The Lord of the Night and the Bringers of Dawn.

[Christoph]

Closed


The sun set peacefully in the quiet sky, casting a golden glow over the rolling, pine covered mountains, illuminating the rocky bald spots of the landscape. The only sounds save the gentle rustling of the dark late summer grass were from the steady creaking of a trio of wagons, accented by the staccato of clopping horse hooves. Even in the wane of dusk, the rocky, winding road was visible for miles in the distance, stretching out into the horizon like a stray mark from a scribe’s pen.

Chris was stretched out on a pile of wheat sacks, his white chef coat clean and intact; of course, there were several stains of various colors as well as stitch marks from old holes and tears. He breathed in the crisp air with a genuinely happy expression. Traces of the arctic Salvic chill, as well as the distinct soil of the land, fresh pine, and farm animals floated about. It smelled like home. After nearly a year of travel to all sorts of exotic places in Scara Brae, Corone, and gods-knew where else, it was good to be breathing familiar air again.

Finally, he could put his whole extraordinary ordeal behind him. Indeed, he’d seem more of the world in those months than he had in his entire life leading up to it. He’d met fascinating people and done some amazing things. However, the facts that many of those people he’d met were trying to kill him and much of what he did also almost resulted in his death certainly put him off a little. Really, it was almost as though some bored gods had taken it upon themselves to toy with him for their own amusement. Because of this, none of the pleasant points in his long journey were enough to make him want to do it again. Ever. Even a peaceful, and for the most part, boring life of working in his hometown’s tavern was preferable to running about, risking one’s life, and living out an existence of self-inflicted misery and discomfort.

Amusingly enough, his unwanted harrowing adventure was supposed to be nothing more than a four-month business trip. His mother was opening up a second tavern in a nearby town, and with two establishments to run, the need for a larger quantity of cheaper imports became necessary for success. Chris had been sent off to work out a number of contracts with foreign shipping agents and warehouse owners. He’d been successful in this, of course, but there was just something about zombies, wars, pickpockets, being arrested that made business ventures take longer than they are supposed to. He sighed, but pushed it all from his mind. It didn’t matter anymore; it was over now. In another week, he would be back in his hometown, working in the tavern’s kitchen, and telling stories to curious patrons.

Casually, Chris turned his head to face the other man in the back of the wagon. He seemed about the same age as he was. He was much lighter in frame, though, almost to the point of being scrawny. His hair was about as long and shaggy as Chris’s own, but it lacked the curly, “poofy”, quality. It was also much darker, possessing an odd shade of black that looked as though he’d dipped his head into a bucket of ink. They’d been traveling together since their arrival in the same port. During the several weeks of travel since then, they’d talked a little bit from time to time. The chef knew that his name was Elijah and that he was returning home to spend some time with an “old master.” Of what the man was a master of, Chris never bothered to ask.

A small town gradually became more visible in the distance. The glow of fireplaces escaped the windows of most every house, making it look like a bunch of burning embers tossed over the dark hilltop. Then, oddly, the metaphorical embers died, one by one, as the lights went out, leaving a cold emptiness in their place. Odd.

“I know that town,” said the chef, breaking the long silence between himself and Elijah. “I used to visit there from time to time with Heather, one of my friends. I’m not sure why they’re putting out their lights, though.” Whatever it was, Chris’s track record with luck and fate tempted him to believe that it wasn’t good.

[Elijah_Morendale]

Bunny approved

Salvar. I'm home again. Elijah allowed a shiver to pass through him; first of all because he had gotten used to the warmer climates of Corone and Scara Brae, second because he was unsure of the wrath his good old icecrafting master would bring unto him for abandoning his apprenticeship. He had left rather abruptly almost three years prior, and if the adventurer were in his master's worn leather boots, then he'd probably smack himself around a little bit with blunt instruments before taking him back in for further training.

