The Fate of Odinfell (Closed to Rayleigh)

Dear page in book,

A lot has happened since I last put ink to paper – most notably, it’s been several weeks since I’ve left the safety and comfort of the Brackenfield Inn and started my journey south toward Archen. I imagine it wouldn’t take a regular adventurer anywhere near as long to make the trek but, admittedly, I get side tracked a lot and camp more often than I need to. I’m getting very proficient at building fires! Not so good at making a shelter so I spend most nights in inns along the way.

This is the first time I’ve been out of Wintervale so I take my time to explore as I make my way, although much of what I’ve been seeing lately are the same snow and trees I could have seen from my window in the tower. I guess I don’t know what I should be expecting; Father told me the world is more or less the same wherever you go, though I have the feeling he was just saying that so wanderlust didn’t overtake me.

Speaking of Father – I’ve had a lot of time to read his journal. There are a lot of things I never knew about the man. He was… very complicated. The book I hold must be one of the later journals in the series as he makes many references to events supposedly documented previously yet I can’t find any entries regarding them in these pages. Most of what I read comes across as cryptic but one common value is held across the most of his writings: repentance. He never explicitly says what it is that he’s done but I can only assume it was something very, very bad.

I can’t even imagine.

Something I read in this book refers to a nearby town by the name of Odinfell, which is where I’m heading now. Apparently something happened here many years ago and my Father might have been involved so I figured I’d make it a point to investigate. The townspeople in a neighboring village were hesitant to say what happened but they indicated that – whatever it was – wiped it off the face of Salvar. It could be something or it could be nothing. I guess I get to find out first hand.

I head out for Odinfell first thing in the morning.
Time to get some sleep.
~

The sun had risen above the hills of snow several hours ago which marked the start of Sorin’s day. After a scarce breakfast at the inn consisting of dried bits of meat and wet oats, he set off for his destination of Odinfell. He was able to travel the most of the way on an easterly path until he came to a junction that had obviously not been walked in many, many years. After confirming several nearby landmarks to what had been scribbled on his map, as well as deciphering a worn down sign that was barely legible, Sorin was certain he had come to the crossroads heading the road due north that would lead him to the mysterious town of Odinfell.

He paused a moment to look over the nonexistent path through the snow that led into a barebones forest saturated with dead trees. As barren as the woods were, Sorin was unable to see through to the other side, leaving him unable to confirm whether he would truly find the town he was looking for on the opposite end. Regardless, what choice did he have? He had come this far with the intent of investigating the meaning behind his Father’s journal entry, would he really turn back with no answer to his questions? No, of course not – he was young and foolish enough to forge on. With a little reluctance, he stepped forward off the path and into the knee deep snow, trudging his own way into the lifeless forest before him.

The forest was as dead as it looked. The only blemishes in the snow, for as far as he could see, were the ones left behind him in the wake of his footsteps. Nothing filled his ears but the crunch of snow beneath him and the occasional groaning of a faded tree slowly unsettling to the buckling cold. Speaking of the cold – Sorin couldn’t tell if it was just his imagination but the temperature in the air seemed to drop dramatically the further he made his way into the woods. Even his heavy layers of clothing, which were specifically meant to deal with the harsh wintry environment of Wintervale, seemed to offer little resistance to the biting chill seeping in.

Quaking uncontrollably from the cold, Sorin continued to slowly progress forward while trying to push his thoughts away from terrible thought of freezing on the spot. Suddenly, without any inclination that suggested he was at the end of the line, he stepped out of the woods and into a clearing – and within that clearing was a town that was most certainly abandoned. This was Odinfell.

Odinfell had tragedy written all over it. The derelict buildings that were previously the homes, inns, and shops of its denizens, looked as if they had been subjected to a thousand fires. They were dilapidated, charred beyond definition and ready to crumble at a moment’s notice and yet they stood. For years, Sorin imagined, this is exactly how they stood – frozen in time. He seemed to forget about the paralyzing cold plaguing him as he journeyed forward into the town that remained but soon stopped as he came upon a sight that would have send many running: a decrepit skeleton of one who had passed on.

