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About Literature / Professional Member Steen Engel BelhageMale/Denmark Recent Activity
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Far to the north, away from the mud and rain of Rimnoll, through the dark woods of Nightweald and over the mountain range that split the valleys into three, a man was having his lunch. Fruit, neatly arranged in little towers on his plate, held together by tiny wooden sticks. He had already finished the apples and oranges, and was indulging himself in a finer fruit from the east. He couldn't quite remember the name, but it was delicious. A man like himself deserved no less, after all.

Shoes of elegant brown leather were slung unto his desk, his toes waggling inside, the plate of fruit on his lap. He was careful not to spill any juice on his coat of celestial white silk, and the pale green shirt underneath-—that would be horribly unrefined. While chewing a piece of this sweet eastern fruit, he gazed out his window, seeing the blazing sun in the sky shine down upon the snowcapped mountains in the distance, and the rocky valley at its feet. He saw it rise high over the clouds and the highest peaks to glory. He had watched it since dawn, following its journey and its ascension from the red and orange colors, to its godlike throne in the sky. The sun was a beautiful thing, when you thought about it. Revered by all as the symbol of goodness, and a savior that would chase away the darkness. Truly commendable, that the sun had made such a great name for itself. Even in the most ancient literature was the sun praised every morning, the people raising their arms in happiness to see the dawn come again after the bitter cold of night. It was so beautiful that those who stared too long would begin to weep. Truly, there was no one who could boast of a glory to match that of the sun... so far.

He chewed a little more, and found this eastern fruit to have a rather strange aftertaste. It made his tongue feel oddly uncomfortable, and while its initial taste was sweet and fine, he cared not for what came after. He put the plate unto his desk, where all his paperwork lay. Stacks of orders to fill out, things to stamp, letters to write... his work really was never done. It seemed that no matter how much he sat down to get work done, there would always come more in than he could send out. He had long since stopped aspiring to finish the job, for there was never an end to it anyway. Now it was only a matter of doing it well, doing it quick, and doing it in a manner that made himself look good.

He sat properly in his chair, running a slender and gentle hand through his golden hair. A proud mane like a gilded river ran down his back and his shoulders, glorious enough to make even the greatest lion weep in sheer envy. They said that you could tell a lot about a man by looking at his hair-—and if that was true, what did this make him? He looked about the room, his soft hazel gaze moving across the bejeweled bed, the dozens of wardrobes full of attires for all occasions, the carpet with a tale of northern kings woven into it... he knew this tale almost flawlessly, and could tell it off the top of his head if he wanted to. There was a long line of kings in the north-—the longest, historians had claimed, and each and every one of those kings were known for something. Each their glory. Each their perfection. Each their tale to tell.

There was a knock on the door. Three, in fact. He looked towards the door upon which the very same story of kings had been engraved, reminding him of it every time he entered or left. He raised his voice to call through the wood.

“Enter.” he said. His voice was full of authority and beauty, both in equal parts, almost like gold—-the strength of metal, but with an elegance worthy of gods. The voice that answered him back, though, was more comparable with old, moldy wood.

“My lord Deum, I humbly beg your pardon.” a little hunchbacked man, draped in dark brown robes came waddling in, age having degenerated the poor man. With a stark resemblance to a mole, he was an easily recognizable servant, and one of Deum's favorites. A good servant was loyal, humble, and effective—and this one fulfilled all of those with flying colors.

“Ah, Ferdinand.” Deum greeted with a smile, turning his chair to face the hunchback “You have my pardon. What news?”

Ferdinand walked inside, but kept the door open. He cleared his throat with a hoarse cough, and continued “My lord, I had thought you would like to know that our king has returned from his hunt in the south. He is in his quarters, and bids you join him.”

Deum couldn't help himself from uttering a little chuckle “Oh Magnus, always thinking he's still young. Ah well, if the king wants me to come and praise him for having his men kill a deer in his name, then I am no man to defy him. Thank you, Ferdinand. You may leave.” he said, giving the hunchback a smile before waving him away.

Ferdinand, of course, did as asked. He bowed his crooked body and waddled out the door, as fast as his stumpy legs could carry him. Deum remained for a little while, gazing out the window, beholding the great Angel's Ascent that reached over the city of Godshill like a protective hand. The cliff truly was a marvel in the sunlight, and the way that the cathedral atop it shimmered so beautifully. Deum realized that he hadn't been up there for a while. Maybe it was time to pay some respect to the gods... but for now, the king needed those honors. The gods could wait. He took another piece of the eastern fruit, wrinkled his nose at the bitter aftertaste, and walked out the door.

It was a beautiful day in Godshill; of that, there could be no doubt. The sun's glory was unobstructed by clouds, and freely rained down upon the rocky valley that stretched far into the horizon, before meeting the rising mountains in the distance. They were but fickle silhouettes at this distance, so far away, but they were beautiful nonetheless. Every day he had the pleasure of gazing upon them, each time he passed through these great big windows. The mountains were a blessing, all could agree. Not only were they beautiful to look upon, but they made Godshill a difficult place to invade. They were like wide, tall walls of bitter snow and jagged rock that made the people here feel so safe. And he had to agree. Seeing every morning that the mountains still stood gave him a pleasant comfort in his heart. They day that the mountains crumbled, would be a day to fear. Thankfully, such a thing was vastly unrealistic and nothing to worry about, he concluded.

He rose higher and higher over the city of Godshill as he ascended the curling staircase that led up to the king's quarters. There were windows here as well, allowing him to look down upon the city built upon this tall mountain slope, and see all the people slowly rise to greet the morning. All the merchants and bakers and guardsmen and housewives with their laundry filled up the streets and breathed life into the city. From up here they were but little specks of white shirts or uniforms, chatting with one another, sharing stories... sometimes he wondered what would happen if he went down there, and decided to join in. Would they even recognize him? The thought made his mood falter a little, so he tried not to think too much about it.

Eventually, he arrived at the door of the king's quarters. It was unguarded, but more importantly, it wasn't even closed. Deum smiled a little. Magnus was truly getting either careless or old... or both. He decided to take the open door as a symbol of the king's welcoming mood, and stepped inside.

True enough, simply by seeing the quarters, Deum was reminded that being High Commander was good... but being king was better. It was nearly a hall rather than a room, with a diamond-encrusted chandelier of gold hanging from the tall ceiling, and red carpets of the finest Targussian weave on floors and walls alike. Wardrobes with the thousand outfits of the king stood scattered across the boastful quarters, and a cornucopia of fruit and candies stood placed in little jars here and there for the king to enjoy whenever he felt the desire. Every now and then a pretty servant maid came in to replace aging fruit with freshly picked ones, and while Deum had Ferdinand to serve his needs, the king had a number of servants that Deum didn't even dare to count. Every time a maid stepped it, it felt like a new face. Every time he visited the king's quarters there always came a newly employed maid or butler to tend to the king. But most impressive of all, was what the previous king had installed in these quarters.

A spring, no less. A marble statue of a scantly clad woman with her hands held out to either side, water pouring from her palms. Her eyes were turned skyward, prayer in her expression and holy rites written all over what little clothes the sculptor had given her. The water had been scented too, and carried a sweet whiff of flowers. But in all the glory and splendor that filled this place, there was something rather important missing. The king himself.

“Out here, Lucius.” an elderly voice called. Lucius' attention fell to the other side of the room where a pair of glass doors opened up to the balcony beyond. The gentle mountain breezes blew cold air into the quarters, the silk curtains flowing like the drapes of ghosts. Lucius smiled as he heard the king's voice, and hurried out to accompany him.

“You hide well, your highness. I thought for a moment Ferdinand had mistaken in his report of you returning from your hunt.” Lucius said, as he sat down in the chair opposite of the king. He switched over to the refined tongue of High Speech, a language only spoken by nobles and men of higher standing. He rather liked that language, actually. It was like he didn't have to wear a mask any longer, when he spoke it. Not to mentioned that his name was High Speech too. It was natural to him, and the king understood it just fine.

He smiled. He had to, in face of the crownbearer, though sometimes he wondered if he could even see it. The king was a man at his life's dusk, and most of his eyesight was gone. His hair had greyed to the point where it seemed more white than anything, and his eyes were going the same way. He was dressed soft royal wool, a bit more casual than his formal attire, but a sight to behold nonetheless.

“Kings do not hide, Lucius.” the king answered in High Speech too, a smile on his lips and jest in his eyes “Only from angry queens and demanding advisers. Hah!” despite that he was old and crumbling, he could still laugh. In fact, it was one of the few things he did very well. Loud and hearty, there was none who had laughter like the king, and Lucius couldn't help but smile.

“Ahh, but these are delightful days when there is no queen to pester me and I can go hunting whenever I please. It is a boon that I have you to tend to the war, Lucius. Gods grant me strength if I'd need to sit with all that paperwork. I would have had my current appearance at the age of twenty!” he said, and laughed again. Every time he laughed, his wrinkles seemed to multiply. Lucius had made a game out of counting them, but every time he tried, he felt as if there were even more than last he checked. Confounding, to say the least.

“I do what best serves the king.” Lucius replied curtly, more out of routine and duty than politeness. He reached forward and plucked a grape from a little cluster the king had prepared himself on a table between him and Lucius. He flicked it into his mouth and began to chew, just as the king began to speak to him.

“Lucius, my dear High Commander... I've been meaning to speak with you about the war.” his smile dwindled, his chair creaking as he leaned back in it “You have served me long and well, have kept the war in distant lands just as long, yet now Aegon is a smoking ruin and demons have been reported seen in The Fairlands. Is there an explanation for this?” the king asked, looking at Lucius with more concern than inquisition.

“If there is...” Lucius said as he wiped some juice off his lips with a handkerchief “...then I'm afraid we don't know about it. Your scholars have been working day and night on an explanation, and even the wisest priests have been at a loss.” he shrugged “Some say the dark king Locux finally found a way to teach his demons how think tactically. Others say that there is a single intelligent figure that commands and controls them. And then there are those who claim that it is the end of days, and there is nought to be done. I like to think that it is not the latter one.”

“And I hope you're right.” the king said while reaching forward to fill a gilded goblet with wine “I would hate to see this line of kings so abruptly ended. We've been doing this for centuries now, and I wouldn't want myself to be the last one.” as he sat back in his chair and sipped at his wine, his hazy stare moved back to Lucius “You're supposed to succeed me, after all. When I die, the whole world is expecting you to take my place... but if the whole world is dead—-you included-—that will be good for nothing, won't it?”

Lucius' heart cramped up at the thought. He tried not to show it, his teeth gritting behind closed lips. He shook his head “No... no it wouldn't. But don't you worry, your highness. I have no doubt in my mind that this demon crisis will blow over soon enough, once we've figured out what is behind it all and discarded all silly notions of an apocalypse.” he plucked another grape, and looked at it while speaking “This isn't an apocalypse. It's just... an outbreak. An outbreak that will be analyzed, contained... and eliminated.” he flicked the grape into his mouth and felt it burst between his teeth.

As he chewed, he saw the king smile again. There was no doubt in the king's mind either that what had to be done, would be done, and it would be done with such a grace that the entire world would sing songs in honor of The Crusade... but Lucius feared that the king's name would be the one on their lips, rather than his own. For what had the king been doing throughout all this? He had been hunting deer in the south, drinking wine, and watching his own life slip between his fingers. The honors did not belong to the king. The honors belonged to the one who engineered the salvation of all things living. They belonged to Lucius Deum.

He swallowed the grape, and cleared his throat “On a similar subject, I received some rather amusing reports as soon as yesterday. According to my scouts and informants, the Tu'Myaa and some of the Fairlandish people have forged a yet unnamed rebellion, and have begun marching into the Rimnoll Wetlands. Word is that they mean to rally the Moonby noble houses to their own cause, but... in truth, I'm not concerned.” he said with a little dismissive wave of his hand “The Tu'Myaa employ horribly outdated methods of war, the Fairlandish people are all farmers and bakers and butchers. Not only will they be effortless to put down, but there is no way in this century that the houses of Moonby would give their forces to their cause.” he smiled, chuckling a little “If the nobles wanted to rebel, they would have done so already. Their forces easily triple that of the current rebellion, and still they have not even as much as raised a finger against us. They live outside the domain of our holy kingdom, and that's alright. Maybe, once we have pummeled this demon menace, they will reconsider their alliance.”

