Corone War: A Scarlet Mystery

[Brother in Arms]

“Charming place,” Randall muttered in his raspy baritone, following Christina and the elves farther into the compound. Though as an experienced Ranger he was familiar with most nooks and crannies in the Corone landscape, he admittedly knew very little of this particular sanctuary. He knew that there was one at the foot of the Jagged Mountains, seemed to recall that it had been closed for some reason or other, but more than that was obscured to his mind. It was possible that he had the information stored somewhere in the far reaches of his memory, but what did it matter anyways? These places always had the same story. If you put enough bad people in one place, nobody got to live happily ever after. And there had been bad people here doing bad stuff. He didn’t have to be an empath to sense that much. There was a sense of wrongness to the place, an emotional stench that seemed to permeate from within the walls like a bad odor of something rotten.

What Christina’s mission was in a place like this, Randall couldn’t guess and the spirited Ranger wouldn’t divulge. They have kept hit at arm’s length ever since the battle on the Niema bank, never really making note of his presence other than with suspicious glances. It was a small matter and not at all unexpected. The plot would unwind itself in due time, he knew, and the shrouded woodsman doubted it held any real surprises in store. He hadn’t seen it all, that much was true, but at his age and after the life he had led, he was getting pretty close. So whatever lay within the walls of asylum, Randall was rather certain that he could handle it.

The gravel crunching beneath their feet seemed to be the only sound for miles, ripping through the morning like a serrated dagger through a silk sheet. But then a gust of wind descended from those snowy peaks, whistling around the eaves with the ghostly sound of an abandoned abattoir, bringing chills that reminded them they were in the North. Randall’s dark cloak, which he rid of the foliage once they moved into the rocky mountains, fluttered lazily and he had to reach up to hold his hood in place. The sun was up already, somewhere beyond the towering peaks that seemed to surround the abandoned refuge, its rays and its warmth still hours away from touching the valley. Yet, despite being shielded from the sun during majority of the day, the flora of the valley was lively enough to begin reclaiming the asylum. Vines grew thick and tough against its pale walls, with dewy mahogany covering more of the tawny roof each day. They were close to the entrance, passing under an arch of greenery that might’ve bloomed with white roses once, when Randall approached a slab of stone that stood nearby and pushed some of the leaves away.

“Sanatorium of Draconus” it said in finely carved letters, and beneath it, in old Coronian: “Come ye weary, and rest!”

“Oh, I bet,” Randall said with a grin. All of these places had a nice one-liner to go with it, a nice little motto to go with the smiles of those on staff. And then you signed yourself in and wound up in a padded room with some warlock who fired lightning up your behind, claiming it was therapy.

While he was studying the sign, the blonde and her fair companions were already at the main entrance, testing the door. The wood of the double doors seemed dray and cracked at places, but the metal studs and strips that covered it seemed to sustain the elements quite well, sporting not a speck of rust. Lenwë was already working on it, humming a lighthearted tune that seemed to jimmy the lock little by little until it finally clicked and Randall could hear metal bars being moved within the door itself. Handy, but as it soon proved, rather pointless. When Christina gave the door a push, it refused to budge, even after she repeated it with the use of her shoulder.

“Let me try,” Randall croaked, shouldering his way between the two elves. “I might have the right tune for this one.”

He put his ear to the wood, knocked on it once, then took a step back and swung at it with his elbow. The door, the three bolts that kept it shut, the frame and a small chunk of the wall on each side fell inwards with a crash that woke what little wildlife still slept near the asylum. Randall allowed a satisfied smirk, then pulled it back once he remembered none could see it under his mask.

“Such subtlety! I am in awe,” Alasse said, obviously not in awe. More like mildly annoyed, Randall thought, like a mother that had to correct her young for the umpteenth time. The Ranger just shrugged, then turned to their blonde-haired leader who was already one foot inside the door. His hand grabbed for her shoulder, his iron grip more than enough to halt her advance.

“Wait,” But she already tore away from his clutch, only to come face to face with him. Her eyes were sharp and deadly, eyes of a hellcat that had her way and no other. Eyes of a leader.

“Let me take point,” Randall croaked, and when he saw her unmoved by his suggestion, he added: “You are the leader. Too risky for you.” Her eyes seemed to drift over his shoulder and to the two elves, but they seemed to have no objections. While elves generally disliked any loss of life, it was quite clear that they would live easier with losing Randall than Christina.

So it was the cloaked figure of Randall Audrin that led the way over the toppled door and into the asylum. The dust was still settling from the bombastic entrance, but it was soon quite obvious that a busted door didn’t decrease the property value by a whole lot. The decrepit look that the building displayed on the outside seemed to be reflected on the interior as well. The foyer was filled with scattered furniture, half of it crumbling under the assault of wormwoods, the other half well on its way there. The marble tiles beneath their feet were cloudy with soot, their last polish probably some ten years in the past. Up ahead, the large reception desk still looked rather sturdy, but there was a crashed chandelier in front of it, the crystal fragments scattered across the room. Dim beams of pale light fell through the thin windows that stood close to the high ceiling, far out of reach. Glass crackled under his footsteps as Randall led the way almost carelessly, his sword still safe in its scabbards at his hip. The sign to his left said “offices” while the right side offered the “admittance ward”. He looked towards Christina, nodded to the right, then continued that way after her silent approval.

The secretive Ranger barely put a foot inside the swinging doors when he noticed a flash of steel at his left. Instead of jumping back out into the foyer, however, he pushed forwards and against the left door wing, slamming it against his attacker. By then the second figure made its move from a darkened room just beyond the doors, swinging a hammer at Randall. The woodsman moved like a shadow, straight at the assailant and into his swing. He grabbed for the hammer shaft and stopped it as if it hit solid rock, then pivoted his body sideways, yanking both the weapon and its owner in a short arc just in time to parry the slash from the recovered foe. Using the hammer’s head as leverage, he pulled the hammer, the sword and the man to the ground. The sword-wielder recovered fast enough, though, planting his shoulder against Randall’s chest and making him stagger away and break hold on the hammer. The pair regained their composure and prepared for another round.

Randall’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword.