worried thoughts behind. They were yet another martyr for his cause, another sacrifice to the destruction of the great deamon that held sway for so long. It was a hard thing to do, but none of his steps in his path had been easy to look back on. The sacrifice was just another step, another painful memory that would touch him even after he had destroyed the reason for the pain.
“Let us go,” the prophet said with a sigh. He clutched the staff tight in his hand, taking steps towards the rear of the chamber. Through the dust, through the destruction and pain, he moved. The waystone stood like a beacon, awaiting the right person to use it, awaiting the prophet to destroy the false god that hid on its other side. Through the cloud of dust he moved, coming out on the other side mere inches from the stone, where the air was clear and free.
Osato’s hands touched the sides of the waystone, the runic script across its perfectly smooth cylindrical surface began to glow a faint blue coloration. Ranger followed suit and placed both hands on the stone, which throbbed and shifted from a soft glow to a brilliant light. The face of the mercenary shifted, a smile lighting his face as the blue caught his already heavy blue hands. If the prophet was uneasy at the lack of sympathy for the fallen gargoyles, he was completely offset by the strange smile on his companions face.
“Now what?” He asked. But before the question could be answered a low hum began to pulse from the light. It absorbed the drow, overwhelmed his thin long ears, slipped into his mind and stopped all thoughts. The magic of the ancients pushed through him, a taint flowing with it. Deeper and deeper it moved, through veins of the ethereal within his body he could feel it like the touch of death. It stilled his thoughts, but stilled his breath even more effectively. He had to remind himself to exhale, but even that was difficult.
The power fluctuated. Staccato tinges of magic pierced deeper, finally reaching his legs, but by then it had already overtaken his chest. His heart was slowed, his mind went blank, and the world became a sudden blur. In it all he silently offered a prayer to the Thayne, asking for little more than protection…
~x~
The world was spinning, but with it the scene changed. From an overwhelming light the shadows were formed, as if looking at a dark figure at the end of the tunnel. Would this be the death of him? Would he survive the magics that had long since remained dormant, long since been left still and fading?
His questions were answered as suddenly as they came.
Before him the world had changed, had become something else, something altogether different. Ranger was no longer holding a stone, but was standing before a crude stone with a single sigil at its top. His hands were glowing, the blue light of the first waystone leaving his hands and being absorbed by the stone before him. But his eyes were not focused on the release of the magic. They were not focused on the child at his side either, or the soft chuckle that was coming from deep within him.
Beneath the mire they had been transported, taken to the heart of the great deamon’s seat of power. The chamber reeked of ancient mold, of still ponds worse that those in the caverns, of a swamp untouched for centuries. A harsh red light flooded the chamber through the roof, a single hole that allowed the unique light of Haidia to filter through. The prophet stared at the ceiling overhead. It was rounded, a dome of some sort, crude in construction and nowhere near as pristinely constructed as the caves had been. Rocks jutted at strange angles, piercing like accusing fingers pointing at the intruders. Through them snake like roots wove against the walls, dank and dripping with muck from the mire overhead.
“You have made it far, my child,” The voice was all powerful, all commanding. It was no surprise for the drow; however, he was at the seat of power for the ‘deity’ he had followed for so long. The voice was no longer a thought in his head, a pervasive and forceful tongue that lashed at him in his slumber. It was nearly tangible, fully real, fully alive. “But you have come with only yourself and another child… he is far more lost than you are, or ever were. What do you come with? The powers that the great Thayne have cursed you with and that simplistic material spade? He comes with naught but a plethora of swords, what powers does he command that grant you the illusion that you can defeat me?”
“Another child?” I thought with a smirk. The thing, presumably a ‘he’ due to its voice, was unaware of my soulless status much less the soul of the great sage Takaniashi that was harbored within. I looked through my own eyes, still a third party despite the strange magical transportation and the momentary release of the spirit during the trip. Overhead the cave structure appeared unstable, the roof barely restrained and held together by the roots that pierced through. It was disconcerting, but there was little I could do, even less due to the soul that commanded by body. “These swords are not even the power that my body can command right now… these blades are simply there, no nearly as powerful as the spells that you command.”
There was no response. The voice of the great sage was absent, though his control of my body was not. I could still not feel my appendages, did not control where my head was moving, nor was I able to speak through my own mouth. However, it mattered little, for the voice of the powerful deamon was not finished mocking the two.