The king took a long drink of his wine, nearly downing the entire thing in one go. He wiped the droplets off his lips, and looked back at Lucius “Outdated methods or no, the Tu'Myaa are still a force to be reckoned with. I would not worry about the Fairlandish people, but the Tu'Myaa are no strangers to war, despite that they've never actually partaken in one. But I'm certain you've heard about their rather... infamous warg riders, haven't you?”

Lucius rolled his eyes “Ah yes, who hasn't heard about these 'legendary' dog-fondlers? I admit that they're known for being an invaluable asset against larger bandit raids, but those are bandits, your highness. Against a legion of gods-blessed knights like our own, it does not matter how large their kennel is-—they will be put down regardless. I am not afraid.”

“Well that's always something.” The king said with a jesting smile on his face, as he finished the last of his wine and reached forward to fill it up again. Just like there was no man that could laugh like the king, there was no man who could drink like him either. The look on his face when he watched the blood red wine coil inside the goblet was one he only wore at the prospect of getting so drunk he forgot that he was wearing a crown. Was this what it was like, being king? So much power, yet Magnus used it for nothing. Nothing except demanding more wine and pastries. He was a broken old man, yet he feasted like he was still in his prime years. Lucius thought well of Magnus, but the way he sullied that crown on his head made him feel rather sick to his stomach. A crown like this one did not belong on a head that always stumbled around in an intoxicated blur. If only there was someone more capable on that throne. Godshill deserved better.

Lucius shot a glance towards the door, then back at Magnus “You know, sometimes I wonder how you can still manage to climb those stairs to your quarters. I could feel the fatigue gnawing at me by the last few steps.”

“Calling me old, boy?” the king gave a judging look, then burst into another mighty guffaw “HAH! No no no, I jest. Of course I'm old, but my life is up here, Lucius. What would I ever do if I couldn't climb up to my own bed, to this sweet cornucopia that I've become so addicted to? The day that I fail to ascend my own staircase is the day I lay down and die, my friend.” he said, and began chugging down the next goblet of wine. Lucius watched as the king filled his belly with wine as if he knew that his life was at its eve, and he had to drink as much as possible before he drew his last breath. And maybe he did.

“Somehow, I have my doubts that starvation is what will kill you, your highness.” Lucius said with a smile, as he plucked another grape from the cluster and flicked it into his mouth. He swallowed before speaking “You said it yourself. Age has begun to take its toll on you. Have you considered writing down your legacy? At this point, death could come for you as soon as tomorrow.”

The king snorted, as he wiped some wine off his lips “Always so morbid, Lucius. Calm down, have a goblet. I have scholars to write my farewells, and when I finally decide to put down the crown and kick the bucket, I won't give two shits about what they've written. I could be known as the king who fornicated goats and used stillborn children as catapult ammunition, for all I care. Once I'm dead, I'll be in the arms of Morrin, in my own tailor-woven paradise. That's what they say about the afterlife, isn't it?”

“Indeed it is.” Lucius said as he leaned back, not responding to the king's offer of wine, and not intending to either “There will be life after death... and not just for you, your highness. Life will continue here in Godshill after you close your eyes for good. The people will want to know what your last thoughts were. You are like a god to them. They would be crushed to know that you only cared for wine and feasting.”

The king snorted loudly. He put down the goblet, and looked Lucius right in the eye “Need I remind you who you're talking to, boy?” he said, a sudden darkness in his voice “I will not have such accusations. A great line of kings have been before me, each and every one with a story of glory to tell, and I am no exception. I was the one who shook hands with the council of Aegon, and adopted them into my kingdom. I was the one who established trade routes with the Luminites, where even you thought that they were just going to shun us like they always had. So keep your tongue on a leash, Lucius. You're not king just yet.”

An unpleasant silence fell over them, in that moment. Lucius' eyes averted into the cluster of grapes and into the mountain-adorned horizon. He chewed at his lip, regretting those words. And here he had hoped for a friendly conversation to win a bit more of the king's favor. Magnus was right-—he wasn't king just yet. 'Yet' being the keyword.

“I apologize.” he said, although reluctantly, the words feeling like acid on his tongue. He forced himself to look back into the eyes of the king, head bowed slightly “I meant no offense, your highness. It was simply concerned for the people, that is all.”

The king looked away too, a sour frown having conquered where his smile once was “Well, you can stop that now. Your concern is unreasoned. I've been king for more years than the average peasant can count, so don't try to lecture me.” Lucius didn't think it possible, but the king actually managed to look angry and down an entire goblet of wine at the same time. He wiped the red droplets off his mouth, and looked back at Lucius “Besides... since when have you been concerned about the people at all? You're the one who feeds them propaganda 'till they're full to the bursting point—and then you feed them a bit more. Are you going to tell me this isn't true?”

Lucius' frowned a little too now, though not as harshly as the king “I've never said it wasn't true... but I am going to insist that it isn't meant with evil in mind. My father was a priest, and he taught me that lies can be used for far more than selfish gain. It is even written in the tomes of Jullix, the goddess of beauty and lies! 'The one who spares pain through lies, is more benevolent than the one who thoughtlessly spews out truth', remember? Sometimes it can be compassionate and kind to keep the truth from those whom the truth would only harm... were it not for me, the streets would be in riots day and night. If they knew what was going on out there-—“

“That's enough!” the king spat, wine droplets flying everywhere in the wake of his words “...Thank you, Lucius. You've made your point loud and clear. I know my holy rites, and I know that your efforts have been to much gain for Godshill, so... is it a pat on the head you want? I can give you one, if you want.”

Lucius was silenced. He had to swallow his words that were still in his mouth not to speak them. He had such an urge to speak, but he knew his place. The king was the king, and that was that... sadly. He folded his hands in his lap and said nothing, all too focused on keeping his frustrations at bay. He gave the smallest of nods to the king, and rose from his chair.

“I deeply apologize, your highness.” he said, forcing out a humble tone from the far corners of his patience “I must be very stressed. I thank you for the grapes and the company, and it pleases me to see that you have returned safely from your hunt. By your leave, I would return to my duties.”

The king looked up at Lucius, boredom and annoyance in his withering eyes. He gave a dismissive wave of his hand, and a low grumble “Begone, then. You've already put a sour taste on my tongue, and I fear that not even the next casket of wine can wash it away. Come back tomorrow, and maybe we can speak on better terms.”

Lucius performed a galant bow, and knew better than to say anything more. With a silenced tongue, he left the king's quarters, and returned to his own.

Once there, he slumped into his chair, and let out a long breath of relief. The king was a great man, but he was old, and he was taxing to speak with. Lucius' eyes looked upon the massive stack of paperwork that had to be done on the desk before him, and realized that the time he spent on the king could have been spent so much better on actually getting things done. The fool he was. In the time the king had been gone, he must have forgotten what kind of imbecile bore that crown. A long, brooding silence filled his quarters, only disturbed by the howling of mountain winds on his window. He looked at the stacks of papers, and knew that work had to be done. But amongst all these papers, there was one that cried out for attention. He picked it from the stack, inked his pen, and began to write.

Court Alchemist Orlan Grey,

My patience is long and my will tenacious, but I find myself so tragically miserable in face of it all. Godshill has lingered long enough in political lethargy. The time for change has come. I hope you still have that recipe we spoke of, for I expect a vial of it soon enough. You will be payed well, and you will face no consequences of what will happen. It will be as if you were never involved. Leave it to me, and Godshill shall see a brighter dawn once the old sun has set.
Do not betray me, Mr. Grey. I will personally see to it that your tongue is removed, if it wags the wrong way. And your head too, if it becomes necessary. Do not make it so.

Gods be with you.
~High Commander Lucius Deum


But in a place far away, half a dozen hours ago, things were not as bright and golden. Here, it was wet. Rose really didn't like the wetness of it all. It clung to her like gross, clammy hands all over her body, touching her places that only belonged to her. She had sought the shelter of tents as much as she could, just to avoid the rain. It had been raining all day, and even now, as the sun had set and night had conquered the world, it was still raining. She listened to the endless drumming of the raindrops on the tent ceiling, as if trying to get through. She heard it splash in the countless puddles outside, and she felt it under her shoes. A tiny creek was slipping through the linen entrance of the tent, as if the land was bleeding. It glimmered in the light of a single lantern. The flame was slowly dying out, now fickle and small, and the shadows around her seemed to grow thicker. But while Rose hated the rain, she had nothing against the darkness. Shadows made her feel... safe. At home, even. Even if she was so far from it.

In the lantern's yellow-brown glow, she sat. She had been awake all day but felt no desire to lay down and sleep, as the rest of the camp had. It was blissfully quiet now, were it not for the clatter of the rain. She had been watching the soldiers prance around in their armor, and couldn't help but be reminded of her years in The Wastelands. It was oddly nostalgic, but not something she enjoyed. So far, though, her dismay and distaste was simply something she conjured in her own head. It all smelled of war, but in many ways, it was not like what she had experienced before. There were no escorts to keep her from killing fellow soldiers; no iron cages that reeked of piss; no drunken guards groping her, knowing that if she complained, it would all just be seen as another symptom of her so-called 'insanity'. A delusion, they said. A defense mechanism... no one as much as suggested that here. It was as if she was just another civilian amongst the rest. She had even seen one of those Myaani warriors smile at her. For a moment, she had feared he was going to rape her. But he just walked by. It was almost too strange, even for her.

She flinched a little as she felt the tiny creek reach her ankle. She had been lost in thought, and it had sneaked up on her. Devious little thing! So icy and cold and clammy... she sneered, and stomped on it a few times for punishment. She watched the droplets scatter and seep into the mud, defeated. That'll teach it. She scooted over on a nearby chair and folded her legs up under herself this time, better prepared. She sat there, in the outermost fringes of the dying lantern's glow, feeling the shadows embrace her. She considered blowing out the lantern completely... but Duncan might not like that.

In the other side of the lantern's bubble of light, was Duncan. He lay there on his bed, stripped of everything but his undergarments to make space for the balms and bandages. He was covered in a blanket now, but she knew that underneath, his chest was wrapped up like a present and soaked in some weird substances that the medics claimed would heal him right back up. She sure hoped so. He was still breathing, so that was good. She had kept the healing balm that Duncan gave her, so many days ago, but the doctors had claimed that too. She didn't mind, though. She realized that it was a necessity.

“Would you like me to put some more oil on the lantern?” Rose asked him, pointing up at the lantern in the ceiling. He didn't answer. Rose wasn't surprised-—he was unconscious, after all. She smiled.

“That's true. I sleep best in darkness too. As a matter of fact, now that I think about it, I do most things best in darkness!” she chuckled, fingertips at her lips as she did. Her eyes rose to the lantern, and this time she really considered killing that flame. But then again, it was going to die soon anyway, so it didn't really matter. She looked back down at Duncan.

“You know... I am really liking this Wolfe guy. Remember him? You were with him just as we were plowed down by that warg, and you were knocked out. He has a good head on his shoulders. Strong leadership, a tactical mind... all-round a good asset to our troops, I think.” she said, nodding a few times to herself to enforce her own opinion. She ran a hand through her short black hair, her fingers slightly numb from the cold. A silence fell between the two, Rose watching Duncan's chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm, and he lying there, unconscious as ever. She picked up her chair and sat down by his bed, close enough to touch. He had some needles in his neck, slowly pulsing medicine into his veins. His hair was a mess, to say the least. His otherwise beautiful lengthy crown of black hair had been ruffled and messed up, now a disorderly tangle that made him look so silly. Rose wrinkled her nose and moved over to a nearby desk, rummaging through one of the drawers until she found a comb. It was short and rusty, but it would have to do. She sat down again, lifted up his head, and began to comb out all the knots and tangles.