Elijah had spent most of that particular day's wagon ride across the countryside of Salvar crafting ice daggers. With every one he made, he tried to make the serrated edges just a bit sharper, the weight distribution between the frozen blade and its hilt just a bit more even, and the small dragon insignia on the grip--his favorite part--just a bit less embarrassing to look at. At this point, it still closely resembled an inbred dragon with stumpy legs that suffered from Down Syndrome, but it was one crafted with as much care as he could muster.

Nadia--his slightly psychotic imaginary friend and part-time conscience--was using his shoulder as a make-shift pillow as she tried to find ways to pass the long days of travel. She lazily turned her head to glance at Elijah's latest craftwork, furiously twirling her messy, tangled, crimson-hued hair with an index finger. "Watching you try to perfect that dragon thing is like watching puppies getting kicked with steel-toed boots," she remarked, her comment spiked with pure disdain.

Elijah spoke softly, hoping that the noise of the wagons riding on the rocky road prevented his white-coated wagonmate from hearing him. "I thought you liked that sort of thing."

"You're right, I do, but that doesn't detract from the fact that your thing still sucks."

Elijah could feel a hole burning in the side of his head. He glanced over, his eyes meeting with Christoph's. The chef's brown eyes were locked on him in a puzzled manner, as if the denim-clad adventurer had eaten half of his lunch on him while he was asleep. His voice piqued with hesitant curiosity, the chef asked, "Were you just talking to yourself?"

Busted. Elijah couldn't really do much but use another one of his patented innocent smiles as he answered. "Yeah, I was. You'll have to forgive me, I think I'm going mad."

Christoph wasted no time shrugging his shoulders, returning to his comfortable, inert position on the wheat sacks. "Who isn't?"

Elijah let out a small chuckle as he returned his attention to the emblem on the ice dagger. Nadia groaned loudly, a groan that oozed of boredom more than anything else. "Come on, play a game with me!"

He looked over at his imaginary friend. "Like what?"

Nadia shrugged, her gaze fixed on the mountainous Salvarian horizon through the opening in the back of the wagon. "Fuck if I know. You still got that pack of cards with you?"

"You threatened give me nightmares the night that you tried to argue that Solitaire wasn't a one player game, so I threw out the cards, remember?"

"Oh, yeah. I forgot. Silly me." The grin of a lunatic crossed the imaginary friend's face as Elijah mentioned the nightmare threat, a hint of amusement in her emerald-green eyes. She would've had a lot of fun that night, especially with the "endless plane" nightmare. That one was her personal favorite. Oh well, she thought to herself. Maybe I'll have a surprise waiting for him when he falls asleep tonight.

Several uninteresting hours had passed as the wagons drew closer to their destination--A small town out in the middle of the slightly chilled, pristine Salvarian countryside. Night drew closer and the temperature dropped to the point where Elijah could see his breath in front of him. Christoph pointed out, with a touch of uneasiness in his voice, mind you, that the town's population had begun putting their lights outs, even at this early hour. "Well, nothing bad better happen while we're here. Trouble has a knack of following me lately, especially during the nighttime." Elijah reached into his jacket, gripping his dagger for no reason other than reassurance that this was going to be one town that he'd be able to escape the clutches of trouble.

As the sun continued to set over the ivory mountaintops, the wagons pushed on down the road towards the village.

[Twinight]

A small white rabbit nibbled softly on a piece of cabbage, his beady red eyes watching the surroundings. It was free food, finding something so nice and tender and fresh in the middle of the Salvic wasteland. Maybe, with this, it would last another week. Suddenly his ears pricked up, alerted by noises from a nearby shrub, as if some large predator was stalking through them. Instincts burned inside the small creature’s tiny brain, telling it to run, to dash, but it waited, and watched. Curious, was this one, to know what lurked in the shadowy depths of that bush. Who knows, maybe it would be friends with the rabbit.

Thrusting out with speed yet very little accuracy a hand grabbed for the critter, and missed. Bounding off through the snow and disappearing into the underbrush, the animal was gone, and the owner of the hand was left with no prey. Letting go a loud sigh, the boy got out from within the shrubbery and stretched his arms, rather hungry and having no luck catching even the simplest of game.

