The Assailed Resident

[Damion Shargath]

Closed

It was during the pitch black darkness that enshrouded Salvar this night. The clouds had been so dense not to let the moon cast upon the icescape a single glint. The cold and barren wasteland was not of its usual plain white purity, but of a burying darkness which transformed it into a lightless grave for those who wandered it. Many a traveler would find their bitter and untimely end tonight. Countless would be forced to their knees by the biting frost, numerous struck down by the fist-sized hail, and a myriad were to be lost to the panic enforced by their disorientation.

The Salvic clouds threw their ice down into the howling and shrieking wind, leaving it to be thrashed upon the earth below. Many a dwarven mountain-peak-torch had been deconstructed by the brutal weather already, and if not even some of the finest craftsmanship and architecture could withstand the battle with Salvar one could imagine what a layman’s construction would look like posterior to natures rampage. It was everything but silent night, tonight.

If one believed in a higher force lying within the will of nature, and if one thought of Salvar as a land to abide only with the strong – the following could possibly be an interpretation of the storm: It was an act of reshaping, an act of cleansing the land of the weak who did not deserve to walk upon its harsh, yet glorious face.
And upon it stood three fractions of creatures…Those who were the undoubtedly strong enough, those who had adapted and prepared themselves, and those who should have left the country during a prior day.

…

It was amongst all the chaos about that it took its place.

Standing upon the north faced ledge of a mountain overruling most others around in size, there rested an impressive edifice. It was a mansion of massive material, most likely chiseled from the very mountain itself. The building’s western wing connected into the mountain in an astonishingly fine crafted work of art. Giant hands of massive dark grey rock clutched the western wing before their fingertips became one with the domicile.
The truly extraordinary thing about the mansion was that it possessed only three inlets for light. A humongous double-glazed window stretching across almost the entire ground floor offered an awe-inspiring view of the Salvic landscape beyond. Despite the fact that it was one single gigantic glass pane, positioned and anchored only at its edges without a single supporting steel grid, it posed not a single crack or deformation – withstanding the constantly pelting hail. It doubtlessly made the spatiality within, behind the window, the most impressive.

The entire main building, counting the section concealed within the rough mountain exterior, posed to be two thousand and three hundred feet wide.
To enforce this construction’s majestic position, another building stood atop its roof, shorter and thinner - of roughly one thousand feet in length, half of it concealed within the mountain, and five hundred feet in depth. It almost disappeared in the night, as not a light shone from the headband-like glass façade near the top of the building. If one stood close enough, the finely crafted sculpture work on its northern wall could be deciphered. At least a dozen torsos crept out from beneath the gigantic hands which clutched the building. Their faces writhed in agony, stretched with battle-cries, or squeezed in acrimony as their muscular arms forced forth weapons of all sorts. It seemed they fought a war against an unseen enemy, a losing battle whose continuation was upheld only by their immortal petrification.

And it was below this building, at the foot of the mountain and the very plains that sprouted from it, that a million endless wars and battles were being fought. The bodies of those fallen, their faces twisted in gruesome manners, dueling forever with death, their souls locked into an icy dungeon they couldn’t escape.

Thunder crashed and snapped onwards throughout the night as the clouds blanketed the country in darkness. Relentlessly the hail flew about, tossed back and forth by the glacial wind. Not a single mountain-peak was to be distinguished through the dark foggy nebular which hung thicker in the sky than any ocean’s fog. If one had ever wondered what the ninth circle of hell was to look like, an excursion to the scourged heart of northern Salvar would answer their curiosity.

Somehow this natural pandemonium seemed not to discommode the male figure, in somber stillness, standing at the bottom of a large luthern on the first floor. Occasionally, if granted a gap between both hail and snow, a miniscule dot of orange would intensify its color before disappearing in an inert gust of grayish smoke. The tranquil action continued for an estimation of about five minutes before the light did not return and the figure vanished from the window.

Silently, with calm breaths, a tired head rested itself upon a large pillow. The knocking of hail against the window sounded like the crude war drums of a brutish army. Slowly a pair of gray eyes fell closed, chanted to sleep by nature’s morbid lullaby. At the southern wall of this light bereft room stood a bed almost twice as long and five times as wide as the lone embodiment which occupied it. What followed five steps toward the window was a round pool embedded in the floor. A body of lukewarm water mingled inside the smoothened marble pit, which posed to have a diameter of roughly six and a half feet and a depth of four feet. It radiated comfort, presenting not a single sharp edge in its simplistic entirety. The mild heat of the gently gliding water floated into the room and created a pleasant temperature.

Dwarven engineering. A boiler pipe sat in-between the two floors of the house. Not to mention the entire sanitary system in the rather sizeable abode was of exceptionally high-standard.

…

[Damion Shargath]

…

The fiery curtain behind him drew closed, gusts of heat waves blowing at his back as he walked away. He left behind the scent of burnt flesh, pillars of black smoke ascending to the stars, and the weeps of people grieving their loss. With this violent decision, he left behind everything that would bind him to anything but his own will. Far behind he left those who wouldn’t understand his cause, who wouldn’t understand what was brewing beneath, above, before and behind them, around them. The transience of his former command had become exposed; the weaknesses of the Church of the Ethereal Sway had been exploited. Their true fear was finally given a name. And the shadow, vanishing into the mountains beyond the fire, had sworn to deliver them to it.

His steps were muffled by the sound of collapsing houses. Fire ate away at the structures and forced them to their foundations, echoing through the chasms and cliffs. The armored warrior slithered up the mountain paths, his armor glinted like a drop of quicksilver in the moonlight, his walk: fluid and determined. He hadn’t cast a single glance over his shoulder. What was following him would either side with him or die in the process of resistance.

“They’ve taken you.”

The man ascended further up the mountains trails. He passed several cliffs, chasms, ledges, and far below stars shone on the breastplate of a fallen soldier, its bearer inanimate, crushed, with several limbs broken, but well preserved by Salvar’s chilly winds. A gust slid over the mountains face, howling as it passed through cracks and chasms about. Here night sky was perfect; there was no obscuring fiery ambience to disturb the starlight above, no billowing smoke to cover the view. The air was clearer here, devoid of death-stench, and no choking likeness of ash hovering about one’s nose. Just the chapel ahead caused a disheveled picture of the scene. To Damion, it wrecked perfection, in its own attempt to tame the wild perfection of nature. Aeromancers played a large role in Salvar’s Church. Damion had always despised them, and with the revelations only come to loathe them even more.

“They have possessed the insolence to cage you.”

The large wooden door of the chapel flew open at the push of an armored hand, the rest of Damion followed.

“I have come to save you.”

The man with the halberd trailed all the steps he had already once taken. Past the benches, through the mess hall. He took a fleet of stairs, snaked around the altars, then disappeared in the dark hallway again. With slow but assured steps he made his way through the darkness, one hand on the wall, trailing of the cobblestone, guiding him up the circling stairs. His ears followed the subtle buzzing noise, and the faint dripping of mountain trailed water. He passed through the hallways of the dome like a homing beacon.

“And for what they have done, I will punish them.”

A faint light grew stronger and stronger the further he advanced. The light was brighter than last time, and it revealed that the narrow corridor leading to the sepulcher had actually been a bridge. A soupy matter of green and blue hues swirled in the depths beneath. It was magnificent. It stopped the armored figure dead in his tracks. The walls were at least thirty meters in every direction, the splashing noise below vibrating back and forth from them. His grey eyes reflected the colors, mutating for as long as he stared into the glowing liquid below.

“They will bleed by the force of your…of my…of our retribution, and they shall cry the bittersweet tears of chastisement.”

The man’s face emotionless, but his fist clenched tightly.

“Mother…”

[Damion Shargath]

Suddenly a voice tore him from his tranquility.

“You’ve made it this far, lunatic! I won’t let you get away with what you’ve done.” The voice charged a blank face, a plain stare, and a monologue began, “I am not letting you get away with this…I will not go easy on you. Don’t expect this to be as easy as your last murder. I’ve served in the same army as you. You think you’re something better, stronger, because you’re a Purifier? You blindfolded lot! All you do is follow, without thinking! It’s time I brought you to justice. I am ending you before you inflict any more harm upon innocent people…I will keep you a life away from my daughter…your life…”

The man brandished a short blade. This battle would not be a long one. Whoever slipped first would be cast into the pits below, and the halberd wielding ‘lunatic’ was certainly the one with the advantage. Their gazes met, a crazed stare of utter frustration met that of absolute listlessness. There was no further hesitation, the man charged. Metal collided and sparks darted into the air. The man had attempted a stab, but the halberdier deflected at a long reach. Staggering at the edge, the main fidgeted to regain grip on his weapon. By the time he had wrapped his fingers around it firmly, something caught his foot. Truthfully he had expected to be kicked from the edge, but instead found he was lying belly up at the center of the bridge. Bereft of his weapon though, which was sailing into the depths, he had no further means of defense.

The clash of metal still reverberated from the walls, only slowly being swallowed by the body of liquid. Silence had ensued between the two combatants, until the man on his back finally spoke, slowly pulling his arms close and propping himself up by the centimeter.

“So you do have a sense of hono-” A halberd rushed through his throat, turning words into a mess of gargled vowels. The man clasped at the gap in his throat, blood spilling onto the bridge and soaking his clothes. His eyes met the distant, emotionless gaze of the man above him. After his head catapulted backward receiving a forceful kick, blood began to spray profusely. His body twitched a few, miniscule, spastic, last times before it finally breathed its last sigh. Peacefully streams of blood made their way through the cracks between the cobblestones, until trickling from either side of the bridge.

Damion left the man to die alone. His armored figure stood before the door at the far end of the sepulcher. He leaned his halberd against the wall to his left, and affixed a firm grasp on either side of the stone protrusion in front of him. Minutes passed as he tugged and pulled and pushed. His anger grew noticeably as grunts protruded his mouth. The stone wouldn’t budge. Lips pressed together, eyes fixed on the arcane carvings that he could now decipher as “Vitaria, the Damned”, he tried again. The hours he had spent in the library only few days ago made so much crystal clear. The arcane signs throughout the chapel, the dome that followed, as in the sepulcher finally made sense. With a sheer utter frustration rising up in him, his force grew in proportion. Suddenly the sound of grating stone could be heard. Small shards of rock tumbled to the floor as his fingers dug into the stone. With a grunt the granite barring slipped aside and crashed to the ground.

[Damion Shargath]

Instantly the unarmed combatant spun around and swiped his arm at the flat of an incoming blade. It was a heavy, broad two hander. The assailant stood baffled in shock, how could Damion have heard the blade among all that noise. Contributing to his puzzlement was the glance at eyes, once pale gray now a mucky pitch black. Split seconds later Damion lunged himself at his attacker. It was a dark haired man with a light leather buckler. An armored hand picked him up by the collar, instantly slamming him into a tilted grave, again, again. The man somehow managed to place a boot on Damion’s chest and kick himself free. He tumbled backward down the stairs but had managed to grab his sword in the go, which he likewise used to stop his descent. A halberd plunged down at the man from above, barely deflected by raising his sword across his head just in time. Weapons locked. Sweat trickling from his forehead, he squinted his eyes as he rose. The halberdier quickly retracted his weapon. The sudden void of resistance against his sword caused the man to unexpectedly shoot upwards, at which point the butt of a halberd was already rushing for his stomach. He tensed to lessen the pain and was thrown to the very bottom of the stairs.