“You will for your release, for the release of my followers. I have lasted centuries, countless years have I survived for the singular purpose of dominating the simple minded creatures of Althanas. I began with the island of Corone, during the Age of Darkness as it was called, and have long since extended my influence. My power is far superior to anything you can command… what do you expect the results of this confrontation will be?”
“I have come not on my own will, but for the glory and good name of the Thayne.” Ranger’s response was strong, his voice unwavering. Had it been me in this position, face to face with the deity that I had followed for years, I would have been less strong. My voice would have faltered, my body would have slacked, and my very will to destroy something so powerful would have been torn apart before the contest of wills would have even begun. The prophet, as stalwart as he was, was unaffected. He held no fear, held no apprehension. It was a comfort, for I feared that which was unknown. “You have for too long held sway over the minds of those far more powerful, far more versatile than yourself.”
“The Thayne?” Aerian laughed. “You have given your mind to them? They are a mere group of children. The gods you serve are in constant conflict with each other, ignoring the dominance of the Goddess of the Moon that weighs upon the world nightly. You believe they will lead you and yours to the truth? You truly put your faith in the simpletons that were created by the minds of humanity?”
“They created humanity, they created the world and the very chamber that you now hide in. If—“
“You believe I hide in this cavern beneath the quagmire? You believe I’m here because I fear them, or others? You know far less than you think, child.” The condescending tone pushed through the heavy prismatic ethereal barrier Takaniashi had created, pushed all the way to where I had been locked aside. The fear that suddenly wrapped around me was able to slip through, sending a shiver down my arms and spine.
“The Thayne command the world, their wills spur the lives of millions of creatures, benign and malicious. They created the most simplistic of animal, created the races that worship them, even the deamons of ancient such as yourself.”
“Do, continue. Your naivety is astounding. You believe they were and always will be? You truly trust that the Thayne created the world? Faith is a powerful thing, a powerful force that can create that which society itself is unable to explain. At one time the people of this pathetic world worshiped the sun, the stars, and the moon. Science, technology, and the most simple of theories destroyed those faiths, and with them the gods THEY had created. Your Thayne are just more complex versions of these same principals.”
“Why do you think they have manifestations? It is because the society that thought of them, the people that imagined them, made them each different and took the aspects of their ‘deity’ and placed them more easily. No, idiotic child, false prophet, you do not follow true gods. You follow the imaginations of people centuries ago, and without those imaginations, those dreams, you would be following nothing.”
“True faith is based on the material, on that which is present. The world is for the taking, a gift to those truly real that are powerful enough to grasp it and hold on. Real gods, not those Thayne you pretend are the all seeing, all powerful, all present are those that are powerful enough to embrace themselves as gods and force their opinion on others. I have done that, I have placed my will, my thoughts in the hearts of thousands. I have embraced this truth, this reality.”
Ranger shifted. His thoughts were screaming at him, drifting between absolute faith in the Thayne and arguments with the deamon and acceptance of what he was saying. He pushed acceptance away, it was rubbish, mere trash spit by a material voice that sang songs of dominance in his head. The voice was strong, resolute, attempting to appease the lust for power that was inherent within the drow. The prophet would not allow it, he would not falter in his mission, would not regard Aerian’s words as anything more than disgustingly ridiculous ideas.
“No,” he responded, spinning his staff end over end, faster than he ever had. The blade whisked end over end, the titanium head dropping and rising with strength the drow himself did not know he had. Determination fueled his rage. “You are wrong. They have come to me; spoken through me, granted me all the abilities I have and have long since been granting me their wills.”
“Do not cast your own power, a power within you that you yourself command, to the wills of the Thayne. You will give them power over you; you will put their pedestals higher and their noses even higher. They do not care about you; they do not care about society or humanity. Your blessings are your own to command. Your powers were once mine, once you thought I blessed you with them, and as a result you followed MY wills.
“Now you stand before me, prepared to slay me for the betterment of society. You have taken back your will; I have no power over you any more, no influence over your actions and thoughts. Even your mind is closed to me; otherwise you would have already taken my words as truth and turned from this ridiculous venture. You have outstretched my own strength and domination, a feat that is rare in any upon the surface world or otherwise.”