“Suppose I’m not the greatest of hunters.”

Laughing to himself, Miyr glanced skyward. The land was only half of his home, for his ancestry told him that his race owned the sky as well. A small shadow passed overhead as a bird flew by, and a smile grew across the Mereling’s face. With haste, he ran to a nearby pine tree and grabbed a hold of the highest branch he could reach. Drawing himself upwards with speed and practice, his nails raked into the bark and gave him purchase to ascend the titan of a plant.

Hunger on his mind, he spotted the bird again flying south towards a nearby valley. Gazing past it, he managed to spot a shimmering in the empty flat tundra. Down there a village lay, and even as he watched the glistening lights died out, leaving nothing but a black smudge on the seemingly endless snow. Lights mean people, people mean food.

Leaping from the tree, he dived into the air and laughed with roarous mirth as the wind took him. Blue light spread from every inch of his body, glowing for but an instant before gathering between his shoulder blades. With an explosion of light and feathers, great white wings spread from his back and caught the wind. Speeding through the air, and enjoying the cool mist across his face and body, Miyr glided down to the valley floor.

The soft Salvic breezes of the valley were quite enough to carry him to the perimeter of the city. Dropping from the sky with grace, Miyr landed on the road just as darkness was beginning to set in. All of the lights had already gone out, and as his wings disappeared from sight, so did every trace of life in the city. Cold and as empty as the rest of the tundra, he felt less sure of himself by the second. Trying his best to find courage, the Mereling called into the night, praying it would respond kindly.

“Hello? Is…is there anyone out there?”

[Christoph]

“It seems that I’m not the only one who attracts trouble like a lamp attracts moths, then,” sighed the chef, glancing over at his odd acquaintance. “Maybe our odd curses will cancel each other out, then.” He chuckled. More likely, they would compound and create something far, far worse.

Chris sat up and gazed off at the town. It was very odd that an entire town would put out their lights so early. It gave him a bad feeling, and not just because of the town itself. As the caravan grew closer, there seemed to be something unsettling about the landscape. There was nothing overtly wrong about it, and it was hard to fully identify in the dark. The land itself simply seemed less healthy than one would expect. The dark, lush carpet of grass gradually faded to a yellow, patchy rag of vegetation. The soil itself seemed dry and cracked.

Even the massive forest beyond the settlement didn’t look quite right. It was at the peak of summer, yet the forest looked as though it could have very well been the very eve of winter. The leafless skeletons of the deciduous trees stretched upward like demonic claws reaching for the heavens. Even the mighty pines had an ominous look to them as they towered above their sickly cousins like vicious taskmasters. This was definitely not the cheerful little hamlet that he’d remembered from his youth.

***

The wagons continued to creak along the road, heading for the darkened town. By the time the last of the sun’s light faded from the dreary sky, they had reached the edge of the settlement. Even the horses were uneasy. It wasn’t surprising, of course; animals always seemed to be more sensitive to such things. Chris had suggested to the two owners of the caravan that they skip the town, instead of stopping. The two men had dismissed his request, naturally, saying that they needed to stop here because they wouldn’t have enough supplies to make it to the next town.

These claims struck the chef as rather odd. He knew these parts reasonably well. There should be another town coming up within another day, two at most. Aside from that, he was all but certain that the caravan had more than enough supplies to make the entire trip to the Northern frontier, let alone just another day. Chris knew better than to press the issue, though. Those two men were not the types that he ever wanted to cross.