The majority of the skeleton was picked clean, whether by carrion or by fire, yet there were still areas where decayed flesh held loosely to the bone. This was nothing new to Sorin. He had seen things much worse in comparison; it was not something that would deter him from heading forth. He had the feeling that this wouldn’t be the first body he would find lingering among the roads of Odinfell if the condition of what was presented before him was any indication.

Either the wind was finally dying down, or she was simply growing used to the way that it battered her small body as she trekked through snow that rose well over her ankles. In the beginning, the woman had deemed the task impossible, having found it difficult to remain on her feet at all. The howling gusts had knocked her about like a cat's ball of yarn, and her boots, pathetically ill-equipped for such conditions, had slid out from under her twice. The snow had cushioned her fall, but also dampened her clothes, and plunged her morale deeper than any ocean on Althanas. Her lips had remained pressed so tightly together that they had grown white, and her eyes had been resorted to mere slits, nearly just as thin. With every step, the woman had cursed Vincent Cain, and everything that the man stood for. He had sent her to Salvar, reminding her that she had agreed to help him cleanse the plague that cursed Raiaera, knowing full-well she hated the cold. He had taken advantage of her oversized heart and good-samaritan tendencies, all while standing in the kitchen, flipping beef patties in his ridiculous chefs apron. Rayleigh found some comfort in imagining driving a balled fist straight into the middle of that apron, and then maybe in his pretty face too, for good measure. It would serve him right, and make her feel better, his good looks be damned. The thought had sent her snuggling deeper into her new fur-lined coat, one she had purchased with Vince's coin, which also helped matters considerably.

Yet after what was easily an hour of walking, the winds seemed to calm. Trees still moaned protest beneath an occasional gust, an eerie noise that never ceased to unnerve her. But that, aside from her beating heart, was the only sound. Only after the storm had lessened did Rayleigh recognize the lack of life around her. She saw no animals darting through the deep snow, or tracks to indicate such thing recently occurred. Granted, she had known not to expect chirping birds and frolicking deer, as she was in the Salvarian wilderness. But complete and utter desolation felt unusual, and more than a little unsettling.

She contemplated going back. It would mean accomplishing nothing more than wasted time, but it was preferable to the chill that crawled up her spine, and sent gooseflesh prickling down her arms. A few more minutes of stomping through the thick drifts, and perhaps she might have. But as she emerged from a thick line of trees, and found herself facing the hollowed ruins of an old town, curiosity mingled with the fear that welled inside her. The latter sent her gloved hand reaching for the gun that hid beneath her heavy coat. The former prompted her forward, and deeper into the clearing where the town lay in wait.

This, she knew without doubt, was Odinfell. It was the place the locals had spoke of in hushed tones, some daring to point toward the mountain, others merely giving it a nod of their head. There was magic there, they had told her, terrible, horrible magic. The magic, Rayleigh had finally concluded, that might speak to what was happening in Raiaera. It seemed strange, perhaps, to search for a cure in such a distant land. In the beginning, the mechanic had thought the same, laughing at what she had deemed another of Vincent's half-baked plans. But he trusted his sources, and she, begrudgingly, trusted him. So he had sent her to one town, who had sent her to another, who had sent her to another, who had sent her to Odinfell. "If yer lookin' fer magic," a man with one eye and two teeth had told her, "yer be best wantin' to see Odinfell."

And there was magic here, Rayleigh could feel it just as clearly as she felt the stinging cold. The air was thick with it, and her lungs grew heavy despite the thinness of the high altitude. Her time with the Tarot Hierarchy had made her sensitive to such things, but she wondered if it was possible for anyone to miss this. What hung like a curtain around the clearing was untapped, untouched, unbridled magic. It was as wild as a rogue stallion, and surely as dangerous as one. Her hand tightened around her gun.

As her gaze combed the charred remains, it came to rest on a lone figure who stood a short distance off. He stood in stark contrast to the white snow, easy to spot though he appeared to have traveled through a different part of the woods, and had his back to her. High on the magic, and unable to think of much else to do, she hailed him with a shout and a wave of her free hand. "Hello there!"

It was true – that clearing was so heavily saturated with magic that it was almost palpable but it wasn’t just any magic; it was death magic. With every second that ticked by, Sorin could feel the burden of that particular kind of magic weighing down on him. It felt as if that skeleton at his feet, and countless unseen others, had reached their bony hands up and took ahold of him wherever they could with the intent to keep him bound to that place. Whatever it was that plagued Odinfell, it knew him for what he was – one who breaks the rules of life, a caller of the dead, a necromancer.