Knowing he would have to expect another blow soon, he scrambled to his feet as fast as his body allowed it. A blade glinted as it shot for his torso, hastily he dragged his sword in its way and shouldered forward. He landed the attack in Damion’s stomach, stalling the crazed brute for a moment. But it was that moment that he used to drag his sword forth in an upward maneuver. Sparks flew as the blade’s tip dragged across the stone floor. The halberdier lodged his polearm in a crevice between the cobblestones and used it to launch himself backward up a couple of stairs. It was just far enough to avoid getting his face diced, nevertheless not far enough to evade the attack completely. Yet the murderer didn’t flinch as the blade tore through the flesh of his left cheek, before parting ways with his face just mere centimeters from his left eye. His gloved hand clutched at the wound and smudged the blood all over. With a growl the armored combatant raged forward.

Their weapons collided in repetition, and bursts of sparks illuminated the dimly lit room. The speed of their battle was intense, but almost even monotone – if a metronome would be fast enough it could have measured the pace. With a shout and a block the swordsman jumped back and, breathing heavily, reaffirmed the grip on his sword. He held it out before him in a diagonal slant, hilt lowered. Until now it had been an even fight, and it amazed him anew how well Damion was handling the halberd in close quarters. For all the years he had been fighting by Damion’s side he had been thankful not to stand against him…

“Why are you doing this, Damion?” The swordsman asked as they parted with a loud clash.

“You wouldn’t understand…, Feirther, you dull minded puppet.” The halberdier answered in mockery, lightly stepping towards his opponent as if the fight had only just begun, his pitch black gaze affixed on his former subordinate.

“I understand that you’re up against the Church of the Ethereal Sway,” The man began, trying to make sense of what was happening.

“You know nothing.”

“It would be my guess that you’re redeeming them for their injustice. Do you really think I support their ongoing oppression of this country’s people?”

“Injustice!?” Damion boomed in a blazing fury, “What, fool, do you know of injustice!?”

A relentless series of blows was unleashed upon the swordsman. He managed to parry or evade the attacks, but only found the other end of the weapon speeding towards him as a result. The sparks of clashing metal almost doused the room in continuous light. As Damion’s adversary managed to duck away under a horizontal swipe, he shot his sword forward at a low level. The armored halberdier hopped, then immediately dashed his feet down onto the blade. In the same movement he ran the butt of his halberd from behind his head down into the side of Feirther’s head. A crack repelled off the sepulcher’s walls. A trail of blood dashed through the air. It spattered across the floor, the crimson’s scent mixing with the must air. The sword remained at Damion’s feet as its wielder was sent rolling toward the room’s entrance. Feirther’s body was limp. He was either unconscious or killed by a spinal trauma that resulted from the bashing.

[Damion Shargath]

The halberdier’s anxiousness probably saved the man. He turned and walked up the stairs, his eyes growing into a pale gray again, his steps becoming slightly heavier the further he advanced. Occasionally he would reach his hand up, wipe the blood from his eye that was pulsing from the gash in his face. The almost invisible pain was slowly stepping into appearance, nevertheless this wound wasn’t fatal. High pain tolerance, and the ability - if under the ‘condition’ - to blend out any pain. A side-effect of what had been done to him over the decades. A blue hue emitted from the entrance he laid free. Blue soaked into red, letting the bloody stream on his face appear as a black chasm. It was as if it was eating away at the green hue of the sepulcher and replacing it. The buzzing which radiated through the room grew louder ever since the massive stone door had been slid from its place.

Steps pattered up the stairs prior to the sepulcher. They grew faster, they were light, and then there was another pair of heavier footsteps following those. There was shouting. Then a single pair of footsteps followed up to the glistening blue light. With a thud, a body rolled backward down the stairs, and a figure rushed to its side and picked the unconscious thing up. A blonde haired, young, handsome boy carried the body of a girl away and sat it against a wall. Slowly the youngster placed a kiss on her forehead. He turned to pick the sword at the foot of the stairs up. With minor hesitation he then brought it up into the air. With it raised in front of him, he began to ascend up the stairs.

“Ah, it’s you.” Damion greeted the youngster, “I’ve been wondering when you’d show up you little ragdoll. I’m sorry about Feirther, you might want to go look after him he doesn’t look too healthy.”

“Your riot ends here…” He solemnly returned, a taint of a quiver in his voice.

Damion laughed, almost hysterically. The youngsters gaze fell upon the apparatus shadowing the halberdier’s figure. Pipes spread all about the room, bowls with the same blue muck as beneath the bridge ran its liquid into the pipes, all leading to a magnificently detailed statue of an angel. Its abdomen was a radiating blue globe, its breasts of marble perfection, its face a true depiction of beauty. It had high cheekbones, sensual lips, and a perfect nose. A blue glint shot from its eyes. Its legs were long and smooth, running together towards the feet. Wings connected it to the walls of the vicinity.

“She was perfect.” Damion began, his eyes widening as a twisted grin drew itself across his face, “And they destroyed her…What else is left but for me to punish them for it?”

The irritable calmness he spoke with frightened the younster, the grip on his sword growing tense. Damion turned, and the boy shifted his feet. The armored combatant stopped for a second, then continued several seconds later. Gently he caressed the angel’s face, until in a violent outburst of tension tore the mask from its place. It revealed pale blue flesh, fading flesh, protruding veins. Beautiful features were still recognizable, but only to a certain extent. Torn lips, a crippled fang from each corner of the mouth, horn stumps from the forehead. Cords and vials ran through it, its complexity alone, the complexity of the entire intricate pipe and vial system in the room had proved that this was no construction of Salvic standards.

