View Full Version : Mishaps and mayhem - Part 1
Ranger wiped budding sweat from his brow with the back of a dirty hand, leaving a smear of soot in its passing. A worn hand patted the top of the last sack of ore in the back of his wagon, satisfaction in its weary form painted across his noble elven features. The morning sun was rising in the east, slowly passing over the small mountain range and down into the valley of ice and snow. Alone he watched the stretching shadows draw closer to the mouth of the tunnels he was working in, as if the night’s last remnants were seeking solace in retreating to the caves. Eyes closed he inhaled deeply, feeling the flood of crisp cold air fill his lungs and cool his flushed visage. The frosted Salvar tundra lacked the humidity he was accustomed to on Corone, a feature of the island nation that he did not long to feel once again.
Eventually he would have to return to his makeshift home, return to the needs and whims of the clan he assisted in controlling. Second only to the chieftain of the Red Hand, the man was part of the backbone of the clan that kept it thriving. Members joining were the result of the already current members pumping the heart of the clan, but the heart was slowing to a stop year after year as the numbers of loyal associates dwindled. Politics and the war with the Corone Empire, just one side in the civil war that ravaged the land, drew the supremacy of those yet engaged into portions of power. The second had fought with the rebels to the throne of Corone, he had helped re-establish what the clan had nearly lost, and had dealt with the politics and intrigue of the government.
Solitude was the most prevalent value that was longed for by the dark elven miner.
A slow wind built at the base of the range of mountains, slipping up the edge without a single hint of opposition. Freshly fallen snow was caught up in the movement and brushed the bottom of the elves boots as he watched it. Silently he prayed to the Thayne, the gods of Althanas, to protect him in his travels and provide for him and the clan. The whispers were drawn away with the shallow gust and he smiled. A prophet of the Thayne, he knew their guidance was what spurred his steps and their wills his constant path.
After placing four mules at the head of both wagons and loosely lashing the second one to the first, the drow began his descent from the mountainous region. The fiefdom of the Red Hand was very close, the mine being at the southern skirts of the region they claimed. From the hold he could board a ship and return to the turmoil of Corone, sell his raw ore, and financially help secure the clan. “Lords of Althanas, your brilliance ever present, your every word uplifting, you eminence unquestionable; please see me to safety in this frozen land. The rebellious monarchy would hope to undermine the authority of the church and remove religion; please keep the troubles from drawing me away from my necessities and away from the needs of the Red Hand.”
~*~
The morning rays were comfortingly gentle against the back of the prophet, the docile mules were pulling without very much discomfort. He was given the chance to ponder the world around him and what had happened to it within the previous two years, wonder about what would come of the high elven society that was torn by the heavy hand of the resurrected Forgotten One, as well as what would come of the war in Corone. A sudden gust forced him to draw the robe he had borrowed around him tighter, the fur lined inside warming him and keeping in what little heat he had insulated. It was a small boon, but one that he would not have even questioned the need for when first arriving to the mainland and Salvar.
Silver eyes shot through loose strands of platinum hair, they were an obstruction to his view of the entire view before him but to push the hair back behind a pointed ear would mean moving his arms. Instead he shook his head in attempt to further remove the obstruction but only managed to gain enough to see that the road had split. Which way had he come on his way to the mines? Questioning the directions given to him prior to leaving, as he had only frequented the mines once, made his decision at the forked road grow more and more prevalent as he closed. Either direction, as far as the elven eyes of the prophet could see would lead him down a pathway towards a city on the ocean. The land was disconcerting and unknown though, so which road was correct was also unknown.
“Step down and we’ll give ya no trouble,” the voice was sudden and caught the man off guard, forcing him to turn about fitfully to find its source. All around him random groups of snow covered trees stood in silent wait, watching him. No person stood in the area around him. Thoughts of just slapping the mules and spurring them into action came to mind, but he only had the eight for two full wagons of ore instead of the normal twelve. There would be no fast flight; instead he would have to fight. He removed the yew bow that rested behind his seat and knocked and arrow. “I would not do that Aleraran, for there are far more of us than there is of you. I would hate to have to kill a mere supplier for the Church.”
“I am no merchant in the employ of either side that struggles for the dominance of your culture and lands.” Ranger was unsure if the words were meant as a ruse or if they were true, for no person had yet come to his keen sight. He had the word of the nameless, disembodied voice alone that he was to be affix in a fight from all sides. “Come out and speak with me. I am not without my virtues and wills to assist any who ask. At my side is a pouch of one thousand gold pieces, Coronian currency.”
“We don’t want your money; we want to stop wherever you’re taking what’s in the wagons.” Finally a man stood from the ground along the road. The dark elf turned towards him with the point of the undrawn arrow pointed at him. It would take a mere second to kill the man and be done with the attempted looting. However, along with him rising so did another ten men and women. They all wore a suit of white, frayed cloth that blended too perfectly for the prophet to have noticed it before. He took note of the clothing and suddenly caught sight of a further five humans resting in trees, these with arrows drawn that he had not seen earlier. “And if you are in league with the Church, you will have to be detained. Since it’s your word against mine, and I say you are because we’ve never seen you around here, we’re going to take your wagons and you with us.”
The dark elf sighed and lowered his head, the watchers lowering theirs in turn. Had he not been so foolish he would have had his swords strapped along his sides instead of tucked against the back of the carriage he pulled. Spilling the blood of the group was not an option though; they had done nothing against him and were desperately attempting to quell economic boons that would benefit their enemies. It was a similar notion to the acts that he had preformed for the Red Hand in their war against the Corone Empire.
“So be it, but I will not be bound and hauled about as soon captured war criminal. I am a prophet, and will keep my honor in being escorted.”
((Solo))
The group walked alongside his wagons, one of them sitting at the second and holding the reins to the vehicle as if he was in control despite it being tethered. Ranger did nothing to stop either the man that was so caught up in his duties that he took the reins, or the people that walked to both sides of him with weapons at the ready. They were devout to their cause, a similarity with himself that made the drow smile. He slowly followed their directions, pulling at his mules and steering them towards wherever the men and women commanded him to follow. Instead of focusing on his situation he let his mind wander and his eyes scour his surroundings.
Light white snow was fresh on the ground, covering the landscape and the rolling hills. It was a beautiful landscape fraught with dangerous terrain, but a landscape that could take tourists breath away. No foreigners came to the war ridden soil of the Salvaran tundra though, leaving behind their peaceful lives in whatever realm they originated from in order to succumb to the lure of ever present conflict. Those that came now were well armed, covered in armor, and filled with a furious fire that fueled their need to engage in war. The prophet was far different, coming to the lands for the simple desire to gain what he could not in Corone; ore to freely mine.
“So, Alerarn native,” the man to his left suddenly said, who had to that point not yet given a name nor asked for the prophet’s either. The pure silver eyes of the dark elf turned to his ‘captor’ and he smiled while he waited for what would come next. “You are in Salvar, in a time of struggle, and yet you say you are not here to aide either side. Why are you here then? And who are you?”
Ranger sighed and lowered his head to make eye contact with the man. His silver eyes were wide and gentle. “I am Ranger Nailo, Prophet of the Thayne, second-in-command of the Red Hand. I came to this region to mine the holdings that belong to the feudal lands under the realm of the Red Hand and Lord Lorenor. However, that seems to have been delayed by your group. I am not sure who you fight for, what your name is, or why you have ventured to the lands claimed by my clan in order to capture myself and my legally gained property.”
The man scoffed at the dark elf and turned his head. Silence continued on for a span of minutes, leaving Ranger with the chance to carefully check over those he was being watched so closely by. The man was middle aged for human standards, though his eyes were what showed his true age and the worn façade of his was what would have made most think twice about saying he was so young. His beard was full and well grown, thick and covered in a thin layer of snow. He had not brushed it aside, as others had not done that were part of the group. Ranger could only assume that it was part of the disguise that they used when wearing their white suits.
