[Berevar] Falsehood

[Ranger]

((This is a solo quest))

The silver eyes of the dark elf watched natures canvas begin its daily routine; the heavens alight with the coming of a new day. On the horizon to the east the violet of pre-dawn was giving way to brilliant streaks of red and gold. Countless hues splashed across the sky as pink clouds swept across the distant ocean and the long night gave way. Hillocks in the distance blotted the canvas like ink drops, spreading shadowed fingers across the soft morning snow. From the balcony of The Viridian Chalice the elf basked in the peaceful bliss of fresh light.

Ranger had taken his place on the veranda as he had every morning for a week, an hour before the sun broke the horizon. He rubbed his hands together under the thick Silver Wolf fur cloak, trying to bring warmth to the thin fingers. Every morning in the north was cold, not just when the nights grew longer and the touch of the winter season took hold. Most of the hearty citizens rose even before the prophet to begin their day to day business. The streets were already lively by the time the sun crested.

“Prophet?” The gentle feminine voice whispered for his attention, almost reverent in its probing as if disturbing someone in prayer. It was the same way in which Eryn had spoken to him every morning, despite the elf telling her time and again that she was not disturbing him. “Mr. Nailo?”

With a smile he turned his gray-toned face away from the sun and looked at the buxom youth. Her eyes were piercingly beautiful, a soft blue ringed by deep sapphire, yet always aimed at the floor when she spoke to him. He took a moment to shake his head in an amused fashion. A soft leather corset and knee length skirt was layered over a cream tunic, with a fox fur shawl covering shoulders and cleavage alike. Fiery crimson hair in wide ringlets framed a delicate round face, her skin a light tan that made her other features all the more remarkable.

Pulling the thick white fur of his cloak closer Ranger stood and walked up to the girl. He brushed aside a column of curls and lifted her chin with a thin finger. With a smile he lightly shook his head. “Eryn, I have told you before, you do not need to be so formal.” The elf laughed as he slipped his arm under hers and escorted her inside the long hallway of the second story, closing the doors to the balcony behind him. “Treat me as you would any other, I am just a patron after all.”

The girl smirked and nodded, looking into his eyes less than a foot away. Her cheeks flushed with the proximity to the lively elf. “I was sent to fetch you for breakfast. The hearth in the common-room is roaring and everyone’s waking up.”

“Very well,” Ranger said with a chuckle and a quick peck across the back of her hand, “I will be down momentarily.” The girl gave a half-bow before catching herself and apologizing. She rushed away with embarrassment oozing from her stride. Eryn was a well-mannered young woman, coming of age and filled with the naivety of youth. It was comical to Ranger, but also a relief to find that in some parts of Althanas kids were still growing up without sharpening around the edges. Violence and discord did not have a hold across the entire world at least.

With a booted foot he pushed open the door to his room. The quaint lodgings offered a soft bed, a table with a bathing basin, and a small desk. It was all the comfort he could ask for. The Viridian Chalice was an inn for the common man, meant for the visiting merchants and employees of the Vorgruk-Stokes Trading Company that were in town for a day or two. There were plenty of other inns of higher quality, and higher price, that the prophet could have stayed in. instead he had chosen humbly, and was more pleased by the homely atmosphere and accepting nature of Eryn and her family.

The elf made the bed, folded and arranged the towel next to the basin, and swept crumbs off the desk and onto the empty plate from the previous night’s dinner. When he was satisfied that he was leaving the room in as good a condition as it had been when he arrived he gathered his things. A pack full of provisions for his journey was weighted heavily with food, multiple skins of water strapped along the sides, and a simple wooden flute protruding from the top. He strapped his quiver of arrows around his waist and secured the second belt with his original steel swords overtop. The unadorned yew bow was the only other weapon he carried, leaving all of his other belongings at his home in Corone.

Mornings were the prophet’s favorite time at the inn. Busily everyone moved about, servers bustling with their duties and other patrons chatting about their plans for the day. The fire along the wall blazed and warmed the entire area, lighting the room as much as the jovial people did. There were a few people that he recognized as others who were staying at the inn as long as he had, greetings were passed between them as Ranger made his way to the reserved table.

As soon as he sat Eryn placed a blue-green glass cup filled with a sweet tea at his side, and a small pot of honey. Both were rarities in the far northern Salvar area, specially procured delicacies for the dark elf. He had insisted it was not necessary, but the matron of the inn would have none of it. When Mrs. Erith Benne insisted, arms crossed menacingly with the ’you have no choice in the matter’ smile almost deviously plastered on her face, he had little to say. Ranger added a spoon full of honey and stirred before sipping the hot brew.

