ã€ŠAshen Reignã€‹


 Autumnal Auguries

    Act I

    Chapter One, Autumnal Auguries

    10<sup>th</sup> of Wolvsmoon, Fall of 1308 CE (common era)

    A stream of wind carries the aroma of burning incense across the forested haven. A young oracle, Azarra, gazes up at the waxing moon, kneeling upon earthen altar. The smoke bends and twists assuming the misty pattern of her thoughts. Nymph-like apparitions manifest amongst the ashen plate and then disperse. Her heart beats excitedly though she clinches calming palm over her chest.

    A deep breath. Silence your mind. Her lungs expand and contract in rhythmic trance of contemplation. Her eyelids relax and the world around her gives way to a blank infinity within. Powers that be, Muse & Spirit around me! Show me the way for mine desires to be freed. Bring my longing into form. Awaken me from the world. Pave path beyond the walls of this temple ground to which I am bound,

    This prayer concluded her eyes open to a flood of starlight. Constellations spin slowly about, entwining mystic divination. Gentle whispering from the wind tells her to turn around, steering her attention back to the entrance of the glade. There on the moonlit path appears a friend, Delphine, cloaked in shadow. Approaching with careful enthusiasm, Azarra cries a sigh of relief and stands up to embrace her visitor warmly. ¡°Oh, Delphi! It¡¯s lovely to see you! Isn¡¯t this haven so enchanting when the veil of day is pulled away?¡±

    Delphine beams back. Gleeful shine illuminates her rosy face. ¡°By my heart it is beautiful! The Sages don¡¯t do this place justice by keeping it for their stifling sunlit sermons. With daylight drawn back, our glades teem with magick.¡± The air kisses her cherry hair and caresses her cheeks. Such radiance in her to enflame adventure.

    A devious gleam appears in Azarra¡¯s eyes. ¡°Speaking of which¡­ Were you able to obtain the Tome? Our reading for this eve?¡± The one from the archives of Sage Surrellieus, that the Sayer covets so strangely. ¡°You can imagine how horribly this anticipation has been treating me!¡±

    They were each a couple cycles off two decades. Yet already Azarra was on the cusp of being one of the most prominent seers & sought out rune-casters of her caste. But on this eve, the anniversary of her initiation into sacred circle, she desired more. Her youth, shrouded in ceremony and sanctified reclusion, even from the rest of her cousins of the Temple, save in transcendent rites. Why should she not ascend through unveiled mystery, reach for readings in hidden alcoves of the archives? & why shouldn¡¯t she enjoy some alchemical aid to further enlighten her inner eye?

    While she shuffled with curiosity her friend swung back her cloak to bring out a black leather grimoire with a jeweled V on the cover. One of the tomes forbidden by the scholarly Sages of the Temple, Ty-Drasil, who dictate who may have access to what, by way of cost, class, and reputation. The Sages do not permit any woman on the Way of the Oracle to meddle with ¡®black arts¡¯ and pursue such texts. Such tomes, obsessed over the material, could cloud divine vision with daemonic miasma and are best left to tempered minds of wise men. However, this ambitious oracle only found the fruit of forbidden knowledge more appealing for its mystery.

    What have we here? Why must you be hidden away, reserved for tired eyes of unblinking sages? Maybe they are up to something under those stuffy scholarly robes? Hm, or else their tomes are as dull as their humour. Sliding her hand across the leather binding and staring at the front, her limbs tickle. Azarra reaches out to grasp her friend, clinging with affection & climbing excitability. ¡°Shall we open it and see what we sisters of Sight are forbid from, which surely won¡¯t be unseen?¡± She asked playfully.

    Nodding in agreement and pulsing with uncertainty they open the Tome.

    The wind tears away at their coats as they let the pages fly. Within the words and keys unravel their mysteries. Collection of esoteric recipes of alchemical nature, yet somehow deemed a deviant sort, perhaps too powerful? There were other passages though, with lascivious illustrations, hinting at taste of sensuality; outlines of bodies entwined. Is this what Sagely wisdom forswears so sternly? Are they afraid of aphrodisiac indulgence leading to strayed vows? This ¡®Carnus Vitae¡¯? For an oracle to ¡®dilute¡¯ their vessel with such baseness sacrifices that stream of purest Sight. By the Hels! She thought, why should the gods not frown upon these keepers of wisdom hoarding elixirs & images of lustful purpose as well?

    But for now, Azarra waves these wonders off for the delights of real flight promised in pages of witchery. Flumes rose from assembled reagents, burning & reforming in base of their cauldron, bubbling with teasing the elevation of their spirits. The brew they sought to conjure consisted largely of the curative Hannabis herb and moon¡¯s bloom. A blend referred to in the text ¨C and in hushed legends among the cloister that ignited the girls¡¯ temptation to try the truth of them ¨C as ¡®Nymph¡¯s Eye Elixir¡¯. Its alleged deliverance from earthly woe and evanescent induction into the hidden court of the Fae they craved, half drooling. A plant to puff on or ingest meant for the gods, their priests & their kingdom; a nectar grown of their accord. Yet dark gulfs line their gift. For to partake when not attuned to Elderath¡¯s natural flow will guide one only to nightmares and twisting hallucination. Wretched clouds to capture unwary minds; be they amateur alchemist, unguarded vagabond, or indulgent oracle.

    Their oils and prayers coating the ritual bowl, Delphine poured the blessed water into jug before Azarra thrust in final spice & coagulant. Their anxious chafing for this fix, welcomed new sensations drifting in. The potency of their potion affects their breath, evokes itself in the autumn airs before the full swig. So ready for rapturous, if risky, transformation through essence of elements. After monotonous treks, cycling readings and mundane chores they edged on impatience. As their anticipation ripened the steaming soup whistled ready signal, rejoicing in imminent consumption. Just a sip before the rest. A little test.

    Aromas invoked from the first splash invite them into Nature¡¯s sway. That teeny taste curls fire about the tongue, burning new thoughts and fancies about their tips. As they await the full flood of the mysterious nectar, the couple let their focus fade into the reflecting pool, bubbling under the chalice. The world was more than merely alive, breathing with them in the present. Night breeze wafts in wispy union of all things. Leaves croon in chorus of their woods and the stars cheer on their endeavor.

    Azarra¡¯s blonde mane absorbs the light of the moon, shining delight in her strands. Viewing herself in the mirroring pool, seeing her mark, her novel beauty split by imperfections and flaws innate. Silvery celestial strand illumed the imprint lining her face, a subtle scar from birth. Semi-sickly when observed at length, the discoloring was fortunately slight and not too fleshly. The mark divided her face by the eyes, one green, the other blue (sometimes seeming to switch between the two of their own accord or take on gray mixture of shades melded), from just above the brow crossing the bridge of her nose to slightly scrape the top of her lips.

    This marking, imprinted on her by the Fates, revealed Azarra as gifted by the Divine. It drew the interest of scouts & shamans of the Temple and in part compelled her there. That slight strangeness refracted her blushing beauty & enhanced the inquisitive edge in her eyes. As it separated her from the crowd since youth - critiquing its blemish on her image in the glass, even then eager to look at the faint discoloring line as a sullied curse ¨C so too did it aid in drawing the Sight. Abided her favor when calling upon the muses. A little ugliness was no bulwark against blessings from Astraea, Astarte & Selene, those goddesses of eventide. That mar made her more of herself, propped windows of discovery as much as doubt. Her mystic aptitude branded by this thumb print of the god¡¯s make brought her to implement it before her holy makers.

    For this she stopped spurning her image. Her promise and natural success as an Oracle affirmed her calling. A little scar she could stomach. That stain on her skin, that she once hated, so small a tribute for having a hearth here. Her training, and more so talent, in the arts help her escape from shallow concerns & unsightly imprints. For her worth in this caste of seers quickly became both evident and elevating. New opportunities along upraised perspective. Where reading the runes right played way more import than the way her face looked under extended scrutiny. Such frivolous fragment of fa?ade should not concern her, especially now that her savored and respected powers were to be enhanced by miraculous blend!

    ¡°Here¡¯s to a little deliverance from our old selves, a toast to invite something new!¡± Azarra proclaimed. She and Delphine took their plunging sips. The effect was nigh instantaneous. But an ounce of draught overwhelmed them with psychedelic floodgates.

    New horizons and shapes form from the canvas. Their sight shown flares, signaling to their consciousnesses so much more to see. More to feel and to be. A verge of possibilities dancing on the brim of Being encircles their thoughts. One thought branches into three, multiplies and then divides back into the Whole of the one, ad infinitum. Yet the moments pass, even as time seems halted by their ¡®tea¡¯. Time melts at ephemeral glimpse of the great goddess, Elderath. The worshipful mother of the earth brings them to her bosom. They sup on supernal sustenance, leaking from ethereal streams & airy pulse. Winds spill from the welkin to greet them as starry kin and bid them rise a bit from their bodies. Afloat through ghostly grace, every second a burgeoning revelation.

    As Azarra peers long at her oldest friend, she who helped make Ty-Drasil a home and not an asylum, she witnesses immaculate warmth become her. Delphine became as an angelic figure, striking her pupils with bolts of affection. Her presence & form, with sweet visage of blush complexion and fiery red curls draping her shoulders, caresses her heart. This fierce fondness grows, gleaming orange-sunset hue of her mane, in gorgeous glow. Wishing she could bask in the divinity of her friend forever.

    But the seconds push past their timeless trance. Her head tilts up on lofty wings of euphoria. Her body buries itself as living seed of all. The egg and the soil tended by Mother Elderath. She was to bloom in that garden of creation¡¯s mistress and be warmed by light from empyrean dominion. Shaped of that same halo which appeared when the Highest Lord, Drakkon bid creation have form and feminine touch to balance the Abyss which he had fought back for all to live with Light. O, Womb of the Cosmos. She views herself through eyes set above & below. That very plasma of creation shone back through funnel of her visage when he hands cusps the bowl.

    Regarding herself once more in this shifting state, Azarra recognizes distortion upon the ritual basin¡¯s surface. Along with that initial triumphant glee of the Nymph¡¯s call, shadows slither up. Sinister satyrs play ill-suited flutes in the corner of her inner grove¡¯s concerto. Looking again at the birth-scar, her skin¡¯s shade only obscured the rest of her features. A tunneling fear, apprehension of fleeting form, grips her. In knowing this frail shape, so malleable, fated to be inevitably eaten by the ground.

    But Delphine smiles at her. Gives a gentle, reassuring touch with whispered promise. The promise to remember that the Fates and the Gods they serve (weaving tapestry for them and their mortal players to perform for) often bestowed both pain and flaws to keep their favored children from the ailments of Pride. A push to recall their hidden help and be grateful for trials; that a few rainstorms suffered to wet their roots. ¡°To me it¡¯s a mark of beauty. An imprint from another incarnation maybe, your ancestors¡¯ wisdom shining through in your face. Brilliant omen!¡± Delphine charms.

    All trees around them, caught up in the passionate trance, contort. Branchy fingers twist to tear threads & invisible hands sunder their silky robes, stretching as wings to wrap in tender hold. Baring all to the firmament¡¯s folds. Memories appear and disappear, vanishing in the mist of this strange jubilation. Sensuous rapture courses through Azarra. As Delphi enfolds her lips with hers, her mane entangles her mind as soft sparks spiral along her spine. Souls stretch outside their shells, leaking from pores, to brace for the Infinite. Inner Sight seeps from their sweat, sweeping up all sense. What yet untapped power to siphon! Swell within!

    Approaching footsteps interrupt their ritual, rustling leaves. They hastily snuff the candles, leak the cauldron¡¯s leftovers, hide the tome, and brush down their ruffled robes. Night dresses quickly wrap about their waists, concealing skin so readily offered up to the sky. How moments ago, they reeled in lunate rays to their pure conduits. A concerned guardian of the temple comes upon them. The fresh-faced sentry looks upon the girls with shock then suspicion.

    Through the cauldron¡¯s looming cloud (concealing the grimoire & their embarrassment) they were paralyzed before this sentinel. ¡°My ladies, Sisters in Sight¡­I am surprised to find you both here after curfew. A foul scent on the breeze warned me. What sort of reason could bring you both out here? The passes of Moribond can be treacherous without a watcher. Haven¡¯t you heard we have dangerous guests from the Ferali Tribe arriving? Perhaps I should report this to the captain and have him commission more sentries to this glade & keep you from the grounds?¡±

    A slight wavering in his gaze belied his true desire. Azarra knew him to be a young man, only two cycles older than herself, with no real weight among his peers (who constantly battered him insults & taunts). She tossed her shivering friend a reassuring wink then faced the na?ve sentry. Suffusing the Aegis of the forbidden into her stance, she wielded wand of fear & want, in waltzing gait. Approaching, her hips intuitively sway as soft locks fell from her head to his shoulders.

    Already his stance faltered, feeding her confidence. Azarra drew her mouth up to his ear and whispered rebuke of seductive ardor & defiance. ¡°You don¡¯t want to do that, my friend. Better not to soil yourself by speaking of images which your mind gleaned of idle want. To claim you saw moon-clad oracles might more than tarnish your repute. That you¡¯d confess to a mind so rife with imaginings of sacred skin, that to touch is to dirty the commune of gods and to know too intimately is to invite disgraceful death, is befuddling. Mhm, why rouse a rattle over we two reciting prayers over shared tea & comfortable fire?¡±

    The sentry¡¯s throat clenched as he gulped unsurely. She had him in her talons now. Taking the cue, Delphine joins in his confusion. Blowing wisps of womanly silhouettes from basin broth, she casts phantoms of fae as Azarra traces her fingernails along his tunic. She then feigns plucking out his eyes with giddy glare and his attempt at being stalwart dropped drastically. I am beginning to know more of my own power. The spell of fluttering eyes, teasing fears that stave desires, may even keep the sages at bay. Have them in flight from their fancy and more receptive to my way, ha!

    He exhaled a creeping acquiescence to her threatening charm. ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll let you be. I trust you¡¯re both clever enough to avoid discovery from more stern sentinels who would be more inclined to reprimand.¡± Averting his eyes, he told himself he saw no skin and sullied no vow. ¡°Or pray it is not so, some Ferali heralds come upon your prayers. Knowing their clan¡¯s tradition for eschewing those of all others, they might forgo the etiquette around protecting oracles from any man¡¯s hand. You may yet need guarded arms.¡±

    He cleared his throat and fiddled with the leather ties of his sheath. ¡°There is however another matter that requires your immediate attention, oh most esteemed of young Oracles. The Elder Shaman asks for an audience with you. I searched the ground after finding your chambers abandoned. Lucky to find you, with time pressing.¡±

    A jolt of possibility set her heart aflame. Does someone of considerable tribute, upset with outcomes un-availed, come to bark at me for not hounding the Fates for their favor? Or does he know of the tome? Yet why would he seek to punish search for knowledge? Tis not treachery against the Temple or truly shattering a sacred vow. Be still, mind! I must face what is asked of me, no matter childish fears.

    ¡°Very well, my new friend. I will go to meet our Keeper at once. Please be so kind as to escort my Sister ov Sight back with chivalry.¡± Stiff silence enclosed upon the trio as they made their way back up the stone pathway to the Temple entrance. Tense thoughts racing. After reaching the central grounds they parted paths.

    Doubts lingered in the auguries of dusk. Azarra looked up through the ancient stone archway which led up the mountain pass to the Shaman¡¯s grove. She took another moment to reassure herself that everything would be fine before stepping beneath the mammoth pillars and climbing the steps. Her heart rate escalated with the elevation of the winding path. An eerie squall swept about the mountain. Wind¡¯s song howling with such sudden fury it was as if a maelstrom was coming in to burst the clouds.

    The higher she ascended the louder the wailing became which did nothing to help quell her anxiety. Accompanying the gales came the cries of many beasts inhabiting the peak. Birds of the night, tamed bears & wolves among their choir. But at these animal shouts she felt no distress, for she knew these weren¡¯t feral creatures out for prey but rather children of Ty-Drasil in their own right. Haven and refuge granted to them within the sacred grove. They were as Elder Gaahl¡¯s familiars whose songs and company helped him hone the harmony of Nature. Passing beneath half-threshold arch, the oracle came upon the Shaman of legend engaged in ritualistic trance.

    Powerful warbling emanated from his cords. His incantation carried three melodies at once; a deep throated utterance, paired with a high pitch trill and a quavering melody that joined the two in the middle. How all those sounds were able to be produced by one mortal simultaneously spoke for his magick. Smoke lifted off the altar before him, sharing the charred essence of a deep cleansing to Azarra¡¯s nose. Softly she tread towards the ritual circle where the shaman sat in meditative posture, bellowing primal chant completely unbeknownst to her ears before.

    The eyes of the Elder rolled back in his skull, showing only a pale haze imitating the grey of his flowing hair. He took his ceremonial athame in hand and with it carefully slit open a tribute with his palm. Pouring the blood into the chalice laying atop spiral symbol etched on stone. The great Keeper, Gaahl, brought of the chalice to his mouth, gurgled and spit out offering into the flambeau which stoked solar rays when red met it it¡¯s flame, now fed.

    His head arched, hailing terrifying screech from his jaw. Two wolves, atop the stone tablets adjacent to the post, howled alongside. Steadily he rose, as did his animal totems, put out the beacon with a wave of wind and drew forth a staff with which he put out all the torches around him. Bowing with reverence, wrinkled forearms reached for the object of power upon the altar, beside bundled idols. Grasping a crown of bone with two antlers extending high on each end flanking a small, jagged horn as the centerpiece. With the crown delicately held up to his breast he turned to her.

    ¡°Do you know what this is?¡±

    In arctic wonder (and relief for facing no chastisement) moments passed without answer from the oracle. Noticing her hesitation, he continued. ¡°This is the Crown of the Forest God Bellieus. The heirloom of He who reigns over the realm of nymphs and satyrs; presides over the harmony of nature and whose writ is prosperous and nourishment of life beneath their shade.¡±

    Azarra¡¯s inquisitiveness impressed itself on this icon. ¡°I hath only seen it before depicted in sanctum glass. A relic bound to the one mortal blessed by Bellieus¡¯ horns. Seen it affixed to graven likeness. That of King Ferion, who stood defiant against the conquering march of the dreadful Vizzari Magistrate. He fought with fury for his folk and forests when they first declared their Serpent god as the sole god. Defied them when they declared all lands their master¡¯s earthly body. Rallied tribes against the wyrm that sought to devour all in its belly and churn out new scales of its State¡­¡±

    The Elder met the mystic with misty smile. ¡°It is because of his efforts three hundred years ago that this Temple to the old gods still stands today. Ever since Ferion¡¯s death and the recession of his kingdom, our ancient tribes quarrel over who among their chieftains is worthy of wearing the crown. Were it not in our safe keeping it would be a source of great conflict among splintered peoples. A relic coveted by those clans who forget that the tribes they fight and strive to rule are their brothers and estranged kin.¡±

    ¡°Indeed,¡± Gaahl¡¯s tongue rolled on after a pause when his ravens cawed in a shared language of understanding to him, ¡°so many of our tribes walk in obscurity and even dare to drag their neighbors further into the dark with them. There are some for whom the hallowed rites and protocols of grand Ty-Drasil should mean so little as to be willfully trampled over should the way to the crown not be open to them. Danger pokes out of these tilted horns, and there is no head worthy to wear it by right and the gods¡¯ esteem yet known among us. That is why my predecessors long ago took possession of it and kept it safe in our haven, far from the grimy hands of those unfit to bear the horns of the old lord. None of this is of any grand revelation to you, I know but this day, this hour, this lesson is of utmost importance.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean?¡± She uttered, rather clumsily. No longer concerned about reprimand for misconduct but bewildered by all this excess pageantry.

    ¡°As we speak, emissaries from the Ferali clan set up camp in that dell adjacent to our holy house.¡± He pointed with his staff. ¡°Their harbingers already made a case, to ensure the official negotiations fall their way on the table.¡±

    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    ¡°They are here at the behest of their chieftain, Kassan ¨C The Great Black Bear as he is known. You maybe heard rumors amongst the pilgrims. The stories of his conquests of the surrounding tribes; how he has broken the resolve of the mountain peoples and many a valley clan, forced them into brutal subjugation. The agents he sent came bearing a ¡®request¡¯. Care to infer what ¡®The Black Bear¡¯ asks of us?¡±

    She thought for a moment and considered the brutish, thorny crown of Bellieus. ¡°He wants the crown of the Forest Lord?!¡± Azarra exclaimed and the shaman nodded. ¡°But if you were sanctifying the artifact just now then you¡¯re planning on delivering it to him. This hallowed crown to be placed on a wicked man¡¯s head, out of fear. I don¡¯t understand ¨C how could you possibly consider glorifying such a beast?! Why grant him the power, the relic of mastery over the Wood when he clearly holds no reverence for our Elderath and kinsmen?¡±

    Azarra started to pace, and the Elder¡¯s lupine familiars bobbed, tracking her. ¡°If what they speak of him is true then he has slaughtered more of his kin among the tribes than even those slave-mongers and serpent worshippers in Vizzari! Tis their Magistrate and soldiers clad in the Dread Serpent¡¯s scales that lurk in the darkness to bleed us out! Would not the holy crest be degraded to rest upon such barbaric brow?¡±

    Gaahl¡¯s face furrowed. The worried, weathered lines etched along his forehead deepened in contemplation. His tone came somber yet instructive. ¡°I met this war-starved chieftain only once before many years ago when I traveled to the Ferali lands searching for souls among them marked by the Divine. I saw Kassan slay his own brother, Ursaan, in a fatal duel. A bloody contest of kraagspeer incited over pure vanity when his brother outperformed him during the honored rite of the Hunt. He could not stand to be out favored, bettered by his brother before the tribe. And so, under the calculated guise of their test of arms he cut him down. He proves his worth only by martial prowess.¡±

    ¡°This is a chief of no honor, with no holdings to tradition nor sense of kinship to anyone ¨C including his blood. If I refuse him of this honor he will march on these grounds, butcher every one of us and burn the ancient texts that reside in our possession. All to satisfy his empty ego. This, the last testament to the Old Ways would be scattered to the winds of time and lost to oblivion - not by the venom of our ancestral adversaries, but by the treachery of our own people.¡±

    ¡°I fear no death for me. But death for our living legacy, I do.¡± Gaahl¡¯s gaze, glazed by ill portends, enshrouded hers. ¡°That is a fate I cannot allow to befall us. I have contemplated this issue in my meditations and come to see this as the only path to ensure our survival. Do you understand?¡±

    ¡°These are dark times indeed when the Eldest of shamans must make such dire calls to preserve us and the lineage of our gods against those who should look to us to guidance instead of making demands. It¡¯s as if the waning of the world is upon us.¡± Azarra remarked, aloof.

    ¡°Kassan¡¯s appetite for aggrandizement is not boundless, despite his boisterous bullying. His lusting vanity can just as well be a lure by which we might rescue good fortune from the mouth of deathly drake.¡± Countered the eminent Keeper. ¡°That you mark the world¡¯s waning¡­¡±

    The Elder pressed a playful game. ¡°My aged mind ails me, Azarra. Might you help me to recall the prophecy of our Great God, Drakkon?¡±

    Gaahl often tested her memory of verse. Yet this time stranger insinuations of purpose lathered his request of feigned forgetfulness. Thus, she summoned the phrases rehearsed through youth; began the litany of eldest Edda as she had been taught:

    ¡°He who set the sky into shape and motion from beyond the stars; Bringer of Fyre & Thunder to Mankind; Formed the pantheon of High Heaven, as the Dragon from the North of the Cosmos! Io! To Him who taught his children Thought and cast the Dread Serpent, Vizzarion, back into abyssal sea from whence it arose.

    Hark! He will return to us who remain True, to those who hear his call through the darkest hours of Night. Our redeemer to appear as the Waning ov the World ensues. To Deliver us a new world formed of Living Light!

    From the dark channel he shall arise again to herald plane of being untainted by the venom of the mortal realm & its Serpent. As Drakkon set the foundation of Elderath, He shall shake Her through storm of his Will! Summoning his kin from their welkin seats to bring rebirth & realignment. That the image of Man might better reflect the Divine conceit behind our making. What wanes shall not be ash but kindling for the next Aeon¡­¡±

    When Azarra concluded this excerpt of the Edda Gaahl bid follow with more recitation of timeless tapestry. ¡°Ye who watch the world, search for Sign ov Transformation. Be willing to shed yourself, your rags of dusk & dirty Sin, that Living Light grants reason & life to the dead. Only then will the mandate of heaven be known to earth, our Elderath, who yearns for Her rebirth!¡±

    Then her shaman added, ¡°The Serpent Vizzarion crawled back up from the chasm of the void where He of Living Light banished him, as foretold in the Eddas of the first Grand Sages. Now it takes the form of the Vizzari Magistrate, the court of wyrms which embraced the body of the serpent and seeks to devour the rest. Perhaps you are not so wrong in invoking the thought that this world is caught up in its death throes.

    Through the sights granted by my deepest visions, the whisperings of the spirits carried by the winds and from the worldly reports of the guardians I sent through the land to watch over the actions of all people I have come to know that the blackest storm cloud looming over our time is that of Vizzari. Even now agents of their Inquisition scour the countryside hunting any who still sing the hymns and chant praise to the Old Ways. They spurn our people for their nature and burn those of eastern heath as witches for renouncing their blasphemy. The spirit of our people wavers on point of ruin. This would-be tyrant, Kassan, is nothing compared to them. In fact, he might be directed to fight them, in true challenge!¡±

    Azarra met his words with understanding and stoked the embers of resolve from insight into her Elder¡¯s reasons. ¡°I see¡­ As gross as this ¡®request¡¯ is, it is still sufferable. Better to give this miserable fiend what he seeks if ¡®tis the only way to preserve our order. We humble ourselves for now to assure chance to assemble strength to fight against the encroaching Vizzar.¡±

    ¡°If we deny the ambitious ¡®Bear¡¯ the symbolic crown he needs to claim dominion over the many tribes with such means of the mind, then he will turn back to his bloody roots of slaughter & lashing claw. Then this Temple might be crushed beneath his vainglorious boot when his spite rules over the traditions of our people, those which would be lost to time and forgotten. It can be a crown of temperance for his hot head, that he won¡¯t incite the tribes to further the descent into disorder. This little hurt in the shame we take on for Ty-Drasil may save us from fatal pain.¡±

    Gaahl nodded. A tinge of pride for her understanding twinkled there. As did a deep despondency that aged him further, in the sorrow of having to accept this road of least resistance at present. ¡°Aye. And as we, should we survive, scramble to piece together what not yet spend on fighting Kassan¡¯s and mistrust between sister clans, the Serpent court & cult of Vizzarion would prey upon our weakness and division!¡±

    ¡°Our own shadow looms so long we cannot yet resist the sheen of the Serpent¡¯s scales. But alas we must not be consumed by petty pride, must not become the mirror of Enemy. If we can hold back the tides of chaos within our lands, we may see a day when the sun can bury our shade and excise that poison of purpose¡±.

    ¡°The Vizzar wishes to see us display such barbarity and wanton disregard for our own preservation that the Magisters may more easily feast on our table, and our bones. No matter the resistance each tribe could muster alone, only a united front of brother tribes, whose skills refract, vary, and yet complete each other when combined can resist the real Enemy. Tis so unlike the distant days of Ferion when we stood as one to repel invasion. As painful as this is to admit I understand and agree with your sentiment on this.¡±

    Gaahl appeared halfway pleased with her expression. ¡°Your comprehension of the larger picture at play impresses me, though I should not be shocked to hear that you understand it. There is a fire in you. I can see it blazing deep within your eyes. Burning brighter ever onward. A power that I have not seen in any other in all my time of overseeing this Temple¡¯s affairs, save a few fellow shamans but ne¡¯er an oracle so young. Indeed, it is so. I believe that a bitter peace under Kassan is preferable over the bane that will come upon all the tribes if we defy him and deny him this precious trinket he craves so much.¡±

    ¡°We must bide our time wisely and direct our energies to proper course. Kassan only attacks those weaker than him who knows he can prevail against. He has not yet dared to face any servant of Dread. Yet if we can embolden him with the crown, he may finally grow confident enough to lead those assimilated tribes to face down the Vizzari magisters directly. We can turn his sword the right way. Only united can we survive the Serpent¡¯s bite.¡±

    ¡°How ingenious!¡± Azarra let out, blushingly pleased by this plan. More so to be lent such secrets.

    ¡°Turning a potential enemy into a weapon that can be wielded against the real foe ¨C or rather a shield to dam the true accursed tide! Of course, I must admit the best possibility of what could ensue is that Kassan will die in battle against Vizzari while bringing enough destruction to their institution to give our people freedom from both oppressors.¡± An oracle may cast her own dreams, right? ¡°I must confess interest to see how things play out.¡±

    A slight smile appeared along Gaahl¡¯s withered bark but then vanished as mirage. ¡°Our ¡®pilgrim¡¯ arrives in three days to receive his boon. This coincides with several key astrological shifts. On that eve the moon will be in Full. So too will it shine a crimson sheen, heralding the change of twenty years¡¯ tide. The importance of this symbolism is not lost on our blood crazed Bear. His emissaries made clear that the stars must align to his supremacy over fellow clans. The last cosmic event, which only a few sages note, is the coming transition of our sky above into the phase of the Great God himself - as shown by the appearance of the constellation Astralis-Drakonis. The Light of Heaven¡¯s Maker shall shine down to watch this event, through bloodied lens of his Sister, Selene.¡±

    Azarra sharpened another set of inquiries. ¡°What shall happen if this fleeting unity we avail this warlord leads him to fall against the wyrm of the Magistrate? Should we aim to celebrate one foe destroying another? Or do you hope that the god¡¯s antlers shall sprout valor from the crest of Kassan to truly repel them?¡±

    Gaahl groaned at this cynicism of his favored pupil, even if it was warranted. ¡°It would be foolish to rely solely on the hope of a divine intervention from the God himself into our mortal affairs. Especially since this world is not yet suspended in dusk, as the prophecies of the Eddas outlines for his arrival. But I will not stand idly and allow darkness to gnaw our bones.¡±

    The shaman shifted on his staff then clasped Azarra¡¯s shoulder.

    ¡°I wish for you, sweet child, to act as an integral player in this ceremony by playing the role of the Goddess Selene. I would ask you to perform the rites of the Mother Moon and be her conduit.¡±

    A wellspring of excitement reverberated throughout her. Realizing how important a role in the ritual the Goddess part is. While other oracles would dance a witch-frenzy, surrounded by dirty & flea clad satyrs of men, playing pan-flutes, and beating drums, Azarra would be elevated to a member of the High Pantheon. Even if only representatively, her shine would be of Selene¡¯s. Hers, the highest post among her order. No longer just a promising oracle but one worthy of being a vessel of the Divine. A true Muse, a grand seer.

    ¡°I-I¡¯m honored by that which you have asked of me in this. And I accept from the core of my heart. I shall learn the necessary rites and rehearse them well as to not disappoint you, great Elder.¡± Her mind was aflutter with validation. To be called to embody avatar of moonlight. ¡°I have felt a calling within for more involvement with the flow of life and course of events. Now I might shine what light I may and serve as conduit of lunar stream and your trust!¡±

    Gaahl addressed her in authoritative declaration of an ancient wizard. ¡°Make no mistake, unlike the poets, skalds, the best bards (and many of our sages) I do not dip my words idly in honey as to make them sweet and appealing to ears around me. I simply speak the truth as it is shown to me. I am giving you this honor not out of personal preference but due to your ability. Your Sight as an Oracle goes unrivaled in seeking those profound patterns. Even the eldest of that class cannot compare in prowess accuracy of your runic castings.¡±

    ¡°Pray not be too humble for the sake of the youth your intellect & talent hides in, Azarra.¡±

    Memories brushed the brim of Azarra¡¯s brain, providing proof of this assertion of mystical worth. After all, she reflected, her Sight saved Herathi farmers and the lowlands from cursed drought, sending them to richer plots just yesteryear. And that kind lord from east shore still swears annual tribute three years since her reading redeemed his fortune. Just as she¡¯d ensured another noble scion yet lives because she spoke premonitions of the dark; of rot that would hath consumed the poor lad had he sailed with his brothers in tragic expedition across the Ruun to restore their old hearth, only to return as lepers.

    ¡°I called you here and told of a plan that even the wisest of our sages do not yet know of. I am raising you to the post for the ritual procession. Do not take it lightly or let it go to your head. You have quite a name for yourself within and without the borders of these Temple grounds. According to the sages residing over the business of our visitors, thus far every pilgrim who hath sought audience with you, for that same fresh fame, tells that your readings proved true. or else helped them evade misfortune.¡±

    ¡°Truly thou art touched by the Fates as I always believed. And on this there is another matter that I must confide in you for as souls of equal standing: When our most high and mighty guest arrives, he has also made a request for a personal reading from you, post-ceremony. Most likely concerning his next military conquest.¡±

    Lightning struck her heart. I am to face this monster one on one and look him straight in the eye to reveal what the fates have in store for him¡­?!

    I know how to read a man and tell him what he wants to hear. Hopefully this self-fancying ¡®conqueror¡¯ will be no different and can be woven a thread all the same. Hopefully.

    ¡°Very well, I will take on that mantle of responsibility as well. Is there anything else I should know before the eve arrives?¡±

    Gaahl stroked the length of his beard, musing a moment before speaking.

    ¡°As forewarning: whatever it is that he asks to know from you do not seek to deceive him nor alter the nature of the signs as they appear. Let the runes fall true. For the sake of our passing alliance and your livelihood. Search for something positive to give him, yet not with so much syrup as to incur his distrust or ire. Tis not worth losing our lives or our honor when, through small sacrifice, we are poised to finally cross over this bridge, threaded over the precipice of uncertainty below.¡±

    For now, however, I bid that you return to your chamber and rest up. I know of your friend & oracle peer, Delphine, and heard tell of a certain tome belonging to Sage Surrellieus (who was most distraught to find its unexpected absence). I hold an inclination as to whose hands the tome fell into. But there shall be no punishment for good natured curiosity & harmless lust for knowledge.¡±

    Azarra reddened with embarrassment and craned her head back towards the mountain path. Her hood and hair half-hid this slight slip-up.

    Gaahl cleared his throat, and the ravens released their evening¡¯s song to night. Crying to return to their roosting as he beckoned them back.

    ¡°Know you this: these next few days you are to remain alone. Forbidden even from gossip with your dear friend until after this delicate ceremony. The role of the goddess under these spectacular circumstances requires much fasting and prayer. I trust your instinct & talent not to succumb to the pressure. There is a lot to learn and to consider before the moment arrives, and I do not wish your focus to be perturbed when there is so much matter at stake at this time. For now, at this long hour, you are dismissed. I bid you good night Azarra, of the Great Sight.¡±

    THE CEREMONY

    13<sup>th</sup><sup> </sup>Eve of Wolvsmoon, 1308 CE

    The shivering breath of evenfall flowed forth through every living soul beneath brilliant halo of the moon; now reaching its ascend to its throne atop the astral ceiling. She soon would take the shade of crimson. Incarnadine color to eclipse her sway, swathe her rays in bloodied tapestries. The Wolvsmoon air which Selene bade broom swept unseen streams through her vessel¡¯s mane. Its touch tossing loose golden strands about Azarra¡¯s hairpin. So too every leaf in the glade swirled.

    A celestial miasma emerged from the ground, steadily climbing the mountainside to their shrine. Azarra felt the texture of her translucent gown grip her. Lunate spread absorbed by the fabric wrapped over her body, transferring carmine shine to clinging to proportion. She was to be the offering and avatar of the winds and the moonlight tonight. & the winds took her up as tribute.

    She resisted the boreal chill. Selene herself, whom I am tonight, is surrounded by vast expanses of cold space, and yet she never wavers. Always, even when through crescents and slivers, she keeps the earth in her sight. I must embody her strength this eve!

    Gaahl, the noble shaman places a hand upon her shoulder. A warming river melts much of the brazing chill. He transfers a tender summer¡¯s light through touch. ¡°The hour is nigh¡­¡±

    Azarra¡¯s inner fire then ablaze in acknowledgement of his trust. A cinder, a smile offered back to him as blessing. He withdrew from her shoulder, reached for a relic and beheld the Circlet of Selene; empyrean orb in the middle, accompanied on its side by two opposing crescent jewels and one ¡®full¡¯ diamond moon. In solemn reverence he places the Circlet atop her head, completing her Goddess raiment. Moonlight lives! Selenic streams bend to me!

    An assembly of participants made their way up the ordained place. Many acolytes teemed with excitement, though some tugged at their robes trying to shield themselves from the frigid breath. The more wizened sages in their silver cowls, however, wore no such delight on their countenance. They were rather overtly discontented with the prospect of glorifying Kassan. It was apparent from those couple scowls that the wise Keeper hadn¡¯t given them the same enlightening talk he gave Azarra.

    Among the disciples approaching the altar place were young men & women from the local villages. Participants of long celebrated pact with the temple of mutual exchange; of protection and penitent worship for boon of holy passage. Dressed as nymphs and satyrs, the semblance of the entourage came as children ov Bellieus. With horns affixed to headbands, thorns lacing braids, and goatskins as leggings, they came as kin of that woodland Lord.

    When they came upon Azarra as Selene they gaped with wide awe. Astonished chants rippled through their throngs. She took a moment to bask in this splendor, glorified in virgin grandeur. Pupils transfixed, empowered, mesmerized them. Now hers to command by stance and show. Worship in the amazed gaze.

    Drumbeats thundered as Kassan and his entourage arrived. Azarra caught herself mid-gasp, surprised by the man she found before her. This was not the hulking abomination of a creature she expected to meet.

    His raven hair was slicked back in sleek fashion, revealing rugged but handsome features. His deep-set eyes betrayed nothing of the wicked character outlined in her mind, yet in them lived a calculating want. Muscular build accentuated his warrior aura, but no overt hatefulness seethed from his thew. Towering even above his Ferali emissaries (who themselves seemed half-giants), he exuded a sense of steel nobility. He wore no beard, unlike his fellows. Proving his chin bold enough without warming cover. Showing masculine yet quasi-beatific countenance to his crowd.

    At his side were two emissaries in bear cloaks, like their master (though with less majesty and refinement in their weaving); their faces hid behind masks of carved bones; their hands clasping wooden staves with bear skulls fixed atop their heads, the Aegis of their clan. Behind them bards and minstrels hummed along as they beat their tribal drums painting a musical veil.

    As Selene intends, so it unfolds. Azarra raises her arms to usher in her moonlight. The folds of her gown extend as spectacular wings, taking flight upon Selenic radiance. Facing the full assembly, she gives the sign of welcome. The moon steals off to its peak. Blood eclipse washes over its perch. Casting a fiery crimson over the gathering. Caught in its eye, her crystalline aura enraptures all who marvel at her. Incandescent divinity becomes her.

    Azarra¡¯s eyes directly met with Kassan¡¯s. His expression, cold and concealed, shows no feeling to the ordeal¡¯s grandeur. But in that look, upon seeing her ¨C in height of Selenic pose - his gaze narrows with fascination. Ardor burrows from his deep blue into her spheres. The rest of the world melts away to mutual orbit, this odd binding between them. As if an invisible hand held them both in palm, clasping them together.

    Her heard pounding against her lungs forces a sharp sigh. I-I cannot let my focus be so easily stolen! Not by dangerous fa?ade or otherwise. O, Selene! Let my spirit be as the luster of your beams upon me!

    As if on cue the Keeper of Ty-Drasil began his howling chant that tore through the fabric of the air, piercing the ears of every member of the sacred parade. His powerful wail evokes frost winds to return in full, waking Azarra up from her frenzy.

    Kassan¡¯s eye returns to the lunar priestess, chaining his blue to hers, while her emerald orb cut strict defiance from the other. Decorative spheres atop her head, crowned by incandescence, and set upon by ursine ogling, she flutters not while singing her melodious part. Through harmony alongside the shaman¡¯s torturous tune, she redresses her confidence. Meditative serenade blesses her brow, granting moon-song to her audience. Serving as earthly herald for Selene, Azarra¡¯s lyrical rites honor the goddess & her sister of stars, Astraea, and she flees not from the bear¡¯s eye.

    After the first verse finished, the bards chimed in with their warbling. Inspiring circling attendants to join as loose choir. The satyrs, antlered villagers, took up their flutes as their nymph counterparts leapt lively to wild whims. The strumming of lutes, mad piping, rhythmic rattling, and weird crooning sang the forest shrine into deep stupor.

    Elder Gaahl persisted in his hypnotic cries as he moved to the altar. The incense set before the stone roared with him as he clasped the Crown of Bellieus. Carrying it into the center of the circle, the crowd¡¯s chant dimmed. Azarra recited the blessing, augmenting her voice. Purposefully she inverted several of the lines as a subtle curse upon the guests, knowing well that Kassan and his fellows knew nothing of the actual rites and cared only for the presentation and prestige it bestows them. If any of Ty-Drasil¡¯s castes noticed her artistic fluctuations, they made certain not to show it.

    The woodland creatures and painted fae-folk extolled the momentous relic being taken up with their unified careening. As the Crown was about to reach Kassan¡¯s head he stood up and, in self-sanctimonious power play, seized it from the Keeper¡¯s hands. Shock rang through many of the revelers, who simmered against this dispute.

    The great shaman stepped back, allowing it. But not without belting a terrible finishing bellow carrying underlying violence & derision in its delivery. Though not lost to the Bear, the feeling of the Forest God¡¯s diadem settling on his crest seemed enough to satisfy his serrated pride. That consistently down curling lip swiftly changed into an arrogant smirk, having gotten most of what he came for.

    Kassan¡¯s entourage pounds their chests and beats their skull-staves against the ground in barbaric revelry. Glowering gloom besets the scene of their mad raving for their master¡¯s glory. An evil haze encompasses the pass, swallows the ceremony. While the unearthed fog embraces carmine glaze of the blood moon.

    The cloudy mist concealed every member of the assembly except for Selene¡¯s avatar, on raised pedestal, and Kassan, whose natural height allowed him to stand head and shoulders this drab coat. The spiraling horns of his newly acquired crown added fresh menace. She shuddered at the wicked glint he shined. His ocean of blue, awash with crimson tide of midnight, surged through her. Then she too became a rattling figure entombed in ice.

    Beneath the freezing moon she remained. Standing as shivering statute as the blood curdling cries of the Ferali died out. Gaahl climbed above the mist onto the platform and raised his staff. Then brought it down with an audible CRACK!  The ritual shrieks ceased, leaving only the music of nocturnal minstrels, those nighthawks, chittering bugs, and hooting owls. The ceremony concluded.

 Ill Begotten Runes

    Chapter Two, Ill Begotten Runes

    Hour ov the wolf

    Once the participants dispersed and Kassan sent away his company, Gaahl ushered the ceremonial pair through a narrow pass. Azarra silently led Kassan along a winding trail that extended a good kilometer or so from the coronation site. Towards her special sanctum of the Oracles, Elderasil, they trekked beneath an expansive canopy of branches whirling overhead like witches¡¯ fingers waving as they passed. Often as they went along the foliage forced the ursine lord to bend low his crowned head. At this his oracle for the eve suppressed smirks of amusement, chewing on the irony of this haughty warlord with forest horns being humbled by nature¡¯s path.

    All the while she wondered what sort of reading, she would give to him. How to fulfill her promise to Gaahl. What could she offer to sate him enough while parry bloodshed, she wondered?

    The shading branches broke off and their trail opened to moonlit clearing by the cusp of the seers¡¯ sanctorum. They passed beneath an ornate archway, somewhat remolded by the elements; itself a testament to the ancients who built High Ty-Drasil and her foundations. The shrine was humble in size yet spectacular in design. Stone amassed most of its bulk, with multiple statutes erected and pillars carved out. But the sides were lined with graven glass. Icons of deities, muses, and heroes of old all enfolding under collected myth. One such figure stretched tall, antlers atop human head scratching at the dome¡¯s opening amid the ceiling, allowing celestial light to pour into the sanctuary wellspring.

    The sanctum welcomed them. Atop the pool in the middle, a small flambeau floats, glittering over the surface. Its aura granted comforted even when troubled by dark and at befouled hour such as this. That hour which belongs only to the wolf and the witch. Azarra spun about the spheroid basin, surrounded by beacons in which she cast incendiary powders. Illumination revealed her bowl, wand and parchment as crimson moon-rays scintillated over the way, compelling its tide. In that gap betwixt dark & light, when the spirits transcend thresholds and gain shape on earth, her rite could begin.

    She lit incense and sat down by the pool with seeing bowl in her lap. Looked up to her ¡®patron¡¯.

    ¡°Oh, Great Bear. Lord Keeper over Forest realms, tell me what you seek to know. Will you cast your worries, your wants to my runes as I cast them to read?¡± She asked, politely enough for a lone seer.

    The lordly stranger looked at her with suspicion. After his scrutiny was sated, he at last spoke in a voice thorough and coarse with intent. ¡°Since, as you so kindly reminded me, I am now crowned with holy horns, to be revered as master of the forest, it seems only fitting that I should see how wide the woods doth stretch¡­ Hmm, I aim to reign over forest and more terrain than my Bears of land and sea can yet attain. A realm of Ursinium. To complete my crown there is one last bone to pluck for it. I must first defeat a thorn in my side. One who hinders my imminent domain through stubborn futility.¡±

    I knew it! Azarra thought. Of course, he should ask for visions regarding his military feats. Perhaps it will be easy to gratify him on hunter¡¯s game. I might send him on an endless search...

    Kassan continued. ¡°That foe in question is Lysander ov Sylvani et Astralis. The last great warrior among dual circles of his clan. Lysander and his blood-cousins entrench themselves near Hearthfarrow. Stir the village minds against me. Their troops harass my movements and petulantly try raids on my supply caravans.¡±

    ¡°So long as Hearthfarrow stands and that foe breathes, I cannot fulfill my march, the claim of this crown, to unify the tribes under strongest claw. Ask the Fates what must be done to ensure victory.¡± His eyes brandished the unspoken threat: ¡®speak true or break thy oracle¡¯s oath and suffer consequently.¡¯

    At the mention of Hearthfarrow and her father¡¯s name dread replaced the gore in her veins. Jilting her with naught but flowing fear. My birth blood! My bygone kin of the House I lost as oracle!

    While it was true that as an oracle Azarra had been forced to renounce all loyalty to her former tribe as to fully commit to the Divine and their celestial house, she could not help but feel a pang of horror. Terror at the thought of her hometown burning by the brutal hands of the man now before her. Knowing full well that Kassan¡¯s attention was on her, she plunged her eyes deep into the basin. Appearing as if scrying instead of distressed.

    Hearthfarrow was her place of birth and where family remained. Her mother, Melaena, and her father, Lysander, were respected leaders among their joined circles. Had she not been touched by the Divine, found for an oracle by way of the silver birthmark, she would probably be there now alongside her sister, Herrah. Peeks at a different life taunted her, as did knowing these familiar figures were so fleeting that their faces were near forgotten. Despite this Azarra still felt primordially bond with her family. She savored those times they¡¯d been thoughtful enough to visit or sent trinkets.

    Sylvani blood courses through my veins. I am of Astralis too, all the same. Even if I am bound to Ty-Drasil tradition. Melaena and Lysander gave me over to my destiny here. But am I now to give them over to harrowing death? I cannot let them be impaled by this horned devil! Still, it is not so simple as conjuring a dubious reading. I bet a man like this, if he has not a shred of sincere appreciation for the arts, will refuse to accept anything in the runes that doesn¡¯t suit his whims. To have him see my trick of the Sight I could lose my head! Oh please, Great gods ov great pantheon! Spirits ov forest! Lend me your aid and fill this basin with signs of true deterrence for him. Ward all from this path & protect the speaker of your prophecy!

    Azarra nodded to Kassan and a spark of solution. She grasped a handful of psychoactive powder from special urn. Normally a small portion of starry powder would be tossed into the spring and that smoke wafting from waters would combine with steam for mystic visions for oracle and patron alike. But she threw in heavy surplus & laced some spare hannabis oils in. In hopes that this excess would be enough. Enough to have his mind oscillate and be opened to her influence. She could shape the ghosts he sees and ensure he fears any fate that leads to her father¡¯s hearth.

    Having built up a tolerance to dense incense herself after lifetime of readings & rites, she feared no loss of coherence. But though she prayed for the bear to stumble, much to her dismay, minutes passed in silence and Kassan remained cognizant in the simmering vapors. He stuck the same semi-scowl, undented by dosage. Unphased and unpleased.

    In acceptance that she had little choice but to complete the reading as demanded or perish Azarra dipped the bowl into the basin. Lifting it up, with her other hand she pointed her wand to the center of the steaming liquid. The effervescence there frothed into shapes and symbols which her mind, possessed by a state of intoxicated (even feverish) desperation, would be able to form a prophecy from. Flumes of her mind flowed forth as stream of words and images that she uttered to Kassan as omens.

    ¡°In order for the Ferali Jarl to triumph and find true Lordly throne, he must harken the runes: Await the next blood moon eclipse¡­ Feed on patience to find strength, for a feeble launch too soon could see the Black Bear downed by the game he seeks¡­ Saathar¡¯s ringed orb, the stars and Selene¡¯s red eye must review the right place, proper time¡­

    The Fates seek an heir to follow behind the Bear. A Greatness that must first fester. Upon that Eve he must ride forth against the warriors of the Hearth with his own son in tow¡­ Together they will slay their foes in glorious battle. All their circles shattered with their shields.

    By Astarte et Bellieus: Behold Doom ov bold bloodlines, Astralis et Sylvani. They and their Farrowkin peers shall be prostrate before the Bear¡¯s will and submit all arms to him & his cub.

    The might of the Forest King and master of the many tribes will know no bounds. To reach the heights of power enough to shadow even the forces of Vizzari. To invade the Magistrate and carve a kingdom for his heir to rule over. To forge Ursinium from the coiled corpse of the Serpent¡¯s dread crust¡­

    Yet by the Hels, IF Kassan marches upon Hearthfarrow without waiting for his son to come of age and for the lunar cycle to again welcome the blood shed with crimson gleam then he shall perish that same night¡­ In that swill of causality, the decided place that would be his crowning conquest will instead become his place of burial and the Ferali line will follow¡­¡±

    Azarra let in a sparse, frazzled breath to quell her nerves and pressed on in prophecy.

    ¡°So sayeth the winds! So speaks the silver swathe of Selene in full redness of blooming knowledge!! So sayeth the messengers of all that is eternal; Spirits, Fates & the gods on high!¡±

    ¡°Some smear or rust must stain thy scrying Sight, little witch.¡± Kassan cursed, dissolving her pseudo-trance.

    He stroked his chin, itching with irritation as he pondered the value of the young woman¡¯s Saying. His chest expanded, a rising plate with quaking earth & fiery blood beneath. ¡°If thou should See true: why, o why would the gods above and threads of circumstance demand so ridiculous a wait while I am already at the threshold of fulfilling my oath to take Hearthfarrow? Why need I a son in their lordly insight when mine own might could raze their village in a fortnight, were it not for the wolf, Lysander?¡±

    ¡°Could you not beseech them in your witchery to afflict a bane upon him from afar? Ease the trail of blood leading into that hearth? Unless the gods wish to see more spilt before then? Hmm, in sooth, am I some fool to be swindled? Am I sold lies, dear girl?¡±

    ¡°-Oracles swear to the spirits to favor no tribe! I dare not hide from you the consequence of that red moon ¨C the call of her cycle!¡± Spurted Azarra in paltry plea against the coming waves of his rage. ¡°You chose the crimson shade for your crowning! So too must it witness this ascent if it is-¡±

    On his brow, the brunt of righteous indignation. A sliver, a crack, at first. Then soon that slit turned a crag fuming with rancor. Kassan¡¯s cold mask slipped away. Behind it, smoldering spheres, blind with acrimony towards the oracle who had made the pivotal mistake of denying a ¡®lord¡¯ at his hour of coronation.

    ¡°TWENTY YEARS?! You dare to state that I, alone, cannot crush my foes? That I must rely on some bastard boy yet to be sired?! Or invented as excuse to dissuade me, trying to chase me from the forests when I am their Lord? Slave! Defy my will with viscous lies¡­ I can tell that your fickle girlish heart is a-bursting with wishes and prayers to see me dead¡­ How infirm, her virtue! Yet how supple her emerald form!¡±

    Bear¡¯s brawn bruises her bones, crumpling her shoulders. ¡°Why should I tolerate this insult, to me and the ¡®gods¡¯ and not rip out your skinny guts to offer up before the blood rays?! Why not flap your wings, o bird of Sight & Song, to seek the Lord of your visions out before the vicennial window of this fresh eclipse passes us behind? Indeed, I should sire a bleeder of a boy and name him after this tempering augury, ¡®Vicennius¡¯. When I hath slaved in the shadow of patience for twenty years waiting for the bitch in the moon to bleed again I will watch him unleash wrath and steal glory that could be mine on the morrow!¡±

    Hulking shadow, a dual-faced daemon, Kassan became. His horrid shape sprouts a second head, birthed from the eyeless, antlered likeness glowering from the glass. The hot spring spouts fulgent gulps. Emanations of the basin giving gorgon dimensions to him. Azarra¡¯s iris palls black and hedges away from the monster¡¯s multiplying eyes. Orbs of revulsion levitating in enkindling mists. Penetrating through the sultry sheet into her essentia, her materia. Sundry tongues of hateful wraiths vent through his larynx.

    ¡°Let us make some fresh luck for ourselves instead! Even if that vision be wholly from the spirits and speakers of fate, well, I say we make them blush by taking fortune as our own. We will leave the sleepy Fates tied to their beds, waiting for all to remain as it is written while we write a new Will of flesh & fire! O, I bet you wish me to catch the plague, fall from the side of steed down troublesome terrain or much worse! I will divine a prophecy of you. Proper pain shall test your truth! O, night-spouse: SUFFER!¡±

    Time tilts to eclipse. Kassan heaves one of the beacons, yanked from splintered seal, and hurls fire at Azarra. The stone floor resists the flame, but several crashing embers fly to singe her hands and feet. Screeching with every sinew & cord.

    ¡°Cry! Scream! Plead unto the empty skies, WITCH!¡± The brute exclaimed, nearly pulverizing her windpipe.

    That lecherous lour bore into her. The destitute seer¡¯s pupils dilated, seething from steam & sweat as he wrangled her with wrath of denial.  He tossed her into the basin. A caustic splash seared her wrist & knee as a cry washed from her throat. She lurched from the pool, helped along by a hard shove against one of the dead columns. Tears streamed past her cheeks, clutching at her heaving chest in desperate consolation. Quickly his grip quashed her bawling, not permitting her any more than muffled whimper.

    The Black Bear wrenches Azarra close. He brings her mouth and eyes to cinch against his. Spiteful breath mists her frightened face. Yet on the cusp of collapse, she refuses to cede. ¡°Very well. If you say I must have a son to crush the curs, let it be so. Dear witch, I want to make certain this prophecy of yours is accurate. Let us ensure it is so, with carnal pact! Grant me something to warm me through the cold gap of waiting!¡±

    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    His paws lift her off the ground. Choking the breath and strangling her speech. Broiled spit & sweat leaks from the Bear¡¯s mouth in sleet. ¡°The spirits stop me not, even as they stir. Perhaps they leave me a Muse in you? Let the Hels hear us! Thou, oh pitiful and pretty bauble of mine, cannot flee from this fate! I deem thy life bound to mine!¡±

    The faceless colossus blocks the paltry crescent of light looking into their sanctum as his shadow falls upon her. The dawn¡¯s flare extinguishes forever for her. Eos drowns. This night ravages her, ensnared her in its evil breadth. Baleful gravity yanks the stars & planets from their aimless rounds across the firmament. Bids them plummet with relentless abandon. The weight of the cosmos crashes atop her as her frail frame collides with the gorgon¡¯s.

    Abrasion at his touch. Scarifying her skin, in mind, with lacerating daggers. Breaching, cutting into every filament of her humanity. Azarra convulsed with rage & disbelief. The venom of his biting touch burnt through her marrow. Gnawed muscle & bone with paralysis. No reprieve left to her but to renounce her very mind. Flee the shell of identity and forget herself entirely. That she could be liberated from this abduction of innocence, if only through detachment. But no deserting flight of spirit came to her. Instead, abhorrent lucidity confined her to the writhing. The only impetus Kassan¡¯s wretched thrust against the depths of her core. Recoiling, she was lashed with harrowing lesions.

    Azarra¡¯s heart collapsed, the vital essence therein giving way to entropy and withering disintegration. The remnants of her pith sacrificed to encompassing nightmare.

    Wake of Woe

    End of Wolvsmoon

    Azarra dipped her face into the cool basin, drifting from the casing of wretched awareness. She sought to sift away as vapor, like the effervescence which glided up her ashen, sleepless face from simmering concoction of herbs by the greater pool. But when her thoughts did turn from that which afflicted her mind¡¯s main fiber it was into a moribund darkness which drowned her soul and left no trace of tranquility.

    Pulling away from the water she spied how she¡¯s seemingly aged two cycles in a fortnight; how her unkempt blonde strands at the front have turned a pallid grey. Her reflection flickered on the surface before spurting out water silhouettes. She gleaned no sign from that murky oblivion.

    Please, o heavens, if thou art not deaf! I ask only of thee a sign, some semblance of thy reason & eminent grace to know I am not forever damned. Give answer unto to my cries! Heal this desolation! If thou art even there to see with thine eyes mine earthly torment and care for my suffering¡­ Do not abandon me to this perdition! Do not condemn me to undeserved agony!

    The water darkened. Herbs & pockets of powder on water-plate conflagrated, the cinders beneath the bowl spout amorphous soot. The scrying spray spit back meaningless miasma. Nothing to be found in the murk, Azarra became infuriated. Fury at herself & her inability to use the Sight to save her grace. How it failed at the hour of abandon, when countless times before it served the requests of so many sojourners. With her talent she glimpsed prophecies unrevealed to her oracle sister yet saw naught a warning that night. Cursed that it should fail her, that this would be her course.

    Azarra¡¯s curdling rage rivaled her sense of impotency as she spilled the seeing bowl over. Simmering liquid licked her lap. She stood in caustic frustration to pace the rim of the reservoir. Placing one hand over her belly, the other withdrew a whetted athame from her robe. Its sharp pointed with mortal fixation that was both a wink and a grimace.

    That haunting feeling ¨C trickling primal intuition ¨C that something wicked grew within her stomach spread as some deathly sickness. Some writhing worm infected her at the deepest level. The parasite¡¯s appetite eroded her innards and feasted as a fetal curse. Its gnawing blared the death toll for her vows & life, this curse of immurement.

    From glances at some formulae outlines in the hidden tomes Azarra figured there must be a root or residue which would rid her of the rot. Kill it before its birth could split her asunder. But that would not do. Something sharper, swifter, and deeper in its cutting point was needed for her rescue from this pregnant perdition. With dagger in hand, she tried to siphon reserve to gouge out her innards to end what would come before this, her destruction, could be born. Chilled tremors seized her nerves as the nightmares surged to the forefront, recalling those nightly terrors of a horned devil tearing her in twain.

    First the sodden monster¡¯s vile poison taints me with unwanted sprout¡­ What was promised, purified & preserved in the gods¡¯ sight is stained! O Fates! Why was I not granted the mercy of death? Why this waking hell of festering horror? What future is there to be gleaned by bloody & bruised divination?!

    The dreary woman¡¯s body ripples with tension. Thin strands stiffen as her somber spell of solitude shatters by the arrival of a soft, but unexpected, hand cupping her shoulder. Azarra¡¯s athame slides from shaky hand into the seeing pool. The splash of fall waves water resemblance of familiar face. Delphine¡¯s blush cheeks brush against herd, grazing cheery hue like the sun kissing the sky. Her rouge hair, so vibrant that it brought surprise appreciation for some aspect of life. There was something still to savor in the world, even if it were just her friend¡¯s muse.

    ¡°O Azarra! Sweet sister of Sight! I hath not seen your inspiring visage for nearly a week now and how it stirred such anxiety in me! But I¡¯d hope to find you in the forgotten folds and am glad to find you safe. Something perturbs you so?¡±

    How long had time been stilled while she searched for strength in Delphi¡¯s emerald eyes Azarra could not tell. But when she broke from their gaze tears rained from her. Such wet pain stung with every drop and yet the suffering girl pushed through her tormenting fears and opened herself to truth & trust.

    Delphine imbued in her friend a golden faith. Knowing that she alone, in this wicked world, could be trusted to know what evil befell her. Summer-kissed and honest aura wrapped around her. No one else could understand what eclipsed her being. She held to her friend as a mast in a raging whirlpool.

    Sobbing slightly, Azarra rested her brow against Delphine¡¯s shoulder. That luscious mane of orange & crimson illuminated her countenance that she seemed to shine like a Valkyrie. She was then ¨C and perhaps forevermore ¨C her ethereal guardian made manifest on this ashen ground and truly the loveliest heart in any & all worlds which could be imagined. This mutual trust which had long been her foundation for sanity gave to her the courage to speak the bleak truth. ¡°I was¡­ I almost¡­ I was going to end my life this malfeasant morn. I was ready to spill my blood into the pool or drown my doomed self in the lake. Delphi! My wits are ravaged!¡±

    Delphine cupped Azarra¡¯s face and gently caressed her ear with an ardent whisper. ¡°My friend, loveliest light of all Sight¡­ I could not envision any world, any life, any day that I awaken, and you do not. Pray tell this dire woe. Let me avail you all I may!¡±

    ¡°Kassan¡­ the ceremony¡­ I-I was defiled in the worst of ways.¡± Her tone came icy & aloof, perhaps to distance herself from the torrid surge behind her words. ¡°My oath, my bond, my link to the gods: severed & perverted because of one sick sodding fiend! I am damned, Delphine!¡±

    ¡°Damned to die, abducted by Malderath¡¯s envoy; to be cast out over an atrocity forced upon me which I can never escape¡­ I am trapped as a shell for his parasitic seed. What of me was given only to the gods, ruptured by pustule of a man! What am I to do?¡± Azarra barely dammed sorrow¡¯s swell. ¡°O, nimble flower, killing me now would be the softest mercy.¡±

    When Delphine¡¯s eyes once more adjoined with hers, the hurt behind her aching iris was finally understood. She absorbed the pain as if her own. The crimson maiden trembled as tragedy took full affect in a moment of malevolent rapture. ¡°Listen, Azarra¡­¡± she leaned in and whispered in a voice which instilled something utterly unnamable within her own core. ¡°Kassan will suffer. We are going to impale him with the stolen relic of his arrogance. But to see that day you must kindle that indomitable pyre within! That soul of yours that draws & warms mine must endure, at least until then!¡±

    ¡°O Delphi¡­ I love you and your eternal optimism. Were it not for you I would long be rid of this mortal shell¡­ But what of the foul penumbra cast by his sin?¡± Azarra twists away, concealing contortions of baleful burdens along her countenance. ¡°My last chance comes through a desperate ploy: drinking the Draught ov Nocturne and praying it only kills that wretched seed which corrodes my being. If the toxins end me, ¡®Twould be preferable to facing the Sages. I do not seek to be scoured and burnt by their judgement. ¡®Twould be futile to conceal this gestating growth. Would only extend, worsen the humiliated end they would engineer for my ¡®sacrilege¡¯. No matter where I look or how far I imagine myself from this crumbling cell darkness oppresses mine eyes!¡±

    Silent tears fled from her ducts down into the basin. She crossed her arms over her chest, attempting to subdue the pressure berating her heart. At least Delphine will not suffer in confusion for not knowing why it is that I must take flight from this forsaken plane. To leave her alone in this despicable place is cruelty but not near as that which was inflicted on me. Why I must shed life¡¯s gift into grave waters¡­ But as she aimlessly circled the scrying pool, she found her hopeless cycle of thought disrupted by Delphine¡¯s hug. Her hold firm with more than hollow consolation.

    ¡°Azarra, look up.¡± Delphine tilted her despondent friend¡¯s head gently towards the firmament where the glittering constellations gazed upon them as the heavens dawned.

    ¡°Do you recall what wisdom Gaahl bestowed on us when we first arrived here, taken from our tribes as wounded little acolytes? Remember how he told us that every curse, every affront of circumstance or fate, can be transformed into a boon if you offer it to change. Let me speak in sooth of what change I mean for this awful curse:

    ¡°See how the star sign of the great pantheon aligns at the peak above where we stand? Astralis-Drakonis! ¡®Tis the jeweled premonition of our Great God, Drakkon, the Lord of Living Light. The astral insignia of our world¡¯s creator and the slayer of Dread Serpents. Why else should the most eminent of cosmic seats look upon us if not to offer signet of change? Methinks the Pantheon is awake and watchful from their realm. Wanting us to see inspiration in their alignment. Those rays sing transformation.¡±

    Delphine channeled her optimistic enthusiasm through eyes that remained lost to all else but her friend, who suffered so greatly, shaking with the fervor of friendship and a desperation to convince her back from the mortal ledge. ¡°They shine a way out from this pit. If you can climb from these depths, I will be with you the whole of the way to see you to a better place. Pull through, ascend along stellar path of Living Light laid out, and you can twist Kassan¡¯s knife back into him!¡±

    Azarra stared emptily up at the constellation, her head unwittingly shaking to and fro. But, seeing her doubts harden, Delphine did not surrender this rescue of her closest companion. When their eyes then locked, a subtle gleam split her green iris with sun fire of inspiration. Or delusion.

    ¡°Remember the tale of Oracle Eris which Shaman Ligeia told us when we were yet still wetting our feet in the ways of the spirits? She took the same oaths as we and was of our caste. Yet Eris¡¯ pregnancy and birth of her children are hailed as a fable of hope & rebirth for all our order. Even here, where ¡®carnal collisions abjure sanctity of spiritual life¡¯ in sagely sight they hold to how the stars paved her triumph. For the twins she brought into our world were no mere seeds of man but the incarnation of the Forest God, Bellieus in her son Ferion, and the Star Goddess, Astraea in her daughter...¡±

    ¡°You suggest I lie? That I claim this seed is some divine child? That I simply ¡®push through¡¯ the threat to my life the sages flail upon me by saying that Drakkon¡¯s ¡®astral insignia¡¯ hovered over us during the ceremony? That I insist it is of His seed? Hmm perhaps ¡®tis better than letting it be known what the devil did to me¡­ But to transmute his curse into sapling of ¡®Living Light¡¯?¡±

    She scoffed through sniffles. ¡°Hels, just thinking of how that despot prick tainted the memory of Bellieus by stealing the horned crown only to then taint my body & paint my soul with his poisonous sign makes my blood burst!¡± Azarra clenched her fists and sealed her ducts from releasing more bitter tears. ¡°Eris¡¯ tale occurred nearly three centuries ago. Nowadays there are no miracles left to believe in, Delphi. And don¡¯t you recall more recently, couple years before this when oracle Ulva and sentinel Ulman were caught with frivolous love and their ¡®oath breaking to the gods¡¯ was answered with his castration and her immolation?¡±

    ¡°No, not lie. Rather, transmute the truth a bit. Sublimate it to serve a higher purpose and grant rescue you from this damnation.¡± The coming of dawn cast its warm, reddish, rays upon Delphine, further illuminating her otherworldly beauty & angelic innocence.

    ¡°Many gluttonous & greedy sods still pass as sages, yes. Yet while they might wish suffering on you for surviving, for shaking up hierarchy, you know how deeply the Elder Shaman, their Keeper, yearns for a torch of hope. You could bring him a babe as beacon of revolution. Please, Azarra, just let this arrow of life fly once to this target. Aim at redemption, revenge even, for you.¡±

    Delphine¡¯s rosy hand held Azarra¡¯s wan one, hovering over her chest. Beating against touch, friendship¡¯s fiber strings through shared pulse. ¡°Let us speak to Gaahl soon. Bring this revelation to him. With his understanding and blessing we can redirect blighted curse. Secure fresh future! His respect and empathy will help you bear retribution into form.¡±

    ¡°But you must endure. Do not loathe yourself for what is no sin of yours. This world must not lose your gorgeous flame, your inspired spirit! Nor will I wish to see any evening or dawn in Ty-Drasil or abroad without you there. What could I do without you? If we must fail, though by my love and the stars above it will not be so, then I only ask to let me join you to the end. Whether we flee as apostates, become herbalists in feral heaths or whether we take athame against flesh, I wish to be with you. But let us be together in finding path to life away from colorless routes to ruin.¡±

    Azarra¡¯s inward levies broke with flood of churning reprieve. Her chest wrought by intermittent spasms as alchemy of grief & relief fled through her pores. She brought her dear friend as close as she could. Yet the pangs of doubt & self-reprisal were long, and their last throes rippled aloud through quivering throat. ¡°I love thy confidence as I do thee, Delphi. But what of Kassan and his deed, will he not realize part of his seed is in this fetching plot?¡±

    ¡°Let life be your revenge. That you live on will win against him.¡± Delphine¡¯s encouragement brushed back tufts of worries.

    ¡°Men like Kassan hold hubris so high it conceals all from them not concerned with their conspiracies of ego. A sad yet exploitable truth of his callow character, that he likely has not given his acts a single second of reflection since that damnable eve. Let his arrogance hold him in ignorance. We will prosper above his dark designs. We¡¯ve each other and together can turn the Elder to our tune, help him sing our redemption. While the beast makes for more war, horror & follies it will forget itself. So too will it forget the trap & blade we ready for it until its skittering leads it unto a blind beast¡¯s death.¡±

    Azarra mouthed overwhelming thanks, only managing a few squeals & unintelligible whimpers of gratitude. The whole world spun in dizzying orbit. But she centered herself in the sphere of her radiant Delphine. The sun itself shined onto her flowing mane. Solaris¡¯ beams thawed through human conduit of her greatest ally. The desperate young oracle regains the reins of her speech and strikes spiritual tinder as her beacon re-ignites. Sudden fire surges from these words of confidence hummed into those red, ruffling locks.

    ¡°Together, Delphi, we shall surpass the danger. Survive to rise atop our own mountain. And from that pinnacle we shall glare out and curse the ghoul and his wretches. There is light in you, o cherry daughter of the orchard! I love that light as I love you! You show there is no need for grave bindings of a death pact just yet. Now that life itself speaks to my wounded soul through your tongue. How holy wisdom moves from thy lips! Thanks for sharing in this dark hour.¡±

    ¡°Always.¡± Delphine whispered back as the winds¡¯ brush meshed their manes into one. ¡°I will share in your darkest burdens through the dread hour of the wolf. So long as I can share in the grace of your company. I adore you, Azarra, and my light shines for you for in your face I see all that is worth standing for on this bleak rock which we have been planted. We shall pluck these weeds given time and see a garden bloom.¡±

 A Child Is Born

    Chapter Three, A Child is Born

    Summer, 13<sup>th</sup> of Solsheathe, 1309 CE

    Delphine ambled about the upper pathways of the sanctum, absently admiring the walls & sculptures of the majestic structure in comforting touch. She regarded the finesse with which the ancient builders poured sweat into lasting stone of this haven, tucked away by the Moribond mountains. Every etching teemed with the pulse of those masons who dedicated innumerable years to granting form to this house of grace. A sprite of tranquility hovered in the atmosphere of early morn. Yet, though she permitted herself to bask in fleet serenity, a spirit of storm readied to be born here upon consecrated ground.

    At first, she¡¯d been as that distant hummingbird, chirping thankful tune for the earth & for Gaahl; flapping gratitude¡¯s wings over secret basilica & its servants, granted to raise the god seed. But now, stretching to encompass the atoms of this shrine¡¯s matter, Delphine felt the rippling of imminent thunder. Azarra¡¯s groaning anguish echoed through marble, bouncing off the mirrors & warping through crystals affixed to the throat of the main tower.

    As the expertise of Sage Ydriz and Albrecht the Younger toiled to ease the coming of this gale from the nether, Delphine afforded herself a solitary pace to recenter her faith. To fend off the fears threatening to creep through the cracks in inner wall, those seeping anxieties spawned of the awareness of being poised cubits from the pit & hurtling to unknown end. Though she felt shudders of shame for not being by Azarra¡¯s side in this heaving strife, the sight of blood gushing from her imagining sealed off her steps. Waiting outside until the babe¡¯s arrival which, from the unbroken turbulence exuding of the chamber, that may yet be soon.

    Settling by an open dormer on the top floor, overlooking the uncertain horizon, the oracle plodded the steps of her daydream. Ruminating on how those legendary figures, heroes, heroines & demigods of old must have felt carving a legacy of history from their circumstance. Pondering how they shined forth with a just cause to triumph against the darkness that near prevailed in those long dead ages. Wondering how she could emulate endurance of those myths.

    Just then came the approach of Solaris¡¯ chariot, racing crimson-orange rays over reserved mountains. Day breached the sanctum in columns that cascaded across the mirror apparatus along the spire that Azarra bid be constructed, magnifying the sheen. Rosy petal-flares encompassed all Elderath, shunning the shadows of her grave sister, Malderath. So too rose the clamor & pitch of birth cries. The child within the womb, eager to climb out and greet its first day.

    Delphine dashed after those resounding screams. She pushed on in time to witness Sages Albrecht & Ydriz pull the mewling infant from the mother¡¯s mortal frame. Empathy strained by the pained moaning of her friend, she nearly fainted. Held gently up to the light pouring in, the child railed against existence with ceaseless bawling. Its blaring mewling encased the room.

    ¡°For the incarnation of a god he sure whimpers worse than any child I have ever heard!¡± Ydriz clasped his blood-stained hands over his ears and stammered complaint.

    Instinctively Delphine came to the defense of her friend, whose face contorted to the pressure of bearing the child into the world. Her hue enflamed, the veins in her forehead surged on verge of bursting. She offered a sharp remark to cover for Azara¡¯s inability to yet phrase any thoughts.

    ¡°Can you imagine the cosmic awareness an immortal being- whose flesh is the void of space, whose tendons thread the planets, and whose sight is the stars - abruptly compressed into the form of a finite vessel? How it swells with the pain of life in bounds, more constricted than we can know?¡±

    Her friend spun succinct rebuke. ¡°I would be crying to at forsaking such an infinite expanse too, only to be compacted into a miniscule human body. What pain must be endured to spread Light to remake this fragile plane for our sake! And then, imagine being greeted upon arrival by the whining of ungrateful servants!¡±

    Ydriz frowned. Embarrassed, he bowed to the griping baby and his maternal bearer. Tears & sweat formed a circlet of Azarra¡¯s countenance, still mangled by pangs of her body. Yet through the obscuring waterfall she peered at Delphine with intent she intercepted and spoke for: ¡°Goodly Sages, would you be so kind as to leave us? Assemble the others that they can convey the news of the god child¡¯s birth. Call forth exultant procession to congregate to observe this paramount occasion firsthand.¡±

    The sages bent low with deference then exited the chamber, placing the child in Delphine¡¯s hands. Promptly she carried the bawling babe to Azarra, who shuddered with agitation as her kin was cautiously bestrewn across her. Her hands twitched and fingers jolted as her mind perceived this thing, sodden by her blood, as the living seed of Kassan¡¯s infringement on her sanctity.

    Azarra glared at the sniveling mess with enmity. Wanting nothing more than to satisfy her yearning for retribution by stabbing the creature with the horns she expected to sprout from its head. To free herself of the vile stain of Kassan in one sinister swoop. She¡¯d endured tragedy of true evil, the wretched birth of all her misery. But her force of will persevered, wrangling in these pernicious urges of hate¡¯s gratification, as she strained to envision the larger picture of what this child represented. How it was the only hope for her redemption.

    Alas, you are my only chance at atonement... Clasping the newly borne entity to her bosom, she cradled it for the first time. Nursing dreams of vengeance. I will turn Kassan¡¯s pitiful seed against him. You will become his bane and be to me a boon; a shield against those who would seek to harm me and sword of my revenge!

    Delphine lit a sacrificial flambeau, tossed the afterbirth into the flames. Then began a liturgy of hopeful incantations sung over the combustion. Azarra held the child up to maturing beams of the day, gleaming against the babe and crackle of ember-heap.

    Through this new light she gleaned the jubilant streak of Kassan¡¯s death & her son¡¯s climb. Smiled through the curtain of her imbrued eyelids at the canvas of the future she intended to paint. Suddenly the whimpering of the youngling halted for his christened name. ¡°Drakkon!¡±

    The Procession

    30<sup>th </sup>of Solsheathe, 1309 CE

    Azarra sat patiently upon her crystalline throne, cognizant that congregation of curious souls neared in hopes of garnering the sight of the god child. The underground hatches on the lowest floors of the shrine opened, letting vacuous mist enshroud her shrine. Breath from steam vents below filling the chancel hid her acolytes as they prepared consecrating rites.

    Her abdomen was beset by tremors. A nervous turn in her stomach. This place is soon to brim with pilgrims come to see me and my child. If this lunar mist does not avail me, if my words fail, then those congregants will turn to my funeral procession and this temple shall enclose on me as a tomb¡­The full moon and autumn of summer¡¯s aurora shone tilting glimmers in the eyes of all who beheld the sanctuary. Adopting adamant pose, she concealed her quivering as her faithful unfasten the doors. Let this light imbue strength! Absorb the clarity of the moon! Her smile, full, shines true over my cause!

    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    A broad procession enters the shrine. Souls threaded of remarkable variety; from farmers and humble pilgrims to landed men and warriors of fair renown. They walk with awe. Unrestrained in amazement of this forgotten temple, renewed. Yet some among them wear weary demeanors. Perhaps fearing that they should be revealed for heresy in this obscene praise.

    The holy mother¡¯s host, garbed in white, violet & gold, arranged the guests in circular formation before the throne. Servants kept them at a line of reverent distance from her seat & the effluvium swirling about Azarra veiled the child from their ogling. What wonder dripped from their jaws and darted in their stares. But they were not to see just yet.

    The proud but lonesome figure of Gaahl emerged from evenfall and took his place among the crowd. He betrayed no inward sentiment. He¡¯d risked much to convince the core of Ty-Drasil¡¯s hierarchy that his favored oracle truly had conceived a child of constellation communion & astral insemination. His presence there gave such strong swig of reassurance for her though. That he¡¯d support her snatching a miracle from the maw of cruel causality.

    The crowd¡¯s murmur muted when Azarra stepped to address them with rehearsed elocution. ¡°Behold! O children of earth & womb! Hark to ye who suffer beneath the boot of harsh masters & toil under the sun for countless generations: Witness now the proclamation of the Great God, Drakkon, Himself! Who sends forth his love for all his mortal flock to greet ye worshippers from the realm beyond the stars, to Hear and Know fully! His Living Light funneled through my channeling, that I was bid bear him into this world. A child come as flesh & godly might alike!¡±

    ¡°See, ye children of the cosmos, the avatar of its shaper, revealed! Revel in his presence and pledge fealty to his heavenly cause! That this Lord¡¯s Light shall shine unto ye! Be patient in basking in the coming warmth of the new world he shall deliver us to! I bid you search the depths of your souls and set your understanding of this miracle, not merely with your eyes but with the grasp of your spirits! That you are not shaken by this storm borne by its wings!¡±

    Upon conclusion her acolytes intoned unison chant. Bygone phrases from the Waning of the World prophecy and medley of hymns supposedly sung in ancient times. The Mother of this strange new sect set her coven on evoking those threads of fate & yearning for the empyrean upon earth. That this should seize them with nostalgia and promise of a future far grander than any past.

    There came upon the sanctum a consolidating vigor of unity. As more among the congregation chimed repetitive hum of the chorus, they conjured trance of unspeakable prowess endowed by glinting vision of Divinity. As the crooning mantra crowned her, Azarra presented her son to them. Drakkon, cradled in the skylight, encased in lunar tributaries & surreal castings from his mother¡¯s Selenic circlet. Unbeknownst to those in the audience, the light prudently refracted from diadem gems and the mirrors embellishing the chamber. Beams from beyond bounced from uppermost to the depths. Forming captivating aura about the child, glistening as a god, enthroned amongst shimmering streams & spectral vapors.

    The spectators, those who could prove her vanquishers or her followers, were absorbed in the illusion. Convinced that before them was the incarnation of the Lord of Creation¡¯s Thunder come to rescue them up from their suffering. The show of mirrors, mist and dazzling designs draped their understanding. Beholding Divine colours and magick made tangible. But for some terror uprooted awe. Apprehension that the Lord, but a babe before them, would wave painful change over them when His promised storm of re-creation comes.

    ¡°Io Drakkon! Whose spirit is the sky and dwells in the vastness between the stars! Hail to my son! Whose anointed sight penetrates through the veil between realms into our very cores! Drakkon! Whose might is the force that suspends the planets in the air and breaks the foundations of the ground with wrath! Drakkon! Whose essence escapes comprehension and to whom we owe Creation to! By his Will, the eternal wisdom of the grand Maker, we bask in his earthly conduit. His ascent flourishes our hopes in this garden of flesh and fears!¡±

    ¡°Drakkon, our Living Lord, is here! Our immortal starlight born of my body, that he may walk amongst and beside us and know our plight! He shall bear His fiery scepter to burn away the dread serpents of the night, cull the rabid beasts laying claim to our woods & hearths, and restore us from the blight upon our being! Raise up your hands, O children ov the gods, & embrace salvation!¡±

    Now I have them! Azarra simpered as her fear surrender to elation. With sly sleight of hand, she gave signal to the acolyte cleverly hid behind the mist. He lit the coiled sap before him to spit a frothing inferno. Aurorae traveled the air over here and the glowing babe. She reared up, creating a profound affect as though the child had summoned up flames from his fingertips.

    The flash served more than enhancing the spectacle. For it alerted Delphine and her assistants. At this sign, they project their hands over mirrors & gems, casting imprints onto the veil behind mother & child. Dazzling their audience with seraphic shadow-play. In clandestine position, the red oracle rouses the crowd; evoking angel wings to unfold from shadows & light to flutter over the throne.

    Animated by this deific marvel and compelled by hypnotic ardor, a myriad of worshippers produced objects of their station in offering to Drakkon & his maternal herald. Warriors set down their swords as testament to their allegiance. Merchants & nobles presented heavy coin purses to display their piety. Farmers laid out small bundles of crops to show they would bolster the cause through nourishment. Taking full advantage of this revering pomp, Azarra sent her voice to soar above the throngs in devout veneration.

    ¡°Know you, good folk, that ye shall be all blessed for your commitment. Given a place in His Kingdom! From this day on, those who choose to serve the Great God and take up the great work shall be freed from all chains and former affiliation. No longer shall ye be quartered by frivolous factions and warring tributes but be One under Drakoni banner! Unbreakable and triumphant bond renders us invincible against the blows of our enemies!¡±

    ¡°And now... To all those who have kin they must attend to back at their familiar hearths: return to your towns and to families to spread fyre of the good word of Drakkon¡¯s return. So, let the exultation resound in all hearts! And to those who are firm and ready in their devotion, we welcome you to remain here as members of our new clan and help give form to the will of the Drakoni!¡±

    The cantillation of the mob climaxed in gloating glory. Then diminished as acolytes led the crowd out or into deep chambers to discuss terms of their servitude. So ceased the lustrous veil & its puppet penumbra, as Delphine and her disciples furtively immersed themselves within the congregation as though they¡¯d always been.

    As if it intuited the ceremony¡¯s conclusion, the babe clawed at his mother¡¯s bosom, demanding to be fed. With an ounce of bitter resentment at the sudden yet long-term responsibility, Azarra kindly unraveled her ritual frock and led the child suckle sustenance. All the while satiating her own hunger on succulent prospects of the power, she¡¯d amassed with the success of these first steps.

    But this elated spell was broken swiftly by an abrupt awareness of an unknown and unarranged visitor challenging her eye line. A figure garbed in red and cloaked to hide any humanity. Through this fa?ade an unnerving stare stabbed her. Wordlessly it scrutinized her every aspect. Azarra leaned to whisper to her nearest sentinel to arrest this phantom, but when she went to bid it, so the crimson apparition faded into the background. Satisfied at his glimpse of her.

    The babe¡¯s caustic cry distracts from the strange sighting. Tending to the tiny glutton, she didn¡¯t notice Gaahl appear until he placed a wilted hand upon her shoulder.

    ¡°An ingenious orchestration that was, no doubt. Even amongst the minstrel acts & musicianship of ¡®magick¡¯ to capture the crowd there was real Spirit. The gods and muses do smile upon your boldness and your babe, young Mother of the Living Lord.¡±

    He admitted to her secretly. ¡°Your cause, your heart, still shines with purity in the eyes of the Divine. Your revelation captures the hearts of many with your spectacle. You have shown a shard of hope that our tribes may be healed in reverence for the Old Ways.¡±

    ¡°Return to me when the boy is grown into a man and shown himself capable of thaumaturgy. If he is hardened to hinder Kassan¡¯s advance, only then may I acknowledge his divinity and crown him. In the meanwhile, know that the rumors of this god child will be whispered across near every threshold west of the River Ruun. When they breach the Bear¡¯s ears, he will come for you & the child to stamp out a threat or seize the kid as his own. I shall invoke the gods for your favor and pray the elements are partial to your path.¡±

 Night Visitors

    Chapter Four , Night Visitors

    Grip of Autumn, 11<sup>th</sup> of Hallowleaf, 1311 CE

    Azarra gazed at the lid of nocturnal curtain. No constellations, no evening navigators nor bright guides to be observed amongst that expanse, sodden by obsidian shroud. Umbrage doused starlight, leaving only blank infinity. She was distracted by an impish inkling tugging at her awareness from an untraceable angle

    ¡°A rotting shame that the stars are shy tonight. I used to offer up questions to the vast breadth of space and often the celestial orbs that inhabit it would send an answer to me from their glittering bodies.¡± She admitted aimlessly.

    Her chief sentinel, Tallis, merely grunted. ¡°You were saying something about a letter from the Elder Shaman...¡±

    ¡°Ah, what wise words of woe he gifts me!¡± Azarra sighed. She roped in her stray mind as the pair walked the steady incline. Swiftly she returned to the letter folded in her pouch. ¡°Support for our cause in the Temple proper dwindles. Some among the Sages do not trust our purpose and feel that there is some black magick afoot with the business of Drakkon¡¯s birth. They fear that the existence of such a sun as my son will cleave a rift in the spiritual community when we should be in ¡®harmony¡¯. They seek harmony under the horns! Block us from any aid from Ty-Drasil until we can show some proof of miracles and a reason for their sentinels to serve us.¡±

    ¡°A pity, surely.¡± Tallis grumbled. ¡°But I feel that strength of our cause and the gravity of your resolve will draw in enough that we can stand alone without the blessing of those ¡®wise¡¯ old men cowering in their breeches at the prospect of change. Just last week we received three more hunters, trained in bow & blade who pledged to our aim and four agrarians promised a yield of their crops. Not to forget the revenue pouring into our coffers from travelers¡¯ tribute. I believe we have this handled.¡± Asserted her guardian. Beneath his bold claims, however, indent of doubt curved. His bravado, as much to convince himself as his charge.

    ¡°There was more to the letter.¡± Azarra continued, spoiling his statement. ¡°Kassan¡¯s emissaries returned to Ty-Drasil to interrogate anyone deemed to know of our whereabouts. They were threatened under pain of death & prolonged path towards it. But Gaahl drove the Ferali beasts from hallowed ground by calling of the fierce familiars of his domain. The emissaries fled but not before someone told them of our locale. He¡¯s seen, through Sight or scout, bear-thralls all through Moribond, moving this way. By his estimate we have a few days to a week at most before we¡¯ve uninvited guests.¡±

    Shade stole the sentinel¡¯s expression. ¡°The Keeper would not lie. That is as certain as the danger we face. We are not ready, not yet. We have not the numbers to hold off the Bear. We cannot rely on but provisions of local farmers when they¡¯re soon to be torched. Nor have the arms to defend should they try for siege. Barbarians they may be, my Lady, but ones with enough wit to wield horned rams that batter gates, slings of ember-sap & sheer lust for carnage that lunges at any carelessness. By sea, brook and hillside, their berserkers sack many a monastery & whole heath. Their bear-clads climbed the walls of Torhildenburg and fattened on the blood & spoils of the burghers.¡±

    ¡°Lecture me not on the dangers of our enemy as if I am a stupid girl. I know that lech¡¯s horror.¡± Azarra interrupted, veiling her fright in fierce curtness. ¡°You are here to advise me on martial matters. Have you no strategy but submission or flight?¡±

    ¡°My advice is to flee with the boy and half our host through the tunnels under the shrine. We¡¯ve a couple passageways that lead far through Moribond. If we flee, set up outposts and act reserved we will have nothing to fear from the clan ov the Bear. Keep contact only with the Elder himself and our location will be hidden on the move.¡±

    Azarra fought fearful resignation. She could invent no better plan. Practically defenseless even behind the walls. All this discourse relating to Kassan courted ominous shivers. The feeling of being hunted, observed by a predator in the gloom. She willfully wrangled the impulse to sprint. Squinting at nearby tree line, swathed in Fall¡¯s murk.

    ¡°My custodians abroad hear perturbing rumors amongst the flock gathering in taverns and alehouses; tales of burial grounds ravaged across the region. The dead there, unearthed.¡± Tallis, normally quite collected, shuddered, and made the sign of the star. ¡°They say their chief consults necromancy. That he raises the dead from their graves to bolster his force. The Crown ov Forests was not enough to convince the living to serve him, so now the dead must be conscripted. At night whole towns are swept away by unholy tide of ravenous ghouls. I know not the merit of this hearsay but do not wish to disc-¡±

    ¡°Do you not feel that?¡± She severed his superstition to speak for her own. ¡°With every second passing, every mention of that heinous name, the forest leans in on us. Leers at us! Eavesdropping and grabbing for us. I don¡¯t feel right. ¡®Tis as though the woods are hostile to us and alive in dark thicket. I want to return now!¡±

    Before Tallis could consider how to console her, she darted at the behest of her pounding heart and racing mind. Closing the distance between her and sanctuary. Naturally the man sworn to protect her bolted after her. But resounding over his hobnailed footsteps came the abrupt advance of hooves, briskly charging over air & field.

    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    Tallis turned to face the oncoming rider, bidding his Lady rush inside and rally the other sentinels should anything go ill. It felt like an eternity before Azarra finally reached the interior of the chancel and raised stern alarum. After rousing any capable of defense, she swung to the upper level to bare down on the clamor¡¯s cause.

    Rapacious rider appeared in front, dressed in black fur of the Ferali. A mask covered all of him that was of man but his mouth and eyes, ghostly steel lining his sockets. A face carved of bear¡¯s skull, protruded menacing likeness beneath his hood. His right-hand wielded scepter constructed from human spine, save the ursine skull at the tip. Though quickly surrounded by sentinel spears, the rider was unphased, seating himself proudly upon massive steed, toting the Black Bear banner.

    The speaker announced his purpose in sonorous growl. ¡°I am the Harbinger of the Ursine Lord, Kassan! I am his Word! And if thou do not obey it, I shall become his Claws!¡±

    ¡°My chief demands you bring forth this ¡®special¡¯ cub, that I may deliver it unto him. Aegis of Ursinium stretches beyond the mountains of Moribond into Harnow Gully. We conquer from Harmsburg to Torhildenburg, all between & far must kneel! Even the dead serve us, whether they did in life or not. For our cause is empowered by crown that commands daemons from their gates!¡± The Harbinger paced about on his steed. ¡°Bring forth the babe or we shall put every child here and far to the axe! A scouring of townships running up to the Ruun shall soil yer hands! No sniveling infant will defy the Forest Lord!¡±

    Azarra¡¯s mortal marrow recoiled. Her soul¡¯s veins stringed stark medley but she summoned tenacity to deny this worm-word bearer. ¡°Slave! That blood would be on Kassan¡¯s! Look hard at your master. A braggart with nothing to show for his reign but threats and sorrow! You rule no heath, for you till no fields, only burn ¨C and ye shall burn! Should ye raise a finger against one stone of this haven ye shall be immolated by righteous Drakoni thunder!¡±

    Feeling the wicked eye of the defiler shoot through his thrall¡¯s glare, her temperament screeched volatile proclamations. ¡°I defy thee and thy mongrel master! Deny the privilege of setting glimpse upon the Great God, thou misbegotten wyrmling! I decry thee, brute! Thou art no bear but a swine! Leave here in peace, if not disgrace, or my men shall skewer thee, pig!¡±

    But the Harbinger simply smiled. Smoothly and impassionedly. Sinister gleam poked through the holes of his bone mask. His greedy smirk laughed in silence for premature victory. This was no diplomat but a provocateur, sent to rile them to violence and bring the course his master craved so callously. ¡°O, degenerate harlot! Carping defiance will only make the chafing of the chains of justice evermore abrasive! Bleat for forgiveness, little lamb, once you come to terms with how the Bear is the true law of this land! To spit upon his generosity is to invite worse than death into your hearth!¡±

    The macabre rider vanished, evading goading sentinel spears with ease, into lugubrious woods. Hours passed as seconds within the intense scrambling. Nothing decided by her counsel outside of that if anything should turn sour, their Lord and his mother must flee through the tunnels. They must ensure the safety of the still vulnerable god tucked to her side.

    Their debates were unofficially resolved by sudden, feverish howling fermenting the hills. Animalistic and unhallowed shouts undermined their nerve; sounds sent from maw of perdition. As they all rushed to the outer wall their worst fears manifest.

    A horde of ghastly figures charge forth from foul foliage. Quicksilver paste & black streaks etched over ashen visage of ghouls. Dead but accusing battalions of night come to devour living souls. Their host, deathless & innumerable, surrounds the sanctuary with shrieking ferocity that squashed capabilities of human cords. Inverting vocals they cry, clawing up stone. Berserker wraiths scaling wind & sanctuary.

    Tallis flung a dagger at a crevice in one of the rotten figure¡¯s skull-visage. Clawing up the wall to be impaled by edge emboldened by Azarra¡¯s ire, his was a human cry as blade pierced brain. A kill to reveal that these foes were very much fallible, only cleverly conforming to illusion of undeath. But before Azarra could celebrate this revelation Delphine dragged her from the wall ¨C just as a spear whizzed past to shatter mirror behind. Pulled down to lower chamber by a friend who begged her.

    ¡°Please, Sister! This shrine is lost. It served us well, but we must leave! If we make haste, we are not so lost! Let us burrow out behind the pass to the seas!¡± Delphine desperately dug nails into her shoulders, carving through her paralysis and splitting her ear with optimism in defeat. ¡°Think! Let them raze these stones and think us torched with our house. All the while we can sculpt new life while they think us dead! Let it be your choice where we go but let us fly with discretion! And fast!¡±

    Without much choice left in the matter, Azarra agreed to her proposal. With a nod, Delphine as surrogate for her speech, she commanded Tallis to open the hatch to the moribund caverns. Already Tallis¡¯ most valiant men lay butchered by axes, strewn by spears, and left under ladders, entrenching the doom of this seat. Raiders, spectral & corporeal, climbed walls with scaling claws and snuck through windows while the night-gaunts splintered the gate.

    The frightened young mother funneled through the channel with Drakkon clenched to her, ushering followers forward through the passage. While a fair amount of their remnants traversed the hatch, the rest were left to undead onslaught. Makeshift missiles of incendiary clusters waged wrath against the foundation, toppling stone and mortar. Beneath the sanctum¡¯s expanse the heat & brutality above was perceptible. Roaring embers and hapless screams from behind forced acknowledgement that this former haven was already burnt by the will of the Hated One.

    Azarra¡¯s departure was burdened by the rather plump child toted within her arms. He slowed her enough that her disciples fled far ahead, forgetting her position in panic¡¯s plight. Cynical spurs snagged her. I could chuck this seedling of Kassan¡¯s transgression into swift oblivion and ease my escape. I could with such aplomb rid myself of this burden which weighs me down. This sapling spawned of the horror who befalls us now... Could I?

    Yet a spark of insight fostered within her and overtook that petty pronouncement. Am ember inside flared reminder of her child¡¯s purpose and her path. Azarra glanced down and her offspring transformed from anchor grinding her feet into a beacon of redemption and a knife to be keened against the butchers. A burden he may be, but this babe is also a blessing! I must endure for my son to grow as the sun of my earth. Through him I reverse Kassan¡¯s curse. This boy, heavy as he his, is a torch & weapon worth holding. I need only be patient, kind and careful to allow him to be forged strong by this heat.

 Interlude

    Interlude

    Winter Solstice, 1311 CE

    From Azarra¡¯s journal, scribed in secret runic scrawl

    No parable of heroic suffering, no tale of ancient plight can compare to what we hath struggled through since our flight from the Sanctum. Bitter cold surrounds us, and starvation gnaws our stomachs. For weeks our ¡®haven¡¯ has been a modest at most hovel of a cavern tucked far from the world, now but a distant memory to us all. We possess some provisions and at least this cavern system holds a tiny boon of deep wellsprings. My sentinels provide us meals from the flesh of bears, winter wolves and rabbits of snow. But as the gray days pass on their numbers thin swiftly. Even the animals of the wilderness are averse to help me...

    Several weeks pass as steady creep since I sent an envoy to Hearthfarrow with a letter pleading to my family there. Not a word whispered back. I fear it is not simply the snowstorms which keep them from reaching out to me. They reject me in this lonely hour, leave no room for me in their hearth nor hearts. Mine own heart tells me that those who would be kin abandon me to this lonely end. I am naught to them but a scorned sinner, apostate, bereft of a blessing.

    Whether they believe me a heretic deserving of immurement or whether they fear allowing my presence would incur that Monster¡¯s wrath upon them and lead the bears right to their doorstep it matters not. How long till the rest leave me? I am alone, save for Delphine. O how the sun still glimmers in the darkening hours of the wolf through her undying optimism.

    If not for sweet Delphine by me, I would hath long given in to that lingering tremor in the back of my brain which whispers: ¡®why not drown the little babe in the river and end the source of all this misery?¡¯

    As I look upon the dreary, invasive countenances of those still sworn to me by Gaahl, it is my love & friend in her whom inspires a defiant strength. For Delphi I persist when unable to find hope for myself. Tis she who grants me the only slumber not hunted by disturbed dreams - when she cradles her head upon my shoulder during coldest nights. For her I will find us a proper home once these cruel storms settle... We will not only survive but wreak Hels¡¯ winds upon all who spurn us!

    Spring 1313 CE

    Letter to Azarra from Delphine, scribed in their sisterhood runes

    Praise be unto you, Divine Mother. As harrowing as the past lunar cycle hath been while bereft of your astral company I held the importance of your dispatch tight to my breast & hath not failed you in this quest. My search for lodgings took me to Erosian Heath, a place of gorgeous meadows & kindly herdsmen. They hath respond welcomingly to your missive & grant us their honored hospitality. The people of this Elysi clan are far more open to the spirits and the change of the wind which guides them with more rigor than others.

    They are a collection of families of artists, weavers, makers, farmers & skalds who live to share stories and virtue. Thus, they are open to our new word. Willing to host us from the elements, they present us with a chance to enfold our cause with theirs.

    Although there are some new sects sprouting up, adjacent to us both. A few of our are neighbors to be name themselves ¡®Erosi Disciples¡¯ and take the libertine nature of their line to more hedonistic soil. Hopping here in drunken, orgiastic rites. Yet this too may be for our benefit, O brave & beautiful Azarra!

    The elders of the Elysi tribe believe our cause Just & Astraean. & given that the Heath is well tucked away from the clans beyond, they are delighted to allow us into the hearth at the earliest instance. The sun shines warm on the fields and the faces here and the faces of its people are bright with humble generosity. I hath etched directions on this epistle and scribed a rough map therein.

    Come east to this Erosian Heath. See these meadows of Elysi, the totems and nectarine indulgence of their Erosi cousins. Surely this peaceful place shall provide us a range to raise Drakkon. This is something we hath long sought and longer deserved. O Azarra! My heart alights with blissful prospect that these emaciated eyes of mine may soon be graced by your immaculate visage!

    Summer 1316 CE

    From Azarra¡¯s diary

    As I reflect on the relative luxury this pleasant Heath hath gifted my cause, Delphine seems more & more my beloved savior for finding this quaint sanctum. Here I watch both my son & our coven grow in strength. The grove they provided for us even brings me a sense of meditative liberty from the woes which so long hunted me. Near weekly new sisters, disciples & servants flock unto me seeking wisdom and the call ov Divinity in flesh ov my son.

    The boy is treated with such reverence here. As are all our herd. Something which took a great settling into after those years of scorn.

    Drakkon seems almost too comfortable at times with our staple here. He appears dangerously fond of a young girl ¨C Corinna or Cortrina, her name, though I know naught her sires nor kin ¨C who tempts him to wander off from his training. She steals him away from the duties and rituals that will sculpt him into an image in motion of Lordship. He forgoes them too oft for sake of wasting away with her beneath cypresses of childish wiles.

    I try to remind him that such worldly pleasures are not for his sake, but he displays a fair amount of defiance at times, which stirs in me no small distaste. Yet, as the seasons turn, and the warm veneer returns to touch the soft fields all around me I hath even come to possess some love for the child. Honest emotion trickles in. Suddenly to me he no longer appears to be simply the twisted seed of that Ferali fiend...

    Delphine takes fondly to educating him on the ways of our world. Thankfully her talent for storytelling and the boy¡¯s inquisitiveness imbues in him an ample understanding of the threat both the Ferali warmongers & the greater Vizzari Realm pose to our way of life. He can recite to me with proud excitement the foundation of our world by his namesake. And freely retells that which I¡¯d almost forgot ¨C in my hate for another - about the formation of the Vizzar. How those three tribes of Abraxas, B¡¯aal & Th¡¯uul turned against their creator and the mother-goddess of the world¡¯s vast worth, and all those that gave them life and the grace of their fields. All to worship instead their Serpent-state Vizzarion. More than this, he learns to hate them!

    I grow excited when I see his eyes burn with awe & inspiration, hearing of Vizzari¡¯s brutality visited upon their former kin. He understands the corruption they present. Knows we must be greater to rise to their ruin. I feel old Gaahl would be happy to hear that his prophecy against those snakes bolsters in accuracy and fortitude every day in the boy. All the while Tallis excels in teaching Drakkon martial manner. He¡¯s a natural talent in ways of the sword and he¡¯ll need to master it more along with the art of war.

    Likewise, he grows in both body and understanding of our own tribes, our neighbors who we must unify (or be throttled against). For to truly speak to the hearts of each tribe he must understand them. Which is why I, as Oracle and guide, bestowed knowledge unto the boy that he will be a being ¨C more than man, should we convince enough of his Miracle Birth - of knowledge & capability.

    For when we go into Harnow Gully one day to meet with the tree suckling revelers of green faeries & nymphs of the lower Herathi, in their ardent worshipful tending of the earth and their valleys, Drakkon must look to them the very blessing of Nature. Be to them avatar of all our Elderath¡¯s virtues in form of man, and Deliverer.

    To gain their arms as ours we can offer them aid against the rampaging brutes. That their precious groves and cousins¡¯ highland gardens be preserved. With respect for the woods and the bows born of them we might earn enough archers to never again fear taking blind flight in the night from those black heath bastards. With words we will earn the strings to pull back a proper volley at our pursuers. We shall stick them through that no hooves trample us

    Alas, when it comes to my birth stead, I trust little that I would be welcomed back after being shunned so long. I am but an apostate who darkens their gem. But the Herresi covens to the South? Should I outstretch my hand to those who are greased to more maternal influence in their worship of the arch goddesses. The support of the common woman is as essential as earning the favor of fresh spears.

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    But which of these will truly accept us, let alone reach out from rumored repute only? How far from me still is the rite of retribution? When can my life orbit more than the Bear of Nightmare?

    Near every night I sneak away to the secret glades of the grove where there fall such soft flakes of luminescence. In solitude make offerings to the Fates, that I may be their vessel of retribution. I envision the blood of Kassan spurting from his throat. Imagine the taste of fiend¡¯s blood upon my tongue as my chalice fills with fruits of righteous reprisal! O, how the longing for that moment can drive me made with impatience!

    Drakkon is but a youth and though our numbers increase in slight waves, nothing we yet hold could come near enough to ring the death knell of those who damned me so. Ah, but despite this peaceful country of nigh endless summer, there is another disturbance which slithers through my veins and severs my sleep. One which I cannot quite place. I feel that our stay here is but temporary.

    For in my dreams, I see such gangly, twisted torrents brew on the horizon which spell a doom reborn for me in some shadowy form which reaches out with dire tendrils. I pray once more that this is but some phantom of paranoia, but I ready my soul¡¯s shield against whatever blow may come as time marches against me...

    Autumn 1322 CE

    Letter from Gaahl to Azarra

    My child, I wish the wiles of fate could grant me gentler greetings. Alas, I must inform you of ill tides. Dreadful visions sunder this old soul by baleful flashes, haunting my meditations. My scouts confirm the awful truth of these. You and your kin must make for fresh shelter. The swarm of spies lodged in our lower temple surged out suddenly, marching southeast. Surely intent on joining their siblings in slaughter, aimed at Erosian fields.

    Even sending this warning was no simple feat, dear girl. Ferali talons clamp about Ty-Drasil¡¯s neck. We are unable to voice admonishment against Kassan or offer any advice to those he intends to punish & pillage, lest his attitude turn to us as wrath inflamed. My familiars can do little against their full force. The Black Bear¡¯s emissaries seduced all too many sages. Yet I am not inclined to believe that someone here is responsible for this treachery. For there are few here who even know of the Heath or its whereabouts. Perhaps in your camp there is also treachery afoot?

    That young girl, Corinna, you sent us awhile back, touched by the gods: at first, I feared that she may hath been coerced by one of these spies, since she hails from the Heath. But she proves not only a promising oracle but possessing of cunning beyond her years. The young oracle reminds a bit of you, even. Tis not her who turns cloak, nor your Delphine. But she too spots shadows over Erosian sun.

    No matter where you head, do find your way. Know that there is a foe among your ¡®friends¡¯, Azarra.

    Spring 1323, CE

    From Azarra¡¯s envoy to Elder Gaahl

    Dear friend & wise Elder. You hath once again proved to be my mortal savior. Without your foresight doom surely would¡¯ve befallen us all. I received it only days before the arrival of those feral black mongrels and as we took flight far from the plains ¡®twas only a single dawn passed before we could see the outline of deathly smoke rising beyond the hills where Erosian Heath had once stood in its gentle solitude. I bid some of our contingent stay and help defend the humble place. But thus far only my guard captain, Tallis, and a couple spears survived and found their way back to our herd.

    For now, I am nestled relatively comfortably in the homestead of a kindly noble, Beruvius. He whose fortune I helped previously expand through a reading for which he remembers me fondly. Hence his allowance of my presence within his estate. Few of my Drakoni remain as guests of the nearby inn while others sought lowly quarters in stables or hovels of sympathetic locals. Many still are unaccounted for, scattered through the wilderness. But we cannot prolong our stay much more despite this ephemeral luxury. I hath not forgot your words of caution regarding the serpent in our grove.

    Might you lend me more eyes to spot the stain of sedition. Aid me with what loyal sentinels may be your ears & watchers? That any ¡®familiar¡¯ faces of our sect seen without true leave from me might be marked? Perhaps I must test the reverence of my few faithful, put each captain through a gauntlet¡­

    Once we abolish this duplicitous burden haunting our steps, we will be that much closer to the brink of our divinely moved purpose. I swear you will live to see Kassan¡¯s reign cut short and the stolen Crown returned to its rightful place in your vault. Drakkon has grown into a considerable young man, absolutely blooming with aura of leadership. We will grow beyond the puddle our sect is now. It could well come to pass that the fate he was born for might be realizer sooner than e¡¯er expected!

    Late Summer, 1323 CE

    From Drakkon¡¯s report to his mother

    Dear Mother! I bare unto you most blessed news of the traitor¡¯s demise... ¡®twas Tallis who betrayed us, as justly surmised. The sentinels from Ty-Drasil confirmed it. Following his stay at Solvstead he was found by the border with an accompaniment of Ferali beasts, unharmed by the vicious brutes. I made him confess his end when we snatched him back from their broken fingers into our camp, the one he forsook for them¡­

    The disloyal fiend begged for a swift end to his humiliation, but I recalled your dignified teachings on how our Drakoni most operate within this darkened world. Be brutal to our enemies that we may spread the Light through all living hearts which tread upon the soil of creation. Thus, I bid that Tallis¡¯ fate be that of teaching a lesson to those who would turn away from our Cause. I would spare you the gritty details of this ¡®lesson¡¯. Know however that it was righteously inflicted, and that after deserved suffering our fallen captain is a feast for the wolves & those scavengers of the wood who are of his ilk.

    I do hope that this punitive execution pleases you, mother. That you are truly proud of me. This is but a single step in our ascending path to the spiral staircase of Empyrean glory! With it I raise you & our Cause above the mud-soaked meddling of faithless vermin. Yet this necessary step also serves as a bridge. For as Tallis pleaded & writhed like the worm he proved himself to be, he revealed vital instruction the Bear¡¯s gives his standards.

    From Solvstead, where the Ferali stole another Keep (which we could not unseat them from) they march further inland with plans to ambush the locals from behind their main line. They plan to evade the bulwark by traversing Harnow Gully. The humble village militias just South of the Gully will be no match for their savagery. Thus, I believe we must ally ourselves with those Harathi highlanders and peoples whose homes will soon be endangered.

    We will hold Harnow Gully. Then Kassan¡¯s only means of reaching deeper will be through Moribond Pass, requiring his line to be thinned to cross. Taking the advice, you shared with me in verse of exchanging ¡®a bane into a boon¡¯, in how we can use the treachery of Tallis against his dark masters....

    Early Autumn, 1322 CE

    A sage¡¯s envoy quilled by serpent scrawl of the Vizzar

    Brother, this cult endures. Their infant star grows to contest the Bear. We must press inquisition upon their fellows. Test their false dragon¡¯s teeth against the Serpent¡¯s fangs. Then we might see if this savage sect shall truly have yield for Abraxas.

    As Spring submits to Summer, 1326 CE

    From Delphine¡¯s account to Azarra

    Hail to you Azarra, with love & light! I bring to you blessed news which I hope finds you more than well. Drakkon raised yet another flag of triumph over Ferali at Harnow Gully! Finally, our efforts here, redeemed! With this victory rises the spirits & dreams of all peoples among & beyond us!

    I know how ardently you wished for me to remain outside the realm of battle, but I had to follow my soul¡¯s whim and stay with your son and our warriors that I could avail mystic seal of the gods¡¯ favor. My undying faith in Him proved rightfully placed. He truly does shine with the spark of Divinity and brings me back to belief that the gods do favour our fight against the creature.

    The firmness of his command, his talent for strategy & his persistence to fight to the bitter end proved utterly contagious in both our troops & the local militias who gave battle beside us. There were demoralizing rumors spread before the conflict that Kassan had sent his fiercest harbinger ¨C I believe Stieg was the barbarian¡¯s name ¨C and yet this supposed indomitable juggernaut fled the Gully with his tail tucked between his legs!

    Drakkon is very much kept busy with organizing our surviving numbers & coordinating plans with those Harathi who chose to throw their lot in with us in the crucible of the Gully and thus he commissioned me to write to you on his behalf. This is fortunate for me as I wish to impart to you further information, of which is bittersweet in a sense.

    Hearthfarrow is suffering from a great struggle from their unending war against Kassan¡¯s intrusion. Redoubling his claim to Astralis et Farrowkin lands has taken a considerable toll on their joint folk. Among the fatalities were your former kin. I am deeply saddened to report that your father & siblings hath been interred among the dead, casualties of the incessant conflict. Alas your birth mother, Malaena, is afflicted with a wasting disease.

    Poor woman is eaten away day by day. She could not have offered help to us before if she wanted to. It only grows more pallid now that she is left alone to the woes of the world. I pray you do not think me intruding into your personal affairs, nor that I am being too imperious in what I am about to suggest. But in my humble & honest viewpoint this calls for your return, Azarra, to retie those threads to the Astralis Circles and your Sylvani ancestry.

    Perhaps if we journey there in time, you may heal your mother¡¯s aching bones & waning spirit with how much you hath grown. Even if the fates turn a cruel twist of the knife against that reunion, that those who would deem you an outcast or heretic are in need may form path of living means. That we may establish a foremost base against your adversary. I beseech you to join us here in this meagre grove and discuss it with our newfound sisters & show how hope blazes within me. Light which warms my bones and melts the snow with thoughts of how we may take fate fully into our own hands!

 Shadow of the Horns

    Chapter Five, Shadow of the Horns

    Early Morn, Late Autumn, 13<sup>th </sup>of Duskcrest, 1328CE

    Drakkon loomed over the rocky edge of the high ridge looking down the pass. Inspecting the fog-coated way to Moribond, he squinted at the labyrinthine grey. The wind hummed faint song that pacified his impatience. After a good period of waiting, his hunch proved true, hooves clambered in hurried approach as lone steed cut through the mountainous mist.

    The archers accompanying him itched bows in preparation, should this hasty rider not be their expected guest. As the horseman drew nearer, the bear cloak of the Ferali tribe cut through the haze of dawn by sparse sunrays. Yet the Living Lord did not give his companions the signal to fire. Narrowing gaze & feeling, he marked the rider as that same defector with whom he was to meet this morn. He bid them lower their bows, release tension & allow the informant through the pass. Raising a torch high to herald his point.

    The bold young lord¡¯s stature struck expression of stony confidence. The defector, unhorsing and approaching, proved elderly in appearance. Many scars marked his wizened face. Surprising, Drakkon mused, I figured that a man who would so willingly turn on his master would be much younger in cycles. Be greener in character and not so scarred as the man who comes here. Curious.

    He kept constant focus on the old man, studying him for any mannerisms that would betray ulterior purpose. This was the first turncoat he¡¯d agreed to meet and was not yet ready to trust him. Sure, he had made a few mercs aligned Ferali or dogged Harathi stragglers turn to his Light before, but that was not without intent & precise conditioning. This could well be but a ploy.

    The Ferali warrior bowed knee and head to Drakkon in veneer of deference. ¡°Hail Drakkon! I am called Stieg, who hails from the House ov Harmsburg. I come regarding the mad bear¡¯s plans...¡± His voice was withered and dry, matching his exterior. But no tinge of fear or lack of firmness lined his wording. ¡°Come now to you to amend my overlong service to him.¡±

    ¡°Yes, your missive said as much. But humor me first as to why I should be so willing to trust you and this report? How can I be certain that you are not still an agent of my enemy, feigning treachery as to feed me misinformation? Why risk so much to betray one so infamously barbarous as Kassan?¡± Drakkon¡¯s voice rang deep. Steady was his stare.

    The faded harbinger did not falter as their eyes locked honestly. He did not wince nor shrink away before his young inquisitor, whose noble features were illumed by torch & the pre-dawn glow. ¡°I am weathered in my years, aye, with wisdom enough to see through the chieftain of cruelty I¡¯ve too long let be my master. Yet not hardened to icy shell so to eclipse my heart, or its knowledge of mine own wrongdoing. But let me say that Kassan cut sin against my line, my love and into it - as I hath cut others under his banner. Against his barbarity I hath seen your potential. Known your strength firsthand.¡±

    The young man raised his brow, observing a sudden familiarity in the bark of Stieg¡¯s face. He recalled now how this leathery mien had glared at him across the other side of a battlefield once before. A former foe indeed. Yet he let him continue, intrigued.

    ¡°When came the Battle of Harnow Gully, when I saw your might for the first time, that broke both me and my bindings. You beat back our Bear even when we should have overwhelmed you. Indeed, I was the commander of the Ferali on that day. The one you so expertly embarrassed on the field. You saved my boys - Beron and Heron- who are as dear to me as they are sadly distant (more Kassan¡¯s boys than mine). Saved them from being buried beneath the fetid soils of ¡®glory¡¯. By sending us back in flight so swiftly that no berserker could retain any instinct for suicidal charge, neither of the brash boys met crushing blow. I bow, with humility harmfully gained, to my better.¡±

    ¡°You were graceful in victory. You hath shown me that my ¡®master¡¯ is not the invulnerable deified incarnation of war he so desireth to be. I will not tire you with my story, Lord, but I would ask you offer enough trust in me that I might find some meaning in aiding against Kassan.¡± He spat, as though the name congealed as acid on the tongue. ¡°Evil runs its course through him. My life, my line hath suffered too greatly under that man I once respected, who now is naught but a monster. A monster whose weakness & heart, come this moon, I offer you.¡±

    Drakkon stirred. His hands reached up instinctively to stroke his black stubble. He remembered the day with excellent clarity. How he drove back Stieg¡¯s onslaught; joining with the Baraki & Harathi to narrowly deflect their advance. An unconscious smirk graced his face in reflection. That was the day that he proved to all that the Ferali and their jarl were not invincible berserkers immune to defeat. That crest of early victory amassed flocks of devoted soldiers to his camp. From among various tribes, besieged by the Bear¡¯s invasions, of deep dale & high hill, faithful warriors fell under his flag from that first blood; a fair fyrd, less than an army and yet more than that in zealotry.

    Stieg stood stoically. Though the arriviste, Drakkon, towered over him, their eyes joined in mutual hold. A flint strike of respect ignited in that shared stare. But the host did not yet yield fully, however. ¡°How can I be assured all that you hath said thus far is not motivated solely by self-preservation? Or by the vanity of what might be earnt by entrapping me with falsity?¡±

    ¡°Vanity is a young man¡¯s game, lord. Unless ¡®tis vanity to ask to serve you now?¡± Stieg struck a stone-solid handshake as he pronounced his purpose. ¡°Nothing to me is certain, save that I am drawn out this day by a need to redeem my honor amongst all this wailing dread which I helped wreak. You prevailed over my chief¡¯s cruelty. I knew on that day you were more than an admirable adversary. A real leader with worthy cause for all of us; beyond heritage, and one that deserves respect. As I am no sage nor shaman, I cannot proclaim to know whether you are truly the Divine returned to us in form, as legend tells. Forgive the skeptic in me, for ages under the ¡®legend¡¯ of the Forest Lord hollowed my trust in myth. But I know you worthy of loyalty. I hereby pledge my services to you. Allow me to deliver my former master¡¯s plans that you may unravel their course.¡±

    Drakkon drew his sword from its sheath and placed it upon Stieg¡¯s shoulder. Placing a firm but warm hand on his other. ¡°If what you reveal to me provides a way to ensure Kassan¡¯s defeat then not only shall I proclaim you a Drakoni vanguard, but also see you redeemed. Inform me.¡±

    Stieg bowed slightly. ¡°Kassan still entrusts in me a fair deal of planning and intelligence. He sent me to gather information on the area as to plan the best attack. I am still his oldest advisor and emissary. This endeavor is why I can appear before you now without striking up suspicion. And why he has taken my word that you are not yet near this village, but instead still fortifying your hold over the hills southwest. The Bear seeks to hunt Hearthfarrow at nightfall. Once they move through the pass, under the cover of darkness he aims to move through northern Farrow, right here.¡±

    His eyes glazed Fall gloom. ¡°The blood moon is told to take the sky tonight. It comes with significance to him personally. I accompanied him long ago as an emissary when he took the Crown of Bellieus for himself and on that eve the red eclipse loomed over the coronation ceremony... It holds an intimate meaning to him. Such celestial events usually foretell the evocation of great events, woeful or fortuitous, after all.¡±

    Drakkon contemplated this news for a good while, assembling the formations in his mind and plotting the moves his enemy would make by way of this pass. He took the risk to entrust Stieg with some truthful tactic. ¡°Very well. If what you profess is true to Kassan¡¯s intent, then I shall have half my force remain hidden amongst the Farrow foliage. Conceal them and allow his march towards Hearthfarrow. They will wait to pin them to grave mounds.¡±

    ¡°Just enough out of the way that suspicion won¡¯t be aroused, should other agents be afoot. Once he commits to the assault, my faithful shall come upon him from behind. Cutting off his retreat to batter him from the sides, send his fierce fools into disarray.¡± This will allow me to make the killing blow. I shall slay this feral beast. I shall not be so graceful in victory this eve.

    ¡°A fair plan! I see now how quickly your mind fires in military matters. Surely you are divinely inspired, if not the divine being in full substance and form.¡± Stieg stooped lower with respect. ¡°This night then, shall reveal the truth of that. Before battle, tis traditional rite of the Ferali to offer up many birds in sacrifice to the Muses of war. That their Valkyries take flight as birds of wing. So let it be known that the first sign of our coming upon the perimeter will be shrill cries of feathered creatures. I am to be assured also that you understand the need for me to willingly defend myself against your own men when battle comes?¡±

    ¡°Nothing great is won without sacrifice.¡± Drakkon announced, colder than autumn mist. ¡°The main concentration of my attention will be exorcising the horned daemon from the field & existence. I aim to call him to a kraagspeer. All blood that is shed to bring him down shall not be in vain. Fitting, I think, that Kassan should fall before the red lune which once watched over his ¡®ascension¡¯. Let Selene soon witness his internment to the ground.¡±

    ¡°Now return, good friend, to the chief of pilfered crown. Give him a story to satisfy his inquiries. Pray, find him in proper time to avoid wrath, for I do not wish to lose so valuable an ally prematurely. Not before his course can be properly redirected from those dark rapids. Let not the rings of Saathar assail you when they come to claim the horns whose shadow ye served yet serve no longer.¡±

    Stieg¡¯s lone, wispy ghost vanished in the veil blotting the paths of that vast mountain spread.

    Drakkon¡¯s soul pitched excitement. Heart pulsating with anticipation for the coming match with the man whose shadow dominated his own destiny ¨C made its light twist back in shape against that possessed trunk¡¯s shade. That the brambles of Kassan¡¯s horns obscured the sun from nourishing his path and that of the land since he¡¯d come into the world as man. He could feel within the spindling threads of the Fates perpetually wind through all the interconnections of time and whim of the demiurge, the worldly fabric. Among webbed circle, links of possibility and happening, he appraised himself as mortal manifestation of Essentia & its shaper. Circumstance & predestination entwined, spun to collision with Kassan¡¯s thread so that he may sever it. Banish that black soul from the earthly & astral. Cast him out the way of the deepened well.

    The mere mentioning of the Bear was enough to instill trepidation in most. But for Drakkon it siphoned the Helwinds¡¯ lament for all those victims swallowed by the gaping ground. His malice towards the hated one reverberated through the pass. Yet doubt lived also amongst the quaking smog of Moribond¡¯s brim. Soon to face a ¡®Lord of the Wood¡¯ and test his claim to lordship. In search of an assuring string to cling to he remembered his mother¡¯s words:

    ¡°The people ache for a deliverer to redeem them from the Bear¡¯s claws. In their secret hearts they yearn for someone true to ransom up their fates and salvage freedom. You were born to be that redeemer, the Living Lord to restore the tattered faith and rescue us. So that we may live as gods & stewards of earth renewed. When you were born Kassan¡¯s grave ran cold, his death by your hand mapped out in the stars. But that fool looks not to the sky for advice and honors no traditions of High Pantheon, for he only listens to his stomach in its hungering for innocent blood.¡±

    ¡°That is why he is blind, and his hubris will continue to deny him sight until your sword flashes forth before his eyes. As the last thing he will see before being ushered by your blade into the cold yawn of oblivion. You have been chosen for this. The will of heaven is ascendant. Divine fervor rushes forth from the sky and travels atop the mountain paths, the temples, the courts, and the little glades as it courses through your mind as reflections of astral plane embodied on this soil.¡±

    Mapped out in the stars... He meditated as he and his companions walked to their encampment, set up on the rim of the Farrow woods far from the village. My will is ascendant!

    He breathed in mantra. Envisioning the triumphant rally that would greet him as he lifts Kassan¡¯s crown to cheering song. How his ears would ring with victory as he revealed himself the people as the Great God incarnate. Feeling lightning crackle in his chest, searing insignia, he swore himself to glory.

    Mother will be more than proud to witness it! They will call for the greatest mass Triumph; days of festival revelry, unlike any that has yet been. I am assured that her smile at spotting the despot lying dead shall shine as stars; from whence she birthed me into this world. Soon my place on this earth as Man shall have meaning. She will speak unto me as to how. Steady my hand.

    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

    Love¡¯s Deceit

    Dusk, prior to Battle, Farrow Forest

    The sun drooped below the horizon ushering evenfall. The flame of that highest celestial orb still lit the forest with orange hue. It cast an unusually vivid gaze over the world while preparing to descend and be usurped in cycle by the moon above. A fluorescence of small wispy orbs materialized from the veiled mist coating the ground, emerging to dance upon winds gently carrying them to the branches.

    ¡°Can you feel it in the air, my starry son?¡± Azarra whispered, drilling profound tones into her son¡¯s entranced ear. ¡°Look about you. Can you see the spirits rousing to the surface, peeking back at our world to witness the glory they know is coming? Listen. They sing songs of our great fortune this night. Harmonies & vespers to our victory. The elementals ring with anticipation for the return to mastery and order of their Living Lord.¡±

    ¡°The spirits tell us not to forget the horrors of our foe; the atrocities he has committed which have driven us to this point and to swear to repeal the reign of terror and return to the higher cause of our people, to restore the celestial Pantheon. They know you... They see the light that burns within you conjured up from dimensions beyond. They praise your glory, knowing well that it shall be you who stands proudly over the body of our foe this day. They ask to be the heralds of the Aeon of Drakkon and to guide our steps through this forest.¡±

    Drakkon listened, absorbing every word as if she read the script of the universal plan. His heart throbbed with the lust for battle and the challenge the war chief would present to him in contest of arms, but his mother¡¯s words rang aloud through with lustrous certainty.

    A peculiar aura in the atmosphere bid time to slow. Bending to a crawling pace with perception locked in the spinning threads, with the space between now and what was to come distinguished. By the writ of his Being that dissonance apprehended the portents offered by this odd augury, glimmering in eyes of the frozen lights abound.

    ¡°I feel it as strongly as the memories revolving in my head of what hath happened since I first heard the terrible name: ¡®Kassan¡¯, ushered when but a boy. Being made to flee and fear it in the earliest nights of this new life. I remember the fearful fashion I was raised in, dimmed by the shame of his Shadow looming over our lives. Just as I hear the tribes¡¯ suffering cries grow loud.¡±

    Drakkon¡¯s stare fell distant yet focused. Dissociative and deep. Eyes wandered through the canopies whirling into an endless wood. When his mouth moved, the length and power of his words came amplified by the insistence of a chorus of forest critters. The woodland dusk was his to command, calling over and to them. ¡°Conceived of starlight to become as mortal flesh. To return to the world from that dreaming abyss beyond death, before birth, by the carriage of thy womb To experience the reality and biting rage that only human hearts know. To feel the pain which burrows into bodies and carry weight which breaks noblest backs. To know nightmares and doubt... That I may deliver them from these.¡±

    ¡°Beneath the coming gaze of crimson moon, I will deliver them. The Bear¡¯s life waters will flow freely from avenging strike! I feel its red course shall not be enough of a gift back to the Earth, O wounded Elderath! And to her devouring sister, Malderath, in Death to claim him. A tribute and payment for all the innocent blood he hath stained our soil with!¡±

    Azarra peered into her son¡¯s eyes. A loathsome observation gnawed at her, of how he seemed the spitting image of his father, only younger. Same towering height and build (only slightly leaner was the son). That same black mane. There were slight differences and a gaping lack of that cold in Kassan¡¯s deep-set eyes, but their contrast was lost on her for those few seconds of infernal revelation. His countenance was half draconian & angelic.

    Drakkon inherited a couple of his mother¡¯s more beauteous features for balance. Eyes, mouth, and cheekbones produced an odd alchemy of paternal masculinity and soft charms of the maternal genes his bearer had been cursed to give him. All melding aspect of the otherworldly. She fought desperately to cape this blinding comparison, repress revelation.

    You do not even know the half of Kassan¡¯s treachery and the abominable acts he did... unto me! You look just like him. Grown to embody his shadow and mirror!

    Ah, but now the seed of his sin is sired full for purpose! Posed to thrust into the heart of he who wronged me, befouled my virtue, and desecrated youth¡¯s dreams. Oh Drakkon, my son! You are the living breath, not of heaven, but of my wrath imbued in you! Your spirit, the wyrm of my spite! Your arm is of steel, as to carve out my Will!

    The thought transformed her scowl into a genuine smile. Clever cognition then captured her conscious mind, distracting her from the abhorrence of undying past. A way of elucidation of how vital it was that Kassan should die to her son came to the command of her wit. Tying him to her tune, strumming his chords like a lute. ¡°Do you remember many years back when you were naught but a youth... How we made our home for many a year longer than would normally have been allowed by the hunt of the Black Bear? That spot, Erosian or Elysian Heath. That is, depending on which of the sects there you asked to name it. Before it burned. There, where the fields where golden wheat and the sun endured all seasons. I can see in your eyes you know the place of which we speak.¡±

    ¡°There, for the first time, I spotted in you happiness and joy. Before the beast tried to stamp out the God flame that threatened his reign, I saw you glimmer there. Befriended many, sparred with the other boys, listened to the tales of the bards, spoke eagerly with the elders with inquiries on the gods and our history. & how you danced tenderly with the girls of the village during the festivals. Ah, who was that little maid with such a pale and pretty face? With dark hair and mislaid gray eyes. Do you remember?¡±

    ¡°Ah...¡± The spell of love, the memory weaved, conspired to steal inner momentum. ¡°Yes, indeed. I should never forget she who brought to me the first glimmer of love and honest affection. Her name was Corinna, I remember. Wise & warm was she...¡± I recall the confluence of our gaze, that first sight. So lush and alight. Ah, that living muse!

    Drakkon revisited how her eyes fell low and shy for a split second, upon that first look. Then how she returned his fascinated glance. What warm reception channeled through her. She shined with deathless Spring. That fleeting brush felt the beginning of a connection with boundless meaning. He bathed in blissful hope, yearning in secret chamber of heart that their destiny was to be star- bound lovers, intertwined and woven together by threads of fate. That night when we all gathered by the fire to hear the good bard¡¯s tale: I shared her hand with mine. Listening to the pre-imminence of the Muses through the ballad of Eris and her son Ferion. We knew such innocent passion. I knew - know - it true and honest. He wrapped himself in the ardor that memory threaded.

    Azarra shined a sinister glow. ¡°Indeed, your intuition of her proved true. For she was special in many means. Ways which Delphine and I conferred with the eldest shaman of the town over. It was rumored her Divining mark possessed her by spells, erratic throes, while her spirit sent her from shaking shell to commune with greater spirits. Ensnared by spells and marked for service to the sisterhood of Sight, I bid her make pilgrimage to the Elder Shaman Gaahl himself. Only there could she receive proper insight as to her ability and train it. That is why she departed with Delphine on such short notice.¡±

    Her son perked up. ¡°That explains why Corinna left without speaking a word as to where she was headed or whether I could expect her return. To reunite with her, I prayed for her as never before. Why do you bring this up now? I must inquire where this is heading. Have you fresh news of her?¡±

    Azarra consolidated caress of Drakkon¡¯s shoulders as she spun her story. ¡°Indeed. Although I wished not to reveal the truth of her fate to you for fear that it may break your spirit and soften your resolve before you were ready. But now I believe you can bear the weight of it.¡± Her son¡¯s eyes flashed lightning. Bolts of suspense and nauseous anticipation.

    ¡°She made it to treasured Ty-Drasil - of that Delphine assured me. Even The Elder exclaimed her talents. Noted how the lines in her hand were carved by a fate illustrating wonder and affinity with sorrow and joy alike. But what transpired there I could only have imagined in my darkest nightmares...¡± She let his anxiety peak in pause before progressing her tale.

    ¡°For that same monster who forced me ¨C us - from former home there returned with his heralds. He and those puffed-up raiders went to make more demands of Gaahl. I will not overindulge details on the machinations he tried or his devious crimes but, as I was regrettably informed, the ¡®Bear¡¯ also set his shadowed glare upon that young mystic, Corinna. His appearance there coincided with her disappearance. Sadly, he may have decided to steal her vows from her; to sever her connection to the divine for cruel lust. Perhaps in pitiful attempt to regain his potency for whatever the shaman denied him he ruined another oracle¡¯s soul.¡±

    She went on in a somber, darkened tone ¡°Alas, the lass vanished in his wake. Must have been that he stole her away. Enslaved her to urges for flesh and her Sight ¨C though his covetousness would tarnish that link to the higher realms, should Ty-Drasil traditions be true in their reason. There came word of one looking like her among unholy rites of Ferali. But I pray that this is not true. That she escapes my Sight for having fled this earth & Kassan¡¯s ¡®company¡¯. Otherwise, now she would be a priestess of corruption; her blessed sight chained to his belligerent grubbing.¡±

    Drakkon¡¯s look mutated with sickening fury. Hateful filter curdled every object in sight to blur of crimson beating against his head. A volatile umbrage ballooned in his heart. Refusing calm till the cause of it lay slain.

    As the pair reached the edge of camp, they were greeted by Delphine and Dahlia, a young apprentice of Azarra¡¯s. In a stunning and eerie display of synchronicity, they spoke in quasi- unison, sharing words between each other.

    ¡°Goodly Lord, your forces are assembled by the pyre and await your command. They are eager in their want for battle rites to be performed. They are intoxicated by the prospect of our bringing battle. Their steel, as sharpened as their courage.¡±

    ¡°Good, good.¡± Spoke both mother and son, emulating the united fervor of their faithful; speech of shared will binding their tongues. Then she told them what must be done, planting seeds of rhetoric to sprout of her son¡¯s Lordly tongue.

    Prelude to Thunder

    Evening, Ritual post, outskirts of Farrow Forest

    By bonfires¡¯ rays the Drakoni militia assemble in full display. They bow before their living God, atop felled-stump-pedestal. The musically inclined among their muscle & muses chant an ageless song of victory. Kindling chorale corralled their center, as more share in the wobbling airs. Drakkon hummed a low, booming note; a basso profundo to lead them, borne from the back of his throat.     Universal unity of music and the fires¡¯ dancing signals bound their chests to the beating of one.

    Azarra¡¯s coven contorts and twists about the blazing bonfire as they bore their bodies to the skies and echoe the triumphant cries of the men in their higher octaves. The High Mother poses upon the post beside her son, who Dahlia and Delphine act tirelessly to coat with an oily lubricant.

    They remade the paste of his skin to glisten sharply as a star upon earth. Cerulean powder reforms the chroma of flames, casting protective Aegis against the scarlet of the moon.

    Witch-howl vociferates over the clamor of the congregation. Azarra recites stanzas of prophecy, weaving in verse of an Edda of her own make:

    ¡°When the moon is pregnant, peaking with heaven¡¯s red rain pouring, the seed of the cosmos engenders need for spilt blood, to shine the luster of sacrifice! That orb shall rise the color of birth & battle. As the world is buried in darkness the dead shall rise from cold graves, with axe and claw to fight their way to eternal life through the flesh of the Living! The Eclipse ov Blood shall signal the Moon¡¯s thirst! Selene and Saathar shall align in hunger, with dark appetite to sate!

    Only the Fire ov Drakkon shall burn away the terror! Transform Death into Life through his Thunder! He, ov the highest, will deliver his people from the crimson sea of ailing age¡¯s ending! Burn away in balefire the tainted and unworthy!

    Let the Living Light set the effigies of old evil alight in Night! Bring Illumination over paths unknown to lead ye travelers and pilgrims! Let Him rule thy hearts and construct a new shape for our earth, Elderath, to be reborn into! Let these be the last days of a waning world, so that the First Day of Drakkon¡¯s Aeon arrives! Our resurrection through His!¡±

    At the conclusion of her verse, Azarra joined her sisters in musical bellow of ultimate appraisal. Cheering signs of ascendancy for the coming era. Drakkon glowed with the essence of a god, his aura outshining all with lustre. He set a space for himself, a seat of utmost glory before and above his followers, who hailed him with upraised arms.

    ¡°My disciples! My soldiers! My children! My people! I tell you that the fount of hatred for him who stole the horns ov our woods is powerful enough to drown all my nearest kin! Would that I had a mortal father, he too would flee from my purest gaze! For no man shall stand against me in my Hate this eve! Yet tis Hate borne by Love for ye! With death we will redeem our realm!¡±

    ¡°Ruminate on the crimes of this ¡°Black Bear¡± who sought to assert himself before the pantheon and demands bloodied tithes of ye. Know no more pain from this worm from the muddy depths. Manifest the strength of core & sturdy faith to sever the tendons of his overreaching arms! Defeat the demon and free the pilfered crown of that vile head! Know what glory shall be won through this beast¡¯s end! How the gods themselves cry out for his death!¡±

    ¡°The moon above is draped with shade of blood. For her celestial sphere desires for us to feed its yawning maw with that of our foes! Know that this is the beginning of the Aeon of Drakkon! Darkness descends upon us. It falls over Kassan¡¯s soul. Devoid of eternal salvation. Black-eyed spirits shall take him to the underworld as a feast for nether beasts.¡±

    ¡°We shall anchor him to doom before the watchful skies of the eclipse... and drive a stake through that fiend¡¯s charred, fleshy pulp to assure it finished. Burnt by Living Light.¡±

    The living lord, raptured by belief and impassioned performance streaming to his followers, held his sword to the moonlight. Drawing down beams to whet & burnish the blade. Meanwhile, Mother Azarra¡¯s Selenic dress buffed the gloss of the moon¡¯s plasma, peeking over starlit sky. Dazzling all before her with the sign of high heaven¡¯s favor & awe¡¯s fervor.

    Ritual madness - screaming catharsis ¨C works through the coven. They screech and holler as witches upon their sacred sabbath. Invoking supernal powers with mindless fever. The warriors batter their greaves and gauntlets against their chests, yowl wolfen chorus. All enthralled by the presence of their savior, standing high above but among them.

 Reckoning

    Chapter Six, Reckoning

    The Hour of Battle

    Deafening cacophony of murdered fowl split the air. The swansong of sacrificial birds took phantom flight across the treetops. When their dreadful lament ceased in place flapped the wings of impenetrable shadow, enveloping the cerise moon. That lunar sphere, taken by umbrage of clouds, flirts with surrender to bloody eclipse, though its bright body is not yet bared.

    Drakkon and his men moved silently through Farrow forest. Stalking up the glum thicket, there could be seen no discernable path. Bastions of blackened bark and obstinate bush blocked all but a few slithers of light. The sparse steeds straying behind refused to follow. Without being able to press further the young avenger ordered a slight retreat. Instinctively clinging to the former treads, retracing those hidden steps, until a wink from the moonlight through cloud blanket confirmed the way. There they came to the edge of the woods just perpendicular to the parapets of Hearthfarrow.

    The indomitable bastille of Night apprehends all. Nocturne tightens the latch on their fears, snuffing all save the anxious anticipation for blood¡¯s first drops to be shed. Subtle wisps of mist exude breathe of wraithlike apparitions, floating through the wicked wood. Echoes of blood & coming battle pound the air¡¯s pulse, the wind berating mortal folly below. A mass grave, afoul in its yearning, the ground they tread was to be. The ashen miasma of the woodland weaves a ghostly webbing, allowing their approach to be an invisible. Enigmas manifest on their eyeline. Ghosts & night-gaunts poke out from behind every hulking tree. Shapeless nightmares creep up the sides of every soldier¡¯s periphery only to vanish into well of dusk.

    From beneath their shawls of eerie spray came a sudden awareness of being watched, seen through their cover. Observed through ubiquitous glares from the malevolent murk, growing in pairs and hostility as they closed the gap. Sinister gleams flicker across thickets. A pale haze of wraiths & war-fed ghouls glides over the soil. The ghastly haste with which they made to the outskirts should make those specters above blush.

    A baleful Autumn gale seizes the sky. Swirling about the clouds it pushes them apart to herald the glowering body of the Blood Moon, hovering over all with imposing lambency. A streaming hiss flew into the warriors¡¯ ears. Rattling and rousing their nostrils with its repugnant gusts, carrying stench of putrid flesh and carcasses. So too with this malodor comes the moon¡¯s crowned countenance. Its carmine smile appears, grinning over sepulchral march.

    Through the dwindling coat inundating the outlying layers of Farrow Forest the Ferali fiends emerged. They slice through the fog with incising axe. Across their faces lay the pale veils of death; painted with a white foundation that begot a terrible image: that of Draugr raised for vengeful purpose beyond deathly gate. Streaked along their alabaster base were black oil smears & animal blood. They shaped themselves into daemons, hungering ghouls. Undead warriors only freshly risen from their haunts.

    That verminous stench gave them away before any sight of their grave swathed skin. The rot of denied burial; black dirt against jutting bone; white paint, the pungency of innards leaking with abandon, and smeared gore of game and man. Once these night-gaunts penetrated the perimeter of the defenders¡¯ vision they beheld uniform wall of foul Ferali berserkers, arisen after mortal fall to fight on for the horns. Cannibal¡¯s hunger gnawed and glared behind every pair of unnatural eyes boring into their hearth. Some seemed skeletal in frame, while others were wrapped in despoiled organs and spilling entrails, yet undying.

    Corpse-paint & wan wax drenched their bearings and bore brumal spears of fright into the nerves of those who first saw these ursine revenants. The intimidating affect was well achieved. What mortal man could consider himself capable of slaying that which is dead but refuses to seek its home in the cold ground? What soul would not be snared by that spectral gloom?

    The colossal silhouette of Kassan¡¯s monstrous proportion appeared. He donned the same dreary masquerade as his minions but proudly wore the distinguishing Crown of Bellieus atop his head. Crooked horns of demon¡¯s shape brought him to even greater height. His was a terrible shadow that came upon his prey from on high. Veteran soldiers, defenders of their clan, shivered alongside nervous villagers who held arms to fill their lines. All quaking, arrested by panic and heaving prayers against malefic sight. All afeared that the fight of the last twenty years and the ancestral blood spilt for their claim was in vain.

    As a Lord of the Wood and master of monsters, the chieftain strode forth atop Malderath¡¯s black steed with fateful presence, commanding forsaken wraiths to his horn. Hellish alarum blared their advance and waylaid the hopes of the living. The ghouls¡¯ rabid rush took Hearthfarrow¡¯s defenders by surprise. While these brave (yet fearful and near hapless) souls were warned of bear-clads at their border they had not foreseen how swiftly nor that the dead would accompany them. For those whose bones were once claimed by the forests now knocked together in procession of annihilation.

    These humble men of the Hearth, rallied to their homes, were painfully wanting in preparation and too few to challenge the full brunt of the Bear¡¯s imminence. This accursed aura of un-life wreathed about Kassan & the saturnine sheen of the moon had these men (who¡¯d made peace with giving their lives for their families and tribe) swearing off vows & burying dreams. They feared. Terribly so. Not just for their kin or not seeing another dawn but for threat of being dragged to the abyss by these twisted daemons.

    With horrid haste the sentinels of the Hearth were routed. Retreating in dazed stumble, they fell back to the redoubt just before their village. Here those with enough wits left to stand as warriors made to muster a shield wall to halt the onslaught. But within their besieged jewel of a town more chaos came, summoned forth by the Lord of beasts, wretches, and night-comers.

    Right into the bloodshed an array of Kassan¡¯s painted sap-slingers & archers perched in high branches sent pitch-drenched missiles to immolate the bulwark from the inside. Furious volleys hail helfire from the nether. The Hearthfarrow tabernacle and barracks ablaze. Then the stables went up beside the favored tavern pub of many denizens. Many of the young, ill, and old hid in that inn and now faced the flame in their shelter.

    Fires feasted on the structures; appetites helped by thatch-wood & wytch-fyre. Infernal flames licked at the faces of those frightened, fleeing wives & children. Laughed roaringly at those trying to halt its scourge with buckets of water and dirt. Pockets burst, spitting back destruction to those who defied this dragon¡¯s breath.

    A diversion dastardly enough to distract the thinning frontline. As the men of the town turn their heads to yell for their wives and children to escape to safety, the Ferali push forward and shatter the advance guard. The strength of the Farrowkin wanes, and their commander orders the gate shut and barricaded further. But what could that do but stave them off only slightly? When they¡¯d yet to tame this furnace inside their town.

    A gloating Kassan beats his chest in vulgar display. The warlord¡¯s deathlike howl booms through bush and over cackling crackle. Ursine roar soars over the conflict. His shadow stretches taller, echoing the reach of his screech. Declaring all under the moon as belonging to him.

    Drakkon¡¯s forces rise from the forest flank. Waving torches and fresh banners in the moonlight they inform the garrisons, friend & foe, of their coming. At their head the young challenger rides ahead on majestic steed, neighing with warlike glee. The destrier flies across field and thorn to break the Ferali¡¯s confidence with its own, matching its fearless rider. His vanguard charge with him into the fray as the wraiths freeze in their unseen steps.

    The horsemen divide the packs of night-gaunts into strewing herds. Having revealed the fallibility of their enemy, their leader sings a storm before his line with divine confidence. Sword shaft points to accurse & accuse his adversary. Kassan, taken aback by this rival, clinches his craw. This young (but not so sophomoric) leader¡¯s outriders smash the demons. They hammer fear against them, dazing these ghouls and bashing brains, splintering their shapes back to those of men. Shrieks of victorious joy turn to ones of their own terror.

    Crackling cinders and dying gasps became the battle¡¯s symphony. Atop his horse he projects his cry to the soiled, scattering sentinels of the crippled village. ¡°Hold, Hearthfarrow! Though they wear the masks of Death they are but mere men who shall meet it! Do not fear blasphemous spectacle but hate them for it! Loathe them as the fiends who stole the skin and stomachs of fallen brothers for their devil¡¯s decoration! Know that they can be trounced, the Bear slain!¡±

    That same ¡®Bear¡¯ spit into a second, smaller horn. It coughs a wheeze of caution in contrast to the boastful bellow before. Anteing up, Drakkon pierces the grim miasma with thundering threat. Whistles through an axe that falls sharp before the hooves of the warlord¡¯s beast. Call to kraagspeer A wager, one tactician against the other. A chieftain¡¯s gambit to inherit his rival¡¯s claim of clan. ¡°Kassan! Thou blackened churl, thou bastard in guise of bear! Tyrant and slave to vain conquest, be crowned a fool! I curse thee to stand against one who bears Will and blade to break thee! I, Drakkon, the manifestation of the Highest, will put thee in thy place within the ground! Surrender thy pride and kneel to the Living Light. Repent to the judgement I bring or perish. Refuse this, answer me with axe and accept my kraagspeer, & meet thy punishment!¡±

    Save for the spiteful sound of the blaze and infrequent clashing of shields splintered by spears, the Ferali war party¡¯s raucous hysteria diminished in awe of this intrusive cry. To see such proud man raise challenge to their demigod of war shocked them to stasis. Some gave assailing shouts as their circle pivoted rabid gaze to spectate this smiting. But that challenger¡¯s voice carried some innate power which agitated their muscles, which clenched with need to see his end swiftly come.

    ¡°Rambling pup! Lunacy addled fool! Let us put this mad hound down before its bark bites off its own arse! Back word with steel or die beneath my moon this night!¡± Kassan belted back.

    His challenger redoubled his shout. ¡°The moon thirst for thy blood to bathe its sheen, so I will not tremble before thee! A pretender whose carrion stamped; ash painted brutes will prove a fitting image in how they match the dead dominion thou shalt be delivered to. Be not craven! Let us duel claims without interruption.¡±

    ¡°Hold, night fiends and raiders! I will close this insult intimately. Hold, herd of Hearthfarrow! I must break this mad buck before our feast of you can begin fairly. Let us solve this with sword and end it simply through kraagspeer. Unless this blustered upstart would wish rather to apologize for his arrogant overstepping and beseech his Lord, the very real one before him, for forgiveness?¡± Kassan unhorsed and eyed the axe as a toothpick. His horns, given greater gleam by the red moonlight, stretched out across the way to extend under black hand. ¡°Perhaps absolution could be your path, through martial service to me? Submit. Lest I prove the better ¨C as I am - and rend that smug cheek of yours so deep through the dirt. Bear blade against the Bear and face your maker, the true divinity your lamb¡¯s mouth befouls! Behold my crown! Bend before the horns or be cleaved by them!¡±

    ¡°Nay, beast! My sword and speech shall ring true! Be proven superior!¡± Drakkon delivered another addition to his searing and grandiose challenge. ¡°As I am the sword from the sky, as I am the Living Light streaming into vessel of man, I shall banish your existence and unseat your soul from bloated body! I shall display your putrid remains before all the land as a testament to what shall befall all those who plant petty claim to what is not theirs and defy the sanctity of faith, fraternity, and the Great Pantheon! Make what petty peace thou might with the gods but know that they turn their Aegis from thee!¡±

    Upon hearing this dire challenge Kassan¡¯s heir-favored son, Beron, emboldened by the misguided desire to prove his mettle by defeating this rival took up his father¡¯s steed and raised a javelin. Stieg held back Heron, his other, younger stepson by his late wife, as to subdue him. To stave him from sharing in his sibling¡¯s fate, from charging to death as his brash brother just did.

    Unflinching in resolve, Drakkon charges back at this brash challenger. In fell swoop borne by Astarte¡¯s boon he strikes the Ferali heir from his horse. Steed and rider sliced to shambles. The horse collapses onto the young man¡¯s chest, crushing bloodied bone. Beron cries for the mercy of death. At this his better dismounted and held blade to gurgling throat. When the boy¡¯s father halts, refusing surrender, the victor gives sign to his reserves concealed along the forest¡¯s fringe. His wood cornett trumpets renewal of violence.

    At that command a hail of arrows pierced the unprepared necks and eyes of many among the Ferali. Falling maimed or dead by their companions boots sent reverberation of doom through the rest of the standing force. They knew not from whence the pinning barrage came and were slung into hysteria, brought to point of breaking rank. With Drakkon¡¯s horn contesting Kassan¡¯s the Hearthfarrow commander heard that second wind resound. Reopening the gates, he ordered his remaining warriors charge the befuddled barbarians.

    Carnage befell the field. Every mind upon it eclipsed with gruesome fervor for their conflict. A dissonant symphony of cracking skulls, clanging swords, cut limbs, culled horses, and the cacophonous wails of the souls condemned within the moribund cyclone. Drakkon¡¯s head swelled with the lustrous thrill of battle as his passion for slaughter waxed and the steel of his blade raised up to the sky to see how it mirrored the glaze of maroon lunacy within his own glimmer. The dissociative alar of battle sprang from his spine. He lifts over his own perception, ascends to the adrenaline junction of peril. Gory euphoria blurred instinct. Fury forged motion.

    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    But although the Ferali ghouls were surrounded and found themselves caught up on the wrong side of strife¡¯s capricious tide they did not surrender to dissolution completely. Their fiercest berserkers relished in the unstable flow. For them chaos was chance to prove the extent of their malicious might. They stare down the face of adversity, throttle fear, ready to die as martyrs for the Great Bear. Should they fall as sacrifice here they would ride alongside ancestral phantoms across the sky.

    One such berserker, with bone snout jutting from jaw, bear fur stitched to back & with nothing to stay the cold save the warming blood of fight, barreled at the Drakoni. One of his brothers screamed similar savage reverie and bolted at the sowed townsmen, their meek partition ripe for breaking. This bestial valor compelled the fiercest of their brethren to follow chase. Battering brutally, wielding spiked batons and axes with bear skulls sculpted to their tops, they smashed the volunteer line. Pulverizing stampede stunted the trappers, divvying up terms of combat more befitting the Ferali.

    This mad fervor kept the Drakoni from relieving the village. Kassan claimed this sudden split, sending his elite harbingers to plow through to spill more blood for the thirsting mist. A little further and the stubborn Hearth would be his. Once those walls belonged to him the rest could be routed back into the Farrow foliage to be rounded up later. But there yet remained a straight line between the leaders, briefly intruded upon only for those reckless lackeys to be lashed back from the row.

    Drakkon traipsed to where Beron lay, unconscious, but heaving beneath the weight of dead stallion. The tip of his blade punctured the edge of the boy¡¯s gullet. Shooting daggers from his eyes into Kassan¡¯s, he shouts for personal bout once more. ¡°Oh bloody ¡®Bear¡¯! The soul of thy favored son may be yet redeemed. Solely through thy slumber -long warranted hibernation among worms - may this cub¡¯s spirit find restful sleep.¡±

    Kassan¡¯s alarum countered with gust, raising their contest, and warding off his fellows. ¡°I will end this, alone. Hark! Attend as audience while I behead this bastard. Then we raze the tomb of Lysander unmolested by children who play at berserker¡¯s sport. Bear lawful axe ov Ursinium! Give heed to the gaiety of slaughter!¡±

    ¡°Thou, motley mold of mud besmirching the antlers of the Wood¡¯s Keeper, shall see no more morrows from this field! Hear & behold: The storm breaks with my lightning! The sea bends to the tides of my turning! The earth opens at my behest, yawns to swallow thee!¡±

    At this insulting boast Kassan grunts & turns from the scorched ramparts. Gritting through graveyard look, he strides to meet this opponent. Scoffing shades any flusters of doubt. Sneering a few meters from his accuser, he breaks into sprint.

    Drakkon did not balk before the bull rush of the Bear. In his mind, the clear and hateful image of this man in terrible poses: ravishing the love he had possessed in youth, the haunting shape looming over mother and burning heaths behind. He cursed the suffering the crowned cur caused; All the wrong inflicted upon Azarra, Corinna and all souls worth savoring. Swore by all that is sacred that he must pay for those sins indebted. The searing vision redoubled his prowess. Instead of tensing up, he relaxed. With meditative breaths, he waited. Assured his sword would prevail.

    During the flurry of spinning swords, a locked glare was shared between them which could cause any lesser men to crumble beneath such fiery pressure. But Kassan¡¯s enraged assault did him no better. Making many a rash and unwise move against his opponent, who took advance of every noticed vulnerability. A squall of clashing steel beset the moon-branded air, the blood sheen bouncing off their blades.

    Kassan¡¯s size & fury met a match in the might & momentum of Drakkon. Every swing, any split-second stumble, could spell the end. A demonic hail quickening towards him with such speed & brutality behind his strikes. Anger came along with those blows, emboldened the longer it took for the challenger to fall. But Drakkon held fast, refusing to stagger from stance ¨C riposting with his own lifelong rage; the purpose he¡¯d atoned for since birth. The dueling giants wrestled with one another, pore scraping against pore, unable to land the finish.

    They swing, shove and sting with their great swords. Apparent equals of titanic measure, each kept the other back without closing the gap. Even with skillful half-swording and reversing clinches, the young challenger could not deliver any decisive blows. Were it not for the heavy horns & grave gauze on the villain¡¯s head, the duelists would¡¯ve seemed mirrors; ageless twins of each other.

    Their arms slashed wildly different shapes with similar reach. The unwitting father¡¯s design ¨C with axe-like guard about the hilt & jutting serrations along thick neck ¨C matching the thinner, but solid blade his unknowing son wielded; forged from unique techniques of Ty-Drasil¡¯s superlative sage of the smithy.

    This contest dragged on longer than both fighters & spectators desired. But one to spur on the poets & players, troubadours of all assorted ability, with inspiration. To sing of the struggle once it passes to history with flash of fatal quill, legend writ with lethal ink.

    The Bear¡¯s nostrils snort huffs. Heat of the Hels breathes through them as they struggle to gain an angle. The panting warlord shoves his unwitting son back. A beat to recenter, he slips a hand to his belt and draws out a hand-axe. He swings with span of his grit, aiming to sink head into neck for swift end. His axe, however, had not be readied before his target snatched shield from a soldier¡¯s corpse in time to catch the slamming throw. Its head splinters the wood of shield but shatters its handle, in signet of shame.

    The false strigoi roars. Screeching full fiber of unnatural ferocity, he hoists dual grip sloping with deathly arc. Only to be parried by Drakkon¡¯s swift precision & (almost supernaturally) trained technique. So taken back, seizing with scourging ire, was he by real resistance to his unrivaled arm, that his sword hand shook. For a moment, their gaze met, and Kassan was then captivated by how uncannily kindred his opponent¡¯s eyes seemed to his own.

    Fascination charmed him to letting his guard droop for but a moment. Marveling at how akin that raven mane was to his own and their hue of eye the same. So struck by paralyzing horror to be facing not merely a contender to his dominion but truly his long-lost heir. This boy, the bastard of prophecy by the oracle woman ¨C that witch who cursed him in omens beneath an older moon-tide¡¯s bloodied wake ¨C had escaped his gaze to meet it now as a man and Enemy.

    This wordless revelation had no time for utterance. Nor could it be fully believed or humored lest it swing the balance. Brief as it was the slip opened the exit door to their duel. Although the pale behemoth martialed against that odd inkling, that disarming familiarity defeated him, just then.

    Drakkon¡¯s precise blade punctures stomach protected only by mesh, bearskin, and tweed kilt, stabbing his side. Bubbling bursts of innards wrenched out onto dead sward. The grievously wounded party stoops low in messy gore.

    Kassan stumbles to audible gasps from his troops. His Ferali froze, aghast at their leader¡¯s repulsion by swordsman of half the cycles. Drakkon dug at his foe¡¯s pupils, which flare with steep revelation. His father & foe clutched his side for support. Lurching forward the weight of his crooked coronet pulled on his head. Worn out with imbalance, gigantic mass made clumsy.

    Thunderous reverberation of recognition returned alongside shivering sign of understanding. In his enflamed iris arose a tinge of resentful respect for the one brought him down. That his line would persist by proxy. A sliver of perverse love, as though his soul survived in the eyes of this killer, his kin.

    The Great Bear jabs at his prodigal son in half-hearted last gambit to impale him with sharp horns, gash throat of this fatal nemesis, kin or not. A futile try. Decisively Drakkon dodges, then grasps the obtuse bones of the crown. With forceful pull he brings them toward, drags skull and neck behind helm within strike. He cleaves a straight and narrow path through the ogre that rends deeper than nerves.

    The fiend did not plead. Did not cower at the falling sword. There was no fear there so much as surprise. Although his imminent death came as incapacitating shock to his pride, the soul of the man who long hounded Drakkon & his mother and ensured a hell for them did not slink. Right before the last throttled pulse of his heart gave way, there came a seismic shift in expression.

    ¡°Prodigal cub...¡± Kassan¡¯s head oozed, mouthing final thoughts before the abyss enclosed his spirit¡¯s seams. ¡°To live on through you! Blood ov bear, my blood!¡±

    The beast toppled into crimson lake. Profuse pool of lifeblood leaked at its trembling feet. Eyes rolled about frantically before stony silence arrested their dizzying dash of defeat. Victorious, Drakkon held the beaten ¡®bear¡¯ by the horned helm. He brought his face close to the demon¡¯s, checking its flame was truly extinguished.

    ¡°I,¡± Drakkon declared, taking the antlered head from dank crimson, ¡°commit thy body to the worms! To the forest which thou sought to claim, oppress and rape: may she reclaim thee! Earth, Goddess Elderath, pois¡¯nd by thy miserable conquests thusly offers thee to her Dark Sister of Death! May Malderath & her Hels claim thee eternally!¡±

    The victor faced wounded Hearthfarrow. ¡°This land, these people, are free of thy evil! Men of Ferali, lay down arms and repent the sins of thy fallen chief. Kneel to peace, that these tribesmen, your brothers, need not shed further blood in bitterness for a lying satyr. The fiend lies dead at my feet!¡±

    Bodies Beneath the Lune

    Peak of the Eclipse, Witching Hour

    Shadows arced over the moon¡¯s bloody lens. From her astral abode Selene watched from cold seat, observing the fallen through the mists of their shades as their bodies were tossed onto burning pits. Funereal flambeaus burnt the dark¡¯s curtain. Pillows of smoke poked out of the palisade remnants. Several structures were reduced to charred vestiges, but a fair amount of the town¡¯s troubles had been stamped out, saved. Yet more than a few were entombed beneath smoldering scar, their ash-plumes peeving the airs. Tears of survivors, women & children sent to safety, were stifled; helped from their rooftops and makeshift pantry barricades down into smog which squelched mourning. Instead of streaming out their sorrows & relief, their wan residue only added to the dismal vapors.

    The mist-wrappings along the lune departed, letting bare & bold gloss alight their exit as clouds fled past the far edges of the mountains. With departure of stillborn storms, the sky streaked its canvas with the scarlet brush of lunar goddess. Her halo swept about the hillsides and a coronet of incandescent stars blinked curiously upon the aftermath.

    Any prospect of sleep had been decimated by the assault, by material nightmare. All those exhausted families left to gather in disquietude. Many an eye glints for a glance of the monolithic man who executed the tyrant that hounded their hearth. No longer could that horror infringe upon their homes, their lives. That was surely something and yet this did not fill their guts with utmost elation, for this claimant of Divine power was stranger still. Alas, his vague resemblance to the slain chieftain did little to quell the apprehension of average hearts and easily emboldened the suspicions of more anxious types. They¡¯d lost much already and were not so certain they could jump to revelry when this hand outstretched to them as savior could just as easily steal off with the rest.

    Kassan¡¯s avenger did not offer much of a glance to the townsfolk. Stationed on miniature bluff across the field, lit by dim pyres, he made council with would be enemies and allies alike.

    Drakkon clasps Stieg¡¯s shoulder, gripping the subversive elder with encouragement. Listens to his suggestion of mercy to the Ferali, vowing that some of them deserve a second chance more than himself. Hears next demands that those ¡®blasphemous night-gaunts¡¯ and ¡®horrors of men¡¯ whom the Drakoni allowed remain in enclosed camp be put to sword instead of given watch & rations. Drakkon settles their backbiting for the time by offering parley to last living heir of the Bear, Heron, should he appear before council on the morrow.

    Azarra sailed course for that council, thanking Selene & her Sisters as she went. Grateful that her haunting had been exorcised. That the evil parted the fields with the thick mist. Although the worst of hell¡¯s creatures had been punished by the progeny of its own wrong, she knew there was much more to do before she could gloat as grossly as she wished. A subtle sparkle drew her just outside range of her son¡¯s discussion. But her sight gravitated to a newly erected monument in the way: Kassan¡¯s wretched mug impaled upon a spear. Morbid visage disfigured, blistered by the pit next to it. As the mouth of the funeral pyre bit into her aggressor¡¯s loathsome skull, so too did they roast her heart with cinders of ashen memory.

    Azarra felt the fire in her belly spit froth, spurring the brutal bruises & lifelong nausea that this face inflicted upon her. She glared into the empty core of his deadened pupils sending her full intent to the ghost attached to this abject shell. Flailing curse of damnation, that he knows no afterlife but be chained to rot. That the soul trapped within decaying skull be fodder for the grave, a house for worms and maggots to borrow in and penetrate him as he had her.

    ¡°Mother, there is someone I wish you to meet this fateful eve.¡± Drakkon broke through his mother¡¯s mental seclusion.

    As Azarra turned to him the pale bust of Kassan followed trail of hateful thoughts and overlaid itself upon her son¡¯s countenance. His image transposed with mocking purity. Corrosive horror gnawed through crags in her ribcage. She tried shaking false thoughts from her hair. She looked up at him, wide eyed and preoccupied.

    ¡°By his assistance we attained sweeping victory. This is Stieg, former emissary of that bestial clan, who helped us smite them. He is redeemed as champion of our enlightened cause!¡± With that introduction he gestured to a scarred, decrepit man garbed in fur-vestments of the Ferali wisemen.

    ¡°I thank you, Lord, but nay,¡± Stieg presented them a humble bow, ¡°your triumph belongs entirely to you. Much of the battle¡¯s designs were unknown to me. But the Fates¡¯ winds blew at your back, cheering their champion in you! Without any help from this old mortal, full of folly, you slew rabid bear.¡±

    ¡°Nay, ¡®aye¡¯, harbinger. Take the praise which is well earned. You are helping now to bridge the fissure between feuding peoples from yawning open fresh wounds. You¡¯ve wisdom & reverence to be dressed in.¡±

    ¡°Again, Lord, I insist that is all I can do with these tired limbs, while my little strength serves as solvent. The Sylvani ancestral claim remained truer than my last master¡¯s. As did their cousins of Farrowkin return the forest to itself. Should I waggle my tongue too much I would only re- ignite that fission.¡±

    Azarra recovered from dazed state when her eyes fell upon his wizened face. Stieg, himself a scar from her past, a terror made turncoat. Tragic remembrance sealed away the world around them. That black fur... That bone necklace... That stave... His face may be far more weathered than before, but I know this horrid beast. By his stare & charcoal growl. ¡°Harbinger¡± to Kassan... This vile blackguard attended the ceremony of my ruin! Her breath sheered. No small good can undo that sin he assisted in... Does his wilted mind remember?

