Eidolons: Awakening, pt. II

Gareth Stormbane 

                                                     

THE SWORD CAME AT HIM WITH SPEED AND STRENGTH that Gareth knew he could not really match, not for long. The more experienced knight advanced on him confidently - and brutally.

So Gareth gave ground, again and again, grateful for the spaciousness of the stone halls around him. His opponent was half again his weight, a head taller, years older and considerably more skilled. A silvery winged helm concealed his face, but Gareth remembered it well enough – the arrogant mouth, the proud nose, the contempt in his eyes…

Despite this, Gareth knew that Albion was enraged now. How did this up-start, barely a year into his knighthood, dare to challenge him, the champion of the Silverlance?

Foolishly, that’s how. For a girl who doesn’t really care for me, and friends who would not help me…

Gareth wondered briefly how he knew all that, but there was little time for pondering. He worked his blade desperately, looking for some opening, but his arms were growing more numb with every parry, the sword becoming heavier…  He knew he was younger and more agile than his heavily armored opponent, but he felt old now, old and tired. Every hit seemed like it was inches from cleaving his skull, he held on somehow, but for how long?

Despairing, he stretched out his hand and spoke the words of the one really useful spell he found in his mother’s book. A snaking crimson lightning struck his advancing foe on the helmet.

Albion stumbled back, stunned and crying out in shocked pain. Gareth didn’t lose the chance, he rushed him. His first strike managed to disarm the still dangerous knight, then he took a firmer grip on his sword and struck the knight on the head with its heavy hilt.

The champion of the Silverlance knights refused to fall yet, so Gareth kicked him and pushed him for good measure, knocking him down. Victory… but where are the cheers?

Gareth looked around. He was in a large circular room of the Halls of Commandments, where he had spoken his knightly vows on the day he was anointed. So long ago… Or was it yesterday? Trials and duels of honor were held here as well, and now, there were many people gathered there. The master-at-arms, the magister, all were there, witnesses to his treachery. They were silent, eyeing him with shock and contempt. His father was there too, but he for one did not meet Gareth’s gaze.

Then they began conversing, murmurs rising to outraged whispers, then shouts.

They will know about others, they will find the book and all will be known!

“Who taught you this sorcery, Gareth Stormbane?”

I must lie, make them believe I am a monster, only then would they not look for more… I cannot expose them… my friends, and… mother, she never wanted this… no, this must remain secret, better admit to something far worse.

And so he spoke, and he lied, and saw how disdain on their faces turned to fear, then terror, then dark resolve.

“Execute him! His mere existence is a stain on our Order!”

“No! He may be a monster, but he is still a son of the Stormbane line…”

“This creature is not my son. Cursed be the day when I took a witch to wife.”

“Be that as it may, his veins are filled with the blood of Old Eresia. We cannot take his life.”

“Exile then.”

“Yes… And there is only one place where his kind belongs. Ravenwing, Mist-Grave, Ersidria”

“So be it.” A voice said with finality, and Gareth saw his father standing next to him, cold and unmoving. Never a man for kind words, Gideon Stormbane looked more like a statue now. He came alive though, as he tore down his son’s purple cloak, and Gareth fell to his knees, weak with shock and despair. He noticed that he was crying.

Strange, I thought I’d lost that ability long ago…

Gazing down, he looked at the magnificent purple cloak, bestowed upon him by the Silverlance Magister on the day of his initiation, when he returned victorious from his first quest…

Then he remembered that in reality, his cloak was a tattered rag, more brown than lilac…  He looked up, confused. A figure stood before him, dressed in the grey robes of the Lore-Keepers. She took her hood off, and he saw a face, soft and smiling, an angel of sweet sorrow and blissful sin. Was it his mother? Was it Juliana? Or was it the girl that was the cause of it all.

The mist rose around him, like a thousand tendrils of a monstrous octopus, and he was pulled back and down, down, down… Cursed and abandoned, disowned and nameless…

No, merely the last of my name. Mother, is it finally over?

Gareth woke in pitch black darkness. He was drenched in cold sweat, while hot tears were running down his face. Tears?

I thought I’d unlearned that some decades ago. Apparently not. So that’s what the bottom really feels like?

It took him a while to remember where he was, so uncommon was the sensations he experienced. By the gods, this must be a real soft bed I’m lying in...

That explained how the sleep had found him, albeit wrought with nightmare. Instinctively, he reached for his box, but pressed his hand down with force. Better stay on the bottom than fall straight to hell… And I have a job to do yet. The master of the house was generous to him, and so was his wife. Out in the wild, it was too rare a luxury, sleeping in a real house.  It would be poor gratitude if he risked their lives by another of his experiments…

His host, Aethren Deckard was what they called a stash-monger in the Hinterlands. There weren’t many bold enough to live too far from the walls of Riverend, some out of well-grounded fear of the mist, made worse by superstition, others because of the growing threat of the robber gangs.

But Deckard’s business was not entirely legal and required him to be close to the road. The man earned his living dealing in supplies and information. Food, drugs, loot – all that an ordinary Hinterlander could not be trusted not to run away with.

People came to him when they needed to hide something, or retrieve what he’d kept safe for them.

He also watched the roads for accidents and offered help for a price, a safe place to spend the night, a simple meal worth its weight in silver on the dangerous road… Or, if there was no help to offer, he took what was left to a stash of his own. If his ‘clients’ had nothing to pay, he took secrets as payment too. That was what kept him alive, after all, his secrets. If anyone from the Hinterland underworld took him in for a little friendly chat, they would be receiving many other visitors soon. For if Aethren Deckard talked, no one’s secrets would be safe, and in Ersidria’s underworld, everyone had secrets.  

Once, however, a few overbold renegades decided to take their chances and kidnapped the aging stash-monger.

They tried to blackmail the gang leaders with threats of handing Aethren over to the authorities. That would have been a hefty blow for the Hinterland crime lords, and Riverend wasn’t an easy place for bandits to operate, so they had only one option left – hire a legal professional.  

Gareth didn’t like working for criminals, but he didn’t refuse good offers, and he liked to stay neutral, meaning anyone could task him. That was his only principle. That, and being professional.