“Yes, marionette, to a certain extent from the south.” Damion dubbed the youngster, pointing out also a partial origin of the ‘construct’.

With a grin Damion reached into the figures glowing abdomen, retracting from it a black, fist sized ball. It was glossy, like polished marble, but parts seemed clouded with a grey hue that slowly blew across its surface. The blue light of the room faded slightly the longer the ball was being held from its place. “Do you know what this is?” Damion paused, then chuckled and continued as if speaking to a child, “Of course you don’t, you silly little puppet…”

“You’ve gone insane…”

“Insane? I wouldn’t exactly call it that. Moreover, to par your poetic genius, I would say I have been allowed to imbibe my aridity of knowledge with the elixir of revelation. You do recall our minor incident in the estate library, do you? So much knowledge…so many lies lifted, so many weaknesses exploited, and you are one of them. You know nothing, and I don’t expect you ever will.” Damion spat his last words with utter distaste.

Stepping forward he slid the globe into a satchel he had bound to his left. The room had almost gone dark by now, the green hue had retaken its foremost position as an illumination, and the young soldier was growing increasingly unnerved. A malicious smile cracked on the halberdier’s face as he advanced toward the swordsman.

Then suddenly the youngster launched himself forward and caught Damion on the chin with his hilt, a misplaced swing. With a grunt the usurper of the Church staggered back and brought his halberd around, fending off an incoming vertical to his left just in time. Instantly he drew the butt of his halberd into his opponents chin. The soldier twirled back at the strike, fighting to regain composure. Damion booted the youngster against the wall and jabbed his halberd’s blade only centimeters from his face. The soldier rolled along the wall and came out of his contraption with an upward slanted swing. Damion ducked to the side, the butt of his halberd jabbed at the blade and sent it flailing upwards. Instantly the halberdier spun his weapon around and trailed the blade down his adversary’s chest. The cut was deep, didn’t reach any organs, but was vast enough to create a sizeable and painful gash. A sword tumbled to the floor, leaderless it landed in the darkness. In agony the boy fell to the floor and clutched his wound. He was bleeding strong, but he probably wouldn’t die from the wound. And for some reason, despite having the chance, Damion didn’t care to kill the boy. Armored boots stepped past the blonde youngster, descended down the stairs and disappeared in the distance.

Snow had descended upon the region by now, the sky hid behind a curtain of thick gray pillows. It crunched and squeaked as a pair of boots stepped into the thin white blanket around the chapel. A halberd thumped into the ground, speckles of blood followed from both blade and wounds. A hand disappeared in a pocket and fingered out a pack of Salvic Superiors. It led the crumpled box to a pair of blood streamed lips which plucked a cigarette from it. Accordingly the box was replaced by a match, and with a deep drag the tobacco stick went ‘aglint’. The match fell to the floor and went out with a hiss. Damion didn’t cast a single glance back at the ‘chapel’ savoring the moment, his hand on the satchel at his side as he trailed further into the Salvic mountains. Eventually he disappeared into the shadows of the chasms and trails beyond.

“I’ve rescued you…with time I will learn to synergize our power.”

…

[Damion Shargath]

...

Perhaps it had been his indifference. He had attained what he had come for. Perhaps it was something else though, a feeling of familiarity he couldn’t quite pinpoint even today. Though, perhaps, it didn’t even matter. The boy either managed to crawl from the sepulcher, or died there. He didn’t know. It really didn’t seem to matter, he concluded, and cast the thoughts to the wind.

Slowly a set of eyes opened. They stared bleakly through the dormer, into the darkness of the Salvic thunderstorm. Trailing the room, from the dormer across the pool of water unto the closets in the distant corners of the room, the eyes finally wandered to an extent that they forced the head to follow. A wooden stand with armor dangling from it stood in the corner closest to the door. The body propped itself up, rose from the bed and walked along the wall towards the door. A hand ran gently over a halberd affixed to the wall, then, reaching its middle picked it from its place. The door opened and Damion disappeared into the hallway.

The carpet running through the mansion hallways were thick and soft, dark red in color and framed and ordained with filigree gold fabrics. The walls were of dark, sturdy, but finely adorned wood about half way up. Above it, separated with an adorned border, the either taupe or blueish-gray wallpaper ran to the ceiling. All throughout the house oil-lamp-based chandeliers hung from it. The light system had been another gimmick of dwarven engineering, slightly copying alerarian light systems connected with switches. Wires ran through the stone walls of the house, if activated in the main boiler room, they would emit an immense heat and illuminate the lamp wicks. Nevertheless even the emergency case had been covered by torches hanging at either end of a hallway, if the dwarven technology should ever fail.

The halberdier, for once not clad in osmium but only a simple shirt and a loose pair of trousers, made his way through countless corridors. A myriad account of paintings hung from the walls, sculptures and busts occasionally in the spaces between them. Over half of the paintings depicted gruesome battle sceneries. Armies barged down hills in some, countless men falling victim to an almost limitless amount of barricades, others being trampled by their frenzied comrades. Man stood against man in another, their faces writhing in agony, pain, or malicious victory. Others blushed as tears burst from their eyes, plunging their swords into what seemed to look like their twins under another banner. Others showed few, or sole survivors in the midst of countless slain bodies, the snow around them drenched red with blood, their faces grim and dark with battle dust.

