Taleteller

[Prime]

(( Solo thread. This is an elaboration of Prime's history, and as such takes place before his involuntary hibernation. This means that in this story, he's a very powerful individual, and does not suffer from amnesia. ))



1,998 years ago
Corone during the Demon Wars

Corone’s grassland had never been less inviting than today. Clouds of brimstone drifted through the skies like poisonous sludge, toxic orange and unnatural yellow roiling and revolving sickly from horizon to horizon. The sounds of war were deafening, cleaving wildly through the peace of nature, ravaging the tranquil flora and wildlife of the region. Even without the crimson blood that stained each fallen leaf, even without the loud screams of the dying and the even louder silence of the dead, war had left its mark on the continent for years to come. It would require hundreds of years for the primal laws to retake control and commence its restoration – it proved once more that war was another one of sentient life’s unnecessary inventions, a tool to assist in the urge for complete domination.

It was strange to absently ponder such transcendent thoughts while commanding an army into battle, but the yellow-robed man that stood coolly amidst the slaughter had grown accustomed to it over the years – had learned to cherish the respite it brought from the red- filled onslaught that transpired all around him. His white mane and thin goatee were marred by specks of dirt and blood, and the many mystical markings upon his face and arms gleamed in turquoise hue as his lips moved in impossible patterns. A second later, dry lightning struck from the befouled air, throwing apart a battalion of demons that had sought to maneuver around the Alliance’s position to assault it from the flank.

Although he wore a chainmail of precious mythril, with a royal blue cloth showing the sign of the Alliance draped around it, he did not appear to have any actual need for physical protection. Every demon that even tried to come his way was pushed away by an unseen force, while arrows and spells aimed for his broad frame were incinerated and fizzled with equal ease. He was a catalyst of the planet and its most powerful forces, a means of channeling the fury of primal Althanas against the otherworldly invaders. He was a tool, and tools did not require names, though the Elves and Humans he fought alongside called him Asenör whenever they had need of him. Being a commander and the most destructive member of the Alliance, that was the case quite often.

A part of him noticed that this skirmish was slowly reaching its conclusion. Much of the menace’s ranged attackers had retreated, with the remaining infantry trying their very best to get to the forest behind them without turning their back on the army of the Alliance, which was in victorious pursuit. The old mage smiled as he let the primal powers surging through his body fade into nothingness, the feeling of rage subsiding now that the battle had been won. It was another small victory in a long line of winning streaks, in no small part due to the wondrous powers that the new human commander possessed, but as he looked overhead at the sulfurous haze still oozing through the skies, the mage was filled with doubt as to whether they were actually making progress, or simply delaying an inevitable defeat.

“Orders, Asenör?” a familiar, graceful voice shouted to his right. Seviel, the Elven leader of the army’s archery division, calmly awaited his command. Unlike the soldiers under her lead, she did not seem affected by the pleasant, numbing haze of surviving another battle; she was calculating, almost cold. The old mage appreciated her presence. Through her experience and a bond with her men that stretched over many years, she could keep order where he could not, and avoid unnecessary casualties.

“Tell them to regroup near the edge of the forest. I don’t want to lose any of them to a sudden spawn of hellhounds between the trees,” he replied softly, though his clear voice could be heard all over the battlefield. “We are victorious, for now. Let’s not grant our enemy any opportunity to snatch our success away now that it is in our hands.”

She nodded shortly before turning around and barking orders at her division. Although many men were a good foot taller than her, they scrambled to do her bidding – her authority was unquestioned. The mage allowed himself a grin as he turned to join his forces at the edge of the forest. There had been times where the mere thought of a woman leading men would have been more than preposterous – even on her own, Seviel proved those thoughts of ancient times to be folly. Not to mention the other female Elves and Humans that were amongst his consorts.

He was greeted with great enthusiasm and triumphant cries as he stepped into the growing ring of his rapidly assembling forces, but his turquoise eyes were dim and tired, almost teal, as he gazed over them. The losses were greater than he had anticipated. He did not join in the cheers being thrown about and around him, for he knew that although they’d won the battle, they’d taken another step towards defeat in the war. The demons outnumbered them, greatly. Every casualty weighed down heavily upon the Alliance’s shoulders, and the Asenör grimly doubted whether they could bear much more strain.

“Let us take up camp here, on the hilltop near the edge of the woodlands,” he ordered once every surviving unit had convened near the tree-lined border between forest and meadow. “You fought well today – we have indeed shown the Demons that Corone will not be trampled over like some insect.” His soft words elicited more cheers and roars from his troops. Hope, however false, was always good for morale.

[Prime]

The camp had been erected in a hurry, and even at first sight, one could see that the tactically situated collection of dull brown tents was meant only as a temporary refuge. Night lay over the forest like a blanket of rest, a welcome veil that shut them off from the toil of warfare. Most troops were asleep, merry fatigue overtaking them after celebrating the successful continuation of their winning streak through song and beverage. Only one tent still stood alit with the yellow rays of an oil lamp inside. From the outside, vague shadows could be seen in the illuminated hides that made up the shelter, standing idly or scuffing about in worry.