“Where oh where would you be without me, Duncan?” she wondered, smiling as she did “In trouble, I bet. What if some thug had found you there in Aegon, your veins blue and your brain drunk on whatever drug you had shot into your arm? He would have robbed you blind, I'm sure—-stolen your wallet, your clothes... your life even, if he was particularly nasty. But no. That didn't happen. I found you, didn't I?” the comb got stuck, and she had to yank pretty hard in his hair to get it free. She was glad that he was unconscious, or this would surely have made him scream.

She laughed a little again “Not that it's all that much better, of course. I admit, I considered killing you too... not that such a thing is all that uncommon. I imagine killing a lot of people, but your situation was just begging for it. You were a sitting duck, Duncan. I could have stuck a few fingers down your throat and made you suffocate on your own vomit. I could have put you face down on the road and watched you drown in a pile of sand.” her lips pursed, and her combing stopped. She quieted down, keeping silent for a while, her smile gone.

“Sometimes I wonder why I didn't do it. I would have spared you so much pain. I mean... just look at you. You're a wreck—-physically as well as mentally. Wolfe told me all about how you killed that woman, thinking she was a demon. That's... scary. Maybe you're still at war, Duncan. Maybe you never escaped the battlefront.” she looked down at his unconscious face, smiling again “We can be insane together, then! Wouldn't that be fun?” her words were dripping with self-ridicule and irony.

She finally combed out the last knots of his black mane, and ran a gentle hand over it “There. Nice and orderly. Doesn't that feel better?” she asked, looking down into his closed eyes, for a moment feeling like she deserved a response. Of course, she didn't get one. Duncan simply lay there in silence, the only sound escaping him being the breath that entered and exited his open mouth. She smiled sympathetically.

“I understand. You've had a hard few days, and you're exhausted. I admit that I am too, but... I think I got off easier than you did. I can't even begin to imagine what it must be like, killing someone just like that.” she blatantly lied, but tried not to show it “If I were you, I'd find whatever family she had, and apologize. That would be nice. I'm sure they'll understand that you weren't yourself at that moment... I hope. We should find out.” she sat with her hands in her lap, as her smile began to dwindle a bit “Whenever you wake up, that is.”

“Who says he's going to?” a new voice suddenly joined the fray, and one that Rose dreaded she would hear again. Her teeth gritted, her veins grew icy, her muscles tensed as she heard that serpentine voice slither into her ear. She swallowed, and hoped for a moment that it was just a hallucination. It was just a trick of her mind. It was nothing. Just—-

“Come now my dear, be realistic.” the voice was there again, coming from behind her. It was clear now that it was not just her mind playing tricks on her—-he was actually there. She would curse, but she feared that he would hear that too. She slowly turned the chair around to see him there.

“I can hope.” she replied bitterly, nose wrinkled and eyes full of aggression “And I mean to do whatever it takes to get him back on his feet. Just you watch.”

“Oh, I'm watching! I've been watching for quite a while, in fact.” he was outside the lantern's reach, but the malignant grin on his face cut through the shadows like a knife. She could faintly see the silk and velvet folds of green and blue and red that made up his clothes, elaborate and vivid like a circus manager's drapes. His long elven ears stuck out the sides of his head, tall and sharp like daggers. He had his tall top hat on as always, and his cane in hand, gesturing widely and theatrically as he spoke “And what I see is a dead man, my love. I know you are so good at denial, but for once, look at the man and realize that he is not waking up. You saw fair and well what happened to him... ribcage broken inwards, internal bleeding galore... who's to say that his brain isn't bleeding like a stuck pig as well?” he asked, raising his palms in a shrug, his smile as wide as ever.

Rose sneered viciously, her fingers clenched so hard around the steel comb she was close to drawing blood “You joke about things you know nothing of! The doctors say that he may still live. And I'm sorry, but I think I'll prefer the doctors' words to yours.” she said, firm in her decision.

The elf rolled his eyes, sighing deeply “Oh how attached you have become to the poor fool! And here I thought you simply wanted to kill him; him and his old giant friend too. What ever happened to that, I ask? You used to be so much fun, sweet Rose.” the elf said, his smile gone, only his emerald eyes clear in the darkness before her. This time, it was Rose's turn to smile.

“Don't I entertain you any longer? Then stop following me. Find someone else to bother.” she snarled, teeth bared like an animal.

“Hm. Maybe I should.” the elf said, slowly rising from his chair. He walked through the light of the lantern, right up to Duncan's unconscious body, and drew a flintlock from his belt. He put it to Duncan's forehead, his smile gone, his jests run dry “But if I can't win you, I see no reason to uphold my promise any longer. I told you I would not kill your friends, in fear of hurting your feelings... but alas, if I cannot have your love, what is there left in it for me?” the flintlock gave a dry click as he pulled back the hammer of it.

Rose rushed to her feet, quickly pushing the flintlock aside “No no no, please don't!” her voice broke like fragile glass, her eyes wide as they stared up at the elf “I...” she gulped, hesitant in her words “...I love you.”

A silence lingered over them for uncomfortably long. She could hear her own heartbeat pound in her chest together with the endless drumming of rain on the linen tent. But clearest of all, was the sadistic glee inside the elf that she could hear as his smile grew wide once more.

“...There's the Rose I know.” he said, his voice like poisoned velvet as he lowered his hand, sheathing the flintlock “I knew you hadn't changed, my love. All of this ruckus is just... confusing you. Your feelings are tumbled, your mind led astray by all the war and destruction. But don't you worry, my dear. It will all be over soon.” she could feel his gentle fingers around her chin, raising her face so that he could look deep into her eyes. The emerald stare he gave her made her feel so dark inside, so paralyzed, like looking into a depiction of her own dread. Sweat began to trickle down her temples and cheeks, her hands shaking.

“And once it is, we can dance upon the corpses of entire nations; we can bathe in the blood of kings; we can frolic in great cities, now turned to ash... don't deny it, sweet Rose—it is what you want. You are in a haze of confusion, but don't be afraid... I will be your guide. And should you get too lost, I will always know how to bring you back on track, my dear.” he whispered into her ear, while gesturing at Duncan. Rose closed her eyes, not wanting to think about it. She couldn't for the life of her imagine Duncan dead at the hands of this... snake. She shook her head fearfully.

“I won't. I promise. I won't fall astray... when all this is done, I will be yours.” her voice shivered, the words on her tongue feeling venomous and acidic. She swallowed, and looked downwards, doing all she could to avoid his piercing stare. And only then did he let go of her.

“You'll be happy at the end of all this, sweet Rose.” he turned his back on her, standing in the entryway of the tent, gazing outside into the rain and darkness. He seemed oddly contemplative for a long while, the silence dragged out for almost a full minute, before he shot a gaze back at her, smiling softly “I only want the best for you. I want you to be happy... you just need to realize what your happiness is.”

Rose wanted to speak back, but she didn't get the chance. He walked outside into the rain right after his last word, and though Rose rushed outside to catch him, he was nowhere to be seen. In the dimly lit night where lanterns littered the world like fireflies, there was only rain and faint moonlight to be seen. She felt the icy cold raindrops on her skin and the cool breezes in her hair, but it was all drowned out by an exhausting sense of betrayal. She looked back at Duncan, only then realizing what she had done. Regret and anxiety came rushing into her, as epiphany struck. She felt her breath grow heavy, and she couldn't tell the difference between the rain and the tears on her cheek. Chewing on her lip, left in a bitter silence, she knew there was only one thing to do. She rushed over to the desk beside Duncan's bed, and found some parchment, a feather pen, and a full inkwell. She dipped the pen a few times, and immediately began to write.

This rose has too many thorns, and its petals have wilted. Don't come looking for me.

She left the paper there in the lantern's glow, and stepped away from the desk. Hesitation and fear gripped around her heart like constricting chains, but she knew there was no other way. Only now did she realize that Duncan was not suffering from trauma, not mental, not physical. He was suffering from her. She was his illness. She was his pain. All of this, all this war, all this apocalypse... if they were going to succeed, she could not be part of it. It was with steps heavy as lead, and a heart even heavier, that she ran out the door and into the rain.

Darkness became her, as shed fled the lantern-light that surrounded the camp. Like plunging into dark waters, she left the safety of light behind, and fled. Tears flowed from her eyes and mixed with the rain. She felt the thousand droplets clatter against her, collide against skin so pale and frail, icy cold with the touch of night. The winds had picked up, hurling the rain all over the place, sharpening the teeth of the cold. But she didn't mind the bite. She didn't mind the rain any longer, no matter how drenched she became, no matter how much her clothes stuck to her skin and no matter how much her hair became heavy—heavy as the heart that weighed down her chest. She glared into the darkness as she ran, hoping vainly for salvation beyond the shadows, but there was always only rain and this jagged road of forgotten stone. So desperately searching for home, but all she found was more rain, more cold, and more darkness. Her home was nowhere to be found, just as she thought her home was with them. In the camp, with the rebellion... with Duncan. So little she knew. So naive she had been. She saw clearly now, that women like her had no home.

Once the light of the camp had subsided, drowned away in shadows and mist, she slowed down. She wasn't in a hurry, after all. There was nowhere she wanted to go, nothing she had to reach. She sat down on the stony road, feeling the rain tap on her scalp, her eyes in a puddle at her feet. She watched with empty eyes the droplets fall from the bangs of her hair and into her lap. She felt tiny creeks trickle down her arms, through the linen underneath her leather armor. But most of all, she felt... relief. There was something oddly comforting in being here, all alone in the darkness. It reminded her of home—-her true home. Her throat felt like it was burning, a sobbing wail begging to come out, but she wouldn't let it. She didn't weep. She never wept. She could not hold back the tears, but she would not loose herself to severed ties and a broken heart. Here, no one could tell her tears from the rain anyway.

She looked into the darkness again, into where the road snaked and disappeared. She was surrounded by the shadows, and she felt the whisper to her. 'Useless', they said. 'Burden', they mocked. 'Murder', they tempted. She saw the shadows twist and move in the corners of her eyes, but every time she turned to look, there was only wind and rain. She clutched her own soaked hands, but she felt her fingers slip. Her hands had become numb from the cold, and she felt that the rest of her was soon to come. The ground was hard underneath her, and she felt so frail that she might break a bone by simply sitting here. And still, the shadows whispered. A hundred cackling voices, tongues of snakes that licked her ears, hissing dark words of despair to her. Finally, she snapped.

“What do you want from me?!” she howled into the darkness, her voice cracking as the wail escaped her. She could not hold it back any longer, and fell unto her back, screaming into the air and feeling the rain in her mouth. She finally broke. She felt the cold grasp her like a thousand touchy hands, and everything they touched became numb. She lay there in tears and mud, not knowing what to do, not knowing where to go. And here she thought that she'd never weep. She wailed out her lungs, but soon, there was no more air left in her lungs to wail. She became tired. Sleepy. Her arms felt heavy as they slouched limply down her side. Her eyes stared upwards, watching the clouds weep like she did, feeling their tears clap against her forehead. So gods mourned too, it seemed. What did they mourn for, she wondered. Was it her? Did they mourn the woman she had given up on being? Did they mourn her surrender to darkness? In these thoughts, she felt herself drift away from this cruel, dark world, and into dreams. But before her eyes closed, before sleep came to carry her away, she heard the sound of horse's hooves.

A dark rider comes for me, mother. He means to take me away. He means to take me to you, and to father.