One in particular stood out of the crowd. An entire hallway of ten meters was clothed in approximately just as much canvas. On one end stood an army, thousands if not millions of men brandishing their swords and spears; bowmen at their rear, war machinery at theirs, arch mages at theirs, all eyes affixed ahead at the several meters of canvassed salvic landscape. The level of detail in this painting was awe inspiring. One believed to even make out single strands of hair. As a more peaceful contrast posed the scenic paintings placed here and there. From the barren, frosty wastelands of Salvar to the tropic forests of far distant borders, over the baking deserts of Fallien and through the boggy swamps of the Tular Plains – everything could be found. Every painting carried the branding of the same artist, a slick “A” flowing into a steep and narrow “B” slightly beneath.

It had taken Damion years to create what hung from these walls – all under his alias, Archon Blightwel - but he had certainly possessed the time when returning from travels, or trapped in his home throughout bad weather periods. The actual difficulty was transporting the paintings into this mansion, but somehow he had managed, one of the few things that innocently pleased him. He passed down a set of dual stairs, on the left hand side. They swung around in a large arch. A truly gigantic chandelier illuminated the room that posed as the building’s main staircase, and it was the one closest to any of the many guest or social rooms. Any private rooms had been kept in close quarters around Damion’s bedroom. A dark velvet carpet lined the stairs and bordered the marble flooring at the bottom of the stairs. The marble flooring spread throughout the entire ground floor, from a sizeable kitchen through the unoccupied servant’s quarters, to probably the most impressive room of the mansion. The living room stretched almost over the entire ground floor of the exteriorly visible part of the mansion. Several chandeliers were needed to illuminate the room, of which none had been lit. There were elaborately adorned lounge chairs scattered about the corners of the room, a huge, dark, wooden dining table at one end, and a thick but slender rug running from one end to the other. A large bookshelf towered near the door to the entrance hall, but nothing in comparison to the mansion’s basement situated library.

[Damion Shargath]

All of it was pure luxury, not to mention the black marble fireplace on the north wall of the room. It was situated perfectly in the middle, radiating a warm glow into the room. Yet its purpose was more aesthetic than practical. The marble floor itself had a warm touch to the feet, needless to say, once again another gimmick of dwarven engineering. One could come to believe that Damion took a liking in the stout, hard headed, unbending shorts. A gallery towered above the living room. It hovered in a rectangle around the entire ground floor, though devoid of stairs in order to save the aesthetics. Several doors led from it into the second floor.

Though none of it, not a single thing, was as awe striking as the mammoth sized window. It stretched even above the gallery, and along the entire length of the living room. It must have been at least several hundred paces long. Damion made his way along it, his eyes peering into darkness of the frozen wasteland beyond. The storm had a fair success in darkening the scenery. It kept his sight from the sky and even the land below: The barren wastelands which stretched from the foot of the mountain, and the path leading up to his home. Thus the mansion stood in absolute solitary, and if one didn’t know of it, there would be no fair chance in finding it in the weather’s shadow. The orange glow of the fireplace was drowned beneath the snow and hail, being but a distorted glint in the distance. Possibly an elf could spot it, but his eyesight wouldn’t do him much good with his frail body exposed to Salvar’s weather.

Damion settled himself down in a comfy lounge chair, situated in a way that it faced the window with the fireplace behind it. At its left stood a small round table, an ashtray in its center. A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the room and revealed the only yet undisclosed living room wall. At least fifty meters left and right of the fireplace the wall was plastered with weapons. Anchors affixed in the wall held on display blades, axes, hammers, sickles, spears, halberds, of all sorts. Scimitars to spiked clubs, rapiers to war hammers, even the most exotic weapons of sorts to a simple throwing axe, they were all there – hundreds of them. Every single one unique, glinting fiercely in the sudden light, every single one a different shape. If one stood close enough they’d notice the unceasing scent of blood still mingled about them. The Salvic had leaned his weapon of choice against the side of his chair. Out of all, it was probably the most fearful. It would take something more than a force of nature to shatter its full osmium body and blade, added the serrated edge of black diamond it had to it.

He took a deep drag from his cigarette then waited a moment. The smoke slowly sifted from his mouth. It trailed smoothly across the features of his face. Then he reached for a bottle he had picked up on his way through the kitchen.

Would the Church of the Ethereal Sway survive the war raging in Salvar? Would they possibly even prevail victorious? Even if they would be rendered defeated sooner or later, shouldn’t it be to Damion’s satisfaction? Possibly not as he resented them so much that he wanted the Church all to himself. The war would not be a light one. For hundreds of years the people have been oppressed by the monarchy, their hate brooding for the same amount of time, and having grown to a giant ulcer - bound to explode. He came to the conclusion that in their time of need he would have to side with them. He would sustain their life, so that he could take it. The problem, though, with blind fanatics was; that rather than preserving themselves they would choose to hunt and destroy their exiles, of which he was one. It quickly ruled itself out as an option.

Another option would be to sabotage the forces opposing them. This option would result in the redundant and the increasingly boring task of eliminating every liberal fiefdom in Salvar. Not only that, but the decimation of the Lord’s entire forces. Then there would be the infiltration and misguidance of the Lord’s forces and the fiefdoms, the more subtle but far more nerve-wracking one. The constant dealing with unmatched idiocy, self proclaimed kings and messiahs, believed masters of war. Needless to say, Damion wouldn’t make a final choice over the third bottle of Biovyonoff Salvic Clear – Triple Distilled for Maximum Purity and your pleasure. (B(ee)yoff-yonn-off). Although right now an unaccountable massacre sounded just fine.