“You are right about one thing; you have no power over me.” Ranger took a step forward and let the heavy titanium head spin through a jagged rock. The tip of the stone shattered immediately and exploded in a spray that did not even divert the eyes of the drow from the depths of the cavern. His platinum eyes were piercing the darkness, but nothing came to sight. There was no material deamon waiting for them, no great general scaled with weapon in hand. “Show yourself. Your time has come, and I will take no mercy in your destruction and removal from this world.”
“Child,” the voice sighed, “You have so much rage, so much anger, and yet I sense no fear. You should fear me, for you and your silly child companion will be torn from the fabric of reality and replaced nothing. These stones will be your grave markers, this cavern your tomb. I trust you said your goodbyes before you came, for the last face of the surface world you will see if that pathetic human at your side.”
Determination was unwavering. The face of Osato never turned to the prophet; the voice of the sage never said a word. Ranger looked to him, the stoic face of the sell-sword silent and still. Takaniashi would come out, his powers would be present, and with him the drow had no concern that he would not be victorious.
The air shifted in a way that was very uncomfortable. It wavered like the heat of a thousand fires was below the surface of the unstable ground, sending waves through the air. It was no hotter though, no change, if anything began to be colder. The drow had issued his challenge, words had been passed, and what was coming was the great deamon. I could not feel the power of the great sage yet, could not feel the magic dance through my body. Instead my body remained stoic and silent. The prophet was moving forward, but had stopped when the very air around him began to change.
In a flash that even Takaniashi could not meet firmly the material form of the great general of the Age of Darkness appeared. My eyes were closed, and my head turned, but I felt only panic. I screamed for him to open his eyes, turn his head back to the threat, I wanted to see what this great deamon looked like. It was a split second till the flash subsided and left in its wake an avatar of the voice.
The beast was ten feet tall, with arms that stretch to the ground like a great ape of Dheathain’s forests. His body was heavy set, bounding with muscles, the purest of whites that I had ever seen. Eyes were deep set, like flames, and a black deeper than the fables walls of the Obsidian Tower. A ragged off-white drall, or half skirt that I once wore, was held up by a belt as wide as both of my arms together. It was the only clothing or armor the thing wore. Scales as thick as my hands ran across its chest, the outsides of his arms, and down its legs, interlocked firmly and more solidly than any steel mail that the greatest of Althanas could have created.
Long, thick nails stretched from the tips of each finger, its fingers curling in and out. Its feet were over sized, as were its hands, and like its fingers heavy nails extended from the end of each toe. They were larger though, hooked and digging deeply into the rock without the slightest of resistance. Even hunched slightly to allow its arms to touch the ground, the knuckles impassively resting on the jagged rocks, it was an awe to behold.
“You will for my form, for my death. Come, blind child.”
Before Ranger could lunge Takaniashi finally moved, holding up a single arm towards the prophet. I could see the spells he was weaving, intricate designs mingling hundreds of hues of the simplest colors. He took a step forward and tilted his head. “Aerian,” he spoke at last. “I have come to pay a debt long since overdue. I was a coward once, a coward no more. This prophet, as well as the determination of the body I now assume, has shown me a strength that you cannot neglect nor forget. It has been many unaccounted years since I was forced to protect the entrance of your tunnel system, the pathway to this domain. But no longer will I, be I destroyed in this battle or not. I will not be a slave to my mistakes any longer.”
The beast roared. Its oversized head rolling backwards, mouth wide open, and laughter deeper than the most intimidating of demons flooded the dome. It bounded multiple times, barely dwindled before Aerian began to speak. “The ‘great mage Takaniashi’! It has been too long, old fool. I see you have taken form, though when the curse of your fellow kind was cast and I left you as my guard you were little more than a shadow of your soul. How you have taken form is beyond me, but it matters little. I now understand where the fearlessness of my former cleric comes.”
It laughed again, booming. I wanted to hold my hands to my ears, escape the guttural growl-like cackle that pushed into my mind effortlessly. It probably would not have done any good, but it would have made me feel better at the very least.
“Dear Nailo,” the voice boomed between laughter. “Do you not know this man’s story? Do you not know the cowardice that trapped him forever as my personal slave? He was destined to destroy me, destined to remove my seat of power in the Ages of Darkness and put the hordes at a disadvantage. Fear. Pathetic fear drove him away though… and now his pathetic magics are what you are relying on?”
“You speak too much, of what you do not know.” Ranger’s voice was without remorse, without question. He was no longer playing mind games; no longer in the mood to speak of the past or of power. Etched across his noble features was the fortitude to do what must be done. “Stop your fruitless speech and die!”
