View Full Version : The Semantics Of Sundering (Solo)
The Semantics Of Sundering (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1dmh1cZQuXk)
1988
An ash I know, Yggdrassil its name,
With water white is the great tree wet;
Thence come the dews that fall in the dales,
Green by Urth's well does it ever grow.
Thence come the maidens mighty in wisdom,
Three from the dwelling down 'neath the tree;
Urth is one named, Verthandi the next,--
On the wood they scored,-- and Skuld the third.
Laws they made there, and life allotted
To the sons of men, and set their fates.
The Guardian's of Nidhogg's Tomb.
Elven settlement of Raiaera began when a small group of refugees, fleeing some great catastrophe to the east, arrived upon the shores of the new land. Burning their ships behind them to symbolise the fact that there was no going back, the Elves established the cities of Aurient and Anebrilith, and began to make contact with the indigenous Dwarven clans and human tribes that populated the realm. For a thousand years, peace reigned.
One such contact, however, was to end in dreadful tragedy. The Durklan tribes residing along the perimeter of the forests of northern Raiaera were the main conduit of weapons and trade goods between the Elves of the coast and the Dwarves of the mountains. Their culture was intensely polytheistic and forest worshipping, venerating each individual tree as a sacred god. The Elves were perfectly content not to infringe upon the territory and beliefs of these Durklan tribes, but they failed to comprehend the sanctity in which the humans held the inner forests, and when their explorers violated these in spite of Durklan beliefs, the human tribe took up arms. For not the first time in history, Elven arrogance clashed with human belief.
The Elves were not prepared for battle, and although individually they were of great skill, they had neither numbers nor equipment to engage the Durklans. For their part, the human tribes lacked the skill and siegecraft to breach the Elven city walls, and a stalemate developed that lasted for nearly five years. It was in the end Elven magic that turned the tide, and the discovery of offensive spells that could annihilate entire armies in instants.
In vengeful rage, the Elves slaughtered every last man, woman, and child of the tribes, completely annihilating the Durklan culture within weeks. The gruesome manner of their victory forever remains the first and foremost black page in the annals of Raiaeran history, and the Black Desert Tel Moranfauglir even now stands to remind High Elves of the consequences of their actions, haunted by the ghosts of Durklan Templars thirsty for blood.
Excerpt From The Cyclopean Chronicle, The Hummel Book Of Grudges.
Part One: Of Duty, Dreams, and Desperation
The Library, Grand City of Ict
“So then brother, what do you make of it?” Cydnar said wistfully. Over the course of the long afternoon, his patience had finally worn thin after several awkward hours of quiet contemplation.
He sat opposite Dalasi, trying to seem interested in a thick, dusty tome of his own. His question echoed up into the grand dome of the Temple’s archives, where the entire history of the Hummel, and all its many struggles to keep the world free of corruption were housed. The chamber smelt of dust, damp, and rotting paper clinging to ancient spines. It was the scent of history, a scent Cydnar knew all too well.
Dalasi looked up from the scroll, seemingly unimpressed. “I know the story of the elven settlement, Cydnar. It was a foremost part of my induction, which is one thing I am grateful for…” he paused to mull over the last few sentences on the parchment, “grateful for being given such a good education, I mean.”
Long ago, in Raiaera, the high elves decreed that the bastard children of the light and dark immortals should never be allowed to walk in the sun again. They were hunted, massacred, and pursued fiercely for many years until at long last all trace of them was eradicated from the surface of Althanas. With their cities destroyed, their rights quashed, and their hopes taken from them, the first people of the race that would one day come to call themselves the Hummel fled into the Under Dark.
Dalasi knew the story like the back of his hand. It was told in taverns, temples, and traveller’s song throughout the cities of the Hummel. On long roads and the dark roads through the mantle and crust of the world, people recounted the history, brandishing its morals like a torch to the abyss. Their plight was the bard’s boon, and their melodies and maladies kept the spirit of a broken people alive.
“You seem really rather sure of yourself,” Cydnar replied, closing his book with a thud.
“After many unwilling hours spent in the company of Arch Deacon Kyra, I think I have the right to be.” Dalasi hissed. It was a contempt that Cydnar knew all too well. Anyone who survived a lecture from the Arch Deacon deserved, in Cydnar’s estimation, a hefty reward indeed.
The young swordsman was one of the few outside of the Temple of the Salthias that knew the full chronicle of the rise of the Hummel. At least, he was one of the few that knew the tale in its entirety. It was a story that began with the arrogance and treachery of the elves, when they first came to settle in the land they would rename Raiaera. The tale began many thousands of years ago, during the First Years. This time, in the archaic elven tongue familiar to all the races of elf, was called the Minya Coranari.
Unconvinced by his brother’s reticence Cydnar pushed against the edge of the large, circular and obsidian table, and rose from his seat. He strolled slowly around the reading space, making ovals on the polished, jet black floor whilst he took on a scholarly visage. He held his hands together in the small of his back, which pulled his simple black robes tight about his chest. He wore none of his usual regalia, and his hair was unkempt, and his face haggard and tired. They had been reading for what seemed like days.
“Do you see how it could easily be misconstrued as a blessing?” he glanced furtively at his brother, hoping for an instantaneous spark of debate. What he got was silence, and when he saw Dalasi’s vacant stare, he slumped. “Do you see how the Ymgarl might look upon our exile as a reason to live? Though they fell from the grace of Yrene, they drew on their isolation, strength, and independence to branch away from the racial aesthetic the high elves gave us. They are not afraid of being who they were.”
