New Beginnings

[Letho]

((Closed to Ozoric and Josette))


The fog was breaking. Standing on the shore of Bradbury Lake, a mere dark outline amidst the grey shades of misty predawn, Letho Ravenheart watched as the world around him gradually regained its daily vibrancy. With the sun still a brightening notion on the eastern horizon, there was a chill that was not unusual for early spring, but Letho didn’t mind it. He found that it gave a sort of crispness to his thoughts, the fresh air dusting out the cobwebs of the mind and tossing out all the doubts of days past to make room for a new start.

A new start. Up until several months ago, Letho had doubted if such a thing was truly possible. He had heard stories of people beginning their life anew, inspiring yarns that spoke of leaving the debris of old life behind and striking a new page, but listening to a tale and living through it were two very different beasts. Nobody ever talked about what happened when the day passed and the stillness of the night took reign, bringing with it all the regret, the remorse, the memories of things done so wrongly the mere thought of them brought a burden of shame so heavy it felt like it was trying to bury a person. And there were demons in that deathly pit, always eager to welcome one fallen in spirit.

It was Lorelei who tore him out that dark reverie. He already owed his daughter for saving his life, and now the bill kept piling up when she proposed him with a lease on a new one. She was the one who pointed out that, while Letho had several exemplary qualities, sitting around and musing on things weren’t amongst them. His train of thought gravitated towards the negative end of the spectrum, which in turn soured his mood and made every day duller than the last. There was quite a bit more Lorelei had to say on the matter – the kid was getting a bad tendency to wax philosophical ever so often – but Letho got the gist of it and acceded to most of it. Because idleness did begin to chafe him raw.

And thus they came up with Menel Govannen. The idea for a group of monster hunters was a joint venture of both the daughter and the father, but the name was pure Lorelei. The teen insisted that it gave the whole thing more credibility, that people took matters more seriously when they were written or spoken in elvish. Letho wasn’t certain he agreed. He thought that when people saw elvish, they expected elves. And he wasn’t terribly fond of elves. But then the kid insisted and Letho, who had a hard time saying no to her mother, found it downright impossible to do so when it came to Lorelei. After all, did it matter what they were called as long as they managed to actually get this thing off the ground?

"You think people will come?" a voice came from behind him. It didn't catch veteran such as Letho by surprise – the early hours of the day were much too quiet for him not to hear her footsteps as she approached.

"Some are already here," Letho responded, not taking his eyes off the lake before him. With the sun finally on the verge of breaking free from the clutches of the far horizon, there was now enough light to see the outline of the island in the middle of the lake. Stony ruins greeted him through the waning mist like silent sentinels.

"Branhill Inn was already half-full yesterday evening. Mostly capable looking folks from what I could see." He had rented out the whole lakeside resort for the occasion, even though chances were he wouldn't need the full capacity. The likelihood that there were that many people eager to risk their life chasing dragons was rather low.

"So the word has spread," Lorelei said as she took her place at her father's side at the shoreline. They were an odd pair, he a muscular stoic figure standing straight as an arrow with hands at the small of his back, and she a lithe willowy thing with dark hair tied in a long braid and pale hands wrapping the cloak firmly around her body against the morning chill.

Letho assumed a good number would show up, even though he chose not the spread it via notices on inns and crossroads the way folks usually did. No, such public recruitment had a bad tendency of attracting the wrong crowd: wide-eyed adventurers with cheap swords and fantasies of grand quests and vagrants out to make some swift gold. One couldn't make a foundation of a group with such folks. Instead, he got in contact with some of his old military contacts on both sides of the fence, and word of mouth got through the ranks of Corone Armed Forces, Radasanth City Watch and Corone Rangers that Letho Ravenheart was looking for dependable fighters for matters that had nothing to do with the Civil War. And he was very clear on that particular detail. His warmongering days were over. Both governments could continue to squabble and vie for power to the end of days for all Letho cared, spinning their wheels within wheels. Compared to the intricacies of such a corrupt society, hunting monsters was easy.

“Aye, it has spread. And more are bound to come by midday,” Letho said, then grinned. “But how many will still be here by nightfall?”