‘It is more than my life that you saved today, Gareth Stormbane.’ Aethren told him when he looked at the mutilated corpses of his captors. 

That was true. His two boys were soon to become Ravenguard, a rotten but safe path in life, Gareth new. And if their father’s dealings were to be revealed, it would be a miracle if his sons would be still alive the next day – Reive Malforn, governor of Riverend, was a paranoid psychopath who killed anyone who wasn’t on his side.

So Aethren and his wife did their best to repay Gareth with their hospitality, though nothing they could do now could give Gareth back what he paid for saving the cache-monger’s neck.

He is not to blame for what this job had cost me in the end. But still I cannot look the man in eye and say I don’t hate him…

Despite these feelings, Gareth knew to appreciate their help. Normally, the mercenary could find a place to spend the night in the wild, but in the last few weeks, the mist grew thicker and more restless with every day.

There is going to be a Mist-Storm…

Gareth remembered the first time seeing the hallmark phenomena of the Cursed Land. It was as if the clouds descended on land, too tired of carrying the weight of their own deep grey bodies… And they drowned all in mystery, wonder, then terror and finally, madness.

There were always those whose minds were already at the point of breaking, and they seldom endured a Storm. It wasn’t that bad yet, but it was growing worse fast.

If I don’t find her before it breaks loose, I must stop... When I die, I want to die with my sanity well in hand. 

Gareth strapped on his leathers, donned his steel, took his sword and his coldfire torch, then threw his ragged cloak over his back and went for the door. He noticed there was a small pack stuffed with provisions lying next to it, and recalled that Aethren’s wife promised him as much, despite the ‘hard times’. He hesitated to take it - it was bordering on plunder, given how handsomely he had been paid by the bandits for Deckard’s life… Yes, surprisingly their notorious greed did not exceed their respect my ‘future usefulness’. But then, being practical is the rule of the land.  

The mercenary slapped the pack onto his shoulder - the road to Greentorch was long and hard. Already at the door, he heard Aethren’s soft snoring. The man seemed to sleep well for someone who knew so much and had so many nooses wrapped around his neck. Gareth left into the starless night, glad he did not have to say farewells.

GARETH WALKED THROUGH THE MIST, head down, careful with his footing in the moonlit gloom.

It was pointless to look down of course, even with his enchanted torch in hand he could not see the ground. The mist swirled beneath his feet, forming shapes that mocked his hard-pressed sanity, luring it into the ocean of twisted visions and blissful oblivion, and it was impossible to tear one’s gaze away.

Not a stranger to Hinterlands, Gareth knew that underneath the mist, the place was barren and featureless. But the shifting veil lent it a different quality, filled it with shapes and omens.

It was dangerous to wander alone as he did - two people could keep each other awake with conversation, at least. Even a horse could do, and most people took with them the hardy ersidrian Nalthies, black ponies bred and trained specifically for long journeys through the unnatural mist.

But he had nothing much to carry, just his sword, a pouch of silver and his box…

It was well that he set out shortly after midnight, as the newly risen Tempest, the Storm Moon revealed, its deep yellow glow surreal and mesmeric behind the shredded, twisted clouds. Even the spring’s harbinger seemed wistful and forlorn in the ever-veiled sky of Ersidria.

Gareth knew from experience that it was better to take the risk of a little unpleasantness early on, than of ending up a dozen leagues short of his destination when the night-mist settled in once more, and the night hunters woke, ravenous after a good day’s sleep.  

The few times when Gareth found himself far out in the wilds with night close on his heels, he survived by hiding in caves, cellars, old crypts. Once, he spent a night listening to nameless creatures prowling around as he lay in a sealed sarcophagus, praying he would not suffocate before the pack diminished enough to give him a fighting chance. He didn’t, but nothing would convince him to try it again.  

He walked in near darkness by now - his bluish cold-fire torch was already burning out despite the enchantments he used, doused by the mist that did not take kindly to light, no matter its nature. It didn’t take kindly to him either, Gareth knew, but it would have suffer him a bit longer.

The dawn was close, and the mercenary welcomed the croaks of the ravens that came with it - they kept him from falling too deep into the mist-induced trance, a thing as subtle as it was deadly. Those who went out and never returned weren’t often slain on the road - the mist spoke to them, and they wandered off into the wilds, and there they would not long search for their deaths.

Besides, as long as the ravens were around, it meant that nothing else probably was. They were a wise man’s unwitting sentries.

He fought on, but with every step he fell deeper into the murk of his contemplations. Visions came, things half-remembered, half-imagined… The mist knew every man’s fears, every man's dreams, and it knew how make them one.

Gareth had long known what effect it could have on a man, and that one could never really prepare against it. He knew that certain drugs could help overcome these effects, clear his mind for a while, albeit for a price. All he needed to do was reach out for the box…

How did he end up like this? No, we was not wondering about how a nobleborn knight had become an exile and a mercenary in a land that was the worst of the worst - he pondered that long enough.

It was the latest twist that kept him up every night… Now it came back before its time, making up for the one night it had allowed him to be at peace. Juliana’s phantom so real and tangible he could never believe it was not real, and so it ravaged him every time.

‘I waited for you, but you didn’t come. So I finally gave in to the call.’ Her voice was sad and distant.

‘What call?’ Gareth said aloud, loud enough to provoke an angry response from the ravens taking flight. There was something underneath it though. Yes, there were dozens of quiet voices all trying to reply, merging into a maddening cacophony.

Voices… So much for being Gareth the Professional, damn it. A stupid girl disappears, and the unsung hero of Ersidria loses his shit...

But of course, Juliana wasn’t just a stupid girl. She was a fallen angel, an angel sent to this hell just for him. Wasn’t she?

Perhaps she went to where there was light. I should be happy for her… Why didn’t I go with her? For her, I could swallow my pride and take a new name, become a common guard for some petty nobleman, take orders and be looked down at – anything. And now I have wasted everything… except my pride.