He’d never seen merchants like that pair before. They dressed and acted like merchants, both wearing faded blue robes common for their class and often speaking to each other in financial terms, but there was something different about them. The larger of the two was a man in his mid thirties. His head was shaved completely bald, his shoulders were half again as broad as Christopher’s, and his massive hands looked like they could crush a man’s skull like a grape. The man’s face was covered in several small scars, including a single long one running up his head. His eyes were the color of amber and had the distant look of a veteran soldier, rather than that of a merchant. The other man appeared to be a few years younger. His face was youthful and mostly free of scars and thick black hair fell down past his ears. His dark green eyes were so piercing that Chris was certain that they could penetrate a man’s soul.

It was their forceful and compelling presence that kept the caravan on its course into gloomy town. If anything, the settlement was even more depressing and off-putting from the inside. Every window was shuttered. Some were even barred. The doors were locked and every light was out. The trio of wagons made their way for the town’s Inn, which was as dark as the rest of the town. Having given up on his efforts to persuade the merchants against stopping, Chris returned to his spot on the wheat sacks. He turned to Elijah.

“If those windows are any indication, I’m thinking that we’ll be sleeping out here tonight.”

[Elijah_Morendale]

The last hour or so had been quite unnerving for Elijah. His heart was slowly sinking as they approached the small village. Between the ominous-looking, leafless forest that formed a wall of naked bark along the outskirts of the village and the lifelessness contained inside the old wood and stone buildings themselves, the setting reminded him of the nightmares he would have once in a while. Some crazy shit is going to go down here, I'm calling it right now. He closed his eyes as the caravan entered the town, silently wishing that whatever was waiting in the darkness would come out and get the wanton death and destruction over with so he could continue on with his trek back to the settlement where he was raised without another hitch.

His right hand securely wrapped around the hilt of his dagger inside his coat and was too busy fretting to hear what Christoph had to say, although he did pick up the words sleeping and out here, which were more than enough to get the general idea.

His messy mop of all-too-black hair jumped as Elijah whipped his head to the side to look at Christoph. By the faint light that the oil lamp gave off, he could see that his traveling companion was dead serious. His face twisted in fear and frustration, he nearly flipped out on the chef. "What the--sleep out here? No sir, that ain't happening. I'm sure there's someone still awake around here that'll let us in!"

Without giving Christoph a chance to talk him out of it, Elijah picked himself off the wooden floor of the wagon and leaped over the three foot high wall that kept its cargo from falling out. His feet touched down with a crunch, kicking up a small cloud of dirt. As the wagon pulled into a small road alongside the inn, he looked around, relying on the pale moonlight to pick out any building that remotely resembled an inn. After a few seconds of searching, his eyes fell upon a three-storied stone building and made the quick decision of walking towards it. Squinting his eyes to make a further inspection, he could barely make out a sign near the door telling him that he was correct, that he was standing in front of an inn.

Casually, as if all of the fear had seeped out through his pores, he knocked on the door. The sound of fist on wood echoed through the barren streets like cannon fire. After going a minute without an answer, he knocked again, although significantly harder. "Hey! Anyone here?"

He could hear a quiet voice from behind the door, one that was aged and overflowing with fear. "G-go away!"

Elijah cocked an eyebrow at the thought of being turned away. "What do you mean go away?"

"What are you, stupid or something? Go away means go away!"

The denim-clad adventurer put his hands on his hips. "Look, dude, I need a place to stay for the night. Let me in, I got gold!" The sound of deadbolt locking behind the door was the only response the old man had for Elijah. Turning away from the door, he let out a heavy sigh, throwing his hands up in the air and letting them drop back to his sides.

That was when he heard it. It was the sound of another voice--not the old man's, not Christoph's, nor that of the two other men they were traveling with. It sounded like couldn't be too far away. He instinctively jabbed his right hand inside his jacket and clung onto the hilt of his dagger, ready to lash out at whatever had made the noise. He slowly turned to his left, seeing the silhouette of another figure in the moonlight.

His voice shaking ever so slightly, he figured that a reply was in order. "Uh... Hi?"