“I’m Fredrick, head of this little group and in charge of anyone willing to go to war against the Church of the Sway that cannot or will not side with the Loyalists to the King.” His voice was soft and reserved, but held a certain power behind it. He was not unused to leading others, and whether he was a former member of the aristocracy or the soldiers of either side did not matter to the drow. Ranger nodded in understanding and extended a hand to the man, smiling as he took it and shook it. It was the first step to forming a mutual bond with the other group. “And though we would love to so easily accept your offer of peace, and enjoy the ability to believe that you are not sided with either the Sway or the Loyalists, we simply cannot take the chances. Ya know?”
Ranger did know, all too well. Many people had come to the outpost of the Red Hand since its creation; people that he assumed were trustworthy. Those people had let him down in the end, and had been nothing more than well versed spies planted in the midst of their clan. They had been dealt with in time, one way or another. The prophet was not without his ability to kill those that were against the wills of the Red Hand. He would expect nothing less of those surrounding him.
The camp was small, built into the side of a rock face in what looked to be a natural cave formation. Daggers of ice stretched over the edge of the alcove’s entrance like gripping fingers, the lurking winter slowly creeping towards the protection. Warmth from the sun barely graced the icy surface, water dripping from the sharp points every so often. The long winter had brought war, death, and famine. Neither side had truly engaged each other enough to create a distinct advantage, both remaining within their trenches and peeking out only to fight in minor skirmishes. Both sides knew the advantage of storing what resources they had, making their reserves last through the bitter times, and not losing their already dwindled forces to the environment.
Ranger watched as the eyes curiously probed his bland attire and all the equipment he had come with, watching him as if he was a prisoner. Likewise, he looked back into the lurking eyes and through the darkness of the cave to those that began to appear from within it. The people were not haggard or distraught, they did not have the wear of war that the soldiers in the field did. A healthy lot of people, the prophet was surprised that they were so resilient in such a harsh time. Fires dotted the area, food being cooked over them wafted through the still air and made the dark elf lip his lips. His stomach growled and he gave Fredrick a sheepish grin when he looked up.
“Been a long day gathering… whatever it is that you’ve got here. You have my permission to get food, we’ve got plenty enough not ta have ta ration it still. You may be under my watch, but that doesn’t mean that you won’t be treated with respect.” Permission, such a silly word to the drow, especially when he did not consider himself a prisoner of war. There were no shackles holding his hands or feet, his weapons had not been confiscated, and he had even been allowed to ride atop his lead wagon while all but one of his captors walked. In his mind he was something more of a brother from another nation, suddenly pulled into a position where he was given the opportunity to assist in ways not available to him back in Corone.
No matter what the human at his side said, or how firm he acted, the prophet had the notion that he was gaining ground by means of leaps and bounds. There would be friendship between kindred spirits, or at least an understanding of one another to allow Ranger to assist them and be given the right to continue on. “My humble thanks,” he said as he hopped off the seat and bowed to the man. There was no sarcasm behind his tone, and his genuine humility was expressed by his lowered head. “I care not what you do with the wagons, but I wish only that you would respect my possessions with the same care you have shown me. It is valuable ore to be used in the times of strife my clan is experiencing in Corone, it is of the utmost importance to me and my family of followers back home.”
Fredrick nodded. Whether he understood the dire necessity or if he was simply being polite was something Ranger could not discern, he knew it would be kept in a safe place though. The drow strolled to the closest fire and nodded to the man and woman chatting idly. They smiled and said nothing as he sat. Awkwardly, the prophet pulled a small piece of meat from the leg that was sitting above the fire while the two continued their quiet conversation. He was not to be included, greeted, or acknowledged beyond his appearance. Instead of pushing the issue, Ranger took a bite of the moist meat and looked to the sky. The clouds were faint, the sun was at its apex, and he silently prayed to the Thayne that the meeting was what they willed.
On the edge of the horizon the half-closed, sleepy eye of the sun stared directly at the gathering place and at the inhabitants that had turned a cavernous outcropping into a working community. They were gathered around a small fire or two, sitting on the rocks and stumps of trees. Each person had a cup of ale in their hands, and a full stomach resting within. All eyes were focused on the dark elf, some with budding tears and others with stern faces. It was not because he was telling a particularly funny story that tears of joy would fall, or because his story was intentionally sorrowful; it was because his soul was being held in his cupped hands and they were the gods judging it.
“After we encountered the spirit of the mage, and my companions body was overtaken by it - he being a creature created by the Thayne without a soul of his own – we continued on into the caves. Within was the deamon that had placed himself on the paramount pedestal of god-hood, Aerian. The fight was decisive and quick; the soul of the mage was powerful even after millennia of time spent as a ghost…”
Ranger sighed and took a drink of his ale, letting the bitter taste assault his palette the same way a cheap cigar would have. He cringed but swallowed, using it as much for the warmth as for a way to relax. His mouth was dry from speaking to those gathered, spilling before them a sad tale of his life. A woman let a tear fall from her watery eyes, but quickly dabbed it away with her sleeve. Though the prophet was warming their chilled hearts with his words, he was not intending to use his life’s story as a means of emotional sabotage. The people were still pulled to his presence, his elegance, and his background.
“That was when I accepted that the falsities of my former god were in fact deamon influences spread throughout all of Althanas, under the guise of a religion. I removed the oppressors from power, overthrew the zealous regime, and became a devout follower of the Thayne. I am now their prophet, blessed with their wills, traveling the world in order to do whatever I can to infuse society with respect for their creators.” The prophet was, in fact, spreading the word of the Thayne to anyone who had an ear to hear and an open mind. He had assisted in the resurrection of his clan by the means provided to him with the good graces of the gods, in turn lending un-paramount support to his cause and to the revival of the withering Red Hand. However, if the ears were not turned to him or the hearts of men were closed to the power of their lords, he did not force his word upon them. Instead of insisting they listen, he showed the non-believers through action.
“So,” Fredrick said, as if he was the only one with a voice. Or perhaps he was the leader of the band of rebels. Whichever the case, Ranger was glad that he was interested in engaging further into the discussion of the Thayne, his life, or anything else for that matter. “You have fought demons, countries, and mortals, have been blessed by the immortal lords of Althanas, and yet you’re out here in this cold place freezing your butt off for some rocks? Sounds like you’ve got your priorities in the wrong place. If I was you, I’d be making my own religious group, fighting against tyranny in other nations, feeding the starving children of Salvar, and making a name for myself. You could be a Saint of the Thayne religion if you wanted to.”
“Religious devotion is not about what great wealth, power, adoration, or prestige you amass. It is about the fundamental understanding that you are doing what your masters deem right, and doing even the most humble of tasks with pure and genuine love for the assignments you have been gifted. I could become any of those people you think you would become, or do any of those things you think you would do, but that would not make me who I am.” Ranger stood and smiled to the listeners, his makeshift congregation.
“Instead I accept my role as a mere pawn to the gods perfect will. I am not going to suddenly jump forward and extend myself across Althanas just to be known, nor will I attempt to overthrow the natural balance of societies that do not directly affect myself of those I care about because I deem them evil. The world is about balance, and some governments are allowed to prosper by the gods because it is what makes the common man great. In times of woe you see the true heart of a person, in times of need you see who has the ability to become something more without forgetting who they are, but in times of abundance you see slothfulness and apathy grow. War and tyranny allows people to stand together, become something truly magnificent. There is no way around it, for apathy and sloth are the first steps to creating new tyrannical leaders to oppress those who remained static in their daily virtues.”
“We’re going to send him in. He’s got more potential and background with fighting than any of us do, plus he doesn’t look like someone who’s one of us or even a native of Salvar. It’s the only option.” Fredrick leaned back on his rock, taking in the surrounding darkness of his protectorate. He was not only the assumed head of the small community of rebels, but he was also their head of war. History was not kind to the drow, having suffered hardships of all types, but the middle-aged man had seen his own share. Unlike Ranger, his had never twisted themselves into something amiable and beneficial. The time he had spent on the front lines of the Kings troops had taught him how to wield a sword, bow, and fight in armor. Blood spilled by himself and countless enemies had taught him the value of tactical knowledge, and how to properly use every resource offered in its most potent form. “Plus, if it is the will of the Thayne that we be relieved of our sufferings and the people of our home be freed of theirs than I would like to have their prophet be the one to be smiled upon in his deeds.”