How I have yearned for this.
Vanguard, Book 2, Chapter 2
So, I actually posted chapter 2 some time ago, but I realized that I could smush chapter 2 and 3 into one chapter, so I did. Both of them were rather short, so I did the logical thing, and made one long chapter out of it! This one is named 'The Sun and the Weeping Heavens', where I introduce a few more characters. Re-introduce, that is. With this being early in the second book, I need to re-describe old characters to the audience, since people may easily have waited a while after finishing book 1, to pick up book 2. Hopefully it's not too annoying. Thanks for reading, see you next chapter!
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It was cold, and it was wet. These were two things that always seemed present, in lands like these. Night had fallen over the soaked realm of Rimnoll, and not only did it make it even colder than usual, but now it was dark too. This went doubly, inside the dark caves that opened up like a hundred hungry fish mouths, spotting the region, dug deep into muddy hillsides. The land was mostly flat, but sometimes it rose like a hunched giant's back from the earth, for reasons not many could explain. And in these hills, there were often caves that delved far into the wet bowels of the earth. The whiff of tulips, and the warm touch of sunshine was a thing of the past these days, and something that belonged to the south, to The Fairlands. In Rimnoll, only fog and perpetual rain would bid travelers welcome... and the occasional cave, like this one.

While it wasn't raining in here, it was even darker than usual, what with the silver moonlight being blocked away. And while it wasn't raining directly, the water still seeped through the earth and dripped from the ceiling in something that nearly may as well have been rain. Dryness and shelter was something only civilization could make, for nature had none to give. In Rimnoll, nothing escaped the water and mud.

The night was quiet. There was a mystical sense over it all, a silence disturbed only by the sound of droplets echoing off the ancient walls of this cave... and that of footsteps. Three pairs, by the sound of it, heard from deep within the cave. The sound of mud sloshing and giving way under heavy boots was something that this cave had not heard in a long time, and the bats that resided here seemed quite perplexed about it—-but when the torchlight came and chased away their precious darkness, they would have none of it. The squeaky cries of these flying rodents was something that may have frightened some at first, but after being squeaked at so many times beyond counting, it had almost become a background noise. The scream, the flutter of furry wings, and then back to the sound of muddy boots and fire. It seemed routine, nearly.

The torchlight continued to delve deeper into the cave, carried by a leather-draped hand. The dim yellow-brown glow of the flames revealed a bleak scenery of stony walls, thousands of stalactites hanging like javelins from the ceilings, and gentle creeks that trickled in from the mouth of the cave. It seemed mostly an abandoned cave, but many of them were home for animals that could be turned into food... and other times, they were home to vicious predators and monsters that would turn you into food. So far, though, all it had been was bats. Endless, innumerable, countless bats.

But as a silence fell in the cave, a strange sound became clearer. With the shroud of bat squeals torn away, a curious sound that certainly was no bat came to light. It came from a little side path, narrow and with a floor that was more water than dirt. The torchbearer came to a halt, to cease the sloshing of boots in mud from interfering as well. It was the sound of something brushing up against the walls, fur upon stone. It was brief, distant, and faint—-easily dismissed as just a play of the mind... and yet, the torchbearer stood still, listening. The leather hand slowly moved the flame from side to side, spilling the firelight all over the wet walls and what hid behind the forest of stalactites and stalagmites. The other footsteps ceased as well, and when the sound did too, tension grew in the air.

“Lewis. I need you to check that out.” the torchbearer spoke. His voice was hoarse and powerful, like the throaty growl of an animal. It allowed no debate.

“Of course, sir Wolfe-—uhh, lieutenant Wolfe... s-sir!” another voice, rather young and undisciplined, peeped up from outside the bubble of torchlight.

The torchbearer, Wolfe, sighed deeply. In the light of the torch, his face could be seen turning grim, his hazel stare full of authority. He was a man of age, surely past the half-way milestone of his life, but that was no excuse for weakness—-he had been sure to make this clear right from the beginning. He turned the torchlight to illuminate the face of the one behind him, the undisciplined little punk who doubted his orders.

“So why aren't you moving? Go!” he shooed the little man off, who startled and made his way down the side path like a frightened dog, squirming under its master's command. Wolfe watched the chubby worm scurry off, quickly disappearing into the darkness. He waited for something. Nothing happened.

“Uhm... sir. Won't he get lost in there?” another voice asked. Wolfe turned his torch towards the voice, and revealed a tall and rather gangly man, clad in armor far too big for him. Wolfe narrowed his eyes at him, his face wrinkling even further as a discontent sneer shaped on his face. He began wondering why he was given this pair of village idiots to accompany him in his scouting mission, when just one trained man would have been thrice as effective as his current party. Either it was a stupid joke that he didn't find particularly funny, or someone was trying to get these two dirt-heads killed. He figured it was some combination of both.

“It's a narrow corridor, Wilbur; he can only run back or forth. He'll continue going forth, and when he comes to an end, he'll be going back. And if he doesn't come back... well, I suppose that's all the information we're going to need.” Wolfe turned about on his heel and marched deeper into the cave. He could feel the fear radiating from Wilbur's frail heart, but even this guy knew that staying within the torchlight was a better idea than trying to run back. Darkness had a tendency to kill, after all. Lewis didn't seem to realize that, though.

Going further in, Wolfe noticed that the mud underfoot was getting soggier. Their boots were sinking further in, and the little creeks that trickled down the side of the muddy path seemed to have grown a few inches. He ran his tongue across his lips, considering this new change of environment. He didn't have to be a trained tracker to realize that this meant the cave was flattening out. It wasn't going any deeper into the earth, and the end of it was probably near... and he still hadn't found any food. He grimaced a little. But regardless, he pushed onwards, in hopes that there might be a sleeping bear at the end of this passage. Bears could be food too, after all.

He put his free hand on the hilt of his blade. If it was a bear, he knew he'd need to be ready for a fight. But he wasn't afraid of bears. He was well armed for a little tussle, having sharpened his blade just recently and fitted his armor to perfection. His armor was a strange mix of leather and steel, with his right arm heavily donned in layers of scale mail, and his left one free and light, easily maneuvered for quick strikes and ripostes. He remembered people calling him ambidextrous; 'the man of two right hands'. Maybe that was one of the many reasons he wasn't dead yet.

“S-sir...” the measly, pathetic voice of Wilbur never ceased to make him cringe “...Don't you think it would be smart to turn around? I dun wanna die, Sir.”

“Stick close, and you won't have to.” Wolfe swiftly retorted, sick and tired of Wilbur's cowardice “We'll find the end of the cave, see if there's anything there, and then head back, okay? If we're lucky, Lewis might even still be alive. But if you turn around and run now, I can tell you for certain that you won't be-—“ he was interrupted as the light of his torch came reflecting back against the stony wall of the cave's end. He halted abruptly, but not as much for the fact that there was nowhere further to go, but because of what he saw lie before him. Unconscious or sleeping in a pile of dried grass and sticks, there was a boy. Wilbur and Wolfe both stared down at him, eyes unblinking, mouth unspeaking. This was no normal boy, after all. Even idiots like Wilbur could see that—the boy's extraordinary features weren't exactly subtle. He was a scrawny little chump, lengthy hair and a pretty face, but Wolfe found that he could not tear his gaze away from the pair of horns that stuck out from his forehead. They were short and stumpy like those of lambs, but he could not deny they were there. They weren't the tipped horns of cattle, but the curved ones of goats and sheep, and littered with gold and silver rings. Furthermore, to make matters even stranger, Wolfe noticed that the boy had a tail as well; as long as himself, it lay limp in the pile of grass and sticks. It was naked from the root and right up until the tip of it, where there was a little tuft of hair, dyed red.

“Oi...” Wilbur spoke softly, as if trying not to wake the boy up “...Is that a—“

“Yes.” Wolfe sharply interrupted, not wanting to deal with Wilbur's voice right now “It is. Stay back. I'm going to have a closer look.” he said, carefully approaching the unconscious or sleeping boy, torch in his hand and caution in his step. He knelt down before him, and noticed in the light of his torch, that he was wearing surprisingly expensive clothes. Silk and velvet, colored red and black in beautiful patterns, with foreign symbols everywhere. Wolfe swallowed, hesitating only for a moment, as he reached forward to peel the boy's lips back from his teeth. He cringed as he saw them. Fangs. Vampire fangs, no less. So the stories were true.

“I've heard rumors about these people, the Krov... but I never thought I'd see one myself.” Wolfe watched the unconscious boy with suspicious eyes, not really sure what to make of this “And much less like this. If anything, I had figured my neck would be introduced to their fangs before I could even get to say hello.”

“Ohhh, dun say that, sir!” Wilbur complained, tripping back and forth, clearly unnerved by all of this. Wolfe wasn't even going to reply to that. Wilbur wasn't supposed to be here in the first place; he was a farmer's boy, more fit for squeezing cow udders than sword handles. However, Wolfe's attention was torn away from Wilbur, as he noticed something curious. He drew his torch closer, his eyes narrowed slightly. In the Krov boy's hand, there was a little piece of jewelry, from what Wolfe could tell. Circular, it looked almost like a pocket watch, but without the chain. Furthermore, it had at least four indicators, but there was no way he could tell what they were indicating. But most curious of all, was that it was broken. Cut in half, in fact, right down the middle. The boy was clutching it in his limp hand, as if it had meant a lot before he went out.

“We're taking this one back.” Wolfe said, and did not wait for Wilbur to sputter out another complaint about why that was a bad idea. Holding the torch in his left hand, he used his right to scoop up the boy, and haul him over his shoulder. Fortunately, he was a very light little runt, and proved no challenge to carry. Wolfe peeled the broken jewelry from the boy's hand, and held it himself. Holding it, he noticed that it gave a strange tingle to his palm, as if it was electric. But he figured it was just the cold playing games with his senses.

He slowly turned around to leave “Alright, let's head back. We're done here, and we don't want to—“ as he turned around, expecting to see Wilbur, that was certainly not what he came across. His heart cramped up and his muscles tensed as if he had been electrocuted as he found himself not looking into the stupid eyes of Wilbur, but a glare far more monstrous than that. Three eyes, each one with narrow yellow pupils, and a body looking like a pile of full-grown bears, rather than just one. Hulking muscle and fur winding together in distortion, looking almost as if it was stitched together, and bone sticking out random spots over this monstrous creature's body like branches from a tree.

“Gah! Stay back!” Wolfe shouted, lashing out after the monster with his torch. And just as he had expected, it let out a furious growl at the flames-—it was scared of it. In the torchlight, Wolfe saw all the blood that rolled down the abominable creature's mouth, through teeth as large as claymores. He quickly realized what had become of Wilbur-—and probably Lewis too.

“Afraid of a little fire, are we?” Wolfe grinned and lashed out after the creature again, and true enough, it was horrified of it. He had read about these creatures, seen illustrations, and every monster hunter tome claimed that a thing like this one-—a wendigo-—would dread fire like nothing else. Wolfe advanced on the creature, the boy on his shoulder, the torch in his left hand, and the piece of jewelry in his left. The wendigo kept backing away, its heavy steps sending tremors in the ground, but Wolfe could see in those monstrous three eyes that it wasn't going to last. It was building up courage, and the moment that it realized this petty torch flame wasn't so dangerous, things could take a turn for the worse. Wolfe's eyes darted between the wendigo and the way back, and considered dashing by it... but that was before the wendigo stopped moving backwards.

“I said stay back!” Wolfe shouted as loud as he could, flailing the torch in the face of the wendigo, but it was of no use. He took a deep breath as he realized that this wasn't going to end well. Just like that, the tables were turned when the wendigo slowly began to advance on him, and this time he was the one backing away. Sweat rolled down his cheeks like raindrops, his heart pounding in his chest. Fighting this thing with a blade was out of the question, and running seemed futile. He had seen his chance to flee... and missed it.

He could swear that he saw the wendigo smile, as his back bumped into the dead end of the cave. He was cornered. The wendigo came so close he could smell its putrid breath, warm and sticky, full of blood. He considered putting the boy down to draw his sword, but he feared that the wendigo would already have smashed him to pulp by then. He gritted his teeth, squeezed the piece of jewelry in his hand... and felt something strange. The jewelry felt like it was vibrating in his hand, full of some kind of peculiar energy-—an energy he felt surge into himself. The more he clutched the thing the more energy he felt pushing in through his palm and right into his bones. He wasn't certain what was happening, but in a split second, he suddenly felt so... powerful. Taking a step forward, he looked the wendigo right in the eyes, and raised his voice to a roar.