Not one to rebuke an argument without merit, Dalasi held up the parchment like a prop. “This, my dear brother, is not proof that the Ymgarl’s motives are just. It is not causing a reaction in me, and thus, it is not a just cause for us to move against our enemies. Above all, it is not cause for us to start a war of division amongst the surface kingdoms.” Dalasi’s militaristic manner was a dry, abrasive, and intellectual response. Cydnar could not fault his logic, but he wished his brother would think with his heart sometimes, and not just his head.
“I do not want to start a war, Dalasi. We have just finished fighting a futile battle, it would kill us all to dare to tread that road again,” he said, quite sombrely and embittered. The memories of all they had sacrificed as a race, as a family, was still raw in the High Salthias’ mind. It was his duty, amongst many others, to stand vigil and in remembrance for the dead.
“We should try diplomacy with the Ymgarl.”
Cydnar raised an eyebrow, and with the sudden spark of an idea still in his mind, he walked towards one of the reading lecterns along the southern curve of the spherical chamber. His footsteps rang little echoes into the cold, dry air. Little flourishes of vermillion ribbons spiralled out from the edges of his soft leather moccasins. The enchantment placed upon the architecture of the grand palace of Ict illuminated his advance.
“We tried to do that once already, remember?” he shouted, growing further and further away from the table until he left the light of the central glow stone that floated above the reading area. They had tried many a time over the course of several centuries to bring the lost splinter of Hummel back into the folds of their civilisation. Many years ago, before even Cydnar was born, a prophet of the spider magi had caused a civil war in the city of Ict. It had ended with the sect leaving, and in their wake, they left paranoia and division.
Cydnar’s other brother, Nihjar Yrene, had succumbed to the temptations of the dark Thayne N’Jal and had left with them. The Spider Cult had been a thorn in the Hummel’s side ever since. The fact that one of royal blood had been drawn away from his ancestral home was one of the few things in his long life that shamed Cydnar to his bones.
“So what is with all the commotion over the Spider Cult?” Dalasi returned with a strong, distracted, and half concentrating voice. He dropped the parchment back onto the table and slumped back into the tall support of his chair. He crossed one leg over the other and rested his hands on the arm rests, which were fashioned into the shape of chunky, obsidian roses.
Cydnar started to run a finger over the spines of the books on the third shelf up from the floor.
“Well…” he began. His voice trailed off as he began to mouth the archaic titles of the tomes.
The cracked, worn framework of the bookshelf barely supported the wealth of heavy chronicles that were crammed onto each thick plank. There were spines bound in iron, Liviol, and dehlar. Some of the more precious parts of the grand collection were encased in soul gems, obsidian horn, and even dragon bone. The tome he was searching for was much plainer in design. When he found the one he was looking for, he whelped with victory, and slipped it with a single digit into his confidence.
“Sorry, where was I?” He felt its weight, jostled it a few times, and turned back to face his brother.
“Commotion over the Spider Cult…” Dalasi said flatly.
“Ah yes, I remember. Because,” he continued as he returned to the table, “the Spider Cult is a weak point in the united front the Hummel will require if we are to be successful in our future endeavour.” Dalasi stared at him maliciously until he set the book onto the obsidian round. He stood to Dalasi’s right, imposing his will and ego on the swordsman like a master doting over his unwilling pupil.
“So,” he mumbled, biting, “how do you propose to get the Ymgarl to join with us?” he looked up with glowing, fuchsia eyes, and tried to smile.
Cydnar’s eyes glinted back, lit by the glow stone, but also by excitement.
“Tell me succinctly, and briefly,” Dalasi added with a stern tone.
“We are going to resurrect Yrene.”
“I am sorry?” Dalasi frowned. He raised a finger to his lips, and leant onto it in an inquisitive manner. Cydnar knew the expression well, having often engaged with his brother on matters he found challenging to his traditional sensibilities. “I only ask because I am almost certain you just said you were going to resurrect Yrene.”
Cydnar blinked.
“That is because, brother, that is exactly what I said.” Cydnar opened the book, found the correct page and pushed it suggestively towards Dalasi. The swordsman leant to look at it, when he saw the picture on the right page; he took it into his hands and set it onto his lap.
“Yggdrassil,” he said with a flat, acrid, and deadbeat statement that served to declare his disbelief.
“The White Tree from which the Serpent Brothers were born,” Cydnar said fondly. “Not to mention, the source of all of our power.”
The page was exquisitely scribed with a tree bound in the coiled embrace of two gigantic serpents. The tree was brandishing a crown, a heart, and a radiant aura. Dalasi knew the symbol well; it was the embossed sigil of the Salthias order, the emblem of the Hummel’s paladin order. It was sacred to the Hummel, regardless of their place in the complicated hierarchy between military, religion, and industry.
“You are going to tell me the White Tree can resurrect a dead Thayne, and save the Under Dark from certain destruction, are you not?” he looked up at Cydnar with distrusting, accusing, and malicious eyes. He felt his heart sink. He had expected more from his brother.
“No I am not, Dalasi. Yggdrassil will not save us. Look closer at the picture, though. This particular tome depicts the sigil in a slightly different light to the banners in the great hall, or the master crafted patterning on that tired excuse for armour you wear.” Cydnar tapped the page with a slender finger.
“It is not tired…” Dalasi chided, shaking his head. He looking as instructed all the same. About the foot of the tree, just before the great roots dove into the ground, there were three small figures. They were women, each wore armour of a design Dalasi was not familiar with. For a man who prided himself on his extensive military knowledge of all the major armies of the world, it intrigued him to say the least. “Who are they?” he asked, certain the question would lead to yet another lecture.
“Not whom, but what, would be more pertinent,” there was an air of mystery in Cydnar’s clarification.
“Speak plainly for the love of the Thayne. It is getting late, and I am already several hours hungry for your strange fetish with learning.” They had been in the library for so long, Dalasi was starting to see shadows come to life and form roasted hams and crystal decanters of claret.