The other man, a stout half-dwarven and rough shaven individual did not answer. His eye was on the stars, scanning the heavens for answers to the conundrums and riddles that life provided. One winked, and died out. It was not the first glimpse of a dying star he had been granted in his hundred years of life. It always meant that something beneficial was on the horizon for him or whoever he was dwelling on. Against his better judgment and his previous decision, his thoughts were on the plight of the Grandvor refugees and their Aleraran guest. “He has quite an extensive background in warfare, the will of the mysterious Thayne that guide him, and the uncanny ability to persuade even the hardest of hearts – as we can see he’s done on you. I agree, despite my lack of faith in his lords, that he is the only choice we have in the salvation and reclamation of Grandvor.”
Fredrick closed his eyes and shook his head. It was the first true test of the Thayne he had ever thought to attempt, the first true faith in them he had ever expressed. Their vessel was amongst his flock of loyal followers of the crown. If it was their wills that the townspeople and the town itself be liberated from the hands of Cardinal Broklyn and the Church of the Sway then Ranger would do so.
“So, I’ll explain the situation in the mornin’, send him out whenever he’s ready to go tomorrow, and hope that what’s been put on the table is as appetizing as it appears.” The plan was simple, or at least Frederick thought so. The town had been overtaken at the beginning of the war, the Sway forcing their compliance by way of intimidation and fear. Grandvor was a port town with the ability to produce ships and bring in commerce and valuable trade from Alerar. It was at that point that the people of the rebel group had escaped; retreated and began a war of attrition which had not brought them the success they had thought it would.
Range would simply have to slip into the town; the guise of a random traveler from Alerar would be all he would need. Kill the Cardinal and give a signal, the rebels would sweep in and remove the rest of the churches influence from the town. What could go wrong with the plan was up to the Thayne to decide, but he knew that the Cardinal was powerful… and in more ways than just his influence, prestige, and power with the church. There was something more to him that made the people fear to rise up, and kept the power of those that followed him fully at his mercy. It would be the prophets part in the plan to find out what it was that influenced others so much, and how to be rid of it so that the rebels and their captive families could be freed.
“Sleep well Fredrick, I’ll take watch and we can talk to him as soon as the sun rises.”
Ranger put his long fingers around the handles of the Hromagh blades, the ancient leather wraps around the handles soft against his calloused hands. The small city of Grandvor was slowly coming into view, still miles away, and he tightened his hands around his weapons. The white knuckled grip was the only aspect of the dark-elf’s concern visible. Inside, his thoughts were scattered like chaff in the wind. The mission that had been handed to him was one that was of utmost importance to the rebels and refugee’s. Infiltration of the city was most likely going to be overly difficult, fraught with perilous obstacles that could challenge him physically, mentally, and spiritually. The prophet closed his eyes and continued at his steady pace as he thought over the implications of his task.
He was a dark elf, originally from the nation of Alerar, but never had truly accepted his heritage. His earliest years were spent in the military ranks of the nation, learning to wield sword and bow as all elves of the time were. Never had he gone through the training and study of mechanics and technology that existed in the current age. If any of the men within the town asked him questions in regards to Alerar’s economic or militaristic abilities he would immediately be seen as a fraud.
The prophet was also not one to follow the Sway, a religion that had assisted in founding the great nation of Salvar. It was not a religion that was open to belief in other supernatural deities, accepting the Sway as the only true belief. His allegiance to the true gods of Althanas would be something he would have to hide in order to remain in the good graces of the Cardinal and the Church soldiers that followed him.
No easy course presented itself. To align himself with the Alerar nation was putting him at the mercy of the occupying force. They would see through his guise should he falter in his responses. Ranger also was not positive to how the Aleraran alliance with the Salvic worked, whether Salvar was assisting the Loyalist faction or the Church faction. If the dark elves to the south were offering aide to the King’s troops than he was an immediate threat.
“Thanye be with me in these hard times. You have given to me an abundance that others have strived for their entire lives, even into generations before them. Yet, trials face me at all times, allowing me to be molded into the instrument of perfection in your ways. Take this path that you have set before me and give to me that which is in your will. Should the citizens of this town be freed, let your path open to me and allow me to do so. Protect me.”
“Halt.” The voice was confident, strong, with an undercurrent of pure boredom. It came from a man who was leaning on a makeshift guard shack, built with boards that were either cut wrong for their original purpose or deemed unworthy. The nails were sporadic, sometimes in a line, sometimes clumped together to hold the post together. A small window was carved into the side facing the road, even with the sun a quarter of the way into the sky it was dark inside. Ranger let moved his attention from the shack to the solider, noting the symbol of the Church on the livery covering his half-plate. He did not reach for his sword, did not remove himself from his nonchalant position. Instead he took a puff of his half completed, half chewed cigar. “Aleraran, you look live you’ve come a long way. This land isn’t as safe as it once was. What purpose do you have here?”
Ranger peered into the man’s eyes and then down at his feet. His boots were covered with the fresh powder that had yet to turn to the unsavory mush that it would undoubtedly become. The pair of dark pants was half tucked into his knee high boots, bloused at some points and completely unkempt in others. Once white, his shirt had faded to an almost yellow color, with tattered short sleeves further emphasizing that he was little more than a traveler. “I am a simple wanderer, looking for a refuge from the civil conflict and passage back home. I happened upon this town, spotted it miles out, and assumed that I could find room and board within?”
The man puffed out a stream of smoke like a steam-powered boat from Alerar before clenching down on the end of the cigar with his teeth. He pushed off the wall, approaching the prophet as the drow took a few steps towards him. Gray-blue eyes scanned the ‘traveler’, looking at his clothes but most carefully at the dual blades crossed behind him. “Passage home would be a tricky thing; we don’t get boats from Alerar but once or twice a month. The civil war’s influence is all the way out here, though whatcha see inland is worse than what we’ve got going on here. Cardinal Broklyn is in charge of the Churches troops stationed here, no Loyalists have gotten anywhere close since we liberated this town… Now those are old swords for a random traveler, pick ‘em up somewhere along the way? Don’t seem to be kept too well.”
“They’re heirlooms from my family, useless really. I’ve kept them because they seem to keep bandits away from me, at least most of the time.” Ranger thanked Hromagh for his blades, and the condition of their appearance. Sheathes of ancient leather, cracked and splintered slightly over years of existence gave the illusion of useless blades held within. The handles were merely wraps of worn leather; the hand-guards to both a dull steel color that made the rest of the blades seem the same. In truth, the metallic substance of the swords was something altogether impressive though; mithril and something that appeared to be elementally close to adamantium. “If you don’t mind me asking, when was the last boat in? And where is a good place to find a room and food?”
“Last boat was… probably a week ago. Brought in some of your countries fine supplies. Can’t say that we like that they spread their ingenious wealth to both sides, but can’t complain when we’ve got some and it’s not being used against us.” The man laughed, halfway through it a sharp pained look crossed his face and he began to cough. After nearly a minute he regained his composer, looked at his cigar with accusing eyes, and took another puff. “As for a place to stay. I’d suggest the only place still open to citizens and outsiders, the rest of the inns and taverns are taken as housing for us troops. The Havenshire is the best bet. Good to meet you traveler, I’m Corporal Kvinich. You are?”
“Ranger Nailo, pro—“ the dark elf stopped himself mid-sentence and furiously thought of a way to correct the mistake. He was so used to introducing himself as a prophet of the Thayne, second in command of the Red Hand, but neither title would produce a desired effect in a Church dominated community. “—pleased to meet you Corporal. Have a good day sir.”
The road was pockmarked with signs of battle, cobblestones crushed and caved into a ground that showed no signs of fragility. The indents were scattered about the entrance to the town without a wall, as if small siege engines had been used to deliver boulders at the city itself. Each mark was a little different due to the angle, strength, or speed of whatever had caused the impact. Ranger stopped at one as he walked, bending to place a finger around the edges. The middle of it was filled with half-frozen water, the top thin layer barely iced over with the suns slight warmth. Burn marks scarred the bricks, which looked like fire had rained down, but no object filled the hole to explain its place. Ranger removed his hand from the freezing water and wiped it on his pants; there was something that had taken the town that was not of a natural material nature.