“What news of the Menace, captain?” the mage queried as he directed his piercing eyes at the lean, long man in the farthest corner of the tent. With short, mousy brown hair and a ropy body that could wriggle into places thought impenetrable, Captain Cynighos appeared as though he had been created to fulfill the rank that his superiors had bestowed upon him, namely that of Master Scout. He was a silent man, shy almost, but if he did choose to say something, then it was usually true, and important. The primal mage had come to value the human’s talents very highly over the last few weeks, much like Seviel’s, although Cynighos’s talents were of far more use off the field of battle.

“Your assumptions were correct, Old Man,” came the captain’s low voice. The old mage could not help but grimace at his informant, who seemed embarrassed to call his commander an old man, ignorant of the fact that the Elves did exactly the same when they called him Asenör. “The demons indeed had packs of hellhounds at the ready this afternoon. My scouts managed to scatter before they caught air of us, but I’m very certain that several will be prowling about tonight, not as the vanguard for another attack, but to keep us on our toes.”

The old mage sighed; the Demon Menace learned far too much and far too quickly. Having arrived from a hellish dimension of fire and suffering, the Alliance had had a home field advantage in the beginning stages of the war, and it had been only through the sheer surprise and horror at the demons’ terror-inspiring appearance that Teria had fallen in the first place. However, the demonlords had rapidly adapted to the terrain, the weather, and even the human psyche, as was evident from the way that they had tried to rip apart several of the Alliance’s troops today, in their moment of defenseless victory. And they would have succeeded, would he not have given the order to fall back. He hated the demons for what they were, but even he had to admit that they were losing this campaign ever more quickly, even though the men were convinced that it was the other way around.

“Do not worry, captain. I will make sure that none of the pests will enter our camp tonight,” he dryly dismissed the man. “Please make sure that the men do not pay too much heed to howl and wolfsong tonight. I want them rested and ready by dawn. We’ll need to move early and quickly if we want to avoid running into the Menace’s main army before joining Aroen’s troops.” Cynighos nodded and paced out of the tent to spread the old man’s words. A slight breeze caressed the primal mage’s face as the entrance slapped shut behind the Master Scout. He turned around to face the only person left in the room, his second-in-command, Seviel.

“And what of the troops, general?” he requested formally, although he could already guess the answer he’d get.

“They revere you, as usual,” came her short and brief reply. Her stern voice did not befit her silken features. There was a harsh edge to her voice, as though she very much disliked what she’d just told him, and the mage understood. Seviel was too experienced, too old – even if she looked in her early twenties, the Elf had seen hundreds of years of skirmish and warmongering – to believe that any single individual would be able to make a difference in a campaign of this scale. She knew as well as him that despite Aroen the Lightforger’s splendid strategies and Gerth of Crying Wolves’ rabid, shocking assaults, it would not be long before the demons’ numbers reached so high that no force in Corone could stop them.

“That’s good,” he commented with a grimace. He stopped moving around, standing near the oil lamp, his creased features set ablaze by the rays of light it cast into the shelter. Without the magic flowing through his veins, the mystic tattoos gracing his cheeks and forehead were dim, lifeless. “Foolish, but good. The longer that thought keeps them going, the longer we have to wait for a miracle.”

“They think you are the miracle, Asenör,” she bitterly reminded him. His smile faded.

“I’m no miracle, Seviel,” he said, dropping the façade of the formal discussion of military issues. She didn’t seem fazed by the fact that he used her first name while on duty, but then again, they’d been through a lot, together – many years before this invasion started. “I summon forth the planet’s rage, I channel the anger it feels whenever hellspawn sets its grisly paw on it. I’m a vessel.” He sighed. “And you would have had a better chance of winning this war, had I not been here.” His voice was sad, knowing the truth behind the cryptic message.

Seviel eyed him strangely, but quickly recuperated. “What do you mean?” The old man remained silent, wondering whether he would tell her, and fidgeted about with the clasp on his shoulder pad.

“Each catalyst has its limit,” he started to explain slowly. “And so do I. There are powers abound inside the planet that could crush the Menace within the blink of an eye, even if it meant ripping this continent to pieces. I…” he faltered. “I’m just not strong enough to channel that force into something tangible.” He’d thought of it many times, but now that he heard himself say it, he could not repress a salty tear from running over his cheek.

The Elven woman looked shocked, not so much because of what he’d divulged to her, but because she saw a leader, maybe even the most powerful magus that the Alliance possessed, weeping at his own incompetence. She shook her head, disappointed, before coldly walking out of the tent. The old man looked after her and wiped the moist from his cheek, empowered and darkly amused by her stoic attempt to restore him to confidence. He took his staff from the ground and sat down, kneeling in front of the lamp. His fingers clenched the wood firmly as he began softly chanting the spell that would protect his men from the prowling hellhounds that Cynighos had reported.