To his surprise, the sound of his voice was empowered to at least three times the strength, so loud he could feel the cave shuddering all around him. He felt as if his limbs were on fire, and when he looked at them, it seemed almost as if they were. Surging magical energies arced all over his body, red and blue and purple, winding together in a strange arcane weave that made him feel as if he was connected to all things in the world-—and beyond. The wendigo staggered slightly at the sudden thunderous bellow from Wolfe, but what really scared it was when the flame of the torch suddenly rose to become many, many times the size. The gentle flame that coiled around the torch suddenly became a bustling inferno that spilled out over the ceiling of the cave like an inverted waterfall.

The wendigo let out a horrified cry as all of hell suddenly seemed to rise to consume its home, the roar of flame almost as loud as Wolfe's. He advanced forward, snarling like a monster far more horrifying than the wendigo, and the wendigo knew that. It scuttled backward on its huge, furry limbs, but Wolfe did not stop flailing the hellish blaze that stood from his torch until the wendigo had disappeared completely into a little side path like a mouse retreating into its burrow. Wolfe could not explain what had happened, but he knew that there was a time for questions, and there was a time for action. For now, he simply counted it as a blessing. But before he sat down and began thanking the gods above, he prioritized his own hide, and made a run for it as swiftly as his legs would take him.

Once he came bursting out the mouth of the cave, he did not stop running for a solid minute. The sound of his boots sloshing in mud was now replaced with the splashing of puddles, until his knees came down as well. Fatigue ate him up from inside like an invisible fire burning in his legs. He came crashing down, never having run so fast in his life before—-it was made very clear to him that he didn't have the body of a stalwart soldier anymore. He felt the rain against his forehead and his cheeks, running down them like icy pearls. Mouth open and eyes closed, he panted and panted to get his breath back. But even in his fatigue, he was careful not to drop the boy, carefully laying him in his lap, away from all the water. For the Rimnoll Wetlands were not named this for no reason.

As his eyes open, he beheld the soaked world of Rimnoll. The rain seemed to never cease, the thick clouds overhead making people forget what the sun looked like. Countless puddles stretched over an endless flatland of mud and occasional groves-—but mostly mud. Were it not for the mist, some would claim that they could see all the way to the western waters from here.

The mist was another thing that never seemed to leave this place. Moving like massive, pale slugs over the land, these great clouds of silky mist were everywhere, and they were as thick as the stories had told them to be. Wolfe was lucky not to be inside one for the time being, but he remembered the all-consuming whiteness well. There wasn't much to remember, aside from the color white.

Once he had caught his breath, he looked about himself. He was in the approximate middle of nowhere, from what he could tell. It was almost like being back in The Wastelands—-except much, much wetter. A million creeks entwined to fill up a million puddles, scattered throughout the land wherever there wasn't grove or city. And considering that the groves were small and patchy, and there only was one city to speak of, that made up for quite a lot of puddles.

He looked over his shoulder, and saw the hillside behind him. It was the only thing that rose beyond sea level for the next many miles, the rest of this land flat, misty, and wet. The rain was pouring in a thick curtain by now, and even though there was no mist around him, he could not see far. And it was getting cold. He had to get to shelter-—or more importantly: he had to get the boy to shelter. He rose from the mud and water, hauled up the boy once more, and set off. He shot the piece of jewelry a skeptical look one more time, wondering what it was. Its magic had died out now... but he could still feel it tingling in his grasp.

He was fortunate to find his way back to the main road in this roaring downpour. It was barely there, slowly becoming one with all the mud, the bricks falling apart one by one. His short and grey hair was clinging to his scalp like glue by now, and the lengthy mane of the Krov boy was hanging like willow leaves, his tail just as well. With the wind howling and the rain pouring, it was getting dreadfully cold. His torch had died out quickly, but fortunate for him, it was high noon and he needed no torch. The light that came down through the clouds was thin, almost like a whisper hinting that the sun existed in the first place. He was cold, he was wet, and he was getting rather hungry too. But he had been through worse. He wasn't sure if he could say the same for the boy.

But within no more than half an hour, a familiar sound came cutting through the blare of the rain and wail of winds. It was the sound of armor, heavy sabatons trudging in perfect unison. In the fickle light that pierced through the woolly overhang, steel glinted. For a moment he thought he had gone the wrong way, but as soon as he saw those familiar armors break through the curtain of rain, he was glad to know that he hadn't.

“Hoy there!” he called out, hoping to speak through the noise of the rain “Lieutenant Wolfe here! I need blankets, and quick!”

The sound of sabatons quickened rapidly, and before long, the owners came breaking through the rain as well. They were Myaani, the odd middle-way between a man and a fox. Covered in tan fur from top to toe, with the head of a fox, the tail of one, and the hind legs of one, they weren't exactly hard to distinguish from humans. And these in particular belonged to the Tu'Myaa, the only Myaani tribe meant for war-—it was clear to see on the armor that weaved around their body like silk, yet was still steadfast as the strongest steel. Peculiar totemic inscriptions littered their armor, and in the time Wolfe had gotten to know these people, he remembered that the more inscriptions meant a higher-ranking soldier. These two in particular weren't as adorned as he had seen others, but at least they were carrying blankets.

“Quick, wrap the boy up! I'm not sure how long he'll last.” Wolfe ordered, pulling the boy from his shoulder to carry him in his arms instead. The two Myaani soldiers, one male and one female, hurried up with their blankets. Their canine ears perked and Wolfe could see the curiosity in their eyes-—these two had likely not seen a Krov before either. He caught some of the questioning glances they sent his way, but every one of them were given a look that seemed to say 'I'll explain later'.
Once the boy was completely wrapped up, only his horned head peeked forth. The blankets were beautifully woven with the totemic, tribal signs and glyphs of the Myaani people. It was a stroke of luck that these two soldiers were carrying them, as most of the Myaani simply made do with their own fur to keep the warmth. He was pleased to see that at least some of them were following protocol.

“I'll explain on the way. Let's just get back to camp before the cold gets him.” Wolfe ordered, the wrapped-up boy now back on his shoulder. He set up the pace and began to jog through the rain, the two Myaani soldiers close at his heels. It was not long before he reached camp.

Tents slowly began to appear here and there as he drew closer, simply following the main road through the downpour. Scout tents by the looks of it, small and easily packed together, if needed. But the further he ventured down the muddy road, the more tents began to appear through the rain. People too, some donned in heavy armor, others not. There were scouts and warriors, officers in boastful manes to signify their importance. There were lower soldiers in plain steel, others in leather, most with bows and swords alike. Some were Myaani, some were humans. There were a few other people, the occasional elf or so, but the Myaani and humans made up the majority. There were children and adults, some of the young frolicing in the mud and rain while others stayed inside the tents as their mothers had ordered them. But what they all were, was wet. Civilians and soldiers alike were all thoroughly drenched in the rain, the fur of the Myaani hanging limply down their sides-—not to mention the smell. The Myaani really didn't seem to like the rain, most of them with wrinkled noses and discontent looks in their eyes.

But despite the rain, as Wolfe went deeper into camp, he saw flocks of soldiers doing jumping-jacks, pushups, and going on jogging tours to keep themselves from getting lazy. This he could appreciate. He was beginning to think that it was a good idea for the Tu'Myaa to be part of this rebellion, for if there was anything the Tu'Myaa could take pride in, it was their discipline. Never did they question orders, and never did they whine. Trained for war, bred for it some would even say, they were stalwart and strong soldiers. And then there were the warg riders; soldiers with many years of training in the art of beast harnessing, and only those able to show true dominance could mount the wicked wargs. Wolves the size of horses, and many times stronger, these beasts were the claymores of the Tu'Myaa that could slice through enemy forces and bring down entire platoons effortlessly. Wolfe had heard legends of great riders that had tamed beasts stronger and fouler than any before, and how they brought these monsters to their knees. 'Yuurma the matriarch' was one such legend; a woman Myaani known for bending entire packs of wargs to her will. A one-woman army, they called her. If only humans were more like that.

The tents were growing closer like a forest becoming denser the closer to the heart you were. The tents were sitting side by side at this point, some tall, some small, and the crowds were getting thicker than ever. Patrols of soldiers marched through the rain while civilians sat in the shelter of their tents, trading stories or bartering items. But Wolfe's attention was only on one of those tents. Slightly larger than the rest, it was not hard to notice. Eager to get the boy out of the rain, he did not hesitate to throw open the linen entrance, and step inside.

“I hope you don't mind I come barging in.” Wolfe said “But I'm afraid it's slightly urgent.”

Stepping inside, he immediately caught eyes with a quite familiar face. He was sitting by his desk, seated upon a chair that seemed to buckle underneath his massive weight. On the topic of legends, this particular man had become some of one himself, even if just for his size and strength. The people must not have seen all that many Mjaln in their days.

“Ah, lieutenant Edan Wolfe!” he greeted him with a voice like distant thunder, turning his chair to face him. He was dressed casually for now, his ebony cape and steel armor discarded unto the bed that was enforced with iron planks to keep it from breaking while he slept. Wolfe, or Edan as his first name was, hadn't seen him dress casually before, and it was some of an odd sight, really. He was much more used to seeing this lesser giant with boastful shoulderguards and a cape that billowed in the wind, glorifying him even more than he already was. But now he was wearing little but a pair of trousers and a white linen shirt. He seemed much smaller than usual; but even so, he still stood a three heads taller than the average human.

Like Edan, he was a man of age as well, but much closer to the grave than him. His face was wrinkled and worn, and wrinkled even more as he smiled, but as his withering old eyes fell upon the boy that Edan was carrying, his smile seemed to die out.

“...And you bring company.”

“Rather odd company at that.” Edan added as he laid the boy into the bed in the back of the tent. He was still unconscious-—Edan determined the boy could not be asleep, as he would surely have woken up by now, if he was “Ever seen a Krov before, Ramund?”

The great man, Ramund, looked down at the boy with much curiosity in his eyes. He stroked the mighty beard that rolled from his chin like an avalanche over his chest, studded with steel braces engraved with the jagged runes of the northern mountains. He ran a hand through the great but pale mane of hair on his head, a ponytail held upwards by another steel stud. He shook his head, and sighed.

“I have not.” he said, almost regretfully “All I have seen of them has been drawings in books and drawings in my head. And I fear that the people have not either.” he leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking loudly; Edan was afraid it was going to collapse at any moment now. Ramund looked him in the eyes, and asked cautiously “Is he dead?”

Edan shook his head, but felt the boy's neck, just to be sure. True enough, there was a pulse, but it was slow. And by slow, it was the usual speed of a human's pulse; Edan remembered being told that Krov blood was much warmer than human blood, and they also had a far quicker heartbeat. He couldn't remember why this was.

“If he was, I would have left him in the cave I found him. Sadly, the same cannot be said for my company, Lewis and Wilbur. We hoped to find some food in a nearby cave, but all we found was death... and this boy. I'm surprised the wendigo that killed Wilbur and Lewis did not kill the boy. But I'm not an expert on wendigo behavior, so I won't over-contemplate.”

Ramund sighed, and folded his arms across his chest. Now that he wasn't wearing his armor, Edan could see how many scars this great man had accumulated over the years. It was as if he was gathering them like trophies. From what Edan knew of Mjaln culture, maybe he was. War and battle was a great part of life to these people, after all. And, if possible, an even greater part of death.

“I grieve for Lewis and Wilbur, but this is boy is most concerning.” Ramund said, eyes locked upon the sleeping boy. Edan saw his eyes fall upon the boy's horns and tail over and over again, clearly perplexed about these odd features. It seemed that even Ramund, old as he was, still had some things in life that he had not seen.