***

There was still about an hour before the sun was bound the hit the apogee of its journey across the patchy azure sky when first recruits started to arrive to the freshly cut patch of grass where Letho stood. Above him, fluttering from a high pole in the mild breeze that carried all the blossomy fragrance of the season, a banner displayed the emblem of the Menel Govannen. The design was fairly simple, much to the chagrin of Lorelei: a red rhombus upon a black field with a pair of white wings superimposed on the scarlet surface. She had wanted more elvish gibberish, but Letho said no. She also wanted swords and other things, but Letho stayed firm. A sigil was supposed to be simple, recognizable and representative, and a pair of wings was all that. They were the Fellowship of the Sky.

At least that was the theory. It remained to be seen if any amongst those gathered could actually fly.

[Ozoric]

An idyllic breeze snaked through the ruins around Ozoric. He languished in the branches of an indomitable oak, head rested on a folded cloak and legs dangling either side of his makeshift chezlong. To the east, the shores of a crystalline lake awaited his arrival, and the arrival of the others recruited into the ‘Fellowship of the Sky’.

When the invitation had arrived in the Drakengard a month ago, he had been sceptical about their intent. Much discussion raged between the Vergers, the fortresses stewards. After the fall of the Empire, the dragoons had found themselves adrift, set loose from an ancient obligation to protect Corone and to reform its criminals into men worthy of valour. What were they to do now?

Without a cause, even Ozoric’s resolution waned. He questioned himself. He doubted himself. He hated himself. Without thinking, he packed his possessions and left aback one of the Felj, small, black winged dragonlings which excel at low altitude flight. When he arrived on the island at the heart of the lake, he had realised the irony. The Felj was not much bigger than a pegasus. He could hear them whinnying in the distance.

“Get down from there right this minute!”

Ozoric sighed. When he left the Drakengard, Captain Aelfric had barred his path. They fought, though only with words (which still hurt his heavy heart). Overcome with frustration, the dragoon knocked the Sergeant out with a candlestick and bundled him onto the back of the Felj.

“You’re finally awake.”

An updraft, conjured through the lineage of dragoons lifted Ozoric from the top of a crumbling wall. He flipped mid-air, and descended slowly. His boots padded softly onto the cracked flagstones, covered in autumnal foliage rotting in the sunlight. His hair danced, and his eyes blazed, and the tattoos that marked him as a half-dragon glowed white.

“Give me one damn good reason why I shouldn’t punch you so hard you fall into next Wednesday?” He raised his fist, to make a point.

“I didn’t want you to miss out on an opportunity to see me make a fool of myself.” Ozoric said, gingerly, but with the right amount of regret and tact.

Aelfric was always turning a blind eye to Ozoric’s extracurricular pursuits. He had allowed the youth leeway time and time again because he always acted in the greater good - for the good of those outside of the Drakengard’s walls.

“You contravened a direct order from the Knight Commander, Ozoric.”

“It is logical that I be the one to build bridges with this new organisation. I’m the only one who can fly dragons to which I am not bound, and the only one with an ounce of common sense dealing with people outside of our peers.” He pouted.

At the heart of the ruins the duo stared at one another. The Felj skulked around a wall behind Aelfric, sensing the tension, and nuzzled the Sergeant’s neck. They tried to remain stoic, but both chuckled and tended to their companion with a hunk of roast beef and fond stroking.

“I’ll give you one thing...I’ve never seen anyone ride a Felj quit like that before.”

“You were awake?” Ozoric opened his mouth with genuine surprise.

“Did you really think that brass shitstick was going to knock me out?”

Ozoric looked Aelfric from head to toe. Six foot three and 120kgs suggested his plan might have been more foolish and reckless than he had realised.

“So…,” he rummaged in his satchel for another tidbit, but found only a book, tinder box, and a handful of whistles. “What do we do now?”

Aelfric nodded. He moved away from the Felj and sat heavily on a weather worn boulder. With his arms folded across his chest, the beard and wizened expression gave him an air of experience which Ozoric, prince amongst dragons or not, always bowed to.

“You, my red headed friend, are going to fly over to the shore on your stolen mount, represent the Drakengard without their blessing, and become one of these ‘Menthol Gavin.’”

“Err, Menel Govannen?” Ozoric’s eyebrow raised and his lip curled.