    Stieg recoiled a bit and glanced back at Drakkon. Observing his likeness keenly and returning to Azarra, understanding burst from synaptic surge. Had Stieg deduced the nature of his new Lord¡¯s birth? Indications of morbid curiosity dashed across his brows before he reclaimed sober expression and bowed carefully.

    Drakkon split their orbiting stares with verbal hand. ¡°There is well enough time for you to become familiar, allied. Stieg requested one final trial of honor at your behest, Mother, that he may fully resolve the turbulence within himself caused by serving Kassan. Find a fitting test of spirit for him. For now, let us proceed to the square. We must hold these vital players of Farrow, Sylvani and Ferali to congregate in terms of peace and certify matters for the future. Seems we will need more than one night to sway them into union.¡±

    The trio and their taut posse left the smoky ramparts to pass beneath the cool stone archway, still standing at the village entrance. Pushing past through the streets into the square the people gathered, crooning in trance of doleful rites for their relatives. Their lamenting chorus encircled the whole in an effluvium of deep mourning & suspended uncertainty. Regardless of what dawns with the morrow the dead deserved their songs.

 Hearts & Minds

    Chapter Seven, Hearts & Minds

    Farrow Forest, nightfall, 14<sup>th</sup> of Duskcrest, 1328 CE

    Beneath black, misshapen bows the sorceress contorts herself in trance. Her dance tethers tune to the earth. She bends with the breeze and sways with the stars. Witch-ruse and oneiromancy possessed; her lungs breathe in revenge. Redemption blows through the dusky air. Pale pyre yearns to alight her locks. Azarra forgets herself, her name, her pain. Swirling her spirit bare before the firmament. Naked catharsis & jubilant reprisal becomes her.

    Kassan¡¯s spirit remained affixed to bloody pole. No body of ¡®the Bear¡¯ remained whole to tear at hers. The lot of his lame corpse: a feast for ruin. How could fear reach her anymore, when that head was splayed upon ignominious end of a spike? Yet it did, enfolding over her rapture. Evening gloom of Farrow grew oppressive, even without lurking wraiths, and consumed the paths before her. Still, the paralysis of possibility was preferable to shame¡¯s spell of stasis.

    An acolyte approached from the murk, cloaked in gray garb & dowdy hood. Flashing sign of deference, she removed her hood. The faithful face of her servant revealed: the fresh-faced mien of Dahlia. This green yet ambitious disciple she¡¯d sent to summon the desiccated Stieg to her current lair, this withered bower tucked far from awful oglers.

    Glowing cheeks contrasted her silver skin. Golden-green eyes, framed by bobbed, black-brunette cut, gleamed at her with devious enthusiasm. Azarra thought Dahlia reminiscent in likeness to her own untainted youth, despite their varied hues. I envy her innocence but revere her naivety all the same. I will not allow any treachery to befall her as what did me. A fine mirror, heir of image, she may be for me. But her flushness lacks the warm glow of Delphine¡¯s.

    Dahlia¡¯s eager lips lusted for speech. ¡°All that you asked of me, High Mother, is arranged. The bard, Baron ov Bredrodan, is arrived at this liberated hearth. And that Ferali wizard agreed to come with me here. Stieg is just over yonder, kept by other acolytes inspecting his person for concealed edge. They¡¯ll cleanse him of steel and any wicked will before entering your beauteous company. He awaits your word to be delivered as you will of me.¡±

    Azarra¡¯s glee elevated to nefarious smile. Her heartbeat raced with malicious anticipation. ¡°Beautifully done, Dahlia. I shall reward you dearly in due time. You hath served me and the Drakoni more than you may imagine already. In my appreciation of your unwavering service, I trust you will not prick up any ear once I admit our guest.¡±

    ¡°My complete confidence; my tongue and its silence are for you, mystical Mother.¡± Dahlia enunciated clearly, in manner one might only presume from a noble or well-versed scholar beyond her experience. ¡°Lady Delphine accompanies our Living Lord as he surveys the land with the bard and elders of Ferali and Farrow. I stand humbly as your Gate. Shall I swing these hinges? Let enter our visitor and send off the rest? Or shall several swords remain by the trees?¡±

    ¡°Shut them out. Close him to my company alone.¡± Azarra¡¯s ribcage rang with pulsating pleasure. Battering bliss at the willing obedience of Dahlia and her Will unfolding so smoothly (crossing vast steppes, enfolded by future she commands). Stieg - emissary and witness to her torment beneath the last red moon ¨C willingly walking to his doom, granting his flesh to her thoughts of sweet revenge, filled her with devilish delight.

    Passion played puppet of her. A lark of lust sang her soul wet the lips of her lovely acolyte with hers. Their stormy kiss invigorates Azarra¡¯s apprentice, fusing the affection she so craved to sensual sublimation. In their impassioned peck, a promise to Dahlia¡¯s want for more; a taste to lure her into the matriarch¡¯s pull.

    Dahlia blushes at their mouths part, beheld by hysterical elation. Her pupils dilate with devotion and the sundrenched stupor of girlish gaiety. Their kiss finished, they exhale butterflies from a vortex of color and pain. Dahlia, cheek blushing rose, leaves the ritual circle for her post. Hips waving coquettishly as she swayed into the swallowing dark of tree towers. Affixing her look from one shape to the next across the wood, a silhouette slides out of thicket & crosses moonbeams¡¯ downpour.

    At the sight of Stieg¡¯s grey, artless countenance the sorceress convulses with unconscious animosity. Blistering revenge threatens to tear outward. An impending sense of closure draws near with his arrival. Aroma of incense rose from altar adjacent to Azarra, fused with another horribly familiar scent swelling into her nostrils. That beading musk, satyr¡¯s sweat & breath of myrrh that accompanied Kassan¡¯s arrival at the Temple, his befouling coronation.

    You, stars! Sky-Seers! Ye who turned protective gaze from me while I was wronged: watch now with your celestial sight! Bear witness to my hidden hand, the steel I conceal! Deliver not this craven fiend to your astral plane! Seal what might take flight from cold corpse in sunless oblivion, as shade condemned. Let him recant the errors of his life as he is lost to fog.

    Stieg¡¯s sandy drawl dusted her hearing. ¡°My Lady Azarra.¡± The Harbinger bowed low, sincerely. Inwardly the woman quivered at his greeting but kept her repose. ¡°Forgive my dithering in not making it sooner. Alas, I feared you would pay my need for resolution no great mind with so much going on. Yet you humor this old and bitter man who hath played part in many an atrocity. Long was I devoid of hope, light soiled by shade until Kassan fell by your son¡¯s sword and gave me first respite. Thank you for this. Heavy as my heart still is, in my obstinate twilight.¡±

    Azarra refused to greet him. Didn¡¯t relent a word. Left him hanging on her silence.

    ¡°I hope that I might die with as much contentedness as suits an old butcher of the Bear. But as you have sought out my service, I pledge it to you in my wolfen hours. If I may aid your cause with what vigor remains of this parched, gray rucksack you only need ask. I shall raise no argument but chase your mission venerably.¡±

    Does he pretend not to remember Kassan¡¯s ¡®glorious¡¯ coronation that left me so bereaved?! The embers of his master¡¯s memory flickered within the old man¡¯s stare. She wanted nothing less than to gouge out that foul imprint carving into her. My son can never learn shameful truth from these winter lips. I will burn his heart by balefire!

    ¡°Do you recall the 13th night of Wolvsmoon, 1308th cycle of our Common Era? How Gaahl renounced relic to knavery of your old master? Were you not among his emissaries gathered on that mount to see him crowned?¡±

    ¡°Aye.¡± Admitted Stieg. ¡°I was there at Kassan¡¯s request....¡± The old man coughed. ¡°My lady, might I inquire as to your angle in this questioning? I am well aged and without much verve left for life. I confess it brings displeasure to look back upon my darker years of service ¨C to a master justly slain.¡±

    ¡°Did he boast of his meeting with the oracle? Gloat about the virginal fruits he enjoyed and ravaged foul?!¡±

    Azarra¡¯s venomous look betrayed her intention, and Stieg stepped back from the wounded witch, uncertain. ¡°Yes, I heard tales of his ¡®conquest¡¯ of some cherry, a damsel. I thought nothing of it, as such are the spoils of war. Not only among the Ferali but among all our tribes, even if this does not justify our worst lust ...¡± Overcome with revelatory apprehension at the deathly accusation lining her words, he lowered his head to her, that wounded oracle of which she alluded. ¡°Ah, I see. Let it be known that you will hear no begging from me. I accept any culpability. If I am not wanted, not needed among your cause, I no longer desire to linger in life.¡±

    Azarra snorted, her appetite for vengeance not rightly satiated. ¡°Humor me first, warlock of the bear, why did you serve him then? Let me tear open those old wounds of yours! My past yet bleeds out onto yours, after all! Why straddle the steps of the despoiler knowing what he was; what he did to villages and virgin vows? Why carry water for his cruel tide? Was it not until you saw the madman slip, and you saw a chance at reward, that you turned coat?¡±

    Stieg fell quiet for a breath. The balefire sighed smoke, waiting for the accused to speak his defense. Then he recanted his silence. Addressing Azarra¡¯s angry inquiry as a voice distant from his experience, as a sage or storyteller recalling another¡¯s tale of disgrace.

    ¡°-once a man of tradition, of family and simple service. Concerned with the runes and ways of the world only so far as it could ensure more harvest for my kin. Another witness to the rise of Kassan; the murder of his brother, and the descent of my tribe into madness. I served loyally, as any good kinsman would. Paid heed my father¡¯s wisdom, the imbued customs of honor: that one should stand for their people above all else. Taught that the chieftain¡¯s will as ours, I hid my doubts and followed tread till it led me to tenure. Glory with great cost.¡±

    Indifference filtering his host¡¯s eye, he hurried his story. Yet she frowned at scant aspect of enjoyment its telling. ¡°Kassan became a lunatic led not by a vision for his people but by fetish for aggrandizement. But the blood spilt by his pursuit splashes my palms still. For this ancient fool in me often played as his left hand in military affairs when greater warriors were off on boundless battle. My runes, my advice, and my ardency for the clan laid stones of our success over the graves of our foes. Victories seized for his glory. Perhaps life mocked me for allowing ambition to trample respect for true mysticism. For my master bestowed no honor unto those who won the battles for him, least of all his harbingers.¡±

    Azarra remained unimpressed. Fingering at the blade hid at her belt, she let his retelling roll on. ¡°Under the banner of the Bear I played cool hand in the culling of many a village; each that were

    not so different from my old home outside Harmsburg. I heard the screams of countless families torn apart for the Bear¡¯s roar. And when my armor, my defenses and self-deceit, cracked the guilt finally found me. Should I see outside this night I shall still be haunted by those cries and nasty memories which sleep¡¯s reprieve from me...¡±

    ¡°And yet,¡± Stieg persisted, ¡°save my ¡®turning coat¡¯ to your Drakkon, I had naught any courage to stand or speak against him. You may take heart to know how my master repaid me my service? Kassan, wanted for more than his first wife and mistresses. None could sire a son after constant tries, so he took my beloved wife, for concubine and womb.¡±

    Azarra grew sharp to hear Stieg recount his harsher sorrows. Titillated by his woes. ¡°He had no right nor reason but to satisfy base desires and humiliate me. He who was responsible for much of his success and who he hated for it. Thus, he sought to castrate me, so to speak. I had no choice but to allow their union... She gave him what he yearned. Bore him two twins, Beron & Heron. Those two she gave everything to birth!¡±

    ¡°I could not call him to kraagspeer nor resist his power. So, I chose to channel my hatred onto the battlefield and become a relentless machine of war. The gods do delight in their irony. For it was war that took the life of my true son...I watched our first boy, the sun of my seed, die at the point of Harathi spear in a fight that gained not a meter for our tribe!¡± Stieg fumed with impassioned retelling that contrasted the brume of the circle. ¡°It was not the Harathi I cursed. For they only defended their hills, as good men must their homes. It was Kassan!¡±

    To Azarra there could be no doubt that he spoke from the stomach of his soul. Yet this only perturbed her more. His sincerity so serrating. Mockingly clear in his recollection of all the sins, including the crime done to her. Watching the reluctant tears stream down, it was evident that this was a pain he long kept concealed and expressed to no one else in full.

    When the witness to her worst moment ceased his speech Azarra returned his confession with an icy spear of apathy and rejection. ¡°It took your own pain to awaken you to that of others. There is no salvation in your sobbing. It only makes you more pathetic, especially when even you know no redemption is earned.¡±

    Stieg nodded, unemotionally. He accepted this condemnation; even should it be warrant for execution. Reverence stood in his poise. ¡°If my death should be a fitting rite to make things right, so be it. Pathetic parasite that I am. There is no hatred in me should you cast me out. You are Mother of the Divine, the real revolutionary who spun this land out of its plagued stagnation. Your son hath delivered me from my fetters. I am but a mast adrift your waves, your eminent Will. Claim or release me, as is your want.¡±

    Azarra¡¯s grip fastened firmly about the ritual dagger, jutting from her cloak. ¡°Your death is exactly my desire. But do not think to find solace in the company of the honored dead. I deliver you into the maw of oblivion to be devoured by dark. Your treacherous obedience to survival is no pardon. Steal my air no longer.¡±

    Silver edge of athame slits open his throat. Gushing crimson wets blade & grass. Stieg accepts this flow with cold consent, uttering no cries. Even the repentant harbinger¡¯s death throes were modest; muzzled by the soul¡¯s stoicism save the gurgling of the body¡¯s red supply slipping out.

    The welkin weeps for Azarra as distant towers of rain release a long-built tension. Inbound drizzle dampens the dirt though not enough to stamp out the fire. She carves pieces from gashed cavity. Removing bloody pulp in his chest with less than surgical precision, with wrath to shout storms, she tosses it to the balefire. Famished flames warmly receive her sacrifice, creating kindling of organ bits to survive the slight drops. Stieg¡¯s heart roasts in sight of starlight.

    Meanwhile, outskirts of Hearthfarrow

    An ethereal chord struck at the soft storm¡¯s arrival. Winds gave to vespers, caroling about the village and wood. Drakkon closed his eyes as he stood on the perimeter, marking it all in his mind. Filled his lungs with reverent awe at the beauty of freed land. Alongside the lord were led diverse delegates including famed smith of song, Baron. Having triumphed, earning peace for all from the shadow of the Bear, his banner looming large spun inspiration into bard¡¯s brain and wooed heralds of competing clans to unite under it.

    Under guarded escort the last living son of Kassan, Heron, was shuffled to the hill. Presented then before Drakkon, slayer of the Black Bear. The young cub showed less of a likeness to his father than his fallen brother. Prolonged survey of him might incite wonder as to if he inherited some ill-fitting features from his birthmother ¨C soft aspects which clashed offense when fused with his father¡¯s - or an ancestor who contributed to buried oddness of older lines. First glance gave almost guileless impression of the lad.

    His was a husky but stumpy bone structure. Heron held brutality in him, verging on ugly from certain angles, with fell chin & unset jowls. But this was made up for by a glimmer of intelligence shining under his brow. Eyes of conflicted nobility, nicking a grit incongruous with initial sense of him. There came further aesthetic imbalance in the boy, but a runt compared to brother and father. Found in asymmetry of seeming simultaneously attenuated, thick set & hefty in various areas. A short mead-belly, marginally noticeable, pushed above his kilt (but did not slosh grossly, being padded of stronger stuff) as he lunged bow of supplication. Head slunk in acceptance of what fate should be decreed as his, he stated his piece.

    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    ¡°Drakkon ¨C Lord. I am aware of my father¡¯s sins. To face responsibility for these crimes I may well deserve... I am not proud. My father¡¯s crest gave naught but grief, nor did I give pride to his line with little, gruesome glories. I ask no clemency.¡± Heron¡¯s resolve reached far even as his shaggy black hair hid his eyes. Till he lifted grey lids from dank soil to fix on his father¡¯s killer. ¡°I let a monster be born through me. The choice ¨C the frail fear of it ¨C still mine to own. That there are better men than me among our camp who did the same is no consort to the truth of it. Death would be just sentence for this pitiful creature in me. But I would not wish it upon those better men left among the Bear-clad. I humbly pray our penance does not extinguish bloodlines not yet blossomed into balanced shape. What mercy may.¡±

    The Lord stepped forward, searching his features for character. Something about him ¨C though childe of devilish siring ¨C resounded with a strange, unnamable, connection inside him. Peering into him showed spiritual dignity, inheritance of more breadth than blood. Heron boldly admitted his fate. Begged no mercy for himself yet prayed it for others. His judge sheathed his sword in silk coated scabbard and speaks to the bastard of Kassan, hand of steel gloved in velvet upon shoulder.

    ¡°None of us get to choose our fathers, Heron. All too many of us do not get to choose our masters either. Sadly, even now there are countless numbers of sons of all our tribes just beyond the great rivers who are bound in chains and made to serve the unholy whims of Vizzari magisters.¡± To the shock of the bard Baron, among throng of followers, Drakkon knelt to Heron¡¯s level and addressed him with compassion.

    ¡°I am a god of Light, not god of war. It is merely that I must wield the sword to reap said Light in the darkened canvas of this world. But I do not seek excess bloodshed. Thus, I do not seek to cleave the head of a soul with virtue. Not unless that soul cloaks vice beneath it. Yet not so of you.¡±

    Heron appeared just as much in awe as those surrounding them. ¡°Then what would you ask of me, if not lethal penance?¡±

    ¡°I would ask you serve to the Light, rather than condemn you to darkness. Willingly. Not of fearing obligation but by your choice. Will you serve as champion of unification? Will you go forth among the Ferali and lead them, with your virtue carrying banner of Living Light?¡±

    As Heron pondered Drakkon stood, height obscuring the welkin light. Beneath his shade the bear cub spoke. ¡°Aye, Lord. I accept this trust you offer unto me, though I feel yet unworthy. I use this chance you grant to redeem path of my life and that of my clan to walk towards the future. All fibers of mine heart sing tune of service unto you, Living Lord.¡±

    Hearing this Drakkon unleashed anew his sword. Then rested it upon Heron¡¯s shoulder. Not as the sword of execution but of knightly endowment. ¡°Then, son of the feral wilds,¡± he moved the groove gently over his other shoulder, ¡°I declare you no longer the progeny of darkness,¡± the tip met top of Heron¡¯s brow, ¡°for you are a childe of Light! Consummate this rebirth in quest for our cause!¡±

    Voiceless reverence prevailed as all attendants removed their helmets and hoods. For all understood here that it was better the Ferali be an ally than martyr or another fledgling tyrant. Even if some among their congregation questioned the success of such redemption, they acknowledged the try. Loyalists of the various parties alike observed this portentous moment. Their savior once more addressed the one emboldened by glow of his mercy.

    ¡°Now, Heron, thou art christened champion of the solar fire of creation. Take what measure is needed to rally thy fellows to greater purpose! And know,¡± his sheathe welcomed sword with night¡¯s finality, yet threat of steel hung heavy in air, ¡°that should thou spurn my bestowal, this chance, then the face the god in me greets thee with shall be more terrible than death.¡±

    ¡°Lord. Should I falter, will that I suffer death by a thousand cuts. I ask now to take leave, with your blessing.¡± Heron grips fist to his chest, saluting his Lord¡¯s mercy. A tear of hopeful absolution spots his pale cheek, sparkling silver as he sends back for his people¡¯s interment post.

    Discussion brewed amongst the players of warfare and speakers of civility. Some offered praise for their host¡¯s temperance while others persisted in unrest. The Farrowkin steward, most set in his ways, spoke up for the latter position; pacing discontent, unafraid to show resistance to Drakkon¡¯s decision. ¡°The Ferali will never follow that boy, even if your will is a forgiving one. They are bred of a wild, untamable lot. It was not merely their former jarl who took sadistic pleasure in slaughter & butchery ¨C it is their nature as a tribe and the only one they know! They hear voice of the leadership only as brute force. ¡®Tis unwise to let them stay under pretense of diplomacy! Will not the vengeance they visit later be worsened by this injury? If we do not grant these fiends to the grave all children and adherents of Farrow & our cousins will be given to it when their evil grows again!¡±

    Drakkon turned slowly to the source of this dissent. Holding no malice in his gaze nor fury in his address when it followed the rhetoric¡¯s outburst. ¡°That decision is not yours to make. O, steward whose House I rescued from the flames. Hearthfarrow would be ash & cinders had I not arrived to call kraagspeer. I did not do so only that one tribe may assert their supremacy over another or undermine our aim of unity.¡±

    He shut up any further dispute with a wave. ¡°You hath been granted a second chance at life yourselves. You share this blessing. So why not extend the same grace to young Heron and his men? Those men whose nerves have them caged, feeling closed in on as the feral beasts you assert them to always be. The slaughter you request would be stupid. Tis your line of rabid reasoning that would spin the wheel of vengeance you fear into action. Against you and us all. Cease this evil chatter. You are all dismissed as of now. Sleep on beds of gratitude. Let us speak more soberly on the morrow.¡±

    The speakers descended back into the town proper, but Drakkon, two of his honor guard & Baron waited to start after them. Their periphery path illumed by returning folds of starry drapery and the glow of celebratory fires. Ahead near the central green a massive bonfire belched a mood between whimsy & wan. From scrying coals, the poet of song & sword swilled the fumes of history & prophecy. What inspiration & worry fed there! A beacon to reflect faces of prouder past when tribes stood to sever the strangling coil of their Serpent foe; flashes of time¡¯s melody when it moved the likes of King Ferion & Drakkon¡¯s preceding incarnations. Yet cowering anxieties spotted the curious eyes pecking at them from perches around the pyre.

    The bard smirked as he offered his lord a skin of wine. ¡°Fancy some spirits to liven your own? Given how Hearthfarrow is all but rescued from baneful ¡®wraiths¡¯ by your heroism it is odd that you should wear such dour face.¡±

    Drakkon briskly denied the flask. ¡°The numbing draughts of which mortal men quell their minds are not suitable for my nature. Besides, there is much still to contemplate upon ground of solid thought. Reveling is well won for the people of this place, who till its soil and hunt its forests. But I mustn¡¯t stoop into festive stupor. Especially when the spirits these folk spit down their gullets tonight are not all poured in spirit of celebration.¡±

    Baron cocked his brow ever so slightly at the notion of ¡®mortal men¡¯ but made quick motion to drown his doubt with steep swig. ¡°Ever the stoic, I see. Well, suit yourself. Perhaps ¡®tis better they do not take their new Lord for a drunkard. Please do not take me for one either. I simply drink to your success! That Living Light floods my liver!¡±

    He wiped sweetly sour dribble from his chin and waltzed on in musical mood. ¡°DO forgive those of the hearth that frown upon your mercy for the young heir of the bear. They are understandably well rooted in their grudge against the Ferali, after long years of loss by the Black claws. We are not all so far seeing as your, er, holy self. Many live only for the day and seek only small comforts. Heads buried in security do not seek the horizon with their sight. But, as a student of history, I feel the tides are surging with such nigh unprecedented current. That your ¡®tomorrow¡¯ to build for them shall dwarf even the elder days of our earliest progenitors, who walked besides and warred for gods among them.¡±

    ¡°What are you getting at? I do not need flattery nor praise from the likes of you, bard.¡± Said Drakkon simply. ¡°You hang on the tail of my cloak at the High Mother¡¯s behest. Would not your art, you were recruited for, be best conducted by studying your subject from afar?¡±

    ¡°We bards are well known as smiths of verse. They also say our sour tongues are dipped in silver as to grasp for even the most guarded coin purse.¡± He chuckled softly to himself. ¡°But I ask no trivial tithe but to give tribute to you, Lord. I wish simply to know who this great person is, perched upon the precipice of history & change. To know his wish of what might be sculpted of constantly churning morass.¡±

    ¡°Your tongue spins endlessly in circles!¡±

    ¡°A talent which the maidens are quite fond of, heh,¡± the vagabond poet consumed more spirits, undeterred by his host¡¯s annoyance, ¡°but forgive me. In sooth, my manner is of gratitude. We bards and fighting skalds search the annals of history. All the same, we seek fresh inspiration for ballad and poem in the wide world. In this you are a living Muse.¡±

    ¡°You are attributing my efforts, this cause, as solely purposed as vessel for your song?¡± Drakkon scowled.

    ¡°Nay, nay! I compare not your stature to some lovely maiden or rumor so shrouded it can be freely shaped! You are Muse beyond comparison. You offer glittering rapture. An entirely new song. I am remiss to admit, I was curious to the truth of your myth. But I see a greatness in you to combine our collective dreams, personal muses, to pursuit of a better world. It is that empyrean dream for which I feel blessed to be a part of and ask only that I might scribe this march of progress as it unfolds before the vast tapestry of all our lives.¡±

    ¡°Well, it is good my mother¡¯s kindness gifts you with the chance of the lifetime. I am certain you will put your quill to parchment with excited retelling of our journey onward. But I am yet unable to see what use you offer our ¡®progress¡¯. I must be frank it stating it is an odd choice on my mother¡¯s part to admit you into our camp. What might you offer the Drakoni in return, save a drunken poet¡¯s flowery flourishes?¡±

    ¡°My good Lord, not to diminish your luminousness in the least but what scope should your ¡®Light¡¯ reach without the tales & truth of your glory to touch the masses near & yonder? All our shared history was etched in stone, scroll & song by men like myself ¨C well I would still consider myself a different sort but perhaps that is some stroke of hubris on my part.¡±

    ¡°All the imaginations & beliefs of our peoples are illumed by torch of art & scholarship. Kept alit to bid the world dream of days of old and ask what future might yet be dreamt. So, my ¡®use¡¯ as you put it is to spread the good word & Drakoni virtue. Honor you and Azarra by carving gospel f a breathing legend. As my patrons, I am also e¡¯ermore willing to offer my services as scout & spy, which my respectable trade allows. My oath is for you, not the hermetic Druids who taught me but a couple chords.¡±

    ¡°Alas your words lift with meaning. I understand well enough, this purpose. Yet I still am unaware as to why you should seek my companionship so actively, Baron ov Bredrodan.¡±

    The pair reached the perimeter of the bonfire where many souls danced happy circles & shared concerns with what good friends remained among them. Drakkon stayed beyond the noisy circle, to not draw unwarranted attention. If only he could push the stares away and unshackle his mental sinews in solitude. For difficult duties still stared him down. As did the visage of Kassan still blaze through gray matter of his brain as a phantom, alight in the tendrils of the bonfire.

    ¡°May I ask if ever in your incarnations there¡¯s been any whom you could call a true friend?¡± asked Baron, prodding the trance of his fellow. ¡°Any who cared for you as a person rather than as an object of worship?¡±

    ¡°Hum?¡± he asked, baffled by such an inquiry. His focus did not drift from the crackling pillar. Its kindling: revelry, hopes, joys, nightmare & still more spirits. Baron¡¯s abrupt & unexpectedly personal question exiled that blasphemous effigy of Kassan and his own charred semblance behind it. Now the swaying motions of smoke and the wings that formed of them cast faces, vaguely discernable. Char coughed image from childhood, belonging to a bygone denizen of Erosian Hearth. That of a young girl with whom he played & frolicked through dreaming fields, seared by pillage.

    ¡°What I mean to say, Lord, is that should you ever need another to speak to without any pretension or official conduct I would be glad to spend what little time you hold free from planning & meetings to simply be. Perhaps share in discussion of philosophy or memories of our own adventures. If only to offer brief reprieve from the journey of little solace. That is, if you should humor my offer, I would enjoy a chance to meditate with you and know the man who you inhabit on our mortal plane.¡± Baron concluded with a beaming smile. He then retrieved his lyre from his pack and sauntered towards the masses. ¡°Think on it. In the meanwhile, the music of the night calls to me.¡±

    The songster''s steps swayed onward to the bonfire¡¯s brim. His fingers followed his feet in rhythmic symmetry; lyre strumming to summon an audience. Plucked strings rippled across the open square and echoed in the eardrums of those in attendance as a stone cast into a wading pool. Heads & ears turned to Baron as his lilting accompanied his instrument, matching its triumphant tone and stirring some semblance of exaltation from beyond the circle.

    Villagers crooned along with the tune. Reverent chorus drowned out the night winds and filling the town with renewal of Hope¡¯s shared song. What a curious phenomenon it was to Drakkon to witness this boastful minstrel conjure such binding trance with his melodies. Perhaps he did have purpose among them...

    Azarra¡¯s post, past midnight

    Infernal elation defined her. Azarra flew high upon wings of dark passion. From meditative pose her spirit arose from her construct, freed to pass the archway of sky. Gulf of Nocturne¡¯s awning above netted soul¡¯s flight. Inner eye pulled by unearthly repose. Energetic impressions of her unfolding existence radiated through sifting space.

    She saw her birth through the eyes of her parents. And their own lives became a twinkling bubble in cosmic glass. Malaena¡¯s surrender to the sickness, when her apostate daughter was only a couple eves away from a final visit. Her father¡¯s failures tried to shackle her as her own. Siblings¡¯ paths stretching out in separation, so alien to the trail she walked. Friction of different alignments, going under and over each other in ephemeral swells. Contortions of causality & chafing contrasts of conscious goals, colliding or collapsing against reality¡¯s walls. Then, swearing them off she abandons those cousins who abandoned her, wings flapped away their streams.

    Raptured mind brushed infinity. Supernal scrub abutted all spaces between the dreams of all living creatures. But enlightenment¡¯s crowning was not static nor to behold her for all time. Her awareness contracted. She fell alongside sparse morsels of rain & leaves. Balefire¡¯s touch rejoined her with motionless body, gasping for intoxicating breath.

    A curious shudder convulsed her shoulders before shaking it off. The shadows swallowed what wasn¡¯t lit by the flickering glow. Then waning ambience opened for Dahlia¡¯s silhouette to dance through midnight¡¯s mouth. Her ardent smile shined for Azarra, giving curtsy yielding more than gesture but genuine, willing, supplication to the sorceress mother.

    The bubbling cauldron adjacent to the defiant fire, having fed upon the old man¡¯s heart, crackled call for more to sate it; preserve it against the drizzle. Azarra reached into nearby silk pouch of herbs, powder, incendiaries, and assorted reagents. This pouch too was gorged on the stores of the local wisewoman - who no longer was needed to heal the sick or make them potions. Such loss would be attributed to Ferali treachery, she hoped, rather than the crafty hand of her disciple. She returned the smile. ¡°Rise you up and join in intimate endeavor. Tonight, I share with you a reward and another request.¡±

    Dahlia gazed into the cauldron as Azarra poured unfamiliar flora and seedlings into it. Azarra grasped her hand tenderly, then slipped crushed leaf into her palms. ¡°I trust you with this, Dahlia. This potion will be yours to help me for the next task. I endow its creation for your fervor...¡± Her gaze hypnotized the young woman who stared into the glaring luster of the sun.

    ¡°This wee tonic will take a while to brew proper. The dawn will signal the brew¡¯s completion. So, let us bask in the pleasure of our company till then. Know you, sweet disciple, of the hannabis plant? How it enhances the workings of witchery; grants splendid sensations to she whom partakes of it?¡±

    ¡°No, Divine Mother. I must admit I know only a little of botany. I am delighted to learn. If you will indulge?¡±

    ¡°Oh, I shall. Tonight, you shall soar with the spirits and be preserved through their powers.¡± She produced a vial of melted hannabis extract and delicately rubbed some on the tips of her finger, Then smeared it upon her lips, infusing them with intoxicant. Azarra sent a mesmerizing hook through her look to Dahlia. Her lovely little disciple caught in magnetizing draw of her lips, pulled into a kiss.

    As their lips touched, Azarra¡¯s imbued Dahlia¡¯s with the bittersweet taste that expanded sense to erotic jubilation. That look of willing surrender etched on the Dahlia¡¯s tableau sweetly saturated the moment with savory nectar of suggestion.

    Azarra pulled back to the cauldron. She worships me! Let them all follow suit! Let more followers flock to my momentum. I will assert my right not to be defamed as a harlot or a victim but to lead my life with the power earned through spite and so much more. Let them be as enchanted as she! We shall give them a show of miracles. I must amaze them! Assure them of Drakkon¡¯s immaculate incarnation. Enthrall them with easy entertainment that the shame of his origin never be so much as wondered at...

    ¡°This vinum sabbati we concoct will be for you alone to partake. The elation I give before its cup is yours is as a testament of my favor... Drink every drop when I tell you. Before it takes hold though there is yet time. If you will show yourself to me to know, then let me know you. But a crucial task remains for you before we may sup on prime knowledge.¡±

    Dahlia drooled over Azarra¡¯s every syllable. Stuttered at every glance she offered her. Her witch¡¯s frame wobbled with anticipation and herb¡¯s inhalation.

    ¡°Here is what you must do for me...¡± Came the nibbling whispers of her high priestess. Her plan rubbed her lobes with siren¡¯s lilt & massaged her every curve with its genius. She absorbed it, nodding. Dribbling from every fawning pore, Dahlia flitted in sway of promises she suspired to hear her say.

 Show of Miracles

    Chapter Eight, Show of Miracles

    16<sup>th </sup>of Duskcrest, 1328 CE, Hearthfarrow Square

    Azarra bristled amidst an agitated bustle crowding the square. Amassed bodies built a bulwark of shouts and wailings flung against one another in a cage of senseless clamor. With no one speaker prevailing in volume or argument over the other the town green grew thick with confusion and stress. Begrudged factions splintered by segregating sentiments screamed back at those of different opinions. Something tense was occurring or about to. Pitch pooled under divided peoples, waiting to be struck aflame.

    She sliced through the rowdy mass, knifing openings between people. There upon stone table, the communal offering place lay Dahlia. Blush drained from once lively face; a cadaverous stillness was hers with skin like pallid stone. Breath didn¡¯t push from her bosom nor were there sly motions beneath her eyelids. Her sleeping beauty a graven symbol of Death¡¯s plundering of the maiden.

    Several menders of mundane means hurried around the deadened girl. Their herd of banal medics and idling soothsayers looked worriedly to the town elder, Elisara, for direction. The old woman dressed in modest robes, looking more a travelling preacher than an Elder, spotted Azarra.

    ¡°Mother Azarra, come! Have you ways of healing this poor girl? She hastens departure from her flesh, which becomes as cool stone. But her spirit has not subsided to true dark just yet. We cannot make sense of her condition or its cause. This physic suggests ¡®tis the bite of a snake, while the soothsayer calls it a fresh curse flung from Elderath¡¯s more malicious sister. Talk of omens rules over reasons. The crowd¡¯s curiosity courts a temper. One growing more contagious the longer they are deprived of answers.¡±

    Azarra looked Dahlia over with distraught and perplexed mien. ¡°What happened to her? How long has she been like this?¡±

    The town elder answered seriously. ¡°She frenzied a speech, full of apocalyptic drivel, before frothing & falling. Her spell took her midst ramblings of the Dread Serpent overtaking the moon. An augury that if we did not renounce the old ways and seek a ¡®greater¡¯ patron deity then Vizzarion¡¯s dread maw would devour us. Then she collapsed. From fever to stasis.¡±

    Azarra offered cool observation. ¡°The mob out there is scared, stoked by uncertainty. These people have fevered need to have their fears denied or confirmed. Her coldness stirs confusion.¡±

    ¡°Aye, they want for answers. The fate of an unknown waif suddenly enfolds that of all the square.¡± Elisara explained. ¡°Our physics are not versed in any magick or herbalism that might help, only the basics of bones and bruises. Her condition is so... unnatural. Can you cure this queer affliction? I would offer whatever herbs might help would that we had them but-¡±

    A Farrowkin retainer budged in, irritated. ¡°-The stores of our herbwoman are gone! Just after the first waves of upheaval that came with the Bear. We wager the theft belongs to those Ferali savages. So upset by the death of their warlord that they¡¯ll smile at any slight they can still fling at us. Well, others say ¡®tis judgement from the gods for letting the feral ones through our-¡±

    Elisara bid him hush before addressing Azarra directly. ¡°We need not lick the flames to test the heat, boy. Careless blame and reasonless grievances will only ignite cycle of wrath between our clans. Alas, it is so when it comes to our alchemical stores. Our wise woman is fled from our sight, unable to hold her head up in face of failure. As is, we are ill supplied to handle this, whether it be prophecy or poison. If you cannot save her, we understand, but at least help shine understanding of what curse this could be. The hearts here must know they are not to be marks of transferable curse or a new plague!¡±

    ¡°A shameful & lamentable course regarding your herbwoman. And this.¡± Azarra bit her lower lip. ¡°I may have some herbs. Last of our gifts from Hy¡¯Drasil, offerings of an Andrasil tree that could relieve this ailment of hers.¡± An arced brow of suspicion from the Farrowkin asked her to explain her source, though the man dared not pose his question aloud. She pulled out vial of crushed leaves and another filled with strange oil. She spread the oil about Dahlia¡¯s forehead, eyelids, and lips. Slipped a noxious philter beneath her nostrils. Then pried her breathless mouth to place crushed leaf, the residue of resurrection, on her tongue. ¡°Alas, only the Fates know whether her lot is to live. We must hope the Hels do not claim her for their nether tide.¡±

    Still no semblance of life stirred in Dahlia¡¯s state. With every second Azarra grew increasingly nervous. But when she turned to the elder to speak it was with confident, inspired directive. ¡°If her puzzling malady is of divine making then only Drakkon can reverse this comatose scourge. Allow me to make way for His arrival. I shall go with haste.¡±

    Guardsmen beat their pikes on the ground and hollered at the tumultuous brouhaha. Azarra scampered through the congested path towards the proscenium archway that divided Hearthfarrow from the greater stage of the waiting world. Her heart hastened with steep steps away from the square, throttled by the prospect that her timing with the antidote could be off. Rushed past her doubt that she¡¯d blundered the formulae and mistakenly killed her disciple. And that gnawing terror of what might pass should any discover the fraudulent nature of the stasis and untwine the thread of Drakkon¡¯s claim to divinity.

    As always, her son was to play a pivotal role in the course without knowing himself as an actor. He must be fully convinced of his Will while acting in accordance with the path she subtly set. Always a precarious tightrope to walk, with the plunge beneath growing more perilous.

    Delphine heralded her Lady¡¯s coming, dropping to her knee. ¡°Mother Azarra approaches!¡±

    Everyone bowed in deference but for their Lord, who gave her a welcoming nod. His mother appeared afflicted with worry. Enervation eclipsed her elegant gait with a flustered flush. He flourished concerned upon studying her state and clasped her close.

    ¡°There is a predicament in square that requires your intervention. A woman of augury has been struck by an invisible bolt, that many are convinced hails of the gods. I believe the Dreadful bite of Vizzarion didst creep upon her. You must display your power & save the poor girl! Save the town from their pagan fears! Infuse your will, channel intent in incantation and perform a miracle this day!¡±

    Drakkon contemplated as Azarra bid those bowed to rise. Facing his companions, he affirmed his mother¡¯s plea. ¡°I must away to rescue! Remain here, for we do not need storm the village square. Remember, we are guardians of peace and protectors of the old ways, not conquering warmongers as such sight would have us seem. I will travel faster with fewer around to ground me.¡±

    The Lord set small selection of companions but as they made for the town Baron caught up to give plea. ¡°Please, your Lordship. May I humbly request to join your party in this endeavor? I get the inclination more such awe-inspiring moments are to come and for that I wish to witness your procession. Let me with you that I may wield my talent & artful recollection as you carve the story¡¯s course.¡± To this he nodded reluctantly, accepting that the bard was indeed useful even if his cavalier attitude was at times abrasive.

    Drakkon and his companions parted sea of faces to arrive at the slab where Dahlia slept, inanimate. The crowd¡¯s hushed murmur circled his advance like a halo of whispers. Some among them gawked. Many mouths were agape with weariness, worry and, for a few, fear that this newcomer should succeed and thus force change upon them. Others sensed failure and were frightened of the lad¡¯s transformation into another tyrant usurping the void left by the Bear. Most of the Ferali warriors gritted scowls at the detested killer of their chieftain. Yet these unhappy vagrants clenched anger more with Heron, Kassan¡¯s next of kin who conceded them to further humiliation. Watching him led along as trained dog, sitting when told to by new master.

    Elisara cracked her stave against the green stone. She stepped from the pedestal where Dahlia¡¯s pale frame lay. Her motions silence the droning susurration of the mob. Drakkon remained stoic as he moved to the center. The sullen faces spectating mirrored the gray sky, whose clouds readied despondent tears. Some ¨C within the Ferali contingent - would say heaven¡¯s mask was yet in mourning for their lord¡¯s fresh defeat. But the voice which suddenly challenged the arrival came of wizened widow. A bitter crone, yet resolute in her convictions, who stepped out from the array to point finger at Drakkon. She cleaved through hush with audacious accusation, proclaiming his wrongs as the reasons for their ill-winds.

    This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

    ¡°You, blasphemer, are the cause of this! Your hubris hangs high over her head! This is a plague from the true gods. They punish us with righteous blight! A curse upon your pretense ¨C a spiritual paralysis ¨C to strike hearts which hold you over them! It shall spread until we denounce this pretender! You deserve a stake not a crown, you profaner of the pantheon!¡±

    This rancid exclamation provoked whooping and cries of consternation, awaiting inevitable retaliation. Drakkon¡¯s sentinels itched for their scabbards and moved towards the weird woman, red with indignation she spewed. But as their severe intent was nearly upon her their Lord raised a halt with booming directive. ¡°Do not harm her! What would I be if not able to stand against empty accusations? The woman only speaks her mind. Misguided though she is, I shall meet her words with a demonstration not deaf sword.¡±

    His guards peace-tied their sheathes & tucked their chins in embarrassment. ¡°Know that I am no tyrant nor charlatan. I come to lift the veil from your eyes. You are spiteful from faithless cynicism, pruned lass, yet I forgive you for it. I show you the Divine in me; that you may live with promise of abundance. That Light which will heal her can be in you, as it runs through me!¡±

    He took to the pedestal. Crouching low he waved his hands over the corpse-maiden, reeling in to read her energy. Azarra watched uneasily, splitting lip with enough nervous pressure to tear tissue and leak blood. She cursed herself for not testing the formula & affect before this move. Suspended in all possibilities of how this could go awry. Ah! I hate this damnable unknowing!

    Sealing his eyes, Drakkon concentrates. Had her malady originated from a chemical intemperance? Or was this a curse engraved on her form from the tablets of Fate? If he could reach within her being and realign her essence with infinite consequence her body would heal itself.

    ¡°I, Drakkon, sculptor of materia of worlds from void of non-being, hath sailed across the breadth of infinity into body to nourish earth. My birth into form is for and of you. I come before you as, maker & deliverer, vessel of and to Rebirth!

    The hour of Dawn returns! Let Eos be realized in you, few faithful! I, whose throne sits beyond the brim of the cosmos, grant new Light & plenty paths! You who were shaped from the dust of stars and framed by earthen crib through Supernal Will, I bid return to me! Embrace the earth, your Mother, and know I bring Heaven upon it! Come forth from your corridor, this mortal prison! Join in Renewal! Hear with heart¡¯s ears that you are my Progeny, children of Fire, and shout this acclaim! Behold my gift: Resurrection of immortal self!

    For I am the way to new life beyond Death¡¯s gates! If only the doors of your heart are open to my radiant Sol! Be beyond the bite of Dread¡¯s serpent! Suffer not Malderath¡¯s kiss but return to her sister, Elderath! The voice of thy maker calls! Receive new breath!¡±

    Plentiful parties observed in reticent suspense, waiting for any vital signs to shake the waif¡¯s stiff plank. Their craving for a miracle elongated over what felt as hours tensed into few moments. Azarra¡¯s heart refrained from beating. Inert, forsaking breath. Waiting for Dahlia to stir induced sharp panic. The panacea of herbal remedies ought to revive her, at the least give whiff of restoration for her complexion. Yet no such wave washed over her frigid countenance. The inkling of shrinking away (from befalling retribution) flirted with her thought.

    Every pair of eyes in the ring bore into Drakkon. Staring to pierce the facade. What could the cause of his failing here be? Was he naught but peddling warlock of mere martial means? Even expressions of devoted pilgrims and wonderous wayfarers fractured into funereal chagrin. His own sentinels near sneered at their Lord with misgiving.

    The pragmatists among them worried less for the strange girl and more about the spread of enigmatic blight. Perhaps the crude crone was right, and the accord of the gods would be pestilence. That

    widow wept. Palms pressed in prayer, she beseeched the gods to reveal themselves through fury and absolve the town of deific imposter.

    Drakkon chose not to see their scrutiny. He shut his eyes, seeking place untouchable by spears of doubt and enmity. There he communed, repeating mantra of confidence to permeate the halls of his mind. Azarra¡¯s comely form and warm grandeur manifested within. From that core she whispered wisdoms. A phrase her corporeal voice had uttered ignited insight. He hammered pursuing pulse of this intuition and altered his approach.

    One hand to his heart, the other lifts palm to the sky, angling towards glowering clouds. As the resonance of his voice reverberated about the square the sheer force of his intent froze all, arrested by his tree-felling tone. They took notice and beheld him.

    ¡°Vizzarion! Thou dreadful serpent of the nether! Leave this poor girl and take with thee thine obscene toxins or I shall force thee into the flames! I shall drain the venom from thy lips, O sleeping soul! I shall take it from thee & bear thy burden as mine own! Let it pass into me, whose blood cannot be tainted by devious spit! I shall dissolve this noxious vein and breathe out its curse. Thereafter I shall imbue you with breath of newfound zeal!¡±

    Drakkon declared this with mystical fervor. Then he took the hand cusped over heart and brought it to Dahlia¡¯s. Leaning in he brought his mouth to hers with air of lordly succor. He blew cosmic intent into the faint young woman draped across the stone. That she would return to life as the ceremonial words suffused out his kiss. Drew upon peculiar balmy taste & odd fragrance infused along the fringes of her lips. He pressed restoration, exhaling vibrancy into her lungs.

    Dahlia¡¯s eyelids fluster, regaining a portion of awareness. A brush of rose returns to her pale canvas. Living coloration returning to her face steadily. Dithering movements of her dreaming started rapidly toward awakening. A precipitous gasp escapes her as she re-animates. Her death-shut lids flicker opened. Blush leavens her face. She wore befuddled expression of a mind still blurred. Yearling orbs widen, still too stupefied to discern what had happened. Until she recognized her healer in the foreground of murky awareness and pounces to him.

    Dahlia, arisen, hugs her savior. Wrapping herself around the musculature of his body, raking him & her soul with grinning compassion. Invigorated, Drakkon elevates his arms to welcome the horizon, to encompass the dream. His mind: clear as the facets of her being crystalized before him. Her flowers unfolding toward the sun of his aura. Their touch defeats storms; drab blockade of clouds retreats from solar spears. The gulf of the crowd gives way to empyrean beams. Releasing her, shade hurries away as he heralds Living Light, proved as his.

    Arms reached to bring the firmament¡¯s fire unto them. The young Lord gave fiery fervency to them. His roaring sermon delivered its audience to a plane beyond that earthly stone upon which he sang it:

    ¡°My Will is to alight every mind as beacon of luminous knowledge. Under my Sign, my Aegis, you shall be free of sickness! Instead of famine and drought you shall taste knowledge ¨C to read & write and know thy own thought, that its glow is that of Divine creation!¡±

    ¡°To till the fields as stewards and study alignment with nature. I promise a new era, to lift this hearth to the empyrean mount of the gods! That my ascent is summoned by the planets, this earthly temple is erected for thee! Together we will reach from ripe Elderath to bridge this clime with the grand seat I descend from. To lead you I must dwell among you! I come as shape of man that I may observe through worldly eyes and know your pains & pleasures as mine. I swear to ye and my kin in the stars that my Will is the Way. Let my flesh be the trail you follow to that garden, its fruit!¡±

    Azarra prayed in relief. Amazed that she too had been caught in the swell her son shook over this human tide. Elated that her machinations had not been found out. That her disciple lived. But then cynicism tapped her spine. A reminder that this was all thin, penetrable veil of illusions. That momentum would only surf more tension at its unveiling.

    A brilliant cascade of infinite frames gave starry depth to Dahlia¡¯s pupils. But envy flashed across Azarra¡¯s hue, to see her disciple cling to her son. To see them raised upon crowning platform, revered objects ¨C more than human. Her aura flickered covetous green. But that feeling soon dissipated against Drakkon¡¯s pulsing goodness & Dahlia¡¯s graciousness. All that power flowing unto him is but a reservoir for my use. A wellspring of mine own willpower. I, who deserve such reverence, elevated myself through his height. ¡®Divine¡¯ course shall shape rivers, mountains, valleys... and that course shall go where I aim...

    Whether out of genuine repentance or trembling limbs of old age the outspoken widow who¡¯d spat such vitriol fell to her knees before Drakkon. Her rattling bones shaken by miracle, she recanted her prior denial and praised him. Her spite replaced with piety, she abased herself before the Great God. Knowing him in her heart. Her adjuration rippled through the congregates. All took a knee, bowing in veneration.

    Drakkon stepped away from the stone bed, Dahlia¡¯s hand at his side. He offered absolution to the crone, pressing free hand to her forehead. The warmth of the Lord she¡¯d rejected who yet received her caught her weeping. Her tears wet others¡¯ cheeks in the crowd. Even those Ferali vagrants who formerly verged on swearing Heron¡¯s death for his signing up with this spectacle found themselves abruptly turned into acolytes. Apostles all. Those few who remained doubtful kept their skepticism secret. Lowered their heads away from the array¡¯s unalloyed adoration at being transformed into part of the whole of the holy herd.

 Burning Crossroads

    Chapter Nine, Burning Crossroads

    Last days of Duskcrest, 1328 CE

    Drakkon and his retinue marched over rune-stone strewn path leading into the minor port town of Stormgaard. Winter had not yet arrived, but the foliage thinned at auguries of its frost. Wind whispered want for snow, but the forest denied it for now. Many pilgrims came along, bent on witnessing their Worship¡¯s ascent to the temple. Including a Farrowkin priestess garbed in a thick cloak of feathers and the new Ferali harbinger, carrying with him the scepter of his clan, though Bear¡¯s insignia had been stripped for fresh sigil of stormy sphere.

    The ensemble¡¯s bard, there to sing triumphs to any willing ear, rode up to speak with the procession¡¯s head. ¡°How fairs your great poetic rendition of recent events? Found the right words to describe the plaiting of a beard I never wore, to spice things up for the tale yet?¡± Said the leader, sardonically. Only half listening to the flow of conversations behind him. His face, a worn sheet, furled concentration on the road ahead.

    ¡°Ah, my lordly patron & friend! I do not alter events to that degree simply for dramatic luster. The truth is fearsome enough to enrapture the interests of the many. An account of Kassan¡¯s death will spread like wildfire through the land. More so when such a tale is sold from my talent. A few more verses, some minor poetic permission and I will have an excellent composition to present on your behalf. And your-¡± Baron filtered his words through caution, ¡°miracle will give song to impress generations. Afterall, miracles create believers, not your birthright or philosophy. And a miracle I will have them hear.¡±

    ¡°But my bardic curiosity compels me to ask, how in Your Living Name did you convince the rival spheres of Farrow and Ferali to adjoin for you? Surely, wondrous though it is, a strange girl¡¯s resurrection did not bind their hearts to you alone?¡±

    Cold airs outlined Drakkon¡¯s sigh, given visible gust by wintry prescience. ¡°In sooth, I denied their priests of their right to perform funeral rites. Both camps were warned. Gave fatal pause to those hounding for death over petty feuds. The kin of Farrow et Astralis are spiritual peoples and wished their fallen be allowed to rest properly. Lest the unlucky souls cross the veil in search of their slaughtered bodies. And though the Ferali posed as Malderathi harbingers, they too know that the veil is disturbed by so many souls shed. Foul fog congregates and the dead may well rise within it. They feared their friends coming back as real fiends of the night if their wraiths e¡¯er discover their former bodies. Neither wanted their lines to be preyed on by true unearthly darkness. Turns out their customs barely differ there. Both agreed to share in ceremony.¡±

    ¡°With Heron at the Ferali reins, fealty sworn to me, any dissent will prove foolish and without organizing principle. I see your sidelong glances at the Bear¡¯s cub, but his blood has merit. He feigned animosity for his new master in me only enough to draw out conspirators. But the ¡®how¡¯ does not make for good song, now does it? Better to praise the smoothing over. Sing for the lack of blood-feuds and idle contests between their clans by another miracle.¡±

    ¡°Forgive me, Lord. But a lack of duels is not such fertile ground for song as combat¡¯s flare.¡± Baron caught a look that told him he impressed himself too far and diverted course. ¡°Well, not usually. But yours is not normal circumstance and to sing for the peace you bring is an honor. That you let Heron live, to change into champion, could prove parable through the glory he will win for you. That even men of monstrous past may find redemption in your Light.¡±

    The lead horse stirred a fright and halted. Startled steed sniffed at edge of their crossroads. A most peculiar intuition beckoned Drakkon off the beaten path that way. It would be difficult to communicate this directive to the moldy clay of corporeal brains. But why? What could be there? Still, he decided he should follow this signal which teemed with an uncanny familiarity despite never having traversed this region before. After signaling a stop, he dismounted and walked away from weathered path into packed woods.

    Baron rushed to keep pace, flustered by this abrupt change in course and sullen silence. ¡°If we dally long, we will not reach the village until nightfall... Mother Azarra would be perturbed by your wandering the wilderness, and for what purpose?¡± Clearly mystified, shards of fascination formed in his awe, perhaps Drakkon not being so predictable. A constant Muse was a fine one, but greater so one that cannot be confined.

    ¡°My purpose is my own. You do not have to join me if you are so concerned. You may move on and spread my word without me.¡± The lord stated flatly, boots scraping sodden path.

    Sentinels, pilgrims & tribal heralds bubbled with indecision. Some wanted to follow but conceded their Lord¡¯s half-solitude. A few remained on ready report or to watch for alarm for lurking predator, be it wolfpack or elder beast. Most continued on. Baron mulled this in his head, shrugged and ambled after his reluctant charge.

    Baron considered his patron. Was this a madness or mystical insight which led his lord? In formative time, as apprentice among the druids he¡¯d witnessed similar fierce flares in the wild eyes of the greater mystics. Navigators of their wandering clan, mysterious means let them herd Druidic migrations between their ancient groves, no matter season or terrain. But was this ¡°Great God¡± true in his gift or just clever?

    As Drakkon pursued eerie pulse a torrid pressure hoisted his forehead. Nostrils whiffed blackest smoke. In its midst, burning flesh. Stench to intensify the winching atop his brow. They came upon a glade where leaves withered away to wintry approach. There: denizens of the local village. Throng of onlookers encircled two women in tattered execution raiment. Their faces concealed by obsidian hoods with tiny slits. They were bound to dual stakes upon prepared kindling.

    One human pyre, already lit, licked away the flesh & the covering of the woman on the left. The mouthless hood did little to stifle her shrieks. Wind oxygenated the heart limbs of the trees, lifting her death-vesper.

    Before the fire, directing the ritual execution, two lanky figures hovered. Sporting crimson with threads of gold coiling the length of their robes, depicting malefic serpent. The first of the ungodly creatures shot sharp stare at the watchers. His short white hair and decrepit features showing him as an agent-inquisitor of Vizzarion. From that frown which bedecked his glee, he proudly served that desolation. They¡¯d scavenger¡¯s eyes. Vultures with balding heads, seared by the heat of their hatred. The younger of the pair, with no martial training of his own, gestured at their third, a spear bearer escort. This final finger of their trio looked an average man of middle age. But one could tell from his cold presentation that only death and pain spurred him to action.

    This avatar of serpentine enmity grasped the other hooded woman¡¯s neck. Puritan pleasure became him, forcibly turning her neck to observing the other¡¯s offering to cleansing flame.

    The younger taunted the hostage. ¡°Behold the death of your sister! Witness the consequence for your sins! Know that you shall be delivered to the Dread Serpent¡¯s maw for befouling sorcery!¡±

    The elder of the priestly Vizzar held high his flambeau and stoked the crowd with hoarse gravel tones. ¡°This be the fate of all who defy the Will of Vizzari! The Great Serpent¡¯s coil spans the planet! The Magistrate¡¯s laws hold dominion over all the earth! We will suffer no witch! Lo, how thy witchery is as empty as thy heads, setting thine against the inevitable!¡±

    Onlookers gazed in pacified horror. Unwilling to move against any of it despite the crowd¡¯s numbers. Baron wrenched an exhausted looking villager¡¯s shoulder and posed harsh but whispering question. ¡°Why is no one stopping this? My Lord, we must end this.¡±

    The tired tiller did not look at his questioner. He stared on and spat somberly. ¡°They threatened our village if we refused to give the witches to them. Tis their task to sniff out heresy. The witch finders already gutted the ones who gave these two shelter & bread.¡± The man¡¯s wife finished his reasons, stabbing scorn more at these intruders than the inquisitors. ¡°Should they leave our soil without cleansing it of a couple witches they¡¯d purge the rest of us with real force. Let the flames take them over our homes!¡±

    Drakkon heard these words, then shot his own assertion. His call thrashed the whispers, challenged pyre & cut through inquisitors¡¯ spell. ¡°I am Drakkon, the Living Lord & slayer of the Bear. The Flame I bring outshines this shadow of Vizzari. Snakes! I demand you release that girl! Under penalty of true deity¡¯s wrath. I assert that woman as pilgrim, conscripted to come with me to the Temple of my ascent. Wiggle weakly in my way and I shall not hesitate to slaughter your demonic reptile. Strip it of another scale in you!¡±

    The first man grunted while another scoffed. None shifted from their standing seats to stop the burnings. Before the stunned Vizzar could bring rebuke the Farrowkin priestesses tagging along chimed awful sentiment. ¡°Ah, but the Sages & Shamans of the Temple would also determine this righteous punishment. They would not suffer apostates to live. These here cursed their vows and fled to witches¡¯ coven.¡±

    ¡°I see Ty-Drasil¡¯s mark upon her mold!¡± She jabbed curled finger at branded rune upon the condemned¡¯s exposed flesh where her black garment was torn in protest.

    Drakkon scowled. He had no patience for these primitive traditions for uncouth retributions. Especially when his mother had once been cast out for such trifles. ¡°Tis not for these serpents to choose!¡± More heads turned as he pushed his way through. ¡°The days of Vizzari wane fast! I am here to rewrite the law and remake the world free of their poison! Cease this unjust execution, return from whence you came, for the sun is setting on your wicked house! Free this woman! Desist murderous aim and keep your wretched skin to sink back to hollow pit. Resist, and know what it is to be burnt justly!¡±

    He boomed with authority, enriched by fanatical intent. The robed men stepped back, unsettled. Shaken with being dealt such defiance. The elder spoke, mustering the virtues of his pride & position to assert retort for both him and his shaky companion. ¡°Strike at us and you attack Vizzari itself! Incur our vengeance and we shall suffocate the last breath of your people! Defy not our Magister¡¯s command!¡±

    The wary peer of the magistrate inquisitor, encouraged by his brethren, warned the strange heathen. ¡°Profaner of Vizzarion! We will have your tongue for waggling! Face us and suffer fate far worse than these petty witches earned!¡±

    Drakkon marched down the accuser. ¡°It is you who are profane. Witness the death of your comrades here today wrought by your transgressions against these good people. Know that their deaths shall be an augury for your kingdom. All Vizzari will be trampled by my coming. Thy ilk cast into the abyss ne¡¯er to know warmth.¡±

    As the terrified Vizzar trembled beneath these ardent threats their guard lunged to impale the brash speaker. But the heretical lord¡¯s impudence had teeth. He evades the spear, making the thrust look like a child¡¯s playing with stick. He seizes the shaft, splinters poking through his gloves, and severs the tip from the wood. The emasculated bearer did not long remain in his morose disbelief. Drakkon stabs point through eye socket. Broken spear protrudes from the back of his skull as his body crashes.

    The bold challenger commands the release of the young woman. Then bids the other agent be tied to the post. Petrified, they obey. The fool tries to retain silent animosity, some dignity, but as the blazing pit eats his body like feral dogs devouring a roadside corpse, he screams a pitch to rival those of the woman he¡¯d torched minutes earlier.

    Drakkon turned to the last remaining foe held by his sentinels and spat in his face. ¡°Know that this be the fate of all who defy the Drakoni! I curse thee to remain, craven half-corpse, until the day the pillars of Vizzari topple upon thee! Go now and tell thy master, whichever portly Magister that be, that there is a new dominion over the land! Know that from thy state¡¯s ashes a new Aeon rises, untouched by thy filth¡±

    The sentinels eased their grip and shoved the agent off. Incoherently mumbling terrors, he scrambled away. Drakkon went to the sniffling young woman whose face was smothered by charcoal soot. He brushed her shoulder benevolently. Casts aside black hood for the remnants of the pyre, revealing her face. Freeing her from ignoble role of victim.

    Though her face was blackened by ash and her expression tearful, her gray-green eyes washed over him with a deep recognition. Corinna? Truly tis you?! His gaze projected the chord of his thoughts. She returned the look with shared flicker of recognition. For a moment she gleamed brightly before the tears swamped the light.

    Concealing this familiarity, he turned to the stunned throng as a flash of insight bent his actions to suit. He bid Baron and his delegates return to the camp to inform Azarra that he would stay with this stray. To discover where the rest of her coven hid and make apostles of them.

    Corinna quivered from the bittersweet brush of brisk breeze. Wafting through bones with her raiment in tatters and death¡¯s fires hushed. Her rescuer demanded the cloak of that Farrowkin crone who lingered beside, only to be met with stern refusal.

    ¡°No sanctified shawl shall be dress for apostate. Her fate hangs by Ty-Drasil.¡±

    The coals of Drakkon¡¯s iris burned a hole through hers. He reached out with his hand in firm command of her to give the mantle to him. ¡°I saved this soul from the flame not to deliver her to cold! Would ye deny your children a blanket in a frost? Or abstain soup & feverfew when sick? Nay! Not all is black and white when the brush strokes of circumstance paint a different portrait of each of our lives & actions. Learn to forgive your neighbors, as ye are yet all children under my empyrean roof.¡±

    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    She obeyed, handing the coat over. He draped the cloak of feathers over Corinna. But she continued her tremulous stint. Not from autumn¡¯s dying breath, but one within stirred shivers still. ¡°Poor Lavera... the fates are cruel that the thread of her life should be cut while mine remains to linger as such...¡± She bemoaned in shock.

    Drakkon lit guiding torch. The faint crimson hue of the sun¡¯s flame indicated that night would soon cover them in its keen blanket. He gave his woeful friend a moment to regain her grounding. For her friend, this Lavera, there would be no rites of resurrection. Only wicked words would catch tears when they needed to fall for those they mourned.

    The glow of his torch spread about the ground as nocturnal sounds of bugs and scurrying things yawned. ¡°Let us walk together. Do you know a safe way through these woods?¡±

    She nodded, wiped wet stains from her cheeks and took his hand.

    Evening Stroll

    Dusk, outer woods of Stormgaard

    Corinna clung to Drakkon as the beacon in his hand did lux the evening¡¯s tide. Hers was a touch of security, more than affection, to avoid stumbling over mangled roots and steep puddles. Yet he found her closeness soothing even so. His heart¡¯s rapid pace reeled to a steadier rate through her hold. His eyes darted about the luminescent wisps which glimmered slightly before fading into nocturne. Amongst faint orbs and light-bugs he searched for his words. What to say to this woman, a ghost of the past yet living.

    ¡°Corinna?¡± He hesitated to determine his words but let desire lead him. ¡°I remember you from my youthful stay in Erosian Heath...You were the best memory that place had to offer, for all its heathen beauty. Were you not the first I shared my true thoughts with?¡±

    Her eyes lift from her footwork about the forest floor to walk inside his. Ash & tears made her appear older, her gray-emerald ocular tint colored the veil. Greenery beyond that of any near branch dwelt inside, even clouded. ¡°My memory never forsook you. Every day was brighter by your presence. Shame that humble haven could not keep us.¡±

    ¡°Alas, the Fates tore our course from one another¡¯s. We are both changed... There is little of that innocence left of us. I do wish our reunion could come with happier circumstance though.¡± She stated bleakly. ¡°And yet you are not so tarnished yourself. Formed formidable figure, at least.¡±

    ¡°But I don¡¯t understand?¡± He blurted. ¡°Azarra reported ¨C they told me ¨C that you, so gifted with the gods¡¯ touch, had been sent to the Temple... I heard ¨C such horrid tales... But you live! I am not ungrateful for this, just baffled, truly.¡±

    ¡°I am touched by the gods, true. Given portion of the Great Sight, though ¡®tis more curse than blessing. It was so that I trained at the temple for many years after Delphine escorted me from the Heath. My flight from my family¡¯s hearth was inevitable, given the nature of my ¨C Nature... But the spells ¨C the Sight - are different for me.¡± Corinna¡¯s dissociation fluttered with her voice. ¡°When it happens something uncontrollable shakes my core. Seizes entirety of my mortal frame. As an influx of oncoming waves from t that space between this world and the spirits¡¯. The Muses borrow my body, reap my eyes, to show me distant places and imminent happenings.

    ¡°How fascinating you keep yourself together when these spells try shaking you apart!¡± Drakkon commented. He aimed well-meaning joke, inspired by that bard whose wit he feigned. ¡°I wonder if I even saved you from those priests. For it seems the stuff you are made of could survive any furnace without cracking.¡±

    ¡°Even the toughest submit to fire, or to the cold¡¯s kiss. Lavera was stronger than I, yet alas...¡± She drifted off and he felt sorry for making light of her loss. ¡°I lived only through the grace of Elder Gaahl and that gift of Sight which had me shuddering before shadows could covet me. When I was bereft of that grace, Lavera¡¯s welcome saved me from the wilds and the harshness of men. I did not See that flame coming down on us. But when it gaped at me such visions did flare. Fates¡¯ purposes stream still, even as their kindest actors are blown as grave dust. Yet freedom lives on without her.¡±

    He gawked at her inner glamour, unblemished by her grief. Marveled at every freckle peeking through soot which he wiped away with spare cloth. A luminescence careered through her. Yet it was a strange, unconventional one; with flaws he found only enhanced elegance ¨C such as an odd curvature about her nose and her eyes¡¯ uniquely wide-set seat - beaming enchantment. Basking in the small security of watching her chest rise and fall with fluidity. ¡°That you live streams greater purpose, itself.¡±

    Corinna let out a smile and the wraith of woe fled shortly from her. ¡°What I saw upon the altar of my half-death I cannot yet fully fathom. But when remembrance filters through this fresh horror I know that those Sights shall serve you. I see, shared by you, a worship of Nature¡¯s harmony so pure. Riper than what may be taught in dusty tomes. I find freedom to trust in your face, Drakkon.¡±

    Her cloak¡¯s feathers ruffled against his side as they tread through evening¡¯s ether. When they arrived at the last house of her coven her breast surged with sorrow. Drakkon was unsure how to proceed with her. Normally straightforward approach worked but he did not want to encroach upon her privacy indelicately.

    He inhaled deeply & exhaled, pushing out nervous rust from his lungs that hung out in the air against the thick coat of cold. ¡°Would you take solace in my bearing witness to passage of their soul¡¯s? Will you have your next hearth be as mine, wherever we may? ¡®Twas the most peculiar feeling led me to you. It must be divine thread I followed to your side, though not swiftly enough. But I swear that soul which left us flies to the heavens. Will you let me honor her? Know of that woman you knew as protector? Let us pour wine for her passing if you might part with sorrow''s sip?¡±

    Grave roots curled about Corinna¡¯s garden. ¡°Lavera...¡± Doldrums would not have her, she swore. Her strength curtailed whimper. ¡°She was my Sister. Yet more like a mother. Not by blood but by a deeper bond. The sort of binding connection that many of those who are born into this world will never even know exists before they pass through the gates of the grave.¡±

    ¡°Our coven had no arbitrary hierarchy; all were equal as children of the earth & as apostate sisters gifted by the gods. Yet Lavera was our strongest spirit, ever the teacher. She steered our safety when we were at our wits end ¨C as happens when you live on the fringes and must remain unknown even to those who share the basic tenants of magick faith. ¡®Twas my ¡®gift¡¯ that brought about her death.¡± Despondency followed her words, sticking stalactite pause.

    ¡°We entered Stormgaard seeking rumors, news, information along with any aid we could find for food and supplies. While we kept to small groves such as this, we were always running by bare skins. In the village we met with couple who were hospitable enough to allow us to stay a few weeks. But then one day I went to the market square alone. Strolling for the simple ¨C selfish ¨C joy of idle exercise I was struck down by a bolt of the Sight. The spirits stole me away in public...I awoke from my spell to the sight of stunned masses walling around me. They pointed fingers, accused me in fear. Lavera came to my aid and walked me out of that terrible place, still convulsing from vision. Vizzari witch-finders soon gave chase. They had already passed over this seat when whispers of me drew their ire back. It was my fault, from my indiscretion!¡±

    Drakkon draped his free hand across Corinna¡¯s shoulder and gently pulled her chin up. ¡°Do not blame yourself. You were given magick you cannot control. The timing is not your own but by accord of the stars. Rarely do the Fates grant even the gods a glimpse of their tableaus.¡±

    ¡°If it is any consolation the fates also summoned me to rescue you from the mouth of the flames... You are meant for more in this life, spared for a reason. Do not let this sadness confine you to its shape.¡±

    She deflected his intent, swinging arm aside. Marching briskly ahead, Corinna braved the night¡¯s coming along trails forgotten to all others, leading passage to safer spot. ¡°Let us be silent for the while... I-I do not wish to speak much of such things now when her funeral pyre still burns behind us. But come, we are near.¡±

    Drakkon silenced himself, unable to assuage her pain. Following Corinna beneath a stalked canopy that steered to labyrinth of trees melting into each other, differentiated only by chalk scratched across the trunks. Eventually the path widened to reveal a glade brimming with bioluminescent lichen. This blooming brilliance struck him with awe. So much so that he did not even move to help Corinna as she struck alight flint & tinder. Her campfire sparked, brought more blossoming majesty to this secret place. Obviously, she was well versed in woodland ways.

    Corinna, a change undergone, waltzed towards the beach of a strange pool rippling in concentric circles. Glow-bugs dashed along the surface and algae nourished them with further bioluminescence. Plucking several mushrooms and greens growing along the warm spring she tossed them into a tiny pan to roast over the fire. She noticed her companion¡¯s amazed expression and giggled. ¡°Do not fret. These aren¡¯t THOSE sorts of mushrooms! The shamanic ones grow on the other side, just next to the poisonous breeds!¡± Her chuckle thawed both their chests. ¡°Now if you will excuse me for a moment and attend to our meal. Even sad souls need sustenance. & baths!¡±

    Corinna swore off the garb gripping her and stood, unabashedly bare, as dreamy effigy, on the bank before plunging into the waters. Modestly, Drakkon tended to broiling mushrooms and leaf as she cleansed herself of the dirt that clung to her like moths to candlelight. When she arose from the pool her body was bathed & re-clothed in beautiful moonlight streaking through gaps in the overhanging tarpaulin.

    With the grime of that wretched day washed away he saw her clearly. Hers was a pagan beauty. By most means she was not a thing of revulsion, nor a siren of such stunning buxomness that would garner contests of stares. But she struck grace unfound in some of those comelier lasses and the humility of the heath. Her face did indeed fold with many an awkward angle. Corinna¡¯s wide, partially hooded eyes, with queer crease, paddled pool¡¯s cover to skim her appraiser. Her cheeks seemed almost gaunt in places, starved somewhat by the malnutrition which comes of Vizzari hospitality. This, and ablution of her witchy white skin, had her seeming younger, as though shed a few cycles in seconds.

    Drakkon saw her as immaculate prism through which all the world¡¯s most favorable sheen lived; sculpted as pristine encompassment of earthly aesthetic which transcends itself, her delicate frame a microcosm of a good day¡¯s surf. Her ascension from the spring ordained her to him as love¡¯s radiance. This dryad of Erosia wrapped furs and forest curtains about her virtues.

    While Corinna progressed cooking their meal her companion noted how a few adjoining trees sheltered whittled beds. He beheld this passing haven of her former coven with reticent wonderment, as further sign of her clay matching Elderath¡¯s, effused of prime accord. Much of her woe drowned in the silver pool. She slid to Drakkon¡¯s side and, humming, presented some steaming vegetables. She carved a shrewd wink, as though come to reassuring realization.

    ¡°I was granted vision was of you when at the gate¡­ You stood upon colossal mountaintop before an assembly of immense import. You had a crown of blue orbs and a sword of silvery bone, with sheen of Selene. I heard them chanting assent of the ancient maker, hailing supernal throne of your person.¡± She hummed a section of secret hymn, his ear nibbling on nourishment of the Sight she thus spoke. ¡°The revelry rose, as did the magick in air of the spell woven. Made an Aegis of the mountain, a shield that broke the advance of a serpentine spirit that slithered up the base to burrow with venom. But the serpent¡¯s fangs shattered as it lunged. The beast twitched at poison bite which turned on itself. Writhing wyrm turned to limp rope in the hand of Living god reborn. With a wave of that hand the peak became cloud-borne temple, a mount of misted sun meant for the gods.¡±

    Drakkon¡¯s eyes sparkled with the gloss of heightened encouragement. ¡°So...¡± He searched carefully for the next spindle of words, pushing his doubts as to his nature aside. ¡°Do you believe that I am Divine? That is, do you believe I am as my namesake and have come from the stars beyond this realm to remake the world for the better?¡± He hoped his uncertainty didn¡¯t attach to his tone. But his thoughts quivered with questions towards his mother¡¯s tale.

    ¡°I had little of a childhood, save that small bliss of knowing you and the Heath. Birth burdened me with the mantle of godhead; canopied by prayers for me to where their struggles, and sneers & eyes that served as spies or else coveted what flame I might contain. How could I prove myself the dragon from the North of heaven without holy flame? Yet little warmth else have I known. & mother can be so¡­cold.¡±

    ¡°We shared some warmth together, I hope. & what kindles within you sees you to our second meeting.¡± Corinna adapted a far more inviting posture and clasped his chest. Clever patina padded her pupils. ¡°I see the Divine in you, yes. My visions speak so that others shall know it too and have thus far never been proven faulty. I do not say that out of hubris but honest admittance. Even when we were young, and you but a boy caught in the embrace of wanderlust, rare glint within you caused my thoughts to gravitate towards you. Now you fell Kassan and stand up to Vizzari. That reveals the courage of no ordinary soul...¡±

    She trailed off, staring into campfire¡¯s spit. ¡°But I did not see myself in the vision. Nowhere was I to be found in that dream of rising mountain. I thought that meant I would die by the flame of the Vizzar but I yet live. Because of you.¡±

    Enkindled by her careful praise and confession of her vision he offered a path. ¡°Come with me to Ty-Drasil. I am to attest my claim to our tribes there. Your Sight implies the success of my mission thereof. Though you cannot glean image of yourself there I wish you to accompany me. Impression apprehends me: that our paths converge for this very reason. Once I am confirmed in the light, I shall guarantee the safety of you and your surviving sisters.¡±

    Her attention narrowed into the glaze of flames. ¡°You travel northward, towards the Temple and out of this village ¨C of which I want no part of any longer, oh damn those sowed souls! ¨C so I shall accompany you for a time. I cannot promise that I will stay by your side the whole procession. Your priestess from before, who parted with this cape, spoke fair point in warning of those sages¡¯ tolerance for apostasy. I hope you wish not to endanger me so. Is this fair?¡±

    Drakkon smiled between chewing stems, picking his words as fingers did his food. ¡°Very well. If the fates plan a different path for you from me, I shall not refute them. Your company is blessing enough. Though know I do hope you will choose to follow me fully into the future.¡±

    The couple absorbed the crackling ambience. Both invited each other to share memories and hopes. Time passed till they regained sense of responsibility, acknowledging the hours gone, given over to pink hue of dawn¡¯s early rise. They made for camp, no great trouble from fauna or flora to thwart their trail.

    Arriving, they were greeted by his mother¡¯s worried scowl. Azarra, jittery from her son¡¯s reckless decision, had not slept at all. Evident by dark circles under drained sockets. She hid no frown from Corinna, dismissing her with shooing enmity. ¡°While you pranced about with that eccentric stray, I sent our singer and other heralds ahead to pave way for us at Temple. We must be serious in our preparations before we meet with Gaahl and give council. Every single tribe of these lands will have delegates, witnesses, judges of our procession at this Summit. Do you understand?¡±

    His mother ignored his childish and sleepy eyeroll. ¡°Can you not see this is foolishness, wasting time with some strange apostate? Whatever link you feel to her, be it fondness or unlordly, desire, there is more to consider. Care you only for the safety and love of a few? Gird yourself, my son, soon we will regain what is rightful-¡±

    But Drakkon, incensed at her derision, scolded her for the first time in his twenty years which she could recall. ¡°On this matter, mother, I prithee keep your thoughts from me! I wish no lecture on the arts of love. I know destiny¡¯s heralds. The flux of choice stretches for me who proudly knows the course. No matter how ¡®low¡¯ her caste in others¡¯ view, Corinna is of a celestial caliber.¡±

    Azarra gaped at her son. Then gulped the rest of her disdain down for later.

 At the Gods Threshold

    Chapter Ten, At the Gods¡¯ Threshold

    17<sup>th</sup> of Sun¡¯s Descent, 1328 CE

    Turbulent waters running the great river¡¯s course lapped at their vessel. The steady, raspy creak of the boat ached against the murky clutches. The tide¡¯s ebb & push held to meditations, coarse then lull. Those aboard bit down any complaints, swallowed concerns and prayed the surf did not slap them into rougher patches. Drakkon¡¯s entourage departed from the port of Stormgaard and braved the Ruun to Ty-Drasil, outrunning the first winter storms. Theirs was humble crew, at Azarra¡¯s insistence. They must travel light as to appear confidently modest at that hallowed house. To dispel perception that their fledgling sect were but upstart mongrels bred of war.

    Drakkon paced the deck as the protective chants of Azarra¡¯s coven rose from the ship¡¯s depths with the murmur of crooning appeals to enfolding nature. An impregnable gloom tumbled from the western bank concealing the waterway in a nebulous cloud. In its dense canopy the passengers¡¯ doubts waxed, and determination sank with the waves beneath mist. Those sailors of Stormgaard, who Corinna once called sowed of heart, proved their merit through persistence. But what were a few witches, seafarers¡¯ grit, and their Lord¡¯s aegis against Elderath¡¯s scornful cloud & her sister¡¯s river squalls?

    But their Lord believed in his few faithful and that his mother¡¯s rites could sway the naiads to their shield. Inspiration infused him, to defy the unknown, standing above their cramped quarters to mark the water¡¯s way as his own. Marching to the bow he came upon a lone figure silhouetted against the gray. He knew not whether this were apparition conjured from the breath of ill-water, or a sole soul gazing into aquatic abyss, in preparation to plunge and be swallowed thusly. He approached, readied with slight apprehension. Reaching the wraith, he found Corinna; head drooped in solemn silence with smirching stream let from her eyes. Tears drenched by tenuous droplets from the sky, mixing with mist.

    Corinna offered a sad shine. Above, a pre-imminent lightning strike split & scarred the horizon with forked signature of emerald bolt. Golden-green trident thundered illumination across the towering peaks spanning the waterway and sparked glimmering glint in her pupils. Her eyes flashed impression of an abundant meadow, launched far from the fog.

    Drakkon addressed her wearily. ¡°Is there something amiss? If you¡¯ve any doubts, I beseech you to let me answer and assuage them. At least verse them to me.¡±

    ¡°I do not fear these waters. I have foreseen your ascent to the Temple. Though they rattle my body these visions ring true. I know our ship will find safe shore soon enough. ¡®Tis what awaits after that mummifies my mind in anxiety...¡± Corinna¡¯s words rolled off her tongue like the splashing foam of rolling crests. ¡°A storm of sacrifice will rain at the gods¡¯ threshold. Perhaps my death?¡±

    ¡°I mourned Lavera. Celebrated her. Asked forgiveness & advice of her shade. Auguries of warning came. I do not wish to hurt you, but they will wish for death at the Temple. Mine, as apostate whose survival is not to be tolerated by sagely school. Or yours ¨C which they shall never claim but cause strife in trying! If any decimation occurs on my behalf, then there is nothing redeemable in my path. I did not glimpse myself upon that peak of dream, after all. Perhaps I am not to see you crowned. Or my death could be approaching with the shoreline and those waiting to receive us. I worry most my sisters & your noble friends will suffer should I dampen our ideal.¡±

    Drakkon offered his faith as hers in voice and look. ¡°Listen, Corinna. I am grateful for your presence. Your bravery in facing such a treacherous precipice along with your wisdom & beauty to me makes you a beacon against all this brume. The Divine will return your light in kind and shine path for you soon. I will not allow you to suffer at the hands of the sages or anyone else. Blood-price of ¡®apostasy¡¯ be damned.¡±

    He continued his outward assurance of his favored maiden of precarious caste. ¡°Once I am affirmed as the Living Lord, pronounced a god before all people of this land, I will rewrite the accord of the Temple and our cousins to warmly welcome your sisters into the hearth. They will bow to tolerance. With your insight we shall prevail against the Magistrate of snakes. When that day comes, they shall sing the gift of the mercy. I understand your concerns and the burden of fate. I too share this gravity on my shoulders. Indeed, all peoples are tied with what is to happen at the Summit. Do not shut me out. I am here for you. I will not let you nor any of those you care for fall away. I promise that you will share the apotheosis of my confirmation, my Being.¡±

    Corinna pulled away from the hazy river and dove into hazel eyes. At first, she regarded him suspiciously, searching for signs of deception or foolhardiness. Out of the morose bog she sank into, she slowly gave herself up to believing in him and grabbed rope of his oath. Her visage stained with sobs & rainwater suddenly shifted to a forced smile. Reluctantly she opened her soul to welcome his promise. They embraced, wrapping around each other as the damp did to them, while the tide buttressed their dusky advance to Ty-Drasil.

    A small landform amidst the river cut through the miasma. Revealing a central island adrift the winding waters. A stone tower, jutting from the billowing smog, rose above dark tree line. From this watchtower a flare burned bright, setting alight the island lay and giving their ship a clearer course forward. Winter set its cold clutches on the life of forests. Drakkon regarded deadened husks with withered branches. Coppices deteriorated along the cliffside, bending against the wind. Some bushes there still clutched to what leaves remained; drained of color, autumn¡¯s orange hue sheered by frosty fingertips.

    A bounding clang rang across the water. Longboats, steered by Temple sentinels and devout sailors, emerged from the islet docks. They lit lanterns, brushing back streaks of dreary film. They worked to navigate the pilgrim ship around concealed island crags to safety.

    The low drone of desperate, protective incantations ceased. As sailor chimes led their ship the High Mother materialized beside them. She met Corinna with a black look. The young woman relented with a meager bow. With coy eye to her host, she excused herself, hearing the voiceless threat in Azarra¡¯s glare.

    ¡°I still cannot conceive why you brought that wandering witch aboard. There is no way her curse may aid the Drakoni cause. Her coming to the Temple will detract from our purpose through your distraction. She gives cause for more animosity against us. Why make private passions public knowledge?¡± She scolded him.

    Drakkon resisted his mother¡¯s antagonizing demeanor. ¡°Personal passions aside, her testimony against the Magistrate will prove useful. Her story will remind the tribes that larger threat looms over our land. That the Serpent State already sends ¡®heretic¡¯ hunters deeper into our realm should instigate common enmity against Vizzari. Besides, Corinna possesses the great Sight, same as you. She gleaned in Visions my imminent apotheosis. Really there is no need to cast clouds & regret over her coming. She cannot much hinder the sages¡¯ compliance to our whim, despite your anxiety.¡±

    Azarra soured at her son¡¯s claims. More so at his insistence on the value of some girl¡¯s visions, when it was hers that had sown their fortunes; her thread entwined them to the sublime success still to be supped. Yet she gave temporary tactical retreat from the topic. ¡°The circumstances of our lives led us to this crux by the Fates¡¯ spindling gossamers. You were born to attain this greatness. Soon godly crown will belong to you and your Divine reign will begin. Perhaps you are right that one girl¡¯s presence will not divert the strength of our current but still I pray you do not lose focus at this critical hour.¡±

    He shrugged off her succor somewhat but started to concede her muse as she continued. ¡°My auguries told of your success too,¡± she bluffed, ¡°but prophecy is not sufficient without action. It is probable that the sages will demand a trial to test your claim, by gauntlet yet unknown until you arrive at it. Know that I will be with you through the tumult. There beside in your coronation.¡±

    Drakkon grew a smile. My time comes! Reverie of fluxing images & feelings contorts time¡¯s passage to drag his essence into the horizon, which he called to & for. Blinking, he readjusts to the current space around. His eyes dart back to the Now and to his mother, holding the horned crown of Bellieus, that once adorned Kassan¡¯s brutal crest.

    Azarra spotted his curiosity and gave quick answer to it. ¡°I am to bear this crown as a gift to the Temple. Tis an honorable gesture in bringing back a treasured relic taken by that fiend. This will earn us good will & trust among the reclusive sages in their strange court. Show the manifold tribes that you have not come flaunting a desire to wield power or wear a crown of callow vanity. It will show that you come for the good of all. Since that is the sincerity of our stance, they must hear it as truth.¡±

    A sly smirk crossed her face, hovering on her countenance before dissipating like lightning bolts in the darkened welkin. ¡°When the time arrives for your crowning, I envision the perfect representation of the astral spark which burns within you. I will not discourse much on this matter though, for tis my work for you. The design shall work wonders, know that. Besides look ahead! The docks of Windirin cove show through this damnable mist. Know, my Light, that I am proud of you in way that transcends mortal expression.¡±

    Drakkon returned her confidence with warm reception. ¡°And soon enough, mother, I shall be able to gift you with my eternal thanks for all that you have given. Grace for all that you bled for me. Righteous truth shall shine through whatever screen the sages may shape. I know we have strength to overcome whatever palisades they put before us. All tribes will be watching us and yet I trust in your brilliance to handle tact of persuasion. I will not stray from your consultation.¡±

    Their ship pulled into the harbor without any more adversity, aided by accompanying sentinels and those who stood ready by the dock. If it were not for the expertise of the sailors, the likelihood of safe passage would be incredibly slim. Their timing was just right too. Now that the fog behind completely engulfed the river, blinding the wider world to it.

    Windirin port was rich, presenting prideful airs and architecture. As a hub for trade, it propped up the seats of local nobility. Excessive elegance outlined by contrast of the humble villages lining Moribond ridge and the Ruun¡¯s western coast. Yet now the obscurity of the mountain mist held this silky sophistication in its dreadful clout. The waiting sentinels marched their entourage through the gilded streets padded by dreariness to the outskirts of the massive township.

    A cautious silence gripped the tongues of all parties just as miasma trapped dreadful moisture. Occasionally towering pillars challenged the drenched expanse. Totems, intricately carved with icons, deities, and leaders of legend. After amaranthine tread along paved path, they stepped to another monument line with regal paint: a globe headed with gold orb to represent the great sun, the lord among stars. This, the insignia of Drakkon, sculpted as a faceless creator who held Solaris in his arms and contained the earth within his core. At the bottom, stone pedestal gave graven embodiment of the Dread Serpent Vizzarion, writhing in agony beneath Creation¡¯s feet.

    While Drakkon halted to study this icon of his essence and meditate on the energy it imposes, another group exorcised the mist with lanterns. At the front of the masse was Baron. Ceremonial drum looped around his shoulders and his lute, strung by special thread, hung at his waist. His cocksure presence lit by the lanterns & torches of the approaching posse. The others incoming wore stone faces without any personality. A few of these prominent men of upturned nose seemed sages of the Temple.

    Each of these sages had faces lined with painted symbols, talismans of channeling intent that made their appearance ever more severe. One stood out from his fellows simply by way of his regal posture and unflinching expression, juxtaposed by his wild visage. His white hair matted in tangled dreads dragged to his waist alongside a beard, braided in a strange three-prong formation that gave the impression of a downward facing trident. Curiously, while the robes of his peers blew about wildly in the gusts riding out from adjacent mountains this man¡¯s elegant threads stood still. Bound to him and not the pull of the air¡¯s hefty breath.

    Azarra gored into the wizened sage. Studying his unforgiving eyes, she knew him. It was Surrellius, one of the most revered members of his class and a man she knew to be all too concerned with (his high seat within) hierarchy and tradition. She had never truly interacted much with him during her former life as an oracle. Mostly because he only seemed willing to give time to the upper echelon among Temple castes. Rarely speaking to oracles over important sages, and only meeting with the highest paying pilgrims.

    Surrellius regarded the company in reticent judgement. The floodlight of his focus set on Corinna, a prolonged stare seeking to place her. A black fire behind his pupils spelled recognition and desire to see her melted to pile of ash. She was in fact that apostate who abandoned her duties, fled from his stare. Sadistic sneer mangled his features. Then the sage turned towards Delphine. His leering caged her, with look resembling a hungry wolf in pursuit of a dazed doe. Feral fervor swelled in his ogling. A devious twitching at his mouth¡¯s corners curled over his tongue to keep it from lunging at this object of famished lust.

    With revulsion Azarra noticed this lascivious look. She marked too how the tribal markings atop his forehead were drawn in image of sacrosanct keyhole and swore. Primus. The First among Brothers. This sigil signified that which protected the gate of the gods and thereby showed the high authority to grant or deny passage. Anguish stirred in her. An unease which she could hardly stomach. But as it starts to smother her determination it lifts by Surrellius¡¯s croaking. A horrid huff cleaving through the heavy hush.

    When the sage spoke, the breath from his words bloated with bitter chill. ¡°We expected your arrival, Azarra. Rather onerous claims reached us before you. Tales of the Bear¡¯s breaking rippled to our holy hearth. So too do rumors as to the nature of your being, Drakkon. Upsetting claims to ¡®godliness¡¯ which my fellows and I aim to test thoroughly before giving any official response. Already several tribal harbingers and even some chieftains are settling in the valley for this meeting of minds.¡±

    ¡°There are those ¨Cmostly the small folk of various heath - who wish for this to be a time of revelry to celebrate the death of the warmonger. While surely his defeat is a welcome relief, I, and many others here have doubts as to your character, ¡®Drakkon¡¯. Truly I am surprised to see you arrive with so small a number... Hmm, perhaps this pose is adopted to appear as a bringer of peace, rather than a bearer of sword?¡± A bent smile accompanied his mocking tone. His rhetorical question left a stinging sensation, as though a scorpion skittered behind his teeth from where it lashed tail to strike.

    Drakkon wasted no time deflecting the sage¡¯s derisive intent. Stepping forth he faced the accuser. ¡°I need bring no arms nor battalions for my presence to shine forth across the mountaintop. The hour draws near for the Thunder of my being to sound as beacon for the faithful who long waited to hear my call. When my day dawns, all people of all lands shall know and bathe in Living Light. Those who, with hubris, dare deny the truth once I demonstrate it need not be struck down by spears nor sword. Nay, for by my Will they shall be blinded, their hubris burnt by the radius of my sun.¡±

    But the sage did not drop his cynical sneer. ¡°Ah, you speak so assuredly of the hubris of others. Yet hold something akin to hubris in you, given your words. Lofty words, sworn to be empyrean, which yet have no verifiable weight and are thus but empty airs. Words asserted on volatile winds that may be blown back by stronger gale. Words that scrape against foundations of faith and might best be lost in the shadow of the great stones they scratch at... Alas, the council is poised to meet in the Great Hall. We shall confer as to what shall be done with you soon.¡±

    ¡°But as the housing of all these camps hath resulted in such excess of stress on our Temple grounds and our stores only those who are willing to pay sufficient tribute to our coffers shall be allowed to sit on the council.¡± He coughed deliberately to clear his throat and rather eerily, as he did, so the wind picked up icy breadth. ¡°As you are not yet confirmed in our wise sight as anything more than a mortal man masquerading as a god, you cannot be excused from this fee either. I must insist on tribute, lest these meetings to decide your cause go on without your attendance.¡±

    Drakkon clenched a fist of indignation at this presumptuous declaration. Every member of their party looked to one another for support, waiting on the ¡®god¡¯ on trial to respond to this insulting tax. Dahlia moved cautiously behind Azarra. Delphine glanced apprehensively at her too, seeing her plead all forces keep her son from any rash impulse. Then, after small sigh, he signaled payment to be given, in form of small chest of treasures. His sentinels presented the sages¡¯ with this box, shifting its excess bulk, more than expected amount. A tribute had not been unexpected but under this ignoble, unceremonious circumstances the giving of it spoiled.

    ¡°Very well. Take this offering as a token of our good will. Let us show how we honor your accords.¡± Drakkon played the diplomat. ¡°This payment shall include passage for my friends too,¡± he indicated the heralds of the clans, contingent through him, ¡°my pilgrims. Among them: Elder Elisara ov Farrow; and christened harbinger ov Ferali, Heron.¡±

    Surrellius grimaced at his thwarted challenge. Clearly, he¡¯d hoped Drakkon would lash out at high toll for an event he was to play centerpiece. Such a reaction to his ruse would give just cause for forceful retribution or immediate exile at the least. The other sages hid how impressed they were at the young master¡¯s reconciling of the two rival tribes. They whispered amongst themselves, praising lack of coercion, till the Primus raised staff to silence them.

    ¡°Your generosity is appreciated. You and your delegation will honor our codes while you walk on hallowed soil - even those apostates among you...¡± He stared down Corinna, who to his displeasure didn¡¯t shrink at all.

    Drakkon pressed his right first over heart to swear oath. The rest of his party mirrored the motion. Surrellius fingered one of the rings of his trident-beard and continued. ¡°The Summit must not wait long. Our Keeper & the shamans believe in patience, but we sages & our oracles decree the time to test your Lordly claim comes upon us as you do. We must swiftly settle this tense wave your actions, your very existence, riles up.¡±

    Azarra¡¯s gut fluttered at the mention of Keeper. Could it be her Gaahl? If so, that he lived and still held influence over the Temple could be a deciding factor. He could perhaps provide a last latch to escape through, if necessary, should all this pomp & planning prove futile. But she shuddered that those grim prospects should dare touch her.

    This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

    ¡°I suggest you and your kin make haste. When the Summit conjoins, we permit you one turn of the dial to present your case. Do not present enmity to us, as this is the best we can offer of our halls, already rapt with so much confusion. Answers will convene soon after.¡±

    By the gods he makes this troublesome for us! Disdain curled inside Azarra¡¯s chest. He takes our funds and gives little time to present a single sound statement! That is assuming he and his ilk do not interrupt at every given chance! Still, this is a gambit worth risking everything on. Everything is balanced on this tightrope. One false move and we topple into the abyss. But ¨C hold, my heart - cross to the other side and we gain more than ever imagined before...

    Surrellius snuck another licentious look at Delphine who felt an icy shiver wind along her spine. The eye of his imagination tore through her layers of fur, angled about her bust inventing nakedness. The lecherous ravishing his impression captured prodded her vulnerability and sucked all charm from being. Azarra, meanwhile, caught this stare and made tally of it.

    Drakkon projected steadfast voice. ¡°I will not apologize for any trivial grievances our coming presents you. I know fully the true glory and righteous gravity of our cause will resound through the halls. I am confident that our words will transcend the confines of the time allotted to reveal the timeless essence of my Divinity. The council will make the right decision.¡±

    Surrellius and the rest of the sages already turned their backs on this demigod and begun trek home. Despite the Primus being a timeworn fossil, his voice rolled down the path, cracking tremulous echo in the ears of those present. ¡°Bold words indeed. But brashness alone will not move mountains. Shout aloud your impudence all you like but it will not avail the caprices of the Fates, proven supreme & immutable.¡± With that the eminent Sage and his herd disappeared behind the indomitable wall of fog ahead. Leaving a few sentries to light the rocky trail.

    Azarra¡¯s pet minstrel & aspiring infiltrator split from the sages¡¯ pageantry to rejoin his true host. ¡°Well played. And this, coming from a commonly praised, unashamedly gifted weaver of voice.¡± Baron shuffled over to Drakkon and the others who huddled in to listen in to his report. ¡°I hath spun a few performances these past days. Presented them the tale of your triumph against Kassan. Likewise, I passed poems & recited sonnets that illustrate your divinity to the less literate. A fair number of the camps proved receptive to these songs and listened eagerly to the telling of your feats. But others were enraged that I should support an ¡®upstart whelp¡¯ and threatened to hang me on the spot if I did not leave them, mouth muzzled. Among the banners filling the valley favor towards us seems split between malice and grateful acceptance.¡±

    ¡°Well, that was the case the first couple days at least.¡± He chuckled; charcoal roasted by ire. ¡°Also, that sodding sage, Surrellius, offered me a pretty penny to rewrite my tunes into unflattering ballads. When I refused to mock you on principle, he barred me from the assembly. Then threatened that should you fail to impress the council then I too will hang like a common bandit, a lark of ¡®false prophet¡¯. While that is a risk I hath taken upon myself¡±

    Azarra butted in. ¡°We may find allies among the shamans who, while fewer in number, have greater jurisdiction. You heard how little time we have! Perhaps we can divide these camps favor further enough to crutch a plea for more time to persuade those harder marks. We will have less resistance if we leave behind that apostate girl of yours, Drakkon. She is only going to drive more away from seeing our reason, simply by offending their taste for tradition.¡±

    Corinna, walking steadily behind the main group, heard clearly Azarra¡¯s insistence. She was stunned by the stern admonishment, even having expected exclusion. But Drakkon loudly refuted these concerns. ¡°No. She comes along. We need her testimony to amplify the Truth that Vizarri is the real threat. That is a fact that even the sages will see once they hear how their witchfinders dare penetrate our borders. Acknowledge this as my will.¡±

    Azarra exhaled reluctant acceptance as Drakkon turned back to the bard. ¡°Baron, if you are willing to risk your tongue to speak truth again, please spread word of my arrival. And, if you can, coat the colour of our ¡®apostate¡¯ as a necessary witness.¡±

    Baron thought carefully before responding. ¡°Lucky for you I am nearly finished with fresh rendition of your rescuing damsel from venomous flames of the Vizzar. Not the most exciting ballad for crowds to get behind, compared to the ¡®Battle with the Bear¡¯. While there are a few lines I am unsure of and a few stanzas left to go, I can certainly wing it and do just that. Knowing the stakes... Should it come to pass that you fail to earn more time to convince the council and they conclude that we are all heretics ¨C I pray it won¡¯t be as such - I will try to rally those willing to bolster our forces.¡± The last thread unfolded as hushed whisper that no other ears could pick up.

    ¡°No,¡± Drakkon stated firmly, ¡°we must earn the trust of all and use temperance at Temple rightly to ensure a chance of uniting the tribes. Lest we fall into disarray and be seen as blood thirsty usurpers, repeating the steps of the horned one. That is, even if we could manage to escape the avalanche which would befall violence as our declaration. We cannot beat people into worship. I know we can woo them with truth. We may have only a few small hours to succeed but they will know me as the Living Flame.¡±

    Baron¡¯s eyes shuddered sly doubt. He cast a timid, knowing squint at Azarra. She knew he did not fully believe in her son¡¯s divinity, even if she had bought & persuaded his loyalty. For a vagabond minstrel, raised in occult sphere of Druidry, he was one of the most skeptical minds she¡¯d ever encountered. Yet for him, it wasn¡¯t so much the draw of coin but the just nature of their cause to create a better world for all peoples that moved him to affirmation.

    ¡°Spoken as a Lord. Aye, you are right about not tainting the purity of our cause. I shall not worry.¡± He said, more to convince himself than anyone else. Shrugging off his ever-growing sense of misgiving, Baron took up his drum and pitter-pattered to its beat, making for the valley encampment.

    Azarra showed no feeling. She looked inward instead, searching for any possible manners by which to create a dazzling spectacle that could enhance her son¡¯s aura. What glimmer could she cast to glamourize his godly effect? Alas, she was dry of ideas and on turf that was no longer home to her, thereby denying her a way to weave any clever illusions as she once would. She had no reserves to rely on and was at the mercy of circumstance with only wit as her weapon. Whetting it, she stole away from the rest to steel herself.

    As she clambered up along path of tortuous stone the fog tides thinned. That opaque net fell, lessened to show more of these grounds that had felt so intertwined with her being. But the scenery around the sole dulling steps was now distant echo of a life barely recognizable as once her own. She passed beneath the mammoth archways. Shadow crossed over faintly under each stone & tusk, traveling further and further from the domain of the familiar into a strange & peculiar realm of possibilities both wondrous and dreadful.

    Vital dust leaving her breath takes shape in the briskness. Sighs summon portends of ghosts; bygone effigies outlined by living warmth. Nostalgia, too, fled on every exhale, too deathly to purview. She let longings pass, forget themselves and disperse as evening vapors. Better not to dwell on the dead grounds of buried possibilities far from the real circumstance by which she stepped. Yet even so visible phantoms of this past appeared before her cynical sight. Several oracles lined up along the ridge granted passage to her. Sifting through them, their white veils flapped about, showing equally pale faces. While some she¡¯d known when among them, they did not shower her with welcoming reminiscent glint. Instead averting their eyes as though avoiding looking upon the corpse of one too painful to recognize as dead.

    Then a sudden sound nearby burst her eardrums. Wolves howled from the ridge just above. Strangely enough though this roaring wilderness did not startle her but instead brought rejuvenating rush of familiarity. For the cry of wolves carried the song of her spirit¡¯s ascent up the mountainside with uncanny understanding. Friendly familiars were they.

    Another mammoth archway not far ahead indicated the entrance to the Great Hall. Azarra could see large blurry, blocks of people moving into & past her range, passing betwixt the ever-burning braziers that signified the procession into the realm of the gods. Acting on deep compulsion, she followed the call. Taking a separate way winding up the ridge the wolfpack hailed the night from. With every step forward ethereal howling beckoned her. Theirs was a friendly fanfare sounding across the steps. An encouraging intimacy came cascading as waterfall over her spotting the shaman¡¯s hounds. They adopted poise of overgrown pups as they panted at her, nestled near the rim. She saw then Gaahl centered in their circle. He hummed amidst them in meditation. Gently guiding their song which led her.

    Azarra, overwhelmed with joy¡¯s impulse, leapt to greet him. The shaman¡¯s lively totemic wolves sniffed her palms, happy to have her. Their master not only survived the years but retained his near mythic mastery over creatures once wild. Her excitement waned however once his eyes opened ¨C or eye rather, for one lid was sealed permanently ¨C and she observed how feeble the shaman¡¯s frame appeared.

    Gaahl had never been young but now he looked as if he¡¯d cracked open death¡¯s door to stare beyond. Sunken craters ate his cheeks. A head of molted wisps, once impressive locks, wilted to a few awkward tufts. His jawline drooped as though ready to fall, and his hands twitched erratically in a constant swirl. Shamefully she wondered if age scourged his mind with mist until the smartness of his stare affixed her. What lived within his eye was far from decrepit. A bright & living wisdom flowed from his iris into her. Such flare of recognition and glare of manifold emotion proved him far from senescent.

    She plopped beside him; legs swung over the precipice. Basking in the mountainous atmosphere to surpass all others. The firmament peeled the mists, gave clear view. Stars blinked back at her fawning. Poised in the center of the skyline she marked the glint of the planet Saathar. Its orbit drawn in, seeming so close that she swore she could see its circling rings with her naked eye. A red sheen splintered the stars, their stares no longer so assuring...

    Gaahl watched Azarra set upon the planet and as was his nature began in cryptic fashion. ¡°Quite the omen wouldn¡¯t you say? Saathar taking ascendant position in the Great Course? Glaring upon our Elderath from saturnine seat, the throne of its red envy. Tell me, dear child, do you recall what that orb embodies?¡± His voice sounded as though most of his soul had already taken flight to the astral plane and left thinned threads still puppeteering his vocal cords. But perhaps there was more wind in the old bag he was yet to unleash, she mused.

    Azarra answered promptly in the fashion of an eager pupil. ¡°Saathar¡¯s dominion is that of tumult & transformation. Often that of a chaotic and bloody sort. Saatharian sway is the throes of old age, the mad woes of deception, degeneracy & the dearth before the change. It spins by occult rings, symbolic of the confusion the Grim King, that Cosmic Fool, weaves. He reaps of the strangeness emanating of his rub but guards his mysteries well. Its position so close in the night sky is an omen. A herald of change? But his revolutions come with immense and unpredictable sacrifice indebted.¡±

    Pride swelled within her as she spotted a slight smile curve along Gaahl¡¯s weary lips. For just a second tragedy¡¯s trail faded to backdrop of her subconscious. Then awoke an uneasy de?ja? vu, the reminiscence of conversation twenty cycles ago, before she was made a mother. ¡°Indeed, tis the trickster¡¯s dominion. Yes, his appearance oft spells intrigue and deceit. Those caught in its stare, as the whole of our shrine is beset by, become affixed by realm where mischievous imps dance & flute tune of discord. Winged daemons come through by rings the annul our prayers, weaken the more innocuous spirits¡¯ influence.¡±

    ¡°Saathar was also the god infamous within the pantheon for leading Drakkon, whose seed was the world and the gods themselves, into that dark trap. Through ruse sent him on impossible voyage beyond the stars. That our Founding Flame crossed to the void, convinced of a false threat laying ¡®cross yonder threshold, and was sealed out of this world after venturing forth from his thunderin¡¯ forge...It is worth mentioning given how your son has taken up the mantle of the Living Lord and may well be His incarnation. That there may be foul play afoot in this council¡¯s politic.¡±

    The shaman paused, catching scattered breath. ¡°But before my idle rambling rolls on, I must admit, my bright star, how incredibly proud I am of you. You hath not simply come this far on your own but also gave life to & proper sculpting of the mind - the child - who slew the despot who sought to defile our sanctified grounds to gratify himself. A page of destiny¡¯s ever enfolding tome now has your hand as author. Know this, even if some soiled sages might dare to deny you any role in history besides ¡®apostate¡¯.¡±

    Azarra blushed. That the one man she¡¯d looked up to would validate her life when she¡¯d doubted her reason for existing. ¡°I-I am deeply grateful. I must admit that much of my success is owed to the insight you shared with me. Your guidance kept me from being lost...¡± Her hue faded fast.

    Why did she not feel fully gorged on gratitude and justice despite this? The flattery of extolment only went so far when now, something else stirred from slumber under notch of her consciousness. A lurking aspect of disappointment and the darkness of her inescapable shadow shifted in that space her next words made to block. Avowal of confidence concealed her sleeping beast and painted over her emptiness. ¡°Kassan¡¯s death is a deep relief. Worthy of a celebration to last longer than his perverse reign did. Alas, the world must move on and patch itself from the rift he tore through our land. I know you thought it better to be a united land, even if the tribes were to be gathered under such a singular monster, but I believe we come to a point by which your dream ¨C our dream ¨C of a cohesive front against Vizzari, one preserved & emboldened by mutual traditions, can well be achieved. Union through the coronation of my son if you are willing to bless him.¡± She thought she could sound more assured, convincing, but slipped into nervous fluctuation nearing the bow of her pitch.

    Gaahl thought for a long wind, stroking the fur of the nearest pet-beast with trembling palm. The wolf looked as exhausted of this world as his master. ¡°Perhaps? See, I keep blood pumping because my spirit still seeks the sustenance of some final act to justify departure. That I do not leave this world to untended degradation. That the seeds my passing plants are not those of knavish strife. Maybe the reason I cling beyond my natural hour is to crown such dream?¡±

    ¡°Peaceful union is not as easy to see realized as it is to dream of, but tis worthy task for a wise - or foolish - man. Would you say ¡®tis so?¡± Azarra¡¯s heart raving pulse punctured on its cage, racing thrice for every word of his. ¡°I must admit also, dear oracle, that I do doubt the nature of Drakkon. I will not scratch at wounds just sealed, if scabbed & healed at all, by pressing the why of this feeling in me. Surely, he is a great man despite his age, but I cannot claim to know him as Divine. Not in noble conscience when so much uncertainty ¨C and unfortunate curiosity - surrounds his birth.¡±

    ¡°Then present him with fair case to prove his essence True!¡± Azarra sieved defense. ¡°¡¯Tis natural that you should harbor doubts, for one does not climb to the peak as Elder Shaman by believing every fetching rumor and inventive story entering his grove. But my son is truly the bearer of that deliverance promised in the Eddas! Surely there must be some sort of... favorable yet worthy trial that could reveal this to your understanding and the sages¡¯?¡±

    ¡°I will not promise to blindly aide your cause, Azarra, simply because I know and care for you. We are all of us suspended in unknowing. My sight dwindles, and I take to first symptoms of a fever ¨C a final fever if it keeps hold. The only certainty I am assured is that I will die soon. I shall try not to leave you before this Summit concludes proper. I cannot keep you from the dark for long when she already creeps upon my hermit¡¯s shell.¡±

    ¡°But as Saathar takes up his foreboding throne and circles the air in rings of time-twisting delusion, I know not whether the deception pertaining to this celestial occurrence will come from the sages, in their scrambling to retain order, or as unintentional consequence of allowing your son to lead... I cannot in my dying declaration claim him as a god when I am unsure. What blasphemy that would be, even if to achieve so lovely a dream. I cannot make the same mistake as I did with that brutish ¡®Bear¡¯. Still, your motion to test the mettle of his matter is not at all ridiculous. That may superbly present a middle path to this conundrum. A hatch by which the truth can climb through. Hmm. But so much to consider when urgency convenes of us.¡±

    His thoughts trailed into the nether. The silence left by the absence of his voice assailed Azarra as though a mighty wall toppled down upon her. ¡°I hear whispers that Kassan¡¯s cub yet lives?¡±

    Azarra felt every inch of her being struck by shiver, bolted to the cold ground. She did not have time to formulate response beyond perplexed stifles, something which Gaahl marked before proceeding. ¡°Heron, is he not called? Did not your son ensure him leader of the Ferali following the death of his father? The bard you bid come to our Temple assails us with grand tales of Drakkon as merciful and cunning alike in his treatment of that clan, humbled by their Jotun jarl¡¯s execution. Does he sing true or is this merely another case of the poets lying too much?¡±

    Letting out a relieved spasm, she steered herself back to shore. ¡°Aye, tis so that Heron is named successor to Ferali clanship. But fear not, that he is the progeny of Kassan does not coincide with his being wicked of spirit. In truth the boy is just that: a boy. One who was taken in by the environment around him and trained to war to satisfy his father¡¯s pride and desires. A boy whose spirit stood strong through all that, not becoming stony and unbending before justice. He will be stronger still with the tutorship of a true Lord in my son.¡±

    ¡°His father¡¯s image does not claim him. His mind is his own, honest in its faith in us.¡± She felt then that she could discuss Heron for hours. Though she could just as easily seek to shift topic to anything but that of her own son. ¡°Having spoken with him and seen how he is at meetings, this new Ferali leader is one who rightly wishes to steer his people away from the chasm of destruction they were plummeting to by way of endless warfare and the hatred generated in doing so. He is loyal to the Drakoni ¨C that is to say, he is loyal to our Lord - and to me. He serves the aim of a unified land just as we do.¡±

    ¡°Ah, your child managed to leash the most fearsome clans of warriors with such nimble precision while reconciling their longtime rivals, in Sylvani et Farrowkin. All find fresh accord beneath your banners. It may be that your son shall unify the tribes as needed. There is merit in gently pushing forward such resolve... But still, I cannot pledge my aid until you prove his demigod aspect whole. I will, however, do my best to keep the field even by keeping the less chivalrous sages at bay. You shall be granted fair case.¡±

    ¡°Thank you! That still is more than I would dare ask for, great Gaahl!¡± Azarra mimed complacence. ¡°Never would I ask you to betray your code. Your honor bound oaths hold. I respect your decision and praise your grace. I will not disappoint nor deceive you, Elder. Soon he will show his nature to your truth. Before time steals you from us you will see the Ever-Living Light of what we are doing.¡±

    The Keeper nodded. Propped himself slowly with tamed wolf as a counterbalance. Then switched over to his graven stave, a crutch as much as shamanic relic. His gargantuan pup nuzzled his guest. ¡°Brace yourself. You must climb quite a rail to reach your goal. Take heart that I, along with my fur-clad friends here, do believe in the burning power of your inner torch. Through your determination, you accomplish what many dared not dream, not even humor. But, by the Fates entwined, it was foolish to bring back that girl, Corinna.¡±

    Gaahl¡¯s guest withheld the darting dance her eyebrow tensed to perform. She withdrew clumped hand from his familiar to her chest. ¡°Ah, yes, I saw her near the archway into Hall just a beat ago. With your son in tow. I admit to being partial to her and would wish to honor her prowess with the Sight, but most schools here shut their hearts to any such as she. I should warn you that Surrellius despises that poor girl beyond reason. The loathing he will spew upon any association with her may tarnish wise argument. He abhors her, allegedly for speaking unwarranted vision relaying his death in unflattering way.¡± The Elder chuckled, a giant oak creaking in a hurricane. ¡°At least that is his claim.¡±

    ¡°Regardless of my other suspicions of our Primus sage, it amuses me when one faces revelations of mortality with anger and irrationality. Death is the one inevitable fate promised to all things that come into life. Besides, never have I known or imagined a death that could be labeled flattering. So often the fates choose to sever our ephemeral cord to earth without concern for mortals¡¯ convenience. No matter when or how, when the threads of our mortal lives are cut at an inopportune moment there is no grace to come in the mask it leaves us with. Our clay corrodes and we are all asked to shuffle off eventually.¡± Gaahl ended his philosophical phrase with a series of pained coughs that disturbed Azarra. A couple of wolves nudged his shaking side to preserve him.

    Azarra placed the back of her palm to the shaman¡¯s forehead. Nurturing touch trembled to register his temperature. The poor man is practically ready to combust within! She regarded apprehensively of his withered skin, deep set by fever that would surely take him. Then forced a reassuring smile.

    ¡°That Death has a will of its own does not mean you can leave at an inopportune moment. At its mercy.¡± A half-wink and a hand-squeeze. ¡°You may be impressed by my penchant for survival, but I am more amazed at the heroism of your flesh & blood. You miraculously endure the elements enough. Sure, soon you will be of them, but I beseech you to hold on to this mythic strength a little longer. No favoritism for me, save that you glimpse the dawn succeeding your last morrow. My favor, my prayers for you asks you witness the dawning hour of our people¡¯s rebirth.¡±

 In the Hall of the Gods

    Chapter Eleven, In the Hall of the Gods

    Holy Ty-Drasil, later that evening

    The Drakoni caravan lined up at the threshold of the Great Hall. Even those among them who¡¯d made prior pilgrimage to Ty-Drasil mustered their awe to enter the revered realm. The ornate and indomitable doors caved open by several sentinels who pointed the excitable flocks to their places. Entering before the tribal congregations, Drakkon rested palm on Azarra¡¯s shoulder. He ignored the begrudged murmurs from throngs behind and gave his mother lasting look. Their bonded hearts infused dual courage.

    Resounding vespers travelled the walls¡¯ grand acoustics, bouncing a litany for this fateful exchange. Azarra could not pinpoint the words of the monks¡¯ protocol over pounding rhythm of a war drum overtaking her breath. Thundering ritual of drums gave proportion to her heartbeat. Beating patterns arranged themselves besides chimes & strange whistles preluding the bustle inside and driving gust through the gathering. Oracles sowed song over the layers, adding warbling hymn. Rich tones carried sanguine vibrancy; their trill awoke primal trance in the veins of the vast chamber.

    Lavish columns held the ceiling and contained the choir. The roof of the dome, decked with engravings betwixt the stones and glassy material supped on its reflective pools. Gorgeous tapestries of masterful artistry curtained the walls, bearing depictions of illustrious figures of myth. Braziers blazed beside each of the spiraling pillars. Offering aroma of incense and sacrificial sweat. Totems sculpted for each of the gods held their places high over the furthermost floor, by a careful indenture that held them up above so to let their gods gaze from their etched eyes. Opulently crafted chairs were arranged along the walls for seating these most prestigious members of each caste. The shamans, sages & oracles joining in Summit with tribal speakers (so fluxed in factions that there fashions clashed) while servants and less considerable folks stood packed into corners and along the rim.

    Azarra then recognized the melody¡¯s meaning. It was an invocation to the gods for protection and a prayer to allow the truth to be beholden. A warning and a promise to keep things pacified and a call to reveal any mischief and malefic intent.

    An acknowledgement of Saathar¡¯s outer dominion and a spell to seal it outside the doors. This reverie eclipsed the aim and power of any normal prayer. As it went on to circumscribe all, Azarra & her sparse allies stepped to concaving circle in the center court that dipped slightly below. Directed wordlessly to where warming emerald coals were alit. There was no seating here, as unspoken directive that Drakkon must stand to address the circle once the song threads its tail to completion.

    While the spiritual trance the oracles tailored wound around the columns Azarra suddenly joined in. Her harmony entered the chorus respectfully. Quietly at first, but as she sang along to the tune, native to her soul¡¯s language, her voice sprouted wings. Anxiety deafened by the mindless hum, she felt free to take the lead, grasp the reins of her former sisters¡¯ song. Her charming timbre belts final phrase of the liturgy. Despite the pretense, no longer ordained oracle herself, they allowed her solo. For tonight they would sing with and for her, who sang to and for them. They would hear her renewal.

    Pouring out sacred serenade she glides to the bounds of the circle. Presents then the hidden gift, carefully holding the jagged crown of Bellieus in her grip, in offering. One of the bones jutting out from the crown¡¯s circumference pricks her finger by unwitting force. But, perhaps unaware of the pain or propelled by its purpose, she holds fast to notion that the relic enhanced her luck. The last lines of cantillation vibrate through to all and then in its lull, Azarra, in show of reverence, bows her head and drops to her knees. Lifting the horned crest up to the Elder who sat his encircled throne. A funny contentedness comes to her through the joining & rest of the carol, having sang her hope through thawing song.

    The oracles¡¯ incantation faded to evanescent echoes, allowing the purr of the audience to return. Gaahl lifted himself by the arms of his chair and shuffled close. His wilted paws beheld the artifact. His lone eyeball skimmed crowd¡¯s clusters. ¡°You serve this House and the glory of the gods returning this sacred crown to its rightful place, good Lady ov Sight. Acquiring it from the depths of perdition where it for far too long festered in fiend¡¯s ownership is a feat of excellence & honor. Hark how it arrives home. Bellieus, Lord ov Forests, and his children are surely elated to have this exalted helm of godly make no longer in the bloodied claws of a rabid bear.¡±

    One of the jarls, Vikkar of the Varani peoples, stood for exuberant proclamation. ¡°Aye, tis so! It must be said that many of us wary chieftains expected you, Drakkon, to ride here bearing the horned crown atop your head as a trophy. Would¡¯ve been a warning that Kassan¡¯s warlike parasite of vanity transferred to new host. Yet merit & modesty are in you. I attest that my people hold to your cause.¡± He spoke openly, unafraid of the slings of dissenting opinion. Then the man sat back down on his chair, thumbing his long silver braid.

    Surrellius shot up with vigor to shout refutation. ¡°I see no reason why we should shower praise beyond its recovery. While we all agree that its possession by Kassan was woeful indeed, its return to us is no heroic deed but payment of a debt. For, see ye, it was always ours and never theirs. Just because they did not steal our relic for their designs does not grant godhead to the lad. These unruly vagabonds may prove thieves of a different sort altogether. Coming here to steal away the traditions of our people and rip out the sovereign power of the tribes from under our nose. I advise you all to employ healthy skepticism and not give over to foolish whims.¡±

    When the sage¡¯s downplaying wrapped up a dozen or so heads nodded agreement with his rhetoric. They looked down upon Drakkon and his fellows with redoubled suspicion. But the young Lord stood firm, unsoaked against downpour of scrutiny. ¡°The crown of the Forest God formerly rested on the head of spiteful madman. Kassan¡¯s ownership, in terms of this physical plane, was granted willingly by many of ye who sit council now. Yet you refuse to weigh your shame on the scales. I do not seek to challenge that wisdom, nor condemn mistakes. But it does seem the Temple permitted a tyrant to reap the lands of these goodly tribes. Your insinuation against my motive is empty. Perhaps the onus of debt should settle on your brow, sage.¡±

    He pressed his point against gawking & scowls. ¡°Good chieftains & emissaries of this great land: Kassan¡¯s death is but the first step, and an immense one at that, at cleansing this land of starker shadows. Why should I then submit to this sickness I fight & curse you with another bout? Why, when I hath come to free thee?!¡± Drakkon¡¯s regal affect proved as mesmerizing as oracle vespers. ¡°I come not with legions of war but bearing tablet of reform. One writ of loving unity for all the tribes. I aim ascent of our collective strength against the true threat: Vizzari. For too long that State spawned of sacrilege & bent on slavery for us flourished. Why suffer this?¡±

    ¡°Why present a feast of ourselves? Let chunks of tribal lands be eaten up whole by dread Vizzarion? Slobbering as it slithers from beyond the Ruun to wrap around us. Its fangs injecting venom into the spirits of our kin, poisoning our wells, and swallowing up our very right to live ¨C to toil, tend & die - in our ancestral homelands! Yet ye appear so complacent to allow the Vizzar to dissect our borders and harass our innocent. Can you not see how monstrously those villains profit from our division, our convoluted jabbering?¡±

    The few acolytes serving as scribes were distraught by the pressures of jotting every word of this proceeding, with pace so volatile. ¡°I am of Living Light! Born of mortal womb, I stand before you incarnated as Man to redeem through the knowing of humanity. I hath come to watch the world, poisoned by Serpent, wane! To conflagrate putrid mass & immolate the holes of all snakes! To cast their coil into the abyss ne¡¯er to reform! From this fire births consecrated ground for us to live in unbounded light! To lead on to untainted Aeon that I bridge us to!¡±

    Saccharine hush fermented in the hall, many unsure how to respond to the weight of his words. Surrellius stuck through the sickening silence next. ¡°By declaring your flesh holy, you mock the highest god! You speak of reform & redemption while prancing into hallowed space to spit such irreverence! Thou look a Jotun, thyself! Many a madman thinks himself above humanity, but even they are too humble to claim the empyrean crest as their own!¡±

    His brothers scoffed with their Primus. ¡°You shout before the heavens¡¯ dome, child. Come before a council that hath guided respective tribes for longer than you have known awareness and bid them grovel? Such unbridled arrogance is in you! How twisted to invoke principle of peace and protection, only should we grant scepter to you. You barge into sanctified Ty-Drasil and expect it bow to an upstart pup, some rabid wolf hungering for glory after tasting the throat of the Bear?! Nay, never! I believe that should this council refute your recognition you would sooner turn heel and return with pikes and pitch against us...¡±

    The ringleader¡¯s stare encompassed Corinna. ¡°For one who presents as a champion of the Old Ways how odd it is that you travel alongside an apostate. Do you not know that the punishment for apostasy is the taking of those eyes which forsook Sight, if not simply death? Indeed, your camp harbors ill broods, Drakkon.¡±

    Another of the esteemed heads, Asmodai, arose with the voice of his people, the Estoni. ¡°Aye! This ¡®living lord¡¯ delivers a witch to this doorstep of the gods! She is an insult to sage and summit; derides my people who observe the law by ancient tome. Apostasy is an intolerable transgression of all decency.¡± The chieftain continued his case. ¡°She hath been marked by the gods only to reject this divine calling! Fleeing into the woods and corrupting the nature of her gift. Mayhap for black discourse with wicked nether sprites. I must go so far in supporting what sage Surrellius sayeth by speaking plainly to you, lad: yer martial feat warrants no right to lead us. Using fear of Vizzari to ascend to chieftain, augmented by ludicrous claim of divinity, is an unsavory strategy. Would you not trample through the houses of the holy in hubris?¡±

    Drakkon met the chief¡¯s leery watch with unblinking resolve. He lifted his chest and resonance to stand taller than his accuser. ¡°Corinna is here by my decree. A decree, I see, that evades comprehension. She¡¯s here not because I sought to offend your sentiments but because she brings breathing testimony to you all. I rescued her from the horror of the Serpents. She knows I speak of them not to strike you with forced fright but to say that they are already here! Hear her! For her strife reveals how those structures you worship are hollowed already, the walls of tradition turned to a prison with its poisoners the wardens. Her vision and virtue remain! I pray you consider her tale. Prove that Estonian souls are not as stony as your cities!¡±

    Corinna itched under overbearing nervousness. The whole of the council bore into her. She considered her words but before speaking Surrellius loudly declared his whim before hers. ¡°We are in Temple! Thusly this wild witch should be imprisoned until we decide what shall be her-¡±

    ¡°Let her speak!¡± Gaahl¡¯s authority silenced the sage mid-decree. He cracked stave against stone and covered the spectating murmurs with order of quiet. Yet in his exhaustive condition this declaration caused his knee to stagger, and tortuous coughing fit fill the brief lull.

    A biddy of a shaman vaulted over to the Elder, playing as his maid. Hands quavering, she carefully took his shiver & the gift. ¡°Ah, Ligeia.¡± A whisper thanks her as the crown crosses from his hands to its new protector¡¯s. Protrusive antlers strike the dome¡¯s streaming light, angling glint of Saathar. Hovering over the glass, through that sacred ceiling, the planet throws down mocking beam. As Gaahl¡¯s helper delivers the gift to stone altar an evil glow covets it.

    Drakkon gave an encouraging wave over to Corinna, the entirety of the assembly waiting with potent concentration for her speech. Through her pained eyes, her hoarse throat & trembling courage she would tell her suffrage, granted by sufferance. ¡°Leaving the Sisterhood of Sight was not a choice made from small desire to see the world or to dwell among the more mundane. I didn¡¯t flee to any backwater to have meagre advantage over them with magick or education. I left, partly, because of disturbing visions of harm had I stayed... I came to know that prescience and still more danger within my ¡®home¡¯ here.¡±

    ¡°True Sight showed me nightmarish things. Haunted me with premonitions of possibility. Ceaselessly I saw a pale scorpion with trident-forked beard,¡± a couple pairs of eyes grazed the Primus & his peculiar facial hair, ¡°emerge as shape of lechery. I slept little for fear of vampyr leeching my flower. In dream too lucid that first shade let in a second. That of the ¨C justly felled - Ferali Bear with appetite for ripe flesh. I knew these figures and their wants real and closing in. So, I fled alone, having told no one my reason. Which I regret, given how different shade followed me, painting my departure as foolish...¡±

    ¡°Foolish maid.¡± Asmodai marked under heavy breath. ¡°She should have shaken these dark dreams from her hair, dampen them with morning dew. As we all have done to persist in life¡¯s shade. Not only oracles dream. And few dreams are solely pleasant. Yet we do not all bury the day for fear of sleep¡¯s specters.¡±

    A couple of groans, whispers, and wheezes from her audience broke pace of Corinna¡¯s breath, which, regaining it then swept about the dais. ¡°-but worse shadow caught me, more ruinous torrent awaited outside runed hearth. I realize it is only rational for you to be suspicious of me but please allow me to illustrate the horrors I hath seen away from these halls.¡±

    Gaahl gave nod of permission. Chaining others to his motion, many delegates emulated his eager ear. Surrellius and those allied with his argument remained stiff during this motion, aghast but watching without ability to oppose course.

    Corinna mouthed thanks and continued. ¡°I joined in with a humble coven of hedge-witches raised on the craft. Learned new varieties of Sights and Soundings of the Divine from blessed women. We made a life for ourselves between hidden groves and visits to outposts and village skirts. We made no attempt to rival Ty-Drasil¡¯s grace but those locals who trusted us came for small works, healing, herbs & readings. The Vizzar pursued us across countryside and cornered us at Stormgaard. While some of you may cruelly celebrate these witch-hunts, I should inform you that they did not set their sights on our coven alone. The snake-men interrogated the heath folk about their traditions, raked their souls. Those who braved public worship of their patron deities, old and true gods who ye know, were strangled and gutted. These sadists prance freely through the realm under pretense that should any harm come to them all the Magistrate¡¯s might would flood our lands, bringing destruction onto us beyond inquisition. They burn farmsteads, crucify those who will not reject their groves, bidding monuments to ancestral worship be torn! All under the watchful gaze of some of ye great chiefs!¡±

    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    ¡°Insolence! Surely these claims cannot remain unchecked by your wisdom, Elder?!¡± Surrellieus punctuated, breaking her flow. His white face punctured by veins, pumping rage-tainted blood to push up his temple. ¡°This heretical heathen was exiled to protect her oracular sisters from her deviance. Hers is a terrible curse! A Sight not strictly from the gods but hoisted by infernal specters. Her flesh and the substance beneath, animated by evil. This lying wraith pushes perdition¡¯s air out her mouth still! Good people, let not this slander stain our congress!¡±

    Just as couple of his obedient entourage were about to shout their support for his impedance Ligeia shut them down with authoritative delivery directed at their barking hound master. ¡°If you continue to denounce Corinna before she presents her case, then perhaps another hearing is needed to shine aspect on your behavior. Muzzle that temper. Let the truth present itself before our combined wisdom. Lest your protest belies some heinous secret?¡±

    That pompous halo about the Primus Sagus evaporated. Cowering with tail between legs and tongue snagged on tooth. He could but whine and mutter to himself while the woods-witch spelled out her disastrous tale.

    Corinna took another breath to avoid being snatched up by undertow of emotions; of memories rushing through her mind and pouring from her tongue. ¡°The Vizzar tied us to posts to burn us alive... Drakkon, by good grace of miracle, arrived to smite them. With voice alone he saved me from the serpent¡¯s fangs. He was the only one, among the thousands who play witness to their acts of terror, brave enough to stand against their malice!¡±

    She pointed towards her friend of fleet childhood, grown into a man and soon to morph to Living Lord. ¡°He put himself on the line to defy these agents of oppression. Were it not for him, not only would I have perished, but all there would still be living in hushed abjection! The Vizzar will no longer see us as lowly dogs to be kicked around and trod on. Nor as cattle that can be fenced in and subsequently slaughtered. But this act of defiance is one they threaten to move against us for, against any & all of us!¡±

    ¡°Whether you find it agreeable or not, tis only a matter of time before Vizzari marches out to reap more of our lands. Drakkon has not only proven himself a capable leader but likewise shown himself to be pure in spirit!¡± Torrents of perspiration leaked from her brow to the floor, her color becoming flushed. ¡°Through the Vision granted to me as a blessing of the gods and by the whispering intuits of the spirits that confer with me in my workings, I know that our only hope to fend off Vizzari is to put aside our trivial squabbling and unite under the Drakon- i...Unite-under the-Drak-oni...Uni-te und-er-the-¡±

    Corinna¡¯s speech splintered in repetitive stammer. Her words an incoherent swirling of the same phrase over and over, as though possessed and seized from coherent sound. Eyes spun back in their sockets showing only glaze of eyelids wheeling. She frothed and sunk into stormy seizure. Before the stunned assembly she collapsed backwards. Drakkon caught her, though the force of her dead weight hammered hard even his vigor. Gently he lowered her rattling frame to the floor, unsure of what could be done to save her as her writhing persisted.

    The stocky chief Asmodai jabbed at the ailing woman, screaming out to the hesitant court: ¡°Beware!! The witch casts magicks to bind our minds to treacherous design! This is the work of whatever Fallen fiends she writes pacts with! Gird yerselves against what darkened spells this sacrilege evokes! Something must be done here!¡±

    Surrellius immediately spotted opportunity and followed the fervent holler with voracious demand. ¡°Sentinels! Gaol this witch in a holding cell! Her lingering presence pollutes these proceedings and can no longer be permitted by our court!¡±

    Detestation, distrust & disorienting vertigo descended on the dais. A feast for feuds & flammable frictions to feed of discord¡¯s festival.

    Yet Vikkar of Varani heralded ardent defense for the ¡®pup¡¯. ¡°Apostate though she is, that woman spoke truth. Our scouts spot increased presence of Vizzari ships intruding on our side of the Ruun. Any capable eyes close to the coast know of the ever-growing crop of foreign exponents and witch-finders treating our borders with laughing disdain. The young lass fleeing is only too human. Surely, we can present sympathy for her. How many of us had to abandon our plans, make sacrifices to keep the Bear and the Serpent from taking everything from us?¡±

    ¡°The Vizzari threat is not something that can be put aside as a frivolous matter to be handled lightly when they encroach on our freedom. Yet see how both those of Farrow and Ferali are pledged to the Drakoni after being so long rivals. Humoring his plan is a must. Truly, should we find a way of proving him to be the living god he claims to be I will proudly swear my sword to his service.¡±

    There came no acclamation of assent, nor hateful rebuke to follow. Only that worrisome hush of twisting tongues. Until Elisara, priestess & Elder, stepped to vouch from different angle. ¡°We ov Farrow, Astralis et Sylvani lines were joined in field of miracle. True thaumaturgy soared over & through us, so we sail under its flag. I do not speak merely of his humbling of the Ferali but of the unspeakable act which I saw with my own eyes: his raising this young girl from the dead!¡±

    Elisara presented the pining portrait of young Dahlia before their array. ¡°She dropped lifeless upon the ground of the market green midday. No heartbeat at all. None of my prayers nor efforts of any physic availed her wan rest. Till Drakkon arrived and with the utterance of his will, the laying of his hands he rescued her from the jaws of death! That confirmed in my heart that he is indeed the Living Lord in the flesh! Our guiding starlight in human form to lead us onto godly path!¡±

    ¡°Let the girl, this revenant, speak piece!¡± Railed a faceless throat from the throngs around.

    ¡°A darkness took hold of me oh so recently,¡± Dahlia chirped, her voice that of a whippoorwill, ¡°a cold curtain came over mine eyes. The Hels¡¯ harbinger rose from the depths to drag me into oblivion. In that emptiness, a slithering vision of a draconian serpent, something which lurked betwixt & beyond the space dividing dreams & un-waking Night appeared in such vile form. I felt it¡¯s fangs tear into my soul and my being wilt, becoming then as scorched timber. All hope fled from me leaving only the mercy of that sickening venom.¡±

    The congress turned, transfixed by the girl¡¯s testimony. Her countenance darkened into despondency as she recalled her vision with cosmic horror. The evil of that Dread Serpent of which Dahlia spoke made the chamber air uncannily heavy, as if the mere mention of unholy apparition could conjure it within the sanctum. Suddenly her cheeks were lined with tears of relief. She beamed at her lord with reverence. ¡°But then Dawn broke Nightmare¡¯s web. I felt the warm salve of Divinity wash over as awesome wave. His Living Light sent that daemonic snake writhing back into the abyss. I awoke to life and set upon an aura shining like a thousand suns. In that moment my heart bowed before his solar glory, and I knew Truth to deliver me from Void.¡±

    Surrellius spat vitriol to repress all this inflated talk of miracles. ¡°We reserve judgement as to the veracity of such magick. Peasants and superstitious pilgrims are abuzz with the madness of this impossible talk. Yet I will tolerate none of it! A zealous follower is no credible witness! I must chalk it up to cunning deception. Playing off the desires of the people and their eagerness to believe anything that gives color to their drab lives. How often they of heaths will even raise animals upon pedestal, when they feel a goat helps summon rain and plenty. ¡®Tis no proof of supposed divinity.¡±

    There came an audible chafing against sone & creaking wood as many of those seated trundled about. Pockets of conversation burst the circle. People privately shared discussion, sages stroked their beards and delegates dangled talismans in their palms. Ligeia approached Gaahl and whispered some secret phrase to which he nodded. The Elder¡¯s eye burst with inspired understanding; his angular brow arced, folding tempest¡¯s force at his forehead. He looked to his peer with respect, and she offered her hand to prop him back up proudly before the crowd.

    ¡°Twenty years ago, when the majesty of the night sky outlined the grand constellation of Astralis-Drakonis, Azarra came to me. Then just a young oracle the likes of which I had ne¡¯er seen before. She confessed to have conceived a child of the God himself. With the One whose star-seed impregnated her when His sign aligned at the pinnacle of the firmament. Her womb¡¯s course, ordained as channel for the stars to enter this pained plane and flesh of ours. I conferred with the other shamans, and we concurred the child¡¯s immaculate conception; for no marks of gods¡¯ disavowal appeared on her. That this cosmic coming was a shift in our cycle¡¯s shape to bring us to the threshold of the Eddas¡¯ prophecy. To be realized of our time.¡±

    ¡°We provided short aid to her and her son. Although support had to be retracted to avoid any suspicion from the Ferali, when the day was yet theirs, who were more than willing to cut a mother and her babe if it secured Kassan¡¯s reign. Our sanctum they were given was razed by his minions and both were presumed crushed by rubble or slain by the fiends...¡± Ligeia translated her master¡¯s mind for the tribunal. ¡°Shamefully our caste accepted this abuse and abandoned them to false death. Yet mother and son not only endured but rose to rally the winds of the fates, favoring their cause like no other.

    This alone should be astonishing to us but more so even: I tell you know that I do believe that this man here, Drakkon, is truly the incarnation of his godly namesake! Occult power shrouds him, the sort I hath only ever touched before in sleepless communion. Only before when meditating on imprints of the pantheon pouring from empyrean heights and swimming through sublime depths.¡±

    The council jolted in awe, outrage, excitement & agitation all at once. They were flabbergasted that Gaahl, through his second¡¯s speech, gave affirmation. That he lent his support so brazenly. Opponents of the rising cult who had been so assured of an easy victory suddenly doubled back and reconsidered their reason. But Surrellius, on course of his own which refused to falter, flung stinging arrows aimed at Azarra.

    ¡°How can we be certain that this child¡¯s birth was ordained above? That the Stellar sign was that road to his coming and giver of seed unknown, grants him the godhead? Why?!¡± Surrellieus decried. Gaahl¡¯s verbal vessel could not challenge the sage now that he¡¯d again ensnared Summit with doubts. Doubts which needed speech lest they fester stronger in silent animosity. ¡°It is more probable that his father is of a more... mundane caste altogether. That she cleverly masked the nature of his origin to avoid execution for lascivious acts forbidden to oracles. We sages understand the reasoning of this ageless decree. For if an oracle engages in acts of the flesh, she closes her sight to the realms beyond. Her spirit is thus trapped in the confines she gave away, and the gift of the gods¡¯ touch wilts her.¡±

    ¡°Doth this not seem a more reasonable conclusion than asserting supernatural birth? We sages master memory as our sisters do the Sight. And I do recall that not long before Azarra raised this child away in distant sanctum that a certain tome had been listed as stolen or perhaps ¡®misplaced¡¯. This tome contained scriptures dedicated to carnal knowledge and tantric arts not suited for reading by any oracle. Yet it seems that Azarra may¡¯ve been the one to take it. For what purposes she did so I can only imagine.¡±

    Azarra tried to be taller than the sage¡¯s denouncing review. That the others sneered as though lurching forward in anticipation for signal to bombard her with stones or drench her in pitch would not deter her. She did not allow her worry to seep through her expression, kept tight and aloof as she searched her thoughts for any ovals of memory that could serve as ammunition to knock him off his bloody pedestal.

    Then a boon rained from heaven to her: a voice that sang aloud like a seraphic nightingale responded. That of Gaahl¡¯s consort. ¡°It is well known that you, Surrellius, possess many tomes dedicated to black arts so foul that the pages should ne¡¯er see the light of day, lest they taint the sun¡¯s rays. Grimoires filled with unholy rituals and unsavory lexicons not suited for the studies of kind minds. Even your peers shy away from such reading that you willingly archive. Doth this not suggest you as a practitioner of such profane practice? Should we investigate your potential necromancy or involvement other perverse rituals, Primus?¡±

    Surrellius was utterly dumbfounded by Ligeia¡¯s reversal. After some stuttering, his blundering reply arrived. ¡°I-I would say, oh shaman, that the acquisition of precarious or taboo knowledge does not necessarily imply its application and execution. Nay! M-merely the... curiosity to understand the tools of the darker side as to, uh, combat their wielders, yes.¡±

    ¡°Ha! ¡®Nay¡¯, you say!¡± Her harping rebuke melded seamlessly with soothsayer¡¯s speech. ¡°Well then it is only fair that we apply the same benefit of doubt to her. To fancy such matters does not equate indulgence in their practice. Perhaps, if she touched this tome at all, it was taken to protect her brothers, the sages, from the temptations she combatted?¡± Coy smirk spread across her face as she brought down that overbearing pride. Her rebuttal summoned snickers & subtle applause.

    Surrellius sunk in sullen defeat. Azarra gave a sigh of relief amongst the commotion while the embarrassed sage tugged on his braided trident-beard as though it could grow longer from it and bring him dignity. The shaman woman concluded consonant address. ¡°Let us cease all fruitless bickering and decide some manner by which we can ascertain the truth of Drakkon¡¯s assertion. A test or trial that would suit only a godly being to surpass.¡±

    The Elder Shaman spoke up after his ally. His throat funneled the last storm from far inside him, defying his age to voice enrapturement of the council¡¯s consensus. ¡°As Drakkon¡¯s claim is supplanted in a spiritual nature, wisdom denotes that this trial ought to be one to measure the purity and scope of his spirit. Let us present him with the Shaman¡¯s Walk! Malahausca,¡± he referenced that naturally ground hallucinogen which shamans ingest as to allow the spirits through their vessels, ¡°is sacred but we can extract and prepare its purpose for this path. If this is decided so, let us attend to it. That this confusion be settled expediently!¡±

    Drakkon mulled that psychotropic substance, malahausca, remembering it from his alchemical tutelage. From what his mother explained, it was an entheogenic blend that in its full capacity taps into that essentia materia and attaches spirits dwelling in the elements to whoever partakes. Allows visions and communion while still walking with the physical world. The mixture was also referred to as ¡®void-walker syrup¡¯. Concocting it for consumption involved extracting the sap of the Andrasil trees along with the ground leaves of various plants, such as the Lambasa leaf (saturated & blended with Malderathi mold and fermented Wyrmroot). All of which are poured into cauldron and heated with untainted spring water. Then melted into gooey paste. A syrup whose fumes are of astral breath. The psychotropic substance was rarely indulged due to its volatility, as much as sanctity. Many would (and had) perish(ed) as a result. To drink is to open shamanic gate guarding against the untrained and impure, who fall from poison or insanity.

    ¡°The initiate must walk the path of dark caverns after being presented with rightful dose. The nectar melds spirit into substance. Offers a journey into the mind and more. The realm of men will fade. The true face of the gods, or daemons from below, shall make themselves known. The syrup knows how to read the soul of the user and purify it. If one¡¯s spirit is aligned with accordance to the gods¡¯ whims, then their journey shall be one of reunion with their deepest selves. However, if one harbors darkness within and begins their Walk with deceit, the spirits shall show them infernal horrors unimaginable. The demons unleashed upon him will destroy wholly the falsity of self.¡±

    Ligeia picked up where Gaahl last intoned, letting him catch his thunder again while she carried the water of his intent. ¡°To present Drakkon with this rite, initiation into shamanic art and understanding of self, is certainly unorthodox. How¡¯ere to bid him make this Walk shall reveal to this Summit his nature. Should it come to pass that he is making to mislead us through imitation then the spirits contained in the vessel will lead him to destruction of his eternal & corporeal form. Yet should he pass this trial... Well, that presents a revolution to the entire paradigm of our world and will be dealt with then. What say you?¡±

    Strong concession resounded through the assembly. An overwhelming majority of the tribal leaders rattled their ceremonial scepters in show of support for this proposal. But Surrellius once more refuted the full victory of his rivals, vaulting with voice to redeem his defeat. ¡°While the Shaman¡¯s Walk is an excellent idea, Drakkon¡¯s claim transcends that of any mortal man. So, the dosage he should be given must exceed what would be expected of even the most hardened of prospective shamans...¡± He searched for a suggestion as the room once more leaned in to hear this adjudication. ¡°Thrice the amount appears as good reason. We will, thusly, present fair challenge. Dost, thou concur?¡±

    Gaahl sealing his functional lid to project inner vision and lifted his staff in proclamation. ¡°It shall be so, witness ye all! Come dawn, preparations begin. The malahausca shall be harvested and brewed. Drakkon must partake of a dosage befitting his demigod matter. Then he shall set forth in solitude into the caverns winding beneath Moribond. The Watcher will allow him to pass & seal the way once within. He must endure alone underground for three days! When time hath come the Watcher shall clear the entrance. If he succeeds, survives, and outshines the gauntlet of the mountain¡¯s mystery I shall ordain him as truly the Living Lord¡¯s coming. Let shadowed walk shall ripple through the fateful streams!¡±

 Apotheosis

    Chapter Twelve, Apotheosis

    19<sup>th</sup> of Sun¡¯s Descent, 1328 CE

    Stars stretched their limbs to crown the infant horizon. Early morn mist entangled attendants¡¯ ankles. Dawn¡¯s approach withheld for now, the most supreme sphere was then Saathar. The glum giant¡¯s encasing rings circumscribed with impression of imminent calamity. Beacons lit along the snaking path marked the way of their procession across the mountain. The atmosphere so stale and thick as people passed between obstinate crags. The body of Moribond itself seemed as though it were standing guard over the coming tribulation with frigid indifference.

    Azarra, spurned by sleep¡¯s reprieve for days, drudged through listless spell. Her mind a woeful bog in which all positivity drowned. Unable to drag out even a shell of optimism from that morose mire. She did her best to maintain assured fa?ade for any set of eyes not observing the ¡®initiate¡¯ gravitated to her. She could feel cracks slowly effacing persona¡¯s mask. Pangs of foreordination and impotence marred her heart. At any moment it felt she could crumble to pile of dust & tears. Drakkon in contrast arrived exuding dogmatic determination, is belief in his divinity truly unyielding.

    Azarra ruminated on their impossible passage. Knowing full well the reach of the under-mountains and how even the most experienced of runners sent through the vast tunnels would so often slip into hidden pitfall or be swallowed by skulking chasms. The network was known to be home to many beasts and creatures of unspeakable nature which preyed on unwary travelers. Getting lost among the labyrinthine nether was as simple as breathing is above. And the Shaman¡¯s Spirit Walk is so precarious a rite of passage that failure & death was the norm. Hence the limited number of shamans within their elite fraternity.

    The path opened to the silent procession. Their hypnotic trail hooked upon a towering bluff that overlooked treacherous waters churning out to the sea which split through Moribond. A circle lined with blazing torches drawn of symbolic artifice connected each beacon. Noxious fumes belched up from a cauldron filling the ambience of the bluff with baleful odor. The bellowing groan of Gaahl¡¯s throat evoked spirits just beyond sight. The Elder Shaman had next to him three oracles poised within the circle. Each were as children compared to the ancient composer of this ceremony. Yet so vibrant & timeless came their canticle¡¯s resonance.

    As the prospective lord joined them another shaman gave the signet for mighty rhythm to join in drumming culmination of the ceremony. The beat conjoined with the trios¡¯ gurgling to craft a space for spirits to roam freely. Their musical invocation soared, calling for attention from the gods themselves in their invisible halls. Dissipating breath of the winds, rising over the mount, and blowing the seas below, annulled the density of morning mists. The sprawling crowd consisted of more influential figures than before; more respected tribesmen, leaders, affluent nobles & distinguished preachers newly arrived in the last day. Come all to witness the spectacle after giving considerable tribute.

    The Keeper beckoned the initiate forward without interrupting the stinging shriek he announced him with. As he neared a pair of oracles came and disrobed him; the rite requiring the initiate affirm commitment by displaying naked self before the world, in forms material and astral. Wordlessly, he agreed. Stood there unashamed though the biting chill of the winter winds made it nearly impossible to avoid a shiver. The three thralls of the muses returned with shamanic cowl and threaded mantle, dressing him for the journey.

    Then the ladies broke formation, winding away from the initiate. They sang prayers and swung about in dancing backsteps, their nymph-like inflections persisting as they spiraled over to Gaahl. The host gave them each a bowl into which he poured the black syrup. One by one the oracles brought the malahausca bowls forth and bid the aspirant god drink to final drop.

    The stench was foul enough for his nostrils to scream for escape. But the taste far worse. The putrid tang was absolutely, throat-bleedingly repugnant. And the substance itself, corrosive as it slunk along its way. His stomach nearly retched out the wretched blend, but he fought the urge. Gulping with guttural willpower. The struggle not to heave the sour stuff roiled his tract with bizarre dissociative feeling of hovering outside his body¡¯s perimeter. He refused to flinch further at the appalling consistency of apotheosis¡¯ sauce. Thrice he consumed the bowls with stoic resolve until his whole materia rocked with jitters and sensation of skin boiling into the ether.

    The oracles then bedazzled Drakkon¡¯s shawl, the Pilgrim¡¯s Threads, with talismans. Bringing more blessings unto to the man and affixing the ragged robe of woven fabrics, furs & feathers, with bone charms; complements of various earthly creatures that sealed him to his Nature. Gaahl¡¯s screeching climbed to its peak as he pointed outside their circle to a gaping mouth in the mountain.

    The Pilgrim moved up, swaying as the substance did in his core, reaching the outskirts of the opening. There before him, stood an enigmatic figure completely veiled in exquisite threads of unknown making. Ephemeral glitz of many hues flickered between one color to the next in rapid succession. Attached above the faceless figure¡¯s head a radiant flambeau of brilliant halo. The Watcher parted the entrance and lifted a long, inhuman hand to beckon a delirious tribute through obscured passage. The commuter of shamanic voyage shuffled through and with eerie speed the way behind him was shut. The Watcher sealed the cavern mouth with a boulder, leaving him alone in the dank darkness.

    Drakkon drops into an alien underworld. Vision drowns as mind-bending plasma floods his veins. The atmosphere pulsates with flares of hidden things made glaringly visible by the shamanic potion. Though the way back was blocked and with it the sound of the chanting ritual beyond, he swore that the trill of the chorus rang louder than ever. Their timeless hymn ever ascending, accompanies his descent into Moribond.

    Shadows gathered round him, clinging to his body like a wet cloak. Becoming tighter & darker the further he sprang. Drab spindles whipped of his threads wrapped around, blinding his eyes & binding his hands like a prisoner to the void. Dusky chords from the depths shook the tunnel. The chirruping of the earth below overcame the muses¡¯ song, depriving him of guiding chant.

    There was nothing but a living abyss. One that frowned back at him through its impenetrable, ubiquitous fac?ade. Gloom set upon him like wolves to a wounded elk, tearing off chunks of his being and feasting on raw hope. Despair gnawed at his weakness, testing the meat of his mirth. He felt naught but marrow. Nothing left to him but bones, creaking ready surrender to dust and Helwinds.

    But he could still feel the beating muscle in his chest. Could feel the film of life still pumping fresh inside. So, he spoke to it, his heart. Repeating the mantra his mother imbued in him since he was a child. I am the Living Light! Astral Eye within Man! That I Am is Eternal!

    Slowly his form regenerates, and the sea of lawless darkness parts as his light shines a narrow path. No longer a ghost, the shadowed gauze retreats from his face, allowing a dim perspective to emerge. The perpetual utterance of the mantra in his head steeps the cavern with faith. From this litany Azarra¡¯s melody crosses the cave straight to his core with wonderous inspiration. His mother¡¯s song brightens the pitch-black tunnels, bouncing beams back from a line of torches, skittering projections of their candled roads. She summons up the nocturnal faeries floating about his shoulders like dandelions in the summer breeze.

    Doubt still stabbed his resolve and made him question the true nature of his reality, yet her humming would then reach a crescendo and draw him back. Back towards the source of the sound which he intuitively pursued as the right course in this midnight maze.

    Mother¡¯s lullaby massaged his weariness, caressed his soul. Her holy timbre turned his key. Her fingers strum his heartstrings, as though a transcendent harp. Her voice and invisible hand plucked him from the bog. Creating instrumental accompaniment, a symphony of love & encouragement that swept mystic gale. A synthesis of future & past sprang out of his ghost; oddest radiance curling over and into him. Its wave transforms his self from current shape to a regressive mold, the impression of childhood.

    An infant Drakkon pushed through the channel, eager and anxious to find his mother. The boy came upon a small fissure in the ground that at first appeared as though its only menace was that of possible tripping on it. Leaping over the gap, he felt it transpire in slow motion. His legs crossed over a massive chasm that stretched out for miles on end. It felt like days before bridging the crack. Space bent back to its equilibrium and time broke its extended stillness when he found safety on the other side of the break in the floor.

    There in a corner of the cave wall he saw Azarra comfortably seated on a throne of radiant white. Casting brilliance about her countenance and corners she beckoned her son into her embrace. All his fears, angsts & apprehensions burst. Washed from his face with tides of unleashed emotion. But in that catharsis, he found safe solace expressing all to her to be consoled by maternal nourishment.

    The boy folds his head against her ghostly bosom and finds himself submerged in soft pillows of clouds. She becomes a blanket of sky. Her astral fingers gently sift through his hair and pull back the strands fallen over his ears. She leans to whisper. Utterance of birds chirping with celebration of freedom as the wind playfully rocks the leaves & branches of the woods. Tears stream down the child¡¯s face, nestling deeper into her enclosure. Weeping torrent of despairing sobs and sniveling whimpers yearning for reassurance.

    Azarra pulled her azure dress from her shoulders and the wispy clouds around the boy¡¯s face departed. Replaced by the pristine spring-wells from which he drank. The fountain of the elixir of the life. Guzzling from the spring; intoxicated on the rejuvenating taste of divinity, of nectarine & ambrosia. Empyrean decadence. The holy fountain formed of her breast brought him to an abundant valley stream. Hers was a garden in which the most splendid flora bloomed under eternal solar beams that sang for the flowers as she sang for him. Rocking him back and forth, heavens swaying with her kindly motions, she showed him the world and warming prophecy; kissing promise of how it would all one day belong to him.

    Peering up from the cradle of his mother¡¯s arms into her glittering eyes the child sees in her the fire of the stars. Only the flame she held was ephemeral and dissipating as he gazed long at her ghost. Suddenly her cheeks hollow to cavernous pits. Her jaw tumbles to display terrible mandibles clenching and gnawing at his fresh face. The taste of her fountain flowed of ash, bile & corrosion with a black oily thickness sticking in his throat like malefic sap.

    He thrashes for air to gasp at, but she drags him in closer. Her touch serrates. Cutting his lip, blood slithers down his chin. With immense force he pulls away from her cruel constraints and pleads for release. But gazing into those splayed sockets, he finds only abyssal spider webbing strung along the empty mires therein. The faint silver-gray birth mark that lined her former face and denoted her affinity to the Divine crumbles. Decay broadens obsidian rift. Ruptures the remaining flesh. A mangled abomination in place of her beauty & maternity. Craters slump her diabolical mask low, stripping to deteriorated vision of Death. Flakes of rotten skin plucked and winnowed by infernal mistrals rising from the depths. From these clefts in her wilting skin a horde of arachnids, worms & nightmare pests crawl out. Scattering, they scurry across his arms with revolting appendages peeling back his skin.

    He screams as arachnid avalanche sprawls over him. Azarra¡¯s scream was louder still, a horrible cadence capturing lament of extinguishing stars. Along with this banshee cry black bile spat from ghoulish maw. The blighted sludge gushes from her throat into his. Burrowing into lung-chambers and summoning legions of spiders to scratch and skitter into his innards. There in the pit of his vessel they spin knotted black mesh. Every cord wound from the fibers of his fears and buried nightmares. The black secretion congeals within his intestinal tract, hardening the choler therein. He could not retreat from this horror. It consumed him from within, tainted his very blood with noxious malice.

    The corps of arachnids worked, wriggling, within him for terrible task. Spider-thralls with men¡¯s faces slaving to erect a nest of his substance. His grave moisture their silk. Twining their vile webbing behind his sockets. There the wretched harvestmen cast their densest net yet, blinding Drakkon to what went on within him. Left only for the squirming of a million pests and their progeny abiding in egg sacks all through his pores. Tireless vermin ate their way out of the body they¡¯d encased in, soon to gorge too much and leave none left.

    Then his gut expunged itself. Viscous bile hurled onto cave floor and through cracks. Painful repulsion came with this, yet afterwards the strain and disgust made way for a slight relief. The bulk of poison ejected, but its stain remained. As did the existential sway and psychedelic curse he swallowed in shaman¡¯s cup, refusing to let him escape to a semblance of sobriety ¨C and sanity.

    Freezing droplets falling from the ceiling woke him from stasis spawned of frightful hallucination. Pulled his self into his real surroundings. He found his head resting upon a cold rock spattered with water drawn from the cavern top and bile levied of his gut. His head dampened with dreams. Deep of the waters of delirium he drank. Looking up at where he¡¯d once seen the sheen of Azarra¡¯s eyes to find holes where loathsome creatures made their homes. Pests exiting those houses of filth to meet the stranger who¡¯d disturbed their lowly lives.

    In stumbling rut Drakkon bolted from this disturbance, further into the well of night. He could not outrun the constant creeping of phantom spiders scampering up his spine nor shake the wraith webs from his hair. The itching from the bites could not be ignored but as he scratched a layer of skin that fell to the floor. He could not dally on this disgust, the morsel he¡¯d been made into.

    Running forward, his only course. Stalactites and stalagmites gnashed against his way. Forming a massive jaw of Moribond itself. The teeth ground against one another, but then with their chipping showed small path through its throat. He dashed through the monster¡¯s canines barely escaping the clamping bite.

    A cracked boulder guarded the corkscrew bridge ahead. This underground pass spanned over more treacherous pit lower into the mountain¡¯s belly. Behind the colossus of a rock the thin passage lit by luminous moss, illumed for him, he knew. But the guardian stone¡¯s runed and ruined face scratched Kassan¡¯s features, and his feet refused him. Vague visage morphed to fleshly mask stretched over the rock¡¯s surface. With appalling transformation, so swiftly complete, the disembodied head flew at Drakkon. Expunged by the dim glow it hisses ire at this disturber and passerby. The blob-head block laughs as it breaks off more pieces, flings flakes of desecration and fills the limestone hall with the gravel of grating taunts.

    ¡°Your fate will be as mine, boy! We are closer than you may imagine. You are no god, just a blindfolded child on tread of delusion. O, your attempted mastery of this land is far more laughable than my beheaded ambitions. Your claim to the Fire of Creation shall lead to your immolation. Inferno alit by the stolen flames you seek to covet!¡± Spoke the deadened rock-orb, graven with the face he was yet to know as his father¡¯s.

    ¡°As you burn you shall know me as your precursor. Kindling kindred are we. For we are of same brood. Of mind & body! Tis etched in our blood! The weight of stolen crown brought me down. So too will hubris be your undoing. Damnation is your name! Desolation, your inheritance! Know that you are nothing. That you deserve nothing and that you will return to nothing.¡±

    Darkness shrouding Drakkon wiped blank the slate of his memory. He knew not his own name, nor how he arrived here. Where even was here? All was of bleakest night punctured by no single star. Identity evaporated into nothingness. His corporeal body dissolved into ether. His steps were taken by an invisible specter that drifted over the narrow bridge crossing the wide chasm. I am nothing... I am nothing...

    Fade in. Fade out. Each time losing more and more of the substance betwixt the empty spaces. His spirit raptured up piecemeal. Then body collapsed with quaking force. Something knotted inside. It squeezed, punching out the last portions of puss squatting in his stomach. Spleen saturates the rock which had somehow followed him to where he toppled. At least the sour puddle corroded the remnants of Kassan¡¯s hobbling head.

    Black filthy tendrils glue his eyelids shut. Consciousness recedes to bottomless plunge. Oblivion receives him through its gates, through which not a single memory could pass. Only abyss awaited. Ever surrounding all. The slate of mind sinks into unknowing underworld. Into blank rivers of a nether, of which no soul could hope to sail still living and which had no way out from. Leading only onward to unending nowhere.

    Passing Words

    That evening, Temple grounds

    Azarra tread the vertical incline to the top terrace alone. Night fell on Ty-Drasil. Yet a constant buzz stirred (with unspoken pact of sleeplessness shared) amongst the factional visitors. Still more had arrived to see spectacle, hoping to be among the first to witness the apotheosis or demise of her son¡¯s godly claim to power. However only those of high prestige or affluence for sufficient tribute were permitted to walk through the Temple and her mountainside she was sculpted from. The rest were butted in by sentinel spears to their assigned chambers and in their camps tucked in the valley. Thus, she welcomed solitude in the absence of preying public.

    Only a single face flashed fleet notice as she strolled up. That of a most peculiar druid who manifested on their grounds earlier to observe the goings on. This was a strange happenstance not merely because of the druids¡¯ reputation for being reclusive vagabonds - who cared only for their hidden groves and seasonal migrations and not for the affairs of their fellows in mankind - but more so by this one¡¯s appearance. His look was half-wild, unkempt and yet all too secular and material. In garb made from plants and foliage more than anything else. The man¡¯s face and forearms were painted with berry streaks of blue, scarred by lightning strikes.

    All this adding to the impression that the druid truly was of the elements. And yet he had amulets of more than his caste and an ostentatious collection of rings & other vanities bedazzling his hands and ears. Have their circles been circumscribed by covetousness too? Or just stricken with curiosity for all things shining outside their stony groves?

    So many others had sought Azarra out in the day. Some demanded conference with her over subjects & schemes of varying sort; mostly centering around the aims of the Drakoni and the likelihood of her son¡¯s surviving the trial. All that petulant noise drove her to the fringes of insanity; pressed her civility. She desperately wanted to be alone with her thoughts. But she could not repress the incessant burden of a thousand voices shouting at her, in simultaneous hail of demands, threats & wantful lip service.

    Gaahl, grant me peace! She trekked to the peak, towards the high perch overlooking the mystifying range. There to where the mystic¡¯s weary wisdom might rekindle her resilience.

    When she reached the top of the tortuous steps two grim faced sentinels barricaded the path with spears. They did not budge as she came within feet of them. Azarra reforged herself, lined speech with commanding steel. ¡°I am here to hold conference with the Keeper. Let me pass and meet with him. I am an oracle and, more so, a friend to him. Tis a matter of harsh need.¡±

    One of the marbled sentinels grunted. For a while they said nothing. Then the other huffed resentful reproach. ¡°By what authority do you command us? You have none. No title we hear, be it oracle or otherwise. Nor has the Elder given word to see you. Until your cause is weighed you are to us nothing more than a glorified apostate who left this Temple before she truly belonged to its ways. Leave us and find your rest.¡±

    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

    His compatriot sniggered, shifting gravel in his throat scraping its apple. ¡°Ah, Azarra. Thou art not unlike that other apostate carried here in thy company. We will not arrest thee so unkindly as she. But by lance and decree, thou shall not be permitted passage.¡±

    Supreme dejection rippled through her. Am I to toil in unrest, pacing with violence of heart until they announce my failure and doom along with it? I have nothing but this to move towards brighter chance. Nothing at all.

    But a familiar voice boomed from behind shrined cliff to null Azarra¡¯s defeat. The call came from that shaman who¡¯d spoken out against Surrellius, Ligeia. Hers was a tone both strong and musical. ¡°Let her through! She is of the sisterhood of Sight and a Daughter of Stars. She is true friend to our Keeper and soul not deserving of such infantile affront. By my authority & the Aegis ov Astraea, you shall admit her to our hearth!¡±

    Shock chiseled away their statue expressions of idle mockery. They parted as commanded and formed an archway of humbled bows, spears locking overhead. As Azarra passed by them sighing clouds brushed her face. From that smell she could tell for all their posing with warrior grimace that the two were incredibly inebriated, stained by potent cups. Even the guard were on edge with the purgatory of waiting. It seemed to invite all to drink away the hours, get numb to their passing. She pondered what booze-coated brawls might ensue below when feuds bristled to heads. The fusion of spirits with nervous irritation might not prove a friendly one.

    The elder woman¡¯s warm smile welcomed her upon the ridge overlooking the shaman¡¯s hut. Ligeia ignored the divisive protocol of station to hug Azarra with a vigor far more able and energetic than her age implied. She and Gaahl were not so different in this regard. Eyes that brimmed with impressions of intelligence to outshine the world weariness of long experience. Her orbs were like twin lunes bulging from crescent craters. She too staved off sleep, as told from her moon lids drooping half-closed in dream. Yet even through tired sleet her features suggested a fire for life; albeit one that faded with time and years of dealing with stubborn sages, no doubt.

