February Vignette

[hoytti]

Vignette will be open until February 28th. Rules and guidelines available here (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?25691-Vignette-Rules-amp-Rewards).


Zoom forward in time to you character exactly thirty years later. How have they changed? Are they the same? How did they grow, mentally and physically. Or are they just dead by then?

[Tobias Stalt]

"A man lives a million times in his life." The first time Tobias had heard those words, he had been studying at the feet of his father aspiring toward the meager life of a merchant. There had been no understanding in his mind, nor in the bright young eyes through which he saw the world. The graying man puffed at his pipe, his sad gaze reviewing the documents that had slid across his desk moments before. "Those were good days," he muttered in somber reminiscence.

There had been a time in Tobias' life where uncertainty ruled him, but inevitability had sorted his fate out. These fleeting memories of rebellious youth were precious reminders of the truth in his father's words. He mouthed the words on the report as he absently read it, no emotion registering on his wrinkled face. Thirteen dead and eighty wounded; Salvic Smith dies in tragic accident, fire destroys small village.

There was no need to guess who had been involved, or what happened. The idea of losing a friend was sobering. In his life, Tobias had been many men; he had been a thief and murderer, lover and soldier, even a hero in some warped minds. Tobias had been a friend and an enemy, a leader and a follower, and now...

Tears stained the paper as he lowered the pipe, and a plume of smoke roiled from his aged lips. "We were so young," he whispered, "and I hated so much." Had it not been for his friends, Tobias knew he would never have seen old age. He remembered the golden haired beauty who had seen him through training as a recruit in Alerar, Camille, with her stunning smile and beautiful body. Part of him still regretted their kisses, and the moments they spent in each other's arms talking foolishly about spending their lives together. Tobias wished he could have saved his heart from the emptiness that came with her death, and the unfulfilled desire for her to bear their child. The years he had invested in loving Camille drowned in her lifeless eyes every time he awoke from restless sleep. His wrinkles were born of his sadness, he knew.

Everyone he surrounded himself with eventually died. It was a fact of life, even for a common man; for Tobias though, it was his greatest curse. "Greatness is a costly virtue," his father had told him, "live quietly, and you will live happy." Oh, he wished he would have listened.

The reflection he saw in the mirror was a ghost of the war leader Tobias had elevated himself to at the apex of his life. Gilded plate and decorated uniforms littered his wardrobe, collecting dust from disuse. Memories haunted him like plagues, and sadness crept behind every door. Lifting his quill after some time, he began to scribble in the small book where he kept his thoughts.

"Another great man is dead," he dictated as he wrote, his voice filled with hurt. "I pushed Jak away shortly after losing Camille. I had hoped," Stalt confessed with a sigh, "he would live a long, uneventful life surrounded by the people he loved. Jak Roth Rute was a man unlike most men..."

As Tobias scrawled out his memoirs, tears dripped along the folds of his sad smile. "Hear now the plea of the Fallen," he muttered, "to be remembered. This timeless tragedy called life may have ended for them, but their exploits live on in these pages."

Tobias remembered going out into the world to make a name for himself, and he had. The memories and friends he made lived on in his mind, but it was a lonely existence. One after another, the things he cared about mysteriously and tragically fell to pieces. He had watched in silence as Alerar betrayed Corone in the heat of brutal war, fire sweeping across the lines from above. The soldier remembered so much history that he had become a part of it himself.

He had earned the nickname "Teller" from a boy once, some recruit who had been killed in battle. Tobias remembered more history than most men learned in all their lives. There was no great surprise in the skill he had in recounting those tales he knew, but "Teller" felt honored by the name no less.

Teller was an old man now. The best days of his life had faded, like the candle burning down to the last of its wick on his desk. As he closed the book, Tobi wiped his eyes. Some days, he genuinely wished it would be over. Leaning forward, he fed the paper bearing the news of his friend's death to the small light source, watching fondly as it cracked and folded in the expanding flames. Pieces fell away and burned down until nothing was left, and when the paper was a charred ruin he finally blew out the candle.

As he walked through the door to his office, the young woman who saluted him asked, "General Stalt, are you alright?"

With a broad smile, he clapped the woman on her shoulder. "Aye, Rissa. I'm fine, just old." Passing the young woman by, he was genuinely heartened by her concern. "Did you know, I loved a woman once who was quite as beautiful as you?"

"G... general?" She seemed to blush awkwardly, not matching his gaze. Tobias simply chuckled and turned away.

"Don't worry, I'm far too old to be talking to you like that," he said disarmingly, "I was just thinking about old friends." A tear slipped past his defenses, but he turned that side of his face away from the girl to hide it. "When this war is over, promise me something, Ris."

"Yes, General?" She gazed at him, bright eyes full of youth and fascination. He smiled.

"Find a man you truly love, and never let him go. Forget this life of soldiering and attending to forgotten relics and do something you won't regret for eternity." The general turned from the girl, adjusting his sword belt and heading toward his chambers. While his advanced age kept him out of the field, he was still highly valued for his insight. The next day promised a full workout of his abilities.

"I... erm... I can't keep that promise, sir," the girl replied weakly. Tobias stopped for a long moment, sighing as he turned to look back at her. The smile on his face did not fade.

"Neither could I at your age," he replied, nodding sagely. "So I don't hold it against you. Dismissed, soldier."

She darted forward unexpectedly, and Tobias twisted reflexively to catch her as she stumbled toward him. He caught her more deftly than he liked, and he gazed down at her. "I... you're a great leader, General..." Not meeting his eyes, she shivered at his touch. "I joined the military because you were my hero. I... I love heroes and tales of things past, and my father always told me you were his best friend."

"Your father?" Tobias asked softly.

"His name was Arsen," she replied, smiling up at him, "he was just a soldier. He died happily and surrounded by family. You signed his discharge papers yourself when he lost a leg."

"Arsen," he repeated. "I remember." It had been grim. Arsen had charged headlong into the enemy line, and the fight that ensued had been long. Tobias stood next to him, the two men holding against droves of infantry. He saw the same vigor in Rissa's eyes that had been in her father's, and Tobias tugged his book from his cloak.

"What are you doing?" She asked, tilting her head as she read the golden script on the leather bound black book. It was entitled, "a Timeless Tragedy."

Tobias smiled at her. "Remembering."

Rissa hugged herself to his chest, sobbing as Tobias wrote quickly in the pages of his book. "I promised him," she said in a quiet voice, "I'd learn from you, and make him proud. But then..."

Tobias stopped writing, and the young girl looked up. She saw that he was crying, and she reached up to brush away his tears. "Why do you weep, Tobias?" She asked, daring familiarity.

"For those who are forgotten," he managed, "lest I forget."

In that instant, she leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek, wiping away his tears. "That is too much of a burden for one man," she chided him gently. She hesitated, then added, "Let me cry with you."

Stopping short, Tobias took stock of the girl. She was more beautiful than Camille had been, though it hid behind uniform and protocol. More than that, he saw a hope in her eyes that had been sucked away from his own. He nodded. "Let me tell you a story about a blacksmith," he began, placing a hand on her back and resuming his walk, "and a boy who was a thief."

[Kroom]

The sun sank with painstaking reticence. Dusk was slow to approach, the daylight fighting with admirable tenacity to reach an impossible victory. Night's onslaught was inexorable, and even if the day knew that, and even if it knew that in a few mere hours it would reclaim its lost territory, still it fought desperately, slow to yield an inch.

To Jerrad, this was as expected as it was frustrating. The solstice would, of course, be slow to yield, but having to wait for the instant that the sun dipped to the horizon and at last began to vanish was proving to be a maddening ordeal. His followers gathered behind him were perfectly content to wait for him, but he was being forced to wait on nature itself, and there was no way he could hurry nature. Such things were beyond the ken of all but the most powerful of mages, and Jerrad was not one of them.

Tomorrow, however, would see a difference. Tomorrow would see Jerrad holding more power than some ever dreamed of touching.

The sun touched the horizon. His squinted and sun-sore eyes widened, and Jerrad wheeled and hurried down the slope, back to the clearing where his followers stood ready.

"Prepare!" he hissed. "The solstice-night is upon us!" Instantly, his patient followers - mages, warriors, scholars - were thrown into a flurry of activity. The two scholars made the final preparations, etching the last few necessary symbols into the dirt before they scurried away. The mages took their place, forming an arcane circle around the central symbols and beginning to draw on their power. Jerrad placed himself firmly in the Supplicant's Rune, preparing to make the summoning, while the fighters all readied their weapons: bows, javelins, slings, swords, and one man - an Alerian mercenary - even had one of their 'firearms.'

The ritual began, Jerrad chanting eldritch phrases in unison with the assembled mages as the sun sank and darkness spread. Almost immediately, he felt resistance - his target did not want to be drawn. It felt like a cat, sinking its claws into a carpet to avoid being moved. It was loathe to be drawn out, and Jerrad allowed himself to smile as he chanted. He's scared. He knows what awaits him.

