Caretaker of Light

With the break of dawn, life breathed into the port-city of Gisela. Hints of light winked from behind prussian-blue clouds as a massive, three-masted ship drifted into the harbor. The barge’s hull had undergone significant damage, by something fierce and, it was obvious, of great strength, the vast pit bored into the craft's side its only calling card. Vessels of lesser size were moored here and there, sat low in the midnight-colored water as they flanked the behemoth’s passage. Few souls walked the flagstone walkways, and in the background, as if thrust into the fog-smothered firmament, rose the city's edifices.

The ship had just sailed the easterly seas within a lengthy interval of three weeks, wearing down captain and crew both. From the northeastern coast of Salvar to southwestern Corone, the voyage had been a particularly protracted one. The hapless crew had seen the fall of dozens of their comrades, somehow still holding on to their sanity after numerous death-filled nights and pirate raids on The Ashanti. Death had only brushed shoulders with the captain himself, who owed his life to all his men. Or what remained of them, at least.

Saving their commander's skin, after all, meant saving their own. For what value a crew of seamen without a captain?

Standing on the upper deck, the survivors silently regarded the brickstone buildings fringing the crowded docks, their faces weary from hangovers and lack of sleep. No-one spoke a word in the interval, as if silence was a revered thing when beholding a reality that, if measured but days ago, would have seemed too far-fetched. Of that a handful of seamen candidly expressed their felicity, sobbing together at the rear in a poignant embrace.

Navigating whatever sea the world offered had always demanded both stoicism and a hard mentality. As could attest Azaranth Ubissad of Ursten. Embarking on this ship, for it was he who had led to this now ending journey, had proven a complicated decision. He had stayed an hour at a time where lingered in their immediate vicinity a monstrosity able to easily upturn warships. Worse, it was demanded of him and the entire crew onboard to stay perfectly still - lest the creature sense their presence and send them all to oblivion. Indeed those odds had trodden dangerously close to reality, in fact, as was evidenced by the gaping ruin that was the ship's bow.

The experience, as he could see, had taken its toll on everyone. Some made it alive, after all. And none could believe it, it seemed - not even Azaranth.

His reasons to undertake such an endeavor would appease few people, and understandably so. How could one hope to find someone, whose fate was completely unknown, in a world of such scale? Where could one even begin to trace signs? True signs that would lead one to whom one sought?

It was all absurd, Azaranth knew. But he held certain… vows. And many would berate him for their outwardly low value. But these vows, as well those whom they were related to, were all that kept him sane in a world filled with moral depravity and madness. He would not - could not - break them. Azaranth reckoned that, had the crew discovered the true cause behind their traveling that great a distance, mutiny would have been well underway.

“Drop it, boys!” came the strained command from the captain, a vague, sturdy figure standing at the helm. “Smartly, now!”

The ship had gone completely still. A splash then drew Azaranth's attention when he saw the anchor chains drawn taut, barbed flukes vanishing under sizzling foams. The motion shed white dust into the air, settling on his cloaked sleeves like a contemporary sawdust coating.

He was confident that he had at least uncertain clues of his friend's location, and so knew where he would begin his search. The recently-built, abandoned quarters of another port in a completely different country, namely Raiaera, held the answers. Azaranth was certain that a Khal'jaren priest named Maverick was responsible for his comrade’s disappearance, and in turn, he suspected that an old library there once been his residence.

And safehouse. For Maverick had been conspiring, planning in the name of vengeance. And something dreadfully told Azaranth that this upcoming endeavor was simply part of a grander scheme - the fall of some country going by the title of Alerar.

Finding said priest would lead Azaranth to his friend, and that was all that mattered. The Salvarian cared not for politics, and the fall of one country, in his eyes, mattered little. Nations would rise only to one day fall, and clear the space for another to fill its stead. History repeated itself to no end.

It was a cycle he simply did not wish to meddle in. And that’s the gist of my excuse.

He leaned on the railing as footsteps scurried behind him. Men fast at work with rigging and carrying crates from stem to stern, organizing them for disembarkation.

He had expected myriads of emotions when he would finally arrive, but never, in his time onboard, thought fear among them. For fear, on strictly conservative measures, was one of a number of instincts the warrior was mostly unfamiliar with. And now this sensation, this alien poison, only disconcerted him. And now he felt like an infant, set to relearn much of life's principles. It had thrown him off, he would soon know, an already precarious balance. Rising to harass him like a ghastly corpse in his mind's eye, it threatened to harass him for ever.

What business had fear with a monster hunter? How could he even experience a breadth of such sentiments, if he wished to be marginally competent in the profession of tracking down and standing in the shadow of blood-curdling behemoths?

Some questions, Azaranth reflected, seemed to lead to nothing. And it wouldn’t do, to keep walking that path.

Regardless, he considered, for his first time aboard a vessel his overall performance was far from deplorable. He knew the risks on that ship would outweigh all benefits, to him and crew both, but necessity had its place. Nothing was more important than his goals, the motivation that led him here, this waking port on the western coast of Corone. Even bearing the responsibility of somehow recompensing the crew, and risking his life, was not enough to sway him.

His decision was set in stone.

He would find Merka Ralem.

Somehow.

However, the monster that was self-doubt paced within the fringes of his mind. And when he attempted to crush it, he found success - albeit it would ever prove only temporary. Alas, for the same thoughts would stir anew, like a stubborn quarry refusing to die. Azaranth spat, found it difficult to conceal his frustration, to which he made to stamp the floor. Before a lone, distinct unit of the footfall maelstrom led him to feint the gesture as a mere stretch of his legs.

The originator of that unit edged closer and was now standing beside the young warrior. Azaranth flicked his gaze back to the rusty anchor chains, his still-broiling emotions hidden behind a mask of acute indifference. Though even that is likely to disintegrate soon.

"Captain,” Azaranth acknowledged.

“Azaranth,” it responded.

Captain Tobb Frostbloom clutched the rails with ringed fingers, his gaze following suit as his eyes seemed to drift of their own accord. Nothing of the empty, hollow-looking streets below had been particularly attention-drawing, but naught else they could stare at for an indefinite amount of time. Apart from the noise bred from the working sailors, the silence stretched for a time - until Tobb spoke. “How's healing comin’ along?”

Azaranth felt the captain’s studying gaze, no doubt searching for the bandages which spun the monster hunter’s midriff. His lips thinned. The claw was a nasty weapon, and although the wound he only now remembered had mostly healed, certain movements still sent fire through his core. “Better than I could hope for, saying how deep that Drakeri cut me.”

“Aye,” he said. “Have to admit you are lucky to have survived that. If he had gone a hairbreadth deeper, suppose all we could have done was gather your entrails and drop you overboard. Let’s be thankful it didn’t have to come to that, eh?” Although that stung the Salvarian’s pride, he could not question the veracity of the comment. “Ferocious peoples, the Drakeri."

Azaranth gave no more than a curt nod, turning his head to watch the gangplank being set down. His time aboard the Ashanti was finally drawing to a close. He swung back to regard the streets. “To think I could be that heedless. I had the bastard - he was at the end of my sword.”

The noises of a waking city sounded throughout the entire harbor, and the streets began clustering, the cobblestones gradually disappearing under the masses.“Till he nearly split yer belly in half,” Tobb said dryly, scratching at the back of his hand.

Azaranth was shaking his head even as he concurred. For some reason, only now could h detect the sea’s distinct smell.

“T’was simply a matter of timing, if you ask me,” the captain continued. “You had him pinned on the ground, sure, but that quick rock of the ship… it all sent your work to ruin. Smart bastard took the confusion to his advantage to catch you off guard, and I suppose you were simply too late in meetin’ the blow.”

Azaranth grunted his agreement. He smiled, in spite of himself. The egotistical pain had started to prove rather… overwhelming. Even so, he further added to his own insult. “Honestly, I never expected I’d live through that. Thought I'd bleed out on the spot.”

“You can thank the meat cutter for preventing that," Tobb said, crossing his arms. "Old man Smiles was the one that joined yer belly together again.” Then, as if suddenly stricken by an internal whirlpool, the captain's face shrunk in an addled frown. There was an awkward silence before he spoke again. “And... I..." He paused, finding it difficult to articulate such simple words. "Thank you."

Azaranth finally swung to meet Tobb’s gaze, and for the first time, he was able to study the man in detail. A jaded look framed the captain’s face, which was, not surprisingly, ill-suited for his young age. Brows beset with a firm ridge, the man’s long jaw was framed by chaotic, flame-colored bristles. And in those deep-set eye sockets were ashen coals whose embers had died long ago. An inch-long, old scar marred the space directly next to his ear, which made for a rather odd sight when viewed from an angle.

Tobb’s hand disappeared into his dust-caked naval trenchcoat, returning with a leather-wrapped, vaguely shaped object. Azaranth blinked when he thought he saw a glow but then decided it was nothing. “From me to you,” the captain smiled, extending his gift forth.

Azaranth's brows fractionally rose as he locked gazes with the bearded man. “Thanks but—” he shook his head slightly— “you know I can't accept this, Tobb.”

The gangplank was finally lowered, hitting the docks-floor with a clank, ready to hold scores of exhausted sailors and one doubtful monster hunter.

The captain's lips shifted into a comical sneer, lifting one hirsute brow. “You have to – no, you must. Now take it, and make sure to put it to good use. Wouldn’t want to waste something like this on you if ya go on and never use it, would we?” He grinned. “‘Sides, can’t let you go without repayin’ ya, Azaranth. You did save my skin, after all.”

"I..." Even as reluctance afflicted him, Azaranth received his reward. "Accept your gift,” he said matter-of-factly, features shifting with a subtle smile. Whatever it was, he could not pinpoint the object's texture, nor its exact size. If he could garner anything, it was its slightly oval shape, and nothing more. While he would have it revealed now, etiquette would demand that gifts best be left unopened until he was alone. Still, however, curiosity pinched at his tongue. “What is it, exactly?”

“Ah, just an old heirloom of mine, dating back to old times, back to even the days of our forefathers. Least that's what my old man used to say." He paused. "Of it I’ve personally found no use, but I’m guessin’ it’s going to prove otherwise for you in your... future endeavors,” Tobb said with slitted eyes. “Provided you can get it to function.”

“Function? This a device?” he questioned.

"Of a sort, aye," the captain nodded.

Who seemed obviously uneager to disclose more information. Wouldn't want to spoil the surprise. What did you just give me, Tobb? The Salvarian regarded it as it sat fittingly in his hand, then shrugged and tucked it away in one of his pockets. He then nodded, “Thanks. For everything.”

“Ah, save it,” Tobb raised one dismissive hand, then, his voice taking on a curious tone, asked, “I’m assumin’ your search begins on the morrow?”

“Tonight, actually. Have to find a tavern first. Recuperate,” Azaranth said, noticed the sailors had already begun unloading the crates. “Then I'll find whose ship I can board.”

“Doubt that you’ll find a bloke willin’ to head that way.” Tobb’s face was suddenly serious, his tone now edged with a subtle warning. “I think it should be mentioned that, for your sake, that Raiaera’s waters harbor even more hazards than what we’ve witnessed. And they only get deadlier the closer to shore you get.”

Azaranth considered, was silent for a time. “I’ve made half the journey, I can’t possibly turn around now. Besides, I have no choice, Captain,” he sighed. Shrewd determination ripped through the monster hunter. The shadows cast over his face parted as he raised his head. “Merka must be found.”

“I understand your pain,” Tobb said with a tone of doubt. The first bell of the day tolled, and flocks of seagulls winged overhead, white specks dotting the mid-morning sky. “When do you part?”

The monster hunter’s jaws bunched, then he whispered, “Now.”

For the first time, Tobb chuckled. “I see. We may not see each other again, but regardless of that, I wish you luck in all your adventures and... misadventures, for that matter. You will find that elf, of that I'm sure, me friend."

“Thanks,” Azaranth repeated. “For everything.” With that, the Salvarian shook hands with Captain Tobb Frostbloom and finally disembarked the Ashanti. The next few nights, now he realized, posed no promise in the slightest.