    ¡°Welcome, Azarra. Ah, what little wit is left in me recalls well your proclivity for readings and workings as an oracle. Oh, I had hoped to see you in altogether safer circumstances. Would that we could just sip tea and share stories.¡±

    ¡°I thank you ever more, goodly Ligeia.¡± Stunted breaths of surprise stilted her speech. ¡°I am happy to know your kindness. These nights...¡±

    ¡°These nights those heckling sages deprive us all of deserved rest.¡± The shaman puffed on long pipe, herbal smog between the thoughts she bridged. ¡°A great many shadows blight our people still. We hold some suspicion that among those campfires dotting the valley there are those who revere the snake & the bear still more than Elderath. Hard to find good company on nights such as these. Nevertheless, I leave you in the good graces of our Keeper. Forgive me for the brevity but I must away for company of spirits. We must each find soothing salve this nocturne.¡±

    ¡°Th-Thank you!¡± Azarra uttered, still slightly stunned but visibly flooded with gratitude for this kindness. And as quickly as she¡¯d appeared Ligeia evaporated into the evening¡¯s shaded alcoves. But before dusk absorbed her silhouette the dual meaning of her ¡®spirits¡¯ could be gleaned from small flask the wisewoman warmed her gullet with. Her salve, one to coat the liver.

    The prodigal oracle swayed to Gaahl¡¯s humble bower. An abode encircled by wooden totems (sculpted by his hand in days gone by and lined with icons of the shamans he succeeded and ancestors he admired). Incense smoke melted faint fog at the threshold. Finding him quietly laid across a modest bed next to a toasty fire. In defiance of his advanced age the withered soul preserved awareness as his sleeping eyelid opened to look upon her entrance to the dwelling.

    ¡°I apologize. My intent was not to disturb your rest like this.¡±

    ¡°Do not fault yourself or be overly concerned, girl. I will be getting more than enough rest soon.¡± He laughed morbidly; charcoal chuckle lifted by lingering pipe smoke. ¡°Besides, you look anxious. For a friend to assuage your worry is worth sacrificing a little slumber. Your presence is far more appreciated than the company of dreams. Especially ill-fitting ones.¡±

    ¡°Your nights are worried? Do these dreams trouble you?¡± Her concern for Gaahl was genuine and not solely since he was the one person capable of best protecting her from conspiring sages.

    ¡°To attach too much to an old vessel that is soon to be given back to the mold of creation is pure folly. Ego¡¯s idle apprehension. This body is of the world, ephemeral and earthly. A fleshy totem, a pillar of person, to soon be blown away by that which animates all life only to transform it through death. I am but the dust of the cosmos. My shell shaped & sculpted, then demolished and reformed. Our existence passes in the blink of an eye; yet to us one day, one hour can stretch to seem eternity. I have seen enough of this world to know that clinging to it would be a futile exercise in suffering.¡±

    Gentle smoke drifted between his words, alongside a couple, less gentle, coughs. ¡°The only reason my soul does not willingly fly across that threshold is that it is weighed down by concern for the state of the world and those left behind. Perhaps I am seduced by selfish delusion and am not viewing all from the eye of the eagle, as a shaman should. Surely the world will still spin without my fevered ¡®wisdom¡¯, but I feel that I am here to oversee some shift in the plane. To help summon fortune¡¯s favor for our ancient tribes and re-converge with a purer state of being that our ancestors once dwelt in. Unity of spirit & purpose.¡±

    She sensed he had more to say, that he would soon answer her, & stayed still by his side. ¡°I am worried that I will leave this world to its perpetual revolutions in unrest & upheaval. I do not fear my own end, so much as I fear the final death of our people. For all our legacy is on the brink, at risk of eradication to time¡¯s forgetful tyranny. In all my years of experience I still do not know the whim of the gods. Not fully. Yet there is a change inclement. Everyone here feels it. You do too, I see. Though whether this shift will deliver us to our zenith or Infernae, I know not.¡±

    Gaahl¡¯s voice altered its capacity with capricious flow. It disheartened Azarra to witness such a proud, powerful soul undergoing such steepening decay. However, likewise was it weirdly inspiring in how his spirit¡¯s strength lingered even as his body¡¯s waned. ¡°Alas, I hath not slept easy. Miasma captures hypnagogic signs. Ah, I should resign myself to somnambulism. For I am unknowing, but a portrait of an old man snared by mankind¡¯s oldest humor ¨C the dread of limitation. We, forever blind to the ways of the heavens, search the dark for answers not allotted to us. Is obscurity not how we are equal?¡±

    He spat a throaty glob. A grotesque sound but one she ignored, pretending to not see this sickly phrase. ¡°Still the spirits once shared so much with me. Of the currents of their world and ours affixed with potential, darkly bright. That this impasse, this treacherous crossing arrives with numerous pitfalls and countless routes. Roads and roots sprouting in all directions leaving me humbled. Brought low to the point of being pressed upon by the foot of a Jotun whose size I cannot comprehend. At the mercy of the gods, as ever, but now affixed in the center of their storm. Perhaps even they debate our fate, unsure if we deserve salvation for our stupidity?¡±

    Azarra adopted brittle-tea-tone of reassurance. ¡°Perhaps it is not so that you have been cursed with nightly terrors for simply seeking what there is to know of the unknown. Rather, think on the spirits themselves undergoing tumultuous transition. Hope & dread clash in their space too, no? The image of that tapestry unraveled to chaos is reflected on and of ours. You who are the wisest of men with Eye into the unfathomed realm I cannot call arrogant. Knowing you as mentor, patron and friend is an accordance of the Fates. We can help one another still, as I¡¯ve much to repay you.¡±

    She pressed the back of her palm to the Elder¡¯s forehead. The fervor left still in his breast fought off fever valiantly. But he was waning. Sharply. ¡°It hurts hearing how clouded your dreams be, what little rest they afford you. You have endured worse, so what is a little longer if the portends of rapture may soon arrive? The fates will grant you your wish to be the hand that pushes the tide gently to a greater horizon. The Waning of the World is upon us. Prescient prediction you warned of. The omens are everywhere. Surely as our world readies to shed its old skin and take up the waxing forces between and beyond this pressure is to test reformation.¡±

    Gaahl pushed her hand away and pulled himself up with the help of a stave. Leaning back, lit by the warm glow of the humble fireplace, the Elder presented his misty eye. Studying and scrutinizing his pupil he spoke. ¡°Prophecies are rarely clear. All the sages and shamans who devote themselves to the prophetic Eddas derive entirely different conclusions. Some find an eccentric sort of insanity which isolates them from their peers. We may well be posted at a cross before the Waning crux befalls us in earnest. But there is no telling which world is to be destroyed and what shape the rebirth will take. I fear there is some grotesque ghost smiling over this show of ours. Something waiting to make a grand entrance on the world stage. A want to devour all players there. I loathe to ponder what hideous remains would be left to its influence with our little play poorly concluded.¡±

    Assailed by more fits he turned from his apprentice to face the meditative wood & coals burning beside. ¡°I know you wish for me to help him, but he is beyond my reach. Your Drakkon is alone in his Walk of Spirit. I would not dare tamper in gods¡¯ affairs.¡±

    Grim vapors breathed from him. ¡°While I do wish his success there is little else to do. Your son may be best chance for sowing unity through the tribes but to unify under a pretender is to join unforgivable effrontery against all good. Did I not give clear address to the Summit? I sense the eagerness in your eyes, pleading for me to motion for an early resolution but that cannot be done. Like all else, the outcome is suspended outside our circles and waits on the writs of the Fates, or else the schemes of the Hels.¡±

    Azarra could feel dusty doubts erode that confidence, constructed as a bulwark against the hopeless lake she waded. This temple felt more like a sepulcher where her former family worked tirelessly to entomb her alive. Complete abdication of control incensed her. I LOATHE this dependency on others, too weak in my own course to steer it! Damn the seas and all who sail! That I must dally on the sidelines as the ocean careens, curses my mast. Bloody gods and stubborn sages: choke on thy shallows!

    Still, I am not without voice. Drakkon deserves my confidence. If we can persevere when the eyes of the world are watching, then the world will finally bring me what I am owed. Dreams made flesh in payment for its cruelty and every pain; every tear I shed; every life lost along the way will be given meaning. So much sacrificed for the goal, by others I cannot repay, and more must be given still. If I cannot live a life of worth let me die and suffer no stinging poison. Apotheosis or death, with nothing in between!

    Angles of her battled for sublimation, her need for the world conform to ailing will. An invocation of her innermost Self clumped the puddy of her persona, keeping denial from spoiling her manner. ¡°It is better this way. Drakkon will measure up to the challenge. The world swings by this pendulum. My faith says he is greater than this gauntlet. Should we fail, I would gladly give myself up. I am with him wholly in Fate¡¯s gambit. For a world without the Word we would spread is dead to me. So devoid of the purpose that our flag waves over the daze. Our fire is all consuming. Thus, I stand inside the flames, awaiting the Light.¡±

    Azarra inhaled deeply of the night. Her inflamed fears stood upon solitary peak. Through shamanic canopy she spotted a parade of stars. ¡°Look how the sky flies star-banners, each bearing grace from gleaming hails. Transient, they pass on. Yet they are so vast in number, so undying, that their light does not waver before our eyes -but lasts! Lives on through our sinews!¡±

    Gaahl¡¯s eye reflected the twinkling of the meteor shower above as he listened. Delighted to hear Azarra not succumbing to all that bore against her. ¡°This is the game of the gods and we who follow their instruction. Having to push through such traps, amuse & impress those watchers with our persistent play. We ready victory. To sever snares of the Hels. The Solstice is nigh and with it the bleak breath of Winter. Yet it coincides with Drakkon walking the path. Just as frost devours crop and cloaks wood in cold, when the dark season of death passes Spring blooms renewal.¡±

    The more she chanted her thoughts the more she began to believe them. ¡°That which no longer serves us and our gods will perish to nourish stronger roots. Seeds of plenty planted for the pillars of an Aeon that will purify itself of the darkness which long reigned over the earth. Through this, all will be remade for the betterment to the gods¡¯ reflection. It fills my heart with sorrow that you will not see this awakening of eternal spring but know that you are passing at the threshold of a more perfect world. The one you long envisioned.¡±

    Gaahl¡¯s time-swept face, skin resembling the bark of great oak, etched effigy of a smile at Azarra¡¯s enduring ardor. ¡°I see why the Fates chose you for such a monumental burden. While most would be pulverized by such imperative gravity - or absorb the venom of odious circumstance in their blood and become a conduit for it - instead you suffer blow by blow the Hels¡¯ harsh winds. Your resolution has only been strengthened by the severity your life is shaped by. At least Kassan is gone, and so too your hate can die.¡±

    He reached for her hand, taking it as a trusted companion rather than a maimed creature in need of nursing. ¡°While Drakkon¡¯s rule cannot be assured till trial¡¯s conclusion it is certain that he is your son. If he inherits but a portion of your hardened will then he shall surely persevere... No matter what comes, my respect for you cannot be depleted. I am so impressed with you. Truly, a mother befitting the Divine.¡±

    Somehow puffing the pipe reprieved his lungs. Infrequent rattling still seized his core but came from smoke¡¯s compulsion more than fatal sickness. ¡°The stray seer Corinna spoke visions of your son¡¯s ascent. Perhaps her affinity to the astral plane transcends the both of ours. The double-edged blade of her spells is the cost of her closeness to the hidden weavings. I pray she shall soon be unshackled, and all our worries allayed by truthful Sight.¡±

    A grey cluster stuck on his stare. ¡°But I must inform you that when I die Primus Surrellius is to be named Keeper of the Key. This, by my Will, that the sage takes up the mantle to keep sturdy order when the rest wanes. Promise me, Azarra, that should your son succeed, you will honor an old friend¡¯s last wish? Swear that you will not intervene with the Temple¡¯s affairs and agitate my successor? There can be no hostility between you. His advancement to high pontiff is the only way to keep the Temple from being engulfed in the world of man and lower our station with the gods-¡±

    Disgust spilled out & over her. ¡°-Why? Why give credence to that hungry manticore of a man? He, who froths at the mouth with avarice, should have gleaming reward for greed? Surely there must be some better candidate to bear the torch than he?¡±

    ¡°Surrellius¡¯ allegiance will help beyond his moral attitude. He hath amassed a fortress of favor here. A sad majority of the sages hoard around him and even some seasoned of oracles swear by him. Should he be denied what is his, in both his view and that of most, his repudiation would likely ¡®justify¡¯ a coup. It could sunder Ty-Drasil, dividing us evermore. But I know his worth as a man can be made up for in raw leadership ability. If he is made Keeper of the Key, as presumed, his loyalty to our foundations and traditions will be his pride. His vanity will be tied to his post, his responsibility. He will thus hold the Temple together. Is this not better than embittered tribes debating by axe what and who shall decide their destinies?¡±

    Azarra objected. ¡°Good conscience demands those of heroic potential seize the courage to charge against such corrupt spirits as possessed the demon, Kassan.¡± She spat to ward off evil. Gaahl made no notice of her indelicacy. ¡°We must not be routed to craven course. Cannot give tribute of the Scepter to surreptitious Surrellieus. He, whose comfort is threatened by my very existence and that of my son¡¯s. Why should plotters be venerated, and their hostages arraigned?¡±

    The old man searched her soul. His singular eye shifted between Azarra¡¯s, rifling her psyche for that substance of her. He had to know she could be trusted to follow his wish. He leaned in to drive his point. ¡°His leadership would defend us through the desolation of winter. When frost is underfoot, solid ice is not far off. Coming cold may deprive many of their sensibility. It will not be a good season to war. Although when is war necessary? If the imposing doom is as your apostles tell, perhaps tis nigh. But Ty-Drasil cannot ebb to perversions of progress that might rid us of the old ways, the shuffling transit to this Drakoni Aeon... A bloody transition that could prove. If the holy seat gets dragged along into these wars our way will not survive. The more we are exposed the more probable it becomes that Vizzarion - or worse, our confused ire for each other, - will strangle us in our sanctum before we can properly awake. Can we not sleep on our own pillows till then? Do you see the ¡®why¡¯? Will you not swear it?¡±

    The oath he asked of her hung overhead as dangling icicle. Azarra rummaged through her strewn archives, hunting for solution. ¡°Can you not foresee though how Surrellius would only hold thee in perpetual Winter? Stagnation and scorn would be mark of his Keeping. He may deign you never rise from those plump pillows of languid spiritualism. Surely, Ligeia would be better choice in leader? Insight & compassion flow from her as denotes the measures of one great. Why abjure her, a good friend and guardian?¡±

    ¡°¡¯Tis true that Ligeia is a wise, elder soul. But her adherence to hermetic oath and unwillingness to compromise with sages on vital issues earns her few friends outside shamanic order. Most here would refuse to serve her, despite obligation, out of misguided principle. Hapless herds of scholars could be militarized as assassins of order.¡± Gaahl reflected on his involvement in public life, and concluded compassion necessitated a watchful eye over events and conflicted hearts of men.

    ¡°Besides, her sympathy for you would brew suspicion. The politician must confess self-interest to purify patriotism. People fear to trust those who answer familial insult with preferential justice. This, and more, prevents her from accepting such a tiresome position and why the Primus must be ordained pontiff to retain the artifact of our neutrality. ¡®Tis the only way.¡± His assertion grew graver as he went on. His unblinking eye waiting for her response.

    Exhausted emotionally, she loosed dispassionate sigh before leasing concession to the Elder¡¯s mortal bequest. ¡°Very well. If it must be so, with reverence, I pledge bestowal to your Will. I shall acknowledge the Scepter and not intervene in matters no longer mine. Ty-Drasil can be left to her own rights. As I forge a different accord, once I¡¯m free of this humiliating ring, that is.¡±

    Azarra bit down on wriggling betrayal and gave thought to his comforts. Smoke & fire only did so much against cold of a differing kind, and even strongest souls shivered without that special blanket. To avoid choking on her sobs she went to weave some of this sacred wool of human care for the wizened shaman. ¡°I will prepare tea before I go. Rest well for now, good man.¡±

    Tea brewed in lonely crisis & longing confronted her with murky effigy of herself in the broth gazed back terrible self-insight. Dark drip of her thoughts suffused the leaves. She could no longer be resolute in caring for this dying man who cast her aside at death¡¯s door. She must be willing to cast him aside, in return, should it prove necessary.

    ¡°Sometimes Fate prevails over character.¡± Croaked a sleepy Gaahl.

    His eyeless thought created anguishing waves within the steeping tea. Should this potion serve only to avail him sleep? Dipping crushed hannabis leaf & naiad-root into the stew Azarra sifted through worries until sipping the steaming pulp to quench them. Pulling out bulkier batch of leaf, she cindered pacifying fumes, balanced on tip of fiery tongue. Every inhalation numbed the trembling in her core. As her lungs embraced the mist so too did her mind open to transmute her world to reveal beauty even in despair. Suddenly she missed the presence of her son¡¯s sunny hope, affecting in herself the inspiring aura of his confidence.

    Exothermic crackled expressed essence of her belly¡¯s heat. Lightened by vapors, Azarra pressed on the man¡¯s cramped chest, outpouring healing balm; sweltering surge to cauterize that invisible wound in the shaman¡¯s aura. She summoned missive of mountain winds & smoldering herb. Spirits abound! Preserve & guide the heart of this shaman, your servant. Let not the dark take him before his time. Let the arrow of the Muses¡¯ strike change in his will. O Fates do not sever his mortal self in the eleventh hour!

    Then she withdrew, ashamed of her prayers. Flow extinguished abruptly and fully. Stamped out as though it had never existed. Midnight sealed her sight. No one is listening to my prayers. There is nothing out there. I am alone. My thoughts are empty.

    Azarra was barely able to shut the floodgates of darker emotions rearing up. Rue stifled her throat, where stillborn sobs snuffed, and she fled into the mouth of night.

    Impermeable film from the mountains concealed any sign of the manifold campfires burning below. Nothing past portends of doom. Despite having not been here for what felt a fully separate lifetime the lonesome soul found the foot path unconsciously familiar to her. That back window in her brain mapped memories, steering through the dark which procreated paranoia.

    Melancholic stream showed her to tiny pool at the altar of the eternal flame. By that brazier she wept. Tears of the past, for the loneliness borne from the denial of her blood family when yet so young, fused with those of present. Azarra huddled tight to her cloak before pale flames, receiving brilliance in haggard soul. Time folded to make the place appear just as it had in those childhood years but then shined gross distinction from that bygone blossom. Dreary undertow dragged her between trenches of dream & mocking nostalgia. Heart-petal sails torn betwixt shallow and long shores; Infinity reached into paradoxical confines.

    Fluorescence danced behind her lids. Mortal cradle hung low, moribund leaves & captured ash floated about the undying brazier. Then, twisting thought to renewal of prayer, the felled flora swirled nymph shape.

    The entranced woman¡¯s focus hauled from the beacon kindled by unknown & everlasting coals. Squinting, new shapes appeared on the rock wall¡¯s surface. Two visitors, conjoined by flickering channel, carried by the wind¡¯s cool kiss. Shedding secrecy of their cowls, she saw before her the warmly freckled face of Delphine. Strands of her cherry hair falling to tease her skin created a striking contrast against her black cloak and illustriously pale neckline.

    Delphi¡¯s eyes didn¡¯t hide concern and disquietude. Yet her gaze also aroused a richer hope, a total trust in Azarra. The faith her friend beheld her with burned brighter than pillar of unquenchable flame. The grove of her glow planted seed in shadow of indecision.

    The second figure, which guided the first, waved. Ligeia¡¯s feather mantled face shined. ¡°This curious dame came all this way to ascertain whether you were here or not. I thought I¡¯d humor her persistence.¡± With that the shaman subsided to the shade covering the mountain path. ¡°Stay safe, you two.¡±

    Azarra rushed to embrace Delphine, finding in her the anchor which she¡¯d sought in the Elder. As they adjoined in a calming cocoon, peering with intense affection, her arrival initiating a spark. Rejuvenating idea refilled her chalice. She knew then just well how Delphine would play the perfect negotiating token to rectify their bleak deal. As she reflected on what felt like Gaahl¡¯s passing words and the ogling the inclement Keeper had of her loyal friend¡¯s figure, she knew what to ask of her. It was a lot to ask but all she could do to stave Surrellius. & it could be done within reason, she hoped, without full sacrifice or a final bloodletting.

 Apotheosis II

    Chapter Thirteen, Apotheosis II

    Deep within Moribond

    Drakkon sifted through endless gray. Nothing ahead nor behind but gray. It refuted his being. Desolation is all this realm held for him. Time made irrelevant by the bleak influence of this dimension. Sun & moon wrestled in twilight. Suspended in eternal gray. Infinity was before him, behind him, within him; one second and one millennium, indistinguishable in sea of mist. No telling how long he spent in this all-encompassing murk.

    Dull. Dreamless. Breathless Dusk. This purgatorial wasteland: boundless. A uniformity converged on the elements, conforming to the ocean of gray. But a unique hue flickered to contrast the tireless dimness. Disturbance split the windowless austerity just enough to start unveiling the dayless vista.

    Translucent strands appeared against the frayed grayness. Pulling on these, unraveled the drab web to show color of awareness. Stringing lucidity within this dreary dream world to lead him to himself. Yet such lunette threads did not lead him to a control however, as there was nothing to seize of a dissociated oneness. Any emission of command from his consciousness only bounced back off the dull blockage; all order of ego dissipated in the beamless labyrinth¡¯s monotony.

    This temporal convolution belied influx of ashen crests, abated then to ageless clout. At the foremost slant of his mind a hidden barrier locked his full return to conscious, keeping him in stillborn limbo. Barely traceable along the edges of his brain, he could make out its existence. Concentrating, drawing up the latch, another form materialized out of the brain-mist. Phantom tendrils uprooted, exorcising true form. Their slashing vines frayed the shroud of abyssal unity to whittle out a door.

    Before him: cyclopean gate, archaic and yet so lasting in foundation that it remained even when forgotten. The threshold, gruesome in its colossal expanse. A buried totem of the gods¡¯ passage that would threaten all heaven in its height otherwise. It took the mountain¡¯s depth and made it its sky, dominating this obscure underground orb which bore its absurd glory. Parts of it, where old planks once protected its paths, were musty and inert. Yet the rest was as though it had ne¡¯er been disturbed in all the ages from whence it was begot. Emanating power, a sentience in the stone; as though it was not just a gate but also its keeper, a guardian deciding who may earn passage through its insurmountable construct.

    No matter how much he pressed the bulwark of this old world kept him from penetrating its breadth. Perhaps the shrine¡¯s vanished masons set this to mock anyone stealing their secrets from their necropolis, making it impregnable even in ruination. Fiddling with it he felt an overbearing and disembodied gaze lingering above, scolding his attempts with cheerless chins of stone. But the pilgrim blistered with Need to escape this sepulcher. This intent coiled about to spring psychic talons. Pulse & power of the furies to batter this barricade or wrench the earth around it.

    The whole foundation shook. Stones and sight crumbled away as the gate melted by the slings of Drakkon¡¯s desire. Brought down in hail of scorching debris; comets of ash & starry meteors plummeted to shatter as entropic eggs. Those stony judges and the mortar of their gate trembled. They were but aspects however, for the gods looking in from far ahead were unphased by this summoning of apocalyptic carnage. Brushing off the crashing boulders as though they were nothing more than droplets of water. The imprints of those astral Watchers leered with spectral stares, unflinching, unwavering in unpredictable intent over where their defiled gateway led to their hidden city.

    The Pilgrim reemerged past the gate, passing vacuum of space between the stars. Stepping onto translucent staircase, shimmering spray of planets bled out along their wells. Their empty encasement enraptured in hemorrhage of new colors & streaks. A magnificent nebula became the way. He traveled up the empyrean banister. Seeing cycles of creation swell; structures from the same cosmos all consisted of transform into fresh facets. Ever twirling, mystical birthing.

    The gaseous masts of stardust sailed through him. That renewing vessel washed then ashore, unto a beach sanded by halos. From that sand he found massive hall where the gods themselves were housed. Here the firmament beneath bent into its furnishings. Here presented interstellar ball, masquerade of motion from that which always is. The floor spang with a life beyond life. Eternal. Immutable. Engaged in spiral dance of perpetual motion as it wound about itself. New dancers of the same materia. The heavens delighted in playing with the totality of infinite possibilities. Then came their choir.

    Each star sung the song of itself with all the silky wonder of the welkin which conceived them. Reciting melodious ballads that foretold their tales and their inversion. Yet even in shedding cycles these dancers effulged brilliance that defied awful finality. Death could not claim that song which shared itself with peers of future & past. That court of the stars - filled of comrades near and far, undead, and unborn ¨C proved this through constant performance. A taste for him of their true immortality.

    All at once the stars & planets sung their arias in perfect harmony. Their cosmic cadence an anthem rebounding through the star-halls of creation. Every note expressed essence through their consonance. Each pause amplified space of silence so to breathe definition. Congruence of chiming worlds. Bows from this symphony played Drakkon¡¯s strings as his soul hummed its part within the canticle. Ringing with cosmic vespers.

    But the path to the peak dropped abrupt midway. Leaving a massive chasm just before the last rise. Deciding on a leap of faith, the Pilgrim sprung from last stair to distant precipice. Crossing the distance, a milky stream of stardust flounced, brushing him with unspeakable currents. Sweeping him into the gulf. No indication of direction or whether he even truly moved within the untamed morass, but he knew that he was falling.

    Yet heaven once more granted him a boon. From abyss above burst forth blasting astral frame aloft into flying nimbus.

    The breath of the nebula gifted Drakkon with seraphic wings to lift himself freely.

    An auroral circle spread from the passage meeting the encroaching darkness with its light as he flew into the lucent orb.

    Ahead was the full argent glory of the sun. Solaris, the tireless lantern which beamed with patience over mankind¡¯s dawning and all ages since, foretold to bear witness to all eons till the world wanes again. It now illumed path to land. As he flew into radiance his wings evaporated against the brazen incandescence that lit the galaxy¡¯s ceiling. Trusting in the gravity of his orbit, the traveler of the depths & summits let his wings be torn.

    The way spiraled, making peculiar contours that lead on to captive expanse. Eventually the winding tunnels became more clearly defined, able now to make out plunges and swerves ahead. This visibility came from the natural luminescence of rare lichen and fungi draped all along the walls & sprouting from the ceiling. The pilgrim smeared some of the vibrant algae across himself.

    Sight confided in light, producing both in happy junction. Now he would not tread in darkness, even if it gave away his presence to any potential predators within the cavern system.

    The labyrinthine walls led past through unusual series of indents and carved curves that wound about in pattern lined with symbols. There was a pressure burning above Drakkon¡¯s brows, an intuitive flare that told him there was something of importance to be gleaned from these markings. He rubbed glowing hand across them and smudged bioluminescent flora in the cracked lines that wrapped around the icons.

    With the writing illuminated he made out an arcane tongue. Related to his language but pre-dating it, with occult phrasing indecipherable to outsiders. But in this transcendent state of mind Drakkon knew them to be a map of the mountain, or rather to something within it. That map twinkled with importance. He placed his hands in the center of the hollowed surface and suddenly found that the world was spinning. The rockface itself had merely been a fac?ade and was made of a more flexible structure that spun about to uncover a hidden passage through its narrow fissure.

    The earth¡¯s gut grumbled the further he disturbed it. Rocks and dust crumbled about, shaken loose by minor tremors rumbling through the deep. He pushed up against another false front in the wall that had been illumed by the layer of glowing algae slathered over himself. He slid through the slit into utter awe. Arriving within subterranean vestibule teeming with unstained majesty.

    A washing pool waited at the island alcove which served as threshold to another antechamber. Beautiful waterfalls graced the perimeter, churned steam. Nymph-like figures bubbled up from the springs. Pirouetting about the surface to their young, virile visitor with eager welcome, inviting him to partake in their dance. Water-fae whirled about, playing in the basin of sunless mist. Giggling as their visitor quenched his parched throat of their liquid forms.

    A strange humanoid fiend with sunken features and harrowing shape watched his approach from the safety of the peripheral pool. Always escaping the light whenever Drakkon would chase the foul thing, its gibbous glare dispersing in ripples to evade reflection.

    Past the basin a statuesque effigy stood guard over the passage from the small island. It was that of the aspect of death, the Dark Goddess Malderath. Her ashen likeness, divinely macabre. Leathery wings burst from the statue¡¯s shoulders to arc over the way. Her gaping mouth bore elongated fangs. The stone goddess groaned faintly at the pilgrim. This was her domain, her house of the dead. And she, that Queen of Necropolis who sees with the infinite eyes of the Hels who serve her, as the arbiter of mortality. Her court decides who shall be taken up in her wings and at what hour of delivery into the dark country of unknowing afterlife.

    Despite Her glare the grim Goddess did not choose him then... A pale glimmer in the water¡¯s surface shifted into a crystalline ball of fractal patterns that spun about in flowery motions creating a kaleidoscope. Ebbing ¡®neath the shrine¡¯s flow, signed his passage through the sanctum.

    Inexplicable pillars and masterfully crafted ebony columns surrounded him. This under-Temple endured the erosion of time¡¯s tide well enough to not be disturbed save for dilapidation of what was once wood or other material. Perhaps, a bubonic thought pustulated, some of what had been eaten away had been strung & sewn with more fleshy material. There were traces of human sacrifices, after all. Tools and abandoned athames of fatal sort. Offering bowls sprawled out over altars, lined with dulled residue of what might be bone.

    Traces of death teeter through the tomb. Burial mounds divide the walkway with red staves inscribed in the floor and across totems that circle the catacombs. Skulls and mummified relics remain. Fossilized and preserved through forgotten means. The souls bound to this place scream their undying woes, the lashings of eternity here, at this passerby who is no shade. His Sight hardens against visions innumerable. Flashing impressions of the lives lived here and their cousins in death. He feels the knife plunge into still beating hearts over & over again. Fights back the last gasps of those condemned. Resists reenactments in the first person of dying for some nondescript cause. That Eye he could no longer shut could see the monks of this forsaken temple prepare bodies, perform their funeral rites. In a blink their fate falls from pinnacle to darkest nadir and abandonment.

    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    A hexagram of human skeletons lined up in the dead center of the corridor awoke to rattling un-life. Twitching and furrowing along the ground, it lifts conjoined carcasses to crawl with many mangled legs. Coming upon the lone living soul in perverse presentation. He tried to center himself in strength by affirming his purpose. Repose his fear for Corinna¡¯s sake. Endure by humming hymn of coming bliss, but half-choked longing for life did not halt the march of death. Nor negate the appalling reality before him of petrified cadavers linking up as deathless monstrosity beset on caging the defiler of their mausoleum in their gnarring ribs.

    No. This is Malderath biting, teasing me through the malahausca. No necromantic nightmares here shall stop me. The abomination averts course. Burrows up into the ceiling, scattering skeletal strips as it leaves him to the rest of the crucible. Pulling down alternate corridors, blocked by bone-piles, shed as scales.

    The way forward: a dreaming ziggurat of obsidian marble. He dared its steps, masoned of material older than thought. Living blocks built up its spine, radiating embers dawned from fallen star-rock. An unnatural giant of inconceivable origin. No aspect of this gargantuan monolith bowed to the elements. It¡¯s substance exempt from all forces of life & death within sinking crypt. The higher he climbed the heavier he felt.

    Deathless schism of dark bellows grumbled, tugging at his soles to pull him into its wretched sepulcher. A Helwind dusted the zikkurat rail from the catacombs. A nether-borne cyclone heralding the return of abomination. Wrapping around the pinnacle was that befouled monstrosity borne of many corpses. Malicious vortex pressure married serpentine shape. Melded with alabaster scales, skeletal hands lining its spine and a long draconian snout. The horrific wyrm loosed a roar to tear away the tomb and deafen the intruder.

    Staring straight into the eyes of its prey the bony eel glissaded through the ocean of underworld air. Its tail coiled tightly around his ankles & hands, enslaving his limbs to the irradiated limestone of the pyramid. A pit black shape arose with eyes afire. The foul fulcrum of the dead drake¡¯s soul, a lich declaring demise of the traveler-shade in its verdict. Charcoal-gray claws curled for human throat. Intuitively, Drakkon broke the fetters to lash out against this hellish assailant.

    But with every blow the figure¡¯s black breadth enlarged. Belched frothing mass, vested with bulk of every knock. He knew ¨C through the stupor of the shaman¡¯s pulp - that struggling with this shadow only granted it more might against him. But he could not relent his barrage. He refused to simply surrender to this phantom. This devil¡¯s presence stole away the sky he¡¯d only just reclaimed from earthen burial. Levitating over him it withdrew to wraith¡¯s saddle upon the dragon of the sacrificed dead. Its battering wake left no stone unmolested save those unchanging blocks of that pyramid¡¯s grand apathy.

    Yet for this pilgrim there would be no evading the wyrm¡¯s maw. So, with hopeless sigh admitting his fate, he stopped his exertions and accepted the end. This harbinger of mortality, flapping over to gorge upon his essence. He gazed into the pits of perdition which returned the piercing stare as the entity entered him.  His dreamlike cogitations took on an alien texture. Through that submersion into otherworldly sea Drakkon rediscovered promptly the glittering hue of Solaris¡¯ light. Light which burst forth from his Self and swirled about, that darkness entwined with radiant thread.

    He lunged into blistering brunt of hellfire the drake spewed... Every filament incinerated in catharsis of soul- flare. An inferno swallowing up a hundred lifetimes. A searing of spirit, unending undoing. Immolation igniting new potentials, past-states, hybrids of sleeping and unborn ages turned to pitch. This spiritual conflagration beset by those Watchful Lords whose judgement annihilated his essence. Holistic destruction. Naught but vestiges.

    Nothing could resist the broiling tempest. But this cremation was not to last. No Permanence to imprison his end but a temporary transition to transcend this soul¡¯s catching fire. His ashes carried to furnace, forge a prescient edge. Opening this inner sight, slit wide by occult knife. All-seeing Eye of Creation. Beholding the nature of this plane and its neighbors; knowing how to remold himself through view of the cosmos, with a blink from Time¡¯s Father winking such Vision. Sculpting greater form from the gray marble and tempered mettle. He joined with the embers of burning bridge leading to recreating himself. A salvation through the fire. This new body possessed no traits of his past physical self, no discriminating factor of male of female makeup, nor any tangible limbs.

    The range of this bare and unbound touch: periphery of this present eternity. The radius of Self spread, becoming all it touched. Ambition reached farther, peeling back boundaries of false flesh to commune with that which destroys only as it creates.

    Slipping his consciousness into the dragon¡¯s vessel, Drakkon invades every shred of essence ¨C possessing it for himself, becoming the deathless fire it wields. He reins in the winged beast as extension of his mental filaments. The serpent jerks wrongly with cries from its core, briefly earning semi-sovereignty. But in that flash of freedom, the dragon does not assault its namesake but instead winds itself about the pinnacle of the monolith. Each rotation encircles itself, drawing towards its end in eternal sigil of itself, clenching down on its tail.

    The drake¡¯s contorting & distended mouth eats away at its vessel. The creature disintegrates, bite by bite. Shed skin & flakes of its self-consumption fall from its feast. Those death throes unnerve all Moribond. The full range of the caverns crack under tremoring pact between the dying beast and the breast of the land bound to it.

    A fissure rips the very crust of the earth as Elderath divides her plane with rigorous brush. The ziggurat was unharmed, Drakkon included, as though shielded by invisible barrier, but the rest of the underground reservoir & temple suffers dissolution. Desecration by volleying boulders and blazing lances thrust into their dilapidated sites.

    The growl of earth and that dying drake magnified their harmony & dissonance alike. With strident crescendo the combined cry sundered the mountain, breaching vast cleft in the walls. This rupture rearranged the tunnels, collapsing nigh every way, while forcing new openings.

    He dared the breach by the temple¡¯s back, over tumbling rubble to peer through the crack. There a vast pool nestled itself on the far side of the derelict necropolis but littered with the fusillade of earthly missiles. Past that, another gash screaming out daylight with all voices under heaven¡¯s sign.

    Western Sky Ablaze

    Early Morning, Ty-Drasil

    In the dew-frost of the early morning, condemned by cold, when dawn¡¯s break was just a shy wink teasing out the horizon Azarra paced manically about. Her muscles and mind hurled along back walls and sleeping floors without insight to lead her bustling commotion. She clutched at dubious premise, unsure if she could act on it, and cautiously neared the Sentinel mess hall with witchery concealed beneath her cloak. A psychotropic potion crafted hours before in secret insomnia under the night¡¯s banner. She grappled with this one small but wicked deed, flirting with it as her only remaining salvation. She¡¯d sent Delphine to curry favor with Surrellius, acting on presumption that his target of infatuation could invert his aim. But this had been to no avail of yet. The heretic¡¯s noose loosened not, and time tightened about her throat. Her veins thus yearned for tainted drops or else to see her ire bewitch the sentinels¡¯ stew.

    What good is all this? If I escape, I will be forced to wander till I die, forever cast from the world of Man. They will carve my name into all ears as a witch, a daemon-mother. If I may not sway them let me pass on. Hels! I cry, sorrow streaming, take me thusly! Io Malderath ov stark veils: O, Deathly Lady! Should my fate prove foul grant me swift deliverance from icy earth!

    The viscous consistency of her thoughts slingshots away by dazzling flash of star-parade plummeting from the heavens¡¯ tent. Shooting stars, flickering arc; their transient spirits fast extinguished by swift fury of their flight. Thirteen... Azarra noted, counting the felled stars she observed from outside the mess window. The sky became once more composed in its bleak body as she actively searched for further signs.

    But the ephemeral heralds summon a change. All comes to screeching halt by the surreal intrusion of a gargantuan comet. From plane far north of their cosmic egg, the earth, Divine Bolt sets the western sky ablaze. This jagged, spectral heap¡¯s trajectory careens towards the surface with immeasurable speed. The wail of the astral body penetrating the barrier of air, a dragon¡¯s boasting cry. Royal blue streaks lay into the sky, painting elden trace along its exit. Charring the space around the mountains, this envoy of stars marks its trail for all to hark its majesty. Its azure canopy covers that carmine glare of Saathar, distantly towering. The spirit flies from true north across the west ridge, dipping low beyond the brim of Moribond¡¯s expanse. Crashing into valley, it hammers earth with force to send legion of tremors out. Battering land, confounding across with doom and awe.

    Azarra dropped clumsily to the ground, echoing the fall of her heart in chest. In petrified amazement her hands coveted the floor and dug for deeper soil. The rumbling vibrations battling the planet perturbs stones and boulders atop the pass. All assembled in Elderath valley sang their prayers of fear-strained thanks to their respective gods; praising that it had not chosen their interim seat as its designated landing but had punctured that other side of the range.

    When the earth¡¯s quaking ceased her body yet persisted in its trembling. She did not know how long she stooped outside threshing, before being seized back to reality. Reined in by thundering hooves nearby. Horsemen clamored by with great haste and number. Ahead rode Surrellius, his expression of sharp suspicion to the prodigal oracle well-worn. Alongside several sages, groggy from an abrupt awakening, and a flock of sentinels.

    As they proceeded past her for the source of the crash, Azarra saw Ligeia and Delphine riding in the posterior. Broiling, convoluted emotions riled in the pit of her upon seeing her friend again. Delphine who, stopping, extended her hand to share the seat. She gratefully climbed up the lumbering steed. All to the degrading sneer of Surrellius, who chanced to look behind his shoulder with hateful prejudice as she joined the expedition.

    They rode beyond the Temple through the circuitous avenues of Moribond pass for several kilometers. Then into the mountainous wilderness, crossing swiftly through the small hours ¡®fore Dawn fully reared its head giving slight but welcome warmth to their expedition with the first snows gathering on the paths. Azure coals kept their residue afloat overhead. The target of their hunt soon pronounced itself near with the scent of smoldering combustion. Visible signs of the collision became apparent by rows of trees blown back by the radius of the blast.

    Through to the ruins of an entire enclosure levelled by the impact of the meteor they chased. Their posse found that those who made this dip their home died without any forewarning. The snow ahead melted, and a peculiar emission radiated through ash. A warmth borne not from sun nor by mundane fire but from alien source. A color to match baleful specter, this signal slithering between matter and space, an awful aurora. The blow scorched crater in the valley. Devasting bolt from beyond gulped much of the dale in its gnawing girth.

    Yet from this wretched scar on the land all there were drawn to a sudden emergence of a living being. A glittering aura rose from the chasm. Sentinels identify this stranger soon, and all were consumed by speechless shock. They recognize the face of Drakkon. Peering at them, pupils dilated, he sees through bodily curtains into their souls.

    Bewilderment swept over the circle of riders unanimously. Even Surrellius seemed to fall from his saddle in horrified amazement. This solitary being, with only nearly twenty years of experience upon the worldly crust, was surely no mere mortal. For the stars themselves showered him in their favor with celestial missive.

    Azarra unseated and ran to her son. Drakkon stood aloof as if she were but a figure of a dream. She wrapped her winter cloak about him, made her bond known, to remind those who sought her demise of the intimate net tangling the two. Ground and sky opened for him, her champion. Truly his essence glowed. Flooding the wintry air with whitest light of him, unearthly against the rising day. Sapphire remains of that comet baked & cooled, their shards casting dimming strands. Under which all basked in wonder of his coming. She wept for this return. & for her sublimation into godhood (through proxy).

    Having witnessed this miracle of ages, the Shaman Ligeia pronounced stern acclamation for the Pilgrim. She called to rally the temple. To summon Gaahl, that the coronation should proceed posthaste.

 Apotheosis III

    Chapter Fourteen, Apotheosis III

    23<sup>rd </sup>of Sun¡¯s Descent, 1328 CE

    Morning sighs exhaled a palpable shift in pressure over the temple¡¯s folds. The breath of sunrise relieved them of the tenebrous tension there. Monumental procession wound around the grand case, slinking up the threshold of clouds for this historic occasion. The Sentinels broke their backs against more human gusts, thanklessly tiring to contain the flood of people through the mountain pass; all eyes eager to be sated on the Living Lord. Those who had beat their chests for him, hearts loyal to Drakkon tasted glory on tips of their tongues. Those who¡¯d cast doubts held their heads down in reverent shame. All in mesmerized reticence and reserved anticipation to be participating in a ceremony of such unrivaled gravity.

    Irreproachable majesty suffused all aspect of the summit and every member of the march to it. Halo of empyrean virtue defeated the first frosts of winter. Here where, save for call of ceremony, only eagles & shamans dared dwell. This sanctum, not fully enclosed, was covered by pillars that looked like granite spears holding in surreal rites. This magnificent tabernacle, built with balance & beauty of the elements in mind, received their bustling worship.

    In the center Gaahl, Ligeia and Surrellius were posed on dais. Every arrival shifted about searching for Drakkon who was still nowhere to be seen. A diminished Elder burnished scepter of ancient origin before all. He addressed them through whispers into Ligeia¡¯s ear, his mouthpiece.

    ¡°Children of this ancient land! Your Elder¡¯s ailing heart still flutters with joy to see the life blood of our people flare, so profoundly alive! Yet this old Keeper¡¯s breath flees from us and thus must be laconic in this address... I hereby proclaim High Pontiff of our Primus inter Sagus, Surrellius. He shall be Keeper of the Key to Holy Ty-Drasil! His will shall preside over the affairs of this sacred order. That no matter what occurs in these tumultuous times in the world below our traditions shall be upheld with utmost reverence!¡±

    The Elder passed holy rod over to his successor. Behind them the oracles and sages poised behind shrine started musical litany of supplication. Yet the applause of the crowd at this announcement was tepid. Dulled with disappointment for this not being the momentous moment they waited on. The politics of the temple castes had meagre appeal among most who did not call the place home. But if Surrellius was irked by this lukewarm response to his triumph he did not show it. At least his faithful sang to him. The newly anointed master of the temple kept up his front of solemn reverence. He stepped down among his acclaiming sages, making way for the pivotal event.

    Gaahl signaled ordained oracles to ignite the suttee ahead of the terrace. The flames illuminated the faces near, rearing golden & green light. In blur of motion, the barricade of sages & shamans at the back parted for Drakkon, with Azarra behind him. He and his mother were arrayed in gleaming robes of purest white thread, captivating the eyes of all as they advanced to the center.

    The Lord in his splendor incited a bout of shivers. These palpitating waves were borne not from exposure to the elements but from pure marvel. And the unshakeable notion that the realm of the unknown now crossed into actuality. The breadth of divinity apparent for all to be enraptured by.

    ¡°Behold! He whose arrival is foretold in the Eddas walks amongst thee this holy hour! The heavens motioned proclamation that the Living Lord indeed appears! Bearer of the Light of Creation! The sky ablaze with empyrean word! A sign to anoint Him! This hour, this strangest and most profound, that dawns on us shall require of us no ease of service but the most trying of all our charge. The Waning of the World is upon us. Behold the tablet of our age shaken clean that new writ be scribed! We must take up this hallowed mantle with faithful devotion. That with it we rise to the task which I beckon, the Lord, bring upon us! I grant him bear the sublime sword that the shroud of the serpent be cut, as liberated ribbons!¡±

    The Lord-to-be took to the dais, face composed of tranquil assent. While his mother diverged from his course to make conference with a small circle of sisters. The shaman bowed low his head. Leaned to Ligeia to use her voice as his but not before a look of shocked consternation flashed across at what he asked her to speak. She posed a pithy query in response to Gaahl¡¯s whispered mandate, quelled by piercing glare through that one viable eye. After a murmured sigh she conceded to his whim and projected it aloud.

    ¡°Know ye: Even as the coming days shall be trying; tight with tribulation, I declare that this: my blessing of ascension, calls for no mundane means either. I invoke the Rite of Rebirth and commit this dying body in offering to the Great God, Drakkon! Know this must be done, as Keeper¡¯s final command, so that this life¡¯s blood - this dithering heart - shall be given unto the flames to feed the undying, eternal dragon of the firmament!¡±

    Jolts of astonishment coiled through the attendees. This was a rite known largely in legend, thought of as mere myth. Azarra too was beside herself. At Ligeia¡¯s woeful behest a trio of oracles intoned hymn trimmed with motifs of sacrifice, finality & joyous rebirth. This chant was echoed by the rest of the Temple¡¯s curates. First their call came as awkward warbling, almost dissonant to the ears, being as this hymn was one taught among the castes yet ne¡¯er performed outside initial teaching. Then shambled intonation stabilized in tune of hypnagogic patterns with rapturous concert.

    The oracles removed the Elder¡¯s cowl, revealing gaunt chest barely of this world as is. The old man¡¯s dignified pose did not dither despite the cold. One of the sisters produced an athame that glittered subtly with rubied starlight bejeweling rim. Offering it to Gaahl, he blessed it red, before handing it to Drakkon. The venerable shaman clang to the young Lord¡¯s shoulders, firmly for his withered frame. He whispered, an utterance for the deified man¡¯s ears alone. Those divine eyes glistened with understanding. Nodding respectfully, he surveyed the ceremonial dagger with dutiful intention.

    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

    One of the sisters carefully placed ornate chalice beneath the arms, for collection of the gushing sanguine essence of the shaman. Gaahl exposed his wrists. Grimly, Drakkon indulged by sliding whetted edge along veins, slicing ritualistically. He then pressed the knife against chest, aiming at heart. With a dignified acceptance the Elder let plunge it beneath his bark. Carved out the ebbing pump of the noble soul.

    This gruesome ritual was met with committed acceptance, a surreal calm, save few guttural spasms drowned out by the mob chanting ghoulish cheer. Those revelers presented stained cheeks and quivering throats. A choir of wolves resounded from atop the nearby mountains, as though the pack he¡¯d tended to so lovingly in life instinctually knew and lamented the passing of their kindred soul. Mourned their master, asking the Wilds to bid him farewell.

    Drakkon wrenched out his heart from the surgical cleft. Staring into the bloody pulp he drained the cascading drip into chalice. Macabre stain leaked for funereal rite. Then the sisters of Sight flocked to the staggered body. Catering to the shell, his soul fled to make a case for his deliverer to the outer gods at their gates. Sent now to where the Fates would receive this soaring spirit and mark the kindling of his Materia to bless that deliverer doubly for every drop left to him.

    Alabaster robe blemished by the taint of trickling blood, Drakkon returned the gored athame to the sister. Lifting his gaze to the encircling pilgrims, his iris still stained by inordinate dosage. Frozen fire fixed behind his eyes, too bright (and yet cooled by timeless passage) to be of same shape as those caught in glare. A Sight of searing Judgement, looking through the fabric of those struck by it. All spellbound, he recites his purpose in voice raining thunder over the sea of music, his backing chorus.

    ¡°By winds of astral creation, I commit this pious soul to the Holy Fire! Vessel burns that True Heart travels swifter to the threshold of the Highest, where he is awaited. Know that this blood, spilt in sacrifice, is that of all our people! From ashes of elden pyre we usher in the genesis of a new aeon! In these hands I carry thine hearts too. I give them back to you, freely, that they might be offered truly to the Flame. Be renewed by my seal; Give unto the flame by which we are re-forged! For I AM the Voice of Living Light & Lord of this World!¡±

    Transcendent rite bloomed & vow voiced, the Living Lord brought chalice to his gullet and drank in ritualistic frenzy. Sanctimonious fervor elated at this, as the oracles committed the shaman¡¯s limpness to balefire before the dais. Its fumes grasped at the atmosphere as they sifted up the unsealed ceiling of the dome. Drakkon then gave the remnants of the pontiff¡¯s heart to the flames, taken with glee. When acts of ceremony were sufficiently enacted the humming ceased and a lugubrious silence besieged the shrine. A broad breath, heavy with momentum of what transpired, laden with an underlying unknowing of where this all would lead.

    Countless centuries passed in perception of gulf between dreadful lull and when the motion for coronation came. Azarra¡¯s song soothed the spell, re-emerging from the monotony of hoods & lapsed jaws, towards her son. She shooed the grieving hush with tilting aria. Swiftly all ears pined at her siren song. Her melodious wave brushed back burdensome sorrow & concerns of the morrow.

    Hers was an ancient verse: the mythic hymn of Drakkon ¨C thundering flame of creation - the primeval song first recited by the god¡¯s first incarnation ages ago. A litany praising when he taught mankind how to wield fire and forged loving, hopeful communities of his children. The canticle tapped into something buried beneath time & dust within all in attendance. Some lent their own voices, a primordial part of them extracted & enhanced by stunning prayer-song. Tune of a bygone era shared unifying wonder in melody, distant yet familiar, weaving captivation over the tribes to transcend all difference. Bewitching song spindled them into a single, unbreakable thread of magnitude once unthinkable.

    Azarra, aglow with pious resolution, could not fully conceal her inner ecstasy at this apotheosis. The Mother of the Divine brought forth crafted crown to rest upon her progeny¡¯s brow. The child whom she¡¯d cursed in her heart, citing him as the rotten fruit of he who wronged her and a sign of the world¡¯s brute enmity, she now blessed before all. She thanked her fortune that the gods ¨C and the sheer merit of her endurance; careful planning and training of that seed - rescued her from abyss. Her fate, mirrored in shimmering crest.

    The crown: an effulgent, wiry creation. A splendid circle, linked to twig thin wax sticks hidden above head; topped with a cousin sap of the eternal brazier. Alit by striking of stone, these hovering orbs burned around his head, protected by a glossy circle, not grazing his mane nor temple. Slick retardant lathered over his tamed hair, that no follicle was endangered by this illumination. Halo of pale fire capped shroud of divinity. The slow, steady burn of the secret sap lapped at the air but never its wearer.

    The affect would endure enough to mesmerize the already enthralled congress. Commanding this aesthetic, Azarra contemplated, shall keep them enthralled for far longer than the sight lasts. Iconic imprint of her design branded their minds. Through her bard, Baron, that emblem would be known by yet more. Shaped of orbit to retain its glitter through his pen and tongue. Generations might hear of this moment, this crown. Though the songs and their meaning might bend in the far future, too obscure for her to even wish to see. For that road ahead harbored clouds, heavy with questions and portends of how this could yet turn to destroy her.

    Before this unquestionable splendor all knelt. Performing pledge of reverence, the clans shed furs for the mantle of the Drakoni. And those few who, in secret, did not wish to submit to this rule still did so outwardly. Perhaps out of fear of what this newly proclaimed God and his control over the majority could do should they dare resist the fiery clout beholden now to him and his ethereal crown. Behind him Azarra could steer the course of history, she told herself. Remind him of who brought him into the world. Who allowed for this reformative conquest through she who suffered to bear him. She was his to shape. And They through Him.

    Meanwhile in the mind of the young Lord unreal blur muddled inner airs. Noise & faces meshed by distortion. What Lived through him de-realized itself from him. While still faintly anchored in subconscious, the rest of experience rolled over him; the hubbub smashed in singularity. And then irreverent laughter near crackled, cackling mad, beneath his mask, bent by a repressed amusement.

    This disparity whirling in centerpiece head was caught in passing by that songster-scribe, Baron, who too observed this crux: the Lord can never again be seen as too like them. Caught in the gauze of glory, he must be always above. To see mundane man in place of their demigod would stain his reign before it flourishes anything truly lasting and immortal. But all the same, he mustn¡¯t become too distant a deity among them. The artist¡¯s poetic framing must paint over that gap, to bridge it. Although pride propelled his passion to strum song, Baron equally considered a bead of worry. An epic for the Eddas, his tune could be, but perhaps those later verses may grow to encompass a darker key.

 (Act Two) Night Wind

    Act II

    Chapter One, Night Wind

    3<sup>rd </sup>of Snowcrest, 1329 CE

    Azarra opened her chamber dormer, welcoming uplifting chill of the new year¡¯s arrival. Her freshly designated quarters, high atop the tiers of the Temple¡¯s grand scale, shined for such vista that you might forget yourself packed into the mountainside. Housing of more eminent design than any she¡¯d known, more nebulous castle than oracle bed. Yet this was but another shelter in some ways, not truly the fortress of her dream and self-won grandeur she must move on to anoint. At least it was no tomb, however, as its richness did flatter.

    Clasped to her chest: a bundle of scrolls & parchments, scribed to her containing many a blessing from groveling parasites hoping to curry favor; with others assailing her, demanding answers of the Drakoni and what allying with her son could do for them. The initial blithe and adrenaline of the coronation, her victory through him, had given way partly to the gravity of escalated responsibility and the nagging headaches it incurred. So much propriety, delegation & coercion to be perpetually observed. But for now, she figured herself deserving of respite from wading through onslaught of letters & logistics.

    The wind¡¯s hand caresses her gilt mane. With flowing fingers, it brushes frazzled follicles of stress. Gentle current glides across her room over tables to crackling fireplace. There she rests the clumped parchment for her future self to deal with. Weighting the rustling papers with a lavish box of crimson that she received days prior during the commemoration of the rising year. With the christening of herself as High Mother to the Living Lord she¡¯d been presented a parade of gifts granted in honor. This queer little box held her fascination even still and so too the figure gifted it ¨Can enigmatic stranger whose identity hid under red robes but struck her a sense of de?ja? vu.

    Inside the compact case: a ring and a letter requesting audience with her. Offering a time & place of rendezvous to entice her curiosity for conversation. The ring itself had same hue as the box and its giver, save for a hint of gold ¡®round the rim. It wrapped around her ring finger, anonymously blending with her other jewelry. Tracing the surface again, she noticed the subtle slithering indenture of a serpentine figure. How intriguing.

    A rattling disturbance of agitated shouts bounded from the nearby Council chamber across the Hall. But such raucous ruckus Azarra had become desensitized to. Even through the filter of heavy stone walls & bolted doors she heard her son¡¯s thundering voice, thick with unyielding exasperation. These arguments with the sages were ceaseless & tiresome. Always fighting for ground against Surrellius and his machinations through his lackeys trying to expel them prematurely from the grounds. The new pontiff kept claiming the need for the Temple to retain its independence from Drakoni affairs. He¡¯d made point to preserve the deciding of that apostate, Corinna¡¯s, fate to him. Which the Living Lord irately quarreled over, not letting her be tied to another stake nor be put to the question.

    Truthfully in this matter Azarra was resigned to smug satisfaction that the witch whom her son was foolishly enamored with could be removed from play (through temple protocol). That his heart might be hardened by the loss and encouraged to contest the trident-braided lout¡¯s circus and be not addled with wanton lust for lowly women of the heath.

    She returned to the window, catching a few falling flakes from the draft, then shut it tightly. Within her anxiety wafted, waxing with the wind outside. A pacing concern as to the whereabouts and livelihood of Delphine, who she¡¯d sent into the clutches of her foe Surrellius possessed her. She¡¯d hoped her best maiden could cast subtle charm on the miser, that he could be persuaded to give ground to her fledgling Drakoni. But her friend had not returned from this latest venture and her fear of what that sodding lecher could do ever widened. Alongside inescapable guilt gripping to her harsher than those burdensome parchments. She crossed the room and splashed water from the rune basin onto her face.

    But rather than relive this ripe vein of tension the cool water and colder stare of her reflection awoke ugly intuition of truth. Despite her many cycles and the wounds dealt to her spirit, Azarra¡¯s visage held fast to its beauty, while her pale birthmark - scar - became more pronounced. Yet hidden hostility lined the orbs staring back. The woman looking out the mirrored pool seemed so alien to her, and this dissociation propelled concerns. This circlet, these heights, mean nothing if I do not protect those who love me. She who carried me in my darkest hour and brought success to rest upon my brow. I am nothing if I do not act out of care, reciprocate the security Delphi would ensure for me. Tis better to confirm her safety with my own eyes than dawdle in doubt. I must assure it!

    She removed the circlet from her head and slipped out of her dress. She covered herself with more inconspicuous black robe and tied a scarf about her face to conceal from unwarranted observation. Stomach churned as she slid out the chamber for the shadows outside the sill. Slinking past her dread inflated, for Delphine & herself of what could come if she were noticed. But she held headfast to her determination and crept to Surrellius¡¯ estate, which rested not far from her quarters (rather ironically given their public animosity for one another), further up the terraces.

    Azarra arrived at the base of the main steps leading to the Keeper¡¯s private palace atop the Temple¡¯s tallest plot. A testament to his rampant vanity that he chose to take up such docile luxury rather than the traditional seat that was Gaahl¡¯s humble abode on the mountaintop. Disdain flashed before several breaths to prepare for potential confrontation, knowing not with what hostility her rival in the new master-pontiff may greet her intrusion with. Her years spent slyly exploring the grounds with Delphine in her former life here graciously granted her knowledge of a hidden passage into the ostentatious estate. Shrewdly she chose this route to enter, though it was no less daunting.

    Slithering through the dark she tunnels through a teeny fissure. It opens to an incomplete passage to the mansion ahead, another fanciful renovation of the sage¡¯s. Luckily while Surrellius may pride himself on the cleverness required to be crowned Keeper of the Keys he knew little of the patience required of fine architecture. Caring little for the details or the hammering noise, he¡¯d ordered arbitrary (save to him) terms and times to those builders and thus left the confused workers paralyzed from completing, and blocking, the little openings left for Azarra to infiltrate. Her hand skidded along the edge of the unfurnished wall of the underpass, tracing it cautiously for breaches in the passage.

    When she could no longer see through the obfuscation of night¡¯s thick curtain Azarra pulled a small candle from an abandoned set, struck flint against wall to light the wick and let wax allow her advance. The tunnel taunted her impetuous worry, shadowy corners flaring gaunt effigies of what had befallen sweet Delphine. Nevertheless, she trudged on to penetrate the estate¡¯s width, extinguishing her candlelight as she came upon the lit corridors of Surrellius¡¯s dwelling and pried her ears for clues ahead of her.

    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    Her entry led through a pantry where dried fruit and delicacies were stored just past the dining hall. That hall she discovers as eerily dead in its silence when pressing her ear against the door. Having come this far already she pushes on. The sight she found arrests her with paralytic fear. Looking upon the grand table, where all the sentinels of the house were assembled for supper, they sat, with heads slammed down as dead weight against plates. Some with drool oozing from their mouths¡¯ corners soaking dank bread and salted horse meat prepared from those steeds butchered to provide for the excess bellies and those that had not survived the bite of Winter.

    Poison?! Nightshade?? She barely restrains a gasp.

    Among the motionless bodies assembled about the long dining table Delphine¡¯s incarnadine locks were nowhere to be seen. Although at this point Azarra knew not whether that should be considered a sign of grace or ill. A snore from one of the diners scared her to jump. Approaching one of the goblets tentatively her nose chanced to detect what nefarious essence had been planted. Could this be the work of that damned Primus? If he¡¯d been the target, otherwise, it missed the mark. But she could now guess the root and its purpose.

    Her alchemical training recognized whiff of a non-toxic but potent sleep-inducing herb. Night¡¯s Lull Leaf?! What in all perdition is this wretch up to?! As if to answer her telepathic inquiry a stream of moaning cries curled out from the tower chamber. Wriggling, sensuous sobs to boil blood and bristle every hair on her erect in frightful, knowing anticipation. In a flash she seized the knife by the horse haunch and whisked up the stairs with paranoiac aggression.

    The perturbing moans bring her to Surrellius¡¯ bedchamber. Leading her into skyward tower and to a heart splitting sight: Delphine¡¯s bald body strewn across the bed, hands tethered behind her head by rope, and expression animated of unnerving arousal. This delight, devious and unwitting. Not truly of her whim but lured by noxious aphrodisiac the lecherous scum gave her defenseless friend. That friend who was to suffer the ultimate devastation for her loyal commitment to Azarra. I sent her blindly into beast¡¯s den!!! Careless what slobbering goblin awaited her for my sake... Damn me! Damn his covetous profligacy!

    She curses. Scampers to untie Delphine. Rushing to her release and itching to scurry them both away from ghastly trap. There was Need Now to help Delphi away and immediately expose this most abominable sin of the profligate ¡®Keeper¡¯. Efforts & urges curtailed by creaking of the door behind her. Jolting with horror but not without instinct, she creeps behind curtains to hide, waiting on the forked fiend to enter.

    ¡°Bloody potion should have set in by now! What purpose hath Beauty that you cannot climb into? What is Will worth without mastery over my best limb? Damn you, rise!!¡± The aged deviant enters mumbling angrily to himself. Fondling his trident beard with phallic delight, he surveys his elixir¡¯s effect on his precious guest. Eyeing his exposed prey as a bear would a careless wanderer.

    The effects of the aphrodisiac wilted away slowly. The bared woman¡¯s unconscious moans wrestling with less fervor. Delphine¡¯s drugged pupils, set upon Surrellius¡¯ advance, now brandish tints of fear. But though partially aware of this deceptive stasis she could do naught but scream inside it with futility. The stupor lightened only enough to know the rippling lashes to her form but withheld control of her fettered limbs. She was half awake, in broad nightmare.

    Azarra tremors with rabid abhorrence. Loathsome rays of rancor blind her to all but their shine. Forgetting about the knife digging into her hip. Cutting her attention, her seething quakes draw blood. Slippery red traces her back to the tool of vengeance. With a discordant, scream she charges to plunge it into the fiend with righteous ferocity.

    She slashes! Slices! Stabs! Cuts and spears in storm of violence. Surrellius struggles weakly. The lecher spins, blood spewing as venom from maimed maw. The frail Keeper reaches for her throat in desperate attempt to rescue his life from the blade of this despised rival, this lesser woman. Popping eyes sign no repentance, burst vehement denial. But morbid dread finds him still as Finality trashes with fatal force. This thief of pleasure gives his last gasp, begs mercy of this golden wooled woman, wired with bloodied tangles.

    Azarra persists in ear-splitting screeches. She scrapes wilted bark of that leech¡¯s limp trunk. This implausibly real horror sucks away awareness of anything outside it. Only this impetuous, murderous moment remains. So too do her merciless lacerations continue, alongside her avenging howl.

    Even as the shredded corpse of Surrellius fell unto her with the weight of his deceased & sin-saturated soul being dragged to the netherworld to face reprisal for his attempted malfeasance the wailing witch mutilates more of the leathered flesh. Stabbing into the eyes and groin with ire. All to wreak retribution upon this monster, the man who wanted to curse ¨C in bane of all innocence - her beloved Delphine in such as a way as she herself had been marked by that inmost, despoiling misfortune.

    Adrenaline infuses every vein. Azarra hastens to Delphine and frees her of the ties, assists her from the bed. Still fired with frenzy, she cuts to ribbons the curtain that once hid her. Wraps the drapery threads around Delphine, covering her with modesty before they flee. In desperation she finds inhuman strength to hold her friend¡¯s addled body. Those lingering moans, the only sound in the deadened halls, reacting to Azarra¡¯s guiding touch in manner of perverse witchery.

    For fear I sent her to the scorpion...Her only sin was listening to me. Trusting I could keep her from anything so foul...

    But with wrath unleashed, and foul augurs streaming from the vile sage¡¯s entrails, that dire courage from her fury shriveled. Further through the estate¡¯s winding way out worse realizations begat themselves, fertilized in her brain. For it dawned upon her the sheer scale of the act she had just committed... Azarra had slaughtered the high pontiff. Done so rightfully but without concealing her hatred of him on the public stage. With her only witnesses to affirm testimony, to the barbarousness which nullified her killing as crime, and thereby ensure her safety against the label of cold-blooded murder being drugged or unconscious during. & otherwise too associated with her to be trusted by nai?ve court.

    What would Delphine¡¯s word be before any judgement from skeptics and schemers already nervous of her presence? Azarra¡¯d reeled her truest friend into whiplashing torrent. Circled back to deliver her unto that curse of pilfered innocence. Brought them both the tumbling stairs of uncertainty. And yet, were it not for the danger they jumped into, she wouldn¡¯t regret letting out that filth¡¯s blood. For otherwise the ¡®Keeper¡¯ would have used his position to protect himself from punishment.

    What would the sages care for any word not spoken by their master, especially any word of accusation?

    Azarra shifted focus from the gruesome swelling to saving Delphi; eclipse all else. She steered them through tight passageway along to a second stairwell. Wanting for nothing but to conceal herself from all in black blanket. Knowing that at any minute the guards would be come through the door, attracted by the harrowing screams she¡¯d loosed on their attention. Steadily Delphine¡¯s lucidity emerged again as the effects of the mind-bending vitriol were jettisoned. Poison and nausea retched out, leaving caustic sting of reality.

    Delphine could not hold any levee against the flood, no hindrance of her whimpering tears. The two women embraced, allowing each to weep. Their hug, the only solid pillar in a turbulence that lacked lasting comfort and any real catharsis. No assurance beyond that they still had each other. Preserved for what would likely be but a moment before toppling into the belly of perdition. But as they clung to each other¡¯s crumpled clasps, Delphine¡¯s eyes emanate a shard of recollection, even hope, through that dusky despair. Flint of faint gratitude for Azarra¡¯s rescuing flashed. The couple huddled against the bleak foray oppressing their chests and inundating their ducts.

 Divine Intervention

    Chapter Two, Divine Intervention

    9<sup>th </sup>of Snowcrest, Temple holdings

    Winter whispered through the chamber window. Outer wind infiltrated cracks in the foggy glass, lined by holding bars reminding the occupants of their state, as chronic chill. Compulsive creaking from Delphine¡¯s chair added to the dreary hiss which invited itself. She sat, rocking between manic neurosis & catatonia. This distorted equilibrium had been hers these passing, aimless days in detention. Refined furnishings of their internment did naught to calm this. No traditional gaol was this, but as they could not leave it might as well be a hypogeal prison, ¡®neath Elderath¡¯s stiff mantle. For the Fates¡¯ mantle folded over them without their accord.

    Azarra, meanwhile, paced tirelessly across the chamber. The presence of her friend haunted her more than that prior emptiness of her solitary cell. Before she¡¯d convinced the right sentinels to allow her to be held with her ¡®co-conspirator¡¯, exorcising what influence she retained. They¡¯d been confined for what felt a timeless purgatory. Others deliberating in the dark on their fate. Her soles; rugged, worn and near bloodied from manic stress compelling her feet. Yet she persisted in this mindless waltz of repetition.

    What possessed them to flight besides that anxiety which had its face in Delphine? Being closer to her disallowed Azarra from distancing herself from guilt. And her visions of what calamity could come to them from the congress hit crescendo. What wrath should befall the ¡®murderers¡¯ of Surrellieus according to the whim of his faithful?

    Azarra¡¯s forlorn sigh matches the cheerless groaning outside. Then the bedeviled woman lets her eyes fall finally upon her dear friend. Once rosy cheeks & bonny complexion vanished to smeared trace of her former grace. Those bright & curious eyes, glazed over by traumatic veil. Even some of her radiant red locks wilted to gray, as strands of stress. Meals brought by the servants were pushed aside, cluttering the corner. Ignored by Delphine, in denial of life¡¯s material, she faded to yet thinner frame. All too reminiscent of her own harrowing shivers those twenty cycles ago, stripped of nourishment & joy.

    To shatter dreary spell Azarra infolded Delphine with all the warmth left in her. They¡¯d danced these steps before; pouring all persuasion into healing her friend¡¯s sundered course, only for despair¡¯s drought to drain those waters. But here, now, she flashed flood of compassion to sweep comatose dam. ¡°I know this grief & fear that grips you. What it¡¯s like to be one the brink... remember, sweet sun, that our flame needn¡¯t be snuffed out by a passing shadow, especially when that flame is a soul as bright as yours.¡±

    Azarra named her shame. ¡°I am so bloody rueful that my idiocy led you to such a place. I swore to stay with you through this pit and I will atone in what ways I must. Only ask. I would give the world to see you smile once more, Delphi... You are strong as Astarte & Just as Astraea. The world is rid of yet another bestial monster who lurked beneath the skin of ¡®man¡¯. The mercy of the gods & better men will soon shine us a springtime sun.¡±

    This time Delphine¡¯s hand reached back for her friend¡¯s. Held it firmly & stopped shifting on the legs of her seat. Accepting this resignation to a small hope. Between them unspoken bond flowered, their destiny mutually rooted to whatever future should come ¨C be it bane or boon of forgiveness. They were as one in this struggle. And there was to be found a strange beauty in that winding fiber of shared fate.

    There came a rapping at the door. As it opened Azarra jumped to face an abrupt, but not entirely unexpected, intrusion. Dahlia, her dutiful acolyte, crossed the threshold alongside a small retinue of sentinels, bearing grim faced countenance. In the presence of these cool (and indifferent) men, her loyal worshipper betrayed no hint of partiality in her address. ¡°The white smoke rises from the sanctum. The congress of elders is ready to mark your trial.¡±

    Azarra nods, then glanced shortly at Delphine. ¡°Could you please avow us a mere moment to gather ourselves? Then we shall gladly away with you.¡± She stated in a composed, serious fac?ade. Quickly she chose a modest gown and beckoned her friend. Under armed company they were led out. Solemn weight pressed upon their shoulders with every stride through the halls and exterior paths until they came to the chapel of their hearing.

    In Azarra¡¯s mind the place must be a hazy fortress formed of cruel fools¡¯ idioms. Imagined as a lusterless, musty tomb devoid of presentation. Yet she found the shrine adorned in almost gaudy de?cor. Here the sages projected their lofty sense of self-importance unto the encircling walls where hung flashy designs of portraits, painting & statue-totems. It seemed there had been some renovations under Surrellius¡¯s brief reign. Along ornate glass windows, elegantly etched figures cast odd illumination by way of the winter sun peeking through.

    The two women were directed to depression at the center. Surrounding the pair, an imposing colonnade with richly carved entresols from which the tribunal bore down upon them. Each of their judges uniformly garbed in purplish velour robes, over which some wore dangling amulets to signify their status. About the defendants¡¯ indent, below the glowering mezzanines, censers of myrrh & sage fingered the domed sky.

    As arraignment against her began, Azarra¡¯s ears were deaf to the droning voices of judgement. Inner apprehension muffled the litany of diatribes & acrimonious squabbles. The world was but a spinning ball of confusion and she was at its writhing maelstrom center, her surroundings ¨C those shadowed faces, harsh & considerate alike ¨C all a blur in whirlwind. The first case railed on insistence upon sacred hierarchy; how the murder of Surrellius defiled that holiest of pedestals and the final whim of the prior Keeper. Yet, much to her muzzled shock, considerable rabble roused against this angle.

    Others stood to proclaim raw truth of the deceased¡¯s character, decrying him as a gluttonous villain who bought his way to power through suspicious funds & black letters. Fewer still made concessions, not to stern gaolers but, to acclaim Drakkon & his faithful; warning the more austere of their kin that the ¡°Lord of Living Light¡± (and thereby his mother) was not to be prodded by petty penance, lest they face retribution.

    ¡°Pfft, not to be trifled you say, boy?¡± spat the raspy voice of a grayed sage towards his younger detractor. ¡°Ty-Drasil thrived for millennia due to our strict adherence to the Code of Elders. To the old ways! We mustn¡¯t cast aside all our virtues, nor the rule of Law, merely because of an upstart coven with demigod at its front. Drakkon hath proven his divinity before us all, we acknowledge. But his cause is not borne by the clay of this ancient sanctuary, just as the tribes do not meddle in our affairs but for spiritual guidance. Are we to let a pair of murderers run free without reprimand out of mortal fear ¨C cowardice even ¨C at the prospect of vengeance because of their proximity to this emerald Lord? I say: nay! Never!¡±

    Once more came the ringing shouts overpowering one another. As the clamor & bustle swelled Azarra strained the grain of her being to reverberate a song of emboldening spirit, calling forth her strength against this foolish gaggle of stooges masquerading as men of wisdom and virtue. To cease the childish bickering, she threw her arms so swiftly that they jostled loose her bun and let gilt mane flow over her shoulders. Unleashing then a blood curdling shrill, half note & half scream. Banshee¡¯ hark so sudden it succeeded in halting the violent quibble.

    After steep exhale Azarra addressed her judges with bold charge. ¡°The short-reigned Keeper was no paragon of virtue! If thou art so ignorant as to acclaim him the purity of what the Temple hails, then I say thou art worse than a snake ¨C but a worm cowering beneath the shallows of filthy greed! What that lecherous tick of a man made to do... things that should ne¡¯er be freely uttered in good company...He would¡¯ve befouled any virtue thou might espouse & tarnish more than just reputation of a righteous woman who held to vows he sought to steal away. That fiend disguised in mockery as an upstanding sage preyed upon innocent flesh & spirit!¡±

    ¡°I will not betray what Gaahl spoke to me in confidence,¡± she persisted, ¡°but I will state my unwavering belief that the only reason that manticore successor was uplifted to eminence was exclusively to avoid what that bitter barbarian would do in resentful defeat. How he would hath shaken the very foundation of this Temple! Surrellius whetted his corrupt influence over thee and thy peers to mire any action & progress! Divvied hostility in camps within these sacred walls! So, I beseech thee: consider more the character of the one ye would defend and the principles of this timeless sanctum, which are at this moment usurped by a few of thee for decadent pretensions.¡±

    Tension stifled the chamber, lowering high heads. Some glared at Azarra with eyes as daggers, blaring unheard horns that called for skin to be peeled from her bones for such insolence. And yet her boldness resonated with more open minds among them. Moved their most youthful to raise address from tall podium. ¡°Alas, she speaks true and deserves a fair hearing! After all, she did not flee from the very real possibility of fatal recompense for the Primus¡¯ death but instead told truth of what occurred. Even agreed to be gaoled in her chambers while awaiting the judgement of this day.¡±

    Arid spite of the other sage struck against this merit. ¡°Her intentions are not so clear, my boy. There is case to be made that Azarra & her disciple chose to stay only to defame the man -made dead by their hands ¨C as to wipe the bloodstains from them. Perhaps, she was more concerned with the hand of justice pursuing her than she was with ¡®truth¡¯. Those sentinels assigned to their stead of estate, discovered with noxious dose of nocturnal herb, could be victims of the Lady¡¯s foul divining. For they cannot confirm her ¡®truth¡¯. She sows discord amongst us, so that her christened Lord of a son may expand his reign over our long-sworn standards.¡±

    But the ¡®boy¡¯ refuses to back down. Before Azarra could speak her defense, the young man pounces with point to claw sinews of his fellows¡¯ minds. ¡°Let us address these blasphemous substances found in the supposed victim¡¯s place. The sentinels who investigated his chambers found residue of things outright forbidden for sages & shamans alike. The kind that would produce such a stupor as stole the guards. Why would a sworn Keeper of the gods¡¯ ears be so curious for carnal mixtures and devilish works?¡±

    ¡°I declare that Azarra acted fairly in coming to the loyal defense of her friend & disciple! Let them flourish in their light instead of waning ¡®neath stagnant shadow. The creature we are now rid of was no shaman such as Gaahl but a shade of torpor!¡±

    The previous speaker scoffed at this exclamation and the wave of sympathetic sages who cheered this. He slammed his staff against the terrace and bellowed indignant retort. ¡°No matter the sins of Surrellius, we cannot abide the horror of murder on hallowed ground to go unpunished! The witch would run home with our heads if she were granted ¡®forgiveness¡¯! Her character could be disputed for countless days, but what mustn¡¯t be refuted is the lawful retribution for this act! Death reaped must be returned by Malderath¡¯s hand!¡±

    The ardor of this proclamation disrupted any remnant of civil discourse. Enflamed spiteful shouts & waggling curses of the tribunal. These anarchic waves of senselessness peaked the sanctum with tumult. In this shouting match none were the wiser to the banging & slamming occurring at the door of their ivory court. But as the madness escalated to cusp of fisticuffs there came an unforeseen intrusion as the bulk of the gilded doors swung. Slamming against the adjacent walls toppling some of the lavish decorations with piping arrival.

    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    With stern force & posture Drakkon entered the sanctum followed by a herd of courtiers & sentinels. Among this retinue was a surprising companion, Corinna. She who¡¯d been cast in irons and condemned to impending burning or quartering, yet now strode alongside the Living Lord with gutsy, resolute, manner. This astonishing arrival was to the shock & awe of all. His divine presence quieted the squabbling sages who, in their dumbfounded bewilderment, fixated on to this imposing figure whose aura simmered, barely suppressing a burning wrath.

    ¡°I say unto thee, thou who art guilty of plotting this fraudulent and unfounded ¡®tribunal¡¯ against she who brought my form into this breathing world: thou art cast now before a light from which thou cannot hide from! The Light of true justice & penance for thy bedeviled sins of working in the dark against thy Lord and the good of this mortal plane. Any who dare fling menace against the High Mother are e¡¯er worse than the foulest plague bearing rodent. For thou doth evoke a blight steeper than flesh! An affliction borne of diseased spirit & grievous avarice that denies all good graces - of God and man! I call thee out as betrayers ¨C warlocks!¡±

    Drakkon¡¯s call bounded across the walls, granted an ethereal quality in the echo of the raging acoustics. ¡°Lightning shall strike those who are blind to truth and reveal the terribleness of thy secrets. Cease thy snipping, dogs! Hear now the truth from the mouth of the young woman ye were too quick & glad to tear from life as ¡®apostate¡¯! Hear Corinna¡¯s truth and face now the bare veracity of what she suffered and what all too many blindly endorse!¡±

    The gallant apostate-witch bounded forward, driven by resurrected basis of personal vigor, which was not hateful, but as honest as tenacious. Drakkon lifted Corinna atop mezzanine stage. As the withered sage whose tongue was enslaved audaciously against Azarra made to move his forked idiom to defame this witness as ¡®maleficarum¡¯ Drakkon, with mere glance, shrank the man to a beaten pup.

    ¡°I confess to thy congress here that the man in question was the preeminent reason for my departure from this House. Surrellius respected not the barriers, nor rituals, nor space of the oracles. He didst lurk about our flock like some starved beast searching for a vulnerable meal.¡± None would meet her eyeline.

    ¡°All too many times,¡± Corinna continued, ¡°he didst encroach upon us, keep us from sleep. Something foul in his intent shirked me away. Nowhere did I feel safe within these halls. Always I felt the skulking of the sage; knew his longing to take my virtue for his sake. He cornered me once and offered me a ¡®drink¡¯ reeking fetid stench of delirium. When I declined, the Primus pursued me through corridors, spewing putrid threats. Stating he could ensure my immurement with a single word. I followed river of sorrows to the foot of a secret brook along Moribond.¡±

    Corinna verged on tears, visibly pained in retelling her torment to hostile audience. But she resisted slipping to despondent puddle and instead, invigorated by unseen vapor, announced her ordeal. ¡°In the silence of the mountain woods whispers beckoned me unto a path then inconceivable. For the spirits of the wilds came into me, telling of freedom & faith which could be found only in their embrace far from the haven which had become an asylum of dread.¡±

    Titling to Drakkon, her gray orbs flashed curious affection. ¡°¡¯Twas not until this beauteous savior rescued me from the doldrums that I regained my faith in greater future for all peoples & realms. When all of you were all too willing to see me slaughtered beneath the cruel axe of misunderstanding, your Lord came to free me of sickly bonds and redeem my chance, my heart. I learned through his trust that not all is a bleak torrent of unending suffering. For he taught me that there is Light to shine in the darkest night.¡±

    Azarra became aware of confounding feelings churning in her gut upon sensing the shift in the atmosphere. She could feel how Corrinna mystified those who were to be her judges & jury. Caught in a self-spun web of inward bound contempt at being forced to spectate this witch take up the role of her redeemer. She glanced over at her son while Corinna¡¯s diatribe went on.

    ¡°And now,¡± Corinna swayed, ¡°thou wouldst call into question the integrity of this maternal saint & wise matriarch only to preserve false narrative of purity within thy ranks! And so, by the courage endowed by my Lord, I appeal to what purity remains within thee: reject these shackles of hubris to rise with the grace of forgiveness. Only then may ye inherit the world Drakkon & Azarra offer freely to us all!¡±

    Jitters curled over the chapel floors. Sages struggle to relent to indomitable pressure (and the audacity) brought forth by one only freshly given seraphic crown, who stood now in judgement of them. Uncertainty sat stiffly, following the apostate¡¯s admission, with scorn and discomfort simmering in quiet unrest of being shamed by the young woman appearing by the side of her Lord, whose rumble then shook the lull. ¡°Will thee open thine hearts to absolution for this Seer? Let her redemption free thee from shame of courting such foul affiliates as Surrellius!¡±

    After tense beat, a rotund sage with balding head and sonorous voice spoke up to his peers. ¡°We do not wish to evoke the ire of our Living Lord. Nor do we seek to erode the foundations of the Temple which hath stood high through ages. We, great Drakkon, are not all one masse of mindless conformity, nor are we without mercy & reason in ourselves.¡± His belly jiggled about, supping on the suspense before his conclusion. ¡°But alas, the case of Azarra and Corinna proves enlightening as to a level of malevolence infecting our judgement. Thereby I say we temper our misconceptions of these wise women. All in favor of exonerating the accused stand with me!¡±

    A wave of adamant support rose in accord. There were several stolid members of the assembly who stayed seated & un-swayed, hurling disdain. Overwhelmingly the vote stood to vindicate Delphine & Azarra and turn a blind eye to Corinna¡¯s release. The redeemed mother nodded in grateful relief as Delphine bowed, the red wool of her hair a towel to dry sobs. Corinna¡¯s pale cheeks flushed sanguine mercy. She looked at Drakkon with awesome glint.

    Despite this toasty alleviation for the would-be condemned, the crispness beyond the door drafted in. Cold clutches snuffed opulent candles and encumbered even the brilliant braziers. Winter¡¯s hand reached in to halt the discussion. Its apparent finality matched Drakkon¡¯s tone as he withdrew his cortege, Corinna slumped on his shoulders. ¡°This session is adjourned. Who shall succeed as pontiff remains moot. Alas, I wish for thou all to invoke a little wisdom and contemplate a suitable choice, perhaps one of the shamanic castes, after some much-deserved rest. Until then I bid thee a good & virtuous day.¡±

    The Serpent¡¯s Head

    Vintersfal 4<sup>th,</sup> 1329<sup> </sup>CE, Moribond Mountains

    Glazed column of winter¡¯s sun set upon the stone bed and the nearby mountain basin. The warmthless film from above burnished the obsidian blade laid upon the shrine, reflecting it¡¯s ordained owner¡¯s face sublimely. "Such surreal beauty this sword wields,¡± he said, softly tracing the heel of this celestial blade, ¡°what talent & art infused in its craft. Truly astonishing work. I would wager you were divinely inspired.¡±

    With a radiant, mad grin Drakkon grips the hilt and points to the heavens with pride. Ebony edge lifts, as the wind¡¯s harbinger, blowing motion through wielder¡¯s raven mane. Breeze tosse the feathered cowls of the relic¡¯s bearers, encircled. Unique heat beheld him to hold it, as if the sword siphoned the fire of solar sphere though it was forged of abyssal shards begotten of alien worlds.

    With veneration & dignity the makers of the blade bowed low. Together the four masters of blacksmithing, masonry, alchemy & preservation of relics had bound their work to this great edge of stellar substance from that fyre-rock which tumbled to earth and split new fissures in the grand base of Moribond. Such honor shined from their expressions. Even these artists blushed at their patron (deity, even), hearing how pleased the Living Lord was at this creation they enthralled themselves for. The lustrous polish of the black blade tilted up bolstered the already imposing aura of the man - or God, rather -who claimed it as an omen of revolution. His weapon blazing prospect of a dreaming world. That they could take part in its brining form was greater prize than any treasure. Their mutual service found thanks in the genuine joy of their Lord¡¯s beam.

    Then the rugged Lord looked on beyond the shrine to the base of the Temple grounds across the frigid lake which split the vast valley. Scrying sign of wonder from that frozen surface. ¡°My gratitude is immeasurable, all ye masters. Truly this is fit for a god. With it I shall carve out a greater destiny for all our people. Anything thou should ask for in return for this grand work shall be given unto thee.¡±

    The coarse howling of the hilly winds retired their volume and the sparse clouds above drifted out of field. ¡°But my mind still ponders something regarding the material. When I underwent the trial and ventured into the netherworld beneath the mountains, I discovered traces of the ancient ones and their astonishing structures. Their Chimerian legacy remains available under the earth, lacking disrepair despite their absent architects. So, I ask you each for further investment & experimentation within thy reach to search the leagues for more fallen or buried shards. What wonders we might build of our legacy from them. Be they sharpest of spearheads or strongest walls. I dismiss you for now, with honors & blessings.¡±

    The circle of masters slowly separated. Each artisan made their way from the place to conduct their accords. Drakkon remained there, deciding it a perfect hour for meditation. But it was not long until his ruminations on the future, on his ambitions, were impeded by an impromptu awareness of a presence nearing. One given up by bounding steps crashing against stone path between snowy mounds.

    He awakened from his manifestations to see Baron dashing towards him. The bard¡¯s normally acutely tamed brunette locks were matted & twisted as he approached. Sweat speckled the man¡¯s face, and his brown tunic was made damn near black from the soils of running with drastic haste. Given how shallow his breathing, the bard¡¯s lungs were more suited for song than marathon sprint. Baron hurried up the shrine where his friend & master crouched and hailed him with such ardor that it would be comical were it not for the expression which drew long his countenance. His knees almost buckled with ache as he saluted his Lord and addressed him in serious timbre through sparse gasps.

    ¡°Hail to you, Lord! I-I bring grim tidings which require your c-concern...¡± the beat bard ruffled through his tethered satchel to snatch scroll for Drakkon. ¡°Th-these are reports from my contacts to the East. Disclosing glum facts regarding V-Vizzari. Some of these senders were forced to flee back across the Ruun and fear the presence of those serpents pursues them even there.¡±

    Drakkon gave his whole attention to the contents. His visage sharply shifted from high optimism to true concern. While he continued to read the horrors written there, Baron gave voice to the contents of the scroll. ¡°My canaries across the river carry tides of severance. Some silenced, others take flight on wings of atrocities against those few clans who heard your heralds of unity there. Villages burnt to ash or else clad in Vizzari irons. So swiftly they shattered renewing spirits, and it seems even among the Temple they possess unscrupulous spies ¨C no doubt a disgruntled sage or two. They come with force un-paralleled in our clans. I k-know not the number, but the scouts & skalds speak of two or three thousand readied along the shores, with perhaps thrice that count on the eastern beaches. The Serpent¡¯s Head comes.¡±

    ¡°I thought we would be granted the time for a proper assemblage of force to defend against these invaders but alas,¡± Baron harped panic, ¡°a dozen or more ships are bound for Windirin. And frightful fishermen tell of others tailing behind, propped to assault ports along near banks. Who knows how many more chase their dogged lead?! By the gods - and by the devils hounding us - the Vizzar are bent on a lightning war of annihilation! Their vanguard could be here in weeks, with but a month or less till wider legions reach Elderath Valley to Ty-Drasil! And from there they could not only assault us here but spread out to destroy all our peoples; toss those tribes linked by Moribond¡¯s great shelter to pits of extermination!¡±

    Drakkon resisted the compulsion to crumple these scrolls & tear these portends of wicked war. Instead, he swallowed his anger, if but for a blink, and clamped down on Baron¡¯s shivering shoulders. ¡°Come, my friend, let us not give into defeat but ready our swords, axes and bows against the threat. They underestimate winter ¡®cross the other side of the Ruun, and our combined might. They expect to beat both the snowstorms and us swiftly enough to race the season¡¯s end. Yet they run headlong to so sudden an end by our hand. Now, what say you we make our way back up to attend Keeper Ligeia¡¯s feast? These will not be bad odds once we muster all our allies, friend. Not once we rally a trident of Thunder against Vizzarion¡¯s slaves!¡±

 Eye of the Storm

    Chapter Three, Eye of the Storm

    Vintersfal 19<sup>th</sup>, 1329 CE, Eastern edge of Elderath valley

    Heavy boots sloshed their way through the Vizzari camp. A young tribal vassal of twenty & five cycles, a warrior under the sign of the Serpent, newly made a ward-captain in their martial ranks walked alone in the falling rain through the battalion¡¯s camp. The thick blonde mane hooked to his shoulders was drenched by downpour and matted enough to warrant comments from his comrades in passing. Remarks of how he ¡®looks the part of a bloody hound¡¯. But Mordaunt paid them no great mind as he went along to his commander¡¯s tent. For in that thickening gloom a determined gleam grew beneath and onward he followed this drive. That icy sleet befell their camp instead of true snows proved the sky had a mind for mercy, at least for him. The saying that it never snowed in deepest Elderath ¨C ¡®for sake of Her wane-less beauty & Spring ¡®neath her breast¡¯ - proved accurate this campaign. At least as far as blizzards went. Though at times this slush felt close enough.

    The stout-faced soldier peered across valley, this the womb of the world and the soil which would soon be fed on blood shed for the fate of all tribes. Through a small spyglass he looked long out to glean the surrounding mountains. There, far beyond their hulking bounds enemy campfires were outlined in glow of their logs atop the hills & crests. Candles of the forces they would soon face waxed in Mordaunt¡¯s head with answerless questions.

    He wondered just how genuine was this abrupt avalanche claim that had spread far enough to reach his ears when still in the east front. These tales of a ¡®living god¡¯ uniting all tribes under the ether. Near all his life Mordaunt had been a thrall to the Vizzar. Taken as a conscript in their hosts since the magistrate¡¯s men visited his childhood village. Throughout those grueling years of service, the young man hardened, ever alienated from the culture of his people, remaining detached as the bodies piled up around his path. He couldn¡¯t even recall the name of his birthplace, being so bred for battle.

    This burgeoning curiosity about the deific foe on the horizon ensnared the young thrall-captain. For the rumors rippling back East whispered of a greater cause, beyond the iron & steel of indentured warfare. He never denied the pure, primal bliss wedded with the rush of victory and adrenaline that flows as worthy foe¡¯s blood spills by your hand. And yet Mordaunt had grown disillusioned with his status. Slaving always under Serpent banner, for another¡¯s triumph. Now that another had arisen, perhaps a truly formidable adversary at that, a stream of guilt slit his gut where there churned newfound remorse over all those of his own kin; bled the ghostly waters of those he¡¯d slain for the glory of his masters. Cousins and tribesmen, he knew not for the sake of serpentine shackles which he¡¯d strangled them with.

    Mordaunt¡¯s icy blue spheres froze most of those loathsome bubbles of self-stirred hate. What sad droplets fell of his weakness were lost to the rain and washed away. Sheathing his soul, he reached his commander¡¯s post. Finest tapestries & rugs decorate the tent with a hint of Vizzari vanity. An elegantly garbed serf approached the warrior with a feigned, half-formal tone of familiarity. ¡°Might I assist you, ward-captain? The sight of you warms me, but I do not believe our Lord Magister was expecting you-¡±

    ¡°I come with word for our Lord Magister & High Consul, Ba¡¯al,¡± he pressed upon seeing a brow of suspicion flung at him, ¡°I bear sensitive information for our Lord¡¯s refined ears.¡±

    The servant began to protest but before any refined rebuke could come a Vizzari voice bellowed from the tent¡¯s belly. ¡°Is that Mordaunt? -Daunty! Oi! Come partake in our drink, O butcher of Bar¡¯Gheiss!¡±

    A bout of laughter followed the call, likely originating from the bloat of his fellow captain, Belagog. The herald meekly shuffled aside as Mordaunt presented himself to their table. Beside the rotund and grossly gleeful Belagog a couple of other vassals, both of tribal and foreign origin, gathered upon wooden stools and shared in drink, story & cards attended to by their charge at the head of the table.

    ¡°The hag-slayer & wytch-finder is here!¡±

    Malvayn Ba¡¯aal, commander of the ¡®Serpent¡¯s Head¡¯ division and Lord Magister of Fury, welcomed his man with raised glass. This major fulcrum of the Magistrate and pivotal player in the schemes of their Crimson Court forever towered over him. Looming over every act since he¡¯d been taken and fashioned into a soldier, yet the man¡¯s frame was far less imposing than his power. Malvayn was a thin, lanky man with wispy white hair to match his frail, skeletal figure. His face was also far less noble than his bloodline. His nose protruded too far and curved around at the tip, hanging over meek jaw that swung ajar, chattering. His own host, in fact, jokingly remarked at the number of falsely flattering portraits of himself adorning his command posts, stating that ¡°no amount of talent in any painter¡¯s hand could make that man look less of a ghoul¡±.

    The Magister chuckled, a laugh as thin as he, and bid another servant deliver their guest some ale. ¡°Come join us, humble hero. Tis an order! You deserve a little respite after your ¡®heroic charge¡¯ at Bar¡¯Gheiss Gully! Personally, I think you were reckless and endangered our flank with your impulse but nonetheless they say a thousand night-spouses line the brothels waiting to take all your glory in. Ha! Hels know the chieftains¡¯ daughters are aplenty in their readiness too! Pity you are always so grim, else you would¡¯ve joined us in time for an amicable gamble.¡±

    Ba¡¯al indicated the cards & die scattered among their hands. ¡°We were just discussing these rumors about our enemy, this man running rampant with mantle of divine mockery. Have you any thoughts?¡±

    ¡°-I heard he slew thirty men by his own blade and shrugged off a volley of arrows like ¡®twas but a light rain!¡± one of the merry drunks interjected before Mordaunt could answer. Another of them joined in telling tall tales. ¡°I ¡®ere his horse can fly like thunder ¡®cross the sky! That flames spark from his hands! I ¡®erd he brings the dead back to life! Hate to see that bastard in a tight fight if tis true!¡±

    ¡°There won¡¯t be a ¡®tight fight¡¯. Only a culling of the ¡®erd! As Serpent¡¯s Head, we¡¯ll gnash ¡®em!¡±

    As the rabble ceased Mordaunt prepared his answer. ¡°Well, my Lord, I come with concerns of their movements...¡± He sipped of the chalice offered to him, knowing he could use a fair amount to douse his liver and nerves ¨Ceven if he did give a soft, subtle sniff of the elixir¡¯s surface, scanning for any whiff of poison.

    Listening to the stories his peers shared of this Drakkon lit that glint of wonder in the warrior-ward, even though he knew those tales surely stretched past reality. Having heard fabricated retellings of his own efforts before, it was hard not be cynical. Yet the fact that this upstart commanded such respect & fear was magnetic. ¡°I have heard disturbing reports of a change in their numbers & movements that denotes consideration.¡± Mordaunt let his countenance affect worry, to help his bluff.

    The Lord Magister Malvayn merely met this with a dismissive scoff and threw more cards upon the table. ¡°The scouts were clear for many an hour that these backwater savages are perched upon the hill overlooking the western pass. Their spirits & fires may burn bright, but they are cornered, thinking the high ground will grant them advantage or wage attrition. Fools! Ah well,¡± The Magister enjoyed his vintage with pregnant pause, ¡°We hold Elderath. Even should they recruit more louts into their band I fear no change. We broke the Beruvians at Bar¡¯Gheiss. Repelled the Varani counterattack when we took their castle and smashed them against their own walls. We are the Serpent¡¯s Head. We remain so. You worry too much, my boy. Why I have known you since you were but a lad struggling to fit into a man¡¯s armor. And in that time, you have grown into one of my most fearsome commanders. You could earn a place in the Dread Knights. Yet you badger yourself and neglect celebration over a few rebels with hunting bows?¡±

    The others echoed this sentiment with sardonic laughter. Before the conscript-captain could offer any rebuttal his superior gestured silence to all but himself. In drunkenness the man¡¯s tone thawed with the glee of imminent victory and yearning for the spoils after. ¡°Mord- you simply must put down this ill begotten seriousness for an evening and take us up a little game, a fun gambit of risk & wits. Tell me, in what way does triumph¡¯s song call to you? What do you dream of once we return as conquerors, and you stand as a hero despite your peasant¡¯s birth?¡±

    Mordaunt hid his discontent and picked up the hand dealt to him. He pulled the wet strands of his fair net from his face as he glanced at the cards, all the while readjusting his ruse. Staring into his lifelong commander¡¯s eyes he saw the scintillating flare of every fire he¡¯d set for this man¡¯s whim, in his scorching vanity. But though inferno blazed inward, his ever-icy outward gaze veiled this.

    There is no glory in serving as a hound to rein in my own herd for foreign masters. There is no reward on any of the earth¡¯s eight corners that could make me forget my sins against my kin. While you fat fools and hollow heads jeer & jest! Thinking nothing of what ruin you wreak of others¡¯ homes; only of climbing higher on the plague pedestal of politics. Alas my bliss, my consolation for this service to sin shall come soon.

    The half-handsome, quasi-disagreeable looking captain shrugged. ¡°Haven¡¯t given it much thought, truly. I find my passion at the end of the sword when my blade meets an enemy. ¡®Been fighting so long I almost forget the sweets of life. Ah, but I suppose a slight change of pace would be nice: a place to call my own and a sweet lass to make the cold nights that bit warmer? Maybe a daughter to protect & feed till she and my sons grow fat on my labour and till the stead themselves? Help me forget my former bloodthirst through dormer of family perhaps?¡±

    He chortled shortly. Then slung out a strange, decorative, translucent flask of green elixir he poured happily into the chalice set before him. Feigning a strong gulp, Mordaunt made sure not

    to bring the contents of the cup to his lips, acting as though the libation caused intoxicated stagger.

    ¡°What¡¯s that ye got there, friend?¡± Leaned in one his comrades, compelled by the seeming strength of the drink. On cue the others ¡®round followed suit, throwing their rounds in, and leering as Mordaunt played his cards. Gifting then the bauble to curious eyes to feast on.

    ¡°Infernus Diabolus, the draught of bedeviling spirits,¡± Mordaunt whispered mystery, while filling his fellows¡¯ glasses in genial display of comradery. ¡°Tis a rare drink but damn near worshiped for its potency in some circles. A recipe brewed by the ancients that all our ancestors are tied to before the tribes¡¯ scattering ¨C and they knew their shit! ¡®Tis an invocation that invites the mind¡¯s eye see faeries dance in the air. But can also welcome the mischief of imps should one be in the wont.¡±

    The bottle twinkled in Mordaunt¡¯s eye, winked reflection of his past. By same emerald glow of the witch¡¯s crystal...

    ...The woods about the hut moaned tune of soul-sundering gales. A somber, alto tone. The young warrior, garbed in a thick dark cloak with no emblem of allegiance drew near to this heathen hearth. A ramshackle abode perched upon stone legs in shape of avian-reptilian hybrid (perhaps a wyvern or a manticore). Thatch, cobble & wood of the hut groaned hum of its own as the door swung to greet the pilgrim. This visitor¡¯s blue eyes fixated on a crystal orb floating in the center, seducing him in with its dubious splendor winking in its sapphire. Green sheen of smog melding with incense smoke drifted promise, allure of secrets unveiled. His left hand dangled about his sheathe, ready to release the blade into the hag who inhabited this dim abode, should she prove as despicable as the legends made out. Indeed, her home had been as those witless knaves told.

    Though no face formed of the mist which prodded the door, a weathered voice croaked greeting. ¡°You are not like the others who brood on Baba¡¯Yun¡¯s doorstep. You do not come asking for sweet little charms & blessed talismans, no! Murder lines your iris, child! But murder for whom? Perhaps not me but a true enemy? You hath not drawn steel against Baba¡¯Yun yet despite it being the will of your masters,¡± The ailing aria of alto airs aided this ancient woman¡¯s approach, carried her throaty croon outside, ¡°those serpents.¡±

    Before he could speak, even think a counter curse or doubt, the low gusts brushed Mordaunt into the witch¡¯s dome. The crone glid ethereally toward him, defying her advanced age, slipping through shadow. She leaned in; her wan & shabby & yet obscenely obese features obscured by a cauldron¡¯s mist. ¡°Alas, it appears you are not even fully aware of what brought you here.¡±

    ¡°How-? Wherefore do you speak of my ¡®masters¡¯, witch?! How claim you to know whom I serve?¡± Mordaunt¡¯s voice, though loud & impassioned, wavered with underlying ripple of fear.

    The hag cackled madly as though she¡¯d been asked the most childish question in all her long years. ¡°My boy, you smell of Vizzari snakes & walk in the shade of carrion birds! You need no sigil for Baba¡¯Yun to know what you are! And yet I sense a spirit dwelling beyond those little orbs, longing for release. Hmm, perhaps that heart beating so steep in that chest holds righteousness in it? Perhaps there is more to this shell of you than an apostle of death?¡±

    Her grotesque gut belches its breadth out in wytch-fog; torque spins out slender womanly shapes, splitting in twain, born of mist womb. Then her flabby folds regrow as scabs of skin, bursting from the opaque steam. Half vapor yet fleshy, with bulging gibbous eyes. ¡°Bare thy face!¡±

    Mordaunt felled the cowl about his neck. Ragged curtains of dirt yellow fell over his face, covering unease. He knew there was no purpose in pretending he was here for any other reason. He gave dreary admittance to the wise woman. ¡°If you See, truly, then you¡¯d know my true loyalty lies not with those vultures. But yes, I was sent by the Vizzar to slay & quell your superstition. They fear that practitioners of old faiths will only stir up trouble or cast curses on their ambitions for this land. The man who brings them your head shall be rewarded with riches & prominence.¡±

    He confessed fully to the crone, who contorted between gaunt & corpulent. ¡°I-I agreed to take up this task only to see for myself. So long in life I hath been torn from the traditions of my people. I worry for my soul every day my sword sheds blood of those defending their hearths. I wanted to see if there was any truth to magick. & to prophecy the heath-folk praise you for.¡±

    A gangly nail slid across her wrinkled chin. ¡°Hmm, again you are not as the others who hath come moons past. Few men would come to Baba¡¯Yun¡¯s domain knowing our power. Fewer still would come bereft of allies into our den, after admitting brazen hostility. What deeper cry calls you to us if you yet know it?¡±

    ¡°I am not afraid of you, witch. But I do not wish my sword to taste your blood nor my spirit to incite red curses. I merely want answers... a small hope?¡± Mordaunt rubbed his temples, at odds with the emotions diverting his thoughts with confounding tide. ¡°I fear only aimlessness. No death but one draped in ignominy.

    ¡°Fear clouds your blue... you are not afraid of us but yourself. Or a fear of what you might become? Shall we read your future? No cost, as trade for life. Might we carve a pact?¡±

    ¡°Yes, show me... What must I do?¡± He¡¯d asked. But not asked: Your life or mine to trade?

    Cracks, tears & boils showed in the woods witch¡¯s visage as her smile crept over him. ¡°Lil¡¯It! Hek¡¯ate! Come, daughters & grant our guest the vinum sabbathi!¡±

    The hag summoned her ¡®daughters¡¯. Two ¡®twins¡¯ of twenty or so cycles. Dual spheres, spinning in contrast. The first cast of Selenic beauty. The second, her equal though with aspect of an eclipse upon the Sol. One with moon-silver mane; beside her sister, whose locks were laden with midnight, lit by orange meteorite streaks; carmine & nocturne betwixt luscious lines. They chant, larking as smooth as their well-oiled skin, and pour watery essence into wood goblet.

    ¡°Drink of the spirits¡¯ draught. Let them guide you to true Sight!¡±

    The lone soldier drank his cup dry, finding the strange concoction queerly soothing despite the slight burn as it travelled his gullet. Weird shivers cascaded along his spine in a serpentine stream of sudden separation. It felt as though his veins froze over, the rivers of blood therein blockaded. His arms fell stiffly, seeming but feckless, flimsy things. Persona melting, his limbs chained to paralytic shakes.

    The one daughter wove herself about him as a nymph of most blessed vision. Her silver-blonde locks fell lovingly over shoulders. Her pale gray eyes bewitched, pulled him into her, mouth to her water.

    ¡°What hex hast thou cast upon me?¡± The disoriented man managed to blurt after much struggle to retain knowledge of speech. His hands convulsed while he wrestled to regain his muscles. Yet he could not keep his mind from splintering apart; sovereign thought raptured of surreal hurricane, conjuring sprites & fae about his head and the shambling hut of stone & straw.

    ¡°We are showing you to yourself,¡± whispered the other, breath licking his ear, ¡°won¡¯t you dance with us? Can you hear the Muses calling you to?¡±

    The elderly matriarch hovered over Mordaunt as his vision veered. Her hands held the crystal ball, beaming a surge to absorb his world. Shapely shadows danced in the sphere of light; a puppet play of dream silhouettes & flakes of memories yet to come. He gaped at realization that he was wrapped in an infinite number of spindly threads binding his limbs. And through enclosing webs gleaned abomination of cosmic scale. Pulling and spindling these webs was a colossal Chimera. An arachnid appendaged entity, with bust of bear fused with lupine lion, affixed with a beak; feathered wings flapping over protruding ribcage, a microcosm of verminous wyrms & silk-snakes that spat a webbed serpent tail that stretched to a scorpion¡¯s at its end. Winding the stars in its clout and rolling the fabric of life into sealed cocoon.

    On the brink of asphyxia, the web spun through eye & esophagus. Leaving only a malleable darkness, and within that void he heard spidery warble. ¡°Now you are nothing,¡± the hag¡¯s cry rang through his skull with the trumpets of pagan thunder, ¡°now you are free. Free to become something! Gone is that thrall of Vizarri! The marrow of the Magistrate is bled from thee while fate¡¯s waters pool elsewhere. Destiny calls you up to service of light. Can you see it within? Let it pierce your chest lest you sink in endless murk. Peer deeper, ask why you sacrificed dignity & freedom for nest of scavengers?¡±

    Though his sight drowned in tears Mordaunt could see glittering effigy within that shifting orb. Pale emerald fog formed face of Ba¡¯al. He watched a shade of his childhood be swallowed by the avatar of the man-snake and felt again that dusk descent of his heart, as the day he¡¯d been taken from his family & beaten tribe to be made a fang of foreign state. ¡°They ¨C they took it... I was never given the chance to know myself ¨C to know my folk... I am but a babe in the woods of war and am so utterly lost at times. I ¨C I want to be my own man and not a slave to wickedness, but I worry I lack the strength... I want to believe I can live to restore & lead my people ¨C find a reason to awake ¨C but what way is there but death & despair?¡±

    The witch placed withered hand on his shoulder. Her hazy eyes, so clouded, mirrored the orb she propped before him. ¡°There is a way... Your heart knows it and basks in that hidden hope. Look more, plunge further... Do you see your light shining solidly as a hero? One now knowing ¡®why¡¯ he wields a sword? Can you hear those songs of your true folk praise your return? Will you cast aside your fetters and free others, as well as yourself? Do you not hear the Fates¡¯ demand? Hear the Muse of liberating Thunder?¡±

    ¡°The Living Light of Drakkon hath returned, proud warrior. A new cause by ship of his Storm, his crowned crest! A gift of your heart¡¯s hope blossoms in this dire night. The Vizzar do not march against scattered clans, but a united force Chosen to win. You are to be chosen too, a servant to this revolution! You shall be an acolyte of the Old Ways granting muscle to their form. To glory you shall ride and live in the magick of our gift! But you must atone for old sins with blood, fire, death & life; with seed and scepter...¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± Mordaunt groaned, with resolve even in his stupor, ¡°I embrace what must be done. Be it by flesh or spirit!¡±

    ¡°The spirits are pleased you accept their mantle as champion. Hek¡¯ate! Bring us the stave posthaste.¡± And the silvery haired girl skipped off to the dense umbra of the hut¡¯s other chamber, for only an instant to resurface with a metal prod. ¡°The Light marks your flesh with fresh life! Let it burn into heart with freedom¡¯s fire!¡± Baba¡¯Yun brought scorching brand heated over cauldron onto exposed chest.

    When his unwitting whimpers died the crone proceeded in prophecy. ¡°Ye shall grow in new light to become a leader of men. To upraise banners of thy house & blood! Ye shall know love & beget a child of our brood. Io, womb of wytch & warrior-king! That seed shall bloom to inherit a kingdom! Ye shall know this and more firsthand if the lifeblood of thy current warden and holder of chains is spilt. We shall help in this task if you dare accept the Fates hands?¡±

    ¡°Yes... Yes. I-I give you this body. Open my heart this moment and extend my arm... Let my hand be that of destiny.¡± Agreed Mordaunt. The witch¡¯s daughters caressed him, peeled away his waterlogged raiment. Penumbra canopied his vision, and his spirit watched outside his body as phantom to itself...

    When he awoke daylight peeked between the hut¡¯s apertures. He was bereft of clothes but covered in a thick wool blanket, lying in unfamiliar bed. Eyes blurry, he surveyed the room and let awareness seep back into him. An eerily recognizable aroma wafted into his drowsy nostrils, carrying wisps of magick & foreboding spirits in its scent. A cauldron bubbled a few meters from his low bed, and he noticed all the mysterious & uncanny concoctions which adorned the cabinet shelves.

    The wooden door creaked open as the decrepit, yet spirited, Baba¡¯Yun entered to the tune of flute music springing from her daughter¡¯s lips, creeping through the opening. ¡°Baba¡¯Yun is pleased to see you return from peace-blessed rest. Was the journey to the astral realm a pleasant one, we wonder? Does your mind recall what oaths were uttered last eve?¡±

    Adumbration of doldrum was his mind. Though slowly, like the glistening of her crystal ball, remembrance peaked through the malaise. Dancing gems of blood & fire & of witches¡¯ carnal union & dream-song of a churning vengeance. He rubbed his temples and stood to stretch, unhindered by need of modesty in this thorny temple. ¡°I do. I recall the prophecy your words wove, wise woman. My hands are ready to draw the string of our bow. If what you showed me truly was the tapestry of fate, then I shall ride on this tempest with courage & fire rekindled.¡± For a moment his gaze lost hers, drooped in sudden doubt. ¡°But I would be lying were I to say I know how to achieve this ideal of which we spoke. Fate seems far.¡±

    Once more the thin walls of her hut abounded with that shrill cackle she possessed. Devilish delight rode out from her throat but lacking tinge of mockery her laugh once invoked. ¡°Baba¡¯Yun is wise not only for our truest Sight but for our readiness to weave destiny of our own hands. For your ¡®visit¡¯ here could have ended many, many ways and yet you arise a welcomed guest & friend of Baba¡¯Yun and our precious daughters, yes.¡±

    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

    The hag shrieked her daughters through the door. Near immediately the flute music ceased and the spritely footsteps of the maidens scampered at the beckoning of their Matron. ¡°Lil¡¯It! The boy¡¯s body craves its curtains!¡± And with this command the gorgeous pagan girl danced the rim, cradling his dried attire. With a blush Lil¡¯It offered their guest his clothes, her watery tinge resplendent as the sun illumed her beauty. Platinum mane kissed her neck to lower back. Clearly from the shine in her eyes there was something memorable for her in last night¡¯s events as well.

    ¡°Hek¡¯ate! Will you fetch us the prize?¡± Her daughter disappeared in seconds.

    Baba¡¯Yun tilted down, the ligaments of her spine showing through her fibrous but plump skin scooping contents of the cauldron. She poured a more pleasant green liquid into translucent flask, held in her time-worn hand. ¡°What we gave you before was the vinum sabbathi, a potion that indulgences in a moderate usage of the potentially lethal mandrake root. But you were only in danger of yourself. This here is Infernus Diabolus, the cursed drink which spells death for most mortals who imbibe of its poison nectar. When the stars align you must offer it to your current master... Once he hath perished you shall belong entirely to yourself. Your only master then shall be the Light burning within your heart which shall blossom through the guidance of the Living Lord. You will find Him, and He shall have you, or what of you is His.¡±

    Mordaunt accepted the elixir, though his brow creased with morbid doubt. ¡°I thank you, wise woman of ageless insight, for your aid. But how am I to convince my ¡®comrades¡¯ of my success - in that which I came here to do by their will? They will not accept failure. Should they learn of your life remaining unextinguished, a Serpent¡¯s Head squadron will be here for you and your daughters by next sundown while I hang from boughs... My heart does not waver, believe me, yet I confess ignorance of how to serve this higher destiny.¡±

    Baba¡¯Yun¡¯s gargantuan paunch befit her hut, this belly of fortune and spilling prophecy. Yet this protrusion tilted upon chicken legs, ambling despite all reason. As though stalking upon stilts, she lifted above her promised guest as she presents a parting gift. In a Deja vu inciting show, the younger daughter returned, bearing a grotesque charm. She held up a shrunken, ghoulish visage of contorted feature mummified in deathly gray. Something in those empty sockets bore black magick and impending strife from lifeless stillness.

    ¡°Give this token to those craven slavers who masquerade as conquerors. Oh, how their wee callow minds will believe it to be the head of a witch just slain. For they fear & accept in their pitiful brains that we, disciples of the Old and the True, are inhuman monsters that return to a form, more horrid than their actions, come the knell of death. Go now, as thy whim bids, and forget not what we hath promised each other.¡±

    ¡­Mordaunt shook the haze of recall, returning to the promised task. The near past fell from his shoulders like damp drops as he leaned over the table to assess this tomb to be.

    ¡°Looks like victory in this round belongs to me, my good men!¡± Shouted the gleeful Magister, his smile crooked with deluded boast of imminent triumph. Mordaunt¡¯s hatred grew to encompass every curvature of the man¡¯s face, loathing those wrinkles and laugh lines won from the misery of the tribes whose blood he bathed in as a pool of his glory.

    ¡°I believe this earns you the right for something stronger to satiate that victorious liver of yours, my lord!¡± Mordaunt offered the poisoned flask to his employer, a cordial countenance disguising the malice that boiled within the furnace of his belly.

    Malvayn denied the offer, dryly waving it away. ¡°Alas, I prefer not to mix my spirits, even those offered by my most valiant of servants. Indeed, I shall retire soon. For I taste much already & must save strength for the true game, come dawn. When we stand upon the hill of triumph and look down over our foes, shackled in defeat then we shall drink with well-earned revelry! Tomorrow ye shall all be blessed by the strength of our Serpent¡¯s coil!¡±

    To this, a few troops cheered with their mugs, drunken on jubilant dream of luxurious rewards. All of them so supremely unaware that death harbored in their stomachs, docking venom. Mordaunt was not deterred by this refusal, nodding in seeming agreement as the gears of his mind turned with the momentum of determination.

    It is better this way. Better that I must seize the reins of fate with these blistered hands. Better that I get to look you in the eye and watch your wretched light fade to endless black, o Ba¡¯al. ¡°There is another matter ¨C of a more personal nature ¨C that I wish to discuss with you before you take your rest, my Lord of Fury.¡±

    ¡°Oh? What might that be, conscript?¡±

    ¡°Well, I must console your ears alone in this given the subject¡¯s sensitive nature...¡± Mordaunt let the vague implication linger for a beat before whispering the lure of his words to his prey. ¡°Something that Physician Alvus asked me to report to you in private regarding his last session with you. It regards a certain ¡®damsel¡¯, shall we say, who you became familiar with at Rosalie¡¯s Tavern...¡±

    A flushed embarrassment trounced Malvayn¡¯s mien. He slurped the rest of his chalice with a weary sigh. Eye rolled back in misty film. ¡°The harem girl...¡± The aged monger of Fury wiped away dank beads. ¡°Yes, yes. Let us step out for a moment and hear what good Albrecht wants us to know. We do hope you are the bearer of good news this eve and not the harbinger of ill fortune.¡±

    With a frail chuckle this Lord Magister gestured his ward out the folds of their tent, to the suspicion & confusion of his servants. ¡°Men, when we return, we wish this place less full & frenzied. We pray thee find rest in thine quarters to prepare well for the dawn.¡±

    The pair walked drearily through evil afterglow of the sky¡¯s cascading drapery. The deluge drowned out the sounds of drumbeats and drunken cries from the sprawling camp as they made for the outskirts. The worried Magister turned to his confidant, propping a veiny hand on his shoulder. Prodding the man who warned him he would need open air in the wake of this private revelation. ¡°What is it?¡±

    ¡°You are going to die, my Lord.¡± Mordaunt stated with frigid indifference of sleet.

    The last of his hue fled from the Magister of Fury¡¯s face and shivers, beyond cold, phased his spine. ¡°Wha-? Can this be so? I knew myself cursed, but with fatal spell? What did physic Alvus say? Is it a heathen fever? A plague? Surely, he can concoct a cure! I¡¯ll pay for it with what fortune we reap of this primitive place!¡±

    ¡°Do you remember the evening I joined your ranks? Do you recall that night the Vizzar stormed the village which was to be my home? Their charred corpses and littered limbs visit my nightmares nightly...¡± Realization of his situation dawned too late for his game, but the hunter roared his kill over storms. ¡°This is for twenty years clasped to your scales, snake! No one wrenches my destiny from me, least of all an ineffectual cur like thee!¡±

    With this abrupt declaration of murderous enmity Mordaunt plunged his dagger into the magister¡¯s side. Holding a cupped hand over his stunned & disoriented prey, he spat blackened ire. ¡°I make a victim of you as you made of ten thousand lives! This is for the families your vanity ravaged! All the lives you placed in chains! More than merely mine! Face their Furies!¡±

    Another steep jab through the ribcage and Ba¡¯al keeled over feebly. This proud Lord of Vizzari, one of the three Heads of the Serpent¡¯s crowning Court, reduced to squirming vermin. Writhing in futile attempt to ward off the numerous blows that followed. ¡°This is for the brothers you tore against one another! This is for those courageous souls who stood up for our gods when your serpent priests threatened us with fire or submission to that wretched cult you call a ¡®faith¡¯! This is for seeking to sup glory of my people¡¯s culling!¡±

    Malvayn made attempt to speak ¨C or to scream ¨C but could only splatter blood and regurgitated wine as he heaved from the stabbing pain. He capsized with loss of vitae. Mordaunt unleashed this beast inside him on another. ¡°Look into the eyes of a man you thought so small, so below you. See this ¡®servant¡¯, this savage boy made slave soldier to your rank: made the master of your life through death. Fate is such a funny thing is it not?!¡±

    Mordaunt¡¯s dagger ripped into tender flesh, beneath fecklessly beautiful cloth, like lupine claws. Contents of Ba¡¯al¡¯s exposed gut and spilling innards pooled a morbid puddle about this sludge that was to be his burial layer. Desiccation came upon his throat. How could rain or frost ever sate such a thirst in the killer? Only glimpsing the Light of purpose could sustain him then.

    Taking a couple contended breaths, he wiped the blood off the dagger which wasn¡¯t yet swigged by murky drops. Cleansed the crimson prize rewarded for his slaying Malvayn. His betrayer clothed himself in the of the fateful writ of the forest hag, Baba¡¯Yun. With blood & thunder I accept new light into my life! Embolden my fate for a greatness beyond the past!

    An Unexpected Arrival

    Meanwhile, across Elderath valley

    The sleet ceased, leaving only a lugubrious miasma & anticipation¡¯s sickness coating the dale. Azarra stood over the grime on high precipice trying to pierce the distant bonfires, that would soon be made into funeral pyres by her son¡¯s hand. The drapery hid those crypts of enemy camps from sight, but she felt their far off smoke. It also kept her & elegantly clad companion, whose face kept further shadow by his dark-crimson cowl. Wisps of musky aroma emanating from his pipe form gloomy halo about his head. Here the two conversed, a secret covenant away from the prying eyes of the Drakoni encampment on the outskirts of the valley, abuzz with the rumble of blood¡¯s storm.

    Azarra¡¯s dual-hued eyes beset upon the emissary, this alleged druid. The left emerald led her shine, at first, till waves of watery blue intrigue swept over her right. Though this man had been welcomed into their camp as one of the enigmatic, near fabled druids some hidden caution burrowed into her brain. Vermillion, feathers adorned his garment and regal poise made him seem far more like a lord than a hermit of the forest. She asked honesty of him, entrusting to not need her guards. ¡°How strange that one such as you would seek so special an audience. I thought you druids were too stoic in your ways to be concerned with the affairs of we mortals. At least your humour isn¡¯t ill. Will you tell why, stranger, you come?¡±

    ¡°It is strange, admittedly. Yet I intuit that you are well versed in strangeness too. And I sense that things shall continue to become ever more bizarre. But I am no ordinary man, restricted by the regular; least so among my kin in the druids.¡± The smoky figure unveiled his cowl to show a dark mane divided by alabaster strands, half-translucent follicles with fiber of wisdom of age beyond his years. His face was not far older than her own, lined by a set of sunken, colorless eyes that were not unkind. A gentle hand shook Azarra¡¯s. ¡°My answer is long with reasons I hope you shall grant time to hear. But know that I come to pledge myself to your aim, Lady.¡±

    She eyed him with eager curiosity as he spoke. ¡°The name which I gave to your sages & soldiers was but an alias. I am Aris of House Abraxas, third born son of the reigning Magister-¡±

    ¡°-Vizzari?¡± the sound left her lips, escaped as shock. Suddenly his hand¡¯s phantom clasp was not comforting but menacing.

    ¡°But I am no servant of the Serpent, nor kin to that House any longer. I was cast out into exile by my father¡¯s cruel ire. When the fear & jealousy that boiled beneath his noble fac?ade lashed out against me, despite my innocence. The hope of the Abraxas line belonged solely to my elder brother, Mithran, who possessed all the outstanding glamour befitting a regent¡¯s heir and whose words always aligned with the statutes of my father. I know you must see the Vizzar as agents of oppression with no hearts nor passions beyond plundering the land and tormenting your people but there is a vast web beneath the surface. Wherein one thread pulled will unravel the multitude of schemes & corruption that make up the tapestry of our society - so distant from the purity with which your tribes live out their ancestral ways.¡±

    ¡°Purity? May I trust your speech is pure, even as you hath yet confessed to a lie already?¡±

    ¡°No lie beyond reserving my true name for your understanding ears. I am indeed an ordained Druid, this amulet earned. No less, one knowing of Vizzari¡¯s weakness.¡±

    Azarra taunted him, half-playfully, his mystery engendering intrigue. ¡°Did that ¡®weakness¡¯ force you to flee to play at druid migration for a time? Till, perhaps from lack of refinement, you found us?¡±

    ¡°Their weakness, not mine. Both my brothers in Druidry ¨C who wilt before lifting a hand to the worldly ¨C and of Vizzari: ¡¯Tis weakness masked as malicious strength. A bluff, but a brutal one. See, the people of the Magistrate do not live within sphere of golden splendor as those our avarice afflicts might believe. The spoils of war reach only the linen pockets of the elite, while regular citizens are but scales of the serpent. Disposable and made to be shed when their service is no longer fruitful. All for those who prop themselves upon their backs. Pointing out such flaws from a high pedestal where I would be heard pleased my father little. He resented me for seeing beyond his grandstanding and the machinations of the courts.¡±

    Aris bared brightly back into Azarra¡¯s gaze. ¡°Magistrate politics is a festering mud pit. The ¡®scales of the Serpent¡¯ state shifting soil to never be sturdy enough to build a lasting foundation. A skin constantly being shed. A precarious bed inside, in contrast to the beauty of our architecture and outward poise of Crestfall. Plots are hatched by night & day by those with gleam of greed in their eyes. Who envy the success of others and, like parasites, seek to drain them of their wealth & steal fleeting glory as theirs. Such was the fate of my eldest brother: ensnared by these frivolous hunters of tithe & titles... Mine: to exile. My father¡¯s finger fell upon me as the lamb of sacrifice. But he could not suffer the public disgrace of having his own blood, however disdained, executed before the gaping masses. Forlorn and forsaken, I was forbidden to enter the cities of my people and ridden of any means in this dismal world.¡±

    ¡°Ah, so you could not serve the Vizzar even if you sought to? You were denied all but pagan life of Druidry and hope to find new kindling through me?¡± She performed a dainty cough, acting as if his pipe-smoke bothered her, when in truth it reminded her of Gaahl¡¯s habit.

    ¡°If you wish to simplify it, my Lady. I sought out the fabled druids and in time proved worthy. Only they were willing to take me in. Maybe out of pity, for I arrived at Felhenge grove famished & with nowhere else to turn. Whether they knew of my heritage ¨C or sin - they spoke not of it. Lucky, that my literacy impressed them enough to train. Good that my Magister father¡¯s library served me more than he. They initiated me into their fraternity. Taught me the ways of the bard, the skald, and the Druid. I glimpsed insights unknown ¨C unthinkable ¨C to most. Delved into the buried histories, learning of customs long forgotten and hearing of lands lost to time.¡±

    Aris¡¯s pipe vanished into his sleeve with the last, lingering wisps. ¡°The life of a scholar of spirit and steward of earth gave me newfound purpose for a time. The sanctity of the Druids¡¯ seal protected me from any ill wilt hand. Even the Magistrate will not risk a Druid¡¯s curse to strike a follower of the Hidden Path. Nor would your tribes see me anymore as an adversary to be hung or butchered on sight for my place of birth. And yet, under this mantle, my passion & true purpose remained absent. My brothers do not change the world with their wisdom, they only observe & record it. To be perched on apathy when my home corroded under misery did not suite me.¡±

    His chest puffed with chivalrous poise of affirmed purpose and Azarra considered Aris strangely striking in that second. ¡°When I heard of this Drakkon, this Living Light, you raised from the ether, I answered voice in my soul. A call to serve a meaningful order with the purity of vision and the ambition to act. Seeing you, beauteous Mother, confirms this purpose. The presence of your soul, power & potential which ripples through you into all those who believe in your cause. I ask you to accept me into your ranks, that I can provide the knowledge of the Vizzar & druids alike to aid in your war against the crimson courts. Will you have me, High Mother?¡±

    Azarra reached out with dominant hand to brush aside the crimson robe to see the man¡¯s chest, displaying hanging amulets of druid caste. Archaic symbols were etched in the runes of his ornaments but where they pressed onto his chest stood stranger markings still. For there, beneath his vestments: the branding of Exile, a snake of fire dissected from its coil. A mark she¡¯d only glanced in the dusty tomes of the Temple she¡¯d ¡®borrowed¡¯. Truly he was a man of his word there. Yet something so confounding hung in the silence between them still. ¡°Why do you wish to serve me? What is it that truly draws you to me this eve? I see the passion within you, yes, but not the reasons for investing it in me.¡±

    She sounded almost as embarrassed as she did skeptical, as though she could not fathom why a saint of legend would seek out so lonely a soul as hers. Aris held his hand over hers, laying new bond. ¡°Decades back I saw your proclamation. I witnessed your miracles, see one in you now, even. So ethereal: watching your ascension out of the nether into divinity. I became then fascinated by you & your cause, although I admit the pressure my former kin of the Vizzar and that warlord Kassan,¡± Azarra winced at the mention of the name before her stare suddenly hardened. This did not go unobserved by Aris¡¯ keen sight despite his speech staying smooth, ¡°had me worried for a time that you would fail. But you transcended the odds of circumstance. You paint the canvas of causality, not simply fit to be the scenery. I wish to know miracles and find fate through you. That is, if you would have me?¡±

    Aris bowed with grace. Charm written along his lips. He kissed the top of Azarra¡¯s hand, and a rush of adrenaline coursed through her ring finger through every vein. Some part of lurched to recoil. But the rest felt suddenly so powerful a sorceress & lovely a woman that she could compel men of any order to worship at her heels. More than that this kindred spirit had observed her progress, which first caused shudder but brought blush of his reverence. Something about this man drew her into him, an invisible hook reeling her spirit to his through line of some unspoken trauma shared between them. Parallel passion & pitch of loss burning of their hearts.

    Her eyes cuddled his chest again. Such sturdy build for a wandering wiseman. She suppressed a giggle, imagining Aris pulling himself up from branches of hermit groves and running as a wolf, bounding on all fours, over untampered stone for exercise. These chain-linked fires crackled together, roaring bright. ¡°I will have you, fascinating friend. That you have taken so long a stride from your old order shows you are as ambitious as honest. And thus, I know you shall prove a worthy ally. ¡®Miraculous¡¯ as I may be to thee, I still stumble in the dark of the gathering storms at times. But to have another radiant mind to alight the way by my side should yield honor.¡±

    Humble gratitude washed his ashen eyes. For a while no words needed exchange in intuitive connection shared. But Azarra wished to press the reliability of her new ally a bit further and let another question swim out her mouth. ¡°Do you know of Baron? You¡¯d experience with the order of skalds, either aspiring or pretentious troubadours. Did you know our bard prior?¡±

    A warm laugh escaped Aris. ¡°What soul still with ears has not heard of the legendary bard himself? Ah yes, I was vaguely familiar with the fellow. He struck me as largely immersed in his art and in its ability to project his reflection, rather than being one to get involved in such dangerous affairs. Perhaps he too has changed since we were both young. As I¡¯d not seen him in countless cycles ¡®twas surprise to know him among your camp. If you are asking what I feel of his purpose in joining I cannot honestly say, although I would wager it is largely a point of self-interest. I would never accuse a member of the order, however removed, of spying but perhaps he has hopes of raising his prestige through your beauteous curtails? Such as artists are.¡±

    Their courting dance was abruptly shortened by the stampeding of iron boots up their high perch. They turned to see two sentinels bolting with cheeks red from haste. Aris drew his cowl back up about him. The quicker of the runners¡¯ pair gasped to Azarra. ¡°H-High Mother, praise thee!¡± managing to keep the formality of title stroking even in his exasperation and hurry. ¡°I bring a message from the Lord of Liv-liv-in Light Himself who asks your immediate presence at the base camp!¡±

    ¡°Regarding what?¡± she asked cynically.

    ¡°Regarding a prisoner of the enemy who came to parley. He wishes to ask your approval in turning from the Vizzar to the Light of our cause, my most High Mother!¡± chimed in the newly arriving second sentinel. ¡°A man rode to our outpost bearing a white linen fabric- ¡°

    ¡°-an appeal for diplomacy!¡±

    ¡°-and for peace!¡±

    The two messengers bounced report, allowing the other to take breaths while the other continued.

    ¡°He says he has a gift...¡±

    ¡°-one he refuses to reveal to any eyes but your own...¡±

    ¡°-most Eminent eyes!¡±

    ¡°Our Lord pressed for utter haste, my Lady of Light.¡±

    ¡°We apologize for taking so bloody l-long, we knew not where to find you along the sides of the valley. Please forgive us and accept our envoy from our Lord!¡±

    Delphine was first to greet Azarra as she descended the dale camp. Confusion curled her brow and the others¡¯. Heron led Drakkon onto the scene, disgruntled to be interrupted by this hassle of an intruder. In the center of their small circle several sentinels delivered the source of the trouble. Shoving a man with face tucked behind a prisoner¡¯s hood. ¡°What¡¯s this all about?¡± asked Azarra & Drakkon in near unison.

    Heron shifted a sagging & soaked satchel, showing it to his superiors. ¡°This man rode in from the enemy encampment claiming he brought us a ¡®gift¡¯. He waved us the white flag of parley. He asks we hear out his plea.¡± While his tone was neutral, that of relaying information to his commander, Heron¡¯s countenance displayed distrust for this all-too willful hostage.

    Muffled sounds pushed from the black cowling over the man¡¯s face. While indistinguishable these words were not the frenzied cries of a fearful soul, a fact which intrigued Drakkon. Lowering himself down to face the kneeling prisoner the Lord removed the grim hood. ¡°I shall let the man speak for himself. Bring this ¡®offering¡¯ of his to me.¡±

    Mordaunt¡¯s blue spheres stabbed at Drakkon like shards of crystalline diamond. Amazement then came to gaze upon the Lord of Living Light. No apprehension nor enmity radiated from their mutual stare, simply a desire to understand the other.

    ¡°My Lord,¡± Heron cautioned, ¡°be wary! This man could well be an agent of the Vizzar come to commit perfidy under ruse. The satchel may contain poison or some other treachery. Let us take the risk for you should this prove to be as wicked as my heart warns me.¡±

    Drakkon did not turn his unblinking eyes from the prisoner as his voice smacked Heron¡¯s ears. ¡°Are you so lacking in faith in us, o brother of Light, that you fear some mortal instrument could harm us? I do not fear the hands of lesser men, nor flee from the serpent¡¯s venom. Let him give voice to his conscience and we alone shall decide. We are yet to weigh his soul.¡±

    Heron reluctantly handed drenched sack over to his Lord, bowing penitently. Drakkon ungagged the prisoner while bearing the heavy satchel. Calmly he asked, ¡°Who are you & what is this you bring?¡±

    Mordaunt inhaled, relieved to embrace fresh air that had been denied to his lungs by the rags tethered to his mouth. Mustering his purpose, the shackled blonde arrestee offered his truth to his inquisitor. ¡°I am Mordaunt, formerly conscript of the Vizzar ¨C a position I recanted earlier with the death of my ¡®commander¡¯. For years I toiled in blood & tears beneath the heel of the Vizzari legion. Maimed my cousins in the tribes and my soul for the spoils of craven wyrms. My soul is weighted by my sins, m¡¯Lord. But I seek redemption and, if you would take me, a place among your sacred cause... I do not come empty handed, for redemption is ne¡¯er easily won. In that bag is the head of your adversary, Magister of Fury, Malvayn. A token in tribute to your triumph.¡±

    Drakkon stuck vigilant captivation to Mordaunt and allowed him to his feet. He withdrew the contents of satchel. A severed human head tangled up his fingers. A grotesque and pallid thing. Adorning the ghoul¡¯s brow: an ornate circlet with the serpent¡¯s crest. ¡°This is the supposed face of the Serpent¡¯s Head? It appears to me no greater a trophy than that of a common vulture... Tell me, Mordaunt, why should I trust a man who so proudly admits treachery against his former master? Why welcome into our ranks one who put many of ours to sword and stake?¡±

    ¡°I confess my sins in open air, Lord. One who holds deceit inside would ne¡¯er unwind the truest threads of their soul which I so willingly show you. I ask to be freed of this husk of a man, I am. Of this shade of a soldier bitten by Vizzari fangs. To fly beneath your holy banner is all I ask. To raise sword & spear for you against those snakes I no longer serve. If there is any further way that I might prove my loyalty, my sincerity, to you I shall undertake any task you request of me-¡±

    ¡°How can we be certain this ghastly thing truly belongs to the Vizzari bastard? None of us know of our enemy¡¯s visage, only of his reputation.¡± A voice from behind shouted suspicion.

    ¡°Hmm,¡± Drakkon stroked his broad chin with the hand un-stained by the blood of the dead Magister, ¡°o Mother! What say you to this? Grant us your True Sight to measure his words.¡±

    He presented the head to Azarra. Disgust and worry crossed her eye for a flash, like a star falling from the heavens under earth¡¯s crest. She turned from the others, taking a moment to gather her thoughts having not been prepared for such a revelation nor such sudden pressure. Her druid companion whispered brief measure into her ear before stepping back. Delphine moved to join her friend¡¯s side only to be dismissed with a wave.

    Engaged in trance, her eyes dart to and fro. Communing with the soul belonging to the bloody stump. ¡°Aye, ¡®tis Ba¡¯al. This man¡¯s tongue is true, regarding who this head belonged to. Although I cannot yet glean the coat of his inner heart.¡± When Azarra¡¯s hand hovered over the stump¡¯s bearer, the sigil singed onto his chest shined at her. ¡°He is marked by the sign ov Oldest Star. But by the Fates or the Hels, I know not yet.¡±

    Her son nodded. ¡°The High Mother confirms your tale. Yet still I am unconvinced of your place in the Drakoni. For you hath deprived me of a prize that was mine to win. The Vizzari legion you once served is soon to be destroyed by my hand. Our cause is ascendant. We cannot risk any ruse nor feral factor this night. Heron, have some of your men place further chains on our guest and escort him to a holding block. Come daybreak, Mordaunt, we shall decide your place.¡±

    The paleness of Mordaunt¡¯s eyes swelled. Hurt & disbelief clouded him as Ferali guards drag him away by anchored shackles about his wrist & ankles. How can this be? I served Him faithfully, offered a hand & head - only to be struck down in shame! Locked up from a battle that is mine to fight as much as theirs?! Baba¡¯Yun, hast thou misguided my steps through diluted prophecy?

    Nay! This is the price I must pay for now. Tis a test of faith. This Lord is something else entirely from my & mankind¡¯s frailty. His mind is pure, clear, and wise to put me through a gauntlet to prod my heart¡¯s contents. Those bright eyes of His peer into deeper wells than I can even glimpse. I pray my worth is seen that I may serve as sword.

    With their visitor whisked away Drakkon announced firm declaration to his council. ¡°My children, my warriors, my disciples, my friends. Let us ignite the flame of our purest name this night! Immolate the places where our foes sleep & stoop in drunken stupor. Let them no longer taint the soil with their cloven hoofs! Let us acclaim our triumph through history to be scribed in their blood! Azarra, Delphine: go forth through the camps and give the blessing of Divine Aegis. Scouts: go forth and spark the signals along the ridges of the valley. The volleys above cease but in nigh an hour this dale will be awash with red rains of the wicked!¡±

 The Wake

    Chapter Four, The Wake

    Elderath valley, 20<sup>th</sup> of Vintersfal, 1329 CE

    The morning sun beat down upon the dead film across the breadth of Elderath. To Mordaunt the silvery brightness brought mourning in its rays. For the scene it illumed was a gruesome one. The sky no longer wept, the clouds sent off, and with them the bulk of the Serpent¡¯s Head brigade had perished from the earth. Lives innumerable, drowned & and floated as flotsam in the muck. Chill slinked through his soles and the frost of the wind whipped sodden cloak.

    Though he trudged through the wreckage without chains on his hands, Mordaunt¡¯s sword was tethered tightly to its sheath as compromise that he could not turn on those he now professed to serve. It irked him that this mire of Vizzari defeat did not grant him the sense of hope & purpose he¡¯d expected. For even though many of those dead drudges were long his captors, many he recognized among the corpse piles and sunken craters with regret; men he knew to be honorable & who were merely at the mercy of their slaver¡¯s whim. Alas, Drakkon¡¯s men had seen no such familiar humanity in them. Their slaughter, a bloody and indiscriminate one which left but a hundred breathing hostages.

    The middle of prior night brought the annihilation to the Vizzari encampment. Despite their great numbers they stood no chance against the Drakoni ambush. Ba¡¯al in his brazen arrogance had bid them partake in the ravishing liquors he¡¯d ¡®procured¡¯ from the port towns in celebratory expectation of victory. They¡¯d drunk beyond their wits or else into fast, fat, and final sleep. Culling hail battered them through the witching hour. Those who resisted, on ready watch, were too burdened by their scale armor. Fallen into the thick arctic sludge, they fell to hunter¡¯s volley.

    Those who were not so loyal to their late commander tried to flee the valley or else dropped their trembling arms to submit to mercy. But in the eyes of most Drakoni corps this proved cowardice deserving of butchery. From all sides of the valley the tribesmen rolled as avalanche. Their jaws pincered any push out. Their horns of hunt echoed loudly in Mordaunt¡¯s skull. Sulking nearby, he recounted how it blew no valiant sound of honorable rally but screamed for rolling murder. Nothing of their number remained but a putrid mass stinking in the sun. Razed tents besides fallen horses submerged in the filth of valley¡¯s damp. Nothing like the sun of valor he¡¯d envisioned of Drakkon¡¯s mythic charge. Only ghastly ruin. Only imprint of death¡¯s opportunistic hand.

    He lumbered along, encased by Heron and his spears, behind Drakkon & Baron. The leading pair engaged in dialogue, trailed by the famed Mother Azarra, who carefully lifted her skirts enough to avoid contamination from the field, tilted in conversation with red cloaked mystic.

    To this quasi-hostage who¡¯d dreamt of heroism this valley, Elderath, christened after that bountiful Goddess of earth & fruitful life, had become an altar to her dark sister, Malderath. The mistress of gray lands spirited off the lost souls. Mordaunt¡¯s thoughts were suppressed by the searing migraine all this baleful confusion churned. Had his malice for that magister allowed this to happen easier, he wondered? After all he¡¯d pushed the early celebration that their drunken deeds would be a distraction for his play. But surely, he would have perished by that brutal hammering from caves & crests the Drakoni gave the camp. He certainly did not feel clean of cloth and straight of spine in crossing into serving the victorious cult, though they¡¯d let him live.

    ¡°Once our victory over Vizzari is mounted on firm progress, should we not raise monument here? To mark the turning of history¡¯s course. Mark you this, Baron?¡± asked Drakkon seemingly unperturbed by the aspect of entropy about which he walked.

    ¡°Justly so,¡± remarked the bard, dispassionately, ¡°although I wouldst offer a word of cordial advice that we keep fixed on the target ahead. As to properly draw the string and let fly the arrow through the Dread Serpent¡¯s skull. Lest we risk sinking into the steeps of dreamland before we can truly ascend to glory in your Light, Lord. This was but one head - a massive one, but still only one - of a hydra. Who knows how many more battalions lurk beyond the valley or what their ships number in the great river?¡±

    A terse sigh from Drakkon, vexed by Baron¡¯s dilution of their triumph. ¡°Perhaps our veteran volunteer, Mordaunt, could enlighten us as to their current magnitude?¡±

    ¡°Speak thee, fellow,¡± he tilted his head back towards their civil detainee, ¡°wouldst thou tell us of thy former masters and what range they possess? It remains yet to be seen if thou art but a fearful deserter of the dark or an ally of the Light. So, I trust thou shall speak without trace of obfuscation or artifice.¡±

    Mordaunt dared meet his inquisitor¡¯s gaze when speaking confidence. ¡°I am ever willing to prove myself a worthy champion of the Light. I did not leave their ranks out of craven motive. What cowering worm would be willful enough in his aim to strike down the Magistrate who enslaved him? Alas if it should aid your cause, Lord, I will reveal what is known to me, though I was but a conscript in that crimson band.¡±

    ¡°The Serpent¡¯s Head,¡± he persisted, undeterred by the distrustful glances around him, ¡°arrived on your shores with a fleet of carracks and the late Ba¡¯aal¡¯s flagship. I suspect it stays docked in Windirin with a skeleton crew. Half our armada sailed south to scourge more ports before hailing their plunder home, how¡¯ere were followed by two War Barques our way here. Between them holding a host of around two to three hundred more men. Thousands more dither across the Ruun. But while the armada of Vizzari is a force to be reckoned with, long bent on crippling the industry & travel of your seafaring tribes, I doubt they rallied further warships. Given the harsh conditions of the rising winter storms and their over confidence in the former Magister of Fury. If none escaped the crimson night then the wyrms will suspect nothing, save assumption of their victory.¡±

    With this Drakkon swiftly steered their company towards the remaining prisoners. They knelt, defeated & drained upon stiff plank platform beneath makeshift watchtower. Mordaunt winced with revulsion to see some of the only comrades he¡¯d respected within the Vizzar bound and collared by deprecating humiliation.

    Drakkon waved Heron & his men to the post and bid him to speak his mind as to the fate of these hostages. With halberd in hand the Ferali chieftain stepped up and studied the conquered men. ¡°These captives were pawns of the Vizzar. Whether by cowardice or malice these puppets would¡¯ve scoured the lands of innocent folk or else fetter them to the Serpent. They surrendered, yes, but out of fear. They would prove too weak or vindictive to aid us and should be executed. I can see no other course, my Lord.¡±

    ¡°Very well, Heron. I find this assessment astute and grant my blessing in putting force of blade behind thy claim.¡± Drakkon appeared thoroughly impressed by the brotherly man¡¯s vigor. Pleased that his understanding aligned with his own.

    ¡°WAIT!¡± interjected Mordaunt with frantic rush. He threw himself into the steepened pit and bowed in desperate supplication. ¡°I beg you, Lord, please! Do not sentence all these good men to so shallow a grave. I know some well and know they are worth more than sharpened axe can grant them! If I might implore your consideration: Many of these men did not submit for fear, as awesome as you are, but due to lack of fervency to the Vizzari realm¡¯s evil. When most in our camp were playing the drunken fool and sedating themselves to oblivion these few remained sober and kept enough calm of wits to actively give themselves unto your mercy, Lord!¡±

    Two sentinels pointed spears but Mordaunt refused to fear their posture of intimidation. Instead, he addressed the circle surrounding him once more. ¡°That man there,¡± he pointed to one of the condemned, a man only a few years his elder with beaten & worn brow, ¡°Saatharus! Served beside me as fellow slave-soldier. Fought for many cycles and never did either of us find pleasure in the atrocities we were forced into at the tip of State spears! He is a good man and a fellow with whom I shared many a night contemplating our forlorn fate and postulating possibilities of liberating ourselves and our comrades! I beg you grant him and all who never truly loved the work of the Vizzar a sliver of chance!¡±

    Mordaunt¡¯s manner slipped into ardor. He shined passionate plea for salvation for his former comrades. Baron caught this sudden shift in character and from the bard¡¯s perspective Mordaunt had shed the snake¡¯s skin. Appeared a new man with fiery soul unadorned with any duplicitous frill. This genuine plea plucked at Baron¡¯s heartstrings. Compelled to avail his tongue to petition Drakkon for more forgiving judgement.

    ¡°My wise & eminent Lord, I implore you to consider this captain¡¯s tale. I hath long been student of truth & feeling through art, history & people. I can tell a song of deceit from one of sincere belief. Mordaunt¡¯s words hath reached me like the urgent laments of a mother wolf crying out for the life of her pups. I second his motion for reconsideration for the lives of these men. After all who among ye would hath been bold enough to challenge so dreadful a foe when most of fled from Kassan¡¯s horned shadow?!¡±

    Drakkon sent the spearmen from Mordaunt. ¡°Then what would thou suggest? Let more than just compassion guide thy thought.¡±

    ¡°Allow me, liege, to choose those who may yet be friends of Light. Let them have swords to raise for your great hand. Serve that which shakes them free.¡±

    Drakkon faced Mordaunt, unsheathing a glimmering dagger. The small yet deadly crafted blade slashed with swift motion. No fatal blow came upon the prisoner. His liege severed the peace-bindings about his sword¡¯s sheathe, breaking the last chain. He then spun the dagger back so that the handle would be flipped to the freed man, offering it. ¡°Choose those whose hearts may yet choose me. Kill the rest. Those worth pledging shall serve your test to take Windrin with the aid of my lieutenant & this skald who vouched for you.¡±

    Mordaunt grasped the blade & its choice. Obeyed. Freed his fellows from noose. Shackled them to grim service of aiding his task. Freed those whose faces he knew not from life, let fresh blood drizzle the valley floor once more. Yet he imprisoned the inkling of tears in himself. When it was done the Lord pronounced him. ¡°The Light of fortune casts thee in its sight this day. This I grant upon thee: the forging flame of rebirth, should thou prove brave & able enough to seize this blessed gift. Should thy quest & character be true to the Thunder of higher course that relic shall serve in reaping success for thyself & thy cause in the Drakoni.¡±

    Drakkon concluded his proclamation. Sending his flock off to their tasks he went over to his mother who hadn¡¯t dispersed with the crowd. He paid little attention to the so-called ¡°Druid¡± who¡¯d manifested by Azarra¡¯s side from thin air. As he knew her to oft host menagerie of eccentric figures orbiting her steps. Now that the wheels of war pushed past the trenches of Elderath he had a wish for his mother to hear.

    ¡°Dear mother, I am grateful for your guidance & grace which helped lead us to victory here. But I must now insist that you do not pursue our campaign through to the coast. We may hold a hidden hand of surprise against our foes, but they will be draconic in their fight against us. May resort to any foul tactics. As we cannot yet concede the truth of the words spoken by our guest, the captain, it will be a dangerous march into the unknown and the snakes could lunge from anywhere. I do not wish you to risk anything & everything by being so close to the chaos. Instead, please humor me here, and return to the Temple for a time. Fear not for my health but do honor this plea for your own.¡±

    Azarra¡¯s face furrowed in a meteoric burst only barely repressed. Still, she hailed her son in acknowledgement, knowing she had to accept her place for now. I bet he¡¯s going to beg that blaspheming witch, Corinna, to stay behind as well. Which means I¡¯ll bloody be stuck with that thieving wench! Unless... what if he does just the opposite and pines like a love afflicted boy stricken dumb by ¡®beauty¡¯ ¨C though in her I see none! What if he brings her along? Whispering sweet hexes into my son¡¯s ear every forsaken night?!

    The High Mother retreated from her son, withdrawing to her camp quarters. She stepped as a brooding storm, frightening and heavy in its front. She wanted in that moment to blot out the sun with her hatred for Corinna. To spurn those doubts as to what could happen to Drakkon. With her darkening looks none dared break her trance with idle speech or dim requests. She floated the way out from the valley. With long sigh Azarra re-dressed her regal mask and elegant poise. But inwardly wild turbulence and a carnal need to fly from anchor of thought sinking her. Flirted with disappearing into one or two of those ¡®liberated¡¯ wine bottles.

    Spectators of the Sport of War

    Dirgenval 2<sup>nd</sup>, 1329 CE, seaside encampment

    Surf smacked the cliffside below as Sunset¡¯s last embers sank into the sea. Here by the northernmost Drakoni basecamp, sitting in the shadow of the Temple a way¡¯s up, salt & shimmering uncertainty slurped of the air. It lapped the brine coat Azarra¡¯s throat with vinegar. This supposed ¡®headquarters¡¯ of operation was but a shoddy camp constructed for those rejected from the real circle of power.

    Tucked far her son and his movers. A fortnight had crept by in that time since she had last seen him, ordered to stay behind to wallow in constant worry with no availing the campaign¡¯s course.

    Azarra drove the nails of isolation and inadequacy into her neck. How she loathed this feeling of weakness! Begot inside her, it tore open an old wound. Weakness reminiscent of when she lay in the dark alone & abused. But she refused to simply pace about in idle madness. She knew herself deserving of that wellspring of Dream to wash off impotence, & that it could only be attained by kinetic ambition. And so, she walked along the precipice overlooking the straight which stretched out into the sea. She honed hawklike eyes upon her mark, who lounged ahead.

    Corinna sat on flat stone seat by curve in the cliff, staring out into the splashing foam. Her hair & fashion were not done up for any presentation. Looking as though she could be confused with any common maid. Look at her, Azarra thought as she slid beside Corinna, she has no true grace nor Will to earn her standing as I did. She is but a leech, latching on to Drakkon. With pretty face hiding her hooks. But now I know even that is a lie. To see her as the common dirt she was born from and will return to.

    Her hostility remained hidden as Azarra smoothly slid out her personal pouch of wine and offered it to Corinna in cordial manner. ¡°Care for a sip of the old devil¡¯s drought? ¡®tis exquisite in taste & and I dare say we are all deserving of a little indulgence.¡±

    ¡°To what do I owe the honor of your company for?¡± Corinna did not turn her face from the thrashing currents, still lost in the dance of sunlight drowning in the spray. She refused the wine for now but did not bristle with nervousness or irritation in her conduct. ¡°I am simply hoping to silence my mind with meditation here, so close to wild ocean. I was not expecting a visit from the High Mother herself. Forgive me if my look is not as complimentary¡±

    Azarra almost scoffed at this shallow flattery while she swilled the wine. ¡°You owe me nothing, I simply thought I could use some good company & honest conversation. Sometimes one needs a fresh pair of eyes and another tongue to exorcise worry. What afflicts your mind so that you seek its silence? We are together in the fray & the wait now, so why hold our thoughts from voice?¡±

    The coastal swirl suppressed the sigh which escaped Corinna. The two scooted close as to hear words exchanged. ¡°Do you bring any word of our Lord? We are together in our worry for him. Tis been many a night since last letter, when they were yet housed in the humble village, Frayle. I know they are soon to take the cove. Truly tis unbecoming of me, this fanciful fear. So much has happened in sliver of time that sense of constancy is lost to me now.¡±

    Then her eyes turned to Azarra¡¯s. Despite how close they were on that stone ledge an arctic gulf was between them, one not of the seaborne squalls. A wariness and subtle suspicion kept them apart. Something uncanny about her visitor¡¯s behavior hinted at broader animosity lurking beneath the surface, like those leviathans of the depths. ¡°Not that I am ungrateful for the miracle granted to me and all of us. Only that all this waiting & unknowing can churn such anxiety and exhaust my reserves.¡±

    ¡°I understand this discomfort you feel in the waiting. The shadows of inaction are wide. & deep is the gulf we fall into when forced to be idle.¡± Azarra imbibed again & offered the girl her pouch of wine and another of residue and pipe-hash in feigned friendship. Corinna cautiously bargained to partake of the wine, more than the weed, if only for politeness.

    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    Such dark thoughts slithered through Azarra¡¯s synapses, flaring temptation. But she retained her demeanor and kept to casual interrogation. ¡°But wherefore is this doubt & worry for my son, for the Living Lord? Do you hold heresy within you that would cast shade over Drakkon¡¯s divinity?¡±

    Even though her accuser¡¯s tone dipped into threatening undertones Corinna did not shrink away from this turn. She sipped the wine, daring try it, and savored the nectar on her tongue. ¡°There is no doubt as to Divinity¡¯s flame burning there in his chest. ¡®Tis that very radiant spark which drew my eye to his solar spirit. Even now I feel it light embers in mine, that connection deep enough to go beyond the many miles between us.¡±

    Corinna pulled the strands of windblown hair from her face to taste of offered elixir once more, welcoming the subtle yet splendid shift in her mind¡¯s state, before handing the container back. She spoke honestly. ¡°If you ask of me if I believe he is that same avatar of the Lord of the astral pantheon I confess I cannot say. You were once an oracle, Azarra, you understand how it is to scry shards of Sight and see only shades of the sphere. The tides are oft obscured, fullness of fate lost to gullies. Even we are nearsighted to the dike.¡±

    Azarra became bitter at this comparison, her grip tightening around the wine pouch. Scattered streaks burst out like a pierced vein. ¡°How bold & boastful it is of you to compare the two of us. You think you know at all the depth of my experience?¡±

    ¡°You cannot claim to know the suffering I endured. The trials I faced to earn my station. Mayhap we were both forced into apostasy, sure. But the scars marking my bareness go far beneath what you can know. You drink not a drip from the well of my pain.¡± An oceanic gust accented her blackened mood. Numerous strands of her knot loosed by it as breeze of envy¡¯s tyranny tussled hairs. Her azure eye splayed, pained. The emerald one glared through the straight.

    As much as she wanted to leap far from present company, Corinna adopted graceful approach. Intuition warned of an unpleasant threat from this crazed but driven woman. ¡°I meant no disrespect nor ill intent, High Mother. I could never so much as dream of possessing but a portion of your power & understanding. I only intended on complimenting your knowledge and admit the limits of mine. Curiosity moved my tongue ahead of my thoughts and for that I apologize. I¡¯m at a loss for words that you should even consider my company so desirable, truly.¡±

    Azarra hid her murderous thoughts. Fished the reins of her compulsion to strike this witch for her insolent disregard for her authority. She replaced her mask with mischievous smirk, affecting playful timbre. ¡°Well find some words, humor my curiosity to spare a few answers, will you? I wonder as to the person you are. What is in you that is more than an oracle, a misguided girl or a true follower of good faith, dear stranger? We know little of one another though our paths interweave by threads of fate, if rarely so privately. Tell me, wherefore does my son strike you and whence? If not by glint of godhood.¡±

    When her interrogator leaned forward to ignite her herbal pipe with little spill Corinna volunteered her hands to cup over the flame and protect it from cold breath. The aroma of churning coal & a deep elder musk borne from earthy garden encircled them in corona. Stripling cloud strained the woman¡¯s eyes & nostrils till, fortunately, salt chuck waived Azarra¡¯s smoke south away from her face. ¡°This bond is one I know not from whence it bloomed. I only know its pull inside me that compels trust that he can turn more miracles of others¡¯ misery. Through him I see the manifestation of better world to be, all which could be made more beautiful & freer. Perhaps I am an idealist or a fantasist, but to me the closer I stand to him, the stronger the sway of higher destiny; invisible to the eye but not the heart, a dream of days unscarred by senseless suffering.¡±

    With her left hand she picked up a small, dislodged, rock and gently toss it over the edge. The fall below and the winds¡¯ beating wings drowned any sound of the splash as the stone plunged beneath the waves forever. ¡°What is that you smoke? It smells almost of murkroot,¡± Corinna asked casually, referring to a strand of the southern swamps, ¡°hannabis? Not that I mind.¡±

    Then she turned to Azarra with a forestalled but fatigued comment. ¡°Just as you say I know not your suffering; I do not think it fair for you to presume mine or lack thereof. We are all of us mustering up our fronts before the wide gulf of chaos which spins our world. And none can truly tell how much another endures under the flimsy personas we must perform. We are all of us courtiers in some strange scheme when I look at it cosmically.¡±

    ¡°Cosmically, you say?¡± Azarra scoffed, saturating tongue with prolonged swig from her favored pouch. ¡°Well then, enlighten me as to this ¡®cosmic¡¯ scheme of yours, will you? But when you speak of this grand plot in which we are all but petty pawns of distant gods or dancers for the Muses I cannot help but laugh. You ineptly grasp the core of the cosmos. Though I do not envy those Sights your spells send you, ripping from your mundane joys and offering little. Forgive me that, only, my experience awards me some suspicion...¡±

    Corinna, undaunted by intimation looming of Azarra¡¯s every word, kept her gaze consistent. ¡°My faith & my spirit run a course deeper than my flesh may suggest. My youth is no marker of my skill nor talent. Age rarely implies competence, one way or another. Were you not closer to my age now than your own when you were forced by the fates¡¯ on your ¡®pilgrimage¡¯ from Temple? That is not a journey taken lightly. And while I cannot compare to, nor fully see, what you went through, that I undertook the path of dire circumstances and survived should show at least some resilience.¡±

    The splash in her liver bubbled broth of her spirits. ¡°We both have our scars and gnawing holes eroding us over time. But still, I see the strength which drove you to your well-deserved standing over our blossoming hope. Tis, in a way, what rescued me from perdition¡¯s bog. I see no reason why we should be rivals and I do not wish to challenge you, Azarra. I only ask to be granted some respect. I am not some feral hedge witch, nor scheming sorceress. Just a seeker of fortune where seeds of opportunity can grow for all of us in life¡¯s garden. To sow seams of future as you do, in the Light.¡±

    Windchill mirrored Azarra¡¯s image. She reflected none of the sun¡¯s falling light, so clouded by bleak feeling. No molecule of her being sought to accept the demeaning idea of being ¡®equals¡¯ with this harlot of the heath who cursed her plans by corrupting her son¡¯s steps. As she exhaled another huff, the streams of herb¡¯s breath split forked rivers of fog like draconic tongue. ¡°How brazen an assumption that I do not respect you. If I did not, I would not be here, would I? I only cast doubts upon your gleaming star of ¡®cosmic¡¯ destiny with regards to my beloved son. My word is pragmatic and thoughtful. To stay away from him will save you from the solar pyre...¡±

    ¡°Wherefore must I forsake Sol¡¯s light ¨C that which saved me from a stake ¨C for loveless dark?¡±

    ¡°If some delusional steer of ¡®love¡¯ or wanton lust infects your mind, plants the toxic notion that you belong by his side, then I must warn you that his destiny is greater than either of ours. Do not hurt yourself by being a fool. You know his course jolts with marriage to more regal unions. He sails northern most seas till, in his wake, the shores christen our Sight.¡±

    Corinna was taken aback by the bluntness of these words wielded like a bludgeon. Her mouth fell agape at this seething hatred she felt simmering from Azarra¡¯s aura. She seized another small stone and chucked it with cathartic force far over the cliffside. In a way she was truly hurt by this verbal ambush which interrupted any peace of mind found in her attempts at meditation. Her feelings towards Drakkon waxed to different stride, where this berating felled her to another¡¯s envious volley. That she was not allowed to feel at all burst worst of all feelings. ¡°I am sorry you feel that way, Azarra. I truly am... I do not get where it is you conjure this judgement of me as some slithering night-spouse. Survival is hard enough. More so when one struggles to awake in the daylight with a meaning ¨C a purpose ¨C to find for enduring all those damned wounds.¡±

    ¡°Yet you seek to cut deeper and split a rift between us. No ill will is in my heart. I only want to walk towards the light, my heartbeat in my steps, not be some mute and hollow shell. But if love should be the alchemy which the Fates call me towards; or should that be what the Living Lord desires of me then those strings of spirit will be pulled forward and I shall give what the world desires of me. No title nor prestige should stand to break that union if it were to be ordained by the dragon¡¯s head of the cosmos, not even yours.¡±

    Azarra cut in, seeding threads through verbal seams. ¡°I seek only to call out any evil in your spirit. Dispel it, then let truth rain in. If it calls you to fly after him then damn this unquiet stillness of waiting and seek him out. Do so no matter where your feet must fly! If you are so bold & true.¡± She knew the daggers she drew could not be unsheathed; that mocking laughter would forever wound the trust of Corinna. Yet she reveled in the severance.

    ¡°If you¡¯ll excuse me,¡± Corinna brushed her modest gown of the hefty herbal scent, ¡°I must fly to other arrangements & responsibilities before they get away from me. I thank you for this chat, Lady of grace, and bid you good day.¡± She made for that austere array of tents & shoddy towers snared in salt & gloom. She felt it far preferable to Azarra¡¯s inquisition. Eager to end the confrontation quick to not let it spiral into bitter conflict and chance of deadly consequences. She glanced past her shoulder once before ascending into the camp proper. Not to glimpse that brooding silhouette but see the sun set sail fully into the night-sea.

    Setting Sail

    Dirgenval 11<sup>th</sup>, Windirin Cove

    When Heron mustered the force to pry his eyelids, he awakened to a timeless dawn. Knowing not where nor when was the passage of mortal time, this plane of strange sensation spun him about confusion. Barely knowing how to plant his bare feet on the floor. He pulled himself from the spindly sheets that wove their web of sleep around him. Tracing the rhythm of breath, the melted beads of frozen fever, sober understanding slowly returned with his health.

    He was in a well-structured chamber, a rented room. But held no recollection of purchasing this spot nor what occurred prior to waking up from this private sickbed. Heron shuffled out the door, fumbling with the wool robe hanging beside the door hook. Dumbly he hobbled out from the toasty inn into space of a town he only vaguely recognized. He trailed heavy foot-traffic to find the fulcrum of everyone¡¯s fixation. Heron¡¯s eyes widened with shock of to witness the full affair atop the hill, overlooking the port town; an acclamation assembled there. Drakkon¡¯s legendary likeness held up an obsidian blade that slowly & ceremonially fell upon the shoulder presented low before him. Christening Mordaunt as champion.

    That glistening steel of another¡¯s knighting shined recall in his synapses. Heron remembered then the flashes of skirmish which sent him to steep recovery. The lull of bard¡¯s song tucking in men of the barracks, preceding the hailstorm of fury to seize Vizzari barges. The confusion as a frightened peasant rang alarum to the sleeping ships and serpent ballistae turning dread bolts against their sisters of the sea. Then the freeze of winter waters after a plunge from a vessel, razed by fire, and the rope that wrestled him out. The hand that brought him back belonged to Mordaunt.