Ranger skirted around the pockmark, and the others like it, as he made his way further into the town of Grandvor. The architecture of the common Salvic state was all he could see, perfectly square buildings made for their structural integrity instead of aesthetic qualities. The elf’s platinum eyes remained in motion, looking from roving guards to Church clerics that passed by. Very few citizens were in the roads, a note that weighed heavily on the prophet. It was not unexpected to the dark elf, simply an unwanted fact.
“You,” a voice called in a hurried whisper. The prophet turned to its source and found a young man waving at him, rushing his waving hand to make Ranger come towards him. His blue eyes were darting about as he waved, as if he was worried about the occupying force seeing him talk to a stranger. The boy was most likely in his early twenties, an impossibly young age for an elf to be actively engaging someone, but almost common for humans. He would have barely been at the age of shaving, his chin covered with a very thin layer of hair that looked more forced into a beard than anything. “Over here, hurry up.”
Instead of asking questions and drawing attention, which was obviously the purpose of the hurried call by the man as well as his own personal desires, Ranger picked up his pace and made his way to the single story home. As he got closer he realized that the windows were not showing a dark interior, but were painted over by some black substance. A few cracks in the streaks allowed the light within to be visible, but there was no other way to view the inside of the dwelling. “Yes?” The prophet asked as he slowed when he reached a couple feet. “What is it? I am looking for an inn to stay in and would prefer if such expressions of exaggerated fear were not expressed in the open and directed at me.”
The boy looked both ways, as did the prophet. To either flank he could see no eyes turned towards him, the roads were straight and broad so he was sure that none were looking. The windows of multiple dwellings were all he could see, none with any lights remaining on from the night before. Ranger felt like he was being watched by every building, a sense of sudden paranoia that he was not used to suddenly taking over him. The eyes of the Grandvor structures were all pointed at him, accusing and demanding.
Before he could turn back to the boy to wait for a response, or add further to his questions, he felt a warm hand grab his wrist. In an instant he was pulled through the open door and into the dimly lit abode. The door was not slammed behind him, but forcefully closed, as silently and quickly as it could be. The platinum eyes of the dark elf turned to see that he had been offered, roughly, his entrance into the house by the boy who had both called to him and closed the door behind him.
“What are you trying to do you stupid Aleraran? Get yourself killed, or worse put in the Hold? You spent more time out there, and whoever made the mistake of letting you in would be getting half the punishment that they would have given you for little more than walking around without a purpose.” The boy huffed, his face reddening to reflect the light that unwaveringly lit the inside of the common room. The lamps held weak flames, giving enough light to see the surroundings but never enough to fully see the features of either the inside of the home or the boy who had ‘rescued’ the elf.
“What is the Hold? Who are you? And what has happened to this town. I have on good word that it is called Grandvor, and that the Church has assumed control of it in the name of peace in these times of civil conflict. Is that not so?”
The boy’s reddened face slowly turned white, as if the prophet was speaking words put in his mouth by a ghost of the past. Instead of responding the human turned and ushered his recently acquired guest deeper into the living room. He flopped into a chair with a huff and extended his hand to the elf. “This is Grandvor, yes. The Church has taken control, but not in order to ensure peace, but to ensure that the stores of weapons and ammunition coming from Alerar is constantly arriving and being kept. There is a lot you’re going to need to know if you’re going to be here. First, now that you’re in you’re not getting out unless it’s as a slave sold to Alerar or as another corpse for the mass grave.”
Ranger sat on a frayed couch, his hands resting on his lap as he watched the young man pace back and forth. Sitting and standing was as much part of his ritual of worry as pacing the twenty feet from one wall to the other was. Jace, he had said his name was, looked as if he was thinking extremely hard about something he could never quite grasp. His thoughts must have been like a hummingbird, drifting from one point of contact to the next. Nothing so graceful could be assigned to him though, as far as the prophet was concerned, for he looked as if the butterfly was sucking the very life from him with each fleeting halt.
“A prophet!” He spat as he put his hands to the sides of his head, running his fingers through his unkempt hair. A budding beard that was hardly anything to notice was stroked occasionally, and his gray-blue eyes were rubbed almost as much. The young human made the prophet grimace, a look of pain crossing his face as if whatever conflicted the child was passing through him as well. “In this place, we have a prophet of the Thayne! Nothing could be worse… unless the very prison of N’jal descended upon us instead.”
“You are rife with pain and confusion,” the elder man said with a sigh as he passed his hand across his elven ears and through his silver hair. Worry and doubt were misplaced in the Althanas, if you asked him about his personal philosophy of course, they were both things that made life harder and yet gave nothing back. Place your worries, doubt, and concerns at the feet of the Thayne, and they will deliver unto you that which you pray for. A stress-free life of dutiful dedication was all that Ranger had lived; as long as he had the gods above to watch each step he took. “In the Thayne alone should you trust, and I am their instrument, their tool of righteousness. No place is misplaced when a prophet dedicated to the Thayne comes. There should be rejoicing, healing, and miracles of the gods given unto the mortals of this world.”
The boy stopped, closed his eyes and placed a hand on the mantle of the doorway. His shoulders rose and fell as if they were connected to and representing the lungs within. Every breath made him look as though he was weeping, his body quivering slightly. “Miracles? It is a miracle that you passed through the gates without being taken directly to the hold. Healing? This land is scarred with the presence of the Sway, the Church, and… whoever else feels like fighting for what most deem worthless barren rock. As for your rejoicing, in this town there has not been a head lifted to the gods in thanks for years. Nobody laughs, nobody smiles, and certainly there will be no parade for your sudden appearance. If you want to go out and spew this before those gathered in the streets, you will be laughed at, then hung. The Thayne have no hold here.”
Ranger rose from the chair, dust surrounding his hands as he clapped them down on the cushions. His eyes were wide; his hair jolted backwards as his momentum thrust him forwards. He placed a hand on the shaking child and turned him around. Tears were welling in the eyes of the youth. The dark elf pulled him close in a genuine embrace and let his shoulder grow wet with another man’s fears. “I am here to bring to your town, everything that the Thayne desire for it. There are people outside the town, people that have rebelled against the chaos of this land. They desire for this town to be restored, and though the will of the Thayne is a topic that cannot be explained fully, I feel as if I was brought to this place for a reason.”
“Thank you, Prophet Nailo. I would pray to the Sway, for guidance and protection, but they are the ones we face and I fear that my prayers will fall on deaf ears. Perhaps your Thayne can assist us?”
“If the Sway are your path, that is your path. Straying from that way can make their ears turn away. Pray, seek wisdom and guidance, and in doing so perhaps you will find that the oppressive nature of those that claim to follow the banner of their deities are little more than ingrates without respect for the powers of a god. I do not believe that the original Church of the Sway would have allowed this, and believe that those that the religion was founded on were not so weak as to allow the corruptible men in this town to find power at their expense.” The prophet sighed and smiled as he pulled away from Jace, letting the young man wipe tears from his eyes. The gray-blue met the platinum, and the prophet could see the understanding behind them. “Fear not, I am with you, your gods will not forsake you, and liberation stands but just outside the gates.”
Ranger sipped at the grubby glass in his hand, his thin lips pulling in small portions of barely hygienic water. The foggy liquid was stale, dirty, and worried the prophet when it had first been handed to him. Jace laughed at his concern, but satiated his questions with an explanation. The fresh water, however loosely the term was used, was old and kept in barrels that had held any number of different drinks in the past. There were no new barrels of fresh water being delivered, either by land or sea, and all that could be done of it was to take the lids off of old barrels and hope rain and snow collected enough to drink at a later time. “We added spirits to the mix, just a very small portion. If we didn’t who knows what diseases would grow in the collected water. Most of the town followed the first example, but a lot of the men –and women- have taken to drinking the spirits instead of water… As if drowning regrets and lack of power with the strong liquor.”
The dark elf sighed and sipped the water slowly, cringing at the ‘minimal’ amount of spirits that were in it. The dirt left his teeth feeling as if they were covered in grit, his throat warm, and his stomach churning with lack of food. Another sip and he set the glass to rest on a splintered table. It wobbled on uneven legs, despite the meager weight of the glass. Ranger stroked the table and let his calloused hands follow the cracked edge; the worn wood was the inanimate equivalent of the prophet.