Cydnar rolled his eyes. He slid the tome from the table and started to recite the history of the three women. He held the book between finger and thumb of his left hand, and emoted with his right. His motions gave action to his words with dramatic hand gestures as he walked back around the reading table to his chair.
“They, Dalasi Yrene, swordsman of the Conclave and wielder of the Timberlake Hauberk…are the elven heroes with many names. To us, they are called Urth, Verthandi, and Skuld.”
“The Valkyries?” Dalasi looked up at Cydnar and stared at him patiently whilst he sat opposite. “I thought they were a Raiaera legend, what are they doing on Hummel chronology?”
The smile on his brother’s face perturbed Dalasi greatly. He was beginning to feel less like he was being lectured, and more like he was being preached to.
“They are a Raiaera legend by all means. We were born from the arrogance, hatred, and anger of the first elves that settled those lands, so their myths became our own. We may have adapted the metaphor, but in this instance, the Valkyries remain very much the same. They, after all, were the first elves to stand before Yggdrassil.” Dalasi raised a finger, indicating for his brother to stop.
“They tempered Yrene’s wrath,” he whispered.
Cydnar smiled, “they were the first Salthias, long ago. If we use their parable, and of course their relics, we should be able to free Yrene from the crystal tomb.” It became a lot warmer in the library, and the words echoed about the grand dome in the vermillion light for several protected moments.
“I am listening…” Dalasi said softly. Destiny it seemed was on their side as both the brothers felt a swell of pride, and in the distant sphere of their hearing, they heard a serpent’s tongue lashing in the dark.
“The Valkyries, disgusted by the actions of their kin fled to the Under Dark. Overhead, the native tribes in the forests of Raiaera were all but destroyed in a genocide few in the high elven number would remember, and few still would still speak of it today. There, after many years mourning for the loss of the bastard high and dark elves, they found a grand underground chamber. The chamber was in fact a valley, hidden by a dome of rock.” That valley housed Yggdrassil, the long forgotten root of the world.
Cydnar rose, and insisted his brother joined him.
“The Yew Tree that housed the two brothers.” Dalasi said, to cajole his brother into continuing on topic.
“Come, let us walk to the Artisan Quarter and check up on the progress of the Norland brothers,” he waved to the distant open archway that served as a divide between the library and central council chamber of the palace. Dalasi wasted no time vacating his seat and half skipped to freedom. “We can discuss the history on the way there…” Cydnar added dryly. Dalasi stopped skipping, realising that the walk, already a long journey, would be very long indeed.
“If we must, but I do wish you would just get to the point.”
“If I always missed out these opportunities to instruct you on the wider history of your people Dalasi, then when the time comes for you to take on the mantel of a Salthias you will be woefully unprepared. You are nearly ready in spirit, and in skill, but knowledge is as much a part of wielding the hopes and dreams of our people as being able to defend them or inspire them is.”
“I just do not see the point in steeping myself in history, when there are wars to be fought and creatures as tall as the Ice Spire of Raiaera to kill.” He spat.
“You will,” Cydnar whispered, approaching his brother’s right side with a speedy, yet academic advance.
“You are always so certain and smug about this sort of thing, but if the Valkyries are to be our salvation, tell me…” Dalasi folded his arms across his chest, “why have they not come to our aid themselves?” the elf raised an eyebrow, and set his grey hair in twin trails behind his elongated ears.
If Cydnar had been able to give Dalasi a better answer than the truth, he would have spun such a fantastical tale. He had asked the same question every day for the last month. Ever since he had been subject to the nightmares that started once he forged a contract with the human smith Artemis Eburi. He had dreams of a prophetic value for most of his life, but they had stopped years ago, when he had given up hopes of leading his people to safety after the Dawnbringers destroyed the Forgotten One Xem’Zund. The fact that they had returned, now of all times, was worrisome.
“The Valkyries were killed by Nidhogg millennia ago. They died to seal The Traitor into the fabric of the Tular Plains. They did so by embedding their weapons into his body and driving him deep, deep, deep into Haida.”
“So we are going to ask their… ghosts to save us?” said Dalasi, sarcasm practically dripping from his tongue.
The brothers came out of the hall on the far side and crossed the needle thin bridge that connected an eastern complex with a tall, cylindrical tower to the east. Dalasi’s barbed words echoed onto the chasmal expanse and the vermillion shaded darkness of Ict.
“No, there is no hope to ever hear the wisdom of the Valkyrie. Instead, we shall track down the resting place, as I said, of their relics. We must find the Timberlake Ring and the Helm of Skuld.”
“…and the Blade?” Dalasi asked. His knowledge of the Valkyrie legend was more informed than Cydnar had anticipated. Both of the brothers smiled.
“I recovered the Timberlake Blade in Haida, when I dared to go where no gods go (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?21497-Where-No-Gods-Go-(Solo)&highlight=Where+No+Gods+Go) a decade ago.”
Dalasi stopped, turned to face Cydnar, and waved his arms wide. “You have had in your possession the very sword that could save us all this time, yet you said nothing?” he sounded exasperated. He was not a man to endure hours of torturous boredom for the sake of conversation.
Cydnar did not stop.
“It is worthless without its counterparts Dalasi. Thanks to the Norland Brothers, we can ascend to the surface now, and start the search for the last of the Valkyrie’s legacy. They are in the possession of the creatures that call themselves the Dumlaught.” The word was familiar to Dalasi, though he could not quite place why. The swordsman scurried after his brother, who was gaining an advantage as he marched towards the Nexus at the heart of the city.
“Who are the Dumlaught?”
“The Snow Elves,” Cydnar said with a menacing tone.