    Heron¡¯s heart sank into his pit, wrought with pangs of nausea. His disgust, more with himself than this hilltop initiation ritual. For it help up a mirror to his soul. Reflecting the echoed image of his own embrace into Drakkon¡¯s fold, showing him his ugliness.

    Weariness whittled away. Chipped by artisan¡¯s critique. Half of him sought an end to his sorrow and self-loathing at the bottom of a bottle, were it not for the exhaustion and sickness pervading him. No one could fling such piercing bolts of insult as he now flung from his mind at his heart. How pathetic to not to extend that same hand of trust to Mordaunt which had been granted to him. He only saw it now when the world itself blared this truth through the cheers & cries of the crowd. But he was no stranger to this feeling of self-driven shame, for the mist of blood he once waded through at Kassan¡¯s command became a nightmarish haze which draped over years of his life. Recognizing this, optimism edged, he could change.

    Meanwhile, with the ceremony concluded the streets yawned out bustling crowds. A fresh breeze rode the atmosphere of Windirin. Now that the snakes were driven into the Ruun, relief resurrected in many folks, to no longer have their dreams trampled by crimson clad boots. But there yet dwelt a cloud of suspicion, drifting in wary glances and snide snarls. For a few locals tucked to the sidelines of the markets & makeshift pubs shared airs of fear & spite. Praying that they hadn¡¯t been delivered from one occupation into the next. Baron understood this fissure in the town¡¯s sentiment. Given how he aimed on quelling any discontent through his musical talents and warm words spoken over frosted ale to passing peasants.

    Atop the watchtower overlooking the port Corinna replaced Mordaunt. They stood gazing tall across the great river and the wispy mists pinching the surface. Wrapped in dense wool cloak to cover them from the wreathes of arctic gales. Her concentration steeped into the small steaming cup of tea. The soothing sips curled back by crisp air and apprehension constricted her throat. Drakkon noticed the queer whimpers which escaped between their words and the distance pace. ¡°What afflicts your mind so, my dearest flame?¡±

    Corinna turned her grayish eyes to his and pressed her soft hand against his chest. ¡°My heart wavers, my love, and my mind is veiled by worry. I fear that I shan¡¯t be accompanying you on their journey across as you asked of me last eve. Not of any fault of yours but of mine own frailty.¡±

    Drakkon cupped her chin in his hand tenderly and drew her closer. ¡°Wherefore? What is it that conjures this fear in you, wildflower? If ¡®tis concern for the roughness of the winter surf, I assure you that my Fortune shall carry you to the East shore with the faithful. For the tides that carry our ships carry the course of our truest cause, in me. More so with you there. The sea itself will submit to our wake.¡±

    ¡°I know I only just begged return to your side but, well, recall this ¡®gift¡¯ from the gods? My spells wrack me more & more, growing worse nearer to war. I am seized by this curse ¨C which deemed me both an oracle and witch in transience of mortal writ ¨C struck by the shivering trances. You hath held me before in the night as they took me and seen the panic it stirs.¡± Glimmers of sorrow splashed in growing gulf come between them. ¡°I wish not to be a burden to you when there is a greater world for you to face.¡±

    ¡°You could never burden me!¡± Drakkon rested her head against his heart. ¡°It is a blessing you exist. To know you, to be close, is to glow with breathing warmth! I know the gods do not endow their grace nor the trials which come with their favor to those who lack vigor & purity. Doth these trances not also grant you Sight of omens? I know I asked of you once to stay, in fear of your safety. But I would ask you to come along my road, though ¡®tis rough. For your luster beside me shines mine. Surely there must be merit in your being there to guide me. And I can be there to calm your shivers?¡±

    Forlorn bells rang from her tongue. Hot breath brushed against Drakkon¡¯s breast as hers rose & fell to his rhythm. She pushed back. Protective cloak dropped from her shoulders with wintry gusts & solid thought abruptly absent. ¡°Alas, lord, I still must protest. I cannot give proper words to what stirs inside me but know that it is not for any dearth of love. While these spells which leave me bereft of awareness and limbs do oft bring revelations from a plane beyond the space of dreams & waking light alike, of late only a darkness hath come to me in this state. Tis a terrible abyss which I am thrust into when I am stricken but sudden convulsions. And each time I wake my body feels weaker, as though the life is being drained from my frame.¡±

    Indeed, he¡¯d marked her voice hoarser than usual. Noticed how she¡¯d spoken mostly in whispers since coming down. The tea she doused her throat with was for easing the gruffness of her unforeseen ailment and the fever inside. Yet it did little besides dehydrate her. Before he could offer objection Corinna persisted in her earnest confession. ¡°A treacherous avenue extends for you abroad, my flame. And it is one I cannot abide when I am called to a different passage. I need to seek insight renewed and learn to keep the wax inside alight...¡±

    ¡°For now, I must tread my own route. But trust our entwined love & our future shan¡¯t be torn asunder by this canyon betwixt us. It is but ephemeral and truly for the best.¡± Her clouded eyes chased the fleeing billows above. Seeking answer to his slobbering ¡®why¡¯. ¡°I must know my own light if I am to shine it for you once this gap is surpassed, do you understand? I feel I must study from Keeper Ligeia, for means of rejuvenation. You even said that with Ligeia you can rest easy for my health. Her protection will keep me from any scornful sages, nor will the snakes you face endanger me across the great river. Nor my trembling worries.¡±

    Dejection dented Drakkon¡¯s spine. Half-hid tears fell, along with his hopeful mood. His breath sharpened, stilted as he suppressed the despondent tides which her refusal stirred. He knew his vision of having amorous compassion beside him during his triumph was but another wisp parting on the horizon. Low murmur left his lungs. The wind died with his immediate hopes. ¡°I understand, Cor¡¯. Your health & peace of mind holds far more bearing than my selfish longing for your tender love. You hath my blessing to stay at the Temple or to come. But know you mean more to me than any poet¡¯s quill could e¡¯er compose. I love you boundlessly. If for this affection we must away awhile, I pray we will only grow closer from this distance. Without you, even with a thousand men, I sail alone. The vast waters between us will rage in my being as they do before us, but I shall turn this to fuel focus for the front.¡±

    ¡°T-thank you, Lord. Know too that our love is rooted in the earth as our branches reach for the stars. My trust cannot be eroded by any tides of time, for it is eternal!¡± Corinna leaned in and caressed his lips with hers with ardor of grateful passion. Despite how frigid & dry the air about the tower was their mouths were wet from shed stains. ¡°I will stay here with you until you must set sail to hateful realm.¡±

    ¡°Let us not be morose when this opportunity lets our passion bloom past the present.¡± A small kiss sealed blessing, soured by being one of departure. Then he went to bless his faithful.

    At the behest of their Lord, the Drakoni made repairs and remedied the look of the captured vessels. More had been snared within days. Redressed, secured for their cause, they served as a different camouflage. Should they sail towards the shores of the crafts¡¯ old masters as they were a Vizzari patrol might wonder why a fleet of flying their colors headed homeward without order, and their doubt might be prickling plight. But where Serpent banners were once a new flag rose. Graven shape of the snake remained, twisted as desiccated bone coil. Craftsman toiled to shape their flagship with skeletal mast, affixed skulls to the bow. Notched evil insignia round crest & stuck hapless heads along the stern. Scouts of a spectral navy they became, manned by strigoi, sorcerer & shade. Wraith-ships to carry wrathful Draugr along their way to wage war for the Waning of the World.

    Longships of lost Ursinium flocked to fulfill their heir¡¯s oath to the Lord. Bears of the waves bolstering this gambit, readied to sweep any contest from the sea serpents. One of these vessels now became an instrument of inclement fyre. Transformed by the alterations of Sage Albrecht and infused with his alchemy. A dragon¡¯s head marbled of meteorite let the snout of this ship, the Ignis Drakonis, with its bite backed by fusion of coal tar, peat, quicklime & funnel to ignite any armada that would challenge Living Light.

    When it was done, Drakkon made proclamation to them. ¡°Hark how surf of the winter storms stills itself to grant our passage! Through that fortuitous gap we shall cross the Ruun. The treachery of those torrents we hasten betwixt shall turn back the Vizzar. Our tide shall be upon them as Divine deluge! Let us split the waves which hurry our flames or else fly above them!¡±

 Rough Landing

    Chapter Five, Rough Landing

    Last days of Dirgenval, Icarian shore

    Arctic spray smacked & strangled Mordaunt, coughing brackish slop as he waded out ruin¡¯s river. Behind him the rasps of shattered wood plummeting below the waves grated, as the rising currents carried foul cries like a shrieking witch calling to the haunting dark. They¡¯d underestimated the winter storms and now his crew and the Vizzari vessel they commandeered drowned off the serpent shoreline. Nature proved unmerciful to their cause with its rocky hand and bellowing gales which tore apart the ship as though it were but a trifling toy.

    Feckless armor wore down his wounded comrade, as he grappled to strip it & bring him to safety. The heavy ceremonial Serpent plates proved evermore dense when waterlogged and bedecked with ¡®spectral¡¯ thorn. Freezing bite gnashed his neck. Black snows cursed blindness; unforgiving gloom swept welkin seas. Haze of adrenaline waned; his chest battered by crude club of the channel. Violent crash against unseen reef and sturdy rock pillars ripped the captain from his fleeting dreams. Those he¡¯d only just regained the reins of. The journey¡¯s premature finish lost to hoarfrost.

    He threw himself and his comrade out from the water¡¯s edge onto the cold shore. Mordaunt lay in desecration, lost somewhere far off the mark from the intended rendezvous port with all their vital supplies and most of the crew sinking into the undertow. ¡®Go forth with my blessing knowing that Divine fortune carries you across with my cause,¡¯ Drakkon¡¯s words throbbed in his head. Now I know not whether he lives nor where this ¡®blessing¡¯ and accursed storm ¨C I was promised would part of his accord - delivers me.

    The man he¡¯d carried ashore, Saatharus, croaked against dead stump. This old ally from time among the Vizzar sported a leg snapped so far backwards as to invert. Living shine abandoned his shell, dragged limply along the snowy sands. A slivery shard of the mast poked through the veteran¡¯s side, through which his spirit bled out. Mordaunt found funereal fervor, spoke promised rite over his fallen friend. ¡°I will bury you in flame. The frost will not have you forever. Rest now. Till higher wind comes to deliver your spirit to warmer hearth.¡±

    Mordaunt refused to let his spirit sink into the depths with their ship. He saw what abysmal grief seized the men who swam to shore. The hopeless tide threatening swallow them as maw of grotesque kraken. Counting another two-dozen heads or so along the shore, he aimed to be relentless in his service to these souls. Thus, the captain gave a rallying shout and called them to his side. They¡¯d need guidance to endure. His men needed him, that was of importance beyond any introspection into tragedy.

    He swore by the northern aurorae, even if it flickered dimly in the dark path tread, to lead these weary few out of immediate danger. The challenge of it at least distracted him from more depressing prospects (like how they could survive in unknown and hostile territory for long).

    Slowly the humble company cut through a nearby wood with what wits they retained. With thickets dreadful to their wary eyes and hollow husks screeching against endless wind.

    The trees grew thick enough to defy winter. Hardy evergreens, autumnal shrubs & flowers that bloomed for cold made for them a crib of their glade. After a fair haul, the company took brief respite besides the monolithic trunks of Yule Cypress & Fel-Spruce. A thin layer of snow still caped over patches of black soil, and Mordaunt knew they needed fires lest they succumb to the breath of storms. He hacked at tree limbs in thankful harvest of the alcove. The atmosphere remained oppressive, almost suffocating, but the humble fire, once lit, fighting for survival against the chill offered momentary calm. The men huddled up for what warmth the small pit could afford and shuffled through what supplies they¡¯d rescued from the wreck.

    Only a couple crates had been salvaged from the cargo. Among those almost none contained serviceable food rations. Should they desire to eat, to sustain their bodies before they became so frail as to snap in the wake of a strong gale, they would have to resort to hunting. But here in this forest catacomb not even a small hare had been spotted nor had they the strength to draw bow. Death stood over this wood, invisible yet all prevailing. Save those few mocking winter cherries, Life had all but fled this dire shore and could yield anything save brittle bark.

    Mordaunt¡¯s thoughts drug low. Ruminated on the prophecies of the Witch & Lord as his cold eye scanned the fallen horizon. Were those but empty promises whispered unto the nether? Was this forsaken black spot of earth to become his tomb when he had only just broken the chains binding his fate? What legs did Baba¡¯Yun¡¯s words own? Chickens¡¯ scratch or Furies¡¯ talons?

    These dreary threads were cut by the unexpected clang of glass. Mordaunt tilted his head from his dead stump post, keeping from the livelier spruces in mourning, to see a trio of men passing bottles of liquor to one another. A wispy laugh escaped him. ¡°There¡¯s a man who had his priorities straight!¡± They chuckled along while the man who¡¯d heroically rescued the crate of vodka from the shipwreck blushed embarrassment and humbly offered up his bottle to his captain. ¡°Might as well warm the liver up in this clime, eh? Drink well for the dead!¡±

    The sky, though nigh impenetrably dense with icy bulwark, fortunately did not find it in its looming whim to sentence them with inland storm. Yet their modest fire of scrap wood & thin trunks dwindled and the forest¡¯s further descent into dark conjured horns of nocturnal hunters. Mordaunt heard tales of the monstrous beasts which prowled the northern coastlines; of two-headed bears, hellish wolves, mammoths & winged-cat-creatures unlike any of their feline kin called ¡®chimeras¡¯ which only the brashest hunters dared hunt. And if not beasts of myth & fang to hound them, should any patrol of men take notice doom would pursue. Eventually the blanket of sleep cocooned him. His lids caved to exhaustion, felled by oblivious slumber.

    The harsh hands of the air stream, which froze them in place that night, brushed Mordaunt¡¯s face to awake. He shook what life he could into himself & their half-dead camp. A stark dawn held him, showing that more of his men had taken their last slumber. They would not rise for him, succumbed to their wounds or else barely clinging to their bones. With what dry branches they found a funeral was prepared for the dead. For his fallen fellow, Saatharus, he removed shameful seal & patterned cloak of the serpent. Gave to him an obsidian dagger granted him by their Lord & gave his body to tiny pyre. Although he respected his peer fondly, he could not find a tear to shed. He found his ducts froze over, as had many men.

    Final few words gave eulogy. The living, numbering barely over a dozen, parted ways with fallen brethren through what small rites they had. Sealed the lids of those who died blankly staring onward into eternal gloom of the wood past the glade. They spoke no words for those few men who left without their bodies, whether in craven flight or creature¡¯s claw. Then began the mournful march from this living tomb, this Eldest glade, back into bramble & husks.

    Mordaunt led the train of souls his was roped with across frozen stream. Their herd thinned. Losing two more men to it; one who fell, and another who fled and whom his shepherd had not the stamina to curse. Always frost & fear were on their heels. But by the brink of sunset their frail company breached a spruce wall to cross through open field between small hills, all lined with a thin layer of snow. The next crest, cusped on dusk, heralded sign of humanity.

    Leaning over the last hill the weary few saw a wooden outpost of a village smeared as a blow across dotted white field. Although the light & colored faded fast from the sky this little stead was to their eyes as solar rays. Salvation or mirage, he plodded on with his group; all eager to discover something beyond the sepulchral forest they¡¯d just escaped from. Soon they smelt smoke & thatch of housing, pub, and stables. Snowfall was no longer so formidable that the party could not see the flickering sparks of torches dividing the dour drapery. Outriders rode to banish storm & the guests it brought to their doorstep. Mounted men, half-lit by beacons, closed in within a few blinks.

    Mordaunt recognized them as Vizarri sentinels and instinctively hailed them with the traditional salute. He recalled they were still costumed in a travesty of their colors and hoped this worn & ruined fac?ade could convince. The lead watchmen trotted up and mirrored the salute at angle of sarcasm. A sneer of suspicion along his oafish face.

    ¡°Wherefore do we receive these unannounced guests and just who are they? Be thee lost tourists? Or mere boys playing dress up? Announce thy reason!¡±

    ¡°I am ward-captain Mordaunt of the Serpent¡¯s Head brigade, my argent ¡®lord¡¯ ¨C I must apologize who might you be, good man? I know not why you greet your kin, fresh from bloody vinter crucible with such hostility? Must we face further coldness? I merely come bearing news, if you will, friend-¡± While he spoke, Mordaunt slid his hand over his sheathe in case the argument would sound for one expressed through sword. But though this patrol was few, their chances were thinner than their stomachs and the horsemen grew in that gulf of disparity to apocalyptic proportion.

    ¡°I¡¯ll be the one asking things ¡®ere mate! This outpost belongs to me, High Guard-Captain of the Icarian Shore, Bas¡¯Tur. We ¡®ear tellin¡¯ of bear-clad wraiths stalking up the coast; revenants avengin¡¯ they kinsmen. But ye look more ghost than ghoul!¡± He aimed his bulky crossbow at the snowy man. ¡°Tis¡¯ funny timin¡¯ to me, that only just recently ¡®eard of a godless assault on a Magistrate port and of suspicious debris floating in our ocean. Any notion of who might fit that description?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d no notion of this rank of ¡®High¡¯ Guard-Captain before today, cousin. Strange that one posted at such a remote northern location on the Icarian should be given position more glamourous in title than even the Magistrates¡¯ elite. Didn¡¯t receive such a privilege for my service to the Serpent¡¯s Head.¡± Mordaunt¡¯s manner pivoted as Bas¡¯Tur spat, blustered. ¡°But ¡®tis fortunate you heard this news before our arrival. Forgive my incidental insolence in being so forward, for our missive & its haste was for the coming invasion of barbarians and revolting thralls. Now that you know word of our purpose might we step inside your fair establishment for a warm meal and strong drink? That we might share our tale of escape from the talons of those - feral wolves out there, those - cultists?¡±

    Both the horse and its rider snorted in unison. Captain Bas¡¯Tur scowled. The sunken folds of his face crumpled. Hateful thoughts smoldered through the nostrils of the lopsided man while he made to muster presence of authority. ¡°Mock me not! Waggin¡¯ that filthy tongue of yers, ye dog. I know this tale, damned fool, and traitor to his Magister! Did ya¡¯ turn on ¡®yer duty when the fray looked tight?! Turned heel across the river, did ye?!¡±

    Bas¡¯Tur spat and jabbed a fat finger towards this worn-out fugitive. ¡°Mordy, yew warlock. No soddin¡¯ hero just a lucky lil¡¯ rat! I know yew might well be an acolyte of this new dark cult! Let me live well in the glore to reap from yer festerin¡¯ corpse, ha! Make ye a brutal & public reminder to ye bleedin¡¯ curs what happens to worms who challenge the Dread wyrm!¡±

    Mordaunt¡¯s navy shards pierced the man¡¯s soul. Through his stare, he sized his spirit & its sinew, and felt this man to be a shambling braggart whose threats carried the insecurity of yearning for power he didn¡¯t own. Possessing only the strength of a petty ringleader of armored thugs. ¡°If I am what you claim, if I am so evil and so prized, come claim that right to riches with a real man¡¯s fight. No honor comes of cold slaughter nor accusin¡¯ comrades of treachery. I insist on a proper duel to decide my honor if you insist on insult.¡± His hands drifted wide away from his sword, stretching out openly. ¡°Or are you not a gentleman? Instead a craven who hides behind bloated gestures, tries to worm into the boots of true heroes and faithful servants of the Serpent?¡±

    ¡°I got serpent¡¯s blood in these veins! My family has a long legacy serving as sentinels for Houses Th¡¯uul et Fel. This body ¡®ere, a straight scale of Vizzarion, ain¡¯t gettin¡¯ plucked by faulty feathered wet fowl like ye, ha! Yew, yer the spawn of beast¡¯s blood. Born from the dirt of lesser tribes conscripted into the service and damn ungrateful for the blessing. Don¡¯t take no scholar or fancin fop to see the reasonin¡¯, boy. A selfish slave not feelin¡¯ he¡¯s been fed enough of the pie! Why should I lower my nobility of nature by stoopin¡¯ to inferior level? I am the sodding High Captain!¡± He spit over the side of his steed and pointed at his adversary. ¡°Lay down that steel toy lest our arrows meet the necks of yer crew!¡±

    ¡°Think Bas¡¯Tur! Wherefore must you act so impulsively without thought on the consequences?! You must know the oath we swear as soldiers and scales and just how blasphemous & perverted an act it is to kill kin of Vizzarion. Even ¡®lesser¡¯ kin. What would befall you should ¡®yer¡¯ report be pretense and mine authentic? What then when presented as a kinslayer who attacked a champion of the Serpent¡¯s Head? What a horrible betrayal to your familial legacy of serving the lords that would be.¡±

    Mordaunt threw weight to his words, into this last chance to sway the course away from slaughter. Aiming darts of doubts at his accuser¡¯s mind, especially the portly target of his self- preservation. ¡°Just look at us, great captain! Wherefore would we appear so beaten by battle yet called the enemy by those still so pristine and proper in their armor? ¡®Tis they who sow these false seeds who betray! We fought bravely and barely endured our journey to warn our comrades only for them to undermine and threaten; being so gullible as to believe the lies of cultists¡¯ deception!¡±

    Bas¡¯Tur¡¯s comrades shuffled nervously, the grip on their spears loosening in confusion. One of the footmen at the rear of the riders spoke up, winded. ¡°Sir, we should consider this. The winter¡¯s been cold, good captain, but I do not wish to be warmed by the heretic¡¯s pyre. We all have our families to protect, why not hold them up for the night and look patiently?¡±

    Mordaunt played friendly, vulnerable. Presented the last swigs of his vodka to this inane interrogator. ¡°Truly, Bas¡¯Tur, we¡¯d all prefer a match of cards over one of sword & spear. If you¡¯d be a willing & warm enough steward of this settlement to allow us a night, I would gladly forgive the insult to my character and retract mine own unto yours, in our misunderstanding. We shall both need mead to talk of the events across the Ruun which led me to your doorstep.¡±

    ¡°Right bloody mess this is! Fine, sod it all! Stay the night, let us roll some fuckin¡¯ dice then. We ain¡¯t got much spare food but something special shall be made for the occasion.¡± He lowered his crossbow and signaled to his fellows. They formed a circle around the ragged group leading them into the outpost.

    The structure was far more foreboding up close than the humble village they¡¯d hoped for. The small, smoky streets were flooded with grim visaged men with a yearning for mortal excitement to tolerate their austere reality, watching over a forsaken strip of land. Their captain was content enough to not put his own life on the line and welcomed these strangers to the pub beside the barracks. Showing his preference for making the most of his entertainment by warring against liquor bottles and harassing the locals & servants.

    If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    Mordaunt would have been enraged at the treatment he witnessed of the lesser caste were it not for the dragging levels of his exhaustion. These were gaunt husks shackled to sheds, carts overtaxed & ravaged by tithe collectors and no soul who dared a glance. The guards here indulged in wanton pleasures of tormenting the citizens they were sworn to protect. The bar maidens shrank in fear from stares of wolfish men, rabid desires in their eyes. Both the old & young made to toil endlessly for the sake of those giants so eager to whip them. Bastard children filled their cups. This was the Vizzari hospitality Mordaunt knew well. Life on the outskirts without courtly conduct.

    But with their host¡¯s suspicions fading now was not the time to rouse more by complaint. Not when his body begged rest lest sleep ensnare him soon. So, he painted the portrait of uncaring warrior. His remaining men could not keep their lids open enough to wager any complaint nor fa?ade while their weary leader listened to tavern talk. Hearing rumors & pointed questions over mugs about the armada burning in the Ruun in wake of heretics¡¯ crossing in clouds of draconic breath, which the waterlogged captain confirmed to these curious inquisitors through his marooned path & presence.

    Eventually Mordaunt and his peers obeyed their major need and were lead to their respective rooms. Their beds were minimalistic & rugged. The walls by the outer hearth did little to keep out the cold creeping through. But a welcome reprieve for the wary travelers who were quickly ensnared in web of sleep.

    When he awoke from this fleeting dip in dreamless void Mordaunt found himself in perpetual nightmare. All became surreal blur of insanity & violence since the first thud of a bludgeon cracked against his fellow¡¯s head in that hellish charge which came before the first glimmer of dawn. Even in groggy haze he¡¯d attempted to give fight to these demons of night, grasping for his dagger by his bedside belongings only to touch empty air, having forgotten he sacrificed that blade in tribute to his fallen comrade. Unable to give contest, phantoms struck him down into unconsciousness once more.

    Turning of the Worm

    Dawncrest 6<sup>th,</sup> same year, Felwreath Quarry

    Were this all still an all too lucid dream, yet the pain Mordaunt felt was too vivid & tangible in the horror rent all round. The past blur of captivity brought to the belly of Vizarri quarry. Forced to labor under looming threat of death & punishment. He toiled as a thrall of this wicked operation, once again a pawn of his enemy¡¯s industry. Slaving in the frost & the mines, picking away at prized rocks while his back faced lashings from northern winds and his captors¡¯ whips. Shaking the sense of prolonged dream, every trash against his flesh cut all the deeper. Though the pain of his former companions awoke him to wider agony.

    He watched sidelong the treatment of his enslaved brothers. Felt pangs of guilt at the suffering & shame afflicted on them. They didn¡¯t even appear to loathe him for having led them to this pit of infinite misery. For their stares glazed over, as ghouls trapped in waning bodies. This pain becomes me. ¡®Tis what I deserve for promising good men with true hearts a road to freedom only to deliver them to a slow, shameful death... Drakkon, His lightning war crashed me on dark shore, but I pursued the bolt. Hath I been fed false augury and happily ate?

    The tower bell rang about the crystals & mountainous mineral walls the men mined, declaring the day complete. Toll of evening summoned thralls to their mess hall. Rations for this vast caste were absurdly low in comparison to the effort with which they dove into the quarry¡¯s core. All that was given to the dispirited workers was an unappealing slop of unknown origin. Fish, maybe, near spoiled and stale, starchy bread. Yet there was still dispute over these scraps. Occasionally a fight would break out between thralls over bread & salt. When this happened the result often led to a broken body of one or more. The beaten duelists then dragged away by guards, who placed bets on the ¡®contestants¡¯ (rather than mediated the workforce violence) and supped of the pot.

    It brought him too much sorrow and shame to meet the eyes of those who once followed him. Even when one braved the breach in thralls¡¯ conduct Mordaunt averted glance. Thus, he secluded himself from other¡¯s circles. When his grim and solitary supper concluded he wandered about the camp, while & where he was allowed with meagre shred, in search of sanity.

    You ache for revolution? Mordaunt¡¯s mind mocked itself, sneering at a tinge of rebellious idea. It hurt to hope or dwell too much on the rancor he wished to use as kindling for revolt; to take the quarry for themselves. He grappled with trying to tie his need to survive with his will to save his soul from this ignoble end. He couldn¡¯t perish here, in a pit of despair, breaking back to strengthen the Serpent¡¯s scales. The prospect of perilous resistance roused nameless feeling, steeped lucidity from dreadful waking-slumber. Can pain be fitted to purpose? Do I toil in the dark or can the lash I deserve knell new aim?

    Days rolled on in dreary unison. His dreams turned to lustful visions of fighting his way out, of freedom. Then back to drifting nightmare, derealization and disillusionment.

    Dawn came. A special dawn, this day, to break the curse of monotony. A sunrise that would not just send him to grind, in aimless servitude, but mine Mordaunt his motivation. A morning light to recast himself in, as role of saboteur or mad escapee. As was routine the brutish guards waltzed in, woke them with truncheons, & marched them to joyless tasks ordained of each.

    Felwreath Quarry permeated permanent aura of forlorn hope. Wrought a digging emptiness in as they chipped away at raw material to the all-pervasive sound of cracking whip & crunching bludgeon. Yet this morn¡¯s misted sun also brought a devilish drive he thought gone. Ambition to transcend imprisonment of circumstance jolted his gut, grow hungry with longing for blood to feed it and thus, he kept his head low and acted obediently while biding his time for a plan to unfold with the coming of day.

    Mordaunt plotted, clenching thoughts with fury. Pushed and prodded onward to his route by the men he aimed to kill, he waited only for anger to broil over at the right moment to unleash it. Throughout the rocky corridors the echoes of their hammers & bursts of shouting from the sentinels of the Vizzar. Some wardens were slave-soldiers themselves, not dissimilar from Mordaunt¡¯s past position ¨C and he loathed them evermore for it. How they relished much that they could inflict on others, instead of having it wreaked on them. Yet his hand never found the strength to flail hammer at their heads. Every clang took an eternity to spark the stone before him, a sluggish haze of lurking anticipation. Yet the time to strike wouldn¡¯t present itself to him. Or perhaps he was too shy, too cowardly in this mining desperation, to move on the moment himself.

    Instead that coquettish push from dawn¡¯s dream festered in his head as the day crawled on. No longer passion¡¯s pull but fantasy¡¯s noose. It was nearly noon when the change, and the true champions who brought it, came. Mordaunt could not break the binds and so truer soldiers came that day to rescue it, though he¡¯d feebly swore to save his sovereignty and his fellows from thralldom. In his deluded reverie he repeated a variant on a speech to the comrades he¡¯d rouse to fight back.

    But inspiration and assertions would not be his. He gave no rallying speech atop a barrel, led no legions of freedmen. Instead, salvation came from beyond his atrophied soul, from the Lord he¡¯d

    nearly forsworn. Members of Drakkon¡¯s band then arrived to relieve them and the resources of Felwreath quarry. The assault their arrival wrought came sudden & swift. A storm to throw open the gates, hinging from different sides and splintered edge.

    Only when the clash & clamor at the gatehouse woke soul-fiber in his inner ears did Mordaunt find the will to move his ailing muscles to mandate fight. As the sentinels sprang for the alarum and went to defend their prized labour Mordaunt scurried about the maze of this quarry intent on performing a little heist. He would arm the other miners to make them revolutionaries with crossbows, hatchets & guarded iron. Empowered by vengeance and emboldened by the steel in their hands, they¡¯d follow him to the fight. But vengeance was not theirs to wield.

    Mordaunt strangled the lingering guard posted out only to discover disarray inside the guards¡¯ headquarters. While it was nice to have steel in hand and tethers cut free, he found no time to revel this, to his growing chagrin. For horns of a surrender blared from the quarry men. His hated foe never presented him chance to regain his honour rightly, instead tossing their spears for chains of their own. The Drakoni force seized the quarry and sorted its ¡®denizens¡¯ out. Kept the Vizzari hounds on a tight tread. Yet this had been a victory handed without any finger lifted by him. So, in shame & infantile ire, Mordaunt threw himself on nearest slaver with blade retrieved from their stock.

    By the time Heron, leading this charge relieving doom, descended from his steed and made his way through to Felwreath¡¯s center post intestines of the poor man Mordaunt had lunged on were strewn around him. Although these men had been foul creatures in life such a desecration in death made him nauseous to behold. ¡°Why this grisly show of horror?¡± He exclaimed at Mordaunt who stood before the mangled man, distant & perplexed by enmity of mind. ¡°Tis done man! The skirmish over! Where is your honor?¡±

    ¡°They raked my honor in the mines! Lashed it to cross!¡± Mordaunt spat and almost slipped on blood & spittle as he reached to shake his liberator¡¯s glove. ¡°The men who trusted in me to see us prevail were beaten low by those serpents!¡±

    The weather grew grim yet again, with wintry winds racking the vacuum left by clouds¡¯ departure. Heron stepped back from him, sour expression morphing to one of concern. ¡°Take care, Mordaunt, not to reflect their evil too fervently. Lest you come to find that the image of malice; of slave masters & warmongers cast & that of your own are akin. I see your passion and am convinced your heart is righteous but let this not become our standard of ¡®warfare¡¯. I am sorry they took you, but do not drift further from light-shore into that crimson tide.¡±

    Dusk crept quickly over the land and curtain of snowfall coveted their post. Mordaunt stayed stalwart atop the watchtower. Though it seemed no more foes would come to retake the quarry and assist his need for battle. So instead, he stared down the sleet the sky wept, yearning for signs of fury more than any meal. For blood to soak the snow & soil to sate his starvation. But he¡¯d been starved of strength as well, could not yet raise any banner or halberd for his bygone brothers. Braving the cold, he cursed his weakness.

    Torchlight chased away the gloom of the rising storm. Mordaunt sprang with last sauce of sinew to meet the lead rider. Removing his helm Heron flashed familiar shine at this zealous sentinel and signaled to the spear-stance of men hauling fresh catch. ¡°The last snows of ill season avert us from our keep. Mordaunt, I¡¯m sorry, for whatever happened while you were held here. Did these snakes mistreat you so that you hath forgone any sense of victory? Surely there must be refreshing nectars aplenty to draw out your taste, a free man once more. Trust you will see the Light soon, friend.¡±

    Mordaunt grunted and said nothing. ¡°Need another quick gouging of vengeance, mate? Will speaking of triumph & justice set your heart back to it?¡± Heron whistled to the men of his company. They dragged up a line of ragged prisoners. Tearing their hoods showed faces worn, bruised & beret of that salve of dignity. One of these iron collared hostages, showed face with hollow features that Mordaunt had seen before in fresh nightmare yet faltered to place.

    ¡°We took Helcrest half a fortnight past, seized the seat of their damned inquisition. Our Lord, in preeminent sign of imminent victory, summoned Mother Azarra to perform rites of ascension. He, in his infinite wisdom, sent us to scout & scourge this quarry and others. We heard tell of how a deep a vein it is for Vizzari¡¯s body of resource, planned on liberating while scarring their campaign trail. So here we are. With no rush for you to return to the front after being maltreated so by Felwreath, of course! Eat your fill of the Hold when we find it!¡±

    ¡°How, by the Hels, did he take Helcrest so swiftly? The Hold of Th¡¯uul et Fel, that impregnable block of serpent-stone?!¡± Mordaunt puffed, beside himself.

    ¡°He works wonders, our Lord.¡± Heron¡¯s reverence would be contagious but only scratched more that jealous itch in Mordaunt, ¡°he frightened them by staking up walls and threatening attrition. Constructed a great bulwark, the finest lumbermen put to the challenge of their age: to encircle the Hold. This starved them into submission with no supplies to feed their need. And to keep any relievers from striking behind he built another wall to guard our backs. Kept us betwixt two prides of manticores and yet with their lines divided and communication cut the masters of the Hold gave in early. When Drakkon would not allow their women, young-folk and wizened through our barrier without a seal of surrender from their lords their fear ripened fast to defeat. They released them in bulk to bondage. We turned them to hostages, a buffer of their own people as deterrent for their spears.¡±

    ¡°After our cunning & claws fleeced the relief parties - hooking them in apparent easy win; what with us being pinned between two forks of battle ¨C and their own discoordination we felled the fort of snakes. When the notorious host of ¡®Dread Knights¡¯, the fangs of the Serpent¡¯s Court, arrived in full we¡¯d moved command inside the hold. Manned their fortress to thwart them. Our foes retreat further east, hiding under the ¡®scales¡¯ of their State, and its capitol. Even if those holds shall be harder to topple our providence fairs fruitful!¡±

    Mordaunt diluted his disbelief at all this. At being left out of so historic a fulcrum. Or tried. His heart still chafed against its casing, battering beat of self-hatred. Half pouting at being so pathetic, in enmity for inability to free himself. But musing on his fate only lured him to a steeper defeat, so he entertained himself by the array of wardens turned captives. Upon inspecting one prisoner¡¯s face more closely Mordaunt recognized the man as that same captain from the outpost by the Icarian coast.

    Heron pointed to the distance through the blanket of snow. ¡°Shall we hasten towards Helcrest come dawn and death of this storm? That you may rest well and settle this sentence, as you hath earned the right to? We shall see to the state of the mines, assign worthy men here to maintain order and report resources to Drakkon. I owe you a drink or two! Just so, I hope you shall lend me tale of your own endurance.¡±

    ¡°I know this bloody hound! This degenerate scoundrel is to blame for the horrors inflicted upon me and my men! I hath endured atrocity and believe I am at least due retribution on the front of justice. If that is not too brazen of a request?¡± Mordaunt¡¯s annoyance built up blithering explosion. He swung at the prisoner. Then he grabbed the neck that went flying back from the blow, his face buried in the layer of snow over the ground, soaked the man¡¯s broken nose & jaw. ¡°You owe me a crucifixion! I want to see this worm writhing on a cross to die a slow death wasting away alone & forsaken! Oi, Bas¡¯Tur was it? I will ensure thy lineage & legacy corrodes to rot alongside thy bloated swine carcass!¡±

    ¡°We shall see to it, no reason for prolonged trial when your word is held over his. Let us make way into the quarry first and welcome the rest of the loyal souls here with small harvest.¡± Heron continued to head slowly for the gate, behind him the pockets of dark sleet from the blowing storm were multiplying in number & density. ¡°If this weather keeps foul, we may be forced to employ patience and rest here awhile. I am certain Drakkon will be overjoyed with you and your heroism in surviving Felwreath. Still, I might refrain from action against any Highborn hostage until our Living Lord speaks on the matter-¡±

    ¡°-this weasel never had any use in his life whatsoever! Only ever leeched off better folks and fattened his ego off those too frail to pose threat! Allow me this...¡± Mordaunt stepped onto Heron¡¯s flow, stomped his speech with a look that was alight with a cold, sapphire fire of his ire. His intent, clear and unbending in its hateful steel. He yanked the groveling captive towards him and withdrew a slender blade. ¡°Still, no need to waste good timber on crucifying this worm.¡±

    Mordaunt plunges the knife deep into the scavenger¡¯s gut. The one who¡¯d bound him in chains, almost broken his faith in his worth & larger destiny, vomits mortal bile. Twisting it slowly, the prisoner avenged enjoys presenting this pest with pain. He sentences Bas¡¯Tur to be his thrall in throes of death. Stabbing sates not this hunger for vengeance. Blade pokes into bone but breaks against plump dullness of a corpse. His edge shatters for lack of a real foe¡¯s meat.

    He rips the toothy fang taken from the Vizzar stock from its hook in the weeping man¡¯s belly. Carves more, fishes guts. Gore and testes flop to pale-blood pile. The killer growls. A feral, supernaturally sourced cry, from a voice not his own. Berserker shout dwindles to wisp as Mordaunt tames his composure, nets these cinders of his hate even as they still smolder. ¡°Tis a shame shock seized him from the rut. Too much tearing with too little pain to buffer his exit. Bastard¡¯s descent beneath the snow is too comfortable. But alas, there are more important concerns for both of us to attend. And for our Lord. Drakkon will understand. But let us step past these trivialities and see what remains of the hell I only just fought my way from.¡±

    Heron dared not admonish Mordaunt for this abrupt execution. He reined in any loose opinions that could come fumbling from his tongue. In part this silence was a respectful gesture, given to a man whose anger he surely understood. But more so, it was quiet forced by that stare from the blue-eyed swordsman which chilled his veins & muscles. A glare to cast statue of ice from him. After the moment passed, an undercurrent of uncertainty blown by inclement gales shoved them back to the quarry. Gathering ¡®neath shelter, Heron came to be haunted by the spirit of Mordaunt¡¯s story and that of this viper pit & the misery it mined.

 Prodigal Ties

    Chapter Six, Prodigal Ties

    Dawncrest 16<sup>th</sup> 1329 CE, Helcrest Hold

    Starlight showered the hilltop. Cool, clear emptiness of the evening enhanced these astral fires, their halo illuminating the small coven congregating under their watch. Sprinting constellations chased away their Yule-tide brethren, exiling their snows. Like the mortals their waves beckoned, they smile for season of renewal¡¯s return. The cloaked revelers were lit doubly from above & by the radiance of pyres before them. Upon balefire a trio of men, priests of Th¡¯uul et Fel, were staked & readied for flame. With torch held high to the heavens Azarra ushers in the spirits and beckons the heralds of the turning, bearers of Gaahl¡¯s dream, enjoy this sacrifice of sinful flesh. Her voice rises, replacing the winds; serenades the ritual participants:

    ¡°Io Drakkon! Io Triumph! Glory to the gods above! We hail thee and offer tribute to victory! Praise the constant eyes of fates and hand of destiny which delivers us unto new world¡¯s shores!¡±

    The mouth of fire, kindled by Azarra¡¯s spellbinding cry, gapes furious light. The gagged men staked to its center wail hopeless agony. She sparks sight of seared skin, prisoners shaved bald of their clergy robes & lives. Stifled screams fail to challenge her squall commanding the skies. ¡°We humbly offer the Dread Serpent¡¯s ¡®scales¡¯ in shape of men! Feast on snakeskin, flames of star & stake! May these human candles carry the Divine Light and bring Fyre ov our Lord! We declare our request: make ash, the blasphemous Inquisition of Vizzari, that holy rain shine! Let heaven hail our dragon!¡±

    The condemned inquisitors couldn¡¯t scream their broad torment, so the pyre sings their terror. Charred chorus of anguish surrounds their circle with dissonant chords. But Azarra refuses cede these passaging death-howls as sufficient. She grasps Aris¡¯ druidic horn, his tribute, and blows harsh alarum. Siren booms over the hillside with wicked delight. As the horn resounds more pyres ignite. These carve the dusk of adjacent hilltops, splitting new screams & black trumpets to join music of sacrifice. Then she hides the horn, tosses torch into the pit in front of her.

    Pulling out a silver athame Azarra taps glistening crimson. Shows her bloodied palm & its oath to welkin throne. ¡°This sign of Fortune shall not go unheeded, ye gods & judges all! We pledge flesh & blood this night! That the Living Light manifests of our marrow to glean burning Sign in our enemy¡¯s! Let not the servants of Dark & Crimson be unburnt by the Highest Fyre!¡±

    Bewitching fusion of shrill whimpers from the dying & Azarra¡¯s litany possesses her circling coven. As she bids, they cut the same pact of blood. Air drinks of liberated red mist. With palms leaking to the sky, they howl & chant primordial harmonies. Witch-prayers & death-pacts shout song to the seats of the gods. Then ceremonial haze evaporates as steeply as it ensnared. Only echoes of dying-vespers hum then alongside the human candles. With their working complete most participants weave their steps back to the Hold, lit by their hilltop offerings. Yet others stay to revive the chants & resurrect nocturnal cheers over clerics¡¯ wax.

    Azarra waited for most of her disciples & revelers to depart before journeying back. Along her trail these flambeaus of flesh stayed lit, brazenly baring orange & black cinders into the evening tide swirling across the hilly terrain. Sporadic chants of witches¡¯ shrieks sprang again, commanded by rapturous zealotry the High Mother inspired in her fanatical coven. These distant themes would be this night¡¯s symphony. Continuing call of devotion that wolfpacks, lone cats & lurkers of the woodbine would hear & answer. All Helwreath, beasts & men, must sing for it.

    Surely this toast of all the earth & her faithful would send her son through threshold of delirious delight. To look out window of the Hold ¨C itself coveted by banners of his image ¨C he¡¯d see staple of his success & ironic end for the fate of these witch-finders; to see the ashes of heath-burning inquisitors who¡¯d preyed upon his precious Corinna. And yet Azarra did not feel this warmth of spiritual victory beckon her back through the cannels of her thoughts, clogging up her inner ear. These candles could yet be snuffed by starker winds, for their storm had not yet succeeded.

    Rising above the hills onto the high walls, Azarra glid by as shimmering phantom. She slipped from her sentinels, her matronly duties & polite dress. Another translucent shape & a smaller, winged one winked at her. Flittering atop ghostly forearm: a strong, beautiful & regal bird. Aris¡¯ prized personal hawk, Helwind. The raptor skittered happily up his master¡¯s shoulder. The druid hailed her with a slight bow, that his avian companion made to mirror. She bid him rise and Aris fell into her step, strolling by curved walls and proud parapets of Helcrest.

    ¡°Grand tidings to you, most luminous Mother of the Divine. I hope the ceremony succeeded in singing you to good spirits.¡± The pale strands dividing his mane appeared evermore visible against the white starlight & morbid beacons. ¡°Does it not please you to hold the seat of power from which the Vizzari inquisition leeched the blood of the land as your own sign of eminent warpath?¡±

    Helwind fluttered his wings and squawked at Azarra, courting her attention. She & this bold bird became acquainted quickly & fairly since their first meet. She offered soft petting of its chin and back feathers. Once the majestic avian messenger purred satisfaction with the affection Aris whispered secret missive. Something in their bonded language ¨C that which could only be spoken and understood by a pet and its owner, falcon & falconer, and an intelligent animal knowledgeable of the service required of it. Then the noble hawk, shook his large silver toned wings and bounded up, swiftly ascending from the Druid¡¯s gauntlet for the skies around the castle. Fluid motion of wings swam through substance of a dream.

    So sly had Aris¡¯ subtle sleight of hand been accomplished that the perceptive woman did not notice the small scroll that expeditiously, deftly, attached to his hawk¡¯s talons. ¡°Night shall not slow him! Starlight guides! Fly, Helwind!¡±

    ¡°Aye, at least one of the Fates smiles on us with favor. That we hath taken this infernal hold proves the righteousness of the path we carve.¡± Azarra offered her walking companion a smile, shaking herself from introverted daze which descended post-ceremony. ¡°Drakkon¡¯s might proves eternally majestic in scope, and I am proud to proclaim my faith in our eventual triumph over those who were once your kin.¡±

    A wispy halo of smoke protruded from Aris¡¯ cowl, puffing on his signature pipe. After exhaling spiraling smokescreen, he extended a genuine grin.

    ¡°Dear seer, you still do not account yourself enough credit for the success of your course. For, to speak frankly and without rebuke, the real orbit of power -and the beating heart of this ¡®Drakoni¡¯ unification, this rebellion made considerable in clout- emanates from you as much as your son. Your insight & intelligence steered the sails to victory as much, if not more, than any hidden hand of divine intervention. Do you fear to admit this? You are too humble, at times, to not embrace it. But alas my respect & admiration of you grows with every step. I never envisioned such meteoric progress against the degenerate Vizzar. Tis you whose presence I bathe in. From whom I feel true inspiration and ecstatic flow of possibility. I am proud to know you.¡±

    Azarra, taken aback, blushed slight & swift hue. ¡°A bit of a mouthful there but I appreciate your appreciation,¡± she returned his flash with hers, ¡°tis good to be in good company. To know myself welcome. Acknowledged, even. Truth be told my mind is a bit cumbersome, for I know this to be far from final victory and assured security with so much of the darkened path ahead left to tread. Your words are always welcome these nights though, Aris.¡±

    ¡°Perhaps if you are free for a time might we discuss matters more privately? Matters to combine both business & pleasure? I¡¯ll happily lift the weight from your shoulders with any I might offer you.¡± Aris offered up his pipe to Azarra as the smoke, billow out from the piece.  ¡°That is if you are willing to have me?¡±

    Azarra downed her feathered cowl to show her face. Playfully pulled down the druid¡¯s too that neither could hide. Soft, pale fingers ran through her hair, which looked white in the clear ambience of augury. ¡°Well... I do not know how much time I may avail you. Delphine hath been out of sorts since the Temple and the serpent shore aids this little. She needs my company in these long nights in land of unknown... But pray, she can forgive me this indulgence for an eve. I could use a distraction or else catharsis. So yes, I extend invitation to you, Aris, that we may share in little libation & conversation.¡±

    She pressed the pipe to her lips. Sucking the charcoal essence, she repressed a cough as herbal smoke careened through her lungs. The duo made their way into Helcrest proper. The mist of their passing weaved through the battlements and below to side streets where the bustle of the townsfolk¡¯ evening work kept. Where once towering banners of crimson & gold boasted, and the serpentine insignia draped over every major building¡¯s side, now all was left unadorned or underwent painting of white. That clashing of pale & bleak stone brought sense of claustrophobia. Below the walls to Helcrest¡¯s striking keep chimneys smoldered & flagons filled as the townsfolk went about their business. Toasting to their lives and the toils still theirs.

    One last look to the fields beyond before Azarra entered the western tower. The brush deadened by winter¡¯s laden cape peeled off, but spring was yet to bloom fresh flowers. Witch-shades danced by distant flambeaus of men, but their sounds of celebration died behind the tower door. The chamber was menacingly dark at first, sealed off from flickering of dwindling lanterns, until Aris lit the array of candles on the center table.

    As they settled into this secretive meet of theirs Azarra shined a bottle of alchemical concoction. A brewing of various alcohol kept for occasions when she found herself needing to space her worries with a splash. After sly swig she offered it to her guest, tucked away in this tower. ¡°I do worry dearly for dear Delphine,¡± She sputtered, the burn from the stiff potion scratching her throat, ¡°how awfully her dreams are troubled, how she cries out for me in wolven hour of woe reawakened. I give to her what I can spare of myself. Grant what comforts I might hold but she is ever wrought in wrack & ruination of spirit when left alone. She takes fright at what invasions might creep upon her, from others in our courts and fiends of dusk. Tis taking a toll on my own thoughts to have to shepherd hers! I even ponder curbing this duty of friendship by sending her back to Ligeia. Yet I understand that hesitant horror of returning to where the trident-braided beast once haunted.¡±

    Aris sniffed the bottle¡¯s edge before taking a cautious sip. He suppressed a cough too after tasting the potency of her elixir. ¡°Tis sign of your soul to worry, Azarra. You yield not the flag of friendship. Perhaps ¡®twould be in her own interests to alleviate her dependency on you. Ween her tendency & curb it as to build will to overcome what haunts her. I presume you know what it takes to overcome grim misfortune. And though your souls are bonded by care, until she recovers her lost wits, she will only drain yours.¡±

    ¡°The path that led us all here hath been rife with strife & trial. But through that suffering we find understanding & a force to seize the reins of our lives¡¯ standing. We are in the fray of it now, staring down history¡¯s longest standing tyranny of Vizzari¡¯s Magistrate. We mustn¡¯t stumble by sinking into the slough of softness and doubt.¡±

    As the bottle made its way back to her hands Azarra sighed. She paced around Aris, who held an illuminating candelabra. ¡°Yes, yes how close we are to the precipice. I fear this bridge is not near halfway crossed but now the stones crumble beneath & before us. Leave us to blindly leap from one to the next, never truly knowing how far the gap.¡± A steep swallow from the unholy potion unleashed the tie about her tongue & binding of her hair. Gold waters splashed her shoulders in glow of candlelight. ¡°But I know not if it is weakness to strive to protect another heart so close to mine from suffering. Of a kind I hath known all too closely. How hollow a victory to win but be bereft of friends or feeling. How empty the world we fight for should then be!¡±

    ¡°Emptiness is as a mirror. In that blank space one projects their need, their nightmares, to shape that reflection.¡± Aris philosophized from corner of smoldering pipe. ¡°Alas, I misspoke. Allow me forgiveness, elegant Azarra, & grant me with the grace to re-word my meaning. Your love for your friend is as true as the Light that takes form in your son. So, I trust you to know how much she can endure of the darkness to come. Your light is not in vacuum.¡±

    ¡°This is a more depressing discussion than I would wish to be held by!¡± She sobbed another swig. Her eyes fixated on candleflame, floating as silver sliver of moonlight in a black sea. ¡°Yet you too know of despair & abandonment. How it is to be forced to walk the lonelier road, forsook of tribe. Given your paternal issues & the plight you spot of your people, you should know not all can climb up from the depths unaided. You should hold sympathy for Delphine¡¯s scars, as our own. I wonder how this scholarly row is relevant. I thought you had words to share with me of strategy?¡±

    Aris gave a dry chuckle and snuffed out embers. ¡°Paternal issues, you say? Ah ha. Well, that is related to what I wish to share, something concerning my father and my scars. Just as you rose from apostasy to return as Mother of the Divine, I must venture to my wayward home. Must march to where I am exiled, to return both as Druid and willing herald for Drakkon. My father, you see, Cassius, is a head of the Serpent, the triad, which stands to devour us should we slip from the way.¡±

    He graciously exchanged the bottle from her for the light, chugging without care for the warm flood. He tried to laugh away this tension suffused in him but there came no wryness or chicanery in inebriation. Only made the air of reflection muskier. ¡°House Abraxas ¨C whence comes my blood but not my soul ¨C is the most formidable adversary on the map. But first let me ask you: save your wits & your son¡¯s, why is it your siege of Helcrest, a stronghold for their Inquisition, succeeded so effortlessly?¡±

    ¡°Effortlessly? Hundreds of our men paid ultimate sacrifice for Drakkon¡¯s victory here. Good souls shed their hosts; others maimed. Including our prized bard, who suffered a fall to bed him for a day. While I have not yet visited him, I pray it was not his face that was marred, for that would demark his influence over his audience. Anyway, I could hardly count it as effortless. But why not enlighten me with your lips, dear guest?¡±

    ¡°Know I share secrets to the ruin of my former House. Allow me to really illustrate to you how that fac?ade of despotic accord is corrupted within the Magistrate. When Magister Ba¡¯al of the Serpent¡¯s Head was slain and your crusade launched, the hole left by cleaved head tore the fabric of Vizzari hierarchy further. All those ambitious courtiers, nobles, warriors & priests frothed at the mouth to sit upon power¡¯s, emptied, seat. Their Lord of Fury led a front impressive only in its pretense & prestige. ¡®Twas an expedition sent more for covering how the serpent¡¯s tail molts away from blind expenditure more than cleansing the world of upstart cult. Ineptitude curses them more than any heresy.¡±

    ¡°The Inquisitions¡¯ funds ran sparse with the Magister of Finance, my bloodborne father, acting as the callous miser he is. He and Fel, head of Faith, never agreed on their eyeline so Cassius hoarded the largest portion of wantful treasury. Our assault on Helcrest was waged on a hold drained of its resource, already given to rot. Their agents plundered the Icarian coastline and seized the property of their victims to enrich their pockets while they made the land ¡®pure¡¯. But peasants, hermits and poor victims do not fill their coffers well enough. Now you deny them their quarries.¡±

    ¡°A longtime contact reports me from within the inner circles. My father¡¯s rival, in Fel, rounds up affluent and influential councilmen as ¡®witches¡¯ and ¡®warlocks¡¯ that he might reap their households, plundered by shame. Each lord incurs another¡¯s ire.¡± Aris traded the letter & the lantern for the bottle. ¡°With the Magister of Fury & High Consul erased from the pecking order the snakes have no captain to call on proper reserves. They cannot martial enough from conscription. The red court tears at its throats, hydra heads biting at political ascension, licking at glory from the grave of Malvayn.¡±

    Azarra dressed him with her attention as Aris pressed point. ¡°Magister of Faith and his hound of Th¡¯uul, could hath intervened had they rallied a worthy host to repel your son¡¯s invasion.

    Instead, most Dread Knights were bid guard their craven head at Crestfall. The rest of the Vizzar: divvied up and bought as mercenaries for greedy & fearful players aiming to influence the flow of succession or halt it from their hearths. The thorny branches of hierarchy can swiftly lash, bloody & merciless struggle against the trunk, when every councilor aims a dagger at another.¡±

    ¡°So, you say they are disorganized, shambling beneath their fat avarice? Hmm, easier then to strike out against with assured aim? I still do not see why this merits such a secretive meeting or intensive digging?¡± Azarra interrupted, drunk on impatience. ¡°Could this not be relayed by missive to allow me a well-deserved warm bath in the keep? Nor is it clear to me why you insist you must travel back to your House when we are ready to pounce?¡±

    Aris guzzled a final shot of the strange liquor before surrendering his explanation to his host. ¡°My father is ever a private matter. My informant serves House Abraxas under him and his madness. As Magister of Finance and self-proposed Consul to the Vizzar he wields immense influence. With wealth he deserves not, he can leash legions to his whim. Buying the best guard. Even the elite order of Dread Knights adorned in drapes of religious devotion to the Serpent¡¯s cult come flocking to the chime of clanging coin. Money, it would seem, is more potent inspiration than faith.¡±

    ¡°But Cassius is sick. & knowing that man¡¯s nature all too well, he is more dangerous on death¡¯s door. Caring not for who he drags with him through it, only how many he can. This upheaval is a pendulum and depending on what force is applied it may swing in our favor or else pummel us. I aim to be that well-placed push. To spin our Fortune by paying a visit before his illness afflicts others or aids their treasures.¡±

    Aris brought the parchment to her candle, let the tip turn it to cinder. He stamped out the ash, brushed it away. Then sated Azarra¡¯s curiosity on a scroll with seal of his House. ¡°No villainous rabble of snakes or even bandits damming the roads of distant fields would dare evoke a druid¡¯s curse. Your clans & their courts respect this to the day. Though perhaps Cassius might dare it. But as a wayward son I still have means to regain & lay claim to my inheritance. I¡¯ve allies in his household through whom I might swing open the gate that blocks us. To take my ancestral wealth as a bargaining chip for pawns or else split the political rift further asunder. To campaign against my House to depose the one fiend capable of bargaining for our deaths.¡±

    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°I see now why this had to be shared with me in private. Forgive me for my prior misgivings, friend.¡± Azarra capped the bottle after one more taste. She yawned, showing desire to retire to her private place, from him. But this was snare to test him. She wove her way over to him and pressed her palms over his hands, beaming at him with intent. ¡°You do not wish for your past to be known to others. I get that. The reasons for your disappearing from our camp shall remain obscured, a pact between ourselves alone. ¡®Tis brave, I must say, to venture headfirst into this forlorn estate where threat lies in the base of your very blood. I respect this, Aris.¡±

    ¡°¡¯Tis only that I place so much faith in you, Azarra, that I strain you with this secret of mine. Should my heritage, which scorns & scathes me despite my never having choice in it, be known in your camp it would cast deathly clouds of suspicion over your cause. That cannot be risked. Yet I must do this.¡± Their hands caressed the other¡¯s softly, testing their touch. Patted feel enkindling warmth which needed not any candle. A fervor to hush her recoiling worry.

    Aris¡¯ hand flirtatiously guides hers, pulls free his cloak. Azarra, blankets her hesitation with his shirt, nestles into his embrace. Absorbs the sweet syrup he speaks. ¡°In your shine I find force of life renewed. Beating through this heart again with fire & purpose.¡± Her fingers fondle the hairs lining his chest. Firm grasp draws her nearer as his breath kisses her ear. ¡°Let me be your servant. Forget the chains of family ties. Damn the Druidic code. Trace salve over our scars, that we may fly upon wings of beauteous dream! For you I¡¯d risk blood & body. You who are blessed beyond any birthright.¡±

    Visitation

    Three days following, Helcrest Hold

    Baron hobbled through the halls of the citadel. His sprained leg dragging alongside his cane. His walking stick was peculiar & well garnished in design, formerly belonging to a since deceased inquisitor. It gave stiff echo as it knocked on the floor. A ¡®gift¡¯ among other rewards for his assistance in liberating Helcrest and serving it in song, spoken and runic word after. He¡¯d thrown in a proper performance as a skald. Playing the warrior-poet as he fought to repel the wave behind their makeshift fortifications. Almost taken an arrow for fighting feverishly, as if he aimed to meet his Valkyrie. He suffered small blow upon steed for his part, but, retaining his voice & thereby true purpose he¡¯d endured longer still in the spreading of jeer among their camp, despite feeling none in himself.

    Drakkon practically drowned him in a flood of gracious gold, jewelry & opal baubles of opulence which he needed not, nor found his liking in. Though he chivalrously accepted these tributes of conquest. Despite these rewards and the lavish banners & threads decorating the great hall Baron could not shake this grubbing doubt nor the remorse weighing down his brow. So much blood had been shed in single season¡¯s tide and yet the current hastened to reap still more, to sweep ruthlessly. They¡¯d defeated a chapter of the serpent¡¯s chapel, beat back their demoniac lords. Yet fulfillment or mythic apotheosis for taking part in such assault never found him from this ¡®feat¡¯. Instead, he felt soured to have shed so much sweat, frayed by friction of fighting for a cause that set to burn those they¡¯d ousted. He feared they¡¯d made martyrs of evil. More so that their effigies were auguries of their own ability & appetite for it.

    Baron brought with him missive, compelling him to attend his Lord. That living thunder waiting just past the hall on the veranda overlooking the hold¡¯s grand courtyard. The contents of this scroll stung at him with persistence, stirring disillusionment. Scrawled reports relaying troublesome tidings: abridged details of Mordaunt¡¯s recent ventures and the results of his retribution against any sharing crest with those who¡¯d shackled him. What suffering found him those weeks of incarceration made the captain gleefully justified in razing of whole settlements. Gave motive for his indiscriminate culling of Vizzari; from their lowly citizens to their serpentine knights who oft refused to fight in their stead. These massacres hinted at a dangerous vulnerability in the man, thought the bard-turned battle christened skald.

    His trepidation over the heavy hand of steep militarization wasn¡¯t quelled by the lines of sentinels patrolling the rounds. Soldiers¡¯ spears stomped around perimeter of bustling tables of peasants and gabs of merchants, all carefully cooperating with their own pursuits and vocational inquiries. The coercion of the people could be readily witnessed through a mix of intimidation, bribery, and shady trades beneath cluttered tables. Workers hunched their shoulders and dragged heads in shame. Others sharpened suspicions. For they¡¯d suffered a spiritual defeat with the humiliation of holy citadel here, only to be then constricted by the reach of each Drakoni pike looming over their shoulders, encroaching on every inch of privacy with the shadow of their Lord.

    Baron glanced back at the hectic mob, swore half-prayer for them, then crawled over threshold to where Drakkon ordained their meeting. Well-honed pikes blocked the way through to the balcony where he could see the figure of the Lord, proud in his stance above the courtyard. Past more throngs & guards, with countenances of stone chiseled into likeness of men. Couriers wound up the way, forming a final blockade. Two in threads of Temple acolytes, argued & begged with futility to be allowed passage.

    The sentinels recognized Baron. With quick call to their master behind they announced him, their pikes lowered for him. But as he lumbered past the pair the bard chanced a glance at the two messengers insisting on audience with their Lord so eagerly. When he met the eyes of one, even from beneath her hood her enigmatic beauty struck him. One look signed invisible pact. ¡°Please master bard,¡± the acolyte addressed him as he halted by, ¡°we hath travelled cross far and treacherous turf & tides to bring word to our Living Lord. Yet alas we are caught in the mire of drudgery in our waiting. We are yet to rest, bathe, or eat a proper meal for we wish to dither not in our aim. But these good & loyal men here are not inclined to believe our matter earns urgency, so I ask you to allow us to join you? If only to let our words be heard? We hold a message from Lady Corinna which may be of interest to our Lord.¡±

    Swayed by enigmatic magnetism of this woman, who despite dress of modest rags of a religious neophyte radiated otherworldly charm, he humored her request. Baron flashed a wink & smirk before casually laying hand onto one of the sentinels¡¯ shoulder guards. ¡°Will you allow these two alongside me? Tis only to make both our roles all the less hefty & time consuming, should we fill out these tasks at once.¡± The stern sentinel made to lift his stony fac?ade to fling rebuke (as signaled by flickering brow) until the sudden jangle of coin swooshed & a small pouch found its way into the man¡¯s satchel. This, followed by a nod and signal to proceed.

    ¡°My friend, you are wounded!¡± that woman brushed Baron with earnest sympathy, worry carried under breath. ¡°Is the front here so dire that the beloved bard himself must bear the scars of the battles he writes of, sings for?¡±

    ¡°¡¯Tis nothing to inspire woe over, my lady,¡± Baron blushed at her concern as they pushed onto patio. There was something endearingly familiar, yet exotic about this Temple runner. Though her features & form hid under magus cowl, his instinct & intuition, when it came to women, warmed him warning of hungering desire; an unnamable, irritational trust inspired by her company. ¡°I thank thee for thy worry, sweet sprite. Tis the mark of a man working to write history actively. That rather than decay in stifling archives, mulling over dusty words, I sing with sword. Danger is my vocation, as adventure is my call! A quill to fight for the Light!¡± Baron bowed as best as he could.

    The Lord faced them. His expression showered a calm radiance. He released them from their bows, bid join him on the ledge. Though the winter storms had been unforgiving and nigh apocalyptic to the garden plants before, below him they now bloomed endurance of turning season. Petals stretched their hues across the lawn, of carmine, emerald, platinum, violet & gild.

    ¡°I planned on offering that same consolation, in a manner, friend!¡± Drakkon welcomed his guests with a smile, ¡°See now the vast horizon and know that it is ours to sculpt. Every day our history written over the make of the land. What you endured is doubly a mark of pride, Baron, for to endure agony and remain steadfast in spirit & sword alike is no trifling feat. You hath served the people and this dream enough to bleed through the pain. Proud that you use it as ink for your quill, good friend, to etch the linings of our legend.¡± Long finger pointed to the hills, to bale-pyres still alight where the charred piles of Helcrest¡¯s former masters were as tinder. Made to burn into another day by his whim. He hoped all would see this as he did, as a sign of illumination over harsh lands.

    ¡°On that note, my Lord, I wish to press that we be careful & attentive with what melodies we ring to the world. We must take care what notes we play, what chapters we fulfill in this historic performance. In a way that is what brings me to you now,¡± Baron unrolled the scroll and presented it, leaning over the balustrade. ¡°It concerns your champion war herald, Mordaunt. His means of bringing the citizens of Vizzari to supplication and dealing with its agents are troublesome to me. For his gauntlet is of iron malice and indiscriminate in punishment.¡±

    ¡°You feel his methods barbarous?¡± Arid chuckle escaped before Drakkon¡¯s tone rang with authority. ¡°Mordaunt serves his role as my Champion by wielding the fiery sword of my Justice. Executing wrath as needed. We may hold the seat of their slithering inquisition but the wyrms slink about the realm still. Thus, they must be splayed & slain. They must know Fear of us first in their hearts before they are to fall to us. Wroth enough to pave way for our warmth.¡±

    ¡°What of tactical theatre Mordaunt applies? He rides with our cavalry, faces painted up as ghouls. They terrorize not just the lords but the common folk too. Who cower in despair at these daemonic invaders. Their ghastly appearance: signet of slaughter.¡± Baron interjected, passion overpowering his precautionary politeness & manner of politic. ¡°Forgive my ignorance, I mean no insolence in this, but I am unable to see how crucifying innocents for the guilty few to tremble low is a triumph of justice? We must spread your holy fire through to the hearts of the people, not sets their bodies ablaze in its name.¡±

    Drakkon¡¯s expression darkened a touch at the bard¡¯s open criticism. ¡°You wish me a more compassionate lord? I am not unmerciful. I forgive you your lack of higher insight. Hark, you may be able to process what you suffer through goodwill and artistic expression, but Mordaunt knows only the art of war. His catharsis, the hammer of Astraea.¡± He looked over the two messengers and waived Baron. ¡°But come let us save the heat of this discussion for when we are not attended. In the meanwhile, I must inquire as to your entourage here?¡±

    The lead acolyte bowed her head but kept her hood. She addressed him with a serene lilt that did not dither in his presence as so many might. ¡°We are but sisters of Sight. We braved the seas & roads to deliver word from Corinna, unto you, O Lord. Please forgive us any intrusion and for our disheveled haste in seeking your eminent ears.¡± With this the mute sister behind her withdrew a weathered container and from its seal a battered scroll, which she granted her host in humble demeanor. ¡°She asked of us to reveal it only to you.¡±

    Curiosity bid their host delve into the parchment with import. Mouthing the words as he read aloud parts to Baron beside him. ¡°From my love, ¡®upon receiving news of your taking Helcrest I decide to take my heart¡¯s command to course. Ever since we parted ways I feel this growing need, of yearning for your closeness... I feared being a burden through my shivering curse, but Elder Ligeia is as sweet & welcoming as she is wise & talented. She brewed a remedy for me that quells those blasted spells. Her blessed potion keeps the tremors from possessing me as often. ¡®Tis a miraculous thing to keep attuned to the spirits without being stolen away at the mercy of those terrible fits. My materia rejuvenated past spoke of sightless sea, I am renewed to re-unite.¡¯¡±

    ¡°¡¯I give you my word to be before you soon, following this missive of mine. I am sorry I did not fly with you across the Ruun. Yet with nightmarish visions baying no longer, I come not in fever. Trust in my return, great sun of my soul¡¯s soil. My way cannot be swayed by worried compassion, for I require no concern over my ability to make the journey there. Our destiny is interwoven in the stars and thus no circumstance nor obstacle shall threaten this blossoming love of ours.¡¯¡±

    His smile stretched strangely. ¡°Ah Corinna, there is no doubt she means what she says, I know her will is a wonder of its own. But she tells me to stave any of worry of that dangerous journey here? I love the woman but, damn. Damn, if she should expect this of me and bid me be stoic?¡±

    A cloud coveted Drakkon¡¯s face but relented when he gave voice to his thoughts. ¡°Truly, my nights drag on longer & lonelier without her. Despite my joy at her coming, it troubles me that she would be so brash as to not consult me before. Now that I know brutality is the one language with which we may tutor this land. How to heed a forked heart, split by paths of love & reason?¡±

    Baron scratched his stubble. Shifting his weight from the crutch to the balcony lining, while Drakkon shared thoughts of Corinna. Thinking along, he pulled out some hannabis leaf from his satchel; a quick mist, acquired of a druid, to subdue the creeping ache of his leg and smooth his mind. ¡°Should we not trust the good lady¡¯s will? There is sincerity & force behind her words. From what little I know of her ¨C with no intention to be intrusive, Lord ¨C and of yourself, would not the power of your fortunate affection bless her path with grace? Should we not kindle those coals of faith?¡±

    Drakkon felt phantom cords assail his heart, their hooks rend, wrangling hope to belligerence. ¡°Of course, I am as steel in my faith. Our bond is deeper than the seas she crosses as we speak.

    Tis nothing so mundane as enemies nor beasts of this land which draws me to worry. Tis for that very bond and its radiance that I am fearful of my passion, should I get distracted by the glow of her so near to both me and the fields of battle we must wage without tire! Mother warns me of this. Tis for that very reason that she conquers this heart of mine as our holy aim must conquer this, the lair of the Serpent! Do ye know not the binds of love?¡±

    The speaker of the mystic sisters stepped to Drakkon with confident assay. ¡°Our Lady draws nearer with every moment. Ever second another step towards your paths ¨C your stars ¨C joining on the ever-unfolding mortal plane we share.¡±

    The orator lunged an elegant pose, windlassing her hood revealing herself to the Lord in full. Drakkon, blinded as though gazing directly at the sun, gaped at recognition of Corinna. Baron too admired her from the side, taking in the surprising sight of this woman, shaped in fairness & image, carnal yet pure. He understood just then how his master and friend could be so bewitched by her. Astonished at her, more than how her manifestation shifted her Lord¡¯s whole being & stance. She beamed at him, pushing through any nervousness.

    At first, he froze there as immovable marble, but white cheeks then fired blush. Waves of emotion rushed as tide of awe. Drakkon enfolded her in embrace. ¡°Love! Forgive me my doubts espoused but moments ago. That haze of mine is lifted now. I hold faith in my hands as they hold to you. I am assured that our love will only boom from standing together as we tread the trail to liberation & salvation of this land with our spirits adjoined!¡±

    He sweetly kissed her forehead and next her lips. Held her chin up that their eyes locked in reciprocal nakedness. Their pupils distending, widening straight of communication - transcendent over verbal expression. Corinna returned his kiss. Rolling stare & cheek brimming with wellsprings of romance & excitement. ¡°Forgive me, my brightest star of heaven & earth, for my recklessness, and this pretense. Alas faith held true, and my journey here was swift & steady, with nary a patrol on the roads nor any foul storms over the waters to catch us. I had my Sister in Sight, Lavinia, for fair companion.¡±

    She gestured to the de-cowled sibling of her coven. A lady of oddly similar aspect to Corinna; looking half her actual sister from feature. Though this Lavinia¡¯s look was a dampened mimicry of her Lady¡¯s & the weariness of envy elongated the edges of face past her real age. Perhaps their kinship, though not equal in aesthetic, was the result of that melding alchemy which comes of accompanying another so long, in trial, rite & adventure. Her second¡¯s hair, though in fact a muddy brown, had been subject to blackening root extract & careful layers of oil to darken it, shadowing Corinna. But despite those few flaws, which Lavinia¡¯s sidelong glance always gouged deeper, the consort of the Lord was ever more appealing to passing eye, even in her bizarre & witchy flare.

    ¡°Forgive me once more, sweet sire, for not announcing myself. My whims may bend but are ever constant for you in ardor. Fickle curiosity compelled me to mend my absence. The need to fulfill vision in my mind¡¯s eye of your face, now so delightfully beaming before me. Would that the worst should befall you while I was tucked away at the Temple, still an apostate to most there in all but name. Forgive these fears? I would be lost should you be lost, and yet you are eternal. To be with you whatever the morrow brings shall be of dream, no matter the day¡¯s shade.¡±

    Baron averted his gaze from their display of grateful reunion. He motioned to excuse himself, as to be away from an awkward perch of spectating. It was an oozy feeling of abrupt voyeurism and even a slight prickle of envy, near supernatural magnetism of this couple. For him Corinna¡¯s charm countered that of all the maidens whom he¡¯d yet entertained and dared seduce. But he soon shook this spell as he bowed out the basilica, sulking away to a corner of the hold. Lavinia followed his request for dismissal. With her the sentinels too were sent out for a beat.

    Once reasonably alone, the couple drifted into mesmerizing hypnosis of one another. Though the immediate attendants departed there came rustling about the far side of the courtyard flowerbeds below. Their private ritual interrupted to by an eavesdropping Azarra. Strolling amid their affair, she halted for a split, shining bitterness at Corinna¡¯s figure atop the balcony by her son. Absently her gloves dug roots of persistent poisonous plant, Helfyre Wreath. Yet through protective leathers her fingers craved their nature. With her circle tending the gardens none would flare concern at her clearing these pernicious weeds. While her nose beneath beaked mask mulled wicked purpose from the petals.

    Vacuous to his mother¡¯s lurking, Drakkon entwined fingers to his consort¡¯s hair & gentle whispers to her ear. ¡°Shall we elope from this court and hold reunion with proper privacy? We shall seize Crestfall by Summer-tide. Azarra sees our success arranged in the stars, our fortune by runes & prowess. But that is bloody business & I do not wish to sour our time with martial matters. There may yet be shade we may rest in sooner. Let us share joys. Away for a while all but our whims and words for another, my love.¡±

    Corinna wrapped her hand about the back of his head, weaving innocently enough yet tinging his thoughts with sensuality. She whispered back as they pivoted to walk together. ¡°I must admit I feel that the High Mother dislikes me so. When near her my gut stings of her distaste for me. Though it saddens me she feels this way. Another reason best to make our own way, I must say.¡±

    ¡°Ah, my spring blossom, fear not her feeling. When I make you mine before eyes of fawning world you will be to my mother as her own daughter. She shall yet learn to love you.¡±

    They went from the public hall and up winding way to Drakkon¡¯s tower, hands bound to another¡¯s. Formerly the head inquisitor¡¯s suite now vastly redecorated to its conqueror¡¯s preference. Once out of earshot of the roaming hordes of servants, sentinels, and bird-masked herbalists keen on snooping, Corinna spoke her mind¡¯s trouble aloud. ¡°While it is still fresh, my Lord & Light, may I be so bold as to ask: Would you consider listening to Baron on the matter of your ¡®champion¡¯? Even though I arrived under guise of disciple, I heard discussion in the halls and taverns of Mordaunt¡¯s march. It maims the hopes of this land¡¯s common caste. The herd of Vizzari might yearn for their old shepherd from fear of slaughter by this hand. Tis becoming of a merciful Lord to extend repentance before holy reckoning. Should we change enough hearts through a kind, yet firm, rule the banners will change their colors with ease, sworn by love, not steel.¡±

    Entering the chamber, arranged in fashion suitable for a king of kings with sums of gold-leaf trophies & priceless paintings from the treasury, Drakkon brushed Corinna¡¯s worries away. ¡°My love, you hath the virtue & compassion to rival a thousand shamans. For your sake I shall mull it over before deciding. But all of this is troublesome talk this moment. I want nothing else but to bask in your elegance for now. Let not the fears of friends nor foes creep through. We may share our selves without being pried by idle eyes.¡±

    He sauntered over to the cabinet. Chose vibrant red bottle of wine which winked while passing through cork into pristine glass. He sat, patting the padded bed, waving the shimmering veil of velvet canopying the bedpost. He offered the wine & his hand. ¡°You know I rarely partake in this mortal indulgence, but this eve is a special occasion. You hath made it so. You light again my days and burn through the nights. Let us know only the truth of each other¡¯s love tonight.¡±

 Divine Diplomacy

    Chapter Seven, Divine Diplomacy

    Bloomsvere 2<sup>nd</sup> CE, Faloncrest Forest

    With thundering hooves, they charged through the night as storm of warring furies. Far through the hinterlands beyond the Helwreath hills Mordaunt led the reins of their dark company. His riders costumed in blood-soaked furs of the land¡¯s feral things, bone, fang & antler fashioned to monstrous helms. In stench stained of sulfur and wet graves. His face & neck lathered in filth and ghastly paste. His helmet propped with tusks of a dire boar cut for sport, protruding about his peripheral. The mask beneath of hell itself to those struck by it. Drawing himself into stupor of bloodshed; preying retribution for his agony. He became that which he disguised himself as: a wraith of war and unearthly agent of wrath.

    Beneath the moonlight they split the expanse of the woods around Faloncrest township. Coming forth as Malderath¡¯s angels, announcing their arrival to the humble parish by blaring of horns. Slaughter ensued; reaping the lives of a dozen village guards with first charge. The warning bell rang fast but by then a blazing inferno erupted of the town center. Inns & sovereign buildings burnt, those within screaming panic. His riders, his Drakes, wrangled the people as human cattle. Herded sheepishly into a circle around the fiery green. ¡°Slaves of Vizzari: we are the Winged Drakes ov Drakkon! We are the essence of holy might and of mercy! Open thy hearts to Him, obey our Word & be spared! Deliver unto us the craven inquisitors & fled knights hiding here, and any who blaspheme the true Lord! Lay low thine arms, cast to the pyre thine earthly treasures that thy bloated rulers hoard!¡±

    The denizens of Faloncrest fell to abjection at these apparitions of horror on earth. The few stubborn fenders who sought to use their axes & hammers, not surrender them, were swiftly slain without contest. But from the bell tolling tower, where a sanctum, a chapel of the Serpent stood tall, outpoured a posse of heavily armored knights led by a burly man with braided beard & dreaded locks dangling near to his waist. They emerged of their altar to charge the ring. Their master pointed broadsword at the pacing horsemen. ¡°Come, Drakes ov Death! Be thee foul spirits of decay or mere men I shall send thee to the nether! I excise thee of this, the ancestral ground of my House! Come, captain of pretenders, prove thy sorcery against steel!¡±

    Mordaunt heard this call and didn¡¯t hesitant to answer with vehement fever. Sliding from his steed he addresses this accuser with his blade drawn to meet his. Snarling, distorted tone flails over his adversary and his captive audience of townsfolk. Their blades clash, dancing steps of martial elegance. Staving off the other¡¯s sword. The onlooking riders and knights encircle their duel yet held back in trepidation and tension of chivalry¡¯s cindering twine. Braided broadsword feigns a stumble only to riposte & cleave Mordaunt¡¯s shoulder, but hardened tusk catches the brunt.

    Meteoric fight reaches sudden conclusion. Mordaunt thrusts the uncracked tusk into the neck. Impales through thin cover to rend jerky motions. The vigor of the loyal Serpents gushes out of their herald. Spouting guts on maimed square, pierced where mail and leather abandon. An augury for the rest as the Drakes cut through scales.

    Mordaunt announced, as master over their fate what would become them. ¡°Crucify the unrepentant! Sever the hands of those who held arms against the Lord¡¯s mercy but treat their families kindly! Save any sons, who must be slain. From their shriveled shrine give them the wealth stolen by their priests! Bring the rats to the ring of fire! This is the hour of Justice, know me as its supreme Champion! I am the Herald to the Aeon ov Heaven¡¯s Drake and evoke His Flame! Servant of the rising star which shall see the Dread Serpent peeled to brittle bone!¡±

    Any doubt hid from him during this task. He knew his code was just, compact. That his acts would be ordained by Drakkon, Astraea and Destiny. But while he was not appalled those new arrivals upon the scene wore disgust. These horsemen breached the forest wall, riding to the shambled structure with white, unbloodied Drakoni banner. Mordaunt recognized the irritatingly familiar faces of Heron and that aspiring skald, Baron. Taking quite the notice of their scowling at his work he removed his barbaric helm and greeted the two. ¡°Hail, fellows! Why wear such long faces? Are you not pleased to see me or is there some more dour purpose for this intrusion?¡±

    Heron unhorsed to meet Mordaunt at eyelevel. Baron crutched on his saddle, to the mockery of Mordaunt. ¡°Why, good bard, it looks as though thou art aching still! Tis a shame thou must stress thyself, so scarred by bludgeoned tumble. Ye rode hard to be by my side when I hath no requirement of assistance in my task...this purging of our realm to be.¡±

    ¡°Look at thyself!¡± Baron spat at Mordaunt, cursing him. He did not swing from his horse to confront him, given the truth of that dull ache, but his energy combined with Heron¡¯s built bulwark against Mordaunt. Conveyed they would suffer no diminishment from him. ¡°What made you do this? You hath turned triumph into butchery with savage indifference!¡±

    Mordaunt merely scoffed. ¡°I need not pay mind to the semantic musings of a minstrel when it comes to the ways of war. One battle nearly broke you. But I must mine more!¡±

    ¡°Thou art cloaked in those same sadistic tactics as the Bear! Or of Vizzari and their venom! We cannot become twisted by the shadows & serpents we struggle against! Thy butchery cannot be bid by our good Lord directly. Look at the sheer terror this torture hast wrought on the people here ¨C what few innocents and youths still live!¡± Heron swore.

    ¡°Ah, thou hast not the stomach to steel what is necessary for greater glory to be reaped from ruin. I do not blame thee, Baron, for thou hast but the mind of a minstrel and strategy of war escapes one called to hooting his songs in taverns as a lark to woo birds. Keep to singing of the hunts conducting by true hawks of war.¡± Mordaunt stared Heron down, testing him harder. ¡°Yet you should know! How fear is a feral blade!¡±

    The Boar-Drake sheathed his sword but persisted in spiteful undertone. Tossing his cracked tusked helm aside he presented a frigid smirk. ¡°I wield mine with intuition and need no admonishment from the sidelines. Look how many bear-cloaks fly with me as winged Drakes! Let those snakes view us as barbarians. It¡¯ll put reverence into them! How else will their courts be brought low by the hammer of Justice if not clanging fear?¡±

    Heron spat a glob a pace from Mordaunt¡¯s boots. ¡°I will not abide the ghost of Kassan to haunt our ranks. We must not taint our cause and the world we fight to make fairer by smearing towns with the blood of innocents!¡±

    Mordaunt chuckled coldly, frost falling from his breath. ¡°Hark, cub: ¡®Tis might that is honored by the judges & fates above and by our mortal courts. The terror thou condemn so sharply in thy whining is the very weapon of greater warfare. When wielded with artful finesse it strikes our foe to cripple them with doubts before our blades even reach their flesh.¡±

    His accuser turned, showing his back to Mordaunt as he strode back to his steed, clenching fists to constrain himself. Once on his horse Heron leaned near to Baron who eyed the Champion¡¯s warpaint dripping from his face. ¡°Good friend, this man is as a dead wall, complete with thorny vines around. Tis not worth argument lest we risk trespassing past our welcome. His paunch protrudes, glutted on bestial banquet. All we might do to prevent this butchery is to speak further with Drakkon, for Mordaunt must answer to him.¡±

    ¡°I hath said all I can to him already. There is no translating this to our Lord¡¯s ears either. No manner that he might understand without setting his eyes on it, and even then, I am not sure if he would believe it unjustified. Nay that is no way to halt this madness and tame the wolf unleashed in Mordaunt.¡± Baron intoned between quiet huffs. ¡°If we ride out ahead of his force and reach the next town in their warpath, we may convince its people to embrace our cause ¨C and the Lord¡¯s Light of Life ¨C that, surrendering, no harm will come nor gruesome displays of twisted ¡®justice¡¯. Tis no simple feat but worth that risk and more if innocent lives can be spared. We are at war with Vizzari and its militant agents but not so its peoples who were never given a choice of living under the Serpent.¡±

    ¡°We may not have that choice, nor will they. We have not the rations nor stamina to hasten past this hateful hail.¡± Heron cast grim words across the frost, waning to a harsh Spring. ¡°Yet it may avail us to ask insight from the High Mother. She might better guide our Lord¡¯s arrow into the heart of our foe. That the Vizzar tumble with haste before their folk are all encased in flame."

    Fall of House Abraxas

    Bloomsvere 9<sup>th</sup>, 1329 CE, the Abraxas Estate,

    A foul Spring beset the lands of Abraxas. A tide bringing airs to mimic those of cruelest Yule. A curse upon their horizon, a pocket of wintry storm to cage them. When farms turn to fallows & all gather about log-fire to hold out against abrupt front. An ashen change frosted the Estate gate and all the mounds abounding Dul¡¯Garon. From miser to serf, all felt it. Here, fear rooted & only harsh white weeds grew of courtly garden, but they nor the servants who kept to them bothered not their Lord. Who withdrew with evenfall to his corner, reading reports that confirm this curse upon his seat. Words to the withering of his House, his ailing majesty.

    A cloaked figure slithered through dusk-shade, stalking the Estate corridors. Passing by as nothing more than phantom of night mind¡¯s conjuring. Beneath dark feathered cowl protruded a long, beaked mask fashioned as bird of prey. A doctor of plague personified, herb & crushed leaf filling the beak tip. Black-red robes hid any trace of skin or status save for the majestic dangling amulet about his neck. The sigil of the Druids. Talisman to outshine other insignias in reverence. To gaze at the ghost enough to mark it possessed people to mystery & even fear. Mopping through the massive fortress, tired sentries & restless helots bowed at his passing, ogling with awe. It seemed a miracle, amidst the tilling of misery, that a member of the enigmatic Druidic order should answer their Lord¡¯s distress. Come to heal him of that dire affliction which left the proud Cassius confined to chamber.

    His host¡¯s hall yawned, awaiting entrance of that guest. Just before the entrance to the Magister¡¯s study this nocturnal visitor spotted a pair of women, wraithlike in blank expression, strumming away at their harpsicord and lute. They played on, apathetic to his coming and passing. Their strings plucked the shade of summer, a melody with warmth which was mournful to behold in grip of cold. Whether enthralled by a world of their own, summoned up by luting muse, or ensnared by haunted stare he knew not.

    As he approached his destination the two crimson-clad guards covering the door lowered helms in deference. They saluted the Druid. Allowed this devout doctor past the threshold into their lord¡¯s quarters. ¡°You are dismissed.¡± Groaned the withered man past the door, sitting at a desk littered with expensive artifacts and equally ostentatious wines.

    Magister Abraxas was a gaunt & decrepit linen relic of once radiant poise. His long lion¡¯s mane painted by time¡¯s artisanship to a sickly white. His affluently tailored robe hung far from his chest, indicating difficulty breathing. Exerting himself by barking the guards vexed his lungs with scraping coughs.

    When the fit finished, he deigned to speak. ¡°Welcome, Druid. I am Lord Cassius Abraxas, Magister of Finance ¨C of Coin & the Flowing Gold et cetera - & acting Consul of Vizarri. Newly elected in my late hour. Welcome to my manor. Let us cut to the bone though shall we... that is what you doctors do, is it not, at least on occasion? Yet I am told you possess a cure for me, doctor?¡±

    A muffled voice filtered through the masked man¡¯s beaked front. ¡°It is an honor to bask in the presence of so noble a Lord. I believe the understanding my order holds and my abundance of reagents may restore the head of this House. But first might I ask what curse ails you, Magister? Your emissaries did not unearth much insight in the matter.¡±

    ¡°Take off that bloody mask!¡± Cassius snapped; bitterness matched by the prolonged pangs. ¡°I do not have the plague! Where is thy faith in thy blessings, beaked sod? My affliction is of mortal nature but not contagious, I assure thee. Come see with thine eyes this hollow curse! I thought thee adept in knowledge of disease & panacea.¡±

    ¡°If you insist...¡± The man grumbled, reluctantly unveiling his true countenance. The mask slipped from his face glaring artful gray at the old man. ¡°Greetings, Cassius.¡±

    ¡°Aris!¡± Cassius nearly retched from horrid realization. Perturbed by this unfavorable reunion, he contorted his posture to seem less sickly. Twisting stature to be as intimidating as perpetual wheezing allowed. ¡°Why by the Hels art thou here, lost little boy?! Damnable bastard. To disappear for decades and return posing as a mystic?¡±

    ¡°What, no warm welcome home? No ¡®dear son how my heart was wary from your absence?¡¯¡± Aris seated himself in the chair before the desk. ¡°Do not doubt my faith nor my place in this world, Cassius. You cast me out into the pit. But I chose to rise above and pave my own way. My will is truly mine. It brought me to the Astral House of Druids and to the rings orbiting the demigod, Drakkon. Regardless of the past you must address me with the proper respect with which I am anointed. Especially if you wish my assistance.¡±

    Disdain & scorn snared their stares. ¡°I am your last sliver of salvation. I am to be the one to choose now your fate, in torment of death or sign of mercy. Whether that mercy is deserved is not yet for me to know-¡±

    Cassius threw his head back in laughter, his thin white hair cloaking waned eyes. ¡°Forgive me if my knowledge of thy devious ways prevents me from believing thou come with such a lofty cure. Come to taunt a dying man? Come here on the eve of woe! When wings already beat us down with tales of defeatism & death! Come for petty vengeance? Ha! I will speak as I like, blithering boy!¡±

    ¡°Pitiful wretch that should ne¡¯er been ripped from the womb. Wanton worm who should¡¯ve been plucked to be dried, hanging as blighted heap! ¡®Tis thou who disgraced our prestige and nearly brought our ancient House to disrepair. And for what? To play a physic of the forest and clothe in leaf? I would prefer the reaper¡¯s scythe to any ¡®healing hand¡¯ this liar¡¯s might offer.¡±

    After this tirade, another seizure struck the curmudgeon¡¯s dimming lungs. Cassius reached feebly for the white goblet atop his desk only for his son to lean over, take it and let it slip from his grip. The glass shattered and its foul swell washed over the old man¡¯s robe. ¡°You know why he had to die, father... You know what Mithran did... Knew full well what wretchedness festered in our brother¡¯s bullish brain. That makes you as much at fault as that spawn of your vain seed which I will never again call kin.¡±

    ¡°Ingrate! Thou shed the blood of thy beloved kin and brought a curse upon our estate. Then make such vacuous claims! I regret only not buckling down in my punishment of thy murderous antics and matching thy sin properly with a rope around thy neck... It was mercy to send thee into exile. The rest of the court thirsted for thy throat, and I saved thy pathetic life! Yet now thou hast come to spit upon my face and shit in my personal domain?!¡± Cassius¡¯ veiny hand ruptured rage and flung one of the cups on his desk, sending it crashing near the fireplace. ¡°Wherefore?!¡±

    ¡°Mithran plotted against us both, father. Your favored heir fletched conspiracies to upset our House. Coveted your throne and my bride-never to be. His ambition threatened to bury us. I saved us then as I can still save us, save you, this evenfall.¡±

    ¡°¡¯saved us¡¯?¡± Serpent vitriol spat back at this excuse & its loathed messenger. ¡°You formed a gang of rabble to contest your brother¡¯s posse ¨C this part of his popularity your envious eye cast as sinister! Your affiliates struck first! Over some girl, barely a dame? Because your brother proved the better lover? Did so without decency, with witless brutes cornering Mithran in wide view of the streets! To think I could forget such a ¡®savior¡¯ who scourges our name!¡±

    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    Aris shined devilish smirk under dark visage. His father¡¯s rageful backlash felt as flint to ignite such vengeful excitement in his blood. The prodigal son retreated, offered his progenitor another goblet, then toked thick herb, alit by candlelight, to blow mocking cloud across Cassius¡¯ quarters. ¡°We all make mistakes, father. The wisdom of life is in knowing those mistakes have consequences. How to amend or press them. When you strike out in anger against the world, rightful wrath flails back. When you bury the innocent, the seeds of sacrifice sprout to impale with their branches, grown full as seasons turn. When you forsook me, you pushed me toward what I am. Helped me ascend & return, not as a disparaged son begging forgiveness but as an equal. An equal willing to offer a deal.¡±

    ¡°Speak swiftly and fastidiously, lest I lose both patience & temper.¡± Cassius snorted, suppressed a painful sneeze. ¡°But do not compare us again, o slave of spiritualism! I am Lord!¡±

    ¡°Good to see not all your intellect fled from that aged brain, Lord. On with it then! I come offering a proposition of mutual gain. I understand how pivotal this conflict with the Drakoni invaders is. Already they pierce the heart of our lands and defile the sanctuary of Serpent and the houses sworn to it. Yes ¡®our land¡¯ for I am still a son of Vizzarion.¡± Aris snuffed his pipe and held in the last puff within to kindle his lungs with calming coals. ¡°Truly though the man, this ¡®Living Lord,¡¯ is indomitable on the field of battle on which he builds his throne. I confess to have no miraculous cure for this condition. It corrupts your body too well already. But I can offer you something more than prolonging life of pain. I offer the chance of glory in death. Opportunity to live beyond the grave & yet still rule from it. By legacy.¡±

    ¡°Tell it plainly and lose the riddles!¡± Cassius swiped at his red handkerchief and purged his throat of blighted phlegm built up there. ¡°What can you offer me if not some salve to calm the curse?¡±

    ¡°With so much potential reputation & glory to be won for any who brings down this Drakkon. I can help you raise your name higher than heaven in the eyes of our history by bringing the ¡®demigod¡¯ child in the flesh. I have not forgotten the calendar of my birth and know the annual sacrifice is imminent. If I use my untouchable status as a druid to infiltrate the Drakkoni camp I can deliver you him, alive or dead, to elevate you above all others. Think of how the court sees you now with your damnable condition, hoarding up in lonely mountain as hermit among Lords. How they would see you triumph as the hero that saved our nation from this deified warlord. That revelry for he who sends lesser lords to the Hels drives court-climbers to catatonic panic.¡±

    ¡°What hook do you line here? What, in return for such a task?¡± Cassius sneered suspicion. ¡°Thou art not as distant Mithran. I know thee not to be a man possessed of nobility and greater vision of service to the Abraxas name & Vizzari. You do not act for such chivalry but only to pluck & gnaw at thy father¡¯s bones as a vulture. So, what is this thread thou wish to tear from this, mine corpse? You wish to buy a home in this House through flesh of another ¡®lord¡¯?¡±

    ¡°How apt. All I ask is that you repeal the mandate of my exile and reinstate me into our House as heir and blood of nobility. I hath not come to bring torment to you but to reclaim something that is mine to have. For this I will raise our name & grant herbs to lift your agony. In this I grant you one last kindness unlike any other, should you grant me my place among the Vizzar once more. What say you, Lord Magister? Father?¡±

    ¡°I say there is already a successor named.¡± Cassius began coldly, following hoarse spasms. ¡°The friend you forsook for a life in the forest with odd-smelling mystics is to be heir. My Will swears Argus as the next in line. For the Magistrate needs new blood of loyal marrow. Besides why reward the one stole away our diamond boy?¡±

    ¡°Ah, Argus.¡± Aris scratched at the thin beard forming along his lower chin. ¡°The so called ¡®Prince¡¯ is he not? A mere commoner, once a former stable boy, is to be named next in line, made Consul and nobility (with all our inheritance) over your blood begotten son? What of our other brother? Wherefore is he not here? How ostentatious to trample tradition so! For all you chastise my brashness, this surely shakes up those of pure blood amon-¡±

    Cassius scoffed. Took a swig straight from the bottle. It did little for his health but gave vigor to his scourge. ¡°Thou speak of making thine own way and rising through willpower only to mock when another does so within the lawful realm? Hypocrisy reeks of thee, poisoned seed! Forget not that Argus once saved Mithran¡¯s life when but a boy. A life thou then extinguished out of jealousy & fear. For the pride of that harlot Margrave, whose name is naught. Acting the worm, wriggling in envy of the snake who shares its soil. He was as brother to our son and is thus as a son to us. I will not step down from this acclamation to serve cynical ploy.¡±

    ¡°Her name was Mira.¡± Aris slowly paced circles about the room. ¡°Do you not think the high court will shudder a scourge of whispers of mockery & spite should you appoint a commoner, whose name is less, to the pedestal over true, royal, lines which outlast the oldest of tribes? Do you not see this as ending the Abraxas line of your accord to name this ¡®Argus¡¯ heir? There is no ¡®prince¡¯ of Vizzari.¡±

    ¡°I will not allow thy evil to haunt the mantle of this House! I will hear no more of this egoistic prattling from a fratricide! If there is no other business, useful to me, then begone! Walk back to thy wretched shade and no longer stain the steps of our manor with shameful shadow. Lest I make thee answer for crimes that should hath been paid long ago!¡±

    To the peripheral of the study Aris¡¯ eye caught a masterfully made, runic inscribed blade leaning against the back wall. He suavely swung about towards this sword, sealed away in ceremonial sheathe bearing Abraxas sigil. ¡°Will you not grant me hospitality as is custom? Allow yourself a night¡¯s rest to reconsider my offer? Surely you are aware of the Druid¡¯s curse which rains down on those who give offense to a wanderer of Hidden Path?¡±

    Cassius slams fist down upon the table. But with brittle bones the sound rings less impactful or impressive than intended. His fingers crack, yet no wood splints, further infuriating reviled renouncement of his prodigal son. Long winds of loathing capsize his lung. ¡°I will not allow thee to sleep in my manor, the grounds of my home. Serpent, strangle thee! I do not fear any fabled curse when I am already at death¡¯s door. I made much of my post, perched over abyss as I am, at least I still have honour!¡±

    Adrenaline jolts Aris valves. This chance, long seeking, coils his hands, wraps about the hilt of family sword. ¡°Are you revoking the Seal of Hospitality and spitting on the name of the Order? Are you certain you wish to set yourself as an obstacle in my way?¡±

    ¡°Dare not touch that sword, our gem!¡± His father growls denial. Thrusts bottle at his hated kin. But bout of turbulence in breath has him miss his mark drastically. Glass & liquid velvet crash into bookcase. Tongue agog he rattles curse. ¡°Do not deign to threaten me with mystic malarkey as if anyone gives a pile of stinking horseshit about the Dread-damned ¡®druids¡¯ and their malaise of mind. Not here in MY House! To bring your stink into where MY word hails as the Magistrate¡¯s! The very law laid out upon the grand tablet! Weak threats shall not be tolerated, no matter what robes thou wear, or talismans furl about thy neck to hide from the truth of soul¡¯s skeletal shape!¡±

    Aris withdraws the sword from gaudy pouch. Points it at his father¡¯s bony apple. ¡°Perhaps a little bloodletting will alleviate your symptoms then, poor creature.¡± With glee he sticks the ancestral edge through Cassius¡¯ throat. Juts through his esophagus. This sword, the old man¡¯s pride - well whetted and cared for - slices skin as bird¡¯s wings cut sky. In last futile effort Cassius clamors for the chamber bell to call the guards but tumbles low in fatal throes. Final agony gurgles through his cords.

    When his bubbling gasps ceased there soon came the creaking of the door opening. In stepped Argus, dressed in knightly regalia. Surrounded by three lackeys of the House guard, with crimson scarfs concealing countenance.

    Stepping through the threshold, they show no signs of alarm at the drained corpse of their Lord Magister. Argus passed over Cassius¡¯ body, as debris on forest trail felled by windstorm, and clasped Aris¡¯ shoulder. The ordained heir offered contented smile & odd hug. ¡°Well done, my prodigal friend. You do a great service not just to me but to all Vizzari. As a magister your father was cruel and callow, even in age. Thank you, brother!¡±

    Their embrace unwrapped & Aris met his ally¡¯s eye with stark flair. ¡°Cassius was a villain, nothing more. Ne¡¯er did he hold court in my heart as a ¡®father¡¯ nor ¡®lord.¡¯ He went beyond the bounds of Magistrate office and dishonored my Order and all love. You have sworn witness to the crazed assault against a Druid, let alone his blood son! & to raise a hand against kin is truly the worst sin in eyes of his crimson peers. Our efforts will be affirmed soon. I trust you will honour our pact and grant me my request?¡±

    ¡°Ah yes. Yes ¨C of course,¡± Argus blubbered. ¡°I gladly will it. Because of you I stand to inherit what is mine as Consul. This night you win back your House, Aris. Arise as Head of Abraxas and let all under your Sign belong again to you. Just as you belong to Vizzarion once more.¡± The self-made (through much patronage) man shuffled about the desk as his partner produced an official draft of the Mandate: Mere parchment allowing Aris to reclaim his Lordship. Though this crown of ancestral House was but paper-thin.

    Snatching quill, he inscribed signature onto the scroll. Then before reaching for the athame at the edge of the desk. Aris & Argus made careful, unison incisions into their palms with lean blade. Then stamp the seal of the parchment with their blood, consummating this pact.

    ¡°We fly upon historic gale today! Skillful players upon the stage of beloved realm! You who are as a brother to me, let us share in rite of Ascension! I am now the first Druid to be crowned Lord. With this standing, I stand for my House and our subjects. And you, a groom of steeds shall mount the Consulship to ride out. As Vizzarion himself we shall conquer, together!¡± Exclaimed the patricide. Offering toast, he grabbed the richest brandy, in exuberant display of branding and cost, for the two to share hefty swigs.

    ¡°Aye! I shall gladly lift a happy glass to our great fortune!¡± The pair exchanged cheers before the hopeful Consul shifted his attention back to his masked accomplices. ¡°Let this ailing anchor fall,¡± pointing at the gruesome shell of Cassius, ¡°no longer dragging you from riches & desires. Pose this corpse as one deposed by medical mishap. All splendor of our glory shall be as yours. And you, man: deliver this Mandate to the courts to make it proper...¡±

    ¡°Let it be known that our late master died of bloodletting, an extensive attempt regarding his sickly state. But that his passing legacy is the repeal on exile of Aris and affirmation of my candidacy for consulship. There is no need for dallying trial with this statement prepared. When you return and our venture is manifest, your holdings will be restored. All which Cassius robbed you of will be rightfully returned and reparations made. I am grateful for you, great men, and offer my oath!¡±

    Gracefully the three bowed and went about their tasks in pallid silence. Following their departure Aris confidently swept up the rest of the bottle, sharing the elysian elixir. With a charming grin he asked: ¡°Shall we have a walk through the courtyard and gardens to feel the breath fill our lungs with free discourse. Once more I cheer thee but must ask us to depart these chambers. The air in here is so dead and stifled.¡±

    The duo left the sullen chamber, treading with matching pace into the brisk curtain of the night. They let the nocturnal breeze caress them walking the splendidly woven but wilting garden displays. After minute of contemplation Argus addressed his companion with somber tone. ¡°I am sorry, Aris, that I once doubted you so. It pains me that at one point I let what we have together wilt away under false shine of your father¡¯s lies. I blamed you for Mithran¡¯s death for too long, but I admit to being a fool. Ashamed I fell under your father¡¯s spell of rhetoric. When you reached out to me so did those tides of guilt. I could not forswear him when he brought me up from lowly stables to a commander of men and prefect of Dul¡¯Garon. Yet I see how the grave yawned long for their pair. Forgive me for casting enmity against you when I didst believe that you were the one who-¡±

    ¡°All is forgiven, as a true brother,¡± Aris responded warmly, ¡°beyond blood. More than Albrecht or Mithran. My heart always held a true friend of you. I do not blame thee, comrade. We are entering the zones above all our dreams could ever raise! The past is as dead as Cassius¡¯ cold slab! Let it be buried away with his damnable casket. Together we pave profound path above all that which chains us to guilt.¡± The druid withdrew his wooden pipe after passing the fine brandy to Argus. After several puffs & steps his tone grew darker.

    ¡°But know you, Argus, that ¡®twas our other ignoble brother that killed Mithran, not I. Drowned him out of envy. In the bathhouse he fled to when a waylaid member of my entourage begat knavish brawl in public. Though our brother had his flaws and my loathing I did not intend his death then. Hence why Albrecht fled, avoiding punishment. The weakest of the Brothers Abraxas undid us; undid himself to winding wilderness. Yet Cassius turned the blame upon me, he whom he feared as a rival simply for my reforms and the passion I could inspire of them. He feared a son who pushed our realm too far by another¡¯s vision. This was a bloody task, yes, but an Astraean one. Let not their ghosts haunt us, we who have no shame! This eve we weave the wreath whole!¡±

    ¡°It warms me through this evening chill to hear your forgiveness. To hold our hands upon lordly laurel, restored.¡± Argus gulped much of their communal draught, finding the effect washed over his liver & filter. ¡°I am at loss for words to tell how much you mean to me, in this our purest friendship! This more than buries the axe and bonds us as equals!¡±

    ¡°Yes, good consul! I hear the love sung from thy lips and know it as mine in shared melody!¡± Aris sung cheerily. Inwardly he turned the cycle of his sphere to deeper machinations. His brain, forging so fast as to invent an engine of itself.

    Their steps halted beneath a massive tree. Bountiful limbs outstretched the walls of the mazelike courtyard. Upon branches budded flowers of blooming bio-luminance, petals leaping like autumn leaves, only glowing, littering their footsteps with white sparks. Wispy pods showered Aris with luminesce. Feeling a deep, natural synchronicity seep into his skin with their rain. Here stood the living embodiment of House Abraxas¡¯ grandeur and a symbol wonder of all the Vizzar: the Halcion Tree. This prouder cousin of the luminous Andrasil family. The tree¡¯s second head, towering from the trunk, bore the first emblem of its dual fruit this Spring. A glaring crimson frond, a fiery flora; halo over roots & white dandruff of Helfyre wreath.

    Argus broke silence as they basked in the beauty on offer by the Halcion. ¡°Was there more to your presence among the upstart chiefs than spying under protective guise of druidry? Do not think that I distrust you. But there must be truth to these strange, hushed, whispers and I wish to know your purpose & place in it.¡±

    ¡°Yes, let me confide this in you.¡± Aris took the bottle of brandy back and doused his gullet with its essence. Then lifted his tongue and let soak an effervescent flake from the tree. Tasting its sedative. ¡°I infiltrated this cult, the uprising plaguing the Magistrate with grief that now launches invasion. Weaved my way into their council that the High Mother lends me her ear. Through her I may seduce his ¡®eminent¡¯ sway. For the throne of heavenly reign is not ours to share while he aims rams of newborn religion of war.¡±

    The veil of smoke from breath & pipe granted visions of ephemeral wings about his shoulders, agenda & face illumed by Halcion glow. ¡°A real threat is posed by their intrusion. Drakkon, although a young man garbed in false divinity, is a more than competent strategist & fearsome warrior. Reaching to the level of genius in the art of battle. Hence the shameful defeat of Malvayn Ba¡¯al only months ago. Their swift decimation of our battalions proves this. If they keep the pace of this momentum, they will storm Crestfall before the year¡¯s end. But I may yet steer their course to keep the capitol for us.¡±

    Argus slavered at the steep aim of his brother-conspirator. ¡°We must hold it, aye. Keep it for our dream, to shape with love. That love for a seed of future which may sculpt mountains and shake foundations that our legacy lives through the prosperity of all Vizzari! Yet we do not yet own Crestfall. Janus Fel & foul factions swamp the capitol, mire it against us.¡±

    ¡°Ah, we must only assert our legitimacy. Most will support us the moment they see official seal. This eve we¡¯re earned the treasury levied for the Magister of Finance, enough to sway most Dread sentries. For those that do not, well, let us drive the Drakoni against them, bleed both their force. They who divide up against each other¡¯s Houses, squabbling to preserve what prestige they hold must be culled. They hold no place in our dream: a land where love rules supreme and all have fair shot. Trust me when I say as well that the waning strength of aged empire cannot stand against the gales blowing our way, the winds which carry the tempest of a new faith. Whose gospel is a martialing of blades against the dying Serpent.¡±

    ¡°How might we stave off the storm from ourselves? Is it as simple as letting this cult assail the clerics and uniting what is left of our might to restore our state after? I see your meaning; how we can capture the faith of our people and arrest those at the head of the opposing crests which could yet crush our vision for the realm. Yet these heads are both titans! You attest that I, who must yet rally force to legitimize, can fell Janus Fel?¡± Asked Argus.

    ¡°It may yet be done, for Fel already has a rogue legion to contend. Many a renegade veteran turns brigand, plays at being brigades of barbarian in the east, spreading rumor that the Drakoni already push so deep. I trust your steel of purpose & command of rhetoric to beat his. To win more hearts than his gilt tithes. The rest of his flock will soon split betwixt us, guided by our rising star and wealth of its rays. As for Drakkon, I shall lead him ambush, web his mother¡¯s advice into a snare. Just as I am assured of ability to ensnare this usurper with cloaked promises you shall succeed and be both Consul & Emissary of fury & faith. If you trust in me?¡±

    Aris traded pipe, drink & handshake with Argus. The thief of consulship savored the blend of brandy & dream-smog. Then nodded enthused concession, drooling with a thirst for the prestige this promise. ¡°Simply give me the word on when & where to move and my battalions shall be there to clip the wings of this revolution. That we may fly on our own! Know ye that our bond is as deep as the roots of the Halcion Tree and bright as its branches! I will honor you as you do me... a new dawn shall be forged for our country and great souls - like us.¡± Bloodied palms met again, conjuring contract.

    They dreamt about their business. The hidden sights & ambitions they would accomplish gleamed in their inner eyes. Both men could feel the shift in the air, a curse lifted by great momentum. Yet uncertainty rippled in the winds, unease in their stomachs. Not from guilt but nauseating doubt staining Dream. But that glimmer of vision possessed such promise that they swallowed any dread. Their hearts fastened to their oaths; swore on that pact to seize the future.

 Price of Betrayal

    Chapter Eight, Price of Betrayal

    Bloomsvere 24<sup>th</sup>, Dul¡¯Garon Province

    On the West bank of the river Abaddon, Mordaunt breathed in the wild scenery around him. Here the air circling about was ancient & primal in its range, overlooking ripe soil & abundant forests. He felt a nameless force in his belly, a constructive fire with frozen light rising from the altar of his spirit. Yet this muse wrestled with another, a phantom of Malderath. Mordaunt peered back at the Drakoni encampment behind, at these souls he¡¯s fully responsible for. He admired the resilience of his warriors. A world of war consumed all of them. A trail of rations, thankless conditions & ever shorter rest was their lot. Yet his company held fast to discipline and uttered no complaint for their adversity. For they knew their purpose blessed and their unifying hatred far exceeded their fears.

    Under his leadership they raided plenty. Cut through outposts yet knew when to steer from battles they could not win. But a festering futility lived in patience. As did awareness that with every battle won their fate never truly advanced. How much could this amount to, this way of petty warfare? How much could they really hinder the Magistrate¡¯s endless muscle? This campaign into Dul¡¯Garon yielded nothing but constant ducks & retreats when not waiting. They took no new holds and knew too little of their foes to know effectiveness.

    The champion craved the cutting thrill of combat. The rush of wicked men¡¯s blood splattering in the wake of his sharp steel. He could be freed from the cage of his thoughts through the dance of death, losing himself to the riptide of organized chaos. But now there was naught to do but languish and wait for further orders. Drakkon crossed to the east side of Abaddon to negotiate with an ¡®abruptly appointed¡¯ Consul. While he¡¯d been left with the sleepy position of staying behind to ensure the enemy don¡¯t flank nor recover lost ground. Baron¡¯s almost ever-present music was one of the only boons of this assignment. But sonnets could not wake his soul like the song of sword & sundered flesh.

    The moment his thoughts turned to the bard¡¯s music his tune ran louder. Mordaunt saw the minstrel strolling towards him, idly strumming pleasant chords. ¡°Ho!¡± He called. ¡°Come to spill swilled insults against my character, singer? To laugh at my confinement by the wayside?¡±

    ¡°Nay, comrade, only to hear from your mind! Wiser than mine in ways of war.¡± Baron shouted with a slight staccato, the result of the mead he¡¯d been pouring along his gullet well throughout the day. He chewed on wild Halcion leaf & the bitterness still in the air between them. But the brotherhood they serve and the rallying empowerment in their cause left solid enough standing that there should be no uncordial cracks in their camp. Tense scrutiny of the other blended with budding respect, terse harmony under shield. ¡°And perhaps move thy mouth to share cups?¡±

    Mordaunt greeted his comrade with strained smile before turning his blue gaze once more to the heavens. ¡°Hail then, brother-bard! If I am to speak freely, I feel wasted here when there is land yet to win and richer grounds than these to hold... Ah, I see drink has taken thee. What fresh muse this?¡± For the first time in a while he chuckled, seeing Baron tumble backwards and forwards. But even agog his fingers found the strings & their sounds expertly (even if the rest of him was far from sober equilibrium).

    ¡°Ah yes, ¡®twould be odd to see a gleeful Mordaunt in the face of icy patience.¡± Baron jabbed humorously. Followed his retort with a blech. ¡°As for the drink? I drink to that Drakkon takes the reins! I simply celebrate the peace we may reap following this meeting our Lord holds with the enemy. Think about it: taking the throne of Abraxas without drawing sword, should our Lord use his Word to get us through the gates and closer to Crestfall.¡±

    The bard sighed. ¡°But this ¡®holding down the fort¡¯ can make one weary. Bloody Hels! Every young man in that campsite glows for something more in his eyes; a dream of glory he wishes to win and be immortalized by ¨C as in songs & tall tales of heroes! Or of a lass to woo or stead to tend back home. Better here where I am needed than the moldiness of any noble court too high to look out beyond the rim of its arse!¡±

    Mordaunt laughed again. Although he was never partial to jesters, minstrels & poets ¨C feeling they dwelt in self-indulgent realm of fantasy, caring not for the affairs of the world but more for what means could depict its burning - Baron was a jack of legendary caliber. Truly one of the few who could crack his brooding bravado to let humor slip in every now and then. Even when a thorn in his side and not privy to his strategies, he sensed that Baron was a good man, moved by a passion more than lust for adoration. ¡°Many an ambitious boy and bold fighter seeks his story to be told. For a bard¡¯s favor to earn them eternity in the annals of our world¡¯s story. But history has only so much room on its grand tabula. Only great men realize that they must carve their name into the stone with sword.¡±

    The muse-led bard slid off his instrument. Offered his fellow sips of what he soaked in; what was, from the smell, ale, or a mixture akin to rum, which Mordaunt refused kindly. ¡°I dream of a world where great men can rise from the lowest of gutters and, through their own strength, free themselves of societal fetters. Alas, for that dream to become reality, I must steel to it when awake, not be lulled into stupor of ¡®dream¡¯ provided by drink. Ah, but I am grateful for the company. ¡®Tis an honor to fight ¨C or wait - beside the famous songster-skald!¡±

    ¡°Aha! That is a great point, Mordaunt! Ever more the daunting realization, isn¡¯t it?¡± Baron slumped clumsily against trunk of a wild Halcion, ridiculous grin overwriting his face. ¡°True that those who hear my songs are often not the stuff of myths themselves, born of the soil that raised them. Yet myths & arts inspire the common folk to excel at those small victories of the mundane sort. & without them history would have no backbone!¡±

    A royal hawk¡¯s arrival routed conversation. The bird cried and slit the way with wings of small tempest. It made straight to their hillside encampment, screeching maddening alarm as it flew over Abaddon. The trained flyer flapped about the dizzied bard¡¯s head. Mordaunt caught the avian messenger¡¯s scroll.

    ¡°¡¯Tis Aris¡¯ hawk! Helwind!¡± proclaimed Baron. Mordaunt passed the weathered missive and eyed him with anxiety. The bird, proud of its mission, perched itself along Baron¡¯s shoulder as he read, and Mordaunt gaped. The soldier could not fight against the sudden suspicion that the very waltz of mortality he¡¯d been idly contemplating started its step & pace in real time. ¡°It is written in the tongue of druids, olden speak.¡±

    ¡°What does it read? Damn it, poet, speak the runes!¡±

    ¡°The rough of it is a cry for help with urgent emphasis... He says Drakkon is about to be entrapped by Argus under the guise of their negotiations at the Dale of Dul¡¯Garon. This Vizzari consul has a band of Dread Knights and assassins lined up to cut at the head of us! We are to come under fire with hellish fury! Bloody fire! They may swoop in against our Lord soon with fiercer talons than we yet faced. He asks of us to act boldly with preeminent strike. Says we can invert the trap. The Druid is in their camp and gives directions. Pleads we intercept their company at once...¡±

    Mordaunt reacted on instinct. ¡°Ready the Karve and prepare to board with the best company we can fit.¡± His voice, authoritarian and unshakeable. ¡°We must seize this moment or be lost to obscurity & misery! We will bleed their perch!¡±

    ¡°This could be a trap? Mordaunt surely, we must consider caution?! We only have one sizeable craft here. And if we abandon our fold, we will open ourselves to attack from more fronts. What if Argus coerced Aris to write this? If he plots a ruse to lead our battalion from this very station that we forsake defending our Lord or his gains? We have few steeds and-¡±

    Mordaunt scoffed at craven caution. ¡°I am ashamed to have thought more of you, even in all this debauchery. Yet, this reluctance now? Chaos cracks all our planning and our enemy slithers to swallow our Light. Besides, Aris would not lie to us. What course would that serve? This missive arrives to us by wing of a hawk of lords. Look now!¡± He pointed past the restless river to the sudden plumes of smoke, signals leading a line across the way. ¡°Across Abaddon! Tis another signal from the druid. He begs our aid!¡±

    Shoving Baron irritably, the commander ran to ring the camp bell-drum. The off-putting ping & pounding of the signal attracted his flock. Most assembled after a minute of its holler. ¡°Hear me, warriors! It frightens me to admit, but the Living Light of all our lives is threatened! Across stream & dale the snakes constrict upon our Lord. With blades hidden beneath slimy scales, they aim to desecrate the truce and our faith for their malefic supremacy. Let them achieve nothing but self-annihilation! Will you cross Abaddon to crush these devils? Come with me if ye yet have courage and sail against the red tides of Vizzari!¡±

    Unprecedented disquietude arrested the embankment. Few of them desired to give fierce fight this moment and fewer still were those left sober enough to be competent with their arms. All of them knew that their remaining boat could carry only enough to be a nuisance to the Vizzari legions, or else their amusement. Most had resigned themselves to the liberty of intoxication, pissing away the day while they waited for news of Drakkon¡¯s congress with enemy Consul. This news was far from that safe shore.

    Seeing this indecision, with many of his Drakes away with their endangered Lord, Mordaunt boards the Karve himself. He steps on the ship as if to sail alone to a death to make any Valkyrie blush, swooning at his boldness. Spits at the shore with disgust for the cowardice of those planted there. Frowning, he orders the loitering boatmen to steer over the river, to what no doubt would be a valiant launch to futile end.

    But Baron found the iron in himself, even if this mettle was forged by shame, sending it out the rest of the camp. ¡°Spiritual warfare is commenced. At this crux & fulcrum of fates ¡®tis time the Dread Serpent is damned to the void as prophesized - or else coil about the world and all our throats! I beseech ye follow your hearts yet harden them for battle. Pursue the hunt of liberty! To those of you cripplingly fearful of death and our enemies I beseech you to remain here and wet yourselves, while better men go meet their fangs with teeth & claws!¡±

    ¡°But to those of you willing to stand; I ask you to come with us and strike down the viper! While the waters we tread are indeed dangerous we ride to Drakkon, with his pre-eminent Blessing! Faith & fury hail our masts, we who fly against tide! Fly upon wing of Creation¡¯s Storm! Set your sails for He whose winds stretch as wing & thunder & terrible tides; yet who is in Elderath, our earth, & yay, in Malderath! Let this Dale ahead be not tomb but marked by striking Trident of our courage!¡±

    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

    Their courage assessed the group¡¯s mood shifts. A good number choose to follow Baron to the boat. Near fifty men cram onto the ship, but their initial reluctance to do so upset Mordaunt, who scowled over the hull the whole way across. He felt himself alone against the elements, opposed to all rationality & physics. To fail this rescue would make the venture of freedom nothing more than a fleeting dream devoured by punishing existence. But Baron¡¯s presence sows muse of mythic clout. Marshals his music for those aboard when their champion said naught. Though scared his strumming strings & belting arias resound in their chests. Evoking echoes & homage to heroes of old.

    The winds over Abaddon mock the company¡¯s pursuit. They call forth currents as a bulwark and scream all the way through to the east bank. Yet heroic melody brands them with bravado of warrior¡¯s call. Invigorated they pounce with speed of forest cats, trampling bank which might soon be their sinking grave. Before charging Mordaunt signals the bard back across the channel to ¡®woo more soldiers from their lulled gluttony¡¯. Baron knew him hellbent on this endeavor ¨C no matter where it led ¨C and thus sang louder than his terror. Rushing on rapids to siren more soldiers to northeastern end.

    Mordaunt led those fiercest among the hesitant through treads so green they made their souls seem pallid. Utters no inspiration to those who followed him. Real men, he figured, obey only the law of their conscience, and secure it by sword. So, he left them to simmer in their silent ponderings to decide in that last hour what sort of men they truly were. While their captain gave no speech their hearts¡¯ ears yet heard Barong¡¯s tilting tales.

    But what were arias of fanciful flight against foe so menacing? Crimson bark towers lurched up from the vale to usurp Solaris¡¯ rays. Vipers in faceless red-black helmets patrol the monstrous parapets their thralls constructed about the dell. Greater swarms of them concentrated north of the quarry, where Drakkon awaited council with Vizzari ambassadors. Gazing into the waking depths ahead the advance company spun that song of living myth into kinesis.

    From afar they gleaned the shape of their Lord, who stood exposed with few emissaries by him & small band of Drakes some hawk¡¯s wings away. Yet his boldness could be sensed across the way. He saw the crop of reapers looming by crest, felt their menace. But called out with steady voice. Halting the scourges of serpents slithering out from their pylons. Suspicion that a trap to spring against their own awaited them arrests the asps¡¯ valor. For surely, such a brilliant conqueror could not be so na?ve as to lie down in spiked bed.

    That the Living Lord wavers not, stuns balance of the Vizzar¡¯s lethal lunge. Instead of charging they shuffle over cautiously to him. The northernmost host remains posted on the hill, with their numbers casting cloud instead of rolling avalanche. They cave to doubts. Their wary wonder rouses disaster, to hark the call of imminent horn. Not from the Dread cornet but a barbaric blaring from the wilds.

    Mordaunt¡¯s horn raises its challenge from the south. He splits their band into three fronts, each with horns. Sends the lesser spears to the sides of the brush woods touching the encampment. From the west another Drakoni trumpet sounds. Then, with vigor to embody the gods in war, signals charge. Slashes up the rear & seizes a sentry tower. To hear then a Dread echo stake sound against his fury. Thunderous voice, apocalyptic in its terrible reach, sunders the gorge as red Knights come to clash against the relieving company.

    This battering declaration is rivalled by the joining of yet more. Horns of rear divisions, pursuing across the stream, roar terror. More unseen bands howl entrance into battle. Sentinels & steeds hidden across Dul¡¯Garon double the Drakoni strength, singing woe to wyrms. Ungodly and moribund tones tuck in every thicket. Lugubrious alarms sweep as slaughter rides the dome of the dale. Champions¡¯ charge disorients the defenders of the snake¡¯s camp.

    With force & nearness bolstering bolts bellow from trumpets of Mordaunt¡¯s fellows. Against the knights of the Serpent rushing to meet in contest. Racket of death-cries berates his ears. Yet doom pronounced itself not, though the first taste of mettle near overwhelms them. For the host on that hill sits with the cavaliers uncommitting to stampede, looking on in indifference.

    Soon after the discordant blasts and splintering of shields they herald, more arise to their flanks. Baron & the rest of the Drakoni give chase. Though in that chaos their arrival is less banner of hope than linen-flag in monsoon.

    The ride of dread cavalry eclipses all else. Panicked shrieks & pained shouts hail. Dying men join the macabre chorus swirling about the blood drenched scene. Gasps & retches of soldiers, poisoned, damned to agony by snake¡¯s black tongue, spit upon wicked tips of spears & arrows. As these bolts lodge into Drakoni flesh and hammers break brittle bones beneath Vizzari scales, Mordaunt knows only blinding screen of vengeful frenzy. Left without time for thought amongst the tearing of men¡¯s throats. Hate & instinct propels his sword & blesses his shield with fiery Aegis.

    Mordaunt takes no notice of how more of his Drakes even the field. Trample it, in all its green splendor, gaining ground & weaving horse & arrow through serpentine lines. A prime portion of his spirit surrenders unto death; to what comes in that red fog of rending bodies. Pulse of valor, courtship for Valkyries, infuses a will for sacrifice. He commits to slaying this head of the serpents; earning a seat in the undying pantheon of legend to cut down the one he figured to be Argus.

    A crowning triumph even in throes of violence¡¯ thralldom, mortal hatred cuts carmine maelstrom. Every swing inspires faith in the motions of fate, guiding rhythm. Primordial power imbues him, moving in swollen subconscious. Knowing they would not be scattered to dusty footnotes in rivals¡¯ reports. Thus, he changes course from a martyr of this day to a conduit of grand and unifying purpose; to live beyond it, see the war¡¯s death before knowing his.

    Baron too, feels supernal stamina imbue sword and song. As his relievers mantle cloaks of berserkers & join the shattered lines of fangs & scaled terrors, coronach of battle rings. Brotherly chant of their hearts¡¯ hymn hails the glory of cause, drumming over defeatism of dirge. Melody bonds them, by shield wall bolstered by fraternity. To the vipers coiling Mordaunt about quarry entrance this melody bounds by dark portends & throats innumerable, failing to break the berserk trance. Then verse joins Drakoni brawn, singing motif of bloodied myth.

    Over the eastern edge rises a fresh battalion. Dressed in crimson sheen armor but vocalizing strange, tribal shouts & songs like no clan of this land. From one throat three cords expunge in unison, amplified by their brethren. Heron appears at their head, leading more Drakes, throngs of soldier-serfs, grooms and horse thieves all sharing thread of enmity for Vizzari. All the east demanded end to that governance, ready to be liberated from it. Come forth as hue of snowstorm in middle night, streaked by bloody eclipse. ¡°For a free life for all! Our swords shine before Solaris and Creation¡¯s Star for all ye folk under Light of redeeming Lord!¡±

    They spring forth. With cerise glow of righteous wrath, they roll over the Vizzar. With brute blows & shattering of skulls they scatter the serpents¡¯ main line. Save the war hounds who hunger to feast on fight with the infamous Drakes, & with greater appetite for the throats of these betrayers and the ungrateful rabble with them, the serpents stumble.

    The locus of Dul¡¯Garon¡¯s defenders trembles thin, struggling for turf as more combatants ambush their flanks. Typhonic cascade punishes their Consul, who looks to consult his bravest for savior¡¯s stratagem but finds few retaining fortitude beside him. High above the vital breadth of their legion, mountainous shape of countless riders, refuses aid. Waiting to test the tides of battle beneath banners, not of red but gray. Apathetic to any but the victor.

    Argus, amid crimson clamor, aims to flee. But upon that northern perch those client knights lift neutrality for crest of his enemy. They wave white banners, gilded with orange & sapphire emblem of Living sun, encased as stormy orb. Flow of fortune abandons him. Those freshly purchased, yet unsated, cavaliers pulverize the last of the true Vizzari patriots. Proclaiming the fledgling consul as prisoner to their pincers.

    Seeing his muscle routed, force split, he swears off battle with embitterment. The only escape: to cut an exit. The Consul strikes final bargain with his waning spirit. Musters Dread entourage, wearing proudly the crest of Vizzarion with holy venom dipped on the tips & edge of serrated blades. To intercept his challenger, unseat rival Lord from the helm of victory. But though fewer the Drakoni argue berserk. Their full count shrouded; his men succumb to undertow of grave fear.

    Argus¡¯ pride was unequaled of his ¡®virtues¡¯, in all but his great cowardice. His knights lay decimated by the manifold mettle of Mordaunt & the many passion-possessed men, of working backgrounds as much as warrior¡¯s. He squirms from the front. Fleeing, he prays for the first time since his stable years.

    All ears crack under crests of horns & hooves. They boast from the wood, bows launching harassment at frightened flyers upon horse. Baron charges forth from the edge of battle, astride his steed and pursued in loyalty by twenty cavalries, mounted by tribesmen and Heron¡¯s scouts. Further rallies arise from misty bush, proclaiming ownership of skies & wilds. With their Champion too far to fell Argus, the skald makes it his task.

    But those true Knights of Th¡¯uul et Fel, of Serpent¡¯s ageless cult more than Argus¡¯ claim, among them fight ever fiercely. Their captain, having marked Mordaunt¡¯s tactics & Baron¡¯s boastful pursuit with quick glance, raises counter charge. Their lances pierce the enemy flanks. Quake the enfolding faceless fury with crushing ram. Yet hammers crash upon the helmets of their guard. Though their bolts drive back their pursuers their numbers leak to disarray. Their steeds slump, slain, against tower-shields and returning fire. Halted dead, but undying in fight.

    As the War-Geist in Baron funnels through to him, the Consul panics. In fatal ploy, Argus, but a toy of his fright, breaks their files, splits every way. Stampedes over their fellows¡¯ formation in flight from the three-pronged lancers. But the Vizzari honor guard catch the bard, on heel of their dishonored ¡®Prince¡¯s¡¯ dash. One of these elite slings an arrowhead that nears its mark with malevolent intent.

    Baron topples from his horse. Arrow strikes piece of his coarse armor. Its venomous tongue splints mail & chest plate; scrapes bone to yield light flesh. The storm-hooves nearly trample the skald. Leaving him in dusty cloud and misty blood showering from slaughter above. He sinks into the stirring dirt for dark spell. The leather over his plating refuses to rise. His chest still, voiceless & unbreathing among the white weeds sprouting, stunted, in the spray. Lain amongst the ¡®snows¡¯ of Bloomsvere spring, the mantles of wild wreath petals and the pallid dead.

    Mordaunt announces feral yell. Wrenching barbed point from corpse of a serpent lackey he drives it after the blasted bowman who¡¯d sent Baron low. This target, fearful from the felling blow, prepared another arrow for the neck of this avenger. The arrow launches half-heartedly. For its deliverer found himself impaled seconds before loosing the lethal black diamond. Lance thrust divides his head squarely, no mercy for the brain matter behind elegant open helm. The snakes¡¯ last martial mind leaks onto weeds.

    Argus, surrounded by unkillable foes imbued by demoniac conviction, tosses his rapier aside. Morosely slumps from his horse and kneels in humiliating supplication. ¡°I surrender! Men of the Vizzar lay low all arms! We will greet them with diplomacy, in peace & gracious hospitality!¡±

    Waves of lances & spears lower, lulling blood tides. Half a dozen Drakoni rush to cart off the honorable skald, still seeming in the sleep of death (to all but those most fervent in faith, to him, their Lord¡¯s miracles, and what alchemy might save him). The rest of Baron¡¯s band shuffle from shrouds & shrubbery to assist Mordaunt, and their allies, in seizing the weapons of the defeated.

    Many wyrms suffer the shame of surrendering their arms to peasant crusaders. Only when the swords, bows, pikes, and round shields were abandoned, collected in a convenient pile, did their former wielders realize they¡¯d been greater in number than the foe who bested them. In the fields of mind and bellicose contest they¡¯d lost, their strength subverted and shaken. They¡¯d bowed to ruse & caved to fear of unknown force. Bent low by but a modest company, engorged by treachery & opportunists. Yet the beaten soldiers¡¯ stares shot more spite to Argus than they did the men parading about their camp with the exuberance of conquest of impossible odds....

 A Time of Rest in Time of War

    Chapter Nine, A Time of Rest in Time for War

    2<sup>nd</sup> of Sunhilte, Dul¡¯Garon Fort

    Slowly Baron¡¯s lids lifted weight of drained slumber. His nostrils awoke to the faint shimmer of strange flower & healing root. A scent of witchery & medicine for his rising. Although gripped in drugged haze, he knew the gorgeous vision by his bedside as real. She, so divine in her innocence & innate loveliness; so wild & ageless that not even the gods could stain her glimmer. He gaped at Corinna, fawning for his caretaker.

    Half-numbed & heavy arm reached for the herb woman¡¯s face, brimmed with incandescent fire that could make even the greatest stars burn with envy. But for a beat, a bushel of rosy ardor wreathed her countenance. Then, drawing back, she cupped her hands over his head. Shining warmly.

    ¡°I am elated to count you once more among the living, friend. More than I, alone, will be grateful your throat is saved, given the curses groaned in sleep. We were all of us concerned. After all, how could we endure the silence that would envelop our world without your boastful ballads?¡± Corinna nudged her patient and kindly insisted he sip of a glistening violet flask. ¡°Not that I would let you die in any case, dear singer-swordsman.¡±

    ¡°W-ha-?¡± He sputtered as the wave of alienation dissipated. Baron lifted his hand to Corinna¡¯s and brought it to lay over his chest, decorated with gauze. ¡°I am in disbelief to be living. Glad it missed my throat, at least, and this chest pain could certainly be worse. Ah, but I am not complaining, for it feels far too heavenly a sight: your face before mine. Truly this beauty I see could not belong to the dim & dirty realm of mortal creatures. When she is the mirror of all grace-¡±

    ¡°Well alive you are! Though you must cease this habit of getting hurt so horribly often. You, Baron, are as talented at placing yourself at the unfortunate end of battlefield as you are at painting them so vividly in your tales & sonnets.¡± Corinna beamed such tenderness.

    How soothing her voice, cradling his ears with replenishing delight. She warmed his awareness alongside the crackle of near fireplace. When their eyes crossed an exchange deeper than words stirred up unfamiliar emotions. Yet they dare not hold the look, its temptation. ¡°I would almost wager you are intent on getting a bit wounded in any fights that flare! If only just to make me the more worried for your sake. My concern grows with each cut, blow & bruise you receive.¡±

    ¡°I do not aim to burden you, Lady.¡±

    ¡°No burden but compassion, I gladly bear!¡± Her hands wove down about the wrappings of the man¡¯s wounds, as purplish in hue as he was handsome of face, carefully palming reassuring touch & rejuvenating residue. It may be the heightening effect of alchemical formulae, but he found her lathering unspeakably comforting. She kindled such embers, and he understood fully how Drakkon, a man whose nature & dreams are godlike in scope of possibility, could find all the love of the world in her intelligent visage.

    Baron¡¯s hand fell over hers with trace of vulnerable affection. ¡°To be attended by you, for the blessing of your company, is worth any wound. How all suffering of the world fades away, melted to nothing in the wake of your bliss inducing face. Surely, I am not good enough a soul to deserve such an angelic sight & presence.¡±

    Corinna blushed but tamed her tone. Though dressing herself in physics¡¯ professionalism, her tongue teased chastisement for his brash bravado. ¡°Praise the Halcion! Its leaf proved strong enough to steady the venom of that pinch. Unwittingly wise were you to enjoy it idly before the ides of evil clash. I applied a little more in treatment, only enough to slow the strewing. Most should be drawn out with blood. That fang shall not bestill your poet¡¯s heart forever.¡±

    Beneath her ward, with ardent eye, she saw Baron strive to honor her words with a kiss. Strange knots twisted in her stomach. The magnetism drawing her mouth to his was undeniable. As was it sinful. At first, she denied him. But the pulse pressing upon the cage under her breast possessed her to zeal. She commands his kiss, a fleeting reign of passion. Though pain underlaid their seal. From momentary but meaningful bridge of lips entwined such shame bent back.

    ¡°Praise the Halcion & its healing kiss!¡± He winked but his blush failed him. ¡°Pardoning what flattery my impulse would have me caress you with, I feel the couple of hits that happened upon me have thankfully wounded my pride as a warrior more than my body. Each scar might be a mark from the muses & the fates, to show me that my true worth remains elsewhere. My days are better spent getting back to the lute & lyre. Penning poems that might capture but a vial of your essence. This chance tells me to live for passion¡¯s pull-¡±

    Corinna pushed him softly away. Pressed finger to his lips to silence him and the whispers of guilt. ¡°You know I am sworn to Drakkon. You hat grown importance to me, Baron, but we both know humoring passing desire will only twist longing to a blade. More than this, what we shared and should forget would bring ruin to our lives. And I do love him! O, I cannot bear to be false to him ¨C yet nor can I suffer that same with you... We are steadfast friends, always. Alas, I cannot sacrifice that much for passion¡¯s pleasure. I am sorry.¡±

    She feigned punching his pained chest and wore for him a pouty mask. ¡°Forget all that, sweet silver-sung bard. Tell me how you feel, other than on this?¡±

    ¡®I-I...¡± Baron stuttered, losing his eloquence as he reflected on his near-death. ¡°If I may speak freely ¨C as conscience compels me for you, Cor ¨C I am remiss of it all. When that arrow stung me, I disembarked from all that was. I surrendered to this-this- blank peace, this anchor into the Forever. Willing to let go of those last tethers. My soul finally knew rest.¡±

    A sigh escaped him. ¡°I feared returning here, to life. Thought, as much as one can in dreamless half-death, that it would be nothing more than condemnation to another cycle of striving & stumbling into unending seasons of violence. The void or the heavens or whatever awaits past those vacuous gates, seemed preferable to coming back to dim mire. I wished not to witness how corruption & wickedness simply replaces itself. Only transforms itself anew every generation ¨C never wavering in the conquest of annihilation...¡±

    He caught his dismal trail and flashed attempt at one of his famous wooing smirks. ¡°But yet, ¡®tis you and your springtime countenance that raises me from the dead. Uplifts me back to life! Already there is much to treasure in our Elderath. Whatever awaits us, there is joy & purpose to be found. My soul is untainted by this bite, for I shall rise above ¨C if only for the chance to rise with you.¡±

    Her tone took on morose pattern, though she tried to conceal this through mimicry of his mischievous grin. ¡°Well, I am more than relieved to see your face alight with life. Your presence here makes this ¡®dim mire¡¯ more alit with beaming beauty!¡± The ecstasy of his resurrection entranced her. Corinna grasped his cheek as she clutched her desire¡¯s reins. Yet temperance of affection slipped from her fingers as her hands hovered over the blanket, by his unguarded waist, where chafing twinges required redress.

    Capriciously Corinna performed an ensemble player¡¯s part as an enfant terrible. She garbed her tone in cold, gathered spring-frost over the dew of her yearning. ¡°Hark the miracle you are wholly intact. By Druidry, perhaps, your body & blood defied the brunt of bleak tint. But to pursue a conquest of passion, more treacherous than any battlefield, behind my Lord¡¯s eye might end with you being sent back to those woodsmen & hermits as a eunuch or a mute.¡± She shirked her harshness, even as but a tool of defending her heart.

    What she meant as cool rebuke against more advances came with shivering want. Rose flush winked erotic wonder of what it might be like for him to rise with her, within her. To share his aching as hers...

    Turning her head from Baron, Corinna caught an effigy in cinders. Drakkon¡¯s likeness formed of fire. Watching through scrying flame this candle alight between his best singer & friend and his spouse to be. True chill became her. Frost painted her petals. ¡°Forget that.¡± She shivered off the topic. ¡°You awake to find yourself evermore a hero in the eyes of all our tribes, noble bard.¡±

    His healer presented him a vial & tea. Then gave words to simmer his hope as soup to soothe rowdiness. ¡°Know yourself as muse of music, culture & spirit and even the embodiment of courage. Now, ¡®resurrected¡¯ from short tomb to ascend mythic status. I am assured that any maiden in all the divisions of our dreary ¡®mortal plane¡¯ will be more than happy to have you! As warriors brave the Ruun to earn spots in your songs. Rest your head from circling so much in ¡®cycles¡¯ that you swing to nihil. Or burn in broth of ardor.¡±

    Baron croaked; his attempt to laugh & joke constricted by ambling pain from his chest to head. ¡°You should share in this myth! As healer to the lost, reviver of the dead! Your skill helped drain venom from me safely. Perhaps your soul near to mine brought strength to want to awake.¡± Sensing her hesitance & spite at his insistent admiration he tilted his head and tone to offer his savior distracting topic. ¡°How did our champion, Mordaunt, react to my sanctification in Drakoni canon? He curses my name for thieving his valor, surely?¡±

    They chuckled together. Amused themselves at Mordaunt¡¯s overlarge pride. Though she granted respect to his martial willpower, she laughed along with the skald. ¡°Aye! You know him more than he knows himself. He struck a bit of a raucous about Dul¡¯Garon ¨C oh which reminds me, we took the fort! Heron led the main force here and captured it before you and the man in question snuck up on the Vizzari legion! Now, in the Hold of Dul¡¯Abraxi¡¯Garonis, the Garden Seat of Abraxas, we reside. Soon all hosts of Elderath will join to ride with us to serpent¡¯s fall.¡±

    ¡°But Mordaunt, though victor, broods, and barks as if he¡¯d been stung by poisoned tip. He rolls on rambling that he truly won the day and henceforth should be pissed on with praise from every passing citizen. By the gods, the man¡¯s hubris doubles in size with every skirmish he wins!¡±

    ¡°Not unlike our Lord, Drakkon...¡± Baron blurted out, to his short regret.

    Corinna shushed her stammering friend and ward subtly and gracefully with the offering of another swig of her herbal potion. ¡°Hush now, little legend! Such speech alludes to heights even your big head should ne¡¯er climb.¡± She jibed at him, part-joking, though there was despair in her humour. ¡°Speak not such blasphemy. My Lord ¨C our Lord ¨C is alive in Light. With him we bask in stream of greater potential. On brink of vision truly grand-¡±

    ¡°I curse him not. Only mark that for every successful stratagem, every furlong won he walks deeper into the shadow of his own belief.¡± Baron mulled his worry, stirred Corinna¡¯s. ¡°How can one love the image cast on wall by flickering flame, by mirror-dance of worship¡¯s beams?¡±

    ¡°I love him, I do. No longer bare foul fears. I will not be witness to slander. Why instill fear that the Lord to whom my love is bound is under delusion? Why bestow aspersion on his icon, judge Light solely by the umbrage cast?¡± But though the bard bit his tongue, withheld his deprecation Corinna heard his thoughts¡¯ answer: ¡®Because if he falls to an illusion of himself, it may crush the real good in him ¨C which you love. & should it collapse on all our shoulders¡­¡®

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    Corinna shuddered. Catered, sleeky a bit to her indulgent instinct for incense & herbal ring. Specially ground pines wafted into Baron¡¯s nostrils with such a pleasant aroma of rejuvenation. ¡°Rest & recover, dear friend. Do not darken your dreams nor the day.¡±

    Intuitive inkling warned her of eavesdroppers or attendants. Elfin ears twitch to hear steps approach in confirmation of someone¡¯s coming. The door latch swung. Heron stepped in, swaggering about, slight scent of ¡®revelry¡¯ about him, still proudly encased in his ceremonial armor. They bow to each other with reverence.

    The recovering ¡®hero¡¯ was first to address them. Doing so with cheers and pushing off any awkward sign between himself and the lady. ¡°Hail to Heron! O, conqueror of this great castle! You who are more savant of song & servant of sirens than even I. Yet your sworn songsmith is up and unshaken from snake¡¯s venom.¡±

    ¡°Ah, Baron! I am pleased to see you restored once more to health, and to your good wit as well. Yet know if you had fallen there would be none of us left with the talent to compose any sonnet recounting the tragedy!¡± The captain of sodden visage clapped the bard¡¯s shoulder with good humor. ¡°This hold was nothing without its host. The helots here rallied quick to us. Welcomed our claim over Mordaunt¡¯s wytchfyre and their master¡¯s stagnant snows. I only wish I hastened back sooner to cut in twain that blasted bolt!¡±

    ¡°Turns out the gambeson you lent me blunted most of the hit, though that little bit that got through was juiced enough that I required our Lady of herbs, wonders & clearest Sight to save me. Obviously, I write songs & legends more than enact the stuff of them.¡± Baron began, in tow with his charming old tune.

    ¡°Ah, given that the damsel rescued the swordsman from the wyrm¡¯s jaws, as much as that must be said.¡± Chimed Heron. In glee to be shed of false scales, cloaked again as rebel captain. ¡°When you are fully yourself, we must wine together!¡±

    ¡°Truly, I almost wish I had the grave as an excuse to decline your offer.¡± Chuckled the bard with a happy jab at his fellow. ¡°Were I more of an optimist I would search for hope in the chance that you might not be as boring a guest and as light a drinker as ever!¡±

    ¡°Good to hear that forked tongue of yours is still unfettered. That sharp sarcasm is as biting as the bloody venom!¡± They laughed together for a short beat before Heron turned to Corinna with more restrained tone of proper service. ¡°But alas my Lady: we must away to our Lord, your Drakkon. It is His eminent request that we attend his congress and plan our strategy. We are close to our aim, sister, and to the end of this gauntlet. But we are evermore in need of your womanly wisdom. If you will come with? Leave the lout here to strum lute & stroke self-love.¡±

    ...

    Aris patrolled his route with a certain glee. Savoring every step he took about this fortress, which he¡¯d long been exiled from, as a sign of his ascendant fortune. This great hold, the seat of his line became the crypt of his father. A thought which brought him the slyest of smirks, of smiles inverted. Indeed, the proud sigils of House Abraxas still stood high and in abundance about Dul¡¯Garon, unlike other Vizzari symbols. But that they would be torn down for Drakkon¡¯s passing sigil: he forswore his father¡¯s House; feeling himself outstretching, beyond it. His chest swelled with excited gusts. Breathing in all the prospects of fortune & fate swimming within as he ascended the steps to the prison tower. Before unlocking the door, the prodigal son affirmed his purpose.

    While the chamber had been ordained to hold their hostage it also held comfortable furniture and fine velvets. Even a bed so fitted & threaded as to make nobility envious. Atop the luxury there was a further touch of a private closet stocked with wine and exotic peppers and spices. The downside: being bound to a thin lead tethering him to the bedpost. Argus had room to stroll about but not reach the windows or any tools which could help him escape this hospitality. Hospitality that was only kind to him, he thought, as to give his captor more amicable means of nourishing cooperation.

    A worn and restless Argus slouched against the board. A bottle of something half-held in hand with pungent odor permeating from his unwashed and unchanged clothes. When Aris announced his presence in greetings, the scrawny, filth-stained and beaten man merely groaned an awful curse. Then turned his head from his guest, who spoke cordially. ¡°Why must you be as such, old friend? Are these tidings truly so dour as that scowl of yours looks?¡±

    ¡°You... sent me unto the shores of death. Betrayed me when we bound our wills and hearts together in sacred oath! Why should I wear so happy a mask for the one who curses me so? I care for no gilded comforts when I am but a prisoner of cruel cage you designed for me.¡± Argus spat purplish wine near Aris¡¯ feet and slowly clamored up with withering scorn. ¡°Soil your comforts! Filth upon these curtains! Pretender to Druidry & Abraxas!¡±

    ¡°I place no blame on you for this misunderstanding. But this is no sepulcher nor prison, nor am I opposed to you. Sometimes a man making good pace on the steed of his destiny must relent control of the reins to let the whims of fate unfold as they will. So that the proper path may be revealed.¡± To this Argus scoffed but Aris persisted. ¡°Our pact is not forsaken, nor my love for you. I did not aim against you but neither did I raise a mark against Drakkon. Rather, I levied the fields and let flow either course. We find such clarity in the way the winds twine!¡±

    The humiliated man whirled about with abrupt anger. Near lunged at Aris only to be tugged back by his tightly wound restraints. His locks of dirty flaxen brown whipped him. ¡°How vapid and ostentatious a swine you must be. So bloated in your boasting, that you think I might praise this vague ¡®clarity¡¯? By the Fates, man! The Fates ¨C pfft ¨C by them this is my retribution for turning from that true faith. For helping you with your father. He trusted me as I trusted you. A viciously fair a punishment for that, my wickedness?¡±

    ¡°You call reason impure; fairness: wicked? I gave both ye contenders ample & equal opportunity to fend off the other¡¯s claim. I tested your strength. You failed...¡± Sadness wove threads ¡®neath his words. ¡°But you may yet be useful.¡±

    ¡°Useful?! Why should I avail myself anymore ¡®use¡¯ in your evil ploys & enchaining schemes?¡± Argus reached for half-emptied bottle. Chugged it, smearing violet residue on his scraggly chin. ¡°Tell me: how I should claim this, or any, future when I am gaoled? Left to wallow in my filth, like beast of butcher? How are these taunting decorations to bring comfort?¡±

    ¡°You are not shackled to despair nor disgrace, friend,¡± Aris spoke in his shiny, silvery manner, unphased by display of spite, ¡°nor hath my feelings changed towards you. We are still as close as brothers, bonded. No titles are stripped of you, nothing stolen from what was agreed to. Save those client knights who chose coin over covenant. You are yet prime Consul in all legality. By the lasting ink of Cassius¡¯ blood.¡±

    He fiddled with his leather-bound satchel, shuffling through reagents and scrolls before settling for a pouch of crushed herbs & strange leaf which he poured onto palm. ¡°You stress over simple setback. This cell is temporary and for your protection. If you were sent to flooding prisons of your fellows, they¡¯d sooner prove your executioners over friends. Your surrender shames you to them, washes away your base among those who would always glare at your back as though trying to flay skin with sight. Be glad to rid them.¡±

    ¡°I am not your enemy, Argus.¡± Their eyes latch. Then the rhetorician gestured to the tower window, just out of his ward¡¯s reach (as to prevent him from tossing himself from those heights in a suicidal fit). Indicating sight beyond his guest¡¯s view, he then pivots back. Slowly withdrawing dagger, steps to the bedpost ties. ¡°Let me show you...¡±

    With clean cut to the rope binding him, Argus found swift freedom. He grunted confusion and walked with caution over to the window where Aris beckoned. Once there his bony finger points him to a distant lantern pyre, steadily burning up into the skies. Alongside, more stakes lined up. The whole fortress, encircled by these macabre bonfires.

    The prisoner¡¯s eyes winced, narrowed. Becoming aware that there were bodies ¨C or remnants thereof ¨C pinned to those imposing flambeaus. Aris explained: ¡°What you see now is the ¡®Living Light¡¯ of the west. The fiery demise of Vizzari¡¯s most ardent.¡±

    ¡°They, and more unfortunates, are kept lit for terror cast by Drakkon. Diabolical fashion it may seem, but his wrath can be merciful, at least to you. For among those damned to flame were your enemies within the Vizzar; all those that would conspire against both you, as Consul, and our vision. You are not condemned without Judgement. For you may yet aid his ¡®Light¡¯. More so ours.¡±

    Aris inhaled the leafy substance he crushed in palm for pipe. Offered the rest to the man standing beside him. Argus proved stubborn. ¡°What real future can there be under them?¡± The prisoner asked with bite of suspicion, not completely disarmed by this honey, too sweet to be believed. ¡°Why leave all in that slippery grasp of idle fate and let this raging fire purge our peoples? Why not lift a hand for your brother in the face of it? Why instead bow & kneel to worship him as a god, incarnate?¡±

    ¡°Do you not see that the future is sparked in that fire? Tis the black flame of cleansing warfare! A cure to the affliction corrupting the shrines and podiums of Vizzarion! These hordes sailing across the Ruun are not a blight of blind punishment. The righteous shall endure this tribulation. That pure realm may rise from the grave of their crusade. And I believe you to be righteous.¡±

    Aris whittled his attention on his distant friend, searching the wells behind his eyes. He watched raw, spastic reaction of his face twitch to behold distant candles made of men. Offering reasons along with a handful of exotic flowers. ¡°Our Magistrate lusted long for life¡¯s pleasures, its fruits of passion and its poisons. The state glutted on want for more. That yearning turned to an appetite without end. We ate at ourselves. Those we bit down upon come to chow on the bones of our courts. For their hunger, their need, grew ravenous while our fangs wilted of soft flesh.¡±

    ¡°This titan among barbarians is to cross threshold into an accomplishment neither of us could seek, even together. Let them bring this skeletal abomination our homeland devolves into to its groveling knees. You wavered, waived, faith in yourself that you could challenge Fel. So, allow those whose faiths paints their Lord as living god to shatter that tablet. With the trust I earned among his cause and the ear of his mother, we stand upon grounds of opportunity. Fresh to till.¡±

    Argus accepted the uplifting offering of leaf, welcoming the relief of ashen smog. He looked back at Aris, a sudden sharp flash piercing through veil. ¡°You speak falsely of these savage invaders, mock their ¡®divinity¡¯ when behind locked doors. Why should you trust these foreign brutes to keep their hands soft in dealing with you, especially if this treachery of your thoughts is revealed to them? You speak of them as a godsend but only so much as it serves this ¡®miraculous¡¯ muse of yours ¨C a vision I struggle to see clearly behind this cell block of a tower.¡±

    Aris did not flinch, seeing this as his ally¡¯s try at asserting frail honor, rather than true threat. ¡°As I said, the ear & tongue of Azarra is beholden to me. Outside of her word, Drakkon is not privy to believing others at face value. Meaning your words would be as empty as your death.¡± Gray orbs shower misty ambition. ¡°I would infinitely prefer it for you to agree to a meeting of minds with their council. Help solidify a plan of attack and terms of success thereafter. Without lifting too much weight with our backs we can help bring down the reigning regime who would never fully accept your position awarded by Cassius.¡±

    He slipped out his key from woven sleeve and indicated to the chain interlocking Argus¡¯s arms. ¡°I would ask you to see this dream we shared through with me. To wade through this dank mire to reach for the sun. But first, attend Drakkon and his congress to consolidate this march and earn acquittal. You may recall this hold has the best baths below. Allow me to lead you there to bathe. For this filth you wallow does not become you, my good mate.¡±

    Aris unlocked the last binds, let fall the iron shackles about hostage¡¯ wrists. Argus scratched at marks left by fetters and gazed up at the man. Was he to be his prison warden or liberator? Dull amazement stayed any muscle seeking flight. The pair left the tower to descend Dul¡¯Garon. Aris parted locks to show them to aqueducts & where heated springs brought melting of tension. ¡°I will not keep you chaperoned long for there is more business for me to bid this hour. If it is your whim to escape once left to your own, then so be it. I will not deter nor detain you from this choice. As unfortunate and wasteful a decision that would be.¡±

    Argus went silent save for a sigh, from which emanated a deepening weariness of the world altogether. Stripping, he wades numbly into waters channeled into warm basin. Strands of steam borne of a secret spring from beneath earth¡¯s crust conjure balmy fog through the bath portal. Aris made good on his word, exiting the room. Leaving him alone suspended in his confusion. Naked to the world and his disparaging doubts. The warmth of the pool did little to soften spinal shivers sent of spiritual wind. Floating in dissociation, his soul¡¯s color bleeds into basin. Vacuous: bereft of any sensation to awake from this dark dream so suddenly plunged into.

 Revolution

    Chapter Ten, Revolution

    Sunhilte 24<sup>th</sup>, 1329 CE, Crestfall, Capitol of Vizzari

    Argus averted his eyes from the capitol¡¯s adoring mob. Hiding sullen countenance behind crimson hounskull. In sight of the masses, he returned as triumphant Consul; hero who smashed the season of Drakes & stormbirds. They saw summer tide trail behind his Triumph. Though in sooth, he lumbered home with tail between legs. Behind trailed open invitation of shame & desolation. The ¡®prizes¡¯ of his parade, beaten vassals of thunderous god, were led into the Crestfall, under guard whose faces were barbarous under nasal helms & bascinets.

    This dazzling gem of civilization derided Argus with serrated beauty & nauseating splendor. All seeming wrapped in a noose of treachery tightening around the neck of their holiest shrine. All glared with hollow gleam. He wanted to hang low his head and turn away from illusionary image of himself reflected in the eyes of the gathered citizenry, who with weeping revelry welcomed his return with cries of assent. The soft, yet hurried, whispers creeping from the covered captive carts dragging behind the conquering Consul were smothered by the crowd¡¯s fanatical roars. ¡°Io our Deliverer! Praise Prince Argus!¡±

    Every face he passed looked at him through worshipful eyes, be they of lower or highest castes; every knave & slave cheered besides their masters as proud noble & affluent merchants hailed assent of their returning champion. For he saved them from the beast ravaging their countryside and upturning their holds. Yet all this clamor only ensnared him in a hellish loneliness & cancerous shame. For he knew that all these men around him were far from friends. Presented in full Dread Knight plate, with their flag and feigned smile, these triumphant conquerors and their ¡®spoils¡¯ belonged all to Drakkon. Only acting as prisoners of war and parade to waltz into the capitol with ease, bent on its capture.

    Atop the towering staircase that paved the ascent to the Court of Crimson: the red-gold throne of Vizzari and home to the prime pontiff Magister of Faith, Janus Fel¨C the reigning crown of serpent cult & state order. Despite his pinnacle position in society the man was a pitifully short caricature of his gluttonous habits, shown in his ridiculously rotund bulge of a belly. Above Fel¡¯s head soared crown of a hat wound in shape of the Serpent he served as Speaker for.

    Beside the smiling pig stood the master of the Dread Knights, Amain of House Th¡¯uul. A brutal sadist lurked behind that fac?ade of righteous crusader. His physicality reflected core lust for violence. The Dread-Paladin¡¯s countenance was harsh & clear in his cut by a glance to his sharply shaved dome and the abundance of sigil brandings, serpentine tattoos, and runes of warfare. His loyalty to Vizzarion: sworn in his skin; scars of the Serpent to show himself as its scale, its fang, its branded coil in flesh.

    The impish Magister waddled a couple steps from his grandiose seat. Every pace in step with his glorified bodyguard in Th¡¯uul. Adjusting his Mitre, Janus spoke down to Argus through gurgling froglike throat. ¡°Thank Vizzarion for thy victory against these wretched fanatics that flay us in the name of their pretender. Thy victory over the Drake¡¯s rot-ridden ilk is joy to all! Great feasts & tournaments shall be for the Triumph thou hast won.¡±

    Magister Fel, porcine lump of grease, wine-laden sweat & incense wax that he was, rolled some steps down. Not one to stretch any physical labor, Janus remained high above the man as he addressed the gaping populace. ¡°We heard disconcerting reports. Concerning claim to title of Consul. This claim went through no Magistrate council, no Chamber of Ethics. Nor did the late great Magister, Cassius Abraxas make it known to any here that he considered thee, a child of low birth ascended from dirt to greatness through the kindness of his Patron, heir apparent. Without roots in nobility the Houses must make congress over this matter and see what the wisdom of the Crimson Court decides. We cannot take that contract at full value when it flies in face of tradition & more still. Even given this trophy of return for Triumph.¡±

    Backhanded welcome flustered Argus. Warm receptions wassailing his ¡®triumph¡¯ and admonishment of his worth, character & birth, webbed his will. He heard truth in Aris¡¯ augury that Drakkon¡¯s plot was the only way to make something great of himself, not within the Vizzar. For this court of the Serpent¡¯s seat swiftly shaped to pit of asps ready to lunge for him. He bided time for indignation, bobbing head along to the Magister¡¯s rambling and the mob. ¡°We must make clear that one conquest of a band of ragged cultists does not make one the chosen ascent of Vizzarion ¨C for whom I speak. But alas, let not this matter of another day spoil the relishing of today. For now, a toast to thee and to all Crestfall!¡±

    Argus spat mocking venom. He fought the urge to retch from nervousness as removed the prestigious hounskull covering his guilt. His glare spoke fury before his tongue shot curse at the pompous stump of Janus Fel. Pushing through the first few croaks & cracks of his cords, the triumphant Consul lifted voice to adoring public:

    ¡°O ye children of Vizzari! I bear ringed signet of Revolution! This day we rise above all our enemies. This day we march against an enemy far closer to us than the fabled evil of godly berserkers... I say: the Serpent eats itself!¡± From this perch, he saw not only the stunned shroud of folks below but now a shadow sweeping across the rays beyond capitol walls. Half the force of West Elderath & hordes of common rabble recruited to scour the East encircled the city.

    Behind Janus, who succumbed to stasis, the Dread Paladin of his honor guard leaned to whisper. Amain warned Fel¡¯s ear, which quivered near as much as his fat, misshapen gut. ¡°My Lord, he comes to usurp the Tongue of Vizzarion. Act or be devoured by this wolf!¡±

    Argus struck knell of his speech. ¡°This day we take back our city from the gluttonous boors & stuff-bellied bankers who squander the riches of our homes! Their rule ruins your futures with fevered greed! Long tainted the Crimson Court with their corrosive slime and steals what is rightfully ours! Their rackets drain thy coin while they laugh at thee once off the pulpit! They feast on the food thou shalt ne¡¯er enjoy all the while thy stomachs rumble with famine!¡±

    Reaching the top of the stairs with his entourage of sentinels the betrayer unsheathes his rapier and cries revolt. The spirit of his coup infects parts of the crowd below. Others, loyal to faithful Order decry their kin for their falsehood. ¡°I accurse thee, Janus! Face Judgement of the masses for thy court¡¯s pilfering vice!¡±

    Yet the archpriest simply gapes at his accuser, paralyzed. Th¡¯uul then comes to the defense of the faith upon that velvet-carpeted staircase. The puritan champion draws forth his weapon: a monstrous and grim broadsword of the same obsidian seen only before in Drakkon¡¯s sword; forged of that astral base. A raised fist summons his knights to him. Follows forceful thrust of frozen courtiers with hammering blunt tones. ¡°o Argus, thou art a fool! Get thee into exile or be cast as traitor to our Court!¡±

    Gasps and jeers rattle the crowd. Alongside their confusion volatile tensions turn volcanic. The mob¡¯s clusters of various sympathies brush against each other. Hundreds below truly trusted & loved their populist champion, Argus. What earthshaking revelation his words deliver; bidding follow him to revolt. Bent to battle for patriotism against another member of the Court though it seemed brazen insurrection.

    But there were yet those who felt their ¡®hero¡¯ truly betrayed their realm and called for heathen blood. Civil abrasion blisters, and finally pops into utter anarchy. Chaos crawls out when the veil over the prisoners¡¯ carriage is torn and the ¡®defeated barbarians¡¯ are cut from bonds & given steel by the same men who looked before to be their jailors. Drakkon himself charges behind their line as surge of Drakes and feral men flood through.

    This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

    Surprise manifestation of a dead demigod hails vengeful return. Ruptures the turbulent fabric of Crestfall¡¯s society. Yet though a star-born Lord leads the apocalyptic rush, this assault of madness upon blessed city, Th¡¯uul furiously hunts first for Argus¡¯s traitorous head. Engages in a storm of hell driven blows. With the Dread Knights¡¯ training and the heat of their resolve dozens of Drakoni assassins fall to bloody mess. The imposter Triumphants: beaten back by synchronized stratagems of each knight. The precise flow of their combat tactics and their unique weapons combines to lethal performance. Dancing for slaughter and ardent resistance.

    The sea of people parts for Drakkon and the arrival of his moribund reinforcements. Gray waves of helms, spears & coifs slip through yawning gates. But above, the clash of blades at the red circle turns quickly against Argus. He falters against the speed & power Th¡¯uul possessed & channels through blackened broadsword. In a hasty attempt to strike a lucky blow he strikes at the paladin¡¯s lightly protected leg. But the veteran of duels innumerable spots this desperate move in his shaky eye beforehand and, with bold riposte, slices through his rival¡¯s sword hand.

    Bone & tendon splints from the rest of his arm. Yet Argus feels nothing at his hand¡¯s cleaving. Searing edge & the shock of adrenaline and disbelief uproots the pain. The strange singe of the slashing instrument¡¯s radiance, so cruel yet clean. Numb to doom. Th¡¯uul knocks him with pommel and kicks the maimed man down the grandiose staircase where he lay retching blood. He readies his deadly relic of meteorite rock, with a violet tinge to its dark and hungering glow. To conclude their mortal duet that ebony edge went to fall but first the sword lifts to air to savor the arc, praising that heaven sides with his cause. Yet the execution swing hung, unsung & intercepted.