The Ashanti had set out on another voyage, retracing its way back to its Salvic harbor and base, Tirel. After nearly a month at sea, the captain had ultimately decided to return to their hometown. The news were nothing short of surprising to Azaranth, for, if it was there, he could not perceive the wisdom behind that decision. As was evidenced by the mens’ state, they needed a time of respite, of undisturbed repose. And Tobb merely stripped them of that right. Regardless, with less manpower and half-recovered sailors, something told Azaranth that the Ashanti’s chances of keeping afloat this time would not be as extensive. He would not be seeing them again, either way.

Just where the dock planks met the jagged cobblestones, Azaranth stood motionless at the edge of the pier. His designated navigator, called Nazir, was an old geezer who loped forth with his cane in a silver-dashed, jet-black coat. Unusual, but – judging by his demeanor – confident, and more importantly, competent. The monster hunter had initially doubted that the man could pilot even a boat, but for some, unknown reason, trust in the man’s abilities only burgeoned during the short walk from the inner quarters to the docks.

He had been sitting there in a gloomy tavern corner, drawing from his hookah as he eyed the robed warrior who’d just entered. Of his own accord, Nazir gestured for the resolved youth and managed to make a deal. The process was fast, and efficient. Azaranth would pay nearly nothing. Not that I have a choice, per se, in that regard. Gods, that other voyage cost me an arm and a leg.

The Salvarian had half-hoped his second voyage would not be as enervating. He had, after all, wholeheartedly accepted embarking another ship, be it less accommodating than the Ashanti— But certainly not a canoe. There it sat, his vehicle-of-choice, two arms-length long and half of that wide, propelled by a pair of oars and able to accommodate no more than a few people. With this, Azaranth risked a twofold increase of the dangers. But to turn back now would be betrayal of both Merka and himself, and he doubted that Nazir would concede anyway. For something told Azaranth that the man was not one to concern himself with others’ matters.

They reached their vessel, Azaranth’s back to the city as he watched the old man untie the knots that bound it to the piling. Hands resting at his sides, the monster hunter’s breath left him in a heavy sigh. “How long do you reckon we’ll stay at sea?”

Nazir, as with everything up till now, was slow with his answer. “Two days. Three, at the most.” When he was done with the ties, he calculatingly set down his cane beside him. A moment later he glanced up at Azaranth. “Coming with?”

“Wouldn't have given you half a pouch of gold if I wasn't, old man,” he smirked, stepped onto the other bench, the craft rocking under his weight. The motion tallied a few moments, then the craft settled. Azaranth crouched down, facing Nazir. Whose wide-eyed countenance chilled the Salvarian in his seat. Giving me a nasty look.

The protracted, awkward silence broke only minutes later, as they interrupted the carpet-like, still pattern of seawater. Minutes after leaving port, Azaranth could see nothing but the ocean in all directions - as if the city had vanished in their wake. Nazir spoke. “I have forgotten to state a foremost part of our covenant.”

“Oh, and you decide it is appropriate to mention it now?” the hunter sneered, the question stating when the port had vanished still lurking in the back of his mind. Still, the probability of his inattention to the passage of time was always there. “All right, Nazir. Out with it.”

“Firstly,” he said, his voice suddenly intoned with a ring of command, “there are some… regulations of which, for our content both, my dear client, you must abide by.” The Salvarian’s brows rose fractionally. “I forbid you by any means to call me ‘old.’” There was a pause. “Don't question it. Throw that my way again, and I will kill you.”

Azaranth’s stare was unwavering for a time, then he shrugged. “Can’t please everyone,” he said, eyes narrowed. There was no wind to relieve him of the sudden heat that blossomed under his armor, nor to break the cold silence that seemed to afflict everything he now regarded. Even the waters were dead quiet. “And the second rule?”

“Is to obey my every command,” the man rasped, suddenly oppressed by a fit of coughing. When the hacks ended, he continued. “As for the third; we shall be taking turns with rowing this boat. One night each.”

Azaranth frowned. That doesn't sound good. Health is deteriorating, from what I'm hearing. His days are limited, I reckon. He slowly shook his head. “Afraid I can’t do that, Nazir. Wasn’t part of the deal. Didn’t hire you to—”

Nazir grunted. “Follow the rules, lad, if you want to reach Beinost in one piece. It is simple. Here, I shall make it easier for you," he said, temporarily leaving an oar to gesture with his hand. "We are aboard a ship, and I am its captain. Is the message clear?”

Azaranth snarled. Old wretch's threatening me. Azaranth considered responding with a retort, but decided against it. Even so, despite his building fury, something about Nazir gave rise to weariness in the monster hunter. There was an… odd, yet somehow familiar, air about him. And the man's true colors, it would seem, were hidden behind an invisible gauze. The shades of those colors, it would seem, bluntly spoke of nothing but a threat.

For now, he would have to comply with Nazir’s odd, if not untoward, requests. Getting to Beinost was a priority. Perhaps, then - his gaze locked with intent - he would deal with the bastard afterward.

Azaranth rowed once, twice, thrice even, till a throbbing pain lingered in his arms and sides. He navigated with no actual sense of orientation, nothing there to guide him or at least spare him so much as a hint of their general coordinates. Indeed, he could do naught but conform to Nazir’s counsel - or rather, commandments - and that was to steer against the wind’s stream. Absurd as that sounds, I suppose I’m in no position lambaste his ‘expertise,’ either. I’ll have to trust him until then… Yet, if his memory was at least roughly accurate in presenting him the world map, the canoe would face northwest during most of its voyage. Until it was, at least, within sight of the Raiaeran coastline.

Nazir sat opposite in silent repose, cradling his cane as if it were a newborn babe in his sleeved arms. The man was deep in his slumber, his midriff rising and receding in rhythm with heavy breaths. The breaths that Azaranth so solemnly wished to cease, the unyielding compulsion to part the man's head from his shoulders. It often nipped at his arms, and when the temptation would overwhelm him, there would be a certain threshold where he would finally rise to execute it, then simply part from the grips of bloodlust and sink back in his seat. As if moving with the intent was enough appeasement, the inner demons settling with just the threat.