[Ranger]

After a plate of eggs, a seared slab of ham, toasted bread with mulberry jam, and a second cup of tea the elf leaned back. He stretched his lithe frame and settled himself. A long pipe was pulled from a pocket inside his cloak, the end stuffed with a mint-flavored tobacco and lit. It was the last morning he would enjoy the hospitality of the Benne family before the path of the Thayne was taken up. In a land rife with political upheaval and religious intolerance it had been a pleasant and peaceful week preparing for his journey into Berevar.

He let out a puff of thin smoke and closed his eyes, letting the pointed ears pick up the mirth of the humans around him. His gray-toned skin and elven features were mostly ignored, except for the initial probing questions as to why an Aleraran was so deep in Salvaran territory. They had not given any issue with him being a prophet of the Thayne, despite the predominant religion being that of the Sway. Nor had they minded when he had told them of his task to visit a relic of Jomil. In fact, the concern they had shown for his travel into the wilderness of Berevar alone was more prevalent than anything.

“So, today’s the day, huh?” With a puff of smoke, quickly dispersed by a waving hand, Ranger smiled. He opened his silver eyes and met Mrs. Benne’s ice blue glare. Her arms were crossed, long wooden spoon in one. The stained apron was freshly smeared with bits of grease from cooking breakfast. “You’re going to leave for your mission, or whatever you want to call it?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Still think it’s a stupid thing to do alone.” Erith looked around the room calculatingly, as if gauging each person in turn. Her searching eyes returned to the elf’s pack and then to him. “There are plenty of fools around Archen that would be more than happy to come with you. I can name a couple of ‘em right now.”

“The Thayne have given me a path by which to follow, a beacon for my journey. This is a task I must do alone.” Ranger puffed on his pipe and sipped the tea. Anything except make eye contact with the woman and her passively demanding stance. “I am sure that they will guide me and protect me.”

“Herle,” she said sharply, eliciting a reflexive snap to attention from the man. The bearded hunter snapped his head in her directly, smartly and sarcastically saluting. He smiled as the other hunters as his table chuckled. “Smart ass,” Erith said under her breath. “You want to go look for some Thayne-made relic?”

“Yes’m, I figures that’d be int’restin’ enough.”

Ranger waved a dismissing hand to the man with an appreciative nod. He sat back down and buried his nose in his mug of ale, ignoring the matron’s gaze as much as anyone else. “I told you,” Ranger said rising and picking up his pack and bow. He dug into his coin purse, fingering the hundred gold coins a moment before deciding that the entire pouch would be better. “I must do this alone. It is kind of you to show concern, but it is unwarranted.”

“You know I won’t accept that money.” Ranger shook his head and placed the pouch on the table anyway. It was more than twice what she would have charged anyone else for their stay, but the elf felt it appropriate for the extra effort the Benne family had extended to him. He gulped the last bit of his tea and started for the door. “Prophet, I said I can’t take this. I’ll be damned if I charge a man charged with the old gods work, be they my beliefs or not.”

“Consider it an investment then, keep this inn just the way it is and when I next visit I’ll have a room waiting.” The woman laughed and shook her head, scooping up the coins and turning for the kitchen. Ranger nodded to the other patrons, some waving others offering their best wishes. Most of them had heard of his plans to traverse the wilds of Berevar in search of the Icehenge. One had offered to assist him without Erith’s goading, others had tried to dissuade him, but each held their own form of respect for his decision.

As he pushed aside the door to the inn he was stopped, caught from behind by the arms of Eryn. She squeezed him slight frame. “Please be careful.”

“My dear,” Ranger said as he turned around to face the girl. She released him and stared at the floor. “I will return in time, I promise. Perchance you will be married when I visit again?”

Erith blushed and smiled, kissing the elf on his cheek. She handed him a small sack, the sweet smell of freshly baked yeast bread wafting from the opening. Ranger shrugged it over shoulder. With a quick brush of hair from her face he gently stroked her cheek, offering his thanks as he left the inn. By the time he walked to the northern gate apprehensive thoughts of what lied ahead had begun to replace the warmth of the sweet Benne family.

[Ranger]

Since becoming a prophet of the Thayne, Ranger Nailo had been called to many different places, for many different reasons. He had been summoned to faithful farmers during times of drought and by fishermen praying to Am’aleh for protection and a good catch during famine; as well as all other types of loyal worshipers of the old gods requesting assistance in any form. From the small nation of Scara Brae, to the embattled Corone, and even into the unforgiving and inhospitable lands of the Jya at the behest of those that lifted their prayers to be heard. In each place challenges existed, be they nature or man.