    Drakkon breaks through the Knights¡¯ bulwark along with his best champions. His route to relieve the vanguard pivots to single out this slayer. Howling awe screams from the sidelines. More among conflicted parties of citizen find their favor suddenly steer towards Drakoni victory. For this foreign demigod was no savage but an honorable Lord of regal stature & might to match his bravery, rushing selflessly to save the life of their populist Emissary, in Argus who promised a better world.

    Each commander fights as avatars of their people¡¯s spirit. But while Amain claims crest of a mere abstraction of a god, Drakkon¡¯s faith resides in his fervor. The Geist of Revolution belts from the Lord¡¯s lungs. Neither blade chips the other, being equals in make, but the swifter of minds prevails in the wielding. The doughty demigod skewers Th¡¯uul¡¯s leg and shoulder through gaps in his regalia. The man¡¯s spirit & vigor were not so wounded, and in his pride, the lord of Dread calls off any aid of his underlings. While he retreats to the tall columns atop the platform, bleeding the way, he swore none must interfere in this duel with a ¡®heathen god¡¯.

    With dagger Amain cuts the links of his chest plate, freeing up mobility, and throws it as flailing distraction. Pushes then from the pillar he¡¯d been supporting himself to lunge at his challenger. Bursting momentum so profound it would crack or splinter a blade of any other making than his meteorite. Nor did Drakkon¡¯s will break beneath avalanche of wrath. He inverts Amon¡¯s power against him, reflecting his course backwards to fling him from the heights of the Court.

    The preeminent hierarch of Th¡¯uul and vengeful saint of the Crimson Order falls. Those great steps raise to crushing height when one makes a hasty plunge from their roost. Sharp pole of Dread banner catches his horrible hop. Impales him through the center. The red-black-and-gold flag of Vizzari repaints as single shade.

    With the square below saturated with guts gushing from his man, town into, Magister Fel scurried back. Searching out safety in the sanctums deep in the court¡¯s belly. Running with such blind terror and on such stumpy legs, he sacrificed his ostentatious hat and trips on his robes. Meanwhile Mordaunt and the drakes, as crest of their rising tide, fought more vehemently than the cadaver commander¡¯s remaining men. Across the temple, streets, outskirts, and farthest outline Drakoni typhoons sank their city.

    Woe sullied blood rains down the grand staircase. Soaking patterned banners, graven pylons & glistening baubles; vestiges of Vizzarion. The turbulent undertow of unrest comes to ugly head. Death hails upon Crestfall. Its outspread wings cover the whole of the capitol in squall of Discord. Mordaunt and the other Drakoni captains wrangle the nearest populace. Culling resistance and corralling them like cattle to kneel below the court. Herds, bovine and gusty, watch with mixed emotions as their shrine is pillaged; all their great relics & idols torn down and smashed in this unprecedented storm of revolt.

    The Court sanctum unsealed, the gold mouth opened, Aris pours martial stream, guiding the thralls of madness & reavers of vipers into hallowed hall. To where Vizzari¡¯s ruling elite, in the Chamber of Ethics, lay in lowly fetal guise. Suckling fears & tremorous teats of apocalyptic auguries. Devils burst through the gates upon Helwind gales. Revolution rolls across temple threshold. Taking form in Drakkon and his terrors. By His indomitable might, in an instant the courtiers¡¯ & priestly spheres of decadence collapse with the pillars of their society.

    Their feeble resignation amuses Aris, spectating the marshalled migration of these wyrms to the execution square. How happy he was to see them drop their petty masquerade to show themselves as writhing worms beneath that pristine illusion of power.

    The plump Magister, as avatar of the priestly caste¡¯s virtue, begged for his life, so rife with vice. When Drakkon¡¯s men tied his swollen, boar¡¯s hide and hung about his throat a sinister rope a vocal throng loyalists demanded these vilifiers face death by sword. Swearing to ruin over submission to a foreign defiler, they vaulted to their deaths. Yet more swore off their old, dying gods as their pontiff dangled over the serpentine statue at the podium. Others swathed themselves threads of delirium, madly strumming havoc¡¯s harpsicord. Those who leapt to lashing catharsis went to robbing & looting the merchants¡¯ stalls and shops arrayed along the Triumph. Even taking to burning down institutions without any hint of discretion.

    They torched what they could of their own city to spite those who would sack it from them. Rabid flocks sought the inferno as an act of blind scorn against the ruling pillars above them, proven fraudulent in nature and knowing that no ill should befall them for tearing hollow houses, defenseless against the Drakoni. Others look to that fiery blanket of misrule in hopes to shield their sins from illumination.

    Baron, who was then behind plebian lines, would later remark to his Lord how the kinsmen of the Vizzar indulged much glee in the slaying of their fellows & the razing of their cousins¡¯ estates. Though he knew not whether to emphasize this as to mark the character of those he¡¯d enfolded into his Living banners or simply a sign of the wickedness of the state they¡¯d destroyed.

    Nevertheless, Crestfall¡¯s messy riot was quickly quelled. Aquifer tracts were drawn to quench the blustery clinkers of slag. Firebrands of pandemonium slain; scoria humbled by zealous deluge. The jewel of Vizzari¡¯s reign bent & wrestled by Drakkon¡¯s grip. When enough shepherded the central square the conqueror roared his lion¡¯s call to them, demanding their supplication. Much like the limp cadaver of their ignominiously deposed Magister, draped as decoration of their new Lord¡¯s conquest, the people went stiff. As granite statues of apprehension, they witnessed overthrow of their civilization.

    While their deified master molds domesticated minds with the hammer of rhetoric Aris, Albrecht & Baron tend to Argus. Using healer¡¯s talents to bind his wrist and offer him herbs & potions to anesthetize the cripple¡¯s pain, keep him living. In a dissociative state the wounded wretch watched it all unravel through sockets not his own. Dulled ears heard the Lord¡¯s colloquium to the forum, after clarions of hosts, untold save those klaxons of their innumerable hordes, hushed their deafening declaration of His ascendancy.

    With sword upraised to the sky, in challenge to the rule of the Vizzar, revolt & reversal emerged of Drakkon¡¯s red sermon. The first of many they would hear; speaking of breaking the binds of slavish servitude & freedom from wicked masters that care not for the health of the land nor its people. He appraised the mark of heaven¡¯s favour and new Imperium, foretelling the next Aeon.

    Argus whimpered, holding his hand as the shock subsided. But his pain was ignored as new chorus came from the crowd. Those who refused to bow were escorted from their kin; dispatched away from the public¡¯s eye. But every soul among them knew they had not simply vanished or been ¡®exiled¡¯ (as would be claimed). They had been cut down or drawn up, the citizens knew, though they would dwell on this knowledge in muffled silence. Suppressing their confusion & gradually growing woe beneath this snaring shade of Living Light...

 Undertow

    Chapter Eleven, Undertow

    Ides of Dawncrest, Year Zero of the Aeon of Drakkon, Crestfall

    No aspect of civilization went without its blemishes not even its glazed crown of Crestfall. A fact evident to Argus as he shuffled through the city¡¯s slums. Here in the dilapidated sectors where no wealth had been spent for the sake of its lesser denizens those of Vizzari¡¯s expunged wallowed in the mud pit. Those who were unable to buy influence in the Drakoni Summit sworn now to share in the squalor of the lowest. The disgraced Consul stumbled about gravel & muck. Careful to conceal his less than infamous mug behind hood & mask. All but his eyes were kept under dark crimson threat. Although his goal was in sight every step trod a mile through the mire, fouled by more than the drench of chamber pots.

    Symptoms of ceaseless compulsion bubbled up through his skin. Sickness of want convulsing beneath. Always Argus carried haunting echoes in his inner eardrums. The carrion scoria of human flambeaus and the cries of crucifixion bedevil his memory. Even when enfeebled by intoxication, after that Sunhilte day of frenzied fires, recall follows as constant as those routine impalements. Thirst for inebriated emancipation, even flitting, waxed with wraiths¡¯ curse. To give phantom feeling to his necrotic hand. A drive that drove the wretch toward the only freedom he could yet earn.

    The fallen emissary entered a humble hovel of a tavern. Made himself known to the bartender. The enigmatic fellow quickly came to the aid of his most generous of patrons and with a crooked smile across his wilted mask asked, ¡°what¡¯ll it be this day, good ser?¡±

    He leaned whisper to the purveyor of spirits. ¡°I am a fly caught in what webs we weave.¡±

    This muted password produces a nod from the man, who pours his guest a glass of something stinking. Beside the glass two tarot cards materialize from wooly sleeve. One for lupanar and another for nymphaeum. Argus points to the latter. The caretaker raises putrid glass for himself and clangs Argus¡¯s in toast. ¡°Ay, the Spider spins her silk for thee.¡± He shakes his good hand, silky key appearing in the patron¡¯s. Downing his potent poison, he pads the client¡¯s shoulder. Then offers directive, carried by fetid breath, reeking of booze from his stores. ¡°Take the left route. Be sure to lock the door once in. I trust you won¡¯t get too tangled up in her web, Ser.¡±

    With this, Argus had invitation to the Spider¡¯s Web, a secret hub for congregation & consumption. His key: transitory; serving once before the locks changed yet offering passage into den for one with eager lust for liberation from petty consciousness. A lair of libation unlike the dirty streets harboring it. Its furnishings were dapper and exotic, with tapestries & canvases implying distant dreamlands. Along with fanciful depictions & well laid booths, equally decadent aromas invited the visitor to join in fantasy. Here those affluent addicts & shadowy congresses cared little for any booths not their own. Showing no interest in marking a face, nor having theirs noticed by any but their friends, co-conspirators & server-doctors.

    Argus frowned to see this exclusive circle less compact in its scope. Finding himself amidst throngs of odd customers and folk unknown to him. If he were recognized by any faithful to the fallen Vizzarion they would hold no high regard for him. Although he had the protective seal, marking him as a foundling of Imperium, there were those who might dare death in terror to assure the demise of their false champion. But this concern was fleeting. A worrisome candlestick stamped out by the proprietor¡¯s spindly arm wrapping about him from the ether.

    ¡°What we are having for ourselves this evening, friend?¡± asked a croaky voice from beneath beaked mask. Intoned convivially by doctor of drugs & sorcery. ¡°The timeless Nymphaea Spiritus again? Or needing a wee bit of Fae-Fyre Crystal?¡± The Spider¡¯s faceless mask made intimidating figure to bargain with. Even when conducting casual business, the lack of any recognizable facial tick hid all intentions behind aquiline unease. ¡°Perhaps we shall want the pair? Or more?¡±

    ¡°A hit of the good stuff, yes. As much of both you are willing to part with, dear merchant of miracle. Been a shoddy month.¡± & a wretched life. The despoiled Consul, ne¡¯er to be, flopped tribute to the spider-doctor. Who then gestured to breathtakingly graven hookah pipe, packing its plate essence of Nymph¡¯s Breath, offering it up to his guest in a show of hospitality.

    Argus gleefully accepted the offer, riding the winds of elevation, floating up with the smoke to see himself take the hit through ghostly vessel. Through bloodshot eyes, a result of the fire burning in his lungs & bloodstream, he surveyed the room. Everything cavorted and danced through witch mist of shimmering shapes. ¡°A lot of new pals found their way here, it would appear.¡±

    Although the figure¡¯s oblique, birdlike nose didn¡¯t sway in any direction, Argus felt the heat of un-light gaze flit dark rays onto him. ¡°Business is good, aye. I will not speak long on the rule of Drakkon but can say that since the city changed its colours the masses flock to my wares with redoubled effort. See, I offer ecstasy where once lay only misery. With the funds from the needy herding here, my operation is fit to expand. I can evermore afford to transport more goods into this glistening crystal of a city. We swell in fat friendship, as soon shall Light ov Imperia.¡±

    No concern stayed long in his brain once the Nymphaea Spiritus brought levitation above his thoughts. Bringing him to a blissful void of freedom. A few whiffs of the noxious smoke and Argus no longer felt the haunting soreness of his half-sown hand nor wounds of ego.

    Emerald shards dazzled Argus. Drooling over refined quality of the Fae-Fyre Crystal, he raptures dust of its residue through his nostrils. Lightning coursed through his sphere. Bolts firing through brain by demigod proportion. This miniscule but marvelous olive essence altered his perception as swiftly as a mere few months of it harrowed his form. Former prefect¡¯s physique, fallen into a frail shell; body withered as neglected field with null yield. Him: a dead weed to be reaved. Yet these chemical comrades let him forget his station as no more than a strung puppet, a lapdog of the lords.

    Haze of hookah vapors, witch-teas and diet of alchemical meal was preferable to the dayless miasma conjured by the nascent predominance of that Living Light. High Tide of an ill formed passage; a time, into the Dusk of Vizzari but before next Aeon¡¯s Dawn. In the ebb before eminence of Imperium, countless were thrashed & drowned by waves of Revolution. More died, twice the number, than those in the war of the Lord¡¯s lightning conquest. & more grain of souls must yet be harvested to fulfill that season¡¯s oath. All this, in a year that would be wiped from record once Order was established over the grave of Serpent & its hatchlings. But Argus willingly whisked away awareness of transition¡¯s stillborn tumult by winds of malt and nymphaeum. Just as the imminent Drakoni Calendar would soon do by writ.

    ¡°Just so you know, a group of less than genteel gentlemen may be searching for you this evening. I suggest after you¡¯ve had your fill to make yourself scarce.¡± Furcated false face poked at the patient. Herbal hallucinations transformed this creature into colossal bird of prey. But then Argus saw the beak was less of raptor than arachnid. A pelican-spider¡¯s briery mandibles moved its words. Around it wings of web & tenebrous feelers purled. ¡°No one enters my Web without me unwinding the tapestries of their character. Tis for this I give you the best silk, knowing regal worth. Be safe, my ¡®prince¡¯.¡±

    In short breath Argus was alone in the booth. Save for the company of spirits, crystals & smog. The Spider disappeared into the abyss past his lounge. Though that harvestman¡¯s fibrous yet stringent tulle trail trespassed there for tick tarrying after the spinner retired. This stranger was whispered to have once been a Druid but that could not be, for the hermit pilgrims cut the tongues of any apostate who may spill their secrets. Yet his ¡®friend¡¯ Aris lived on, with words waggling to spurn him still.

    Argus wallowed there in a purgatorial space as visions drifted. He¡¯d forgotten in this froggy mire¡¯s bog-mist of foul failings that ominous warning from his provider. Yet omen of ¡®less than genteel¡¯ snoopers bore silk of reality woven by those words of haste. A squadron of ¡®gentlemen¡¯ barged into the den. Wired pupils concentrated on this adrenaline sparking intrusion. But the longer he stared at the armored men trekking through the lair the more he persuaded himself their march was merely illusion born of paranoic dream.

    Their appearance & behavior here further affirmed this notion. That the Drakoni stormers headed directly towards his booth but ignored every criminal element abound assured they were as Saatharian shades. For they passed as if dealing with such scum were beneath them. & as much as the weaver of webs here awed Argus he couldn¡¯t conceive of these zealous paladins, always bent on eradication of profligacy, heresy & economic dissent which did not serve the coming Order they slaved to ordain barging into a place packed with unholy trinity. And so, he turned his back towards them for the faeries, dancing in the air beside his seat.

    Yet the fist that slammed onto his table shaking pipe & coal from it arced with splintering realness. Thwack! & the ethereal nymphs & fae were smashed to ash. Mordaunt, captain of these crusaders, scowled and drummed his sheathe. ¡°Argus, you are hereby to submit to arrest for treason & conspiracy against our Living Lord and his coming eternal Imperium. What you plead here matters not. You shall face trial by summit of peers & superiors. Resistance shall be observed as admission of guilt and punishment rendered on the spot. Come peaceably.¡±

    Mordaunt disguised his brutishness in angelic front, wearing the armor of his not yet fully legitimized Imperium, blended brand of cloud white, with Sol¡¯s gold and sapphire of storm. Shaded by his drooping yellow locks there was crudeness & wrongness about the face of this rising champion and right hand of Drakkon. Always those daggers of frigid dark aimed behind pale blue stare frightened.

    In search of penance Argus let himself be taken. Mustering no resistance, Mordaunt chanced to push his captive further to breaking point. Kicked him back to the must before the threshold and placed iron-fitted boot to his neck. ¡°Lie low, little soul. Do not exert past your ability.¡±

    Dragged away in shame from shady nook into the wide streets of Crestfall, Argus became a public spectacle of humiliation. Paraded for plebian jeers & the joy of Mordaunt. The profligate ¡®High heir from low hearth¡¯ gaped dumbly at all the people he¡¯d once served. Delirious & dirt- smothered, he caught their curses and felt their rain of spittle. Saw their hateful hail through distant orbs as his frame scraped against filth & cobblestone. He forsook himself with their eyes, knowing himself deserving of dying covered in grime and smelling of failure.

    Road to Ruin

    Crestfall Grand Hall, two fortnights following

    Servants garbed in lustrous white, gold & sapphire threads radiating their master¡¯s glory, welcomed Mordaunt. Gently they led him through corridors of the Court ¨C remolded & reborn as Drakkon¡¯s House ov Light. The helots offered him sweets & idle luxuries which he declined. Feeling at odds with letting on any docility when their triumph, while waxing, required more to be assured. With his face as grim as ever, all whom he passed in the halls wavered at his gait.

    They reached the summit of the great House. Where Drakkon constructed his council on the bones of the magistrate¡¯s theocratic college. How surreal it was, even still, to pass through the masterfully crafted doors into the heart of Crestfall. Once the lair of the Serpent¡¯s prime speakers & augurs, under Vizzari he never dreamt of earning the honor, the privilege, of seeing the fabled hall for himself. Yet rather than a thrall he walked freely as a conqueror.

    In the center an ample brazier roasted light over the summit chamber, illuminating his Lord who walked over slowly. ¡°We are glad to see you, Mordaunt. No need to dance about with the customs,¡± Spoke the emperor who bid his guest to rise, as Mordaunt had begun bow of reverence, ¡°there is much to discuss. Yet we are grateful for your presence¡±

    Drakkon offered his lieutenant a glass of gin & one of ale in genial fashion. Mordaunt settled on the ale although he couldn¡¯t help but raise his brow with curious observation. Why should the divine long for mortal intoxication? ¡°In high spirits, are we? Cheers & hail to you, my Lord, and masterful friend!¡±

    ¡°We ¨C in the royal manner and in reference to the good members of our court which shall seat our Empire ¨C settled on a proper gift for you. As testament for your heroic service!¡± The confident sheen of Solaris shined through him. So considerable in its proportion as to warm even the aloof Mordaunt with cheerful affect.

    In the span it took for the emperor to smash back a glass (which wasn¡¯t long at all, even if he ¡®rarely¡¯ indulged such ¡®mortal vices¡¯ as drink) and another servant to scuffle off swiftly he had no time to ponder what this reward might be. Not before Drakkon swung back silk curtain concealing an ornate sheathe. It snared his sight. ¡°As my Sword you smash blockades against our progress, cut those who denounce our Imperium & avail yourself any battle yet required of us. Now you return to our court having brought Argus and hundreds more traitors to heel. For bringing wit-welded might to hedge-ling fronts & death to those rebel houses you shall have fitting foil of your own!¡±

    The blade burst from that specially made encasement. A refined version of that purplish black blade once wielded by the fell lord Th¡¯uul. It winked at its new owner with beauteous sheen. ¡°As you are my Champion of Might I grant you this sword! Once the Fang of Dread Vizzarion, to be betrothed now to the one who hath proven his spirit great enough to hold in faithful hand!¡±

    Stolen story; please report.

    ¡°I cannot express enough my gratitude, o Lord! I could never consider myself deserving of such a treasure... Beyond all my mortal measure I thank you!¡±

    When the obsidian sword became his to possess it sang to his hand, shaking slightly in surprise. Looking upon its dark yet shining body Mordaunt felt edge alight by his touch, a resonance wake. The weapon whispered to him as his Lord spoke. ¡°Let past victories nourish future ones! Christen the blade with heretics¡¯ blood!¡±

    Aris, the druid & supplicant lord to this newfound Drakoni Imperium coughed. A jarringly harsh sound, suggesting heavier binds to burden this blessed blade. When Drakkon spoke, his demand (though wrapped up as a question of friendly conscience) entombed this suspicion in certainty.

    ¡°There is another aspect that arrives of this gift that must be asked of thee. Another duty for the one who would take up this sword to serve my Light. Lady Portia, I speak of, frankly. Remember you a certain Dread Knight, who you slew with valor the day we took this capitol? Well, the widow to that elder man, inherits his proprietorship to the Felwreath Quarry. To satiate her appetite for revenge my counsels propose we turn her to the light in seeing the goodness of what we are building through the ancient and far-traveled custom of marriage. You are asked now to be the champion of her redemption. To-¡±

    The champion dared disturb the lead of his Lord. ¡°Should I not destroy this harpy? Finish off her House instead? That we may acquisition her industry to forge forth our eminent Emp-¡±

    Drakkon stomped upon his auxiliary¡¯s overreaching step. ¡°That you endured the displeasure of Felwreath is known. For that I forgive this outburst of unreason at mention of its mistress. We would not ask you to slaughter a Lady. That is not the way to our supremacy! Her risk in rousing well-funded opposition to our revolutionary rebirth is acted only whilst in throes of anguish. Lashing out in mourning for her ¡®war hero¡¯ husband when she may be courted calmly.¡±

    The vassal-lord of Abraxas boldly tipped his toe out to advise. A brashness which their Lord held note of long after his eye turned, letting this tongue waggle for a beat. ¡°We only win so much through warring. Though your service to our liege is legend we must forge links with the defeated by more than our steel if we wish to enfold them into our hearth. That she is a Lady, wears no mail nor blade, allows her assemble shadow host against us. But that she hosts the prime portion of our rival faction is a boon should pact of union join her cause to us. For they shall yet have stake in our foundation and no longer fling the lives of their subjects against walls of our spears.¡±

    ¡°Tether the tearful Portia to a true and lawful union in you. You, who made her a widow must seek penance by making her your wife and taking her family matters, the burdens, and financial responsibilities, as your own. Will you accept this task, my friend?¡± Inquired Drakon. Or rather, demanded. A hand reached for a drink to replace the last and clasped another to his helot¡¯s pauldron. ¡°Will you relent your pride to serve our Imperium in utmost holy grace? Will you serve as savior for all the lives that could be lost otherwise by swearing yours to Lady Portia? Will you do this to let the tired tribesmen who came forth from the Ruun to subdue the east return home and rest their sickness of longing?¡±

    ¡°My Lord that is not my intention. I aim to do as you will but only ask the reason here that I might be enlightened more. Surely, that she mounts such resistance makes her an enemy more than a lady, no? You do not fear-¡±

    ¡°I fear nothing of this woman nor any aspect of our path. She is no warrior queen as your hesitance wishes her to seem!¡± Drakkon heartily laughed away the notion of fear. Yet his admonishing gaze passing over the blessed Fang to its wavering wielder hinted that Mordaunt should fear more than losing the sword should he persist in meandering challenge.

    ¡°In another time there might be such a woman, a Valkyrie among their brood.¡± The Lord spent thought for his woman, who the world was yet to know in full worth & valiance. ¡°Imagine the portly Portia as a warrior & threat, ha! Be not nai?ve! Tis not fear that guides this notion, but guile applied for virtuous purpose of greater harmony. For you see, Mordaunt, should we simply take her out we will but make her a martyr. Aris informs us of her undying and utmost petulant popularity among the peoples once belonging to Vizzari. As well as an interest in you, who proved her old man¡¯s better, which could be bridled. One band of matrimony on your fingers could save innumerable lives and assure we step forth into a true golden age.¡±

    Mordaunt gulped down his dignity in steep swallow. He knew of this Lady Portia. Felt first her glare come the early balls & festivals. She¡¯d come then, to spy & despise, to the first of many Triumphs that rolled on into each other. But that gargantuan gentlewoman cast eye at first of ire and then a different, lusting fire. She¡¯d been transfixed by him, flouted others for his company. Yet he knew her as one as wide in vanity as girth. Her attitude and appearance revolted him. But he recognized the need here and felt a quarrelsome edge of guilt driven into his gut. And so, he laid low his head and accepted this disgrace in the name of higher honour. ¡°I shall do this, my Lord, my Emperor. I pray your Light shall shine on our union and make it bearable.¡±

    Drakkon¡¯s laughter cracked the rim of the room yet again and he smiled at his loyal warrior. ¡°Do not despair, my sword! Sure, they say she has the looks of a stuffed pig but alas she has a fortune greater than any chieftain. And to offer tribute to this union we propose it shall be held the very date following our wedding with Corinna as to fully share all under our Light! But know that our weddings await a more peaceful time. In doing this you assure this sooner!¡±

    Aris craned neck to speak once more in place of his master. ¡°Hark also the huzzah of having a House of your own to hold to! Note the Lady Portia offers not only herself but a lineage to abide & seal your ascent by! She already expresses interest in you! Think: do you not yearn for an heir? Besides warrior¡¯s legend you¡¯ve little legacy. Why not lend her your hand, announce your love, and let her lease her name and House to you?¡±

    ¡°I have said I shall do this and so it is sworn.¡± Mordaunt grunted but wandered inward. Sworn to false family when I already have a child of my own. A lineage through prophecy & witchery past any proportion of Portia¡¯s! For though witches, the daughters of Baba¡¯Yun breed beauty. He accepted the offered ale absently. ¡°I shall earn through affection her name of Gilth¡¯Hilde!¡±

    Drakkon toasted him cheers. Implied to keep his sword and savor it having admitted the price of its gift. Then, when his other yet unhumbled supplicant deigned propose another motion to the pair their liege readied verbal buckler. Waiting to deflect the address that came when optimal.

    With dogged tone the Druid spoke to the groom to be. ¡°Your grace & humility is a virtue in our day, Champion. There is, however, another issue all of us wish to come to an agreement on. I been visited by visions of late; dreaming emblems of the fates¡¯ whim in which I view a distant land beyond the eastern deserts. There is a promised land, where oases bloom with golden wellsprings. At first, I thought these simple fancies, but the High Mother shares the same Sight. Scouts & charters sent to map the regions past the great wastes return with confirmation of this faraway haven. Though distant and through dry trek it is no mirage. This may prove the perfect settlement to send those more troublesome Vizzari loyalists who are too brutish to integrate and the useless stock who drain more than they sow. But they must be guarded the way there.¡±

    Mordaunt looked to Aris then Drakkon. ¡°You wish me to lead them through to exile? What purpose does my marriage to Portia serve if we are simply to swipe away all the dissenters? Why must I sacrifice my independence to a wicked woman when you are asking me to exert force & restraint at once? Not that I fear this either.¡±

    Aris presented papyrus scroll of instruction & map of the arid journey. Along with illustrations of its destination: Beatific clime & fertile soil. Black pyramids & deep dales by the tropics. ¡°You are more ardent than any trial. Who better to safeguard this migration? Your pending spouse¡¯s sway is large, indeed, but rules not the riled & fevered. Nor do we have the space & feed for the feckless. They must be relocated as to end season of slaughter. That they may tend their toils for their ends and be kept from disrupting our newfound harmony. Which is yet a fragile egg which can be cracked too early.¡±

    Now Drakkon pounced with pronged tongue to tie Aris & Mordaunt within their reins. ¡°You will have time for a couple more accords and to arrange Gilth¡¯Hilde¡¯s hand. Close your affairs and return to seal that marriage. You will not be sent into the eastern wastes alone to die abandoned.¡± He indicated that progeny of Abraxas. ¡°Our gracious compatriot here shall serve as collateral. His duty shall hold him to that oasis you pursue, and unlike yours shall not lead back. For we must have emissary there among even the exiled. An eye to the East to ensure its placidity.¡±

    Aris¡¯ chameleon blinders flittered as his expression nulled to wintry lake frozen over. ¡°Me, my Lord? But I am of far more avail to you close in Crestfall! My House is rebuilt solely for your Living awe. & I hath given much aid to your holy mother, helped her in the construction of your grand tower; this testament of wonders, Azar-Drakon. Why scourge me, who is only ever your loyal subject, so by permanent exile?¡±

    His liege¡¯s retort buckled Aris. His stumbling stature resembling Mordaunt¡¯s conflicted pose just prior. ¡°Who better to guide that more treacherous half of the Vizzar to new home in peace? Who better to tend to their prosperity & seed that new seat? Who, save he who states oft & loudly of having no love for his father¡¯s estates and dreams of vaster ventures? Not to forget he whose House treasury is full enough to cover expenditure of lasting expedition.¡±

    ¡°My fortune is your Living will, Lord. But should it not be spent on finishing your pillar, your monument to Elderath spanning empire? Does the High Mother not require my counsel more than the lambs of the lost Serpent?¡± He attempted deflection of this fugitive passage with riposte. He glanced to Azarra; aloof, idly pondering her glass & its vintage.

    But the High Mother whose favor he¡¯d presumed to possess preoccupied herself by envious snares & jealous business. Setting nets in her minds against this marriage of her son to heath-maid, Corinna, more than hearing his plea. Besides his presence grew to cover her in awkward shade and she tired of him in copious manners. With Aris around, her son¡¯s consideration of her advice waned. He heard her only through grainy filters of rambling noise & courtly ruses of rhetoric. Such spinning schemes only wound her conduit in Drakkon closer to his desired bride and away from his mother¡¯s vision.

    ¡°We thank you for the help with our tower, Aris. & more still! Truly though the master masons you set to it serve us well shall continue to do so without your management. Tis only three weeks I hath been in Crestfall and already two riots ruptured the fabric of our capitol. One stole away four of my disciples. My Azarine murdered in the market square by indignant wretches who refuse to bend to the hammer of Law. You are bold & witty enough to tame them, I pray.¡±

    She pressed further, plunging more wine along liver¡¯s tract. ¡°What might your Druidic brothers have to say, anyway, about your ceaseless promotions and all these material gains you fly to defend? Think how this pilgrimage should attune you more to mystical treads, no?¡±

    ¡°My ¡®brethren¡¯ say naught. As always. But their silence is preferable for it keeps them to their hermitic lot. Should they descend form their lofty mound of Felhenge it shall be when darkness is upon the world. They would interfere to comment on the realm only after Doom precedes their waking.¡± Hurt lived in Aris. Fostered through Azarra¡¯s rejection, her abrupt indifference to him.

    He¡¯d lost more than just her ear. And yet there dwelt opportunity in the adventure ¡®on offer¡¯ in this imprisoning sentence. ¡°How unfair this turn, after all my worship freely given to thee!¡±

    ¡°Good god in my son! No more Saatharian tricks & Vizzarion venom!¡± Azarra barked. ¡°You whine more than Mordaunt did about wedding the Gilth¡¯Hilde woman! Believe me I hate her as much as he might, but I swallow scorn for service, as we all do! You must see the verity of subduing the rabble who justify aberrant atrocity coolly by slating our laws as evils upon them. Portia¡¯s influence may be tamed. Whereas the mongrels responsible for slaughtering my acolytes are utterly feral and must be slung into the wilderness. Who better than prodigal druid to lead the savage to Light? & if those hounds do not obey, slay them and rule alone.¡±

    ¡°Wherefore not send Argus hence, as head of ashamed asps? Let their ire claw him, not me! Or is not our warlike champion¡¯s strength enough to shape their accord by his arm? I do not dither here in gross comfort but lay the layers of our bright horizon-¡±

    The High Mother groaned behind column of spirits in her palm. ¡°Are you truly so short sighted as to see this as scourge? I thought you a man possessed of insight. Capable of understanding the

    method & meaning of exorcising this tumor of insurrection, with roots in our House unsettling it¡¯s structure. Be wed to your duty in this.¡± Azarra averted her eyes from those of the man she scolded. This refusal to acknowledge him branded Aris with spite but when they did meet her glance condemned him.

    Hers was a feline sneer to catch his want, his mischievous glint thirsting for taps of ambitious draught. Yet, he sensed, the disdain & distance boring into him from her was born from her vulnerability. Any too close to the throne pressed upon her, as did any who were not guileless compatriots & true believers in deification of her son unseat her comfort. ¡°You must have reason to live beyond clashes of holdings and clinging to the capital. Once the tide settles and our shore established what spring you¡¯ll nourish there! Establish House in the east as you advise Mordaunt does here!¡±

    The squabbling gave Mordaunt chance to contemplate his stake. Again, the weavings of Baba¡¯Yun & her daughters shrouded shape of his thought. I am blessed only just before this turn by knowledge of my daughter¡¯s birth! Yet, siring her through silver witch, her shine is as blessed as her namesake! I know the newfound light of my Selene, how it bids the sun to turn and shine for her. I hath glimpsed the beauty of her being and how it blossoms petals purer than this mortal toil we plod on! Yet now I am sentenced to suffer burn of the desert Sol for fetters of fugitive march? Then, returning, be shackles to a selfish hog, bonded to false family ¨C instead of tending mine - for the sake of security?

    Blood of the gods! How is that fair for me? Shall my Selene be stalled from growing under shade of her father¡¯s face? Must it be that I live an unending lie and sacrifice true hearth for tribute to Drakkon & the bid of Portia? To betray true daughter for the affection of one who should rightly loathe me? Nay! I shall see her rays again before I am off. I cannot immolate love on the altar to duty... Yet will the hecatomb of the Vizzar not haunt me into the west? Follow me home to visit in misery? Blast it all! Nay! I will woo that walrus, Portia, and hide my disgust just enough to make use of her bloated wealth. Slip surplus silver Selene¡¯s way. That she can savor some more aesthetic luxury than those woodland witches would give her. She will have the crown of worship and court of stars dancing and singing through every night...

    Speaking thence, with fervor of inner purpose, Mordaunt enjoyed the opportunity to humble Aris. ¡°Should you not be assured of the High Mother¡¯s wisdom? Or do you only spout it when it reflects your own? She trusts you to lead this trail. Cleanse our lands of wicked faces that cloak themselves among commoner veils and do so without the bloodshed you claim to revile. So, you shall. And as I will lead you there to far clime fret not loss of freedom. For tis I who shall be in bondage to Portia, tasked with leashing her plots and excess of appetite. Ha! Be merry that you are yet a Lord, Housed by Living Light, & without taking the name of a Lady!¡±

    While this debacle of court persisted Drakkon killed yet more cups. That the discourse revolved less around him, invoking his Name more than his word before it could be spoke, called him to call upon more to ¡°settle his palette¡±. Through all this his aspect grew darker. Taking grim shade through fog of intoxication until that broiling flame sourcing the shadow broadened. Then their Lord stepped up to shoot this thunder of his throat & silence their bickering. ¡°Our decision holds. Aris shall go east & Mordaunt shall preserve him before reuniting with us to fulfill his contract with his Lady to be. Consider these plans privilege showered upon your shoulders with honors.¡±

    ¡°Through wedding Portia, Mordaunt inherits her portly dowry. Aris, to rule as my proxy over what remains of his addled kin. Remold them into servants that please thee. Through leading this Trail of Judgement ye shall be hailed the greatest of heroes with venerable lineage in Light.¡±

 Sight & Seduction

    Chapter Twelve, Sight & Seduction

    Solsheathe 16<sup>th</sup>, 1<sup>st</sup> year of the Aeon of Drakkon, The Tower of Azar-Drakon

    Azarra caressed the white walls of the massive tower. Freshly dried paint and tapestry bedecked halls coiled about her serpentine tread. This tower, Azar-Drakon: Built as a monument to meteoric rise of her Drakoni Imperium. The marvelous structure which stood high to impress its awe over the world mirrored this ascent in how quickly the relentless toil of innumerable masons, sculptors & slaves brought this majestic beast of a building into being. More than a year had passed for its completion. But that construction occurred amid purgatorial turmoil of the transition to arisen era. Even her astrologers remarked that the stars slowed their spinning until the Aeon could begin. Spoke that the madness of the freshly dead past had in part been swayed by the stars¡¯ halting. But with the christening of a Calendar, ordained by her son¡¯s Imperium, that year was washed away. So too would be the turbulence before Drakkon¡¯s dawn. Thus, the building of this timeless pillar of astral mound was marked as only taking half a year to finish.

    More than any re-ordering of Calendar allotting time afresh, the anointment of emergent era owed much to the performance of her illustrious bard. By Baron¡¯s songs all that woe was swept away. His inspiration laid foundations of happier legend & hailed return of mirth through the lands. ¡®Twas his tunes which asserted the Drakoni rule in soul of the populace, as much as any announcement, monolith, noble alliance, or theater of force. & while the High Mother foresaw this relic of her very legacy Baron spent himself building ¡®spires of learning & song¡¯: Illuminaries, for those manifold aspiring bards who seek the footsteps of the great poet.

    His tunes, chanted back by his sibling sirens & burgeoning scholars, were sung across every town and square from heath to civilization¡¯s crest. Heard & repeated as hymns even in trenches & behind palisades of the fronts ¨C of wars still waged in the hush under the waves of legitimacy. Through manifold throats came chorus threading cheer against threnodies of yesteryear. A hail of magnificent madrigals. Of the Drakoni cavalry riding across frozen river, flying as Drakes and upon ships levitated by their Lord to fell foes. All only half-truths with exciting inventions. The heights of the war lived on through these litanies, as unliving glory captured. Helping the rest of the terrible troughs be sewn over by stitch of caroling & renditions scribed for dramatic players.

    Yet Azzara felt no challenge in the minstrel¡¯s popularity. For this heralding of their song rang also for her glory. His voice (and that of every layman, traveler, & troubadour) wove song of & for the newfound Empire of Endless Light. And what envy could touch her here? What jealousy sting her heart? What rivals were Baron¡¯s miniature colleges in mimicry of Ty-Drasil¡¯s haven (yet more for art & cavorting than spiritual habit) to her glistening tower? When she dwelt now behind such glittering walls of beauty envisioned to compose her image of Grace.

    This pillar, signet of her sovereignty. Testament to her reign, as much as her son¡¯s. Proud reminder of her path from mystic to victim, to mother and then to highest priestess in all lands. She had history for the rewriting and the landscape was hers to remake through Will. Here, where her coven waited on her, her Azarine reverent were far more for her and her every whim than even their Living Lord. So, she savored every pace along the great staircase, reflecting on how her ambitions brought her to the very heights of power. Yet surreal sense stirred from the aqueduct steam rising with her steps.

    Touching velvet lining ripples sound of water. Alerts her unconscious to be but dreaming, wandering about in a projection so close to the real. Lucidity raptures her eyes, opening through Dream-Sight, as pure and tangible as those seasons long ago when she first scried the pillar of dream. Now hers to climb, by day, while walking fate¡¯s winding way. With a soft breath she pulls a tap sprouting surge awash with mystical energy. This perfect replica of her designs, imprints from inspiration, manifested as marvel. Waking, every aspect of this wonder and its decor pleased her to the core. She absorbs the splendor of it all from every etched curvature of the wood & marble furniture. The sheer majesty of the stone holding her in orb of utter glamour. She bathes in half-dream, wades back into basin.

    Azarra pushes open the window to usher dream-wind¡¯s embrace. Empyrean wings sprout from her shoulders as cleansing spouts, lifting her up with the clouds circling overhead & underswell of sky-seas. Her prayer echoes through maelstrom of bending space. She soars over the scenery below. All of earth, her blossoming garden of private paradise. Floats through vein and marrow of existence, taking in essence of widest world. Heavenly orbit pulls her further and further from the green sphere onward into the emptiness betwixt vision & life. Her soul flies until all light negates and shadows crawl the sky. Wishing now to turn return to the ground¡¯s domain but swept by greater tide. Drawn under into surrender of this abyssal chain, she prays for Light again.

    Below her ascendant Sight, Azarra witnesses an infinitude of Empire cast in rays of Solaris & constellations. Paved roads and bridges blanket every corner of the earth. Her people spread out, heralding her sway to all courses, by trade, worship, or war. From the ether of shapes to be springs chant of souls in storm of praise, raising her a Goddess. Her tainted flesh, sprained by sorrow & mortal plight, strips bare by these cries. Frees her spirit from life she knew to reach for reflection of a perfect world, if only she could fly a little further.

    But with one tilt back to her body, drowning in breathless void, her form twists, distorted. Nether tides eat away her shell. Her once angelic wings decay. Wither from lofty, glorious feathers to blistered & frail limbs set upon by black boils erupting from every bone and weeping pore. Astral arms torn by force; Azarra tumbles through rotten belly of the cosmos to where ghoulish figures churn in dark lake miasma.

    Mind¡¯s eye bore horrors beyond mortal imagination: Premonitions of plague & ungodly woe. Shapes spawned from umbrage to form play of shades so real and undeniable. Only to disperse into great Nothing. Flickering wax ate away the Night only to be devoured by its cold. Her sight could not shake these flambeaus of human suffering singeing the dark. Villages swallowed by black dust & blight. Families grieving over afflicted kin. Gasping boils vie for air as death manifests home of body, molding it to torturous prison before asphyxiating the soul.

    But the deathly walls gape a wound, their augury pierced. An ecstatic emissary of Light pours through. Vision births an Elysian Forest, brimming with beauty untouched by the toxin of civilization. Walking in sleeping glade, leaves and brambles tickle her feet. Nymphs & dryads peek horned heads from behind tree-castle columns.

    Azarra came upon a wellspring marked by mystic totems & carefully carved pillars that marked this as a place of power untapped by human desire. She sinks into it, bathing in the waters of eternity as worries melt away in the warm pool. Freed of blighted curse of Malderath¡¯s eye, Elderath renews her body. Formed pure as her pale frame refolds.

    The round face of the moon greets her grove. Goddess of evening orb winks at Azarra, floating in pool of lunacy. But swiftly crimson clouds beset her silver visage. Grim orbit grows, scowling with malicious intent through bloodied eye. From this cyclopean egg new figure births of infernal mist. Emerges slowly into shape of woman. Familiar mound in likeness of the heathen, Corinna. Her rival pulls down the moonlight. Wraps a halo and wreathe for a Goddess.

    Incandescence: her eyes. Corinna¡¯s Selenic dress & crown of lunacy casts glare upon Azarra. Quivering in the wellspring, she boils beneath fiery stare. The whole of hidden forest turns on her. Summoned by their Lady of the Moon, the creatures of forest came from their dens, bringing with them wands & staves resting in their limbs. Arms of branches about them drag their impure visitor. These children of the wood reflect their Goddess¡¯ ire. The moon, her enemy¡¯s laurel, leaks red. So too the pool bleeds. Leaping from spring to flee, cruel fingers of forest and clutches of roots bind her legs to this end.

    Shrill scream flies, batting the wind¡¯s wings. Sends all swirling about in unmaking storm. Her cry unending, entraps the whole of this space. Wails over recognition that she was but dreaming. Until she awoke to that same sound of scream escaping her as she came to. Bubbles of the basin douse her throes. Sanity seeps in and her sight restores, settling upon the concerned, yet sublime, radiance of Delphine. Her beloved friend warms her with towel & tailored robe then rushes the stunned Mother up the way to her chamber.

    Delphine placed a lofty pillow beneath her head as Azarra lay back in bed. Her shivering hands hold Delphine¡¯s face and brought her blush cheeks & scarlet lips to hers for thankful kiss. ¡°Thank you, Del. I am forever grateful for your precious place in my life. You sweet savior.¡±

    ¡°Are you alright Azarra? -my Lady?¡± Delphine asked as their lips parted. ¡°You toppled so abruptly. Quaked the whole way here. I was worried the gods had chosen to take you, love.¡±

    ¡°Just another of my spells... Only, more intense than the last. So many seasons since strong a vision came. My soul shook at what sight the gods granted my inner eye. Dire clouds hang the horizon. But alas, to what path or precaution they point I know not...¡±

    ¡°Rest now. You bloody well deserve it. It was that same beautiful mind of thine which created this spire, this hearth of our lives renewed & blessing to our circle. I know you shall discover the way of the future. You are a miracle, Azarra, and I am forever grateful to be in your service. Thank you for proving my doubts, of which I am ashamed, so far removed from reality.¡± Delphine wove herself behind her patron, lodged amicable hold over her shivers. ¡°You forever shine the way. Will you tell me of what you saw?¡±

    A rapping at the door disturbed them. Delphine clamored to give entrance. Dahlia came through. Azarra¡¯s devotee beamed as zealously as she had their meeting. It comforted to have the presence of such lovely women, so undyingly loyal to her, even when her heart wavered. Her disciple entered with pose of herald, refuting time to harness introspect. ¡°High Mother & mistress,¡± Dahlia began, ¡°our Living Lord arrives for your eminent summons. Shall I escort our master in, Mother?¡±

    ¡°Yes, dear disciple. Do this for us. Delphine,¡± she turned to her friend, ¡°I ask you leave us for a brief while. We shall reconvene soon.¡±

    Both Dahlia & Delphine gave the courtly gesture of deference before vanishing. Almost at once her son appeared just beyond the threshold, softly illumed by candlelight nearby. Drakkon entered dressed in regal threads as suited him. The elegance stitched into every layer of his empyrean cloak; the pale white dye and sparse gold patterns, complement his strangely sunny attitude. To Azarra he looked so content in himself, as like she¡¯d never seen. Yet given all they¡¯d fought through to achieve she could not deny that sense of pride found justification. Though, measuring his smile, she loathed who it was for: the country wench, Corinna who stole her son¡¯s happiness, lashing his joy to her meddling affections.

    The pair embraced, reunited after months of ruling their prospective responsibilities & regions. After long quiet of basking in the simple comfort of their hug Azarra ambled towards the table upon which Delphine had left her favorite elixir. She drank of the potion, welcoming the slow burn of the liquid. Washed away the sickness and delirium caused by her sudden seizure into the realm of gods¡¯ sight. In this she swore never to be like her son¡¯s chosen bride, not to let her body wilt to prod Sight. After a moment¡¯s pause as the cleansing substance floods her gullet, the maternal augur filled another rich chalice with wine as crimson as the blood that drowned her mind¡¯s eye a flash of eternity ago.

    ¡°We are- I am ¨C elated to see you so closely again, dear mother.¡± Drakkon spoke softly to her, placing a kind hand about her shoulder. ¡°Dahlia told me of your sudden spell before I arrived. Are you right?¡±

    ¡°¡¯Tis nothing to darken our meeting, my son.¡± Azarra replied distantly. ¡°¡¯Tis not I who holds dominion over when the spirits draw me from the gate of body to their world unending. I am fine and unmarred. Only insight came of my experience. Unlike other Seers I am not ridden with immobilizing spells often.¡± She tilted to the de?cor. ¡°Look around you at this marvel we mount up into the high heavens. We¡¯re at the center of our beauteous land ¨C this our garden of divine light and growing seeds of will. This is your first visit to our finished Tower, is it not?¡±

    ¡°Yes, mother,¡± Drakkon obliged her, guided to soft admiration by her subtle redirection, ¡°I find it ever so grand. Truly this, your sacred pillar by which to reign is fitting for one so radiant and powerful as yourself. From the dirt of tribal soil our soles hath tread across countless milestones. Our steps marked by footprints of victory; we stand upon the gilded remains of our nemesis in the heart of what was once Vizarri. I feel now how the elaborate funds this cost for our newfound Imperium were well gifted.¡±

    Azarra sipped of her goblet and shifted by the window. She allowed Summer breeze into her highest residence. Soft tides kissed her neck, rejuvenating flow tousling her blonde locks. ¡°Aye, and now I am seated on a throne befitting the mother of reverent ruler, of my flesh & kin ¨C yet so cosmic in proportion. Ah, I am bewildered at times at how far we ascend from that first step. How high our staircase stretches. Hmm, but enough ramblings for now. When you answered my summons, you stated also you wished to bare me news so important that it must be revealed from your mouth to mine. Is it too bold to ask of what you meant so soon?¡±

    Drakkon¡¯s expression mutated to delight with this opportunity to explain what had ensnared his spirits with such excitement. ¡°Gladly. Corinna & I hath made official plans to ordain our marriage before the world at a summit come the Autumnal harvest celebration. I wish to ask your blessing in person. That you could encircle us with the brand of your love & prestige as High Mother. It would mean the world renewed to me.¡±

    Azarra nearly spat out her drink in disgust. Jealousy besieged her brain. Prospect of her son¡¯s marriage to the hedge-plucked-wench sparked remembrance of the dread vision which struck her only minutes ago. Her visage darkened as did her tone, though fastidious in speaking. ¡°My son. Hear out my words with clarity and do not let that luminous mind be clouded by anger or disappointment... I must tell you of what the spirits showed me before your entrance, timing which seems all to synchronized to not be the workings of the fates.¡±

    ¡°The gods granted me a vision of the future; one in which you crowned your Corinna as Empress & wife only to evoke plague in response to the pantheon¡¯s ire. For the gods ¨C the other gods ¨C know she is infirm of spirit. Undeserving of your hand. It would mean dishonoring astral eyes to sanctify such a union. I know you believe it pure and lasting, but I must admit I believe you are merely bewitched, dear. The pantheon and our people will tolerate her as your nocturnal mistress, fine, but never as a goddess when-¡±

    ¡°-Are you defaming the love I feel in this Living heart?!¡± Drakkon¡¯s darkness reared up. His complexion flustered with rage and passion perturbed. ¡°I ask for your blessing, and you grant me a curse? Spit upon the face of my betrothed in all but physical manner?! How dare you claim your visions and prophecy be preeminent over the faith of godly heart!¡±

    ¡°I am your mother. I deserve your respect.¡± Azarra pleaded feebly, in both awe & fear of Drakkon. Internally her worries rolled on in paranoid haste. That ¡®divinity¡¯ I gave to him turns to curse me... How cruel the fates¡¯ faces can be in their twisted forms of betrayal... I cannot allow this temptress of a black heath to steal my bond, my seat, with Drakkon! I will not be made a sullen spectator of my fate. Not by a vixen with more cunning than grace, just enough wiles to be a goading gadfly biting at my plans, and my insides! O! How she spins his mind about her lips and turns him from his mother into monster!

    ¡°Please can you answer me this first that you might see from mine Eye? From the point of my insight. You and Corinna displayed a certain er, closeness, for a good amount of time. Before even we had truly begun to topple the Vizzari. Yet in that time have you consummated your, uh, affections?¡± Azarra pressed poisoned point.

    ¡°Wha- what the bloody hell are you implying, mother?¡± Drakkon blurted out irately.

    ¡°I imply nothing so devious as you may think. That you think me capable of such sinister motive wounds me so. Alas my asking lies in pragmatism. As it runs from loving pull of the spirits¡¯ call....¡± She spun this snare about his neck. ¡°Surely, you see, the two of you must have spent many a cold night together. Some intimate revelry shared after a great feast? Yet she shows no signs of bearing any divine seed? Is this not odd? Is she barren as the distant deserts?¡±

    Drakkon did not answer. He drew back into himself, digging further into dark. Azarra, seeing this as headway, continued to shove her desperate stake. ¡°I am not casting judgment upon her. Only stating that the muses beyond and our earthly disciples ask, demand, a demigod heir. This is the seed needed to grow our garden anew. If Corinna is all but barren, then it is not my words but will of fate that she is unable to bear any such a so-¡±

    ¡°SILENCE!¡± Drakkon interrupted with an ear-splitting shout. ¡°I will not have truth of my love questioned! You may have served as the conduit of my birth, but my Light is beyond yours... I am Divine! A vessel of the infinite!¡±

    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    For a second, she feared her son strangling her. ¡°I see with a clarity greater than your oracle visions, mother. So do not lecture me on my passions¡¯ play and the direction that I shine. The people will accept Corinna once I offer her the limelight beholden by crown. I will hear no more of this!¡±

    He stormed for the door. With fervency of motion undoubtedly genuine in anger. This eagerness to abandon her here for insult shocked her. But Azarra quickly pulled her shambling self together enough to offer one last means to reverse this course. ¡°Please, my son! Forgive my transgression? Forgive my lack of understand that is leagues below your own knowledge? I am but mortal, as you say, after all... Let us sit and share our thoughts with less tension?¡±

    ¡°Might we take a moment together to gaze into the crystal orb that I may glean that vision your godly will shapes of the world by sphere?¡±

    Drakkon sighed weary acceptance. ¡°Do not think omens will sway my heart.¡± Then he shuffled back to sit by his mother.

    Azarra nodded solemnly, damming the wellspring of envy & antipathy behind dedicated focus. She produced mystic ball of divination and her warm, bubbling cauldron awaiting ingredients. Then lay tarot stack on table. ¡°Gaze into the cypher, hold image there. Share that I see it too. I believe in you, beloved lord. I shall brew a potion posthaste to grant you Seer¡¯s lens that we may find perspective together. Is that agreeable to you, God ov my Blood?¡±

    Drakkon nodded, apparently pleased by Azarra¡¯s display of repentance. While he struggled to shake off the enduring anger at her questioning of his romantic life, he humbly decided to humor her sorcery. He shut his attention away from the world, letting his mother to toil with her alchemical brewing.

    The cauldron bubbled & spat acidic eruptions. Seeing her son¡¯s eyes still sealed, Azarra snatched a small, black vial from her collection and poured the contents into the toxic whirlpool for the final addition of a successful working. While he sat idly by, bristling hints of impatience, his mother¡¯s reagents altered watery intent.

    ¡°Nothing shines of this bauble! My Sight is for the Earth! Let it shine for my woman! Won¡¯t you trust me over omens?¡±

    But that the cloudy orb refused him sight availed her. Allowed her finish feeding the cauldron. Returning to her seat across her son¡¯s lap, Azarra replaced the orb between them with her deck of tarot cards. ¡°Let me show you the patterns more clearly through etchings. Close your eyes. Good. Now aim energy onto them and draw forth four cards. Let the Fates guide your hand.¡±

    ¡°Drink first! Kiss the lips of the Spirits!¡± Azarra presented him a spoonful of her brew. Then asked if he would like to shuffle the deck himself. But the young Emperor declined. With a shrug he said that the spirits were ready to speak without meddling further.

    He drew his card. ¡°Ah, the Emperor.¡± She exclaimed first revelation. ¡°This represents you, of course, as well as the present self. Next, we enter the second phase of fortune: the conflict and the struggle of your task.¡±

    Another card was flipped over with tender, almost timid pace. This one inverted its iconography. Flashed downward reflection of two painted lovers hanging from the air. ¡°Hmm. I trust you are wise enough in occult matters to know what the inversion of Lovers may mean?¡± Azarra asked pointedly, driven on the offense seeing the sweat Drakkon¡¯s brow conjured at this turn. ¡°Then the Tower. Inverted. ¡¯Tis tragedy alone indicated in this task of love-¡±

    ¡°I do not bel-¡±

    ¡°-Draw again.¡± Azarra commanded. After a break of hesitation Drakkon flipped the last card over. With its face he exhaled hope.

    ¡°Death...¡±

    ¡°Do not despair. Death is but the threshold of rebirth, and a rebirth of the highest form. While sacrifice and change is indicated by the spirits¡¯ mirror here in these cards there is also hope and promise for the future.¡± Drakkon glared at the hollow holes on the skull depicted by the art of the small card. Unwanted closure & Finality radiated from those bleak sockets. Death¡¯s effigy paralyzed the Lord with shivering woe. Azarra laid her hand upon his shoulder as her potion shook him. ¡°Reflect on this, my Sun ¨C my Emperor & Deliverer.¡±

    Stasis seizes him betwixt spasms. Tidal waves of delirium awash over him. Dragged neath undertow of unwitting dissociation. Gusts of dream-sign brush back evil portends. Draught of nymph-spring mixing in his gut splash sweet hues. Corinna¡¯s apparition forms in every fold of drapery.

    Drakkon¡¯s pendulum motions of nauseating turns stooped to stupor. His head rested against the glass of the table, he groaned for phantom affection. Azarra left him to cross to threshold and call for her disciple. ¡°Dahlia, my sweet. Could I have you a moment?¡±

    The charming & carnal creature of suppleness & thorn adjoined shuffled in. She knelt before her Lady, abundant with the glow of undying loyalty. Azarra glided over and cupped the Dahlia¡¯s blush cheeks. ¡°The spirits just spoke to me following my vision. Bid you to hear out their whim, and your service to the fates they entertain. Are you up to the task, fierce flower?¡±

    ¡°What must be done, Mother? I forever heed your call and Highest insight. My body & mind is forever sparked with purpose through service unto you. I welcome any chance to give thanks for the radiance of you, Lady.¡± The girl¡¯s iris flared for her, avoiding the limply floundering Lord.

    ¡°You have given your all to me, dearest disciple. Yet you must give all again. Redoubled now for our welkin drake.¡± Azarra whispered her devious intent to her disciple, licking the young girl¡¯s ear with her devil¡¯s tongue. ¡°Tonight, you shall be sworn in secret as the Lord¡¯s second bride. Consummated before even his ¡®first,¡¯ yet to be. From here on you shall be Dahlia Drakonis. & though it shall be known to none but us at first, the sign of providence shall shine for you! You shall stream Living Light into the world...¡±

    Forked words lapped waters beneath her helot¡¯s eardrums draining all colour. But then those grey cheeks burned with rosy embers and her adoration leaned to graze holy neck.

    Accepting Azarra¡¯s prurient command Dahlia disrobed. She waved her way over to the shambling Drakkon. Traced his vigor, bared him of tiresome attire he scratched idly at. Her hips strode his aimless ardor, coming upon him as a wisp of his love¡¯s likeness.

    Azarra averted her eyes as she locked the door behind her. She would not allow herself to feel guilt for something done of necessity. It should be an easy enough cover to excuse Drakkon¡¯s lapse in recall with one of his lush spells. So too did she cage her doubts. The key to those dusky chambers of guilt, lost in hateful funnel. Just as her mind for ages solely sought the ruination of Kassan, this Astraean razor slit renewed bloody rivers through her vessel...

    Child ov Prophecy

    Bane of Summer, Year One AD

    Approaching Lilit¡¯s abode, the dryness that clung to the traveler¡¯s throat since his baleful expedition to the east became wet with tears. Mordaunt¡¯s heart pounded to beat beyond any marching drum to see this toddling youngling clamor out of her mother¡¯s hold to try her legs & greet him, who instinct told was her father.

    ¡°My sweet Selene!¡± Mordaunt¡¯s heart leapt as the little one crawled into his embrace. All that arid torment of the long trail to fulfill his lord¡¯s task as warden of exile melted in the moonbeams of this child¡¯s lunate grin. Knowing then that all his success must be measured by steep incline of his ability to induce such smiles in her.

    Holding Selene in his arms, swaying with the river¡¯s motion, he became blind to all else but her presence. Smiling genuine sapphire then to present her with tiny bauble, a ball to draw her eye. Such amusement reflected there, in the eyes of the girl who abandoned her suckling stalk of herbal remedy to paw at the leather orb he gifted. A shine to free him to the sheer joy of play; lost to sparkling gaze chasing after her soul¡¯s entertainment. Selene¡¯s need recast him in the role of jester & mentor to instruct this rearing angel; a small merriment that stretched across all Elderath yet closed him in the circle of her blush & the nourishment of fledgling form.

    Mordaunt leaned to kiss Lilit with all the ardor and intent that their bond of prophetic passion poured through their daughter¡¯s rosy petals. To behold this infant being sired of two fates entwined was to latch himself to the arms of a greater destiny. Finally, a living legacy to call his own. A beauteous flower that encouraged him to bloom. To be great enough to deserve this happiness and assure Selene of hers. An urge to become the father he never knew, torn from him under the toil of playing tool to an asp of a magister.

    What silver sheen beamed by her fresh mien! ¡°She belongs to me as I belong to her.¡± How could any glories given by an emperor compare to the small, frail yet boundless expression of her gleaming face? True faith of real divinity lived in her. Her being was just that: Being itself¡­ the roots of human progress and the point of all ceaseless struggle. Love in materia of progeny, the blood & fiber of a newfound chance¡­ ¡°Thank you, Lil.¡±

    Yet then the ball Selene tussled with bounced far from her reach, rolling towards the river and past her forgetful gaze. Her father could do naught to calm her mewling demands, his ribcage curling to dig into his feckless frame. Cursing himself for such infinitesimal yet dreary failure, binding misery lashed his muscle to see her wail against her lost reprieve.

    Rushing waters of selenic sorrow dampened the dam of her mother¡¯s bosom, with Lilit taking their dual moonlight back into her folds. But for that flower¡¯s father what could stifle that swell? Would his Selene so soon forget him by Lethean stream once his face left her range?

    Mordaunt was soon to be wed to a swine, sworn to Portia¡¯s pride and that of draconic dominion. Would this service to loveless spouse & State obscure him in the rays of Selene¡¯s sight as all but an effigy of icy memory, sparsely knowing the warmth of her favor? How he wished nothing less than to cart this child back to the capitol and replace her tumbling toy with the bauble of all Crestfall.

    Shivers travelled course of his thought. Having forgotten for a moment the capability for cruelty his lord is possessed of. No. He could not raise her there under hurling sleet of ¡®bastard¡¯ & ¡®witch-breed¡¯ slurs. Better that his moonlight blossom be wreathed in the wonders of a tamed wilderness as her inheritance than under stifling crest of another¡¯s callow divinity.

    Wedding Woes

    Wolvsmoon 17<sup>th</sup>, autumn, first year of the new Aeon of Drakkon

    In the rustic hills surrounding the grand city of Crestfall, the pastoral fields donned wreaths the hues of ripened leaves ready to fall. Crisp air christened Harvest of autumn & festivities assembled for it. Here there was to be a wedding celebration and the spirit of this occasion swooned the humor of each guest & attendant as they ambled between the innumerable tents sprawled over the hillside. Each going about their preparatory tasks or joining early in revelry.

    This was to be the union of binding love between the Lord and his chosen Lady, Corinna. She who most presumed would soon become his ruling woman after this eve¡¯s ceremony. But it was in the promised bride¡¯s resident tent that this night¡¯s winsome ambience would be struck by horror.

    Inside the bride¡¯s pavilion Lavinia, her sister of heathen covenant and handmaiden for the event, nervously flitted about. She patted down the wedding gown & pawed through baskets of dried fruit. Her mistress had departed for the time being to meditate on the path ahead of her. O, and how her maid did envy her friend¡¯s climb to marriage. As did she despise the droves of affection and admiration Corinna would soon be showered in ever-after. All the other attendants had likewise left her company for their duties. Alone in there she felt her strange compulsion grow. Before long she could not resist the temptation to try on that very dress readied for ¡®Rinna.

    Lavinia¡¯s eyes bulged with a jealous hunger as her hands skimmed the lovely weavings of the gown¡¯s fabric. Wanting then to behold herself inside it in that tall, silver mirror adorning their tent. The violet velvet material, golden threads and white cords all wrapped up with added ribbons, screamed simple command: ¡°Try me!¡± Then, shifting her eyes about to check if her Lady or others were afoot, ruefully thought to herself, ¡®Tis but a moment to try on. To dream of something that shall never be mine to truly own. To be wrapped up in the bows of true love...

    She called out to the sentinels asking for small solitude to gather herself only to receive no reply. For the two sentinels guarding their spot had gone off in pursuit of their true charge, Corinna. Realizing this she shrugged and quickly became possessed by a giddy spell while twirling about her spotted reflection, dress in hand. ¡®Rinna would not mind! Nor will she ever know!

    Lavinia gazed absently into the mirror as she pulled the beautifully tailored costume over her skirt. Even though the dress was tailored for an aspiring bride to an incarnate god it¡¯s style was elegantly simple. Easy enough to put on, unlike those cumbersome monstrosities the noblewomen of Vizzari would wear, requiring servants to get in and out of. Her raven hair and pale complexion were not far off from Corinna¡¯s, and they were near identical in their sprightly yet shapely frames. Though the handmaiden knew herself lesser than her lady in beauty. To mask this, she¡¯d even begun dabbling in cultus; glamour & kohl powder lining to mark her eyes akin to her Lady¡¯s & dotted her cheeks in pale paste and red ochre.

    Admiring her reflection Lavinia thought they could even be confused for one another. Such thought amped up her bouncing exhilaration of obstinate fantasy. Enthralled by the sight of herself, robed in the comely garments of a life rich with love and noble affluence. She surrendered to the dreams throbbing with carousal to rival the partiers outside (with full thirst for the honeyed spirits in excess). The oracle-maid cared for nothing more than courting this fantasy of becoming the bride. Captured by glance in glass she succumbed to wistful craving by reaching for the wedding mask beside, if only for a blink.

    This mask she decorated & hid her blushing cheeks with was a traditional relic of the tribes. A customary rite shared between most clans (save the Ferali who had their own unique, if barbaric, ideas of what a marriage rite consists of). A prized practice which forbids the groom from viewing his bride¡¯s visage for the night, and what reservation might reside behind her eyes, until the moment they met before the shamans and elders to swear their vows and behold one another for eternity. Yet that her Lady forwent donning this on her walk showed scorn worthy infirmity of wedding spirit. And with this veil before her Lavinia¡¯s sweetest imagination shined embodiment. Staring longingly into sparkling mirror, she danced with the fiction projected there. Swung herself around in arms of invisible groom.

    Just then came hurried rustling of tent flaps. Lavinia pulled back to see who entered, fearing that Corinna and her other charges returned to catch her lapse into fanciful avarice. But since the ornate mask of ritualistic make was designed with attendants in mind to guide the bride to be, her sight was heavily obscured. She struggled to make out the intrusive shape. Turning to face it she goes to remove the blinding visor. But finds the stupefying sensation of chilling steel cut through veil fabric to press upon the warm flesh of her throat. She hushes a gulp as terror despoiled her dreams.

    Lavinia made to spin around, out of the nightmare assailant¡¯s grip. Yet the dagger¡¯s other hand caught her. In the tiny glint seen in the mirror, sharpening sight through bride¡¯s mask and tear sealed eyes, she saw shadow over attacker¡¯s face. As the edge slipped closer, she swiped his scarf. The mystery assailant in the mirror through scant angle was a young man, no more than sixteen cycles, with a lean but durable build and face blotted with marks and buried cheekbones.

    ¡°Goodnight, blasphemous bride.¡± Whispered the gloating assassin in fatal farewell. Before Lavinia could so much as plead mercy or utter the bare question of ¡®why¡¯ the blade slid into and across her gullet. Split it open and stifled her visceral scream... ¡°Apostate witch, thee!¡±

    Across the jubilant site Drakkon stood as statue silhouette among the circling fields, whose crops remained stalwartly flowering to defy the wills of Fall. There he waded through solitary contemplation awaiting that hour when his love for Corinna would be confirmed before the glow of the stars above and his people abound. He considered how their lives would be just past this hour. When that girl with the lovely soul, the ghost of his childhood now risen in womanly form, would be his bride and empress. She, the one mortal considered his equal in Materia & greater in wisdom even than Mother Azarra. O how bountiful and glorious their reign would be! What love would sprout from their Sacrament!

    The trail of his sappy musings evaporated when his ears furled at the stampeding of hooves. A panicked steed made swiftly for his way. With an ounce of apprehension, the emperor turned to see mad-driven horse and its dual riders, one wearing the matrimonial accouter & veil. Surprised to see his beloved rushing to him upon urgent mare. He briefly wondered as to why and figured that her nerves must be getting the best of her. Though worried imaginings flared of her coming to call off the wedding and confess her love for him had fled to the mountains.

    Eschewing these worries Drakkon spread his arms to receive her amicably. Yet they soon faltered and fell to his hips as his heart fluttered at the odd rush and the ruckus in pursuit.

    Something wicked was afoot, the air afoul. By the dim glow of torch lights lining the trail to the field he gleaned then crimson beads & bows about Corinna¡¯s gown. Dripping wet & stained muddy red the white sections of the garment. Behind the rider a throng of party goers, those still wearing ritual furnishings of horns & antlers in worshipful style of satyrs and dryads, shouted with all the force they assembled. They flung mug, rocks & slings at the charger¡¯s back.

    Sensing danger he readied his grip on his blade. He¡¯d fortunately kept ceremonial arms on him for its use in the christening of his union. As the rider charged on silent fury bristled inside. The figure who¡¯d stolen his wife brandished a sword, making clear the intent. Although this rogue was horsed Drakkon¡¯s tremendous reach contrived long swing, aimed low for the steed¡¯s front legs. But the horse cared not for its inexperienced and rash rider and fled the feint. Flailing its innocence, it toppled the thief and the bundled body tied to his front. The foe crashed beside small stream running the camp and body in bride¡¯s dress fell afront.

    Rage beat back his reason, thinking this imposter robbed him of the woman who was to be his queen. Drakkon vaulted to slaughter the masked man ¨C whose short sword and impact shattered limb raised no chance of parrying ¨C with brutal strikes. Sweat sweltering his sight, the Living Lord could naught but scream aloud in agonized, impotent mania. Time thawed by heat of wrath. Terror flayed his vengeful essence for a minute of endless anguish. The swarm of attendees rushing to the side of this scene dared not approach their master for fear of him.

    Emerging from the faceless few gathered round the unsightly mess came to him a woman with a wool blanket wrapped about her. Her corset & countenance concealed, she approached the Lord and gently placed palm over trembling hand. He knew her by her touch. Weapon faltered, dropping it, hand folding in her grasp.

    Drakkon looked up from his shambling violence to be struck by a bolt of wonder & relief to meet Corinna¡¯s eyes under stranger¡¯s shawl. Searching deep into his own, she did not smile, though a warmth still flooded out from her. Assurance of life & love into the basin of his being. Having tempered her would be husband¡¯s dark squall Corinna bent low to unmask the murderer. There was no recognition to be found in the boy¡¯s bloodied face and now no answers could be ripped from his tongue as to ¡®why¡¯ this sacred night had to be besmirched by blood ¨C the blood of one of her longtime confidants.

    Tremors took her. Chose her then. Corinna tried to fight them back, to sustain herself but could not struggle long against the shaking spell which conquered all too many hours of her life. Now only worsened by fell storm of despondency. Another pushed through the dumb founded mob; solemnly taking off their horns, while others wrestled back the urge to retch, all knowing well this holiday was no longer.

    The bard, Baron, leapt forth to catch the shivering woman. Held her from crashing hard against the uncaring ground. Drakkon, some sense returning to him through the dense miasma of grief & relief, followed this lead. Shifting to take her in the safety of his arms he pushed the poet back. Caressing Corinna¡¯s inexorably jittering skull.

 (Act Three) Crossroads & Curses

    Act III

    Chapter One, Crossroads & Curses

    14<sup>th</sup> year AD, last days of Duskrest, Crossroads of Crestwoad

    Bristling rebellion erupts everywhere, all at once! Drakkon reflected when Baron first proposed this brash & mysterious venture which brought them to the edge of town. Time I search for why this wicked turn comes. Humor the bard and see what my subjects are thinking, and ¡®struggling through,¡¯ as he suggests. Tis the best way to absolve them of it. To correct their thought with intimate knowledge of their lots.

    He knew well how perturbed Azarra would be by this current junction he joined his friend on. How searing her thermae would be to know her son rooted in disguise & en route to bustling tavern at the crossroads. She would protest the very thought of hiding among the people under humbling alias (as our Lord of Living Light remolded his persona to match the ragged attire of a large and brooding logger from afar) and not attending to his duties on high. But the amicable man trotting beside Drakkon convinced him of the need for this extravagant ruse of modesty.

    Baron, bereft of his trademark lute, flutes, and ostentatious fashions (he¡¯d already made a show of having nothing to show off his ¡®notoriously strong horse-riding thighs¡¯ or having any tight hose to present the ¡®other talent the muses endowed¡¯ him with), pointed down the hill towards the trade, travel & pub hub of Crestwoad. ¡°Alright, ¡®Log,¡¯ keep in mind that you really need to keep those shoulders scrunched. Keep off that regal, ever-erect posture of empyrean wreath! Favor your costume¡¯s world weariness and urge to drink more than speak, aha! I now as ¡®Bard¡¯, the hunter,¡± with this he fiddled with the bow slung behind his back and shook his small bag of game, ¡°will evoke temperance to avoid my gloriously recognizable singing voice being released in the tavern, even if it gets noisy. Just as you should reel in the inclination to do any rousing or castigating speeches should you find something to scorn the townsfolk for.¡±

    ¡°For a renowned artisan of music & words cleverness escapes you when it came to inventing your alias. Hmph.¡±

    ¡°And yours is that much more creative, my lord of loggers?¡±

    ¡°Ugh. I am playing a simple man, with a simple name. Alas, if the details of our masks (which are to be only briefly worn) are enough to work then let us be satisfied. This place is busy enough that a couple of strangers will not be of notice. Even from afar it has life to it and a pressure in the air around, the tension of lives rolling on together through clamor. Yet how often have I come here even as a lord? But I question myself frivolously there, so, back to it. I assume we are to meet Mordaunt at the tavern before dusk?¡±

    ¡°Aye, though I must admit I forget what alias he travels under. Alas, he awaits us at the Magister¡¯s Concubine establishment. But our rendezvous need not be rushed should you wish to stop by the marketplace first. This is a crossroads for culture, the true culture of the mixed many, as much as commerce. Those here will have good share of stories. Stout elixirs should have ¡®em spill these tales e¡¯ermore. Merchants & makers here are of diverse schools, enough that you can get a sense of how these disparate homes get on.¡±

    ¡°You still expect me to change my policies so swiftly the moment I hear a peasant cry into his swill? Before I play at being a player and pursue this role of ¡®boozing logger¡¯ I must say: no matter if this township is the avatar of our realm¡¯s common heart, if its denizens prove ungrateful for my works and the heart of them is not balanced and true, it will prove this trip as accomplishing only cementing the foundations of suspicion. Those fearful inklings that more renegades are harbored here amongst the common folk, speaking their malice & seductively coercive rhetoric of revolt. Let them, these worries, be false. But pray these folk be true.¡±

    ¡°I pray you will keep your heart and conclusions open to whatever sights our eyes find. Pray, hear what horrors, or praise our ears shall know. Keep to the flow of what circumstance and divine ordainment might fall unto our lap. Of course, if we do hit the pub early and get on with meeting our other friend there a good few pitchers of ale might help in that regard. Ah, look there¡¯s our lad¡¯s horse! And of course, I will not get so thrashed by the mead stores - I hear are so excellent this season - that I sing & swoon. Chin up, Drakkon. Pray be willing to let new insights through your mind¡¯s gate. Or rather, Log, keep that head down and hood up while we hear what the townsfolk and wayfarers say for themselves.¡±

    Drakkon grunted. Then performed a gruffer moan of exasperation, more befitting his ¡®Log¡¯ character. Leaving their steeds tied beneath fence near their friend¡¯s by watch-post, they braved the stead under bravados. He shook himself into it, even stealing a small (for his size) sip of Baron¡¯s flask. This, along with the arousing aromas of autumnal harvest rolling in as they passed through the fields and into blockade of trader¡¯s stalls hawking fruit, threads & vegetables, did assist in inviting his perspective to change for a riper one.

    ¡°Get your pumpkins & wreathes here!¡±

    ¡°Last and greatest tidings of the Harvest here, folks! Get yours before it gets wintry and dried when you deserve it crispy!¡±

    The crowds absorbed Drakkon. The sheer number of people cavorting about and lining the seller stalls affirmed his assertion that everything is fine with the regulations he ordered. Baron painted him a mental image of starving masses and beggars laid out over the roads. Yet here he saw no cruel or unusually neurotic sentinels abusing the townsfolk or lifting from their wares & profits under guise of taxation. And so, he figured this would be a day to deliver a reason for revelry come the evening flood of drinks and peasants¡¯ tales.

    Baron, or ¡®Bard,¡¯ must have been endowed by the Muses with talent for telepathy. For he read this from his friend¡¯s brow and leaned in to offer a change of scenery to fit his bias.

    ¡°Shall we steer past here and into the slums?¡± He whispered. ¡°Visit the ghettos where those ¡®liberated¡¯ of their homes from war and efforts to ¡®restore order¡¯ are? Shall we see their squalor with the same idle joy we greet these fair tradesmen with? See those formerly of Vizzari, born into their part as a scale of the serpent to be stripped and shed, who did not follow their fellows into the abyss of the East? Or the asylum just past the road where those cursed by the Fates & without gods¡¯ touched wits linger in healing shackles, fermented in sickness ¨C not from war alone but by the very world which ails them at every angle and who have none to be rescued or mourned by? Surely, we¡¯ll find the fount of that rebel Protectorate there?¡±

    ¡°You seem so pressed to prove only one harsh angle of all this yourself.¡± ¡®Log¡¯ said as aside before spitting and grunting, a crude practice of animalistic alias. He shrugged and pointed past the walls into the square proper. ¡°We drink now instead. Move on, see more, later?¡±

    ¡°Sure, Log. Sure.¡±

    The ¡®Magister¡¯s Concubine¡¯ pertained repute as quite the notorious local spot. It rose its prestigious perch a couple floors above a regular inn. Walking up to it, an array of balconies and galleries above brimmed with several couples; gleaned through careless windows and velvet veils having a good and primal time with another. Beer & patrons poured out from every orifice of the building. It had homely aspect to it despite all the ruckus, even now with yet another hour left of daylight. Into the maw of debauchery, the duo tread.

    Hiding the small frown that this overburdened display of debauchery wrinkled across his visage beneath his hood, Drakkon greeted the inn keep¡¯s helper with a grunt. He hurled a bundle of firewood he¡¯d brought and pointed towards an open table in the back. The helper nodded hastily, itching as he rushed to place the timber down and bring the pair a couple of fresh pints.

    In a split alcove of the first floor of the inn the two found the table their scout sat passing the wait with wine. Mordaunt dyed his hair a wine red, like a devil¡¯s whiskers, with fire berry and knot-root. He looked a mad highlander of Harathi heritage, with an absurd checkered kilt and two axes attached to his back. The man partook plenty of the revelry here already and yet was nowhere near to meeting his threshold. Merrily imbibing his cups & toasting the two. The blooming absurdity of his appearance oddly melded his features together in a way that was more becoming and less belligerent.

    ¡°Let us move, merry mates, to a room with a more prosperous view!¡± He heralded them (and the helper trailing behind with two pitchers in heel) up a couple floors towards the top. There they stretched along the large room their auspiciously redheaded host procured for their night out on the town, enjoying balcony seats there.

    Truly the view that met their tired and slightly cynical nerves brought unexpected second breath. The side of Crestwoad sloped over the hillside the town perched on. Galleys of houses and small artisan shops poured billowing industry from chimneys and coalsmoke forges. Craning their necks, they peered past long throngs packing the cobbled streets. All those small crowds passing on by and about their ways were hypnotic in their patterns. So mesmerizing, and a bit depersonalizing, to witness how they each held in their heads their little worlds. Brimming for family & burdens and wistful promises to sleep on for the day to come. Any envy hid neath myrrh and neighborly manners.

    ¡°How is it from this harmony such trouble rouses?¡± Mordaunt murmured, souring the moment, and enjoying soured grapes & freshly refilled goblet. ¡°This People¡¯s Protectorate red rabble?¡±

    ¡°I went among their shambled sectors also. Yet those too I found strangely tame. Even the impoverished live with honor to their lives. Or at least are happy to be helped enough by charity and not driven into the wilds to starve or solve stray beast¡¯s conundrum of food. Such bountiful harvests and mirth abound! Ah, so hard to sniff out any hard-nosed heretics shouting and scowling to the sky when they are content with their cattle and needs. Wherefore do they plague us so spitefully? From whence do the rats crawl, why & where? When most sing ceaseless praise to Imperium and leapt with joy when came the call to combine their pagan customs with Drakoni virtues.¡±

    ¡°¡¯Wherefore¡¯ indeed. Which is why I might say we stave off our pleasant viewing of these roads to room with folk who might inform us more of other tidings. Through loosened jaws and mead- warmed bellies.¡± Baron countered.

    ¡°Or we sit here fattening our stomachs with good starch and strains as we get to know each other better, as veteran comrades?¡± Drakkon sloshed about his mug. ¡°Any particular people here we might procure insightful conversation from?¡±

    ¡°I talked up dozens of homesteads and good folk to no avail throughout the day, ye late lads. No source of this rebellious scourge.¡± Mordaunt shrugged. ¡°Though we should stick to the floor below here. As to avoid interrupting any wanton lovers who might not be so conversational. Plenty o¡¯ dice players a deck down. Though if you do not feel like a gambling spell the wayfarers and caravans of boat and carriage rest for their while here. They see much, although they may avoid the less happy towns or those already turned heel to ¡®Protectorate¡¯ deceit as rebellious brigands descending on lonely steads.¡±

    ¡°I spotted a Drakoni priest on the floor. If any ¡®heretics¡¯ have been hounded up of late he would know of their torment. Inflicted by and upon them.¡± Baron intruded. ¡°I hope he may forgive my gaping. I am astonished he¡¯s in this den of lusting flesh & low inhibitions.¡±

    ¡°I do not appreciate your tone of derision, ¡®Bard¡¯.¡± Drakkon spat. ¡°But yes, let us see what this herald of Light has to say for his work. And yet, I imagine you wish more to present inquiry to the maidens of the brothel within this fine place, correct? I am back to being ¡®Log¡¯ once we leave the room, but I would prefer if we refrained from encouraging scorn amongst the townsfolk through our personas, you see.¡±

    ¡°And let us pay special heed to tales of wary travelers from outside this happy village.¡± Mordaunt added before reminding them. ¡°Call me Harald for the next few, by the way.¡±

    Despite the spills and stains lining the tables, the mead hall they waddled into was as comely as the dozen or so maidens sprinkled about the patrons, half of whom were night spouses of a price. ¡®Harald¡¯ led them to join another party, warmly receptive and aching for more chairs in cards & dice. Sitting by a couplet of adjoined tables near fireplace stoked by another servant of the Concubine, they found welcome in toast and quick test of downing their ale. A custom on the road for swill-minded folk to size another up, even if only to compare liver frailty & alcohol endurance.

    This group found its fit of disparate members meshed well enough when bathing in drink. Among them: a couple of caravan guards, pissing away their pay gambling, a sour faced Drakoni priest (whose somber look you might wonder was borne by contest of spirit & sin within over the liquor he coated his gullet with), a village ruffian or two come from the outskirts to sneak a spell in, and a woman. When it came to that amiable woman, given their locale, one might be forgiven for first presuming her a harlot. In part that perception would be helped along by how her manner, aesthetic glamor and attire woven of elegant grace was threaded by sultry fabric of tempting promise.

    Her enigmatic eyeline flittered over Baron. Spotting his staring, his daydreaming & blushing analysis of her features & relaxed neckline, she initiated introduction. ¡°I am Ishraine, a scholar from the westward Illuminarium. I only spectate these games of ¡®risk¡¯& ¡®chance¡¯ here. Although if you would rather spectate me, I am not averse to conversation with chance strangers of interesting sort.¡±

    ¡°Pleased to meet you, Lady of the Word.¡± Baron feigned a bow, dropping a dollop of hyperbole and flagrant, if attempted charming, exaggeration of noble gesture. ¡°I am Bard. I brought in a couple hares & hog haunches if you get hungry. This here is my woodsman pal, Log. Although he ain¡¯t much an open trail like me. Our other companion on the road is Harald, hailing from Herathi, past the great river and over hills. I must confess, not to the priest but to you, Ishraine: how arresting to find a woman of wit! Pardon my fascination but those Illuminaries are so odd and unimaginable to me. Yet here a learned woman from such a mystical fount appears before me seeming nothing like the wizened scholars my little imaging could invent.¡±

    ¡°Well, I appreciate the flattery, Bard. You carry a bow and must study the school of skinning & salting by those hares & hams you graciously bring. Yet there is something in you I feel could, should you walk another path, prosper to carry the quill and use those talented, callused hands to strum lute strings as much as bowstrings.¡± Ishraine winked at him, their body language melding mutual focus, even as the other party members joined in.

    ¡°What she study?¡± Log growled, low mumbling burdening the air.

    ¡°Philosophy. The study of wisdom and insights into new perspectives on the Light this world offers. Though I am an adept of botany & blood. & I dabble in alchemy: to unravel the mysterious tapestry¡¯s elemental structure. As for what brings me here, a little relaxation goes a long way for unwinding. Restoring a mind fogged by too much imagining and aloof ponderings. Tis nice to be among folk who are more tethered to the soil they toil for. More lessons can be learned among the living than sifting through tomes. There are also far more vibrant discussions here, if you will excuse a lady¡¯s presence in such a house of rapport.¡±

    Ishraine shifted again to Baron, lifting amorous glance under eyelashes lined with charcoal hue that cast her dirty brown eyes to deep & entrancing dusky gems. Drakkon was not yet pleased with her answer however and wanted more from her before she gave the bard all her attention. ¡°You here to spread ¡®philo-so-sy¡¯ with others?¡±

    ¡°Are you asking if I am recruiting?¡± She asked coquettishly, tilting her stare from Baron¡¯s to her potential accuser. ¡°It is not only women up there, know you? Any adventurous soul can seek Illuminarium and the fire of learning. You could throw yourself into learning to read script? Hammer those runes with the same ferocity you must charge at the trees you fell. There is nothing shameful in promoting opportunity and education for others. And it is not like I plan on kidnapping anyone to a rocky monastery.¡±

    Baron cocked his brow at Drakkon while the lady¡¯s gaze shifted. Suspicious worry crumpled the lines of his forehead before regaining poise. ¡°Excuse my friend, he can be quite superstitious. Fear not his bulk and brawn though, for Log has a gilt heart ¨C somewhere in that massive husk - aha! You might find a harder time convincing him than this priest that you wise-folk, ladies and otherwise, are not cooking up any witchery and devilment!¡±

    ¡°Trust me, o lads of wild imaginations, if the scholarly caste were as lavishly exciting as your boyish brains cook up in those cauldrons, filled with witches¡¯ sabbats clad moon-bare, I would still be there enjoying such dreamy fun. You may find naked facts less appealing. The fun, or at least fruitfulness of it, comes with the application of the words in action unto the world. Then moving with brightened understanding from within it.¡±

    ¡°Well,¡± Baron nudged her, ¡°your ¡®brightened understanding¡¯ certainly hath not hindered your beauty, lady, only emphasized that ardent light.¡±

    ¡°Mhm. Is that so? & how many woodland wenches hast thou hunted as game or simply spotted passing in your time, ye hunter of hare and wooer of women?¡±

    ¡°Eyy, priest!¡± Harald jabbed the man of the cloth with his fat, flailing, finger before shouting question at him. ¡°Curious as to what brings an up-keeper of faith to this den of moral defilement & ample lust?! Just here to share the good word of Drakkon? Maybe recite it repeatedly in case these drunken ears all ¡®round already too soaked to really hear it? ha!¡±

    The priest, who¡¯d been introduced by the resident rogue who first waved the trio over as Angwar, frowned that much further. He shook his flaky, balding mug and slammed back the one in hand. ¡°Politics....¡± He muttered through mead. He sniffled syrup and eyed them through listless lids. ¡°Plague¡­¡±

    ¡°And? What more? Are you not a robed herald of the Living Lord, bound to the simple politic of our Imperium¡¯s grandeur? Helwinds, blast it! Surely you can parley or spit spite about certain policies or excessive tributes but why should the gods, and their vessel among us, care for such lowly grains?¡±

    Drakkon nearly went cross eyed trying to grant them a suspect stare simultaneously. He yearned to know Angwar¡¯s answer, his thoughts on ¡®politics,¡¯ as did he with Mordaunt¡¯s push of this inquiry. ¡®Twould prove an interesting evening at the tavern indeed it seemed. Even if only for revealing more of his companions¡¯ feelings than any explanation of how the peasants¡¯ and guildsmen get on.

    ¡°I believe our holier than thou friend here hath gone mute. Tis ¡®cause of his shame, I bet. Come to heal the wounds of the faith while ¡®avin a crisis of it ¡®imself. Ha!¡± Cut in one of the knavish patrons.

    The holy man sighed, and ghosts fled from his mortal breath. Angwar¡¯s lungs were weary with matters of life and death. His liver ached for a punishment of man¡¯s make, his oldest brew. ¡°Could say that... their eyes, the boils... I fear for their souls...¡±

    ¡°Finally lending us a word, old lech?¡± Another prodded.

    ¡°What can words do for their suffering? How can the terrible truth of it be phrased? Went to the South, to cast a light on the bubbling murmurs of sickness. Saw the weight of the whispers, the wicked buboes & snarled rot. Rode West next. There too ailing of apocalypse, indescribable torments. Went to Crestfall. To give congress & raise alarm to the reports, to paint that landscape etched into nightmares. Words failed me, resolve too. Chapter of bloody numbskulls! & Windhand would be no better! The congregation hierarchs care not for hearing the afflictions of ¡®distant dirty rabble¡¯ and even less how, or if, they might be healed. Damn them!¡± The monk¡¯s wrinkled nose nearly dipped into his ale; head drooped in morose pose as he ranted.

    ¡°Eyy! Went to yonder plague lands and came back here, sparing not a thought for fellows here who might catch it from ye?!¡± Chimed a drunkard. The louse shifted in his seat as to swerve steeply from Angwar, although it also looked as though he were avoiding a nasty shit. ¡°AM I gon¡¯ lose an eye for looking at yew so long? Or this gabber o¡¯mine fall off like a leper¡¯s for clanking a mug?!¡±

    ¡°Nay!¡± Countered his compatriot, even louder. ¡°Other priests are right to tell this one to fuck off. Tis all a blight on spotted hovels that done swore against the gods! Winds woulda washed the death-spell off ¡®em well before he made his way across to the Crest and back to the Woads ¡®ere. Let ¡®em rot there for all it affects us. Just pray harder for those souls, spiritualist!¡±

    Ishraine waited for the pair¡¯s verbal flatulence and self-assuring laughter to die down before backing Angwar. She leaned soft hand over to his wizened branch. ¡°If those black spells are not addressed, kept at bay, or even paid the least awareness of by our lords then should the baleful gales blow our way more of the cursed will flee with the blight on their heels. Say we get bad grain, or other supplies soured by that sinister strain, from one of these farms yet unawares. We would unwittingly invite that scourge to travel with it. To cross any road it wishes, the range of pestilent destruction grows to match our greater Imperium.¡±

    Only when her hand cupped his in gentle gesture did Ishraine realize how feverishly the priest¡¯s fingers and knuckles rattled. Angwar did not smile. That facet of facial expression would seem

    forever lost to him. What sights he¡¯d seen whither that muscle which flexes optimism. But he acknowledged her, eye to eye with gratitude. ¡°Foreboding sigils of our frailty. Portends of our fortune¡¯s fall in eyes of the empyrean. Could be that more than one god is offended out there? Unless tis one sore spreading across the body without visible link and with many variants, for different curses pummel those people. Fevers, winged fevers that swept whole villages up to morbid hysteria, in the south. Boils and black bumps popping up on others in the west. Each patron deity sponsors a sickness to scorn their dissenters...¡±

    ¡°And what, noble Angwar, sin could those hearths hath housed as to incur such ire from above deserving of those sights which steal your speech?¡± Asked Baron, pointedly. ¡°In your ventures to those tainted towns did you find any evidence of mass heresy? Any reasons why any of the gods should be so spiteful in their scorn?¡±

    Angwar slinked his hand from Ishraine, her warmth evaporating, returning to that jittering cold. ¡°I searched, aye, and found no reason nor sign. Only suffering and omens of Ill bounty. And yet, forgive me this stray pondering, good lass, I also wonder what good any Illuminarie could conjure to contest the strife which, sin or not, shall strike the land barren. Words failed me, though I was once quite the rhetoric, when they were needed to hatch sympathy from my peers and greater councils. What could secular works or alchemical tomes & ancient culture do to combat disease? Be it by heavens making or dug from the earth¡¯s soil.¡±

    ¡°Malderath¡¯s mold, sprouting from her Sister¡¯s breast! Elderath upturned, uncaring for her children!¡± Baron spat, decrying charnel fears.

    ¡°Illumination of arts, skill, knowledge, and medicine still grows. With much to cross past yet, but what utility and ease there is to accumulate all that under one ceiling. There, in Illuminarium, the gods¡¯ fruit for prosperity, their accord and gifts are catered to with focus and location. Better than scattered amongst orators or specialists abroad. They are havens for those without horizon, to be then shown new chances and lights of self and surrounding by lighting those holy candles. What illness is there in assembling such treasury of opportunity? When ¡®tis not hoarded but willingly shared? What, when we might be able to one day understand these symptoms and their source? There may be a key hidden in that universal library, even if the wing we need is not yet found, to unlocking a means to curing such afflictions. At the least we might understand them better and learn to avoid them, no?¡±

    The pretend hunter stretched his cards out on the table, flexing a good hand to the roguish gamblers while also subtly yearning to reach out for Ishraine¡¯s grasp. An ounce of desire to connect with her came through with intellectual glint slyly sprouting in the corner of his eye. ¡°Well argued, o ¡®witch¡¯ of the word. Wisdom and hope such as that might help heal the world I would like to believe. Ahem, for tis easier to trail and fell a beast when you know its nature and habits before beginning the hunt rightly. Besides, surely there are alchemists and apprentices there who could cook up concoction to keep Mother Elderath or her Dark Sister from reaping a black harvest of surplus souls?¡±

    ¡°You cannot claim to know, to understand, till you hath seen. That scouring of human flesh and souls gnashed by lugubrious poisons.¡± Angwar twitched incessantly. Shaking his head and biting on his tongue. It wiggled foul curses, loosened, and made more vivid, vulgar, from leaking swill. ¡°I will pray, lady, that you never encounter such an organic and educational experience with the faces of pestilence. That you never turn from those books to see the ugly visage this world has taken on and thus forsake it along with your innocence, which is so becoming of you.¡±

    ¡°Won¡¯t you take a risk to escape that hollow hole you hath fallen into and visit the Illuminarium with me? I could show you around for friendly tour, present an inspirational reading. Even if it cannot be in the form of medical cure but of poetic syrup for your spiritual appetite. What is there to lose when your brothers¡¯ ears will not hear you out?¡± Ishraine offered.

    Angwar winced when their stares locked again. He loathed the idea of humoring any aspect of attaining hope again when he¡¯d been so deadest deep in that mental plague pit. ¡°P-perhaps. T-thank ye for the kind offer to an infirm elder. Yet, for your flambeau of inspiration & the like, what good would that hoard of greatness do should barbarous party decide to raze it? Or tamper with it? Suppose my fealty to the divine overcomes me with a flash of inspiration to light up your libraries with purifying heat?¡±

    The scholar shifted uncomfortably. Lapsing into silence. An awkward beat accentuated by Drakkon¡¯s sudden, stormy inquiry. ¡°Have you no faith in your Lord, priest? In the Living Light you would idly humor threatening this lass over for?¡±

    ¡®Harald¡¯, unsurely, padded this. ¡°Surely you hath heard of His miracles? People hath been rescued from the maw of death by Drakkon before, so why not again when the need is more?¡±

    ¡°I hold to faith in the Light. Just not in my being to carry it. O, it Lives on, that sublime Light we chase. But I am not bright enough to be but a shadow in its sun. A stain upon the finest tapestry and chip in the chapel glass am I! And yet am I much the worse than my peers among men? Are we not all condemned for our prideful and pathetic ways? O Drakkon,¡± misty eyes shot through ceiling to the skies, ¡°forgive my vulgarity, but I ask now: do we not shovel so much corruption behind us, burying it from view, that we slip into its ditch? Will we drown therein when we refuse to peek at how bad it¡¯s gotten or acknowledge the stench of shi-?¡±

    ¡°Have we all not pondered our purposes? Our innate callings and the feelings of failing them, of falling off the trail too lost to get back on or know where you are going at all in the thickest of it?¡± Ishraine diplomatically suggested. ¡°Are we not all familiar with being so lost as to nearly forget our name? Of straying from the stakes to wander around questions of self, who we are as a whole and part of Elderath¡¯s fold and the stars which cradle her?¡±

    ¡°Well, I suppose there is merit to the world having meaning. The supernal is still there through it all, even if I am underserving of it. The Divine moves through us even as its influence is tortuous to us. Would that I caught what I saw! That my eves fell from my face just then as the rot covered theirs. Yet I stand still and see. I shall see it the end, just so. Although - Highest preserve me - that may only be because I lack the gut to split myself open. Alas, let us not dwell on what I already cannot escape from the gatehouse of my addled mind. Booze is a blessing I find. Let me steal away the sadness with miraculous swill! This diet of earth¡¯s stewards made by artisans in brewing!¡±

    ¡°Hey -hic- hoonter! What say we skip the woe-wet tales and keep up the merry games? Let us fleece this priest of his purse & robes with some hoontin¡¯ for luck, leave ¡®em with his bare sorrows?¡± The ruffian swiveled the course back to their gambit and the goings on at center of their table.

    As rude an invitation it was, this call to drink more and forget these existential issues was heard easily by the rest. Even Angwar soaked in the suds and let himself float drunkenly above that current of worry which wrecked him adrift. He dared join their lot of devil¡¯s dice rolls and dubious decks. And the rough neck purveyors of this purse gutting game proved prophetic in ¡®fleecing him¡¯ so well that he was stripped of his tabard and cobbled shoes. He looked more a wandering drunk than monk or herald of the Living Light. And yet, for him, this tarnished appearance was found more fitting to his spiritual mood.

    Drakkon fumed behind his brooding hush. His spiritual ire stoked by the sight of these good-for-nothings setting their rodent eyes upon the finely threaded gold & lustrous sinews arraying the priestly tunic¡¯s breast and back. Towards the thieves he brandished scorching coals, cursing them for their weaselly natures from which they could naught be resolved of through mercy that had them sniffing the tailorship to dissect it for their selling. With no reverence for the sigil of Imperium and its eminent essence the tabard represented. Why would souls so low as these, barely sentient to his stare, not shed their little virtues come winter over their lives for the simplest promise of coin & gluttonous greed? Were these two not the perfect pair to show for what scum might be bought by insurgency and criminal conspiracy?

    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

    ¡®Harald¡¯ was, while considerably wet by his cups, attentive enough to each of the party¡¯s airs to notice this thorny bramble; this snag caught in Drakkon¡¯s glance. Before his Lord could concentrate momentum of this enmity arousing for these knaves, Mordaunt maneuvered his persona to shake those shoulders towards more emotional sobriety. ¡°Ay, Log! I know ye are not a lad of much language, but I recall your partiality against the base act of idle gambling. A strange spirit lives in that chest! We Harathi prefer more straightforward and honest risk in the Highlands as well. But while I do not mind it what say you and I meander over to the smoking chamber for our reminiscence? The steam from the last occupants is wafting out thin and I could use a pipe, whether herb, spice, or the proper stuff, to help relight the memories. We have stories still for one another. Tales that might disquiet less hardened hearts ¨C and the poor priest is already shaken up enough and sick ¨C so let us leave them well enough alone for our warrior¡¯s chat.¡±

    Log groaned agreement. The proposition coming just in time to keep from growling inciting insult at the unwary and unappreciative rogues. So, the odd pair excused themselves for the specified ¡®churning room¡¯ where smoke billowed out from travelers¡¯ pipes, diverse aromas to match the men exhaling them, as they let themselves soak in steam vents. Calling after the barmaid to bring another couple of pitchers to their temporary place of relocation first. ¡°Beyond our veteran tales though there are sorrows of which I would wish to share with you. Let us contemplate them where concerns can be expunged in sweat and colorful smoke.¡±

    But when the duo passed by the baths and beds (the ones with single purpose in design, that not being for sleep) they slipped into a smokehouse already simmering with tensions. Two men were already in there, well, a trio but the third was presently occupied by a snoring sleep warmed by billows. They engaged in conversation as heated as the chamber¡¯s temperature, which drew ballistae of sweat along the lines of newcomers¡¯ brows. A rattling debate of ethics and ill omens, the latter a common conversation thread these days, largely over the recent exile another clan; cast out as fugitives.

    The burlier of the pair sucked on his pipe between rambling breaths as he pressed his point without care they had an audience. ¡°See though, why should it be so bothersome to you that these Beruvian birds hath flown back to their ways as vagabonds? Why, when they already long surrendered their ways and rites for those of the Vizzar? They abandoned their principles and thus forfeited their rights to a home in our borders.¡±

    His partner in the debate huffed and puffed. Cooling his course with smoke thicker than the steam coagulating at the centre. Neither of their features were particularly identifiable when so concealed by the steamy veil and halos from pipe emissions. ¡°They were denied a home by nature¡¯s wild wrath and left to naught but shackles of that Dread Serpent. Then, when they opened their hearts to our Lord and waved their banners for Him against their rich masters, they were again denied a deserving place inside our Empire! And why when prime land was aplenty with glory to share amongst all folk? Why should they be so deserving of being scorned by Solaris?¡±

    ¡°Helwinds blast that blasphemous cloud back to Malderath¡¯s bosom! Thou art a friend and a fool! Those fiends spat upon the blessings of Mother Elderath and corrupted years of gloried harvests under our holy emperor. Tis the whims of the fates to see traitors reduced to wandering rabble though it would be mercy for us to be sheared of them. They felt the folds of civilization not enough for them and sought ruin to our Aeon¡¯s prosperous peace.¡±

    ¡°Blast thee, Belfar!¡± Shouted the second, between snags of choking smoke. ¡°¡®Ave thou not turned thy ears to any of the bard, Baron¡¯s, tunes? Heard the fates of fellow ¡®rebellious clans¡¯ that dared ask their emperor for aid in enduring famine only to be denounced by power of imperium. One ballad was just song by Verilla, who-¡±

    ¡°¨CWho is only comely in aspect of the sounds her throat sings and is otherwise entirely homely! How those chubby fingers do struggle at the strings would shame any bard, let alone the one she steals from! Have you an inkling, Gaelmar, for portly maidens?¡±

    ¡°Soddin¡¯ fires, Belfar! Let the lass share in the love of music! Let others share in the love of life and the right to it. Would that thou listened for reasons other than shaming her aspiring talent maybe thou would hear the truth of that sad song. Tis a tragedy, all folk may soon share in! Drakkon had a chance to prove peace his lasting ruling, yet the prosperity promised is only for a few to enjoy. So why should there not be troubles to retort this ruling of austere ¡®order¡¯ over basic humanity? Do you not see why other clans could start considering ¡®elping out the People¡¯s Protectorate to avoid their people being blinded, castrated & decimated?¡±

    ¡°Bloody blasphemy, Gaelmar!¡± Belted the first following a mead-coated belch into the steam & misty pipes. ¡°Know thou, what that scoundrel chieftain did to incur punishment?¡±

    Drakkon cut in. ¡°Their witless master led his clan to vehement scourge. Proved blind to the Light by blinding his people and sending them to abduct the wealth of their fellows¡± He split the steam to stare volcanic vents at this Gaelmar. ¡°Forget not that those fugitive wretches made to carry into ruin the grandeur of Imperium!¡±

    Breathy clouds left the argumentative pair as gasps. Creaking of the wooden seats beneath them chafed against the emergent billows. The stranger who¡¯d just spoke stood up in the way of the door. Looking like a monstrous shadow borne of the smoke captured by the room or else from the bitterness of their biting rapport. But the more belligerently drunk of the two flailed about nodding and acclaimed support for that threatening statement uttered by the hulking shape.

    Belfar, thinking the stranger¡¯s scorn made him a friend to his argument and enemy of his friend¡¯s, half-gloated in it instead of fearing the threat ¡®neath the tone. ¡°Those sods should hath won their homeland back through rightful service! For is our Imperium not one rewarding merit? Did you not once complain of how commoners rose, how they still can through serving well the Light through sword or speech?¡±

    ¡°Ah, the glory of Imperium!¡± Gaelmar, his associate with antagonizing opinion, prodded back. Encouraged to forget the looming shape (and the outline of axe-heads at his back & his fellow¡¯s) by steep pitcher. ¡°Humor me, friend, I know our business is well, but might you remind me the name of our governing order? Is it ¡®Imperium¡¯? Or ¡®Empire¡¯? ¡®Dominion,¡¯ rather? The title of our ruling reign seems to change every time a mandate is writ or spoken from herald¡¯s throat!¡±

    Drakkon lumbered forward ominously. His words sending the heat up to a scalding sweat. ¡°Tis that Empire which holds Dominion over all thy lots and owns the power of Imperium to judge those worthy of life or death! Our ruling law which bids heretics be punished!¡±

    ¡°Death and torture to any that would insult and harm our realm! To any that would spit spite & spears against Drakkon¡¯s grandeur!¡± Toasted Belfar to the mist. The man was determined to find this foreboding presence a friend of his side of the debate. Instead of heeding the warning, pushing his pal to mouth off. ¡°Death to injustice! And away with the wait! I hear more are held in Windhand dungeon but should sooner have their heads shaved a few cubits!¡±

    ¡°Pah! Keep that hypocritic spittle out of the water, please.¡± His compatriot of intoxication, Gaelmar, found his contesting voice after gulping his foul smelling, but courage instilling, elixir. ¡°Save for the ¡®sods¡¯ forced desperation, aye ¡®inexcusable¡¯. But let folk get on their ways and grant them leave to build their dreams. Otherwise, that grandeur shall become squalor & I dare-¡±

    ¡°You dare, indeed!¡± Drakkon slung his forest-felling axe to his hand. The sheen of the head might have been obscured by the sauna but the sound of it cutting through air alerted the pair to the sharp change in the churning fog. ¡°Death and torture, aye. To those who know not their place. To they who harbor rebellious sympathies. Death ¨C or a life left infirm after our meeting ¨C to those who do not leave us the room.¡±

    The two drunks realized their situation then. Hastily struggled like hogs to flee their pens for the trough. Before their escape, the red-maned stranger accompanying the axe brandishing behemoth tossed them a pouch of copper coins and a couple gilt Draks. ¡°Get yer¡¯self another round or, preferably, tea to calm down. And shut up for once, lads.¡± While the conversation these strangers flailed would have been the sort of salt and spice among the common man¡¯s thought, his mission to mine and vein for information, Mordaunt had other matters on his mind. He needed no strangers leering in from the sidelines.

    Gaelmar skittered out, like an insect discovered and sought after by an unhappy boot, while Belfar nudged, then slapped, their third companion back to awareness. ¡°Wake ye! Tis Ole Bel¡¯ tellin¡¯ ye to get yer rump up and out!¡± However, the dozing man only briefly flittered his lids before lulling back into a stony sleep, crashing the back of his head against the backwall as he drooped. ¡®Ole Belfar dragged the sleepy eavesdropper out and sent back some passing spite. ¡°Happy Harvest, ye bastards!¡±

    Mordaunt went to the window to vent steam. Having barred the entrance, they removed their obnoxious aliases & shed false manners through thin vent. Through that slit he saw that dark had taken the rest of daylight from the town. But the orange, gold & red hues of the Autumn Aurora outshined the dusk laying claim to Crestwoad. And the town had not yet given up its mirth for sleep. For bustle and noise slipped in from outside the tavern wall.

    Behind it, they doused themselves deeper in liquor. Mordaunt swishing through his supply, thought of how to steer their talk towards what shrouded him in distress. ¡°Ah, how quaint to let demons of stress be shed of our sweat, Lord! A toast to you for enduring that prattler enough to show temperance when they were unknowing of whose presence they were in! Though it was partly our task to hear out their lines of reason I wager we hold reason enough in our hands to drink more aplenty to ourselves!¡±

    Drakkon, uncertain of what good this whole ordeal served, did not need tempting to lose himself more in draught. ¡°Aye! Good draft is needed to swallow the shame of it all. But let us not lose our wandering minds. What troubles does your tongue wish to relieve you of that need ghostly vapors and secrecy to speak?¡±

    ¡°Do not forget the strong stout needed as well!¡± Mordaunt laughed, a scraping sound of forced merriment. ¡°But first I would inquire one modest guarantee that should our conversation prove not too temperate then let us forgive any indiscretion and return to a fair hearted game of good humors?¡± He waited for a mild nod then rolled on with his prefacing. ¡°While I do not wish to pester much more on this matter the issue is regarding the pestilence seen by that sooth saying augur¡¯s saintly sail to the southwest.¡±

    ¡°The plague? Is my most ardent champion of might now soaking his breeches in fear of sickness? For disease descending upon remote hamlets, godless or otherwise?¡±

    ¡°I fear not for mine own sake, Lord. But what Champion would I be to not give heed of people¡¯s plight? I must-¡±

    ¡°-must suddenly become so gratuitously charitable? For semblance of chivalry? Wherefore should this plight concern you when my ears hath long been assailed by constant complaints regarding your family¡¯s fortune, even asking to overstep what finances you keep from the rest of your household?¡±

    ¡°Well, family is of concern to the course, the core of it. Tis not something so shallow as to be related to that house I hath been shackled to, how¡¯ere.¡±

    ¡°Ah, still wallowing in whine about that engagement to the Lady Portia? Wish you, that we sent her away along the trail through the desert to bake away? Instead of having you forgive the misfortunes their line was availed of through your marriage and retain those treasures & patricians of Vizzari artisanship? What would our ¡®grandeur¡¯ be, sadly so to admit thusly, without those scales we stripped from the Serpent¡¯s corpse to expand our imperial decorum?¡±

    ¡°Damn it! Tis not about that, really!¡± Condemnation and disdain sprouted from his shout. ¡°If I must say it, as truth before the coals, then let it be known to you that I do fear for certain lives which may be touched in those godless hamlets open to being swept by ill winds! Tell me, Lord, that you have a cure? A means of combating the plague as though it were as malicious a monster to fell as Vizzari! That black sheen of the dead magistrate is rivalled now by affliction with bite as venomous as that snake!¡±

    ¡°What? Wherefore? And why this insinuative tone? Have you a little bastard hiding in the filth of the countryside yet unclaimed by our crest? Ha! Better yet a mistress still kneeling and reeling over for yet still too afraid to dare bring closer to hearth? Aha!¡±

    ¡°Sod it!¡± Mordaunt screamed into his cups. When he looked up and faced his lord sweltering ember encompassed the chamber. ¡°Let us say then that my reasons are so petty. Should not a true Lord still show up to perform his miracles? Should the ¡®Divine¡¯ in you not reach out to these yet ungripped lands and heal them as to bring them into great fold? Did you not once raise a poisoned acolyte from death¡¯s door and shout away storms that the sea could carry your ships? Well, most of your ships, save those who escaped your eminent course for those raging waters and cruel Vizzari welcoming standards...¡±

    Drakkon scoffed. ¡°Should a grateful man, a leader among men, not be so thick headed as to chastise his Lord? Should he not give praise for the blessings of being delivered from that misfortune? Yet he keeps hanging on to it! Casting himself back on to that ship to be wrecked by woeful memory again & again!¡±

    ¡°There is more to it than the soured grapes of memory and the wine we drink of its somber reserve! This is about life ¨C innocent life beyond the boundaries of mine own mortality - and the need to preserve it! This is about asking ¡®my Lord¡¯ if He is even capable of tackling this accursed challenge to his reign and wanting to know if he dares attempt to sever that diseased dragon¡¯s head!¡±

    ¡°Are you sure this is not about some concubine? And are you certain you wish to press this insult further?¡±

    ¡°I must press it! For Selene...¡± his sockets distilled tears. ¡°Not a night-spouse nor the brood of one but my truest daughter and moon light! She stays vulnerable to those winds crawling up just a bit further and stifling her breath to the last! My sweetest girl is as important as to me as your Corinna is to you, though in a more solvent bond of love ¨C fatherly love for a flower yet to fully bloom. But black clouds darken her horizon, loom over her precious head and future while you dare not defy this afflicted breeze at all, but rather let it waft all over till you would reign over a sepulcher!¡±

    ¡°Dare you to pretend to comprehend my connection with Corinna?! Shut that gabber of yours, the one you surely used to woo this Selene¡¯s mother! Harlot or not-¡±

    ¡°Dare you to constantly belittle and damn those that serve you loyally for all too human vanity!¡± Mordaunt shot back a scathing arrow. ¡°Dare you to let all subjects whither to blight blackened bone? All while you contemplate how pretty and cosmically ordained your love for Corinna is! Dare you to disgrace and denounce my daughter the instant her life is known to you!¡±

    ¡°You stumble over in a rush to avoid the shame of how this little life was even made. For surely it was not arranged in proper accordance or public ceremony. That would explain your strange excursions! Or else you would not have hidden this daughter from me so. And hidden her from yourself as well! What can that speak to of your paternal pride that you only just ask for grace for her come the thirteenth hour, when baleful gusts beat at her windowsill!¡±

    ¡°Destiny delivered her to me. From the womb of green fate that gem of a girl was sent to me. Though I hath too long let her be far from her father. Damn me for that! Yet you should be able to empathize with one born from witch¡¯s womb. A daughter ordained by the stars and chance meetings made stone by fate. But damn you should you speak ill of her name so rapaciously! You disgrace any divinity in you to slander a small child on the precipice of plague!¡±

    ¡°What destiny can there be for a girl left stranded to impoverished wilds by a father who, when sworn to a truly Divine cause in his Lord instead refutes the grace of that servitude ¨C abandoning it to abyss along with his seed! What else but strife and decay when left alone to the gales of entropy without imperial blessing?!¡±

    ¡°Bastard!¡±

    ¡°¡¯Bastard¡¯? From the mouth of a bastard-maker! Bastard-bearer, beggar-monger, and a b-¡±

    Mordaunt slapped the tail end of whatever slurs Drakkon¡¯s mouth readied. It stunned him, more from its occurrence than smarting. In this beat before any retaliation was chosen, he followed up that striking hand with a challenge to his lord. ¡°Come, my Lord, friend, and accuser. Let us away to a place more befitting a means to settle this before the drink keeps our stomachs from ever settling. I have a couple of blunted swords by my saddlebags. Meant for training aspiring Drakes and yet perfect for solving this crude dispute through a mock duel. What have you? Perhaps I can beat some reason into you, so you understand my means.¡±

    ¡°Let us draw forth these apprentice tools and see a sample of our contesting steel. When my hand wins the day, you will quake in fear of the Divine. Then, perhaps, I shall present you the miracle of grace & mercy that is within my quantity for forgiveness.¡±

    ¡°Shall we wait awhile and cheers to our contest? It looks like the last autumn rain is soon to arrive outside. A little cover would be good for our modest test of arms.¡±

    They drank their tankards dry. Waited. Then walked into the rain, oddly warm on an otherwise cool night.

    Past the stable Drakkon led, prickling agitation beneath his rustic cowl all the way. Towards a small, fenced field atop hill just over the prominent rise neighboring Crestwoad. A no man¡¯s land for the time where they could clash swords safely at this crossroads. Horizontal flares burst open the belly of stormy ceiling, shelling them with heavy tears. The thunder which drove away the Aurora smashed streams of carmine & pumpkin by sapphire sword-flash. Their rage, this primal and personal animosity so swiftly sprouting up with cutting thorns, seized them as feverish rattles.

    ¡°Say, Drakkon,¡± Mordaunt started as the rain splattered, taking up dueling stance with practice sword, ¡°should I have brought that black blade from the ruins of the sky to match yours, and I were to split you down to the bladder, would stars pour out from you instead of blood? Is it only then I could be assured you are so divine?¡±

    Drakkon, drunken to head-battering proportion, filled to his stature after picking up his weapon from the mud where its master tossed it. He crossed unto realm outside words and any sensible remembrance of what sobriety ever was. Language evaded his sphere, but he swore to have the sword be his speech and to hammer his points into Mordaunt. He bull-rushed his contender, blade aimed to slam down like a bolt from the storm¡¯s angry well above. But the alcohol they¡¯d taken into themselves varied in its affect and influence over their motor, martial, functions and Mordaunt dodged the blind charge. Caught the rest of his weight, lodged leg with pivot, before the training sword could near him.

    He flipped his opponent¡¯s weight into disadvantage by locking his leg against his emperor¡¯s, tripping him. A couple more feints and stumbling kicks and his warlike lord toppled into the dirty pool collecting at their feet. Mordaunt leaned over as if to make a severing strike to the throat, but he was blocked by a clumsy, yet adequate, deflection. Not letting that keep from assuring his advantage and flexing it, he swept over to the side, withdrawing one blow to perform another strike. It landed where his tunic met his neck, causing his foe to retch and cough. ¡°Kill. Were we fighting a kraagspeer to the death it would be farewell to your temporary shell just there.¡±

    Drakkon got up to begin their clash again. Mordaunt spat acid through the rains. ¡°A wager for the next one? Huh? Say you will put more weight in fighting the many sicknesses of this realm, physical and spiritual than you are in facing me for your honour right now! Get a ¡®kill¡¯ on me and I will bring my Selene to the courts that you might decide her fate fully.¡±

    A scream and flailing sword came at him. He was ready. The sway of the still he¡¯d swallowed smoothed him into the flow of the fight. Unlike the other contestant, his passion fueled his power rather than overpowered his impulses and spatial awareness. Drakkon floundered around, occasionally getting in a hard hit with his first to Mordaunt (who for a second there thought he¡¯d felt and heard the clinch of a rib-bone crunching, which the booze both numbed and exaggerated) but his blunted blade could not bash or slice into anything near a ¡®kill¡¯.

    ¡°Kill!¡± Mordaunt triumphed. Another would-be fatal delivery: having battered his enemy¡¯s knee, grabbed back his arm, and jabbed the tip up into the armpit. ¡°Say you will slave to save my Selene! Say that I can bring her to the courts and not have her be ostracized as witch¡¯s brood!¡± The inebriated champion commanded his disdain upon this soaking stead. ¡°Come at me again! You rely too much on the fear your size instills, in the fury of your blows. You are reckless, not just in how drunk you are. Too slow to see the struggles and starving needs of your servants and greatest of allies. Too slow for me. Kill!¡±

    ¡°Auuaghghhhhh!!¡±

    ¡°Should I turn from this god among men, go back around, and seek out that scholar wench instead in hopes of miracles? Or the competence and education that you lack. Malderath curse us!¡±

    ¡°Curse the child of this occult brewing you conceived, with a witch it seems! Turn to her thyself and ¨C hic ¨C care for her, if thy might is so great to challenge me when I am not myself ¨C so cloaked in, hic, human hick¡¯s skin!¡± Drakkon shoved back his insulter, swinging & stabbing with vacuous flurry.

    ¡°Thou should have stayed scarce, an abstraction of god hovering in clouds and in the minds of men who wield thy lightning! Instead, tis so much harder to believe in the Divine in the flesh. In fleeting, failing flesh! Ataxia of heaven into humanity!¡± Mordaunt backed up by the woodshed and, with blood drawn against him, stumbled on the snag of heavy intoxication and titan¡¯s blows. Yet his wits were with him still.

    As their trainee¡¯s weapons cinched, Mordaunt feigned a slight yield but then, before Drakkon could recover balance & rally the force of his sword fully, he switched the blunted blade around and smashed his attacker¡¯s temple with the hilt. ¡°Thine own mother, though of mortal make and soiled spirit, made herself Divine through thee. Who knows where thy mortal seed spilt into thy mother? Yet I know mine is as a child of prophecy! I confess the sin of not loving the mother of my sunflower though. For she is a witch, not unlike your Azarra! A daughter of augury!¡±

    The tumbling Lord, raptured up by this swell of loathing, consumed his fill of personal affronts. No longer charmed by child''s swordplay, unfitting even of a young squire of dead Vizzari knighthood aspirations. Surging at Mordaunt, still in rugged disguise of ¡®Harald the Red,¡¯ a black tide smacked beneath contemptuous surf in him. ¡°Pathetic showcase of ¡®love¡¯ for this daughter of witchcraft!¡± Roared the black wave of thunder. ¡°Crushed down as soon as it appears for I ¨C shall ¨C not ¨C save ¨C this ¨C scummy ¨C spawnling!¡±

    With every break in the tempest wall¡¯s trident tongue came the cracking of fist against skin already sore. Yet the Fortune of hysterical effects of libation preserved a little vitality in Mordaunt while the waves of beatings rolled over him. A tooth washed out from his mouth from this tidal rash as Drakkon screamed his rage and flung curses upon the holiest of names. Yet in his ears pounded an even more clamorous tune. War hymns and revelries; songs of destruction¡¯s delight & reaping glory, drummed through his head while his brain rattled against the soggy reef.

    Soaking there in drenched topsoil, the tide pulled back out. Hapless laughter left Mordaunt¡¯s inflated lip as he rolled about in the background. Drakkon stormed towards the horses. Their steeds, frantically panicking in the downpour, railed against the sounds & posts they were tied to. The black mare the lord arrived on was not his regular equestrian companion but a stranger and simple means of carriage. So, when its new owner charged at it from the inclement walls caging its waning courage, the beast felt no shame swearing off loyalty & doubling its attempts to flee from the stake. As lightning swirled across the embittered welkin, changing course to fork down to a neighboring hill down the way, a logger¡¯s axe flashed in the eye of man & animal.

    Drakkon limped back to the shivering ball of a rival by the end of the field. But his horse had enough. Its frenzy splintered off plank from the fence and bolted blindly in flight far from there. Encouraged by this gallop of fear & freedom the escapee¡¯s comrade fled after the night. This mattered not to his mania, as the master of the downcast realm extending over and across all these identical hilltops. The axe he arranged for Mordaunt¡¯s neck, with the violent urge mounting in him with every falling bolt, was more pressing to hold. & heavier to swing.

    Blood trickled down Harald¡¯s red brow. A fusion of plant dye leaking from his roots and fresh wound dripping over his face made for him a plum burst visage. Beaten back by Drakkon¡¯s fury and fist, he was left to naught but eclipsing delirium of drunken dissociation. The marching rhythms and ghostly halls shouting their war tunes beat a pace into his ailing, ale-abused, head. Following their lead, he dodged the sluggish axe head chomping at his.

    How much time rained past them while they brawled on could only be guessed. Thunder stole away their sense & proportion; bolts of their fury and those that split the obscuring ebony surrounding their scuffle. The brute force with which the lord threatened to divide his unsavory subject¡¯s skull with was only barely held back and slimly skirted. Just then, as they sank deeper into the mud together - and the forgetfulness of all else but wrath to wrestle each other with - a stern bell tolled. Its alarum bounded from nearest watchtower, answering the threats of the pair¡¯s boisterous storm, competing for the air.

    Lethean leaves & mindless murk descended on their bruised peaks. Ridges worn further by obscuring whetstone, grinding their lucidity to the rusted rim. Oblivious waters splashed back at them from the mud. Memory and coherence could no longer follow their movements, leaving them to their stage of horn bashing and low blows, scarcely befitting condemned gladiators. For what reason their fists flung at their faces, and why that alien axe bouncing between their crimson and brown clad grip was there, they forgot. Only the struggle remained known to them, although even that would soon be swallowed by dark and drink. To be left as empty as their mugs and more lost as to the ¡®what¡¯ and ¡®wherefore¡¯ than the unluckiest of pilgrims stranded in sea-storm.

    A faceless mob whose heads were halos from armless lanterns manifest from the grim mist formed a ring around their boorish match. While the two boars thrashed about, grinding grunts and tusks against each other, familiar faces materialized. Against the blush their sentries and guard accompaniment cast the countenances of Baron, Ishraine and Angwar chipped away the dark marble like chapel glass paintings of legendary deliverers of destiny. Like those depictions reserved for figures of living myth, graved in glass. Of which the two blood and mud sodden men resembled little.

    ¡°Finally, we find you! Both you and the source of Crestwoad¡¯s disturbance, it looks like!¡± Ishraine chimed in, timely bidding the rains to quiet down their siege so she could be heard over them. ¡°A horse ran like a hurricane through the green! Its belly spilled out purses full of Draks and silver only fitting for a magister of old! We had to search for missing friends ¨C who lost themselves to drink more any should ¨C complemented with an armed escort!¡±

    ¡°We thought it brigands or thieves! Or, gods deny it, a rebel squadron!¡± Croaked Angwar before making the sign of the star with his fingers. ¡°Yet ¡®tis only drunken fools!¡±

    Mordaunt was first to rise. Though he struggled to sustain his weight without a nudge from one of the irate sentinels who so charitably signed on to find some ¡®missing friends¡¯ and had been first to chase down the startled source from that field. A couple of those crossroad guardians¡¯ faces so furrowed by petulance that they contorted to nearly match the sky, which capriciously decided to reel back its once stone-sized drops.

    ¡°Twas but a rough but friendly tussle in the reeds!¡± Baron explained to them.

    ¡°Malformed and overgrown boys merely wrestling away the drunkenness and tension of the day. But so mishappen in their intellect as to frighten their steeds into scaring half the village proper awake! Alas, could our holy headed visitor shine some light on any aspect of forgiveness for their foolishness?¡± Offered Ishraine, backing her new, yet familiar, acquaintance.

    ¡°Would you forgive these dolts their dissenting of their steeds? They mostly abused their property and themselves, apparently! If the gods and their servants on Elderath¡¯s crust down here were to punish severely every man who forgets his head by dipping into too much drink, we would have so few among us as to tend barely half a field. Would you not concur, goodmen? Could not the excess of coin spilt from the fled horse¡¯ pouches provide sufficient payment for other damages and inconveniences?¡± Added Angwar who looked a strange sight himself in new threads, charitable offered to him between Ishraine & ¡®Bard¡¯s¡¯ spare furs.

    The captain among the sentries coughed and whipped the lot of them with suspicious watch. ¡°Such coin is cause along for scrutiny and quartering investigation. That these, could-be bandits, quarreled among themselves only assures our ease in bringing them back to the brig. Who knows, save the gods you shine for, speaker of Drakkon, how long it might take to settle this side paining mess?¡±

    Just then, with his back to the wall otherwise, Baron strode to the captain and whispered most eminent plea. He wanted to wrap this misadventure up the best he could manage and get them all back on their suitable paths and places. This last and greatest hand proved convincing and the begrudged sentry¡¯s threats and intimidating posture evaporated. That irritated frown begat grotesque transformation into fearful mask. A mimicry his official station¡¯s stony and dutiful apathy. Though inwardly he quaked with awe & humiliation. ¡°Get thee hence from Crestwoad. Whatever road takes thee, let it be far from here. With respect and good fortune, I bid fair partings upon thee.¡±

    Ishraine gaped as the half dozen armed, would be ¡®investigators¡¯ and inquisitors, instruments of justice tucked tail. The abused sentries bolted for their tower post, as though a chimera or were- beast were nipping their heels. ¡°What in all Malderath¡¯s miserable lair did you say to that soldier, Bard? Certainly, aimed your words with such precision as to win your mark in linguistic archery. What more to you can there be, humble ¡®hunter¡¯?¡±

    ¡°Ah,¡± Baron sighed and spat his worries into the muck of the mire their feet were eaten by, ¡°the man needed a good hunting spot. Turns out that there are indeed criminals housed here in Crestwoad, they who gouge good men by price and pinching every copper-penny for a flank of game. So even noble hearted sentinels it seems must turn to a wee poaching in harsh times...¡±

    He lied. Having applied a measure of deceit well hidden in the truth he wielded to sway away that penchant for arrest from the exhausted captain. Having quickly shined a look at his own identity and badge of office, a small stone etching with the rune of Light upon its eye. Having told them that the two mongrels abandoned to alcohol and anger¡¯s most shameful combination of symptoms were Drakoni agents here on a delicate mission they¡¯d dovetailed far from fulfilling that was none the less important and dire in its need for ignorance from the rest. Having, of course, not been able to confess the full truth; that the sad, soiled and blood-besmirched bastard just crawling up from the sunken ground was their Living Lord come among them.

    Baron saved Drakkon from deeper disgrace. Having not been able to convince that same degraded Imperator to move a meter towards sympathy for the middle ring and lower peoples. Having not a shred of understanding and recollection retained by the battered and retching rivals. His lord having retained no memory of any plights & plagues which hard-pressed the people nor anything more than the perimeter reasons for wanting to explore that spirit of the townsfolk and catch a passing glimpse along the crossroads. Save for the blistering resentment brewed up among them still. Having nothing left in strained sight to do for the time but flee the retributive rope of their hangovers, looping about addled crania.

    But though Mordaunt & his master stumbled over it for the time, just aiming to endure their penitence and return to sobriety¡¯s bruised cage, the shadow gestating beneath their feet only swelled its belly. Swollen in that neglected gloom, unconscious conspiracies engorged themselves, finding safety to sprout in the shade as their eyes were stunned by the glare of the sun. The pair were yet unaware of what daemons, head-mates and tulpas sulked in that dark & the lines in the rays. Aspects would trickle into their brains in days to come, teasing flashes of remembrance tempered and doused with misremembrance; wild imaginings to fill the blanks with phantom happenstance before the spouts of obscurity started again.

    When their party dispersed and returned to their respective duties & households all that could be garnered from the event¡¯s stain was that there had been a small squabble between the greatest of the realm¡¯s fighters. Neither recalled how sloppy and dishonorable that depraved duel had been. Although each warrior¡¯s mortal marble had been marked with reminders of that struggle the details had been pulverized, with only dull aching remaining in their heads for a fortnight after.

    Mordaunt, marred & made rougher of look than before, was readily willing to be rid of his wife again upon return to Windhand. Out of scorn he forbids her leave the cold castle for her villa by Crestfall until his dread march against Protectorate agents is over. Claiming she needed to harden their sons ¡®lest the first brittle breeze from a spear fell them like their kin that Sunhilte morn of Drakoni victory.¡¯ He hoped to recover what he could from the ruins of temporary loss of self, memory & purpose. But to think on his Selene only augmented hangover.

    When Drakkon abstained his fortress first to flee to Azar-Drakon, to his mother, to ask for an alchemical coating to his lingering condition Azarra was aghast. While the injuries that withstood his travel from the crossroads to her tower were minor, she found them grossly indecent and chastised him with vocal force that humbled the ferocity of his achy knuckles. ¡°We must hide you from public view and shoo back all the counsel I planned amongst our courts, child! What devilry snuck into that crown of yours?! Was it the foolish musings of Baron that did it? Or were these bruises begot in the name of your wench-empress, Corinna?¡±

    Drakkon groaned lethargic disdain. Azarra stripped his shoulders. Washed with suds from the bath then pushed her son deeper into the obscuring herb & scent laden tub. ¡°Our great god cannot go to his people appearing as a beggar! What image would he tarnish the herd with then? What pillar of principle and perfection could they aspire to when yours is so sullied?! Now I must hide your blood away from their prying sight and nosiness!¡±

    ¡°Will you not keep your sight fixed to the vision I pour before you? Will you not scry it in these healing waters? Won¡¯t you relax into what I hath so long and lovingly prepared for you?¡± She scrubbed the final grains of dirt and matted filth from his tameless fur. Frowning at the sacrifice of her luxurious basin, running with mud & blood. Yet seeing his despondency she joined him in the waters, awash with carmine hues from more than the dyes. She bared her humanity but only as to adjoin his with the need of dressing it in dogmatic illusion. ¡°The tableau of Divine tissue is beholden to us but must be shown sparingly to our faithful! Can you hold to your wit enough to contain this crown on your head? I wish for you to wear it, proudly so. But not that it should be worn by one who forgets his nature, his truest self, for despoiling decadence and languishing quaff!¡±

    This cosmically ordained ruler of providence over earth found his reserves of spirit too drained to protest. Sinking, complacent, under pretense of recovering rest prescribed, within his mother¡¯s hands. While he knew not what soured his soul¡¯s mood so, he sulked. Dagger-eyes, stabbing above the bubbly basin¡¯s froth, poked through the impinging foam boiling to lake of fire.

 Divine Mercy

    Chapter Two, Divine Mercy

    Spring of the 16<sup>th</sup> year AD, Baba¡¯Yun¡¯s lair

    Soft Springtime aromas & the nectarine of blooming flowers transuded the air sifting through Mordaunt¡¯s nostrils as he tread on with sharp pace through the hills & meadows which spread about Baba¡¯Yun¡¯s once humble hut. His fingers idly traced the runic lettering of Lilit¡¯s letter, her urgent pressing for him to see their daughter seeping into his pores. Her etchings this missive, few but the runes dire: ¡°Love ov stars, our moon needs you!¡±

    The primordial mark branded long ago in his skin sensed proximity to its origin. It itched & groaned as he marched to the former witches¡¯ residence. Now a veritable hidden tower of their tiny circle, tucked from coast & thicket; with stone & embrasure where a few keepers could notch invisible arrows to repel an army of looters. Despite the tender chirping of the birds in gleeful song of the season¡¯s arrival this disheveled Champion heard only the drumming of his heart in wary anticipation of what news Selene¡¯s mother held.

    The timing of Lilit¡¯s envoy could not have been more troublesome. Amid caring for his Estate, his begrudging wife, Portia, and his ¡®children¡¯ (the equally ugly Caedus & Callough) of adoptive crest and the grueling grind of ordeals & responsibilities which came with his position. She pled for him to come, abandon all obligations to see their Selene. His spirit churned in apprehension, the back of his brain striking bolts of horrible fears & fanciful visions -of Selene so haggard, pale & unmoving. All his thoughts streamed for her, usurping any concern for Portia¡¯s chastisement at his disappearance or those fat, red twins he reluctantly inherited and barely managed to feign not loathing.

    Approaching the rural yet regal home, the formerly shambling hut: transformed into a strange marvel of stone, a villa of its own. A testament to the wealth he¡¯d gifted Lilit to have Selene a proper hearth to dwell. These funds came from his wife¡¯s vast fortune from the mining venture her former husband built under the Vizzar. But given that he had been forced into this marriage by Drakkon to bridge the gap between the splintered, but potent, noble families of the Serpent no guilt anchored him. These redistributions, simply reparation for suffering the chains of his service by marriage.

    Lilit waited for him before the threshold in anxious pose. Sorrow¡¯s maiden was she, in her ebony gown. She shivered, despite the gleaming sunlight warming the earth. In her left hand she held thin paper exuding herbal scent, another sign to him of ill tidings to come from her lips. Her demeanor so shaken save for those sparse inhalations which burned away the mystic paper, wrestling with the wind in her fingers. This woman of woods & witchery stoking herbal cigarette to suppress the woe possessing her.

    Goosebumps broiled Mordaunt¡¯s skin as he embraced Lilit. Gripping her as much to quell concern within him as to quiet her unnerve. All the world swirled about, tethered tight to each other¡¯s arms. While he did not love her with the fury & fire of which poets blather in honeyed dialects, that she was the mother of all the world¡¯s purity in their Selene ever bonded them in spiritual respect.

    The mother of moonlight bestowed grim welcome with bitter breath. ¡°Forgive me for summoning you from so far away, so steeply! I would ne¡¯er dream of disturbing your duties to the distant Lord but... Some black curse hath befallen our poor girl, Mordaunt. Befouls her! She is¡­ ill with dire affliction. I wanted to heal her before sending a missive that might worry you over nothing, but she wanes gravely so suddenly. Fear takes mine heart, as I fear the gods shall take our blessed one from this world w-without a true chance to bloom. What damnation did we decry upon ourselves that our fate should be so plagued?¡±

    Although her silverish mane veiled Lilit¡¯s summer eyes, Mordaunt could feel the tide of tears surge as her vitae shook within the fold of his arms. Deathly silence announced its rule as that abhorrent unease inside sending tremors throughout. All the birds dropped their melodious tunes, abandoned to deafening gulf. Drowning out the raging of inner drum and making the idyllic tapestry abound wilt into null. He barely noticed words escape his quivering lips when the noise of his voice cut in. ¡°Speak soundly & with purpose, Lil. I must know all that there is to glean of this ¡®curse¡¯ that I might pledge my soul to its lifting. Our Selene is strong. We must be the same for her, evermore so if the hour is as late as you say.¡±

    She shuddered off their hug and glid over to the door. ¡°Her curse might be that same which plagues the southern regions, spreading on western wings to steal our heart. We toil day & night to find a panacea among all our herbs, remedies & spells but thus far the gods hath turned their sights from our pleas. The Fates left us to watch her wither away in agony. I pray you can help redress her suffering. I can no longer consort the Muses nor hear that wisdom, that prophecy, which was once Baba¡¯Yun¡¯s.¡±

    They entered the residence and immediately the truth of her concern found evidence by the innumerable concoctions, cauldrons, bottles & weird flowers assembled about the balmy chamber. There laid upon a silver-sheet bed: Selene, deprived of her youthful vigor by oppressive illness. Ashen curse stole away all colour from her visage, replaced her velveteen freckles with sickly boils. Her father dashed to her with more speed than any charge ever led. Placed a gentle hand about her brow. Her forehead was onset by heavy perspiration. So far gone that her fluttering eyelids did not allow her to recognize her own blood as he cared for her, so swept up by the wings of wicked affliction.

    The world¡¯s mass collapsed inside his chest. Collision with gravity strained his breath. His bones quaked foreboding shivers, coiling his spine in horror. His lungs wilted away to mirror his daughter¡¯s deathlike mask. ¡°Please, my silver Light, the Moon for which I shine! Hear me.¡± Mordaunt cupped his palms about her brow, near scalding, and gently kissed her forehead, not caring about the boils & blemishes that consumed her face. ¡°You are the brightest orb that ever was and will be. I know you will persevere, dear one, for you are most beloved by the gods¡¯ favor! Can you hear me?¡±

    Selene made a whimpering chirp and moaned as her father hugged her. Spark of life¡¯s fighting flame still danced inside her it seemed for she slowly struggled to bring up her own weary arms around him in their embrace. She made to whisper a response but all that came was a gurgling gasp, a hushed plea for something she could no longer voice.

    ¡°Shh, my little light. Do not expend what strength is needed to beat this on me. Know that I would give all for you. We will break through this dread spell and see you spread those luminous wings of yours once more. Just hold on...¡± Mordaunt shushed her with his finger before drawing paternal kiss on her blistered forehead. Then he turned to her mother. ¡°Have you anything that will help?¡±

    ¡°We are in want of proper potion. My sister and I conjured our ends, yet she continues to fade. There is this that forestalls it,¡± she said with shaky song as her talons reached for a bubbling green concoction, ¡°and another here as last resort, a means of easing of her pain.¡±

    Lilit sunk into his shoulder, wet with siren tears. ¡°We hath afforded her enough time to see her father again at least. But this may be but our last chance to bid her goodbye. She is at the mercy of the gods alone. All we might do is perform the last rite-¡±

    Mordaunt shoved the herbalist-matron back. Slamming her into shelves behind, breaking vials and containers. He attempted to level his tone to cold logic, but his temper seeped through barriers of temperance. ¡°Were it not that I do not wish to leave our Selene without her mother, I would present a mortal rebuke on the spot for such betrayal of faith. How can you be so defeatist to surrender her soul to first foul signs of circumstance?! Nay! There must be a way.¡±

    ¡°Would you seek Ty-Drasil¡¯s tribute? Our ways hath offered our moon more time but she may not last another day and sadly not enough to sail the Ruun and reach the gods of the mountain.¡±

    ¡°Bloody gods above and all devils & Hels below: hear that I shall save her somehow!¡± Mordaunt snatched the emerald bottle, pocketed it in his satchel and scooped up Selene in his arms. Marching back towards his steed with her he declared. ¡°I will bring her to the Temple. Where you fail the shamans shall succeed in Selene¡¯s salvation. They will summon the sun¡¯s love and lift this blackened curse! The gods will not be so selfish as to take the most beautiful of their seeds from the soil of our earth!¡±

    With that the Champion rode off at brisk pace. His sickly daughter tied to the saddle before him. Lilit offered one last prayer up to the sky before they disappeared beyond the meadows along arduous trail...

    The Temple, a week later

    A colosseum of stars enclosed upon Mordaunt as he trekked the mountainous path to Ty- Drasil¡¯s peak. From their distant thrones carved of the void the gods themselves spectated this night¡¯s venture with keen glow. He closed his eyes and beseeched their mercy, should any be attentive to his suffering. Praying for starlight to burn through sleep deprived lids & alight hope by spiritual Sight. But no such signal branded his seal. Peering back at the Lords above, the rival Serpent constellation of Zar¡¯Rion snaked over their starry laurels. Its tongue licked spring, poisoning the tide with belated winter.

    Selene, cradled softly in his arms, bobbed along with his rapid pace. The wind wrapped about her tiny frame and groomed her hair, concealing the ghastly taint of disease behind wayward strands as her father gazed with growing concern. The way through Moribond mountains was tempestuous and murky that desperate evening, as though the grim glare of the stars, those cold spectators, cursed his steps with dismaying doubt. But he would be damned not to make it through for his Selene.

    The route to that consecrated Temple could have proved a stony labyrinth to suffocate his hope were it not for the sigils & eternal braziers still tended to along the path. Towards the sacred seat under watchful peaks, all refusing to crumble to entropy or avalanche & remaining stalwart obstructions over the northern horizon. His concern for anything but the existential gambit was blockaded. As if those stubborn massifs & tors caged him to this dogged chase. His daughter¡¯s sickness cursed his mind, though no boils yet affected him. Madness burrowed in him across the voyage. Infuriating sprites and impish thought forms manifested from the ichor of exasperation & blame.

    These refractions of peeling mind spat chastisement, mocking him. ¡°If you¡¯d only brought her in, let her stay close & warm, this shivering spell would not hath befallen her yuletide passage! Her spring blooms with buboes and black rot more befitting the villain, in you, that left her to Malderath¡¯s curse!¡±

    ¡°Alas, here be a ¡®champion¡¯ without the vitality to defend the ones he claims close to heart!¡± Taunted another plague phantom, ¡°Hark how his courage appeared all too late! How he waited too long, idling in false grandeur, to redeem his love & valor! He wilts against futility¡¯s tide!¡±

    This discordant chorus of fevered wraiths kept him company at least. Alongside the frail groans from the bundled girl. Selene burned against his chest & seared their shared saddle, even as cool rains dampened hurried journey. No water, no witch¡¯s resilient ice blocks nor noxious elixir availed her draining flame. Foul lethargy stole her from him no matter how tightly he clutched her back to his brace. When she did briefly awake from malign cocoon, she offered no new insight to nor awareness of her father.

    Selene only screamed. Screamed as well as she could with the rotten syrup set in her throat, oozing over any attempts to match the pain with volume of outcry. Shrill utterances leaked from the child¡¯s stifled voice, scraping against the clusters of disease bubbling in her esophagus. Scared ramblings whose only understandable words had no rhyme, reason nor recognition to reality. Calling for faeries and friends who weren¡¯t there. Crying delirium before falling into afflicted slumber.

    Yet strangely, as horrible as Selene¡¯s fevered wails were, they brought him small comfort in knowing that the torpor had not claimed her whole. He still had time for a miracle, though the gap closed quickly. The earth hungered for his hope to fall and fertilize its life from death. Blood flowers to bloom of funeral soil. But he would not give her to the ground that easily. No brigands, courtly obligations & lethal responsibilities, inclement weather, or natural wall could stop him from seeking that holy sign of her healing.

    Only the Elder Keeper, she who communes with Fates, Muses and Spirits entwined in her breast, could call upon the greatest of forces to intervene on Selene¡¯s behalf. While his Lord was told to perform rites of resurrection and such miracles, Ligeia might have the sympathy of the old gods. While Drakkon would surely only scorn him or ignore his daughter¡¯s infirmity when besieged of superior need to protect his pride and martial might.

    Ascending the Ty-Drasil steps he found Ligeia¡¯s lair distant from his expectation of a humble shamanic hut. Presentation inverted presumption, from modesty to a singular and even warlike majesty: a precariously perched spire that stretched its gray neck over the edge of the cliff. This tiny fortress erected paranoic isolation in him, that the fabled grace of the old tribes he¡¯d once forsworn was as enclosed in emptiness as the banished serpent cults.

    The sparse sentinels skittering the way flee at his flashing the star of Imperium about his neck. Reaching the door, Selene¡¯s shudders & squeals rose worse with passing minute. He pries her jaw & pours her the last drops of green brew. The potion barely dams the flow of disease at all. That it may halt corruption before finding healing seal proved a mere fiction.

    ¡°Enter, guest! Come forth, ally of Imperator to your humble host!¡± Called the crone. The door opened and the champion met the shriveled shaman. Her skeletal shape creaking in the chair supporting her. A heavy cane steadied as Ligeia rose to greet her guest. Her cloudy eyes drew to the small girl dangling in the man¡¯s arms. Maternal empathy enfolded the dying Selene with wrinkled palm draped over her roasting forehead. Platinum mane became pallid tufts shaved by sickness. ¡°This is what my sentinels meant by the ¡®dire haste¡¯ in which you requested my audience. Now I understand why. This poor girl is afflicted with black blight that sunders quarter harvest of our world. You come seeking a cure?¡±

    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    ¡°I seek salvation. For her. Be it from you or the gods you speak to. She is my daughter. You, shaman, may be capable of thaumaturgy beyond Drakoni priests¡¯ spheres. My soul is knotted with hers. I beseech you: save us both this eve! I shall give whatever must be made as sacrament or tribute, if only Selene is given a second breath of life!¡± Mordaunt¡¯s composure disintegrated into ash of rue. Pleading weakness bleating from every pore as he lay his daughter upon the obsidian tablet by braziers. Then his knees squirmed in shudder. Trembling, and tear-wrapped, he collapsed to the stone of Ligeia¡¯s tower, sobbing soul-stringing appeal.

    ¡°I shall do what I can, Fury¡¯s Champion. But unless mine eyes are darkened by twilight¡¯s approach, I fear that the gift of salvation the gods may offer her from this pit of poison is the mercy of deliverance to their hearth. There is no need to pay me, for this is a matter of spirit & mortality, something only the astral weavers of all human fate - our webbed stage of causality ¨C may grant. If they aid, they may judge what considerable cost...for even miracles come at a price, and a father¡¯s love may only inspire the gods to move so much. We are ever at their mercy.¡±

    Mercy?! Mordaunt spat into the brazier as the shaman focused on Selene. To her he spoke slim hope. ¡°Help her persist through this and she shall earn the strength to endure anything else this vile veil can vex her with.¡±

    ¡°Have your wounds bolstered your brawn champion or caused sinews to surcease? Squandered to scar tissue over fleshy mold that gives muscle over to Malderath¡¯s strain?¡± Ligeia inquired without asking true answer. ¡°Alas, we wade in the waters of chance.¡±

    ¡°I shall conduct the Ritual of Revival to beseech all skyward powers to bring her from this brink. But know ¡®tis a ceremony worked only thrice in our shared history. I implore you leave us. Pray, go to the scrying stone overlooking Moribond¡¯s expanse. Allow heart¡¯s speech to soar to the ears of heaven¡¯s kin.¡±

    Mordaunt obeyed. Planted himself on the precipice that overlooked the endless, empty sky. The night winds snared him in spiraling coil though the rains died a short death. His soul hovered over the rim upon invisible current. For hours innumerable he folded inward in deep prayer, offering up all to the ethereal, if capricious, ocean above. He lost himself to this surreal purgatory, dancing between nihil & immense faith, unaware of his own chanting whispers nor the discordant wailing of Ligeia.

    The Elder¡¯s surprisingly firm voice, possessing the profound aspect that defined her as a caller of spirits, crooned and cawed. A warbling alchemy of desperate sound. By the time the invocation hollowed out the first glimmers of imminent dawn cracked the astral arena from where the gods stood witness. Yet the small hours remained. As did the smell of returning storms.

    The baying chorus of the nocturnal roll carried Ligeia¡¯s call across the tower. Violet clouds, half-fused with the hues of the aurorae they leeched, took formation to siege the peak. Mordaunt¡¯s stomach retched for answer. Against the onslaught of unknowing came imminent splash of heavenly, yet intemperate, sobs and the ghostly gales¡¯ screeching back at Ligeia¡¯s awful chaunting. He heard no cries from his daughter and waited no more to hear any pleas for her on his behalf. Patience beaten back by squall of accursed Hels (or interlocked, unifying and malicious, causality ordained of the Fates¡¯ imperceptible scribes) he barged into the Keeper¡¯s ritual chamber, eyes agleam with ravenous need.

    But that compulsion to see her, that wish of restoration, crashed against ghoulish sight instead. He sank with the anchor dragging all essence to infernal depths. Selene lay still, no longer writhing with spastic bolts of agony. She moved not at all. Her breath summoned away; stolen by Helwind gusts. A pale shroud drawn over her face, prepared for astral journey by ashen veil.

    Ligeia sat in mourning by her side, surrounded by a halo of incense smoke and dying embers of nearby braziers. No stream of air emanated from beneath that funeral pall. ¡°I could not heal her... The gods did not grant me their true Touch, did not reignite her spark of Life... She is gone, Mordaunt. No longer in a place where our hands can reach her.¡± Real sadness swathed Ligeia, limping over to the girl¡¯s father to offer shrunken hand to his shoulder. ¡°But moon-wax & Andrasil root allowed her a few easy breaths and paces of rest before the final hearth.¡±

    All mirth repressed in Mordaunt¡¯s miserable soul receded, seeking after Selene¡¯s, fled beyond the mortal shore by grave sail. Frozen, comprehending only half of her apology, the shaman tried to temper the brunt of woe. ¡°I cannot deign to comprehend the pain this tragedy brings, child. But if I might offer one consolation in this grave hour: allow yourself to respect her journey, her ascension, from this prison of pain.¡±

    Mordaunt¡¯s fist clamped around his emblematic amulet, pulling on it in a dull panic, while devastation of the world barraged his ears. With such force of denial & anger at all he tore his fingertips into the talisman. Then snatched up the ritual tablet, etched with feckless healing inscription, held with hate & blood, as splinters stabbed into his skin. ¡°The gods turned their gaze... ignored a child¡¯s plea ¨C my child! No ¡®gods¡¯ worth revering would let the most innocent & brilliant blossom of all humanity perish in insurmountable anguish! Servitude for sake of suffering! Indentured to death & fortune¡¯s malicious flail!¡±

    In a daze he stepped menacingly to Ligeia. His blonde mop, damp with sweat & tears, cast a malevolent shadow upon him which bore into her. His broken elongated nose jutted forth farther from his face as if to accuse the Elder of treacherous failure. ¡°You too let a child die this day! You brought us only snake oil and illusory hope! How dare you preach to me about the gods¡¯ plan! When they and their servant damned my daughter to that which she did not deserve! I curse you, keeper of lies!¡±

    ¡°Tame your rage, boy!¡± Ligeia did not slink away. Having inherited that indomitable Willpower possessed by her martyred predecessor in Gaahl she shot back against his oozing ire. ¡°You chastise an old woman in late hours. Demand her dare catching blight. Then denounce the Highest and their servants because the Fates do not bend to you. Do not curse the gods so vainly! Dither before spitting damnation against they who sculpted you from dust and offered freely the chance of life. Their will is unshakeable, unspeakable. Even if unknowing to us of mortal mind, never are their plans enacted without Purpose or Justice entwined in the binds they weave. Our strife is inevitable, they hath laid it out so. The Hels blow against us, & yet we must persist without our backs breaking or succumbing to baseness & blasphemy. If you allow this black rot to spread throughout your soul, then it is you who shall be damned!¡±

    Taking another step, he speared death glare at her. ¡°You proclaim my daughter¡¯s agony Justice?! The whim of Astraea?! If you speak for godly mercy, then I shall be without compassion for their ilk and yours!¡± With bestial growl Mordaunt lunged at the shaman. Wrangled her by the neck against the farthest wall of her spire. ¡°If you feel this gods¡¯ heart¡¯ is so enviable why linger on this pitiful rock? Why should I not grant you the same deliverance, the same care, as Selene?!¡±

    Mordaunt released his hold enough for Ligeia to spit retort. ¡°See past this torment to the firmament of all... Selene is with them, soon to find abode on their astral shores.¡±

    ¡°Gods¡¯ greedily snatching a young flower from their garden that they can keep its withered husk for their petty need?! Nay! She must live on with me ¨C on this earth!¡±

    ¡°Perhaps the gods hath cursed this earth? This rot reeks of our sins which spawned it. The gods damned this world and left us to our own corruptive devises the moment we hailed a pretender ¨C a heretic of false origin enthroned ¨C as Lord! Drakkon is the source of all our suffering and all that which blights our people! Surely you must feel that truth echo in your gut.¡±

    Mordaunt let a little mercy show, granting Gaahl¡¯s successor a sliver more of breathing room. Room which she used to hail prosecution. ¡°The muses branded you their hero, I see it in your aura. Yet you gave your soul to the man who usurps the sovereignty of the true gods and soils our world with avarice-wrought plots. Can you not see the plague as sign of Divine truth? The blight is our penance, they say. A demand from above to awaken to the fact that we upraised a devil on the pedestal of holy power. Instead of honoring their laws we crowned a conman.¡±

    Mordaunt pushed Ligeia out from the tower onto treacherous platform. Here, where Mordaunt prayed for hours without answer, she hung by precarious course. Death drew about her, but she did not quiver in tone as she admonished her accuser. He could threaten her, but she would not step an inch from the podium of her ideals & dignity.

    ¡°Horrid penance for terrible crime. Empyrean wrath touched your child because her father was so close to the blasphemer, Drakkon. This, the terror that consumes so many good lives. This horror: the spawn of his reign. The plague was not the first sign, only the one you noticed. I too once thought his cause Just. But tis only delusion of authority bound solely by lie. The origins of our great conqueror and divider are not so holy.¡±

    Mordaunt loomed over her. His towering wrath taller than her prison tower. He held the totem, where request of healing was carved, over her head as his impudence bashed her ears. ¡°I sailed the Ruun, scaled Moribond & Elderath to reach you. Yet I find only charlatans; so brash they accuse others and shame the soul of my Selene with insult! I should throw you from this rock where you hide from your fellow swindlers. Let you fly on those wings of faith!¡±

    Ligeia refused to step back. No more. Thin frame of withered tree defying winter¡¯s victory. ¡°Killing me will not lift this hex of pestilence. Nor restore your Selene to life. All that you gain from snuffing out what is left of my dwindling flame is further loss. We are only just opening our eyes, allowing ourselves to see what tyranny we let in. Divided by the shadow of your service and scheming scoundrels among our own here. Shamefully, we are far from lifting this curse, and the crown from the head of the plague-bringer. No successor have I chosen among Elders to become Keeper. Ty-Drasil is crippled with inaction. A condition familiar to your Empire. Many here wish for my fall. Do not thrash our hope in the face of nature¡¯s worst aspect and mortal claimant over us all, in Death.¡±

    ¡°You speak ill of the Living Lord? Should I not thrash you in the name of Imperium?!¡± Yet Mordaunt¡¯s ears ached to her hear blasphemy, yet his nostrils welcomed the acrid truth, knowing the emperor¡¯s title so hollow to voice.

    ¡°That Lord waves sign of great sickness! He cursed you!¡± Ligeia¡¯s elegance was steadfast. Righteous wisdom infused her plea for mercy, not for herself but for generations yet to bloom as the one whose chance was threatened, roped by fingers about her neck. ¡°The rotten light shining perversion can be cast out and cleansed by purifying sunlight! Only if this temple and those beacons of opportunity, learning and guidance fall not into the shade of immoral vanity. Be not another dread knight of Drakkon! Do not come to represent that same darkness as bygone magisters who mocked your misery enchained to them. Be unlike our seditious sages, who, mimic Vizzari style inquisitions! Binding their fellows to fear & the temptation of tyranny.¡±

    What iconoclastic inversion of chivalry resided in Mordaunt allowed the woman her last grace to preach her piece. Yet it was no humiliating plea, but a sermon staged of stoic¡¯s resistance. ¡°If you will turn from this madness and look at the scales and the sanctum behind & below, you will see how the distant Primus among his peers builds up antithesis to our legacy. While their monetary master is remote, through gluttonous sway our holy house falls to decadent and hedonic estate bought by his treasures. That conniving Magus Albrecht of fell invention will rally wyrms to elect him. We had barely a decade of peace under your lord before more innocents padded the pyres and pits. We must dam up these despots¡¯ visions from bewitching more minds here and far, fresh & weathered alike. Else those wretches will desecrate all our living kin. How would such a worm-eaten world be a gift to your daughter¡¯s ghost?¡±

    ¡°Why should I give a damn? Never mind what is worse for your graceless temple. If your holy seat lacks the zeal to preserve pure spirits from waning let yours be damned!¡± Mordaunt did not blink repentance, strangling her thin throat with unfettered hate. ¡°This despicable plane can burn to ash for all I care! I lost the last orb of light & purpose. Only she made me care to become a better man. Without her there is nothing to stake any future on. So, I state this clearly: Sod your ¡®pious¡¯ politicking, sod your vain bastard gods & snuff your ¡®holy flame¡¯! If I must become a monster to enact vengeance for the evil wrought upon me since birth, then so bloody be it!¡±

    ¡°My ¨C fail-ing ¨C was ¨C not calling out the deception once I knew the truth! A sin you share ¨C with me, champion! We fall ¨C all of us ¨C together...¡± The crone rallied final flail against this heretical tempest in the man. Her dangling legs kick at him, to send him from the edge. Clamps claw & aged tooth into whatever she could hold of him, skin, or garb. That they would topple together should he pursue that hate and the cliff to this end. To no avail.

    This champion, unchaining his shadow, slapped away any sense she could further batter him with invocation tablet. ¡°I shall stand in Judgement of myself, alone! I shall Judge the world and all the stains it¡¯s left upon this tired vessel of mine. I am my own monster, a cyclone of choosing! I am the instrument of mine own destiny! O, feckless Keeper! I deem you the first of the diseased faithful to fall to my Justice.¡±

    He howled madly. His chin snapped back, unleashing ugly bout of laughter, as he shoved Ligeia. His hostage spotted unwitting tears wetting her captor¡¯s cheeks, scarring them with the sullen swell of denial. This refutation of the world¡¯s madness ruptured the surface of his sanity, taking plunge into deathly declaration. ¡°You lot, the spiritualists & prophets of invisible gods, are worse than vultures! Such pretense of compassion for those who suffer beneath blind canopy of these ¡®gods¡¯ and ¡®heavenly¡¯ spirits; whispering in your ears about how they wish for you to live in ever grander retreats and more ostentatious robes! Down you topple, with the rubble of your dubious delusions! That hath ne¡¯er saved a soul in all this mortal mold¡¯s decades, only filled mass graves with plague-stricken children unsaved by petty prophecies!¡±

    Before he¡¯d spoken this grim conclusion for her fate, Ligeia saw the inevitable and readied herself. As best as one could when thrust through death¡¯s threshold. The crone drew in the voice of the wind, siphoning that last cadence of air all about their shrine atop that mountain peak, her constant cradle in life. Then let out a shrill, soul-splitting curse as only one trained in the throaty cries of the shaman¡¯s calls could emit. Continuing in the till of tides as her frame felt the hammering bane of runic tablet wrenched against her.

    The wind at her back defying Mordaunt¡¯s push was not enough to keep her from the fall. Ligeia toppled down lethal length of the spire. Whether swallowed up by the sea in its raucous appetite or left bent and broken on one of the angry crags below, he did not know. Her obscene curse drowned swiftly. Save for a wisp over the choppy, violet storm, once mere shimmers at edge of the sky, waging assault over the mountains.

    Mordaunt saw the purplish shroud on the march over the peaks to conquer the Temple. He seized the spell tablet, unsheathed dusky blade, and carved curse upon it. Blood slipping unto stone, as ink of ire, graved assault against heaven & blistered earth. By those flickering bolts & storm-spears Mordaunt announced them his adversary, manifested in nature itself. He cast the curse into the sea & thrust blade to atmosphere with challenge, infusing retributive desire into the tip of the sword. Proclaiming:

    ¡°Reap spite this hour, ye murderous gods! Hearken me, Hels & Fates! Be ye apathetic or malicious I stand forth to challenge thy wisdom of the world! To interrogate thy barbarous laws in favor of mine own Judgement! I raise steel against false lords and demand reason for this pain! Strike me with an arrow from thine armory or else flee from the path I carve! I rise above the beast that I was. No longer a hound of the gods & empires mankind pisses away. I am reborn of bared Will. I shall wrestle Thunder & Flame from the god¡¯s torch! Raise myself as claimant to heaven¡¯s throne! A mortal to rule for needs of my kin without mind for godly wants!¡±

    The mountains & seas shouted back his impertinent pride. Echoing his boldly blasphemous exclamations from their abyssal bellies, conjuring through this resonance a ghostly chorale of his temper, repeated dissonantly. As he rejected the gods, spurning their seats in the sky, the gales abound that windswept peak became as fierce as the boiling fever in his veins. Every bone blenched and muscles trembled at tempest thrown forth.

 Shattered Glass

    Chapter Three, Shattered Glass

    Six months following, Upper Court of Windhand Hold

    The sun scratched at the paint of sky¡¯s canvas. Threaded by chipped clouds, it brought little warmth to this great northern fortress of Windhand. This titan¡¯s hold constantly conserved a cold aura about every stone and step, even when revivified by warm Drakoni decor. Drakkon sat high in judgement upon his alabaster throne, adjoined with antlered crown, staring over the spiraling court, and frowning at all that filled it. A robed choir of druids and skalds stood below his gaze. The weary sovereign slowly rose once the heralds concluded their litany of empty honorifics. His figure, illumed against the light through relic glass graven in his likeness, glowing by dwindling sun.

    His eminent seat bared silent menace. For behind, before and beside his throne everything screamed for and against his authority in simultaneous tumult. Those quasi-translucent windows showered fearful illustrations of his living myth, winking through Windhand to remind wary allies of his astral eye. This abandoned seat of their tribes mutual ancestors: restored from neglect under Vizzari, decked out with sigils of the new Aeon¡¯s glory. Marble statues and faceless effigies to the other pantheon rulers and progenitors of tribal myth, likenesses obscured against the waning day and pillars to their immortal imperator. Masonry & art devoted to his grandeur littered the court with unliving cyphers, crushing the living into claustrophobic cubes. The courtiers chafing against each other and the busts, betwixt the glare of their emperor.

    ¡°You come at dusk with a judicial matter to address, as the heralds confer. Well, what is this reason and why is it so deserving of being heard so late?¡±

    Their speaker stepped forward. A wizened man with white-mane, a cloudy left eye, and azure streaks of lightning-tattoos lining his chest & arms. He upraised an impressive staff with a blueish crystal at the head, heralding speech. ¡°Hail Drakkon. I am the Druid Wulfir. I come with small company of likeminded brothers, pilgrims on righteous path. All our minds are unified by a crystalline cause, a pure devotion to the true Justice of the gods.¡± The elder Druid stroked his wild, tangled beard and then collided his palm with the boy¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Thus, we deliver unto you this day a worthy sacrifice, a blasphemer and prime envoy of your enemy. That Malderath¡¯s kiss or mercy shall be awarded this dying day.¡±

    Drakkon¡¯s brow and tone furled with suspicion. ¡°But I thought your kind kept to the shade of the hidden groves away from all? Wherefore is it ye feel compelled to act against heretics on my behalf without a word beforehand? Are druids suddenly so interested in worldly sects?¡±

    ¡°Tis usually the case we are hermits, aye.¡± Wulfir smiled and his wrinkles stretched as gangling oak. The old man pushed the prisoner to the stone and fiddled under his feathered robe, in no great rush to produce the talisman of his station to questioning eye. ¡°But alas foul times & entropic tides tangle up the ways of the world and the planes beyond. For the gods¡¯ way is being defiled and while my brothers wilt by hermit stones, I decided to serve the Divine more actively. Thus, we seek your council with a cause.¡±

    The aged druid groused & gargled from tinny tunnel. ¡°Behold! What may seem but an innocent or even praiseworthy mask may ought to be nothing but a frail fac?ade concealing the presence of a lurking daemon. This ¡®boy¡¯ came to us, seeking solace, yet reeking of poison. He is the son of Kee¡¯Tan ¨C the renegade jarl who declares himself the paragon of the People and the leader of their ¡®Protectorate.¡¯ Hear the lad confess and let us hear judgement.¡±

    The lad, eyes downcast in grieving thought, then confessed to his Lord, perched on ashen throne, in a voice that nearly filled the ordained court despite his frame. ¡°I am Vilas. A son of this land betrayed by its Lord. Another son you deceived & abandoned! We have taken the Hold of Helcrest. We route the false nobility to fling its defense against your Drakes. My father¡¯s lands of lordship and all Helwreath rises against you.¡±

    In retort Drakkon raised sword & speech simultaneously. Barking curses at this traitorous youth with ambition to challenge the high throne of heaven. ¡°Putrid tongue, writhing maggot! Thou hast no right to stand on this Windarian stone - Elder peak! Temple to my Thunder!¡±

    Vilas spat seething acid as speech. ¡°You mark my tongue as jagged, yet my voice is shared by villages manifold: you are a pretender, a tyrant & usurper of the people¡¯s rights! Your Aeon robs folk of happiness & harvest. This thought grows in agitated oratories within Illuminaries, taverns & common stands alike. This troupe of hermit sages have heard it in their learned Groves. Few are they who gleefully announce their ¡®Lord¡¯ in thee!¡±

    ¡°Hold, helot!¡± Drakkon raised halt and looked to his commander at the left of his throne. ¡°Heron, were you not tasked with keeping peace West of the Ruun & all borders along the great river? How does this rabble seize such a fortress just East of your governorship?¡±

    ¡°My Lord,¡± Heron offered humble honesty, ¡°I have ordained your peace long. Only, you recalled me to your court here. To be assured of my loyalties, you said. As this Windarian stone & portrait glass borders me, I can little leave to defend holds manned by y-our Drakes.¡±

    His Lord huffed resignation and gestured to the champion at his right to read the rest of the charges. But Baron, currently a courtier in this asylum ward of Windhand, noted this unreason from their host. Glancing at Heron, under his governorship all those from Torhildenberg to Windirin enjoy peaceful property. Tis the lands our Lord governs harshly that hail revolt...