The incantation grew stronger, but so did the resistance. Jerrad snarled in a fierce joy, feeling the irresistible tide of the summoning magic draw his target onto this plane. The air in the center of the circle began to darken. We will have you, you 'Count of Shadows.' We will have you. The chanting grew quicker, more insistent, more demanding. Jerrad risked a glance towards the horizon. The sun is almost down. We must have him before it sets! We must have the sunlight with us!

The darkness in the air grew, taking shape - twice as tall as man, and much wider. Perhaps a horse and rider? Jerrad poured all his strength into the summoning, trying to drag his target through the planes by sheer force of will. The resistance slacked, and began to turn to what felt like resignation. Jerrad's smile broadened, and the shape grew more distinct. It was undoubtedly a horse and rider.

A chill sweat broke out on the sorcerer's forehead. Something had changed. This wasn't right; it wasn't resignation he was feeling. It was…

…eagerness. He's not scared... he was feeling lazy, and now we woke him up...

The sun disappeared.

With a soundless roar, the shape came across fully, materializing a few yards from Jerrad's position. A cloaked and hooded man sat astride a dusky gray horse, and he stared with interest at Jerrad.

"Sorry it took me so long," the man said, and Jerrad was struck by his accent. Is that a Salvic tongue? "The sun and I aren't on the best terms, and he sometimes takes offense when I trespass on his territory." The man threw back his hood, exposing black hair shot through with iron gray, a beard of the same coloring, and eyes of a startling emerald. Those eyes slitted and stared at Jerrad. "What can I do for you?"

The sorcerer stood, releasing the summoning power and drawing out his war-power. This is it.

"Count of Shadows," Jerrad said, wishing his voice would stop shaking so, "tonight I claim your seat and bring the Shadows under my rule!" The rider hissed, turning as if to ride away, but he halted. His horse would not turn, could not turn. The rider whispered in its ear, patted its neck, then dismounted.

"So," he said flatly, "you used Teller's Ritual, and added a clause to bind me here and suppress my power. Very clever." Jerrad raised a hand, and all the mages drew their power forward, aiming it at the Count. He ignored this. "I'm surprised you got a hold of the Ritual. I'll need to talk to him about that; he promised me he'd keep a tight lid on it." Jerrad paused. The Count knows Teller? "You didn't realize that, did you - that Teller and I are friends? We knew each other a long time ago. Gods below," the Count chuckled, "I'm the one who gave the Ritual, in case he ever needed to contact me. It got more difficult over time, you know, as I passed further on."

The shadows were lengthening, becoming ubiquitous. The Count's power was only growing, yet Jerrad found himself unable to order the attack. The Count rolled his shoulders and threw his cloak back, revealing an unadorned sword on his hip and a pair of knives at the back of his belt. We must act now.

"Men," Jerrad cried, trying to keep a firm hold on his power, "bring death to thi- "
"I'm not finished talking," hissed the Count, and Jerrad fell silent. He could not move, yet he felt his power awakening inside him, growing impatient to be released. The sensation terrified him. He had read scrolls written by men who opined that a mage's power was a living thing that must be respected, not abused. Jerrad had scorned those dusty old plodders, but now, feeling the way the raw sorcery coiled and swarmed inside him, he had second thoughts.

"So, I cannot leave," the Count said, amiably. "Well done. You have successfully trapped yourselves here with me. No, I'm sorry, it's meant to be the other way around." He smiled, twisting his lips in the most terrifying mockery of apology that Jerrad had ever seen. "To have found Teller's Ritual, and to have properly altered it, you must be very well studied. I commend you, and I must ask a question. In your studies, did you find much of my history?"

The clearing was silent as the Count turned slowly, lazily drawing his sword. Every other person present was stock-still, statuesque. Jerrad wondered if they were experiencing the same effect as he was, for he did not feel paralyzed or held. He was certain that if he wanted to move, he could move as much as he pleased. Somehow, though, he dared not move.

The Count's blade flickered as he swung the weapon through the air, describing lazy arcs. Now that it was naked, Jerrad could see the blade. A Damascus sword.

"Do you know who and what I was before I became Count of Shadows?" the Count asked. He turned about, looking for anybody who might have had the answer. Seeing none, he smiled and said, "I was a mercenary. A peddling journeyman blacksmith turned mercenary, named Jak Roth Rute. That was when I met Teller, you see, back when he was just a sniveling pickpocket in Pestovo." Jerrad's mind reeled. "The point is," the Count continued, his amiable tone turning to ice, "I learned to kill easily, long before I had my power."

Jerrad was free, and raising his hand, he unleashed the shouting force inside him. His companions felt the same release, and a hail of sorcery and missiles rained towards the Count.

The Count, however, wasn't there. He was through the circle of mages, bodies in his wake, and his steel was flicker of death among the outer circle, where archers and slingers screamed and died. The Alerian's gun shouted twice, then was silent. Jerrad tried to end the sorcery ripping from his hands, but it resisted him.

A dog on a leash may, at times, remember something of its feral heritage, and buck against the restraint, refusing to heed the orders of the man who pretends to have tamed it, until at last the leash breaks and the dog is free. Just so now, with Jerrad and his power. It screamed out from him, ravaging the unfortunates in its path. Jerrad was the most powerful of the mages, and to them his power was inexorable, irresistible. Like water from a hose, the power ripped out from him in an unending stream, and left corpses in its wake. Jerrad was terrified, but still he tried to aim the furious flow after the Count. If I can hit him, I can still salvage this-

The sorcerer screamed, power still flowing. With horrified eyes, he watched his skin split into bleeding cracks, his body beginning to fail under the demands of the ravaging sorcery. His screams grew, his eyes rolling back as he fell to his knees, trying to gain any sort of control. In the eye of the storm, his mind found a moment of clarity. I called out this beast, he thought, and now it doesn't want to be put away.

At the last moment, when the tortured sorcerer felt his death looming, the raging power suddenly ceased, like it had been cut off, cast away, silenced. Weeping and gasping, Jerrad opened his bloodshot eyes and tried to take in the darkening world. He could not see another living soul, except the horse standing unperturbed in the middle of broken circle. The ground was cut, broken, shattered by the unleashed magic. The binding was broken, and the Count could leave whenever he wished.

Jerrad slumped forward, shivering in pain. He had failed, failed so thoroughly that he felt numb at the thought of it. All he wanted was oblivion, to be free of this racking pain, free of his despair, free of every sensation. Sensation was a tenacious bitch, however, refusing to release him. He felt every throb from his wounds, every caress of the wind, and his ears winced at the sound of the Count's approach. His naked weapon still hummed and shivered, dripping blood as the man squatted down in front of him.

"You're not the first, you know," he said affably. "There have been others. Every now and then, somebody comes along and tries to take over. You made a good effort, too - choosing the longest day of the year, trying to summon me before the sun fell, keeping the daylight on your side. An admirable effort, truly. But you know what I've learned? It's a lesson I learned a long time ago. Power, magical power, is like a river, or an ocean. Mages are like boats, sailing about on this power, and sometimes they bump into and try to sink each other. Sometimes there are monsters in that ocean; like the power you thought you controlled. All I had to do was remind it of itself."

Jak Roth Rute, the Count of Shadows, stood slowly, stretching his back. "The mistake you made was the same mistake that so many others have made. They see me, or others like me, and they think they see another ship that they can board and claim, and use it to sink other ships." He twirled the sword in his hand, resting it on his shoulder.

"The truth is, mage," he continued, practicing his swing down at the Jerrad's neck, "that I'm not a ship." His arm coiled back, ready to deliver death, and the blade hummed. Jerrad sighed, strangely eager for the release he anticipated.

"I'm one of the monsters." Jerrad's eyes widened as darkness flooded from the Count, and the sword chopped downwards.

Silence claimed the clearing as night completed its victory over day, and Jak cleaned his sword. Shadows flitted about, slowly clearing the blood and corpses, erasing the signs of death and wrath as the Count walked back to his mount. He sheathed his sword and swung into the saddle, gathering the reins.

"Come on then, Dancer. Let's go home." Horse and rider wheeled, walking into the darkness, the flitting shadows gathering around them. "Or maybe we'll go visit Teller…"

The Count vanished.

[Ashla]

In the snows of Salvar, one woman stood at the edge of a snowy cliff. The snow blew in the direction of her face as she looked down into the darkness of the valley below. Her black hair was smooth against her pale face and blue eyes, but her outfit matched her hair color. She wore black clothing with red ribbons. She gained a similar outfit in Eiskalt, it was also meant for the snow. For the most part this outfit was sown based off of the last one once it had become too small for her. At the age of forty-seven, Ashla Icebreaker was getting older; however she still seemed to be in her prime somehow. She was still rather skinny and fit, two long blades hanging on her brown belt, slightly being blown around due to the hard winds. A long, black cloak blew rather calmly behind her despite the weather, a dark hood over her head and covering her eyes. Ashla still had a metal bow in her hands, she grasped it and looked up again, blinking.

She had fulfilled her purpose for how long? She had brought peace and order whenever she could, since she was young she had tried in as many ways as she could to fill her lost family’s shoes as the shinning knight who would come in to save everyone. And she was still at it, but not alone…

She heard heavy footsteps in the thick snow from behind her. She smirked, knowing who it was. “So, you found anything?”