However, none had compared to Berevar. It was an untamed wilderness, a pure expanse of white that swayed with the winds like the dune seas of Fallien. Frozen bogs lingered with the faint scent of decay even as the permafrost thickened over them with the coming of winter. Very few groves of unyielding trees were mere spots of darkness against the backdrop, constantly on the horizon and out of reach. Crags of jagged rock ripped into the hills, scattered caves loomed ominously as if daring him to seek refuge within. When the whipping winds roared he had found the shelters useful, but ventured no further than the entrance for fear of what laid in wait within the dark depths.

Overhead, scaled creatures glided with the currents of air, lifting impossibly high before dropping like an arrow on the hunt for the few different species – ravens and fowl most notably – that that shared the biome. Ranger had seen only one of the aerial beasts come close enough to examine. The membrane like wings and hooked claws along their edges was all he could note before it had returned to the ragged cliff side perch. They were almost dragon-like in appearance, yet had displayed a more acute intelligence underlined by unbridled ferocity.

Sharing the skies were the more familiar Snowy Owls and Harlequin Ducks, the latter of which Ranger would have loved to catch. Yet the sharp breeze kept them high in their secure flocks. Numbers was the key to survival for most of the more demure animals that he encountered.

Huge beasts covered in thick beige and gray fur with horns as long as his arms roamed in packs, scratching an existence from the frostbitten grasses under layers of snow. The closest creature he could compare them to was the much smaller yak of Salvar, but they were some different breed altogether. The herbivores were a skittish lot, running anytime the dark elf drew within hundreds of feet of them. After a week in the frozen lands he had managed to find a single old Musk Ox – as he had decided they were – recently deceased, taking from it hide and as much of the meat as he could.

Without a ready supply of wood the prospect of fire was a notion he had immediately dismissed, instead relying on his magic. As the sun set behind dagger edged mountains he made camp against an outcrop of rock slick with a translucent layer of freshly frozen ice. Ranger dug a small burrow into the snow and covered the opening with the hide of the yak. The biting cold had frozen the inner layer of the fur, keeping the stench of it from permeating everything around it including the elf. He dug out the last loaf of bread from the sack Eryn had given him. Hands wrapped around the frozen loaf he lit them with the power of the light he commanded, allowing the warmth to saturate throughout the dough. It steamed as he put it on the ground and repeated the process with a chunk of frozen yak meat.

Silence, the ever present companion of the lonely prophet, gripped the burrow while he ate his rations. In the distance the howl of the Berevaran wolf rolled with the winds. The wolves of the region were big enough to ride; countless centuries of unchecked domination made them the top tier predator. They strode through the land of ice with an undaunted swagger, roving in small packs and always watching the Alerar native from a distance. He sensed he was not the first to travel the wilds – maybe the first to do so alone – and that the wolves knew a rare easy meal when they saw one. Since two days north of Archen they had been near, howling at night and tailing him during the day. If it was not for the confidence instilled within him by the Thayne and their guiding will the long nights would have been far more ragged.

After finishing most of his meager meal he removed the softwood flute. His dexterous fingers found the holes along its length. The newfound hobby was one he was enjoying every night, as if the rhythm of the simple tones calmed his unsteady nerves. He put the edge of the instrument to his lips and closed his eyes, conjuring up the quick lessons that Eryn had taught him about how to breathe into it. The first blast was too strong, like a peal of unexpected thunder in a cloudless sky. Mentally he chuckled as he readjusted both fingers and breathing.

The soothing music echoed softly against the embankment and rock, enwrapping the novice elven flutist in blissful tranquility. He had always been a quick study in artistic endeavors, a characteristic more befitting his Raiaeran counterparts. An ability to convey emotion into the melody had come almost instantly, and as his mind wandered his soul was imparted in a melodic tone. When the soul-infused song came to an end he opened his eyes to an audience. Six pairs of beady black eyes of long-bodied Ermine peeked past the makeshift door.

“Well, hello there.” Ranger said quietly as he placed the flute at his feet. The largest of the white-furred creatures cocked its head as if asking a question. As slowly as he could, the elf reached to the sliver of bread remaining and tore it into small pieces, scattering those towards the entrance. The chattering pack of weasels scooped them up and cautiously entered the warren. Ranger chewed the last bit of meat and shuffled backwards, wrapping his cloak around himself as he curled his body to rest.

He closed his eyes and let the world of dreams take him. Every night since he had left Archen the same vision had come to him. Blurred and ethereal stones ringed an ancient rune, calling to him like a lighthouse in the endless sea of snow. Around the monument were a half-dozen robbed figures in shifting shadowed silhouette, dedicates to Jomil. The vision never left as he rested, imparting in him the direction of his goal as if a way-stone on a well-worn highway.