Now that Dalasi had asked he sorely wished he had not. He knew the name of the snow elves on merit of being tormented as a child by Nihjar, who used to tell him dark and cruel tales about the long forgotten kindred of the Hummel. Cannibalism and murder had crept into his dreams, and turned them into white out nightmares on the steppes of distant Salvar. He shuddered, his cold, stoic, and military façade broken by childish memories.
“Please tell me that you are not sending me to Salvar again…” he pleaded, wistfully, as they reached the half-way point on the bridge. The dark expanse threatened to engulf them, even with glow stones circling around the bridge at periodic intervals. “In fact, I refuse!”
The geode of Ict truly was gigantic. A city built of narrowly connected towns, each one suspended from great chunks of quartz that extended into the central cavity of a rock formation formed in the very first ages of the world. The geode was created long before life itself existed on the surface of Althanas. It served as an ominous, glittering, and imposing backdrop for their discussion.
“Do not worry, Dalasi. I will deal with the Dumlaught, when the time comes. We cannot recover the remaining artefacts whilst we have a greater threat to deal with. When we are free of the imposing presence of the Umber Hulks, we will see to helping you overcome your…misplaced prejudice about our icy kin.” Cydnar could only smile, though it was a warm and trusting sort of condescension.
“I will hold you to that,” he clucked.
“For now we must ensure that we are ready to rise to the surface. We must concentrate on our pact with Artemis, and build our first stronghold on the surface. There has been no settlement on the surface since before the Valkyries discovered Yggdrassil. That means we must ensure the Norland brothers are holding up their end of the bargain, and that you are ready to take the mantel of the North Swane, when the moon is next waxing.”
The head of one the four branches of power in Hummel culture were called a Swane, and one stood at each point of a metaphorical compass of guidance. The North Swane was the general of the infantry, the military body of the Under Dark. The South Swane was the High Salthias, and the East and West were represented by the head of the Council, and the head of the Artisan Guilds. Together, presided over by the Arch Deacon, the four Swanes formed the governing body of Ict – five voices working in unison, and sometimes against one another, to ensure the survival of their race.
With the death of the previous North Swane almost thirty years ago, at the Battle of Umbra, the position had been kept open for a young military prodigy to step into. It was still waiting. It would be Dalasi’s role, when he was ready to undergo the Sundering Rite.
“I could kill the wraith of the fallen Swane now, if I was asked.” Dalasi said, exuding confidence without any knowledge of the trails ahead to back it up. It was a blind, reckless, but brave endeavour. Cydnar shook his head, his flaxen hair running free of his ears, and falling over his eyes as he did so. He chuckled, and tucked it back into a ponytail; he tied it with a length of silk from about his waist.
“I have no doubt about that, brother. The Sundering Rite must take place on a waxing moon, otherwise, the geomantic energies that flow around Ict will interfere with ascension. I rather like you in one piece, if you do not mind.”
Dalasi frowned.
“Do not look at me like that; you will be quite alright if we do it properly.”
“I am ready now!” Dalasi proclaimed.
“Of course, if one were to presume you were ready…whilst Maester Callahan is not the greatest swordsman to ever have walked these halls by any means, he is the most pernicious.”
Maester Callahan had three thousand years of training under his belt, a ferocious temperament, and all the power of the White Tree behind him. Dalasi had a century, an over bearing brother, and little time left.
“He sounds like he would make the Dumlaught seem like child’s play…” the swordsman said furtively, slowly becoming more and more aware that he did not exactly know what he was letting himself in for.
“More than you know…” Cydnar said humbly.
“Surely, he cannot be that good?” Dalasi raised an eyebrow inquisitively, and rested a finger on his chin.
Cydnar did not answer for several awkward moments, only stopping to turn when they crossed through the archway, and into the heart of the Nexus. The floor beneath their feet burst into life, and obsidian glowed with vermillion and fuchsia light that traced out great murals of Hummel history. This was Ict’s Hall of Welcoming, where newcomers descended from above, and those who dwelt here could access any part of the city; provided they knew which of the eight sky bridges that ran from the grand platform to take.
“Dalasi...there is a reason that I did not let you take the Rite shortly after Captain Altoona was killed…” he bit his lip, and pointed to a far arch that was more ornate than the others. “When you truly are ready to face him, to become High Captain of the army…that is the road you must take, down into the catacombs, down into the shattered valley where the broken, dead trunk of the world tree stands…”
The sense of danger and mystery in the air intensified.
Dalasi dropped his jaw in shock. “Wait…Yggdrassil is dead?”
Cydnar nodded.
“With Yrene gone, and the White Tree long destroyed, it will not be long before the Umber Hulks destroy the last of our cities below the surface. I am sure I do not need to tell you what would happen if we do nothing. Hell will break loose, and then Nidhogg will be unfettered. Nidhogg will be able to tear through the phantasmal walls of his prison in Haida…”
Dalasi knew the line of the prophecy that his brother was about to cite, so he said it firmly in his stead.
“The Dark Brother will rise and consume all the reservation from the world. In the wake of his great hunger, magic shall come undone, and the Tap shall unravel all it touches…”
Cydnar started to walk across the glimmering floor. It was in fact the top of the great tower beneath them, which housed the living quarters of the Salthias. The spire was long empty, abandoned, and cold after years of neglect and decline. Dalasi followed, their combined footsteps echoing out into the expanse, to resound against distant crystal formations for days to come.
“I am sorry to throw all this melodrama at you now, Dalasi, but things have taken a sudden turn. You need to know what I intend to do, to better prepare yourself.”