“Quite.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I am going to return to the Drakengard and convince the Knight Commander that this was her idea all along and that when and if you return home she shouldn’t drop you from a very great height.”

The thought of being subject to a dragoon’s greatest fear - and most ironic way to die gave Ozoric all the enthusiasm and conviction he needed to do his best. He approached the Felj, checked the reigns, and leapt with a smell of brimstone onto it back. It snorted a flicker of black smoke and spread its legs to begin an ascent.

“I’ll bring you a postcard!” He roared over the sound of wings beat-beat-beating.

Aelfric waved disinterested, and disappeared in a halo of azure light. Ozoric blinked, and then realised how foolish he had been. That was not Captain Aelfric, but the Verger of Masks. Since the very second the letter had arrived in the halls of his home, he had been played a fool. He was precisely where the Knight Commander wanted him, and now he had no airs and graces to fall back on if he dared to return home a failure. He snarled, whipped the reigns, and dropped into a long glide over the Bradbury’s gentle waters.

[Josette]

Josette watched the forest wake around her. Even before the sun crested the horizon, its rays painting the sky shades of warm pink and vibrant gold, the woman knew dawn was approaching. It was the sounds of the orchard that gave it away. The rhythmic belch of bullfrogs and hum of insects, a soundtrack to her restless nights, had been slowly replaced by the chattering of birds. Brush cracked underfoot, underpaw, or underhoof, the various inhabitants seeking their morning meals. It was a transition that Josette had played witness to most her life, as her nights were more often restless than not, yet she still never tired of it. Perhaps it was her time spent living in the woods that had made a little girl from Radasanth love nature so deeply. Or perhaps it was the peace. More than anything, after the events of the previous two months, the knight had come to appreciate a still moment of solitude.

It was ironic, then, that she was well on her way to ending such times of still calm. Without obligation to her previous masters, whom she had parted ways with after the slaughter in Salvar, Josette had all the leisure time that she could hope for. And yet, here she stood, mere hours from signing time and soul away to another cause. This time, it was monster hunting, a sport she had very little experience in. In fact, the one event that came close had been but a fluke, some unexpected twist of magic that still had yet to be explained. The only evidence that the battle had even occurred was the slight nicks in her sword's golden scabbard. At the thought, the woman's hand drifted to the sword's hilt, where it remained always at her side. Ma, the golden crystal sword, capable of summoning a steed carved of magic and flame. No, it was little wonder that Josette lost sleep at night.

As if pulled from her thoughts, a low, lazy nicker intertwined with the melodies of the early morning. It was not Ma, of course, but the bay gelding whom she had rented from the stable near the dock. As she had left the facility, the raven-haired woman had dubbed her escort Drax, because it sounded right. And because the stable owner had simply loosed a snort and a shrug when she had asked for the horse's name. Josette, on the other hand, felt her companion deserved better.

She moved to his side, one hand running down the length of his back, still shaggy with his winter coat. It fell in clumps through her fingers though, a sure sign that spring, in its full glory, would soon be upon them both. Her other hand gently traced a thick scar on the gelding's shoulder, a curious hum leaving her as she studied it. What horror had left the rope-like mark? A mere accident, or something far more sinister? A port horse's life was never dull, she supposed, and his was filled with stories that remained a mystery to most. That, she decided, they had in common.

It took only moments to pack up her modest camp, bereft of even a fire, for fear of setting the orchard ablaze. Once her worldly belongings were secured to the saddle, Josette swung into the seat with the practiced ease of a girl who had been raised there. It would have been easier, she admitted as she motioned the gelding into a meandering walk, to put them both up at an inn for the night. The woman had even considered it, riding past the Branhill Inn the previous afternoon on her way to the lake. But those already arrived had been loud in their unpacking, preparing, and drinking, and it had served to remind Josette just how little she cared for people. A horse, and the quiet sanctuary of an untouched plot of land, were more her speed.

Nicolette, though, was the exception. Josette had come to care for the girl who held Caershire's heart, more-so than she had expected when she offered to escort her. Lorelei, too, had worked her way into the very small circle of individuals that Josette cared about. It was because of her, that willowy young thief who had fled down the alleys of Radasanth, that Josette made the trip to Corone at all. Lorelei had requested her presence, and without reason not to, the knight had complied.