“I am glad that you brought this boy to me... but I fear what the people might say, should they be told of his presence.” his voice was concerned, underlined with a dire fear. He looked back at Edan “I assume you have already searched his mouth, have you not?”

“I have.” Edan said with a nod “Big, ugly fangs. Nearly the size of my pinky.” he was leaning against Ramund's wooden wardrobe and raised his pinky finger to illustrate his point. Ramund simply gave a nod as well.

“Then it is imperative that this boy remains a secret from the people. Civilians and soldiers alike. Rumor spreads like wildfire, and if they are told that there is a vampiric creature like this one in our midst, not only will we sow unease and fear in our own ranks, but we will put the boy's safety at stake.” Ramund massaged his temples, the gears of his mind grinding.

Edan shrugged a little “You don't think we can tell them that the Krov aren't the insane and bloodthirsty nutters from Nightweald? I mean... I admit that I'm not going to trust my neck to these people, but when you think about it, they've managed to incorporate themselves into society just fine. Noble society, no less! Surely they can't be that bad.”

“I agree.” Ramund replied shortly, eyes still on the boy “But would you risk the boy's life, hoping that all the civilians and soldiers of our little rebellion here would understand?” He shook his head, closing his eyes briefly “The Myaani will perhaps, but never the humans... the humans have lived secluded lives, worrying for nothing but their crops and their livestock. I have already faced enough scrutiny and suspicion, and that is simply because I am Mjaln. My speech back in The Fairlands breathed some trust into their heart, but still there are mouths whispering that I should not be an officer-—that a human is more suited for the task. I dread what they might do to a boy like him, should his existence come to light.” he said, gesturing loosely to the boy in the bed, sighing.

Edan sighed too. He sat down into the bed beside the boy, suddenly not so sure if he was more safe in that cave, than he was here. The wendigo must have kept him alive for a reason, but an angry mob of villages would kill him for none. There was a silence between him and Ramund, the situation suddenly seeming more dire than it did at first. But he couldn't just carry him away and leave him in the rain. He had already killed two men today, albeit indirectly. Leaving a boy for dead was a step he was not going to take.

However, as the boy's tail suddenly did a little twitch, he realized that perhaps he wouldn't have to. His gaze snapped towards Ramund, and the look on his face showed that he had seen it too. The boy was about to wake up. Edan stepped back from the bed and pulled up a nearby chair to sit beside Ramund, eyes on the boy. The tail twitched again, and this time, a tired moan escaped the boy as well. He moved. Edan watched attentively as the boy rolled a little in the bed, eyes still closed. He yawned, and in that yawn, he bared his fangs like a silent tiger's roar. Although weakly, his hand grasped after Ramund's pillow, and he scooted it in under his head. It was as if he didn't recall where he had been, and that he still was home... wherever that was. Edan looked towards Ramund with deep concern in his eyes, wondering what to do next. Ramund could only do a little shrug. But Edan wasn't going to wait for the boy to realize he wasn't home. He scooted his chair a little closer, his elbows on his knees, his eyes unwavering from the boy's face.

“Hey... kid. Get up.” he spoke softly, and in return, the boy gave a little complaining moan. Edan rolled his eyes. He swallowed, and reached forward to poke at the boy's shoulder. And when he did, finally his eyes opened up.

Edan nearly leaped off his seat as he saw what hid behind the boy's eyelids. Golden yellow filling the entire eyes, except for the vertical slit in the middle, serving as the pupil. It was like some twisted god had taken out the eyes of a human, and put in the eyes of a cat. Edan tried not to show his surprise as the boy sat up and slowly that he wasn't home anymore. He shot a glance towards Ramund, and saw no surprise on his face. Was it a normal Krov trait, to have eyes like these? He must have been too drunk to remember it, after being fed tales of the Krov in taverns back home.

“Where... where am I?” the boy spoke quietly, his feline, haunting eyes wide. His voice was sweet and soft, almost strictly so, as if he had been taught to speak like that. Edan looked back at him, and put on a little smile for the boy.

“You're safe, kid.” He reassured him, looking him right in the eyes, even though it made him horribly uncomfortable. The boy sat up in the bed, his gaze darting here and there, clearly nervous and scared—-not that this was a surprise, of course. His hands clenched around one another, his tail standing on end and his fangs bared in an uneasy gritting of his teeth. Edan did not look away from the boy until he realized that he was safe, and that Edan and Ramund were not going to eat him. With fangs like those, Edan was more concerned about the opposite.

“Are you hungry, child? Thirsty, perhaps?” Ramund's rumbling voice caught the attention of the boy, his eyebrows rising at the mention of food. His mouth stood open for a little while, but only silence came out of it. He resorted to simply nodding a few times.

“You're lucky to still have a sense of hunger, kid.” Edan added “Hell, you're lucky to have a sense of anything! Do you remember where you were, just an hour ago?” He asked, leaning back in his chair, trying to seem as relaxed as possible in hopes that the same might shed off on the boy.
Ramund approached shortly after with a plate of jerky, and put it on the boy's lap. His slitted eyes seemed to lighten up at the sight of food, and he did not hesitate one second before chowing down. The pieces of jerky disappeared into his mouth one after another, so fast that Edan had a hard time seeing when one ended and another began. It was as if the boy hadn't eaten in days. Maybe he hadn't?

Finally, as the boy realized that Edan had asked him a question, he stopped eating. He looked into Edan's eyes, his tail slowly falling back unto the bed, more comfortable now that his belly was full of jerky. He put the plate away and swallowed. The red-dyed tail moved unto his lap, where he fiddled with the little tuft of hair. He spoke softly.

“No.” it was as if he was confessing a crime; his eyes were in the ground, his face full of guilt “I don't remember much. It was dark. I remember a lot of dark things. Dark noises, dark smells...” he cringed and shook his head in disgust “It smelled so bad. Like... wet dog. No, an entire wet kennel! Ugh.”

Edan nodded a few times “Yeah, what you probably can remember is the wendigo. I found you in a cave, see. In a wendigo cave, to be exact. Do you know what a wendigo is?”

The boy let a silence linger as he stared at Edan with eyes that seemed to wonder how this question was relevant “I... yeah. My mother has warned me about those. She always said that I wasn't allowed outside the city walls, and that wendigos would get me if I did. But she also said that they would get me if I didn't eat my vegetables.”

“Then it seems you should've eaten those vegetables, kid.” Edan said, uttering a little chuckle as he did. However, that smile quickly died down, as his voice took a darker tone “You know... you could've been dead. Wendigos aren't known for sparing little kids, and yet, it spared you. If I were a gullible idiot, I'd even say it had cared for you! You were lying in a bed of straws, in the driest spot of the cave... how can this be, is all I'm asking.”

The boy only seemed more confused. He looked around, as if searching for help, but there was no help to find. He gritted his teeth, and all he could do, was give a humble shrug “I really don't know, mister.”

Edan sighed. A tongue ran across his lips as he sat there, thinking of how to reach into a kid's mind like this. He was no interrogator, and much less a psychologist. Something was not right, though. And it had something to do with that piece of jewelry.

“Let us back up a little, shall we not?” Ramund butted in again, smiling. The boy looked up at him, and saw the friendly expression on his face. Ramund, on the other hand, was a lot more qualified for this kind of thing. He was the one with a daughter, after all. If there was anyone in this room who knew how to speak to kids, it was him.

“Would you like to share your name with us, child? I'm Ramund, and this man beside me is Edan.” He said, gesturing to Edan beside him, who raised his hand in a slight wave at the mention of his name. Edan watched as the boy put on a smile and scooted off the bed to perform a practiced, elegant bow before the two. His tail rose.

“And I am Matvey, of the Zakadiev family. Usually, I... I would welcome you into my home, but... yeah. I'm not home. So...” he scratched the back of his head and smiled shyly, before he sat back down in the bed.

Edan tried not to show his cringe, as the boy mentioned his name. His surname in particular. He looked up at Ramund and saw hints of the same concern, as that name was spilled. It was spilled unto the floor like sour milk, and everyone knew it was going to stink sooner or later, if they didn't clean it up.

“So... you're a noble?” Edan couldn't hold his tongue, the words escaping his mouth as he looked Matvey in his slitted eyes.

“Yep!” Matvey responded, putting on a little smile, baring his fangs as he did so “Only just recently, though. We weren't considered nobles until... uhh... five years ago, I think. Do you know my family?” he asked, cocking his head a little, his little horns glinting in the light of a nearby candle.

Edan suddenly felt quite uncomfortable. This had just gone from troublesome, to a potential execution-—with his head on the chopping block. The parents had to be furious about finding their lost kid, and if they found him in Edan's arms? It reeked of kidnapping more than a farm dog reeked of cow shit. He swallowed and exhaled through his nose, his gaze wanting to look away from those haunting golden eyes, but politeness bound him. Not to mention that he was now sitting before a lordling, rather than just some kid who had lost his way and sought shelter in a cave. He leaned back in his chair, and shook his head.

“Not personally, but I've heard of you. Hell, the whole world has heard of you! You're practically living legends already, and that's simply because you have horns, tails, fangs, and... uhm... cat eyes?” he gave a shrug “Regardless, anything that shipwrecks on our shores from a far-off world across an endless sea has got to stir up some commotion in the world.”

Matvey scratched the back of his head, his tongue running across his lips; that's when Edan saw that even their tongues weren't like those of humans. It seemed clearer and clearer why the Krov were known as the 'patchwork people', as many of their features seemed like they had been sown on from other animals, to replace the human parts-—the tongue included. And the animal in question this time, was a snake. Matvey's tongue—-and the tongues of all other Krov, Edan assumed-—was slender and long and split at the end, rather than blunt like the ones you would find inside a human mouth. Whatever the function of a tongue like this was, he had no idea.

“Actually...” Matvey said “...We didn't shipwreck on your shores. I think. Mommy always told me these stories. We shipwrecked on the shores of a place called 'The Jemero Keys'. I don't remember the actual crashing-—I wasn't even born then, so I suppose I don't have to.” he chuckled a little, but Edan could clearly hear that he was still nervous about this whole thing “I was born the year after the crash. It was only when I was six that we left. I really liked that place. It was warm. Sunny. Nice fruit, and stuff. This place is just rain and mud.” he sulked a little, glancing upwards to the linen roof where the rain drummed endlessly.

“Actually, it's got a lot more charms than just rain and mud, if you take a closer look.” Edan retorted with a little smile, arms crossed over his chest “Ever been to the Academy of Advanced Gizmology?”

Matvey smiled, but shook his head “No, but I've always wanted to! My brothers have gone there. They told such wonderful stories of all the things they saw. But mommy won't let me... she will hardly let me out of the manor. She says I can't let myself get dirtied by 'lesser kids'. I don't know what she means by that.” his smiled died with a little sigh.

Edan opened his mouth to speak, but Ramund intervened “You are not allowed outside your home, yet you were found in the cave of a wendigo?” he asked with slight disbelief in his voice.

“Not being allowed something, doesn't mean not doing it.” Edan smirked, casting a sideways glance to Ramund “As a matter of fact, disallowing someone something often makes it even more intriguing than it is. And if his mother doesn't want him to get dirty, what better way of defying that, than moving in with a wendigo?” he looked back at Matvey “Isn't that something along the lines of what happened, kid?”

Matvey looked up at Edan, suddenly seeming strangely insulted “I... no! No, I... I just...” the words seemed to clog in his throat, making it hard for him to breathe. He swallowed and opened his mouth several times to speak, but each time, he had no words to give. He fiddled nervously with his own fingers, his lips squeezed together in a mix of concern and guilt. Finally, he shook his head and spoke.

“I don't remember. I don't remember how I left home.” the words were struggled, spoken so that it sounded like that even he, himself, didn't believe them “It's all just a blur, you know? I remember being at home, reading as mommy told me to, then going to bed... but I don't ever remember waking up.” he gave a shrug “Until now, of course.”