“Prepare myself?” the swordsman looked concerned. There was a hollow sadness to his brother’s words that echoed into the shadows alongside the bouncy of their feet on the obsidian bridge. “You sound as if you fear the worst…”
Cydnar shook his head, undid the front fold of his robes, and produced a piece of neatly rolled parchment from under garb. He held it out for Dalasi, who took it with a curious nod. They continued their advance without speaking whilst he unrolled it and read its contents.
A long time ago...two siblings, born of secrecy, vowed to never be apart.
They were of Drow and High Elf blood, hatred and nihilism born and raised in light and mercy. Both their parents fell to blades most jealous, and their cries kindled determination unseen in the children's eyes.
As war broke out the siblings fled, and built a home in a geode deep beneath the land of Dheathain; the heart of magic itself. In the shadows, there rested Yrene, a snake with eyes of purple quartz and a slithering tongue. Thus the Hummel were born, and in his guidance and wisdom, rose the Salthias and the Council.
When the siblings were met by the envoys of their oppressors, thinking the Drow redeemed and the High Elf forgiving of their trespasses, they were blinded by their faith and their innocence to see the flash of blades that took their blessings, and so engrained became that act in the Drow, that forever they are to be children of the Under Dark.
Their blood work (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?22308-Bloodwork-(Closed)&highlight=bloodwork) curses eternally in solitude and isolation...
The tale was an excerpt from the Cyclopean Chronicle, the historical account of the Hummel. Dalasi was reluctant to memorise it quite to the extent his brother had, but the passage was immutably the opening part of the Bloodwork, the prophecy of Cydnar and Nihjar. He cocked his head in thought and his hair flowed down over his shoulders, rivers of silver in the gloom. He wrinkled his nose.
“What do you make of it?” Cydnar asked.
“There is a line missing.”
Cydnar smiled warmly. “Yes, do you remember what it is?”
“Well, it is not a missing line, more, the opening line is edited. In the original fable it reads; a long time ago...two siblings torn apart, born of secrecy, vowed to never be broken in bond again.” Dalasi surprised himself at the recollection. It had never made sense to compare the two versions of the Chronicle until now. With the swirling menagerie of mistakes, information, and impending responsibilities causing him to develop a headache, the swordsman could only wonder in silence.
“Once, I thought the prophecy was referring to me and Nihjar. When he was taken into the confidence of N’Jal, and left the city to join the Dratzz, I thought our blood work would bring us together again in time – a reunion that would come at a critical turning point for the Hummel.”
“Perhaps he will return yet, so why give up hope?” Dalasi had never met Nihjar, who had been permanently stationed in the city beneath Dheathain as the Salthias guard of the small priory that existed there, before the Umber Hulks destroyed it. No Hummel lived beneath the Fae lands now.
“I misinterpreted the prophecy, Dalasi. The brother in the tale that is torn apart from his kin is you.”
“Yet here we are, together, despite it all?”
“When we rise to the surface Dalasi, when you become the Swordswane you will have to be stationed in the city…I will have to go to Haida.” Cydnar was heavily placing emphasis on his statement, to the point where Dalasi felt like he was being beaten with a hammer. “We will be apart, and we will have to fight through hell and high water to be reunited.”
Dalasi, visibly now concerned quickened his pace to catch his brother by the shoulder. He squeezed, frowned, and turned him around. They stood face to face at the halfway point of the sky way. With a backdrop of distant, twinkling glow stones, and crystalline formations that sparkled in reflection, the swordsman saw the tear rolling down his brother’s cheek and realised what awaited them in the days to come.
“What is wrong, brother?” Dalasi crumpled the scroll and tucked it beneath the fold of his breastplate, and then set his other hand onto Cydnar’s other shoulder. He felt cold, lithe, and bony beneath his grip.
“I had another dream…a vision, drenched in blood.”
“What was the dream about?” Dalasi pressed, realising that Cydnar was holding something back, trying, desperately, to guide Dalasi away from a fate he had witnessed in his precognition.
“The semantics of sundering…” he whispered. The words echoed through Ict for an age, before Dalasi stepped slowly back, jaw agog, and heart racing.
“You saw me die…” he mouthed. The semantics of sundering were the incantations recited by the council before a Swordswane potentate entered the Valley of Yggdrassil. It was an ode, a poem, a melody to test his mettle and claim his rightful place with his brothers.
Cydnar wrinkled his lips, trying to hold back his need to cry. He nodded, slowly, and pulled his black garb over his front. He used the motion of tying the sash around his waist to avert his gaze for as long as he could.
“No…” Dalasi urged, “Do not resign you to these visions, brother! You changed what you saw once before, you can do it again!” Cydnar had always seen his visions come to fruition, each time his nightmares had unfolded true, exactly as he had witnessed.
“For you to overcome the wraith of your predecessor, you will need something I do not think I can acquire…” the solemnity in the Salthias’ voice was haunting, an ethereal cry laced into the syllables.
“I will do anything, absolutely whatever it takes!”
“You must wield the White Gold Rings…the Chalice of the Valkyrie.”
When the Valkyrie wrestled with the serpents at the foot of the White Tree, they wielded the blades forged from the Timberlake; the icy heart, the primordial waters, and the permafrost at the crown of the world. With these weapons they dealt a deathblow to Nidhogg, and drove him into Haida. With these weapons, they drew fealty from Yrene, who pledged to guide the Hummel into the dark and guard them, in exchange for servitude and piety in his name.
The Valkyrie turned to one another at the foot of Yggdrassil in their final moments. Whilst broken, battered, and beleaguered, they pledged to guard the spirit of the White Tree in the Firmament. They vowed to stand vigil on its roots for eternity, until the time came when a paladin of the Great Sage could restore the tree to life. Nidhogg, freed for just long enough to bite the trunk, had poisoned the tree with the most virile of poisons in existence.
Treachery.