The voice of a man, around her age, sounded from behind in a shudder, “I found her…”

Ashla felt her heart briefly stop. He had found her here out of all places? She felt a tear fall down her grim face, they would finally meet her again…

“Should we-?“ Ashla’s voice crackled.

“I’m afraid so…” The man from behind her stated.

Ashla turned around, her cloak naturally replying to the movement by flapping much more violently. Ashla’s eyes were now in their ice state. It had been such a long time… “Alright then, Julius.” She eyed the forty-eight year old man, her husband, as he stood a couple yards away from her. He had his almost not-so-curly hair still reaching down to his shoulders. A barely visible beard has formed from lack of the time to shave in their desperate search for her. He had a long outfit of armor and heavy cloth to keep him warm, some armor also seemed apparently slapped onto him. He seemed actually in his age compared to an unwrinkled Ashla, his skin appearing darker than Ashla’s which turned to be quite pale.

He shared her same expression, how would she handle them again? “Yes…” He nodded.

Ashla only blinked as the pair ran into the bare forest of dead trees behind them.

~~~

They ran for what seemed to be hours and hours and hours… However, they finally made it to a huge chunk of grey rock that seemed to climb into a very small mountain. Somewhere in the heart of the forest, a lone cave seemed buried in the rocks. Ashla once again, just blinked up at it. She was about to ask Julius if this was where he had found her, but before she could he called up to the rocks.

“Hanuh!” He called up, cupping his hands to his mouth as he spoke, “We know you’re up there!”

Julius’ voice echoed around in the white and grey forest and up against the giant boulders which were pilled upon each other so tightly. For several moments, that was the only sound in the forest. Ashla lifted her left band to her mouth and bit one of her fingernails in nervousness. Maybe she wasn't here after all, or she had noticed Julius and ran off. It would have been so much like her to just keep running away… Even if it was from her own father.

However, the intense minute of waiting was rewarded by the sound of heavy boots against the top of the rocks, and there she stood…

“Hanuh…” Ashla whispered.

“Well,” A blonde woman of about thirty years lifted her hands in a shrug, “You found me…”

Julius’ eyes narrowed, “Yes, and for a very good reason too…”

The woman scoffed, “Hey, I’m not a kid anymore in case you didn't notice, dad, I can handle myself!”

Julius growled, “I-I know, but- …” He went silent in his frustration, Hanuh did have a point. She was over thirty years old now and both her parents still treated her like a teenager. Ashla herself could relate to not being told what to do after being alone for a while, but Hanuh was her child!

“Hanuh,” Ashla naturally spoke up as she wrapped her cloak around her, hoping for some warmth in the cold brink of day, “We know that…”

“Then why are you here?!” Hanuh demanded from the edge of the rocky structure.

Ashla’s eyes closed, “You have more responsibility than both of us combined…” Ashla’s heart rushed out to her brash daughter, “You have the abilities of both the Tabor and Icebreaker families; that’s a strong combination…” Ashla’s eyes opened again, “I lived with only one of my parents for four years and that was that, I do not want you to go down the same path of loneliness as I have.”

Hanuh’s aggressive face suddenly softened, “I know…” She called, “I do know, cause you already told me. But you know what, mom?” a smirk appeared on her face, “I didn't, you both already gave me everything I need.”

Julius’ eyes widened, “Hanu-“

Hanuh lifted her arm to silence her father, “You gave me all the love, care, and even bloodline traits I needed to survive on my own. I want to be like you guys, I am.” The smirk turned into a smile, “And that’s why I want to be alone from here on out. You guys are like, only ten years older than me, you’re not so wise as you may seem.”

Hanuh… Ashla felt something wet trail down her face, she was crying.

“I want to be alone from here on out to prove that to you guys.” Hanuh lifted her hand into a finger and shook it, “So don’t mistake this for me hating you, alright? I’m completely fine…”

“We do…” Julius shuddered, “Still treat you like a child… We are about ten years behind…”

Hanuh smiled in her reoccurring victory. Ashla smirked in amusement, Hanuh always got the better of her dad. Hanuh chuckled, “Now, you can just watch me…” With that, Hanuh’s image had been replaced by a brief flame, she had teleported elsewhere.

Ashla chuckled, “She also is immature from about ten years…” She laughed, “But hey, she’s you’re child.” She punched Julius’ arm.

“My child??” Julius exclaimed, “Hey, you were always the rebellious one!” he laughed with her.

As they chuckled in the bare snow in the evening blight, Ashla was one hundred percent reassured that Hanuh was ready… Little did she still know that with the power she possessed, she would have to fulfill a greater purpose than Ashla and Julius combined. Whether that purpose was good or bad was still void to them, but Ashla had the feeling that it would be good…

[Philomel]

The guard yawned as he leant against the doorpost, the lines in his face disappearing for a moment as the jaw and cheeks stretched. The eyes screwed together, set deep already in his face and the mono-brow furrowed comfortably, wriggling like a hairy caterpillar. The pike in his hand knocked on the stonework as did so, creating a dull ring that made the younger man shiver in his boots.

“Oh my gods!” the blonde-haired new recruit whispered, “Are you falling asleep?!”

Everard closed his mouth, slowly, eyes watering slightly as they blinked to twist around and look at him. “Hmm?” he asked, “‘Sup, kid?”

The blondy gasped, gawping. “You are… you are sleeping on the job?!”

Everard shook his head, grinning slightly, “Nawp. Course I am not. I never would dare for her Lady in there, would I?”

He gestured with a nod at his head at the doorway, in which a great pair of wooden gates were kept closed. They were wide enough to allow a two-horsed wagon or carriage to roll in, similar to the ones that the guards were used to seeing ride past. The young guard looked almost in awe at the gates, opening and closing his mouth a few times, then turned back to Everard.

“Have you ever seen her?” he asked quietly.

The older guard raised an eyebrow as he straightened, shaking himself awake. True he was tired, but also he had not lied when he said he wouldn’t dare sleep in front of their boss, the Lady of Blood and Love. The only people who did betray her as such ended up dead, and there was no exception. It was rumoured that she herself was the one who carried out the killings.

“Aye, of course,” Everard said, looking down the street, and then back around to the younger guard. “What did you say your name was again, kid?”

“Muffin, mister. Muffin Giles.”

“Your mother was obsessed with cakes were she?” Everard grinned, straightening his pike. “Or were your father a baker?”

“Umm…” Muffin’s face went bright red under his helmet. “Err… both actually. Both.”

Everard snorted. “Both eh? Well I am sure both of them know of our Lady.”

Muffin nodded a few times, looking away, “Ye-yes… Mumma owes her her life, Pappa owes her for Mumma’s freedom. So the Lady accepted me as repayment for the service.”

“Your mother worked for her?”

The young Muffin bobbed his head faster, eyes locking on a tall merchant with a small retinue making his way down the cobbled road towards them. “Yes. In one of her brothels. When father fell in love they got married and the Lady let her go with a dowry.”

Everard also came to settle his gaze on the merchant, who was fiddling awkwardly with the hem of his long drooping sleeve. “Aye, she is like that, they say,” he said. “Now who might this be…”

“Halt!” Muffin had already taken a step forwards, and thrust the axe end of his pike into the merchant elf’s throat. “Halt, who goes there?”

The merchant seemed a lot taken aback and raised his hands, suddenly blubbering out. Very undignified for an elf. “I - I have come to see Lady Philomel!” he cried, looking embarrassed, “I have a business transaction to complete with her, please. I am Merchant Du Flagan!”

But Muffin did not seem convinced, he growled a little, “Yeah right. You just want to assassinate her.”

Du Flagan blinked, paused, then very shockingly and suddenly burst into laughter.

“Assassinate Lady Philomel?” he chuckled, pushing the pike away, somehow having gained confidence in the last three seconds. “As if - the city would fall apart!”

Everard raised an eyebrow, then smiled, subtly. Yes, he agreed, yes the city would definitely fall apart.

----

Philomel, the Lady of Blood and Love watched the forthcomings between her gate guards and one of the Elven Merchants she conducted business with. Which one it was precisely, she was not certain, but one of her assistants would inform her. The majority of them were fauns as she knew from personal experience it was often difficult for her race to attain employment in the city. Unless they were whores, then it was easy. But for those that did not want to go into the “companion” profession there was Philomel. She was Lady Philomel now, a source of information and dealings, the director of a vast empire that connected every sector of the city to the next, owner of brothels and inns and one jetty upon the harbour. She also had a paid and loyal agent of hers in almost every house that concerned monetary transaction, but that was a side-project. Something that was still in development.

She pursed her lips, and turned around from the window, and started down the steps into her parlour. It was decked in grand green with ash wood panelling, a small closeted altar to Drys in the corner. Taking up much of the space was a large grand heavy iron and walnut desk with an ornate carved chair before it, currently with a plush cushion on the seat and on this the curled up form of Veridian, brush-tail tucked between his forepaws, narrow eyes peeking over towards Philomel. As she stepped from the window seat into the parlour he raised his chin, then tilted it to the side.

Who is it? he asked, directly into her mind, Is it the master-assassin returned?

“No my love,” Philomel smiled, gently, coming over to the one creature she had discovered in all her thirty years without her mother she loved. She leaned down, and scratched the fox-form earth-spirit behind the ears, sighing. “No, he has not come back yet. It is one of the merchants.”