Josette's hand moved to the side of her mercenary leathers, where Lorelei's letter lay tucked in a pocket beneath. Then she breathed deeply, the sweet tang of spring working to ground her before anxiety could take hold. Her gaze remained on the lake she skirted, the shade of blue not entirely unlike that of her eyes. It would not be long now, before she began the next chapter. She wondered if it might be longer than the others in her life thus far.

[Letho]

((I did some bunnying, guys. As always, let me know if any part of it needs changing and feel free to bunny Lehto and Lorelei any way you see fit. Also, sorry for the wait.))

Very young...and eager, Letho thought as the influx of potential recruits increased, all still respectfully keeping their distance and waiting for his beckon while being positively antsy to get started. They gathered in small groups, most likely according to their previous affiliations, but the nonchalant banter between them seemed like perfunctory time-passing as they expected the address. The retired Ranger wasn’t entirely certain whether to be comforted or disheartened by this observation.

Back in the day when he had been their age – the era of halcyon youth when first grey strands were still ten years away and the world was basked in light of a more optimistic sun – one of the sergeants during his military training had told them that war was old men talking and young men dying. And after many years spent living out of a saddlebag, plodding down the multitude of hidden roads of Althanas, Letho could confirm the same went for adventuring. It was people like him, aging war dogs with ideas and means to convert them into something more than daydreams, that got people like them in trouble; some of the worst atrocities occurred while following paths someone jotted down on a parchment of paper and pinned to the notice board.

Yet, that same haphazard road also served as a catalyst for some of the greatest moments in Letho’s lifetime, the connecting tissue that bound all his little victories into a life still worth living. He had met friends on the road, the genuine kind that would drag a man out of fiery pits of the underworld if they could, or bring meat and mead if they couldn’t and join the scorching. He had witnessed miracles so grand they shook the very foundations of existence, and so small they shook the core of his callous heart. And he had also found love on that fickle road, the true love of two broken people joined together as if they were long lost pieces of an unfinished jigsaw. Everyday life seldom offered any of that. Letho had respect for the honest labors of mundane living, but it was an existence filled with small victories and long calms, and there was still fire enough in him for more than a mere plot of land, a straw hat and an afternoon in the shade. He could only hope that some of those gathered shared the same flame.

A rising commotion broke his train of thought; several of those gathered started pointing skywards and alerting others. Letho reckoned some of them finally perceived that the black speck gliding amidst the clouds wasn’t actually an extraordinarily large bird of some sort, but when he turned towards the marked area of the sky, the veteran was greeted with an unexpected sight. It wasn’t Midnight, his black pegasus, that was making the descent, but rather an entirely different aerial creature that looked like either a wyvern or a very small dragon. It seemed to drift at a leisurely pace, with its rider in perfect control of descent.

A dragonrider? Didn’t expect to see one of those here. In truth, Letho had hoped for someone from Drakengard, but the dragoons had a reputation of being the Empire hardliners who cared for little else, so he didn’t necessarily expect one of them would make an appearance. A dozen of them would’ve been more likely given the Empire's enmity towards him, and armed with spears instead of words.

He didn’t seem to be the only one surprised by the sudden arrival. Plummeting from the cover of the creeping clouds with his massive black wings swept back and close to his glistening jet body, Midnight was a bullet on a trajectory bound for the dragonrider. Quickly shoving two fingers in his mouth, Letho let out a sharp whistle, but the pegasus either didn’t hear the piercing sound or chose to ignore it. Instead, he waited for the very last moment to spread his wings and whistle past the head of the dragoon as he leveled and darted ahead of the scaly mount. The dragon part of the duo was ready to give chase, smoke firing from its nostrils as its wings started to pump more vigorously. But the cooler head of its rider prevailed, and after a couple of sharp words and sharper tugs on the reins, the dragon was back to its demure glide.

With a neigh of what might've been satisfaction, Midnight continued his graceful descent, landing in front of Letho in a whirlwind of grass and leaves that forced the man to cover his face momentarily. As large and muscular as a destrier and inky black, the pegasus was a majestic sight to behold, his folded wings covering most of his body and extending several feet behind his backside. Stunned by this arrival, the recruits tightened the circle around Letho and his winged horse.