We’ve been waiting for you…

“Hello there!” called an unfamiliar voice that pulled him out of his disturbed thoughts.

His momentarily lost gaze pulled up from the skeletal remains and switched to the woman hailing him after he had pivoted on booted heel to face her. There wasn’t much for Sorin to see outside of the bulky bundle of a fur coat but he could make out the telltale signs of long, brown hair from the few wisps that had been blown out from under her pulled up hood. He was hesitant to acknowledge her greeting on the fact that she was a walking, talking animation of life in the dark sea of decaying death that surrounded them. Considering how reluctant the locals were to even talking about this lost town within the trees, Sorin imagined this was the last place on Althanas he expected to run into another living, breathing someone. What exactly was she doing here?

A hand came to rest cautiously on the pommel of the sword belted to his waistline, praying that the woman didn’t know how empty of a threat that gesture truly was. Sorin was more likely to hurt himself before he hurt someone else with a sword due to his lack of training and overall uncomfortableness regarding combat with another living being. After another long moment had passed, Sorin finally raised his other gloved hand in gesturing wave similar to the woman’s own.

What did people even say when they met in strange situations like this? “Hey, what are you doing here? Me? I don’t know – I’m looking for something but I don’t know what it is. Did you see the dead bodies on your way in? There’s a half-picked corpse back here if you’re interested.” It was probably safe to assume that she wouldn’t share his same interests in the quality or state of the bodies of those who have passed on. Not that he could talk about that kind of stuff, anyway – Sorin was aware of the stigma that Necromancy carried with it, as well as what happened to those who openly practiced it.

Despite the identified deficiencies in the conversation to come, the blonde haired teen took a few crunching steps in the snow toward the woman and greeted her. Poorly, mind you, but it was something to start. “Hello.”

The biting chill made her teeth tingle as she flashed him a broad smile. Her chapped lips cracked as they were pulled taut. What were the odds of meeting another, so deep in the Salvarian wilderness? The heaviness in the air made her skin crawl, and despite the fact he remained a stranger, the man's presence brought her some comfort. He took a handful of steps nearer, and she closed the distance between them in twice as many. Her boots crunched the snow in a crisp, staccato rhythm, as her short strides made her work twice as hard. When the pair slowed to a halt, mere feet from each other, she shoved her gloved hands deep into the fur-lined pockets of her coat.

"Well," Rayleigh drawled cheerfully. "Fancy running into you up here." The boy said nothing, simply studied her in silence. He was tall, taller than her, though most people that she encountered were. He wore heavy clothes, befitting a climate as unforgiving as the one they adventured in. Yet his coat was different, in style and material, than her own. Though she had spent little time in Salvar, she recognized it as the more traditional style of the region. Her coat, on the other hand, had been purchased from a large shop in Knife's Edge. She had selected it because it most resembled the Alerarian style, while still containing enough fluff to keep her warm. Unless this stranger had simply done his shopping nearby, he appeared to be a local.

Then her gaze climbed to meet his. His eyes were narrowed against the wind, and the sharp sunlight that reflected off the pristine white snow. But the slits of color that remained were a startling green, a similar shade to her own. He certainly had a handsome face, but it was difficult to guess at all that was hidden beneath the bulky clothes; she would reserve full judgement for later.

"The name is Rayleigh," she informed him, drawing a hand from her pocket to extend it.

It took a moment, the wind whipping at his shaggy blonde hair as he considered her gesture. Then, slowly, he pressed his palm to hers, gripped, and shook. "Sorin," came his answer.

"Sorin." The word rolled nicely off her tongue. "So, Sorin, what brings you up this way?"

Come to us. We’ve been waiting for so… so long.

Their handshake concluded briefly and once it did, he promptly withdrew it to wrap his arms about his own self as a particularly nasty gust of icy wind came whistling in through the trees. His eyes shut of their own accord to protect against the howling gale which seemed to carry a rather shrill note with it that didn’t sound entirely unlike a woman’s scream. Once the winds settled down, Sorin took a moment to regard Rayleigh through the blonde mess of chaotically blown about bangs – the reflection of her figure seen in the stillness of his bright emerald irises.