I prefer your whores, Veridian said, closing his eyes and leaned into the petting. They are much more friendly.

“Just to you,” the faun murmured, “Just to you, my dear.”

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

As I stood behind the bar, arms crossed, I glanced at the crude calendar that adorned the wall nearby. Today marked the sixth day after the thirty year anniversary of my... changing. That day when I crossed paths with a demigod pissed off that I had tried to change my lot in life by cursing me to kill for the rest of my days. That day when I ceased being wholly human and had my very being altered on a biological level to become this... What's the best word here--carrier? Yes, I suppose that'll work... This carrier of disease and death that has gone on to do some rather incredible things.

If you don't know of my vile deeds, look 'em up. I'm in no mood to recount them tonight.

Tonight was the night I settled a long-standing score with an old friend. No, friend was the wrong word; but after all I've been through in my life, all who I've crossed paths with and double-crossed in return, our dedication to see each other dead by our own respective hands gave us a certain curious, inexplicable bond. He was the closest thing I had to a friend in a long, long time.

Sure, friends normally don't want to kill each other, but...

Minor details.

I stood in a silent tavern. My mere arrival had caused the patrons and barkeep to flee in a panic, as was expected. Behind me, the steady ticking of an old clock was the only sound that could be heard. He's late. I clicked my tongue, hating to be made to wait for anyone or anything.

Bored, I grabbed two clean glass mugs off the bar behind me, picked up a cleaning rag with my prevalida fingers, and began absentmindedly polishing them further. Minutes later, I heard the workings of the iron doorknob twist and turn, and the heavy wooden door that led into the tavern slowly opened, creaking on its hinges.

Even by the inadequate light provided by the candlelight inside the bar, the pristine whiteness of his robes were unmistakable. The butt end of an iron spear poked through the doorway, coming into contact with the dirty wooden floor in step with the man's hard leather boots. As he continued to make his way through the doorway, I realized that it was unmistakably him: A man I had come to know simply as Balmar. He wore the robes of an Empowered Priest of the Church of the Ethereal Sway, the cursed organization who had been relentlessly chasing me ever since I set foot in this blasted country. His head was shaved bald, his face scarred with two parallel inch-long scars on his left cheek. His left eye was a faded, steely blue; his right, a pale white hunk of glass surrounded by metal plating.

(Fun fact: In an encounter between myself and Balmar around twelve years ago, I got fed up with his zealous bullshit and rotted away half of his face, an eyeball, and a bit of his skull. He of course survived that ordeal, thanks to the quick hands of healers and surgeons.)

Silently, the lean but imposing man walked up to the bar, and produced a slip of paper between two fingers, which he tossed onto the bar. On it, scribbled in my handwriting, were simply a date (today) and a place (this tavern), along with my signature and a request to come alone. We stood in silence, sizing each other up, thinking of all the possible tricks we both had up our sleeves, debating on whether or not we had both walked right into each others' traps. It was Balmar who first broke the silence. "Well," his deep, rugged voice boomed throughout the empty tavern, "what is it you summoned me here for, witch?"

I smiled. "Witch. After decades, you still insist on calling me that. I prefer other titles; artificer, alchemist, bioengineer--"

"--Plaguebearer."

"That may be true," I replied, my smile fading as I recalled the events thirty years ago deep in Concordia that turned me into a walking sick bomb. "In fact, more so than the previous three I mentioned. But witch? Hardly. I do not sulk around in caves and dead forests, dreaming of silly tricks and hexes, wondering where I put my last bottle of 'eye of newt' or 'salamander's breath'. I am not some magical spell-slinging, potion-brewing hag; no, I am a woman of science, of progress."

The bald priest snorted and crossed his arms in front of him. "Progress? What progress? I've been watching your every move for the past thirty years, witch." My upper lip curled a bit with the venomous emphasis he had put on the word. "This 'progress' you refer to has only been at the cost of your fellow man. You seek to gain only for your own selfish needs, not giving a single damn who you betray and murder to achieve your goals."

I slammed the glass and rag down onto the bar, nearly shattering the mug in the process. "Yes, obviously, of course--and I will be the first to admit that. Look, we've had this discussion numerous times in the past--this is not why I invited you here tonight. Take a seat, please." I motioned for him to sit down at the bar in front of me. Hesitating for several seconds, Balmar eventually acquiesced, standing his iron spear against the bar next to him as he pulled up a stool and took a seat.

Several moments passed in awkward silence before I spoke up. "Care for a drink?" I motioned one of my metallic hands to the shelves stocked with various wines, ales, and liquors.

Balmar's one good eye scanned the wall's inventory briefly. "I trust that you have already gone through the effort of poisoning the entire tavern's supply?"

"Don't be silly. If I had really wanted you dead that badly, then you wouldn't have gotten two steps into this wretched place."

The Empowered Priest studied my face, looking for lies, searching for treachery, and found none. "I'll have a shot of Three-Headed Hydra, then."

I quickly moved the two glass mugs aside, and in a swift motion grabbed a clear bottle with the priest's whiskey of choice and produced two shot glasses from the shelf below. I showed him the bottle, allowing him to inspect the top to see that the wax seal was unbroken, proving that I could not have tampered with the drink in any way. Satisfied that I had kept my word for once, I quickly opened the bottle and poured the both of us a shot without wasting a single drop on the countertop.

I left the bottle open next to us as we both reached for our shots. We locked eyes briefly, and simultaneously downed our drinks. The two glasses clinked as one as we set them back on the bar. Neither of us moved to pour a second round.

"So, witch, if you hadn't summoned me here to kill me, then... why?"

I glanced around the room briefly, searching for the words I wanted to say and the correct order in which to assemble them. I sighed heavily before returning my gaze to Balmar. "I just wanted to talk."

He cocked an eyebrow. "You wanted to talk to me?"

"I didn't stutter."

"I don't have time to humor you with petty conversation. You're wasting your breath and my time with such frivolous--"

My metal hands gripped the bar so hard that the wood splintered. "Indulge me, you dense zealot fuck," I snarled. Balmar twitched slightly under my angry outburst, his right arm instinctively reaching for his spear, but thinking better of himself. We stood in a fresh awkward silence for several moments before I continued, my voice calm once more. "As you can imagine, I don't get the chance to engage in socializing very often. It gets so incredibly lonely in the laboratory. Even someone such as I craves the company of a living, breathing person once in a while--I can get only so much out of all the toys and beasts I surround myself with. Another round?" I poured two more shots of Three-Headed Hydra. The Empowered Priest casually picked up his glass and downed the drink in one gulp. I sighed heavily as I let mine slide down my throat, each drop lighting my mouth ablaze as it traveled downward.

"Let's start off with an easy question, shall we?" I set my glass back down and set both hands down on the bar. "I hear you've taken a wife in the past few years. Any little bundles of joy on the way?"

Balmar leaned forward slightly, the candlelight shining off his bald noggin and metal eye plate. His voice was low and gruff. "...Is that a threat?"

I laughed. It was a hollow, raspy laugh, made bitter by countless years of world-weariness. "Hardly. It's idle conversation. For all the spells and tactics and doctrine that the Church beat into your think skulls, you must've been taking a piss when it was time for Casual Human Interaction 101."

His gaze narrowed, and his lip curled a bit in anger. He made a fist on the bar, as if he wanted to clock me so bad. It would not have been the first time--nor would it have been the hundredth. I shook my head. "Look, sorry, I might have needed a few extra lessons on it myself. Let's try this again."

The priest stood. "I don't have time for this. I will not engage in idle, wasteful chatter with a heathen, a heretic, a common witch wanted by the Church for numerous crimes against mankind and the Ethereal Sway. I don't know what you were attempting tonight, but you wasted your time. Farewell, monster." He grabbed his spear, and turned to make towards the door.

After trying to spend countless years attempting to end this man's life, only to slowly realize that maybe he was my equal in strength, resolve, and stubbornness; after thinking it through and going through all the trouble of arranging a one-on-one meeting with him to profess that you held some respect for him, and trying to work out your differences like normal human beings... To be called a common witch and then dismissed? My blood was boiling. My vision flashed white. My jaw suddenly ached from my clenched teeth. A sharp pain made its way through my head. I snapped. I slammed my fists down on the bar hard, shattering the wood even more. "You aren't going anywhere, shithead!"

I threw my right arm out, and it began transforming into a flamethrower. In a flash, the priest wheeled around, his one good eye glowing blue as a circle of runes began appearing in the air around it. I brought my weaponized arm before me, ready to melt the flesh off his bones. The priest shouted a short incantation, and I felt myself thrown against the bar. Dozens of bottles of liquor bounced off the back of the wall, and then fell to the floor and shattered, spilling their contents all over the place. Before I could recover, Balmar was back up to the bar, thrusting the pointy end of his spear at my chest. I had no time to recover from his telekinetic blast. I watched helplessly as the head of his spear passed cleanly through my black vest and shirt, pierced my heart, and erupted out the other side of my body.