“You just had to go for the dramatic entrance?” the grass-specked veteran said to the beast, not without kindness as he plucked greenery off of his dark green doublet, and he received a snort as a retort as the stallion shook its long head. There was intelligence to these creatures that surpassed most mundane animals, Letho knew, and with intellect came peculiar attitude. Just like humans, they obeyed commands most of the time, but were more than able to express their disagreement despite not being granted the gift of speech. Letho didn't consider linguistics a great loss. It meant that Midnight made his opinion crystal clear instead of hiding it behind complex excuses and half-truths, and Letho thought that some people could benefit from such an approach as well. Most people, if he was caught on one of his caustic days.

When the dragoon made his landing, scattering the gathering a bit as the leathery wings brought up another torrent of foliage, Letho was patting Midnight on the side of the neck, calming the beast at the approach of the scaled beast and its rider. He could feel the increased frequency of the stallion's heartbeat and the twitch of his muscles as he stood his ground in front of the eerie beast. Though quite similar in size, on the ground it was the dragon commanded an air of absolute strength with its girth and his menacing fangs, and Midnight didn't like the competition.

“Hail, dragonrider!” he greeted the red-eyed man as he dismounted his winged serpent. “I am afraid I must apologize for Midnight here. He is not used to sharing the skyline.”

[Lorelei]

Lorelei leaned heavily on the fence of the Branhill Inn terrace, chin resting on her hands, eyes scanning the grassy flatland that stretched all the way to the lake shore and the folk that gathered under the tender warmth of the cresting sun. She did it more out of boredom now, because the teen was certain that Josette wouldn't be joining Letho's little troupe. She had gone over every recruit thrice by now, and it wasn't too difficult to suss out that her friend wasn't there. There were very few women amidst those that gathered around Letho, and none of those had the stark black hair and impressive physique of the young Radasanthian knight.

The young sorceress blew a mischievous lock away from obstructing her vision with a crestfallen sigh. She knew that she shouldn't have put her hopes up. Radasanth wasn't terribly far from Bradbury Lake, but it was also a metropolis where it was difficult to find people even if you knew where to look for them. And even her letter did reach Josette, it was questionable whether the young warrior would even be interested in an endeavor such as this. Though she had shown commendable swordsmanship and athleticism during their escapade in the Radasanth underground, Lorelei wasn't certain her friend would necessarily be interested in monster hunting. After all, patrolling the streets and apprehending the local criminal menagerie was significantly different from delving into the dark corners of the earth and poking whatever slumbered there with a stick.

But despite that, Lorelei still hoped Josette would show up, even if the young knight might not be thrilled by the idea of chasing after things that usually chased you, and she did so from a more selfish reason. The truth was, Lorelei Ravenheart didn't have that many friends. The truth was, the teenage magician didn't even have that many acquaintances. At the complicated age of fifteen, she was supposed to socialize with other her age, yet found most of them unendurable. Most boys her age – at least those that summoned the gall to court the only child of Letho Ravenheart – engaged in juvenile attempts to steal a clumsy peck on her lips, with only rare few insinuating something even more physical. And that was all they ever thought about. Whenever she tried to strike a conversation on anything more complex than the weather, their eyes drifted out of focus and their hands drifted to her more fleshy bits, scarce as they might be. And the girls were even worse. All they wanted to talk about was boys and their juvenile attempts and who's doing who and where.

And while Lorelei was supposed to be at an age where this would be natural to her, the truth was that the teen had outgrown most such childish trivialities. In between leaving the monastery of the Grey Monks where she grew up and this particular moment in time, she had traveled through most of Althanas, fought demons, crossed dimensions and stood against forces that threatened to destroy her. And somewhere along the line she had cast away the vestiges of her youth. She had matured into a person that was stuck in this exasperating limbo, where those her age were intellectually years behind her, yet where those older than her still didn't consider her their peer. Even her own father, who was privy to some of her thoughts on the matter, sometimes treated her like a mere child. And while she could understand that from an old grump such as Letho, she found it much more difficult to accept it those who knew nothing about her.