Till they demanded I draw blood, that is. Some other force, it seemed, would rise to fend off the diabolic requests, a wisdom shield that conciliated a blood-thirsty beast. If it was not wisdom, however, then it was cowardice, and the reality was a chronic ache in his heart. He had to swallow his pride, accept sour humiliation by a shriveled old man who could barely stand without support. Yet his gut never lied, the man was dangerous, and the realization, his heart skipping a few beats, now struck Azaranth—

A mage.

For how else could he be of the audacity to threaten a much younger, physically more capable warrior? If it ever came to physical prowess alone, Azaranth would find no difficulty in snapping Nazir’s arms like twigs. The first strike from his steel sword would be the only one. But, shit, that’s only physically-speaking. In the language of sorcery, there would be an entirely different story - if his suspicions were anything close to accurate.

If Nazir had the confidence to threaten even a beginner monster hunter, then it would seem he was capable of employing magic, at least, in a harmful manner. Even if the man were afflicted by the widespread disease of overestimating his own competence, Azaranth's behavior was not particularly advantageous against magic-wielders. Considering that, it would seem nothing short of foolish to go on and so much as point a blade at Nazir.

The thought, again, was like a noble-bred mare restlessly pacing in the corrals of his mind. Never the less, Azaranth was not a murderer; the blood would be on his hands alone. He was merely falling prey to his own whims and desires, absorbed by bloodlust-inducing anger. Thus, he considered, only patience would carry him to his destination whole.

Of course, this was all speculation on hid part; Azaranth could venture to knock the man unconscious, for they might well have been nothing but empty threats from a foolish old boatman. However, he was still in need of himm If it ever came to drawing his sword, he now decided, his actions would then be nothing but in the name of honest and necessary self-defense.

He tries something funny, I’ll have no choice but to put him in place. . Cut off his hands, if I have to. Azaranth then remembered Tobb and his mysterious gift, a tingle of excitement rushing through him at the rediscovery. He considered for a moment, studying the twilit night sky above. Dawn was still a couple bells off. Ugh, have to wait till then. Don't wanna provoke Nazir, if I have a choice.

“Do you hear that?”

The words tore him out of his reverie. Azaranth blinked, looked at Nazir as he rose wakeful from his sleep. Worry framed the man's face, a subtle frown marring his thin brows. Shrugging, Azaranth took note of the miniature sea waves and adjusted his senses accordingly. He listened.

The situation hit home as recognition ripped through the monster hunter, chilling him in his seat. Azaranth reeled in his mind, stunned by the fact that a deadly force approached them at incredible speeds. His own sweat glistened on his forehead in the faint lamplight. What would arrive from below, he visualized, was a test to his mettle and nerve both. And even in the face of such danger, beyond the fear that burgeoned within, there was the same slight irk of his damaged ego. How could, after all, Nazir sense its arrival and he could not? So much for being a conditioned monster hunter…

Azaranth felt a slight motion rock the entire canoe, then saw a shapeless shadow blossoming beneath the sea surface. Spumes frothed aggressively next to the thin boat hull.

Oh, balls.

The sea around them seemed to explode, thrashing waves throwing him high into the air, legs flailing even as he went higher and higher still. As his momentum died, where, for a heartbeat or two, he could see the sea-cloaked, and a massive, scaled shape looming but feet from where he would land. Water sluiced from its bony, humanlike structure, then, in the immeasurable interval of a single heartbeat, Azaranth’s momentum was reversed as an invisible force clenched him hard - to jerk him whence he came.

The sound of the rushing wind numbed his ears.

And when he came before the black-colored waves, knew nothing more.

The perpetual flow of sewage waters played in the background like the strains of some deviant troubadour, often joined by the feeble squeaks of rats and other elusive vermin. Mortared bricks the color of rust made up the walls, the slabs built on top of one another and slumping at the base as if they would give way at any moment. Given its subterranean quality, the air was sultry, worsened still by the distinct odor riding the entire sewer system.

A small fire yawned in the grate built into one of the dingy chamber’s walls, coals burning as flames ate away at them. Before it in his silent trance, a Raiaeran sat in a makeshift chair of sorts, hunched over as he weathered the internal storm that was his own mind. A broken Bladesinger insignia marked his discolored breastplate, and greasy, lacquer-black hair drooped about his elven ears.

The ashen stench wafting from the hearth had kept him from drowning in his thoughts.For days now he had naught but shadows to keep him company, the day's sun nothing but a week-old memory in his mind. He was weaponless and in solitude, stripped of his powers and locked away in this chamber like a mangy, undesired mongrel. While nothing physically held him from making his escape from this room, what awaited him in the outside gloom was enough to keep him from his slumber. Nor, in fact, did he wear any form of decent protection against the many monstrosities lurking in shadows.

Most, however, fortunately seemed to hold an abnormal fear of fire.

Yet in light of his situation, he found himself at the end of an incredibly short leash, the tight grip of desperation, of powerlessness, firm about his neck. And when he had grown tired of this self-pity he opted to take his leave and step right into the maw of any of the monsters and end it there. Yet an invisible force would stay his muscles from that intent. And worse still, he considered, was the fact that directly overhead lay an entire city, its numbered inhabitants unaware of his sentiments - of his very existence.

He was, in truth, lost in the heart of civilization. Adding insult to injury.

Stripping him of magic, however, was not enough for him to not sense its presence; a birth of power exploded behind him, come in the form of a bleeding portal. He rose, turning to meet the new arrival, the outline of a figure appearing in the gate’s unnatural light. Blinking, the wound was simultaneously replaced by a robed, elderly elf supported by a cane.

Balling his fists, the first elf clenched his jaws as he met the other's gaze. “Have I kept you waiting?” the older elf asked.

“Long enough to question my sanity,” the young elf responded, disgust framing his strong features. After a short pause, his gaze flicked to the ground as he muttered, “Not that I relish the company, either way.”

“So you say…” The older elf stepped forward, passing him as he made for the hearth. The wild beard suspended from his chin swayed with the motion, his fiendish eyes on the burning coals. “Yet it’s far better than solitude, is it not?”

“You are perverse, Maverick.”

The elf seemed to ignore the verbal assault. With slitted eyes, the man sighed softly, then spoke. “Tell me. Do you know why you are here?”