Oh, trust me, the pain was incredible. But I wouldn't die. I physically couldn't.

I looked up at Balmar, our eyes locking. His steely gaze went through multiple changes in the span of a second--anger, then satisfaction, then confusion, then utter horror at the revelation that I wasn't going to die. I felt all of my anger from how horribly this meeting had gone, and felt it replaced by the very familiar feeling of absolutely nothing. I smiled a sad smile. The priest's scowl turned into a grimace of utter horror.

Just then, several dozen thick, thorny vines shot out of the gaping wound in my chest from where the spear had penetrated my flesh. Before Balmar could react, the vines wrapped around his arms, trapping him and binding him to the spear. He struggled to escape their sharp grasp, to no avail. "What trickery is this--!" His voice showed just a little bit of fear; a quality that I had heard out of the hardy man only twice before.

I took a step closer, at the same time retracting the vines into my chest, pulling the spear and the priest closer to me. The metal shaft made slightly off-putting slurps as it continued to travel further through my chest. "Oh, Balmar," I cooed softly. "You should've known that I cut my heart out ages ago..." The priest said nothing, instead concerned with trying to free himself from the tight grasp of my vines. "...Figuratively, and literally."

Another step closer. I was within arms reach of him now. My flamethrower arm's metal bits and pieces clicked and snapped as it transformed itself back into a human hand. Reaching up, I gripped the sides of his head. He shuddered at my cold, metallic touch. I forced him to look at me, to hold my blank, expressionless gaze.

"This isn't how I wanted it to happen tonight, Balmar. Not tonight. Not in the least. I want to admit something to you--over these past few decades of you chasing me around the Salvar countryside as I happily went down my path of destruction, we've had our share of differences. But as I continued infecting and killing and destroying... You were always there. I thought we had built a silent understanding of each other throughout the years--our own sick little twisted friendship of sorts. I wanted to tell you that tonight. That I respect you. That I consider you my equal. That you're the closest thing to a friend I've had in ages. I wanted you to know that."

Struggling against my iron grip on his skull, the priest spat at me, "You have no right to call me friend, monster. You're a vile blight in this world. You were never anything more than that to me, or to anyone you have ever encountered."

I simply replied, "I know."

I began applying pressure to his skull. At first, there was a slight popping noise, then several cracks. Balmar's dying screams echoed in the dark, cold Salvar night.

[Whispers of Abyssion]

Althanas burned.

Master of puppets, he sat in his hall of mirrors. He watched, and he waited.

The Aspect of N’jal stalked the lands of men in the Atalantaean Isles to the far west. Terrorising the innocent and killing at will, none dared stand before his manic wrath.

Tamer of serpents, he laughed bitterly at the dark avatar’s liberty. He watched, and he waited.

The Warlord marshalled the armies of the Dark Lady swarming across Kebiras, sweeping aside orcish tribe and knightly warband alike. The Berzerker, single-handed wrecker of the elven realms of Raiaera and Alerar, rampaged still in the south of the Occident. The Arbiter sowed discord in the embattled dwarven holds, setting shieldbrother against shieldbrother in bitter civil war.

Surveyer of the spectrussa board, carefully he positioned his rooks and his bishops. He watched, and he waited.

The Hedonist spread corruption and fanaticism in the distant reaches of northern Istraloth. The Necrolord urged the felspawn to greater depravity in the smouldering vestiges of Cathay. The Mutant coerced the chimerae to his cause, pushing northwards through Dheathain and the Meridian in a tide of death and devastation.

Speaker of silvery whispers, he prepared his closest confidantes for the worst. He watched, and he waited.

Tidings of ill repute arrived on all four winds as across the world the Godly Generals rampaged and ruined. The fallen phoenix razed the rising sun of Nippon. The black dragon scourged the sunset from Scara Brae. The Flame, and The Vagrant, and The Count of the Wind, and The Duke of Thunder…

“Lord Touma?”

Snapping out of his feverish reverie, thoughts steamed like sweat from his brow.

“Silmeria?” he queried querulously, his voice bony and cold. Her pinion feathers tingled in suppressed fear, shivering at its inhuman detachment. “Silmeria, is that you?”

“It is, my lord,” she whispered lyrically, kneeling before him in understated elegance. Silky hair pooled at her feet like quicksilver. Her luminous features, pale and ethereal as the full moon, had not aged a day in three decades. Clad in armour of purple-tinged black, a slender darksteel katana buckled at her hips, fate had sculpted the ideal fallen celestial warrior and bound her to his commands. Why, then, did she struggle so to contain her dismay?

“Look,” he indicated, tasting the dry humour and resignation in the gesture. “Look at how she ravages the world. My world.”

“We are ready, Lord Touma. We await only your command. We will rise against her dominion, and we will…”

“Not alone, we will not,” he spat. “I have failed, Silmeria. For over fifty years I have prepared for this eventuality. And now, in our time of greatest need, I am forced to rely on…”

Abruptly he stopped, ingrained instinct warning him not to ramble needlessly even in this innermost of sanctums. With effort he regrouped, swamped with sorrow and regret.

“I only wish that we could have finished it together. You, and I, and the rest of us.”

“We are not alone, my lord,” she returned, only the barest of trepidation slipping into her words. Cocking her head to the right, she scrutinised him carefully through incandescent white eyes. “For all the Dark Lady’s advances, she has failed to destroy that which is most precious to us all.”

“… hope,” he finished for her, simultaneously waxing in floods of ecstasy and waning in the depths of despair. For in this hollowed husk of a world, the one who personified hope simultaneously signified both his greatest victory and his utmost failure. Further words failed him completely, his mind’s eye picturing her as they had first met. Basking beneath the falling cherry blossoms with that most brilliant of smiles lighting up her face, skin lucent like molten porcelain, eyes as bright as the stars in the night sky…

“Do not fear,” Silmeria whispered, misreading his silence. “She will call upon you in the end.”

Dancing in the half-light of a thousand reflections, his patrician brow lit up in accord.

“Of course she will. As powerful as she may be, she cannot fight the True Enemy without my help. As broken as this world may be, she is yet the light and I remain the shadow, and even the darkness cannot devour the both of us at once.”

Once again his attention panned the room, every silver-coated mirror displaying a different scheme as it ripened to fruition. A cadre of hand-picked deathseekers tracked the Aspect through the night, ready to stall him with their lives at his signal. Saboteurs and assassins stalked the Dark Lady’s armies, harassing lines of supply and assaulting targets of opportunity. His agents stirred the stew-pot of rebellion in a dozen occupied territories; his mages worked to counter the despondency and despair settling like plagues upon what few lands remained free. His inner circle of most trusted lieutenants bribed and blackmailed the very gods themselves to their cause, from Thaynes both Greater and Lesser to the myriad kami of Cathay and Nippon, from the Star Pantheon of the dar’el to Ronus and the dwarven Ancients.

All the plans in motion before him, cogs in a vast machine. Except…

“Where’s Ginuvo?” The confused frown creased his brow, disoriented by all the visions he had to keep track of. “Where’s Mibu? I need them by my side, Silmeria. Without them…”

“Ginuvo is dead, my lord,” she corrected him gently. “As is Mibu, perished of the contagion.”

Her words seemed to jolt him like a thunderbolt, daggers driven through his soul.

“Karma…” he muttered sadly, disappointment clouding the flickering reflections and spawning shadows throughout the darkened sanctum. Soon, though, it died in a wave of renewed excitement and confidence. “Oh, petty bother. Terrible shame that, terrible shame. Such worthy pawns, too… But so many others now move by my command, Silmeria. We still have a chance, we can do this yet!”

Tenderly she let her gaze linger on his broken form. “Of course, Lord Touma.”

He paused for breath, then belatedly remembered his earlier self-admonition.

“I’m rambling again, aren’t I. You must think me a terrible bore.”

“My lord, I…”

“I tease, Silmeria.” Unexpectedly he laughed, that confident arrogant laugh of old, the one that she almost never heard any more. “The world has changed, and I along with it… but for better or for worse these are the last days of our struggle. I promise you this, my lady, we shall win this war yet. Neither the Dark Lady nor the ravages of the great devourer, Father Time himself, shall stand triumphant over us.”

Sudden power flowed from him, strong and untainted and true. Every mirror glowed in tune with his mental prowess, until the entire sanctum fractured with white light.

Starkly it illuminated what remained of the man once known as Touma Kamikaji: a single shard of skull-bone approximately the size of a young girl’s hand, still accompanied by a greying, wrinkled flap of skin from his furrowed forehead. He had been at his prime when the same contagion that had killed Mibu had ravaged flesh and muscle and tendon and organ. Succumbing at length, little had been left of him other than skin and bone, a fingerless eyeless husk clinging to life through sheer willpower alone. And then the Disciples had struck, overwhelming the last of his mental defences to violently purge the treasures within, desecrating his wasted physical shell, grinding what little remained of both to ashen dust scattered upon the four winds. Only the most fragile of soulshards, spirited from danger by the most loyal of his retainers, remained to chain his decrepit spirit to the mortal plane.

But still the last of the dar’el knelt low before him, her voice echoing musically through the intensity.

“We of the Fraternity live only to serve.”

[Flames of Hyperion]