Edan's suspicion grew stronger with each word Matvey spilled. His story seemed laughable at best, yet he said it with such truth in his words. Edan could feel his fear jutting out of his mind, mixing with the confusion. This boy wasn't lying, Edan was certain of it. Still, lie or no, it stilled seemed ridiculous. He couldn't possibly have gone to that cave himself; Moonby Sanctuary was an entire day's journey from here. The kid wouldn't have the strength for such a thing. Someone put him there... against his will, most likely. And it had something to do with that piece of jewelry. He let his hand slide over his pocket, where he kept it. He feared there was something more to this, than simply a lost kid on the roads.

He smiled, and gave a nod at Matvey “Thanks, kid. You've been quite helpful. Now, I suggest you eat something, and get comfortable. It may be a little while before we can take you back to your parents.” Edan said, rising from his chair. Matvey seemed a little worried about this, but in the end, all he did was nod. The kid clearly trusted them, despite being complete strangers. Edan wasn't sure if that was a good thing.

“I take it you'll keep an eye on him, Ramund?” Edan asked as he moved to the linen entrance of the tent, looking back at Ramund.

Ramund smiled “I would be honored. It has been many years since I cared for a child, but I do believe I still have some expertise hidden in my sleeve. Not to mention that Matvey is a noble, no less... at this point, I would be rude not to keep an eye on him!” he said, chuckling a little, Matvey chuckling too for some reason. It seemed Ramund's voice was just so kind that Matvey couldn't help himself. Sometimes Edan wished he had that kind of voice.

“In that case, I'll be off. Let me know if anything new comes to light. Best of luck.” Edan said, throwing a farewell gesture over his shoulder as he stepped outside. The rain was still pouring, but at this point, Edan didn't mind. As he sloshed through the mud, away from Ramund's tent, there was only one thing in his mind. He wasn't a particular religious man, but if the gods didn't put that piece of jewelry there, he did not know who did. But there was something about it... something larger than what it seemed. And he feared this was only the beginning of it.
Vanguard, Book 2, Chapter 1
So, while I hate doing so, I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut chapter names out since it fills too much for DeviantArt to accept as a title. Instead, I'm just going to write it here in the description. This first chapter of book 2 is called 'Mud and Gold', and I hope you enjoyed it! I like to think that it is a good contrast to the first chapter of book 1, as they both portray a war camp, but while one shows the dismay and dread of war, this chapter shows the hope it might bring, and the dawn it chases. Furthermore, we get to see through Edan Wolfe's eyes this time, which is something I've been looking forward to. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. See you next chapter, and thanks for reading!
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(Contains: violence/gore)
It was that smell again. That smell of destruction. The thick of smoke that permeated the air; the endless rubble underfoot; the fire. It all came together in a striking orchestra, singing the praises of death, of cruelty—-of war. Some may have thought it a vile cacophony, a chaotic blare of broken tunes and screaming voices. Other people, those with the ears for this kind of thing, saw beauty beyond that. He was one of them.

It was all such a sight to look upon, from up here. He remembered the green hills and groves so clearly. He remembered all the flowing rivers, the tulip fields, the sheep and cattle and collies hopping through the tall grass. It was all so... fine. Idyllic. Innocent. But was it beautiful? They say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, after all, so it was hard to tell. But these days, there weren't many to point out the beauty of these lands-—The Fairlands. It was always sunny here, it seemed, but not the scorching kind of sunny that you would see south of here, in Targus. It was more of a gentle sunny, the kind that allowed vineyards to thrive and corn fields to flourish. Back in the day, he could appreciate this kind of thing-—who didn't appreciate a good glass of finer wines, and a day on the porch, feeling fresh winds on your face, and hearing morning birds at the break of dawn? Not many, that was for certain. But these were not those days. These days were different.

Beauty, in many ways, was a lot like art. It came in periods, ages where a certain style was popular and seemed to adorn every painting, every good book, every symphony on the maestro's stage. If you went back just two days, you'd see that gentle sun and tulip fields were the definition of beauty—-but that was two days ago, wasn't it? Today was today, and today brought with it a new definition of beauty. These days, skies clouded so thick with smoke that it blocked out the sun and streets drowned away in a grey snowfall of ash were 'in'. These days, the people wanted body parts strewn across the world, blood reddening everything. They wanted fires that never seemed to die, and demons gorging themselves upon slain mothers and fathers and their children too. They wanted to see the green hills turned black and grey with ash, and the groves wrought in flame 'till they were little but smoking husks of their former splendor. It was quite simple, really. They wanted war.

He smiled a little. As it just so happened, he, the one and only, was quite an artist when it came to war. Each stroke of his brush was a river of red; each dot was a body ripped open by hellish teeth and claws; each color some new aspect of cruelty, destruction, and death. So if someone ever asked him what beauty was, he could not give them a true answer. He could only show them what it was, for the time being... and that was exactly what he meant to do.

He let out a little sigh from his nose, and looked down at his hands. Gloved in green silk, their gentle and nimble fingers held a skull-—not a human one, though. Usually he would have done so, to gaze into the empty eyes of his audience, but this time he wasn't attending the stage. This time, he was looking into the eyes of a person he once called 'friend'... or 'mongrel', from time to time, but usually 'friend'. It was the skull of Trestin Galloway, the broken-jawed demon that had always been by his side, and been such a trusty companion—-truly a great friend, if he said so himself. Even in death, he was so... recognizable. The lumpy, wolf-sized head, looking like something between a reptile and a chicken, but with teeth as great as fingers and a pair of fangs as great as entire hands. A huge crack ran straight through the demon skull-—he had hoped he could mend it away, but Trestin's killers had been so damnably brutal to the poor guy. He frowned, still staring into the blackness that was Trestin's eye holes, and gritted his teeth. For his sake, they could kill all the demons in all the legions in all of hell's armies, and they could bring down the great lord Locux, king of the Netherworld... but of all demons they could have killed, they had to kill poor Trestin. An axe straight to the head, a last twitch of his limbs, an abruptly interrupted screech... and then old Trestin was a thing of the past. He wasn't sure if he could forgive them for that.

His green eyes wandered. He couldn't bear looking into Trestin's empty eyes much longer, and decided to wrap his skull up in pink silk instead. He looked up from the skull, and saw before him, his recently finished artwork. Casserton, the last village of The Fairlands, now part of this new age's sense of beauty. From the top of the great hill that Casserton was built upon, he could see it all, down to the smallest detail. It was like looking upon a painting so fresh that the colors were still drying. All the homes that before had straw roofs, now had roofs of fire, and walls of blackened wood. All streets were ripped up from the ground and thrown about, their rubble everywhere, the streets and houses unified in destruction. The clouds above wept tears of ash that fell upon every inch of this razed world, the green of the hills now but a fading memory. Demons great and small rampaged through the town, breaking down walls, fighting over body parts that weren't reduced to ash just yet. It seemed The Fairlands weren't so fair anymore... as some would say. But those that said so, would soon realize what fair truly meant.

He was interrupted, as he heard footsteps nearby. He turned toward the sound, and saw a demon, a rather small and ugly one, come waddling. It was a trooper. The main force of the demon army, not because of their strength, but because of their numbers. It took a while for him to appreciate their beauty, for in truth, they really were some ugly little runts. With the malformed faces, jagged with teeth and spikes, and with a pale exoskeleton on the outside and all the squishy parts on the inside... much like an overgrown insect, with great big blades of bone growing out of their arms. Normally they would use the tip of these blades as their front legs, but this particular demon was carrying something with those blades. Another body, it seemed, untouched, and almost not scorched by the fire at all. The demon humbly crept up to him, and sat the body down by him... amongst all the other bodies. The demons had been giving him gifts like these ever since the rampage began, and by now, he was sitting atop a pile of them. He didn't really mind the smell, and he couldn't complain about the softness of it; the Casserton people had lived tender lives, and thus had very tender flesh. The only thing that bothered him, was that there really weren't that many of them... all thanks to the battle they had with those Myaani folk. If there was anything he hated, it was when people tried to do his kind of art with such sloppiness that he couldn't help but cringe at it. The battle they had fought against the Myaani was so unprofessional-—so amateur! He had to give them credit for burning down the grove, but that seemed all they did right. There was hardly any torn limbs or ash clouds; no cannibalism or torture. They had just killed each other, and that was that. Boring. Tasteless. Uninspired.

He looked towards the demon that was slowly making its way back to the carnage, but interrupted it “You there.” he said calmly, his voice soft like silk, yet with an authority like steel. The demon halted abruptly and quickly spun around, its bloodshot eyes wide in attention. He gave it a little smile, and beckoned it closer.

“Come. Join me. I want someone to appreciate my artwork with me.” he said, patting a fleshy spot beside him, gesturing for the demon to take a seat. Obviously, it hesitated. It was clear to see that it feared this was some kind of trick, but disobeying him was certainly no option either. So, although reluctantly, it climbed the pile of broken, half-burnt bodies, and slumped down by his side. Demons sat in such a funny way. Their legs were stumpy and their arms long, so they always ended up sitting with a hunched back and a stupid look on their face. Regardless, he was glad to have someone by his side, to ponder the art with. His silk-draped hand fanned over the ashen ruins of Casserton, and couldn't help but smile.

“Tell me... what do you see?” he asked, beaming widely as his eyes fell upon the demon at his side. He looked into its bloodshot eyes, seeing the confusion mixing with fear. He knew perfectly well that demons couldn't speak, but sometimes it was still amusing to see their thoughts through those eyes of theirs. He looked back over the destruction, and exhaled through his nose.

“Want to know what I see?” he asked, though didn't wait for an answer-—he knew he wasn't getting one, regardless “I see a new age. I see a tidal wave coming in to wash away all the dirt and grime that had accumulated on the beach. I see a purging, a sunrise... a revolution, even. I dare say, the lord is going to have the time of his life once this painting is complete.” he chuckled a little, and looked back at the demon. Immediately, the demon snapped into a forced cackle as well, sounding mostly like its about to regurgitate. He appreciated that it was being polite. Polite demons stayed alive.

His eyes fell to the horizon, the one that had darkened under the clouds of ash. He remained quiet for a few seconds, lost in thought. The ashen snow had fallen to pile up on the brim of his great, bow-tied top hat, but he didn't care. He didn't look at the demon, when he spoke.

“And what's in it for me, you ask?” he continued, silk-draped hands twiddling, lips smiling “The greatest prize a man could get, no less. Oh she is a beauty, I tell you... stunning, just stunning, and with a mind so excitingly broken.” he gave an amorous, theatrical sigh “Usually I'm the one to put up a play, but this girl... enthralls me. And we're so alike, she and I! Would you believe it? I never thought I would find my destined love, but there she is... undeniable. And when all this is over, she and I shall dance endlessly upon withered roses and ash, 'till the lord claims us both.” he said, raising both hands upwards to the sun hidden behind dark clouds, glory in his voice and in his green eyes. But then, with a sigh, he let his hands drop. He shook his head.

“But I cannot let myself be torn away by wishes and dreams... we have work to do, my dear friend!” he said, rising to his feet, the demon immediately doing so as well. He didn't really care if it had been listening or not; in truth, it was just nice to have someone to speak with. A great big smile presented itself on his lips, as he gave the demon a pat on its lumpy head, looking it in the eyes.

“I'm glad you listened, my boy. Keep that up, and I might just promote you.” he said, as he wandered off the corpse pile. The demon stood there, stifled, as his words slowly crept into its thick skull. Eager to earn said promotion, it hurried after him, and decided to stay there... 'till the end of days, if necessary.

Such a thing was not unrealistic at this point, after all.
Vanguard, Book 2, Prologue
A little prologue to be re-introduced to the violent, gory world of war. It's funny, I have to admit that I am really enjoying writing from this guy's point of view... it gives such freedom to write all kinds of messed-up dialogue, and create such striking contrast between what we consider beautiful, and what he does. If beauty does lie in the eye of the beholder... who's to label him wrong? Let's just hope he doesn't take it too far. Oh, wait... too late for that now.