    Assembled besides his pedestal the other members of the High Council, from Mother Azarra to Heron, looked on with anxious curiosity. Though they were there to advise their Lord, his moods grew ever more taciturn. If any voice of dissent were to raise, Drakkon would let fall wrothful hammer. Corinna and Baron exchanged wary glances in mutual prayer that the boy¡¯s crimes would not incur the full force of that hammer.

    The bold prisoner announced a ransom of his own. Addressed the master of imperium with authority beyond agelessness. As if those staves enclosing him were not captors but heralds to his call. ¡°Ascend back to the stars, Lord! Or else retire to Ty-Drasil or latent abyss to leave us mortals you torment so to toil in peace!¡±

    ¡°Ye wish to hold Helcrest but shall take smoldered cells with the Hels as wardens!¡± The Lord¡¯s rage loomed. ¡°So blind to my healing Light, he denounces it! All that is familiar to these pests is surreptitious schemes. Born as rats & maddening plague-doves, his kind spit poison in the mouths of babes, sages, thralls & druids alike! With what cards do ye seek to bargain? Thou recant the blood of olden tribes-¡±

    Baron butted in to plead mercy. ¡°Perhaps his youth explains some of his foolishness, Lord. His head¡¯s been rattled but he may yet live on to restore light to the world-¡±

    Drakkon cut him off, wrath soaring over the heights of Windhand¡¯s pillars. His complexion turned an unnatural pale, wan intent pierced his pores. ¡°A head rattled by rousers scourging your Illuminaries! A pox keeps spreading among these ¡®enlightened¡¯ minds. If he has been so educated in his time there, it should make up for his youth. Thus, he stands as full-grown man before the Wrath I dictate, knowing full well what poisons sprout of his tongue!¡±

    With clenched fists the Lord strode from pale seat towards his prey. But halted, suddenly remembering himself and his company. ¡°Drakes of my Wing! Escort my beloved Empress to her royal chambers. I wish not her eyes be haunted by proper punishment.¡±

    But as these sentinels swayed through the throne room to let the Empress out, Corinna stepped some strides past their watch. She swung herself to stand between the doomed lad and her husband¡¯s sentencing steel. ¡°Loving Lord! I beseech you find small mercy for the wretch. Do not take his head, so ailing from heresy implanted by others ¨C like his father ¨C when it might be cured!¡±

    An icy stalactite sigh broke from Drakkon¡¯s breath as his focus revolved towards Corinna. But before warmth or reason could melt his frigid stature a lightning bolt struck the court from within. The throng of druids eschewed their robes. This ephemeral reluctance, all the visiting company needed to transfigure themselves from humble spiritualists & scholars to militant assassins. Runed mail and gambesons, their tunics. Their hands revealing serrated staves, clubs, tridents & long knives all readied to bash & bleed a god.

    Vilas lunges for Corinna with a shivering hand. With serrated stave he brandishes the edge over her throat. ¡°I do not wish to do this desperate deed, Drakkon. I am brought to this point by thee! Grant what belongs to me and thy flock lest innocent flesh be rent as penance!¡±

    ¡°You! How could you do this?¡± Corinna gasps with what breath she could summon as his arm tightens around her throat. ¡°I had faith you were of noble spirit. Better than this brutishness!¡±

    Worn and weathered Wulfir arches his back. Retains a resilience to age in defiance of the towering Lord. Hailing fatal fury, he announces his purpose. ¡°I denounce thee, despot! I speak for my Order in renouncing thy ¡®divinity¡¯! Thou art the dark breath of the dragon! Wyrm-fire leaps from thy monstrous mouth! Thy spit, the burning of townships & whole bloodlines caught in the ¡®radiance¡¯ of thy ¡®light¡¯!¡±

    ¡°Warlock!¡± Drakkon screams at the Druid with obsidian threat. ¡°Ye would betray primordial pacts to assault my domain! I should have cast thee into arid wastes of the East along with Aris! Such appalling gall shall be met with fury to match!¡±

    ¡°O Lord, beguiled by mortal wit: Aris was no brother to our Order. He may have spent time among our initiates but never earnt his talisman, was never ordained at the Henge. Not in any circle I know!¡±

    Wulfir¡¯s bark ensnares Windhand. With a frenzied howl, a lupine spirit awakens inside him. He and his fellows bolt as berserkers, charging the sentinels closest to Corinna. With a couple ferocious swipes of serrated quarterstaff the guards fall to their knees, bleeding there from the gashes & sundered flesh beneath ornate armor. The warriors of wind sweep the guards back, cornering the Lord by his throne & imprisoning his empress.

    ¡°Release her, damn thee! Fight with honor and put steel behind sorcerer¡¯s words to face me for the fortune of thy tribe! I will not tolerate this barbarousness against mine heart!¡± Drakkon, face ablaze with ruby red, takes a couple small but deliberate steps towards the villain holding his life¡¯s love hostage.

    ¡°No more from thy mouth, lest I cut the good maiden before we rip thy draconic tongue out!¡± Vilas shouts. Voice shaking with tumult. He pulls Corinna closer and brings edge nearer to her neck. ¡°Thou art in no position to speak over us. For once hear out our demands with respect or be met with that same ruin that thou made us familiar with! Not once hath thou heard the pleas of ¡®help¡¯ from the heaths, nor humored even my honorable father¡¯s ask - save when he was needed by thee! So, listen now or we shall bleed thee and thine!¡±

    Baron leaps into the precarious dispute. Stepping swiftly between Drakkon and the druids he quickly and nervously throws up his hands and yells to break the lethal tension. ¡°Is there not a more peaceful & pragmatic a way to come to an agreement? One that does not involve placing Corinna at stake. Must her innocent blood be cost for this display of ramming horns?! Please, let not tragedy be reaped this day for all here! We need not cross that threshold; we need but yield this rage to reason.¡±

    ¡°Time beneath his banners erodes all bridges beyond this!¡± Vilas growls feverish frustration. ¡°The dream, the destiny, of Elderath¡¯s forgotten children is worth more than any life, no matter how pure or precious. Tis your lord with whom you must reason. Yet he is silent as our steads starve & rot! He speaks only the language of death and cares for naught save crown and queen!¡±

    Corinna went to whisper words of defense, but the sharpened points along her captor¡¯s stave stall speech. So close that to speak would cut skin. Drakkon, near erupting with the fuming desire to shout & charge at this man using his beloved as bargaining piece, knew he would never be quick nor accurate enough to cut him down. And as the warlocks of Felhenge, this foul circus of druids deranged by desperation, herd his Drakes into cautious corners he could not move to expunge this nightmare.

    ¡°I believe in your passion for your lands, your people. You need funds to replenish your holds? But you must know to harm her or threaten anymore only seals off any way to that destiny from breathing in life. Any more shall ensure this castle your tomb.¡± Baron prods.

    ¡°If I might be so bold as to suggest something as a herald of our Living Lord,¡± Scanning the plaza in panic Baron spots a servant cowering beside a pillar, ¡°we will offer to send this good lass from this precarious court that she might find a minister of treasury and a sizable amount of gems & metal from the vault. Permit us this mercy that we return it? Allow her release: that on her return, with fair proof of covenant we can negotiate on more promising grounds. All we ask from this is that fairest Corinna may be free to leave the tarnished table. Only then may heads be cool enough to refrain from travesty of murder. Does that avail ye?¡±

    ¡°Wherefore should this malicious deviant¡¯s whim be honored? When he storms in as a barbarian, boasts heretical hubris against all that is sacred and defies Imperium?!¡± Drakkon spit forked lightning tendrils. His stance snapping by hemorrhaging hate.

    Baron glares at Drakkon through slanted eyes. Suddenly all too aware that Corinna would not be endangered like this were it not for this man projecting his unwitting hubris so ceaselessly. He did so even now, at the risk of his wife¡¯s life. But the emperor folds his focus. After fixing purpose he seconds the bard¡¯s motion. He forces a rasping whisper to the servant¡¯s ear before sending her forth.

    Vilas leapt, unwilling to be caught in any backheeling to this tensely thin accord. ¡°Corinna shall remain within my reach until reparations arrive! Neither she nor I will be at ease until coin is manifest here. Any trickery or nefarious guests making sudden appearances, any alterations to our deal and her fate and ours together will be sealed in blood. But I wish no meaningless damnation for any! I would rather that I see my forefather¡¯s soil consecrated with the toil of mine arms, warmed & watered from the sweat of my brow. Rather be a farmer than executioner!¡±

    Another silent pact consummates between the players. Thick hostility chokes the air of the mountain court with burdened space. The helot hurriedly departs, leaving net of quiet of a stiff and inverted nature. Exhaustive cloud permeates the castle¡¯s breath, suffocating any speech that would dare shake dreadful stillness.

    To constrain his convulsing heart from jumping out his chest, Baron hums a tune out of the depths of memory. That serenade starts inside his head but soon escapes through his lips. Before he realizes it, the song spreads, shattering that covetous silence. Other voices join his, not in sharp admonishment but as accommodating, if cautious, choir. Even the young man holding the empress in thrall lulls unconscious harmony, recognizing familiar key.

    This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    Corinna, beside her wits before, upon hearing unexpected rumbling of Vilas¡¯ voice resonating with the good bard¡¯s idle song lets out a gentle refrain. Daring her melody to enter their musical movement. Diffusing the court¡¯s clouds, this song shares brief repose for most. While Drakkon, planted firm behind glowering mask and druid staves, refuses to sing, his accuser surrenders to half-song. Pained chuckle hides sniffling tear sliding along Vilas¡¯ quivering mold. ¡°That tune... I recall it from long ago, in the haze of a forgotten dream which I perhaps lived. M-mother would sing it as we strolled the heath.¡±

    Her captor mutters this to himself more than she or any other. But as Corinna secedes from song, no longer feeling razor edge press tight to her, she addresses him directly. ¡°You are stronger than this hate, I know it! I can forgive you for this desperate transgression, for tis not an act of sound mind nor one your stars would readily ordain. But I can never forgive you should you bridge that final gap into darkness. Do not abandon that vision of a budding rebirth for Elderath and her children. Your ancestors surely do not smile on the vanity of violence borne of enmity when there is yet a beaming Light leading the way back to the land of your mother¡¯s tribe.¡±

    A blurred whip of sound & motion came then. The court door swung open. The servant and the treasury minister (a nimble yet gnome like man whose buggy eyes bulge with itching angst at loss of coin) crossed the threshold & shuffled up a few paces from the throne. There they tossed two heavy bags that clanged & jingled onto the floor.

    A stark wind then blew by the miserly goblin of a minister¡¯s voice across the court. His spindly fingers in a nervous dance of trepidation. ¡°A monetary indulgence arrives, milords,¡± said the hunched banker, ¡°I hope this is sufficient. No disrespect is meant to thee, druids, and son of Kee¡¯Tan, only this spare pouch is what was stored in the belly of Windhand. The Harvest hath not come yet.¡±

    The young man emits a woeful groan and collapses to his knees. Corinna leaps from the grip of this shambling mess; stepping sprightly from those captors as a gust of steel-ice, incarnate in Mordaunt & his men, cuts through the court. Their tempest batters the ring at the center, knocks down the song-sundered Vilas. But their squall clashes headlong with frightful tridents wielded by the intruders who roar belligerent chaunt.

    Forming a makeshift phalanx to stave off the sentinels, Wulfir holds his warlike staff above and roars with the resolve of a bear charging a lesser beast. ¡°No gold shall pay penance of shed souls! Drakkon must die! We are the blade of the People¡¯s spirit & aegis ov Protection! We shall not rest, even when our bodies lie lowered beneath the soil, not until his skull is split by true Gods¡¯ hammer!¡±

    Enclosing rout encases Mordaunt and his fresh host. While their first fusillade fells a few feral warlocks, their bows & pillars then stammer. Knowing not who to litter with missiles next, with colors of foe & friend so fused in haze. All suspended in entropy & unknowing. All suspect. He scarcely succeeds in staggering away from an abrupt & ignominious end at the polearms of odious mystics when his Drakes thrust themselves in the way of assassins¡¯ blades.

    Azarra screeches. Her banshee wail besieges the entire sphere of Windhand¡¯s peak. Having left her elysian tower to find herself at tip of brutish spear, she screams horrors to hail from the heavens. The belligerent champion snaps to her defense. Slashing spear lines and militiamen, he & her trained disciples push back those encroaching on the High Mother and her Azarine faithful.

    Embattled blur of nightmare captures all the court. Unshakeable in its sway & all too vivid to deny. A couple of lords and nobles in attendance of the High Council (sycophants and shallow misers as they were, who would muck up all the murk of anyone¡¯s past to defame and shame them or ignore a dying peer so long as it benefited them) meet their ends by point, pitchfork, and bludgeon. Others shed ruse, costumes of cloth & cuirass, to join the fray in favor of revolt, casting cowering courtiers as captives.

    Drakkon contends with Wulfir & his wolves garbed as shepherds. The lord of the realm cornered at the back pillar by his elevated throne. One, armed with a trident, rushes him as another flanks with heavy chain, flailing. Profound artwork fixed to the tall glass window beside them shatters by blow of brutal strike aimed for him. But the lustful bliss of combat overwhelms, blends cerebral tactics with flaring intuition.

    The Lord strafes to the side as a disguised sentinel lunges with trident, swiftly tripping him off balance. The wobbling sod would never find his feet again. Fallen from the edge to his death hundreds of cubits down the fortress wall. His ally runs with wild gale. Only for the bull rush of last vigor to pounce upon black blade, plunged into his belly. The piercer, singing for bloody tones, reaches with heat of hungering harmony through tabard to rend its key.

    Isolated from his soldiers¡¯ shields & scattered swords, jagged tooth punctures the emperor¡¯s thigh. The crystal canine atop Wulfir¡¯s staff artfully chisels Drakkon¡¯s flesh. Another of these bites scrapes his leg. The ancient master, relentless in his driven hate. The old man, drunk on the drawing of deity¡¯s red, chortles and chants with adrenaline glee. But the louder song of obsidian blade slashes him. With appetite teased, star-sword gashes from thunder-impressed blue veins to chaunting cords.

    The dead druid¡¯s limp trunk collapses in twain. Separated from the grizzled, desiccated head which led the way for the rest, toppling out the smashed aperture. Shards of graven glass shower the spot where the pair scuffled. One scratches the Lord¡¯s temple; a piece of his Living reflection staring back as it lunged in. With an aggrieved growl, the victor limps back to the stairs of his throne, a hand resting over the bloody opening while his sword props him up, as a cane would its cripple. The parting cadence of the solar chariot¡¯s trail descends into the nether, leaving only the black streaks of the day¡¯s decay & bleakness of the night¡¯s chill from the shattered displays.

    Azarra and Mordaunt shuffled over to Drakkon, along with the former¡¯s trusted alchemist, Albrecht, who jumped to the task of bandaging their charge¡¯s lacerations. His mother attempted to keep the sovereign from exhausting his reservoirs needed to heal, reserve his speech for rest. But her Lordly son rambled, as the vacuous shouts of embittered evening berated them.

    ¡°Every bloody time we crush these parasites they simply swarm up in greater number. Now they intrude into our halls ¨C my seat! They desecrate the holy sanctum we built with calloused hands and endless hours all for their pathetic plea for martyrdom. They wish to play victim?! They shall get the chance on stage over their balefire on which they & their children shall burn!¡±

    ¡°You must rest, my golden son! Blessed beaming Light! Do not tear those glowing veins by being taut over a minor cult of dull-witted fanatics. Your spirit is pure & deathless, but this coil of man must still grant time to heal.¡± Azarra lathered oozing sap & oil onto the thigh & forehead of her progeny.

    ¡°I will rest when the rogues who covet my seat are lashed to stakes, alit by Fyre!¡± He laughed in retort to her insistence. Ripples of distress & pangs of hurt accompanied his refusal of her cry. ¡°Hear me, Wulfir, from beyond the mortal maw: I shall retake Helcrest; the storms I summon crash thunder upon pilfered helm! I shall seek the hermit court at Felhenge and burn them as bloody scarecrows of conquest! An augury for all to hark at the fate of warlocks!¡±

    The holy mother¡¯s eyes sharpened with the blade of precise compassion. Driving them home into Drakkon¡¯s, her concern & rushing need flushed out. ¡°They will see their day of judgement soon, my beloved beacon. You will see to their doom, I know it ¨C feel it turn tides of night stars.¡± Azarra cradled him as though still a babe. Her opaque gown blew over them as a sail snared by Helwinds. ¡°But hurry not off the precipice into darkened slopes & brimstone steps. This matter is dire and thus your aim must be true. I beseech your eminent halo to alight by the waves of meditation & careful planning. Just because those villains played their hand does not mean we must instantly show ours.¡±

    ¡°My Will is to march personally against this line of dissent. To tear out the vein of treachery with mine hands. With mine own might stamp it out conclusively and finally free us of this menace.¡±

    ¡°But my son - my Shining SUN!¡± Azarra pleaded. ¡°May I remind you, only in courtesy, that we have not the funds for a prolonged campaign fought through hostile marshes-¡±

    ¡°All that we are is flung forth into the forward lines of grim-faced war & Mardrun¡¯s dour stripes. Our survival is at stake. This false Protectorate ensures its demise or else our Imperium¡¯s.¡±

    Her son shuffled out from her cape, shoved her aside. ¡°Corinna, my shining star, come hither unto me and be freed of wretched clutches.¡± Commanded Drakkon, before any other spectators could fully comprehend the scope & swiftness of what occurred. With one hand he beckoned her to him. The other kept high his bleak sword, as a scythe to reap the life of Vilas as a farmer slices his crop (the death of traitors his yield).

    Corinna gasped. Frozen in dismay while she spun about in struggle to regain her breath & wits. Yet she proved resilient through this fray. Rushing over to the unconscious Villas, she shielded him from her husband¡¯s black blade arcing overhead. While she could still feel the phantom molestation of his serrated stave gripping the edge of her neck, her face flushed with concerned. ¡°Nay! Stay thy hand! For the sake of thy love in me and thy trust in the Light of divinity, I beg thee spare his life! Do not slay him for my sake. Please, lower that sword and raise up civility for this lost soul. He is not in accordance with his mind.¡±

    Drakkon gaped at her. Aghast at this inconceivable behavior from his beloved. ¡°Ah?!! Wherefore are you so vexed in this manner, woman? Why do you insist on wasting words too kind for this fiend who hungered for your throat minutes ago?! Are you as possessed by lunacy as he?!¡±

    Corinna¡¯s body became a bulwark against her consort¡¯s chagrin. ¡°Promise me that he shall not be slain, that is all I ask. All I pray for you to grant me this day. I wish not for a redeemable life to be laid to waste in the name of my honor when tis I who proclaims my forgiveness. Let no torture or scythe touch him!¡± She clutched a hand to her chest and another to his. Pressed tight as if to invoke spiritual Aegis.

    Her stare linked with her husband¡¯s. She saw his emotions implode with flint of confusion. But she kept her gaze genuine and firm without veering into any harshness that could upset him more. Before him, the empress summoned a spell of feigned distortion; steeping herself in a swill of spirits and sweeping back her eyes as she tumbled into his folds. ¡°Love! The Light shines insight: we must not spill any more blood upon this hallowed stone lest all our holds soon be awash with a flood of it. The Muses pray mercy that horror departs.¡±

    The bard, beside them, saw in Drakkon then such a loathsome & heinous beast masquerading as a ruler. Such harping pain dug into his chest, bit at his heart, gnawed at his ribs. This tunneling fission inside carved rift between he and the man called his friend and lord. Thankfully though, that blind barbaric drive for malice melted beneath the rays of Corinna¡¯s reassurance.

    Her lordly husband held her tightly. His sight pried the windows of her soul. After long peering into her being, through stare so firm it almost frightened save such an immense sense of care for her it carried (always surprising in its depth, even to her) Drakkon nodded. ¡°I see. forgive me then for my mistrust, ¡®twas the haze of rage which incited this in me. But I understand. I believe in the truth your gift, my love, and promise to honor this insight. Yet I ask you now to take leave of us and this court. Only that my focus will not be drawn too far into your elysian glow. That I might serve Astraean justice. Know no more shall be bled here.¡±

    She returned his long look. Witnessed the fyrds of passion levied there. She sensed truth in the weight of his adoration and knew it only right to offer her belief in him back. She knew how grievously he struggled to keep caged his wrath. How much it meant for him to abstain. ¡°Very well, my love and guiding Light...  I shall away to the Chamber of Reflection, that I might meditate and move my mind from this stress into needed rest. Should you care to join me once your tribunal concludes I shall be there and would welcome it.¡± Corinna gave curtsy. She started her trek out with servants behind. Then flashed one last look to Drakkon, with reminder to keep good on his oath, and left as agreed.

    Mordaunt, meanwhile, appeared aloof from their dialogue. He¡¯d asked leave from this council session on behalf of the wintry sickness of his Lady Portia, as to avoid the assumed drollness of it. Yet he returned to pulverize the aggressors. Lashing out at them as means of channeling his distaste for being stuck wintering with the wife in Windhand, denied his Selene till afterlife¡¯s spring. His thoughts dug inward, confusion chipping away his moral center.

    A stray gust of wind picked up and tossed the grim man¡¯s yellow locks aloft; his mane mirroring the disarray of his head as numbness returned to his jaw. Drakkon¡¯s watery colour is the same as that which I shed for him. The kind I hath bled before! Even if I came to him seeking salvation for Selene, would his hand, laid upon her soft brow, beckon any miracle forth? How long must I bear these dubious shackles before my purpose can be bared? Did I miss my shot just then? Or is this the sign of circumstance, to finally end this farce? To force a prophecy ov power beyond any hedge witch or pretender¡¯s imperium?

    The champion¡¯s concentration was challenged by his master, who turned rumbling voice to his ear. ¡°Mordaunt seek not the silence of thoughts but speak freely as to our plight!¡± Drakkon waved off the hurt but didn¡¯t manage the same for the doubts of his thrall. ¡°Let skin-deep scratch ne¡¯er deter you from higher course nor from true faith. You shall soon be my steward, my emissary, my prophet while I prepare the ascent into our infinite season of supremacy.¡±

    ¡°Shall I dispose of this patchwork heathen? Or will that be the honor solely of the Lord of our eternal Imperium?¡± So spoke Mordaunt, kneeling before his emperor. In a tone chillingly indifferent to the asphyxiating anxiety that plagued those who¡¯d experienced so close a fall into tragedy. Behind those frigid eyes, roosting in the prime material of his humanity, shot a hungry longing like a malnourished manticore salivating over fresh feast.

    ¡°You shall act as my Hand. Though it shall not wield mortal axe but instead a tool of a more precise punishment.¡± Drakkon looked down upon the beaten boy, bound now in chains. ¡°Because this lost soul proves blind to the truth of my Light, he shall be damned to dwell in darkness. You shall blind him with caustic Spear of Fire. Prod out those two useless orbs from his skull. But it shall be done in such a way that not a single ounce of the blasphemous poison running in those veins is spilt unto this floor!¡±

    ¡°Servants! Mother Azarra! Magus Albrecht! Prepare a potion, cauldron, tarp & the searing stick. As I hath sworn, every drop must be burnt away lest it congeal unto this sacred court stone.¡± Commanded the wounded immortal. ¡°Let this be mercy! For he shall live past his hour of treachery and not see the fate of his kin. Yet, in perpetual dusk, he shall know of it.¡±

    Azarra looked a wraith. Vanished in somber of mist of her disrepair. Have I lost him so? To see him swayed by simple ruse from false Seer and maid less than fair? Be fate so cruel that the tainted seed I raised must sprout sour thorns to cut me? To repel my touch and cast me out! Yet her tongue furled false firmness. ¡°And with a little murkroot and Andrasil sap this lad shall spill his secrets without need of question.¡±

    Drakkon paid her little heed. Instead attending to his champion. ¡°I declare that it falls to you to tend to my seat in the capitol as harbinger of my Peace. I shall decide this campaign indefinitely from the fronts with mine own blood & fire. I will root out the groves those ¡®druids¡¯ hide in and burn them down. Tear out any nests infested with rebellious sentiment with crushing closure. We shall take Felhenge, the prime roost they forfeit. Sculpt it into pre-eminent place for executions. But while away I would have my Champion in you remain resolute and ready in Crestfall. We must have a stout mind & strong sword remain. For we know not what bedeviled mischief this mutinous mob may spawn in my absence.¡±

    Mordaunt offered a long, low bow of pensive acceptance of his new task and title. It was though this command of Drakkon placed a phantom coronet upon his brow. The weighty mantle of responsibility and authority about his shoulders now that he was soon to become acting steward over the capitol. Upon being given official leave to prepare for the coming caravan to his adopted Crestfall the blood hound in him could not help but grin with such sedition. Grinding his remaining teeth with anticipation, mulling over all the sadistic schemes being born in his brain by this gestating opportunity.

    ¡°As for the twelve frauds who soiled themselves when our court found real conflict:¡± the Lord passed arraignment over the sentinels who¡¯d given their arms up and were lined for arrest by their betters, ¡°have them split into pairs to duel in the yard. Above the earth but beneath sight of sky & mountain ¨C and upon no sacred stone - they shall fight to regain shred of honor. The victors may be merry their fates be but that of eunuchs.¡±

    Heron tried tenuous rejoinder. ¡°Lord, you¡¯d make six eunuchs of our spears this day?! What shall that do for morale of your other men, your honor-guard-¡±

    ¡°Aye, I shall! The vestiges of their manhood shall not gore our tower though. That they surrendered their dignity proves them at a loss to rectify their true states. Helwinds! They once complained that as Winged Drakes they were ¡®clipped of flight¡¯ to be but house guards. Yet we shall clip more as is required. Be lucky not to be among them. They are slaves, not spears!¡±

    ¡°Very well.¡± Heron bowed. ¡°Yet I plead caution with the druids. Perhaps not all their stock play part in this plot. Kassan once tore tongues from stray druids and their curse stained his-¡±

    ¡°My hand cut the head from the horned bear! Mark the relic of my hunt by the throne and know this truth. Hold no faith in in the flock of the Henge. Hinge that jaw or share their fate!¡±

 Triumph

    Chapter Four, Triumph

    Ides of Summertide, Sunhilte 15<sup>th</sup>, 17 AD, Crestfall

    The sun beat upon Crestfall with belligerent splendor. The firmament, bathed in golden shroud, beamed ethereal halo about the occasion to match the mood of many citizens. Dozens of throngs clamored up on aqueducts, theater walls, & balconies to glimpse the celebratory procession. Yet brighter minds among them felt the burn of that radiance and feared; wishing the heat & shine were not so oppressive. Somehow the untamable shouts of the crowd harmonized in their song of revelry for this day of their lord¡¯s return. All summoned to the streets for this, Drakkon¡¯s Triumph. The Living Lord led the ceremonial march, in glistening regalia, perched upon his equally majestic destrier. The gates of his Dominion welcomed him as master, through to the core of the capitol. Applause of the crowd greets him. Most gleamed with eyes hungry for the sight of their savior not seen for what felt over a year.

    The men who followed Drakkon peered back into the blurring confronts of the crowd as their cavalcade pushed through the streets. A few combed the crowd for the familiar sight of their families, their wives & friends. Only to find their kin absent, sickly, or their wives all too fond of other men beside them. But save for the wary and the war torn among them, the greatest portion of the Drakoni force met the entrance with glee, happy to be home after quelling rebellion through sacrifice. The warm enthusiasm of the populace showered them with a veil of peace & of purpose, as though the darkness could finally be put behind them.

    Thralls & tributes of the trampled Protectorate -rebranded by the victors as parasites to the people - were dragged behind high seated horses for the amusement of the capitol¡¯s anxious masse. Bottles, rotten greens & spoilt milk were tossed at the defeated foes, humiliated, and trodden upon before those they sought to overthrow. Wan flames of defeat flickered in these prisoners¡¯ stares. A float in the center depicted the defeat & fate of these vermin, the thieves of Helcrest. Theirs a show of wytch-fyre: piled on stakes oiled with those of the ever-burning braziers & Albrecht¡¯s alchemical additions, with pitch lit torment as offering to the throngs. Complete with concaved meteorite cage below to catch the remains of those traitorous lines. Leaving trail of mortal cinder behind their parade, mixed with the litter of flowers, waste & glitter.

    Far above the clouds of loud exclamation & celebration, Corinna & Baron stood together in the distance. Hidden behind the pillars of the temple, they shared their secret disdain for the whole affair. Rather than feel rejuvenated by the rumbling drums & lilting elation of the mob below, the pair were mutually aligned in how every thundering beat ramped up anxiety¡¯s pace. Baleful chants of doubt drowned the cheerful cries with a pale fear. From their high-rise position, they need not fear unwarranted ears prying into intimate conversation.

    Corinna, having dismissed her immediate servants & petitioners, saw how many of their attendants were washed up in awe of the Triumph. The temple behind them had been locked by the priests in preparation for their lord¡¯s return and the pomp of the rituals about mystified the air evermore. So, for a while, their ears had each another.

    Corinna caught sight of her husband leading their parade over the hill to the Temple¡¯s steps. Gleaning his countenance, adorned in ornate white armor lined with radiant gold to further exude his ¡®Light,¡¯ a paralytic shiver shot through her cage and seized her breath. She felt abruptly woozy. Her pit crumbling under the weight of the world. Her soul gutted by this guilt of harboring such apprehension against the man she once loved so ardently.

    Tilting her head, peeking through the raven locks that veiled her eyes as if in shroud of mourning, she saw Baron offering her all the sparks of his soul in his gaze. He leaned to whisper, softly brushing away the hair about her with the subtle caress of a lover and the support of a friend. ¡°Do not despair. This ¡®new day¡¯ need not arrive bearing only darkness so long as we tame the flame of our faith. We¡¯ve still hope we might part the clouds of thunder. And there is yet joy in the world.¡±

    Corinna¡¯s stare stayed distant, tired. The futility of the whole scenario froze her demeanor. ¡°Things will not be the same. I loathe that I must play the happy spouse and declare Triumph with my husband. I know there was no great glory of which the minstrels will sing for his march. Only floods of innocent blood rained over countless villages. All they want is to be free to themselves, just as we once fought for, yet they are demonized. It will only be harder to awake in the morn, beside him. That I must put on the mask of wicked pretense. Ah! It feels as though the foundations of the world are collapsing around us.¡±

    ¡°No, things will not be the same. Of that we can be certain. Yet why should we be arrested by fear before real revolution, lurching over with cursed disquiet when we are so near to letting crumble the last foundation of our woes? We do not have to wallow in the bleak mire and accept defeat in the wake of this foul tide. Not if we sculpt meaning of this abyss, forwardly. You have the power to change things for the better if you take that risk, pour temperance into the dragon¡¯s ear. But alas, I hath wasted and deserted all other light. Corinna, you are the light behind every star in the sky. I know your fire will warm the lonely night.¡±

    ¡°Wasted thine?¡± she chuckled dryly, ¡°I am far worse a villain than thee, Baron. I could have stretched out a hand and stopped this madness ¨C or at least bloody tried ¨C but instead I dared not my Lord¡¯s ear for fear of the cobwebs tangled by his mother. Instead of wielding even rhetoric for our realm, I hid in its most pristine corners. All while the rest of the land withered beneath the shadow I helped cast. If I am as the sun to thee, thou should flee from me soon. Lest risk being burned in my embrace! For I scorch to ruin all that is important! Tis these wings of fire that damn me flightless!¡±

    Again, came that shiver coursing the length of her. But Baron did not hesitate, in seeing her so overwhelmed, to offer his embrace with bold enthusiasm. ¡°Listen, Cor, tis a risk I will gladly take. Let it be just fate to burn inside that fire of yours! But it need not be. Please do not hate yourself! Let me be your mirror to see the good in you and what of it is left in the world still to fight for. Trust me, we will see better days worth fighting for if we step towards them first.¡±

    ¡°Thank you...¡± though her heart felt his words string a warm chord within and found the desire to lay her head upon his chest and melt away from all Corinna kept her poise stoic, as to remain vigilant before any straying eyes. ¡°Your presence in my life is a profound wonder. Though it is hard to stray from sleep and retain hope, I will awake grateful for simply knowing you and being loved so truly. Ah, it saddens me to think we will have fewer opportunities to see one another with Drakkon back.¡±

    ¡°Absence doth make the heart grow fonder, when yearning reaches across the yawning distance.¡± The bard winked slyly before leaning in with a lower tone. ¡°There is something I would like to speak with you about later. If you are free to venture to the garden district, come evening and the celebration¡¯s dying. Find excuse for then. That is if you will hear me out?¡±

    ¡°Hmm, I am intrigued. As always, you enigmatic wordsmith ov ages, you.¡± She returned his wink, happy for the reprieve of small charm. A smile, such a luxury. ¡°Let us hold our rare dalliance with less eyes about. ¡®Tis enticing enough to hold me over till after this business is done. Although a wee hint as to what you wish to show me would be welcome nonetheless.¡±

    ¡°Ah, but with a mind as sharp as yours, one meagre trace and you¡¯ll discover the whole secret. Let the mystery keep you entertained for now, my dear. More than this charade below.¡±

    In the background Drakkon¡¯s speech at the foot of the temple roused the crowd to roar. As accompaniment the unburnt thralls were made to dance in eunuch farce and emasculating circus. The ¡®impure pitch of false Protectorate deeds¡¯ cast as ashes of the centerfold prisoners into meteorite mesh under their platforms. When his heroic rhetoric wrapped up and the proper praise assented, the sun they all orbited in him stepped forth in glory. Withdrawing his notorious blade, he showed the bloody edge used to relieve the disgraced head of rebellion before wiping it clean. Purification through the dark work of execution.

    How many hearths has he put to the question & torch in his triumphant march? How much more blood has he had to clean from his sword? That bastard sword which seems to eat of soul¡¯s crimson absorbed by obsidian shade. Evil comes home to roost with me. Corinna huffed a blue sigh. She turned her sights far from this shrine to madness. Baron clasped her shoulder for but a moment before withdrawing from her company. ¡°I must away my muse, but I shall hold you to your promise. Let us meet on more intimate terms.¡±

    He scurried away into the corridors. His great haste surprised Corinna, confused as to why he fled so suddenly. But as soon as her curiosity arose it was satiated, to a degree, by the creeping of Mordaunt nearing their pillars. Something about the man¡¯s aura stung at her. More than ever that vile retching in her stomach came with a mere glance at his long, battle-bent nose and flaky mane which fell over scarred imprints of plagued pustules. Even his aesthetic seemed always at war with itself.

    ¡°Ah, good cousin, my Impress ov Imperia! How succinctly circumstances twine about our steps. Come now, will you help me usher in the last act of our Triumph? Come forth if you will and assist me in offering the scepter to our Lord, your Imperator husband.¡±

    Reluctantly the woman, with vulpine address about her, guided her steps to stand beside him before the gaping crowd below. A foul clot formed within her throat, arresting her breath with trepidation upon nearing Drakkon. This man, who once enchanted her with a dream of changing things for the better, appeared to her as abomination of himself, emanating seething self- importance.

    Concentrating on the flow of air through her lungs, Corinna addressed the stakes. Kept her poise balanced as Mordaunt offered her the regal scepter which she granted then to her liege. As the Lord ascended the last stair, he took the scepter and her hand. ¡°My love. Know that those countless nights of endless longing so distant from your beauteous orbit hath not spurned nor wilted my faithfulness to you, but let it blossom. Please, dispense with the formalities and embrace me.¡±

    The Empress obeyed her Emperor. Bearing the arduous task of concealing inner enmity beneath the guise of a reunited lover. If only you knew how the fire wanes in me. How it¡¯s naught but ash. How you would burn me for the slight of being unable to love you, so married to Death... Corinna let the tears flow, embracing catharsis, pretending those drops were as overjoyed rain. With one thin smile her grief appeared to him as rapturous delight.

    Their congregation proceeded into the temple¡¯s main hall where the final rites of the Triumph were to be held. But as the doors creaked open no welcome of priestly chants nor litany of praise came. Only sepulchral silence. A putrid stench filled the hall with charred remnants of ceremonial incense left to mask the scent of tragedy. The daylight peering through the dome shined upon an abysmal sight. There on the altar lay several Drakoni priests stripped of their robes and rid of their lives. Alongside them were breathless nobles who¡¯d gone to pray the last spot before Temple¡¯s closing on eve of Triumph, arrayed in emblems of evil.

    Their wan, lifeless forms lay desecrated and draped with torn flesh. The sanctum¡¯s spiritual head, Vicar Bastione: strung up with his intestines, with the rest all splattered along the wall.

    Gore seethed between the once splendid white banners now, scrawled with red. Bearing the murderous phrases ¡°death to false gods!¡± & ¡°grant us what is ours!¡± written in the victims¡¯ blood. Just below this heinous desecration was yet another corpse pair; a would be mother was crumpled there, shorn of her premature child ¨Ca twisted travesty of a child¡¯s form unborn and unliving ¨C torn from the fetid & unready womb. These, the ¡®sows ov Imperium¡¯. Beside them, the Lady Portia, and her sons, Caedus & Callough, were strewn under crimson declaration: ¡®suckling Hel¡¯sons ov Empire¡¯

    This chapel, now a depraved altar of Nightmare. An appalling silence choked the air within for a vast gulf. Some men began the thankless & gruesome task of cleaning up the scene of the atrocity and tearing down the signs & macabre symbols left by the culprits. Deafening silence shattered with the retching & heaving of Corinna. Who then scampered away and hid in the cloister, nauseated by this unthinkable horror. After attempting to attend her, Drakkon sent his love away under escort. Then turned to Mordaunt, who was rooted by rage.

    Issuing his command, the lord only just managed to suppress the sickness of wrath churning in his gut. ¡°Mordaunt, I know you had no great love of your wife, but they defile at once your House and the honor of our Dominion. Thus, they shall be avenged! Have the men see everyone back to their homes and issue martial order with iron reserve. Then we will purge them.¡±

    ¡°Strike the toll, ye servants. Search for survivors, witnesses. No one else is to enter or leave this temple without my express permission.¡± And thus, they toiled in disbelief, attempting to repair this once sacred ground and keep their disgust from leaving them to abject abandon. This, their hour of hope, corrupted by a murderous plot. The once gleeful crowd, gathered to partake in this holy day, were herded back to their homes like sheep by the cracking of Mordaunt¡¯s whip. Confusion and vehement despair lashed the populace.

    A few groups irritably refused to be escorted to their homes at spear point without any answers being given for why. This curious need to know, the need for security and assurance bristled over to a fledgling riot. A whole sect of their massive number turned to frustration, as Triumph turned Terror. But their cries and resistance were met with cold steel & the ice of the soul commanding it. Suppressed soon by Mordaunt¡¯s boot crashing down upon their throats. After the maddening strife had been put to rest and everyone wrangled up, two dozen more lay dead, either crushed by their peers in panicked stampede or butchered by the men sworn to serve Imperium. All of this to the ever-accompanying symphony of the temple bell thundering funeral chime.

    Woe

    The following evening, Crestfall Garden Court

    Mordaunt strode in solitude, his footsteps guided by moonlight. Her stream burned clear this night, branding ideas of silver in his mind. He walked the lonely abandon of the great gardens which formed the labyrinth of this, once sacred yet rarely remembered, district of the city. Allowed this evening alone, given pass of ¡®mourning¡¯ for his slain kin, the weary man was better able to collect his thoughts and breathe in a strange sense of hope. His boots brought him to the makeshift grave and altar to her...

    ¡°My Selene...¡± he uttered his daughter¡¯s name as if to beckon her spirit forth from the nether. In this hidden alcove he knelt, grasped the soil about this gravesite he¡¯d given her. Holding the earth in his hand as he once held her tenderly. ¡°You were everything and now I am nothing. My heart is buried here with you. But a dream lives on. I walk with your spirit beside mine. Or is it a phantom of a dream? Is it hollow to seek a better world, when without you there won¡¯t be anything to fill the emptiness?¡±

    He¡¯d carried her ashes here, where her living flesh should have been, with him in opulent safety. ¡°Nay, for I know you would wish a better man of me and a better world for all. That pure heart, too precious for this plane, is why I will honour that promise for you.¡±

    This solemn litany and focused prayer evoked drops of silvery sheen. Gazing up in a trance of tears and cathartic release of pain through the dampening of his cheeks, his ice blue eyes met with those of the moon. Her rays assumed her form, Selene¡¯s face made out in the orb. With the ignition of incense and pouring of his wine Mordaunt offered up communion with the dead. Breath of the spirits fill the wind¡¯s sighs through shapely nymph trees & shrubs abound.

    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    Here in this hanging garden haven the once lost warrior raptured himself away from the hysteria which consumed the souls trapped within the capitol walls. A stern, spear-brandished, silence lay outside. Crestfall, martialed against itself; its citizens arrested in the cells of their homes. But here, near the seat of his brief yet stark Stewardship, the champion crossed an inner threshold of renewed determination. Inspiration burned alongside the coals of sorrow & loss. A transformation was at hand within him. He could hear it spoken by the leaves and gusts carried up to the luminous crown.

    Mordaunt removed the near-constant glove which contained his less fortunate hand. Blackened by that same curse that stole his moon yet failed to carry of with the rest of his feckless flesh. Living to spur the gods further and curse more than his fate.

    Hand floating with his thought, the lone steward¡¯s fingers fawned over the newfound emblem adorning his neck. Such radiance of power emanated from the lifeless trinket. With this meteorite necklace, Mordaunt had been thus proclaimed as the rightful hand of their Living Lord; practically equal in stature to Drakkon¡¯s beloved ¡®goddess¡¯ and bowing only to his Imperial Highness. To him such honorifics had so long been but fleeting baubles. Treasures to weigh men down, stuffing them with pomp rather than shaping their spirits through will & steel. Yet these titles launched him to the forefront of fulfilling his plan of vengeance against false gods. Signets to rally against the corrupted, who turned blind eye to the suffering of those like his Selene.

    Thusly, he¡¯d been given near complete authority to steer the investigation and amass greater force. Little did the fat fauns know from their gilded hiding holes and blindingly gilt mirrors that their warden enacted this punitive atrocity. He knew that to carve history needed more than willingness to wield the sword and more oft demanded the tools of cloak & dagger. His elevated status gave access to all the archives and insights which pierced beyond the veil of political showmanship that so often festered in this city & the larger realm. With this he had legal permission to stalk (and frame) his enemies¡¯ movements; have them quietly tracked and trapped, as an imagined culprit. The man rose from a thrall of Vizarri to Thane of the Drakoni. And now climbed to more treacherous heights, approaching his imminent rebirth as a demigod or a slayer of one. Altitudes which could result in mortal plunge, should his step falter.

    Weeks ago, upon receiving word of Drakkon¡¯s victory and the Triumph to be held, Mordaunt used his authority as Steward (& sworn responsibility to protect the city on all fronts) to access & tamper with reports of goods & cargo passing through. Notes on diseased locales proved as fruitful as the fools still trying to peddle their sick goods. The plague which spread throughout the southern regions for many seasons had grown to in anxiety and scope of east & west. A plight to all but those who could afford to flee and hide behind their gawdy fortresses. Being charged with keeping contamination from their mass market in the capitol, he decided a different course. Knowingly allowed (or else seized & rearranged the wares of) plagued caravans of Southern traders. They brought only the finest grains and expensive wines, affordable only to that lot who would normally lock themselves away from their people¡¯s plight, hiding up in lofty bastions. But now he prepared a fitting feast for the most loathsome of tables. To serve their distended glut.

    Thus, the die had been cast and his treason gained momentum. Though it was early. Yet there was still to be a festival held, though its meaning was no longer of joy but of mourning and woe. Only the worthy could attend. With the masses below resigned to house arrest beneath his lawful ironclad boot they¡¯d be spared the tall stage. And so, with one gambling roll, Mordaunt planned to place all his adversaries in checkmate. All those he loathed would soon dine upon blighted cuisine. Taste the slow corrosion of their gullets, guts, and minds once the boils and noxious poisons rooted in these oblivious hosts, who thought themselves invincible before the plagues & tumult which culled the less privileged.

    Once their finely dressed corpses rot it would be Mordaunt who would inherit their empty pedestals and powers. Yet to gain the torch, he knew not whether to illumine all the world with the frail truth of their former lords or assert his own unchallenged ¡®Light.¡¯

    Mordaunt was not without sorrow or regret for those who had to fall. In his deepening heart he mourned the loss of those few who resisted his clever coup. Not Portia or her sons, but the fallen champions and faithful priests put to the sword for their futile honor. Dead for that final defense of their dignity as servants of their Imperium. Sacrificed their lifeblood to reject his offer. Could they not hear the fervor of truth in my voice as I offered them this path? Could they not feel the passion of my aim? Were they so deaf to the call of rebirth, blind to that which is ours alone, that they rejected opportunity to appraise the spear instead?

    In his secret truth though it was his own lackeys Mordaunt loathed more than his mortal enemies. For these mercenaries & murderers who committed the deeds firsthand were seduced only by riches. Even among those recruited of his foremost Drakes, they¡¯d no purpose beyond bloodshed; the belligerent brains above their brow, bereft of all but war. And mayhap some selfish gain denied to them by Drakkon¡¯s hierarchy. All too many of these men who joined secret pact of treason and his Manticore regiment did not share his vision and saw only the gleam of gold to be won at the edge of their blades.

    Yet although these pawns were brutes, they served a higher purpose in the vast scheme of the game. For with their silver slashes in the dark they¡¯d culled his adversaries of the court and would bring him to the reins of legions that would rival waning imperial hosts. He had waited too long to assert his Will. But grew tired of being led by pretenders and ¡®demigods.¡¯ Never again to let them drain him of his spirit, for the bell of Retribution tolled through his skull.

    But something external hummed a course to turn his symphonious thoughts. His footsteps cease to fold to the sound. Faintly from nearby grove in this shifting maze, came the strumming of a lute and a soft, feminine voice. Curious, Mordaunt shifted towards the song. On the terrace below, upon bed of bushels that decorated the court his pale eyes were beset upon by an unexpected treat. In that glade Baron sat with his lyre in hand chanting a beauteous love ballad, sharing lines of it with Corinna. She sang repose, laying sprawled across his legs. The only thing draping their moonlit bodies being a thin blanket covering them. They too sought the secrecy of this scarce garden.

    ¡°Thank you for those chords, Baron! ¡®Twas as honey & ambrosia!¡± the pale, stunning woman whispered in the bard¡¯s ear. Kissing him gently on the cheeks, her glow brushed against his. ¡°Much needed mirth tonight when there would be none to have. Will you humor my yearning spirit for another tune? Gods know, I could use a little elation these days ¨C not to say that your company isn¡¯t, mm, ¡®entertaining¡¯ enough to bring me to elation.¡± Her gray-green eyes glinted seductively in the beaming light showering upon her from the firmament. ¡°Sing to me next melody?¡±

    ¡°Alas my heart is weary of song. These days my deepest wish is to keep you elated; to cast away the woes of the world and adjoin affection in purest form. Yet we do not have long, before you must relieve your maidens from covering you. & I must confess that I did not ask you here merely to bask in the sweetness among the sour. In sooth I must away before the morn, given all that transpired. There is too much at risk for me to stay here, and I am a distraction.¡±

    ¡°I hath plenty of time. Even if it shames us to hide away so, our lord is too busy readying purges & attending interrogations to give thought to me. He sent me away to tower with a herd of handmaidens & sentinels who, fortunately favor my need of mourning period; a solitary garden venture for myself. If he spares a second for me, he¡¯ll think me at shrine. And if he does get lonely, inquire of my caretakers after me, they can cover a while longer. Is that why you stall your ballads, on my behalf? Or is the poet tiring of his muse more than music?¡±

    ¡°Never my muse in you. That shall not fade even if my body soon does. Nay tis another matter, sadly as drenched in politic as any these grim days. I love you as I love song, yet I tire of how little my songs effect the other ears that hear them. Rarely do they win enough minds or change any hearts. I hath played with string and sword before, yet now I am unsure of which is stronger to wield. & my voice should not be heard long in this city, lest it overstay thinning welcome.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean? Are you saying you are to flee and leave me alone to deal with whatever chaos has and will be wrought upon us? How can you be so selfish?!¡± Corinna pouted; her brilliant orbs twisted with hurt & lover¡¯s ache. ¡°Why leave me with but a whispered word this hour before you slip away into the dark for no clear purpose?!¡±

    ¡°My dear,¡± Baron propped his instrument against the nearest hedge, leaning in to carefully draw Corinna into a kiss, ¡°you are the most gorgeous soul I e¡¯re laid eyes upon. My spirit will forever be drawn to thee. But ¡®tis a matter of consequence that I must depart so suddenly.¡± The bard nearly wept, pressing ear to her heart, that the beating of her bosom enfolded him with the courage to confess. ¡°¡¯Rinna, I love you ¨C know this always! Yet there is another love, another muse that compels me: That of justice & Freedom. Hear now, with ears for me alone, that I hath been working with the People¡¯s Protectorate. Some would say I ¡®conspire¡¯ & prop myself as an adversary to your husband and emperor.¡±

    Silence fell upon their shrine, save for whistle of leaves blown by summer¡¯s last winds and the cries from nameless & forgotten stone busts. Corinna¡¯s glance beamed in the moonlight, piercing at Baron with a questioning arrow. She lifted herself from his touch, drawing back. ¡°Did you-were you- involved with what happened? How can you be so cruel as to tell me of your departure so late then stab at me with sudden revelation? We shared everything with one another, yet you kept this from me! Only to confess at dire hour before leaving in midst of horror?!¡± Though her voice was but a whisper it carried her confusion. A tune echoed by the sorrowful melody strumming garden hedges and flower-wreath stalactites about them.

    ¡°Do you trust me?¡± Baron asked, returning her gaze, and offering his hand once more. ¡°You know my soul more than any other, even more than I do. You know I could ne¡¯er commit so vile an act! Nay, this smells of foul odor from dastardly purpose that could ne¡¯er adjoin to my truth. That butchery was the work of some blood-fevered beast. Whether a stray from our brotherhood in the Protectorate, whose hunger for justice took him down too feral a path, or a serpent still lurking in the grass of these courtyards-¡±

    ¡°I trust you. As much as I can when you leave so much from me. Enough to know you are no brute. But if they are behind the chapel¡­¡±

    ¡°The Protectorate¡¯s aim is not so evil, nor messy. I can longer waste away as thrall to tyranny when war is waged against all common folk.¡± He spoke passion, honesty, though it brought harm to his heart. ¡°This Drakonian reign we forged from the mold of fallen Vizzari and our belligerent little tribes, was to be one for all peoples. Our cause was to see everyone¡¯s lives bettered, enriched by wealth & enlightenment to share without the fetters of belittling traditions or courts bedecked with withered faces that hold no glint of compassion nor care for the sons & daughters who shall inherit what remains of all they plucked & plundered away in greed. Yet ours becomes something worse than old lords and warring chieftains. We united people only in shackles, bound with deepening bonds of His tyranny. I cannot keep up this ruse, aiding my brothers & compatriots from afar by feeble subterfuges. I must leave to throw my lot in with this final bout of resistance, lest ruination befall more lives until only death and servitude await those left in a hopeless world bent by a broken man¡¯s vain masquerade.¡±

    ¡°So, you joined a band of brigands to bring the fight to the Lord?¡± Corinna scoffed, ashamed of his rashness but more so her own ineptitude in daring to defy Drakkon. She shackled herself to his side, by the throne, yet achieved no victory over his heart when his ear is lent so near to her. ¡°Could you not do more for the small folk and your friends at court? Would not flying from here be heeded as traitorous trait of affiliation with that crime?¡±

    ¡°How long have we to play at the intrigue of courtship under nose of the court? What might our emperor do if we are discovered?¡± Baron lifted his lids to scourge the emerald labyrinth for obscured spectators, as if asking such a thing might hex it into being. ¡°In any case that is why I must flee, though do not see me as a craven cur. I will not shirk from the fact that I hath blood upon mine hands but ¡®tis not the blood of those priests nor any people of this city ¨C people I fought & strive for, whose prosperity & suffering alike I feel as mine own!¡± The bard¡¯s fingers unconsciously danced along the strings of his lute as he thought aloud. He dared return tune to the surrounding shade. This idle act helped calm the tempest within, but still his sorrow rang along the minor tones he switched to, emanating the somber vibration to sweep the night sky.

    ¡°Our hearts are one,¡± Corinna lulled him as the branches above sang for woe, ¡°our cause is the same. Let me aid you, Baron. You are strong ¨C stronger than Drakkon in your core which warms me with courage ¨C but you cannot do this alone. ¡®twould be as aimless a protest as casting yourself from a cliff. We all drift in this dark sea, please do not let me drown in the center of this maelstrom!¡±   She tugged on his shoulder threads, wrapped plea about him. ¡°Either take me with you and free me of a man I can longer bare to see, let alone stand beside ¨C his visage so stained by blood¨C or give purpose to my torment and allow me to offer another hand.¡±

    A last chord struck. Baron¡¯s idle song ceased. The sad sound rang long then hollowed out as the breeze picked up, mirroring his long, contemplative sigh. ¡°Hear me fully. This path I walk is jagged, narrow & winding, with too treacherous a fall. Should our passion be discovered this very bliss we have given one another would be our undoing. You cannot get into the intrigue and affairs of a militia bent on the annihilation of the man you share your crown with. It is because I love you so truly that I cannot ask you to abandon your post to flee with me and become a ¡®traitorous¡¯ fugitive. You cannot leave your blooming Grove only to enter deathly waters... Helwinds upon our earth, did you hear what Drakkon did after reclaiming Helcrest? Seen how he razed the village of poor Vilas, and brought the lines that ¡®birthed traitors¡¯ as kindling for his parade?¡±

    Corinna dammed up her tear ducts as much as she could, attempting to suppress the grief and fear she was awash with facing this reality. She kept her voice calm, but distant as she humored his question. ¡°He wrote to me following his ¡®triumph¡¯ and said he enacted ¡®deserved retribution¡¯. But I did not deign to ask for I did not want to be more haunted by gruesome details.¡± Am I so weak in my footing that I cannot stand to look at the ramifications of our reign, the horrors my husband hath wrought on those we swore to help prosper and bloom? Is the light something to fear when it burns like flame back into me? -scorching the soul with truth of my idle vanity?

    ¡°Drakkon¡¯s victory at the ¡®Second Siege of Helcrest,¡¯ which ¡®decimated the crest of Serpent Knighthood, that seat of Ole Vizzari¡¯, came by barbaric tactic: he marched hearths & steads, those suspected of housing or feeding Protectorate forces, by tip of spear; made them into meat shields & corpse-ladders by which to scale the walls of the Hold. Imperial propaganda is already asked of me: to maintain the ¡®glory of the storm¡¯ and how this unwilling vanguard was ¡®but the knavish brood of villains & criminals condemned who served fitting penance,¡¯ and ¡®by this Aegis of blood did the Drakoni bless the palace of pandemonium with fire of Imperium.¡¯ But I hear those who were marched at the head to buffer your husband¡¯s bulk were but any one¡¯s old nan or odd cousin or spited neighbor. & for conspiring against him-¡±

    Corinna curved away from her lover¡¯s warning, this tale of her master¡¯s atrocity; one among the manifold scrawl of his sickening sins. Yet Baron tilted her ear back to his tongue. Fumed his meaning and the compassion coursing under the mast of this augury of ashen past. ¡°You must hear this, my sunlight! Know the danger which can befall those who betray our Drakkon! The horrors arriving if he even sniffs a suspicion of sedition, even from you!¡±

    ¡°We need not stress the details of his darkness, Baron, I know. But why rush to meet their fate?¡±

    ¡°I am of the Protectorate. And it is true my Illuminaries do serve as recruitment centers for our renewed revolution. I was to aid that druid when he came to the winter court with the boy. ¡®Twas a final test, for I shaved off violence as solution then, to see if I could defend sanity and mercy. Alas, he chose cruelty. But they took it too far by endangering you. I stayed my hand then from all. My faith wavers. ¡®Tis a struggle not to succumb to doubts of our means against our Lord. I cannot be close when my fate spells danger.¡±

    ¡°Baron... I would rather die with spirit still beating in me before the last than wilt away as a husk beneath the shade of ¨C what becomes of a man I once believed in. Please let us share this chance for a while, without lashing it to the accursed stress beyond. Stay for a while longer in this city? Be my safety from the reeking horrors! Do not ride out and affirm yourself a rebel in their eyes so soon! Humor me?¡±

    Some spellbinding gravity between them, perhaps the fervency of her appeal, brought their lips together. A kiss drenched by falling tears with which he sealed her speech and sobs. After enfolding acceptance of each other¡¯s touch an elongated quietude fell. Yet it felt false.

    Mordaunt pressed too much against the ruinous and untended statue, jerking it. The gravel groan caused the pair beneath to jolt. The man in the darkness waited, kneeling further behind the edge for cover and muffling his breath. Although he could no longer make out the lovers past the hedge foliage & statue gate, he heard Corinna¡¯s worry ripple up. ¡°It feels as though there is an evil eye cast upon us. I suffer shivers unlike any winter chill could instill.¡±

    ¡°Aye. There is something ill begotten amongst this place. I pray that wicked glare be not the eyes of heaven damning our dreams to misery. Alas, let us part for now. But I may stay a little longer. It will be less suspicious if we return to our posts separately. Will you be safe on your own for the trek back, o starlight?¡±

    Corinna shifted her hand into her gown as she slipped it back on, revealing a whetted dagger unsheathed from its secret pouch. ¡°Your concern flatters me. But in this it is not needed. I¡¯ll be perfectly fine, o ¡®defender ov downtrodden peoples et maidens¡¯.¡± She continued, with some sarcasm & hurt dripping unto her tongue. She kissed him again, with a bite to her lips in rough blend of worry & warmth. ¡°But listen to me fully, Baron. Promise me not to flee this night on so sparse a parting to so lonely a road. The feast hath been moved to coming Friday. Given the mourning period & curfew, and with so public a venue, I implore you to make an appearance. Brush away any suspicion that you may be complicit in the act that has this whole city ¨C nay, the larger realm ¨C on the brink of murderous panic. Please?¡±

    After their parting embrace Mordaunt shifted back to his feet. He eyed the lovers walk away, waiting above them while musing to himself. Having stumbled upon a sacrificial lamb in Baron to lay upon the altar of his sacrilege.

 A Feast of Friends

    Chapter Five, A Feast of Friends

    The following Friday, the Great Hall of Crestfall

    As the light of day died past the rolling crests the cloak of dusk claimed the cityscape. Flambeaus were lit to guide the path to the place of the Feast. This reformed palace of Vizzari¡¯s crimson court, where magisters would dine and bloat themselves on the fruits of conquest & divide, contained atmosphere of undying glut. Save the awful spirit in the air of this wake. The ghosts of dead rulers remained, though the tomb decorations took on different shades. Whites, golds and sapphires over the old reds, golds, and blacks. When once this banquet was called as reverent toast to Drakoni perseverance, it¡¯s theme had been tainted with tragedy. A trial of their togetherness in the torrent. An attempt to force celebration among rot & ruin.

    The attendants¡¯ spirits were low. Obliged to partake, they yet could not shake off that funereal malaise. This sentiment evident on the countenance of the servers & noblemen alike, and even on those jesters & minstrels deigned with alleviating the fog with their arts. Even they, of the lowest rung of prestigious pretenders, could not perform with their true heart¡¯s resonance. Troupe and troubadours played futile flutes & soulless shows against the pallor. This grand hall held the airless aura of an ill-catered charnel rather than the dining place of proud realm¡¯s favored citizens. All could feel it, but none dared make mention of it.

    Drakkon carried this miserly air about his visor. Disdain and suspicion shown on every crease. Where once his bearing was so radiant & polished as to reflect the shine of his divine grade, he looked almost gaunt and pleated, as though he had not eaten nor rested in weeks. The Lord refused to dine upon any of the meals, so delectably prepared for all to partake. Nebulously claiming his appetite upset by a thirst for vengeance ¨C a thirst rivaled by his liver¡¯s swelling urge to wash down any sober thought.

    This drink was much to Corinna¡¯s displeasure. She sat beside her husband at the foremost table, barely masking her distaste for the reeking stench. The food kept far from them, both ¡®fasting¡¯ in their ways to mourn and ready the arrival of another war soon to come. The Lord forestalled all but his chalice he called to be continually filled; swearing off feast for sake of wine & pitchers to purify his gut. While the Lady inhaled ground herb to settle the existential stirring in her stomach, which fled at the thought of eating. She found the few smiles Drakkon graced her with unnerving, his teeth painted crimson color all too reminiscent of blood.

    ¡°My Lord, my beloved,¡± The Empress-consort cast calm plea, ¡°my Light. May I be excused from the celebration for a wink? I wish to gather my thoughts before addressing our honored guests.¡±

    Drakkon granted her a tempered nod. The motion of which draped his graying raven mane over his face, hiding the hurt behind his eyes. One of the bolder courtiers whispered, ¡°again?¡±. Then Corinna departed from the Hall, disappearing into the shadowy corridors just beyond. Meanwhile Baron, who kept up appearances by mingling amongst the diners and sharing halfhearted words of hope, upon seeing her take her leave began to weave his way out of the throngs of nobles towards the exit.

    ¡°Leaving so shortly?¡± Mordaunt began, blocking Baron¡¯s path with malice beneath rhetorical manner. ¡°Before our guests could hear a song from the legend himself? I believe most would feel spurred to see you here only to slink away without humoring their weary ears.¡±

    ¡°Would you not prefer a passing toast to our Lord? Oh, I forgot, he ¡®rarely partakes of such mortal indulgence.¡¯ Yet surely, he would not turn down another glass for his sake?¡± The bard sighed, knowing full well he would be unable to escape this militant obstacle in Mordaunt who martialed demands of locals & their Lord. ¡°Aye, I would be remiss to deny them such grace! Even if my heart feels far heavier than my lyre and my voice dulled by so much wine. Would you do me the honor of heralding my performance while I prepare a fresh tune?¡±

    With a devious gleam behind his pale blue eyes Mordaunt obliged and brought the attention of the Hall to its center where the bard waited. The bitter conversations died down with the sounds of the banquet save for the occasional clanging of plates & silver utensils or relentless chewing of the gluttons among the audience. Baron, brought stool & lyre, began to strum somber, mournful strings. He played the instrument as though it were an extension of his body and soul, with such succinct flow that even his rival musicians and poets were impressed or envious of his natural talent.

    A melancholic verse flowed from Baron¡¯s mouth to match the minor chords he lay, lilting a tune that veered near a dark aria. ¡°Where is the love which once filled all our days? Where is the light of our happy cause? Alas our hope is set ablaze, and all our alms covered in gauze.¡±

    ¡°O may we see a ripened dawn, of bliss untainted by this Aeon ov Drakkon!¡± His sad, subversive song kept on, ¡°All our Lustre leaves, carried away by baleful Fall breeze! Yet we bow low to our knees as all our tears drape into the seas... for naught but thee, and never mine... our measure unwinds, no meaning to find. Would that Reign wanes, should bring such Spring rains!¡±

    ¡°O, that Light is but a lie, a promise unkempt & pissed in the wind! It holds no Living Truth, no ho, that dark veiled deception for which we all die!¡±

    Silence pervaded the Hall around the bard¡¯s seditious song save for tearful snivels from several guests which were swiftly wiped away by handkerchiefs. Baron readied to take his bow as the applause began to ring. All the while a trustee approached Mordaunt, who placed himself close the front of the hall, and delivered to him sealed parchment. He leapt to present these to his Lord with a cold whisper explaining their meaning. Inside: reports of Baron¡¯s movements in the past few years coinciding with attacks from the People¡¯s Protectorate; with blasphemous inscriptions, in Baron¡¯s scrawl, decrying Drakkon as a pretender taken from one of the Illuminaries the bard built.

    Baron mouthed more words to his strong declaration but before his treacherous ballad could be given rallying encore, the same lord the bard gained a vengeful momentum towards trumpeted its end. Hearing this insult dedicated to him, Drakkon slammed the table with a thunderous thud as black sword broke out in his hand. He screamed a garbled & indistinct roar, howling blubbering curses to bound across the acoustics of the hall. A stream of simmering hate in his shout to cut off the performance which betrayed him before the eyes of all.

    Irate, the emperor vaulted up from his decadently decorated table and read the contents of this evidence of treachery aloud to the audience. The indignation & enmity rippled through his roar as he announced his decree of retaliation. ¡°You hath sung your last song. Performed your last dance. I hereby declare you a heretic and brand you as suspect in the murders plaguing this great city and all good people of our Domain! Drakes, arrest the traitor and ensure him transported safely to await trial before the eyes of all the tribes!¡±

    Puffing swears, jumbled backbiting & uproar assailed the Great Hall at this horrid revelation. One nobleman, so affronted by the fact that this man who¡¯d only just made him shed tears for the beauty of song, now revealed to be potentially responsible for the horrors that befell Crestfall, went so far as to toss his goblet at the bard. The cup wet his hair & beard with wheat ale.

    ¡°Do not harm him my good people! I ensure ye that Justice shall be dined on before the season¡¯s turn. But we must not stoop to beast hood like this ill begotten ilk to smite it!¡±

    ¡°Justice?!¡± Baron spat as Mordaunt¡¯s men bound his limbs & dragged him away unkindly. ¡°Like that which you showed to Vilas?! The ¡®Grace¡¯ that was given to Kee¡¯tan?! Or the druids? Ha! How merciful to condemn me for a crime I had no hand in all to flatter your raving, vain paranoia! O, what shall ye do when the Imperium¡¯s helm runs out of peasants & plebs to fling against the walls of all the Holds which revolt in the name of reason?!¡±

    ¡°SILENCE, SLAVE!¡± Drakkon bayed in rage. ¡°One more word from thy despicable mouth and I shall have thy traitorous tongue severed! This sympathy for the rebels is nigh admitting guilt! & we have plentiful evidence of thy plots, thy snares!¡±

    His hand (quivering with ire unending) skirted over his ceremonial sheath, returning the blade there. Leashing his rage to not wield it to quiet Baron¡¯s heretical gibbering for good. ¡°Half my mind is bent on slicing that snickering jaw from thy head! But as thou uttered defaming curses against the seat of my Divine Dominion ¨C to which thy loyalty is lapsed, despite all it hath given thee - thou shall be brought before a high court at Felhenge. There, at the seat the druids forfeited by falseness, face those peers thou bark wicked transgressions at.¡±

    Following the lord¡¯s signal his champion escorted the defamed Baron, with his famous face stolen by black cowl, from the presence of the good people. As he led the warriors and their prisoner away, Mordaunt gave one last look back at the occupants of the hall. His cold eyes fell on the banquet participants, seeing them for the glutted ghouls they were soon to wilt away as. With one masterful play he had ensured that Crestfall¡¯s high society members would be eaten by the plague tainting their fastidiously placed meals. Were it not for his stony persona he would be tempted to tears of glee to see how well his ploy played out. But he contained his impolite pride in the coming punishment and unrest. The die is cast...

    Heretics in High Places

    Summer¡¯s Fall, Solsheathe 20th, 17 AD, Hill Court at Felhenge

    Clouds of incense smoke stretched ghostly fingers out to stroke & pall the faces of all atop Felhenge, Those assembled, readied for their Aeon¡¯s trial. Above, in welkin court, the Autumn Aurora arrived early to hover over the proceedings. With spectral spectators riding the rivers, star stream tilting to wax golden & violet glow against the burgeoning bleakness. Ephemeral hues & phantom flashes dart the heavens crest, leaking eerie aspect of dawn goddess¡¯ promise into evening, of her kin¡¯s course. Baleful Judgement, cast in cloud mesh, marching for Astraea¡¯s approach over the seat of stone circles & the Lord¡¯s makeshift throne of fell slab. Dreary overcast from the west threatened Eos¡¯ blessing of ever-dawn. Astraea¡¯s touch, nocturne¡¯s hug, sent shivers beneath cloaks and made more still hark how the sky held wan auguries in its drifting expanse.

    Etched upon every face in the crowd were the heavy creases of allegations against the much beloved Baron. The infamous bard had been a beacon to many; a true messenger of the Muses & herald of Astarte¡¯s lusting passions, Erosian mirth and ever a champion of the plebs. Few could deny that his Illuminaries provided the fruit of ancient & practical knowledge alike (& allowed an alternative service for second sons & daughters to flourish) to the people of all tribes and station. Few there sought to see him meet such a fatal sentence. But as his crimes were of a dour nature, the severity of the proceedings ordered religious treatment from all.

    The Lord of Living Light exuded no such radiance of his namesake. Nor warmth from his place of elevation over the congregation. Seated on his throne ¨C a toppled & reshaped black stone of the Druid hill, with a relic of fury affixed to its back: those tangled horns of Bellieus - beside his lovely, if weary, Impress, Corinna, in visage of embodied winter. Casting countenance of mournful gloom which hooked the breath of the court betwixt that circle of stone pillars.

    While the other champions presented themselves as silent guardians, dispersed amongst the throngs of courtiers, sages & nobility (and their elegant courtesan escorts) encircling the scene, Mordaunt stood out before the Court just below the throne. Standing tall & firm upon the hill of stone his aura as prosecutor was as formidable as his master¡¯s intimidating stature. While his poise was calm & courtly, in his eyes a gleaming hunger for justice bore into the soul of the accused. The chill of the air was seen in his sight, but his body never shook its granite against that pre-frost of imminent hallowed season. If anything, it made him more alert, sharply awake to his argument. Baron would suffer the brunt of the elements, and his rhetorical fury.

    Azarra, meanwhile, had been relegated a position on the peripheral of the proceedings much to her displeasure. This she deemed a move of blatant disrespect against her Aegis. Her envy scalded holes through her sockets whenever her gaze passed over Corinna. Perhaps this humiliating seat of mere spectator was the result of her conniving? How could that glorified night-spouse not be plotting to push her further? That unworthy consort sunk into the embroidery of her powdered position beside Drakkon on her throne of judgement. Yet she, the mother and true giver of guidance, was sequestered; sent out among social climbers, austere sages & tangential nobility. Shut aside beside those ungainly, churlish sorts of a class she thought she¡¯d clawed her way high above.

    Her thoughts droned with tempestuous jealousy. Azarra spared a glance at the accused. Reflecting fleetly on how she first hired Baron to spread the word of Drakkon in her favor through siren skill. Skills applied now to subvert the reign of her & her son. Something Azarra did not want treated lightly. She sought it so that this ungrateful spinner¡¯s end might rend a rift between that harlot, slinking behind regalia, and the son that her wretched guile bedeviled. With such partiality for the bard written on that soured succubus¡¯ face she could see how the split between would restore her to imperial luster, of which Corinna was undeserving of.

    The crowd¡¯s wind-muffled whispers were silenced with the Mordaunt¡¯s announcement for their star prisoner ¨C ragged and worn, with intelligent but troubled brow. Mordaunt spoke in lurid voice of grand office. ¡°Oh, loyal people of this great Imperium! Oh, children of our Living Lord! Before you, in fetters: the man guilty of most profane treason & blasphemous conduct against our Emperor!¡±

    ¡°Such treachery is made more deplorable by his coveting such high station. This famed bard who helped sound our rally to glory becomes a whispering deviant seeding song of discontent. Let his tale of renown, exaggerated and un-earnt, be tarnished by the truth of his treachery! His tongue and wit hath spurned us! Split our sides with forked trident of treasonous will! We hath unearthed evidence of his involvement and propagation of People¡¯s Protectorate propaganda and designs of revolt. Behold this trickster hellion and hear those who shall affirm his guilt unto all.¡±

    The air hung every heart in attendance with tense tethers as Mordaunt called forth the accusers. To Azarra the way the man¡¯s nostrils broadened wildly during his address and the way his boar snout overshadowed the rest of his countenance, constantly made him appear eerily over eager. Beneath his mask of emissary of the Lord¡¯s justice he possessed a crooked hunger given the unsteady, dusky ambiance of the trial¡¯s setting. Faded impressions of boils along his visage added to his ardent hate and proved to the mob that their warden endured the bane of Crestfall as much as their kin. The declaration of ardent assurance flamed in his glare; the guilt of the accused already decided. Those in the crowd who spot this trait bobbed along in trust that this flare must simply be a sign of how compelled by the Lord¡¯s work this zealous disciple was.

    The proceedings swiftly spun about an effigy of Baron as a traitorous turncoat. Fellow artisans of Illuminaries played parts as witnesses and (perhaps motivated out of envy) denounced his sonnets & sermons as designs of rebellion. Mordaunt hungrily led the chains of rhetoric from the speakers against the skald. One man, an Alrith, confessed then to crimes done under Protectorate banner: the murders of the noble Bastiones and the champion¡¯s family.

    Erratic whispers crackled through the court as a subtle murmur returned. The Court felt unease to be putting one of their own champions on trial for so heinous a crime. Few dared to gaze up at Drakkon on his throne for fear of witnessing his expression or, worse still, meeting his eyes. The confessor, a feral looking man with an unhinged stare stumbled before the scrutiny of the court. Alrith¡¯s dark attire, remnants of a uniform that bore the stitched sigil of the People¡¯s Protectorate across it. The circles of defeat beneath his eyes and furrowed brow made the man appear already broken, a prisoner in his own body.

    ¡°Confess again to these good people what thou did to those poor people. Tell them of the mothers and how thou treated my kin for thy seditious cult!¡± Mordaunt goaded.

    ¡°I-We... yes, we gashed out their bellies and festering guts... ¡®twas a symbolic act against the ¡®holy¡¯ wardens who kept us all imprisoned in perpetual famine. For tragic abuse from they who let the poor, unprivileged, people of their province fade to famine while they filled their fat bellies. We were there on behest of intelligence from our commanding agent, Baron. Aye, he told us our tormentors were housed here. He allowed us entry into the walls and payment for their elimination. He said they were too much of a threat and that competition to his political prowess could not stand if we, the hope of the People, were to triumph. For we need a noble leader, he says! As did we poison the aquifers of Crestfall with blight; their stocks with rot.¡±

    Tears trickled from the tattered man¡¯s eyes in jagged drops. He shook beneath the scrutiny of Baron¡¯s aghast and sickened look, not wanting to meet the face of the man he betrayed. Baron interjected and called to his former fellow. ¡°Alrith, you craven! Why do you lie so?! You desecrate the livelihood & future of our realm for small survival? What monster here do you take the fall for? I did not think you were one to crumble beneath their weight!¡±

    More tears fell to the prisoners¡¯ cheeks as their eyes finally met. In an instant the animosity in his burning gaze was replaced with tragic glint of hidden insight. ¡°They have my family...¡± At this forbidden exchange of telepathic signals Mordaunt pounced on the witness, bringing him to the ground with a mean blow.

    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°Hark! I know this man as a captain of the Protectorate but not as a callous murderer! He defames himself ¨C wherefore I can only assume is for fearful coercion? - that the real sinner can escape the light of truth! The code of the protectorate is not to strike wanton fear into innocent hearts but fight to free them, help them liberate themselves!¡± Baron blurted, exasperated & near spent. He flailed a chained fist at Mordaunt. ¡°Listen not to the lies the gilt dog of Drakkon, here, pried of the mouth of this good man. This court follows the tread of our Lord¡¯s lap-hound, supping the gore of his master¡¯s endless war! Hear mercy, not machinations!¡±

    ¡°He shames the very premise of loyalty! He mocks our champion after gutting his family!¡± Pustules of people spat ardently against the accused. His denial only enhanced his guilt.

    Drakkon roared abrupt adjoining to this debacle, stirring the tension in the swarms evermore. ¡°So, you confess to your involvement in the marauding syndicate that tears at the fabric of what we have all built together! Thou art of malignant mind, spurring machinations for that treacherous group which plots to bring murder upon our mothers and babes! To write their obscene manifesto in the ruins of guiltless bodies! Why should we weigh a liar¡¯s code as worthy of merit?! Savage conspiracy against all civilized peoples this is!¡±

    The background murmur of the crowd ended instantaneously. Clamor, crushed by the sheer thunder from him & anticipation of a coming storm. Delphine, slinking beside Azarra, clung tightly to her cloak almost shrouding herself in it. Not for warmth but for wanting to disappear in its folds. To be free of the pain of witnessing such a fatal rift in those she had long cared for. Azarra, however, yearned then for blood as much as Mordaunt. This frightened Delphine, shivering more than before seeking her assurance. To be so distant of heart when so near gnawed raveningly at her marrow.

    Baron¡¯s features contorted miserably. Trembling with bitter stitch he pushed past Mordaunt and stared directly up at Drakkon. Though bound he showed no thrall¡¯s posture but stiff disobedience. He would have offered a cheeky grin were his temper not so enflamed. ¡°I will not claim to be anything that I am not. As all bards ¨C and all people - are bound to follow the strumming of their own heartstrings, so too am I pressed to pursue & play the resonant tune of truth. I do not deny my allegiance with the Protectorate. I embrace, honestly and fervently, that my soul burns for the people. I should have adopted the ideals of their crusade sooner.¡±

    Baron began boldly. ¡°But I did not order the deaths of the Bastione bloodline ¨C that is a lie! Nor wish for any massacre inside that place. Not a whisper did I hear of seditious conspiracy to turn Crestfall¡¯s sanctum to a pestilent crypt where innocents are ignominiously buried! Someone else schemed this! I am willing to be a martyr but not over another¡¯s crimes ¨C let me die only for mine! Only through verse and philosophy hath I shaped any plot against you, and I stand by my declarations against the injustice of this Imperium, but I share in tears for this senseless slaughter. The only conspiracy I know of is the one which is casting me in the mold of a maniacal murderer! When I am ever just a poet who cares too bloody much. Yet ye frame me as a sorcerer who spawned this horror! Yet the pool of their blood reflects thee!¡±

    Drakkon forwent his throne. The black marble behind him, with relic coronet of the Forest Lord fastened to it, swathed his looming stature in the shadow of horns. All awaited with unease, suspended with morbid curiosity & trepidation of what the emperor would do to this admitted traitor. Corinna too rocked with unnerve as her husband and sovereign abandoned her side to confront one of their oldest friends. This friend and former star: prostrated before the highest court in disgrace at the mercy of an unforgiving Lord.

    Mordaunt swerved back, clasping the other prisoner by the neck. Blighted hand pressed with such pressure as to show the sooty hue under white glove. He too steered back, knowing that this was no longer his official sanction but a deeply personal matter unfolding before the eyes of the world.

    ¡°Why?¡± The emperor¡¯s tone austere, every syllable carried by painful undertow. ¡°Why betray me thus? Why lie and defame my name when I have given you all?¡±

    Baron met his consternating watch unabashedly. He could feel the world narrow, shearing all around in singularity of that stalactite stare. A nauseating spiral churned as his core seeped into stinging speech. ¡°When I pledged myself to your cause ages past I did so because I believed in you to truly deliver the world a green chance. I thought you would grant your promises ¨C not to me and those who helped raise you to your throne of grandeur and opulent pedestal but to all the realms. I had faith you would bless our tribes with unity, or at least grant them their sovereignty. I dreamt that your triumph could renew our respect for each other¡¯s choice and foster fertile grove for the clans to craft an equitable society-¡±

    ¡°- I have done this. I shook the foundations of the old world and sent the state of the Dread Serpent toppling into the void. I propped up the Drakoni Aeon as prophesied, remolded our world from Divine essence. I fulfilled promise to my champions and made you the herald of Light. I granted you safe harbor for future generations to learn & flourish in this garden I groomed. Yet you inverted this gift and made it a blade with which to pierce at my heart!¡±

    ¡°Nay!¡± Baron erupted with impassioned indignity. Fuming with scorn and with vigorous candor. ¡°You lopped off Vizzarion¡¯s dreadful head, aye, but only that your own neck may splinter and sprout from the wound like a hydra¡¯s. Even that title of ¡®Imperator¡¯ is one of many stolen from them. Your Winged Drakes are but rescaled Dread Knights or lictors. One crown shed so another duplicitous gemstone may sit upon that heavy head. A thousand serpents are one in you! The mark of your malice is more titanic than this realm yet knew. Such cruelty for its own sake. As though a noxious addiction of yours that all of us below must be flayed for!¡±

    Spitting spite, he stood with feet planted as the stone pillars of this court, refusing to bend before his Lord nor the pressure of that darkened glare. ¡°Your rule unites us only in bonds of suffering. Your boot steps upon every throat that dares not utter every breath for your vanity! Any head that fosters a mind of free will is lost by your executioner¡¯s axe!¡±

    Acrimony rang through Drakkon¡¯s pupils. Blinded with hate yet paralyzed by tolling rancor in eye of his own storm. All while Baron¡¯s charge rolled on. ¡°At least the Magistrate¡¯s malice had its limits. And they knew it, even in avarice, too chaining for one man to hold the reins, all heads of states. Our people are divided more than in any age in the gulf between the impoverished and those chosen few who serve you in absurd affluence! Your militarism and expansion beyond promised riches for all. But all that was pocketed into the treasury of soft-spoken nobles who benefited from your sadism. The rest turned to rot and harvest of rue! The People cry out for a chance to breathe beneath the weight of your duplicitous throne! This chair of lies that you raise higher every day pummels the backs of the people who brought you to it!¡±

    Drakkon towered as a monolith over Baron, who retained his plucky poise even while assailed by burning words. ¡°My will commands the movements of the stars! The planets above: as gems orbiting my crown and shining at the behest of my Grace! All that is earthly, all that is corporeal is blessed by my Light and holy touch which gave it this chance to flourish in merciful existence! Those who are cursed with plague and poverty are those who hath squandered my light- my gift ¨C to wallow in the mire of mortal misery... Those who cannot endure are impure souls and ungrateful heretics, dregs dwelling in filth & fallacy! Black-hearted heathens who deserve not to bask in the halo of my Divine glory!¡±

    ¡°Even those heathens of the Crest, defended by your Imperium?¡±

    ¡°Crestfall shall rise from this curse. One you claim credit for through this insistence. The strong of spirit shall survive by empyrean aegis.¡± The emperor¡¯s hue distorted to a lurid purplish glaze. His visage, appalling to witness, let alone be the target of that wrathful look. ¡°You dare before the highest decry my radiance, my ordained rule as hollow?! I am the sovereign of heaven and earth and you, in your hubris deny me?!¡±

    ¡°¡¯Tis you who are bloated with hubris & fattening fallacy, Drakkon!¡± Baron spoke up, stretching his resistance. Though his voice trembled, this was not from cowardice before facing an exacting verdict but from the sorrowful blame and guilt that burdened his soul, that it should come to this. ¡°You are blind to the plight of your people. Seeing only the glistening reflection of illusory luxury. How many sons have you sent to die for empty titles and how many died disobeying delusion? How many farmsteads were torched when their tribute was not to your satisfaction? Ah, how many ancient writs are travestied for a circle of sycophants to supplant real wisdom with inflations of your ego? Your diet of wyrms and eyeless drakes?¡±

    Storm light struck, burning through aurora. Bolts heralded the inclement Helwinds. ¡°My wisdom gives them Light, reason for life! They Live through me, those that do not veer into black veneer of sorcery & curses against all proper Order! I never claimed that the revolution of this planet to my Aeon, in full sway, would be peaceful. Nay, I warned of great sacrifice, to no avail to lesser hearts as thine! Those who heed not the cost of greatness!¡±

    ¡°Greatness?¡± The defendant thrust forth trident of his tongue. ¡°All these hollow worshipers who chant dumb litany of petty praise, resounding in your ear with what you want to hear that they may rise to suckle the teats of luxury. But it will not mute the sounds of your people¡¯s whimpers and screams for change. Never shall you silence cries for truth & a right to make life our own!¡±

    ¡°Heaven strike thee! This pitch of blasphemy, alight by my Thunder!¡± Drakkon verged on spontaneous combustion from his indignation. In the drapery of early evening above, the great constellations winked resistance to walls of heavy bouts. The star sign of the Wyrm, Zar¡¯Rion, and its rival dragon of fyre & wing, Astralis-Drakonis, collapsed in cyclone river of evenfall.

    ¡°Let your Divine Thunder strike me dead without hand then!¡± Baron lifted his chains, cursing the heavens, daring their wrath. ¡°Show them your eminent Will manifest as Malderath¡¯s blessing upon me! Ah, but you are no storm god. No rebuke shall light me but that of your malice. Ha! Look at these spurious reverent & frail flatterers you collect! Your courts: so obscenely adorned with frivolous affluence. Yet the masses beneath your high throne and lofty towers are shackled in servitude with a dearth of substance and a travesty of life granted to them for their burdensome loyalty. How many souls must drown in the wake of delusion before you realize what you have become?¡±

    ¡°I am a god of Storm & Sun! I could bid daylight return or a fork of lightning make ash of thee! Alas, these baleful gales are most befitting Our mood; painted in the weather. For my mercy tempers the tempest, covers this court in my Aegis. That ye face wrath of living hands, are strangled by the throat which thought to speak for all of them. Unless repentance moves thee!¡±

    ¡°You are blind to your nature.¡± Admitted the cursed rebel with somber & more intimate intonation to his ¡®merciful¡¯ Lord. ¡°You are no god at all. Only a man encased in vain deception, capable of seeing only what you desire to be true. You are a tyrant, a villain! No more divine than a grain of sand or a snow-capped mountain! Nay, even less! This thing, this husk, before me is no creator, no king, but a monster that betrayed everything it espoused!¡±

    The crowd: horrorstruck at this blasphemous claim. They whipped wildly in their places as Drakkon unsheathed his notorious meteorite sword and poked the obsidian edge at Baron¡¯s bare throat. Cries of ¡®Traitor,¡¯ ¡®blasphemer,¡¯ & ¡®kill the covetous lout!¡¯ rustled through the spectators. Along with a vehement call for the ¡®sodding bard¡¯ to have his innards torn out and fed to his fellow ¡®rebel dogs.¡¯ Braver souls in the audience dared voice support for Baron, pleas for mercy. Though they hid their faces and shushed their mouths before anyone could pinpoint who said such things as ¡®hear him out!¡¯ or ¡®he sings the song of truth with soul of a skald!¡¯

    Baron became broadly emboldened in his conviction. ¡°I will no longer play the purveyor of wide deception and deplorable artifice. Innumerable lives were committed to utter woe, their preventable anguish ordained by this fraudulent doctrine, this false dogma... I will not be an agent for the suppression of knowledge and free thought that your despotic agenda may prevail. Your claim to divinity is an unfounded concoction only real in the heads of those indoctrinated by the lie. Inculcated on ruse! You are a man lost to mere pose.¡±

    The poet¡¯s rhetoric rouses electrifying shocks in the galleries gathered on Felhenge Hill. This sacred site of the Druids, deformed into sacrilegious sham trial might as well be his burial mound if he could but hurl final cord of revelation. ¡°With how ravenously you took from those stable granaries and crops I should expect you to look the mirror image of ole Magister Fel! Aha! What shall they say when our holy lord gains a paunch from his glut?! Or more fitting to say your belligerence and rape of all lands & rights you believe yourself beholden to hath shaped you the same as old Kassan! You, but the blind heir of hapless hubris. Your real father: the one you took those horns from! Will you not bare for us that ursine skull, your true likeness!¡±

    The bard-champion-turned-traitor pointed starved finger to the horns hovering over the throne in decoration. The festooned-antlered trophy which hung over the court as a reminder of Drakkon¡¯s strength was that very Crown of Bellieus. Lifted from the temple after much muttering opposition to the move the relic to stay in the shade of their divine lord. To follow wherever he goes, as sign of Imperium where court is held. But Baron reminded all that it had belonged to Kassan, the terror of a man who nearly brought the tribes to their knees for his conquest. ¡°You are less a god and more a wilted mirror Kassan, without the kilt!¡±

    ¡°LIAR!¡± came the witch-wail of the High Mother with sudden, unsettling insistence. With harpy¡¯s shriek she tore at the ears of the attendees with verbal talons. ¡°Lecherous asp! My auguries prophesied that there would be a great betrayal among this court! That Saatharian rays would again creep up to strangle we high nobility in our slumbering trust. Here is that wretched snake before us! We should commit him to the balefire and burn his memory for the sake of all our reverent spirits! To tolerate such brazen blasphemy will bring the firmament down upon us!¡±

    This pious, if passionate, pronouncement produced great concurrence. Ensnared the mob with a vicarious yearning for brutal punishment. Anger prevailed over clemency. Nameless folk called for the lecherous liar to be immured, castrated, quartered, and fed to rats. Should the line of Azarine faithful not have been blocked by their Lord, whose Eye wavered then on his mother, they would have torn him in twain and dunked the halves in the Felstream.

    Yet another dissented. Silent and graceful, Corinna glided down from the rocky seat and reached for her husband¡¯s arm in ardent plea to stall for mercy. As balletic in form as shocking in spirit to the audience around. With gentle fervor she appealed to her crowned spouse. ¡°Please, my love! Deliver him to the folds of time¡¯s decay but not to the headsman¡¯s axe ¨C and not by your blessed hand. To do so would only make him a martyr and enflame the militia fyrds with dire fervor against us! We must make it known to the people that this all too well-beloved bard is a treacherous cur before we commit him unto death. Lest we enrage those ignorant souls who think him a hero. Display him in the chains he earns. Imprison him in lasting scrutiny of the immoral path he paved.¡±

    Drakkon turned from Baron to his beloved. Not with the warmth of mercy in his eyes but an arctic gale that hailed an avalanche over her being. Searching for any sign that she too may be in league with the enemy. Then he relented a sigh. ¡°I understand your concern. But we can withstand any blows that may come in retaliation. This conspirator must be made an example of. Given the pedestal of his position he must be executed. Baron, the lascivious leech, will be flayed thin before the eyes of all faithful Drakoni.¡±

    His commanding tone thrust her a couple steps back. She felt a rift tearing at the tissue inside, widening the glaring fissure between their love. Though Corinna was a mere few feet from Drakkon she¡¯d been committed into the yawning gulf of cold and treacherous space. Many in the crowd were confused that the Empress stepped up to defend the admitted traitor, even marginally so through the mercy of imprisonment.

    Azarra, aware of this budding unease, sent hushed whisper to those around that ¡°Perhaps the Impress is not what she seems?¡± a sentiment which travelled anonymously through the throng of wary nobles & superstitious servants. ¡°Has she been seduced?¡±

    Drakkon quelled the commotion by persisting in his declaration of Baron¡¯s doomed kismet. ¡°I will tear down the legacy of his treachery! I will make him a monument of mockery to be loathed. Remembered only as a lesson to those who prop themselves up as a tainted shadow against my Light! I will burn those shadowed Illuminaries in effigy and make it impossible for treason to be spread through any foundation of this glorious Imperium! I will erase every stain of his abhorrent existence with those colleges!¡±

    ¡°Nay! Never!¡± Baron¡¯s spout of ardency made Drakkon turn a violet shade. ¡°Burn my body, burn this ¡®treacherous¡¯ flesh of mine! Destroy this earthly vessel to satisfy your rage. But I beseech you not to burn these temples to Light & Knowledge! Burn not the heart of this land, of our people and history to ash! Why toss the legacy of all our combined minds onto funeral pyre when I, alone, affronted you! I swear upon all that once existed between us, all those bonds of friendship and the zeal we shared in bettering the world that it was solely my influence that wronged your rule! I acted on my whim and should be punished for this. But I assure you that the Illuminaries serve everyone in offering learning and in thriving anew in communal understanding. Those students and instructors of muse & medicine are innocent of my meddling.¡±

    With such resonance of palpable ardency in his defense, a portion of the crowd were caught off guard by his heartfelt zeal for this ideal. But most remained cynical and thirsted to see blood shed on this hill for the hell which became their Crestfall, not far from sacred site.

    Mordaunt dispensed his argument on the matter coldly, further immuring the prostrated bard in suspicion. ¡°He only states such a desperate claim in hopes of clearing any of his slithering kin well imbedded in these institutions. I would advise, my Lord, to proceed with an investigation to uproot any remaining snakes.¡±

    Even Mordaunt tread carefully in the wake of Drakkon¡¯s incensed state. ¡°They do aid our alchemists & engineers, these schools. Better to purge them, than raze them. But if they cannot concoct any salve for the blight, it may yet be small loss. How¡¯ere, if the colleges are but schools of revolt and they slaved for the slaughter of my line...¡± Manticore tears dropped as frost flakes, pouring his longing for Selene into pseudo-chalice of his fallen ¡®family,¡¯ ¡°let them be staked upon pyres of Imperium!¡±

    ¡°Stake your own rot, fiend! The plague is not our doing. You may have done better to make your imperative its staving & containment. But that it spread from the south to encase all the eastern Ruun only shows the incompetence of the censors & stewards of this empire of ataxia!¡±

    The emperor ignored this frivolous prosecution from the traitor. He stomped up to Baron and, with the strength residing in his one hand, pressed the prisoner to his knees in poise of disgrace. The legendary blade gleamed with thirst even in the sparse light persisting in the darkening sky. It licked at Baron¡¯s neck, suckling drops of his blood without any application of force from the wielder. ¡°Any bond that once existed between us was sundered the moment you breached my trust, began this plot against heavenly throne. I see no reason to permit you any last grace, nor should I risk humiliation by trusting your sordid tongue...¡±

    Grim insinuations lingered in the volatile vacuum between the two men and the purgatorial moments upon which the threads of their fate hung. Drakkon sheathed his sword but held tight in his condemning intonation and in his grip, latched to Baron¡¯s neck.   Then the Imperator released the defendant¡¯s gullet & declared the censure from his own. ¡°Come Eos¡¯ next visit, this court shall meet once more for an official show of the great traitor¡¯s damnation. He will die, that is certain. But it must be fitting show to every person of grand & low standing in our land, as to make his death a meaningful warning to any scoundrel harboring ill intentions. He will confess before even greater number soon. Put a muzzle on him for now! Mordaunt, show the damned party what will happen to any sniveling rats lurking in his ¡®temples of light¡¯ by demonstrating on his fellow betrayer.¡±

    Mordaunt shoved Alrith to the stone slab at the center. Ushered to the chopping block to meet a long, merciless knife. Making methodical incisions & artful mutilations, he carved carefully to elongate these signets of Imperium branded of his flesh. The condemned perpetually muttered anguished prayer before those cords were cut, ¡°salvo nostrum domus.¡±

    Alrith¡¯s executioner tried for stoic, enigmatic expression in enacting Astraean act. But the predatory flare revealed through the feigned lack of pleasure in tormenting a man who once fought beside him in the front. The doomed bard caught this sinister gleam. Forced to witness, muffled & voiceless, his friend¡¯s prolonged public death.

    The congregation of clouds, grown burdensome, wept over the assembly. Rain poured over the stone pillars and washed carmine streak. With a signal from the Lord the courtiers were dismissed, bid to disperse. The many hailed his Justice. Then they scampered off into dismal murk, submerging into the brisk bleakness that claimed the hill.

 Friendships Funeral

    Chapter Six, Friendship¡¯s Funeral

    Small hours before morning, Felhenge stockades

    The once humble hill-town that catered to the eccentric flock at Felhenge underwent such drastic transformation since Drakkon claimed it from the druids. Half the woods or more, felled. Some burnt in the ¡®battle¡¯ that befell the skalds months back, to deprive them their enclosure. The rest cut to craft the many lodgings, martial barracks & basic constructions to house a Summit or two. With the nearby hill raised up to house many a family fled from devastated Crestfall. Makeshift cells were erected to imprison the enemies of Imperium when the bellies of Windhand¡¯s dungeon and the villas, upturned from the strife were gorged. In the sanctum of the dead, arrayed with palisades & added balistraria, the infamous songster damned to die mired in a dank holding carved of what used to be a mead storage for monks & aspiring morticians.

    Shackled to the wall and stifled by the oppressive air of this ersatz hold that was to be his grave, Baron drifted on the verge of consciousness. Unable to sleep for fear of what his final dreams could be yet exhausted by all that transpired. His chest heaved in afflicted pangs; every breath accompanied by incessant stinging. Weary eyes idly observed the drops of water seeping from the cracks above. He''d sworn to make peace with death before being dragged across the threshold of the unknown. But sworn in vain, for the persistent pain in his chest riled up his discontent and he found no such respite in thoughts of leaving this world forever. What matter if he had a last valiant stand before tyranny if he left that living world to the tyrant¡¯s fancy?

    He felt that he deserved this fate, but he could not resign himself to it completely. That he would leave the world in such a woeful state having engendered the despotism that sentenced him to abyss smothered him in melancholy. Baron tried not to dwell too much on this, in large part due to how arduous following even a simple thought to its fruition was. Given the tension pressing on his sternum and his lack of prospects rendering introspection excruciating.

    Beyond the gated basement strode a lone, fearsome figure. Heimskal, one of the Champions of Justice, served as his guard. Pacing along the corridor in introspective thought, his steps pounded the prisoner¡¯s mind. Though pale cowl drew about his face, in those scant seconds when he would glimpse inside the cell, Baron gleaned reluctant grimace of sympathy. Perhaps his holder only performed the somber task because his Emperor tasked it of him. Though he knew him to be a man adherent to noble code of conduct of his own, sworn to Astraea, the bard understood it to be a futile effort to persuade his keeper to free him. Nor did he particularly feel compelled to attempt escape. He was consigned to annihilation, even if he flinched before it, and simply awaited its imminent arrival. Waiting with haunting attention to every creeping moment.

    Creaking from the stairs above & muttering exchange informed that his chosen executioner arrived. Heimskal marched to meet with the visitor and Baron wondered who it would be. Would it be Drakkon himself, here to do the honors or mock him with more personal grate? He sealed tight his eyes and tried to ignore the irritant clanging of his chains while awaiting the reaper¡¯s herald. No matter how still he made himself, the fetters cast a chafing sound, a reminder of his place. Time neither passed onward nor remained still but absorbed him in a wretched delirium of nonbeing. When he opened his eyes, Heimskal had departed, as told by the creaking of the furthermost door. Before him stood a cryptic figure draped in dreary cloth robe.

    The visitor unveiled its hood, showing wearer to be Corinna. Her tired visage could not conceal her resonate elegance & charmed beauty to him. For a second Baron found elation, before the diabolical pulse of reality set back in. He was soon to depart from this earthly kingdom on rather ignominious terms. To be so close served only to remind him of what would be lost, never seen nor touched again. Peering back into her eyes, so lustrous and alive with feeling and need, fetched a sharp guilt that stabbed his ribcage. How could he abandon her? One of many an edged question asked to his heart, alongside how he could dare think to live with the shame of his failure, with its stupidity & weight dragging her to the gallows with him.

    ¡°What morbid mockery this is!¡± he asked cynically, already assuming the worst. ¡°You are to be the herald to my execution, the last hand to hold me as you bring me to the block?¡±

    ¡°No, Baron,¡± she said, visibly hurt by his distrust. ¡°I know you have plenty of reasons to look upon all with such a sullen filter, but you should know, from all the time we have spent together, that I am always earnest when I seek you out. Ever looking out for you. I know what my husband is, what he¡¯s become¡­ I will not allow him bury you, whose heart beats for the people-¡±

    ¡°-and beats for you.¡± He mustered a strained smile before clenching at his heart from gasping pain. ¡°But is this dawn of ours not deemed the hour of my death? Drakkon might distrust you after your arduous plea and I do not want you placing your neck out and risking the axe for me - already condemned to die. I hath already played my part and failed to stir the people to reclaim their destiny from that despot I once called a friend.¡±

    ¡°You are not lost,¡± she moved to console him, caressing his pallid cheek with her palm, ¡°not this morn. Drakkon in his grandiose drunkenness has ordered your¡­end to be postponed.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°So that he can ¡®prepare a pit of vipers for which the traitor shall be tossed into¡¯. Sent the Drakes out to catch some. The rest, with Mordaunt, glare down the court for fresh traitors.¡±

    ¡°Damned to all eternity! He is past the perch of insanity. His mind is utterly shrouded in perilous conceit! A fool was I to fight for him-¡±

    ¡°I too played the fool. I wed him, even with the warnings. Allowed myself to be swayed by parades of passing luxury. Pretended he was the man I fell in love with when he was guided by the whispering whims of wolves cloaked as helots and his black blade humming for red. I let that spark to improve the lives of others wane. That light: snuffed by carrion beasts who pick at the corpse of our realm. His mother is the worst of them. A part of me feels he is not beyond redemption, that there is still a sliver of hope. If I can reach him... But then I recall how those close to me suffer for my proximity to him! Lavinia, murdered for my sake, only for that wedding bond to find fruition later and turn to fetters for me. Looking at how he has left you, Baron, tis hard to believe we aren¡¯t past the pale. But we must try!¡±

    The destitute prisoner turned his head away for a moment, his burdensome thoughts too much to bear before Corinna should he sway her heart to his glowering melancholy. He was at a loss to believe in anything, but the malice and wanton gloom abound. I am naught but a martyr for those already lost.

    Corinna seemed to read these terrible thoughts scribed in Baron¡¯s mind and softly unlocked the cell gate. Gliding to him like a ghost of grace to cover him from the darkest vesper, she embraced Baron tenderly and whispered. ¡°When circumstances bear malicious fangs against us belief becomes the rarest commodity and the most vital. Hope is a beacon to assuage despair. ¡®Twas you that taught me this. Your compassion kindled my light. Keeps it flickering still.¡±

    A beat in Corinna¡¯s reassurance, while she draped her hand across Baron¡¯s beaten body. His worn eyes passed back to her, though trembling to dam tears. He mustered a smile for her warmth, though her words were yet wintry; as saturnine as soothing. ¡°You once saved me when we shared our souls with one another awhile back. When I was wed to death with our lord, our love wrestled me from dreary brink. You showed me that I could persevere to right these wrongs which I played the pawn to. That I was not defined by Drakkon or his sins. You must be strong for yourself as you were for me then. You are more than this prison!¡±

    ¡°And you are the pinnacle of empyrean virtue & beauty manifest.¡± Baron simpered at her. Abruptly he clasped for his chest and let out a groan. He uttered to speak again with troubled tone. ¡°But I am not strong enough to withstand this storm. It has torn away my roots and my body will be scattered to the winds, just as my spirit has fled. I am weak, in all too many ways. And I do not wish for my foolishness to be fatal for you!¡±

    ¡°You are not so powerless as you claim, Baron! You are the author of our people¡¯s enlightened education; the architect of the Illuminaries and the torch bearer of wisdom for children not yet born! You brought the People¡¯s Protectorate to the cusp of real virtue! Turned them from rabble rousers who vent their rage on witches, caravans, and rich folk to valiant defenders against overreaching Dominion. Tis because of you that the abused have a voice to assemble around and raise their own demands for justice aloud! If you die now, with you shall go the last fragment of hope for change.¡±

    ¡°If I live, I shall be inept upon the stage. Nothing can be done while Drakkon and the many believe his lie of astral heritage. What madness should befall if that faith in him slips, and he can no longer wear the mask which makes him? I spoke the truth to them all but perhaps it is good that he proved deaf. Imagine the wars to result if our lord isn¡¯t humbled to hear fact but plunged to deepening war with himself by it. And I cannot contest him in open war-¡±

    ¡°Nay, I am a player evermore inept still. Thinking sweet words and careful cases could sway our Lord into ruling for the people and not his reflection. I dithered. Perhaps did not put on the proper gloves, forgoing gauntlets ¨C but death is not the only answer, is it?¡± Corinna blubbered, existential tides thrashing her, ¡°I should have heeded your words sooner. Though you saved me I failed to save myself from insipidness, when I could have raised the groves of my Corinae to keep Azarra locked in her tower with her leeches & thermae. Or allowed your agents access of a more bloodless sort into the courts. My image is deservedly doused. But you, your cause?¡±

    Baron groaned, dismayed, but did not offer argument as his love quavered quivering claim. ¡°Those who would flock to arms against oppression will have their hearts shattered by a legend as yours being defiled so publicly. This dark rain will continue to blight the land, as nothing more than the Vizzari rule renewed with more indomitable vigor. I hath many a sin to redeem, been so close to the heart of despotism. Yet this can be our moment to triumph over our past hesitancy. From this torment we may pave the way to the stars, together if you will have me help. We can- can make up for mistakes- my mistakes. Tis my fault you are trapped here. Pressing you to stay with me in that damned city. Were I not so selfish, been more cautious-¡±

    ¡°May I make a confession to you, Corinna?¡± her imprisoned lover shifted his bruised frame back, bearing a tortured look under brow. ¡°This upheaval, these frayed strands of rebellion ¨C my hand in it was but forced by my mortal condition. See, a worm of rot hath burrowed into my chest and threatens to turn the cage inside to my crypt, at times its crushing venom feels too much to endure, and I know my heart hath not the stamina to push on much longer. I waited too long to truly fight. Till the hour is too late and my strength fast atrophies.¡±

    Corinna gasped. ¡°Bar- if we can just slink you away from here, get you to our Grove, we can find the right herbs, a secret spell to relieve it ¨C We can-¡±

    ¡°My days dwindle in allowance. Maybe not so swiftly but my years are uncertain. This execution ordained by a fools¡¯ court would but speed up what is fated. I am not so brave, Lady. I dallied to join the fray against your Lord. I only made my resolve kinetic when death¡¯s door knocked, began to open. I am bereft of foresight and proved blind to the schemes of others. As was I sightless to how those my plans for subversion put in danger those I care for. Framed them as villains. Like yourself. Little good I did for you, sadly.¡±

    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    ¡°Baron, we are all mortal. This fact alone steers all too many of us to madness. Drives Drakkon to deny it for delusion. Yet can push us to pursue that ephemeral nectar of life¡¯s fruitful fields. It pains me that you did not confide in me earlier, that you ached in hushed secrecy so. I hate watching you wallow in pity and self-blame when that is so far from the hero you truly are. At least you, when marked by this worldly affliction did not abandon all hope of a better life when faced by the frightful reality of death. Instead, you strode onward, rode against the thundering tide.¡± So, she said and laid her hand over Baron¡¯s breast as though the warmth of her palm could radiate healing and extra strength to his ailing chest. ¡°If the Fates decide to take you across that fatal border by this curse, I cannot stop them. But I know your final hour should not be decided by any but the gods themselves ¨C the real gods ¨C and not by the arrogance of a man who is more a slaver than a worshipful savior.¡±

    ¡°And what glory, what mercy, will the gods give to the woman wrapped by his side? You, painted as the earthly queen of heaven? Do they not curse us all, if they still breathe out there in the stars even, for stealing their light as our own? Tis what the peasants & shamans alike would claim!¡± Baron spat snidely. Enraged by his own impotence. Were it not for her he would¡¯ve bashed his head against his cage, in wounding catharsis from this hateful state. ¡°Nay, let not my pittance risk your profoundness becoming flambeau for my frailty. Tis my song and sword that falters. Let them curse only me, that you be free from our liege but not from life!¡±

    ¡°Think not so lowly of yourself,¡± Corinna rushed him more ardently, her caress somewhat suppressing the spasms of his chest, ¡°I must own some shame too. I who am meekest among women sat meekly by my consort¡¯s side watching disgrace unfold from his hand and did nothing to truly reach him. Even now I cannot think to bring myself to harm him, making you the last possible prophet for the prosperity of all people. If it is as glum as you say, then let me be damned first and foremost. I idled in my gardens with a small circle of students dabbling in what ways we mystics, actors, oracles, and curious minds study of in our mother, Elderath. Yet denied humanity! I enjoyed the pleasures of his side too much and came to deny our realm; what it needed from me. I know how hard it is not to fold to blame!¡±

    ¡°Is blaming yourself so unbecoming?¡± The prisoner posed. ¡°Yet that blemish barely stains your loveliness, empress. Perhaps you try to show me my ugliness though through that mirror of shame. Yet you are still so bright. What good would arrive from denying Drakkon? Nay, Cor, you did your best to tame his temper. This blight prospers of its own accord, past all our attempts.¡±

    She clamped down on his hand, a grip to match the irons he¡¯s cast in. ¡°Aye it is an ugly look, self-pity. One I do not like to wear long. But I wouldst not dare shame your looks when you are not allowed to wash away this dirt for so long. One dip in the glade¡¯s pool would restore your charms, for me, dear singer. I shall drop my pitiful look, that you do the same. Dreadful appearance can only cage us so long if we focus on a remedy for the future. Let us be free to make this right how we can. Bare ourselves to hope, even in this evil evenfall.¡±

    Awe & anguish lived in his look. ¡°How might there by hope when this martyr in me languishes in a mead cell, awaiting venomous end? What could come of getting caught for trying to pilfer me from my stony sentence? Should I run to nearest Illuminarium and be hung there by my students?¡±

    ¡°Drakkon drank himself to oblivion after the excesses of the hearing¡¯s stress. Thank the Muses for seducing him with delirium, enough that he plays the fool more than we by not keeping his blood hound as your watcher. Instead, Heimskal and the other champions (who hold to true Justice) ready to aide your escape. Those other watchers are turned upon Felhenge, hunting fugitives in vapors and conspiracy in every corner, save where it lay. Where freedom may¡­¡± Corinna conjured a key to unshackle the muse of her soul¡¯s second wind, ¡°you¡¯ve friends in Valkingrad and a whole confederation of tribes; fresh or otherwise fired by renewed resolve, who await you at their head. We¡¯ve only this slim chance while fortune shines in crescent.¡±

    The Lady of his Love wound herself within his clasps. Showing how she could not abandon him even if irons be their outer bonds. ¡°So please, Baron, while I know it is poor manners to ask a dying man a favor, but will you promise me one final thing? Know the choice is all yours, I cannot force you. But do not refuse for my sake if you wish to honor me. Will you leave this pit and be brave enough to fight this ailment & wider despotism? For me, for yourself and for us all? I wouldst prefer to know you as a great lover and courageous trailblazer one day, rather than a martyr and defiled corpse ¨C o I could not bear it!¡±

    In the space of a drawn, strained breath, Baron transported his thoughts from dejection to reluctant chivalry. Moved to sympathy by her and lured into a renewed resolution. ¡°So long as you can swear to me to keep yourself safe from the consequences of this sedition if discovered then my heart shall prevail a little longer. If only for you.¡±

    ¡°Then go. Go forth with the stitch of my heart holding to yours and let it not fail!¡± Corinna brushed Baron¡¯s forehead with her lips then stood back from him. A beacon shined in her eyes at him past the squalor of the cellar. From her pouch slipped a crude leather & silver mask in shape of sentinel¡¯s helm. Slyly leaving it as a disguise by the corner of the open door. ¡°I believe in you, Baron. But my help can only carry you so far. You must believe in yourself and make the way out, for the both of us. Heimskal and his boys are willing to be blind to this affair for another hour. Be it a brief chance to leap. Let this not be our fate, that this dank cell should be our final place of meeting. We must both find the strength to seek a better ending.¡±

    A passing peck, sliver of full ardor to strive for more. Then the lowers shuffled off their bonds. Baron changed tattered rags for sentinel¡¯s suit of armor. Face under helm. His lenient warden in Heimskal and a couple of Corinna¡¯s faithful shadowing his steps.

    Lover¡¯s Quarrel

    Another day under the Lord¡¯s Aeon, Windhand Hold

    Corinna shuffled through her hastily gathered belongings and assorted attire strewn about her caravan packs. Readying for journey. She¡¯d only just returned to the more stable, if imprisoning, court of this Hold but already needed to away. Planning trot one of her green groves with loyal sisters before the first sign of warning. There remained no time to waste on searching for precious keepsakes when her husband was surely soon to return with dire indignation against her latest sin. The Empress ¨C though she knew not how much longer that title would grace her head or how long her head would grace her shoulders once Drakkon discovered her transgression ¨C paced endlessly by the glint of letters & poems burning in the cinder pot. All scribed by Baron¡¯s hand. Erased to ash. Charred memories to linger on, waiting for a sign of scourge or salvation.

    Then that sign ¨C that ring of fortune¡¯s blessing ¨C arrived. Its avatar in form of Heron, pushing open the door. His airs frenzied, judging by heated blush about his cheeks. Though out of breath, he gave her a fatigued bow. ¡°My Lady. Drakkon returns from his meeting with Mordaunt and his minions. Surely, he speaks ill of your link to Baron and inflames the ire of our Lord against you. We must away on our course at once ¨C your carriage is readied by the courtyard!¡± She met his gaze and found his concern piercing. Corinna conceded and hurried behind Heron with her pack.

    Onward, the pair traversed Windhand¡¯s halls and endless spiral corridors till the stone sea parted for the courtyard. At this late hour few were about the grounds save for servants who averted their gaze, retreating from any trouble or pretending they weren¡¯t just idling away at their tasks. The night air split their bones with ravenous chill. But this Corinna welcomed as the brisk gale of coming freedom. She sighed with the arctic autumn; the last cadence devoted to Drakkon. Casting off the fetters of a phantom love which bound her to a man transformed. She fled through the shivering bows of the waning race of Andrasil trees (few yet formidable, these domestic breeds and their Halcion cousins, casting such luminous shadows; flourishing in the bite of winter and thus anointed for the Imperium¡¯s resilience).

    In the gray ahead, an armored carriage awaited them. Those powerful steeds at the head appearing like Hel-wraiths. As they approached the carriage and the caravan that tailed it Heron let out a quick howl to the drivers & occupants, alerting them. At this a dozen of hardened sentinels leaped from behind the caravan¡¯s curtains with halberds at the ready. Heron gave a forlorn look to the woman and whispered through wavering tone of suppressed sorrow. ¡°I am sorry. I cannot serve your light over that of our Imperium¡¯s. Plead for our Lord¡¯s Mercy, my Lady, for I am no rescuing hero.¡±

    Sharp edges encircled the woman, her pale face flushed with agony & fear. She tried to mask this tumult till her eyes turned back to the carriage to see Drakkon step out and face her with the gleam of crackling hurt in his iris. ¡°My Corinna. It grieves us ¨C maims us ¨C mortally that you should betray us and all we built together. & for the sake of a bloody snake posing under the skin of a friend! Tell us true and without hesitance: did you release Baron? Did you help him escape the henge?! Are you hoping to flee from me now?¡±

    Further shapes divided the cover of night with the dancing lights of lanterns. These wielded by Azarra and her coven. Her devilish smirk held such infernal glee that Corinna knew that the High Mother plotted for this moment to be her annihilation. Yet such villainous wrath as she & her Azarine (fewer in number yet more fervent than ever) cast upon her sparked in Corinna a burst of vengeful inspiration. She knew then how to regain favor from the web that wicked woman wove.

    In a fit of sobbing panic the disgraced Empress flung herself low at her husband¡¯s feet and wept openly. ¡°O Bright Lord! Forgive me of this womanly frailty! I had been possessed by a phantom of Night which in my misguided trust I believed to be a divine apparition of the pantheon above. This web of lies spindled by thoughts along the thread of delusion and made me believe that Baron was still the bard we once knew and not this daemon he¡¯s become¡­ His devil¡¯s tongue bewitched my ear, dear Light!¡±

    There grew a long gap in any spoken words, one filled with the wind¡¯s wintry wails. After time trespassed a few minutes of ground with the groans and croaking of the grand trees around, Drakkon bent low his knee and placed a soft, open palm over Corinna¡¯s drooping locks. The wave of distress which dragged her spirit beneath the riptide of woe now dissipated as she felt herself land into embrace, sinking into his arms. ¡°I know you love me still. I see that the goddess is alive as an untamable spark within your heart. I do not fault you for your womanly sin, and perhaps an act done with compassion should be treated kindly, were it not against our Judgement. Know that your betrayal wounds me greatly. That you should turn from me to the viscous spinner, Baron. Whatever he once was to you ¨C to us all ¨C we both know what he is now. What he is will no longer be tolerated in the Imperium. The mercy I offer you shall be granted only this once.¡±

    The sentinels relaxed their pincers. Drakkon lifted Corinna from the ground that she walked beside him again, still shuddering. Their eyes locked and her soul screamed with tearful gratitude through those shimmering windows. Then Drakkon ripped away his gaze, tearing the trance. ¡°Alas, I cannot reward you for loosing that rabid wolf back into the wilds. Baron is an adversary ¨C a traitorous wyrm & writhing fiend ¨Cin opposition to all pillars of our society you must learn disciple. Yet still I will not see you harmed, Corinna, hear me now.¡±

    ¡°Yet I gave you more than one chance just before. My Steward of the West, Heron, came to you with chance to deny these crimes, yet you affirmed them and offered him a part in plot. But he is loyal and warned me. You see, your brash act of lapsed reason reignites a war I must away to. So,¡± Her emperor cupped her shoulders firmly as his eyes towered over her with the darkly incandescent glint of hurt & retribution¡¯s longing. ¡°For a time, I will not see you at all. This caravan will escort you to Silverwood Grove where you shall remain. In exile but with the good company of your sisters. This is no sadistic punishment, my love, only how it must be. As you have proven a volatile member of our court, I cannot risk any further breaches.¡±

    Scorpion tail of paralysis tip stung her veins. Limbs arrested by poison of denial. Heron shuffled forward and dragged Corinna onward into her mobile prison of a carriage. She could feel the darts of Azarra¡¯s ire flung from afar as she made that shameful trek and seated herself¡­

    Azarra and Mordaunt flocked to Drakkon¡¯s side as she was sent away to her exile. Although each of their minds wrestled for different aims, their tongues aligned in resentment of Corrina. The pair set to their derision of her, telling Drakkon that his woman had been unfaithful and edging him to relinquish this exile for sake of even harsher punishment to come.

    ¡°The Lady dissolved virtue & vow with that bastard bard!¡± argued one, ¡°Cast the disloyal siren into the sea!¡± added the other, ¡°You let her enjoy fruits of disloyalty, seed grounds for more? With her in that grove waiting on countless false consorts in your absence?¡±

    ¡°She shall be guarded by chaste steel. Those flightless Drakes are asked to stand to redeem their lost manhood. They provide her no means with which to be unfaithful & I shall hear no more of this spite!¡± With his love in indeterminate exile the Lord¡¯s desire drew to opaque solitude. ¡°Learn temperance, friends & subjects. Mother, why not return to your tower & finally contemplate something outside your rage for her? She deserves grace, even in her shadowed glade. Mordaunt, my Thane: Do not overstep, pointing out aggrieves she flagellates herself for, or find that you also falter into need of a lashing. She did nothing against your line. Focus rather on readying for the coming marches, that we crush the villains by the spring. We must ensure this be the Final War. That no more raise rebellion thereafter. Be as the trident of my Thunder.¡±

 Final Interlude

    (Final) Interlude

    Sun¡¯s Descent 1<sup>st</sup> of the 17<sup>th</sup> year AD

    Mass distributed pamphlet by Baron, copied and translated in common tongues

    Children of the land, Sons & Daughters of the soil we share beneath constant sun & capricious moon! Open wide your ears and hear the call of liberty whispered through every wood & wild forest! Can you not hear the solemn cry of our ancestors¡¯ ghosts? Our common forefathers shared in the struggle against the Serpent Magistrate and now share sight of seeing over our bond of unity, deeper than any distance in our tribes¡¯ traditions. They hearken to our fight against tyranny. That pure thread which weaves our spirits together in this thirteenth hour: our call to sever the sickly spindles of Imperium¡¯s oppressive web!

    For too long ye all suffered in silence, tormented by the tyranny that becomes our civilization; having to hide the tears drawn from the mortal well of lost children & cousins! The toll rings! We are summoned to draw our swords and spears for one another to topple the decaying reign of the one claiming sole Divinity & dominance over all!

    Honour the ancestors¡¯ redemptive plea. Honour the beat of truth within your hearts and march on to heroic pace. We must not surrender our spirits & sovereignty of labour & passions to be shackled in servitude to a mad despot playing at godhood. Know now that this Purpose of the People is not heresy, nor precipice to fall. I swore to spread that illuminating torch of knowledge unrestrained in enlightenment. This oath is not one bending to the Drakoni Dominion nor its malevolent master. To you and all our mutual good I must reveal a foul truth:

    The Emperor¡¯s costume is dubious! No more divine than any of us. Drakkon is not the seed of his mythic namesake and holds no throne in the great Pantheon. In fact, his lineage ¨C his inheritance ¨C is tainted by a bloodline of brutality. The man ¨C indeed I say ¡°man,¡± and nothing more ¨C who afflicts our lines with misery is the spawn of a wretched act by a warlord who once terrorized many of the elders among us all. This is the horrid truth I discovered through a once hidden account by a former harbinger of none other than the fell Kassan.

    No Divine Wrath will smite ye for standing up for yourselves and pressing off the iron heel of this corrupt pretender. For the gods do not look kindly upon one who usurps their Light and thus their blessing is with us! Do not fear that I wish to plot to dethrone Drakkon only to replace his cruel rule with my own. That is the furthest nightmare from my Dream of a free People I fight for. The fiend of our erstwhile Lord decrees me to be erased from history and disappeared from all records. Thus, I must put down my quill & parchment to raise sword & shield to etch our legacy firsthand alongside you. Read this to those less literate cousins whose hearts are yet noble. I will be with you through this, o Brothers & Sisters!

    Bane of Spring, 18 AD

    Transcript of Aris¡¯ Oratory before the eastern province

    Hail to thee & heed this writ! Thy Magister Militum and Arch Emissary in me hears thee!

    I hearken the need of thy hearts, the call for more room to ripen our rule and host our bloom! Yet hark, our expedition to push further east than the west allowed proved it is not uninhabited as presumed. Past the Chimer pass where the desert gives birth to itself once more, there are no more mountains, only steppes and droughts where horsemen hail. Our brave envoys met the wrath of centaurs, nomadic horse-hybrids with bows of fire. Though these native beasts are fierce, they but deter us only for a slight rest.

    We hold the seat of primal Chimeria! Of that proud line of prehistory, not simply vanished but ascended to the stars. Those creatures we found in our way are but the half-breed offspring of experiments, the abandoned pets of the old masters, just like the Night-Gaunts. These feral bastions of beastmen simply stall our voyage, only teach us their tactics as to how to one day defeat them. They will pursue us no longer. For they fear the Chimerian Aegis and this pyramid we raise as our House in exile. But to regain the East we must first seize our strength in the West. Thus, will we reunite the world in our center. Thus, we set up our climb!

    From whence we were pushed out, we shall return to avenge our loss! The Drakoni sign dwindles. The stars of their alignment clash to carve out pittance of clout. The Empire of Storm spends itself, relinquishes its thunder by crackling revolt. So let our chariots challenge they who divided themselves and are already routed. Let them fail against we who wield the fire of first age & true renewal. The Emissary of Vizzarion hears the rumbling of the earth. The coming of our thundering feet, an ode of prophecy of our glory to be! Bring them back to the fold, that we reach out to hold all the treasures of this age & those of aeons yet to be! We shall outlast those who cast us out and their crippled cult!

    Hear me, who is the last of the druids and the first! We shall not be vassals to them. Instead, introduce the true faith that is the State ov Unity, the Harmony ov the Serpent which devours the world that it may be whole. For we shall show an end to all petty squabbles and clashing tribes with cleansing tablet of a single culture ¨C our most civilized way, unbent even by the wastes about this new garden seat. We stand to make the world one under prosperous peace!

    Early summer of the 18<sup>th</sup> year AD

    From Delphine¡¯s missive to Azarra

    My Lady, my Love. Infinite blessings upon you. I would that this should find you sitting comfortably by your heated bath, wine glass in hand that you may imbibe to word of the virtues & woes of our world that passed to me for you...

    Spitting curses plague the trail of Crestfall. Those villas packed with weary nobility to the taverns with well traversed courtesans who are all too rarely heard fill with ill whispers. Litanies of rumors of foul tidings sweep the steads with pandemonium. Echoing tragedies barraging from all fronts. Oh, I need your heavenly wisdom to quell the storms they summon within our House. They decry our magick & ¡®offending spiritual Order¡¯ with hateful magnitude. As the blight expands its black cloud further over the land, even when we set spears to stop spread, village sanctums abound burn Drakoni symbols in effigy and chant dark hymns against our livelihood.

    I fear foremost if we are unable to shake this disease from the soil & bones of the land then we bear serious threat of losing faith & credibility with the lower castes & disciples. Just a week ago a gang of rabble interrupted my rejuvenation ceremony for the crestfallen refugees at Felhenge square in a fury. Hurled stones and all sorts of vitriolic slurs. Decreed me to be a vile witch in service of ¡°the Dusk Mother¡± ... How cutting, to be torn so betwixt so much distrust & railing discontent when my heart & spells are cast always for their growth. I came to see myself as a gardener of the People, a tender to their wounded limbs & bringer of life¡¯s water to their roots through arid times. Yet the commoners spit at me and wish me dead. I no longer feel safe even behind sanctum walls.

    But we can cut out this poison and plant new seeds to bloom in fresh spring for our Imperium and our inner lives. I know it! We need but bless them. Trust that I hold my full faith in your guidance, Azarra, and am yours as always. Even as I must scribe such sullen affairs.

    Your magnificent son has won many more fronts. His works are still raised by the most affluent & noble. Through Drakkon¡¯s eminent strength the renegades take flight to the outermost thickets & forsaken woods. Yet if this is to be long assured and peace enraptured, we must show clemency to some. Give them reason & means to rehabilitate and rejoin our Empire. We must lend the farmers their seeds and our sun to shine for them to grow. Grant the fields back to those whose backs break to work it and not the idle lords who pay small tax of lip service to our Lord. Offer paths back for civilization¡¯s misled children that might still make up our fyrds. Lest Malderath¡¯s glory be the mark of our rule.

    But there are breaches in our holy shroud, streaks on our Aegis. I fear that Mordaunt employs a far too ruthless & warlike a mob to bolster his iron stance on the shifting fronts. While the bulk of our ranks are warriors to rival the heroes of old, the conscriptions made in brazen desperation to end the war with godly speed are boorish beasts on a leash all too long. The mercenaries & re-enlightened former criminals he employs as his Manticore stir up resentment against the banner they fight for. Their number may be windfall, but they taint the grandeur of our crest. Ne¡¯er a village he visits is not razed or plundered. His pet fiends relish in ravaging and their commander is just as cruel.

    Ever since Drakkon granted him the full powers to purge the causes of Crestfall¡¯s ills, to rake thieves from our jeweled crown and cleanse all spies & heretical sympathizers, the weeks pass on through waves of violence. There is an ebb & flow to it, as with all things we know in earthly life. But each time a riot breaks out against their Champion, and our Lord through him, more blood spills onto the streets. Each time the knives & spears stick deeper into the flesh of their foes, in us. I would be lying were I to claim immunity to this fear which drags me, no matter where I hide or flee. No golden palace to protect. Every pillar and stone: more & more like bars of a gaol. I am wary of fresh air, for fear of being struck afoul by winds of carrion plague...

    O Azarra! Please let me return to your side before the next moon! I plead your permission to come to the Tower and melt away in a velvet bath and spend some simple, nostalgic time for bonding and feeling some substance not of the fear gripping the world ever tighter.

    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    With love & caution, your Del.

    A Midsummer Eve, 18<sup>th</sup> year AD

    From a mysterious envoy addressed from a ¡°friend forgotten¡±

    I greet you, Impress Azarra, as a ghost from the past. A phantom of friendship whittled to the nether by time¡¯s erosion & unshapely circumstance. I tell you this, out of respect for the spirit & brass you possess ¨C a goddess upon jagged crust - to augur the future:

    Your crown crumbles, great oracle. Your seed grows to twisted & tampered sculpture, high mother. The serpent¡¯s dreadful shadow waxes with the sun of our once deserted fortune ¨C abandoned to all but our ambition alone! - to regrow the coil of its scales as a noose about thy neck! To be toppled, not out of malice but, by necessity and the march of progress. For a greater line with vision that spreads far further than mere luxury and flamboyance. Not like that tower you dither in, constructed only that you should see such heights.

    You lost your true Sight. Tumble by weak foundation of shortsighted vanity. Your candle burned brightly through the night, but the flame dwindles. The wax extinguished by its own heat. Treasure that life even as it flickers in dusk & rejoice that the light (of the history I will write) will not remember thy mistakes & flaws, being only human. As you forestalled our connection before it could bloom, you forego any mercy which might be bared for a past, but fleeting fling. Yet have the small mercy of premonition; a warning, Azarra:

    By the time the next crimson tide waxes over the moon your Imperium and your life will be naught but ash. As the oceans of our months wash over to bring us to that red summit of all the sky¡¯s illumination, I warn you that you may enjoy what fleeting days remain before the seasons & cycles of our world shift. Soon a Chimerian sun dawns over the earth we shall inherit. Marvel and what you hath made of yourself and your once forfeit fate. Savor it as special but know it as transitory.

    All you had ends, but for the godly cause of rebirth ¨C for a colossal new civilization to truly prop up the pillars of a united world - what must be, will be. The world will dawn without you, no part of play in this dim lit stage of our cosmic performance now that you are proven to be, and sadly so, nothing more than a frail fragment of thy former grace. Clutching to glittering jewels of thine fading gowns and fleeting glories, as a ghost floating through the halls of thine house.

    May you be well until the promised deliverance.

    With promise, a friend (forgotten)

    Late Autumn 18 AD

    Official mandate distributed throughout the Imperium

    Remain vigilant, ye children & chosen caretakers of our glorious Dominion!

    Heed not the lies of our enemies, the so-called ¡®Protectorate¡¯ militia which poisons thy wells and tramples the fields of our prosperity! Give not into the terror they brandish against us during these doleful steps before the transforming purification of our society! Know in thine hearts that my Light remains supreme, supernal & of sovereign authority over these lands!

    Know the mandate of thy Living Lord for this month:

    No longer will citizens not enlisted in Imperium be permitted to carry steel nor weaponry of any kind without the express executive permission of thy local Astraean officer. Those who transgress of this law shall be assumed associates of the fiends and hung on criminal suspicions. We must not let them fall into the thieving claws of the beastly rabble. My empyrean sign & loyal sword bearers shall save thee of any scathing from this rebel plague.

    The practice of paying widows double the service-free upon death of spouse-soldiers is hereby revoked! The cost of soldiers¡¯ pay must go to the valiant still living & fighting the good fight!

    Any man or groom caught keeping horses from our armies when all are needed for remounts shall be strung up as a horse thief. For he hath stolen steeds & swiftness of Imperium!

    Report any dubious characters among thee and hold steadfast to the purity of our grand designs against any pests that slink into thy homes to covet what is thine. Always be willing to share & sacrifice for the greater Light that lives through all my subjects & surrogate issue. Let every soul among thee bask in the bearing of thy duties and the candle of thine privilege as the chosen flock of mighty, undying Drakoni! Or else let them burn as tinder for our flame, feed our guiding flambeau from the blood-watered fruits that are the cost of our civilization.

    Be aware that any minstrel caught performing any songs or reciting the works from the traitorous Bard will be marked as his kin and subsequently silenced. For minds that hath been lost to the deceitful hatred churned by the nameless Bastard are without right to stand upon any shoulders that are not willing to help support the weight of our Imperium.

    Note that the taxes we must levy upon thee hath been slightly increased. This, for the sake of expediency. Remember to be rigorous in thy haul and delivery of thy tribute. Such is the price of the Triumph we are all soon to see. Any malefactors caught in possession of heretical literature shall perish in the pyre along with their blackguard scrolls & vile parchments.

    Thine rumbling stomachs are heard. Yet hear the final wisdom that those farmers who cursed their crops by cursing thy lord & harmonious dominion hath been replaced by tillers whose souls are yet worthy of the land. This my Justice, anointed by Astraea, shall soon send fruit!

    Suffer no contract with the adversary! Tolerate no breach of proper conduct! No speech that promotes violence against thy siblings and churns iconoclastic vitriol into the spring of our commonwealths! Hear not the summons of apostasy from the blasphemers that would see thee disemboweled before they would abide thee to live in thy holy custom! Let not dereliction and death become our Dominion! Only follow and seek the Light of my Flame, awarded only to the faithful! Hark my Word and let my Thunder strike them dead!

    With providence & protection, thy Lord of Living Light,

    Imperator Drakkon

    Snowcrest 7<sup>th</sup>, of the 19<sup>th</sup> year AD

    Enigmatic letter, complete with a second entry from vastly different hand on yellowed parchment, addressed to Drakkon

    Drakkon. I know you will not listen to reason and will label any words from those you know as lies so I hath sent one last truth, one the world needs you to know. Along with this final missive is the truth of a man no longer among the living, a man who has no motive to lie for these scripts are his entries to his own mind written long ago before your earliest memories. Tis from the private record of a former harbinger of the ¡®Black Bear¡¯ Kassan. Brought by Ferali shaman who visited the envoy¡¯s estate as mourning friend of one, Stieg, before enrolling in Illuminarium in his twilight.

    The memories he inscribes in the Ferali script are intimately entwined with the truth of who you are and what you must acknowledge. Behold the testaments of a man who served your father ¨C your real father.

    Below you will find the cold answers to the dark questions you dare not ask yourself yet pull upon your sleeping mind. Find that your blood is not divine but ursine and rabid in origin:

    ¡®Wolvsmoon 20th, 1308 CE

    ... ¡®I served the Bear and the ordained wills of the guiding spirits well these past few days. How blessed am I in the eyes of gods and their highest priests that I was chosen as a harbinger to witness his ascent to the throne of Ty-Drasil and the rightful crown of his emergent Ursinium! Yet though I am grateful beyond the measure of mortals I sense a looming curse. Stirring from something my Lord ov Forests made mention of the ceremony?

    My master met with that young thing who played the part of silver Selene. Though I say she should play goddess Astarte, for her glistening breasts and hips beneath her gown sway to inspire my Lord¡¯s war. Ah! She spoke with forked tongue in her prophecy... She told our father of forests & fields that he cannot yet bring conquest to Hearthfarrow. Not unless a child, an heir, is sired first and grown to twenty years till the next crimson Eclipse, when the stars are aligned and lead the red tides beneath their glow. This girl frothed lunacy from her maw as an insult to our grand chief. An insult I hear he repaid her properly for!

    From the Lord¡¯s wise mouth did he tell me of how he beat that witch and broke her for such insolence... Truly, in fact, my master is merciful for letting her live at all, ignorant though she is to the gift of touch from a godly man as he. Though I doubt her saintly order will be as so forgiving for forsaking virginal vow!

    But there is an accursed shadow lining her oracle¡¯s Reading of the Fates¡¯ unseen scrolls? Nevertheless, I follow my chief¡¯s lead and see the sign ov the Bear triumph in its feasting over the lesser tribes. Whatever his will states shall be, for tis fated! No matter how long we must wait... We will make the line of our fathers proud!¡¯

    ¡®Duskcrest 7th, 1311 CE

    ¡®...at behest of the Great Bear I visited that heretical site where that mystic woman pronounced her child as a divine heir of the cosmos ¨C and of our turf here across the forests & fields of the earth. By crushing their small solace, I freshly fulfilled that duty as a harbinger of our war bringer. My worshipful Chief will be pleased with the Just service we enacted upon that pompous sanctum.

    While my Mardrun driven jarl wins more glory for our stars to glow upon along the Ruun, with such raw strength that even Serpents should shiver, I have slain a spiritual threat closer to our claims. Such glory is as gilt as gold.

    But my thoughts still ponder in reverse, walk backwards through the paths of memory to strange shard in time. That little nymph, mother of petulant prophecy and lie, was said to be an apostate oracle. The pilgrims who confessed the way to her secret shrine said so when posed to quite the question. And even by torchlight of strange shrine her visage seemed so familiar. So Selenic, or Astarte blessed even.

    As sure as the moon rises to show the glory ov Ferali stars, that young mother & her wrongly worshipful brood were crushed in the rubble of that shrine. We razed every stubborn stone from that hill. But still I feel that there is a shadow cast by the nature of that witch¡¯s son...In these vagrant thoughts of mine I wonder if that bastard boy the girl cultivated a cult around ¨C simply by holding him up in her arms, illumed by warlock trickery & shadow play - could hath been born of a brood not of heaven as the heathens proclaim but of a line closer to our own war Bear? For could not that oracle of hoary Ty-Drasil be the unwitting bearer of the great master¡¯s seed? My lord did proclaim his punishment of blessing the starling with less lethal spear, so could this be that same woman? Tis a possibility I might consult through the runes & scrying waters of starlight...

    Are these dreams of a shadow demon emerging from the distant past - under the looming sign of that blasphemous birth ¨C to stand in the way of the Bear and his trueborn cubs merely the phantoms of paranoid mind? Wherefore must I witness these flashes of nightmare, of claws scratching from darkness to slash and swipe for the horns of Kassan¡¯s crown?

    Mayhaps a meager dose of the bitter brittle of Nights Bloom bark should restore my sanity and allow me to better serve as a herald to our chief. I tire of these ponderings & foggy auguries, as my hand does from scribing. To put these shadows to rest forever will win a little for me. That I may wake with clarity upon the morrow and walk again the clear road to conquest & fury.

    But such distractions should not splinter my Lord¡¯s focus from the warpath that we, the blood bound sons ov Harmsburg, shall follow the steps of our leader¡¯s climb to supremacy over our promised lands...¡¯

    These etchings of your father¡¯s staff bearer, herald the truth. Know sorrow and shame that it shakes your course, for human heart¡¯s may change for the better. Let reality dawn, now awake!

    Sincerely, your friend

 Phantom Communion

    Chapter Seven, Phantom Communion

    19<sup>th</sup> of Snowcrest 19<sup>th</sup> year AD, Tower of Azar-Drakon

    The Tower pushed its height into view. Its spire brushed the border of the sky, darkened by the coat of winter¡¯s breadth. An alabaster pillar to the heavens, standing against the bleak besiegement above. Drakkon knew this monolithic form as grand testament of his glory, of Azarra¡¯s reign & the spiritual dimensions they lay claim to. Borne by that supernal, or eldritch, material fallen from the heavens. Built with the fury commanded by deific grace, then painted white to match the imperial majesty it was to project upon the world. But its daunting appearance this day only embodied the terrible anchor railing against him. Its crowning color, a falsity. Perhaps the same as his eminent birthright & holy coronet. Worse so this palace of a pillar housed his mother, the one he feared confronting more than his men or any foe.

    The emperor rode on alone, having left his battalions behind on his rapid journey. He dared this even as they were inches from brink of desperation or even mutiny. But Mordaunt, one of the few warriors he could trust, held the means to keep them in line, even if by whip & thorn must it come to it. Ill omens were abundant on the march with little progress in staking the heart of insurrection.

    They razed broad homesteads in ravenous hunt for Baron and his captains. Yet while many were trampled under hoof, these sadistic displays only emboldened rebellious hearts in justified loathing and starved the Drakoni stomachs. Some steads burnt in greater sacrifice to spite their pursuers before they could be plundered. Encouraging enmity in his ranks for not being allowed to reap the food stores & favors earnt in conquest. Ash, no apt seasoning.

    Always the bellicose mutineers whittled away at the Living Legions from the shadows. Rarely risking annihilation through confrontation on the open fields. When battles did surface, they were savagely won, but never gained any ground for greater Imperium. With little morale to be gained from the slaughter of their enemies, many who were once kin. Foes with faces still too familiar, even blooded by this war. Loss crept in under the Lord¡¯s mantle, made itself his new talisman of leadership. His Aegis, a curse of ailment.

    The spirit of Nature felt alive in its deadly push against his cause. Breathing hostility, the trees themselves waved to shoo him away, snapping embittered branches. The land seemed cursed; his Imperium damned. A fissure deepened within every heart he knew, including the one writhing in him. The gulf of unknowing cleaved silence inside his soul when asking it the question of his very nature, this life shrouded in constraints of title & conspiracy. Where once housed hope, the lair of despondency encroached. Drakkon wondered to himself in those nights of sleepless tension, as the shades beyond the campfire glow grow fat, if somewhere along the lines he¡¯d relented his spark of divinity. If ever even there.

    The winds sang an alto promise in their whirling tune. Twisting through the garden reeds grown under the tower¡¯s spectral warmth & waking that stone. A song of doom battering his ears and the door, even as hooded Azarine guards allowed the Lord in & sealed them off. Obsessively, Drakkon gripped the mess of parchment in hand. So tightly his rage bled into their sharp ink, smearing this missive & challenging his meaning. He thought of burning it at the first brazier, that the contents might shake from his head but halted. As much as he wished it a ruse from Baron (for who else but the bard, a sage or son of Ferali would know the runic scrawl of such a fallen tribe?) his sockets were seared from that awful truth etched there. He could not burn away its implication nor the damnation to come should it be affirmed. He had to face it.

    Grappling with his birth, his being and base for ruling & living, a corrosive madness hungered. For & yet fearful of the answers he demanded. He grasped at anything else which might distract him from this nauseating spin within. Noticing now how odd that this grand locale attended to his imperial, if unannounced, presence only by a meager duo in coven robes. Who, scowling beneath their hoods, bowed, and soon skittered off. He found the innards of this spiraling symbol his mother¡¯s scepter offputtingly empty. The flock of disciples must have been sent away. Tis for the best that there not be too many ears around for what I must ask, he thought woefully.

    Drakkon encountered only a few scattered servants idly attending to their business inside the tower of phantoms. His heart hammered the rings of his ribcage while he grappled to keep his will intact against this storm of psychosis & unknowing. Unsure of himself and what might happen when he finally did encounter his mother, the source of his life and perhaps much of his suffering, should the smut be confirmed true by her tongue. Somehow the lack of people here made the walls more menacing, as if their impenetrable stone faces enclosed him in sneering dismay. The further into this cyclopean menhir the greater his dread. He made his way up the snaking staircase to the highest strata where Azarra might be.

    Befouled breeze bit through the sparse apertures that occasionally broke the monotony of the pale farce. Wisps slit through his mane, contorting with emotions, and reminding him the fates¡¯ threads could unwind in an imminent singularity of abjection. The more he tried to convince himself that his ¡®friend¡¯ only sent him this - possible forgery- to undermine his will the more distant he felt. Drifting from faith and from his mantra. Feeling innately empty. Thoughts squirmed and screeched against their bearer, their creator in him, crying for negation. Among these an inkling that his tread up was in denial of where the head of truth lay.

    He knew the uppermost chamber unoccupied and could no longer humor this reticence. So, he swept down the stairs, to those which went beneath, into the earth where spring drew into thermae. His trek to Azarra¡¯s favored fount halted before unexpected creaking & unlatching of its door. Turning, he met a strange & macabre sight. A doctor cloaked & masked with long, bird beak, passed over Drakkon for a wary moment. Eyes hidden, expressionless, and unblinking.

    Then the masked alchemist-physic extended his long spindly arm in salute. His crooked, hollow bow and nasally voice dismissed himself before fleeing down the hall. ¡°Good day unto you, fair Lord.¡± As the man fled smoothly from view Drakkon caught sight of strange emblems sown into the protective coat including the sign of Azarine Coven, bone saw insignia and what appeared a personal calling card: a gilded spider with gryphon wings and avian face poised in a web of purple & yellow silk.

    The sound of the bolt clasping, scent of feminine perfume and faint splashing of quiet waters beckoned him. An ethereal call tugging his soul. Dissociative but entangling in all too tangible in inescapable reality. Just as the maw of dreams swallows sleeping mind, this irksome prowler sank fangs into his soul¡¯s tendons. Trickling blood along tainted stream of pained determinism. He watched his body pass through the threshold into profane discovery.

    ¡­

    The churning bubbles caress Azarra from top to toe. Inviting her into transcendent relaxation. The tower¡¯s heights may embrace the sky, but so too do the aquifers below funnel the earth¡¯s refined waters through to the thermae where she lay floating, cradled by warmth. Enjoying another rough puff from the hookah at the bath side, she partakes of her doctor¡¯s newest personal experiment for her with the perfect mix of effects. Lusting to slip from the cell of her consciousness. In her left hand slightly rocking rests one of her patron¡¯s most potent elixirs. He called it in his nasally, detached manner something like the ¡°Green Enchantress.¡± A drink to bend the currents inside and invite spirits to dance. The fresh liquid filling the glass winks with emerald sparkle. Gleeful as she spins it lovingly, sipping when she rises above the exulting, vivid plumes of the pool.

    The sorceress-mother¡¯s idle hand subsides beneath the pool. Splashing up waters of intimate bond with nymphaeum, nature and those aspects long escaping her. Basks in reflection atop the rippling surface, blossoming memory cast back in her face. Her beauty, accursing as much as aiding, retained by prayer oils, occasional fast & constant alchemy; staving off two decades of the age which ails her. Yet that countenance shining back was of a different sort than this one which immured her in herself.

    Weightlessness sprouts wings, granted by smoldering leaves & special swill of her good doctor friend. Suspended above the pool, her bare self, unbound to the stark boulder she¡¯d been chained to. Flight of euphoria from herb & wine opens such sights. Nebulous impressions form from the undulating mirror; dreams of pasts and futures never to be. Her desire to escape circumstances transmutes pain into sculptures from suds & secret hopes.

    These dream shards and their gloss of optimistic fantasy, as clear as sparkling glass. A me?lange of parallel memories, too bright and pure to be from her current existence, waters her pores. Ghost streams from a life untouched by the pain that entered her so young and stripped away what she should be. Glances of an alternate world where she had never been marked ¨C or cursed, as it were ¨C by the gods. Never sent to the Temple. Beaming enviously at her natural, but forlorn, nobility and wholesomeness in spirit granted by being around a true and loving family, among and alive with the people & the land. But all too distant to not be dream. Another wave carried theory of different joy. Teased aloof path of remaining true to Oracle rites, committed only to the gods & mastery of magick, never ruined by Kassan¡¯s intrusion.

    But these fanciful wisps did not engender lasting wistfulness. Even in her delirium Azarra could not shake from her subconscious the roots tying her to the life she truly had, the person she was. Every pleasure, melts to misery. Every luxury about her, a glaring irritation, bore back to her eyes the emptiness lurking under her maimed heart. These baubles of untouchable ecstasy and unrealized innocence only riled up her inner coil with envy. Abrasion scraped against her as she scrubbed, pushing back shame of herself only to erode her wings. She plunged into the pool which received her coldly (as if its heat refused to embrace her withering frame and be tainted by her temper). Tears dissolved into phantasms.

    Mirage breeds of her state. Blood pours from her womb. This spot stains the spring hue to crimson & black. From the site where sin pierced her and out sprang birth of such wickedness. Red pigment turns to pitch & witch-fyre oil, immolating her naked vessel. Floating in flames, broiling basin of impurity becomes her. Cooking in the soup of shame, her cauldron of self- mutilating sorcery. The blood wax congeals. Though she scrubs herself, she never cleans that fiery kindling. Yet she flees not from thermal lake. Knowing she¡¯d crash against cold crags the moment she steps from steam to drape in robe. Everywhere else so frigid and fiercely uncaring.

    Azarra partook of the green elixir once more. Puffed upon the pipe hoping the spirits before her should be banished and spites invoked instead to better keep company her aching mind. She bent her neck to stare out into the tower¡¯s atrium across the way hoping the tilt in her view would steer her perception to someplace brighter. Yet the shades and spirits invoked by the smoke were tainted by her guilt. As she lazed, she heard the echoing residue of screams and suffering whimpers throughout the walls. Spectral howls of her echoing voice and those souls she¡¯d damned to death.

    That terrible purging of her number leaked phantom streams to douse her oils with further evil. Those less loyal disciples executed by her most fervent; those who sought to flee to join that witch, Corinna¡¯s coven, or Dahlia¡¯s splinter brood. Her once feverish acolyte refusing communication & entry into the forest shrine Azarra gave her and now drained her pillar of life. How many had been slaughtered in the sleeping night before their escape could see daylight? Their sins of whispering a little too loudly of their desire to leave the High Mother¡¯s flock led them join ghostly chorale.

    The blood of those suspected traitors surged up into the pool, painting clots therein. The bath coagulated, entrapping Azarra in the colour of her sins. Blue blood. The noble substance of the slain. Vitae of azure fused with the shrine of herself. Yet this augury she¡¯d sown and knew one day her life too would be harvested. The scroll of her life, one long litany of tragedy & atrocity. Both done unto her and acted by her word, stitched together the tattered tapestry of her fate. This curdling crust caught her in all her guilt & the rue of the world. Dismal sheen of horrors inflicted & replicated through echoed cries of those sacrificed upon pride¡¯s altar.

    She thought of Delphine, sentenced to die for her accord. The High Mother (when a delirious mess held aloft by idle spirits and luxurious crypt) granted her lifelong friend the task of delivering a barrel of poisoned wine ¨C the drink¡¯s aroma only the subtlest hint of its morbid shade. She knew to garner Corinna¡¯s false trust into indulging the draught, Delphine would have to pose as a friend and offer it not as a political gesture but as shared toast. Delphi must drown in that very venom for Corinna to finally be removed from play. More of the noblest blue would be stilled by special red to halt the course of the one too long a curse upon her, whose garden seeds corrosion and civil strife to cause these high walls & deep basins to lurch.

    Let us all sink in perdition! I never asked for any fate¡¯s punishments! Nor vaporous rewards! I never had anyone to prop myself up on, yet I built this. Azarra¡¯s eyes grazed over the tower¡¯s underbelly and all the ornate decorations around the bath. If ever I find something to content my spirit the world declares it unfit and topples it against me! I am cursed! Tis an affliction that denies me happiness at every turn!

    But Delphine...She stood by me, warming me during bitter cold of early days. Always bared her heart to me. Yet that happy heart must fly all the same from me!

    Del must be a final sacrifice! A great soul for one lesser yet glamorized by tiara! To trade one closer than a sister and more loyal than any lover, that flame which could stand to embrace me, to end that pagan bride¡¯s wretched wrapping about my son. That trollop Corinna will defile the shape of my soul if her cloud lives any longer! Only the love of one truly beloved is an offering considerable enough to gather the favor of the Fates¡¯ threads.

    Perhaps I am not right to burn bright while her light is given up for mine? Mayhaps the gods that loom over us all with unfaltering Eye set upon me with loathing. Demand my candle be snuffed along with hers? Her life, which I offered though not mine to give. If any gods be there above, or below, leave me my fate! Silence the Hels! I may deserve my loneliness but not their bloody laughter!!

    Tremoring fist disturbed the lush waters. The swift splashes of subconscious made manifest her thoughts. Taint of guilt momentarily awakens her from entrapment of inner monologue and returns her to the shifting textures of the scene her life embodied. Let me be damned or else restored.

    Azarra reached to inhale more of the peculiar burning concoction. Strange alchemy conjured by this leafy mixture transmuted Fyre of Fae and blood tide into swaying sea of golden wheat. A field offering motions of kind breeze. Her soul sprang up this joyous plain to cover guilt with ambience of fantasy & addled memory, entwined as one sheet. Enraptured by the soft, gentle hands of the plants lifting her in levitation. Hovering over the length of golden field, occasionally dipping into the reef to touch tenderly before ethereal gust swept her from all form not astral. Suspended in foam, flowering to field, the guise of this place shined lantern of plane reminiscent of Erosian Heath, the meadow of free folk and shared spirit. Feeling then near to her other homes in Hearthfarrow and Ty-Drasil at once.

    She surrenders to this euphoric possession. Aches with the promise of higher flow, sifting in dimension where thought takes form. The occult substance delivers her from the pressure of living mold. Her wilted skin molts, unveiling a metamorphosis that paints her soul with hope. Though just as the bubbles of the bath rose only to burst, ephemeral flashes of optimism surge fleeting. Dispersing to summon darkening specter in place. The beautification rituals that adorn & preserve the cadence of deceptive youth & grace about her countenance conceal none of the want & revulsion behind her painted eyes and ointment anointed veil. So too did glimpse of Erosia mock her when spurned as false face by ugly truth.

    Elderath, as she envisions, groans. Condemns this lot with trembling sign. Azarra plummets back into simmering pool. Returns to herself, greeted by candlelight licking at her face as if to tempt deeper trance. Their flickering casts luminosity about the chamber stones. Glow dances about pillars and corners. Symphonic shadow plays erstwhile paired succinctly with the rhythm of her center, till the elysian heath in her scape breaks by waltz of blighted beacons to overtake her radiance & blind dream. Wheat whittles into thorny prongs. The hinge about her gate grows a long body of black ether, with gaunt faces of a Watcher bearing three-fold stare.

    A colossal shape intrudes on her seclusion through the Watcher¡¯s belly. Illuminated in hulking silhouette against the frame of the nearest sconce. Long raven mane droops over tensed massive shoulders, eerily echoing the ursine frame of Kassan. For a blink all fell to whimpering reprise of that horrid midnight of everlasting despoilment. Peering over at this monstrous shape, she beheld with horrid pangs an apparition of the Bear. But the face of the man leering at her was not his but that of his son ¨C her son - Drakkon...

    His visage, graven as stone totem with grim runes. The mask of misery adorned. Death, Malderath¡¯s mantle, the cloak which hung about her son¡¯s spectral shoulders. A haunting aura shrouding prized pristine vision of that childhood field in burn. Yet these orbs of fire were enveloped by darkness which befell her from his stare. The gravity there pulling heavier than curtain of nocturne. The shadow loomed over her.

    ¡°Hels, mother! Have you left this tower at all since you returned to it? Why is your courtly cult here so threadbare, to find you so alone and uncatered?¡± Posed the ghost of her son.

    ¡°Mother,¡± his sweltering tone chewed her marrow, while a wintery chill filled the chamber by his course. A stormy squall, only slightly tempered, emerged from his lungs, though he did not want to unleash it. ¡°I must confer with you... we must speak the bare truth.¡±

    Azarra moaned annoyance, sifting away from the horned shade. ¡°The demon asks truth!? What truth is there, save this wish to be rid of the seed & sin which spawned this wretched wraith! Yet would words transmute truth, free me of it? Must I speak more of this bestial stain? Relive it for a dark dream¡¯s amusement?¡±

    A peculiar glint manifested in the shade¡¯s scrutiny. He analyzed her drunken seclusion in the bathhouse and the jaded expression bedecking her face. That subtle scintillation lit scorn along his surface. ¡°What is this? You soak here in wanton luxury while our Dominion atrophies away in immeasurable plague of strife?! How ¡°High¡± you are now, hiding in this sunken pit that beclouds our peoples¡¯ plights.¡± Consternation smothered any kindness or faith his heart held. In awe of her audacity. How it hinted at the horrible implication that this mysterious ¡®revelation¡¯ carried truth, when he only wanted to be assured it simple duplicity. To know it a lie of an enemy and not treachery from his mother.

    Azarra refused his gaze. Averting any meaningful exchange their souls might share. But her apparent apathy at his shouting only stirred the storm martialed in him. ¡°You are sprawled out over the drowned graves of all those who followed us here without care! Looking more a funneling half-spider than a matriarch with this liquid cobweb cauldron! Look at me, mother. Am I not the ¡°living light¡± of your life? Yet you will not even meet mine eyes? Will you not look to me when there is naught but shadow surrounding us?! Will you not face what you created?? Look into the soul hemmed of your flesh & blood?!¡±

    ¡°Look into the soul of the one who hemmed thee, O Shade of Sin! Thou know my sorrow yet claw deeper into me with mockery!¡± A repressed tear escaped Azarra¡¯s seal.

    Drakkon arched as a toppled tree grazing the low surface of a glade. His eyes close enough to almost abrade hers, as if, perchance, to see the radiant reflection of his ¡°soul¡± thrown back by her windows. Yet instead of infusing any remembrance of intimacy and maternal love Azarra met her progeny with distraught cackle. A terrible screeching laugh, of a witch possessed by lunacy, reverberated about the subterranean swim. Hysteria of mockery incised his chest, bleeding from aberrancy of her guffaw. This derisive mania effusing from her jaw marks overture of madness and the dissonant tune of tragedy¡¯s evocation.

    Amid the incessant cackling Azarra gave answer to her son¡¯s intrusion. ¡°Of all the wretched things my mind could conjure it chose the bloody worst! The culmination of all my bloody woes!

    The seed of my most loathsome hour made flesh from mine own! Ah. The irony is not lost on me, oh ye gods of Infernae. O, Dark Delusion! Hels! How I wish this shadow would be gone from me, be lost to Lethean undertow!¡±

    Her chortling persists alongside interludes of taunting & carousing. An inane sound emitting from her every pore, bouncing over every curve, and refracting through Drakkon¡¯s ear. It was as though she did not believe he were truly here before her with fatal purpose written in his smoldering stare. Her frenzy, a maelstrom of pitiful misery and dejection, accompanied by the sadism derived from one believing themselves to be untouchable. Even as his shade spoke, she shuddered not.

    ¡°You are my mother, I know. Yet my father is unknown. Doubtful tis the star of mine accord. Yet I shall not be gone till these delusions are done and truth unearthed!¡±

    ¡°You think yourself so strong, so firm in righteous purpose! Yet you are the spawn of tyranny & the progeny of all my sodding rue! You are as a feckless pup without me to hold your leash! Ha. This you must know ¨C even in that thick skull! How pitiful you are, posing as if you could harm me more than I am already wronged by this vile world. Into which I was tossed screaming, blind. All my dreams were stolen the moment you were conceived! What more do you think to pilfer from me?! What more of my soul is left to despoil?!¡±

    She gave a heartless imperial salute then drooped her fingers, casting the sign of Living & Light in dual L¡¯s, down her course. ¡°I have nothing, but this body left. Do you not see?¡± Azarra¡¯s palms slather soap about her. Running along her skin as she raises herself from the depths. Exposes tender flesh of thundering chest while she whips admonishment. ¡°Is the ghost wanting for reunion with the body of blasphemous communion? To take more of the vessel ye raked by coming into being?¡±

    ¡°Oh! My brave boy of Moon & Star blessed birth! ¡®Blessed¡¯ issue of my sunlit womb! Is there more of me you seek to take? Come you to complete your father¡¯s curse?¡± Simpering coquettishly, one hand soaks beneath the bath while the other tussles fluff of her mane then reaches for his whiskers to rip them out. ¡°You look just like him, save the wintry beard! You should shave it, with the rest of you! The white seems more stress and age than snowfall. Quite unbecoming for a demigod! Look more a Ferali berserker than kingly being, I say!¡±

    Drakkon pulls away, shoving her noose arms away. His irritated retort starts, singed by shame. ¡°I come for truth. To know myself & past revealed. Not to banter about such perverse intimacy- ¡°

    The deranged matriarch grasps letter-knife near her pipe and fumbles a throw at this phantom. The sly ivory stabber slaps the glass of her familiars¡¯ special fence. Her sleepy serpents awake at this crack in their container. Against the warped lens of the glass their faces conjoin into hydrae; a wiggling nest of hundred-fold tonsils, hissing from forking heads. ¡°What know ye of intimacy? But you could not please that poor ¡®empress¡¯ enough! She had to visit that traitorous cur, Baron! Ah yes, I heard the rumors through the reeds of your Corinna, prancing about in sly dalliances with a certain lascivious fop ¨C one banished late. The one that yet comes back bashing upon our doorstep and who, even in exile, mocks all our efforts dreamt up! He shames us as she shamed thee! Consorting with traitor skalds and their leashed whores!¡±

    ¡°That she flopped on her back and gave herself to him so readily doth beg the question of whether you are even capable of such pillaging. Of satisfying that flower you plucked from a field of sod!¡±

    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

    That deplorable wail assaulted the air as Azarra threw back her head for another bout. To her this senseless chattering served as a surreal catharsis for all the tensions erupting from her bust. She perceived this appearance of her son not to be literal, nor did she fully care at this point if it were real, but a hallucination conjured from blend of her servant¡¯s vinum and the fiber of her tumult. Thereby, to transcend this mental state she must beat back these dreadful phantoms towering over her sovereignty and curse all that had been wrought upon her through the ages. To her this was but another delirious spell shaped by deepening ill.

    Yet her son¡¯s sudden claw amputates at her shriek, throttling her throat with fixated fury. She squirms and shifts beneath steadfast clutches. Ever reminiscent of his father¡¯s cruel grasp that ripped away her purity and helped form the fold of the hands choking her. Her eye¡¯s transition from leering hostility to burning realization. Seeing that she was still yet mortal and in very real danger from her brood, she¡¯d berated arrogantly. Stunned gasps escape her chords, replace reviling hysterics. Monster ov flesh! Abomination of defiled tomb! Curse these Ferali hands! Depart, Drakkon, or deliver me from breath!

    Drakkon clasps her to brink of asphyxiation. Strangles the dream state separating her from reality. ¡°How dare you spur Corinna! How dare you needle & thread my heart as though it were a hollow doll, a personal plaything! This ¡®whore¡¯ is infinitely more worthy of everything- of anything- than you! You-you- spiteful witch! She genuinely cares for the world, for its people and for me! Whereas you... I thought you were my mother, I thought you carried the divine spark of inspired love. But all you show me is an abhorrent labyrinth of self-circling lies. This maze of confusion in which mind is lost. All for what wanton end? Who are you?!¡±

    Drakkon relaxes his stranglehold as confusion grasps him. ¡°I came here seeking honesty yet am met with more duplicity and animosity from she whom I thought cherished me above all?! She who raised me! Who I raised to Majesty & the splendor of Azar-Drakon!¡±

    Knowing his touch to be solid past the haze of drugged stupor, her pupils dilate with dire understanding. That he could snuff out the flame of her life near instantaneously. Dismay swells in the pool, surging pressure into her. But Azarra writhes not in terror but hardens the whetted aim of her gaze. Driving it deep into her son¡¯s. She confronts potential death, unfaltering in the wraith¡¯s presence. ¡°Your beloved witch ¨C squirming harlot, she is ¨C is not long belonging to this world! Death¡¯s emissary is already at her threshold. Why should I permit so ignoble a creature to discolor the bequest I carved from nothing, save mine own will and the fire of mind which hath breathed vitality into this ¡®Majesty¡¯? When all she sings for is envy, lust, and unwarranted trophies? Are you so blinded by your loins to not see her for what she is: the source of all this strife? Well, besides your immaculate idiocy & bearish barbarism!¡±

    Drakkon tersely whips his mother about beneath the broth of the basin. She swallows her sentence. He, as vacuous thrall to volatile emotions, swept up colossal tempest. A deluge of tears disgorges from his tremulous lids, shielded by wet stains. After a minute, stretching to forever, he wrangles enough self-discipline & restraint to retract his clutches from her trachea.

    ¡°-she struck forth my death knell! Tis the reason I accurse her so...¡± Azarra coughs, then wields her tongue. ¡°She becomes the bane of your heart and the destroyer of all our foundation! That succubus and her wicked collusions against my life and the kingdom you built should be cast to the infernal pits below our dimension of decay. Suffer the foulest penance those cruel gods & Hels can grant her, in righteous penance. I am but a messenger unto that justice!¡±

    ¡°You should thank me, son of sin. As I am your deliverer too, towards true freedom! For I have saved you from her and restored you to yourself! You may be sovereign without her and fight off the rebel hordes that ride here to claim my head from these shoulders...¡± Azarra brings her legs about him to draw him in. She flees not from the ire in his glare but leans in to kiss his lips. A kiss infused with the poisonous bite, gnawing slime. ¡°If you only held your eyes & ears to me, let your mouth serve me, we would not be in such dire poise; bound to death bed. Yet you let connivers & courtesans be crowned beside you, while I wilt. Oh!¡±

    But her trap fails to snare him. The Astraean hammer of Azarra¡¯s hate, in the instrument of her hookah, falls without bashing its target. The glass slips beneath the bath, impotent and unbroken on his head.

    In an infinitesimal yet infinitely pairing moment Drakkon slaps her back. He rises from the bath, refusing her (yet not evading anger). Pacing erratically in frantic search for sense. All the while her ceaseless laugh-wail bobs about the acoustics, lashing his eardrums.