Out of habit, the mercenary shook his head and tried to resist the weakening sentimentality, but in vain. He was caught too deeply. Perhaps it was love, more often it felt like pain. Before she came into his life, he may have been close to suicide, but he wasn’t really suffering, just apathetic and hopeless. Now… he almost recalled those times with fondness.

To the world, Gareth still played the professional mercenary, but his facade was crumbling. I only have to play a little longer, then the Soul-Eater blade will have what it was promised. But now while the stupid hope lingers, I am too far gone from sanity – and dignity - to take the proud man’s way out. If I am to end this torment, it will be in cold blood, with a clear mind. I won’t repeat the mistake I made in Neugard… The weight of regret can be damned, I am not making a fool of myself again. After all, Gareth Stormbane is too proud to be anyone’s fool, is he not?

With that, the lone mercenary finally broke his torpor, and swung his sword at the mist, snarling. The sword that he named Mistbane, if only for irony’s sake. There weren’t many ordinary storms in the Hinterlands.

The veil parted for a split second before closing back in, mocking his efforts. The thoughts would come back, too, Gareth knew. But for the moment, he smiled – because he saw a familiar emerald glow up ahead, flickering and making the twilight seem surreal.

Greentorch, at last. Enough darkness, it’s high time I met some old friends.

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Eidolons: Awakening - pt. I

Prelude for "Eidolons: Awakening"

You do not play with Darkness and expect 

that She won’t play with you in return.

- Anphis val Keserim

The house was on fire, the flames were held for a while by the old enchantments bestowed on the manor, but now they spread quickly, and the smoke already reached the far-off chamber where the two siblings sat on the floor, shivering.

On the stair, the few remaining guards were holding back the mob, knowing they could not count on mercy anymore. The time to desert was long past, and even so, none knew what became of the ones who made use of it.

“We have to go, Aylin. Old Serech is coming with us - he has returned, remember? We will hide together in the dungeons, like we used to in the old times. And then we will come back and all will be well.” The words sounded hollow in his ears even as he spoke them. He compensated by trying to caress the shivering girl, though she never liked to be touched. 

“Is father coming back soon? I had a bad dream about him, I think he may die soon.” Looking at her, Anphis was struck by how beautiful - and how unchanged - his sister was. Still a girl of thirteen, as if her life somehow stopped after the horrors of that night, one for which Anphis had not been there to protect her. From Serech, he learned that Aylin's mind expelled everything that happened, the caretaker having long despaired to bring his charge back from the darkness that had claimed her. Yet it seemed to him now, looking in her eyes, that she kept it buried deep inside, never truly forgetting.

“He will be waiting for us on other end of the rat-tunnel” Anphis lied.

“I want to finish playing. Why is it so noisy?”

A ram was slammed against the heavy barred door and smoke snaked from the slit below it. The door broke. Anphis gave the last of his sorcery to slay the half dozen men charging in, and peered through the opened door to see a fiery hell.
Between the roiling mob marauding the house, there was cart rolling down the wide corridor, and on it was a star-cross. The charred corpse nailed to it was not recognizable, and the new Lord val Keserim was grateful for that. She must not see this, must not…

The room melted in smoke, and soon they were running through the dungeons, hand in hand, the deep tunnels leading them to the watery cave where his new friends waited for him.

Together they would do great and terrible things, Anphis knew. The whole of Mograve would burn for what was done to him that night.

But it wasn’t enough. Already he saw how the human vermin screamed as they were charred to black ash, but they were mere puppets… All Ardai must burn, and the other Realms as well, if only to smoke out the pious rats from their highland monasteries and ancient catacombs.

The fires shifted and his vision spun, his mind falling through a loose web of intricate spellwork until he stood again before the crumbling Void Spire, its icy surface glinting in the first rays of dawn.

At his feet, dozens of figures knelt, beaten but still defiant. The Templar were chained with glowing blue threads of conjured Aether, their power drained.

They were silent, no one begged for mercy. They received none, and the crowd behind him cheered as he dealt out death with the most exquisite bits from his arsenal of pain.

Here it comes, the final scene…

     

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Lord Keserim woke in pitch black darkness, bemused. As ever, he was calm and instantly alert. It was his pattern, refined to perfection.

He liked to separate his true self from his mind. The latter was a traumatized thing, he could not deny it, dangerous and fallible. It had been deceived, conditioned, bested.

The former was divine though. Through all the years, even as he killed, betrayed, condemned hundreds to agony and torture, his core remained intact. Otherwise, he would not have survived the Weave… He stayed true – to the original vision of having unlimited freedom and power in this world. Once it was so that he could drive the wheel of progress, now it was… just so. Perhaps it went deeper than that – the dream was nothing, but the joy he derived from playing the game, even if it was the only joy he had left, and brittle at that. Yes, that rang true with him.

To simplify things, he decided his mind was the boy, while he was the man, the higher will, the ultimate law. Arrogant? Insane? Certainly, but so was every great wizard in his own way, I merely push the boundaries a little bit further.

The mind was only a tool. And so he constructed that dream for his mind, to keep it focused on the Game he was playing. The memories he chose were something most people would call nightmares and seek to forget. Not so Keserim. To stay true to himself, he had to inflict pain on his mind. Then the killing would bring joy…

Once, a different construct had been imposed on his mind, aimed to keep him chained to his fears and wounds. Only by dis-identifying from it did he rise over the nightmare… With his own work too, his mind had long learned that it was too well-aligned, too specific to be a natural phenomenon. So it awoke well before it was over, and it watched, and it listened, and every time Keserim woke with a new detail revealed to him.

In any case, it was the only way to keep the other dreams from entering his mind. Dreams of Helene, of Regulus, of his friends… Or of Fiona falling into the fires, slain by his own hand, in the fury of discovering her betrayal… Don’t.

But tonight something alien entered into his perfect symphony of ruin and pain. He felt it stir on the very edge of his consciousness, but it might as well have shouted in his face – nothing happened without a reason, least of all in dreams. This intrusion is more than a little disturbing, isn’t it boy? He felt vulnerable for the first time in years, and intrigued.