Seviel was right. People counted on him. He was the foundation of their morale. If he broke down, the entire construction that he’d held up would come crashing down more quickly than imps were being spawned across the ravaged city of Teria.

[Prime]

Grawl felt very uneasy as he silently moved over the charred earth, trudging over the singed path that winded around hovels of imps, pit lords, and other demon spawn that had taken residence upon Corone’s once-lush surface. It wasn’t fear that fazed him – demons were not even capable of feeling anything like that. It was more that he knew that at the end of this short jaunt to the Demonlord’s hall, death awaited him. It wasn’t in the manner that death is expected by a soldier marching onto the battlefield, nor like a mage who might die if the spell he’s performing goes awry. No, when the message a demon carried to his Lord was similar to Grawl’s, death was inevitable, and painful. Still, the thought of fleeing did not even cross his mind, for such was his nature; as a demon, you followed orders. Even the Demonlord himself abided by the will of a higher being. A demon acting of its own volition was nothing short of unthinkable.

He rounded the last corner before his doomful destination, ingenious torture devices standing about left and right. Most had fallen into disuse; there had been little need for information-gathering in this campaign, since every part of the assault had been planned beforehand. Thereby, those who tortured foes for fun were more often than not chastised on grounds of indulging in activities that diminished the efficiency of their invasion, which relied on vastly superior numbers, combined with the element of surprise and speed. Grawl had to admit that this new approach worked far better than the demons’ instinctive thirst for maiming their enemies before dispatching them, which had torn apart many a previous campaign. Killing their opponents outright allowed the campaign to be set forth with incredible speed.

His horned visage slowly became engulfed by the light of two torches that stood next to the Demonlord’s doorway as though they were his personal guards. The heavy, blackened door was closed, and there was no sign of a bell to signal his arrival. He remained silent and still, his goat paws scraping over the dark rubble beneath him – he knew as well as any demon that touching the door without first being granted permission would result in a fate worse than death. The bright flames seemed to bend towards him, even though there wasn’t the remotest hint of a breeze to be felt. Grawl directed his red eyes at the burnt soil as he made a slight bow of reverence. Two, fiery eyes appeared within each flame, looking down on him in disdain. He waited.

“Urshir.” Enter. The door slowly rose up into the grisly stonework, like the portcullis of a dark fortress, the pins at its bottom bursting forth from the blighted earth. Grawl did not hesitate and set foot into the darkness, casting one glance at the nocturnal forests and hovels, knowing that he would live to see them again, before the blackness of the infernal hallway swallowed him. It seemed to take a lifetime before the intense, hellish light of the Demonlord’s chamber washed over him, his brownish skin seemingly ablaze. A sign of what was to come, perhaps? The great leader stood with his back towards the unfortunate messenger; even to Grawl, who himself was more than two feet taller than a full-grown human male, the monstrous frame behind the black cape was enormous and awe-inspiring. Ivory horns bulged from the back of the abomination's head, reaching down like thick, deadly locks of hair – their crooked white tinctures lit up eerily in the glow of the hellish chandelier that hung from the uneven ceiling.

“You came from the southeastern front?” the demonlord inquired shortly. His voice was terrifying, a deep, venomous slither that nonetheless echoed through the furthest reaches of his temporary stronghold and perhaps, beyond.

“Yes, my lord,” Grawl answered monotonously. Never lie, never test a superior’s patience. Rules, his way of living.

“The harsh gutturals of defeat sound through your words,” the lord grumbled as he turned around, revealing blackened plate armor that covered every part of his body, save for his red-skinned face. He did not have much of a nose to speak of, more two small, skull-like slits. Next to each nostril, the skin protruded slightly to reveal a long, curved tusk of the same, pale color as the dozen of squirming horns that made up his hair. His jaw was lined with two lines of sharp teeth, which clicked together every time he spoke. With eyes like polished onyx, wherein fire formed the pupils, the Lord commanded the respect of any demon, and the horror of any outsider. Grawl did not speak, which counted as an affirmative when discussing military issues.

Yet where the minor demon had expected a roar of fury, he found only a thoughtful grumble. With narrowed eyes, his lord continued, inclining his horrific visage towards the horned grunt. “Was the old Palemane there?” Grawl nodded. A part of him was grateful that he still lived, but that thought was quickly submerged within the bonds of his infernal heritage. The demonlord furrowed his hairless brows, then turned away from his messenger again. The minor demon had never seen the ravager in this state. What could have possibly evoked such quick compliance, such… docility… from him?

“Ah, I see that you finally understand the threat that the Palemane is to your cause.” The words were spoken from the center of the room, then echoed across the wall by dozens of voices, all different, yet all sweet as sugar and mellifluous as a sea in the calm breeze of summer. Ashen mist began to swirl around at the voices’ point of origin, mystical nebulas that whirled with such velocity that Grawl could have sworn that they could have ripped his arm clean off, had he been so stupid to put but a finger in it. It was a strange sight, particularly so because there was no sound accompanying the miniature cyclone in the middle of the room.