It had slowly withered and died, and its spirit, bound in quartz, lingered on the borders between the worlds in the Council Chamber of Ict.
“You are talking about The White Gold Wielder, are you not?” Dalasi frowned.
He had heard the fable in the barrack taverns of the small holds to the north. They spoke of a man, a leper, no less, who carried with him three white rings that formed a chalice that could cure even the gravest of inflictions.
Cydnar, finally besting his emotion, dredged back his tears and wiped his cheek with the hem of his robe. He turned to walk on, reluctant to prolong their advance to the Artisan Quarter any longer. Walking on afforded him the privacy of sadness without observation.
“The White Gold Wielder carries the three white gold rings of the Valkyrie. They were lost to us millennia ago, but when I went Kachuk to procure us a smith worthy of our needs, I saw something in the mines I did not expect to see…”
Dalasi followed his brother, not too ignorant of others to walk ahead. He was treading on dangerous ground, and not just because of the perilous heights of the bridge. By now, he could see the glittering expanse of the Artisan Quarter which was perched on the eastern cliff face of Ict. It was backed by a sheer face of quartz that rose for almost thirty miles over head, and it was lapsed by the great lake at the basin of the geode. It was a stalagmite riddled and half frozen deposit of minerals, water, and salt flow.
It shone beautifully.
“It sounds like you are torn between action and reservation, Cydnar.”
“I am torn between all these possibilities, and I do not think I can avert all the disasters which are converging onto us; onto Ict.”
“Then let me relieve your burdens, let me help, let me be the Swordswane without the need for pedantry, ritual and stagnant observations of dead god’s tenets!”
Cydnar stopped. He flinched. If Dalasi were anyone else but kin, he would have turned and driven the quartz shard tucked into his under garb through the blasphemous heart.
“You cannot avoid the Sundering, Dalasi. I will work out how to save you from your fate, mark my words…but you must defeat the wraith of your predecessor. Just,” he spread his arms non-chalant, “like I have to reclaim the White Gold Rings from the Snow Elves. Just like we must both stand, side by side, and face one final test of strength together…”
Dalasi gave protocol a miss, and caught up with his brother as he slowed his pace in hesitation. He took Cydnar by the shoulders again, and squeezed twice as hard. “What test, Cydnar, what test?” he glared into his brother’s cold, misty eyes.
“When we free Yrene…Xem’Zund will rise once more…”
In the distant corners of the quartz geode, cracks formed in the delicate structures. Fates converged on the children of the Under Dark. Time acquiesced with the dwellers in the shadows and their ancient ways.
Many precious things changed.
Part Two: Of Dwarves, Danger, And Destiny
The Artisan Quarter, Grand City of Ict
The Norland Brothers were heavily involved in the sound of their own voices, perched on the edge of the stage, and deep in the semantics and fineries of smithing. The gathered audience were encapsulated, enthralled, and on the edge of their seats. The art of forging blades from metal, or so it seemed, was a tantalising prospect for the young and brilliant minds of Hummellian artistry.
“When you get your ore, and it’s tempered, you then need to begin refining it.” Nalin began, striking up a new tangent in the bouncy dialogue the brothers were using to teach their methods. He hammered the anvil and the mithril resting on it, and then gestured to his brother with the hammer. Bazzak approached the edge of the stage, and with one hand, he gestured to his brother. With his remaining arm, a pudgy, smeg stained limb, he gestured to the crowd.
“You must be careful, when refining mithril, because one of its properties is sadly a highly combustible structure.” The dwarf shrugged with an awkward lament. He paused for thought, and used the time it brought him to examine the thirty or so pale faces that hung on to his every word. “Once you’ve hammered it, refined it, and made it ready for smelting, you must do the next step under water.” Bazzak turned on a heavy boot and crossed the stage.
“This will ensure sparks do not ignite the fine dust refining creates. It will also increase the strength of the mithril because the purity of the water dredges out any imperfection in the metal.” Bazzak took the mithril from Nalin’s anvil and returned to the stage’s edge. “A limp even this small would destroy most of the artisan quarter in the ensuing explosion.”
There was an audible rise in whispers of surprise, admiration, and mocking concern. The dwarves saw disbelief in their students’ eyes, and half wished they could perform a practical demonstration. The elves were not the easiest creatures to teach, haughty, arrogant, and full of tradition that would be difficult, though not impossible to transcend.
“Would a compression chamber not do the same job?” a plucky elf asked, raising his hand slightly to catch Bazzak’s attention.
“Yes,” Nalin interjected. “Though working in such an environment would kill you. Metal needs no oxygen to survive, but I wager you do,” he prodded his digit at the inquisitive mind, who lost his academic sparkle and dropped his gaze to his notes.
“Can anyone tell me what mithril is most famous for?”
In the awkward silence, Bazzak took the time to adjust the buttons of his hauberk and tunic. This was the fourth intake of would be smiths the brothers had taught since they had descended with a cold and mutual desire into the shadows. He was tired, disgruntled, and belittled by the arrogance of his would be pupils, but he was not disheartened. A dwarf did many things, but he never gave up.
“You’ve been sat there for three hours, weren’t you paying attention?” Nalin chuckled. He crossed the stage and stood proudly in front of the large, portable chalk board. It was a large, six by four foot sheet of slate mounted in a wooden frame. It was moveable, and ran on bronze castors that had seen little use. On the slate, there was an elaborate diagram, decked with notation and colour. He prodded his finger at the bottom line, indicating where the information the audience required was to be found.
“Mithril has a mass that belies its lightness, and it is valued because of its weight for lighter, quicker swordsmen.” A familiar voice broke the silence.