Perhaps some of the archfiends he believed to have vanquished in the Warped Realms have returned to exact vengeance or bring him back into their power? No, too subtle for their kind, they would employ some boring manipulation, this here is far more subtle. Whatever or whoever it was, needed to be handled quickly, one way or the other…

The room he was given was beyond luxurious, it was decadent. Good change for the cave he had to occupy for his hunt of the silver ring. Yes, this hideout was as good as any he had spent a night at. A wealthy sympathizer provided the mansion, and the brotherhood turned it into a veritable nest.

The best, if not biggest, in the Ersidrian capital. From here, the brethren watched as Orodris grew restless with rumors from the south, some of them spread with their help. It came so far that the Archduke tasked his lapdog baron Urdstein to rally his mercenaries and the Ravenguard into a real fighting force, and the baron did well so far. Congregation watched him carefully, while Keserim enjoyed watching his mind come up with plots of how these efforts could be turned to their gain… Our? Or mine?  

They worshipped him, adored him, these poor wretches, zealots and thralls, enslaved by the promise of freedom from abuse they never really knew.

For them, he was the Apostate Lord, the Great Master’s right hand, the Dark Avenger, the liberator of Mograve, leader of the first Coven, the very vanguard of the Revolution. 

But I care nothing for the revolution now. Even if the whole of Allkingdom yields to the Congregation’s demands, accepts their ultimatums, I will not stop…

Outside was still deep night, revelers of the decadent capital were in full swing of their drunken debauchery. The house too had to appear ordinary, and that meant there had to be loud revels entertained late into the night, and lights burning.

But Keserim was not disturbed – when he decided to, he slept, or rather, he put his mind to sleep. His will was sleepless. That being said, he slept seldom of late, the Game was too enjoyable to miss, especially at night. But that night he allowed himself rest – he had done well, and rest was the least reward he thought to claim. They cheer me for the thing I hardly recall doing, yet my real triumph will remain unrevealed.

And some triumph that was. Nine more Strix agents dead, and an eidolon artifact finally procured. A curious bit, that. A silvery ring with an unmatched potential for enchantment, a medium so extensive he could project his own psyche onto it and make it an extension of himself.

He would do this, that very night, and then off to Tal’Mereth

Those were dreams of the future, and to channel them was an art form or a curse. His best friend had once been a victim of such ‘talent’. Now he was gone, deceived by Andahar, the one of two Elder Magi, a man he had trusted, to him doom.

Ironically, Keserim was now serving the second of the immortal wizards, Ignacius. Only I don’t trust him farther than our mutual need of each other’s power, momentarily.

Then a voice came to his mind, familiar and nonchalant, but growing more insistent by the minute. Not so much a voice as an impression and a summoning. Timely. I never stop wondering, if there is a deeper pattern to the Inner Weave, or do we merely give coincidence too much credit? Ignacius… Already aware of my victory? Or merely concerned that his bloodhound may have lost his pace?

The Great Master bid him take a direct leap to his tower, and Keserim could indeed do that - he had the key to the chamber, its magical footprint clear in his mind. Traveling would be safe and easy and fast, but… there was always the possibility of a trap. If the Great Master decided to get rid of him, it would be all too easily done during his traversing the subtle paths.  

Keserim decided to play it safe, even if it meant showing a level of mistrust. Ignacius knew he was no longer the naive boy rallying his comrades for a foolhardy riot, if anything, he should respect him more for taking precautions, an act of a mature, experienced mage.

Not bothering much about secrecy, Keserim lit the luxurious dark room with flames of sorcery, squeezing the energy out of the Essence surrounding him. Energy needed to bend the hardy laws of Aether and cut a shorter path to where he needed to go.

End of part 1.

"Awakening", Chapter IV: The Mistborn

Incinerate your pathetic self-pity in the flames of Abyss, drown your traitorous self-doubts in the Ocean of Threads, exile your regrets to the frozen Void

- Arch-Prelate Urius  

‘Can’t you hear that? There is fighting just up ahead!’ Gareth spoke sharply to the elf walking in front of him as he halted and motioned others to do likewise.

What do you have those long pointy ears for anyway? Or did you mean to lead us here?

‘Yes, there is.’ Thuron answered with his usual infuriating calmness. Then he resumed walking the mist-veiled road. 

‘By Nether Hells, haven’t you said we must avoid battle as long as possible? How many are there?’

‘Close to a hundred. But it makes no difference.’

‘Are you insane? We cannot fight that many!’

‘We will not have to. We can pass here safely.’ The elf did not stop walking.

‘What, with their blessing? Whoever these men are, we cannot expect anyone to be our friend out here!’ Gareth hissed angrily as he caught up to the elf guide.

‘The land is too badly broken here, we cannot afford the delay of going around.’ Thuron said, more sorrowfully now.

That was true – the ravines practically riddled the landscape, Gareth knew that each was full of sharp debris, veiled by the treacherous mist.

‘They will not see us, or hear us, unless you keep on shouting. We are still under the protection of... my people’s legacy.’

‘Well, I can see myself, and you, and everyone else here, so what…’

‘Please, trust me. They do not see with their own eyes now.’ Thuron said with conviction, walking on confidently.

Then figures emerged from the mist, walking towards them in close formation, weapons in hand.

Everyone tensed, Elanor placed her hands on the hilts of her curved blades, Liam struggled to adjust his eye-glasses and Daniel put a hand on the star-cross hanging around his neck.

It was too late for stealth, if those men weren’t blind and deaf, they’d have spotted the small group. Gareth looked accusingly at Thuron – you’ve doomed us all.

His eyes seemed to answer him - if I had wanted you to come to harm, I believe I had my chance somewhere along the leagues we’ve put behind us, don’t you think?

The men did indeed move like sleepwalkers, only faster perhaps. Their eyes were veiled, and shone dimly in the gray haze surrounding them.

I suppose we just mustn’t bump into them, then…

They kept on walking, silent and tense, the uncertainty gnawing at each one’s nerves.

But there seemed no reaction from the armed men as their group approached them, then passed their vanguard, blending into their ranks. Gareth, still unsure it was not a ruse, examined the strange band from up close.