But Josette was different. Though the young knight was several years older than Lorelei, she hadn't treated her as a mere child. After the initial scuffle, she had been willing to listen to Lorelei's plight with an open mind, and more importantly, with an open heart. The tribulations they went through in Radasanth secret market sealed the bond of companionship between the two, and though Lorelei wasn't certain if that was enough for Josette to consider her a friend, the teenage sorceress certainly felt that way. There was a purity to the young knight, a clearness of purpose that drove her forward like an invisible force, that Lorelei respected and secretly adored. It was how she imagined her father might've been like, before Myrhia's death and the collapse of the foundations of his life.

The thoughts of Josette and the pathetic state of her own social life made elicited another sigh from Lorelei. Maybe she was just busy, she thought as she turned from the congregation by the lake. But even as she did so, her eyes caught a rider coming down the macadam road that ran parallel to the shore, and though the mounted woman was still some distance away, there was no mistaking that long jet black hair and the steely soldiery posture.

“JOSETTE!” Lorelei exclaimed even as she vaulted over the terrace fence and onto the gravel path below. Waving vigorously towards the woman, she sped through the shin-high waves of grass, not quite running – for that would be rather unseemly – but also not quite walking either – for she was genuinely joyous at the appearance of her friend.

“Josette, over here!” she shouted, oblivious of the attention her yelling drew from those a bit farther down the road. When the black-haired knight noticed her and waved back, Lorelei's smile widened and then she was running down the last stretch of the verdant field. By the time she reached Josette, the woman had dismounted and greeted her with a smile of her own.

“Lorelei, it's good to see you,” Josette said, and extended a hand towards the teen. A bit winded from the sudden burst of speed, Lorelei paused for a mere moment and then threw her arms around the taller woman.

“Josette, I'm so glad you're here.”

[Ozoric]

Ozoric looked between mounts sheepishly, and with a casual thought, told the Felj to make his preparations to return to the Drakengard. Warmth surrounded him, a visage of power that faded as he approached the seeming captain, and his would-be commander.

“Greetings, ser.” Ozoric stopped ten feet away, flinching as his mount beat its wings and the air reverberated. “He needn’t worry any longer, Madurai is equally disdainful of…well,” Ozoric shrugged, pausing until the Felj too to the skies and swiftly fled the clearing. “Anything or one, really.”

The two men watched the drakeling vanish into the opalescent horizon. All around them, the compatriots of the Fellowship of the Sky went about their business. Ozoric briskly examined his surroundings up close, and saw amidst the guards and merchants, others equally as out of place as him. From all walks of life, the promise of a new start and of doing good had drawn people here to the lakeside.

“Quite the entrance. Are there many more of those in the Drakengard?” Letho dropped his gaze to the recruit.

Ozoric paused.

“I…you know of the fortress?” Focussed on the man opposite, something niggled at the bac of his mind. Muscles like a titan. Beard lie a bear’s arse…was this?

“Bits and pieces. I’d hoped they would send a dragon rider, and here you are.”

“You’re Letho Ravenheart?”

“The very same. Am I as expected?” He folded his arms across his chest, hirsute and full of history, experience, and wisdom.

“We don’t hear much in the mountains, but you certainly seem capable of all the things people recant over too much ale.” He smirked. “I am Ozoric Newalla. Unfortunately, I am not yet a dragon rider. I am a lancer, one stage short – though I ride better than our most experienced officers, and…well. I’m a dragon.”

Letho blinked. If he expressed any doubt or surprise, he showed no sign of it. Shouting to the east drew his attention briefly, and a duo of women to the west for a second.

“I’m sorry…did you just say you’re a dragon?”

Ozoric, though red headed, and adorned in more decorative than functional armour, was as far from a dragon as could be. His own self-doubt made him play his card in his opening hand, but Letho, or as the legend told it, was not the sort of man to hide things from.

“Half, if you want to get technical. Provided the trial has no fire involved, it shouldn’t be a problem. Is it a problem?”

Letho laughed, a first sign of welcome. “Not at all. Follow me, let me introduce you to the others, and my right-hand lady. Mind some of the guards, they get spooked easily when they’re around me.” He gestured to the busy men and women on the lakeside and the groups of resting citizens in the inner camp.

Ozoric looked at them. He knew how they felt. He took a deep breath, and followed his would be mentor.