Not even with his unnatural dexterity could he avoid feeling the effects of three Biovyonoff bottles. Gradually he was losing composure, sinking further and further into his chair. Sluggishly he lit another Salvic Superior. He inhaled. Another gust of smoke crept from his mouth. It snaked around his head before disappearing into the room. The hail bashed against the panorama window before him. Damion only recognized a dull, repetitive thud. Occasional flashes of lightning rendered him blind for half a minute, his eyes too drunk to adjust. His mind began to wander, trying to think of something that made him happy. He tried to think of something satisfying that hadn’t to do with bloodshed or revenge. It took hours, and just as he thought he had grasped a moment fom his past, just as a friendly smile began to draw his face his eyes hovered from half-mast to “closed-for-maintenance”.

[Ranger]

The macabre dance of wind and hail wove its deadly chant across the landscape of Salvar, a tune that only the fool-hearty could withstand and only the insane would attempt to. The wail was deafening and dominant, the cry of the frozen tundra like the howl of a pack of bloodthirsty wolves. Overhead the sky was blanketed by heavily laden clouds, raining their burden upon the hapless lands below. Snow and sleet mixed with hail as it plummeted through the swirling gusts; Salvar was lost in a violent maelstrom of winter’s heavy hand. A haphazard traveler passing through the blizzard would find themselves disoriented, guideless, without the light of the waning moon. They would be fighting for survival amidst the relentless weather of the tundra. Only two courses could be followed to relieve oneself of the one sided fate; to die and be buried beneath the snow and wind, or to force a stalemate as long as one could and hope for redemption in whatever form it appeared.

For Aerendir the obvious discord of the gods, in all their vain and petty glory, was attempting in all ways to find the elven man and offer no quarter. A standstill against the wills of the Thayne was something that was not to be. At his hands he had broken the thinly veiled façade of the dominant religion, casting his former beliefs to the whims of fate. Those powers above, below, and all around him were in a fit of rage at his usurping and facetious nature. Aerendir, high elf of the broken lands of Raiaera, resurrected by force of will from the emaciated grasp of death, had spat in the omnipotent faces that had given him new life.

Weeks prior the man had been known as another, a man as zealously devout in his belief in the Thayne as the faith of the fanatics of Xem’zund. He had been called Ranger Nailo, prophet of the Thayne, Second of the Red Hand clan, and Tel’Amnrach* of Ithermoss. The man known as a prophet had tilled his plow alongside humble members of the clan, had followed the wills of the gods, had fought against the Bazaar with the Red Hand, had gone to war with numerous allies, and had fought against the upheaval of democracy in Corone. Ranger had been known and beloved, a father, friend, and brother. All the accomplishments, all the pain and pleasure that had found the man throughout years of life had been all for naught.

In an underhanded act the Thayne’s wills had caused the death of the once loyal prophet, and his insurmountable and undeniable claim to final peace was not granted. The voices of the gods had come to him and talked to him after death, had given him the direct contact that he had longed for his entire tutelage in the firmament. That eternal slumber and the lasting memory were not to be his prize though. Forced into servitude instead of accepting it humbly, the soul was cast into a fallen body of a bladesinger from Raiaera and resurrected. After fighting against the powers of the Forgotten, Xem’zund, he had taken flight back to Salvar. It was in the icy wastes of the north that had been the site of the vain god’s insurrection, he returned to the monument built to the goddess Jomil.

In a fit of rage the man attempted to return to the circle, an act forbidden by the powers that underlie its mythical status. His futile attempts for retribution, for acceptance by those that had turned their backs to him became little more than a self-inflicted punishment. The Icehenge on the border of Salvar and Berevar threw him out of its circle time and again, until all that was left of the former will that guided the last slivers of Rangers character was a fury fueled by uncertainty. With the power of his new body he had torn down the cursed idol, cast aside his will to follow false gods forever more. The monument had rejected his new body, and his new mind had rejected what it stood for in turn.

The lost, helpless eyes of the high elf scanned the sea of snow as far as his elven enhanced vision would allow. The racial boon was of no use, the proximity of the sleet and torrent far too thick to view through. Fist sized hail rained around him and struck him at times, jarring his bare shoulders and nearly sending him sprawling into the ground after every other step. No armor covered his small frame; no shirt clung to his thin chest. Instead the inscriptions of the Tap hung from thick metal loops that pierced through his shoulders. An unwanted gift, the tattered scrolls were bound to him forever more, a guide to the history and use of the Tap, as well as a pertinent reminder of the time he spent in the capture of the Forgotten One. His twisted visage belayed the anger he could not ignore at being caught and helpless to the whims of the weather. Every step was forced, his momentum halted by an uphill struggle and the compounding depth of the snow around his hidden leather boots. The capped end of his guan-do was used for leverage and assistance, a weapon turned walking staff. Shelter was a fleeting hope.

“Retaliation for my faults? Are the Thayne so petty they would resort to killing me for my lack of compliance?”

The thought was one that strengthened with every step he strained to take, his dwindling reserves of resolve nearly obligating him to accept his defeat. It was with his strained emerald eyes that he caught sight of possible restitution, possible survival. On the edge of the close horizon he spied the flickering light of a fire, barely being moved despite the whirling winds. It was a meager hope to believe that it was not an illusion, but the already disillusioned elf was not without his tenacity. Renewed confidence, whether ill-placed or otherwise, spurred him forward. It could have been the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, but as he grew closer he realized it was not his own death that was forthcoming but safety from the biting cold and grizzly death.