“Losing one’s self to the whims of alcohol are nigh impossible to rebound from. The depths of depression can often be a cataclysmic path to follow, willingly or otherwise, and the catalyst for catastrophe in the form of warming and soothing liquor is a false assistance to depend upon.” The younger man tapped him on the shoulder with the palm of his hand while nodding.
“Tell me, who is waiting outside the gates? Friends of the city? Loyalists to the king?”
“There is a man, I would assume close to beginning his elder age by human standards, though your race is difficult for me to gage by age. He has a large beard, and short hair, both a deep brown without any graying specs to show his age. Fredrick he called himself,” the prophet stopped talking and looked at the wide eyes of the young man. His hands rose to his opened mouth, covering his half smile and complete surprise. Thin fingers stretched through his short, greasy hair before Ranger continued. “He leads a small band of refugees from this town. Grandvor has truly marvelous men and women devoted not to the cause of the King, but to the cause of personal loyalties and love.”
The young man moved across the room quickly with a finger to his mouth. Behind the tip of the extended finger the dark elf could see a light behind his eyes that spoke of excitement, a thrill hidden behind dire concern. His shredded leather boots, more thin flaps barely held together by rope laces from the toe to the knee, scuffled across the unpolished floor. He turned to the closed window and peered through. Ranger accompanied him quietly; soft leather boots perfectly maintained adding small bits of muddied slush that was melting away with every step. Through the wooden slats he saw the decrepit house across the street, but saw nothing out of place.
“What is it you silenced me for?” Jace turned and put his hand on the elf’s shoulder, the finger once again returning to his lips. A minute later a small contingent of guards marched by. The armor they wore was brushed and clean, etched with white symbols of the Sway. Over it was a sleeveless tunic that fell to their knees, a heavy belt wrapped at the waist with a large longsword dangling from their side. On their back was a short bow and a light quiver, unstrung and probably unused. It was the long pikes in their perfectly disciplined hands, the pure white horsehair tassels from their helms, and the stern look behind their eyes that made the prophet’s brow crease. “Sway rounds come by here at the exact same time every day,” Jace said as they passed a safe distance. “All the soldiers march through the town they ‘liberated’, as if it’s important to remind us that we’ve got nothing but their weapons and armor to keep us safe. We just see our oppressors marching by every day instead.”
The boy had laid out what little food that was present within the hovel of a home. Old bread that was missing small pieces from its corners, possibly from rodents who were fighting to thrive as much as the people of Grandvor were, was sitting on the unstable table. Next to the bread was hard butter, a piece of salted fish, and two glasses of the clouded water. Ranger sat up straight, his body tensing to remain postured politely despite the lack of a back to his chair. Across from him the sheepishly grinning Jace was looking into his silver eyes. The dark elf caught the look, and felt sorry not just for the young man but for the entirety of the town. The meal, probably more than what had been eaten by the human in two days, was scarce.
“Let us eat up. We need to plan on how to allow the refugees into the town, gain an upper hand, and get this town out of the oppressive hands of the Sway.” The younger man tore the fish in half, handed the larger portion to the prophet. He tore the bread and handed a portion of it to the prophet as well. Ranger took both and prayed silently to the Thayne to bless the food, provide abundance, and give unto both the blessing that they provided.
A piece of both fish and bread were torn free, and the prophet took the offering of humble hospitality with a smile. “You say that Frederick is your uncle?”
“Yes,” the young man said as he tore meat from the fish’s bones and wiped his face from the juicy bite. He looked at his hands in astonishment, taking more and more pieces from it. Every bite he removed seemed to be constantly replaced, the fish was fresh and sweet, the Thayne’s will had provided both a meal from the unexpectedly small offering. “Is this one of your miracles? Providing where nothing is offered?”
Ranger smiled and took another mouthful of both bread and fish. His hand brought the cup to his lips, and the bitter taste of the foggy water clashed with the succulent meal. The Thayne had provided all but the water to be abundant. “How long have the refugees been expelled from this town? How long have the Sway been gathering supplies?”
“Uncle Frederick left the town with the others freely when the Sway offered them the chance; others have snuck out since then. We didn’t know what to expect, but it’s like he had some prophetic skill enough to know that nothing good would come of our religion’s occupation. It has been at least five months since the last people were freely let out of the town, a month before that when first shipments from your home lands were first received.”
The prophet nodded and took another gulp from the glass. The water lumped like un-chewed food in his throat before being forced down to his stomach. His body did not want to accept it, did not want to swallow the grit filled liquid. His hands tediously pulled at the scales of the fish, playing with their tips before he pulled another piece free. “Where are these…”
Ranger rose from his seat, his hands resting on his stomach. The slick juice from the fish dampened the bread crumbs on his finger tips, sticking them to his modest cloak. Eyes wide, he looked at Jace, then back at his hands. Throat burning he fell to the ground with a thud.
“Seems your gods have no power over the Sway. You may provide miracles, give unto others like you wish to receive 'n all that, but that means nothing. The Thayne are stories, the Sway are real. You aren't welcome here, dark elf.” Jace rose, his hands resting on his hips as he watched the dark elf slowly lie to rest on the ground. Drool slipped from the corner of the pale elf’s lips. “You can create more meat and bread when offered so little, can make a farce of intelligent information gathering, can be lured into a trap that was barely set… those are things you can do. Now, you can go to sleep and wake up in chains and in the underground. You can submit what you know to the inquisition and tell us the Cardinal everything.”
Rangers silver eyes slowly opened, his head throbbing and his mind racing despite it. His head lolled and he rolled it about his shoulders, opening his slanted eyes fully. Around him mumbling and moans filled the still, damp air. Torch light filtered through the hazy, dust filled darkness, forcing the dark elf to blink a few times to resolve whether it was his eyes or the air that caused the blurry images. A sharp, slim nose twitched on the lean face of the prophet, wishing it could close. A metallic tinge of bloody wounds healing beneath layers of disease overwhelmed him, barely masking the musky mildew that clung to the walls. He had never been privy to a dungeon hold, or what happened within, nor had he ever had the misfortune of being forced to reside within one, but it was clear that his situation was providing many firsts for him.
“Awake already?” The voice was familiar, though the tone was different and had a hint of arrogance behind it. It was young, strong, dominant, and confusing. The prophet moved his head slowly towards where the words echoed from, the source of the disturbance that created the ripples. A smiling face met his grimace. Jace had his arms crossed over his chest, a sword at his side, and bleached leather armor with the designs of the Sway across them. “You seem to be rather resistant to poisons, even those created by magic. The Churches magic does not provide ample powers in the way of devious magic’s that would make it thrive; the arcane powers are needed though.”
“Why?”
“Jace is not my name, Frederick is not my uncle, and the guards at the gate were told to let travelers in to be baited into my ‘house’.” The young man turned away from the prophet and moved across the small cobblestone wall. His hand reached out and the gloved fingertips stroked the slick walls before lifting the grime covered tips of his hand to his nose. He shook his head and stroked the grime across an open wound on the side of a chained man’s face. The grimace from the man was the only emotion expressed, his face turned towards the dark elf and Ranger saw why. The man’s mouth was sewn shut, the threads of steel tearing at his upper lip as he stifled a painful scream. “You see, what you told me, what I learned from your reasons for being here, and who had sent you, will be more useful than the blasphemy of this man here.”
The elderly man with his mouth sewn shut closed his eyes and let tears stream from the corners of his wrinkled face. Small drops fell from his chin, plunking lightly as they struck the puddles of water. Ripples crossed the muddy puddle, a decrepit man who made little affect on his surroundings. “This man, he was a prophet too. He came to this town by himself, holding the images of the Thayne close, keeping his eyes open and his chin up. Rodane Gifford, Prophet of the Thayne, denouncer of the fallacies of the Sway and their occupation of Grandvor. Such blasphemies cannot be tolerated here, such garbage cannot be allowed to spill forth and taint the minds of the pious believers of this town. We had to sew his mouth shut, after we broke his will and proved the pointlessness of his false deities.”
The dark elf prophet closed his eyes and held back tears for a brother of the Thayne, knowing that shedding them would be presumed as weakness. A bloody gash on the human’s face was festering and nearly glowing red, sweat pouring from the brow of the man as the anguish showed across his face. “Why?”