Scarred, ragged and filthy, these were unmistakably the Hinterland scavengers. There were too many though – Gareth never saw a band of more than twenty, no one could lead that many in the Hinterland wilds without having them jump at each other’s throats for the stolen scraps of food or get lost in the mist.

This group was close to a hundred and without an apparent leader.

Some looked like Neugardian thugs and pirates, others like brigands from the outskirts of Riverend, and the rest were Hinterlanders, local outlaws. A few actually looked more like former road guards.

They carried a broad variety of weapons - sabers, falchions, chains, clubs, axes and spears. All stolen or looted from corpses, Gareth didn’t doubt. But not all of those weapons were quite so ordinary, he noted.

Duncan noted that too, and he growled as the strange band sleepwalked past them.

One of the bandits was carrying a dwarven axe covered in blood. Suddenly, Gareth had a bad, twisting feeling in his gut… 

‘That’s it, boy, ye should’ve let it lie where ye’d found it!’

With a mighty swing of his heavy hammer, struck him squarely in the clavicorn with a sickening sound, and the thin man nearly broke in two, spraying gore, but not issuing a sound.

Elanor cursed the way only seamen - or sea-women - could, Thuron stopped dead and Liam almost squealed. Daniel seemed to want to come offer some rite to the slain man, but Gareth put an arm on his shoulder to halt him.

‘Get back, it’s going to get messy here now. You can offer your prayers for us, we’ll need them.’ Gareth said as he shoved the priest backward and drew his sword.

‘Aye, I’ve listened to cravens once, and that’s enough, ye scumbags ain’t going nowhere’ - Duncan hissed with fury as he brought down more of the zombified outlaws.

Soon they were all turning left and right frantically, arms outstretched, searching for them. Gareth noted that the white fog around their eyes dimmed and changed color to deep crimson.  

At least this way it’s easier to forget that these too are – or were - just unlucky men...

Resigned, and not wasting any more precious time, Gareth followed Duncan’s example. He swung his longsword, cutting down a large man with an axe who seemed close to shaking off the confusion caused by Thuron’s mysterious protection. And so the battle commenced.

Their elf guide took only a short moment to gaze hatefully at the rampaging dwarf, then his bow was in his hands and his own death count soon caught up to Duncan’s own - his archery was superb.

The bodyguard must have thought this a perfect spot, a defensible location with their back were to an edge of a deep ravine with thorny vines and jagged stones… If he thought at all, that is.

True, they could not be fully surrounded, but that was a small comfort given their numbers. Soon each of them will be fighting three or four of these men.

Perhaps being under than eldritch spell would dull their already lacking skills?

It better did.

The advantage of surprise – considerable as it was - was spent. And once their initial momentum was no more, Gareth realized just how outmatched they were by the numerous group – no, a war band really.

Worse still, there were fine fighters among these outlaws, and they seemed to possess none of the usual hesitance and gang-mentality often seen in road robbers. Indeed, these were strange foes - their tactics were different from what Gareth would have expected from their kind.

Had they not been afflicted, Gareth was sure some would be ‘waiting for an opening’, letting others take the initiative – and the hardest blows; while some would be rushing recklessly forward, eager to prove – or improve - their standing in the group’s hierarchy. But as it was, they split in threes and fours, and fought with a mechanical precision, though few had too great a skill with their stolen weapons.

Soon they managed to separate the outnumbered group and drive, splitting the six companions in three pairs.

Daniel stood behind Duncan, whose large shield and hammer were like a solid wall that swung a stone fist at you every now and then. But a few sneakier brigands leaped around the steadfast warrior and Gareth saw one get in close to the priest, dagger aimed at his neck. Daniel defended himself with his ironwood staff, but the outlaw got hold of it and was yanking it away with superior strength. Then the priest’s hand glowed brilliantly and as it touched the brigands wrist, the would-be killer shook violently and fell away, a smoking ruin of a man.

Elanor instinctively edged closer to the skilled sellsword and they fought back to back. Her skill became immediately evident, and for the moment, Gareth felt their position was strong.

Meanwhile, Thuron maintained a barrage of deadly arrows, standing in front of their wizard leader, alone but adamant and deadly, like a hero sprung out of an ancient legend.

The young mage too got a hold on himself, stopped wrenching his head from side to side. He began a series of gestures accompanied by complex verbalizations that Gareth was too amateur a mage to comprehend.

This better be a good one, Liam…

So far the fight was going well for Gareth, he felt he had a definitive edge over his opponents, surely, soon they would abandon their vane attempts and disperse… Won’t they?

Then he saw a huge man come at him with an axe in each hand, pushing others aside with his bulk.

Gareth noticed that he had more of the dark-red mist swirling around his eyes and mouth than the others; and his movements were less mechanical, more natural – and much more threatening.

Too soon, the axes came in with a fury, and he ducked, narrowly avoiding a decapitating blow and its follow-up. The man didn’t slow and Gareth could not begin to devise a strategy, all he could do was dodge, but if he retreated any more, he would open Elanor to attacks from behind.

The sellsword feinted a counter-attack, then went in below the deadly arcs of the brutal axes. He made a quick vertical cut as he tumbled forward, taking the axeman’s arm off. Then he wheeled, leap to the left and struck before his foe could bring up any defense. Amazingly though, he did have a defense – he opened his mouth and the red mist rushed at Gareth’s eyes, forcing them shut as the pain almost blinded him.

Still, even with his eyes closed, the mercenary felt the blade rend the flesh and decapitate the bulky man. Pleased by that victory, he was already coming around to defend against another opponent who was already bringing a rusty longsword down on him.

His eyes hurting, Gareth knew he could still manage a parry, and was doing just that, but then he retracted his blade at the last moment, letting the heavy swing cleave empty air, and his aggressive foe stumbled forward after it, further unbalanced by a minor kinetic push.

As the faceless swordsman flew past, Gareth whirled and struck him squarely across the spine…

A fine deathblow, but where are the cheers? Seems like I miss the verbal accompaniment to the slaughter... Damn, am I really becoming that kind of man?

The feeling of self-contempt evaporated quickly as he saw a familiar huge figure advance on him, pushing through his comrades. He recognized the man’s bulky frame and weapons, but his head was replaced with something he could not find a name for.