[Twinight]

Spooky barely begun to describe it. As the sun lowered and darkness descended upon the town, Miyr noted a complete and unearthly change. In the pale light, everything had seemed normal and quite serene. Almost as if from a picture book. But now that same book had taken a dark and twisted turn down into the depths of horror. Silence choked the air like a noose, and life seemed to have halted. The grass lay dead beneath his feet, and the hillsides moved in the eerie breezes. Haunting angles and grim colors made up every building, as if every facet of existence within this village had been reformed by the night to scare the daylight out of any sane creature.

Taking another step in, the boy leapt when he suddenly heard the sound of a carriage, followed shortly by the said vehicle rolling past on a nearby street. The dark figure of a man or boy leapt from it and proceeded to a nearby building. Slamming on it’s front door, the Mereling could hear voices and a short exchange between that figure and whoever was inside. Obviously it was not a satisfying conversation, and the figure’s voice reflected that quite well.

Drawing in a deep breath and swallowing his growing fear, Miyr called out again, smiling faintly and hoping the stranger was friendly. Whilst shouting out, he continued his brisk pace down the street, towards the man.

“Hey! Hello there!”

As he grew closer, however, he saw that the figure was a boy with black hair, dark looking, and clinging to something within his cloak. The look on his face and his posture reminded him instantly of a cornered wolf, ready to spring at any moment. Stopping in his tracks and backing up a step, the boy held out his hands in offering that he had no weapon. Trying his best to smile and seem as innocent and harmless as he really was, Miyr spoke again after hearing a faint response to his calls.

“My name is Miyr. I..I just arrived in this village myself. Are you a resident here? Could you tell me what’s going on?” without waiting for an answer, he continued, thinking it needed to be added, “I won’t hurt you, I’m rather harmless.”

Just after finishing talking he realized that if this man wanted to hurt him, then he had basically given the boy an open invitation. Groaning to himself, he backed up another step, feeling for the ethereal wings hidden behind his back. If needed, he would try his best to take flight. Who knows, maybe the distance between them was still enough to get away.

Wouldn’t be that much of a loss, to go another night without eating, if it meant getting out of this cursed dark place.

[Christoph]

Chris craned his neck to watch Elijah over the side of the wagons. In all honesty, he was surprised that anyone had answered his acquaintance at all; normally, they would just pretend that they were not home, waiting behind their door with a crossbow, just in case. The chef had wanted for the disconcertingly peculiar man to just stay in the wagon and out of trouble. Honestly, there was no sense in tempting the contemptuous gods by giving them any more opportunities to cause mischief. Naturally, though, Elijah scoffed at the idea of just sleeping outside and not making a scene. Apparently, being smart is just stupid. Chris sighed.

Sitting up finally, Chris took a moment to organize all of the reasonable assumptions regarding the situation. Assumption one: the townsfolk were afraid of something. This, of course, was so obvious that it didn’t even count as an assumption. It’s associated question, regarding what, exactly they were afraid of, wasn’t an assumption either; it bordered on the opposite end of the philosophical horizon, where wild guesses and paranoia reigned supreme. Of course, the chef had more than enough of both of those things to spare.

He glanced around, spotting the newcomer approaching to talk to Elijah. That seemed like a logical cue to get out of the wagon and find out what was going on. Even as he did so, though, his mind kept working. Another assumption that he felt safe making was that the townsfolk were either hiding something or they believed that the caravan was somehow associated with whatever they were afraid of – or both. That piece of information would actually be very crucial, especially considering all the dark, shadowy forms of villagers lurking around some of the corners. The next assumption was that the young man who’d come down the street wasn’t a resident of the town. To be fair, that was hardly worthy of assumption status, since Chris had heard the newcomer say that he was new to the town. Perhaps he should go and find out who this new person was.

Wait… back up!

Christopher’s entire train of thought came to a screeching halt and rewound. His head darted around in time to see a mass of townsfolk closing in on the caravan from behind. He counted at least twenty of them, many of them carrying pitchforks. Their sickly, shadowy faces were painted with the telltale expressions of fear-spawned anger. More scuffing footsteps alerted the chef to the presence of another mob moving in from the front of the wagon train.