“I’m – I’m – “ he started but immediately seemed distracted.

Help us…

“I’m looking for…”

Please help us.

“Do you hear that?” he said, flustered. Of course, she didn’t and he obviously looked like a lunatic which probably wasn’t what he wanted to do in the first few minutes of meeting someone in the middle of nowhere. That isn’t exactly the first thing you think of when you start hearing voices in your head.

His focus shifted from Rayleigh to the forsaken town that silently existed just out of their view. Sorin grew quiet as he narrowed his attention and listened further for whatever it was that was calling to him. He heard nothing – but he could still feel something. There was a heavy sensation along the back of his neck that didn’t sit well with him. Some sort of intuition, as it were, that inexplicably led him to believe that something was not right within Odinfell.

Eyes flicked from one building to the other in search of anything that stood out from the rest, doing his best to combat the creeping urge to investigate closer. Yes, Sorin knew it would be rude of him to just up and walk away from the auburn-haired woman after such an awkward encounter but if he was right – if there was something dangerous going on here behind the guise of a derelict town – it would probably be better if he found out sooner than later. If anything, he was doing Rayleigh a great service by letting the paranoia associated with being a new adventurer, completely out of his depth, overrun his calm façade.

“I’m sorry - why did you say you were here? Rayleigh, was it?” Sorin said as he fixed his attention back on the woman standing before him. “Rayleigh, I’m not entirely sure you should be here if you don’t have to be. Something… something is off.”

Thump-thump.

Sorin’s shoulders flinched unintentionally in response to the distant sound reverberating solely in his mind. It wasn’t just a sound – it was an awareness that had overcome his whole being. He didn’t know what it was but he was as sure of it as he was his own heart beat which is exactly what it felt like as it resonated within him. A wave of anxieties and concerns washed over him as the thumping repeated, leaving him with not only a nervous stomach but a sickness all over. The worst of it was the inexplicable desire – the need – to seek out whatever was calling to him.

As terrible as he felt, Sorin turned from the newly-met woman and stepped forward toward the town, continuing until he found a path that would take him further in.

So… so long.

The woman's smile faltered as soon as the stranger began to speak. There was something flighty in his tone, a sort of distraction that demonstrated he was highly uncomfortable. Rayleigh had seen this behavior a couple of times before, most notably from a first-time conman from Ettermire. He had attempted to sell she and her father stolen parts, and he would have succeeded, had it not been for his nervous nature. When Rayleigh had moved to process the transaction, her father had called her to his small office, and told her to stall the man. The authorities, he had told her, were already on their way to apprehend the man. When the girl had asked, dumbstruck, how he had known, he had simply given a disappointed snort. "No man's so jumpy 'bout some parts," he had informed her dryly. Then, his dirty hand had tussled her hair. "Use that big head of yours next time."

Well, she was using her head now, and it was telling her that something was very wrong.

Her suspicions were confirmed when the blonde's paranoia finally found its voice. Conflicting emotions warred at his advice to run; she was confused, she was frightened, she was curious. But most of all, she was annoyed. Her gloved hands went to her hips, the most defiant stance she could muster while bundled up against the cold. Yet as she prepared to scold the stranger for the very vague and very foreboding tip, he turned away from her and stalked off.

For a moment, she simply watched him go, growing smaller, and closer to the remains of the old town. His form was hunched at the waist, a position she assumed was meant to protect him from the wind. Yet as she studied him further, and she noticed the way his hand pressed to his midsection, she realized he played the part of someone who was truly, physically ill. Maybe he just has to throw up, she mused silently, before finally bounding after him.

"Hey, listen," she called out, moving up alongside Sorin, and making no attempt to hide her annoyance. "I did not climb this ridiculous mountain just so you could scare me away." Each word was accented by another footfall, crushing the snow beneath her boot with a sharp crunch. When he would not look at her, would not speak, her frustration bubbled over. "Seriously, will you just stop for a minute?"

And he did. But he did not turn to her, or give any indication he noticed her at all. Instead, the man cocked his head, as if listening for something in the moaning of the wind. She paused a beat, and when she spoke again, some of the fire in her words had cooled. "What is it that you're listening for?"