“You ask this again? You prophets are sure a sorry, pathetic lot.” Jace darted towards the shackled dark elf, bringing his gloved hands to the side of Rangers face with a closed fist. Ranger’s face jerked sideways, the momentum of his head having no way to abstain from nearly cracking his neck. “You will break, just like this man, and when you do your silence will be sweet. I will tear your bottom jaw from your face, and your agony will be more than Rodane’s. When the Sway win this war, you both will be freed, but without your Thayne provided words or your disgustingly asinine tongues to twist others minds.”
The darkness was a void, fires on the ends of torches burning down the provided fuel was the only way to tell time. The poorly wrapped ends were haphazardly constructed and burned very lightly, until the light finally gave way to the suffocating darkness. Ranger tried to concentrate. In his mind he could see where the flames had flickered. Eyes that saw through the darkness found the door, watching and waiting till the air would be stirred again within the confined prison. To his side he could hear the mumbling and moaning of Rodane, but refused to look at the man. The dark elf did not enjoy accepting weakness, and the broken former prophet was a testament to both humanities fragility as well as the Thayne’s double sided nature.
Was it the will of the Thayne to force two of their dedicated followers into the capture of a warped religion in a region that did not worship them? Where they sacrificial lambs, given up for the slaughter, in order to gain something religiously important?
“Rodane,” Ranger said with a hushed tone. He turned towards the human, clearing the despair from his mind as he looked into the eyes of true shattered serenity. “Listen carefully, and heed my thoughts. If you cannot perform what I am about to say, you are free to shake your head or nod in agreement.”
The human nodded his head gently. “Good,” the dark elf continued. “I know not what prowess you posses, either from the promise of the Thayne, or from your own personal study. However, I possess the ability to heal, and can do so even in this confined situation. If I can heal you, can restore to you whatever it is that the Sway has taken away, would you be able to unshackle yourself?”
Again the human nodded, slowly and sorrowfully. The dark elf prophet wondered if the man would try to escape, or if his will had been broken already. Ranger looked at the man and prayed to the Thayne to give unto him their will, if his had indeed been lost. His hands began to close a soft blue, barely giving off enough light to counter darkness. The spell passed from his hands to the forehead of the former prophet’s forehead, resting long enough to cover the man’s entire body. A chilling, open eyed individual was left in his place, a man that quickly looked completely different.
His mouth opened, fully, and the threads of steel were torn from his lips. Ranger expected a bloody spray, but the soft blue light collected around the man's mouth. The blood that budded along the edges of the multiple gashes did not fall, simply remained in place and filled the gaps. “Thank you prophet,” Rodane said with a cough and a clearly dry throated rasp. “Your divine magic is something that I have encountered before, but not very often. I can change the nature of the magic; to whatever I deign necessary, and in turn have used your divine magic to change it to something more useful.”
A quick flash of brilliant green light and a blade of arcane magic formed at the shackled man’s fingertips, slicing through the iron. Both of them fell, clattering against the wall. Rodane rose slowly, uneasy on unused legs, and shuffled on bare feet to the dark elf where he repeated the flash of green energy and sliced through the prophet’s shackles as well.
“Come, there is a passage that I have seen used across the room, in the darkness. If you possess any divine magic for light, we could use it… as I’m not your kind and cannot see in the void.” Ranger questioned why the man continually repeated divine magic, why he had changed the divine magic of the Thayne for his own use in healing and magic, but did not ask them. The elf nodded and created an orb of light, following after the human. “I’ll have to explain the circumstances that will precede from this point on, as well as denounce the lies that the rude child of the Sway spread before leaving. There is a lot that he said that was wrong, and much of your obvious confusion is being spawned from that.”
Through the damp, coursing underground the pair of men walked silently for some distance. The light from the magically created orb at the dark elf’s finger tips cast a steady glow across the cobblestone, rounded walls. The two trudged through the water, the icy chill crawling up the legs of the elf more and more with every step. How long the two had been walking was unknown, certainly not long enough for anyone to have realized they were gone. No sounds of boots followed behind them, only the dripping of the puddles above, slipping through the destroyed potholes that littered the city. Ranger slipped on numb feet, catching the wall barely with his free hand.
“Careful prophet,” Rodane said, emotionless, “If we get any more wet than we have already the possibility of freeing ourselves from this labyrinth before we succumb to hypothermia would be slim. Only another five minutes, then we shall be outside this infernal tunnel.”
Ranger understood what the man was saying, but was more worried about losing his feet than he was tumbling into the underground sewage stream. Without legs, he would never escape. He followed the man at a distance, forcing the light to bend in order to show the way. The glow was abstract, bending around the human, reaching out yards ahead before stopping immediately. The Thayne had blessed him with power, light manipulation, and to the fullest of his ability he was making use of it.
“Prophet, what is it that you came here for? Grandvor is not a hospitable place to anyone, those that dwell within or those that rest in wait.”
Ranger took quick, long strides and gracefully grew close to the human. “I came because those that wish for this place to be their own once again, those that have made this town thrive and changed it into what it has become. I have come because I was asked to, and the Thayne brought me to this land and into this situation, so I am following their wills.”
“The Thayne,” Rodane scoffed and stopped, turning back towards the close elf. His eyes were solemn, his mouth tight. The scarred wounds on his lips matched up, making it look as if he had been mauled by a clawed animal. “You put your faith in others, push to make some beasts of supreme power stronger while you are supposed to follow what they say and forced into situations such as these. It’s pathetic. I may hate the Sway with everything in me, but that brat was right, a prophet is a sorry lot.”
“Who are you? What of what the pawn said was truth, and what was a lie?”
Rodane nodded towards the path ahead, turning his back to the elf as he continued in silence. Minutes passed, and the prophet attempted to spread the light around him and turn its gentle touch into warmth. Ranger passed his hand through his hair and let the strands of silver hair cover his ears, warming the long, thin-tips.
“My name is indeed Rodane, however, I am not a prophet of your stupid religion. I am a mage of the tap, a student of arcane philosophy. I have, however, fallen prey to this petty nonsense that the Sway, you, call religion and faith. It is little more than personal power guised behind self-loathing uncertainty. For me, I have the ability to touch every form of magic, warp it and use it as my own, or learn it in whatever capacity that is possible. Hence, your divine magic, something I loath and never use, can be transformed into arcane magic and be used to create soul-blades wrought from magic.”
A user of the tap, the shattered perfection of all magic; Ranger could hardly imagine ever meeting a person who could wield it. For centuries the threads of magic had been split, broken into thousands of pieces, and left for each person, race, and culture to manipulate as they saw fit. At the heart of all the divine, arcane, and scribed magic was the tap, once a pure stream that powerful mages could use and never concern themselves with perfecting a single aspect of magic. The forgotten had broken it, let the forms of magic split throughout the world, and forced everyone to become endeared with a single form of magic.
“Rodane,” Ranger said in a whisper. “How do you control it?”
Control, it was a question that made the tap mage cringe. So often it was assumed that in order to be known for what one does, or be recognized as a figure within a certain society, one would have to ‘control’ or dominate a certain aspect. Was there such thing as control though? Was there really an ability to warp things into something that could be dominated? Rodane was a study of the world of magic, in all its forms and uses. He had created the ability he used at will, philosophically solving the issue of magical divergence centuries in the past. In his study he had grown to know many things, most of which had a small hand in the construction of magical understanding. The base of the knowledge grew and flourished, pulling in all aspects of life. In the end, the mage had come to accept that there was nothing that could be controlled. The principle at the base of all objects, ideas, and manifestations was the chaotic and unforgiving Nature of Unwillingness.
Magic was no different than a quill and ink. In their most commonly accepted forms, they were tools that would be used by those that had the ability to use them. Man was their dominant oppressor, and used the quill and ink to take notations and create a common linguistic medium for others to understand. The quill and ink seemingly had no choice in the matter, was unable to reject to its use. However, Rodane had found that sometimes, just as in magic, there are unchangeable patterns to the quill and ink. These patterns were things that people could not reverse, the stability and strength of the quill and how much it would yield under pressure. If one took the quill, ground it into powder, the actual nature of what comprised the quill would be present, though the shape that people knew the quill to be would have passed. The fundamental delicate, perfect principles that all things were founded on were completely uncontrollable.