No words answered the ancient man.

“Ah, but of course. You haven’t an answer to the most forthright question of them all. I've already told you, you are an invaluable asset to my long-overdue set of plans. You would be presumptious to question the nature of my intentions, for what I seek is only for the wellbeing of this torn land and and its people. Now, my friend, we leave it to your companion for everything to fall in place.”

The once-Bladesinger grimaced. “I know what your plan is, your vision for our country. Its position among its grander neighbors. That's good, and all, but your ways about it are… wrong. I cannot, will not, accept the loss of innocent lives for our interests. And why involve him?” the elf demanded. “This should never be the business of aught but our kin, I ar galadrim. It is not his war. And I truly doubt even one with his tracking skills could find us in this rotten chamber."

Maverick was silent for a moment, then chuckled. “You would be delighted to be informed that he is making great, great progress in that regard. For I," he chuckled, "have been keeping a close eye on him for the past few days. Too close for comfort, I might add. Oh, and before you ask, he is well.” The priest’s expression crinkled in an almost heartfelt smile, before souring quickly. “Regardless, it would be far overdue to negotiate matters now. I have not come here to chat, after all.”

The elf opened his mouth to say something, then clamped it shut. It was too late to protest against the jerking hand that suddenly tapped his bridge. Tapped, and sent a jolt of raw adrenaline in his veins. Incomprehensible words sputtered from his mouth.

High Priest Maverick grinned, his eyes glinting in the candle half-light. “This should serve you well, future assassin of kings--” He tensed, scowling as the invisible powers interconnecting with the warrior burgeoned. “Cease your struggle! It is futile!" A blinding light exploded from the priest's hand, sheathing the elven warrior in its grasp. “Let me be your Caretaker! The power of Light shall be yours!”

Merka heaved a gasp as darkness surged from his peripherals and struck him unconscious. Indifferent to the extinguished hearth flame, and in turn the complete gloom that swallowed them, Maverick crouched, his bony hand receding back into its sleeve. “Sleep, my dearest protege,” he whispered. “It should kill the time as you await the son of the House of Ubissad.”

In chalk-white droves, frost came down.

Assailing all that dared stand without the sure protection of cover, of sorcery, even - for there were few covers in the flat, frozen expanse that stretched out from beneath his feet. Boulders dotted the rugged sweeps, shaped smoothly by the snow-ridden winds over millennia. The crunchy, snow-packed earth at his feet wasn’t nearly as deep as it should have been. Overhead, it snowed incessantly, yet for some reason, the earth could not care less - an indifferent, defying force to match the ceaseless onslaught from above.

The same, however, could not be said for Azaranth. Clothes uncomfortably adherent to himself, the monster hunter stood, numbness spreading like a disease in his extremities. For some abstruse reason, he had found himself standing there. In the middle of nowhere, an empty wasteland. In the middle of oblivion.

And like whetted arrows, frost came down.

Azaranth turned, snow crunching underfoot, and faced the direction where lingered an absent, obscure sun, nothing but a stained pewter blotch against the clouds. Wind howled, riding it an old stench, an undercurrent of rotting ice. From the opposite direction, it propelled the snow-ridden currents in from an angle - so much so that Azaranth felt the frost hit him not from above, but, rather, from the sides.

It would have been an amusing thought, had he the capacity for such a sentiment. Despite his shivering uncontrollably, the harsh snowstorm battering him from behind, he felt... abstract. A false image in a landscape born of his imagination - of thoughts of deadly poison, the essence of this vaguely familiar vision, this illusion, all exclusively allocated to the unfamiliar, hulking figure that now stood before him.

The scene would repeat itself once again. A low-pitched voice that was muted beneath the storm’s defiant screams, yet thunderous in and of itself. “Greetings.”

Azaranth made to respond, but the words, as if of their own accord, simply chose not to be. As if he had lost all capacity to speak, the windpipes an old memory in the flesh of his throat.

Regardless, it continued: “The cause for your presence eludes me. You are not whom this… gift was intended for. I have studied your soul, again and again, yet the answer is ever vague. It is impossible to find out on my own. Thus, the question still stands. Why are you here?”

Again and again, Azaranth could not voice his answer. Futile efforts stoked his frustration, engendered in him a burgeoning anger. Yet, all things considered, he let out a long sigh.

“You don’t know.” The same, fateful answer. Neither could he discern if that was a discontented question or a mere observation. Perhaps, he realized, the stranger was correct all along. After all, why was Azaranth here?

A question impossible to answer, like many others, left unattended in the back of his mind.

Despite that, behind all this confusion - Azaranth learned an underlying fact: he had heard this voice on a few occasions, whispering, or screaming, nonsense from within. Now it could form complete, structured sentences - a mindless being that had found essence in the unstable realm that was his mind.

His strong belief in its inexistance was his only weapon against insanity. And now that he could confirm the voices were real, the weapon had begun to steadily wear.

Azaranth doubted that this 'gift' the shrouded stranger spoke of wasn't the one given to him by Captain Frostbloom's. These voices and dreams, he now realized, were somehow related to it. To Tobb. That red-bearded bastard.

And upon this discovery, Azaranth felt compelled to grip the stranger by the throat - squeeze out the false, inexistent life out of him. But he simply could not, and that was a truth he withheld from honestly and truly examining.

“Then,” the figure spoke again, newfound spite edging his voice. Everytime, he spoke in a manner not unequal to this one. And, like all times, he'd wait exactly the same amount of time to settle on his sweetly bitter decision. “Begone.”

As bluntly as that, the world around them died. Everything - earth, sky, frost and all - seethed from the east, chaos that surged forth, a ravenous wave of destruction that tore through anything - through oblivion itself.

Tremors shook underfoot. And as debris was flung between them, the wave arrived.

And in its wake—

Darkness.

Fierce pain behind his eyes. He blinked them open. He could not tell the time of the day, a paperthin robe tucked in under his chin, stained with old sweat. The room’s sultriness was the first presence to lash at him, the air clinging to him like a tether. A single oil-lamp suspended from the ceiling oscillated like a desultory wraith in the room, and the planked walls flanking him were stained and pockmarked with recent pits.