The sprint of the drow towards the beast was more graceful than anything Osato had ever seen. He was like a ghost, gliding across the surface. His feet shifted fluidly around the jagged rocks. The spade stopped spinning with the heavy head pointed forward. Instead of relying on the abilities that he could command he took his brutal and graceful weapons knowledge at the monster before him. His eyes were dim, gun-metal gray and free of any emotions besides pure vehemence. There would be nothing to deter him from his path, nothing to deter him from removing from Althanas a powerful deamon.
Revenge was what he willed for.
Thoughts did not drift through his head; a void had descended like times of old. He lunged smoothly and pushed his weapon towards the large creature. Its hand rose, deflecting the bladed head while the other swiped for the head of the prophet. He ducked, spun, finished beneath the second arm. The spade arched back towards him and followed through the spin. Without a thought he hooked the back of the arm with the edge of his staff. The blade clashed heavily, but the titanium was not able to pierce through the scales that protected its arms.
As soon as the clash clapped, before the echo could resound, the two were moving again. The bladed weapon was spinning, clashing and rebounding without leaving wounds of any sort. The arms of the great Aerian slashed and swiped, sweeping through the air over and over. It was a flash of movement. The drab garbs of the drow flowed around him. The pristine white arms of the deamon in start contrast to the gray traveling attire the prophet wore.
The two were moving in a dance that Osato would not have lasted half a second in. Ranger moved lithely and elegantly. His head dipped, his staff spun, his legs bent, nothing could strike him and all the strikes he landed did little to nothing. It was a contest that could last hours.
But the magic of Takaniashi was budding and growing. Only a single spell was being formed, powerful and massive. Thousands of threads were woven with the gestures of his arms and fingers. Here and there he would move his head, as if pulling and placing more threads with his mouth. Before the body of the mercenary the spell formed, though it was not ready to cast.
Instead the drow continued his dangerous dance. He was walking a razors edge, barely maintaining his edge, barely dodging and reacting. The prophet was quicker, smoother in his fluid movement. Aerian’s attacks were slower, though undoubtedly more powerful. Should a single one strike the drow he would be finished. The claws of the deamon’s hands grew, widened, hooked. They were reaching for the drow’s head, trying to puncture the lightly armored man.
Osato tried to force his will through his own body. Tried to assume control of his own body and join in. He would be killed instantly if he joined the fray, but the distraction would perhaps prove to be just what his companion would need to drive the head of the titanium spade through the gut of the pure white demon.
“Be still,” the voice of Takaniashi was weak, worn. Whatever spell he was summoning was draining him, pulling his life force away and placing it into the weave. The barrier that Osato was trapped behind was weakening as well, allowing him to slip his will through. But the words of the sage stilled his attempt. “If you assume control while this spell is being formed you will not know how to finish it… you will not know how to control it… or what thread to pull to release it. A single involuntary slip and you, I, and the prophet will be torn from reality forever.”
Heavy words, completely serious, caused the will of the mercenary to be stilled completely. He could see the prismatic wall fall piece by piece, being drawn into the spell. “It will be but moments till I will release it, be prepared to take command. I will be the final martyr for this accursed deamon.”
The final martyr? He was going to destroy himself with his spell in order to destroy the great deamon. I knew what he meant, his intentions, and that the spell in front of my body was the final magic he would ever cast. But he was inside of me. He was playing my soul, and playing it well, and filled the gap that had never before been filled. The great sage was part of me, and I worried that with his suicide that I too would be destroyed. It did not seem probable or logical to simply tear his soul from my body… which meant I was going to die with him.
The other option was no better, to interfere and destroy all of us.
I calmed myself, my will, and removed my ethereal hands from the prismatic wall. It was crumbling, falling and being poured into the quickly darkening web of threads before me. Instead I looked past it, through it, and watched the combat. The lithe drow was light on his feet, dodging and reacting with time tested skill. For a prophet of the Thayne, normally a weak individual old and withered, the drow was something far different. He commanded his weapon well; he danced perfectly, and showed that he was no threat to be taken lightly.
He spun, hopped, and lunged. The blade caught the stomach of the deamon. A long gash opened along the abdomen but no blood issued forth. The beast was something altogether different… as if… not real.