Slowly and serenely he walked the dimmed corridors. The polished wooden flooring felt delightfully cold and smooth beneath his aching feet. Once upon a time he might have strode the distance in half the time, but nowadays he had to be careful not to jar his broken knees. He made grateful use with his good left hand of the supports placed evenly at every three paces.

Neatly organised bookcases and sliding shoji doors lined the walls on his either side. Behind every door lay piles of scrolls and loose sheaves of parchment kept in equally tidy order. Every tome that he had ever read, every map or manuscript or secret text, rested in careful keeping within these halls. Each had been transcribed by hand, whether in Nipponese or in Common, whether in the flowing script of the elves or the blocky runes of the dwarves, whether from the catacombs below Ael-en-Gilith or the floating scholariums of the Beryl Citadel. Some were inconsequential in nature, light-hearted lays from less dangerous days. Others told of history, of myths and legends, tales of courage and loss and lament. Well-thumbed and well-studied scrolls of arcane instruction cascaded from ceiling to floor, dwarfing smaller piles devoted to grimoires of dubious prophecy.

He smiled to himself as he passed them all, inhaling deeply of their heady must. Clean and fresh, but reminiscent also of basking in lazy sunlight, of candlelit libraries on snowy nights, of cosy studies with overlarge leather chairs and a warm fire in the fireplace and rain pattering on the tiled roof. But not once did he slow his steady step. The hollow echoes of his own totter kept him company, punctuated by the occasional hacking cough wracking his gaunt frame.

Deeper in his private athenaeum, more treasured tomes awaited his perusal. Many had no titles upon their spines, distinguished merely by their position upon the endless shelves. Latent memories trickled into his mind when he slid aged crooked fingers over their worn bindings, poignant nostalgia seeping through scarred defences into a soul still tender despite its age.

At the very end of the corridor sat one last bookcase, in a place of honour beneath a mounted pair of crossed short swords. Unlike the other manuscripts in the athenaeum, all of the travel-worn and badly battered volumes here had seen better days. Their drab leather bindings bore neither title nor label. But their earthy stench, complete with overtones of open tundra and leafy jungle and snow-capped peaks, enthralled him with the hidden tales of their conception. These were the books that he had penned himself, during the travels of his younger days.

Stifling a crinkled smile, he reached out for one at random. But its weight caught him by surprise and his right wrist gave way, spilling the journal to the floor with a dull thud. He groaned in dismay, then again when he realised he would have to reach down to pick it up. Instead, he sank to the floorboards in blessed relief, trading the pain in his bent back for a cold backside.

Words caught his eye from the open page, letters written in neat delicate hand into the margin of the text. He must have scribbled the musings – quite unrelated to the detailed observations made in his Book of Travels – in a fit of bittersweet whimsy. Half embarrassed by the candid prose, half wistful for feelings that he thought he’d long since buried, he allowed them to flow into his mind.

Ten years ago, I decided to travel to the Occident. There I would hone my talent under the tutelage of the White Elves, such that I would not be caught powerless in the time of her need.

The memory of the decision, one that had seemed so momentous at the time, touched him again with melancholy longing. At long last he had turned his attention from the problems of the Orient to the problems of Althanas as a whole. Young, naïve, and bold, he had determined to take on the world or to die trying. For her.

His features turned grim as he remembered the Corpse War, his first experience of hostilities against a foe as monstrous and as unforgiving as the Dread Necromancer, the Harbinger, the Forgotten One Xem’zund. His savaged frame spasmed in agony at the memory, so intense that he had to draw blood from the inside of his mouth to keep from passing out. He had suffered many a wound over decades of long campaigning. The vast majority had healed supernaturally well due to his cursed constitution, albeit at the price of aging long before thus destined. But the cross-shaped scar still festered upon his chest, inflicted by the lich in the climactic confrontation of the conflict, the one wound that would never truly heal.

It took him minutes to recoup the breath in his lungs. Briefly he considered closing the book at his feet and replacing it on the shelf, revisiting it at another, more auspicious time. Instead, almost unbidden, his eyes continued their journey across the faded page.

Ten years from now, I fervently hope that such times of need have been few. I hope that I have been there for her on every such occasion, and that her smile has not suffered for her tribulations.

His lips curled poignantly at how his hopes had been dashed. Ten years from when the words had been written, the last of the Disciples had awoken upon the world of the living. Death and desolation had followed. The nations of Althanas had fallen one by one into anarchy and disarray, entire empires consumed overnight by the overwhelming might arrayed against them. She, and he, had journeyed at the centre of the storm, fleeing from one besieged stronghold to the next, rallying armies to their banner and saving what lives they could.

Sometimes, they had succeeded. More often than not, they had failed. He could count the sum of their victories upon the fingers of one hand. Whole swathes of civilised land had fallen before the wrath of the Twelve Godly Generals. They had adopted a strategy of settling where the Disciples were not, farming and gathering whatever resources they could before being forced to abandon their gains. Somehow they had eked out an existence for long enough to gather the strength for a counterattack.

The counterattack had never quite materialised. Their existence continued to this very day.

Twenty years ago, I fought my first battle to protect her. I stood against Natosatael and stalled the daemon until dawn, and though they drove me from the Academy for surviving where others had not, never once did I regret my actions.

Even now, he had nightmares of the Night of Nefarious Flame. Hacking tremors once more pulverised his lungs as he relived the stench of sulphur and brimstone, of boiling blood and of burning flesh. He closed his eyes to the broken bodies of his friends, butchered and dissected like so much meat in an abattoir. Their agonised screams died abruptly beneath the daemonic onslaught, and he raged powerlessly against the uncaring silence that lay beneath. How had he managed to save her? How had he managed to survive?

Even now he could not say for sure.

But he had learnt his lesson then of the great evils that lurked the world, and of the horrible unfairness that the weak could do little to stop them. And he had vowed to become strong, and intelligent, and wise, and to learn to use that power for the cause of good.

Even now he was still learning.

Twenty years from now, I fervently hope that I can say that I still have no cause for regret. I hope that she remains safe and in good spirit, and that my life has been put to good use for her cause.

The shrunken fingers of his good hand traced the tidy lettering. Again he allowed himself a small smile at his naiveté. He had no regrets and he had many. He had made many poor decisions and failed to save so many lives and allowed her to fall into danger so many times. But given the chance to live his life again, would he ever do anything differently? Could he have ever done anything differently?

Unlikely.

Pride and sorrow swamped him in equal measures. The only shining light amidst the darkness was the fact that she did still live, and she did still smile.

Shifting his weight to ease the ache in his buttocks, every muscle grumbled painfully with the abuse heaped upon them during his lifetime. But it was a sweet pain, a worthy pain, and he endured it whole-heartedly just as he had endured all the pain. Experience had taught him that, for her sake, he could endure anything at all.

Thirty years ago, Ecthelion of the Ivory Tower gave me the name Ingwe Helyanwe, He Who Bridges the Worlds. Though little more than a babe, I remember well the moment he blessed me for greatness.

Greatness. Such a misnomer, such a lie. How many had died during his selfish quest to prove himself in her eyes? How many had he pushed away, fearing for their lives, only for them to perish anyways in his wake? Like a cancerous sore he tainted everything he touched, and could only watch as they withered alongside him.

How many times had he died for the sake of those he loved? How many times had the curse of the phoenix resurrected him from the ashes amidst the fields of the dead?

But she did still live. She did still smile. They… he… still had hope.

For that, though he could not applaud himself, he could at least feel some measure of satisfaction.

Thirty years from now, I wonder if I will have lived up to his expectations? I wonder if I truly will have bridged east and west, man and elf and dwarf… myself and her?

This time the smile that touched his cheeks was wet with tears. Of Ecthelion’s expectations, he knew no more. He only knew that he had never lived up to his own. Never once had he felt pride, no matter how he toiled. And the more he tried, the more futile it felt. Even now he had little idea what it meant to bridge different cultures, different civilisations, different people.

Allowing the pages to close of their own accord, slowly he willed himself to his feet. His eyes lost the volume as soon as he replaced it on the shelf, one weighty tome amongst many. But as he did so, an ancient sun-bleached portrait fell from its pages. Slowly it fluttered to the floor, its journey unpredictably hither and thither before finally settling to rest. The shadows hid most of the delicate elven pencilwork from view, but his mind’s eye easily filled in the blanks.

Kayu.

Thirty years? Fifty years? A century? It made no difference.

Eternally.

For an eternity longer he gazed at the portrait.

Then he inhaled deeply, strongly, letting go of the athenaeum in his mind and the rooms of memories stored there. At long last, he opened his eyes to the world.