Groaning, he sat up.

Scuffling sounds at the room’s corner. His gaze flitted there, then the sounds stopped. Two heartbeats before a new voice spoke - ardent, young. “Good. You’re up.”

Azaranth made no response, unintentionally mimicking the scene he’d just woken from. As the stranger continued, he hopped it would not prove a second nightmare. To wake from a dream to discover oneself in another was an open invitation to madness. “Found you washed-up onshore. Weaponless, I discovered from your then empty scabbards, and, I might add, hapless. You would have made a good meal in those death-gulls’ bellies had I not found you in time. I presume you know the meaning of this, and what it entails.”

Azaranth looked up, frowning at the expectancy in the man's strangely flat tone. “What do you want? Gold, weapons? Women? Out with it.”

A pause. “None of what you've just listed, although acquiring one of those would be convenient, considering our city's dire situation. But that is irrelevant. What I need, friend, is fair use of bodily services - a hired escort if you will. You seem like the type to be just that. In this case, of course, there will be no gold to repay you. You’d simply be released from my debt, which is saving you." The man gave a wry smile, continued, "Details of the task are to follow, but first things first” - he rubbed both hands together - “do you accept?”

Azaranth drew in a deep breath, waited as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. He sighed. “Do I have a choice?”

“Unless you rise to your feet and kill me before I can react - which, that is to say, not unexpected from what I’m seeing - then no, you do not, I’m afraid.”

Luckily for you, I’m only half-tempted to do that. “Where are we?”

There was silence for two, three heartbeats, then a young, level face appeared in the halflight. He sat invertedly on a chair that creaked under his weight. “You don’t know?”

Azaranth sensed something atypical to the man’s features, then realized - from those tilted, overly-narrow eyes - this man was only half-human. “Wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

The man smiled. “Why, we are in Beinost, of course. Right in the heart of its great, rotten and subterranean grounds. The sewers, to be precise. You’ll like it here, I assure you.”

“Didn’t realize we were staying.”

“Well, we are until you have sufficiently recuperated for our impending journey. Which reminds me - you are tasked with helping me journey across the city, once capital of Raiaera, inland, to the ruins of an old establishment. This place is rife with thugs, thieves and all kinds of oversized vermin. But I wouldn’t fret, for they should not be too different from those big, bog-dwelling monsters—”

Azaranth looked up, saw that the man had clamped his mouth shut. “Unless I have a really short memory, I don’t recall ever mentioning my trade.”

Silence answered his observation.

“Which means one of two things,” he said and made to rise, “either you have godlike intuition, or you didn’t in truth find me onshore. In other words, you’re lying.”

The man held up his hands, voice croaking uneven. “Who’s to say that I don’t? Anyone can tell from a mile away—”

Azaranth stood over the cowering man, who spoke quickly. “All right, all right! You were delivered.”

“Delivered.”

“Aye, by that old man. Can’t quite recall his name, but damn if his presence didn’t feel oddly familiar. I initially refused, of course, but bastard threatened to kill me if I didn’t have you under my watch until you were awake. Gave me no choice. Said that he would know if I did something untoward.”

On his feet, Azaranth stepped forward, hoping the feint of reacquiring his strength had any of the intended effects on the man. “Go on.”

“He demands that I help you.”

Azaranth’s brows rose. “Help me?”

“Yes. Said I’d be your escort to a university in Eluriand a few hundred leagues…” The man’s words trailed away, as shock ripped across his face, features twisting in a grimace. “Deities take me!”

“What’s wrong?”

“I shouldn’t have told you that! He told me not to - he’ll kill me!”

Azaranth felt the balance in his legs give in, then slumped back down to sit on the bed. “Relax. He can’t kill you. And even if he wanted to he’d have done so by now. Which means one thing - wait, did you say ‘a university?’”

He nodded. “Yes. Istrien University, only one in the city, as a matter of fact. Is that of any significance?”
"Not really… except," Azaranth was silent for a time, then spoke. "Is there a library? Here, in Beinost? I think I might have an idea or two of who this Nazir is, but I can't be sure yet."

"Nazir? That’s his damned name all right. Just my damned luck,” he muttered, then said, “No, there are no libraries, but there used to be. One, to be precise. Valley Library.”

Azaranth’s brows rose. He sat straighter. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” the man answered. “Listen, I don't care what his real identity is - all I want is to be done with this, and quickly, if you please. Do you need some rest before we've set off?"

Guess I have no choice, since that library’s destroyed. Azaranth looked over. “No. What I need is supplies for the journey. And answers. Why Eluriand? Why Istrien University?”

“Damn if I know. He did not say much else really. Like I said, he but ordered me to escort you across the country to that ruin of a university…” The man was obviously on edge. “Ironic, right?”

Azaranth studied him for a moment. Clever bastard. Though not clever enough, it seems. Tough. He gestured. “How dangerous is it out there?”

“More than you’d like, I fear.” They were silent for a time, listeners to the ceaselessly rhythmic play of sewage waters. “Name’s Nikred Vittris, in case you were wondering. So, who is that nerve-racking bastard?”

“Don’t know. Met him overseas in a tavern, in Gisela. Needed his boat to sail over here. Can’t say his was a pleasant company during our abruptly-ended cruise.”

“He seems to be more than just an old canoe-owner. There’s something off about him.” The man paused, as if undecided on his words. “An air of unknowable mystery, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah... definitely mysterious. Look, he’s a mage, that much is certain - which explains his overly bold threats. Us sword-wielders don’t have much of a chance against versatile fighters, especially mages. Now that I think about it, something tells me our initial meeting wasn’t just a coincidence.”

Nikred Vittris glanced over. “You mean to say it was planned?”

Azaranth slowly rose to his feet, once more attempting to fight exhaustion. “Yes. I still have my suspicions, though.” Gaze searching the room, he asked, “Where are my weapons?”

“But I said—”

“You lied once, Vittris.”

Silence, then the mixed-blood’s eyes darted away. “Under the bed.”