Suddenly the scene started to shift and shake. The throbbing air began to form again, began to drift through the cavern. I could see the threat as it was meant to be seen, a mere illusion. It began to quake and waver as a side spell I had not seen was loosed by Takaniashi. It reached up to the ceiling, touched the epicenter of the dome, and flooded down the walls and began to fall. As it fell the true cavern was once again exposed.
Before it touched the head of the deamon, however, he struck a heavy blow. Ranger was caught off guard, barely able to amble away before the strike took him. His staff was held in a horizontal shield like means. The tightly balled fist tore through its center, obliterating the oak shaft. A spray of splinters moved as quickly as its hand, smashing into the chest of the prophet.
I tried to shift, my free will nearly fully returned, but stilled myself with all the will I had. A warning thought slapped me, but I had already controlled myself. The drow fell backwards. His back smashed against the rocks. It bounced, twice, before his head was resting on a smooth stone. The platinum eyes of the prophet flittered open and closed in staccato motions, as if the release of his conscious was threatening him. If he blacked out the monster would be free to kill him. The ex-cleric was at the will of his ex-god.
The drifting miasma of magic fell, touching Aerian’s head. It dropped further, dissolving the illusion of the monster as quickly as it had formed. My eyes were opened. My senses were overwhelmed. The thing was drifting away, and through the soft ebb and flow of magic I could see through it, past it. In the rear of the chamber, lounging against the wall was a decrepit figure.
It was withered, broken, aged. It skin was wrinkled beyond anything I had ever seen. It face was worn and haggard. Skin once as pristine and perfect as the most pure snows of Salvar was a ragged yellow color. The scales like the beast were present, but were an off gray coloration and worn greatly. Only the eyes of the deamon were still as vibrant as the form it had displayed. They were still deeper black than the shadow that had been hiding it, and throbbing with power.
“Your illusion has fallen, depraved being of old.” Takaniashi took his first steps forward, no longer through power over my body but of my will. We moved towards the slack figure, my eyes met its and in that moment I saw fear. “When it was cast it was as real as the rocks underfoot, but with a spell it was dispelled… and now you sit. You are the weak one; you are the pathetic slime that all that is left of your once powerful form.”
Ranger’s eyes opened and closed. The world was spinning. His chest was throbbing with pain. Shards of his oak shaft were lodged into his chest, having cut through almost freely across his neck and body. For an inexplicable reason he was sad, not because he had been struck by the entity, but because the only weapon he had earned from the Gol’Bron had been broken.
With a powerful ache pounding in his head, light of breath and in pain the prophet rose himself. His eyes watched as the magic drifted across the monster, dissolving its material form as well as the magical shadows that had been hiding the true monster. The once powerful Aerian had dwindled. His ancient life span had caught up to him, leaving him a hollow shell of his former self with little more than his mental abilities and magic to protect him. The muscles that had once been powerful were gone, long since atrophied, and the bony body of the deamon was not able to move.
“The great Aerian…” the prophet rasped through shallow breaths. “The false god that I followed, that thousands like me followed. You spoke of power, you spoke of domination yet you can not even stand.”
He stood up slowly, his eyes catching the splinters of the staff, the lone head and crescent end lying amongst the rocks. It was a sickening sight, but one that fueled the rage of the drow further. His eyes met those of the fallen and weak ancient, met them and locked. “You fear your end. I can see it… where is your power now?”
“Enough,” Osato said, his voice returned to normal but the words obviously not his own. “We will end this now, before he can summon his power again. I must thank you for allowing me to accompany you on this, for you allowing me to pay my debt in full. Osato, you are to be thanked for more than that even. You gave your body to me, however unwilling, and through it I was able to do what I could not have done before. Before I part, I must require one thing… that Ranger has the twin blades, for they are of the Thayne themselves, blessed by Hromagh. You will know his will and the power within them will be revealed.”
The voice was saddened, quiet, hardly above a whisper. The tone was downtrodden and distraught, though it rang with knowledge and the will to have the end. Without another word a blast of black fire materialized and struck the chest of Aerian. The deamon’s body was engulfed, screaming in pain. Ranger could barely stand, his ears covered and his face clenched tightly, but his eyes never closed.
He watched to the last second.
The soul that had appeared when the prophet and Osato had entered the cave formed again. Its mouth was open, is haggard face suddenly smooth and strong. It rushed towards the engulfed body and both the material and ethereal forms melded. Instead of a final flash, dramatic and amazing, the darkness collapsed into a black hole that closed into itself.