It was an appendage formed of mist, shifting continuously, taking this form and that, but mostly seeming to favor that of a wolf’s head and a snake’s… His arm meanwhile became a long tendril of the same reddish mist, the dripping blood absorbed by it as it extended more and more.

Unconcerned with Gareth’s expression of utter disgust and horror, the thing came at him, axe swinging, almost overwhelming him in his moment of confusion and dismay.

He dodged the axe narrowly, but the tendril touched him on the left arm and he felt it go numb. This was not going well.

Desperate, Gareth pointed his sword and sent a bolt of kinetic energy that pushed the hulking creature away for a second, letting him retreat as far as was possible.

He saw that Elanor was faring little better. Her speed and agility were growing less of an advantage with every moment. The two sabers still reaped rich harvest among the lightly armored aggressors, but the young woman herself was bleeding from a number of cuts - she wore no armor at all, though not without a reason, Gareth knew.

Gareth’s naïve hope of breaking the enemy’s spirit with merciless slaughter vanished. It was all he could do to keep lesser foes at bay and stay as far away as possible from the twisted brute as he defended against the relentless tide of flesh, steel and mist.

Meanwhile, the outlaws grew more aggressive, and were quicker to rush in with their attacks, thus serving as an obstacle in the large man’s path, one which he did not hesitate to cleave his way through... 

This wasn’t supposed to end like this…

Gareth shook of the sense of despair and looked around to assess the situation. Duncan was roaring some dwarven battle song as he fought. The priest’s magic mended his many wounds – even his dwarven armor was not impenetrable.

‘Duncan! What was your plan, you damned idiot?’

‘Plan? Just hold ‘em back till they’re all dead, wha’else?’

Or we are... Curse him. But what did I expect? It’s always like this when a dwarf gets a chance to fight for his clan... Just why did we let him drag us all into this?

But same as others, Gareth was at the end of his strength, and found himself glancing around for other options - ‘just holding them back’ was not going to work out.

Elanor was close to him, and she laughed with desperation when their eyes met.

‘I didn’t think I would die like this, killing men who won’t even regret killing me without taking their pleasure first...’  

For most of the battle, he had tried to work with precision, saving his strength, applying minor spells where he saw opportunity, otherwise staying purely on the defensive. Now, feeling the end closing in, almost seeing the deathblow coming for the exhausted female fighter, Gareth sent a wave of kinetic energy, giving it all he had left, trying to see some hope of victory or even of escape, anything.

Their closest attackers were blasted off their feet, five or six men who seemed to be without faces to him now. Some of them broke their limbs and one was unlucky enough to get impaled on a comrade’s spear.

But of course, the towering grotesque remained standing, walking right over the twitching bodies of his comrades with a sickening crunching sound of breaking bones. This time Gareth was deeply grateful that their foes did not issue any verbal reactions.

The creature was more misshapen than before – its head had solidified into something between a wolf and a serpent, a scaly neck and furry canine snout, all gnashing teeth.

Elanor stopped dead, stupefied by the sight - she had not seen the homunculus before, Gareth realized.

He saw that the mesmerized girl was about to be struck down, as the hideous tendril of mist extended towards her. So the mercenary rushed forward, pushing the female fighter out of the way.

Naturally, he got hit for his effort. This time the tendril connected somewhere near his heart, piercing inches deep into his chest and he felt it miss a few beats, his body going numb as he stumbled forward, dropping his sword. His vision blurred but did not fail him, and looking up from the blood-soaked ground, he saw the mist-born nightmare walking inexorably forward. His sword was out of his reach by mere inches…

A few strides away from him, the pirate she-wolf shook off her horrified stupor and sprinted toward the advancing enemy. Then she leapt up and kicked the brute with both feet on the chest, going higher up, narrowly avoiding the snap of the hideous jaws as the mutant’s serpent-like neck elongated upward.

Elanor kicked off the creature’s broad shoulders and summersaulted to land nimbly behind, poised to strike. She did in fact look like a goddess, Gareth’s numbed mind mused.

Then, his body still half-paralyzed, the sellsword watched one of Elanor’s blades pierce the hulking creature’s heart and the other rupture his lungs and worse…  

The horrid mist-spawn fell down on the knees, silently, its unnatural head already becoming less corporeal.

Gareth watched the mist leave him through the terrible wounds in his chest and midsection, and slither over the ground…

And as it did so, it seemed to penetrate into the mouths and ears of the felled brigands. Then their broken bodies began to rise up again.

No, no, no...

Still unable to rise, Gareth looked left and right to see how the battle unfolded elsewhere. Perhaps others could soon come to their aid?

Duncan’s foes still numbered around a dozen and the dwarf was increasingly on the defensive, using his shield more than his hammer now. Daniel no longer had the time to pray and do any healing magic – he had to defend himself as best as he could with the ironwood stick and that uncanny touch of light he possessed.

Thuron long swapped his bow for the twin blades – he was the most hard-pressed on them all, but he protected their wizard leader fiercely, seeming more like a deadly blur of motion than a single swordsman.

And there, behind him, Liam’s long incantation seemed at last to be reaching its end. His voice rose in a crescendo, summoning an eerie sound that grew to drown out all else, then snapped with a crackle of lightning as the spell was loosed on the gruesome battlefield.

It had no visible effect whatsoever.

Gareth felt the group’s morale sink as their last hope faded. Resigned, he stood up heavily, his limb shaking, if only to die standing.

There were more foes, and nowhere to expect any more help from. But they were still alive, all of them, and most importantly – Elanor…

‘You did well, pity it’s such an unfair fight.’ – he said to her ruefully as she came closer, wiping the blooded sabers on her already drenched shirt.

‘Aye, that it is. Thanks for what you did, I don’t like lying face-down in the dirt, brings back bad memories…’

‘Sure, but you repaid me when you finished that monstrosity. Ready?’

‘Always. It’s been long coming.’ - she looked bitter but resolved.

Gareth recalled his training with the knights. There, they were taught to summon the ‘borrowed strength’, that which you relied on after you last was spent. They said it came if you were true to your honor. Gareth was just desperate and afraid to die. What did that have to do with honor?