A large, fat, bald man stood at the forefront of the second mob. In his ornate robes, he looked like a purple silk potato sack, waddling forward and waving around a club. Dark eye circles and large, fleshy jowls dominated his pale face. His corpulent appearance, style of dress, and the pompous air laced through his nasal voice marked him off as someone important – or, at the very least, someone self-important.

“They must be thralls of the bloodsucker!” the man screamed, pointing at the caravan. “Get them!” The townsfolk hesitated for a moment, as though sparks of reason were surfacing in their minds. These sparks were, of course, extinguished like candles in wind, as they let their fear take over once again.

“Wait. Thralls of the what?” asked Chris, subtly reaching into his chef coat for his trusty chef knife. The ringleader’s face contorted with rage. To Chris’s trained eyes, the rage appeared more exaggerated and forced, rather than sincere. “What are you talking about?”

“Silence, heathen!” cried the round man. He took another step toward the caravan, clumsily brandishing his club.

“A funny thing for one such as yourself to say, Mayor Eugeny.” At the front of the caravan, the smaller, dark-haired man, one of the leaders of the caravan, was on his feet, standing a couple of meters away from the mob’s fat figurehead. “Now, don’t do anything… unwise.” The plump mayor’s eyes went wide and his voice jumped up an octave.

“What… I-I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he cried.

Lovely, thought Chris. To his distinct dismay, things were getting interesting.

[Elijah_Morendale]

Elijah loosened his grip on his concealed weapon, feeling silly over his paranoia. He ran a hand through his tangled mop of pitch black hair as he apologized, his voice spiked with embarrassment. "Sorry, Miyr. I just have terrible luck at night, people have a knack of wanting to kick my ass when the sun goes down. You can never be too careful, right?" He relaxed a bit and stood straight again, realizing that the person in front of him meant him no harm whatsoever. It felt strange, encountering someone at night who didn't have it out for him.

He squinted, hoping to put a face to the figure. By the light of the moon, he didn't appear to be anything special; clothes that you'd find on any John Q. Peasant, a head of well-groomed blond hair, and dark skin. His body was slender, much like Elijah's own. Upon further inspection, he noticed something odd about his eyes. They looked slightly reptilian. Elijah felt a chill creep down his spine at this discovery and averted his eyes. He caught sight of Nadia leaning up against the door of the inn, pointing to her right, her sadistic grin half hidden by her wild bangs.

The adventurer followed her finger's lead, turning around. Over a dozen villagers greeted him with pitchforks pointed at his face, cautiously standing several feet away from him and ready to impale him at a moment's notice. They looked as if they might have been afraid of whatever they thought Elijah was, but the adventurer was just as frightened, if not more. Beads of cold sweat were forming on his forehead as he heard a booming voice tear its way down the road. He quickly spun around to see another group of villagers standing at the other end of the wagon he had come into town on.

He slowly turned back to the first group, reaching for the sky with his shaky hands in an effort to surrender. He flashed an uneasy smile, hoping that it would put his would-be assailants to ease--but to no avail. Their makeshift weapons inched closer and closer to Elijah's face.

He could hear the hushed voice of his imaginary friend in his right ear. "Hey. Idea. You let me take over, and then I go all stabby death kill. I--we--could take them." Elijah turned his head to see the figment of his imagination's toothy grin inches from his face. Her eyes were beaming with a kind of energy that hinted that violence may be the only answer out of this situation.

Elijah whispered harshly whispered underneath his breath, trying not to draw even more attention to himself. "No! There's a lot of them, and only one of us. I don't feel like dying tonight, if that's cool with you."

A look of deep rooted scorn replaced the smile on Nadia's face. She crossed her arms and pouted, hoping that Elijah would change his mind. "You are such a fucking wuss, chief."

He shook his head and ignored the comment, addressing a couple of the villagers instead. "Can one of you please tell me what the hell is going on here?"