[Ranger]

With a start the elf opened his eye, peering around as light filtered through the ox hide flap. Around him the troop of ermine were curled in small balls of fluff, accompanied by a lone Pika who must have wandered in during the night. He grinned at the comfort that he had instilled in them by sharing his rations, glad for the company in his makeshift camp. Yet low grunts and scraping noises filtered into the den, unnaturally close. He could tell that it was the large fur covered herbivores but it sounded as if they were within reach on the other side of the opening to his shelter.

Steadily and slowly he rose without disturbing his new friends and crawled to the hide. He pushed aside the lining, startling the small herd despite his stealth. They scattered almost immediately, dispersing into two separate packs.

Ranger quickly gathered his bow and knocked an arrow. The weasels woke with a start and sprinted past him into the morning light, scattering up the rock wall and away. He ignored them as he spun to leap out of his shelter. Before he could do so a padded paw appeared. The full form of the alabaster wolf came into vision just as he stopped himself from exiting, soaring over the spot he would have occupied if he had continued. It pounced on the calf and with its maw ripped the throat open.

The elf had hunted before, seen animals kill each other for food, and had witnessed the even more gruesome horrors of war by human and elven hands. However, watching a wolf the size of a small horse tear into the helpless youngling – on its heels two more of the small pack following quickly joining – made bile rise to the top of his throat. The steamy blood and innards of the yak were spread across the fresh morning snow as teeth ripped through clots of thick fur. Within seconds the creature was rendered into a scattering of unrecognizable pieces.

As quickly as he could the prophet escaped his den, just in case the wolves wished for a second breakfast, and left the grizzly scene behind him. Overhead the scaled, winged hawks circled as if patiently waiting for their turn to scavenge the carcass. Their screaking cries pierced the constantly shifting winds, following Ranger for an hour longer till his sensitive ears could no longer hear them. All the while he thought of the small calf and his intentions to kill it, almost regretfully looking back at that moment. The harsh reality of Berevar put strength behind his pace and spurred him to find the refuge and safety of the Icehenge.

Hours later his stomach was in a knot and the biting winds were reaching under his cloak to sap strength from his muscles. Joints tried to lock, bones absorbed the chill, and nerves pulsed fitfully with sharp bolts of pain. It was all he could do to take step after step, trying to ignore it all as he continued in a mindless waltz across the tundra.

He had rationed his food as best he could, but the expedition had carried on longer than he had imagined or prepared for. Even with the scavenged meat and the extra rolls of bread from the Benne family he was left with an empty sack. His thoughts were on food, wondering if the Thayne would provide for him, as he continued laboriously through thick snow. Thin fingers commanded calloused hands to close around the fur cape. It snuggly caressed his frail frame, but he could not feel the extremities as they carried out his will.

Fatigue began to set in by the time the sun was once again sinking below the western horizon. His fingers gripped at rocks covered by sheets of ice, climbing up a small cliff face that in any other circumstance would have been simple. The rock-face jutted from the ground suddenly as if dragged against its will from the hard stone ground. Barbs ominously coursed at awkward angles from the ice-formed plateau, creating a rock spine which framed a single safe path to follow. Boots slipped almost as soon as a toehold was found. The cold sapped strength from his arms even as the long since faded feeling in his traitorous fingers struggled unyieldingly with every grasp. It felt as if the rocks themselves were battling the dark elf’s path.

Finally, when he pulled himself up the ridge he breathed a sigh and plopped like a dead-weight onto the soft snow. The sun mocked him with its light, a promise of warmth that never came. Mentally he searched for a hint of its precious embrace. He closed his eyes and let his own magic flow around and through his frame instead, attempting to warm himself as much as he could while the crying muscles rested. The soothing light dispelled none of the ever-present stinging wind, but he could feel his desires manifest as his fatigue seeped away from stiff limbs.

A shadow cast across his face after a few moments, and the prophet was almost fearful to glimpse the barred teeth of a silent predator. Reluctantly he squinted as he peered upwards at what fate awaited him. Sunlight parted around the profile and the elf could tell it was humanoid. His mind raced momentarily, conjuring images of Direlings and the barbaric nature they were rumored to possess. Silver eyes darted as he sought weapons, the rush of adrenaline fueling the aching muscles as he sought the hilts of his swords.

“There is no need, Prophet.” The words were soothing, comforting. They played across his mind, flowing past his elongated ears and into the chaotic thoughts of his mind. Ranger closed his eyes once more, laughing raggedly in place of the dozens of sentences that formed all at once. Praise to the Thayne, thanks to the hermit, a curse to the winds all reached the tip of his tongue but were lost in overwhelming excitement. “We have been expecting you.”