    Rage casts red veil over vision, crimson with loathsome lust boiling in every vein and synapse. Till blood vessels above brow scream simultaneous sonata of indignation. His hand summons his blade. Commands its edge at his accuser. The blade glowers with his grimace. Bears rabid hate at his mother. Inches from piercing her flesh and bleeding her out into the soap & soup. The cruel tip of infamous sword (consecrated in the blood of hundreds of foes, real or perceived) skims her face. Traces red line along ashen cheeks.

    But in the face of death¡¯s apparition Azarra siphons clandestine vigor of hidden dignity. Despite the immediacy of her usher, ready to beckon her through death¡¯s door into unknowing eternity or its absence, fear did not flood her spirit. A hungry, feral malice emerges, that her passion burns brighter when encompassed by full gloom. Her focus locks with noxious lucidity. All the embers of perdition¡¯s blazing tongue lick at him from the portal of her hate. ¡°You are the perfect likeness of your scoundrel father! Ursine sireling! Sludge of un-want!¡±

    ¡°Bastard of Bear!¡± From Azarra¡¯s warped perspective Drakkon sprouts horns. Antler crown akin to that of Bellieus springs from his temple. She feels across urchin canal of time, that garb of Selene cling to her skin as had during the ritual. Eye of crimson moon lit her mind and again Kassan¡¯s barbarous hands grope and tear beneath the gown. That same ebony mane, arctic eye, and swarthy scowl. ¡°How the gods deem it fit that the seed should grow to resemble so uncannily the shape of the tree from which it fell. The Ferali tree! Plunge thy murderous edge into me and embrace the shape, the shadow of thy father, Kassan! Let his heir release me into air!¡±

    Audible shock slips out in timorous sob. A screech scuffs the back of his throat. Surroundings spin and plummet, as inner ground quakes. Bereft of all but the ruin of soul shattering truth. ¡°Bar-Baron spoke true... I am the spawn of rape!¡± The ghastly screech soars in full, livid colour. Its sire reduced to wriggling pile of disbelief. The sword veered, wobbling weakly. ¡°I am kin of Kassan?! I-am a kinslayer and purveyor of patricide?! A murderous son am I, marked by the lineage of tyrants?! Marred by birth!¡±

    ¡°You are his mirror image! His inheritor! O, horrible apparition! How utterly loathsome!¡± Azarra¡¯s frightful look illuminates the truth of her statement. Stabs him with aberrant dread. ¡°You are his living reflection in flesh and action! You are his curse I carried inside, in torment and agony. Truly you must have surmised as much during those dark nights of doubt when the soul coils about itself in suffocation. Or are you so guileless?¡±

    ¡°I am nothing... not to the world, to the gods, nor to you...¡± his eyes swell. Sobs stream arduously from the untapped reservoirs of this life-long deception. His being eviscerated; spirit, scattered to the winds. His knees tremble as nerves become spasms, a flurry of impotency. Encasing his corpse in glacial paralysis, where his near bursting veins froze over.

    ¡°I wish I strangled you with the cord of your detested birth! Burned hideous plump with the afterbirth! It would be penance to fate for sin not of my evocation. Filth fed from demon¡¯s seed. Son of perdition! Oh, you blind slave of malice! What mercy I forwent to not rectify Kassan¡¯s transgression - his marring of my soul¡¯s tapestry ¨C by putting his son to stone. Should¡¯ve smashed pulp of bloody creature against sacred slab!¡± Bearer of curse & mother of monsters, Azarra sends jar of olive crystals along with her scream. Colliding to shards with her familiar¡¯s pen, her hydra brood of snakes. The proud, but caged, songbirds above them flock to agitated whirl.

    Drakkon stumbles. Discovering the task of response to her stabbing remarks (incised in the carapace of his brain & being) insurmountable. His spine lapses as hollow trunk collapsed against brunt of nearest pillar, colliding with the weight of his downcast spirit. Horrid disconnection wanes as harsh reality caves in to entrap him. He seizes his hastily oscillating chest. Suicidal winds and mad rush thrash his heart. Hoping for it to burst and liberate him from life and innate nature. A nature so long denied, now roaring as a draconic snout of hellish fire.

    ¡°I did not deserve what happened to me, a fetid fate forced upon me! Yet I made the most of it, till that seed sprouted into the tree which would hang me!¡± Azarra rambles hysterically. Riled tears cascade into the warm pool covering her convulsions. ¡°I would have hung you then and left you for carrion bird to peck out revolting eyes, were it not that you were so useful to me. Oh, and my dear, Delphi! Wisdom to wield inversion of your perverse purpose, to turn the father¡¯s seed into sword to skewer him. How glorious for you, my blade, to be the one slew the Black Bear. Left him bereft of his neck! From my womb Kassan¡¯s scourge was born and wrought vengeance upon his head! But, alas, his crown grows again of your brow!¡±

    ¡°Inheritance of ruin!¡± She joins another fit of insane chortling. Pulsating volume twists through wan stream & pounds Drakkon¡¯s drums. ¡°You, my willing puppet, have laid low mine enemies! Made them corpses upon which I strode to pedestal of sovereignty. Ah, my small reward, such a good and obedient soldier. Yet how ironic that my greatest of enemies and the one still refusing to die - and allay my misery - is the one conceived of my body. Ha! You, the cause & culmination of all my grief. Evil embodied! You are my nemesis, just as you are my son. What a cosmic punchline our lives are!¡±

    ¡°Blind patricide?! I committed so grave an atrocity! The worst of all affronts to high heaven! For dead dogma I desecrated this land and it¡¯s people¡¯s long lines. Tainted the blood of all tribes with stain of my soul... I have no grounds upon which to rule. No claim. No divinity. Only the black pit for which my soles perturb to march. Only a heart devoid of any reason to ever be.¡± Drakkon mutters as boiling plasma pours over the barrier of stasis in his seams. Ignites sightless ferocity against the one who forced him into wicked world, only to drag it along further to despair. ¡°You let this be! Made it so!¡±

    ¡°So grievous a sin and so full of disdainful pride! That you could be so smoothly convinced of your ¡®divine birth¡¯ reveals an innate arrogance in you. Kassan¡¯s vile essence lingers in that blood of yours.¡± Azarra gulps the length of her glass, holds it as if it were a precious crystal. A crystal-ball glass to peer into what would be, to scry the future in green wine. She sighs. ¡°Perhaps I should applaud myself with what I accomplished through you. Accursed earth mangled my dignity. Malderath & Elderath conspired to take all from me. Rape & wretchedness stole everything I ever was. Yet through the fires of my Will, I earnt rebirth from the ashes of misery. I have cultivated this triumph, my crown.¡±

    With this boast Azarra¡¯s fingers rose from her abdomen up to the top of her head, holding and fiddling with an invisible crown rested there. Drakkon¡¯s fury then magnifies beyond restraint at his bearer¡¯s jabbing derision. At the woman who delivered him to life and shaped his views of the world belittling him as the lowliest degenerate alive. His mood now less saturnine and more infuriation ready to erupt. ¡°As I am a fraud, only posturing at godhood which was never belonging to me, you, Azarra, are no true mother! False woman, of fake love! Not woman but witch! Not even a human being. Nay! You are a heinous spider weaving only death and schemes from silk of deceit!¡±

    ¡°Ah, emperor of deceit! Chieftain of Malderath! Let ye, born damned, damn the world in your wake! Let it burn for the wretchedness it roused in me, launched against me when so fresh yet kept me from any ripe season!¡± She swore, sundering all precaution to fling vows of perdition.

    He pushes himself from the pillar and clasps the nearest beacon. Tossing candles and kindling as his mother¡¯s words inflame ire beyond reparation. ¡°You make yourself a monster, O wicked sun! I named you a god to lift my curse, to save myself! But, proving yourself a Living Blight, tis you who hath made this fate for us all. Listening to wyrms and whores while appraising yourself a god. A deviant fool borne by blasphemy. With no sight save for swords! You should be put to the pyre and writhe in agony before the gods and the people you aggrieved for your avarice! Blasted by Helwinds or eaten by vipers!¡±

    This venom spat upon his face, Drakkon heaves the light across the room. The sparks hurl out to scathe the edges of Azarra¡¯s while her son wrenches another ornate flambeau and shatters it in exasperation. Wrathful embers skitter about the floor and shoot into the tub as apocalyptic comets. Sparks singe her neck and hair. Suddenly, tilting up to look at her son in fear. Appearing to her abhorrent phantasm of Kassan, resurrected to drag her with him.

    ¡°You are nothing but an odious charlatan!¡± He wades into the water, slithers through the spring- well. Clamps moribund fingers about her throat, constricting her breath and prohibiting anymore vile taunts. He tightens about her esophagus. Addresses her with unrelenting contempt fuming in his pupils and cords alike. Drakkon¡¯s rage split throat-tearing thunder. His retaliatory curse threatens to shatter stone with battering scale. ¡°Fuck your bloody, insipid vanity! All this vacant luxury cannot fill the vapid hole in your heart! You could have stitched yourself together with honesty and woven threads of understanding. I could have grown in the light instead of this deepening deceit! Tis you who deserves to be burnt to a cinder and scattered to the winds!¡±

    Death¡¯s dark needle touches Azarra. The morbid specter, taking her son as its agent as she once did, pokes at her through final embrace. Doom upon her soon, yet she does not stir in macabre distress or whimper in excess. Rather, resigns herself to the approach ¨C her release from the gilded prison her life became. But then the assault relinquishes. Enough for her to gasp and wheeze a drunken cry. She offers Drakkon the wine glass with trembling hand. Her arms outstretched to be taken by her son, carried across the dark river, through the gallows, and to what (if any) shores should lay beyond the seas of oblivion.

    ¡°You will never be whole, not even with all the shallow glamour this world possesses! Look at me! This. Is. What. You. Hath. Wrought... As you denied me light and real warmth to lock me in this cage of masquerade your eyes will never glimpse sun again! As you trapped me in a world of hollow lies you will be entombed here, for the world no longer warrants the stain of your existence! I will be your deliver to the darkness that becomes you!¡±

    Drakkon grapples the dwindling goblet from her sloth like hold. In fit of impulse gulps down the entirety to drown the rue of tunneling horror. Yet the desperate libation did not allay his wrath, for then the hue of his face became as flustered & inflamed as the tinge of droplets coating his lips. A gangrenous green & carmine sheen steals his look. Instead of this drink delivering him from this ruinous nightmare it drives him further into its reality. His veins throb with fire and terrible temper through his temple and throat. Threatening to rupture as his derision bursts. ¡°Your false ¡®love¡¯ is as corrosive as serpent¡¯s toxin! If I must rip out these tendons to rid myself of this blood pumping through me, this aberrant taint, so be it. I am to be damned with you, mother. I deserve to reap nothing but death! For that is all that I have sown through my life... All for a cause more fragile than glass!¡±

    His hook clamps with such turbulence that the chalice shatters. Splinters serrated edges into his palm. Holding the remnants of the glass, jagged shards penetrate his skin. Blood leaks into the bath, pollutes balmy waters around Azarra¡¯s body, coloring a scarlet aura about her.

    His body, a shambling thing so alien. Hostile to his own existence. Trapped inside of it. Another aspect within, a demon of fear & shame, prompts Drakkon to slash a shard along the contours of his wrists. A tempting promise. To release his life¡¯s blood into the basin which ached with yearning for the taste of tragedy¡¯s clot to feed fully and escape himself. But though his flesh and the mind moving it desire lethal cleanse from ashen streaks he could not strike true. With world painted pale by discord wrought by the dark truth of his birth, he refuses to succumb to such a harried suicide.

    Instead, tarrying not on self-annihilating urge, the humbled & hurting emperor throws glass dagger aside. Violently one pierces the barriers holding Azarra¡¯s pet serpents. Giving Fate more footing, not committing fully to death yet for himself or his guileful maker, Drakkon leaps to kick the menagerie of snakes from their house. Galling them, the pestered & shaken reptiles slither about; two into the pool while others coil about in corners to pose hissing strikes. Then their liberator returns his attention to their captor and himself to the poisonous pool.

    ¡°Too weak to Will yourself away?! I understand though, I do. Even when we know what a wretched thing is life, with its many uninvited guests & baleful blows, tis hard to turn it all away in bane. But this world would be better without us both. If you might do the honor? Oh, must I call your lady the harlot that she is to inspire you? Must I remind you that, even being what you are, that mud-born wench is unworthy of you?!¡± Azarra glares into the invidious eyes of her son. Even now, with her mortal fiber threatened to be cut, her gaze challenges him. Pleading not for mercy but beaming back the same malicious intent he bore upon her. ¡°May your own son come to be such a villain against ye! Cut the cord of blighted birth & sever the bear¡¯s line!¡±

    Drakkon succumbs to command of blinding wrath. Surrenders to cathartic and uncontrollable current. Becomes that vessel of fury unleashed upon she who endured him into existence. Raises his hands to her throat, refusing to relent anymore against the woman who raised him under dubious dogma and swathed his story in myth for survival¡¯s sake. ¡°I deny you! I deny the gods! I deny myself! I am your progeny, I am nothing... ¡®Tis nothing we shall become! Abyss our only absolution!¡±

    Azarra plunges in and out of consciousness¡¯ pool. Bereft of her breath, she just manages to keep sliver of awareness pried open enough to witness, in disbelief, her destruction. The monstrous brood who marked her fate, kept her from ever again touching true joy, sinks bloody claws into her. A shard lodged in the dragon¡¯s claw forges fresh home in her neck. Excruciating pain becomes her, all the while the vestiges of death burn in his sight. His throttling inadvertently tears grim hole. Mangles the lining that spurts out to mix with serpent waters.

    That last defiant look remained along Azarra¡¯s visage, even sullied with retch & red. Writhing attempts to scream supersede her mad laughter. Shaking the depths of the reservoir with morbid tongue. Yet no banshee bemoaning repels her assailant, she slips into gurgles stifling the foul brunt of wailing curse. Aghast, she fades in sporadic flutters as her son soars out of the water, fleeing in haze out through claustrophobic corridors leaving her to solitary agony. Thinking her death to be etched in tableau of the Fates.

    Azarra barely floats on in this basin soaked with her lifeblood. Lingering symptoms of drug induced delirium pour out with it. Her avian angels scream in their silver shelters; trapped in cage of lament. Their wings, impotent furies. Mirage drapery, her curtains. Mystic threads line the pallid blanket wrapping her soul in mantle of desolation. Oozing trail from the wound, which she half-dressed with tatters of her gown, congeals and solidifies. The end¡¯s approach embodies in serpentine shape.

    This morbid vision intensifies with her loss of essence. Slinking apparition manifests sanguine scales and a spiral tail that wound along the maddened route of Drakkon¡¯s hasty retreat. It slithers up readying to devour what remained of her corporeal shape. The worm-thing flashes forked tongue at the gaping chasm of her injury. Coming to lap up her cursory life till slimy coil asphyxiates her and her chest rises no more. Wide, monstrous jaw stretches out for the void to engulf her dwindling light.

    A voiceless gasp crawls from her throat. Though without sound to summon them or Sight to see, the Hels seek her then. Claiming Azarra among their kin, to rule as a Queen In-Between. Within the thermae chamber malevolent gale births itself of her breath, sending serpents slinking in fear. A wraith maelstrom flings the last flambeaus with fury. Near all lights lingering in the tower, snuffed at once by gust of spirit¡¯s curse. Without words to carry wrath, winds from everywhere & nowhere come to aid her, hailing cacophonous song of Hel. Granting second spring to deny her flight from earth.

    Banishment

    Minutes following

    Drakkon sprinted out of the spiraling halls. The tides of restless discontent drowning any light outside his husk. There could be no rest from the pursuit of this harrowing tragedy but the gallows mark looming over in blackest cloud. Cobwebs concealed any kind memories and all notions of the morrow. Soul spun with his sins, wound together in casket. Their fibers followed him as he fled the towering tomb, encased in dark. That place where bitter reflections of his mother¡¯s fatal revelation, the lie that was his life, were buried.

    Azarra¡¯s haunting laughter twirled maddening loops through the narrowing airwaves. Winding woeful strings to tether his thoughts to accursed form ¨C the monstrous blood slithering beneath his skin and the scales of guilt inherited from the curse of birth. That blood which wore upon his makeshift bandage, torn from his mother¡¯s foregone gown.

    Never could he relent this knowledge of his mortal invention. Himself a glorified abomination. To be propped up to godhood only mocked him in mauling manner. For that high plinth he sat upon toppled and with it cast him to furthest pits. He was but a pitiable worm before his own darkness drenching him. To drown in the festering bile of his true, muddy matter.

    His soul wrestled his pulse in wretched contortions. Knowing that forever would his steps resound with the revolting devil¡¯s chord of his core. His materia raw with the liquid flame of wicked genes. His mere human heart held not an ounce of divinity within. Every fiber enflamed with loathing for the body & persona holding it. In that pyre of pure detestation Drakkon fed this derision against all the world. But ever more so he damned himself. Cursed the veins that contained heritage of Kassan. Swore off every vessel & sinew ¨C these anchors to the crime which gave him life.

    Hitched to this baleful tide inside, Drakkon welcomed wake of oblivion, should stream of ceaseless sleep erase the dyed essentia of his breath. Struggling against temptation to tear out those carmine canals. To reject this damned bloodline and being. A couple of serrations & lifelines torn seemed precise prospect for freedom from horror of awareness. Every second veered into tortuous infinity of winding dark halls and eclipsing stone encasement, spurning these fiery torrents which walled his sight & spirit into inferno.

    Punishing phantoms stalk from every skulking shadow. More demons drape about his shoulders. The more fervently he claimed resilience - struck straight posture and pretense of carrying on his grand charge - the tighter the noose wrestled him in. His need to be estranged from himself and of savage circumstance aroused whimpering gasps, emerging as low outlandish yowls. His feigned stoicism crumbled against the nearest pillar, clutching to it for support. Sinking into umbrage & architecture. Over & over again involuntary frenzy slams his shoulders against the harsh stone. Raving inanely as wild tears flee his ducts and dampen the floor. Knuckles, a bloodied brown.

    Hushed but hurried murmur of voices rushed the hall ahead. Creaking of doors preludes the shuffling of boots hastening towards. Swiftly Drakkon propelled himself up from the pillar ¨C not yet feeling the breadth of his marred hand due to the intoxication of vile emotions churning in his gut. He drew up black cowl, concealed his face in anonymity as not to be seen by the skeleton crew of Azarra¡¯s remaining disciples. They passed by as an ensemble of wraiths, whispering in a language that (while still in his tongue) he could not process. They glid through the halls as ghosts, their humble procession charting to the bath from whence he¡¯d come. Terror gripped him. Wishing not to consider the ramifications of his matricide. If she truly had perished and not become a living ghost fired with more hate than ever. Incapable of clutching the full multitude of possibilities that could lash back from his act.

    Fear swelled up further as the robed reverent disappeared into the dim chamber beyond. With their voices inaudible by distance, the dead silence spoke an eerie malevolence. This hollowness berated, this lack of rustling noise and absence of life further concentrated bleak finality.

    As he fled by the ever-burning braziers, submerged now in shade, there was but one left whose flames were not eaten by frost-winds from within. To the last of them Drakkon committed the parchment on which impossible truth was inscribed. With a sidelong glance he saw the letter & harbinger¡¯s accord within convert to ash in seconds. He envied how easy the thing burned, partially wishing he would so swiftly be consumed by balefire.

    Perturbing stillness broke by a sudden Helwind from the depths, which killed the last light and commanded the doors open for Drakkon¡¯s banishment from the vast, gutted spire. The howling air outside snared him in urgent winter storm. The weather reflected the dismal visage tearing beneath lustrous veil, fac?ade of fleeting beauty. The white paint bled by the winds.

    He lumbered out into biting clime. Caring not for the danger the inclement cold imposed upon his journey. Stumbling onto his steed he forced the beast onward. The way to his base camp would be harrowing and prolonged by merciless conditions, yet he drove on as billow snowfall surrounded. Storm gales roar as an infernal dragon, hoarding the skies¡¯ azure gilt. Arctic trill of solitude snared; winter¡¯s shroud coveted him & decaying grounds. Alone with his hate, accompanied only by blasted & befouled elements. Though he flew upon destrier with dire pace there was no inner haste to return to his men. Little urge to speak to those whose loyalty lay in the false pretension of his divinity. With this untwined as sadistic sham, how could he face them honestly?

    Wailing snowstorm encircled him in deafening howls. Accursed tempest afflicting sky & soil rivaled the maelstrom within. He could not hope to garner what the future held for one who damned himself in the eyes of the gods. But he could not bear to remain near the scene of the barbarity befallen of his conceit & intemperance. Not even the prospect of Corinna could recapture the unwound strands of hope. For to him her glaring luminosity of form & essence taunted his corruption. Knowing atrocious truth, he didn¡¯t deserve to hold her ever again. Her glowing flower should wilt, were Drakkon to graze her with his accursed touch. For this he further cursed himself.

    Sepulchral shade of storm seized every meter of skyline. The winds of evenfall¡¯s wings, as foreboding auguries of calamity conjured from corpse-gusts, haunt the horizon. A cyclopean current surged across the brim of the firmament. Effused wyrms into his aquifer of spirit. Witch-laughter rode along the white & grey of pale dusk. Wan residue of departed Mother¡¯s chortling jinx won lingering voice in wraiths over vista. While her tower disappeared by distance & post-Yule coat, Azarra¡¯s sorrow & malice still sang.

    So too did sinister sentience swim in Drakkon¡¯s depths. A pulsating whim calling from abyss to capture his psyche and draw his steps to woeful command. Just as the tides are bid move by the moon, this hellish wind guided him onward through wide pandemonium. This impulse, one of murderous intent and blackest fire: to sever the cords of Baron¡¯s life. To slay the traitor who held up a mirror to shine horrid vision of true self.

    The lord longed for life no longer, slaughtering any idle hope of another summer of golden luxury. Nor did he covet his sovereign authority, knowing undeniably how his rule blighted the people. But with lethal gravity he longed for death; a monsoon of mortality, to rend more than his enemy in himself. The death of his former skald seemed the last strand left to cut of the foul band binding him. No redemption waited on him. Only the smoldering determination and dominating desire to see Baron¡¯s head cleaved clean and stuck onto a pike. He, and all knowing of this conspiracy, must be culled.

 Fields of Mourning

    Chapter Eight, Fields of Mourning

    Snowcrest 29<sup>th</sup> 19 AD, Valkingrad village

    Valkingrad lay as ashen bruial behind the trail of the Lord¡¯s path to purge his inner pyre. The rebellious battlements & their stalwart defense proved stubborn, at the cost of bovine anemics and faded spirits among the Drakoni. Though they¡¯d sent his Majesty behind shield wall they won naught. Devoured by Dragon¡¯s Breath of Albrecht¡¯s design: launchers of fire that stole the forests & folk of this stubborn city. Maddening echo of proclamation for the hearth & woods around lived in lingering winds. That minstrel accompaniment which drummed singularity of sound, in anthem of immolation. Ghoulish gusts curtained the elements with the essence Drakkon¡¯s sentencing of the town to mad fyre from beyond the grave of its speech: ¡°Call to Thunder! Evocation ov Flame!¡±

    The Lord¡¯s ire loitered in the smog summoned of his order. That the traitors would not relinquish Baron¡¯s whereabouts nor unbar their gates while manning such walled resistance meant that all Valkyrwood around the village had to burn to scorch the rebels¡¯ stoicism. Inferno from which the women & oldfolk were first to flee.

    The men went about the gruesome work of stringing up fled bodies onto spikes, tossing burdensome husks unto smaller funeral fires and snuffing the lead pillars of smoke choking the victors¡¯ breath. But they found not the bard¡¯s body among the dead, though Heimskal and other valiant traitors now stretched on poles as ruinous relics.

    Then an abrupt horn of war resounded from nearby field, disturbing tasks. After ordering his captains to continue the burning & building of effigies until no bodies remained, Drakkon went to his advance scouts outside the charred skeleton of Valkingrad.

    Skittish sentinels reported that more of Baron¡¯s banner waving militants amass by the remaining forest across the valley snow. Through the falling flakes the lone lord thought he gleaned his friend of long ago. Atop a horse outstretching the flag of the People¡¯s Protectorate and blowing the horn¡¯s shrill scream. Scowling at the world the emperor saddled his horse and made out to meet him.

    The two leaders rode towards one another. Each brashly refusing any bodyguards to accompany them and ready to combat with word or sword. That luminescent green between them deigned as the midpoint to meet, Drakkon reached the Andrasil tree, standing in solitude at the center of the field in eternal defiance of (or stubborn harmony with) the elements. Unhorsing, he propped himself against the trunk and under glowing flakes waited for his rival.

    Baron went on foot nearing the great tree. Marching beneath foreboding branches with hurt branded on his brow. ¡°DRAKKON!¡± He bellows across gray landscape. ¡°You killed them all?! You place the carcasses of children & mothers on spiked rostrum and toss the rest to balefire all for embittered delusion?!¡± Closing the gap, the glow of the embers from the ruin in the distance cast faint light their faces, shining no intent on forgiveness.

    Drakkon stood his ground and claimed more, expanding his stance to show he would not step back. Even if he knew his feet planted on hollow foundation save the boots of reprisal. ¡°Thou art but a stinging pest that should long been crushed the moment thou were exposed as slandering scum and a lecherous lout. Betrayer of all oaths, all friendship and decency!¡±

    ¡°Now instead of honoring the chance at life and reflection granted to thee, thou riled the realm against rule & order and return to me with a swarm of arrows & spite? Always a gaping wound in my side till the death, but thy thorn shall soon be torn out. I regret showing mercy to thee on that Fel eve. ¡®Twas weakness of heart. But I will not waver for a second this time when the moment comes to strike thee down. My resolve will not wither in this cold. I know what I am and what I am capable of ¨C what I must take to erase this stain of fleeting life. Thy breath draws thin, to the last!¡±

    Baron spat. ¡°Killing me would hath saved me from the pain of witnessing you grow evermore into monster. Would that you had a heart still you could understand the rupture you cause mine. Already your reign is ash, yet you can still be more than that. The people demand to rule themselves. You know you hath no right so put this farce down. You may yet be more than maddening knave!¡±

    The restless lord¡¯s pupils flare at Baron, staring beneath the heavy boughs of ancient tree. ¡°That misguided idealism which instills in you the hatefully inane urge to raise swords against your Emperor deceives you again! Fooled into believing petty band of rag tied crofters can persevere against my might. You will be destroyed; of that I assure you. I would rather make thee a bleeding ¡®martyr¡¯ than allow thee another day of life! One cannot lead troops from the grave and without guidance they will fall as quick and hard as winter hail.¡±

    ¡°There need be no more graves if you will only sheathe this rage. Temper steel with humanity. I may yet one day add redeeming verse to your song, that it be more than a parable against tyranny.¡± Baron¡¯s tense gaze fell into thought. He fought back reluctant tears, but they bled from his ducts despite him. ¡°I hate what transgressed. But I will not allow my woes to get in the way of duty to rescind what befalls our people by your cruel hand. If we must meet on the field of battle, I shall sever it. Your reign must end, and I shall record the history of it for future folk. Etch in the annals either how a humbled man of faded legend forwent his throne for peace or as a despot who clung too harshly to empty crown, bought by blood. That all can remember how he became a far more terrible dragon than any former serpent. Or else as he who relented his era for one which the people earn the right to command their lives and not bow before pretenders.¡±

    Drakkon¡¯s thoughts swelled. Yet his tears failed to flee from frigid surface, keeping to cold demeanor when next he spoke. ¡°You were nothing to me but a useful little songbird whose gentle tune brought me the love of the Many. So that I could seize what was mine by destiny, I made a champion of you! You were my left hand! You used the power I bestowed upon you to undermine my rulings and corrupt the foundation of the empire we fought to build! Do not think that I feel a shard of kinship nor mercy for you simply on basis of past service. You are no friend of mine! But an enemy & stain that must be smote! One that will rot beneath this tree.¡±

    Baron¡¯s pained hysteric laugh shivered, mocking and feverish. ¡°You cannot hide what we were behind distant words. I know we were as brothers once, you and I... A close thread about us with twisted connection ¨C the travesty of what once was - brings me to tears of disgust! While you refuse to address me as an equal, man to man, the threads of the past yet bind you. Truly, this is tragedy... I looked up to you, Drakkon! You were a living inspiration to me. Not as a ¡®god¡¯ or deity on a plinth, but as a man and leader who stood for something that mattered!¡±

    The bard inched closer to the man he accused, nearly battering the bridge of Drakkon¡¯s nose with his own. His acutely transfixed on those of his rival and former ruler. ¡°Ah, That glint in your eye... I see! You know the truth of your birth. Has it settled well in the chasm within that skull? That you had me damned for knowing the truth you must yourself accept? You are no ¡®god¡¯! You never were. Nor will you ever be. The drapery of delusion which you and your witch-mother toiled so hard to cast over the eyes of the people is being pulled back to reveal the truth! Soon to be torn open!¡±

    But the bearer of the crown of blasphemy would not stand to be berated. Not when his soul already stabbed such cycles of doubt & damnation within. ¡°God or not, I am your better. At least I was faithful. Loyal, even to lie. Knowing what I am cannot unlink me from this shape I¡¯ve chained! Shall not shake my ire for treachery & covetousness, nor save a rebel¡¯s fate from being exiled in death along Helrivers of the nether past all astral light! I would rather be a hermit, deny my crown, were it not that a knave yet challenges me, in thee!¡±

    ¡°Then let us both depart for exile if it should save the rest from senseless scourge?¡± Baron spit sorrowful want, followed by war-song. ¡°Yet war is thy want and my brothers do not fear thee. Thy tactics of intimidation are as devoid of meaning as that hollow crown! Our resolve shall outlast that bloodthirsty beast hiding behind an empty helm. Must this shape be so: more revolting than any treachery, any slime that lathers the dark and dank places at the fringes of earth? At least I know who I am, as a man, and what this world demands of me! No more honorifics of thee, should thou not forsake this course and find a soul, only steel to meet & fell thy tainted trunk if reason cannot avail!¡±

    Drakkon¡¯s wrath unearthed with quivering quickness. Unsheathing his sword to posture threat at the bold skald. ¡°Thrall! Traitor! I swear by all the elements abound and by my arm that when the day rises thy head will hover on spiked neck! I will make an example of thee that will silence the dissent sown. It all will have been for naught ¨C every furious sound of thy passion proclaimed drowned in deafening void of death! All the light built up by thee to be washed away by a single storm - as every one of thy men falls before the axe of my vengeance! Unless thou kneel!¡±

    ¡°Nay, I will not kneel who one who will not show his face beneath the mask. Surrender this violence or be forever worse a fiend than Kassan ever could be.¡± The bard flung taunting rebuttal, ¡°Thou art the grown image of thy father before he fell. Do be so kind as to emulate his fatal step if our blades must cross tomorrow.¡±

    The edge of Drakkon¡¯s blade nicked Baron¡¯s neck. But he did not draw his blade in retaliatory defense. His refusal only infuriated the wielder by denying him the gratification of fight he so needed to pacify inner turmoil. Drakkon added slight force to the gesture, drawing careful drops. His temperament seethed at this peaceful acceptance of death. He searched in his mind with haste as to what words could be the most lethal to yield a fighting stance, to arise impulsive act to justify want for execution.

    ¡°Once thy demons lay rotten on this field I shall press on, to scour the land for all those libraries and Illuminaries. I shall cast their contents to devouring drake. Thy life¡¯s work of shall be burnt, and thy name struck from the tablet of life. Then I shall carve fresh history from thine festering body of work...Desecrate it! Rewrite it as my tale, in my fashion, to become Truth! This I shall do out of spite for thee!¡±

    ¡°Shave thy spite! Thou would go so far in hate & hubris to snuff out the lamplight of illumination in this world? Deny folk knowledge and wisdom, all to secure thine decrepit lie?!¡±

    ¡°For thee, future generations would be damned to wallow in ignorance, blinded by shallow ideology? Then that man I once knew and admired is too far gone. The thing that appears before me is nothing but a husk already beginning to crack.¡±

    Baron exhaled, no sigh of fear but of sadness. ¡°Ah, but it doesn¡¯t matter. Thy threats are soon to be annulled anyways! I know in my deepest of hearts that those bastions of sanctified Light shall persist to press against thine Age of Dark. Even if thou command expeditions to the brim of thy death bed, their hope will remain far from thine wicked sight! Whatever knowledge that thou wouldst forbid shall be free from thy talons. In the alcoves of the earth, even if but in the humble groves known only to the smallfolk who work and toil this land, that light will always burn for those who seek it.¡±

    Drakkon retracted his edge. Then moved to swing wildly across. A feint to force his enemy to fend and incur the need of a swift & violent conclusion to their quarrel. Baron however did not fluster nor flinch in the face of belligerent posturing. Thus, he replied in stalwart but sad tone. ¡°I can see thou art in maddening midst of feral desperation. It is as if thou art longing for the very fate thou claims to will unto me. Death is in thine eyes. It calls to thee.¡±

    The skald tasted a fallen sprinkle from tree leaf then swirled parting words about his tongue. ¡°If I must, I will put thee down; take thee to the pyre as thou hast done to thousands. Thou shalt become but a pile of cinders. Thy legacy will of ash and despair. Should anyone remember thy name it will be spoken in whispers as a curse or cried with relief from the end of horror brought by thee. Thy dark age but brief. Unless you redeem light in thyself?¡±

    ¡°Back thy spit with steel, skald!¡± The emperor of waning reign lunged his blade into the Andrasil trunk. Effervescent sap lapped up the stab. But the proclaimed martyr simply shifted from the feeble attempt. ¡°Answer for thy covetous crime, oh agent of misrule!¡±

    ¡°If thou will not accept the mantle of common humanity then thou deserve nothing.¡± Baron refused to draw iron in protest. Denying him the gratification of the duel. After the chance passed, and Drakkon¡¯s sword did not run through him, the rebel captain turned away. With grief exhaled he vowed curse. ¡°If thou cannot abandon thy title and become something true then may thy thoughts be forever haunted, anchored to thy sins. Lift that crest from thy head before it falls or may thine hours stretch lonely, creeping onto deathly passage.¡±

    ¡°Before the sun¡¯s chariot can be chased back once more, I will burn thy body and with it cleanse all memories of thee with it.¡± Came the venom of Drakkon¡¯s counter curse.

    The singer mounted his steed and tossed a pouch of coin that spilt by the cursed Lord¡¯s boots. They surged, flickering emblem not of tribute but of taunt; for the coins shined fresh mintage of Protectorate symbol, a cross of farm rake of common folk & scroll of learning. With this he swung a bitter jeer, telling his erstwhile emperor that upon his fall the lineage to his rabble would be legitimized & flourish. No matter his pitiful triumphs Drakkon could not crush their spirit, the people would reclaim their place & prosperity without his imperial didacts.

    Prelude to Apocalypse

    The Morning of Battle, Snowcrest 30<sup>th</sup>, 19 AD

    The small hours passed without an ounce of sleep. Drakkon denied himself reprieve (or snare) of dreams. He stirred, pacing frantically about the perimeter of the camp. Baron¡¯s words pierced his thoughts, bleeding litany. Even as he tried to deny them space in his mind they grew, expanding anxieties. Azarra¡¯s agonized wail joined the clamor of curses, repeating. Over & over, he heard the splashing of blood rained by his command. Shuddering hand felt the shakes of his sword in flesh of fallen foes. Abrasive cries echoing, no matter muttering protests. Every negative aspect of both of his parents branded insignia in his chest. As if they were there haunting, dictating his nature and guiding phantom flow.

    He, a creature sewn by shrewd influence rather than sculpted of personal chisel. Paranoia refused all thoughts and being as true. No longer could he call upon heavenly fire nor will power and belief. He had not the power nor faith to call upon any support from the realms beyond his own. No miracle was with him. In this fading realm so dismal and empty. That no lightning from the gods struck down this imposter of storm crown showed the sky emptied of Divine influence. Whispers on welkin of glorified delusions cast no ire from above. Surrounded by starved soldiers he was yet alone.

    When the begrimed dawn shyly peeked from behind a cloud blanket, a young and enthusiastic scout equipped with a report gave salutation. The poor boy thought he smelt glory on the winds. ¡°Hail Imperator! I must speak of the enemy¡¯s number camped ¡®cross the dell: During the sparse hours, the rebels rallied more arms to their cause, locals & late retainers. Yet shameful souls slithered from our camp. The foe now outnumbers us by more than two hundred heads. But many of them have only pitchforks and wood cutting tools, so should be no match for our forces. By your sign we move. We stand to win a Living triumph, Lord.¡±

    Drakkon scratched at his bushy, ill-fitting beard while he fenced his attention in on what this news provoked in him. With wings and works of fire, the tide will flow in my favor. If only to wash away that thief of Corinna¡¯s heart in the wake of withering fate...

    The emperor clasped the scout¡¯s shoulder feigning what inspirational push his waning heart could beckon. ¡°We must not waste initiative. I will rally the captains and assemble our host. Our vanguard set upon our charge to take the center hill quick, with calvary to the forest flanks. The rush of our bravest should bash their swiftest and send what formations they plan into disarray. A final bolt of thunder then for them! Mark Mordaunt to leave his best man with a good crew here with camp & cart, if more rabble creeps up this route. Then ready his position for the charge. His riders wax their wings. They will hammer them by wind when the hour is ripe!¡±

    This morning there were no more motivating speeches to reverberate their legacy throughout the ages with pride and passion for what is reaped of fateful field. Instead, the High Lord quietly ordered his forces onward. Beginning in eerie silence save creaking greaves and grunts. The men following their emperor felt then no great fealty, nor fierceness in the face of their foes. When battle spawned it roused simply as worn, delirious dream.

    Their Living Lord fights as reckless gale. Lunging to engage any opponent, opening himself up for attack as if he cared not to survive this encounter but to slay as many others as possible. Berserker chaunt compels him. Eclipsing cool strategy. Yet this inspires intimidation in the rebels, wary to incur retribution from this lunatic¡¯s sword; no godly blade but compelled by a mad storm of loathing for all life. An anarchistic gambit became the mess of combat upon the white-gray fields. Battle formations soon forgone for single grudges and blind clash.

    Emptiness besieges every soul who takes up blade, bow or blunt force that day. Pervading gloom of purposeless struggle sunders the air and morale of each soldier. Exhaustion seizes the Drakoni, weary of vain conflict without lasting grounds. And though the Protectorate sought revenge, they too were tired and felt victory against the imperials a fevered fancy. The drift and direction of the battle, as apathetic and chaotic in its shambling pushes from either side. Flow of the field never bending to one claimant.

    With progress moot, Drakkon finds himself carried to small rest among his shield-bearers. Wherein he siphons the fury remaining in his breath to blow appalling siren. He releases a pair of brooding bellows, for thunder & wings. Signals the cavalry charge of his Winged Drakes & their mercenary cohorts under Mordaunt. The abrasion of ascendant horns thrashes the spirit of every pawn on the board. Funeral chimes to bring down a hail of dragon fire behind the rebels & riders of apocalypse unto their unruly ranks.

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    Its resonance is heard but the answer only shatters the front furthermore. Fragmenting the men into frenzy as an avalanche of   arrows and the lightning of the Manticore crackles indiscriminately. Dragon¡¯s Breath summons pandemonium to the front. For while Mordaunt obeys the alarum of thunder, he hails havoc with it, and heeds not the call for his steeds. Blasting Helwinds of bolts & flame from missile powder against imperials and insurrectionists alike.

    Across the field the master of these mercenaries and those veteran Drakes loyal to him dug in stubborn hoof with taciturn analysis of the sway of slaughter. Mordaunt denies the dissonant call for mounted aid. Turns to address his men, to be the first of his fresh legions. For his hour ripens, as he stands to topple the throne of creation with storm of Selenic retribution.

    ¡°This battle is lost for them. Retreat and turn round from whence we came. Drakkon¡¯s day is over, though our hour yet approaches and our honour is unspoiled. To the North and to the West we ride! To Silverwood Grove and the spoils of a respite we hath earned well!¡± Most Manticore move to his command. Turning away from the battlefield at his whim. Drakkon¡¯s reign ends upon this tiny hill & a death in disgrace. Let false Lord rot in this field as those he forsook do in mass graves. I tether the threads of tomorrow to a future woven with Will alone. This day is yours, Selene, as much as mine. For the ¡®gods¡¯ who forgot you are gutted by their dishonor. Let their pantheon perish in smoke!

    But before he could humor his thoughts further one disobedient scout seated at the back of the line interrupted with a refusal of this critical command to turn cloak. This lone, young dissident rode up to Mordaunt as he led the battalion¡¯s route. Contested his commander in brash, if foolish, dissent. ¡°NAY!! We cannot abandon the day! We have their flank from here! Why flee the field?¡±

    ¡°They are mad, stunned & beaten.¡± Mordaunt nearly unsheathed his sword to slice the dissenter¡¯s neck but stayed himself. This little lad simply found himself in the wrong company, and yet he still deserved the choice. ¡°We forge our destinies this day. We forsake not the throne. For ours is to raise a court of our own standing. Yet you may yet choose to ride to fatal fantasy out there in hobbling, hopeless slaughter. The rest of us are thinking of our families & futures that are still yet flesh & reality. Go to your whim.¡±

    The ¡®little lad¡¯ spat from his saddle. Rushed to the cart at the back to snatch a weapon worth two dozen men ¨C draconic fire spitters ¨C and rode alone into the fray. ¡°For the emperor!¡±

    Mordaunt cut into the sky with his obsidian Fang of Vizzarion. Spoke then ambition, raising blasphemous exclamation. ¡°We ride out for destinies that are ours to own! Follow me and be given wings to spread above & beyond the barriers of the old, cursed crown which led us here. The mind of man and soul of this land is free to be shaped. We are a force unto our own. Drakkon¡¯s Light dies. Not ours. Let them grind each other for petty vanity. Yet I would lead us to a life of enrichment and glory. Move with me!¡±

    Signing the retreat, he sealed Drakkon to defeat. Thus began the solemn march away from their Emperor¡¯s call of grave desperation. If any among them should have felt troubled at this blatant betrayal, they dared not show it. Their teeth jittered in the cold, but heads held to simple thoughts of a warm fire and bed away from all this strife betwixt kin hastened their hooves. What worth was there in harboring regrets for those so weary & without cunning to cut a crown and they, so ripe for glory? As they rode beyond the valley the winter wind bemoaned the tragedy caught within its icy fold.

    Drakkon¡¯s sanity fled from him with those faithless riders. His fingers drag his eyelids and spay his nostrils. Terrible howl of insipid resent shatters the seals of those fighting men around. His standard quakes. Fearing they¡¯d been cursed with incapacity before enfolding ignominy. To the rebels the sound signified the waning power of this false god and jolted them with vigor to win the day and silence that wounded cry.

    As Drakkon ushers commands to his nearest warriors his final tinge of grand posture evaporates in fumes of impotent rage. His brows fold to strenuous, beet red. Veins bulge from neck and forehead, exposing erratic flaying of any dignity. The strain on his throat breaks while issuing bloated execution mandates. Demands death for all turncoats and cowards following Mordaunt. Croaks orders never to be fulfilled. Yet he would not release control even as the unbending edges of this grip on reality bleed. Odors of his decaying mental vapors alienate those around as their faith is flayed.

    The emperor¡¯s verbal retinue regresses to crude insults and rough profanity, flung with futility at Mordaunt. Casting slurs and slights at his soldiers, whether fled or bled for him. Declares them callow cravens who crumble under the pressures of a real fight. With the forlorn affair of Drakkon¡¯s ranks, his ravings of retribution ring dull. Lined meekly with the hopeless anger of a hateful man wrangling with his wits.

    Unwilling to lay down and die, abandoned by all, Drakkon hammers his heart with iron. Charges the enemy with mindless ferocity for the center hill under old tree shade. His mindset a vacuous swamp of scorn¡¯s sludge. He swings & stabs wildly, without restrain or care. Rancor outweighing any trace of remorse as the bear in him carves up countless men who once fought for him as comrades. Feral strikes show no compassion reserved for his life, carelessly endangered, or others. Death was his Hand. His arm & bridge to carry him along to its dark country beyond life, where he¡¯d delivered countless souls and would reap more (including Baron¡¯s) on the course. Adrift upon consummate gales of morbid fortune from the dark caster-cousins of Malderath in her Hels.

    A flurry of blades floods the field with haphazard havoc. Both sides breaking into destitute lunges. The sky above shares in their despair. Concealing sparse pockets of light beaming as beacons over small sections of the gorge, winter storm overruns the dawn¡¯s dim glow. Blackens the halo of Solaris, tainting its orb to aspect of night. Discord takes the reins of the field and leaves no soul untorn nor body unscarred. In the mayhem, a jagged bearded axe forces its way towards a gap in the Imperator¡¯s plates from behind.

    The reprobate who stabbed between Drakkon¡¯s shoulders, one of his partisans. Who just as swiftly pays for this not by the blade of the lord he betrayed but by an arrow shot by a rebel aiming for the man¡¯s mark. The plate and mesh beneath hold the serrated metal mouth off, yet its tiny trident portends torrent of mass confusion sweeping up all. Disorienting spell confounds all until any recognizable form of proper battle is stripped bare. With brother hesitant to engage with his brother. Old friends gaping at one another across clanging swords. Rivals lusting for cathartic duels. Each man clasped to his small strife and shrunk to sheer survival. Nothing left but to push through the flesh and mettle of the man immediately ahead.

    Yet the most resilient Drakoni loyalists carve out a tenuous position at the center by the Andrasil. This reverent tree, the only relic of order in the barbarous conflict. A brave scout of near seventeen cycles dares the route to its roots. Sliding from the bridle of his skittering steed, snorting paranoic frenzy and ailing whinnies, this loyal youth delivers to his liege a scarce stockpile of precious powder projectiles. His ephemeral gift to glory that day.

    Baron¡¯s battle horn sounds, coming to contest the white crests of the dell with his banners. His contingent of horsemen dash with haste towards the weakening lines. A brown and cherry wave to wash the Drakes into red tide. Intent on lancing the Lord of Imperium and bringing the embattled Aera to swift end.

    Assembled beneath the boughs of the Andrasil the fading Lord fastidiously orders those last few Dragon¡¯s Breath pillars aimed at the cavalry. Although they were few the riders presented a clear threat and were led by spiritual head of their foe. Flint strikes fuses, discharging the blazing lances. Several fyre-lances find their mark & obliterate the advancing aspiring knights. Spitting fire unto the riders, igniting the leather uniforms and gambesons. Hels¡¯ torch frightens what steeds & men were not instantly scorched.

    But the rigged-up lines of fiery bolt spitters (ugly projectile-launching contraptions carved with a belligerent sneer in the face) that scorched Valkingrad & its woods with their tongues prove unpredictable. The one in front of their improvised command post fails to fire properly. Its aborted flight sparks blind embers. These crude contraptions dreamt up by the mind of Albrecht, serving as Primus to Ty-Drasil and Magus ov Imperial arms without slightest snicker or scorn for his utility (abandoning study & healing of the body in favor of warfare engineering), not so infallible as espoused.

    The fickle fuse burns back into itself, misfiring disastrously. The blast kills the operator of the fyre-lance and sends his seared palms into the air. Incendiary wave tosses Drakkon and a dozen defenders backwards. Ash and charcoal exhaust coat the area with profuse pitch-black ether. The discharge crumples Drakkon¡¯s chest plate like parchment. Caves it in and crushes his air passage. He rasps and wheezes amidst smoke as he claws at the broken, burdensome armor to shuffle it off with his winged helm. The bright white, azure, and gold insignia on the plate, completely wiped by the corrosion. No trace of the imperial star of storm. The color black as soot.

    ¡°Thy legacy will be one of ash and despair.¡± Baron¡¯s curse burns through the barriers in his brain with painful clarity. All as cinders spit up into the branches of the tree, igniting them in a less than miraculous glow. He struggles there beneath shower of burning boughs until a nearby footman helps him remove the shattered armour and rising to his feet. Drakkon prays his ribcage hadn¡¯t shattered though it felt so. Though to what gods he prayed he no longer knew. How could he beseech those of the high pantheon for help when he stole their glory to cloak himself? Was it luck he prayed to, or a universal current carrying chance and guiding all through subtle undertow? No matter, reflection passes in the smoke.

    Through the smoggy haze a figure in cherry-brown jack plate appears upon steed of mist. Cutting through the thinned strips of imperial guard, and zealously scouring the gray hill for his challenger. Drakkon faces this contender, drawn to clash by the drawstrings of insidious determinism. This contender, none other than Baron. His glare lit by loathsome malice. No penitence from the one nor fluttering of intent in the other¡¯s eyes.

    The rebel skald¡¯s swift storm of dodges flew by in slow motion as their knell struck. Every swipe stretched over an incomprehensible length. Drakkon¡¯s mind was not to be found in the present, for an odd and irritable dissociation took him. None of it felt real. A construct of nefarious destiny or Saatharian sham soon to fade. Half-seeking severance from his form. Through this cyclone the present reeled him in he witnessed his obsidian blade shatter the steel challenging his to continue carving down, to skewer shoulder & slice through the sinews of the bard¡¯s chest. Yet his command fell flat midway, the blade stalling with capricious smirk.

    Though ready to strike the killing blow and close this dreadful chapter, the Helwinds deny Drakkon. Wings of the Fates flap about Baron, their speed his mantle. The breeze of battle whips him from the path of the blade. Phantom clasps arrest the sword ov imperium. A ghostly whisper blows through the emperor¡¯s core. Faint and distant at first, it escalates to ethereal wail striking from dimension beyond this. A cyclone of disembodied voices whirls about his head. Their wordless chorus cuts through by haunting lilt. Vapors of powder explosion bury his fallen blade. A phalanx of wraiths encompasses him, manifest from residue of misfire & misrule.

    An abominable apparition arises from this phantasmal wall. A specter of colossal stature, its shadowy body the lingering smoke. Soon the smog rears a ghastly head, bearing a great crown of spiked horns. A vision of one long dead... Kassan! Father! Above this vision another incorporeal specter appears, impending over the floating antlers. His mother¡¯s revenant claims the air over malformed head. Joins with it. Azarra¡¯s astral messenger, born of sulfur, bears the Scepter of erosion.

    Her phantasm extends arms to him with neither scorn nor succor. The clamor ceases, the world goes deaf. Her gaping jaw pours crescendo of gray lament. Voice of horror sends his spine into shock. His phantom mother¡¯s will, unrelenting, chains him, even from the gulf of distance or afterlife. Her spindling threads tether him to psychotic paralysis as the flesh of his father¡¯s face melts to ursine skull. Azarra¡¯s aurora divides the dreary air, streaming sapphire & emerald bolts into Drakkon¡¯s eyes, blinding him to all but the haze of their hue. Cataracts of blighting curse.

    A lonely blade, his own obsidian, slices through the spectral curtain about him and exorcises daemonic shroud with steel. Reveals the cold, critical reality cutting into him. Baron¡¯s triumph bites him while bewitched by wraiths, taken in trance. Drakkon¡¯s befuddled sense too slow to parry to the blow. His shambled tunic, slashed. A bloody ravine across his chest. The Lord repels back to the snowy ground, wounds spilling stains. Fingers claw at the snow. Fists dig into the earth to anchor staggered self. Clamoring up to the trunk of the Andrasil.

    But Baron must¡¯ve hesitated or else his fading hastened, for the edge failed to be fatal. He slashed when he could have stabbed. The bard faltered, stumbling his chance. The reddish-brown of his armor concealed much of the injuries, hiding blood with its hue. Yet they were minor compared to those of the marred lord, who wrestled with want to let this final stake strike his coil to the tree. But this fatal thrust was not to be. The star-blade disobeyed its passing master, or else heard skald¡¯s command of mercy. For the sword flung not into head of regal pretender but to the ground near the ailing grip of it¡¯s true master. Eyeless hands shambled to find the hilt as the color of the present flashed to form. Yet the great blade felt too heavy to wield even with sight returning.

    ¡°Let this maimed pride scar over and heal you of that sickly hubris.¡± The warrior poet¡¯s words shivered with the singed branches above as he struggled to his steed. ¡°Stay down till you can renounce that burdensome crown. If you should rise, do so as a man, humbled. Or else rot as a defeated demigod.¡±

    As the wispy ocean ebbed from his lids Drakkon saw Baron clutching his heart, having spent it in second wind, before vanishing amid smoke and trailing mist. ¡°I must raise a final fyrd. Our lot is not lost with one shattered sword. I wish not to rally arms over your tomb but to hunt the manticore, Mordaunt, and save our Corinna.¡±

    Drifting back against the trunk of the Andrasil, Drakkon glimpsed how few of the Protectorate revolt remained. Yet the faith of his loyalist also faded, and few gave chase to fight for a fallen lord. As he let fall the curtains of his eyes, abandoning all awareness, ruin seized the field...

    Ashen Winds

    After the battle

    The bite of the breeze nibbled on open wounds. Icy squalls gnawed at tender lesions. Drakkon¡¯s hands clutched his chest setting his greaves against the bleeding wound which pours out into the snows; gray-white ground drank up the sanguine flood like wine and became drunk on his pain. Bellows of agony instinctually left him, limping to the center of the hilltop to set his eyes over the field. Scanning the tumbledown field, he found it littered with corpses strewn about all within sight. Birds of carrion long circling above in the glowering skies chose this as their hour. They swooped down in mass to pick upon the flesh of the dead without discrimination.

    Gargling whimpers of maimed men, laid out on the ground. Friends mourn, even offer weeping comfort as they pass. Yet many now kneel beside men not of their own camp but mates and kin who had taken up arms against them. Charged by their commanders to spill the blood of their lines, beset in vain opposition to one another. The tainted white-gilt standard of the Drakoni forces and the red brown of the People¡¯s Protectorate blend in morbid unity. Nothing but Death hailed that day. The bonds of allegiance, as mutilated as the bodies about the holy tree.

    Stragglers on either side flew to cover of the woods. Drakkon¡¯s howl echoed in ailing winds and dead ears. At the bottom of the hill stirred a contingent of Drakoni warriors, among the last. Despair written on their countenances with more clarity than words could say. He rose his body with his sword and bellowed to them.

    ¡°To me! To me!¡± Desperation and the pale grip of the cold travelled with his cry. These men of surviving rank shook their head in silent protest while they contemplated amongst themselves the next move. Only a single young scout chose to hear to the emperor¡¯s plea and approach the charred tree. Few had fight or hope still in them. The rest turned their back on their former master and for the woods. Fleeing from fury of the firmament.

    ¡°I require assistance! Aid thy emperor!¡± His breath and speech, sparser than stern. So hoarse & hollow, carrying none of the spirit which once rallied them to him. ¡°Carry me back will thee? We must find Corinna; she may heal me. Nay, return to Windhand. Mordaunt - the fell knight - betrays me. Tis he who designed this day¡¯s destruction by fleeing the field... I-I demand his execution!¡± Blood seeped from side of his mouth, deadening vicious voice.

    But there was nothing to siphon loyalty from the last who, spying Drakkon¡¯s frailty, sensed that it was he who had been betrayed. Seeing his lord leak from wound of mortal arm the boy sliced a pact of flight in different form. Tearfully falling from faith onto his sword, that shame split his stomach. His imperator lacked the fortitude to admonish, let alone stop, this shedding departure. Why live on when your god decays before you?

    Royal limbs recede to tremors, and the ghoul¡¯s stature sloops against ashen stump. This ghastly shade cast morbid aspect, wan and gaunt. Mine is abandoned... All the songs of earth & wind so baleful to me. This ruination is of me. To think that I thought myself a god! Upraised on a shrine above and before all the world to be but a playground for my fantasies! But Baron was right. I tightened my grip so harshly over the reins that I rule over nothing but a blighted barrow! All I heralded with this ¡®Living Aeon¡¯ was strife evermore. A ¡®glorious¡¯ grave of godhood & glut for dominion.

    I cannot even blame mother. My ear yearned for her falsity; my faith fevered for her dreaming dogma. What am I without delusion? A ghost. A faint shadow beneath the doorstep, soon to be obscured by greater dark. I am nothing! I should crawl into the deepest hole and hope that all remembrance be buried with me. In this, final hour, his ghost saw the gaping maw of infinity stretch. Knowing, in scope of that sepulcher snout, how laughably small he was.

    No signs of sentience appear across the site. Silence culls every cry, the souls that uttered them devoid of life or faraway fled. Flames & foul mist of forlorn fighting, snuffed by Snowcrest blanket. Drakkon stood among terrible disquietude. Shivering, awaiting the end of his vain candle. The torn flesh beneath tattered garb gushed sympathy for the dead of this dell. Yet he bled envy for them and prayed fears for the fate of the living. What boon or bane was left but lunacy? Those who would inherit the vestige of his legacy.

    This necropolis of flesh frozen from rot and glazed over eyes no longer seen as people. These sapped souls, no longer recognizable as fixtures of his life, his ailing sway, but seemed effigies of all selves he could have been without being bound to gross godhead. As paintings, plagued by feeble storm croon. Mocking delirium pervades. The legions of crows treating themselves to the eyes of the fallen laugh at his expense. The only creatures grateful to him, hailing them as a friend for this lordly feast. Their gratitude expressed by saving his carcass-meat for dessert, a tantalizing sight by the blistered base of the Andrasil. There burnt saplings fell beside premonitions of blizzard.

    Slowly Drakkon¡¯s weary lids fall. All vision, coated with sweat and sobs. The bawling of the towering whiteout drowns out these sickly sniffles. In his astral eye: picturesque scene of wheat field & garden grove gaining clarity, changing shape under his curtains. Oh! To be anything but that which I am! To be anything but this. Awareness of the self that I possess tortures me! What could I be in another life, another world untouched by the blight of this being? To be a simple farmer far away. Tending to his pastures and to the care of my love. To fear not death, occupying mind with mere contentment of a nice breeze and sweet caress. To graze that graine of another life, field abundant with humble beauty. To fill my lungs with the aroma of love, to kiss her and brim with glow of infinity in smallest joys. To warm my limbs by the fire, with her at my side.

    His conscious attention drifts into this sphere of fantasy, but cold reality snatches him back. Heart ov Imperia splinters as memories wind through its yarns. Impressions of the horror he¡¯d imposed on this world brand his inner wool. Sobbing renews. Cursing his blind ambition that drove him to this ditch of a dais. Waiting for the caress of Malderath and whatever she may bring.

    Snare of crowing gloom snaps at pounding of hooves. Living fate reverberates by the steps of that steed, stirring him from the wintry red sheet covering his soul. Through watery veil and congealed blood his focus strains on a figure riding toward him with immense haste and intent. The rider, cloaked in the shade of snows and ethereal pace, races against the windstorm.

    The horse bounding over white-gray sea wore emblem of Drakoni sign. Though this detail flashed no hope for he knew he no friends nor fanatics were left to carry him out of this wretched hole. The great, corroded, tree behind him groaned semblance of waning enchantment. As undying as the man resting against its ruin, who steered sloping chin to see this visitor or avenger.

    The face was too distant to make out. And white visor concealed the visage of mounted apparition. Aspect paler than the wraith webs wreathing his wits. Drakkon¡¯s eyelids seal and again the gentle waft of dreaming golden meadow blows into his soul.

 Return to Form

    Chapter Nine, A Return to Form

    First wake

    Musky ambiance of lavender, hyssop & myrrh invited him to awake. As his senses limbered up, the scent of the chamomile & hannabis flower permeated Drakkon¡¯s nose alongside incense & simmering soup. The aromas blew gust of life into his lungs and re-awakened his spirit. Vitality once more coursed through. Carefully he let his eyes open and expectantly wished Corinna to be there, basking in the fields of dream wheat. That bud of nostalgia & innocence in bloom. But the face of his savior belonged to Delphine.

    Delphine beamed with bright relief at seeing him stir. She pressed a maternal palm against his forehead and traced his lips with a soft finger to silence any anxiety. Then produced a poultice to put on his bare chest then summoned a warm broth to his mouth. He needed no encouragement to drink of this heated tincture, trusting this oracle of broken order more than himself. ¡°Shh, do not rise too quick, lest you tear these bandages and let loose your innards! I half joke; your wounds weren¡¯t as grievous as they first looked. Rest though for your strength & forget stress. All will be explained in time. Know that you are safe here.¡±

    Her words were coated in a melted velvet that enthused his ears. His eyes flitted about the room to explore where exactly ¡®here¡¯ was. He found a log cabin of some kind with no ordainment or decoration covering the abode. Only items of pure practicality such as torches, knifes, rope, tools, pitchforks, and cousin objects. It was a sanctum of utility in all its bare simplicity. It seemed likely to be the home of a farmer.

    Sensing his bubbling apprehension Delphine gently assuaged his confusion. ¡°We are in the home of the game keeper & tiller, Karrathas. He and his boy, Barus, assisted me in carrying you here after I found you on that carrion hill. When you fell from the horse and potion faded, they were not far. & kind enough to lend me this hearth to help you recover. Sleep... Let your worries fall away. I am here for you. All will be mended now.¡± In gradual compliance to Delphine¡¯s care, Drakkon gave himself up to a dreamless sleep...

    ...Breaking through the waves of breathless oblivion an image emerged of the sea. Shores of latent reality. A small cabin. The scent of lavender & mending plants streaming to his nose. Murkroot & phoenix-feather flower churning in a cauldron. Candles burn around him, positioned in a pentacle. A woman. His healer. Her waning red hair still shining through gray compared to the sedentary & stale enclosure of the hut. She matured with grace; proudly wearing the lines of her cycles, while retaining shine of soul & nature more than alchemical ointment might aid. Among all the drear and dust scourging the earth and drawing black curtain of nihil, Delphine¡¯s syrupy smile and the glint of warm green spheres inspired cheer & feeling, barely mustered from the abyss he cast himself in.

    Delphine sensed his stirring & brought another concoction to his mouth. ¡°This is a simple tea mixture, nothing too fancy nor tasty, but it will aide your body and brain in warmer recovery. I offered your body Halcion leaf & murkroot, cleaned those unsightly wounds & the flower of the phoenix-feather should start sewing those seams proper. Truly ¡®tis good to see you awake and alive. Almost miraculous even. When I saw you out there, in the center of all that death and decay I feared I arrived too late. But alas, we are the both of us fortunate that our host is such a kind-hearted man to allow our stay. The storm raging out there would have swept us away by now. Be thankful for this quaintly simple hut.¡±

    ¡°We are safe enough here. Our host did not recognize you. He sees little and hears less of any eaves these days in his twilight. The boy has not seen your rune blade nor should know the owner by it if he does. I did reward their brave hospitality with plentiful coin of dual mint. Yet they refused both pouches, asking only I tend the fire.¡±

    After a few tender sips of the tea Drakkon felt his concentration elevate above his bandaged frame. A hovering de?ja? vu and disconnect from physical plane. Delphine noticed his reaction and explained. ¡°Ah, there is hannabis amongst the blend. A recipe once considerably coveted among the sisterhood of Sight, yet now I hope it proves salient to your soul & battered cage. Tis a substance to heal, yet you may feel a little ¡®uplifted,¡¯ shall we say? Trust me this is far preferable than letting you feel all the grinding ache aroused of those scars as they start sealing up ¨C for they wouldst be driving even you to madness otherwise. But I believe you can handle a little bit of magick herb.¡±

    Delphine¡¯s iris expanded against the fed flame. ¡°Did you use your sky-blade against yourself? Or did a heretic¡¯s hand hold it? When I touched the handle to bring it with your shivering self it burned my palm through glove. Seems the strange radiance seared off infection in you enough for my help. Yet there is hesitancy of the wielder in this scar...¡±

    ¡°The wind sliced me.¡± Drakkon¡¯s head was still muddled in mire. As his mind dove into the mud of dismay, he caught himself and lifted a bit to address Delphine. ¡°Why are you helping me? And how in all the world did you know where to find me? I told none outside my war bands where we marched...¡±

    Her palm brushed his brow in soothing motion. ¡°Azzara sent me with a ¡®final¡¯ missive to the Grove of Silverwood. I was to deliver to our Empress a special cask of wine which she claimed was to serve as a gesture of peace. I knew it poisoned with a slow and measured killing blend ¨C oh do not worry! I never gave Corinna a glass though it was my task. We refused crack the cask at all. We knew it held a sluggish mud inside pristine layer. I found that Azzara, in her paranoic spell, was willing to sacrifice me just to spite her ¡®rival.¡¯ For petty vengeance, she justified an agonizing death for me. She bid me, who thought myself closest to her, drink with Corinna that she would trust the gift and freely sample it herself.¡±

    ¡°Th-Thank you. It must have taken great resolve to turn against Azzara¡¯s command like that. I know how close you were as friends and Sisters. But before you go on, tell me: You must feel such churning resentment for her, our High Mother, for attempting to dispose of you like that do you not?¡±

    ¡°Sadly, I struggle not to relinquish all faith for her character. I wish that it were not so, that she stayed true to shape of love. Yet she poisons herself as much as others. What can be healed of her?¡±

    Drakkon intruded, biting his lip with loathing. ¡°My mother degenerated into unhinged and psychotic delirium. Designed machinations against everyone who was not her, including yourself. Should you be so surprised to have given her service for so long only to be cast aside as common pawn in raving game?¡±

    ¡°Even if you look upon her memory unfavorably I prithee reserve some politeness. She fed you since birth. Clothed & kept you on those early nights of frost & fog.¡± Delphine countered, promptly and impassionedly. ¡°Revenge was not mine to give Azarra. Nor would I want it, even so. I would wish her forgiven. But surely you must have heard what fate befalls her?¡±

    ¡°I hath received no news since I began the fated march. Indulge me. What happened?¡± He lied curiously. Carefully noting that she had not instantly branded him as Azarra¡¯s murderer. Wondering what story she believed, and if his frenzied memory could be trusted.

    ¡°They claim she departed from our plane by her own hand. Some said serpentine subterfuge, if not suicide. The Azarine found her limp in bath shared by her familiar vipers. Alas, that rabid & frightened congregation who intercepted me also whispered that when they went to dress her body upon the altar she disappeared. Her cult of souls follows, scattered. They flee the tower and wander. If she is not truly dead, I shall seek out what remains of her; ask apology and offer aid in absolution of taming these Helwinds.¡±

    Drakkon¡¯s muscles tensed with perplexed lines dissecting his forehead. Delphine read his expression and assumed that it must be sourced from his confusion at his mother¡¯s sudden departure. But inward he breathed a slight sigh of relief that the truth was not yet uncovered or else that she endured his regretful fit. ¡°I had no idea...¡±

    He feigned no tears for her passing, however. ¡°May her soul find rest in a plane far from our troublesome earth. Alas, no grotesque show of grief shall bring her back. So, please, go on with relaying the rest. There are pieces of this trap yet unknown to me. What of Corinna?¡±

    ¡°Yes, well when I arrived at Silverwood the disciples of the Lady¡¯s coven said she was not to be disturbed for any reason. She suffered one of her trances circled by convulsions and touched of astral material. This round, they cried, lasted longer than any before. They feared to interrupt her channeling, but I offered oracular aid. I pressed on, not sure to follow Azarra¡¯s ill command or that of my core.¡± Emerald eyes beheld cauldron steam. ¡°As I entered the circle, her trance dissolved. Banished with the curse of catatonia. She clasped me, heaving breath, caught between worlds as she spoke. Divinations burning through eyes. I-I could feel the Fates in her voice. I knew then that she is key to restoring those threads from glum portends...¡±

    ¡°In her visions,¡± Delphine went on, with him entranced by her impassioned retelling, ¡°¡¯Rinna witnessed Mordaunt¡¯s betrayal. Felhenge bloodied. Silver shadows against bleeding moon. Then glimpsed a broken blade and one that kept itself from the bard¡¯s throat. Saw you maimed; beneath charred, skeletal limbs of an Andrasil. That is how I knew you were there, by trusting her Sight! She gave to me a satchel of her most potent potions & plants to ensure your health. Her foresight carries that grace which kept you among the living. I hope you will soon find means to thank her.¡±

    Drakkon¡¯s posture crumbled, dropped a vulnerable opening as he leaned in to confess. ¡°But she must have seen what else occurred. The things I have done and dark steps of the road I pave! She should have no reason left to care for me. Not anymore! I can no longer deny what I truly am: Accursed abomination, unworthy of a shred of sympathy from one so great as she. I deserved to die there among the carnage of my failures. I find it impossible to believe she, you, or anyone else should harbor tenderness for this pathetic & monstrous husk you hath saved in me.¡±

    ¡°Shhh. Speak not such sordid poison! Such spittle is less becoming of you...¡± She turned from him to the boiling cauldron. Delphine spoke in a dour manner unlike her, but still tried to reel in just a bit of old charm & encouragement. ¡°We are all guilty of unspeakable sins that would make the gods weep, yet they favor us still. Or at least they love us for our mortal follies. They must¡±

    ¡°Even if only as entertainment through our gambits. We have all done things that we are not proud of in the name of a greater good. That good that you once represented and for which we-¡±

    He cut her off. ¡°No. We represented nothing! All that good which you attest to in me died long ago. Even when it was there it was but stillborn. The superficial creation of a surreptitious scalpel. A hero only in the mask shaped for me when my true mold was of malice. Nothing we worked to build will last. Soon it will crumble and crush us all beneath its weight. I am a walking ghost. You merely prolonged the survival of a pitiable villain. Every innocent who suffered beneath my banner and starved for the sake of my delusion ¨C this greater cause you boast!¡±

    Drakkon¡¯s self-loathing rant rambled on. ¡°What ¡®good¡¯ was served to them when their god declared them unfit to live?! I hath nothing left to show for my reign save scars. Mordaunt knows that it is might that makes the mountain of justice stand, not tiny baubles or fleeting kindness. All he need do is hail a Summit and declare my death; Announce himself as successor. In an instant he will possess the remnants of my legions and join them with his scoundrels & Drakes to have the largest army left in the land. And what core belief binds his men to such service? They bend to chase the bow the moment someone bold enough takes hold of the drawstring and aims higher than servile station. Promises of plunder and petty come-uppance are all that move the hearts of men now. This world hath become but a theatre for tyrants and fools... I am both. I, yet another meager plaything of cruel tidings beyond my capability-¡±

    ¡°But what is an army against a god? Why bow out before bringing out thine teeth and gnashing one last roar to rally those few still willing to seek a higher song for their swords?¡± She tried at least. ¡°Why not reset the stage and recast your role? Sign a greater sermon in the last lines?¡±

    He sneers at her insistence. Turns his scorn upon all that ever existed. Draconic eyes narrow around the base of the cauldron, persisting in cursing of the world. ¡°This veil of a ¡®greater good¡¯ is as empty and devoid of truth as my claim to Divinity. We both know what I am. Baron was not penning defaming propaganda to serve his own ends, as I convinced myself ¨C as Azarra helped convince me ¨C he purported the truth. For that I tried to give him to the ground. He may yet rally arms to prevail, for I am a dethroned emperor whose reign was farce of mad cruelty. This world should sigh relief to hear that I departed it; that the pretender to stars & storms made the descent into dirt. At least before another rises to the ruse.¡±

    Delphine considered this for a while, choosing words with care. ¡°Think of Corinna. Focus on what love still looms between thee! The only one I would dare claim worthy of being empress. The muses and sprites speak through her spells! Is she not a shining example of ¡®the good¡¯? Of what makes life worth affirming? Of someone to protect and grow with, even as the elements beat our path? Is not the simple treasure of kindling a smile across her warm face enough to jolt your heart into action?¡±

    Drakkon only bowed low his chin and soured his scowl. But Delphine caught that miniscule moment, seeing an inner scream he could not speak but which shook through his sinews. In that beat she bounced onto her impulse and let flow her lips. Speaking to him with harmonious till. ¡°Your love can burnish even in the dark which unwinds the strands of our society ¨C this blood & sweat forged cauldron ¨C but only you can tie that string together again by hearing out her plea.¡±

    ¡°What plea may I yet fulfill? What oath that I should not fail?¡± He simpered. ¡°I felt the brunt of snares from wicked seidr, as the sages may phrase. Witches¡¯ magick stitched my eyes blind. I fear the Fates'' winds shall ne¡¯er again blow in my favor nor sail me to her shore. Or else tis the curse of mine idiocy.¡±

    Delphine denied his plunge into fatalistic nihil. ¡°The Fates are feminine powers. Their whims are more subtle than capricious, despite what grazing glance might deign to see. Each Fate offers different thread of shared fiber, spun from our souls. Their strands do not bend to demands of mortal men who make to command them. The louder one shouts, the coarser the struggle to force their course. But you may yet serve them. Just as the Sight expands for your beloved, my faith stretches with their breath. I feel through their whispers ways which you may prove their ally and herald. You can be one last gale to blow against the gathering dark.¡±

    ¡°Tell me then what this wind-whipped coil might do to unwind the Hels¡¯ threads. What vision did Corinna share that might not cast me as a shade upon her starry sight?¡±

    ¡°In her spell of True Sight, she witnessed a harrowing premonition of a path where Mordaunt prevails: A land sundered with worst storm of pointless suffering. Town roads adorned & desecrated with the heads on towering spikes, forming trees of bodies impaled dividing the pines. Forests of death. Masses screaming from the ills of plague with no cure save the finality of a mass funeral pyre. Mordaunt will turn against his own, concerning himself with prospects of his amusement. There is another shade of betrayal she saw: The snake of Vizzari...¡±

    As Drakkon absorbed these auguries, the cauldron flickered steam of serpent spit, coiling vapors. ¡°From past the Chimer pass red legions ride over desert to the Elorian. Serpent chariots sling at us from the East. Signs of wanton domination. To challenge-¡±

    Delphine¡¯s patient grew impatient. He simmered with his steep sips. ¡°Challenge the successor of a ruined empire? Mordaunt develops an insatiable appetite for power. I indulged his ambition too much and now his rancorous complex shall spare no quarter for the indiscriminate masses he will punish. More than me, even, he sees them all villains & obstacles in way of the climb. Perhaps a trait he always possessed, with the chance to shine in broad daylight. And now those we cast to exile in the long march long ago lurk about the edge of the desert, hungering for our necks? Serpents coil about our crown and defile our court. From inside and out. But the treasure they pilfer is soiled already! I am king of barrows, no better than-¡±

    ¡°You must summon one last storm to best these bleaker winds! You can & she needs you to! Mordaunt pays you no heed though, thinking you a defeated foe. He¡¯ll concentrate on consolidating brutal authority. But he inspires no loyalty besides that which can be bought with coin or forced by fear. Listen, rally the monster in you to tail this frost drake and prove the fiercer!¡± Delphine pushed on as she swathed his chest with ointment. ¡°The continent will be plunged into greater darkness. None of our clans will be spared from infighting. It will be disaster upon disaster. Alongside the constant warring and insurrection, more plagues will spread. These, the curses upon those who will die without discrimination in unbearable agony as tumors and boils take their bodies and minds.¡±

    ¡°Corinna hath seen herself chained to the red moon. Evil effigies in the shadow of coming eclipse when the sky burns bright with blood to swallow the tides. They shall die reaching out across the steps of the Summit or else ascend in the waxing gloom if you do not halt seditious plot. Be it by the Plague-bearer or Vizzari.¡±

    Drakkon supped his tea to soothe his self-directed rancor and humored Delphine. Listening to what visions she revealed. ¡°The waning of the world and of our gods will be upon us. Should my love¡¯s death shroud not have been stolen and she lives, then Azarra is proof that the ¡®dead¡¯ are rising. As will the fires. If you let this occur by sitting idle when you are needed most, then you allow doom to take us. You would be far less a man than these beasts. You would be infinitely more loathsome in seeding our destruction as a people if you remain seated!¡±

    He gave her a pained glare but knew she spoke true. That he could not deny it only simmered discontent. Something lurched in the pit of his stomach, and he sat up. Delphine found Drakkon¡¯s attention, had him on the verge of grasping gauzy hope. ¡°I never deserved godhead, even as my mother never deserved the sin of my birth. How am I better than they?¡±

    ¡°All those seeds we planted that were to bear the fruit of our dreams wilted. The harvest we reaped returns to us rotten. If such dark storms accumulate to batter us into oblivion, is the shelter of another¡¯s arms ¨C even Corinna¡¯s - worth persisting in inevitable tumult & tragedy? Unless there is any redemption to be led by her wisdom. Although I am not wont for forgiveness. Likely, to ride with her against the calamity that has seized this world with terrible finality is to ride to my last rest. But suicide in the name of love and higher ideal is the best fate I could own, among the multitude of dwindling destinies...¡±

    Delphine lured his faith as best she could spindle. ¡°Not a death charge but a ride to regain the reins enough to lend them to the children of the future. That generations may yet grow, unstained by storm¡¯s shadow, and you may feel the one who has loved your heart touch true without the garb of godhood!¡±

    But he was not convinced, fighting against hope more than he would admit. ¡°Why believe that the first familiar companions or former subordinates that see me will not take up arms in wrath to destroy me? For I thought myself, a wretch, so high above them. And am now exposed as mortal beneath masquerade. Surely, they will drive a pike through my stomach and hollow out my innards, that I am as empty as my promises to them?¡± Drakkon speculated to Delphine solemnly. She surmised that he wrangled back the full release of his heart from the steam of cinders sewn into it.

    Delphine draped a consoling arm across his shoulder and cultivated the right wording to drive inspiration into him, deep enough to last when needed. ¡°As dubious as this advice may sound to you, old friend, it is best if you do not reveal the full breadth of the truth to all. In sooth, you would indeed be prone to ruination at the hands of once loyal followers who would feel betrayed and abused by the mass lie. Yes, they would seek vengeance on such a pretender. As that would be a terrible enough fate on its own and would only further the fall of our lands into conflicts without foreseeable concord to be sewn, it is better for us all if you retain the guise of godhood. That way you may willingly influence the mass mind to re-direct the course to both safety & liberty. Beat back the brutes. Lend the people more power as to learn how to wield their independence properly. Ever so slightly at first that they do not falter in their attempt to grow.¡±

    ¡°While the lantern you present to them may be fraudulent, that glow is all that can keep the shadows from converging on our last light. At least for now. This way you may cultivate an evolving consciousness within the people through the holy helm that the wisdom you endow them with is insight from celestial realms of thought. All the better to motivate them in a positive and unifying direction. As they are not yet capable to stand up as they are for their lots. Not without becoming rivals to one another and easy targets for despots who would take advantage of their squabbles.¡±

    This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.

    ¡°Azzara¡¯s surely abandoned her schemes if she even lives. With no more bullish advisors to undermine what we put forward now that they leap to the front as foes, there can be true progress. This realization of self is painful yet can serve as the catalyst for a great metamorphosis. That you are low need not keep you there. You and Corinna will be free to paint a canvas for a better world once you wipe the slate clean by removing the corrosive stains of all those who seek to stab the realm with their talons & beaks. Rid us of those who will pluck the prospects of every person still enduring.¡±

    ¡°No... I can play this ruse no longer¡­¡±

    ¡°How can you lie down and watch the wormy rot scourge our marrow? How can you simply shuffle off the cloak of responsibility & weight of guilt? What worth doth your love for her if you wilt away when the midnight flower of dismay blooms in the longest hour? I am doubtful that Baron & that discordant rabble can free her of the manticore¡¯s captivity, she needs you.¡±

    Agitation filtered through Drakkon¡¯s every filament. He felt the full clasp of all the crumbling lies he¡¯d so long embraced fall away to demoralizing stasis. Only emptiness lay beneath those illusory layers. What of himself was true self slipped into nothingness where he belonged, that forgetful void of eclipsing death. To cling to those shattered pieces of this ¡®divine¡¯ delusion only made his spirit bleed more. But since that was all that remained, he sifted on through the serrated shards of distorted ego. Trying to pick and sow them all to stitched sort of unity, any form of identity no matter how fragile. It all felt so futile without that spark to free him from the tendrils of existential terror.

    And then, through that fatiguing fog, Corinna wove her way into his thoughts. With her arrival came the lucid remembrance of those golden hued memories. But the phantom virtue of her love taunted him. For her embrace lingered beyond conceivable reach. Ethereal chord reverberated in that beating instrument in his breast, stringing a harpsichord with renewed melody. That small light slipping through to glare, though it felt as if his innards were set ablaze, kept Drakkon from simply tearing off the matted gauze and opening his wounds.

    ¡°Corinna... she-she... Why should see ¨C knowing me as fallible, foolish & arrogant - seek an active seat in the show of a pretender¡¯s downfall? For what sake should she risk further danger?¡± Thoughts of his Empress, his love & his friend swelled about him until rumination surfaced to a soft sob, a cry of debility with plea of a ruptured heart. His healer almost added her thoughts to his yet decided it best to let his run. ¡°What would she say now of my defeat? What need could she have of an obsolete war monger who ignored every word of wisdom she spoke? I am empty vessel once brimming with mendacity. I-I would only lead her further into the doom that I walk beneath. Surely, a better fate would be for her to escape from this rift I tore in the fabric of our ruling raiment. Find a distant haven to dwell in serenity, without the stench of my memory or vanquished form?¡±

    Delphine¡¯s heart was distraught at the pathetic sight of this once proud man drowning in tears and wallowing in defeat. She pumped vigor into her psyche and feigned a voice firm with purpose. ¡°Corinna would never wish for you to lie in shambles like this feeling sorrow for yourself. She would not want you to be buried in sepulchral fashion by your own decree while the people she cared for with an undying tenderness, as avid as her compassion for you, are to be forcibly subjugated by a man she loathed from the onset. Her reading of Mordaunt as an untrustworthy cur proves accurate and so too shall her predilection towards you; not as figure of marble of adulation but for the person you truly are beneath it all. She can see through to those depths more of the goodness in you than your own eyes can detect in the reflection pool.¡±

    ¡°To those who follow you, you were as a living legend glimmering before their eyes and divining path for a better future. Although that ardent veil of belief has been torn from your eyes that does not make you any less capable of achieving greater feats as those you have done in the past. She would know with her foresight that with a little more kindling, your spirit shall fly forth to its mark and act Astraean wind upon those who wronged the land to gratify their vanity.¡±

    ¡°Should that wrack of penance not befall me, as the emblem of such vanity?¡± Posed the disgraced imperator. ¡°Is not my legend vanished as ash amid the breath of false dragon fire?¡±

    Delphine¡¯s dying red strands fell over with a darkened shadow that made them appear a sudden shade of deep burgundy. Her visage too reflected dusky change. ¡°To assent sad weight of truth behind the Lady¡¯s divinations and your fears, whispers on the wind tell of a Summit in sight of the coming Eclipse of blood. Foul tidings are afoot by the olden mound of Felhenge, where we can be sure Mordaunt will make his grand declaration before the world. Acclaim himself in deifying sight of ruby diamond¡¯s astral eye.¡±

    ¡°A winged herald halted his ride by here. A day back maybe, while you were out. He asked for bread and ale from the hearth before racing the tides above. He had not the time to be curious as to our other visitor in you, for he was off to sound the Summit to the jarls.¡± Delphine let out a careful sigh, as natural as a shift in the winds, going on in grim tenor. ¡°Tis unsettling to know the steep pace at which this yellowed madman treads to ensure ascendency to that throne of misfortune. He sets the show. Knowing that to seize the reins of the world legitimately he will need Corinna¡¯s hand, to chain it. With so public a stage and open an invitation he seeks to tie the threads of the old Imperium to him or else sever them and redefine his reign with brutality. Slay the old empress and display to his ¡®new subjects¡¯ his merciless approach to those in defiance of the might he claims a crown with, be that mortal or ¡®divine¡¯.¡±

    The coals & charred residue kindle within, stronger in their smolder. The cauldron of being burned anew, and painfully so. Drakkon spoke. Searing through his apathy and dismay with spitting hate for Mordaunt. As well as another fervid flame, reaching for Corinna in yearning. ¡°Alas, while I fear that I do not have the wit or will to keep up a false pretense, the sight, the need & soul of Corinna sets my path alight again. Her loveliness and her plight return me to a resemblance of proper form.¡±

    ¡°I still cannot claim to be fully convinced of my ability to wield ruse or sword to save the morrow ¨C when I hath so long been that shadow in the sun plaguing its rays - I know I must try. Tis that or die now and waste your tender care, Delphine. I am hauled onward to whatever end this desperate impulse drives me towards. Too much at stake for me to run, tail-tucked, from the monstrous face of mine mistakes. ¡®Tis time to be forthright again. Perhaps for the first time, truly.¡± Though the dull ache persisted even with her miraculous attendance Drakkon set up with some struggle. He tested his shoulders, swinging them. Showing to himself, or at least trying, that he could save this body enough to perform one last marvel.

    ¡°Let us ride to the Grove when chance arrives, weather wise... those snowstorms drift even into my dreams, sweeping them away with frosty hands. In any case past Vintersfel fields the goal must be Silverwood. From there depending on the state of our reunion and that of the world¡¯s affairs I shall know whether I ride to death or redemption. At the very least should I fall against my former supporters my death would serve purpose in teaching men to no longer trust those who claim superior stance. Let them become suspicious of those who claim heaven¡¯s ear and wield clout over their heads as holy right. Alas, anything is better than being trapped in this prison of a sick bed, unable to affect anything.¡±

    A warming smile spread across Delphine. Her hope lifted by his willingness to trust in her, even if he doubted the course. She brought more of the broth to him and pressed a hand against the poultice, testing the wound. He winced unwillingly and let out an unconscious whimper as dull pain pressed through protective layer of hannabis herb. ¡°Excellent, well. Words cannot match the pleasure your bravery affords me.¡±

    Delphine replaced the teas with a bowl to catch the shavings of his beard. Yet as she went to scrape the gnarled brush with whet knife she turned the handle to him. A sign of trust that he¡¯d enough temperance to ensure it only scratched the scruff and not any vein.

    ¡°But before that hour I bid you rest and let soft guidance of Muses deliver you into healing embrace of sleep once more. The storm is letting up and I am low on herbs needed to perfect another batch of this. But I shall be off to the woods on the outreach of Karrathas¡¯ plot. With a little extra help enlisted from Barus we might gather quickly what we need for fair concoction between bouts.¡±

    ¡°We are fortunate that rare miracles and their leaves bloom in the sight of the Andrasil. Pray, be thankful, that the ¡®wind¡¯ wraith who sliced you up had reservations about it. It looks worse than it is; nothing vital is torn past stitching & alchemy. But you must be sturdy enough to wield sword & mind again. After a good rest and more remedy, you should be in fair enough health to make the journey to the Grove without falling apart at the seams of your stitches. I shall accompany you there if you wish. I pray Corinna will have more insight. If you fall into worse shape, she should have the right means and better healers than me to finish your dual rejuvenation there.¡±

    ¡°If she will have me...¡± the lost lord grumbled as his tangled beard fell away. ¡°I will no longer force any course.¡±

    She turned her hand to rest the back of it softly by his brow, feeling the heat of his forehead and sensing for lingering fever. ¡°Gird your spirit, Drakkon. No amount of herbal remedy will fully restore you ¨C and allow that lost love & prodigal promise in our Lady Corinna ¨C if you do not pump vitality through your veins. Fight for a new day, even under the brooding shade. Know that I believe in you, still. Not as a lord but a capable mind! But you must find belief for yourself. I cannot be your aide long nor can you reach Corinna without faith. That you can reflect the pained shards, pry past illusion into insight may allow you to shape self into something true. True enough to lead us to another horizon.¡±

    With this Delphine let him wash his mask, stew on his thoughts, and sip her broth. Gazing out the hut threshold at wrinkled sky.

    Ashen Waters

    7<sup>Th</sup> of Vintersfel, 19AD, Karrathas Homestead

    The winds¡¯ outcry stifled soon. The snows pacified in the early hours of the morning as Delphine stepped out of the cottage with young Barus beside her. The boy had an enthusiasm in his eyes that resisted atrophy despite years of having to care diligently for his father and looming clouds of constant war. This lad, the sort of soul who took pleasure in the smallest aspects of life, would offer help to anyone without any expectation of reward for kindness.

    He spent his whole life at that stretch and knew little of the world beyond the fields he tended, now frozen over by the tight grasp of winter. The boy was full of questions for Delphine; crossing the board from subjects such as her magick art and the gods to what it was like to travel to different regions and interact with so many varied people. She kindly answered his questions, indulging his curiosity while he guided her through the woodlands. Though his fascinating guest could not humor him when he pondered the ¡®tall bodies on thin trees¡¯ by the ashen veil of Valkwood.

    They went on in search of Lethe-leaf, fae-root, vindral bine and bark of the Borean pine, which even in winter could yield sap to perfect restorative formula. Gathering most reagents with relative ease, these piled into Barus¡¯ pouch. The forest slept under cool blanket, and they feared no animal but the hungriest. The pair reached the outskirts of a wintery lake. Its surface, frozen over and its shore lined with an odd arrangement of boulders. The circling gloom of the storm threads broke by gleaming beams from above. A silver stream of winter sunlight warmed their corner of the lake.

    An air of serenity amid darkness. It called to Delphine and compelled her to set aside a moment of reflection. As though the moment conveyed a sign of heavenly favor within an atmosphere of looming despair. She told Barus of her inclination for augury and bid him continue gathering the saps while she followed this sublime whim. As she¡¯d taught the curious boy to differentiate the right herbs from other plants well enough on his own, she felt confident that this was the right moment for rest. Walking out to the rock formation before the lake, she seated herself in trance of meditation.

    Stillness. Tranquility. Surrender. Delphine¡¯s conscious mind dissolves into formless void. Far removed from all the turmoil encroaching on her soil. She slips into an empty expanse where thoughts could not invade nor supplant themselves. Her focus drifts deeper & deeper into a submerged sea of peace, beyond words & images, where nothing could pierce the cocoon of transmuting accord, she veiled herself in. Innumerable hours pass in seconds until through this mindful renewal deep visions project across the span of her subconsciousness, drilling in. A burning flame. An array of ancient stones. Gargantuan trees with arms outstretched to sky. Corpses amassed on slab of a desecrated temple. Broken tablets & stone structures. A vast ocean. Volcanic eruption. A well of life flowing freely to those amassed. Sky opening to unveil return of solar light.

    Abruptly her peaceful prism of insight & reflection rebuffs stiffly by approaching footsteps. Harsh and hasty steps, crunching through dead branches and dirt beneath the snow about the lake. And with them whispers in the back of her brain warn of peril. Her eyes open to view the arrival of five strangers. All men garbed in Drakoni standard; tabards tainted & dirt ridden. Save one with clouded Protectorate insignia on the rags over his mesh. All bearing expressions of antipathy as their sight fell upon her. Delphine stood as these bandit deserters came up, glaring with distaste.

    ¡°Welly, well. Hels, looky what we got ¡®ere friends. A bleedin¡¯ witch!¡± Said the pudgy one who bore piggish countenance.

    ¡°Aye, brother. And the ¡®high¡¯ sorceress¡¯s favored advisor no less... What brings ye here, witch? Casting curses on the land?¡± Said another, lanky yet no less disparaging, fellow. ¡°Can smell the sulfur from this succubus stronger than the rankest of meats on a foul summer¡¯s noontide!¡±

    Delphine¡¯s heart races. Veins flaring, she indulges the urge to spit spite back at these lowly beast-men. She could not look weak nor relent scorn of such untethered helots. ¡°None of your concern, dog. I may be a seer, a weaver, but your sort seems ever incapable of understanding higher causes & the order of nature. I will not waste breath explaining to the likes of you. Tis ye who should be answering inquiries of my rank. Wherefore are you not with your commander & Lord?¡±

    The eldest of their number laughs a treacherous cackle. ¡°Ha! As if we would stand and rot beneath his blight. Or any pretty, little lord who thinks he can slave and break my sodding back for that fuckin¡¯ matter! Drakkon lays dead on the field! I witnessed his maiming, ¡®is fall! Got right to a clear distance. Chose not to die for a lost cause that sown nothing good for me nor any bastard still livin¡¯ ¡®neath bloodied boots!¡±

    ¡°He fell with his helm. Blown away in smoky cloud. Proven a pretender & thief who the true gods finally smote in wrath. All of us cursed! For following a man, we encased in godhood we are damned. I spit on his memory, and on yer ¡®mysticism¡¯, witch. It seems none of your divinations and readings could foresee or prevent all this. Lot of good those visions ¡®ave. Yew good for anything else?¡± the first one derides Delphine. Spitting globs as gross as his tone. Then steps at her with clenched fists. ¡°This ¡®ere is a realm with no law left! We are free men now under the soddin¡¯ sun ¨C aha! There ain¡¯t no spears to stop us from takin¡¯ what we want! And it just might be we want a little Justice for all that blasphemin¡¯ bile yew witches spewed into our ears for so many years!¡±

    But Delphine, though daunted, dares chastise. Refuses to beg before rabid mongers. ¡°I see. So, since ¡®yew¡¯ fear death and cowardly flee from the face of war, you find it more fitting to... what? Hide in the woods and prey upon unarmed women who pass by to satisfy craven disappointment? Never had a wife at home you could satisfy, so you harass passersby instead of returning to something meaningful?¡± She battered back at these barking dogs of war. ¡°Truthfully, I am almost relieved to hear you hath abandoned your task, for the realm is in no need of feeble scoundrels who turn heel in terror the moment the tide goes ill. Nature rewards courage, while it punishes cowardice.¡±

    ¡°Oi, weech! What would you know of the natural order? Yer ilk cast black spells and chant rites that bend dark spirits to do your bidding! That is as unnatural as it gets! They say your coven profaned the gods, drew a daemon into Azarra. A Helseed that stole the form of the Great God for the netherworlds. Plotted so that you could get filthy claws on the land¡¯s ¡®art and rend ours.¡± Descants the tall, gaunt one again. ¡°Drakkon and his mother were once pure till you sold their spirits!¡±

    Two twins among the motley crew, the youngest of their ensemble, shuffle up. One of them, whose only distinguishing feature was a scar across his forehead and left eye decides to chime in. ¡°Aye! That is the truth I tell you! Even the Empress herself is possessed by nether wind. A spirit that controls her through seizing spells. Everyone knows it, they just dare not speak up against one who holds so much power. Evil diverts the dominion¡¯s efforts to serve secret covens. This witch may be a vile succubus herself or is among the perpetrators of this unholy corruption.¡±

    ¡°We ¡®eard what happened there at the ivory Tower. Azarra¡¯s body ascended from bloody bath water. There was always something eerie in the air at the evil monument. A specter, a serpent came in and drained her. Yet the shadows conjoined for communion, that she lives on in their shade!¡± Adds his cohort.

    The plump but hardy deserter snorts. ¡°Or mayhaps the whole witchery was a sham that those beaked broads seamed. That their treachery finally came and bit them on the arse. Could be as the fled bard said, that our dead commander is mothered of tyrant branch of birth. Methinks ye seers come at a high cost yet grant no real craft. I went to yer like lookin¡¯ for a castin¡¯ of runes and signs to help dice away my debts. No blessing nor fates aided my hand, after spillin¡¯ tributes to ya. Lost the wife for it. You ain¡¯t nothing but a fraud and harlot, stealing money and hope from good men like me!¡±

    He ate up her space with his mass, pushing her against the rocks of the shore as he chewed his loathsome declaration. But Delphine stood defiant against the hard face of circumstance. ¡°Weak men cannot court the Fates. If it was not your lot to reach beyond your worth no ceremony may change that... Besides, from but a glance my sense of you tells me you louted about while awaiting an audience. Trying to cavort with chaste sisters while paying humble tribute of lip service to a loyal wife, no? Ha! Indeed, ye all are more a scourge of sin than any else in these parts. Why not admit to your evil? Realize your own hand in the desecration of fields and violation of empathy?¡±

    This ignited the brute¡¯s fuse, inciting him to strike. With his gauntlet he moved to hit her face, but fumbled in the air of her dodge, denying him. Yet with his elbow he then pinned Delphine to arctic boulder. Struggling against his blubbering rage to form a cohesive curse in his defense as the fiend brought his fetid mouth to her ear. ¡°Y¡¯know you winched wench? You owe me for those scornful lies that cost me coin and a spouse. Don¡¯t give much a rut to hear thy defense. Tis right to take penance from thee! As you have no coin purse to, uh, reimburse us methinks you must pay with pleasure. A bit weathered, but I¡¯ll get ya to scream for me!¡±

    The putrid gang, with faces as foul as their pits, surrounds the lone woman. Behind the massive shoulders of the brute pressing against her Delphine spots a rustling fae-berry bush by the edge of the lake. Barus pops out wearily from the cover. Pleads for direction with panicked and petrified expression. He humors tossing a rock, serving a distraction but Delphine narrows her gaze, interlocked with his and pumps all her intent into channeling warning to the frightened youngling. ¡°It is not worth it... Flee! Take flight!¡±

    She slashes a sly sign with her hand and steers her eyes to send him away before her fingers are wrestled by the wretches. The boy darts away from the lake.

    But the brigand twins catch concern by the gesture she¡¯d made. Perturbed by the sight of Delphine¡¯s eyes rolling back and forth, assuming she cast some binding spell, one drags the fat pig off her while his brother protests, speaking as one mind. ¡°Fool! She invokes dark seidr! If you enter her, she will try the same to you! Crawl into your mind and possess it as her own! Do not touch her as a lech! She¡¯ll bite on evil witchcraft & curse your pecker off!¡±

    ¡°I mean think a minute, mate... If these ¡®ere types of wicked women cursed the countryside with plague then imagine what malicious magick she can conjure over we mere men, y¡¯know? Why risk it for this ashy-flame haired harlot?¡±

    ¡°Aye they are right, ye waggin¡¯ buffoon, if you harm her, she is ought to spill terrible curse with blood and tears to cover us all! All I want is to find a warm bed and good mead before the next storm drenches us all. I do not wish to die by the hands of witchery. Nor unkind weather.¡± The thin one stated grimly before cracking a wicked chuckle. ¡°Not till I¡¯ve got a few pints of sometin¡¯ in me belly that is! A-ha!¡±

    ¡°Pfft! She is nothing but a swindling con! All the villages ¡®round here been burnt down! So, unless this witch can conjure up some ale and summon a few whores to fit my appetite I have no use for keeping her alive. Rather see her hung as charlatan than run away with tail between my legs, just because this wench frightens you lot.¡± The grossly corpulent blaggard blabbers spitefully.

    ¡°Oi mate! Think about how the plague reared once that infernal ¡®Empress¡¯ got crowned. Drakkon propped a whore up on a pedestal and let the witches take center stage for all those blasted ceremonies. It all seemed eerie to me like they caused the curse to ravage us...¡± offer the twins. ¡°They got demon blood in ¡®em! The likes which assure me ¡®tis not to be fucked about with for a pointless, godamn fuck ¨C especially with your tiny pebble of a pecker! ¡®cause she¡¯s close to that scary sorceress, Azarra, she is!¡±

    ¡°Even in death her ghost haunts us?!¡± Gasps one twin with his fellow chiming behind. ¡°She never fled by red rivers but lives to curse us, voiceless, with the Helwinds as her agents!¡±

    ¡°So, which is it then?¡± Snaps Delphine, starting sardonic defiance. ¡°Am I an awful sorceress guilty of summoning plague and disaster? Or am I a fraud that could do no harm to you ¡®good men¡¯? Make up your mind will thee, o indecisive bunch of rats! Why not settle the matter by taking arms up against thine? One side ¡®witch,¡¯ the other ¡®swindler.¡¯ Whichever thy villainy paints my innocence as. It would be more efficient than clamoring on without end.¡±

    The wizened defector¡¯s face, all gnarled up in thought, suddenly broke out in a declamatory fever. ¡°That is for us to find out! Let us tie her to this boulder and cast her with it into the lake. If she is lying about her power she will sink to the bottom and be no more, thereby ridding the world of one less poison-bloom. How¡¯ere if she can invoke any sort of sorcery she will survive to return to the surface of the lake, and we burn her for a true death. Aye, burning witches at the stake was the only thing the old magisters had right I say!¡±

    He took the lead over his pig-snouted brethren. ¡°The gods cast dreadful a rain of judgement upon all of us for falling in line behind pretenders to the thrones of heaven. Let them signal resounding praise unto us for catching one of the conniving magicians who sought to pull down the great pantheon. The death of this witch shalt echo through the sky and clear the storm clouds. Cure us & feed us plenty. I say mates: get the rope and let us solve this accursed mystery! One way or another rid the world of this bloody wench!¡±

    In a dreamlike haze the ragged defilers vehemently arrest Delphine. Bind her to the furthermost rock, before the frigid surface. She tired of the ceaseless running and the abandonment she patched by aiding others, welcoming flight. She steers up to the firmament, staring straight into the placid holes cleaving the somber spirals of ashen clouds. She funnels all her conscious being, propels her spirit¡¯s aim up to the narrowing light. Screeching through Sight of soul, that her last whim be carried across on the winds; be given form by the storm.

    The deserters heave her tethered boulder into the lake. The bulk of it shatters the icy surface, plunging Delphine into murky waters. Her last breaths given in honor of hope that her last living friends be delivered from the malevolent gloom and awake to rejuvenating peace as her lids lift past life¡¯s gate. Wings of absolution stretch over suffocating lake; abide prayer that the clouds part long enough that the living she loves see change in the world which flung her from it to astral shores.

 On the Trail

    Chapter Ten, On the Trail

    9<sup>th</sup> of Vintersfal, 19AD

    Drakkon¡¯s borrowed steed braved the latent snow of the ground to give steep pace. A trail of scorched earth split the ashen blanket, yet the wintry bite kept lingering assault. The horse moved more constant than its rider, who fluxed between dread halts & wild charge onward. Sunburnt & flushed, a feverish migraine wounded his head as he urged the reins to bolt. Corinna¡¯s visage burned in his mind with ardency to cauterize the rest of his mauling. Fixating on the mental talisman of her smiling, returning to his fold, as to not let doubt erode his fervent ride and the hope to find her breathing.

    But no mental bulwark was substantial enough to fend off the lashing tendrils of baleful thoughts, borne by omens of calamity. Woeful images waxed. Visions of Corinna taken by Mordaunt¡¯s lackeys; of finding nothing at Silverwood but her corpse laid bare and beaten over the altar; of her coven crucified upon the cliff. These nightmare glimpses urged greater haste, that he might assuage these taunts by spotting the Grove & Corinna¡¯s presence upon the horizon.

    He could feel the effects of prolonged exposure to Delphine¡¯s herbs on his acuteness. How many days had passed under her care? He knew not with any certainty. Nor how many had gone since he departed that makeshift ward. He¡¯d left Karrathas¡¯ stead under duress when the boy rushed in, pallid and scared. Barus warned him of the knaves in the woods and of the rogues¡¯ rude introduction to Delphine.

    Further shame fell upon Drakkon from this, being unable to rescue the one who saved him. Nevertheless, he believed her spirit helped him fly faster. He knew her astral wings would avail him his quest, for she would not want him wallow now. This was no befuddlement of mind but a final sacrifice from a friend and miracle worker.

    The wind¡¯s vespers carry him aloft, spreading ghostly wings upon which he might ride with elemental speed more than that of any mortal steed. No visible souls cross his path. An eon of endless riding brought him to the outline of reclusive Silverwood. Arriving before the steps that stretched up to embrace the cloistered haven, funereal gloom suspends itself over the breadth of the Grove. A dense concentration of clouds materialized the form of a drooping talon with flumes of haze; its wilted fingers pricking the tiny hairs along his neck.

    Answering his worries arrived as a whiff of charred ash and soot, carrying the scent of decay to the tips of his nostrils. Sight then beheld the mouth of the Grove: where once stood a beauteous canopy of blossoming trees that served as entrance gate, only forlorn cinders against a barren backdrop. The paleness of the snows receded to a muddy brown from the littered bodies of the Protectorate. Preserved from rot in cold blanket of red. Betwixt the desolation was planted Mordaunt¡¯s mocking banner (a variation on the Drakoni standard with his ¡®Winged Manticore¡¯ at its centre). The insignia of pessimism, blowing in the besmirched air.

    Desolation dressed Silverwood. Desecrated, bereft of life & motion, save sparse trees still standing. Corpses litter the place.  Bodies of soldiers garbed in armor and priests & women slain in their robes. By the steepness of their count among the dead, Baron¡¯s resistance fighters had committed the largest aspect of their force to defend this shrine. Drakkon recognized many of the cadaver faces as veteran members of his former vanguard - prior to the schism between Baron and himself which birthed defection.

    Baron, before facing him on the field of war as a rival, had left a garrison of his best. A precaution to protect Corinna and her circle. He¡¯d expected the Drakoni war effort to expend itself on annihilating the Protectorate, rather than defending the people from a true threat. Drakkon¡¯s heart dropped to the depths of his being, lumped in deserving anguish. Cursing his blind existence. I hungered for Baron¡¯s death more than Corinna¡¯s livelihood. The cheating bard, still evermore noble than I. Had he cared more for victory and usurping the reins than her, as I so zealously believed, he could¡¯ve flooded the field; caged me in and paraded me about the countryside as sideshow tyrant. Have I flung her to destruction, stumbling in spite for him?

    The only building standing: the stone sanctum overlooking the terrace. Not so easy to raze without witch-fire or dragon sap. The threshold of this haven held a powerful seal, yet it failed to keep safe any worshippers, disciples, or revelers within. The gates had been left pried agape. Inside the walls, a morbid tableau of innocence¡¯ demise. Urns fractured, portraits defiled, idols desecrated; remains of priestesses strewn around in macabre fashion. Throngs of them dead by their own hand, as hinted by bloody ceremonial daggers pressed into their chests and hands. No sign of his love, his Lady.

    The upper-level door leading out to the balcony was also awry. On the veranda overlooking the ragged cliffside Drakkon met a spiteful sign. On the precipice before the leap to tumultuous seawaters lay a torn and abandoned frock. Adjacent to it, an athame drenched in blood, frozen as red tears dripped onto marble platform.

    Convulsions of dolorous remorse claim him. Tears ebb estuaries of his soul. Rippling into gaping sea far below, which swallows his sorrow. He barely wrestles back the urge to dive from the edge & follow them to the crag. To plummet that his mortal fate would echo the precipitous end of his legacy. That sharp impalement on the rocks below could deliver his soul into an alternate realm - where he would again have the chance to see love and caress tenderly without this guilt scarifying his soul. Or if not, surrender instead to forgetful nothingness. To dark draught of Malderath¡¯s waters.

    He collapsed. Legs caved to quivering destitution. The world buckled as he gritted teeth, gnashing in fury of it all. Uttering hateful curses against all that is. Resounding a wailing of frantic denial & futility. The cry reverberated through the empty halls of the sanctorum and stung his ears with the same venom imbued in pained howl. The lingering effects of the hannabis plant permeated through his consciousness, amplifying the ghastly sound. Reflecting the woeful wisps behind his eyes. Vaporous mementos hung there as thrashing reminders of what he could no longer grasp...

    Yet suddenly there came upon him the shuddering awareness of something else nearby. A sentient yet savage force fixing on him from just beyond sight. This eye tugged his attention to the dense thicket adjacent to the sanctum, wherein slight rustling disturbed the wilds. What drove him on he could not name. Though Drakkon walked alone, his steed having bolted away on the breeze, what propelled his steps was no paranoia at the prospect of prowling predator. For all spiritual vitae, all feelings of love & fear, leaked from his persistent cadaver; fled into the mournful surf with his departed bride. Washed up by entropic tide, with death¡¯s toll the only tune to ring catharsis, what more could be mauled of him save this feckless, fleshy matter?

    Leaving the emptied enclosure and nearing the thicket, a small clearing with a course straying along the side of the terrace calls him to forested area. Treading the brambly path, the sensation of eyes watching multiplies from every angle of the deepening woods.

    Among the Trees

    Later that day

    Trudging through the singed coat of snow, Drakkon lost his steps to fissure of loneliness. Darkening temperament obscured his sight, that all seemed but a breathless shroud spread over cavernous void. Yawning wide in sullen expectance of the fall of all the whim & wit left in him. He strayed not from the path he traced, knowing not where it led and expecting no other travelers in the sparseness of locale. Yet hunted by an alien eye, searching in the wood.

    But then, through the soggy veil of his tears, he made out a distant contingent of soldiers advancing beneath a hideously knotted awning. Trudging towards his spot, boots wading through drapery of frost. He couldn¡¯t make out the emblems adorning their armor from afar, but whether they were friend or foe he opted to abandon their aisle. Concealing himself in the underbrush by a bedimmed thicket, he waited for them to pass. Seeking no dialogue nor combat with any living being in his befouled disposition. As the ensemble approached, the Drakoni sign cut through the gray enclosure. Yet with another covert glance from behind creeping bramble caught Mordaunt¡¯s glaring banner bared up by their gauntlets.

    Cold reason spoke to say that Mordaunt already seized all means of martial office already. That these could be the very men who, under treacherous order, razed Silverwood and brought the doom of Corinna caused contempt to seethe from his pores at their drawing closer. Churning antipathy infused blood with lava. He reckoned at least two dozen among their number under the Manticore flag. Not a force that he could contend with (especially when still in so sorry a state). But the overflowing abhorrence and thirst for any taste of vengeance beckoned him to play the fool for Malderath¡¯s fertile rot. A final flash of swords against wicked skin might at least unshackle his soul. As fruitless as this fatal instinct would be, what else was there to act on left in this life?

    Clutching the hilt, Drakkon readied to slide that black-rune blade smoothly from the scabbard to strike when opportune. But before he could fully draw it, a fervent rustling from behind the ashen bramble turned his head. A sinister stare lurked there, unlike that of mortal men. Staying his meteorite-steel from the thrust of certain suicide. He would not end here through a drifting, ignoble contest of swords far from civilization. For now, he was stalked, not by those mindlessly marching men but by the shadow with eyes of wintry woodland.

    There amongst the forest: a lurid sight of dumbfounding awe. A living vision emerging from spirit into flesh with astonishing and morbid form. A wolf-like creature on the prowl skulked its way towards him with gait neither of man nor beast but something in between. Half human, possessing a feral and foul mark to it. The peculiar beast halted a few meters before him, locking eyes. In that moment of deep mutual survey Drakkon¡¯s soul trembled. Cast by unnatural glare worse than ghastly revelations within.

    Mesmerizing wolf-gaze begot an uncanny familiarity. As if this abominable hybrid held beneath its bedraggled fur a resonant chord of his own blackened heart. In this fascinating stupor he moved towards the dreadful fiend before him. The thing turned heel, intentionally leading him further through a bramble to a different canopy. All under deranged dream from which no awakening came.

    The monstrous guide rears itself upon its haunches. Jaunts forward, raising its hind legs to walk as human man. Such grisly fashion that split asunder the coverings of sanity, lost to forlorn perdition. The thing turns its snout to glance at Drakkon, frozen. In that instant he gleans a sinister gleam, through that lupine visage a stare at once predatory and lugubrious. This creature, clear in its destination but not its intent; yet to spell if this one it led was set to be its willing prey.

    Apprehension swelled, realizing those eyes are the same pair he felt prickling on his back all the way back at the cliffside shrine. Shivering that this malefic monstrosity of man merged with beast had the patience of deeper motive than simple curiosity or hunger.

    The pair halt before a cavernous opening among a barricade of thick, concentrated trees. The Hel-hound presents a gaping passage to an abyss with no visible light or definition of shape within impenetrable darkness amid the woods. An immeasurable expanse of time outflows in the limbo before anything stirs, until finally two woeful silhouettes shoot out from the void. As their outlines fill in their shape, they appear draped in velvet-like vestments as dreary as a moonless midnight yet possessing material from ethereal source that exudes a subtle glimmering violet. Torch of emerald sap glows their way, illuminates the shape of robed figures without revealing their full features.

    The unnerving trio lead on through the trail, brightened by green effulgence from the torch, whose fire was spent lighting more incendiary vessels along the way. Spreading wide the dark eminence of this unsettling labyrinth of winding bows & wicked roots. Forks and contorting pathways branch off, but the strange fellows follow the one bearing fur of wolf without flinching. Often veering course but preserving his purposeful tread while deviating between two and four legs. Always the two phantoms flank Drakkon, making him aware that there would be no flight from this maze if he sought to try.

    A congress of trees within this paling spiral of unending depth captured an eerie state of being. So many that were at once dead in appearance, corroded with the stink of rot and look of decay, yet possessed semblance of life remaining within their Chimerian trunks. As if imbued with a restless vigor, persisting to stay arisen though in perpetual gloom. Walking the putrid path, every branch outstretched its bizarre branches to caress or scold their faces with uncanny touch. These wooded arms, as tentacles of great sea beast enclosed in earthen husks to wrap around his neck. Lashing fervent constraint only to release their grip. As if minds of their own moved them and tested the intruder¡¯s soul.

    Every now and then the bulwark of trees would depart, interrupted by dilapidated stone walls and obsidian pillars. Standing tall & proud in their abandonment, even in disrepair. Colossal in awe and structure, they far surpassed any architecture Drakkon had seen among any mortal kingdom. Yet they were not unlike those foundations he¡¯d once found in his fever beneath Moribond. Astonishingly the further into the forest they travelled & the more of these timeless towers appeared the less snow and natural resistance they encountered. Eerie incalescence emitted from the decrepit stone walls, radiating from source that melted away all sleet and kept the cold clime at bay. Gravestone spires preserved a warmth that fell to earth but wasn¡¯t of it.

    Drakkon, ruminating on this observation, recalled one of the tales his mother used to narrate to him. Her voice rang throughout his mind, from the mouth of the dead past. Telling of those bygone ancients who ascended to a seat in the stars. Whose skeletal testaments to their reign & ruin stretched across all corners of the plane they abandoned. Forgetting, in their passing, to leave the key to their terrible rites, which evoked the Hels and moved by their winds. Disappeared of Elderath¡¯s folds to claim Astraean zenith in the silver-black sea. Chimaeria, was one such name for the fell realm. Ymiria another for its capitol. Lost to all but campfire legends that warned of their hubris and the curse that befell them. Yet the bones of their great cities remained. As did their deathless Watchers, the Night-Gaunts. Their arts & guardians, as unliving echoes of their Aera.

    Unbent by these terrible postulations, he readied to what fate may hold for him. Just then the bastion of trees and Chimaerian structures relented, giving wide breadth to reveal a vast & deep gully. Holding within its vale a peculiar encampment filled with ritualistic pyres and statues of obsidian & emerald speckled about. Packed with more cloaked figures that eerily turn in unison to face their arrival as his enigmatic guides lead him into the living ruin.

    Advent of the Wolf

    Dusk over the ruins

    A dreary fog birthed itself from the moist yet lukewarm ground. Steam mist groaned from star-stone pillars, greeting Drakkon with dreadful excitement. Another figure manifested from the umbrage. A living shroud, lined with black & violet velvets, came upon him. Forcefully taking his hands, it brought them up to its hood and beckoned him remove it. Exposing the face beneath the mantle, every fiber and thread of his heart shook with sickly astonishment. Seeing then the visage of Azzara¡¯s former left-hand and once favored apprentice, Dahlia. Who still possessed every ounce of her terrible beauty. Strangely, in the warping rays under supernatural ceiling, this heathen had gained no single line or crease of aging. Dahlia seemed somehow frozen in a half-youth of devious origin beyond ritual care & alchemical ointments. As eternal and unliving as the ruins which crowned her as their newest master.

    On her lips and in her eyes lived that look of insatiable hunger. A constant craving for power, knowledge, & dreams boiled by blood and lust of flesh carved across her countenance. Her deep & dazzling glare betrayed her considerable ambition, with her ceaseless analysis of her environment and casting down judgement. Her gorgeous yet ashen visage oft pursed itself in apathy which congealed the thirsting look beneath. Only for Azarra and Drakkon did Dahlia deign to beam a smile. Before him now she shines one such glare on her front.

    ¡°Ah, the Flame ov Heaven Himself steps forth before us!¡± Dahlia draped her arms across the hidden horizon. ¡°Your eyes may mark this shrine as strange, yet you find welcome in our Chimaerian crest. Be our guest in this temple ov old Ymir, where our sky is our own by the sunless star ov the First. The Father City. Be at peace in our sphere. I am ecstatic to once more be in your presence, Drakkon.¡±

    ¡°I cannot say the same for my elation, strange Sister.¡± He groaned.

    ¡°Ah, but we knew ecstasy before. How long has it been since we last could search one another¡¯s face and let fall away the rest of the world? Surely you remember that night we shared together in the wondrous tower ov Azar-Drakon?¡± Dahlia spoke in a peculiar tone and made an odd sign of deference.

    ¡°Memory is opaque on the matter and yet my soul knows scar of sin. I thought Corinna embraced me then. Yet she was never there.¡± Drakkon grunted. His fever depleted for worse strain to slither in its place. ¡°Years of shame haunt from vague remembrance. Churned of my stolen memory. I have not been myself... in all my years.¡±

    ¡°Yet you were yourself with me. So bare and bold!¡± Dahlia¡¯s lip quivered, poised betwixt mockery & obsession. ¡°Tis shame you forget our night, shared. How saddened I would be to hear you thought me then another, when I was then so purely for you.¡±

    Remembrance accused him through her eye. ¡°You must hath seduced me by secret ambrosia! Only by profane bedevilment did I engage in obscene kiss, unwittingly. I never betrayed Corinna of my choice but was confounded be thee! Would that I investigated enough to piece together thy witchery sooner instead of failing in my shame. Yet I preferred to forget over pursuing punishment.¡±

    A shrewd gleam came over her as Dahlia flared with devious delight. ¡°What joy to help you rediscover impression of a night of such evanescent pleasures. Yet ¡®twas not for fleeting purpose and the boons of blessed evening yet last, living. Take heart that I threaded well my reasons, which I shall unwind. Let us cast aside that veil of mystery so long woven around our relations. But first I wish to satiate your curiosity and reveal to you your guide.¡±

    ¡°Fenrik! Come, show yourself to our honored guest!¡± She summoned the feral man-beast responsible for this strangest of reunions to present himself.

    His lupine guide arched its back in abhorrent fashion. Fenrik¡¯s spine stretched backwards as it tore away, shedding with obsidian claws, its bindings of bestial covering, letting its fur to fall about to ground. When this transformation finished, that hulking canine-hybrid bore the sight of a young man of surly appearance, bereft of anything save thick black leggings & wolf rune etchings burnt on his back. He turned, disclosing his eyes to Drakkon. The same hue as his and the sculpting of the face mirrored his own.

    Beneath the scruff & remnants of wolven ruse, a perfectly perverted reflection of his features. As slimy shudder trickled down Drakkon¡¯s skull he knew the true reason for the similarity. A morose apprehension clasped him as the revelation of his relation to the thing before him cleansed his mind in a hail of horrid fire. In this unrelenting awe, the confession of this knowledge unconsciously escaped his lips into frigid air. ¡°My son?¡±

    ¡°¡¯Tis time you met your Lordly father Fenrik. O! How gracious am I to hath received this, your gift ¨C your seed! For I was chosen to ensure a new flower of light. That would blossom into this world through my body, the vessel of the pure realms above. Just as Azarra¡¯s once was for your incarnate passage! But the flower which sprouted from my womb was a dark flower, one of Night... under the Sign of the Wolf. Conceived when the stars ceased spinning, that he should tread their course and tame the wilds ¡®neath their crests.¡±

    The sorceress spun her speech with a sultry sense of performative pride. ¡°Behold that flower of the Wilderness foretold: of the Shadow ov the Sun that is Fenrik Drakonis! The son of Light begot to rule over the Night! That all dualities shall be borne by this blood and raise the Wolf to lead our pack through the marsh of mankind! Hunt our hunters & sacred prey to assure immortality. As doom descends upon all the profligates only those sworn in ceremony of holiest life-waters shall endure! Waxing sun! Suffering to seize the Black Flame and inherit all the earth for our brood!¡±

    There was no joyous reunion nor long waited (yet ne¡¯er expected) embrace for father and son. Instead, only a sullen silence as the progeny wore his dour expression with utmost resilience, unflinching before his father. Beyond the surface mold there were far more aspects in the young man¡¯s countenance that betrayed relation to Dahlia¡¯s blood and his. The volatile stare, which his father could not meet, suggested the pup¡¯s thoughts threatened to topple at any moment into violence. But those foul orbs also contained a wild cleverness.

    Fenrik¡¯s posture erect, though still a shambling resemblance of man, became more regal in a terrible way. A daemon of the hinterlands¡¯ fiercest creatures & most bubonic of winds. There was a great agitation in him, itching at his chest and ritually clamping on a small obsidian stone hanging down. Another odd talisman chained around his neck, emitting an eldritch energy the same sort of aura projected by this cursed site. Sinister strands from the bleakest regions reached out from the gem and in the glow of lycanthropic stare. Marked by the grim gravity drawing all here into its maddening space.

    The wolf aspect in him howled once more. Stroking the stone and regressing in his form. Following that feral call, a trio of wolf familiars rushed to his side from the outskirts. They stood by him as a brother and Master. All pacing about & eyeing Drakkon hungrily.

    The viscous sensation of Dahlia¡¯s slender arms slid over him. She drew her devilish mouth to his ear as her tongue licked with torrid breath, whispering audaciously. ¡°Let not confusion cloud your eyes, Lord. For all this was bid to me by your Divine Mother, Azzara, Wise in her ways to notice with antipathy and aversive dolor how your ¡®Queen¡¯ and consort Corinna bore no tender fruit from her womb that could aid the Dominion we all suffered to build. A barren and bottomless basket ascribed of that spouse. High Mother conferred to me that our world would wither and wilt if we let the Astral line break by that succubus¡¯ spell. Aye, you were so foolishly infatuated with that one that you refused to accept any (lusher & more fruitful) mistresses - much to your mother¡¯s ire...¡±

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    She went on in an ever more presumptuous manner. ¡°Indeed, Azzara, in all her luminous insight sought it so. A grace that I could be the one to mother your issue into this world. That the line of demi-gods would link the chain of the pantheon of the celestial realm to we who tend the earthly gardens. That there would be everlasting balance and that your blood would directly course through the people of the lands and fulfill the prophecy in unexpected ways. She granted me this Sanctuary, untouched by intrusive ways of man¡¯s domain ¨C so casually cruel in its make ¨C to harbor our heir. To give him the best clime to train in. Pertinent for him to grow into warrior and a leader adept enough to rival his father and fulfill the promise ov the World¡¯s Waning!¡±

    ¡°My only failing was spurning her, not allowing her presence here earlier. But I only wanted our Fenrik for myself.¡± Drakkon shuddered at Dahlia¡¯s truth. His heart fell into the cavity within his chest as the rest of him shook in stasis. He could utter no protest as Dahlia¡¯s harpy talons slid from his shoulders and she stepped before him with augury upon her tongue. ¡°There shall be a greater reunion soon. She who is a mother and teacher to us both in varied ways hath been summoned by the Hels to be their avatar on earth. Azarra hath peered into astral plane and returned. As I grant her my throat, she shall soon join us again in full. For her I grant providence over my grove once your heir is crowned upon the crimson hills.¡±

    ¡°Fenrik! Escort our lordly patron to the holding post. With our sire nigh we prepare the rite of augury. We assemble our coven this night. That we may Will the stars be right for us. We shall bleed sacrifice to make it so. We will delight in honorary tribute to the Great God, that his yet unseen Light shall flow into us all as One.¡±

    The matriarch whispered one last reprise, letting out regret that there was less holy blood to offer that hope yet evaded her font. ¡°A pity the empress could not be here to grant us tithe of regal-whore red. Yet your sacrifice should be sufficient to grant my Lady ov Hel her voice over Elderath again and feed us the lineage of immortals.¡±

    Night of the Augury

    That Evening, Among the Ancient Alcove

    Fenrik led his sire further along the occult nook until they came upon the onset of an entire microcosm of a secret civilization, bubbled in the cyclopean wood. Strange soot covered the ground, giving mirage a myriad of colours divvied through a prism of light. A kaleidoscopic shine before the eyes gazing too deeply into ebony sands. The center of the valley descended into a steep crater, opening to reveal a colossal ziggurat that rose above his head, reaching with great, magnificent steps lined by an emerald-black banister. In different circumstances this sight could have been considered the most magnificent sepulcher ever arisen. With newer additions such as the totems of a more modern cult. At the top of the ziggurat five identical spires propped position in formation around an eldritch altar, but to what gods or faith?

    Funereal pageant of cowled figures materialized out of a moaning mist. Wordlessly they beckoned them to follow the crater line, drawing towards the breathing black-stone temple. Drakkon¡¯s eye leered at the broach of the sky; a single break of red light from dying solar rays tumbles into the netherworld. Delphine¡¯s ghostly eye winked back from above, prying for a miracle to shower against a bulwark of obscuring darkness seeking to oppress his steps & sight.

    Curiously, the temple spire tempered the storm. Invisible ceiling bent the skyline to subdued aura. Waves of snow waged contingent assaults from above but melted away before reaching anything near the odd halo emanating from the ancient, hallowed structure. This monolith towered over the assembly of hidden dale with an indomitable presence. Implying with unconscious affect whisperings and broken chants from dead rites fostered eons ago.

    Indecipherable fragments and daemonic imprints with no worldly origin were abound. Yet to the prisoner¡¯s perception they possessed in their subversive affect a malefic intelligence. As if the destruction - or ¡®ascension¡¯ - of the bygone masters of this shrine consecrated their artifacts as to imbue them with life beyond death. How had time conquered these great minds who shaped themselves a union of astral & earthly foundations? Had they vanished as consequence of sorcery going awry? Or did their arcane rituals allow them to seek to another hearth across that starry shore? What would they have thought of this cult occupying their tombs, or were they somehow aware?

    The gauzelike webbing over Drakkon¡¯s thoughts, unwoven by jarring shoves sending him towards a black beam jutting forth from a slight pedestal. Chorus of discordant crooning rose from hidden mouths of black ensemble. Fettered to the pole before him, for who knows how long till now, was a young man garbed in the style of an acolyte of the Grove. A crestfallen expression became him, with his chin cast to the ground where his hope had been buried.

    The captive¡¯s face turned up to regard the arrival of his fellow hostage and for a moment the despondency in his gaze was lifted as he beheld the sight of his Living Lord before him. In that second the light beaming across his face danced in the sway of ephemeral, yet to him eternal, splendor. Perhaps believing that his prayers found answers and his deliverer arrived. The look alternated to perplexed, witnessing Drakkon in chains. Spectating him brought & bound to the very post, without any trace of defiance. The boy¡¯s hero appeared as dejected and wrapped up in defeat as he.

    Dahlia came before them bringing a chalice sculpted from the witch-wood bark, a husk of bizarre properties. She poured psychotropic brew into the cup then bid Drakkon drink. The taste, foul & nauseating. Burning as corrosive vitriol churned stomach and mind deliriously. The acolyte beside him was next made to consume it. Then the matriarch lifts herself for the ziggurat with her dreary disciples lighting emerald fires that blaze in a circle around the base of the looming edifice. Anticipation bounds of ritual drumming.

    Bound adjacent to the youthful prisoner who yet looked haggard for his age, given the stress of this imprisonment. This fellow hostage leaned over, asking with quavering whisper: ¡°Wherefore does the Thundering Lord accept the manacles of this woeful circumstance? Should you not rise above this sorry debacle?¡±

    Because I am not a sodding god, you inculcated cretin! I am but a fleshly fool whose doltish obedience to his mother¡¯s deceits brought catastrophes! You gaze upon the ¡®glory¡¯ of the plague bearing glutton who ate away at Divinity¡¯s shroud. All while blighting those beneath his unhallowed crown. You see the accursed cause of this reign of wilting ash. Drakkon was tempted to howl in a stint of feverish ire. For the haunting belief of godhood only vexed him with reminders of his ultimate inadequacy. Irked him with keepsakes of Azzara¡¯s terrible talons, by which she scratched deceitful notion in the minds of many like this adolescent egg. But he stopped himself.

    In the rear of his mind the residue of Delphine¡¯s advice and in homage to her he decided not to break the spirit of this poor hostage just yet. Not curse this fresh-faced glimmer of hope stretched over his face as he awaited his ¡®god¡¯s¡¯ answer. Yet, though he eroded the antagonism of his shallow suffering, he could not entirely repel these innermost affronts.

    ¡°My crown is splattered with stains of innocence. It sets upon a head corrupted by a psyche addled with self-indulgent whim. Poisoned by desire & forgetful of the good for the land I long promised. For my sins I am left here bereft of my companion goddess, Corinna. Let me hang by this pole alone. For I am without she who shines through the dark seasons with spirit alit by Sight of how to better shape this world. Let kinder mortals have what is left of it.¡±

    Drakkon droned on, in sundering of hope & somber inflection so far from his former glory & confidence. Daring to answer over inclement ritual drumming & spider chant. ¡°Her radiance held mine in orbit, soothed with the savage expanse of infinity. But alas, she is fallen. And so, the absolute severity of midnight¡¯s gloom devours the stars into blackest gorge. Where no life may emit in such wild a haunt. Thusly, my soul and thoughts alike pull me into the abyssal chasm where I fall endlessly, devoid of reason to fly back to the earthly realm. What goodly paradise is still deserved? Only Corinna could cleanse my eye of wrath & pride-¡±

    ¡°Pardon me, my Lord.¡± The shackled acolyte interrupted, a craving to speak filling him. ¡°I don¡¯t mean to accuse your High Self as being a perjurer but concerning the Goddess, she lives...¡± His tongue caught on the edge of his mouth, half expecting to be reprimanded for contradicting his shackled sovereign. But Drakkon nodded and bid him go on. ¡°Mordaunt sent his forces to our modest Grove. Declaring you dead and that they were there to protect our Empress from the rowdy paws of the rebels.¡±

    His bonds chafed as he leaned in, continuing before their hosts notice. ¡°We knew this premise to be a ruse. Corinna had invited Baron¡¯s ¡°rebels¡± ¨C no offense nor political subversion intended here, only - to stay and protect us while the Drakoni soldiers were away at war in far villages. Mordaunt was unenthused at our stubbornness. Cut down countless champions and peaceful disciples when Corinna refused to offer herself up to him.¡±

    ¡°Our ¡®visitor¡¯ pushed us to the sanctum walls. When Baron arrived with a small fyrd he was repelled with ease. Half Mordaunt¡¯s hunters chased the singer into the western fens. The force of sentinels meant to flank from the forests never came. I thought them craven till I became the wiser to this nasty brood skulking behind them, covetous for Corinae blood.¡±

    Drakkon became a sour sort of pensive while hearing word of Corinna¡¯s struggle. He tried to heed what faith he could of this winding tale of grief, with little relief yet arriving of it. ¡°Since the boar-drake outside threatened to burn the entire Grove unless Corinna delivered oath to him, she ¨C against our protests ¨C opened the gates to give us our lives. But the bastard kept not his promise. Sent his marauders in to kill and despoil. Tossed those who did not submit to thralldom into the Icarian sea then made off on horseback with Corinna far from there.¡±

    The unfortunate gardener of Silverwood whispered each word, weighted with truth that wore him down. ¡°When they set the grove ablaze and hacked their way through the last of Baron¡¯s vigilant many of the coven formed a death pact. Escaping by sinking daggers before any vile fiends could lay their hands on them. In the chaos that ensued I leapt from roof to snow and chased after a shadow into odd passage. Made pursuit to refuge of reinforcement and found the ruins of our flanks, felled by this wolf-cult. Then that thing pounced upon me. That hulking brute brought me, captive, before the rest of this necromancer council.¡±

    Drakkon sighed. The block beneath them groaned splinters in response, muttering his misery.

    ¡°But my Lord ¨C my Lord who yet Lives! - you are not to blame for this ¡®wrath¡¯. Tis a storm of fury but not without purposeful winds. Those bolts of lightning crack tablets of wickedness and reveal who each of us truly are. Hear me: gods exist on a higher scale of being, over moral judgments in the ways of mortals. Surely these destructive signs mean greater change; point to fault within us, drafted by the stars. Far worse-¡±

    A hollow, forced wheeze came from Drakkon, breaking up his fellow prisoner¡¯s speech. ¡°They followed my dream, my ¡®divinity¡¯ to their deaths. What legions I led to the march of scorching ¡®purpose.¡¯ In the cruelty of this world, the winds of circumstance that twist & twirl all our fates, not even the gods are infallible, boy.¡±

    ¡°But we are willing to shed blood for our dreams to blossom, Lord! We must, or we waste for nothing. Divinity steams through innumerable folds, so oft unknowable and yet it lives in you!¡±

    ¡°Even here you hath faith in the one who misled you? Divine, am I? Yet captured by a mockery of man and wolf and bound to post by some hedge witches, aha! A swine to the stake!¡± Drakkon laughed cynically, exhaling the fear breeding in his lungs.

    ¡°The wolf, Fenrik, is a demigod in its own wretched right! Whispers here, in this temple of blight, tell that he is of the high priestess¡¯s brood, the cursed seed of her sorceress¡¯ womb. Yet what can the wolf & night-gaunts do against the light of the sun? You humble me by coming into suffering as I have. I trust the Light will shine from you, guide us out. Tis your Triumph against impossibility which always inspired me, and I know shall reappear in you.¡±

    Drakkon found furious and desperate clarity. Restrained his doubts & self-disparagement enough to turn to his companion and try to infuse share rejuvenated (if misbegotten and futile) hope. ¡°Thank you, good disciple. It is no task of small speech when demon ears prick about. I bless you for this. Though you may not yet know the gods, they will know you. They set a seat for you in their hearth of truest hearts.¡±

    A terrible vestige of woman & wraith stifles their resurgent hope. Dahlia¡¯s announcement begins. Her shape: only a mist among the mirrors and cancerous pillars. Her shrill cry travels from atop the monolith to all within the crater-valley, ushering a spectacle of depraved rites.

    ¡°Hail and thunder to ye! O timeless children! Raise up your hearts to reach for the coming rebirth! Let tears flow to deep roots in mourning of the world. We leave behind the old and infertile to nourish new path, arise above decay! The hour is nigh for the waning of the world! Ye who revel, forgotten in the Forest ov Old and beloved by its Lord, our Wolf ¨C His Heir! Io & praise unto the spinning cycles of the stars that guide us! The Great God returns to us in this glimmering portent. The Father ov Fathers gives himself up to us, his chosen people. Celestial Lord of the heavens incarnate comes to wake all Elderath in prophecy.

    This mortal vessel of the Living Dragon wills to be given to his people, as symbol of everlasting Love! We shall live eternal through holy flesh! That Divine blood flows through his chosen inheritors of the mortal realm, that we will be as gods among the earth! Take his Thunder in our veins to spread forth the Fire! To enrapture all in state of blooming pyre of endless Creation!¡±

    Befouled auroras stream above the pillars. Dahlia¡¯s fell auguries bloom as flowering rivers, lining the firmament with sign of her truest speech.

    ¡°Io! The Dark Sisters smile upon our entry into their Pantheon. Malderath, Queen of Change through mortal mold! Praise ye Hels, O queens between the stars! Io Astarte, Lady of War & Lusting Flame. We are their Chosen ov Creation! We are they who shall receive the Gift ov Miraculous Blood: Drakonic Communion! Let Materia of Living Light nourish our vessels with Immortal vigor to know ourselves united with empyrean age. Bask in boundless Essence imparted before the veil of mirrors. Ours is the inheritance of Flame which gives light of life to our clay. That we remake world in proper portrait of astral tapestry!

    Io Ymir! Praise the passage ov Chimaeria! We consort thy auguries to scry if the hour is right, as to not offend the fates... Let this point of pinnacle lead us to zenith as conduit of our ascension! Bring forth the vessels to the Great Eye! Revel in the flesh and the mysteries it unravels to our minds and commence with Omen!¡±

    Dahlia¡¯s coven receives her rally with roaring wails. Worshipping figures howl hope of red ascension. Her faithful link arms and lead the pair of prisoners to the base of the ziggurat. For these verminous revelers, were she to bid them drink hemlock, her inane cultists would gleefully gulp it. With every step forced forward, Drakkon felt the influence of wicked brew increase. His sight, wavering with surreal shades and stumbling hues of that prism of morphing light.

    The prisoner steps into living umbrage, coveting all, until infinity collapses on itself, and he arrives at the peak by the obsidian spires. Dahlia, in nefarious design, reveals herself upon her perch. Stepping before the eye of prism arrayed in goddess costume: a duality of Astraea & Selene; with the wax-torch of the former¡¯s Justice as horn between the orbed circlet of the latter, reflecting the glimmer of carmine sunlight. Mystic proportion becomes her dress & scepter.

    Each pillar juts forth, plentifully bestrewn with carvings and icons, with unblinking stone stares. Projecting the unnerving sensation of being conscious and attentive to every move before them. Their arachnid sight fuses with the vision of the prisms¡¯ Eye. Peering with unforgiving scrutiny into the naked contents of Drakkon¡¯s spirit. No thoughts, memories or sensations could be hidden before the perpetual vigilance of this watchful guardian of un-life.

    Dahlia slams her ritual stave into the nexus of arcane symbols before raising it to the ceiling of the bleeding, night-less and dayless sky. Her eyes roll ferociously within her skull, searching for the messages appointed to her invisible missives. Performs every quivering throe with such engrossing zeal and conviction, absorbed in trance. Raptured up in bindings of her entrancing spell. Though to what other realm of thought her mind had been willingly delivered, he knew not.

    Dahlia dances towards the bound acolyte. Closes her ceaselessly spinning eyes as she halts inches away. Her mouth drapes open, chattering obscure litany from long dead scrolls or else simmering soup of her soul¡¯s channel. Her ritual dagger glides over to the boy¡¯s stomach, where it rests tentatively before slithering into where the augury components are buried. Lesions mark then carve him. Innards spill unto the ceremonial runes, feeding prophecy of bloody lines. The mad matron of malefic circle drapes organs as omens across the circle. She wrenches his heart with dagger to fix it atop her staff. With its bloodied adornment on, she stabs the stave again before losing herself to the scattered scrying pool.

    Drakkon suspends in dread as Dahlia knelt before the vulgar offering. Studying what signs it bared, a sullen scowl creeps over her. Betraying that the signs she read were not those she hoped for. She gestured to near disciples to cleanse the pulpy portends of stagnation. Cast them into fire and wash the lines with consecrated wine. Then she faced her captive, while addressing her manifold host below: ¡°Behold, children ov Elderath et Drakkon! We must seek patience and await welkin alignment! See how Saathar still shines its saturnine sign of caution? Those winged rings warn us not only of dying sun but to wait for a shine of another carmine sheen! Gauntlet of our grim sacrifice shall be supped soon! That sanguine chalice of starblood, our coming feast! The Divine shall be within our essence when the red moon again claims the evening sky! A final rite for the world¡¯s waning!¡±

    Within the foreboding black spires and strange acoustics of this lost temple of the earth¡¯s bygone masters Dahlia¡¯s voice seemed to project and rebound from every angle of the air. ¡°Alas, the augury speaks ¡®prithee, patience.¡¯ Do not despair my eager servants, who are soon to be fellow Godkin ¨C denizens & inheritors of Godhead! For, the omens do not forbid us from tasting a sample of the coming ecstasy. Nay, we may but tease our sanguine appetites with a small amount of godsblood! So, arise & reveal your naked selves before our godly guest as we revel in Vitae & Virtue of Vice.

    Let his drops drip unto our tongues and our gullets enough only as to savor a sip of what full future this chalice holds! To flavor Forever as heirs to the Sunless Star of the first aera.¡±

    Dahlia slides the dagger across her prized prisoner¡¯s forearm. Streams trickling crimson to her chalice. When enough gathered there, she presses the concoction to her lips. Imbibes with hellish eagerness. She shouts salacious delight, the taste delivering her to orgiastic voracity. The sorceress swathes around her fount, guides him from the top to ravenous congregation. These followers froth to share in a sample of this treat of astral nectar. Drakkon, first enervated from loss of lifeblood leaking, flows invigorated by adrenaline & rush borne of foul potion.

    Among the throng of witches, warlocks & hallucinations many were clad bare beneath the sky. Wearing nothing but mad grins, all stripped of their cloth. Presented pure before the lunacy of imminent moon in sway of red witchery. Green fires abound cast uncanny illumination about their bodies as these revelers quailed with lascivious fever and adjoin their bodies & tongues. Fusing flesh together in celebratory trance of profane pleasures erupting from carnal urges freed.

    All beyond these peaks of unknown origin faded. The spell spun sun and stars from their seats, leaving only this plane of pleasure & pain entwined as one.

    Thwacking! of whipcord cracks against backs. Wanton groans and cries of sinister arousal, all weepy & wailing, arise among the array of mingling expressions. From tormented yowls to outlandish bawling and animal cries, unbound unity of shouts & joyous screams craves the looming pinnacle. Witches moan in heated delight & feral shrieks, accompanied by howling of a sect of wolves.

    Between them, gasps emit of the prisoner¡¯s shuddering breath. His senses blend, merging with phantasm charms. Called to dance with the nymphs, spirits and strange orbs of painted light taking flight in odd capers. These wispy threads careen about his head. Auroras flare then disperse capriciously amid fae dance. Sanity departs.

    Insane visions intrude in the absence of mind. He spies Fenrik in form of wolf slicing open the back of a fresh disciple with claws shaped of sharpened black shards. Tearing chunks of flesh, ripping with filed teeth. Trees, pillars, and planets align in their abrupt collapse. Passing through his corporeal form and meshing with this sadistic bacchanalia. Woe to the wonder of what this ritual climax should be had the stars been more wickedly aligned. How would this abominable half-breed, raised by an even more zealous mother than he, have served her vampiric plans?

    Libertine revelers sport animal heads and skins sewn to their bodies. Dressed in excruciating fashion, raw stitching still showing. Other creatures spawn of spinning shadow. Drakkon, alone amid unholy magicks & performative orgy. This nightmarish party swept his soul into their roiling cauldron, spits it into sharing mouths.

    Beneath the pyramid, ceremonial dancers weave a nymphaeum of the air, pirouetting from thin silk ropes suspended from phantom ceiling. The form & matter of these baseborn scapegraces & maidens of the heath avaunt for those of Daemons & angels of enchantment; nymphs & satyrs with wraith wings of shimmering thread, flapping veils about their petite breasts & naked thighs. Setting snares with sensual splits as fingers dig in & claw-nails reach for fleshly aphrodisia.

    Should the swill they made him swallow have him see double the count, this cult had yet still unprecedented numbers. A vulture sect extant off the bones of Chimaeria. What had these people of new flock been before they heard this maddened call to lycanthropic transformation? What breeds and professions before initiation into uniform fever; nude rapture stripping persona & possessions to capture more of themselves. Carnal curtain of carmine eruption, their cloak. All one under Dahlia¡¯s allure. Under the eldritch glare evoked through her eye.

    Libidinous intonations rouse euphoria & excruciating droning, knitting swirling modulation; filaments of disconcerting emotions and ringing the lashings of harpy claws & lupine screeches. Tying him to it as Dahlia¡¯s reverends tether themselves to wretchs¡¯ joys. Somber triad hovers high, haunts with dissonant chord struck from distant source. With enigmatic spectacle three witches wove themselves through the mist to lift the wrappings of secret song. With enchanting caress, they silence what hope remained for the sublime with strident shrieks of wild ecstasy and dissolute felicity.

    A frothing gnawing of toothless ire seizes Drakkon. Bleeds a brief drop of sobriety, breaking through the mind-bending me?lange for a slip. He beholds Dahlia, clear enough to purvey her vain audacity. She props her tendrils to the firmament as gloom of nightfall permeates the lunar circlet adorning her head. The dismal display rebounds the foreboding aura of the wicked temple. Drowns out the waves of light. The nebulous brew fogs his thinking, but ailing sight made out Dahlia dipping dagger into willing throat of a caroused cultist. The sharp athame slithers across her disciple¡¯s tender lines. Draws red rivers to her lips. She drains sanguine succulence from the willing woman, lashing the wound with draconic tongue. While the crowning crescent atop her pilfered headpiece shimmers cascading crimson waters as the horned flame dances.

    Drakkon¡¯s muscles convulse. His body made a puppet to be twirled about in pace with macabre dancers, who continue their wraithlike miming throughout abyssal shrine. Feverish hallucination holds him in paralysis. Azarra resurrects as a specter, manifest from the nether. With fac?ade of transient gloating, even from death she reaches out to taunt him. Or else this vision of her floating head arrived as distant messenger of her faraway flesh. Baring derisive scowl above a hollowed ribcage.

    From that sunken crater where the heart should be a tangled morass housed spidery limbs. Protruding spindly feelers across the prehistoric arena. These arachnid appendages of Azarra¡¯s envoy lace network of invisible tethers encase Dahlia & all these disciples in her vaporous web. One of these gangling strands detains Drakkon, clamps tightly around his legs. Her throat compels with spectral order. Banshee cackles gurgle from gash in her throat, where sprouts serpentine necks. All screaming & laughing, caroling bane.

    Her son could face her ghostly messenger no more. Turning from her levitating leer to be spun by the trio of witches. Circling him in perverse predation, they push their sacrificial lamb onward to the base of the temple, up from where the obsidian stairs climbed to a chamber. His harpy hosts edge him through the yawning fissure at that widened mouth of the menacing structure. A labyrinthine hole to swallow the sum of standing reality. The occultists follow into the great tomb, incessantly rollicking about animalistically. All the way through to the innards of unfathomed darkness their screeching parade becomes deafening reverb.

    Drakkon mystified, locked to opposing magnetism of supernal song & infernal rattle. Even as his ears forgot themselves, in that obfuscating curtain inside the crypt of ancient Ymir, a simple trace of Corinna¡¯s thought contested the hex of the witches¡¯ brew and booming hymn. Lured him to ephemeral curls of wish. Carried into crags, closer to walking unconsciousness where there came no fear, shame nor discipline to know... Nothing left but that one shard of self, enduring for her amongst evil malaise. That last sheard of Dream to grab on to before shadows sealed him in the perilous pits of unknowing underworld. Consigned to this hearth, this maze of elder era hollowed all but her chorus.

 Despair

    Chapter Eleven, Domain of Despair

    Within the bowels of the labyrinth gaol

    After breathless eons suspended in slumbering limbo Drakkon¡¯s soul stirred to hoist his eyelids open. His mental fabric frayed, stamina sapped from his muscle, nothing of him was left untampered by bedeviled elixir. This realm of shade pinned him beneath walls of bleak obsidian, under pillars of the deepest hells. In the drab chamber his eyes judged little difference from having them sealed shut. Am I but a shade of the underworld? Am I damned to eternal nihil? Hath Malderath finally claimed me, pulled me neath the earth I stained? Unless those cursed fiends stole my sight? Am I yet a prisoner?

    Questions poised to deaf walls without answers. An interlude of silence, drifting by river of nebulous memories and dimmed dream. Then came the remembrance of Dahlia¡¯s words and of the terrible visions of haunting ritual. Every sight, every sensation, and every notion shuddered against stasis shot by grave eyes all abound. The grasp of the nether about his tendons. His skin, the drooping parchment upon which scrawled moldy sin in ursine quill.

    Other shades pass through the miasma emanating from the abyssal walls. Unearthly in their essence, they reflect images on floor & surface without natural light. An obsidian glass of perdition¡¯s depth cast below them, and yet it was translucent. Showing the approach of transient daemons. That alien foundation absorbed his fancies, projecting wraiths. These phantoms slither past without ever fully forming. Others would hover and glare into his marrow, the unsettling eyes moving without life.

    One of these nether worldly things came before him in the form of a pale banshee. Her siren¡¯s skin sang impossible smoothness. Ageless death-mask given an alluring serenity in countenance. Mane of evenfall flowed the course of her silvery shoulders, revealing the glow of life in crimson sheen, so unlike the glum of underworld cell. She hums sanguine mantra as she wove through the air towards him, in bewitching trance. Entwining her spider-nymph limbs about the bewildered prisoner, luring spindles as delicately throbbing wobble of her voice cast the line.

    ¡°Drink... The essence of Life¡¯s Well is pooled here for you to partake...¡± The enigmatic entity presented him with a chalice, brimming with unknowable and shifting potion emitting a faint, but noxious, trace of harm. Dumbly he fumbled to receive the blessed wine from her. Hexed by her entrancing movements and how she drew sulfur from his sweat and stitched sensuous oaths into him. ¡°Peer long into my windows. Sink into elysian fields of our dreaming pleasure while we await the journey to where we belong.¡±

    At the peripheral of this witch-wraith the mother of phantoms appears. A woman of wan with orbs burning emerald & azure under wreath of gilt & grey. Glaring into the fading prisoner, this gaoler smirks glee to see him encased in the depths and stripped of all power and might with which he could¡¯ve threatened her with. A liberated shine looking over his shackles; to be freed of fetters to his fate. Under the glow of misbegotten light, coming closer to survey this humbled sovereign, illumes a seared orange hue in shape of triangular scar across her throat. Lines of cauterization trace wound, having stolen speech but sealed her vitae from seeping, yet her accusations against him find voice in her stare & her follower¡¯s cords. The silent matriarch signs the seasons¡¯ turn as tides of blood¡¯s blooming pull the lunar crest.

    After more listless gulps Drakkon caves into cloaked clasp, clamping tighter about him. The density of the empty spaces between the labyrinthine walls presses his chest. All as Azarra¡¯s apprentice adjoins ardor in carousing of carmine sap. Wrapped in their weavings, mangling the world to wind it whole in unintelligible web. Levitating expressions, their unreadable maps, cast no mark of his whereabout as he drifts into the dare. Awareness droops into unconscious chasm. Mind and matter mauled by banshee¡¯s talons and supped of the sorceresses.

    Flight from the Depths

    Chimerian Gaol, weeks later

    Eyelids flickered up, broaching exit from Dreamless slumber. Drakkon knew not the orbit of time nor place around him. Nothing, save this surreal blackness cradling his existence. Remembrance stripped away. Only a faint melody drew through dull synapses. The rest drank up by chalice, his spirit swallowed by forgetfulness. Yet twisted shapes emerge in half-nightmare.

    The prisoner awakes to spectral mesh of incense smoke clinging ahead. Tendrils of ash from burnt sacrifices reach out to choke him. Cloaked figures float on smoky cavalcade, carrying candles & lanterns that lit lurid faces borne from the ghoulish body of the mist. The miasma harbors stitched sculptures of living flesh: an amalgam of bodies sewn through the sinews of binding ritual of lust & greater union. Their passing, no portrait of beauty but a heaving mass of frenzied tissue & acolytes of aberration. But they just as swiftly dissipate, bulging & barreling through the corridors on their way to gestate further orgiastic epiphanies.

    An arctic touch chills the prisoner to awake. An elongated and mangled hand, half-charred & necrotic in aspect, reaches to unchain the prisoner. The arm attached to less of a body and more of wriggling shape; a wraith of shadow & gray mist as cloak; the hood about its head towering taller than a human neck should. This Crypt-Gaunt chatters icy chimes and beckons him drink of golden-wheat fount leaking from its overlong second beak. Pouring sustenance evermore, it then guides him on with ectoplasmic wave.

    The dream he trudged spiraled along insanity with each winding step. Phantom guide vanished. Trapped in arcane maze in the belly of a nether palace. Shades levitated over the frigid floor, floating by wordlessly; seaming shadows into themselves, chanting sunless litanies and summoning shapes from sinuous air. Luminous print of glowing sigils imbued sight to the dreamer & ethereal hum along the winding walls wound about the serpentine sepulcher. In that chasm between exhaustion of body and flight of spirit the symbols sang to him, whispering secrets through their canopied corners.

    Drakkon heard the cry of his oldest friend ¨C though he could not grasp the name ¨C and felt simmer feelings seep out in her song. His mind¡¯s eye then spied the visage of Love. A vision of heaven in the form of woman. Graceful with her pale skin and autumn eve hair cascading about her; a statuesque singer, emitting immaculate melody. This remembrance pulsed in his heart, coursing rejuvenating drive through his veins to cast out the dour fog which invaded him. He searched the mire of his brain for that name, knowing that to even whisper it might evoke empyrean aid.

    ¡°Corinna...¡± Guilt and self-directed enmity traced its utterance. Her full relation garbed in dusk, yet he knew her still the reason his heart thundered. Corinna called him. From the otherworld? He could not pursue her to far earth or the next plane, when his sins anchored him, dragged to perdition. Yet this muse burning in his cage etched into his will the drive to redeem himself from this haunt of the Hels. To earn the privilege, the destiny, of her embrace once more.

    With Corinna returning to mind so too did her enchanting song, weaving sunny threads into his ears and spinning around his heart. The labyrinth branched off into impossible directions, but the lost shade followed where the song sent him. Where it grew fainter, he¡¯d turn heel and tread another path until the ethereal chanting became blaring, close.

    The warbling of Corinna¡¯s immaterial refrain rose in pitch & volume. Her call culminated in a caterwaul that resounded pointedly in his ears as if threatening to burst the drums therein but then ceased forthwith. Leaving him a hollowed silence that was heart-rending in the absentia of Love. The reticence was disconcerting as if to suggest approaching calamity. Without her aspect the green & sapphire flambeaus of fyre didn¡¯t light the way but mar his sight.

    Drakkon¡¯s path halted at an insurmountable wall, hulking frame sealing his path. He stooped low, in momentary defeat, cheeks soaked by fear & loss. Yet even blocked in by impregnable fence there blew winds from where there were no drafts. Gales brushed him from nowhere, whipping unseen cords of unborn radiance everywhere. Behind that night shade bulwark a stillborn sun mocked with maddening rays.

    It was then the monstrous & lupine figure of Fenrik emerged from shadowy aisle behind him. The silhouette morphed into a wolf of war & terror lunging with indignant furor. The alacrity with which the lycanthrope attacked kept him limping back. If this was truly his offspring, a rabid pup, the boy showed parallel in height & brawn (soon to overpass his accidental father even) yet twisted to such eldritch degree as to be nothing knowable as a man. With none of those mortal predicators, movements, and motives the brute lashed a feral frenzy.

    Drakkon kicks the wolf-thing down and topples a fyre urn. This beacon blazing with hue of witch pyres scorches the scourge-beast. It whimpers the befouled whine of a feral dog. The werewolf, showered in cinders, thrashes inanely. Claws cut the black cloth of the labyrinth, aiming for sacrificial throat. It¡¯s would-be victim wrestles with dagger hooked hand, but blasted by another torch-flare, the claw sinks into its wielder¡¯s own thigh. In pain the thing wrenches away after tearing at the poultices on its sire¡¯s side.

    The fleeting victor fell backwards in dismay, stumbling over pangs from the lesion. Unconsciously his hand touched the splattered mess of his side where Fenrik renewed ebbing wound. Crimson gushed out, dotting his flesh. Lifting his sight, he caught the wolf-man scamper away. Scraping at the walls, the wretch-hound wriggled into a gap between the ebony halls.

    Drakkon limped desperately after the crazed hunter. Always ahead of him, the diluted shadow of a wolf darted further into the tunnel. The stairs lead up & down at once, spiraling toward the center of this maddening temple. Another song billowed to counter the constant howling echo. Not Corinna¡¯s enchanting call but the bygone song of his mother. That same one which would seep from Azarra¡¯s verse for his ear to gorge almost every evening of his early life. A lyrical invocation of the Living Light, it¡¯s sound rang now as perverse & pervasive.

    The path curved, arriving at the nexus of this nether realm. He came into a vast, open room with a high dome casting winking mirror of distant sky. A cauldron sat, bubbling in the center, surrounded by three crones, gaping at his arrival in shock. Behind them, seated by an array of colourful elixirs, Dahlia held her son while chanting Azarra¡¯s hymn. When her eyes of emerald ember beheld him, she released her hands from her beloved pup and stood in wrath. ¡°Look what you did to our boy!!¡± Wailed the matriarch in shrill key of enmity. ¡°How can you be so cruel as to maim the face of your own blood?! The son you forgot!¡±

    While Drakkon understood instinctively the power of her emotions, her words stunned him with confusion. He studied Dahlia¡¯s bastard, stitched in ragged furs & wolfskin. Son? What nightmare did I hide from memory? What else hath I feigned ignorance from? Then Azarra voiced curse in his thought: ¡°May your own son come to be such a villain against ye! Cut the cord of blighted birth & sever the line!¡±

    ¡°Oh, how much hath you forgot?¡± Dahlia managed to cackle & cry simultaneously. A ghastly sound & worse look. ¡°How cruel and oblivious! You would treat your son, my sun, the Lord ov Wolves et Woods, so harshly?! Maybe you are but meant to be the flesh we feast on to take the Divine within us!¡±

    The wolf-mother wove herself across the altar, elegant even in her anger. Stopping before the witches¡¯ cauldron, Drakkon swiped at her but grasped naught. With her flowing dress she seemed an ephemeral mist. The witch wisp re-emerged from the infinitude of opaque corridors and living shades. ¡°Ah, but the freshness of our destiny shall be all the sweeter. To taste that blood as ours and bask in that Living Light as the Chosen Children. Yet I struggle to absolve you for what my fearsome Fenrik suffers at the hand of his holy Father!¡±

    As she spoke Drakkon¡¯s eyes grazed the hall for some fortunate sign. He found one in his iconic arms adorning the wall. His black blade shining back the blue light around it. He lunged for it, although the pain in his body caused him to falter. Numbed in mind but not to leaking red.

    Dahlia, with hawkish stare, glides to the lure of his glare. A ritual dagger smiles beneath her regal raiment. She unveils her silky dress, outstretching threaded wings. Revealing with pride pale scintillating chest beneath. Dire lust pumps for another blood sample. ¡°You chose to forget and how rueful that is. Alas, I can help you remember more of the past. That those fruits of the future shall gleam from thy scalp to thy loins, o Lordly guest in passing! This hurt is fleeting, but pleasure immense, as passing tribute for our circle¡¯s healing!¡±

    Then she vanishes in foul mist. Her face shines next to her feral cub¡¯s with talons clasping golden-green elixir, in ornate crescent bottle. Caressing as one would trace a lover¡¯s back, her nostrils snort delight as she uncorks the potion. Frees rejuvenating magick, in melted liquid, through to her son¡¯s quivering lip. ¡°Let skyless Light from the deep heal your scars.¡±

    Drakkon slams into the cauldron¡¯s side. Though his husk had been drained of its great bulk, his force lurches the pool of sorcery over to gravity¡¯s sway. The seething contents flood the trio of crones. Scorching the feet of one with temperature to bite into bone. Another takes shameful flight while the other hag struggles to drag her crippled sister from the spill to a corner where they cower in awe. Then, as his head swims in distress, veering on hysteria of ghosts born from evaporating mist of cauldron¡¯s demise, he rushes to that relic of his bygone might. He heaves the blade towards the sorceress. But fatigued and wounded, it misses its course to her head. Instead crashing into the lantern orb beside Dahlia¡¯s throne. Raining sparks around the space where she held the bottle to her pup¡¯s mouth.

    Fenrik pounces from his mother¡¯s fold. Fleeing from the fire - his face & fear too freshly disfigured to brave its source. Aghast and awkwardly brandishing elixir, Dahlia gawks as Drakkon¡¯s wand of war threatens her throat, the blade emanating strength of stars to its wayward master. Yet she laughs. Looking back at the bounding lycanthrope, whatever foul mixture imbued its gullet miraculously aided the monster¡¯s regeneration. It snatches up a stalking pose yet again, its hind leg mended swiftly.

    ¡°That thing is not my son. I renounce my blood. I decant divinity into abyss! He is but the seed of wicked deeds, borne into being by delusions which will lead thee to destruction. Just as mine hath led me to Hel-shackles. Thou shall never taste immortality, nor know life again for thy aberrant crimes. But I shall taste of that elixir, else I will make this throne thy tomb.¡± No hint of mercy in Drakkon¡¯s gleam, poking ire into her as he steals the potion away.

    ¡°O, our child ov wolf moon! How you wound our heir to Ymir & your Imperia!¡± The sorceress heaves sorrow. ¡°Our Chimerian cub!¡±

    Dahlia, refusing any petulant plea of mercy, swells with sudden excitement. She feigns a kiss to edge of the sword, then sings soft laugh. ¡°I hath never been unfaithful in my service to the signs, and to your blood which I hath given second bloom. Act not as the Bear. Forgo any more kin-slaying along our entwined trail. For though, estranged, we are both to be strangled of all other breath by tides of the lune.¡±

    As Drakkon waves the blade in direction of the scampering blight-hound, Dahlia winds herself up in his arm. She licks at his ear, misty frame brushing him. ¡°Will you not share your flesh with me in worship? Why not absolve & adjoin?!¡±

    He repels her hex. Wrestling with wroth to slay her, he lashes her right hand to sacrificial clasps to the side of the altar. Half-chained to the wall, her laugh mixes moans & whimpers. Tracking the wolven fiend, Drakkon barters its mother as hostage, a lever to pry escape. ¡°Let your service be to show me the way beyond! Or remain here, a corpse-matron, and rot beneath the world beside bed of beasts!¡±

    Astonishingly, Dahlia surrenders. Not to Drakkon but to a specter of foresight which serrates her eyes before draping them with gauze. A Watcher of Ymir¡¯s shrine. From shivering gray, a towering Sight, glowering premonition arrests her. Her left-hand drops hidden dagger to point to a jarred path across the ceremonial throne. Only omens pry her lips from sting of stasis. ¡°Our fates shall meet over yonder. Darkness & flame await us, in terror. Yet blessing of blood shall allow us to live on. Know this: the Hels & the Fates are one.¡±

    Grace flushes from the apostle¡¯s face, the taste of failure too bitter to bear with poise. As her fount of holy blood takes flight from her, she collapses in her ebony fetters. Resting her denial in faint moonlight stretching down over her face. Abandoned in her unholy court, but for her suckling, wolfen cub. Left to darkness of doubt. Yet Azarra¡¯s aria returns, sung by another. Tilting somber verse from echoing rings above. Larking for a fatal end as Dahlia weeps, waiting in anxiety for the Hels¡¯ path to reunite them as promised.

    ¡°The Aegis ov the Wolf shall rule the Night.¡± The belting chords pursued the erstwhile lord and prisoner through the cavernous channel. ¡°By blight of my scorn let them who pilfered rue the day!¡± A ghostly chorus wound alto harmonies beneath that near spectral opera, soaring along the exit. ¡°Descend, thorned reed. Ascend, my light! Seed ov moonlit Dawn, do not stray till they have gone!¡±

    Drakkon, funneling out, feels the swift swig of elixir streaming through his gullet. Warming his gut, it nigh instantly rallies acceleration of natural healing through his vessel. The wound clots but ache yet remains. He thusly limps on, driving towards escape. The emergent guidance of pursuant melody possesses him. Beckons flee with haste to a cavernous berth within the underground expanse. Obsidian dock halts before boundless course of water, teeming with mysterious sheen, reflective of alien essence. Restless waves of glimmering Night slink against a stone shrine by the brink. Exhausted and not yet recovered, he leans on the cairn to avoid tumbling from wincing numbness of restitching skin.

    Across the waterway the outline of a ferryboat cut the surf with great haste, sailing over to the dock. At first no life nor figure appeared governing the boat. But, through his cringing, as the apparition drew near and planted itself before the rocky cairn, he perceived a ferryman maneuvering the small, ghostly vessel. A boatman, with a hunched over chassis and tall neck, veiled in translucent mantle. This captain¡¯s cloak emits a starry sheen, as if garbed in a blanket woven of the night sky itself. Nowhere else to pass but through his tributary tribute.

    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    His robe concealed much of him. What could be gleaned was pale and wilted, with almost leathery skin that gave the inkling of never having been exposed to solar light. With one vertical mouth draped open on the one side, replete with jagged teeth of thorn & scillia, and a second concaved grin with odd indenture where more tiny eyes lay under stitched tips. Just below the cowl a set of murky eyes, with another lid shut above the brow, focused on the distance even as they held straight at the pilgrim, Drakkon. The boatman extended his long arm, offering up a vestigial claw appendage to pull upon for passage. With unnatural tenacity it pulled the forlorn wayfarer into the vessel before departing from the cairn dock.

    Traversing the dreary waters, a glowing miasma emerged from the black depths as the paddle stirred beneath the surface to propel the pair. They flew forward in uncanny flight. The ferry¡¯s velocity raged a course to compete with restless water. Then the paddle stirred air to lift them. Without breaking the waves their vessel hovered over sightless tides and ragged rocks lurking under. Swept past upraised stalagmites, emanating exotic glisten.