“Magic, in its most base nature, has a degree of unsteady indifference when being used. It is as if the power that is wielded to create spells thinks, moves, and bends to the will of the person using it. The will to have a purpose creates spells; people are vessels for the entity to thrive within. We are like pots, constantly filling and draining ourselves of the contents. Control is not as much about how we use the spells, since the dominance over magic does exist. Control rests within the Nature of Unwillingness.”
Rodane tapped the ends of his thin, smooth fingers against a cold rock. The two men sat on the gray beach, watching the sun finally slip beneath the horizon. A full day had passed since Ranger’s incident with the man he knew only as Jace, he was sure an alarm had been raised and the town was being scoured through. They would not give up their search; it was a sign of lost control.
“I’m sure that doesn’t explain much, if anything, unless you truly understand the fundamentals of all living and non-living things. I have written passages regarding all of this, but my books are unfinished and left at my domicile. Of course, nothing I have yet to say has answered your question.” The mage twisted his hand and let his palm fill with the same green light from the make-shift dungeon. The magic turned and twisted, forming a small dagger before changing suddenly into a small butterfly. “I can use magic as anyone else would use water. Though, instead of the three base principles of water –solid, liquid, and gas – I simply have more options. It is really quite simple once you’ve studied the ancient texts, scrolls, and any other number of writings remaining of the time before the War of the Tap.”
Ranger looked at the other man’s hand and watched as the light green butterfly took flight, dancing on the light sea breeze. The ocean before them was awash in a golden glow, bright yellows and hues of red stretching from the horizon to the sandy shores. Overhead the contraposition of the violet hued skies played against the lapping water, offering a view that most would never see. The world was taken up so deeply in war and strife-ridden ambition the prophet feared none would ever again be able to venture to the cities that offered such beautiful scenery. The green insect landed on the shoulder of the mage, and flashed suddenly, leaving a wisp of smoke in its place.
“I thought everything from that time was lost, destroyed or banished with The Forgotten. Where have you found all of the information to create your abilities?” Ranger’s thin, pale lips were tense. All he had known about magic was learned through years of dedication to the Thayne, and yet his understanding of magic seemed to be no deeper than aesthetical. Using magic was easy, wielding what came to him simple, but knowing why he had the abilities he did or how they developed was something altogether foreign. “What is your purpose here then? Why would a mage learning and mastering a long forgotten art that is commonly assumed dead be in Grandvor?”
“Think of it as little more than forcing the hand of the Sway… I came to destroy the Cardinal and his hold over this town, as I’ve done with other Church officials in other towns. I’ve come as a liberator, a conqueror of false magic and magic-bigotry.”
Fire’s licked the buildings within Grandvor, tearing through the rooftops like a ravenous beast loosed from years of a caged existence. The deep reds enwrapped the shacks and houses built for function over artistic beauty of safety against flames. The proximity from one house to the next was far too small, the destructive force leapt as if it had a mind of its own. People screamed and rushed through the streets, panic and despair left where placid guises of disinterest had been the day before. When the sun had dropped, the fires had started, rushing through the heart of the small town. The beat that drove Grandvor had slowed to a near stop when the infectious Sway were introduced, the attempt to lure out their escaped prisoners made the heart race so quickly that it was close to exploding.
“It is time to let the lure cast be taken in hand, let them pull us in as if we were caught, and end this vapid hold the Church holds.” Rodane looked around the corner of a building that had yet to catch flame, the edges of a square just out of sight from the chaos. His thin fingers clenched the corner of the brick building, gripping the edge as if he was watching a stirring play instead of the death of an entire village’s way of life. An aging woman bolted in their direction, her eyes filled with fear as she turned to the closest bodies that were neither screaming nor soldiers of the Church. “Dear lady,” Rodane called out as he caught her and place her lightly against the home, “I am Rodane, one of those they search for. Have no fear, we will present ourselves and end this foolishness.”
Was burning an entire town really something that could be called ‘foolishness’? Ranger was unsure the word was fitting, but it seemed to fit the personality of the calm mage perfectly. The prophet watched as he rounded the corner and followed behind closely. Soldiers approached the two, three men wearing heavy armor and wielding long pikes. The tap mage suddenly thrust forward, stopping immediately between two of them. His hands rested on the sides of the armor, open handed with green energy coursing around them. Ranger watched the arcane magic become a focal point and lance through the steel, stopping as it punched out the opposite side with an explosion of blood. The two men fell at the same time as the third troop’s pike.
Ranger’s hands shot forward and a blast of sudden light caught the tip of the blade. The momentum of the human could not compete with the momentum of the divine magic, throwing it backwards over the head of the soldier. The tap mage suddenly lunged forward, a sword in hand he had removed from the fallen corpses. Solid steel slipped through the gap between the chestplate and helm, opening the throat of the man before he had regained his balance from the beam of light.
“Let’s find the Cardinal, together the Tap Mage and Prophet will remove the false words of the corrupters.” The dramatic flair in the man’s voice was palpable, a tone that flowed through the prophet and made his heart race. There was something about to come to the world around them that Ranger was hardly privy too. He had danced in the moonlight, waltzed with flames and death protecting to the lands belonging to his beloved clan. The Red Hand’s war against the government in Corone was a fight for freedom, a fight for the equality in an unstable socio-economic society. Grandvor would be a war of two men, vying for the destruction of an entire social structure.
“Rodane, I’m at your side.”
“Do you know what it means to be nothing?” The words were sharp, harsh undertones spat by a stoic figure. For nearly half an hour the two had lingered on the edge of a charred building. Soldiers had moved to and fro, multiple were lying in pools of their own blood in the alley behind the pair. The dispatched church troops caused the area to have a lingering scent of blood, which mingled uneasily with the smell of the burnt building. Ranger assumed it must have been the first one to burn. There were no remains of the inhabitants; the dark elf offered a quick prayer of thanks to the Thayne for their mercy.
“Rodane, this is hardly the proper time to indulge your philosophical nature,” Ranger whispered. He peered around the tap mage and down the road. The citizens had been gathered at the center of the town. A massive platform was the focal point of their attention, on it the Cardinal and empty nooses waiting to be used for their devious desire. “It looks like they’ve been herded to this point. Everyone in town has been rounded up and forced to be witness to whatever they are planning.”
Rodane nodded solemnly. Whatever it was that was on his mind had faded as quickly as it had arrived, leaving him once again an unsettling figure that the prophet was pleased wasn’t fighting him. He placed a hand on the shoulder of the dark elf. Without turning he gave a quick hand gesture. “Stay here.”
It was difficult to argue with the matter-of-fact tone that the man consistently conveyed. The prophet watched him turn the corner. Without a worry weighing him down, the mage strode confidently to the outskirts of the gathered group. Soldiers watched him approach; lowering their weapons as they waited for what actions he would take. Instead of slapping aside the men as he had been, the magic that enwrapped Rodane’s hands remained. He allowed it to crawl up his arms, slowly growing to consume his entire arms by the time he stopped.
Locked eye to eye, the Cardinal and the Mage stood. It was a contest of wills and dominance fought with their resolve. The citizens that sat between the two began to push and part, like a sea being opened for safe passage on the under the water. They were mere pawns, toys that did not resist the control of the Church or stand in the way. Broklyn was the first to break the silence. “Heretic, how good to see you finally. I assume you and your Aleraran counterpart have not given up, but there is another reason that you have appeared before me?”
“We both know what stores you keep in the labyrinth below these streets. It would be a pity if your precious resources from Alerar were lost due to your own pride and fury. Put out these fires, and leave. This is your only warning.”
“Warning?!” The Cardinal dropped from the stand to the waiting cobblestones. His hands were outstretched and his head was raised to the sky in laughter. Within moments, however, the laughter turned to dire tones and the seriousness that was etched across his face caused the tension of the peasants to be but a backdrop for that which surged from Broklyn. “You warn me? I have at my command that which you do not, I possess the will of the Sway. I am the one that gives warnings! I am the one that is not threatened, but issues commands!”