He looked at the woman standing next to him, covered in blood and sweat, but still beautiful; breathing heavily but ready to fight.

On impulse, he drew her close with his left hand – she seemed to expect this – and kissed her hungrily on her blooded wet lips. He felt himself fill with a sensation of fearlessness, beyond mere adrenaline or lust. Thus he learned that last strength could be summoned in many different ways.

He wished that the time would stretch, but it was ruthless, and too soon they had to part. Neither said a word, though their eyes spoke volumes, with their treacherous, unwritten language.

Not too bad a way to go, if you think about it.

And then the melee resumed, the two of them meeting more men and mist-slaves, still numbering dozens and with new dangerous limbs in place of the lost ones. The enemy would not relent, but Gareth found he no longer cared. Nor did Elanor, it seemed, and they just went on killing, working as one.

But their rhythm broke as a particularly nimble fighter disarmed Elanor and went for the kill, his broad falchion poised to impale the exhausted woman.

Gareth had no magic quick enough to stop him, but then he remembered he had something else up his sleeve, literally.

He pulled Tyrmond’s pistol and squeezed it the way he hoped it was supposed to be squeezed, aiming for Elanor’s opponent.

The shot was far from precise, but the thug’s right arm was hit and torn badly, bleeding all over; and his deadly falchion fell to the ground. More foes came, however, and Gareth didn’t have the slightest idea how to reload his pistol.

‘Hold on, friends, I think I have it…’ Liam’s high-pitched voice cut through the din, and Gareth grimaced, wondering what the hell he was blathering about, the useless tinkerer. But as they fought on, spending their last, Gareth saw the remaining foes were beginning to slow their attacks with every exchange.

Then they stopped altogether.

The mist hanging about their eyes and forming their missing parts dissipated, the raised men fell down, like grotesque mutilated dolls. Others were shaking spasmatically, as if waking up from a tenacious nightmare. Human expressions began to replace the masks of dumb indifference they wore as they fought.

Looking around, Gareth was relieved to see that others too were noticing the change – this was actually happening!

As the change took hold, almost at once, the remaining two dozen outlaws forsook their offense for retreat and fled as if the armies of the Warped Gods were behind them, screaming incoherently. 
It was over.

Asphiox, the Lord of Nightmares

... I have told you of the past, but of course, it is the future that is our domain. Let me show you how my journey into the future began…

To the ones who are bathed in the bright darkness of Weave, the futures are often more evident than realities that produce them.
We often have more foresight than insight, more premonition than cognition. I too was fallible in this. I did not understand how the futures I saw were formed, I did not understand the pattern.

We were promised a victory of ruin, but I saw apocalypse of a larger scale, not the Dissolution that was promised, the return of All into the Ocean, but a true End, and end of the Dream. And beyond it, there was nothing…

I set out to learn, and soon I knew that our Tree of Planes was dying for a long time, bleeding slowly from a tiny wound near its very heart.
I learned that from the moment the last demiurge was sucked into the Underverse, the return to the Maelstrom was inevitable.
The First Council had failed us… The mystery of their apparent demise so intrigued me I became obsessed, to the great delight of my masters, for my restlessness brought such a wave of nightmare upon the Warped Planes my name became synonymous of Doom.

But the source of my power is the source of my Doom as well. None of the servants of Weave ever dream, truly, of freedom – for they believe themselves to be free, such is the measure of their passion for what they were born to spread, be it hatred, fear or lust.
I dreamed of it though, and I feared the End. Then I had learned of the Great Unmaker, the one who can break the chains of fate.

What madness could drive me to betray the Warped Gods whom I served? Why, boredom, the greatest madness of all!
You see, as mighty as my masters are, their struggle against other Primes, their schemes of conquest and depredation always seemed to follow a predictable pattern… And it grew tiresome to me, very tiresome indeed.
It was as if I was trapped in an unchanging cycle, locked in a room full of mirrors, and great Ocean knows these mirrors became a true nightmare for me, me, the Lord of Nightmares!
I was born with one purpose - to serve that power that spawned me... to truly serve the Eidolon of Dreampower was to embrace inconstancy, limitless possibility, to walk a line between madness and genius…

Arrogance or not, I would tell the entire Multiverse - as I tell you now - the other archfiends are mere brutes; I alone am capable of true Creation! Why, perhaps it is Asphiox who is in truth the Last Demiurge…
But let me return to the matters at hand. You may wonder, how I came to dwell in such a place, so far removed from the world of light and the living?
I had different a sanctuary once, and I had a great many friends, lovers you could say, though most would only see them as slaves, unable to see the bottomless rapture of their souls.
They gave me their bodies with a passion, and I freed their mind, molded them into one perfect entity, on which I bestowed myself to bring it unity of will.
Our voices were… like the chorus of all gods, light and dark, lined in the temple of ecstasy, of Apocalypse, of the Great Change...
But it was all lost, all undone, for I had grown arrogant as I beheld the beauty of my own creation. I tried to move too fast, and too openly, and was defeated. I was carried away with the grandeur of my newly gained powers…
And so the ice-prince, the unwitting tool of the Void, and his pet knight had defeated me.
I know that a reckoning is inevitable. For I have seen the agony that wrecks my omnipotent, but yet imprisoned Master… and for every moment that His agony is extended, those responsible will suffer equally.

You may wonder also how I came to serve such an alien force, so incapable of either mercy or compassion - more so even than my former mistress, the great Weave…
Yes, I know that this road will have an end both dark and painful, but I cannot help it - it is the very core of my existence. To scheme, to twist, to dream and to change... and this world is so intolerably unchanging!
The thought that the ultimate destruction and rebirth of the entire multiverse may be my legacy, thrills me too much for the basic instinct of survival, let alone mercy, to stand in my way.