[Ranger]

The snow thinned as the two followed a snaking trail from the shattered cliff through a narrow gorge. The weathered stone was smoothed by centuries of snow melting during the summer month before refreezing between gashes in the rock-face. As the passage began to open the slope descended sharply to an open basin. Winding tributaries fed a massive lake at its heart as rugged mountains climbed into the shallow clouds encompassing every side of the refuge from the Berevaran winds. From the base of the mountains trees grew in the hard soil, massive groves of thick evergreens stretching towards the heavens. Ranger had to stop to take it all in.

After weeks in the frozen tundra with nothing but permafrost and hazy black blemishes on the horizon, the verdant valley was awe inspiring. It took his breath with its beauty and size, even more so that it seemed carefully groomed. Trees grew in rows, with traces of pathways winding lazily through them. The separate groves were maintained and clear of debris he would have expected scattered throughout by the crumbling rocks. Large swaths of orange-tinted grasses dotted the landscape, caribou and musk ox roamed peacefully without concern for predators. Small foxes darted about playfully with pelts of black and brown being shed for the long winters white. Bushy squirrels with pointed ears and pika chattered like pleasant neighbors amidst a bountiful supply of pine cones and blonde flowers with golden streaks, ignoring the hum of the thick honeybees that lazily roamed around them.

“This is beautiful,” the elf muffled with a whispered reverently through his scarf. He hurriedly picked up his pace to catch up to the burlap robed dedicate. Ranger stroked a red wood as he passed it, taking in its size. Out of the trunk of another tree a fox darted to catch a small brown moth before retreating back within the hole easily large enough to function as a small house. A green hued butterfly covered in gray fuzz landed on his hand, resting wearing wings for a moment before taking flight once again. “This tranquility, it is the work of the goddess?”

The disciple stopped for a moment and turned to the pilgrim. He pushed aside his hood and Ranger followed the example, for the first time noticing the stillness of the air. The man’s pale blue-green skin was etched with age lines and dark splotches of teal pigment, the influence of the patron deity he served. He reached a knotted knuckled hand to his hoary beard and scratched at a chin buried deep within. Icy pale eyes searched the elf momentarily before his thin lips parted into a smile. “This, Ranger Nailo, is known as Jomil’s Retreat or by ancient tongue the Wilderlands.”

Ranger’s face was a painted like a child on the Day of the Open Hand, when gifts were exchanged between friends and allies of the Red Hand at the end of the year. His chapped lips parted and the rigid corners cracked with the effort. “She has told you of my coming?”

“Indeed,” he responded with his eyes rising to the low wisps of clouds seemingly held in place against the dull azure sky. He pointed with a skeletal arm and bony finger at a distant speck in the heavens, the bulging veins pulsing beneath tightly wrapped skin. The prophet followed to where he indicated, a single star winking in the encroaching dusk. “She has visited us in our dreams to herald your arrival.”

The two continued on further into the Wilderlands. Before long the two were exiting the encircling forest and knee deep in an ocean of grass that swayed with a placid breeze. A network of shallow brooks and rushing streams fed into the large lake at the heart of the basin, veins feeding into the natural depression from distant waterfalls falling from ice-capped peaks. Large salmon splashed in the waters as they ate small flies that came too close to the surface. Frogs croaked their throaty tunes to one another and leapt into the water when the pair came close.

“A feast has been prepared in honor of your arrival,” the unnamed man said with a clicking of his tongue. Ranger peered around him at a large fire and dozens of burlap robes lazily roaming between tables piled high with food. His stomach churned and growled as if just remembering the hunger it had felt throughout the day. “We do not receive guests often; have not seen a friendly face outside of our community for nearly a century. You are a welcome visitor to our sanctuary.”

“My thanks.” Ranger looked past the feast being prepared at the log face of the still standing building beyond. Walls made of a single large plank of soft redwood covered the entrance to a massive cave, smooth and seamless except for the tall doors at its center. Above the wooden frame statues of the six Thayne stood. The impressive thirty foot stone monuments towered over the proceedings below, all but the crumbled face of V’dralla immaculate. Around it, however, were the ruins he had expected.

Roofless buildings littered the landscape, stone columns cracking despite supporting no weight. In many places only rubble remained of what might have once been mighty structures. Ancient structures jutted from sheer cliff walls, remnants of a much older age. Ranger wondered silently as to their origin as the pair made their way to the gathering. The Queen of the Unmaking had an entropic nature, her very aura spreading slow degradation. In the lands dedicated to her, with dozens of followers calling it home, it was no surprise to see the crumbling buildings.