As if no other existed, as if the world around them was little more than a wasteland, the two clashed. Lances of green energy sizzled through the air, missing the surprisingly nimble Cardinal by mere inches. Rodane continued throwing bolts at the man. The gallows erupted in a shower of splinters and instantly charred slivers. The ground around the tap mage was quivering with the power he commanded. Yet, even the destructive forces of the ancient ally were not powerful enough to make contact with the Sway’s agent. The flowing robes of the cardinal were singed in places as the energy made contact, yet the man himself was a ghost dancing across the street. In a moment of anger Rodane lashed out quickly with a swipe of his hand.
The air before him stirred violently, whirling like a tornado. A low hum resonated through the crowd, a deep vibration that could be felt in the bones and felt like it was ripping the air directly from the lungs. Ash and soot from the still burning buildings was violently torn from the air into the spell. Before it could grow to a more dangerous size, the tap mage loosed his attack. The Cardinal leapt aside, cowering behind a group of bystanders unable to push the crowd out of the way and escape. Furiously the small tornado lurched across the gap, slamming into people without slowing. Shards of splintered and charred wood were sent flying. Debris whirled through the air before being shot out in all directions, piercing flesh of any hapless citizen that lingered too close. Broklyn, however, used the nearest denizen of Grandvor as a living shield.
“Rodane, you are inflicting more damage to those you swore to save than you are to the one who is caused them so much pain already!” Ranger moved from his cover, ignoring the warnings in his head and the memory of the way his companion had commanded him to stay. He rushed towards Rodane. Softly booted feet made barely an audible sound as he ran, but it was more than enough for the tap mage to hear him. Before he could turn to the dark elf and tell him to not interfere, the prophet was already harnessing the element of light. It warped and twisted into a long whip, barbed at the end and slashing violently outwards. The sharp edges fused and created a single, large kama blade even as it arched overhead of Broklyn and his captive.
“I will not have you…” but the words of the mage were cut short. As quickly as the light had appeared and been given direction, it was turned back on its caster. The cardinal tossed aside the prisoner, leaving the bloodied man for the other awestruck witnesses to handle. His hand wrapped around an amulet around his neck, tearing it violently from the thin silver necklace looped through it. He raised his hand high, pointed it at the whip. The light bent, quivered as it was held mid-strike by the power of the amulet.
“Light? Such a fickle creation. I can control what you thought you had power over, prophet. This was a gift from the Church to combat the evils of magic. Rodane’s accursed powers of the tap I cannot overpower, but your weak attempts are more than futile!” The whip turned around and slapped backwards. Like a snake it lunged, slashing across the mage’s chest with a spray of blood. Ranger was lost, confused. His companion struck down by his own folly. There was a reason he had been told to remain, there was no ego to be fed or vendetta to be settled by the tap mage. He had known that the dark elf would be a liability instead of constructive. “Felled by the powers that you thought you controlled. Rodane, you are a heretic and I will destroy you this night.”
Ranger watched the events transpire with confusion clearly painted across his face, worry and doubt about his survival lingering on the back of his mind. He had come to Salvar to benefit his clan, least of all to be engaged in conflict with the parties involved in the civil war. The struggle was not his concern. However, the idea of the church being undermined by the monarchy had been a hotly debated issue by much of the community he was a part of. Confronting the conflict face to face showed a completely different façade. The Church was run by bigotry and violence; the nobles were almost completely absent from the battle or from saving their own people. Neither side was noble, honorable, or ‘right’. Seeing how Cardinal Broklyn acted, how he willingly sacrificed the people of the town in order to save himself, it was appalling. The dark elf was powerless though. Nothing he could throw magically at the man would be useful, and the only person who was strong enough to fight had been struck down by Ranger himself.
“On this night,” Rodane coughed out as blood dripped from the corners of his lips. “On this night, dear Cardinal, you shall meet your end as well.”
Broklyn laughed, furiously, insanely. His laughter was not stifled or concealed; it was the embodiment of his manic desires. Ranger could not help but stare at him. In his hand he clutched the amulet that made the prophet powerless. “Stupid, inane, childish whelp! You are dying, and yet your tongue never ceases to spew blasphemy. Sword!”
A soldier close to the cardinal unsheathed his weapon and handed it to Broklyn. The church official twirled it in his hand as he casually sauntered closer to the pair. His smile was broad and toothy, a hungry wolf closing on a recent kill. Each step caused the prophet to forget his breath. Each step brought the conclusion that much closer. Yet, in one last attempt to thwart his enemy, Rodane summoned his magic. The deep green light became darker, nearly black as it covered his entire body. In a flash, he had disappeared. Broklyn stopped midstride, only to suddenly turn at the hushed gasps of the crowd behind him. Rodane had teleported to his rear, a bolt of magic loosed.
The cardinal had no time to dodge, no chance to escape or cower. His body twisted instinctually, attempting to avoid the contact. It was futile. The green arrow of light pierced his shoulder and tore through his collar bone. Blood and bone sprayed outwards as violently as anything the dark elf had ever seen. The people of the town immediately screamed and began to run, tackling guards as they attempted to flee from the town-square. Ranger watched the cardinal writhe and immediately put his hand out. At his fingertips the small orbs of light formed, he slammed them together to create one large one. His hand snapped open, fingers splayed, and the pillar of light that he had used so often in battle was released.
Instead of slamming into the fallen form of the cardinal, however, the man placed his amulet towards the burst of energy. It did not stop it, could not control such immense power. Instead, the light was deflected directly at the ground. The cobblestones burst outwards and the dirt packed beneath exploded like a crashing wave. Fear. It was the only expression Broklyn had just before Ranger realized that what Rodane had commented on earlier was what the cardinal had just made the mistake of doing. The mage said he had known what was stored in the catacombs beneath the town; the dark elf could only assume it was related to the shipments from Alerar. He released the spell and turned, sprinting as quickly as he could.
The first explosion ripped the entire square apart. The series of explosions that followed trailed through the labyrinth and continued throughout the town. Houses that were still smoking with the embers of the fires set earlier were suddenly torn from their foundations. People screamed as their feet left the ground and the spray of cobblestones and fire consumed them. The town of Grandvor had been handed their freedom from the cardinal, only to have their lives torn apart by the folly of the prophet. He continued running, sprinting, as fast as his legs could take him till he was at the gates. The flood of people washed upon the entrance like a river suddenly freed from its dam. Screaming, bloodied, and in a frenzy they ran.
The plume of smoke that lingered above the city of Grandvor spiraled on itself and Ranger watched from the distance he had covered since the destruction. Free citizens and disenchanted soldiers of the Sway had scattered in all direction, long since leaving the dark elf to his lonesome. His face was smeared with soot, clothes disheveled and soaked through with sweat and blood. Alone he witnessed the wooden palisades crumble and fall into the ruins of the city. Beneath the pillar of smoke and the still burning village where the bodies of countless, the Cardinal and Rodane amongst them, innocent victims and combatants alike.
Years ago, before the Red Hand and the Thayne, he would have taken the first drink that he could get ahold of to forget it all. Instead he prayed.
The Thayne were silent as they had been of late. He had asked for their assistance and his magic was intact, but their words were no longer in his mind. He prayed anyway, for forgiveness and for mercy. Rodane had challenged him like no other had in his life and he wanted – needed – to find a way to answer the questions that were lingering in his mind.
As if finally answering his pleas, a vision came to him. It was of a stone circle, surrounded by the biting cold sea of snow. The stones glowed an almost bluish tint, alluring and yet ominous. He could see the blurred image of a woman in rags, standing before the location, a single hand outstretched and reaching for him.
Instantly Ranger knew what it was as he snapped out of his trance. He inhaled deeply as if all the air had been pulled from his lungs. The Icehenge of Berevar and the Goddess Jomil were summoning him. The great relic of the Hermitess was where the Thayne wanted him to go, the next step in his trials and understanding. He pulled the hood over his head and began to drag himself through the muddy slush of half-frozen snow towards the North, leaving behind his wagons and the destruction of Grandvor.
((SO... i just wanted to go ahead and finish this, no desire to go through and edit it because it's old and not very good. Nothing specific requested.))
EXP & GP Added!
God you're rich...
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