Nalin and Bazzak looked over the heads of their audience, slowly rising their gazes to the grand, obsidian, and ancient arch that separate the Forge Chambers from the half-moon lecture theatre that rested on a wide balcony overlooking Ict’s lower lake. They saw two familiar figures, dressed in black and grey, standing in the curvature in the rock. They both beamed a smile as wide as a valley and cheerier than the sun’s rise.
Thirty heads turned with a rush of cloth on stone and jostling journals. They all rose in perfect unison and with a militaristic precision, they all took a step to the left. Each of the blacksmiths bowed courtly, and then returned in unison to their seats. Silence fell over the lecture hall, broken only by the chuckling of their dwarf instructors.
“It is a pleasure, High Salthias Yrene,” Bazzak said, remembering his brother’s scolding about incorrect addresses in a hierarchy that was more delicate and stoic than even the Church’s in Salvar. “Please, do continue?” he shrugged, and set the mithril down on the small cabinet next to his anvil. It caught the dim glow of purple lights as they danced overhead.
“I would be more than happy to Bazzak, but perhaps another time.” Cydnar’s tone told the dwarf all he needed to know about the purpose of his visit. There was no longer any enthusiasm for the exchange of academic ideas or the pursuit of knowledge. Dalasi, usually quick to chide his brother for his diplomatic zeal, could only roll his eyes.
“We would like to speak with you both, as a matter of urgency.” Dalasi gestured a friendly palm to the assembled class, “Unless of course you have an objection?” his raised eyebrow posed the question both to the lecturers, and to the pupils. Not one elf, or dwarf, or shadow objected. “Very well then, dismissed,” Dalasi chuckled.
A furore of robes, closing books, and chatter rose up from the amphitheatre. They began to stream around the Yrene brothers like a dividing tide, oblivious and ignorant of their leader’s presence. They had learned long ago that to respect your elder, you had to treat him indifferently. Cydnar nodded proudly as they continued to file past in a buzz of excitement at the prospect of getting to retire early.
“Come, Cydnar. Come, Dalasi,” Bazzak waved the elves forwards from atop the stage. “If you would speak to us, then speak, what we can do to help you?” the red beard, neatly trimmed, bobbed atop a loose set of lips. Nalin joined his brother by his side, tossing a hammer between his left and right palms. He did it with the sort of dexterity and skill that only a master smith could.
“Well,” Cydnar began, the breath wheezing from his tired lungs as he padded over the cold stone. “We firstly wanted to check up on your progress. From what I just saw, however, I can only assume that it is going excellently?” there was rhetoric in the elf’s question that Bazzak missed.
“More than excellent, they are keen, enthusiastic, and earnest listeners.” Nalin nodded with approval. “It’s been a while, by all means, but since we last spoke I do believe they are ready for their practical instruction.” To Cydnar, that sounded dangerous. He frowned as he reached the stage and ascended the small flight of stairs. “Since you so kindly pointed us to such a wealth of mithril in the mines, we have plenty available for some practice shaping.” The dwarf sounded hesitant. He stroked his beard, and Cydnar chuckled. It was a clear tell of awkwardness.
“You sound uncertain, Bazzak.”
“He is less uncertain, Cydnar, and more cautious.” Nalin interrupted. He tossed the hammer one final time before he set it noisily; head first, down onto the small table to his left. It rocked on uneven legs. “You were so stern and quick to warn us against bringing metal into the city that we don’t see how we can reliably teach the practical side to preparing mithril without endangering everyone here.” The air chilled a few degrees.
Dalasi rocked on his heels, as if he were stricken by a sudden illness. Cydnar felt it too, but he was more than used to the physical and mental trauma the encroaching presence of The Terror caused on Hummel physiology. Both of the elves steadied themselves, hands splayed to their sides, eyes wide, and hearts racing. Bazzak and Nalin assumed their confident attempt to guide the course of their tenure in Ict had over stepped a mark they had unforeseen.
“Forgive me, milord, what is something we said?” he wrinkled a grizzled brow, folded his arms over his ample chest, and turned to Nalin to hint that he too should seem apologetic. All four of the party were stricken with a waft of lemon, thyme, and burnt potatoes. It was the smell of spring gone awry, winter asunder, and summer dying. The seasons were weary of what approached the city.
Cydnar fell to his knees, right hand clutched tightly on his robes where his heart rested. His face was anguished, withered, and scorned, but no sound emerged from his open lips. Dalasi fell to his knees too, but went one further and fell to his side, prone and defenceless.
“Dalasi!” Nalin whelped, skipping, or at least, skipping as much as a heavily armoured dwarf could over Cydnar’s body. Bazzak made for the High Salthias, and both dwarves cupped the injured Hummel into their short arms to comfort them. “What is the matter, speak to me?”
The echo of that first hairline fracture in the quartz descended over the Artisan Quarter. A second followed shortly after, then a third, a forth, and a fifth. They grew louder with each sounding, until a final, tumultuous thunder clap filled not just the forges and flames of the Hummel forges, but the entire geode. Overhead, six shafts of light pierced the dense rock shell of the city.
Cydnar craned his neck upwards, unashamed of his weakness, but terrified of what was to come. He focused his blurry vision as much as he could, and pointed upwards with a shaking finger to the perforations in his home. The light, as the legend put it, was that of the fabric of the world being eroded in the wake of the Under Dark’s greatest threat. They were the Kings of the Shadow, the Emperors of Metal, and the Lords of None but themselves.
Dalasi whispered it first, and then Cydnar echoed it in reprise.
“Umber Hulks…”
Epilogue
A New Day Rising, A Dark Night Falling
Cydnar opened his eyes with a slow realisation that he was no longer in any danger. His heart, though racing, channelled blood, life, and solemnity through his sweated limbs. His cloth robes, silken in places with the flow of water from his lithe form clung to his skin beneath the woollen folds of his bed. With piercing eyes fixated on the spiralling veins of ivy which covered the roof of his bed chamber, the swordsman began to breathe heavily, taking in each humid draft of air with the volition of a king. He remained calm, reposed, and contemplative.