After retrieving both swords and crossbow, Azaranth made to study the darkness-cloaked nooks of the room, and there, atop a faintly illuminated tabletop was the outline of a hide-wrapped object - the apparatus, Azaranth realized, Frostbloom had gifted him, glinting as if on its own accord. “See you have taken something else of mine as well.”

Vittris stared for a moment, then recognition sparked in his eyes. “I intended to return it.”

“Was that before or after you almost tricked me into thinking I was in your debt?” Azaranth thought to carry on with his allegations, then decided against it. He walked over and studied the fist-sized apparatus, and a heartbeat later deposited it in his one of his cloak’s pockets.

He made for the gloomy doorway, indifferent to the stench that sent a wrenching tug in his gut. Pausing at the threshold, Azaranth half-turned. “Let’s go. And take my advice: don’t try something funny. In case he falls short in delivering it, know that I’ll be there to complete Nazir’s work for him..”

He turned back toward the doorway, his back to the still-sat man. “You’d then be at the end of two blades, Vittris. I’d strongly advise against falling into such a predicament.”

If rage fired in the mind of Nikred Vittris, he gave no outward sign of its presence. “Yes, sir.”

The journey outside Beinost’s walls had been, thus far, fortunately uneventful. The main road they’d taken was a steady, winding curve to the left, scything through lush grassland. It would then, he saw in his mind, veer west, cutting through the old flats, and then over the fertile banks of a yet unnamed river. Before, then, he dreadfully recalled Vittris’ rather uncomforting account, brushing shoulders with the edge of a particularly hazardous forest. Its name rang in his mind the bells of a recent, macabre memory. In which he, alongside his friend Merka, was witness to a vision.

Or, rather, a nightmare. Both had peered into the black-framed vista, the handiwork of High Priest Maverick, observing from within a conceling gauze fashioned from elven magic. Where they saw, they all saw, Xem’Zund and his Horde emerge from that very forest.

Not to conquer. But to ruin, laying waste to all things standing in their path. And following their unprecedented arrival was, as if to ensure their work had been complete, the sudden appearance of a plague - so deadly that it alone had seen an already weakened Raiaera crumble.

Crumble, Azaranth decided, and rot into the lifeless husk it now was.

Like the breath of a death god, the Horde forces had swept north, leaving devastation in their wake. Every living thing rendered lifeless. Xem’Zund had known no mercy. And even as he’d been delivered rightful judgment, Azaranth felt it was not enough to account all the damage wrought on this undead land.

Lindequalme was not a pleasant place, after all. And even after the Horde crisis had been shut down, what remained in the Red Forest - no, the existence itself - was like a wound where there were had already been a thousand other scars. The name would still whisper terrible things in the minds of all peoples. Azaranth imagined, that, had he acknowledged a god, he would have dropped to his knees, praying his undying gratitude to whatever forces had decided that the two warriors would not be forced enter the Red Forest, after all.

Even for a professional monster hunter, to enter such a site meant suicide. And because of that site, the high elves, their land and all had seen… hell. So did their neighboring cousins, to a degree. But first came Merka’s people - who had no doubt suffered the most.

Xem’Zund, Azaranth judged, and the likes of him deserved a fate much worse than death. And he could but wish such a fate existed, reserved for all those who brought pain on so many lives. Regardless, this nation, prosperous as it once had been, was now a lost cause.

“What rides your mind?”

Azaranth turned to regard the half-elf - he had discovered at a careless remark on his part - Vittris riding at his side. A young, lean face, perched in that saddle to match his own. “Nothing that should interest you.”

“Oh?” Vittris chuckled. “I’d argue that anything in the minds of those whom I admire, Azaranth, interests - no, intrigues - me. Dearly, I might add.”

From his own saddle, Azaranth studied the mixed-blooded warrior. He hesitated, then said, “I haven’t lived long enough to say this, but… it feels as if I’ve seen… everything.”

The Salvarian knew that his companion did not elaboration to understand. Notwithstanding, “You come to a point, where, after a lot of killing, you lose all meaning of remorse. Killing is inherently wrong. Unless it is in large numbers and to the sounds of trumpets, and so could attest all leaders - kings, emperors, in the history of our world. Anyway, after that first kill, you begin to view the world from a different perspective. As if some thing ends—

—and another begins. A life, and, well, a life - physically-speaking in the former, metaphorically in the latter. The gut-wrench, though, that always haunted me when I saw enemies topple - it stopped appearing after a long while. After a lot of kills, in other words. As if it existed only to let me into a world of hurt, for a time, until it discovered that I didn’t care anymore.”

“For your death?” Vittris asked.

Azaranth shook his head. “For theirs - the enemies. It’s almost a feeling akin to compassion, but subtler. There only to deceive. You want the one standing before you dead, and that feeling remains steady, ever so steady in the forefront of your mind - until it finally happens. And when it does, as you look upon their bodies, all you feel is regret.”

The sun faltered in the west, flinched back from the darkening horizon. Like a shapeless demon from the east, the night spread into the skies overhead. As the two warriors rode beneath this heavenly conquest, a gentle wind caressed their backs. Azaranth spoke again after a time.

“And, before you know it, it’s already accumulated. Into a monster so fierce and so sturdy that it becomes practically impenetrable. With each death delivered, it feeds, and it grows. Into something huge, that you don’t know what you’re staring at anymore.”

Vittris was silent, his gaze - Azaranth saw peripherally - unwavering on the sentimental monster hunter, who then finished off his monolog. “Then it collapses onto itself. A victim of its own doing.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

After a time the half-elf grinned, turned to face the road. “Quite an exposition,” he remarked. “Have to say that I’m impressed. Did you happen to study literature when you were young?”

Azaranth was not deaf to the sarcasm intoned in that comment. “I happened to, actually. I am noble-born, after all.”

Vittris’s gaze returned, this time significantly more piercing. “That… is truly, truly intriguing. You’ve sparked my interest, hunter. Tell me, how does a noble end up - in a small amount of time, as you’ve stated - as a vagrant, run of the mill monster hunter?”

Azaranth snorted, then said, “That’s a story for another time, I think.” He gestured forward. “There, on that hill. Let’s camp there for tonight.”

Run of the mill...

