Fate's Touch Be Damned

[Lye]

2014th Summer, 6th Moon, Day 10

“See here rookies,” General Anahk’thiem barked in elvish as he paced down the line of youths barely out of adulthood. “The title of Sky Knight is no laughing matter. We are the shields that protect our people and our cities. We are the blades that cut down anyone who threatens our way of life. And we are the reason our kind has endured several wars and our cities still stand!”

The General continued his ritualistic ramblings that all newbloods had to endure. As he did, his rigid posture, two hands behind his back, and clanking plate mail passed a pair of these youths who eyed one another with naivety in their eyes. When the General made it to the end of the row, the elven boy of golden blonde hair turned stiffly to another.

“Did you hear?” he whispered while trying to preserve as much of his posture as possible. “Anahk’thiem’s grandfather was one of the forward advance in the Demon Wars when he was our age. Rumor says he flayed countless demons on his blade.”

The boy who stood beside him darted his eyes to the other. The blonde had him hooked, but could tell by his uncompromising stance he worried about being caught. The blonde didn’t share the same concern and continued.

“Said that after weeks under waves and waves of the beasts, he snapped and started collecting ears and fingers of his enemies. Spooky, right?!” His enthusiasm carried too far and to pointy ears that were not intended to hear.

“Recruit Euthaine!” the general roared. Some boys jumped at the volume, others broke posture, and several eyes snapped to the blonde in question. The general spun on his heel and began a firm stride back down the line. The private snapped straighter than an arrow’s shaft.

“Would you care to share with the group?” the general continued, now nose to nose with the recruit. Fear sparkled in the youth’s eyes where the innocence and intrigue once shone bright.

“I-I was just t-telling--”

“Speak up boy! Don’t go losing your spine now!” Each sentence caused the recruit to flinch.

“I was telling Recruit Orland about your ancestor’s service in the Demon Wars, sir!” His youthful elvish voice paled in comparison to the commanding, guttural roar of his superior.

Still just hairs away from the recruit, the General cracked a smile that would curdle milk. He took a step back to address the others.

“You mean the heads, ears, and fingers my grandfather kept as mementos from that bloody conflict?” Anahk’thiem’s stern tones devolved from strictly professional to uncomfortably informal. Euthaine hesitated but nodded in a display that looked like a full body quiver. The general’s smile stretched ear to pointed ear.

“Yes,” the superior began, leaning forward, “and he told me he enjoyed each and every min--”

The general stopped mid sentence, his eyes wide and seasoned features twisted from amused to utter horror. He staggered back and clawed at his plated chest with mithril gauntlets.

The recruits looked to one another in a panic, then to the general. They teetered on breaking formation or risk falling into a ruse. Compelled more by his empathy than fear, Euthaine stepped forward with arms reaching out his superior.

“General?!” he inquired. The soft chatter of the other recruits grew louder. The elven veteran continued to rend mythril on mythril with mouth open, tongue out, and eyes rolling back.

“General Anahk’thiem!” This time louder. Euthaine gripped the man by the arm and then it happened.

Like a sack of Salvan potatoes, Anahk’thiem collapsed and ceased to move. Euthaine stood in shock with arm out and hand open where the warm touch on his fingers still remained.

“Medic!” shouted a voice in the crowd, but by the time help arrived, it was too late.

[Lye]

2014th Summer, 6th Moon, Day 12

In the recent days of peace, the war room of Winyaurient had remained silent, majestic, and an icon in Raeairan legend. Wars had been fought, won, and lost within its luxuriously crafted elven walls. However, on this day, the long unattended seats were filled and at the head of the table sat the elven legend, Lady General Nalith Celiniel. Once quiet, the chamber now echoed the concerned voices of several men of command. Lastly, and one detail to note, a large raven roosted in the crystalline glass skylight above, head cocked and eyeing the commotion below.

“This murderer must be found and brought to justice!” roared an elderly elf framed in a wiry grey beard and donned in polished golden armor. His clenched fist slammed upon the Liviol Ulder table with splinters jumping to the air. The old man’s demonstration of anger and might in contrast to his frame was for naught, as the damage just done mended as though the table were made of fluid.