“The same dream, every night, for a month…” he said softly. Each time he had woken from the visions of the Sundering of Ict Cydnar had repeated the same statement. Over and over, and over again, he had been tormented with the prospect of binding his people to his ancient enemy in a fickle alliance. He had been tormented by the horrors of the Umber Hulks shattering the crystal geode of his home. He had succumbed in that dream to the overwhelming responsibilities he had been beset with in recent years. “I will not succumb in the flesh,” he ran his tongue over his bottom lip, to lick moisture onto his cracked skin.
The two pallid purple spheres that made up his eyes shone in the twilight, burning against a backdrop of vermillion cloth and darkness. Only two simple bracketed torches illuminated his study beyond, dancing flames casting fiery convocation over the smooth obsidian curves of the space. For several minutes Cydnar contemplated the meaning of the vision, turning the plot, dialogue, and metaphor over and over in the back of his mind. In a few moments, he would have to rise to instruct his brother in the Library about the developments to come in the coming weeks.
“I cannot put it off any longer,” he said with remorse.
As the day in his dream had come closer and closer, Cydnar’s heart had sunken deeper and deeper into the quagmire of shadow and sorrow that had grown during the exodus of his people from the place they had come to call home. He crawled to the end of the bed and righted himself with an extension of his arm. The small crystal geode hanging around his neck on a length of chain rattled and hung loosely from his slender frame. It shone on its own volition, even before the torchlight struck it and gave it a radiance that defied logic. As he slid his feet out and into the comfort of his woollen slippers, he pressed his mind against the emblem in the sphere’s structure that represented Dalasi, and called the swordsman to his duty.
“Let us see,” he said, as a swirl of light flickered before him, “what today shall bring, brother.” He looked up at Dalasi’s surprised grin, his half-swung sword, and the grating segments of his Platemail. “Are you ready?” he raised an eyebrow as he rose along with it, and pulled his robes tight about his body to tie the loosened sash into place. “We have a long day ahead of us, and much to learn before we retire.”
Dalasi’s eager enthusiasm faded with a drain of the colour from his already pallid cheeks. He dropped his blade and let its tip clash against the dark floor without ceremony or care.
“I was expecting something exciting, interesting, and in keeping with your promise to prepare me for the spar with the Swane…”
Cydnar frowned.
“Brother, what is wrong?” Dalasi sheathed his sword and rested his hands on his hips.
“A sundering is going to rend our world apart, Dalasi…” there was a fear in the Hummel’s voice that would have been impossible to hide even with all the diction, tact, and magic in the world. “I need you to help me understand the semantics behind it…”
War had come to Althanas.
Gods had died.
People had suffered.
Now was the time for the Under Dark to rise into the light.
Revenant
05-27-12, 12:22 AM
Plot: (18)
Storytelling (6) – Though this thread brought up many interesting plot hooks, it was mostly exposition setting the scene for future endeavors and little of what you espoused here was followed through. While tied together functionally, this thread was almost more of a well-written preview than a standalone story.
Setting (5) – While the scenes in the library and in the artisan quarter gave a general description of the setting that was used to fill in the space around the Cydnar, Dalasi, and the Norland brothers, there was no feeling to those locations, nothing that could really be used to distinguish them as grand locations within an underground crystalline city rather than a library and a smith’s shop.
Pacing (7) – Most of this thread flowed extremely well, as if it were one long post that was divided at excellent junctures into Cydnar and Dalasi’s individual posts. The transition to the second portion of the thread in the artisan quarters was well done as well, giving the story a natural flow. The end of the second part with the arrival of the Umber Hulks and the sudden jump to dream realization in the epilogue was just too jarring, and lowered your score here.
Character: (20)
Communication (9) – Communication between Cydnar and Dalasi, and then later the Norland brothers and the Yrene’s was really the main driving force of this thread and you played it out excellently. The differences in voice between the sets of brothers excellently established the feel of the characters and their diversities. My only real criticism in this field was that portions of Dalasi’s writings had a vague quality that made it feel as if there were no real differences between he and Cydnar.
Action (5) – Where your communication excelled, your action was severely lacking. You characters did things, moved around the table, looked at scrolls, etc, but frankly it didn’t do much to draw me in as a reader. Then, when the Umber Hulks were attacking, the thread ended, just when there was some real excitement.
Persona (6) – You have a strong feel for who your characters are and that shows through, though at times their personalities seem to mesh a bit too closely. The biggest thing holding your score back in this thread was that Dalasi in particular seemed to be acting merely as a source of exposition, blatantly voicing things in a manner that seemed somewhat forced purely for sake of getting knowledge across. There are other ways to convey information rather than having to have a character voicing that information.
Prose: (24)
Mechanics (9) – You left little room for error here and not much needs to be said regarding that.
Clarity (8) – Nearly everything in your thread flowed together nicely. My only complaint in this area was your epilogue and how its revelation wasn’t the clearest.
Technique (7) – You exhibited a definite feeling of completeness throughout the thread but the execution of the cliffhanger Umber Hulk attack and the realization that the thread was nothing but a dream sequence didn’t mesh well with the rest of the thread’s flow.
Wildcard (3) – While this thread pulled together several strings from previous stories, it went nowhere with them. I was very disappointed in this and felt that, in the end, the whole thread felt more like a coming attractions for future stories.
Total: 65
Cydnar Yrene receives 853 exp and 100 gp.
Dalasi Yrene receives 437 exp and 65 gp.
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