In the dead of night, Azaranth raved. Sheathed in a layer of sweat, he shifted restlessly over his grit-stained cot. Flitting thoughts raced in his mind, stirred in almost perfect accordance till they fused and took form. Once again, he found himself within the same dream. Yet he could feel the odd, obscure magic with which it had been imbued, the originator ebbing power Azaranth had not felt before, and its waywardness chilled him even as he slept.

Even so, he stood in the frozen wasteland once more, at the heart of a world visited on many occasions now. A recurring scene - an earth frozen, howling winds, and a sunless, grey-colored horizon, and, of course, the snowstorm itself. All, as usual, had appeared to greet merely one of his sporadic entries.

The snowstorm’s arrival, however, had been… abrupt, stronger than it had been the times before. It had struck harder. Much harder, practically burying him in a layer of snow. Vaguely, even his presence felt more lifelike than the more spectral visitations he’d inadvertently incurred in the past. The weather permitted him no more than a few paces of sight, and in all directions, the world was sheathed in a raging gauze of snow.

He waited. The mysterious, if not dubious, wraith would certainly soon make an appearance. Except, he realized after a time, it would not. The time passed had betrayed that a... change had occurred. Six heartbeats and Azaranth usually found himself facing the bastard. It was obvious, now, that this dream did not share the same overly predictable pattern of the past ones.

A detail that, if anything, drew the monster hunter's interest.

The wind shrieked. Blinking snow from his eyes, Azaranth oddly felt the air shiver.

Then started as the storm, like a stoppered tap, vanished in a sluice of snow. Just like that.

He reeled, forward into the clear, and found himself standing in the middle of an empty world. Not a single soul in sight on this frozen oblivion. The wind had gone still, as if the life had abandoned it, and the hardpacked earth underfoot stretched onward, ever onward, on all sides. For the first time - he now noticed - a glaring sun blazed at its zenith.

Suddenly the world turned dark. It was a few moments before Azaranth realized he was standing in a cast shadow. Huge, a grimly new presence manifested behind him.

He turned.

And found himself standing in the lee of a... monstrosity, its height reaching skyward to challenge the Citadel itself. A looming structure. When he looked up, he saw that the shape was, in fact, no structure at all. For he saw, at the upper end, that the thing was looking down on him.

Serpent-like and plastered with a huge grin.

A dull chill seeped through Azaranth. He stood, stock-still, his heart skipping beats as the narrowed, blue-colored slits so far up - what passed for the creature’s eyes - studied him, flitting, he saw, from limb to limb. And he, in turn, studied its scaled features, the bulging underbelly heaving as the monstrosity seemed to exhale - wait. Wait.

Scaled... His eyes widened as recognition dawned on him. Azaranth hesitated, then managed, “You are…”

In answer, a voice rasped in Azaranth’s mind. Which made sense, for if the creature had used its vocal cords - had it any - Azaranth doubted he’d understand anything beyond the ridiculously low pitch. “Real? Not in this manifestation, not at this time. I only appear before you as would a wraith, abstract and not of this world. But so it is only from your perspective, as some have presumed to call me a ‘myth,’ a ‘legend,’ and enforce it among their kin. You mortals have fickle minds.”

Azaranth’s thoughts raced. He had so many questions. Mortals? Did he stand in direct conversation with a god? Was this anyway related to his past dreams? Was this even real? It’s too damn similar to real life to not be. He drew breath, the air - as it would in the waking world - entering his lungs. To begin with— “Who are you?”

“I am Sihldir, Lord of the Seas. Ruler of the depths the world over,” it asserted. “Now I ask - who are you? What brings you to my realm? My dominion?”

Azaranth suspected at first that the behemoth mocked him, then shook himself back to awareness. That would be ridiculous. “I am Azaranth Ubissad…” The monster hunter elected not to reveal more of himself, or, more precisely, his profession. “With pleasure. It was not in my intentions to... encroach on your world. In my world, I now sleep. And each time I do, I find myself dreaming the same dream. This time is different, though.”

Sihldir was silent for a moment. “I take it, then, you have my totem on your person?”

“Your totem?” As if of a will of its own, Azaranth’s hand reached into his thawing clothes and came out with a bone-white, circular disc. Arcane writing was etched into its polished surface, the lines glinting with power as it rose in the warrior’s grasp. “Do you mean this?”

“Indeed,” it replied. “It seems there has been no ritual to celebrate its rite of passage. The last owner was indeed worthless of my gift. He had grown complacent with its powers. It is decided, then, that due punishment be delivered upon his entourage.”

Azaranth thought on his words for a moment, then ventured, “Does the owner go by the name of Tobb Frostbloom?”

A momentary pause. “Yes.”

“And what, if possible, can be done to lift the penalization?”

“Nothing can be done, mortal. I have reached a decision, and that is final,” it said, massive, toothy jaws parting to account all those words.

And what if I persist?

As if guessing his thoughts, Sihldir added, “Do not question my authority, lest you suffer the same fate.”

Aggressive. “As you wish.” Heartbeats later, Azaranth looked up again, met that monstrous gaze. “Sihldir—” he paused, if only to see the creature’s reaction to that blunt address, then continued— “is this the first time we meet?”

A slow blink. “You do not recall? We have met many a time. Once, in fact, in your world. Yet my arrival immediately rendered you and your comrade unconscious. Alas. The difference between this dream and the ones past, of which you revealed to have been ignorant, utterly lies in the legitimacy of your intentions. You seem to have found... solid answers to my ever-persistent questions. Something has been altered within you, Azaranth Ubissad - a new purpose, I sense, cause to make this audience a reality. Thus, I have deemed you worthy of this greet meeting."

Yes, and of being able to actually talk to you rather than play the mannequin over and over again. So, you were that nagging prick, except in false form. Because I… hadn’t yet found my purpose? Azaranth sighed. Just as everything had started to make sense, it all went tumbling into pieces again.

Azaranth demanded, "Why do you ask me these questions?"

Sihldir spoke, hastiness edging his voice.“All in due time. Mortal, your half-blooded friend is in trouble. He is in need of you. However, you must first answer me this before I release you from your dreaming.”

Azaranth’s brows rose, then nodded. “Ask away.”

“Why are you here?”