    Now and then, breaks in the ceiling shined the majesty of the nocturnal curtain & Saatharian rays down upon sections of the surge. But breadth of the journey led on in silent darkness. The patron of this spectral shuttle found his skull sundered by sleep. The potion working its way within him asking to perform its task on a lulled body. In that chasm stretching between states Drakkon glimpsed the object of his inner eye¡¯s inspiration: Corinna; her eye captured by a cask, living death leaking from it; cast in a casket, a wilting orchid in clutches of an arctic castle tomb.

    Then passenger¡¯s lids flap. Settling on his navigator, whose three gibbous eyes watch the way. Vaporous wings glide from his gray back; seven branches that paddle through ether with distended appendages. Setting sail upon Helwinds over deathless sea....

    Back from Beyond and Towards the Brink

    Windcrest Shore, Dirgenval 25<sup>th</sup>, 19 AD

    An impenetrable embankment of fog cast its bulk, pregnant with grim mist, across the sea, concealing the shore the small boat approached. The boundless gray did not concern nor hinder the boat¡¯s strange captain, silently steering course to invisible shoreline. Their ship, a statue of unnerving stillness through breathing body of endless veil, undisturbed yet parting as vapor to allow their way through yet more purgatorial sprays over cloaked sea.

    The boat froze and the winged wraith waved Drakkon forward. As he plunged from the packet the weight of his boots sunk firmly into the wintry soil of the land. Skipping over the misty waters, he assured he¡¯d splash, as if docking in a parallel plane or levitated there by the long, manifold arms of the ferryman. Glancing back at his convoy, no trace of the vessel or its master remained. Now vanished in the incessant gloom.

    The effects of witchery¡¯s elixir waxed over his senses. Sharpened in awareness, the wall of murk diminished as he advanced. He shed all exhaustion treading hurried ground, over sand buried under waning carpet of cold. He tasted the locale, sensors on his tongue firing recognition of Windcrest¡¯s frigid salt. He¡¯d landed in the waxing heart of his ebbing empire, near his winter throne in the North. Intuition warned also of eyes upon him from the dew. As the Hel-mist departed for breaking of daylight¡¯s abrupt return.

    Ahead of him a series of flickering lights further disbanded the gray of the shore. The flurry of motion neared with breakneck haste, moving from the distance to him in a blur. Soon a contingent of horseback riders bearing torches and aching bows appeared. The mounted warriors circle around, surveying him while ensuring no escape. Their intent, undeclared yet forcefully readied.

    At the head of the formation Heron reigned. There rode Drakkon¡¯s unaware Ferali half-brother, dressed in sign of Mordaunt¡¯s service, his emblem displayed clearly on his tabard. Bowstring were pointed at him while Heron dismounted and approached with a sword in one hand and a fog burning torch in the other. Drakkon boldly presented himself before the assembly of warriors, once members of his army; their mugs smeared in backdrop of memory.

    Windcrest stretched bare & wild before him. He, solitary beacon, on the beach returns its embrace. Infusing his voice with declamatory assurance rejuvenated in fervor, he raises his arms to the sky and shouts: ¡°It is I, Drakkon! If thou wish to take arms up against thy emperor ¨C who returns having shed shadow - then let loose thine arrows quick! Shoot! If thy hearts falter, let not thy bows! Strike true or stay thyself, as is thy want! Be not tentative if thou seek to reckon with me! Grant me the deaths thou would seek for thyself or fold into mine arms and grant me my hands again!¡±

    ¡°Hold men!¡± Heron commanded to his men, whose hands quivered with unease. Their eyes widened with frightened awe at the sight of their Lord thought deceased. ¡°Can that, truly, be you? Or devilish portend disguised as the ghost of hope? My scout saw you float through air to shore, but is this possible? Mordaunt declared you dead! Yet you appear at the edge of a shore which no ship docks in the wake of season¡¯s final storms?¡± He inquired, distraught in disbelief, as he came face to face with Drakkon, peering for piece of cheer and shred of fortune.

    ¡°In the living flesh.¡± Drakkon declared promptly. Pausing next to muster up convincing mystical explanation to relight the hope of forlorn hearts. Relishing Delphine¡¯s advice and not breaking these desperate men with the truth of his birth, too strange and bitter to confess. ¡°I have not abandoned this world nor you. I did not descend into the soil as a corpse but ascended into astral form to view prophetic tides of what shall come to be and restore tapestry to true glory. I return from beyond the sea¡¯s end, having seen what is needed to redeem our people and remake the realm. I come bearing the sword of righteous flame against the craven traitor whose standards you, my kin, are now draped in... How come you to this?¡±

    ¡°Forgive me, lord.¡± Heron said, quickly bowing. Obsidian blade hung at the hand this odd passenger of spectral ferry, undrawn but undeniable. ¡°I beseech you to think not of me nor any of us as cowards. Mordaunt... proclaimed your death; presented your tattered banner as evidence of your demise alongside Baron¡¯s band. Claiming he crushed the insurrectionists valiantly after your fall... Any who did not renounce you and pledge to him were branded traitor and given to tortured exhibition. We had to supplicate ourselves before the ¡®Empyrean Aegis of War¡¯ or suffer his ire. He supplanted so much of our lives¡¯ structure when it was already precariously straddled. We were all so confused, so many of us betrayed, having fallen to Mordaunt¡¯s deception.¡±

    He breathed in somber fog and drooped his head in embarrassed admittance of weakness. ¡°I declared for Mordaunt, not wanting to die for what I ¨C foolishly ¨C thought was a lost cause. There have been imposters and charlatans posing in your likeness, disturbing my false master¡¯s claim by stirring untrue hope in the populace still loyal to you in secret. The usurper has us scouring for more of these impersonators, ordered the execution of any encountered, hence why we erroneously motioned to attack. I apologize again, Lord. My men and I begrudgingly served him. While our place is short in his upturned court, we are at least alive, and ready now to serve the right path again. But I swear by the blood of my ancestors and the fate of my progeny that I will not stray from your Eminent cause. My sword and those of my men will be once more your undying might.¡±

    ¡°Rise, Heron, and embrace me. This costume makes you no less of brother to me nor overshadows your vital service.¡± They clasped one another¡¯s shoulders as longtime friends and meddlers of danger. ¡°The shroud of dark is thorough but only in illusion. Mordaunt¡¯s influence may be propped high above our few numbers, but the light of the high heavens shines on our souls. It propels our purpose to restore the fate of all our homeland to humanity. My communion with the spirits made visible the strands of fate. If we are to triumph, we must find Corinna. God and Goddess conjoin in this midnight hour, that our unity will make our limbs indomitable.¡±

    Heron ordered a spare horse to be given to their prodigal lord. Then declared they must move before other roaming battalions cross their meagre patrol, deciding to continue their discussion on the move. ¡°Alas, I hath only espied the Lady once, from afar. The crazed warlord holds her at Windhand. Doubtless he plans to coerce her into marriage to solidify his petty claim. He claims to have rescued her from the clutches of the same rebels that ¡®humbled Drakkon and desecrated holy ground¡¯ but I could smell deceit. Our warlord has been overworked trying to tie martial threads and amass his arms. Yet your empress is safe when surrounded in her chambers by sentinels sold to him. Surely, they should be too scared of their master to mar a woman he wishes to bind by marital tethers.¡±

    ¡°His grab for power has been by no means subtle, nor his ruling glove gentle. He lights signal pyres throughout the land and blows horns for Summit. That all clans may answer the call and witness his ascension through ceremony.¡± Heron pressed on, illustrating daunting scope & faint hope. His lord¡¯s face morphed into a tense and prickly ball of passion, straining the veins in his forehead to suppress hatred at the mention of Mordaunt¡¯s most personal of treacheries. ¡°The red moon is imminent according to our seers. It shall arrive with fleeting Spring. Yet his stewardship holds no binding of law nor love. Especially as you return to the fold for us. We can break his Hold and change the course aimed for dread peak.¡±

    ¡°Aye, and we bring a storm with us.¡± Drakkon answered him. ¡°Thunder & rage forges our road! To strike as a trident against the corrupted court he amassed. ¡®Champion¡¯ of War or degenerate thief, Mordaunt will be crushed in our fist!¡±

    The mist thinned as they progressed through the mouth of the forest. Winter wisps danced about, their natural luminescence granting light through the dead husks of ashen wood. The drifting lights highlighted the rim of beaten path, just enough to hint at devilish fiends stalking their way. In the middle of the path, at intersection of winding ways, Drakkon came upon the sight of decomposing corpses strewn about the branches of the trees, dangling by rope in the stormy breeze. One of the bodies looked eerily like his own likeness, though deprived of eyes, with the word ¡®pretender¡¯ carved into its lifeless forehead. Another dangled under the sign of ¡®craven,¡¯ beside a cousin cadaver marked ¡®thief.¡¯

    Heron observed Drakkon¡¯s eyes darting across the deathly scene and addressed his thoughts aloud. ¡°Behold the mark of Mordaunt¡¯s ashen reign. Most were simple villagers whose only crime was ¡®hoarding¡¯ enough food to nourish their families through the winter instead of giving it all up to the despot. Others were housing Drakoni loyalists who launch disjointed attacks in shambled militias.¡±

    Our enemy does nothing in the name of power which I did not do in blind claim to my name. How many lines hath I quartered or set to stake for housing fondness for the ¡®Protectorate¡¯ - or refuting the holiness of my concaved crest? The brute is more honest than I. At least his ambitions are his own. The Lord soured.

    ¡°As terrible as it is to admit this cynicism of mine, most folk are all too content to hand over any of their kin who persist in their support for you. They would rather tolerate the ¡®protection and peace¡¯ Mordaunt offers when all seems plunged into pointless plight. People first cheered how the new master relaxed taxes, seeing not how he levies heavier tithe of lives. Hoping coin would spill over the splashings of blood as plunder pays his astonishing expense. I too was foolish in thinking I could find solace in protecting order in the land. That the people, our people, would not writhe blindly about in bedlam. But that law I sought to hold to becomes the hand that strangles mirth and marks service to a lord of confusion. That gloating ¡®godly¡¯ Aegis of War, Mardun, as he crowns himself in falsehood. The progenitor of the worst disease among men: That empty claim to rule and seek no greater god than mere self.¡±

    Their passage through the forest enclosed the further they went. Thick dark branches of the winter pines condensed on their renegade patrol. The bulk of the wood muffled the chilling cry of the wind bringing night¡¯s cold blanket. Yet through bark on the breeze a terrible wail besieged the edges of the forest where the trees were as pale corpses, hollowed of their once vibrant colors and made thrall to relentless elements.

    Sudden song sprang. Tunes of myth & longing filled the way. The Windarian coast echoed chorus of tired throats, renewed in mirth. They sang tragic ballad. Retelling a battle where men fought and died for gods that forsook them only to be carried off by Valkyries to victory in the end. A song of how triumph brought ruin to that tribe. For they¡¯d lost their best & bravest whose sons failed to match the tracks of their fathers, that when the Dread Serpent rose again, they abandoned it to scale & slime. Tears shed for a valley their ancestors bled for. Freed then by Drakkon but, failing promise to him, found wandering exile. That tale of old Beruvia, rewoven by Baron. But no dispute came from the rival of that song¡¯s herald.

    Yet though the voice of the wind had been muted enough to allow their warriors¡¯ cheer, a new harrowing chorus of screeches and shrieks silenced their tune. Arrangement of chords, from inhuman gullets, struck echoes in the air. Some trembled in the saddles of their mutually shaken steeds. The cadaverous coronach carried from nearby hills over the tree roofs. Froze icy rivers in its dirge. The cry of witches¡¯ sabbath? A demonic dance from another flailing limb of Dahlia¡¯s sect? Or a tribal slaughter?

    Heron signaled quiet caution as they advanced under darkening canopy. Drakkon rode along with him at the head of their band wondering at blaspheming conjuration rising through crisp evenfall. The captain addressed his troubled lord in hushed whispers, barely reaching over the wind¡¯s dissonant chanting.

    ¡°Bizarre covens spread through forests & dense fens these past months. Wytch cults seizing ancient mounds & druidic monuments, perverting them for their malefic purposes. We sent a troupe to investigate rumors from the townsfolk: unholy shrieks by night, blighted livestock and crops, children stolen from the cradles of midwives and sacrificed on secret altars in the darkest thickets. All too true. These night-comers cannot be vanquished by valor or searched out in sunlight. They come as a cruel mist at the thirteenth hour, then disperse before morn. To slay one sect is to summon carts of more wraiths. Cults of fell fraternity.¡±

    Drakkon¡¯s glare glued forward, though his sight sent inward to the scenery there, more than the track ahead. ¡°I hath seen these cultists through aspect of the netherworld. A black maiden and her cursed kin, wolves et witches, aim to stir confluence of all the winds. These vile sorceresses seek to drain lifeblood, to imbibe essence as nutrient. Absurdity and vacuous nonsense draped with seductive conceit that covets the sublime yet is wholly perverse. Their dance is that of frenzied lunacy, their woeful incantation is that of all our deaths. Their delight is that of wanton destruction. Pledged in service of an elder force that dwelt in the darkness before the rearing of first eon¡¯s light. Tis a force that is all consuming which possesses her, body & soul, by obsidian will.¡±

    As he leaned in that grim fac?ade of the boatman who ferried him to this shore pressed over him like a phantom death mask. Memory clung to his pores, reeking of coming gloom. ¡°But let not the madness of these vampyres stall us.¡±

    ¡°My lord, in your absence this land and its people whither beneath curse. Many blame you, as a ¡®pretender.¡¯ Others would even name us brothers. Even the faith of those who remain true is little shield against the tremors of doubt. There are tales of lupine abominations roaming the passes. Of Serpent chariots gaining ground daily. Truly the waning of the world is upon us. But that you are now here proves true your claim and all our salvation by it. With you we can reclaim a world worth fighting for. As shadows swirl about, I will charge forth with your name on my breath to fell the gathering dark. Aye, no matter how steep your foes, we few are your friends. Let us burn away these hordes of gathering nightmare.¡±

    ¡°Aye the Waning of the World is nigh upon us. Though not as the sages of old once told it.¡± The Lord was pensive, piercing distant years in his oratory. As wan as his mortal vessel was from the thrashing journey, what waves (of stars & oceans) he coursed to get here, a risen flame ¨C a pious purpose penetrating from his stare ¨C had been rebirthed to pump through rhetoric¡¯s poise. ¡°The old-world claws at us in its death throes. By our triumph, the next Aeon will dawn over the horizon. One untouched by the corruption we have for too long permitted to taint this mortal plane with suffering. Though I wish I could lend you the mantle. Abandon any quest to rule and be rid of any cult or cause.¡±

    ¡°What hex hath that matron of werewolves & night-gaunts cast upon you? What madness from the nether that you¡¯d forsake stable throne to let one so unfit as me sit upon it. I plead humor not these thought-roads.¡± Spoke Heron.

    ¡°No hex but one of exhaustion. A weariness of spirit more than skin or spell.¡± Drakkon joked, trying to inject trace of humor before dropping to consider more how to phrase his thought. ¡°Let them howl away and keep their notice from us. The blood cults vie for a degenerate vision over which our own must prevail over. They feast on themselves. We cannot dither for their sake. We must walk through the flame to be remade. This chaos, this suffering set upon us is not purely a curse but a challenge and call to persist. We must all now more than ever be willing to shed our blood in the great work of letting a better world bloom. Even if it moves beyond me.¡±

    ¡°We are all of us with you when the move must be made. We enter the final lap of this dread gauntlet and I know not what Light we might find without your fame. We will stand atop that Summit, unbending against the gales that blow towards that hill. Brazier of hope still burns inside, and I would die to defend it from ravenous chaos.¡± Added Heron with twisting inflection.

    ¡°You are brave for renouncing Mordaunt for me. I but wayward traveler, a lost pilgrim.¡±

    ¡°Nay.¡± Heron refused his Lord¡¯s praise this round as enthusiasm faded. He shifted as a phantom of dejection: paralytic mirror of that shadow which seized him when looking o¡¯er long. ¡°Would that I were brave, but I am not. Long did I suffer service to Kassan, a false father and brutal chief. It was not courage that saved me from that path but your strength. Always I followed another, from Harmsburg horns to Imperium¡¯s crest, till both lay sullied. None of this borne of my willing, only gifted in how far the winds carry me.¡±

    The captain shivered pallid from shame. ¡°I countered no consequence for service, obeyed order of anguish. For though I shook off some shackles more remained. Despite my stubbornness in aiding you, I¡¯ve only followed that same pattern of bearing grim service to terrible powers... Prove that guttural doubt so much fouler for its lie, its falseness, Drakkon. Let us not strike down Mordaunt only to put up more stakes and black pyres. Let us settle to not dig deeper ditches and pits for the collateral of more dark work.¡±

    Drakkon let his dispute breathe, nodding to its plea rather than cursing him for voicing such doubts. In his windswept mind, the hurricane front of revelation ravaged much more than he could admit. It proved difficult for his shambling core to accept this fear and harder to overcome it. To prove those phantoms wrong, and to smith fairer image of himself. To no longer be but puppeteer¡¯s tyrant and pretentious performer; an actor in role of a shallow god. To truly deserve to be once more by Corinna¡¯s side and know her alive.

    Reverent glint returned to Heron as the emperor addressed him. ¡°Braver so to admit that failing. We all falter. Even the stars in the heavens can be swallowed by dark sea. This mortal world only echoes the gods¡¯ own follies. Mine are many.¡± Drakkon fought to suppress this ebbing inside. ¡°We are but distant reflections of those fumbling fires ov firmament. Perhaps ¡®tis not the Hels who deflect the Fates, spinning strife, but that those sisters weave themselves unwitting threads without plan beyond amusing their hand.¡±

    ¡°Yet this time we must not stumble, die in doubt. Our stars will not be extinguished, doused by fears of what they could become. Nor flare too brightly to again blind us deeper than dark. Our hearts have yet room to grow, more strength to nourish through the long witching hours. It will be different. It must be.¡±

    They tread on in solemn reticence after this for long miles. Wasting no breath to complain despite how arduous the nature and apparent impossibility of their endeavor. What they lacked in rations this motley number made up for in determination. An ardor ignited from within each, brighter than any coin bought zeal manufactured by Mordaunt¡¯s bribes or imperial didacts. Onward they traversed, compelled by glimpse of the morrow, until they came upon a sight that broke up the shadows and opened to space barren of trees. There stood before them the charred remains of a Jotun¡¯s wood effigy, taller than three men.

    The surrounding wood, chopped in sacrifice to supply this smoldering statue. The burning of this wicker man, an intent of hate and cathartic destruction. The craftsmanship for such a simple structure seemed not the work of crazed witches of the wilds but of working men & women of the peasantry. The pyre lived on in dwindling pitch, licking at the face of this crude design. Slowly gnawing away to ash that fell around it. The lead pair peer into the icon in fyre.

    Gazing into the tarnished heap, Drakkon recognized a crude depiction of himself. This, the effigy of the despot that he¡¯d become, burned ceremoniously by the common folk who he once called his to rule. He hadn¡¯t seen the resemblance sooner due to the horns attached to his half-burnt but stubborn head; fitting for that heavy brow they shadowed, sitting on malicious arch. Relief gasped as the orange glow gnawed the timber totem. He could feel the peasants¡¯ stomachs lurch with mead, jumping joyously to be relieved, even symbolically, of the one who¡¯d rained so much darkness on them.

    This destruction of his likeness, this revelry in his ruination: their liberation from the suppression he pressed long upon their lives. The glittering blaze cast a fascinating glaze over his sight & the hillside, unable to look away from the image of himself collapsing into simmering pit.

    How would it befoul their revelry, this tiny triumph, to learn that their insufferable Lord and kindling rite¡¯s inspiration yet lived and neared their hearths? Would they just as swiftly tilt into a hysteric tango, happy to have the cinder king back just for petty semblance of normality to return with him? Or would they throw him to join in the burning & let that culmination of his rule and their woes be centerpiece of that rising flame?

    A tertiary aspect inside him announced baleful decree to his core. ¡°Behold the Fates¡¯ sign for my reign of thunder & flame! Let folk feast and find joy on the timber of this ashen cradle!¡±

 Captivity

    Chapter Twelve, Captivity

    Dirgenval 27<sup>th</sup> 19 AD, Windhand Tower

    Corinna stood at the verge of her window where newly fitted bars forbid her from taking flight from the tower. The thorny breeze circling the Hold cut into her. Mountain breath held her tight, tussling black locks grazing the precipice. The claws of Winter¡¯s burial bore the river below and covered the range in dying snows. Gray-white draped over the world as Malderath¡¯s coveting of her sister¡¯s earthly garden. Seasons were turning yet the world waited on the brink of one final dusk with no sunrise. The pallid crust along the aperture froze her glance from behind the precarious edge, looking over jagged crags yearning for a fall into their depths. Emptiness enshrouded her air. A hurting hollowness of lung. What but these bars could stall her plunge? What choice was left to her save fatal one, even if it must be by other means?

    The billows bracing her captured sill brought no salvation. In her heart she invoked the gods¡¯ grace, pouring prayers upward into the atmosphere in hopes to be heard and weighed worthy of redemption from this cruel mummery. There were bruises on her cheeks from where the malice of Mordaunt¡¯s men had marked her. Brandings from greaves at her initial refusal to be wrenched from her shelter. Rather than abate them by alchemical ointment Corinna let swell the signs of her despondency, in part hoping that the Fates or their rulers might be swayed by her state ¨C though no living soul saw her, save the occasional intrusion of her war-aggrieved warden.

    Silence met her plea unto the heavens. The bars of her gaol remained unbent. The skies blacken their gathering shrouds of apocalyptic proportion. Her tears fell into the gulf below, her pain ignored by any higher power in the universe. With a despondent sigh she stepped back to grab her chalice from the table. Corinna¡¯s fingers anxiously traced the rim of the potion, as though she could feel the lethal essence simmering up by nearness to her skin. Through her stained lids the bleak glow of the welkin winked as she raised the contents to the corner of her sullen lips. Thank you, Azarra. You of all people, who sought my end most, hath brought me deliverance. Bought my passage from this ugly plane.

    Echoes from Mordaunt shivered in her skull. Her host¡¯s threats blown by belligerent trumpets blaring their supremacy. ¡°Drakkon is dead. Now Baron too is buried. You hath nowhere else to call a hearth & none left to turn to... No one, that is, besides me. Through this I free you. Every tribe will soon anoint my claim and cement our union. We will rain good fortune unto our subjects through our bonded power showered. Already the masses assemble, like birds of carrion, to pick at the wretched corpse of the old regime ¨C your husband a mere shadow in the wake of my will. I am the only voice left to vouch for you. My offer is of mercy, not misery.¡±

    Sickening disgrace roiled about in the grimy base of her gut. Stirred by active remembrance of being played the pawn in Mordaunt¡¯s power grab. What else could she stomach but poison? When her innards were so corroded by this rot, being naught but an imprisoned tool. She could not shake the sense that she¡¯d sold her pride and the people¡¯s future for a meager more days; precious time for a life that held no real hope or meaning remaining. Corinna suspected that her suitor would dispose of her the moment the pact served its purpose to acclaim his crown. But playing the fool to his demands still seemed the only way of ensuring the livelihood of her Grove ¨C her truest family, united by nature & sisterhood. If she could even earn them that.

    It proved too difficult to delude herself that any dignity, power & freedom was left for her. Even when her captor wasn¡¯t here, in the castle, his savage sentinels saw to her postulancy. She¡¯d been allowed some respite in stern solitude, with all her new lord¡¯s work keeping him so frequently about, trying to rally frail limbs. Yet even when absent, his presence still oppresses, seeps through every pore of the Hold. His sweat constricts her lungs, stifles the scream she badly seeks to obey for small & sharp catharsis. Stinging to be so lacking in sovereignty. Just a key to another¡¯s puzzle, a piece to portrait of power that would never be hers. Lashed and laid bare as little more than another conquest. & how she damned herself for wasting that prior chance.

    Despondently Corinna brought the glass, this ¡°parting gift¡± from the High Mother delivered by Delphine, up. The deep shade as brilliant crimson as its courier¡¯s mane and as venomous as Azarra¡¯s curse against her. Before she sipped the fatal draught, a sudden notion tickled the back of her spine. From bone to brain stew, it flared promise through her synapses that Baron was not truly slain, nor Drakkon grounded to a barrow. That the burning augury simmered for their paths to soon cross and kindle all once more. But doubt lined this vision. Feeling that the spirits abandoned her to desolation, and a grief beset upon her. Telling of the torturous terror she held for the man who¡¯d made her empress and shackled her to pedestal. No liberator could save this bondwoman, encased within her worldly vessel.

    This disparaging stream of consciousness was interrupted by the clamor of the tower door opening and Mordaunt¡¯s voice drumming heavy on her ears. ¡°Ah, how fairs my betrothed? I bring gifts as tributes to our coming union: a rich harvest from Evyrheath! Forgive my absence, tis a tiring & thankless task of reining in power... Yet we can count two more former lord¡¯s fyrds among our force-¡±

    Corinna welcomed him with spiteful spasm. ¡°Is not power its own reward & thanks for thee?¡±

    ¡°Nay! Power without purpose is its own prison. A leash to tether you to an early grave. Or to the raving rot we saw your former husband become.¡± He shifted not from her insult. ¡°I prayed to find you more pleased with the coming ceremony than before, but are you not? I trust I need not remind you of what is at stake should this marital circle be broken so suddenly.¡±

    Mordaunt continued. ¡°Have I not shown stoicism & strategy well enough in waiting for the hour when faith in our lost lord waned to revive our core with renewed strength? I hath not forced thy hand to mine. Do you not wish a world where peace perseveres, after show of swift steel, to let the veins of our imperium¡¯s virtue be tapped by the masses, simply because the view must be at my side?¡±

    ¡°I wish not to be the plaything of another aspiring tyrant!¡± Shot Corinna, chastising this silvery prison about her and caring not for reprisal from this limping scourge before her. ¡°Not be chained to one who claims the blood of those who have been husband and lover to me.¡±

    ¡°How curious that your ¡®husband¡¯ and ¡®lover¡¯ are not the same. Ah, but I do not come to scold thee. As there are virtues you yet sup.¡± Mordaunt hid his burgeoning frown behind manner of cool fact. ¡°Drakkon¡¯s madness necessitated he relent the crown. And the bard had not the steel to truly wield vision of betterment for the realm with an actual spine. He had to be hunted as the carnal creature he carved of himself. Yet you are shrouded by grace and opportunity still.¡±

    Though his gait limped, back bent low ¨C made crooked by the weight of that black fang which oft hung there ¨C Mordaunt yet stalked & hovered with aspect of unyielding ambition. Cracks from old plague craters absorbed into his thin cordial presentation. ¡°I know the prospect may not fill you with glee but even beyond your coven, you are attuned to the hearts of the people. As they delight in your reign, to remove you would rattle many more hearts with strife. Make them pregnant with more malice than ever before.¡±

    ¡°Others see you as a witch, calling for your death as a rabble.¡± Mordaunt¡¯s hunger hung on his tongue. ¡°But we can tame them. Let our hand abolish false gods, feckless mobs, and petty masters. Help restore sanity and Order to the land. No longer will our souls be encumbered by tethers to dead ages. Nor suffer the veiny heads of bloated hierarchs, be they miserly magistrates, rabid revolutionaries, or ¡®incarnate¡¯ emperors. We use imperium as a bridge to-¡±

    ¡°It seems to suffer evermore so.¡± The captive chose not to mask her somber sigh. ¡°Are you not but another master for the unheard herd? Another ¡®shepherd¡¯ with a harsh hand? How is this increase in strife you offer as alternative to send us swifter to whatever visionary ends you plan?¡±

    ¡°This realm is awoken. Arisen through strife & by a knock in the night. Given the chance to extend beyond its former boundaries. No longer to suffer the plagues of the wilderness and the rot of a civilization grown stagnant. People shall not suffocate under the veil of ignorance, the drapery of deceit. They will no longer prostrate themselves before idols of dubious deities. But as messy as this mission is I assure thee: I am no ignoble beast set to slate my appetite on the humble folk. Nay! My reign will be conducive to peace and prosperity within. I only need the support of your promise in regal courtship to do so with chivalry instead of gore & gauntlets.¡±

    ¡°Again, I hope you have fully considered the promise given of a rejuvenated life span, perpetual luxury of nobility and the pedestal needed to secure the lives of your followers. The road ahead need not be dark if you allow me to lighten your burdens with truth.¡± His tone: a windy whisper harrying a bleak confidence. The solitary & somber beauty of this northern clime and this heartless hold illumed to her his more ungainly features. ¡°Let me remind my imminent bride that I require only her hand. It would not be the first time either of us hath found our duty in loveless marriage. Consider the cost of forgoing this bridle. & how our wedding shields you from being crowned a ¡®whore¡¯ by the more puritan for bedding Baron.¡±

    Corinna slid back towards the window ledge. Utter desolation of mind on her withered expression, haunted by existence. In that moment she readied her soul for the bleak scythe of mortality, choosing the threat of annihilation over a live subservient to Mordaunt. But the trail of her thoughts was interrupted by her captor¡¯s forceful grasp which reeled Corinna around and brought her to face his icy stare. ¡°Might we discuss this along the walls, for a walk?¡±

    ¡°You think to toss me from there? Or sick the ¡®chivalrous¡¯ wretches among the helots upon me in the open air? T¡¯would prove an amusingly infantile attempt if so.¡±

    ¡°& defy Order & Peace for selfish sorrows? Do you not know the woman you wish to wed as wiser than that? Nay, as much as I loathe this leash you grant me, the fiends among your fyrds would prove e¡¯ermore barbaric. I merely wish to see the skies, bare, beyond mocking bars.¡±

    ¡°Ah, but that leash is so becoming of you. A woman¡¯s wiles can be ever so capricious. More so when her wit is sharp & her heart stabbed with senseless sorrow. Ha, I jest! Yet know that I do fear for your happiness, in this rueful cage you¡¯ve cast yourself into. None of us in this castle seek to see you harmed, hence the bars & lack of steep instruments. I worry you do not yet see your worth! Shirking my side so! Ducking the duty of your destiny yet living!¡±

    The hostage empress refused to bend & shrink before his gruff-faced scrutiny but instead stabbed him with her wit. ¡°If Drakkon is truly gone, then would not the throne he sat upon be shown to be as mortal & frail in its authority as he? Would you not be usurping a barren kingdom of lies? What will claiming one widow change in this? Without that Living Light there would be no right, no claim, to shine forth and the realm would be prey to hungry shadows. Do you assume the masses will consent to this overt deceit?¡±

    For once during this talk Mordaunt¡¯s cool expression cracked into deep disturbance. Yet his voice remained incessant in strongminded delivery & tenor. ¡°He hath ¡®Ascended¡¯ then and left me as his Successor. A new Lord anointed by the blood of holy war and given Stewardship of his Creation. To be blessed by union with the Goddess... I could rule without your consent in this. Ah, but I would rather you and your stubborn sect live on. Think, my Lady, would you truly wish to hold the guilt-laden weight of their slaughter on your shoulders? I know the rougher roads I could travel, how to wield real will in action. But bloody murder is so unbecoming these days I feel. & I have already bled so much for them. Yet the people are already accepting of their fate, in being removed of their fallen - or ascendant imperator - at least.¡±

    His insinuation did not sunder her armor, for Corinna cast her caution into the wind. ¡°Tis you who would be paraded as a charlatan and a heretical thief. The heath folk and high courts alike should not bow to you. ¡®T¡¯would be fitting for the people to rise in wrath and burn your bones to cinders as punishment for self-serving scheme. Hmph. Why must you insist on my being chained to you? Am I truly your only channel to deification?¡±

    Mordaunt heard well her interjection but showed no heed of it. He pushed forward, wrapped his firm grip about her waist and led Corinna from the chamber out to the battlements. ¡°Perhaps a taste of air shall indeed suit you. Let us hear the blessings on the wind and look upon our lands. Let me paint you a portrait of my plan.¡±

    Corinna would¡¯ve been content to leave the stiflingly elaborate cell, were it not for the presence of her captor constricting her breath. A silent servant ushered them beyond the door to be then dismissed by Mordaunt, closing it behind them as they walked along the embankment. She managed to grab the bottle and another glass before letting him command her from the room and gently offering it to him. ¡°I shall toast to it, if you might sway me!¡± Her visage feigned fright and desperation, though inwardly she set her feet firm to stand her ground, even if it meant facing oblivion¡¯s fangs.

    Mordaunt held the rim high but stalled his sip. Looking over the battlements, a proud remembrance gleaming in his sight, reflecting on how high he climbed. ¡°The realm will be a stronger, safer place if you concede to this. Together we can sow seeds of cohesion that will surpass the realms of old in abundance of learning & of- ¡°

    ¡°-and of war.¡± Corinna brazenly interrupted. ¡°For your passion is war is it not, Mordaunt? That is what brought you so close to a crown. You are ruled by a bloody sphere and impersonate that planet. How will all this suffice for so vain a lord as ¡®Mardrun¡¯? I see no silver recompense to your blunt offer.¡±

    ¡°How spurned I am by your distrust! Never have I been granted an honest hour of your time, my words never given reception of your ear!¡± Mordaunt shifted his poise from diplomatic restraint to reel her close. ¡°You think me a monster when all I aim for is the good of the ideal and the true strength of people¡¯s potential. I seek this prestige only that I may wield the torch to light unblighted realm. War is the sacrifice, the blood before the altar of Selene who sits high in Judgement of our deeds. Within lusting war there lies the flame of rebirth. By Astarte & Mardrun. Nothing meaningful in this world may be attained without first being forfeit to their gauntlet.¡±

    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

    Corinna held his gaze, doubtful of her captor¡¯s intentions. She gently pushed back his hand from her waist and glided over to the wine, now sitting on the ledge, to fill another goblet. Swirling about with grace in her aura she presented it to Mordaunt. With a raise of her glass, gesturing him in cautious welcome. She gave cheers to their tragic departure soon to follow the toast. ¡°Never have you given me a reason to trust you. You are a thrall to instinct of primal bloodlust. Serving different masters, yet never holding them in your heart; a cause clouded and veiled by valor. A man who seizes his desires with rampant impulse will always be hollow in his promise & elusive in loyalty. Your soul is still scourged.¡±

    Gazing to the firmament, the bite of winter ate through her bones. The wind brought no gust of deliverance, no whispers from the spirits of salvation. It felt as though frost had curled about her heart and any gods or devils she might invoked vanished into the void.

    ¡°You know, Corinna, contrary to what the sages assert, Destiny is not a scroll etched in the stars and pre-ordained to play out scripted by our mortal lives. I believe ¨C or rather, I know ¨C that Destiny is a malleable force sculpted by Will. Carved from the marble we¡¯ve been given. Drakkon ascended to ¡°Divinity,¡¯ even worshipped postmortem, by consolidating this potential. He had a vision to defeat the Vizzar and triumphed, but his fate was not to rule forever. For his Will was misguided & the wind blew for me when he would not listen. I carry that vision of a world where all can fulfill their fates; I am pallbearer for the old and herald of a new dream.¡±

    ¡°& where is my Will in this? Where is that of the commonfolk? Your dream seems to differ only in its centerpiece being you. But I wish them to have reason for faith, a truer dream.¡±

    ¡°We are already bonded. United in wanting and actively working to make this life better. Not solely for ourselves and our slight circumstance but for a purpose bearing real grandeur. Just as you have your sisters & sons in the coven, I have my warriors as accompaniment. Warriors who have cornered Baron to a pit in the south. Leaving you no course save mine.¡±

    Corinna caught his slip up, his lie which unmasked slight hope in her. ¡°Before you claimed that Baron is slain. Yet now he is ¡®cornered¡¯ but living to spite thee?¡± She wondered for pensive flash if her poet lived how he may yet offer escape from this fate. Yet if he arrived, would it not be too late, having supped of a slow death already? Unless her regiment diet of semi-poisonous bloom - effused into the potions to quiet her shaking spells - might help her resist the creeping toxin, if it should be a cousin of that sleepy branch imbued in Azarra¡¯s spirits. Or else this potion was brewed of the same serpent which kissed its giver, gifting only mortality.

    Mordaunt swallowed a scoff through a sip of her wine. ¡°That skald is a cunning fox but a limping one that can no longer leap from my aim! He flees in shambled steps, pursued by my hunters. He cannot move to meet us at the Summit and certainly not visit us here with my host of arms. He is unable to so much as stroll outside his petty hole as the Winter of his cause starves him out. Ah, but won¡¯t you put him behind and embrace the beginning of our Spring?¡±

    ¡°Yet you seem to fear him enough to lie about his welfare?¡± Corinna curled her lip with poking phrase. ¡°Hmm, humor my capricious curiosity: Which of these contenders to my heart¡¯s court do you fear most? Who should make you shiver when returning to draw the square & challenge kraagspeer?¡±

    Her gaoler grunted through the glass. Savoring the flavor and the chance to flank her comeuppance. ¡°I fear neither. But if Drakkon resurfaces from his burial barrow and I must ensure he returns there then my chains to him shall be undone by force. Should this wanton path be pushed by the Fates I shall have no more need of thee thereafter. Thy hand and the rest shall no longer be held to that grace I give. Thy use is only in thy goddess crest. As for Baron, I might say that if he swears off this stubborn suicide and pledges fealty he may yet rejoin under more pleasant tidings. Yet should I let him live to whisper in thy ear as a nuisance?¡±

    After several terse strides, with each of them plotting their careful words, Mordaunt indulged further in Corinna¡¯s drinking invitation. His suspicions assuaged by her so freely partaking of the same bottle. Already she felt the world spinning, the waves of intoxication rushing over her. Licking the herbal residue about her lips that masked the taste of poison. While Mordaunt seemed impressed by the wine¡¯s flavor, showing no signs of apprehension when next he spoke. ¡°Ah, this is strong wine. Full blooded and passionate. How fitting for yourself... Your taste is as sharp as your wit, my sworn companion of waxing coronet.¡±

    ¡°¡¯Twas a gift from the Lady Azarra. Say what you want about the wraith and her wicked ways, but she knew her spirits.¡± Corinna chuckled, shielding her nervousness.

    Mordaunt did not dwell on her comment, following trail of swill through his thought. ¡°Fate dealt me a cruel hand as a mere child when my kin were enslaved by Vizzari. I did not subjugate myself to their court in spirit, instead harvesting the strength to change the fate of my tribe and free them of foreign chains. You say that I did not hold their purpose inside my chest but rest against it, feel my beating pulse, & I would change that to admiration. Wrangling the task of balancing faith with service and patience before breaking free was difficult. Never abandoning my true purpose, cloudy as it can seem to those who are yet to truly know me.¡±

    He sighed sadly into his swill. ¡°Do not think I am immune to the guilt of that era. I was indeed soaked in the blood of my kin. It still seeps into me in painful drops. Turning on Malvayn was a profoundly inspired movement in my fate¡¯s wheel that brought freedom to my tribe from the now obliterated oppressors. I ¡®betrayed¡¯ those bastards of the Vizzar, yes. Those feckless autocrats had it coming, my hand merely their deliverer. I ¡®betrayed¡¯ your emperor when he cast down the cause for vain writ. Cursed him only because of the corruption spreading beneath his crown. But never have I betrayed mine own heart, my purpose.¡±

    Only because your ¡®heart¡¯s purpose¡¯ is a black shifting mire with no real foundation. No love inhabits that cavity in your chest. She thought to herself, scornfully. ¡°Has your heart always included me in its purpose?¡± Corinna beamed as a winter sun to see Mordaunt indulge in a good amount of the wine. ¡°Or am I only a recent addition, one added after the deed of dealing with our dictator was done and the need of me discovered?¡±

    Corinna caught how his gaze was lost in lime of nostalgia, a lifelong climb. How that single minded purpose in Mordaunt made him vacuous to all else. ¡°I joined with your former husband to better the fortune of my people and mine own. As many did. His promised realm offered much. & To fulfill a promise to prophecy, to a line of Fate which would one day drain me of nobility, of vigor. I fought to topple the repressive regime that coiled my birth, Vizzari. I pursued the call which I heard to triumph. I answered the summons of fate as presented. Made my actions the conduit of this willing,¡± continued Mordaunt. ¡°this call to higher purpose- ¡°

    ¡°-This call, did you hear it when you betrayed him? Were you true to your vile heart when you stole mine from this chest?¡± Corinna interrupted his boasting once more, wrathful skepticism along her brow and biting tone. A grave gale blew, borne by a greater loss for Baron than her bygone husband, steering her mast.

    Mordaunt aimed to disarm her distrust with truth and prove himself nobler. ¡°You know what he became. Long since he was to you that fresh-faced lover with the fire of the gods in his eyes. A crown of madness sat upon his head, delirium the only voice he adhered to. I only turned from Drakkon when his decisions caused our kingdom & kin to suffer. He let livelihoods wilt and in my eyes his rule became all too like that of the Vizzar in scope of cruelty. Trifling evil etched into the foundation of our culture. I saw how you tried to change him, help him rein in himself but tell me was it so vain an effort? He turned from you and dwelt in darkness. Truly, the only light left to offer in this world stands before you to offer freely it¡¯s rays!¡±

    ¡°All you need do to soak in that new meaning is accept one embrace. Let your virtues move me, that we might step past. Past our sins.¡± He moved boldly as though her partner in a winding, bawdy dance. Although not much a man of courtship & amorous adventure there was a rising lust lathered across his lips. The lewd arch of his brow made his intent quite clear to Corinna: seeing her as no prized woman or worthy soul but a passing reward for his grandeur won. All his affected eloquence served bestial end, surely.

    Mordaunt leaned with crooked look that cast her as a plump fruit to be plucked for the pleasure of gratifying his long-laid greed. ¡°My heart once belonged to another lady, a Goddess. She was buried by a curse, on a hillside. I shamed my moon by hiding her from the world, which scourged her ¨C worse for secrecy. I hide my need no longer. Nor make pleas to the gods, only demands. To stand now to ask your small hand to suppress all storms & pestilence.¡±

    Mordaunt halted to press his lips to hers. But Corinna stepped up her pace, pouncing past in an unspoken censure, told clearly from her body¡¯s language. This rebuke he swiftly addressed. ¡°I wish to share my core and crown with one who will keep hope aflame, shine light for others. Grant me calm grace to forgive both our sins.¡±

    When her gaze veered back to his it came with a stare, long and serrated enough, to bleed blizzards into wanton eye of her warden. ¡°Thou hast left love long to rot. This sin of another¡¯s abandonment cannot absolve thee through ¡®grace¡¯ of shallow matrimony. To claim this hand of mine shall lash thee to vices beyond the virtues thou seek to chain before ebbing courts.¡± The way Corinna clasped her suitor-captor¡¯s mask caught the snags of his soul and peeled his ambition, exiling his present desire. ¡°Thou hast failed to save others and thyself. What future can thou offer for us without the strength to absolve the past? Wherefore, this flailing demand for falsity? That only my prolonged torment can bridge past?¡±

    Mordaunt refused her enchantment of dusky doubts. Pressing back against the nihil his averse bride wrote by clasping her hands. He held them both away from his face and above her shoulders, speaking a vow to shatter hold of ice. ¡°¡¯Thou¡¯ need not spindle these fears of me to tarnish truth. What is done must be decided upon, lest it fester. Do not shirk salvation for these feelings of me, only seeing what you deem the worst. Virtue alone is vice without action. Come, gaze into the stars of what force we might stir to bring stability to the surf our former foolishness churned?¡±

    ¡°You suspect I will embrace you as a savior? How are you any more deserving of this fleeting pedestal propped up as a throne? Your rule is no deliverance from Drakkon¡¯s mistakes. Your grievous nature will bury any hope for peace. I cannot see the mercy you claim in your eyes, only a vulture¡¯s hunger for a widow¡¯s bones and rotten realm. Yours is a field for wolves to flourish while more precious flowers are uprooted by ceaseless marching of coin- hounds. I cannot give my heart to another so wrought with rancor.¡±

    ¡°Drakkon once had love in him,¡± Corinna said, swirling her wine glass and savoring the taste (relishing in Azarra¡¯s special toxin, even if untraced by her tongue), ¡°a love that you could not begin to fathom. He was seduced by his mother¡¯s conceit and caught in her web. But beneath the cold carapace she shaped to him there was a flame that burned with passion and vision. He cared for those he ruled for until his ear was poisoned, and his kindness withered. We are not as we once were and can never again be so. Yet there was a resolve there that echoes in me and makes your promises mute.¡±

    ¡°Alas, love blinds you. You know not the shape of who you married. Having been raised to such heights by his hand shook the judgment in your pretty head. You forget how the hue of his shade was always true!¡± Mordaunt downed his chalice, hoping the substance would enliven his words. Each wanted to whisk away dour clouds with sour swigs, though he knew not the secret lining the vintage. ¡°Are you so anchored to Drakkon¡¯s shadow & Baron¡¯s strings that you turn your sights from those who would suffer for your ¡®romantic,¡¯ and utterly selfish, choice not to move on? What of your ¡®sisters¡¯ in that little cult you call your flock & those whose caste is of the fringes? I made it incredibly clear to you how your Grove would smolder in ashes and the witches of every clan made the cause of this curse and hunted down. Not be me, but them!¡±

    ¡°The people need order, and the structure of our dwindling Dominion must be preserved enough to be transformed. A near impossible task with Drakkon¡¯s ascension and all these separatist sects and delirious cults. Made harder by so many clinging to memory as you do so fervently, refusing to accept the way forward. Without your hand to bind this union and restore ruling divinity everything we worked to build will crumble and the spirit of the land will eat away its core.¡±

    ¡°And what might we provide them with? What security shall the commoners & mercantilists find in a union between a dead god¡¯s grieving widow and his warlike steward?¡± She prodded.

    ¡°With the imminent eclipse superstitions wax the minds of the sprawling masses. Yet by acclaim upon that rise our Summit can seal the chaos that would otherwise descend. We culminate the congealing of hearts & let the scars of infighting heal. Simply take what I bequeath, and we tie their superstitions to serve them before they need be repealed. We grant them tranquility to quell the terror before seeding the depth of mortal merit. All the same under the sun which shall bless our marriage. For their sake of all prosperous futures, I wish to sow strength in them through our Henge.¡±

    Corinna stalled. Ensnared by this end, without any waking escape, rouge brushed her cheeks with anxious streak. Then a dry chuckle left the gravely pastel woman as she finished her wine. Praying in secret that the toxin making its way to her stomach would grant swift deliverance. She no longer cared if this ¡®good-bye¡¯ meant she would be welcomed to eternal torment in the beyond. ¡°Forgive my laughter at your forwardness, steward. I shall rescind my initial hostility to your proposal and find what merit I may. Though I lack your boastfulness.¡±

    Rueful humor rippled through her. ¡°But that I can earn this reverence gained by small-seeming grace. Let my acceptance of the prospect be declared.¡± What use was there in dithering, in protracting these last hours by pain, over an argument already defeated by death. Tis not as though I¡¯ll have to suffer the day in any case... ¡°Only, prithee promise me this: leave the Illuminaries alone? Let those torches stand to ease the path of sovereignty to people while we run this farce of empyrean into the ground with our inevitable foolishness. But we must try, as I shall.¡±

    Mordaunt¡¯s liver swished about as he jumped at her approval. ¡°Glad you find reason. Glad these spirits lift yours to mindful grasp. I shall prove these ambitions not the grain of vain grandeur but inspirations of justly gained standing. If honoring the bard¡¯s legacy by letting them learn rhyme schemes and passing poetry pleases you enough to be unfettered to his fall, then that is fair barter!¡±

    Corinna¡¯s head swirled, stomach threatened to scream out the rancorous drip, but she remained standing. ¡°Prithee let me ease those servants of my coven to assure them of this decision. Speak to them soon on the course for us all.¡±

    ¡°Splendid! You are as graceful in your wisdom as your refined taste in wine.¡± He lifted his glass to cheers, intoxicated by dreams on the cusp of fruition. ¡°We shall hold the feast I wished to celebrate. Arrangements have been made and the best foods are to be prepared that Spring blooms fresh for our buds. Let our feast ov ages usher end of starvation.¡±

    ¡°I can feel my spirit soaring in rejoice as we speak.¡± She let out a small stream of unwitting laughter after a sigh. ¡°There is so much still to wrap my head about. I would like time to gather my thoughts though before.¡± Soul soddened from the wine of nihil. Her stare, a vacant, fading glimmer.

    ¡°Very well, I shall leave you to your merit for a couple hours.¡± Crossing the threshold through the tower chamber ¨C this, her prison holding her in prim, proper confines which kept Corinna chained to Mordaunt¡¯s designs ¨C her captor stopped in his steps, as if suddenly recalling something of prime importance and spoke dryly. ¡°When you are crowned anew, and the silver gown tailored to you adorns awesome fit, we shall henceforth be called ¡®Selinna¡¯ and ¡®Madrun.¡¯ The names & mantles of deification shall be but a passing protocol. Yet in time we might recant all divinity once the folk who flock to worship are strong enough to stand for faith in themselves. If we do not prove ourselves too human by frailty, we can show them how mortal means will allow them share in holy prosperity. Let them be as little gods in our seeded garden.¡±

    His wine-spattered lips moved, rasping whisper over a courtly bow¨C a gesture Corinna glared through, unconvinced by his gentle con, sensing something monstrous in his stare. ¡°Fear not that I shall argue consummation before ordained by proper ceremony. Let this be a show of my growing temperance to you. I expect you shall be beautiful then, as you are now, of course.¡±

    With that Mordaunt went downstairs to ready the feasting hall, leaving Corinna to dress and sulk. As the door closed in on her the walls caved with it. She choked against imaging of that man¡¯s consummation, and what burst pustules and horrid scarring must be harbored further beneath his tunic. At least Azarra spared her that.

    Trapped in her lonely few hours here. Darker doubts than those of death or immurement in image of false moon lashed Corinna. What if this serpent¡¯s stain has worn off? Or is not enough to carry me out? Should it be so, I must cut out a fresh threshold!

 Feast ov Ages

    Chapter Thirteen, Feast ov Ages

    Later that evening, Grand Hall of Windhand

    Wine blooming inside of her, the world whirled around in Corinna¡¯s head. She sat at the central table upon carved seat, besides Mordaunt in a stupor and in a hall of reveling enemies. Her captors drank fearless into the night, happy to celebrate the war¡¯s ending and their being on the winning side. Scant members of her coven were spreads amongst the menials, presenting food to babbling drunkards and belligerent council members who spat quarrels with each other. While she waited for the fatal effect to mature, her small circle of servants waited for her call, to turn tables and break chairs to feast on vengeance even if it should be by mutual ruin.

    The Lady¡¯s heart plunged to her liver, sloshing about in carmine seas, how in all the spinning of the stars has it come to this? All our castles made of kindling, draped over fleet fire. Azarra¡¯s sentence of a slow descent must soon seek my agony. If only this coachman could be swifter! Unless her last laugh against me is cruel farce? That there is no poison but the thought of it planted? Nay, let this pool in the pit of me prove channel to true flight. Away from all evil!

    As Corinna mulled doubts Mordaunt revived himself. A second breath blew in from heavy libations. Wine-coated poison made itself evident in him already. Even amid the miasma of her delirium, she saw his shaking palms and thick cloak of sweat. The warlord rambled on, boasting of martial feats, and repeatedly defending his enigmatic ¡®principles¡¯ (without provocation), while Corinna¡¯s attention drifted about the great hall. Little interest lived in her for this captor to-be-crowned, save for curiosity of when the drink¡¯s lacing might embrace him. Perspirations of a paranoid psyche poured over his brow, leaking sad spirits into the oil of his glee. Pasting beady worry onto his complexion as his gut denounced this apparent victory by rustling shadows & furies from all corners where hung his banners of stitched Manticore sigil.

    Her eyes wanted not to dwell on the wrongness of her passing suitor¡¯s pose, how he slumped crooked on his throne. How plague-thorns bristled from his marred visage. Unfitting the look of one who would sit seat of elder stone, even one marbled for and by the cruelty of her former husband. Corinna¡¯s throat tickled for an omen. Fingers twitched to tear off tablecloth, wipe away false display & claw fate.

    The air winched tight with pressure of approaching force. A stillborn tempest rustled her spine and flared memory of Drakkon. Seeing then flashes from a conjoined yet separate life, of long ago when they shared themselves beneath Andrasil boughs in budding passion. Existential anchors pulled her eyelids, though she refused to cry sign of weakness. Sitting instead in mimicry of the serene pose of a muse from one of the great artist¡¯s portraits. Mind hovering on art, Corinna thought of Baron and very nearly lapsed into despondency. Her gut churned with both guilt and odd elation at the nights they shared away from their Lord¡¯s knowledge. Then fell to corrosion. Doused in the scalding truth that she would ne¡¯er again see such a true face nor hear his verse sung for her.

    Again, the tugging of impending storm heaved her soul. The damned bride¡¯s brain buzzed, and her stomach gargled pangs. Carefully Corinna slid the carving blade from the meat into the sleeve of her elegant garment, if she should need swifter escape. With her anxiety elevating and heart pumping erratic venom through her veins she could not fully grasp what her eyes even fell d upon in vast hall. Every colour blurred into a muddy palette. All faces seemed illegible scrawl of shade. All humors bubonic or dolorous, all true jeer shirking her sight.

    The perpetual drinking, feasting, and brawling ended abruptly, stifled by a clamor at the main entrance. Guards shuffled through and a battalion of armed men were ushered in, with a hooded prisoner flanked in the center. Mordaunt¡¯s litany ceased as he stumbled to get to his feet, the wine¡¯s power encompassing his balance and his body¡¯s control. ¡°What is the meaning of this intrusion, captain? This timing is most ¨C most foul.¡±

    Heron presented himself, patient resolution written along his face. He bowed and addressed his master. ¡°Forgive the untimely nature of my return but during my patrol I encountered another pretender. One claiming to be the ¡®Lord of Living Light¡¯ sent back from the nether. An imposter who prods the people¡¯s spirits, their fears, and is thus fit for the pyre! I believe justice should be executed immediately. Allow the blood spilt here to welcome the blessing of the Blood Moon in early ascent to peak tidings. Consider it a toasting gift of concord for that which we revel.¡±

    Mordaunt stammered to speak but only stuttered incomprehensibly. Then the cloaked prisoner emerged from the herd, casting aside his hood & show shackles. Corinna¡¯s heart pulsated rapidly, her sense of time distorted, as the man in the front of the hall revealed the real visage of Drakkon. The mane showering his shoulders and obsidian blade clasped in morbidly pale hands were unmistakable. Heron stepped forth with sword & shield alongside his sentinels as their true lord spoke.

    ¡°I am the Dragon from the North ov Creation reborn! The grave would not keep me! Those who defile our dominion shall face Astraean annihilation, but all who repent shall receive Eos¡¯ mercy! I am here for righteous wrath against your usurper lord, Mordaunt. He who erred gravely by coveting all our places in the Eddas. Make peace or find steel, for the Fates¡¯ threads unwind at present! To cut or restore!¡±

    Corinna could not gather whether this scene before her was a feverish hallucination from the draught of death or a reality unfolding about her. But she affirmed her purpose, seeing this as a sign to strike and take death into her hands. Leaning over to the servant behind their regal table she whispered firm code: ¡°I have had my fill.¡±

    To this the servant nodded and waltzed away with his beverages over to a mass of fellow servants gathered near the entrance to the kitchen. Together they withdrew persuaders, silver knives & shears from ragged gowns. With most every man & mercenary spinning about his chair, drunk and all too few readily armed the hall begot slaughter. Surviving Corinae allied with helots of the hold took vengeance upon themselves against those they¡¯d served dulling mead. In defiance of the grave or to leap into it. Meanwhile, Heron and his patrol charged the scattered guards and aimed to surround Mordaunt. The hall found a bed of chaos for them all to lie on.

    The pair of crossbowmen previously pointing at the ¡®prisoner¡¯ pivot and fire to impale those members of the Manticore band who seemed more sober and capable than their peers. Heron¡¯s men challenge the debauchery & glut of Mordaunt¡¯s drakes. Sober loathing thrust against their fetters to a pretender more callous than the one they announce the return of. Singing Drakkon¡¯s rebirth by tone of steel, bite of bolt & tongue of axe.

    Drakkon, black blade in hand, charges forward between the main tables. He points his star-steel at the traitor-thief, who weaves, trying to steady himself. ¡°I challenge thee, craven hound, to measure strength of my righteous hand that shall break thy sulfurous shell!¡± His eye cast seething heat of unfettered wrath. Though clamor enshrouds the hall, waves part for the alignment of returning Emperor and his enemy, with his wife beside him.

    Mordaunt¡¯s stomach lurches as he pulls himself up from the table. Striking down the nearest servant, uncaring whether he be ally or agent. Spitting at his adversary, he then glares at Corinna. ¡°Hunched harlot! P-poisonous cunny! I-I- will burn thee as the w-witch thou art here before our guests!¡± His speech staggers as the deathly rot wriggles from gut to gullet.

    The fumbling warlord clutches one of the tall wax candles along the dinner table and jabs it at Corinna¡¯s eye. Though balance fades fast from her she catches the sudden blow and keeps hot wax from scarring her face, only inches from her skin. Yet the serpent¡¯s froth in her gut saps more of her fervency and she tumbles back.

    Drakkon cuts through a couple of glutted mercenaries in his path. Mordaunt, nervous of his approach, turns his gaze to face his challenger. Were his stomach not about to spill from tearing open within, the usurper would have given fair challenge, each of their obsidian blades to meet its rival. Yet nauseous terror takes him and so he claims Corinna as hostage. Trembling sword to her neck, he drags her up and himself away. ¡°You are overthrown! Bac- back to the abyss! Or I s-send her to the-there to le-lead you!¡±

    With her last spur of resistance Corinna stabs the carving knife she swiped at this mad boar¡¯s belly. But, encumbered by the toxin taking over her blood, her wiles only poke his hip yet hinder him enough to slip from his hand. She falls with her spell towards the cold floor, plummeting into crimson lake as blood pools about the hall.

    While Drakoni loyalists flank and butcher glutted paunches of warriors & diplomats. Drakkon rushes to his lady, slumping from spasms, to be stalled by assailants who were yet fiercest of fang.

    Bedlam¡¯s snares entangle the hall. Ceaseless scream of steel and shattering splinters, as crimson covers wine stains along stony floor. Corinna¡¯s disciples refuse to abandon their vindication through violent task upon seeing their matriarch stumble. Instead, this ralliew their resolve into frenzy, beating Mordaunt¡¯s loyalists bloody. But those men able to fight sternly flare with volatile ferocity of cornered wolves. A good number of the attendants surrender ¨C some with nothing but their utensils for arms and no reason left to fight ¨C or else leap to escape to be cut in crucible. Yet the fiercest of the Manticore earn their namesake through iron claws.

    Despite the prolonged curse sinking through him, Mordaunt refuses to submit to death so soon. The fading fiend croaks a call but only manages to spew forth tainted spittle. Frothing poison rushing from retching throat, he fumbles from the fractured table and reaches for his fang. But for all his brawn & willpower Mordaunt could not shuffle off the spell of spiked wine afflicting him. His spheres of sapphire ice singe as bloodshot suns in the sockets locked in his skull.

    Before he crumples against the cold ground however the former champion launches himself for flight. Will intact enough to seek escape, he convinces his body that he could find a cure soon if only he could away from immediate danger. Grabbing the long banners and curtains by the opening, he winds these threads into shoddy rope and attempts to rappel down the hold. His brash departure: a mixed batch of fortune. For while absconding Drakkon¡¯s wrath the noxious substance squirming inside, numbing tendons dashes his landing.

    Aiming for the adjacent stable roof he crashes through it. Landing rough in wood debris and hay. Adrenaline revives his joints, shoves away paralytic grip of poison & pain. This burst keeps him from realizing the shattered leg his fall availed him. Delighting to see how close he was to a steed and means of delaying this end ¨C of enduring to return and give true contest to the loathsome lord.

    Mordaunt screams at the trio of stable hands who jump to the scene. Desperation shoots past the malice of Malderath in his throat. ¡°A horse! B-loody thralls! Lend thy master a horse!¡±

    More peasants and ¡®bloody thralls¡¯ flock to the spectacle. The clashing in the castle beside their stalls and work routes had them neutered and drained of guts but seeing this awful fall their ¡®master¡¯ took brings them back. Something like boldness and a hate beyond bravery awakens inside them. Fury replaces fear. These men & boys of lowly caste were then as furies to the fledgling dictator, avatars of the punishing judgement required of this broken monster.

    As Mordaunt crawls from the dust & straw of shattered stall, leaning to thrash the closest of the boys. He attempts to draw himself up, pulling on the scruffy tunic of the peasant, but stumbles back. His leading leg splinters in two, twisting back on itself. A useless ugly limb, a branch broken by tumbling blow. Blood spills from his gullet as he reaches out again, hollering as hurt returns. ¡°A steed, slave! Let me take flight! I musss g-gif fight to ne¡¯er b-ow ag-ain. The s- saddle is right ther- ¡°

    The boy¡¯s father, or perhaps his grandfather, given how white his hair and beaten his brow, punches the ailing lord sideways in the jaw. Rattling the swell in his esophagus to a severe stinging to match the force of his jaw disjointing. ¡°We ain¡¯t no slaves! And you ain¡¯t paid for any steed, thief! ¡®Sides yer fall scared the rest of our stock away!¡±

    Another peasant shouts the elder¡¯s acclaim. ¡°Under ye we hath been slowly torn, bit by bloody bit! Our kin split, slowly and sharply, by yer decrees! Divvied up more than e¡¯er by iron fist ye wield to slug us in the jaw!¡±

    ¡°Aye! Nobility ain¡¯t what we see here. This cur is a thief of our arms, our labour ¨C like the Protectorate said - & our sodded heads.    Ye cut us up right as soon as we dare keep the coin our arms earned well!¡±

    ¡°Hear that rattle from the castle? They tossed him out. He holds no House, no arms nor ally!¡±

    ¡°Take his arms!¡± Yells another arrival to this morbid festival.

    ¡°Take his fookin¡¯ eyes! Bastard¡¯s been blind to our flight ¨C our plight, that is ¨C let ¡®em know it for once!¡±

    ¡°We should take him! Like his men took our daughters!¡±

    ¡°Take the rest of the sod¡¯s legs! Scrape ¡®im clean!¡±

    They descend upon Mordaunt. His screams, sewn shut early on in his execution. The poison throttling his throat became the glue to end his dying vocalizations. His delusional demands to the mob that grabbed him (threatening their lines¡¯ extinction should they not show their champion the chivalry of a mercy and a single steed) muddled by the red-brown mud shoveling itself out and over.

    First, they stripped the nails from his fingers. Next, those digits were severed. Not by any precise instruments of torture but blunt force of raw human hands tearing away at another¡¯s. Then, Mordaunt was relieved of his boots that his toes could be ripped off with greater ease of access. Each of them took part, taking something from him. His manhood was no longer his, a shriveled toy tossed for a game of sack-juggling. His teeth: punched in and their wreckage wrenched from bile coated gums. Without his reinforced tunic, clawed from him with furies¡¯ talons, his flesh was as malleable and shareable as torn pounds of flour from the cart.

    This world leaves nothing left of you. Came the last clasp of clarity for this corpse-lord. At least in that delirium before reality¡¯s brutality hit him through the worker & laymen¡¯s fists and scythes Mordaunt had been given the far, but hopeful, fancy of being able to see his daughter again. The poison steeped into the stew of his brain addled it with dying fever dreams of untouchable desires. When that last rational shred realized his true fate as his shape & skin was shredded, he abandoned himself to torment. Shorn soul swam in pale moonlight.

    When any obvious appendage that belonged to the usurper was pulled, torn, or cut from his corpse and shared among the jeering peasants, those farmhands among them finished this business of rage with countless pitchfork jabs through the paper of his stump. His intestines were next to fall from his form. A gory and gruesome pulp would be all they left.

    ¡®This, the fate of tyrants.¡¯ The rival lord he¡¯d betrayed would think when he chanced to look later upon the ruins of Mordaunt, remarking on that gruesome end.

    But before that hour came Drakkon busied his hands tearing away the table¡¯s remaining adornments, knocking goblets and plates aside to clear room for Corinna to lie. Agony contested her veins, drenching her in shock. He retrieved golden-emerald elixir and held her chin up to drink. Prying her gullet in desperation for the draught, her stomach heaved. She sunk steeply into a dire sweat then toward stasis. Spasms fought with paralytic affliction till breath fell faint and complexion stooped to sallow specter.

    Heron herded the survivors to separate alcoves, interrogating each as to their loyalty. With his officers he hounded those defiant traitors but spared those who only followed the fallen master listlessly & repented after seeing the lord still lived. The herald of that very Lord they¡¯d defied addressed his company, as Drakkon turned from them, intent only on Corinna. ¡°Hail gentlemen & ye, children of Silverwood! We have won here! Gather yourselves and rest. Windhand shall hold us until we determine the course. Soon we face the Summit called by the usurper. You have done well. Though the way is yet long our lord will grant guidance when we are recouped.¡±

    Picking his ailing love up in his arms, the emperor carried Corinna up the spiraling tower staircase, leaving the bloodbath in the hall behind. Gently Drakkon laid her down, giving her space to rest and made secret bargains with the lords of happenstance & misrule for her swift recovery. She floundered as poison funneled from her frothing system. Sparse gasps for oxygen led to spewing out the tainted spittle bubbling inside her belly. Then she lay upon the bed, where cold winds past the windows and Windarian stone seized her motion, wrapped in gauze of velvet cover.

    Ghost of Love

    Deep into the night

    Drakkon remained by his empress¡¯ bedside. For her he forwent the duties of restoring the other threads of responsibility. Staying to her stead, on watch for her to awake. That potion granted her no such swift deliverance as had healed his outer wounds. Instead, it only sustained her within that cocoon of perpetual slumber. She¡¯d fallen into a state akin to sleep. Corinna¡¯s chest seemed not to rise at all, though with his eyes so affixed on her stillness a strand of mad want imagined the rising of her breast. Though sparse groans and shakes occasionally arose from her false death ¨C a performance verging on genuine ¨C with the loss of her breath for him all-purpose fled from the breadth of his dreary cell.

    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    After another endless round of unblinking sight for her, Drakkon¡¯s focus found awareness of another presence in the room. His captain¡¯s poise breathed reluctant patience, a hesitance to turn his lord from this sorrowful vigil, but when the emperor¡¯s eyes met his Heron found fast voice. ¡°My lord, this baleful spell in you must be broken. Even if it cannot be lifted from her.¡±

    ¡°Have you so little faith? Wherefore this haste to harry her to the barrow? & what is this ornament in your arm?¡± These questions came out half-furled, as though the act of speaking had become alien after so much silence.

    ¡°I hath leaned the last of my faith on you.¡± Heron presented the long sheath of obsidian blade to his lord, in who he wondered if this faith was yet misplaced. ¡°I have here the Fang ov Vizzarion. Recovered from the menials who claimed it with the last of Mordaunt. Let it be yours again, that with it you shall smite those schemers who aim to steal the Summit.¡±

    ¡°Ah!¡± Drakkon¡¯s strained sight finally found the black & violet blade. For a second the sword sung with a craving for him to hold it and let it feast on Heron¡¯s insolent throat. But he waved it away, refusing to touch the hilt and wield any more aimless bloodletters. ¡°This fang is yours. Let it be more stable in thy hands then in those of its fell master. Keep it. Use it to defend this castle while it holds my Corinna. For I would ask you to remain here as sentinel while I away to this final congress of lords & chieftains.¡±

    Heron¡¯s head shook in confusion, amid mannerism of disdain and cautious nods. His grip was reluctant to claim the ribboned sheath, fearing that the souls shorn by its prior owners tainted the unchipped edge. ¡°If I am to wield this serpent fang let it be with valor to fell those wyrms still gathering ¡®round our table at Felhenge. For a tragedy though this is, for her, it will be evermore so if your sight is tainted by it. My blade nor brace shall be useful in guarding a corpse.¡±

    Heron regretted his blunt coldness but dared steel his argument against Drakkon¡¯s retaliation. Yet the fading forefather of Imperium did not choose a tone of ire to respond with but fought to rally words against the despondency which housed them. ¡°She will return to us. I know the Summit nears with the rearing of spring and that I must contend to consequence there. But I will not drag her, still ailing, into the wolven den awaiting us on that hill.¡±

    ¡°Good my lord, seek the cool soil of reason. If the vultures that gather there are to be toppled, we must meet them with all living might remaining to us.¡± Pleaded his half-brother in Heron. ¡°We are already thinned. While this sword, this fang, is rescued more of our arms hath been lost. The last of the Dragon¡¯s Breath is done - disappeared by thievery or Mordaunt¡¯s misuse. Without Albrecht or his recipes, we are deprived of means to make more. We lack the fire to storm them from the crest should they seize the summit henge against us.¡±

    ¡°The corpse eaters and carrion mongers setting their designs upon that knoll of dead druids shall not have her body for a feast. Should I fall, let only mine be the offering. That breath shall find its way through to her. That if my heart¡¯s sovereign should rise, as the Fates must will it, it shall not be but for a final gasp in face of despair.¡± Spoke the Lord. ¡°Let this chivalry shield us.¡±

    Heron went to wager a counter only to snap shut his groan when he saw that the lady in question stared on at him. Gasping, he pointed to her. Corinna¡¯s stare sat absent. The grayish green of her eyes turned white, looking lifeless even with open lids. Seeing Drakkon rush to her side, his champion excused himself. Out of shame, sense of privacy & annoyance, he departed the pair.

    Overwhelmed by the emotions incited from seeing her wake, heightened by her wan fall, Drakkon whispered his want over wisdom. ¡°Incarnate love, thank you for restoring my strength and wisdom. My Cor.¡¯ For this chance I shall bear my heart to the sun that true light takes it.¡± He loomed close to her, that his breath steered hers through sharp shivers. ¡°You are the earth below my feet and the heavens above my head. I knew you would outshine this daze!¡±

    ¡°Brighter than Solaris, deeper than Astraea, more persistent than Astarte, you shall persevere. Star of all my nights!¡±

    The gray of Corinna¡¯s iris still rested under grave lattice. ¡°In sooth, o phantom lord & deathly lover, I am not of this world any longer. I awake as a ghost encased in fog of fleeting flesh. The grave is of me. Grace hath fled. Till my task is done I remain. Yet were that I wish it sooner. To claim this destiny of drowning ¡®neath dream of Erosian wheat and molten tide. But bound to bodily barrow.¡±

    Drakkon¡¯s astonishment at her revival steered sharply to dejection. To have her here, alive again, and yet be denied and outcast by this nearest heart. Yet he bit down upon this rejection and made to woo her back to the world. ¡°Grace lives by you. That blessing which is your breath and the bold beauty of those dreams whose wings are your lungs. Why not look upon me and know the face of love? Seek in me that sustenance of spirit you hath given me. All that which I have is yours, to be the grounds by which to tread away from this spectral mile that finds you.¡±

    But this insistence, this avowal of attachment, this speaking on pressures to embrace a hearth that was no longer home only pushed her further away, in fright of his feeling. ¡°Astral sight stares long into me. I cannot unwind myself from its view. Please, if you would, leave me awhile to my rest. To know remembrance. Take the mirrors down with you. I must find myself again in reflection of these visions from a breadth beyond ours.¡±

    ...

    Another night followed the stagnation of that dusky victory. Corinna had been allotted time for her stamina to return, yet she felt an urgency from her resurrected emperor & oath bound spouse born from the pressure of his desire for her time. Time drew shorter with the days. Dawncrest was upon them. The sliver of the moon grew longer, yearning to embolden its body for carmine alignment.

    The wretched vestiges of Azarra¡¯s draught left her, having failed to ravage her health by the stroke of viper¡¯s kiss due to the aid of a different dose. Yet she found herself confined to sickening pretense, with spirit strained. Some phantom ferryman drove her sail on, keeping hygiene enough to show herself to the hosts of her imperator husband in the halls below. Gargling with moon water & Lethe leaf to clear her mouth of that last of vile stains and cleansing through great fast. Painting her cheeks with rosy brush to hide the ashen hue of her soul¡¯s honest shade. But the sickness of stasis stalked her, keeping her bedridden through most of the days, being of a more existential accord.

    Though the Impress would show herself briefly before the hosts, she strained composure just to water the waning faith of the gathering force who were to march on Felhenge. Seeing her, their Astraean symbol, supplanted their faith. But for Corinna every eye stung as arrows of expectation. All this hubbub about her spun her heart into sarcophagus. Retiring swiftly after visions of Baron amongst the tortuous crowd edged her loneliness to asphyxiation.

    An ornament left in her resting room eyed her restlessly. A bust of that deceased High Mother that set dead stone stare upon her, dreaming of her demise even now. She¡¯d had enough of the ceaseless glare and decided to toss the thing from the window, cast down the legacy of that damnable conjuror of demigods, prophecy & poison. Yet she found that bars were still set against her aperture, holding her hostage even from retribution against petty effigy. A reminder of her constant and enclosing cage.

    Gazing long into the statute, Corinna¡¯s inner chambers swelled with sudden discovery. She pressed her lips to Azarra¡¯s cold, down-curled lip in peck of gratitude. ¡°Thank you, hateful hen. You taught me lessons in resilience that I wish you¡¯d learnt yourself. I will not mock your legacy even as you sought to taint more than mine. You gave me thorny truth & thus a rope to climb up, in struggle to endure which you exemplified ¨C even as woe throttled you.¡±

    Dusk draped the windowsill, eclipsed by iron holds. She picked at her meal halfheartedly and paced in precious solitude. Yet the toll of command and pressures of an invisible crown, forever branded upon her brow, arrived as Drakkon neared their tower he¡¯d left for her. Knowing well he found her aloofness his form of imprisonment.

    Corinna did not flee, didn¡¯t shut him at the threshold, but waited there in silence. Beholding one another with queer caution as the evenfall winds nipped at her selenic gown. Drakkon¡¯s muscle resurrected, their breadth & the broadness of his chest re-materialized from his wiry wraith-self of just days before. Sustenance of Mordaunt¡¯s Evyrheath meats and process sped on by alien elixir. For a breath they surveyed each other in quiet, basking in mutual survival.

    Already in the bitter night air Drakkon felt his tongue drawing heavy words which were best kept from breaking the seal. ¡°I thought I lost you forever. The chains of my sins bound me to that fear. I can barely grasp the feeling but there is an anchor in the back of my mind that is warning me that this ephemeral evening may be one of the last we will ever share... This is all my fault! Damn me!¡±

    With a concerned glance, Corinna lifted heavy hand to assuage the tears that accompanied his staggered speech. ¡°Listen, Drakkon. My heart¡¯s fire still burns, glowing even into the night about us. But ebbs for you. Nor can I absolve you with mere words.¡± She pressed her palms about his cheeks and drew herself up. ¡°I despaired for you, for us, for everyone. Though part of me welcomes you back I cannot offer forgiveness. Too many strands within me are torn... Nor can I pardon myself. All those years you pushed me by the wayside, careening ear to the tongues of Azarra and Mordaunt. I am abandoned to only the ghost of our love. These bodies renewed may be but our molting tombs. I should have told you in confession.¡±

    ¡°Told me that I am a misbegotten broodling with no ¡®divinity¡¯ in my blood, only the bane of Kassan¡¯s line? Said I am abomination of lineage that scarred generations?¡± Abject despondency travelled from quivering maw as gravity tussled his jaw. ¡°I am born vile. The seed of horned horror. It is no wonder I destroyed all meaning in life and tainted all love. I thought you knew and yet... Your love seemed so genuine even in reflection that I could not fathom how you could care for me, knowing what I am. How could you love a curse?¡±

    Faith fled from his chest, this reunion seeming more like his death knell than his second breath. But Corinna wove herself about his shoulders and whispered avidly. ¡°What we had was once real, beyond any standing in public theatre. I was drawn to you not because I thought you a god but to the light of humanity & earthly miracles! Yet Azarra¡¯s web ensnared your soul, wove threads in our union! I wish it was not truly you, only a symptom of the madness she imbued that let all that cruelty pour into your acts. But you long obeyed of your accord. Lured to cruelty, you let it rule you.¡±

    The reprised Lord of Imperium succumbed to mewling impulse. ¡°Often, I get caught up in woe after all that I¡¯ve wrought by drinking delirium as gin. My faith is forlorn. I know not how to trudge on a few more steps. Teetering over the abyss of myself at every moment. I fear I am not as strong as needed to endure this world. That the thrashings of guilt will not relent. My punishment should be to end my wretched line with these Bear-blooded hands. To seek appeasement from any gods that should see my suffering and weigh it worthy through sacrifice of my sacrilegious sculpture!¡±

    ¡°Be strong, Drakkon! You can cast off the chains bound you in since birth. Be more than a son ¨C a mirror - to your mother and father. Stand out of their shadow to seek the light of yourself. The future may be unknown, but it can be ours to shape. Now that you are freed of unliving myth you¡¯ve a chance to be reborn in image of your own. Become what you are willing to be!¡±

    His bawling persisted, her words melting the ice layering his core. Silence fell between them, dressing the span of several minutes. The dark wilderness of the unknown entangled their souls, though there was yet space for reflection in the other¡¯s embrace. Finally, Drakkon broke the still air, speaking graveled seriousness. ¡°Saatharian eclipse comes, and mass assembly is summoned to Felhenge. That fiend was clever to call it. But now so close to those pedestal steps, I feel incarnadine dread approach. To face all the world, knowing what I truly am, there is so much uncertainty for what path to take. Any choice is a gambit. To not choose is slower suicide.¡±

    The lowly emperor sighed sadly and meandered over to the table where he poured himself a strong elixir. He raised the glass awkwardly and gave phantom toast before gulping it down to pour another. Cheers to the waning of the world and what shall follow in these days, to what else entropy shall claim of us. But he relented inebriating potion, preferring sobering pangs in his gut over lush escape. ¡°I know I must first earn your forgiveness, Corinna, but with this feeling in me I am compelled to ask for your company this night. Will you accept me? To share this bed with you would melt away so much of what weighs on my soul.¡±

    Corinna turned her head to stare afar toward Windcrest woods. Her eyes glistened with pain as she spoke her heart. ¡°Alas, your hands are still stained from death... ¡®Tis all too freshly red for me. The thought too much to rightly fathom while my head yet whirs. My frame so meek & maimed, there is no mending fast enough for me to just accept this.¡± The iron barricade dividing dusk-light became an echo of the bars over love.

    ¡°I must devote time in solitude to delve into the well of who I truly am. Just as you must do!¡± Luster left her, fled by way of wet trail from limping lament. ¡°Those slumbering depths yet hold me. My eye is locked to the astral plateau that waking stole me from. In that vista of afterlife, I was deigned not for thee but to be with the songbird. I, of broken wing, to be with bard of shattered sword. ¡®Twas he who waited for me by the threshold, the rim of timeless but unborn dream. Yet no flowering wreaths dressed our souls. Only a red tide, rising to wash over drifting perch. Should I follow false heart to Felhenge the Hels shall seek my head.¡±

    Corinna¡¯s heart voiced half-truth. For though her visions were deep & damming, she¡¯d not seen Baron in her glimpse of the Thereafter. Her want spoke that it would be so, yet crimson deluge was all that claimed her in that channel between dream & death.

    ¡°Perhaps no such vista lies for me to claim beyond this mortal perch.¡± Dejection rolled along Drakkon. ¡°None that I deserve anyway. Yet let me know you again in this chance before it slips away with us in pursuit.¡±

    Corinna sought his eye, but her orbs gazed past his form and into the vestiges of deathlike dream. Recounting the vision which rode to her on crimson mare. ¡°The tide claimed me. I drowned in Helrivers. Am still drowning. My chambers fill with waters of this coming swell. Prescience ties me to it in the present. I am not yours to know fully when you know not yourself. Nor am I to touch affection again when tossed beneath those waves.¡±

    ¡°What rides on and writhes within these waves which we cannot overcome? That we both live is miraculous, so why not fly upon this sail? Take my hand. Let us share a ship to endure the storm.¡± His hand drooped towards her, seeming then a thing of wilted branch and limping pride.

    ¡°Those crests are of thunder beyond mankind¡¯s make and mettle of defiance.¡± Flat whispers made the bed of her tone. Corinna¡¯s apathy left Drakkon blubbering, crestfallen. ¡°Charnel surf consumes me. No undertow nor flimsy ¡®sail¡¯ shall pass this sea.¡±

    ¡°Is there nothing I can do to restore your spirit to the frame?¡± Pleaded his desperation. ¡°Let me hang upon a tree as Bellieus until all falseness flees my face and you may know this ardor as true.¡±

    ¡°Truly I have nothing to give. This coil of mine wrestles with touch deeper than yours might offer. O, will not this cycle simply end? Away to what doom is ordained!¡±

    ¡°Nothing is ordained. We might make of ourselves what we can, as you said for me.¡± Drakkon winced away, pain undulating through him, unable to reach out when pierced by her loveless words. Yet remnants of hope for affection implored motion. ¡°I aim to recant my crown. Splinter it, that the shards may rest in the hands of the many. Will you not disavow this depression to walk with me without the trappings of ruling and constricting reason. Might we share what remains of these dwindling nights? At least this one?¡±

    Coldly she thought to herself, this is exactly the discussion I hoped to avoid. Dared death amid dream to be free of confrontation. She rolled over to the opposing side of the bed and held her head to curl her hands over the tempest there. ¡°There is a blanket there & you¡¯ve your warrior¡¯s furs. In the morning let us discuss over tea, but I need reprieve. I want for solitude in the wake of all.¡±

    The pangs overtaking his heart disfigured Drakkon¡¯s steps as he left the bedchamber. Damming teary ducts he marched away from his love, of morose marble in her barred countenance that moment. He swallowed the urge to drink, hearing the latch bar behind him as he stooped. In that hour he drank naught but dejection. Winds howled with maddening laughter, mocking the demise of his core. The refusal of her fingers & lips traced sense with unborn want, wandering into cold oblivion.

    The crags & chasms of marring moroseness caught his fall. Misery shrieked serrating cavity into his chest. To live felt at odds with desire, so alone and aloof even when near to all he¡¯d fought for. With no delusions of divinity to hold him, despair washed over. Every wave in dour tide of defective Dawncrest breathed blight into his lungs. The moon grew gibbous, but patient, glaring down with its silver stare. In that arctic solitude he searched for himself, hoping to grasp some threads of being that may redeem him of tragedy he wrought. The open air only elevated his apprehension, spiraling about with every gust with Corinna¡¯s rejection splintering his soul.

    ¡°I leap into the infinite, to my demise or ascension!¡± But he could not bring himself to toss his bodily prison over the battlements. There was still faint pulse beating through to his blood. A command funneling fire through sinew bidding him muster muscle to show worthiness of regaining her favor and a soul of his own.

    He collapsed along the high wall, sundered by sounds of midnight. Most of the castle slept well, either from the stupor of drunkenness or sweet kiss of victory. Luminance drew over the battlement in absence of flambeaus of flesh. Yet within the bowels of the fortress agony reigned through the turbulent nights. Loyalists to Mordaunt who were subjected to torture below, and he swore he could hear their groans stretch through cracks in the stone. He envied them the simplicity of their suffering & stubborn endurance in the face of it.

    A lone sentinel sat along perch of the next tower scratching poetry in his leather book and gazing out at the horizon. What thoughts did he etch by candlelight & how far were they from his Lord¡¯s?

    The moon took the throne of nocturne. Something wrung his soul¡¯s strings in sepulchral strand, the fortress feeling then a tomb. Returning to her tower, his whole being shivered, from cold of body but more so the freezing cyclone carried inside. I am worthless and undeserving of her hand, of fate. My darkness reflects with rejection. Showing truth of what I am- and I am nothing special! Just a self-indulgent fool who could never find a hole vast enough to bury my shame-and self with it!

    Drakkon cursed, battering the hard walls of his chest in self-aimed ire. Desperation became him. With every breath his lungs contract keenly, straining the pace of his heart. His thoughts were the worst of companions. Yet among them, faint and taunting trace of hope in his veins as the mountain winds lamented his existence.

    His loathsome trance was interrupted by the opening of Corinna¡¯s shackles as the door to her tower flung open and the pale woman appeared, flush with renewed life and longing. ¡°That feeling ¨C it¡¯s eating away at me too...¡± He stumbled into her arms as they embraced, not out of some eternally budding young love and the passion that came with it, nor great calculation, but the lust of loneliness. ¡°I had given up... Surrendered myself to death, if only to be rid of captivity.¡± She mused, idly pulling on her pillow.

    ¡°I am learning that that is precisely when life loves to summon us to its center. Calling to push through what it pressed against you just as faith is abandoned.¡±

    ¡°Let us abandon all thought but briefly. Shadows keep us from sleep and worse dream waits with day. But let warmth rekindle this hollow breast. Let us enjoy the silence for sparse breath.¡±

    He joined her bedside. Slowly and unsurely wrapped about her waist. After several dual exhales, Corinna drew his hands up to her breasts. Pulse rippled between them, ephemeral yet entrancing enough to disregard their compulsions towards gloom. Blood rushed to know her once more from the inside, borne of sovereign want after endless evening. A need to cling to someone and feel skin & pull thread fleeting arousal of bodies submerging into one another.

    The lone pair of shivering frames pressed upon the other. Yet for Corinna this dance was of phantoms. Soul retreated yet her frame rejoiced to feel another¡¯s, shaking for escape from gaol of flesh. His touch failed to fully trace her back to her body, only a distraction from the uncertainty outside. Only posing as lovers to shut away the storm inside them through seal of sensuous shivers. Yet though he roused all feeling for her, her reciprocation slumped to corpselike posture; half-stilled, save tremors. Sorrow shared through their pores, in the shame of this small need.

    The last emerald embers died in her eyes. Gray film beheld his flailing passion. Yet in that emptiness, with gown forgone and grasped by skeletal paws of withering ardency, she slipped out to a self beyond the known. A consort of nihil, marrying meaning of nothingness; in which infinity found dreaming form. Trembling hand reached for this other inside waltzing with daemonic partner into penetrating void. Her mask but performed the gestures of mirth while denigration stabbed into bone & tendon. Tossed by thunder that drank up the rain. Her will dampened till it became drought, evaporating against an emperor¡¯s enflamed affection.

 Waning of the World

    Chapter Fourteen, Waning of the World

    Dawncrest 8<sup>th</sup>, 19<sup>th</sup> year of the Aeon of Drakkon, Felhenge Hill

    A befouling mist, spawned of stillborn spring, rolled in from the hillside. Their company pressed on in that fog, spewed over the world, tainted by the flourish of rising eclipse. Few was their flock leading to the Summit. Drakkon kept the bulk of their host at bay, waiting below the ridge to stand for his signal. Not wanting to retread the steps to tyranny by simply marching up the Summit. Yet the obstinate obscurity over the central hill waxed his folly. For the moon¡¯s carmine rays did more to mask the way, glossing cloudy coat more than parting it. What sign could any see from below save the pregnancy of ill omens gestating above & in every fold.

    Stones dragged Drakkon¡¯s gut. Dread splashed where it pooled there, warring with resolve. Every breath fell shorter. Felhenge¡¯s breadth scared off all else from its shadow. Its hill careened the course. Vision tunneled towards that peak. The pillars atop, stark lures to stake his summons before world¡¯s court. This Henge to be where his fate and worth are put on trial, before those he once called subjects, to be his judges & jury. Could he confess the full picture of his crimes, of how pathetic he & his claim to imperium truly was?

    Beside Drakkon, pulling his gaze from misty snares of death-thoughts to her, strode Corinna. Her presence, even when under ashen spell, restated to him that there were more souls on the scales of judgement than his. Yet the orbits they spun seemed from that glance to be worlds apart, divided on a more fundamental layer than plane of appearances. Seeking confidence, he found no such comfort in his Lady¡¯s distant glare. That yawning wound between them, never fully sewn though stitched over to heal. Leaving an awkward gulf between these wayward ships, exchanging flares in the night before being swept to drifting course. A couple, only in vague image & for the presentation to the public.

    No remnants of tender affection to be twined together, they walked on in an unspoken stupor of love¡¯s decay threaded to tethers of resentment & revulsive idolatry. Though Drakkon¡¯s desire still burned, yearning turned as singeing coals knowing he could not win her heart back over to his. That chance perished before him. She¡¯d allowed him in only in a sundering second of mutual desperation, a slip that shamed them both. That well of trust dried up. Longing, tarnished by ignominy of their last embrace. She¡¯d but succumbed to passing passion to let him play the lover one last time before signing him off from the part, casting him from the stage of her life.

    Corinna¡¯s whisper widened opaque trench, affirming deep tread. ¡°Might I remain with the sentinels below? The Sight ov spirits shows me only vile effigies shall glow upon that ridge. Those stones will cut as steel to imprison the hapless court till they are bled beneath the eye of wrothful Selene. The goddess is ever watchful over the nights and thus she knows us for our worst sins. I cannot face her ire so high up and naked to the Hels already!¡±

    Fog shaded Drakkon¡¯s sigh, hiding his expectation of her reticence. Grimly he humored her. ¡°Let this veil then see you safe. Enclosed in vapors that shall seal off judgements of moons and mortals.¡± Her departure could be seen only sparsely through the brisk red rays illuming the fog wall about the druid mounds. Yet seeking the remembrance of her, as vision beyond current abandonment, she acted a guide for his ghost to seek sacrifice worthy of greater soul. But he could not chain her to that change.

    Making the ascent to Felhenge¡¯s Summit, embers of a lurking fire beat beneath breast of longing. Propelled by pining to be more than this harrowed husk & be freed of it. Lusting for spirit beyond self.

    My passing into course of the Hels is what shall earn them a place under the heavens. I am charged by Malderath¡¯s whim alone: a feast for her under-fields of rot made fertile to reclaim Elderath¡¯s forlorn fertility from these bones. That my blood soak the rains and, through storm, summon better seasons to follow, full of harvest. Let plagues & curses lie with me. To stop the flinging of daggers at fellows and brothers. So much done in my name must be unveiled, yet must I pretend awhile longer, pose as lord only to abdicate for their redoubled sovereignty? For one last evening of pomp and pretension, if only to show them the way past my burial.

    Shadows arose from the nether ahead, where the veil flashed fleeting illumination. Night-Gaunts & Dusk-Fiends hovered, suspended with cloaks lining barely human figures. But beacons alit ahead illumed shades, revealing sages of Ty-Drasil in place of accursed phantoms. They spoke with the cold breath of night winds, their voices emerging from hooded faces. ¡°Praise be upon you, lost lord. The Summit thrives & awaits only your presence. Please let us guide this procession with proper accord.¡±

    Drakkon nodded at their ushering on, slightly unnerved by the readiness with which they welcomed him. He began to step towards them when the third among the sages enlarged his posture, blocking his path though not without courtesy in his approach. ¡°I must ask all steel to be left at the gate with us, per request of Keeper Albrecht. This is still a sacred site. The peace must be observed for the safety of all in attendance, even those secular rulers. I pray you understand these reasons, Lord... We merely ask you not allow your men to carry sword nor spear unto the pillars of Felhenge for fear of more blood being spilt, what with the druids¡¯ passing & so many rivals sharing the space beneath this gorgon moon.¡±

    Drakkon gave reluctant sign to humor this request. His men, disorientated & dreary, tentatively presented their steel over to the sentinels shadowing the sages. Though the lord gave an intense but passing glint to a couple of his party, those with cleverer means of keeping safely hidden arms on hand. He held tight to his rune-sword of shining obsidian, which reflected lunacy from the heavens on its surface. ¡°I will reserve the right to my drinking horn. As well my ceremonial blade, for this is my Rite ov Athame. My acclaim to the Summit is ordained above Albrecht¡¯s word.¡± He pushed past the pale, baffled sage to ascend the torturous steps. ¡°I will not shirk the past which stains this sword. Nor do I seek to wet it further. Yet ye shall have awful angles aplenty by which to assail me with aspersions.¡±

    The dense clouds ahead disperse for shining flames, spotted atop the winding path. Fresh torches surround the scene, breaking up the mire. Colors of crimson, black & gold, laden with the serpent sigil could be gleaned; warriors of astral asp encircling their humbled herd. Rising from the mournful gloom, a towering figure cut dark face by bladed beacon. Proud in countenance, smelling victory. ¡°By order of Grand Vizier & Arch-Druid, Abraxas, the eternal eminence of Vizzarion incarnate, you will relent all notions of hostility toward this assembly.¡± The crooked crowing of Albrecht scraped their ears. ¡°& by my whim as Keeper and Pontiff Magus of Ty-Drasil. We are to take you to the high hill in peace & safety for summit of this fateful evening. All worthy heads of this world gather to witness its waning and the dawning of the new order. Yet I fear you bring too many in attendance!¡±

    Instinctually at the sound of an agonized grunt and the penetration of bare flesh by blade, Drakkon leapt into the miasma with meteorite mettle unsheathed. As the pontiff¡¯s blood-guards lunged to cull the tag-alongs he brought his black edge to their master¡¯s throat. This sanctified sage & Keeper squeaked as a weasel. Writhed with fear as the sharp obsidian traced the line of his neck. The wyrm signaled his men to halt and the skirmish ceased.

    ¡°Albrecht, if you value your ¡®most high¡¯ head as much those fat titles then allow us to move on. Honor the peace ye claim to herald without your ilk giving slaughter. Else I will ensure the brevity of your pitiable life.¡± Threat whispered coldly in the alchemist¡¯s ear.

    Albrecht spat slime. His demeanor shifting fickly between noxious ire and soul terror. ¡°Know I betrayed neither god nor man, in thee. For thou art antithesis of both. I upkeep the oath to my blood ov Abraxas. Just as thou art but bastard ov mad bear, born rabid. Be eaten by the gnawing justice ov the Dread Serpent¡¯s tongue. Quartered and exposed as mortal before a loud following. Be sacrificed upon the altar of Vizzarion¡¯s rebirth! Tomorrow an everlasting reign shall be borne, but thine eyes will be melted from thy skull and unable to catch a glimpse of our glimmering dawn!¡±

    The carrion-fiend cackled a meek farce but was unable to affect any impression over the one he aimed it at. Drakkon tightened his grip on the ghoul¡¯s neck, cracking his laughter. With one contraction that mocking mania fell to whimpers.

    The arms enlisted to Abraxas moved for sheepish lunge, but Albrecht relented, waving them off. Though their glares were mutually sharpened, most steel remained sheathed as the rivals inched toward the great council awaiting them. Before the snake among sages could hiss any ill commands that ceremonial relic kept his breath at bay. This sword ensured that the ample tips of the others were not so eager. Though Drakkon nearly dropped this negotiating tool when his jaw drooped in awe at the sight atop the mount.

    Massive councils from all tribes of import assembled in their proudest court attire, encircled within the ancient pillars about the hill jutting up to the heavens. Most faces there were painted grim by brush of cruel circumstance. A faint glow emanated from a nascent pyre and a throng of torch bearers centered about the stones. Light revealed the viper¡¯s visage of Aris Abraxas, poised on the stone throne seated beneath the towering sculpture of a Jotun¡¯s sword that stretched high above all their heads alongside faceless pillars.

    The heir of exile wore a florid gown of reflective sheen of the moonlight and a circlet-cowl in the shape of deadly serpent. Besides him six other magistrates aligned around his throne, all bedecked in serpentine threads; with silver & red crowns that ruminate their regal shine through volatile assembly. Hooded priests huddled after them.

    Aris caught Drakkon¡¯s approach before his peers and turned to face this guest. Malice flared like a rogue wave from the sun raging in his iris at the sight of Albrecht humiliated as a hostage before his carefully ensnared audience. The group of sentinels with snakelike bascinets following them up the hillside presented their pikes in readiness as Aris arose from his stolen slab-throne to address this infamous guest. ¡°Oh, how the Living Light shines within you. Wrangling my poor brother with brutish manner. How noble, truly! And here we had prepared a toast in your honour! But you repay this, our warm reception with hostility... Will you not set aside this impotent rage which is so unbecoming for your stature? Yet you come without a crown, a Lord without legions or even a single fyrd behind him? Shall you not speak to this Summit with unguarded honesty, or do you bring one sword against hundreds of spears?¡±

    The insinuation of murder hung low beneath the threads of his cords. Death was imminent. Drakkon heard the hissing swirl through the pit of his being. Yet he held tight to his wanton wroth, with no care for custom or presentation. He pushed Albrecht and held Aris¡¯ stare. ¡°Your wretch of a brother propositioned bloodshed first! Should I not rend something precious from you before you seek to steal everything beneath the moon!¡±

    Aris stepped over to his accuser, his mane showing beneath his regal crown as now near entirely pale ¨C those alabaster strands of his birth which long divided his hair consumed all in deathly shade. He approached Drakkon without fear of retaliation, assured of his aim to save his blood brother. ¡°We recommend you drop that barbaric relic to wield reason in open council with all our greatest minds and bloodlines. We hear the call of coming eclipse, in all its glory ¨C the hymn of ascension ¨C how it demands blood before crimson eye this evening... But this assembly wishes a vote, a moot to find the right sacrifice. The death knell tolls for those who plunged the world in darkness and chain the world¡¯s progress to their own avarice.¡±

    ¡°That may be thee or it may be us, but a fair trial must be made without desperate threats of annihilation. Forgive my brother and forget this ire, especially when I come bearing a gift.¡± Aris offered his sacrifice the horned crown which once warmed his father¡¯s crest, bidding Drakkon don lordly profile and take up those thorns of guilt & familial curse. An ursine skull affixed to the helm masked all but the mouth in monstrous countenance. The antlers stretched taller than before.

    The dubious druid¡¯s manner was unnervingly composed. His eyes, covered in their ever-steely gray, emitted no sign of a soul. Albrecht stirred, pushing slightly out of Drakkon¡¯s hold and flung his forked tongue. ¡°These people will welcome your death, oh Lord. It would be such cathartic relief to see the source of their woes exiled to oblivion. I fear you make it so hard to be loyal! How ungrateful! Were it not for us, our brothers¡¯ bond to reclaim our heirlooms, you would never have lived to be crowned emperor! Think of how we could hath crushed Drakoni cult in infancy but showed mercy. We allowed your growth, till it festered, and you gnash at us?¡±

    ¡°I refuse to be diminished to merely a tool in your diablerie! You should be the rightful ¡®sacrifice¡¯ to this ¡®new moon¡¯ for treason! If I move this blade a little the cost will be paid - for I will never owe a scoundrel like thee anymore in this life!¡±

    All this consternation from the confrontation: suppressed between the three of them without spreading to the assemblage. Aris simpered with arrogant amusement and wove himself around Drakkon¡¯s shoulder. Smirking as he tensed, coming not with sharp hands but stinging words. Wizard-white locks absorbed the moon shade & fibrous fog. ¡°Should you lift a hand against my brother again, bastard boy, I will reveal the truth of your birth. Albrecht was present at Kassan¡¯s crowning and knows how your ¡®immaculate incarnation¡¯ came to be... I might affirm it, to your shame. May we not talk as equals instead? Respectful opponents, yes? For a time.¡±

    I will not hide from my blood even as it yearns to burn me. Let me not abscond from the laughter of the Fates, thought the deposed emperor. Yearning to place antlered coronet upon himself, molding it as his likeness for this last eve. Spoke he: ¡°If we are to be but equals let it be beneath the Summit¡¯s judgement. Let the people find voice to verse choice above ours, who know ourselves mortals. Should they find that foresight which I forsook they shall see thee as a more envious lord than even I. Let them reveal their wills and give fair court.¡±

    Drakkon forbade his foil & hold on the traitorous Keeper to take up this relic of the self he was cursed to be. That blade forged of astral ether groaned as he sent it to slumber in the ground. Forgoing it to adorn those horns to cast him to the congregation as a lord of nightmare. This usurper of Thunder & Flame approached the balefire as an actor of foul signage and misbegotten monstrosity. Naught but a man ensnared in visage of bestial divinity, caught in the same snags of the cosmos as this fleshy court. Ringed by faces, wan and weary from waiting upon this flux of lords¡¯ wills and wretched auguries from above. His mask, the omen of annihilation. But a vestige of ruler with nothing more to claim save his father¡¯s thorn-ridden crest, from which sprout the horns of pilfering violation. More vestigial than any of these petty chieftains & ambitious archons assembled.

    As Aris spoke Albrecht scampered away into the multiplying line of red, gold & dusk robed magistrates. ¡°We presumed Mordaunt would be in attendance, having called the Summit for us. Yet we found delight to hear of your recent ¡®resurrection.¡¯ That you could be in the folds of our hands. Your presence more than makes up for his absence. What a pleasure that a Lord of your ¡®radiance¡¯ could partake in our council in his place! Truly miraculous even!¡±

    An unnervingly envious look of gluttonous loathing flickered under Aris¡¯ brow as he clashed horns with Drakkon, clasping his shoulders in false comradery. All the tension of his hatred & hunger seeped through a hiss. His teeth & tongue stabbed daggers, staring into the hollowed-out frown of his adversary. ¡°Between us, old thrall, we are both but men. Yet I am to become so much more. To touch and draw something truly eternal. I hath journeyed long to win that celestial crown. Soon I am to be set a living god and all off the back of thee, o star sacrifice of our hour. Will we indulge divine diplomacy over bullish resentments, hear the people hail this change with their hearts instead of showering excess crimson?¡±

    ¡°For a wanting demigod you seem well aware of your mortality,¡± Drakkon mustered a short, sardonic rebuttal, ¡°given how you fear the mob so. That you relieve them all of arms shows a great strength. How even more vain an angle your truth of power must be argued than my ailing imperium. Should we not both be judged before those we sought to bind & rule through ruse? Let them judge worthiness in wrestling thunder from this corpse. Their fates are not mine to relent but are their own. To seek or spurn our bloated designs.¡±

    Aris, standing upon garish, platformed footwear to boost his height as self-proclaimed deity, scraped his lips in surveyance. Through pursed chatter he seethed at the mob and the man before him. Gray gaze taken by red from the flaring Eye above. ¡°You hath inspired me. In how great a mantle a mere man can claim. Fear not that I shall expose this. For I would destroy a god in you. This dusk of your world¡¯s dread is my day¡¯s beginning. Unlike you, I have the means to see inspiration through. I martial the greatest muscle, honed by the eastern steppe, of my house in exile. My legion waits across that next hill, with two taking Crestwoad. Should you dare look toward Chimer pass you would see thousands more asps of my imperium. We serpents become as lions in the valley you made our den. The coiling mane of holy State shall wrap about all, in prosperous pride. Thy decadence, our sustenance to abstain atrophy! The path of Imperator I steal from thee, o thrall-kin & slave-lord!¡±

    Aris steered their regal conglomerate to high perch. Indecipherable murmurs blew back in the wind as his Eminence addressed the Summit from his pedestal beneath tallest pillar. ¡°Lo! To all gathered this night! Bleeding signs fire the sky asking rite to be performed beneath its eye, to redeem us all through offered blood. We must decide who this chosen kindling of our rebirth shall be. After all the ruination befallen our homes, it is by wisdom that this shrouded star, Drakkon, should stand to answer for his crimes. Congregation, I grant thee voice that thy sound be the only Thunder left for this lord¡¯s husk. A great choice, this: to reckon for the desolation drafted by Drakoni cult. To decide what else dies with his Imperium. For he is now naked of any Aegis!¡±

    ¡°Whether he be divine or a duplicitous charlatan, the weight of our dying world crashes on his shoulders, alone. He must be justly punished. By the Greater God of our collective Will.¡± Albrecht added. ¡°To know more shall grow from this harvest of empire. Augury is one with thy choice tonight.¡±

    Drakkon played captive witness. Bound by baleful tirades spinning round and spear tips. He held no hidden tarot against Albrecht and Aris, the apparent progenitors of his bane. No sign nor savior¡¯s notion braced him. The cloud vapors over the hilltop were lugubrious. Congealing about them, transitory fog-walls consumed themselves to birth greater miasma. Gravity dragged the air; welkin threads burdened with dreadful signs. Any breath from the Summit cast a hailstorm of ghosts, an ectoplasm from the wraiths filtering through their lungs and webbing their mortal doubts.

    Poised along the ancient slab, Aris¡¯ elegant threads take in the maroon light of the moon. A dozen magistrates now join his file. Supernal gales surge through the magister¡¯s profile as his arms reel in the firmament¡¯s fire. ¡°All of heaven¡¯s eyes are set on this Summit and look to hear the righteousness of our council! Who among thee may offer testimony before their judgement, in ascent or rebuke?!¡±

    The assemblage bore grim, begrudging faces. Numbers among them blatantly scowled while others cursed their own impotence during events. Who will be the first to humor this strange master or challenge him? One of the captains, a fiery redheaded shield-maiden, stepped forth boldly and pointed an accusatory glare towards Aris.

    ¡°Our Lord delivered us from such shackles and disgrace! Lifted us up o¡¯er fallen crests of dread coil. I hath roamed in freedom ne¡¯er known to our ancestors, enthralled, and embittered by Vizzari venom. The miracles glimpsed in my youth Live in him, though we hath not earnt our fields. ¡®Twas the usurper, Mordaunt, who set pikes & palisades against what was all our own. His, the head that this should fall on! But his shoulders hath been cleaved already and we are all left to stand the fallout of his fling with stolen power. We see now that the throne he coveted was not curtailed. Drakkon returns to dwell amongst us at the waning hour. I, Verana, ov Varani, shield-sister to cousin & covenant stand for my Living Lord!¡±

    Verana¡¯s impassioned cry came against acute coughs & jeers from the cloaked magisters surrounding Aris. But many of those good people of the realm ¨C who¡¯d suffered under Magistrate & Imperium alike and been reshaped in the soot of those obscene storms ¨C frothed with frenzy, hollering sharp acclaim. The warrior woman aimed her voice like an arrow above the embittered congregation and let fall onto their ears her ardent call. ¡°¡®Twas only when the bard and the winged boar in the false steward struck violent demands, cawing for more, that his hand turned harsh against his lands. ¡®Twas our folly that tailored wroth rebuke. Look past the mocking visage of idol¡¯s mask and see the glow burning there. His eyes are alight with repentance. For us and to carry our conscience. Mercy shines there! & a light towards another day where we might strive without being buried under scales of a vile State!¡±

    Among the throng of attendants herded around the pillars of Felhenge another decided to address the Summit. It was a familiar, though now older, face parting the crowd. Drakkon recognized that boy he¡¯d ordered blinded in this speaker of shrouded eyes. Vilas spoke. ¡°Thou would decry what befell my house as trifling pittance? A symptom of our own ill when we were but blighted by this ruler, born ov blasphemy?¡±

    Drakkon gaped at the lad he¡¯d condemned to darkness, having stolen his sight as sentencing for a crime he¡¯d forgotten under the mudslide wreckage of his own sins. A bolt of shame & shock struck to see this wizened boy enduring and he shuddered at the hate Vilas must rightly possess for him. Another council member gently guided Vilas to address the circle. ¡°The mercy of this lord was to ¡®spare me the sight of my kin¡¯s suffering.¡¯ Yet I heard in detail the fate he forced for them. This ¡®Light¡¯ of heaven is a reaver of more than mere sight and is the bane of our people. No such a creature should be deemed worthy of worship.¡±

    The young exile, eyeless and weathered from the rack, pointed at Drakkon; the flame of hatred sensing where sight failed. Then Vilas jabbed a fresh curse towards the fell throne, to Aris. Knowing where he sat from the black radiance prying into gauzed sockets. ¡°That is why I say: that the same scourge of hubris which knows no mercy and cares only for its corrupting vanity is shared by that aspiring tyrant! The Dread Serpent and its servants must stand to be tried this Peak lest that shadow linger and grow to enshroud once warmed by the sun... Prithee, let not pestilent leeches prop themselves up over their fellow man e¡¯ermore. I plead we evoke an oath against all those desperate despots who would masquerade as deities and usurp the freedoms & prospects of us all. Let those they burn serve as augurs for their end.¡±

    Albrecht & Aris stirred for rebuttal but could glance no gaps in this enchanting affect over the Summit that could not be exploited by anything less than cold steel & serpent fang.

    ¡°Though I hold no standing among ¡®cultured¡¯ courts I ask that sensibility surface. That the gods ¨C all gods; yours, mine and the humble sects worshipped in the far wilds - may rest from the madness of us mortals.¡± As Vilas continued four Vizzari soldiers with faces of graven helm in farcical viper visage inched near to him. Yet he turned towards the sound of steel unsheathing and scolded the baring fangs. ¡°Fool, wyrms! Strike me and scribe red this truth I warn! The spawns of serpent grant us speech only if it avows their thought. They would have thee dance upon spears as jesters. Take this to heart or take ignorance of menace to the grave!¡±

    With his heresy branded, the helots helped Vilas back to their fugitive convoy. Though he sunk slowly towards the sparse shadows ringing the slope he did not slink as craven upon that cart. Disappearing into the obscurity which became him, Vilas¡¯ last declaration rang, restless over the Summit.

    There followed a schism in the vein. A division of mixed temperament splitting through the unruly throngs gathered round, dividing them more. Before Aris could retaliate with rhetoric, another speaker, a vicar from one of the tribes there, lunged out from anonymity to confront the crowd as brazen warrior. The robust older man with balding crown where veins of anger bulged from creases charged crackling whip. ¡°Burn Drakkon! Set to the stake he who enflamed the one who ruined my hearth! His steward did the worst of his work in the Drake¡¯s name! My daughters died, fled in shame from unchaste demands of his ¡®champions¡¯! Those drakes that know no chivalry! Damn the despots all!¡±

    ¡°Why? Why should this misery befall my House? Because I refused them their ¡®Rite of Hospitality¡¯? Denied that wicked ruse mandating we let any soldier with the ¡®star ov imperium¡¯ rest in our house? O, they wanted our house for her, they slobbered as beasts though she was but budding. I would not let them in, let them have her. They conjured charge of witchery & planted sigils of rebellion to hang her by our cypress! When my littlest one ran to her sister¡¯s side, they strung her up beside... Mordaunt may have been the one who empowered those mongrels, but you emboldened them! Propelled by the malice of your ¡®Living¡¯ dogma! Making him successor, you slaughtered my kin and plucked bare our harvests for sake of naught! Endless sacrifice for a god who cares not and gives nothing in return! This fiend is the true villain, and the tumor that blights our crop! Curses our children and rots prosperous plots!¡±

    A couple of others joined in derision of Drakkon. Their howls were hateful and grotesque in ascendant volume. Litanies of his woes drew others to listen through their loud radiance & rage. ¡°Baron was to die for bravely singing the truth! That is how the Thundering One treats his subjects ¨C his friends & ¡®children¡¯! The skald spoke how the blood running through the tyrant is that of the bear! Monstrous Ferali rivers pour to his heart!¡±

    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

    ¡°Where is the fingering bard now? He failed to strike down this aspect of terror. Fled when this ursine shade is yet among the living! Curse that craven! Yet more so the cub that endures after him!¡±

    ¡°Our emperor is unstable! Mad! How can I tell my tribe to have faith in a feral lord?!¡± Another shouted. The crowd roused itself with exclamations and damning judgements. ¡°How long is the list of towns and homesteads burned by his ¡®Light¡¯?! How many heretics had to be enlightened by pyre to pay the cost of our common horror? How high the toll, and for what?¡±

    ¡°All the old gods abandoned us, left us to the Dread Serpent long ago. Drakkon is a failure, a contradiction of the cosmos. Envoy of a stagnant creation that hath been traded to entropy. Ordained our suffering! We need new stars to fire in the night, fairer lords to lead us, not dying gods! Let us fresh torches grant light!¡±

    ¡°A curse he is! A pretender! The plagues hath punished us long for the blasphemy we embraced for countless nights! We must repent and beg forgiveness for how far we are astray from the light of the true gods! Offer up the scheming sorcerer to burn as an effigy of all our collective heresy! His death is demanded of us to be free from this forsaken blight!¡±

    ¡°That is no god I would worship! Saurian drake born of bear!¡±

    ¡°Blasphemy! Doubters & despairing crows all!¡± Decried Verana, resisting nascent riot. ¡°You would feed our dragon to a false star?!¡±

    ¡°Nay, he is the god of death! A false idol shaped of wicked Malderath and her wroth whims. No light comes of his return. For his seed is of the ilk of underworld! Tis truth, not heresy!¡±

    ¡°Hang ¡®im like a bloody thief! Gut ¡®im like the killer ¡®e is! Cut ¡®im down & rend our shackles!¡±

    Maddening maelstrom of deplorable shouts and loathsome shrieks supersedes all sanity upon that hill. Detesting heat rises from beneath every rage-beaten chest of tribal attendees. The gusts of festering animosity, envy & retaliation sweep up flurry of the masses fury. All standing and shouting over the crumbling carapace of the promised eternal Imperium. A final balefire smoldered upon ancient peak where druids & seekers erected their monuments to the forces that reigned across Elderath in all her seasons.

    Curses of self-condemnation made morose ripples in Drakkon¡¯s mind. The sway of the lunar tide pulled the mood of that ungainly court deeper into madness, all of it swirling in nightmarish stew, the soup of mental strain. He suppressed his tears, absorbing the sorrow and regret for all his past sins. His pastel skull-shade bathed in the halo of moonlight¡¯s malefic stream. The defeated emperor, receiving legion blows as deserving of them and worse, showed no real reaction, a grand stone in a greater storm.

    Though his body was wracked with tremors he did not cry out nor beg. Hearing the majority turn against him Drakkon¡¯s horned head hung in resignation of his fiery demise. He held his tongue and simply spectated, for he did not yet feel the time had come to address the Summit. The pose must remain enough for him to earn a shred of dignity and with it undo as much as he could under gored guise of divinity. He wondered if any net could keep all from falling to doubt or deeper despotism once that waning image dimmed entirely. To leave the people in midnight hour without a living god among them, to only their neighbors & rivals in common humanity; the pool which they must pour their hopes & purpose into.

    Albrecht pounced to speak over the crowd, beginning before his brother. ¡°Well then it seems that most hearts of our council desire Drakkon¡¯s death, or ascension from the mortal world as it were. For the horrors he hath committed against all of you, great souls, it is only fitting he be drowned beneath by crimson tide! Mordaunt¡¯s haunting memory shall be burned in the pyre aside his master. Let the blood flame eat his flesh! Allow legacy of crooked throne to melt with bone! The rings ov Saathar spin for revolution! Do ye see what our course, this sacrifice must be?¡±

    Tense silence tread behind his interjection. Too many among them felt robbed of their voices by this slippery sage. In others, doubt breathed in that gap. And a wariness of the armed foreigners stomping about as arbiters of this global Summit. Beside those who loathed Drakkon there were still those who held fast to his cause in their secret hearts, believing him the only lord fair enough to avert the rebirth of the serpent god & capable of contesting a chimera. One such soul announced her dismay against the sunless star of Abraxas, shattering the brothers¡¯ assurance of a glorious reception.

    The flame haired Verana raised dissenting question to the throngs. ¡°Some of ye would condemn the lord for being of ursine blood. But if we are to judge all by their fathers then should we not also burn this brood? This ¡®arch magister¡¯ and ¡®magus keeper¡¯ of a line hailing from the oldest serpents?¡±

    ¡°I say we stand upon our merits, not the names of our fathers! A soul¡¯s deeds denote the worth of its incarnation.¡± Aris redressed her quarrelsome push before Albrecht aided his thought. ¡°Hear the gains we come to grant you through a shared heritage! One, not of birth, but earnt by becoming as serpent scales and flesh ov revived Chimaeria! First of proud civilizations & inheritance ov Vizzarion!¡±

    ¡°No merit is earnt by the serpent for strangling us! Let us not lower our heads and bow the fate of our children, should we be mothers & fathers ourselves. The right to family & fair fortune must be ours to earn! Not rationed out by despots¡¯ fancies!¡± Verana pointed to the lesser of the brothers Abraxas. ¡°That creature there, staining the garb of Keeper of hallowed Ty-Drasil, is one deserving of death ever more so than our merciful Lord! This Albrecht crept up like a ghoul into the ranks of the sages, scheming to become high pontiff only to hand the keys over to our ancient adversaries in his House! He should burn as a blaspheming warlock! He spun snares of wickedness spindled by his avarice disguised as high decree!¡±

    ¡°Aye! Burn that rotten fiend! The gods smile not upon us while the shadow of his stolen scepter is cast over us. We are blotted by ink of blasphemy, and we will be forever on the brink of destruction unless we win pack the fates¡¯ blessing by feeding him to the fire!¡± Came the cry of a battle-scarred Harathi clansman. More called out, hoots from fellow tribes sharing sentiment amongst the crowd. ¡°We must cleanse all filth in the view of the eclipse! Turn ¡®em to a cinder before the gods¡¯ eyes!¡±

    Aris¡¯ eye affixed on Albrecht. His sidelong glare seared into his elder brother¡¯s skull with a silent shout of, ¡°Well done, brother. You have once more made us their enemies and stumbled so stupendously that you knocked us several steps back!¡±

    ¡°Burn the rot away! Saathar & the Red-Sister in Selene demand sacrifice this eve to stave off the tides of misery they pool! Set him to the stake and let the snake¡¯s slithering by the flames he sought to steal sate their yearning! Let the next cycle under their spheres be one of building & regrowth! Nothing can rise from the ashes when devils are allotted to lead the institutions of Man. We Stewards of Elderath must hearken to her woes and heal them, with alms & arm!¡±

    Rattle sprung about the Summit¡¯s populace, resentment stirring between the factions seated adjacent to each other. Albrecht quivered from his podium and stooped low into his seat by shifting sages as the chaotic clamor of those angered by his climb rose against him.

    Verana pounced on this weakness to call aloud to the crowd. Her roar rang volumes through the ears of those in attendance, most rearing up with a readiness to give fight to these foreign fanatics. A few clans there were perched at the cliff of full open combat, even if unarmed, so moved by this warrior woman¡¯s impassioned outcry. ¡°The blood moon ascends to its peak. It is the pretenders and deceivers among us who shall burn as tribute to the gods¡¯ graces!¡±

    But not all were so swayed, and others were still reticent to struggle when they were herded as cattle onto this hill by red brigandine wearing shepherds wielding spears & cleavers. Another attendee from a neighboring tribe announced his own sentiment amid her incitement of riot. ¡°Quit babbling, mare! Stuff & shut that horse mouth! Aren¡¯t Varani sows supposed to be clever and not brain-dead toe-suckers scuttling to drain the dew off tyrant¡¯s feet?!¡±

    A new belligerent shouted among the emissaries. ¡°That pretender pillaged our soil & blood for his throne to be raised ever higher! If the Vizzar will rid us of him then be grateful for their kindness. No matter what way, and for any toll, Drakkon must die! Let Vizzarion sprout of his splayed stake! A Chimaeran dawn is better than dusk!¡±

    ¡°Let us welcome a new Aeon with offering of the avatar of our wounded Age! Give Drakkon back to the gods! That the earth might again belong to us. To plow and tend with blessings renewed for having cast out what anchored our ships to harsh tides and depths!¡±

    When the rambling debates wore tired & thin Aris raised hands and voice to quell all others about the stone circle. ¡°Good people of every line, it is the destiny of the Serpent to coil around the world. This man, this vessel of your ¡®living light¡¯ is to serve as the sacrifice to Vizzarion¡¯s hunger. Our god eats of elder aeras to grow beyond feuds. For through this the cycle harmony is fulfilled. The serpent devours its tail that the world will be remade for the better. But only for the better of those who do not deny the truth of civilized unity¡¯s resurrection. For the stars align for our ascent! Look north as eclipse blooms and all light is bathed in the veil of blood¡¯s sheen!¡±

    The waves of lunar light bathed in ethereal crimson gathered & danced about Aris¡¯ crown, which cast the gleam of glory & the shadow of the serpent. ¡°I, the renewed shape of Vizzarion, have not come to bring the jagged spearpoint but to offer embrace of order & unity. Your kin slaughter & butcher one another over the highest stone on a pit of mud. We offer ascendance! We, the chosen heirs of old Chimaeria, extend our offer as one of great privilege & peace! What was once Dread shall become Delight and ye shall bask in the disciplined serenity of Sainthood for the dawning aera!¡±

    The newly declared successor of lost Chimaeria, of this re-forged state of serpent-cult reborn, tipped fingertips to form a triangle. ¡°We ov the Serpent come to share with thee a dream of unity. To worship the state which we shall know as one. To be lifted high upon luminous crest of civilization. To tame the Wilds and the Nights, that no superstition wage woe within our enlightened season. Let collective prominence be thine: as scales in the coil of lasting peace! As children ov bright reason, bestowed mirth of collective purpose!¡±

    Aris¡¯ aura pronounced him over the assembly in their nervous fiddling and ragged confusion and his peers in crimson. Yet, especially in the afflicting glow of the moon¡¯s phase (so bathed in bloodied rays), this radiance of his was horrible. He appeared a deranged wizard from primordial myths when magick was younger and stronger. So knowledgeable and learned were his eyes and yet they hung low with a weighted willpower, a need to be great in as many eyes as were to see. His pale mask morbidly wizened, formed wicked map of cracks, stress lines of foul plots & age-marks.

    ¡°Vizzarion, and its foremost herald in Abraxas, are but the stars to guide the way. Not the shackles of decay ye know in Drakkon¡¯s wars of hubris. Let us raise thee from this crimson lake into our golden pool!¡± The white strands of his hair reflected sheen of beaming evil from above. ¡°But those who stand in the way of unified state decry their own lives as but fodder for the Serpent¡¯s inevitable march... Drakkon shall serve as sacrifice or ye shall know naught but Death & Despair for all those of your blood!¡±

    ¡°Now:¡± The sentinels assembled there readied spears & pikes for punitive strikes should the attendants prove too shifty or any unwilling participants deem themselves bold enough for to attempt escape. ¡°Who shall stand for the new age? And who shall be shed as old skin & be buried for denying this renewal of our world¡¯s spirit?¡±

    For a while there no sound answered but that of the raging wind which now gave thunderous roar as that of a lioness celebrating the capture of her prey. Above them the cloud blankets parted for the moon¡¯s approach. The hosts of mists fled down the ridge or else were called to flight upon her wings. Bold eclipse showered them, spectating the Summit¡¯s lunacy. Struck by light of bane, most emissaries & prominent tribesmen bent low their heads. Stunned, they offered the torch of worship to Aris and to Vizzarion, as he deemed himself. Like a tide pulling in the beach, eroding sand & shell, more & more people surrendered to that sway of submission to that Dread Serpent ¨C whose spectral fangs siphoned Selene¡¯s blood into its ravenous maw.

    Then came the final call and cry of dissent & rebellion was heard from the throng of tribal leaders. It was Verana who raised her voice to accuse Aris, stabbing her finger at his grandiose poise. ¡°Nay! I shall not bow to a gloating snake-reverent such as thee! Nor shall my brothers & kin ken the horror of living beneath the heel of foul traitors & leeches! If death be the only freedom we can be granted, then I shall fight for it with the last cadence of my breath!¡±

    ¡°Enough with dubious ¡®unity¡¯! Deny this hand we know as hiding diablerie!¡± Bellowed a noblewoman.

    ¡°Pay tribute in the blood of these sponges, pretenders all!¡± Followed another unseated aristocrat. ¡°Curse them, the sons ov serpent and black bear alike! Let us tear these false threads they¡¯d weave for us! Bare our boldness before Selene and her stars!¡±

    More cries of righteous ire echoed through the crowd, several more even joining to stand beside Verana as she raised her defiant fist at the would be master of the world. ¡°Back, you, to the belly of the nether with your Chimaeria! Away with your shadow play & wicked lust for what is not ¨C and will never be ¨C yours! I sought this Summit to give speech to a god. Yet if we must meet our gods ¡®cross next threshold let it be by wings of Valkyrie! We will ride swiftly to that higher hearth with righteous roar to announce our coming! Let them ready proper feast for so bold an entrance of ours, baring against these dread fangs!¡±

    With this outcry came the toll of thunder. A branching bell booming with banshee ring for violence & misery. This great gong crackling in the welkin beckoned the bravest of them to give skirmish to the Vizzari warriors. Their shuffling and fearless struggle confused their foes for the unexpected display of tenacity.

    The asps expected a cowering circus they could tame with their whip & furious pomp, but the people of these lands possessed hearts hardened by adversity and now that ripple of resistance exploded into a mad dash against the foreign spearmen. Aris lunged, thrusting his feral disdain at this riot into serpentine horn. Rumbling pronged signal to the soldiers on the next hill, who answer with thunder of steel & brass banging on breastplate and shield.

    Albrecht split incarnadine scream to his human pillars of pike & brigandine. ¡°Let heathen blood soak the hillside! Hail Vizzarion forever! Hail to the Serpent¡¯s coil which shall shape our planet! Cleanse & stitch our scales through annihilation of the unworthy!¡±

    But before the servants of the insipient state could sate their fangs on tender flesh Drakkon stepped forth to counter their momentum. Seeding his fever into hidden horn, he split the crest with forked bolt. A sound to summon the henge to his reason and call Heron¡¯s host from the shadows to the Summit. Then with deafening screech, he bent the ears and eyes of all in attendance to him. ¡°Do not surrender your lives, your dreams of a future for my sake! Do not perish when tis I who am accused. This is my appointment. I am anointed to it. Let me surcease into darkness, not thee!¡±

    The lord loomed over the riled congress, the horns of his father and his abyssal helm waxing wan as carmine light from the night¡¯s candle fused the skull-snout to his. Thunderous passion rolled past this muffled mask affixed to his. His roar shrank propositions from Aris¡¯ cords to garner all the wonder and fear of Felhenge. Eyeless gatherings of spears & espers on adjacent hills craned to hear him.

    ¡°This Summit must not become massacre and the ruin of all thee who still seek to be free when moon descends and dawn returns! I shall willfully serve as sacrifice that none of my people¡¯s blood be spilt unnecessarily... I will go to the pyre, that your hearts should be lit with hope in themselves and not despair. Not for mine redemption ¨C for I am no longer a fit vessel for the infinite ¨C but thine. That all the rest may retain that divine spark of life!¡±

    Aris signaled his legion to stave off their avalanche with stifled trumpet. Then wordlessly bid his brother to play the royal executioner. Albrecht stepped forward with cerulean sap-wire in hand. The fell emperor did not resist as the Magus and rough tempered grunts of the new Vizzarion came to restrain him. ¡°My last design in honour of thee. Tis tailored perfectly to fit your claim to Creation¡¯s Flame. Be lashed to thorn & sap of divinity.¡± The Keeper¡¯s satisfaction slithered through his sacrifice as snaking threads of incendiary sap & jagged thorn wrapped about him.

    Drakkon drooped low in somber acknowledgement. This closure was all he deserved as all subsided before this current pulling him under. He did his best to dam the floodgates though a thousand conflicts swirled about his soul. And yet there was semblance of true matter still alive, therein a glimmering shard which shone bold light. Before his arm could be wound about the kindling stake, he loosed a last blow. Not to lash at his executioners but to smash this ursine shell about his face, shattering fist and half his bone-mask. As he let his hand be tethered to the top, impaled, and sewn there by serrated tooth and sap-laden cord, the condemned shouted final sermon. Feeling the veil torn from him, he tore his throat to proclaim:

    ¡°Would that it was the will of all ye people - good, lost & struggling, all ¨C that I should slave away the rest of my mortal days in retributive servitude & gruel myself laboring after penance. But the shadow of my mortal side¡¯s hubris is long, as is the scar & charred trail my campaign of bringing noble fire to thee brought. My wake should be by the very flame I rode upon, that I consumed so many others in. By that torch I cursed thee with should I be burnt.¡±

    While it pained him grievously to speak, meaningful (yet unknowable) substance inside leaked though waning soul. Coming out as a lion¡¯s last vigil. What authority he retained in this pose of godliness, even as a god humbled & beaten by larger mortality, broke through his shambled self to hark to the valor retained by the living.

    Ghosts gathered to glower from the shrinking mists. Though the murky drapery hung low about the hill, this moonlight filled it with pregnant phantoms. Cloudless rain hinted at its entrance by pulsating width of that very fog, damp and dire. Heavy with the brunt of imminent fall, the storm which was to burst forth blooming spring readied to bound to earth. Cast by shine of blood, with mortal drops to echo their tinted tumble.

    The lord whose ruin these furies might douse drank up the magick in the air; the possibility on the precipice of flashing being. Tridents of potential, searing the crisp air as rattling electricity to hammer the cosmos. Indeed, Drakkon felt then that his thought could command lightning against this crest or call himself up with the winds to fly before the witherance of this cumbersome vessel. For the dark light linking the stars now awoke, with vision granted by the eye of gestating Selene.

    ¡°You who have been scorched by heaven¡¯s eyeless barrage must shine brighter than your former Lords. You must hold the fire in your hands as you would your gardener¡¯s tools, for only with your modest wisdoms & your furious dreams can you keep that incandescence lit enough to not set aflame all that beauty around us that the ¡®highest¡¯ felt too below them. Do not tear the welkin down to clamor up towards empyrean mounts but build up from Elderath¡¯s motherly grounds that you, Nature¡¯s children, are owed. My time above you is past, so too the decadence of any god among you. That divinity can be your own!¡±

    The overseer of this execution frowned towards his brother and agent. That smirking cretin who slipped on the cloak of Magus & Keeper thus encased Drakkon in a thorny rope of fetid sap, that he could not run from the stake. Delight was evident from his sadistic shine, a terrible glee to see helpless enemy prostrated before waxing fyre. Albrecht laughed as Aris sauntered over to the pyre, torch in hand to address the masses.

    ¡°Alas this ¡®god¡¯ of fading fire meets his end by heretic¡¯s stake. With this death we usher fresh life in the form of final state. Let not his lies reach you past the scorching of his spent shell. Let them be lost to ash! Reflect on your sins, those who were loyal to this dying light, and ask for mercy by the glow of balefire. I evoke the aera, its shapers, movers & redeemers! Renew Chimaeria in us! I evoke the highest conquest under heaven! As Vizzarion is my Spirit, be as my flesh! Let us all bathe and be baptized in the glorious firmament! Heaven¡¯s eye aches for this regal kindling!¡±

    Fluctuations in rasps and silence took the rabble, some baffled in awe while others rattled in horror. Drakkon, seized by surreal dissociation, felt the wings of higher pull of spirit lift vision from body to gaze at those assembled through the eyes of the world. They laughed, they wept, they smiled, they kept still out of docile courtesy. His materia poured out before the world as famished embers began to eat their way towards his mortal flesh. Aris¡¯ minions stoked the fire to burst pustules into plumes.

    ¡°All those whose hearts have ears, hear me! I burn that the Living Light shall shine in you. To burn bright in your being for realizations of your path! Be found in soul¡¯s fire and do not let that beacon be snuffed by tyrants & thieves! Let them burn by righteous wrath while you know yourselves equal in divinity & opportunity! This mortal vessel of mine hath been corrupted by worldly despair and thus must perish... But let this sacrament of flesh & ash give wings to the dreams alive within you! Rise this hour should you take torch into your chests! Let your hearts swallow it!¡±

    The tongue of the fire licked away at Drakkon¡¯s feet, the mouth of the inferno widening to swallow him. Through the haze of blood, smoke & dream he thought he gleaned a familiar face cloaked amongst the crowd. Corinna¡¯s gray eyes pierced at him, reflecting desperate intent of woe & worship. As more hooded magisters of crimson cowls & elaborate threads crept to join the pallbearers who illumed Aris¡¯ stone throne. Before inevitable pains took him, he gasped one final plea to his funereal audience. ¡°Let those whose hearts do not burn for their passions and their people be bound to flame as I! The new day is yours to claim!¡±

    The waves of Drakkon¡¯s life subside. His being ebbs away from tide of the world, dissolving into black pool of oblivion as all around thrashed about in wake of madness. He knew naught the sensation of his screams as consciousness flees from the earth. Alienated from this his husk left to the slag of the pyre. Helwinds howl to hold him forever, as the fire gnaws at corporal ties. The wings of death took him in flight, to whatever dimension that spirit may dwell in. Yet in final flash under Malderath¡¯s glare, something truly supernal moves through him and transforms him unto death. The glow of his antlers extends as blazing pillars, piercing the sky. Becoming tridents of ash as body burst with sap & powder to ashen cloud.

    The self-ordained incarnate successor of Vizzarion sat gloating on his slab throne. The moon in glorious eclipse poured rouge, lava-like flow from its volcanic fountain to melt the film of the firmament into singular shade of anguish over the earth. Selene glared witness. Her sphere now prouder in sheen & scale than sunlight of Solaris. For Aris it was a spectacular show, this circle of olden pillars & stones: the theater of his ambition unfolding so richly. He was about to give a last toast, a speech of ascendancy over his rival¡¯s death cries when another raised a more potent spectacle. One to entrance more than the feigned thunder of his voice and the flame a dying lord could command.

    Corinna comes upon the circle & binds it, singing somber chant. Her funeral aria and pale, glowing countenance calls on all to attend her. Such lamenting accord infused in her operatic showing, rouses spirit from her chords and holds even the forked tongues of the magisters of the wyrm in awe. Melody mesmerizes the pale-red congress, swept by sorrowful serenade.

    Vexing song wreathed their eyes, so binding that none of the spectators realized the schools of wraiths hovering from the loom. Among those inclement specters some were men of spear & shield. Yet others among the unannounced newcomers were as nightcomers that beheld the muse¡¯s tune with ghoulish appetite from forms too gaunt & terrible to be mortal. Apparitions leered from the fermenting ghosts of traitors & druids in the gibbets lining the crests and behind cloaks of the living council.

    Among these wispy witnesses atop peak shrouded in shade of suffering, occult assassins traced the siren¡¯s steps and hunted for forms to take. Eos lay splayed by the rays of their sight, staked & gored by harrowing guests of shadow sect. Hope of the Dawn, devoured by the hunger of daemons from the ether for horizon¡¯s dream. & still more eyes & greater shapes bore from between incarnadine veils.

    In that evocation of her presence, Corrina makes unwitting way for another. From the peripheral of the fallen stone throne flashes bolder inspiration to draw forth the currents. An eye in the moon, wreathed with rings of flame and Saatharian shade across its iris, gleams infernal design for the firmament. It¡¯s welkin stare fixates on their foremost hill. Carmine rays shone halo upon the throngs atop the toppled throne of Druidry. There, a woman wreathed in transparent mist dyed red, with gilt & silver mane and hooded eyes of fire, traces the sign of heaven across her throat, where cauterized scar serves the shape of her lightning.

    Azarra, hidden behind the magistrates encircling the nexus, strikes flint against scattered circle of draconic powder. Intuition & ire alight, her hand sends Dragon¡¯s Breath to engulf the covetous court about stolen throne. ¡°Your warning to me was quite warming. Let me return your grace in kind as kindling.¡± A pained, whispering curse and half chortle croaks from her scarred throat through her apprentice¡¯s to scrape the aspiring hierophant¡¯s ear & every synapse. Words aflame as the sprinkling of cinder-sap she set for them.

    Aris squirms and wriggles as his decadent robe, and Albrecht alongside him, catch flame by clever hand. These arbiters, unable to keep their gowns & costumes from witch¡¯s torch become chorus of abject fear & agony. The brothers Abraxas burn in wake of draconic breath. Wailing ghoulish cries wilting to ash, they choke on curses before soot becomes their regal skin.

    Azarra, swathed in dress of phantom vapors, stood back reeling in the lunar iris. Living flame alight in her eyes as enrapturing screams escape the seared stitches along her neck through those of others. Howling chorus of anguish & ecstasy. Spheres of green & blue stake upon the immolating husk of her son, born of curse but blessed by fyre. His fate linked with Aris¡¯ to the flame, as precursors to illumination. Then she settles on the serpent army readied to strangle all gods but theirs. Her voice roars not from her wounds but through the endless and invisible chorus of the winds. Her sign, a true trident of lifelong wrath flashing into form. Her reverent rouse as a river flooding the stone crests. As the tendrils from above form conduit of her rage: aurora of bloody spring.

    Her strained cords ignite flares of the Hels to meet the distant crest where Vizzari steel stood as a silvery tide contesting the angered atmosphere. Drawn by metal and magnetism of thunderous fire evoked on that adjacent hilltop, two tridents shot from the eye to awash those armies in dual surge of azure & jade.

    The Azarine flock, disguised in frocks of sages and magisters, hearkens the faint summons of their mother. With the accompaniment of her prime disciple in Dahlia and the howling of her wolfen cub they join the Summit with discord. With more of their cavernous coven coming upon the henge from the fringes of the fallen forest they descant Astartean wroth.

    As astounded as distressed, the rest of the mob flail against their would-be captors. The crowd, enflamed, batter & trample the sour-faced spearmen, overwhelming them with the brunt of their frenzied numbers. They rally with primal screams, convening in the chaos to repel their unifying death sentence and turn it upon the attempted executioners. Yet among them the mad Azarine sprawl as sheet of steel & Fenrik¡¯s wolven fang.

    Among the breadth of bedlam many fight on, frenzied from gods¡¯blood & holy smog. Slicing at the crowds to spill any throats that sung for the burnt lord. A culling to quell that immolation of man-made deity. To douse those devout to dying thunder or serpent of ash and snuff smoldering fumes by silencing those of devouring sects.

    Corinna too was almost upturned by surge of arisen anarchy. Near losing her way to the thorny brush of turmoil. Yet she tilted her head back to gaze at the dying effigy of her lifelong suitor and swallowed the last glint within his eye into her own before being engulfed entirely. A hundred emotions smoldered within her spirit, but she wielded this insatiable flame. Turning distortion & the pitch of despaired confusion into a torch to blaze through this dismal night.

    The crimson eye of eclipse descended over the scene of their struggle. Unblinking as more people rallied to rabid defiance. Wrenching arms from corpses & adjoining hosts, the congress burst with numbers to cage the Vizzari wardens. All were deafened by the lance of lightning so near and numbed to all but violence. Vicious vengeance wracked the vicars & cultists until the mob attained catharsis by way of piling torn limbs by the swelling stake.

    Selene¡¯s glare bore down upon their dismal Summit, casting the old stone pillars of Felhenge in its dark radiance. Those rays of illumination deepened the shadows and crevasses between people¡¯s causes. Alit their madness for what it was. Divining light drowned the stage of the Blood Moon in fullest flame, all visages under reflecting the ruddiness of bloodshot frenzy.

    The tides of Helwinds bent to the beckoning of that ruby sphere. Waves of the cosmic ocean came crashing down upon that hill to sweep them all into spiraling maelstrom of apocalyptic havoc. The heavens: drawn & drained of blood, leaked through their reddish-black streaks tearing through sky. The Night laid bare by blazons of the moon¡¯s dark red hue. Peering from its perch, so close as though to collide with this weathered old hilltop where bewitchment brought the assembly to batter each other with unabated blows.

 Into the Unknown/Epilogue

    Into the Unknown

    Peak of the Eclipse, Felhenge Summit

    Burgeoning clouds break by battle. Spears & sword tips plunge into bellies of rioters only to be summarily jerked out by their comrades to wield against their killers. Those would-be conquerors who had made their abode across distant desert wastes to claim their home here had presumed too much of their spectacle. For they underestimated the resistance this belligerent populace could counter. No organization, no footholds could be reclaimed among them as bedlam besieged the Summit and blood washed the oldest of stone totems.

    As the sheer brunt fervor & size of the crowd beat down more of their abhorred foes after tithes of their fellow¡¯s flesh, they attained enough arms to splinter the foreign encirclement of Felhenge¡¯s main mound. From the cleft those more fearful souls among the condemned tribes fled in manic stampede down the hillside. This mass exodus in panic kicked up more dust, rocks & cinder-smoke to cloak that high peak in crimson lit smog of woollike clouds woven with foreboding threads. This heavy blanket fell upon them and bid all sanity sleep for a while this night to let full lunacy reign supreme over their dithering mortal danse macabre.

    An ear-splitting shriek, a sudden freakish wolf¡¯s howl split that ashen cloud cloaking the hill as a monstrous figure rose. A wolf in shape of man stood high on its heels, bipedal and deranged in motion. With razor sharp claws it tore away at the faces of those unfortunate tribesmen in its path. The thing screeched with demon lungs that spit the fury of the seven winds. Those who caught first sight of that beast wondered what abominations of their divine punishment had been unleashed by lunar gate.

    A twisted coven summoned spout of high strangeness unto the henge. As they took flight this chosen night, the silhouettes of this sisterhood creeped in with stark pace of the icy wind. Chills shriveled the nerves of those who witnessed the fatal ascent of this cult. Some of the hooded hags joining their spindly spider-limbs together in a circle about the stones and pyre while chanting in chorus of weird hymns borne of bleakest corners of the ancient world. Witch, wolf & satyr reveled in rite of indiscriminate destruction. Slicing the unexpectant jugulars of country folk & outlandish nobles alike, exulting sadistic steps of orgiastic dance.

    The hellish hound of immense & aberrant mold scatters the ranks with its sheer presence to tower before Corinna. This hybrid of man and monster locks gaze with her, its hungry leering churning her stomach with nausea and arresting her heart with the worst horror. It pounces and before one could even blink the hulking werewolf was upon her. Inches from her face with one long and wicked claw-finger pointed to her almost close enough to drag and scalp her.

    With the wings of her flight shorn, an existential stasis arrests her by the mere appearance of the beast. Something human and uncannily familiar dwelt in its wild eyes and haunting quality of that stare froze her veins into a chilled coma. Just as that serrated paw nears her paralyzed eyes to fulfill its wretched feast, a ghostly arm from somewhere unseen wrenches Corinna to the side and out from its reach. This grip yanked her to a slight tumble towards the lower edge of Felhenge summit.

    The hand which pulled her to safety belonged the feisty woman with the braided red mane, Verana. Her blush cheeks & bright hair were as rouge as crimson luster of that celestial body staring from above with its same bloody sheen. A combined band of Harathi & Varani compatriots rushed in as relievers to clash with the beast.

    Though flustered and struggling with her fear, the young Valkyrie stood tall and pressed strained plea to Corinna¡¯s ear. ¡°Forget not the words of our Lord! Forget not the Light of your love, my Lady! Let that message ring with greater clarity by preserving it for us all through that resonance of mind & rule! I ask only remembrance.¡±

    With this the knightly woman went to challenge the mythic apparitions of darkness with her siblings of spear & shield. But before Corinna could thank her rescuer or consider her passing words her terror gripped her and sent her running past the stones. Yet not far down the slant and unto the main path from the henge a horde of outriders challenged the slope. The captain of these cavaliers trampled her path before steering to a stop and reaching out.

    Heron¡¯s clasp leaned to meet her shoulder. After scraping his face with fearful reflex during her confounded daze she recognized him. The captain rushed to lift her along the winding hillside. ¡°Take my steed for the sake of chivalry, liberty, and our morrow.¡±

    No matter how much Corinna protested to Heron, concerned for her amid the eviscerating outbreak of hysteria atop that stony mound, loosely tied her wrists to her reins with swift precision. Then he sent the steed charging off far from Felhenge. Whistling after to summon more of his mounted comrades.

    The heir of the Ferali clan, and perhaps one of the few Corinna still had to hold to, unsheathed an iconoclastic black blade. The Fang held in Heron¡¯s hand yearned to be purified by way of fresh combat against these vulture sects vying for supremacy over the Summit and the favor of the moon. Violet-black edge shined Selene¡¯s fury. He charged the line towards the bulk of the strange assembly ahead.

    As her horse sped on by past the bounds of the hostile perimeter of the hilltop Corinna shook loose the restrains tying her to the reins but could only look back on the scene of the struggle from a fair distance. But strange whistling, the rumbling of chariot wheels and bridling war song drew her eye ahead. The fog further dispersed, letting in frenzied moonlight and fresh sight: Below a fyrd of two hundred spears & pikes stirred to halt her exit. Yet they were no enemies, for at their head led the familiar face of her Baron.

    His chariot raced to meet her. Corinna¡¯s steed tamed its fright and halted at the sound of lute and call to its rider. ¡°¡¯Rinna!¡± Sadness & shock cohabited his relief. ¡°Forgive-¡±

    ¡°Your timing is the only fair thing this foul night, Baron!¡± She exclaimed, untying her tethers to the road, and trying towards the bard

    ¡°Forgive more than my late arrival. I feared to try the hill until seeing the serpents flee from thunder. Yet,¡± a haze of futility filtered Baron¡¯s view of her, his frailty shining back through her need, ¡°I must be fair to those who followed me here and give chase to those who make prey of the heart of our land by way of the henge.¡±

    Baron¡¯s steed halted yet the momentum of the march drew his eyes from hers onward with the rest of his fyrd. ¡°Drakkon renounced his crown, resigned his life to flame. Let them sing now that the Living Light dwells within us all!¡± Corinna reached for him but was denied by cold steel arm of the sentinel driving their chariot.

    ¡°Until all those wyrms and wolves renounce their wars we shall have little light to tend as our own.¡± Baron¡¯s eyes flitted furious worry. ¡°Yet my arms do not have the strength to hold you. Barely enough to lift a sword and steer to fix this course. Too many cannot separate you from the shade burning through this smog. I cannot protect you from those whose sense of justice looks upon you with ire. Fly to safety. Find an alcove to wait out the torrent, lest Drakkon burns there as sacrifice to anger & the wrath of revilement chase you.¡±

    ¡°Can we not away from all the chaos which encircles the reins? I wish us to sing for ourselves now. Let us fly off into ardor and forget this hill.¡± Corinna made to clasp him, yet her steed pushed on, drifting further from the skald and the common folk who followed him to Felhenge. ¡°The crest they rush towards is a hollow court. If that is Azarra up there let us leave her to claim an empty seal. Now that the flame is shared in all our breasts, they shall gain no torch with which to blind us. Let her consorts & wolves keep her company atop the ruins but let us not spill more bled than need be.¡±

    ¡°What song would those poets who hate me paint of my forsaking of their defense? Perhaps I am owed no place in any Edda, as much a wastrel as our lord was a thrall to enmity against all that revealed him. But I wish not to be marked as a man who bloodied his hands by abandoning his people to seek the hand of a Lady - whose merits he¡¯d only stain. I must sing with sword against sorcery & serpents.¡±

    She protested his deflection, not yet able to dare the wide and dark course alone. ¡°Can we not sing a song of our own to deafen those of rivals, for whose derision you would seem to spurn me?¡± Words, arguments to reason & its rival in passion, prepared their currents from her mouth but refused to serve her. Becoming mute as she shuddered to see her friend & lover as another ghost whose nocturne had not yet come but been ordained. Or perhaps this distance, this wispy veil tearing cyclones between their breath, was from her subsiding into a grave yet to enfold over her.

    Corinna¡¯s eye beheld Baron¡¯s heart through his, pumping pressure of two-fold course, between following her whims into the unknown dawn and looking back to his men to lead them on a final leap to the Summit. Finally, he gave speech to his fyrd and answer to his love. ¡°The Fates will have of us what the Hels do not take. What comes is not ours yet to find. But if Elderath is to bloom under our stewardship we must lead our way with honesty.¡±

    ¡°You renounce me for magnanimity of common protection instead of coming with me to assure my safety?¡±

    ¡°Nothing can be assured anymore, Corinna. Yet I do not recant what we share.¡± Baron lifted the talisman slung about his neck to offer her before parting. ¡°If sanity can rejoin the tribes with their sovereignty, we might be allowed the luxury of each other. Yet there are those who would see you share the same pyre as the imperator.¡±

    In that lasting look towards Baron her yearning turned to apprehension. She conversed with only an imprint of the past born of longing¡¯s larvae which could not be realized in the present of his passing. Crying to the wind and arguing with agitated air, she found only a wispy trail from his chariot. Though his aspect vanished as gush of mist the presence of the riled fyrd he¡¯d summoned rushed into pandemonium to crash into the pulpy, toothy vessels of faceless crowd.

    This body of buboes with mass so fused of flesh of the many as to be granted an orbit. Ringed by indiscriminate enmity so full & frothing that boils of the embittered mob burst to roll over the slope. Their frightful shade so steep as to block Baron¡¯s chariot and catch all those who sought assent to the Summit in a net of fugitives and fanatics. Would-be champions were tossed from their steeds by avalanche of bodies running from the mound of gods¡¯ immolation and sects of claw & curse.

    Pustules of eyes enflamed by burning effigy stared down the advance of aspiring rescuers, rushing as dueling rivers flowing forth to the hill and fighting to flee to far plains. Flailing every direction, with equal & irate measure for competing course, till no tendons remained by which to walk either path. All trampled by the hooves of frightened mass, bereft of sense & soul of their own. And the ignoble empress was deprived of filaments to bind to proper path, blind as they and accursed by all.

    Corinna rode past the ruins of the outer wood, evading shambling pockets of people gnashing armaments against the red smirk from Selene. All worldly eyes also glared admonishment. The cavernous gaze of dueling spheres snared her in the orbit of omens above. Her skin soaked in waters drenched with blood sheen. Coveted by the same tides which would wash her away for her ties to the toppled tyrant. No grove awaited her even once the trees rejoined. No reprieve but burial beneath far shade, lest she be interred (or denied even that rite) as queen of dead Aeon.

    She wept. Not that she would soon assuredly forcibly part this plane but that the earth should pivot onward in its turning seasons of strife & vengeful pursuits. What seeds could bloom but those watered by wrothful rains & the spittle of ceaseless curses. If her words could not sway one so loyal of heart as Baron to retain place for her, what could she say to the angered hosts gathering from every hedge? What hands would seek to touch her but those which intended to strangle?

    Patience burned through in her. She could but drive her startled companion, the last which would have her, away from the terrible illumination of the night.

    Upon that ruinous knoll where the first ancestors of the druids etched their stories in dead runic script about the base of their towering stone constructs only the cacophonous sounds of grief endured. That hyena-like pack of wilder witches shrieked with their lupine servant¡¯s lead. The clatter of swords and shattered shields rang loud to accompany the unending screams. Corinna could not allow her mind¡¯s Sight to remain there atop that hill as she fled into the forest, fearing to lose her wits being anchored to the wreckage of Drakkon¡¯s balefire. She could no longer look upon ash pile circled by clashing faithful, howling avengers and strange sects vying to grasp the last threads of the old lords.

    This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

    What blood was dined upon by hilltop coven in congress with dark divinity! Glimpsing offering of new life running in sanguine streams as flesh & horn melted together. Lupine abomination fused with its inner sight to beget true transformation. There, the ruler of the Hels taunted the fleeing woman to return and find death. Without Baron¡¯s hand to grasp her, without her own pulse to the present, any ill force on the wind could claim her. Malderath, Azarra and the Many whom she¡¯d fumbled to enrich with the splendor of her scepter wailed woe unto her flight. When the screams and nightmarish chorale up the way subsided that brief silence only cut deeper chills.

    To flee from the watch of wretched heaven Corinna sought the pervasive canopy of the trees, returning ahead. Yet the half-shorn forest which remained to welcome her cast gloom so thick as to drown any dawn. Another congress of angered arms blocked the main path with lumbering bulk. From the red glint of toothsome axes & arrow-tips, they flashed recognition at the former empress. Between their number they¡¯d enough to challenge the cult which conquered the crest but stood to block her escape, abruptly replacing the branches of the woods with their pikes.

    With her steed starting to pace in neighing circles, wincing from the reach of the peasants, Corinna channeled what charisma she could still command to a final plea. ¡°People, heed how the moon blesses our earned prosperity. Though dipped in bloodied curtains Selene asks us to paint peace with it! Pray, know that the Light is in every one of you! Honor the gods, thy families and thyself by tending to holy wax within us all! Ye need but claim that hill and repel the crows!¡±

    A shape of leather and sun burnt bark spoke from behind the bulwark of steel-tipped wood. ¡°We were told of Drakkon¡¯s fiery end. Bid to join this ¡®final fyrd¡¯ to ¡®nurture creation¡¯s spark and be unbound from all who would chain up our hope¡¯. We wield pokers now only to stoke the flames of our belief and tend the fyre of our hearths. We need not gambit any charge to smite the ghouls of carrion-greed. Nor heed the harping of a harlot who would have us be helots to her.¡±

    ¡°I am true to my heart as thee. As should be. I speak no demand, only ask small charity. If ye will not fight the vultures do not act as them against me.¡± Corinna called over this chastisement but aroused no sympathy in this crowd who saw her as another entitled head now bereft of a crown. ¡°Forget not the message of Drakkon¡¯s sacrifice, good kindred! We are all of us Heirs of that Divine Flame! Indeed, we need not die for any lord, no matter how bright a flame. Ye need not die for me, I do not ask this. We need not be swept by tides of lunacy. Allow me to pass from here and drift far from the reins of thy accord. With good and mortal deeds rise to thy dream & that of thy progeny! If ye will not fight, then let me pass. Preserve thy sunlight with my shade never to mark the hearths of thy hearts!¡±

    ¡°Should she not have tossed herself upon the flames, in the name of the lord she abandoned? How can we trust this harpy who bewitches the best & worst of us alike when she could not remain true to the burned lord before he was more than memory?¡± Another voice croaked derision. Soon joined by another.

    A rope dangling from high branch winked insinuation at her, threatening to hold her neck in the anchor it weighted to her fate. ¡°Her husband¡¯s imperatorship becomes as scattered dust! Yet she would still think to act as though a crown befits her brow!¡±

    The eyes of those liberated by the emperor¡¯s departure from the world glowed with vengeful embers. They revoked all right to be ruled by declared deities and imperial diadems. Though she no longer wore the opulent gowns of a consort to a lord and swore herself diverged from Drakkon¡¯s dominion she could not reshape their sight of her, as a relic of blighted reign.

    ¡°You shared the bed of his lie. Take the bedlam of the throne you sat through his virtue with you to the yawning river. That virtue is unfurled by fire and the smoke you cast upon us lifts from our sight! We will toil only for ourselves and suffer no traitors nor thieves!¡±

    Corinna made to bolt away on the back of her horse. But the knotted sign they hung for her throat chased her all the way. The rope of their intent pursued her. The wounded forest bent to fence her in as the shades, enraged at her past & being seated above them for an Aeon, hunted for her head.

    Epilogue

    A week later, border of the Ruun

    Her bed on the barge rocked Corinna from a thin rest, awakening from the exhaustion that claimed her after dawn. For the night provided no pillow onto which to lay her head. No rest allowed when nocturne¡¯s canopy caved to the blush of angered Selene. The moon she¡¯d so long impersonated, elevated to empress, glowered ire even as it¡¯s eye winked with patience. In a preying slumber, feigning sleep as crescent while the sun grasped the reins of light, casting dreaming furies to forbid such respite to the one their mother cursed.

    Her innards were ever tainted by trail of poison. The edifice of living function only sustained by ghoulish elixir. Yet tethering soul, denying its wings, to this half-kept cadaver bound it to rot with the rest of her. To awaken into this body of pain, lain on bed of confusion which craned by river turbulence and the knocking of doubtful spirits. Drakkon¡¯s golden draught and the ¡®gift¡¯ from Azarra mixed into a slothful broth, wherein noxious spell blended with purgatorial preservation.

    Thus, Corinna¡¯s only blessing then was to sink back to true slumber of soul and hope to join kinder company. Or, wondered rue, perhaps no company waited past the final ridge save the void which sunders self. What else was deserved? What justice was there that she should live? Yet going on in this fugue of fever to endure another day was worse penance. That her thoughts would scratch through the coffin, melt the coating layer of unearthly potion, to tear her cells as the mob tore at itself.

    Hooded eyes struggled to peel their seals, to then be greeted by a sight on the cabin stool to thrust her from nauseous pose to steep dread. Baron loomed there watching her wake. His dead stare sat still yet accusing. Fixating on her from the gulf of limbo to cut guilt greater than fright. His gut, gored by a wolf so wicked as to have feasted upon the soul¡¯s marrow, poured sulfurous entrails. Marked by marred body, with his heart resting in the belly of a lupine lord, ectoplasm heralded his visit. A spirit, spirited through thinned veil, ever stalking her stubborn persistence to live.

    Fleeing from the skald¡¯s spectral glare Corinna dared breach the chamber for the deck where daylight¡¯s reach stretched specters of each shadow, illumed by angle of rays. She greeted the tide with dark hood drawn above her head and black berry streaks painted under her lids to mark her as a lady in mourning. Hiding from sunlight under cowl and the unwanted stares from fellow fugitives packing the boat. Behind her tread a pair of shades. She trusted few among the living save these two would still serve her. Should Baron¡¯s call have been heard before parting from crumbled courts the freedom the people won for themselves was as scattered, isolated, and tortured as Corinna.

    Confusion chafed with the breaking of Drakoni chains. Gusts of paranoia blew from each horizon, finding purchase in every house. With the old dominion barren, scavengers carved out scraps from the ruins of imperium or fled to defend what hearths were once theirs from any successor to the shadow. The pockets of people gathered on this barge, bound for the Ruun and western shore, closed their circles off from all others. Untrusting of their fellows who might turn to banditry for sake of family or callous fun, conspiracies grew of their fungus. As did fear, irked by tales of terrible fiends walking in shape of men. There were rumors of a wolf lord and dusky covenants coveting the hearts of those who left their hearths unguarded; apostles of the Helwinds who awoke season of greater magick with an appetite for mortal woes to charge their currents.

    Leaving each to their fears, troubles & trite games to pad the journey, Corinna traced her steps to the top terrace of the boat overlooking the bow and the wide waters it split. Here she spent her focus giving form to bare palette. To forget the somber discussions below of how each passenger might pay the debt incurred of the venture and doubts as to what prospects they could find afar, as well as the shades stalking her, she painted. Dipping her brush into medley of dried roots, beast fat and mineral pigments to pour her subconscious onto the blank canvas.

    In the past couple cycles (when night & sunlight melded to restless dimension) the idle acts of painting, poetry & prose posed for her a means of temporary escape. Though her hand faltered, waxing little skill, these images allowed her an hour to hide from the wraiths of the world. Even if only in the fleeting space of her own invention. Allowed, or constrained by, the remaining hours of light, her strokes spent her unconscious to draw up the vista it conceived for her destination. For now, she sought only to put as much distance between her frail form and the wounds incurred at Felhenge. Though no bank yet appeared to break the listless expanse of waters Corinna hoped what muse might yet reside in the cavern within her could pursue course through unknowing rapids.

    Glancing above for flickering inspiration the faint glint of aurora still lingered in the sky. The lightning stream of Azarra¡¯s intent retained dull blue hue of the river below. A barely visible charnel river ahead, carrying the dead spirits which her eyes tireless trailed. The subtle channel churned of welkin voyage mirrored the surf, where its glare shined skeletal hands of the drowned reaching for the one who evaded their fate. The stream itself, a basin by which the stew of Hels spewed spirits and envoy apparitions to beckon this wayfarer to their convoy.

    Behind her, piercing distraction through her artful trance, Corinna heard whispers of annoyance. Two blokes tossed thoughts of revelation & sacrifice blocked by the small pair of her faithful. Stepping before the stair, passing between them propositions of Astraean - or rather, Azarine - justice. That way of indiscriminate vengeance which was now the reigning law of this moonstruck land, where love straddled the lap of impunity''s wrath performed in its name. ¡°It must be her!¡±

    ¡°Nay, it cannot be. Why should a defamed sovereign seek such humbled company as our barge?¡± That the second spoke with shared charcoal tone and river drawl showed them as brothers. "& wherefore should we stride from our labours to bring her harm - to act as inquisitors?"

    ¡°We must get the measure of her! Hark how she rides with no family but a couple of servile frocks. Tis the ruse of a fearful witch!¡± Barked the first, bristling over into the ink of her brush. ¡°With no kin to speak for her there shall be no trouble for hanging a witch. Just wait for a night the next stop over. Or drown her with a simple push. Yet what sin & shame should follow us to let an accursed angel of the blight escape our grasp when her neck is there for-¡±

    ¡°If you think to turn brigand and start interrogating every lone lass under threat of the noose, I would sooner toss you off the bow than allow my brother to play the blackguard. Better to be down one kinsman than see that day.¡± The elder man¡¯s bitter denial sent the leering one lurching to the side. ¡°Be brave enough to sail uncertainty without caving to robbery of any whose blood you suspect to be blue. No honor is earnt there.¡±

    But the parting of the troublesome pair did little to avert the constant scrutiny digging into Corinna and etching her colors. Reviewing the vista scribed by obscured want she peered into a portrait of a towering mountain, enfolded by green forests. An image of Moribond, with distant Ty-Drasil housed in its range, locked with her stare. Yet the fear and manifold visage of Malderath and her chosen shades bled into the brush.

    Then the spell shifted to the corner & to hue of an island off far coast: an emerald within azure sea. What should seem happy skies to give roof to shelter her from this wandering found shape of haunting effigy. Every stroke splattered crimson that yearned to be drawn from her vein. What was to be bountiful green below with blooming Andrasil contorted to an entangling bramble where the toppled trunk of the tree entombed the blur which embodied her aspect. Immured among roots which grew as horns protruding of mist & thorn.

    This echo of her essence dotted the floor of the canvas. The divination painted as her destination lay in the gnarled ruins beneath the hollowed tree. Her foggy spirit spiraled through the wet covering of oils into spots her hand ordained for it. Envisioning her encasement in the roots of a dying Andrasil. Her wings, clipped by rot, could not spread to lift her from this earthen cell. Nor could her soul shed this skin to press upon the final threshold. For that door had been sealed, having passed it once only to return to ailing form.

    The spirits closed her off from their hearth, that she denied them by draught to live again by ephemeral flesh. The nails of toppled bark would curl into her, impaling her to this ground. To wrap around the mold which became her, rooted to the form she could not abscond from, as consort to malaise.

    Reeling her eye back from this prescient blotch she engraved of her fate, Corinna took in the canvas from greater distance. She saw then, with revelation so sweeping it stole the brush from her fingers to splatter the boards, how the mountain above this tree, her tomb to be, formed human face. The likeness of Drakkon carved of the body of this grim mound, forming hateful base. Shadowed features swirled there from her imprints, with sockets of ash as cavernous pits by which his phantom stare spouted the gloom of his longing. Moribond, his body. The smoky pillars from the temple she drew, his horns.

    As in the larger treads of the merciless world, this impression of her little one was maimed by the presence of that constant spectator. The unliving face of the burnt lord, looming with look that swam into her spirit, turning all tides around her to follow its course into the dusky rivers which blanket the planets & the sky.

    No matter where this vessel drifted, which dock it chose as harbor of the hour, that befouled likeness would always find means to take form. The very visage of betrayal and hurt so profound it would profane this plane past mortal means. Forever would its shape spawn of the growth in her gut. The malformed miasma of promises half-swallowed and poisons deigned to lock her into slow rot between all worlds, those unborn and those so terribly present. The servitor of causality, ever patient to pull her in to the tide she was bound for.

    Tilting from this panel, tinted by the sorrow sewn into brush of her thought, Corinna dared the peripheral of the channel to scry dry land. Their ship crossed from the opaque fork of the Felstream to rejoin with the wider Ruun. Careening to cater view of the eastern bank, she spied the first fauna in days. On the boulder ridge of the cliffside they sailed past stood a proud pack of wolves. The murmur of the crew & indentured travelers died as the surf subsided to dull creak, deafened by the chaunting laughter of bestial emissaries. There on the rock they chortled as manticores more than mere hounds and mocked the flight of ship & sun.

    Corinna strained her sight upon their mad, cackling circle of fur & fang, finding a lone silhouette among them. A towering man stood in the center, clad in opaque furs to match his howling friends. Though the hulking shade was shrouded in reef of the wilderness and far from boarding her transport the eyes shined with embers that forever burned. Malice coated his raven locks and the long look which hunted her, tracing patient chase. The malefic shape winced with stolen eyes, wherein the dulled brown of Baron¡¯s was fed on fatal kindling. Then the glow turned foul, green gold. A stare sending shivers across the river to arrest her spine and uproot the stem to stitch hungering nightmare. The scent wafting from its distant coat caught up to her, arousing recognition of Azarra¡¯s brood and constant pursuit. This feral avatar of lingering lordship waxed the crown of wild imperium that bared canines & claws against all that roamed freely.