No longer could he see the light of day. Long since had he sacrificed his sight to his curse, training instead to see the world in its myriad arcane eddies. The longer he lived, the more of his vital organs that had fallen prey to the flame. Where necessary he’d substituted them with intricately crafted magic: his heart, his lungs, much of his gut, his excretory organs. The effort required to maintain his body meant that now he could barely even put pen to paper, much less spare the mental strength for battle.

In spite of all that, though, his life had probably been a fulfilling one.

“Once more unto the breach, dear friend,” he told himself. His voice carried only the barest hint of warmth, a hoarse whisper in the stony chill. The Dark Lady and her Disciples approached. The course of the Cataclysm wound towards its climactic finale. The new dawn heralded the final battle. But he still lived, and so did she, and they would not give up until the very end.

The jolt of adrenaline surged through his veins as he stepped out into the light whence she waited.

“May fortune favour the worthy.”

[Wings of Endymion]

The doors, solid bloodoak gilded in gold, swung open imperiously. Through them strode a matronly woman of indeterminate middle age, her wiry slender frame clad in robes as white as the shimmering snow. Her raven-black hair swayed and bobbed in undeniable purpose as she strode across the glistening marble floor: as delicate as finely filigreed silver, as strong as spun steel. She had cut it austerely short after the Angelfall Calamity some ten years previous, in fact since assuming the mantle of leadership for the Legions of Light. The delicate curve of her nape peeked out shyly with every other step.

“My lady.”

Kayu Kanamai did not break pace, simply favouring the waiting steel-clad knight with a firm nod. He bowed with just the correct amount of deferential respect, falling in behind her and matching her steps. Plate armour clanked noisily, his boots ringing in metallic beat against the polished stone. His raised visor revealed battle-worn features and a chiselled jaw set grimly against the tension and the chill.

“The northern Legions have retreated to a defensive line across the Gorum Mountains. Istraloth is lost, and all Kebiras with it.”

“The civilian population?” Her soprano lilted pleasingly over his deep rumble, and she allowed herself a touch of mild astonishment at how calm it sounded.

“Many losses, my lady, but many more were saved. The fleet makes for Atalantae as we speak.”

“And our armies, Grandmaster Jehan?”

The giant of a man exposed chipped teeth in a broad smile. “Intact, in good supply, and in good cheer, my lady.”

She nodded again. “Very well. Hold the Gorum Line as long as you dare.”

“For you, my lady, until death.” Veteran of a thousand battlefields, still Jehan blanched at the flash of anger across her eyes. He hastened to add, “Nought but a turn of phrase, my lady. We will not throw away our lives in your name. We will see our work done, and we will retreat in good order to the Rimforts.”

She nodded a third time, and left him in acknowledgement of his orders. A second set of heavy doors swung open before her with but a touch of her mind. The brightly-lit corridor segued into a dimly lit audience antechamber, cool and damp upon her fine skin.

“Touda. Taiin.”

Two of her twelve spiritual familiars materialised out of thin air at her call: Touda a muscular and dusky young man with flame in his eyes, Taiin a petite young girl hidden beneath swaddling hoods of mousey grey. As one they fell to their knees before their mistress.

“Kayu-sama. Lord Sanada reports that the southern lines are holding,” Touda spoke, more bestial growl than coherent speech.

“The Oracle has arrived at the peak and will commence preparations shortly,” Taiin added importantly in her childish tones. “The Aegis and the Saint assist.”

“Very good,” Kayu sighed, knowing in the icy pits of her stomach just how much rested on the efforts of Yui, Ywain, and Aurora. “Please, keep them safe.”

“Your will is our command,” both familiars intoned in tandem. They rose, bowing respectfully as they dissipated into the shadows that adorned the walls.

Kayu thought for a moment more in the soothing shade, her mind once again working feverishly over the possibilities. What should I do? What would he do? And what would…

She’d known long before that she would likely have no choice in the matter. Having mulled over the decision for days now, the weight left her chest almost anticlimactically as she made up her mind for once and for all.

“Tenki!”

In a shimmering mist of incarnate energy the third familiar materialised at her side, a quiet young woman with long dark hair. Her delicate chin and exquisite cheeks bore suspicious similarity to Kayu herself of thirty years past, eyes of bright obsidian only just beginning to understand the path of danger and sorrow that her duty would take her.

“Kayu-sama?”

“Please request Touma to begin his diversions at his discretion.” It was perhaps the last of the cards she held, and one she hadn’t wished to avail herself of unless absolutely necessary. Even now, she found Touma’s methods distasteful, too dark a grey in a world desperately begging for light. But desperate times called for desperate measures. She could not justify failure with an ace still up her sleeve: not to herself, not to all who had died in her name so far.

Tenki hesitated for the faintest of moments, just enough to register her instinctive disagreement with her mistress’s decision. But she, too, knew that they had little option.

“Of course, Kayu-sama,” she whispered, already dissipating into the gloom. Only her voice remained behind to incant the ritual farewell, “Your will is my command.”

Alone once more in a silence suddenly deafening, Kayu exhaled slowly. Her shoulders drooped with the weight of her burden, temples taut and pounding. She massaged the worst of the pain from the bridge of her nose, but still her heart thundered in her ears, caught between the sweet heat of her decision and the sickly fear of what approached. The temperature in the antechamber dropped ominously, enough to cast frost upon her breath.

Time. She needed time to settle herself. Every last shred of willpower, every last drop of courage, every last ounce of determination would be indispensable if she hoped to confront the darkest of foes and claim victory. But time was the one thing that they no longer…

“My lady?”

The chill caught in her throat. Despite herself, despite all of her misgivings, she smiled.

The air recovered its warmth, her mind its composure. Her heartbeat steadied, still rapid but beneath her control once more. Her eyes settled on the proffered hand, on the gold-white spidersilk gloves inscribed with the most intricate of runes, then moved upwards to meet her counterpart’s as they hid behind ancient, battered spectacles.

“Not when we’re alone, Yann.”

“Kayu-san.”

He smiled, that hauntingly gentle and warm smile, his ancient features – oh too old for his age! – creasing pleasantly. The syllables of her name fell tenderly from his lips, but with equivalent respect and esteem. Mirth touched his venerable, sad, blind eyes as they completed the years-old ritual that maintained just the correct amount of separation between them.

Abruptly, all her fears returned.

“Yann, will this really work? I know it’s too late to do anything else, and really I think it’s the best chance we have, but do you…”

He hushed her with another smile, reaching out to lay a tentative hand on her shoulder. It was all the contact he would allow himself, or that she could allow him for that matter, but the kindness of his touch suffused her slim physique.

“Of course it will,” he said, with the quiet confidence she knew he could only muster for her benefit. “We’ve prepared for this, fought for this for years. We’ve covered every possibility, thought of every eventuality. I promise you that this is the absolute best we can do for our world… for Althanas… to survive this Cataclysm.”

Time froze as his carefully chosen words invited the darkness upon them. Together they felt the Dark Lady and her Disciples descending, the doom of all they held dear. Tendrils of oblivion wrapped around their bodies, paralysing muscle and synapse, infiltrating their minds with thoughts of desperation and death, choking the very life from their lungs.

Gently he forced the whisper from his throat.

“Let us meet them in battle, Kayu.”

Instantly the darkness dissipated, and its insidious influence along with it. She basked instead in his adoration, his love and his trust. Once upon a time she had fled his awkward advances, uncomfortable with being idolised so. Even now, so many years later, she could never return them to him. Never with the same intensity that he felt for her.

But the long years had at least given them the time to come to terms with their respective insecurities. And when the times grew dark and dangerous, he had always found a way to be there for her… and thus she for him. The Night of Nefarious Flame had only been the beginning: the retreat from Choson, the Corpse War in Raiaera, Blightwater, the War of the Mandate in Nippon, the Angelfall Calamity… time could not erode the bond between them, nor could war destroy it. The greatest of the Godly Generals had tried many times to force them apart, by violence and by intrigue, and always somehow they had ended up on the same side again.

She could never love him.

But she would never forget everything he had done for her.

Or all that she could do for him.

Abruptly she grinned. For the briefest of heartbeats, no longer was she the matron with the fate of the world on her shoulders. Years fell away from her face, revealing shades of the idealistic young girl she had once been.

“Of course,” she replied properly, the hope seeming to burst from every corner of her features. “With you.”

The answering light that shone from Xuan’s face was all she needed to see.

“With you,” he murmured back, blushing, a single tear spilling from his sightless eyes.

As one, they turned to face their destiny.

[Verif]

OOC: Sorry posted so late...

"Woud'ga move!" He pushed against a larger dwarf kid. The bigger one
just pushed him with a free hand and the smaller kid fell over.

"Jamie and Ronal, I told you two to stop fighting." A older dwarf with
a large scar across one eye moved to sit with the gathered children.

"Sorry Borian..." They said in unison. After a brief moment all the
kids settled down and were quiet waiting to find out why they were
gathered.

"Now all you youngin's know why your parents have sent you to see me?"
Borian asked as he moved around the path beside his house where all the
kids were sitting comfortably. It was mid-summer and the sun shone brightly