The two souls were torn from the fabric of time, but not from the history of Althanas. They would forever be remembered, if only by the two companions. However, the spell used had left a whole, a whole in the weave of reality. It was the place of a demi-god, a place of power, and unknown to either Osato or Ranger, that hole absorbed the essence of the prophet.
Forever more he would be intertwined with the very reality of Althanas.
Forever more he would be equal to a demi-god, with powers yet unknown…
Fin. [FINALLY]
~~~~Spoils~~~~
Osato:
1. An enhanced (upgraded) form of the magical sense, allowing him to feel whenever magic is being used around him within a greater distance (say 30 yards). This skill has nothing to do with resisting magic, simply sensing its use.
2. Resistance to magic {20%}: Due to the blessing left by the great sage Takaniashi, the soulless mercenary is able to absorb a portion of magical spells into himself. It is not an ability that must be focused on, or one that can leave… it is always there. Currently he is able to absorb any spell two (2) levels or more below him without taking damage. Any spell one (1) level below him or equal to his level is taken at half the damage it is meant to be. All spells a level higher or more affect him the same way.
Ranger:
1. Hromagh’s Blades: Each blade is 35 inches in length, with a six inch pommel, without the common hand guard. The blades are each straight, curving just slightly towards the tip, and single edged. They weigh below 2 pounds, almost a pound and a half each. The material used is a marble hue of adamantine, the black simply a coloration of the less refined, but no less of quality, material used while the steely coloration is the more pure. Due to the unique and extremely rare material and quality of both blades, the edges of the swords will never be blunted or need sharpening and the surfaces of the swords will never dull or become worn with use. The edge is sharper than any edge possible to modern weapon smiths. Both blades have a unique ability, but both abilities are locked for now.
LOCKED
Blade One: The blade has more raw adamantine along the blades edge. Because of the magical resistance that the adamantine presents its edge is made to cut through and destroy spells being cast at it. It is a powerful and explosive offense against spells of all natures.
Blade Two: The blade has the pure adamantine along its edge but more impure mingled through the flat surface, allowing it to be a more impressive defensive weapon against all types of magical threats. In battle it acts as a shield against spells cast at the prophet.
2. Shattered Monks Spade: All that remains is the titanium head and crescent bladed butt
Well, this thing was certainly a long time in the making, and you obviously spent a lot of thought and effort into making it what it is. That said, on with the fun number crunching part.
Continuity: 7
I liked how you made this a very important part of Ranger's story, and I liked how you incorporated some of Althanas's larger, more ancient history into it, but Osato seemed like little more than a pawn. I don't know much about his past, or anything about his future.
Setting: 4
I only ever had a hazy idea of the environment, and there wasn't much interaction with it.
Pacing: 6
The buildup dragged on a little bit, and I would have liked to see some wrap up at the end, but I thought that events flowed fairly smoothly from one scene to the next.
Persona: 5
I know Ranger a little better at the end of the quest than at the beginning, and Osato not very well at all. I noticed that you tried to tell the reader about their personality traits and what drove them, rather than showing. A reaction can be much more powerful than something like "He was speaking to my vanity. He had me hooked." It was also a little hard to tell Ranger and Osato apart, aside from Osato's use of first person.
Action: 6
The action in this quest stayed pretty smooth throughout, even during times of intense combat. Try opening your characters a little bit more, so that a reader can really invest in them and see the story better through their eyes, rather than feeling as though the characters are merely actors in a movie or play.
Dialogue: 6
There were some good lines in there, really solid stuff, but nothing especially memorable and a lot of monologues during combat.
Mechanics: 8
You do a lot better here than most, but you do tend to switch homophones and stick apostrophes on plural words and not on possessives.
Technique: 9
This is probably the best use I've ever seen on Althanas of taking the various threads of a plotline and weaving them together so that there weren't any plotholes left at the end. What you took the time to mention and emphasize, you used in some logical way over the course of the thread. The only things I was left wondering about was the one steady star that the squire mentioned as "his" and what ever happened to the mage that had been harassing Osato at the beginning.
Clarity: 9
Everything was nice and clear.
Wild Card: 7
Total: 67 Congratulations!
Rewards
Osato gets 1,750 EXP, 400 GP and his spoils
Ranger gets 3,370 EXP and his swords, with the change that they are made of mythril instead of adamantine. He also gets the head of his spade back.
EXP/GP added! Osato levels up!
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