“I agree Ther’thok! We should mobilize our recon teams and scour the realm until this culprit is found!” Another elf, only barely affected by the grays of age, stood at the opposing end. With hands thrust upon the wood’s magical surface, the elegant, avian relief of the BladeSingers caught light upon its silvered surface.

“Gentlemen!” One voice dominated the cacophony of shouts and gestures - the voice of a woman. “Gentlemen, still your enthusiasm!”

The room simmered to silence and the mixture of metals, crests, old, and new returned to their seats. All eyes fell on the woman which stood at the head of their table. Her chair, unlike the others, visually declared rank above the others in the room. Her armor, tainted a faint crimson, stood testament to her legend and fame. Only she stood, and only she had the floor.

“Sergeant Major Ferralenne of the 67th Medical Division, please share with those uninformed, your report,” Lady General Nalith Celiniel asked in a very smooth, yet authoritative tone. She then sat with chin lifted to give the Sergeant the floor. Ferralenne stood.

“Over the past 72 hours reports from all over the nation have come in about mysterious deaths of current and former officers. At present, we have accounted for 57 deaths and have several instances of missing persons filed.” The high elven male, younger than most, cleared his throat. On his chest, he bore the angelic insignia of the medical division, the highest rank of its regime. He continued.

“The natures of these deaths show no particular signs of foul play. Many of which are caused by cardiac arrest, cranial aneurysm, and in some cases, sudden suicide. However, it is the victims of these deaths that have caused us to assemble today.”

Farralenne looked to the Lady General. With her mouth covered by steepled fingers, she nodded the Sergeant Major to continue. The Sergeant open the file in his arms and shuffled through the contents before raising his attention back to those assembled.

“Each of the victims have a common tie to one another. They all were sons and daughters to veterans of The Demon Wars.”

The chamber erupted again into shouts and clanking armor.

“My wife is the daughter of a veteran!” one shouted. “Does that mean she too will die?!”

“I am a proud son of a vet with three children of my own! This must be stopped!”

“Do we have any leads?!”

“Dark Elves I tell you! Those bastards are in leagues with the Devil!”

“What about other nations?! Is it just the elves?!”

“Order!” shouted the Lady General. Her hands remained steepled in front of her lips, but the volume of her voice dominated the hysteria. Again, this time gradually, the others calmed and returned to their chairs.

“Sergeant Major, that is all,” Lady Celiniel continued. Farralenne offered a curt bow before returning to his seat. The General turned to another member of the table.

“Master Sergeant Kelthor of the forward Recon Division, please share your recent findings.” Kelthor, an elf of sharp, angular features and serpentine eyes, nodded to the Lady General and stood to address his colleagues.

“Approximately four days ago, my men reported unusual activity in the Tular Planes,” he began. Though his raspy voice did not carry the authority of the others who had spoken, his reputation in the ranks more than made up for the deficit.

“They informed me of several disturbances in the way light refracted in several locations throughout the Planes. Originally, these were dismissed as mirages or optical illusions by the heat. However, it was brought to my attention that one patrol noted unusual tracks leading to and from the locations of the mirages. Out of curiosity, I had that same patrol investigate further. They never reported back their findings and are assumed missing in action.”

Instead of shouts, whispers flooded the halls. Men turned to one another with confused expressions. Some tended to their beards in thought. Others remained with arms crossed and brows lowered.

“Thank you,” the Lady General added, to which Master Sergeant Kelthor nodded and took his chair. This time, Nalith Celiniel stood to address the council.

“Given light of this information, not only from the Sergeant Major and Master Sergeant, but other factions around Althanas, we have to assume that these events are connected. Even our enemies to the north have filed reports of similar deaths thereby absolving them of suspicion. Somehow, by some means, this culprit or culprits are eliminating their targets from a distance. Although I share your enthusiasm to bring these bastards to justice, I will not throw our limited numbers against a foe we do not understand.”