"Don't you hear it?"

She did not, and the way that he asked made her skin crawl. His voice was breathy, barely audible, as if he was afraid of being overheard. Unnerved, Ray moved to tell him that she heard nothing, and he was just some paranoid loon, and that she might be on her way back after all. But then, she did hear it. There were no words, or if there were, she could not make them out. Instead, the wind carried a hushed whisper. There were moments when she swore she heard multiple voices, and others where she was sure of only one. But the sound was there, and it chilled her far more thoroughly than the Salvarian mountainside.

The whistling winds did little to drown out the repetitious sound that existed within him. With every step he took on that snow-laden path into Odinfell, the stronger the feeling resonated. He was close, closer still, and closer than before and he knew it. It wasn’t a particularly enchanting sensation but it captivated him just the same, filling him with a muted sense of longing that was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. At the same time, he was acutely aware of his surroundings. Sorin had seen the corpses littering the town, hidden just out of sight of the naked eye among the freshly fallen snow and blackened soot of scorched wood - unless you were looking for them.

Yessss… so close…

Sorin’s blind footsteps had led him up to the front door of a house that was quite unlike the rest that decorated this village due to the fact that it was not nearly as desecrated as the others. Actually, if he had taken a moment to stop and analyze it, he would have noticed that it was in remarkably good standing – but he didn’t. He paced right up to the door and wrapped his gloved hand to the brass doorknob, turning it as he forced his way forward to find it was unlocked. The interior of the house was much different than the impression the outside gave. Immediately upon entering, Sorin was greeted by a mostly decayed corpse, frozen in time with its hands outstretched before its body as if it were attempting to grab at him. He acknowledged it in a passing moment and then started further in.

“I have to know,” he said, then repeated it. “I have to know.”

Come to us… save us…

At this point, Sorin wouldn’t have been able to tell you if Rayleigh was still following him or not. His attention was solely focused on the incessant beating, which bore a sound equivalent to bass drums, pounding in his head. His movements were less precise than they were just minutes earlier as he stepped over additional deceased bodies, some of which weren’t even remotely whole. The deeper into Odinfell he traveled, especially now in this house, the coherency of his body dissolved, intoxicated by the strength of the unholy magic that resided all throughout.

His hand slammed against the wall in urgency as he nearly toppled over trying to take a set of stairs into the cellar; the tremendous sound unheard to him. Sorin stumbled slowly down, each step presumably creaking loudly as the old wood bent under the weight of a footstep for the first time in ages, until he came to the dirt floor beneath the earth. And then he saw it immediately and at once knew this is exactly what it was he was looking for.

Bathed in candlelight opposite of him, on a pedestal carved from ebony stone, a pristine white skull resided. Upon this skull, from the distance he stood, Sorin could see the intricate drawings that decorated it but not exactly what they were. If he had to guess, they were magic runes – empowering runes.

On its own accord, his body reacted to the proximity of this occult object; his hand had already been slipped out of the glove that protected it and raised longingly out toward the skull while his legs found themselves walking him forward. He did not see the armored skeletons lining the walls of that cellar, as they existed solely in his periphery while the skull took precedence in the forefront of his current obsessions. He did not question how the mostly melted candles stuck in the wood planks lining the wall remained lit after so many years, or why the frozen earth beneath his feet squished wetly with every step taken.

Sorin just wanted - no, needed - to take that skull within his bare hands.

"Hey, wait up."

Her voice trembled now, though only slightly, a faint trace of the nerves that plagued her. Between the whispers on the frigid air, and the unusual behavior of the stranger, there was more than enough to send Rayleigh scampering back down the hill. In fact, she even considered the time it would take her to return to the little village, and how she might let Vincent know that she needed to be shuttled home a little early. It would be easier, running away from the situation she presently found herself in. The raw, wild magic that prowled between the trees, and swirled like the bits of snow at her feet, could only bring unpleasant ends to a girl who hated the stuff.