Now, it is time. Hush, sweet girl, the pain is but another illusion, drink in the mist, let the Underverse fill you, bleach you of false colors, lead you to your destiny. Yes, good... Now sleep, and see what the Lord of Dreams has prepared for you…

The Dark Heroes, pt. II

Master of Death

Heavy is the tone of this tale, the tale of an ill-starred son, the story of Niilo Ledraith.
Five centuries past, there was a master swordsman, a proud heir of an old dynasty from Korlain, tracing lineage all the way back to the Voyagers, the men who had journeyed through the Dark Beyond...

Yet in the Age of Alliance, with the outside enemies lying low, the Raven Kings sought to weaken their rivals from the Old Families, and House Ledraith grew desolate.
But as fate would have it, there came Morkei the Witch Lord, and the Raven Kings were subdued to his Reign of Sorcery. As Morkei’s dominion grew more assured, House Ledraith pledged their ever-lasting allegiance to the Witch Lord and his grand Cause. They sent Niilo, their eldest son to his side to serve as captain and apprentice, and as a token of their loyalty...
But the Witch Lord laughed at the young count, for to be his apprentice, one has to prove both loyalty and ability beyond common man’s wildest dreams.
So Niilo came to the vanguard of Morkei’s dark army, to march under the Congregation’s many-faced standard. He proved both able and loyal, and soon was leading the fight against the Yrsithian people, man, elf and dwarf. Before long, he was the youngest captain to serve under Morkei yet.
Niilo was promised greatness then, but he was not so corrupted as not to doubt his master’s great Cause that to his eyes, only brought ruin where once was beauty and order.
Soon his ways were noted as strange and unfitting, and people began whispering. A Watcher - a creature from Shade bound to Witch Lord’s own will - was assigned to him, to see if he was indeed the promising apprentice he seemed to be at first.
Despising the oversight, yet with his family’s name to consider, Niilo tried to shut out his doubts. Then one day, the dark creature asked him to perform a special task - bring ‘justice’ to an elf family living high in the mountains and refused to submit to the Witch Lord’s will.
Brooding over the task set to him and how he came to be a mere executioner, Niilo sat down and drank, drank until he knew no more.
Next day, he learned that his lieutenant took initiative into his hands, eager to show his outstanding qualities to the Watcher and their Lord.
When Niilo arrived, the proud elven manor was aflame and the soldiers were carrying out charred corpses and a young trembling elf girl. When the talk began of what’s to be done with her, and the upstart lieutenant, basking in glory, offered his ideas, Niilo fell into a rage and slew him, taking the girl into his custody.
Though not a heavy crime for a noble and a Chosen, it was bad enough.
The Watcher was not pleased, and demanded that Niilo take the girl’s life before next sunrise, or face the Witch Lord’s wrath.
So Niilo took his blade and led the girl into the woods.

But in his heart, he knew he would seal his damnation with the dark deed, and as he looked at he young one, he recalled many things he thought he had forgotten. His doubts became certainly, and his apathy became roaring despair.
Niilo knew full well that his skills were inadequate even for his own survival as a hunted exile in the war-torn Ersidria, let alone keeping his charge alive.
Yet in his time with the Witch Lord’s banners, Niilo learned many secrets  of the Black Host and the creatures that comprised it.
Thus he resolved to seek the Night’s Gift, the only path to salvation, for the girl if not himself.
Vampires were an elite force in the Black Host, dreaded mounted knights in impenetrable armor by day, winged terrors by night, feeding at will on the human cattle driven in wake of the army, or even Morkei’s own soldiers.
Niilo found his chance in a proud young convert, blood-starved and unhinged, whom he challenged to duel and slew, but not before taking bite wound.

With that, he packed the terrified elf maiden and fled. The curse took hold, and Niilo escaped the hunters on the black wings of night, the girl in his arms.

The war passed and the Black Host was scattered as was the Congregation - some driven back into shadows, some brought to justice.
Then the Mist came over Ersidria, covering aching land with a veil of cold forget, concealing the devastation and ruin with layers of phantoms and dreams.

The elf girl Aethil came to accept her protector, and together they wandered far and wide, learned the ways of the nature, the Mist and the Night, found secrets that lay hidden from others. Under the veil of the Mist, they discovered wonders and fled from terrors, watching the rare passage of people from the Outside.
Still, Niilo knew he had to give a better life to the poor girl. At first he tried, halfheartedly, to find her suitable parents, then he could no longer bear the thought of parting with her.

Living in ruined temples and shrines, Aethil learned of the culture of her people, recovered clothes, books and many wonderous items from the lost age. So the years passed and the two kept on wandering. As if in penitence for his sins as a captain of the ‘Blacks’, Niilo did everything for the girl, never letting down guard, always providing, teaching her what he knew, watching her sleep. He never touched her, though readily he desired her. Long nights filled with heartache, bitter truth that to her, he was her involuntary step-father, nothing more, yet to him, she was everything now.

So the ages could pass in quiet grace and melancholy, himself an undying husk, his companion a near immortal at the dawn of her life…
Yet slowly, under the shadow of the Mist, the girl grew into a pale, beautiful woman, and Niilo’s heart blossomed with pain and love.

One day Aethil recalled that Niilo had once told her they would one day go to the shores where the great winds scattered the Mist, brought the scent of ever-blossoming fields of land untouched by darkness. There, he had said, they would step on a white ship and sail away, into Immortal Lands of her people, like her ancestors did for millennia.

As she spoke of this, the vampire smiled, and stayed silent. He knew of course that this dream was unattainable. His transformation took a heavy toll - he became master of death, yet death too became his mistress. Without feeding on human blood, his body grew fragile and he ached to see his step-daughter shudder at his sight.
Then once, hearing the whispered rumor of a hidden truth, a way to turn back the curse. So he found a place for Aethil to hide, bidding her stay in its safety and await his short return.
His quest was in vane, for the sorcerer he heard of was already caught and burned by the clerics of Red Dawn, as were his works and research.
Flying back in great haste, he found the hidden barrow empty, with neither Aethil nor any trace of her.
Heartbroken and bitter, never knowing if she left him or was taken from him, the restless immortal quailed.
Where has my dearest gone to? Is this light too now taken from me? Can I let her go? 
In silence did the cursed one brood, and the silence consumed him.
No heart beats, no breath falls, no voice sings... 

The bond is too strong to relinquish.