Her tone rose with ire, a mixture of both pain and anger on her fair features.

“Master Sergeant,” she continued. He bowed his head in acknowledgment. “I want you to send regimes to each of these assumed mirages. Follow up on your missing men, determine what exactly these disturbances are, and report back to me.”

The thin, athletic officer gave his superior another nod of affirmation.

“As for the rest of you, put anyone directly related to the Demon Wars under 24 hour medical surveillance. Contain our losses as much as possible. If you hear any word that may prove useful it comes to me first. I have a suspicion that an old enemy is to blame. If so, we may be looking at another bloody conflict. Any questions?”

The Lady General surveyed the room as men of different rank and file muttered to one another. From the conversations, one general rose to his feet and opened his mouth to speak.

“Yes, General Thulbrook?” his superior provoked. The others stilled their lips to devote their attentions. The man placed his palms on the enchanted table, expression flat, but still silent.

“If this is about you and your children,” Lady Celiniel continued, but before she could finish, Thulbrook drew his blade from his hip. The nearby officials shot to their feet, reaching for their weapons in kind. The Lady General stood in alarm, aware of what was most likely to occur next.

“Quickly! Stop him before he--!” she managed before the ring of freshly drawn steel quieted itself in its owner’s neck. Thulbrook came to, far too late to prevent the inevitable, but just in time to harken back on the memories of his family.

“Thaynes be damned!” swore Lady Celiniel in the growing madness of shouts and scrambling boots. “Somebody get the medics in here, NOW! Every damn one on station!”

Thulbrook swaggered, his life force stemming from his neck in ounces. Like a bed of arms, his fellow officers reached out to grab him before he fell. Blade still lodged to the hilt in his throat, he could not even manage a word as they lowered his weighted figure to the floor. To him, the shouts and clatter sounded as though under water. His vision faded as comrades in arms held worried expressions over him. He knew. Even in the last of his sweetest memories, he looked toward the blinding white of the stained glass skylight above. And while the medics tended to him in droves, he let himself go into the light’s embrace. Then, black as the raven which took flight above, he was lost to darkness.

[Lye]

2014th Summer, 6th Moon, Day 15

It smelled of mildew, feces, blood, and rust. Where the fluids had not frozen into blackened ice, puddles of congealed unknowns remained. Somewhere in the dimly lit darkness, the constant metronome of a drip sounded. Then, the steady creak of chains joined the melody in tandem with faint breaths.

Lye Ulroke, The Viper of Slavar, took another lungful of the foul air. Were this the first time dealing with the scent today he would have snarled in disgust. Instead, he remained expressionless, motionless, and helpless to avoid it. The chains squeaked in response to his attempt to pull his wrists free from their grasp. They did not give nor offer any slack. He took another shallow breath, trying to mitigate the fatigue in his shoulders from days of being suspended. For a normal man, pain would have been an undeniable factor in his mind, but that thought was currently dominated by the strange sigil lovingly carved with care on his bare chest.

The mark itself bore no malice in its deep gouges, and the blood from which once flowed had long since stopped. Instead, the malicious magic in which it was infused barred his ability to mend bone to his will. In fact, it constantly subject them to microscopic fractures for which the assassin had to continually focus his efforts to mend. From that, the pain was noticeable and constantly brimmed on the edge of what he could and could not handle.

He could have voiced for help, but none would dare come. He could subject his captors to the same pain they dealt, but his lips could not invoke the hex. Those responsible for his current state took extra precautions to stitch his lips with voidweave, alchemically infused to paralyze his jaw and tongue.

He could have simply phased himself free of their simple, wrought iron clutches, but again, his captors (one specifically) had planned ahead. Angel tears, a substance embodying light in the purest sense and incorruptible by darkness had been injected into him regularly. Though he managed to process their poisonous effects at exponential speed, the dosage constantly streaming into him via intravenous drip ensured he’d never be in short supply.

All he could do was hang there, nude and freezing, fighting his own sanity in the maelstrom of torturous conditions. The anger and hatred once mixed with the madness boiled down to a single, sane thought, “survive”.