on the old mans weathered features. Most the kids shook their heads and
looked at each other with bewilderment.

"You ask us here to give us candy!" One dwarf jumped up with excitement.

"No you forest mushroom, sit back down." Borian snapped, and the boy sat
quickly. "You are all gathered here because just a year ago, the greatest
dwarves that ever lived stood against raiders threatening our town." Walking
slowly he gathered a chair from his front yard and placed it at the front of
the children. Bending over, he winced in pain as he sat down. "Listen closely,
this is a story of my closest friend."

* * *

Moving quickly they ran as red light danced around them. The forest was full
of smoke and they could here the blaze moving with speed behind them. Verif
estimated the strong winds would push the fire across the forest to the raider
encampment.

"We did it brother!" Borian smiled brightly, his brown eyes shining against the
now fading light of the fire.

"Yes we did, lad. Yes we did." Verif smiled back through labored breathes as
they reached the bridge to their small town. It was built long ago, and village
founders spent years constructing it. It was made of cedar but ran ten men
apart at its width, and spanned at least one league across a huge ravine.
Several other dwarves ran past laughing and smiling. Verif new better and kept
thoughts of victory from his mind.

"What's wrong Verif? I know that look."

"Nothing. Don't ye bother I'm fine. Lets gather the rest of the militia and
prepare for tomorrow."

"What? We have them on the run, why would they attack."

"I saw at least a thousand men under the banner of Urfane..." Verif said
and he saw the color drain from Borian's face.

"A.... A thousand, I thought they were a small group of raiders?"

"They were Borian, now they are an army. Gather the elderly, women, and
children. Bring them to the town center. Everyone else..." He patted his
friend on the shoulder. "Put a weapon in their hand." Verif picked up his
pace, and Borian followed close behind.

Reaching the town they meticulously went to each house and separated
the families within. Young dwarves were taken from their parents. Fathers
taken away from their sons and daughters. Verif reached a particular house
where only a elderly dwarf lived.

"The town is under attack you must make your way to the town center."

"No." The elderly man moved to a chest and retrieved his sword.

"Ah sir, you are not in the shape to..."

"Shut you're trap. I fought in my fare share of battles. You will need me."
Verif took the sword from the old man's hand and looked to the armored
dwarf behind him.

"Take this 'experienced' lad to the town center."

"Yes sir!" The dwarf moved and grabbed the old man by the arm and shoved
him outside. Verif could here a brief scuffle and the elderly man's angry voice.
Moving to the chest he peered inside the old man's chest. Inside was a
peculiar piece of armor emblazoned in bronze, but obviously made of stronger
metal. It was finely crafted and the sword matched the designs of the armor.

"Not too shabby..." Throwing the sword in, Verif went outside to make the
final arrangements before morning.

* * *

Across the expanse of the bridge, a thousand men appeared on the forest-
edge. He could make out the leather armor and the white paint of their faces
denoting them as raiders of Urfane. Apparently a veteran soldier once, decided
to make a name for himself by attacking small villages and looting. He gained
enough fame for a small army of like-minded individuals.

Looking behind him at the gathered militia, he saw worried faces of around
hundred dwarves. They were vastly out numbered and everyone knew it.
Moving on the bridge, Verif turned his back on the approaching raiders. "Come
on then. Are we going just wait for them to come into our homes. Lets show
these human scum how dwarves fight!" Running, he heard Borian run close
behind; his heavy footfalls echoing on the wooden bridge. As they ran together
Verif slowly smiled as he heard the boots of hundred dwarves. The sound
resembling a storm bearing down towards Urfane's men.

They met at the middle of bridge and at the start it seemed the stalwart
dwarves were giving no quarter. But as the fight wore on, the staggering
numbers gave way and they were pushed back. At the battles pitch, Urfane's
men had killed nearly half of the dwarf militia and now took up two-thirds of
the bridge.

Swords and spears lashed out and many bodies littered the ground. The bridge's
wood, now stained with blood, showed no signs of it's original color. Verif grabbed
his friend Borian and moved him away to one side of the bridge. Both friends were
now covered in blood and had a score of wounds. "We are going lose this battle!"
Verif shouted over the sound of clashing metal.

"I know, we must fight on till our last breathe."

"No, there is another way we can save our village." Moving over the edge, Verif
jumped down to a smaller platform that protruded underneath. Borian followed
behind not understanding his friends plan. A narrow platform was built below the
wooden bridge for maintenance purposes. In the middle of the platform ran a large
bundled rope of at least a dozen strands. It ran from one side of the bridge to the
other. "This is what keeps the bridge together. We cut it, we save our village." Verif
voice was heavy as he realized what his words meant.

"Together then brother..." Borian's jaw tightened, as he patted Verif in the chest
with a fist. Jumping down from where they entered a large man with a leather jerkin
and a mask looked at them with malice. He pushed himself up and moved in there
direction, his wooden spear tip dragging across the ground. "Do it!" Borian yelled as
he charged at the man. The spear spun with blazing speed knocking Borian's helmet
off. Dazed, he barley dodged the spear thrust to his head; the blade ripping a part of
his right eye. He yelled in agony as the spear cut across his stomach and he fell over.

"Nooo! Borian" Verif yelled as he cut down once at the rope. It cut a few rope
strands and Verif quickly swung for another, but the man was fast and jabbed his
spear deep in Verif's back. Verif turned his head slightly so he could see the man.
"You've won you bastard." Verif felt twangs of pain throughout his body as he slowly
knelt on the ground.

"I, Urfane, always win." Just when he finished his sentence a bronze armored dwarf
came down. In his hand was a familiar bronze sword. The dwarf attacked the man
and Urfane was forced to retract his spear from Verif. The bronze blade danced and
Urfane was hard pressed to defend all the attacks. An opening revealed itself and Urfane
took advantage. He extended his spear at the bronze dwarf's neck, but the dwarf
anticipated this and dodged it just before it landed. Urfane, now off balance, saw the
bronze blade snake toward his face.

Verif saw Urfane twitch then after a few moments he fell off the narrow platform.
"Thank you..." Verif's voice was barley above a whisper. "Take my fallen friend to the
ridge, I will do the rest." The old dwarf nodded and padded him on the shoulder. Caring
his friend, the old dwarf made it to safety and waved at Verif.

Taking his axe he cut downwards at the rope. Once, twice, his vision starting to blur he
cut once more. He felt the bridge lurch upwards, then down. Darkness descended as he
felt the wind brush across his face.

* * *

Tears fell from Borian's face as he finished his story. They were all walking as he finished
his tale. They came upon the newly constructed bridge of stone. Borian wiped his face and
gazed at the large statue of Verif placed at its entrance. It depicted him cutting down with
his axe. At it's base was a gold plaque:

Upon a narrow bridge they stood.
Their fading hope and only chance,
was keeping their courage as heroes should.
To fight as one a piercing lance.

Pushing toward the village path,
slaying loved ones their only will.
Soon know their final wrath,
of the fallen heroes, legends still.

[Mordelain]

Prompt: Look 30 years into the future.

Tobias Stalt: Evocative and poignant, you explored the ills of Tobias and his turbulent life well. Few errors, and thus a solid piece of writing underpinned by just enough reference to canon and just enough left to the audience as guesswork and intrigue.

Kroom: Excellent writing but I have to ask you tell more why, and less how when a prompt is about ‘potential’ scenarios. I was left bereft of oomph and disappointed when the count disappeared. On the other hand, is Kroom’s life destined to be a failure?

BlueSeasideGhost: A traditional family progeny piece. Entirely in character for Ashla and hopefully, Hannah does not have to go through the same trials and tribulations you have thus far (with the war and the like). Consider more setting focus next time.

Philomel: Philomel will be changing very little in the future, then. Hehe. Much more to the point and believable here, and a good effort at capturing the tomorrow. For the sake of clarity, consider italicising internal thought. Perhaps form a stronger dialect.

BlackandBlueEyes: Showing the end of a life in such vicious fashion is a well-deserved piece worthy of praise. You left me wondering if, finally, Freebird might…well, settle down. I just cannot see her in a thatch cottage with kids, though…

Whispers of Abyssion: Deep reference to ‘background’ and character events to show another possible future: ruination and war. Chilling, is it not? One thing to reflect on is if so many NPC’s are a risk in a vignette, or something to expand on.

Flames of Hyperion: Whilst well hideously well written (as ever), this piece over the other two was too thick with exposition and summary. Whisper told me so much in the opening line without weighing me down beneath the tomes of history.

Wings of Endymion: Flipside to Whispers, a human touch to an inhuman possibility. It is good to see human characters amidst the inhuman malady and circumstance. Be careful with tone vs. backdrop, and this is excellent material to explore further!

Verif: Non-standard text summaries this vignette beautifully, and sets the scene for a future thread (or an excellent army battle!). Be wary of overcomplicating text with compound sentences, and try less ‘earthen’ dialogue. Good work!

[Mordelain]

1st: Whispers of Abyssion receives 400 experience and 200 gold.

2nd: Kroom receives 160 experience and 150 gold.

Tobias Stalt receives 150 experience.

BlueGhostofSeaside receives 200 experience.

BlackandBlueEyes receives 400 experience.

Philomel receives 150 experience.

Verif receives 100 experience.

Flames of Hyperion receives 550 experience.

Wings of Endymion receives 350 experience.

[Lye]

Exp & gp added.