Only a few hundred yards from the light and he let loose what little magic he could command in his weakened state, satiating the onslaught around him for just long enough to reach the frame of the great mansion in the mountain. His control over the weather was a new strength he had at command, as were multiple others he had yet to fully realize. With a smooth hand he pushed aside the soft wooden door, not caring if the owner of the household would welcome the intrusion or not. The complacence of the person who lived in the construct was ignored, as the owner was quite obviously either expecting company or haphazardly left the door unbound for any who happened upon the place.

The warmth of the home reached out from the opened door, hugging Aerendir in a loving embrace. He closed his eyes as he inhaled slowly and with deep breaths, allowing the warmth of the inside to battle the frigid atmosphere that had seeped deep into his lungs. Ice crusted his chin and hair, clung to his clothes and the entire staff of his polearm. Ecstasy and relief finally flooded his mind and allowed his worn muscles to slump beneath his frail frame. The door remained open, a battle between the warmth of the fire and the winds of Salvar raged around the mage as he fell to the floor. Staff clattering away from him on the rug, he closed his eyes as if in slumber and waited for the landlord to find him or his strength to return enough to venture further.

((This takes place after my solo, hence the new body and other new things. The solo will be posted and worked on soooon.))

[Damion Shargath]

A sound shuffled it’s way into Damion’s alcohol muffled auditory canals. His eyes were weary, burning as he opened them. The difficulty wasn’t adjusting to the darkness as his eyes opened, moreover it was the excruciating headache that stampeded over his brain in surges. Damion glimpsed over at the table to his left and moaned in acknowledgement as his eyes trailed the bottles emptied mere hours before. The drunkenness had long not worn off and he’d have at least another ten hours to go to sober up completely. Slowly he regained posture in his chair, his eyes staring bleakly at the massive window beyond him. It required some concentration to blend out the thrashing hail, as it seemed to pelt against his mind more than the outside world. A dropped needle would have made Damion cringe.

“Good liquid…” He remarked ironically, though he wouldn’t lie that he did enjoy the beverage if even the after effects were mostly somewhat fatal in the amounts he enjoyed it in.

Then it crept back into his mind. He had awoken from a noise. The hail outside was relentlessly hammering it’s crude serenade upon the landscape, and he awoke from a noise. It seemed a little awkward a thought. The thunder cracked and lashed, blinded occasionally, and he awoke from a peripheral noise. Shaking his head he gave in to the notion and turned his head to the left; The table, the bottles, the ashtray, his halberd, the distance to the kitchen. After affirming that everything was in order, he slowly turned his vision rightward; The distance of the room, rug, the bookshelf by the door, an open door, a cold breeze. He sighed in expectance of the hinges having loosened anew.

Damion fought himself to his feet and dragged the halberd out from behind the chair in a rather unrefined manner, crashing the contents of the tabletop to the floor in the go. Bottles and ashtray sailed through the air, across the border of the rug, onto the marble flooring. With a bash they smacked to the ground. The maelstrom of noises forced him to squint, Damion felt as if a thousand needles were being pricked into his brain. He stumbled from the edge of the carpet to the marble floor that outlined the room, lucky enough not to step into the shards of glass. His stare remained on the origin of the cool breeze, the door was wide open. There were several possibilities, but they soon all ruled one another out as his eyes trailed across a lump in the darkness. It certainly hadn’t been the wind on a loose hinge.

The room was large, even beyond large, and the lump was a comfortable – or uncomfortable, depending on the point of view – twenty meters away. The door, thus, an additional rough ten beyond. Damion grabbed the halberd a little below midway with his right hand, pointed the blade rightward and started. The further he advanced the more he began to make out the figure lying on the ground. Everything else became peripheral noise as his mind tried to focus on the more pushing matter. The soft touch of the rug to his feet disappeared, the freezing touch of the cold dissipated, and the mild scent of tobacco vanished. Damion’s perception of his own path was a straight line, though it resembled more of a snake to any other observers.

Finally having stepped in length of the shadowy lump on his carpet, he forced forward a kick. He aimed for the head, but missed valiantly, and squared his foot on the shoulder of the creature. Damion caught a glimpse of pointy flesh where there should have been ears as the thing went rolling over and over. His mind was fixed, but his vision blurred, and thus he missed the weaponry towards which he had vaulted the figure. Metal rings protruding from its shoulders thumped into the carpet as it rolled. Still drugged by the Byoffnovoff, the assailed resident wasn’t quite sure what to say, and thus followed his harsh greeting yet another kick, this time to the thigh.

The clash of steel rings protruding from the elven shoulders with the far wall was more audible than the slight grunt that escaped his nearly blue lips. The stiff fingers of the man rose to his collar bone, gripping the tender skin that surrounded the pierced, obligatory shoulder piece. Retaliation was not his first concern, but was forcefully pressed to the forefront of his thoughts. By the time the second boot caught the thigh of the pointed eared intruder he had rolled over and was half glaring, half fighting to keep his eyes open.

In a lackluster attempt to relieve him of the constant aggression, the elven creature lashed out. A firm foot pressed against the wall and a free arm put him to his wavering feet. A shaky arm was thrown forward, missing the drunken resident’s jaw by inches. The elegant fingers of the elf could not close, the cold locked them long ago, and their recovery was yet to show. The intruder swung nonetheless, hastily the distance between the drunk halberdier and the wildly swinging mage grew. Haphazard swings were forcedly thrown, one catching the man in the shoulder, followed almost instantly by one that connected with the bottom jaw. Damion’s head jerked the slightest bit, but the wavering world around him was already disconnected. Balance a long since forgotten concept, the human dropped to the plush carpeted floor with a thud.