Then again, it could just as easily be precisely what she was looking for, a clue to the whereabouts of the mysterious cure. Previous visits had revealed rumors of a crazed old man, driven mad by his obsession with the Tap. Considering the Church's disapproval of magic, the individual had supposedly sought refuge in these mountains. He was said to have used his immense wealth to construct a magnificent mansion, and an even more magnificent library, its works dedicated entirely to the study of magic. If there was a secret to cleansing Raiaera, she supposed the mysterious house was as good a place to start as any. So the girl who hated the cold found herself standing on a frozen mountainside, in search of magic - which she also hated. All for her sandy-haired scholar, who she occasionally hated too.

Yet as she watched Sorin drift away from her, his boots moving so smoothly through the thick snow that he appeared in a trance, it was not Vincent that she thought of. It was not Raiaera, or the old man, or the plague that she promised to help fight. It was for the green-eyed boy's safety that she worried first. He moved deeper into the town, deeper into the darkness, and the heart of the magic that now seemed to pulse with a life of its own. Whatever that power was, she figured it was capable of chewing up and spitting out the young man. And despite the hundred reasons she had to turn back, that one alone was enough to move her forward.

Rayleigh called again, "Will you just wait for a minute?" Her boots fell in the space left by his as she jogged after, both hands clutching the sides of her fur-lined hood to keep it from slipping off her head. Add cardio to the ever-growing list of things she hated. By the time she reached him, he had already ducked inside one of the buildings. The door had closed behind him, shielding whatever it was that the boy desired so badly. At least it might be warmer inside, the mechanic was thinking to herself as she pushed the door aside. Then, her mind was filled with panic.

It was instinct that claimed her then, controlling her movement like a hand over a marionette. Before she could comprehend, her gun was in her hand, pointed at the mangled figure that reached for her. The weapon lurched in her hand, impossibly loud against the still silence, as it belched a ball of red fire. The flames clawed their way through the air, exploding as they made contact with the decaying corps. Despite the heavy chill that lingered even within the house's walls, the fire made quick work of the body. Rayleigh watched it as it crumbled. She was bent at the waist, her hands on her knees, the right still loosely gripping her gun. Her summer-kissed skin was as white as the corpse's had been as she sucked in shallow breaths. "What the hell?" she croaked. Shakily, she glanced down at her feet as she panted for a moment longer. Yet even when she glanced back, she could not stop the gagging. "Shit."

She had to get out of there. They both had to. All thought of solving Althanas' great mysteries disappeared, because Rayleigh Aston drew the line at zombies. Or mummies. Or monsters. Or whatever the hell that ungodly thing had been. Vincent had told her enough of Earth's horror stories to keep her awake at night, and the brunette knew enough not to mess around with haunted towns. At least, not when she was without a stronger member of the Tarot to protect her. "Never should have come here in the first place," she muttered to no one in particular. Then, louder, she added, "Sorin, time to go. Get out here before I leave your sorry ass." Despite the sing-song and humor, her hand shook as she holstered her gun.

The response was a loud thunk from beneath her. The response to that was Rayleigh's loud groan. "Haunted town, haunted house, haunted basement," she growled, stomping her way toward the stairs against her better judgment. Just as she could not leave him outside the house, she could not leave him now. Now, though, there was a tad more urgency in her green eyes.

She continued to speak as she descended underground, though her voice grew raspy as she took in her surroundings. "Haunted basement, haunted candles, haunted skull... oh gods, don't you dare." But he did. By the time Rayleigh reached the foot of the stairs, the blonde-haired youth was reaching for the skull with both hands. How stupid are you?!

As she somehow predicted, the moment Sorin's fingertips kissed the side of the relic, it burst to life. Green light poured from the eye-sockets, eerie beacons that sliced through the dim candlelight. The earth began to tremble, and Rayleigh's hand found the wall for some support. It was when she found that the foundation was not moving as well, and when she glanced down at her feet, that she realized it was just the floor that shook. The bones that littered the floor, to be more precise. Had the color ever returned to her freckled cheeks from the previous encounter, it would have drained again as the horror racked her. This time, it was not concern, nor instinct, that sparked her into action - it was sheer adrenaline.

"Haunted bones," she babbled, lunging from Sorin. He still stood dumbstruck, and did not even turn to look at her as she hooked her arm in his, and dragged him back toward the stairs. She was not gentle as she lugged him back toward the ground floor. "Gods damned haunted bones."