The rug was comfortable, smoother than a lesser noble’s bed, but his instincts urged Damion awake. He pushed on the ground with his feet, messily rolled backwards and came to a staggering halt soon later. His vision was blurred and he could only vaguely make out the shape of his obverse advancing. With a grunt his switched his handing on the halberd, and lashed out with his left. The halberd drew a half circle, horizontally, through the air. A thud of it’s shaft against flesh interrupted it’s gently glide. His blade was far beyond the elf’s body already, but at least he had swung in time to hit with something. The intruder dropped to the side, his figure forming a mould in the rug.

Damion retracted his weapon and stumbled forward. He forced another flailing kick into the direction of the newly downed figure, missed, slipped, and fell to a kick at his legs. In more luck than cunning, he had managed to shift his weight and direct his fall away from his assailant. Before he knew it though, the elf was upon him, his fists bashing relentlessly at the Salvic. Both grunted like animals as they struggled against one another’s strength. Smack, bash, boom. The frozen fists crashed into Damion, it’s stiff fingers cracking back into place the more blood pulsed through them; punches becoming stronger the warmer the fists became. Each landed swing at his head numbed him even more, creating but a fuzzy distortion of what he saw. He struggled to keep focus as the alcohol weaved it’s detaching threads of confusion. As he finally succeeded in bringing up his arms to guard off some swings, things began to slip back into place. Slowly the sting of impact crept into Damion’s drugged brain, as did some sane thought. His head was thrashing left and right, rebounding off the carpet like rubber ball, something was wrong about that.

Opportunity was in his favor. The man upon him was feeble beaten by the frost, Damion was simply numb. It was an advantage that he would lose in the long run. Acknowledging this, the halberdier drove one fist across the elf’s face. It was a direct hit, and the smack of his fist against his attacker’s cheek resounded off the walls. With glee the Salvic immediately followed up with a rough jab at the man’s stomach, forcing a grunt from his frostbitten lips. After repeating the process of pummeling his fists into the chilled body upon him, he levered himself free of his contraption by digging his knee into the elf’s side. Quickly Damion scrambled to his halberd, scurrying like a disorientated rat across the floor. Slowly he urged to rise, wedging the halberd against the floor as an aid. His vision was still blurry, and the throbbing in his head was growing louder and increasingly painful ever since a pair of cold fists had violently reminded him that, yes, he was awake.

“Whatthefuck’s your…” Damion paused, the slur of words he was uttering even to him a noticeable mess, “What is…whoareyou…nevermind, I don’t give a Skaven’s shit, I will kill you.”

[Ranger]

Aerendir’s face was contorted with a mix of pain and the thrill of fighting. In his past life he had been a warrior by trade, at first forced upon him by his Aleraran birth, later embraced by him as a member of the powerful Red Hand. Since his rebirth, the new body he had been forced to accept was not given a true chance to be tested in battle. Though the battle was nothing more than a lackluster skirmish, it was one that he relished. The high elves fingers were slowly regaining their warmth with every stinging strike; every blow landed upon whatever surface he could find was another burst of warmth. Thin fingers were throbbing, blood pumped in them a boon and a curse. Aerendir’s face was contorted with a mix of pain and the thrill of fighting. It was not long before the fists that struck his face, chest, and stomach slowly brought the flow of blood to the budding bruises as well.

Finally the denizen’s onslaught slowed and the sloppy man stumbled away, regaining his halberd. The forsaken bladesinger closed his eyes and rolled his neck back and forth, attempting to fight back the vicious budding headache. It was doing little to help him focus, barely noticeable until the human slid away. Aerendir lifted his still cold hands to his flushed face. Cheeks burning, he listened to the man talked. The slurred words were those of a drunk, a revelation that was not exactly unexpected but one that still came as a surprise. For being as adept at fighting as he had been, the man before the elf was obviously a fierce warrior and one that would have easily killed Aerendir had it not been for the intoxication.

“My life was once one of strife and conflict,” he responded with a cough and a wince. One hand fell to his ribs, a sharp pain pulsing through him with every unsteady breath. He, for the first time since his rebirth, wished for an old spell to heal what was undoubtedly a cracked rib. Instead of dwelling on the wound he gripped the staff of his guan-do and pushed himself to his knees. “Mortal and Immortal alike have tried to kill me. Defenders of Corone attempted to impede me, the greatest of Althanas’ criminals and the once glories General Thoracis have endeavored to bring an ends to my life, countless others have stood before me and fallen. The Thayne themselves once sought to slow my advances, as have immortal demons of times long forgot. If the greatest of this petty world fell to my past strength, and the very deities that supposedly watch over and protect this world faltered in their futile quest to destroy me, how is it that you believe you are remotely capable of doing what even the gods cannot?”

He stood from his crouched position and rose to his full height, a meager five feet and six inches. It was not a means of intimidation by way of physical power that was at the command of the high elf however, it was his magical prowess that demanded respect. Aerendir brought his polearm before him, holding the solid wooden shaft with a white knuckled grip. Muscles screamed against further aggression, tense and wavering in their bone-chilled state. His upper chest and shoulders twitched uncomfortably, the large metal rings that bound the unraveled scrolls had moved too much. They were still very new to him, still very much an inconvenience and annoyance more than anything. Around both holes on the front, beneath the collar bone, and both holes on his back, through his shoulder, the area was reddened and throbbing.

“If you will for nothing more than to kill the unlucky passerby who happens upon your solitary abode while wandering this frozen waste, so be it. You are not without your reasons for disgust and necessity to defend this home. I, however, will not leave a place of comfort without ample reason… or improbable death.” The high elf stepped away from his drunken assailant and leveled the black blade of his weapon at him. “Whichever you decide to be right, I will have no qualm with. A fair warning, if you should attempt to engage further in your intoxicated and reckless course, this house can just as soon be lost to you and become my own.”