First chapter of book 2: Vanguard, Book 2, Chapter 1
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Map of The Mortal Realm (draft) by SteenBelhage
Map of The Mortal Realm (draft)
So, while I've long had a map of The Mortal Realm lying around, it just irked me because it was so... bad. It was like looking at a symmetrical puzzle; if you cut it down the middle, it would be the same on either side. So that's why I made a new (and better) one! To you, dear reader of my books, this should give you a better idea of what the world looks like. From north to south:
 - Great big mountain range: The Mjaln Mountains.
 - Foresty thing on the west side of the mountains: Elfwood
 - Spot with the lake: The Eastern Valley
 - Sharp west of that: The Western Valley
 - The little spot in between: The Southern Valley
 - The forest right beneath that: Nightweald.
 - The swampy area between Nightweald and the bunch of trees: Swamp of Nox
 - Aforementioned bunch of trees: Lumion
 - South-west of Lumion, with the city in the middle: Rimnoll Wetlands
 - The area with the canyons and craggy things: The Dragonlands
 - The little spot of jungle between the two: The Wilderness
 - The desert south of that: Targus/Sands of Aloria (the city beneath The Wilderness is Aegon)
 - The cluster of islands west of Aegon: The Jemero Keys
 - Just south of the keys: Z'Chara Savannah
 - Desert landscape east of Aegon: Cercia
 - Area south of Cercia: The Wastelands.

And that's the lot! There are a few things off the map that aren't listed, but I'll make a map for those soon enough too. Thank you for your interest!
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He felt strangely comfortable here, in the darkness. It was as if being wrapped in the softest blanket, warm and pleasant by the fire in a cold winters night. He couldn't see anything, hear anything, taste anything, but he could feel the softness underneath him, cradling him like a child. The roar of battle and the taste of blood had disappeared as soon as he felt that great branch smash against his temple, hurling him away from that world... and into this one. Whatever this one was. He tried swallowing, and felt saliva pour down his throat-—so he still had his body, which was good. He tried wiggling his toes, and that too went alright. He tried breathing, and when he did, he could no longer feel the steel arrowhead that had dug in through his chest. And then finally, he tried opening his eyes.

He had expected many things, but this was not one of them. In his last moments, the word 'Fennerheim' had rung in his mind a few times, and he had thought of all the mead fountains, the endless banquets, the fighting for those feeling the fervor, and jarl Fenner himself. But that was not what he saw, when he opened his eyes. No mead, no food, no jarl... only stars. Endless, sprinkled upon a deep, dark sky of night, with the silver moon as a crown upon the heavens. He gazed up at them for quite some time, counting them, watching clouds drift by and be tinted silver in the glow of the moon. That was when another sensation overcame him: cold. A cold breeze swept in over him, sending shivers throughout his entire body. He was gazing straight upwards at the sky, feeling absorbed by it all, and in the corner of his eyes, he could see mountain peaks. Only then did he realize that he was lying down.

He slowly sat up, and felt wet earth underneath his fingers. Cold, but far from dead. He looked around wherever he was, and concluded that he was not in The Fairlands any longer. The Fairlands had hills, yes, but not mountains like these—-these reached so high into the sky that it was impossible to tell when they ended and the heavens began. They surrounded him like great big walls, but with pine forests covering their sides. Each one of them were topped with a little cap of snow, just as he remembered them. These were no unfamiliar mountains, after all. In fact, he remembered this place all too well.

Next, was the smell of flowers that he felt. Sweet and tickling, he quickly realized that it was not a bed of wool or silk that he had been lying in, but a bed of flowers. A meadow, in fact, wide and untouched by the makings of man or Mjaln, pristine in its silver-touched beauty. It thrived in a little valley at the feet of the mountains, where the cold was nowhere as strong, and flowers could grow with ease. He remembered this place like had he been here just yesterday. He remembered the river that flowed down from the mountains and cut through the meadow, splitting it in half, and he remembered how the valley would continue in between the mountains, with a little village at its end. But most of all, he remembered the time he had spent with his daughter here. Playing, picking flowers, chasing foxes. He could still hear her laughter.

“Papa...” a sweet voice asked from behind, gentle like birdsong “...Are you alright?”

Ramund was afraid to look around at first, scared that it might just be a play of his mind. He stopped breathing, and he felt his blood surge to his head, filling it with images of his daughter's face. But as he slowly looked over his shoulder, he did not have to imagine it any longer. There she stood, fair-haired and beautiful, draped in the dress that had been immortalized in the little porcelain figure of his music box. But the little porcelain version of his daughter was nothing in comparison to this. Her hair, loose and long, silver and smooth, swayed gently in the mountained-chilled breezes that moaned across the meadows. Her blue dresses did as well, and her face seemed to glimmer in the moonlight-—especially her eyes. Ramund had never for a moment forgotten those eyes, ever since the last time he saw her. Deep blue like the ocean depths, and soft like silk, they carried a harmony that made him forget all the evils in the world. He felt young again. He felt thrown back to days of tranquil family life, the simple days of hunting for the evening meal and telling bedtime stories for his daughter. If this was the afterlife, he really did not mind missing out on Fennerheim. This is all he wanted.

“I'm... I'm quite alright.” Ramund stammered, and slowly turned to face his daughter. Down on a knee, he gazed into her eyes, feeling her smile radiate a warmth into him that he had not felt for so many years. His lips jittered, his fingers trembling on his knee as he saw how happy she looked. His throat seemed to clog, his blood aflame, and tears beginning to trickle down his wrinkly cheeks. He quickly wiped them away.

“Are you sure?” she asked, slowly tilting her head, seeming a little concerned “Please don't cry, papa.”

He squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds, trying to hold back the tears. He chewed at his lip, and couldn't hold himself back any longer-—he reached out and embraced the little girl, his daughter, holding her close while weeping on her shoulder. There was no need for words; even she knew that. He felt her little arms wrap around his torso, and her silver hair on his cheek. It was so soft.

“My sweet Freyja... it has been so long.” he said with a shaking, shivering voice, but a smiling one too “I feared I was never going to see you again.”

Ramund felt her little arms squeeze a little tighter around him “Don't be afraid, papa.” she said, resting her head on her father's great shoulder “Everything is going to be alright.”

Ramund swallowed, trying to release that thick clog that had set itself in his throat. It was only after several minutes that he let go of his daughter, Freyja, and looked her into those ocean blue eyes again. She was so beautiful. More beautiful than he remembered.

“Freyja, sweetheart...” he said, wiping the last tear off his cheek “...am I dead?”

Freyja, much to Ramund's surprise, suddenly let out an amused giggle. Her nimble fingertips held to her mouth, she continued to giggle for a little while, before giving a quick shake of her head “No no no, papa, you're not! Don't be silly. Come. I want to show you something.” she said, quickly turning about on her little heel, lightly skipping through the meadow.

“Wait!” Ramund called out as he rose to his feet, even though he still felt weak after what happened to him “Freyja, wait. If I am not dead... then where am I?” he asked, that question having hung in his mind ever since he opened his eyes and saw the stars.

Freyja came to a stop a stonethrow from him, and smiled over her shoulder, her sweet voice raised to call back “In your head, of course!”, before setting into a hopping jog again, her hands spread out to try and touch all the flowers at once, her blue dress flapping.

Ramund blinked, a little confused at first. But as he thought about it, it all made sense. If he wasn't dead, this could not be the afterlife. And if he wasn't conscious... this had to all be in his head. He looked around the place, at all the flowers and stars and verdant mountains, wondering how this could all have felt so real. Did this mean that the Tu'Myaa commander had not killed him, but only knocked him unconscious? Did this mean he would wake up, or would he bleed out and transcend from the dream world to the actual afterlife? As he hurried after his daughter, trying to keep up, it all began to make more and more sense in his head. The god of slumber was the god of death as well, after all. Perhaps the legends were true, the ones that said that dreams were a look into the afterlife. And if that was true, maybe he wouldn't even notice when this dream became his eternal rest. Deep inside, he hoped that maybe he would get to see the halls of Fenner anyway... but he knew that he had unfinished business in the living world, and he was not ready to fail his captain. He had not done so before. He was not about to start now.

Even though his body felt limp and feeble, he still managed to catch up with his daughter, keeping a steady pace at her side. She looked towards him and smiled, her hair bouncing and waving with each little skip she took through the meadows. He couldn't help but smile back. Still, there was one question that bugged him horribly.

“I have to ask...” he said, having gathered some of his senses again “...if this is just a dream, does that mean you are just a figment of my imagination?”

The little girl looked up at him again, still smiling “Mm hm.” she uttered, giving a single nod “I am what you need to see right now. You're dying, after all. If you die, your daughter is what you would like to die beside, right?”

Ramund's smile faded a little, as the illusion was shattered. But of course it was so. This little girl that he jogged beside, the one that skipped beside him and led him deeper into the meadow... who was she? Was she really just something meant to soothe him, as he drew his last breath? Maybe it was the work of spirits. Maybe she was a gift. He decided not to think about it so much, and just enjoy her company for a little while longer. If he was really to pass on, this is how he would like to do it.

And then, rather suddenly, something curious happened. The flowers that he had felt batting against his shins in his struggled stride came to an end, as Freyja led him into what seemed like a little clearing of sorts. It was a little circular space, no more than a few meters wide, but with no flowers or ferns at all. Just bare earth... nearly. The earth felt soggy and muddy underneath his sabatons, and in the middle of the little clearing, was a flower.

“There, papa!” Freyja exclaimed with a smile as she skipped over to the flower, and crouched down beside it. It was a beautiful little thing; shaped like a rose, but with petals of many different colors, and without any thorns at all. He slowed down, and looked between the flower and Freyja, wondering. He approached slowly, and crouched down beside it as well, smiling.

“It's beautiful.” he said, not daring to touch. He looked back at Freyja “I don't remember this flower.”

“Oh that's just because it isn't real.” Freyja said almost nonchalantly, as she reached out to pick it. It slipped effortlessly from the muddy ground, almost as if it was meant to be picked and had set no roots. Its colors flared at her touch, roiling and shifting like oily colors mixing together. She held it for a little while, before looking up at her father, handing it to him.

“Here, papa.” she said, smiling “Smell it. I found it just for you.”

Ramund looked down at the rose, trying to remember if he had found something like this in his past, but nothing came up. Maybe it was as she had said: not real. He took the flower and smiled back as he whiffed a little at it. His eyebrows rose at the sweet smell, softer and kinder than any rose he had smelled before. It tickled in his nostrils, making him want to sneeze, and went straight up to his head. He felt dizzy—very dizzy. He blinked a few times and saw how the rose turned to sparkling dust in his hands, seeping through his fingers. He couldn't hold his balance any longer, and fell unto his rump, sloshing in the mud. The world was a blur of dazzling colours all of a sudden, the mountains around him turned yellow, the sky turned pink. He could only vaguely make out the shape of his daughter approaching him, still smiling.

“You need to wake up, papa. They need you.” she said with a voice slightly distorted by the flower's almost intoxicating effects “I'm sorry I tricked you... I was afraid you wouldn't want to leave. Forgive me. I'll see you soon.”

Ramund was in a haze of confusion, his tongue feeling so thick in his mouth that he couldn't muster out a single word. But when Freyja leaned forward and placed a kiss on his forehead, it was the punch that knocked out the bull. His strength collapsed, his balance confused and drunk, and he hardly even realized he was falling before the back of his head had already sloshed into the mud. He stared upwards at the pink night sky, as darkness overcame him-—again.

“Injecting serum in 3... 2... 1....”

Ramund felt a burning adrenaline surge through his body, his limbs aflame, his eyes flinging open. With a roaring shout, he rushed to sit up, but was immediately felled as he felt an immense pain in his chest where the arrow had pierced him. He slumped down again, and as he felt that it was not mud underneath him any longer, but the soft cushions of a bed, he realized that he had woken up. He stared upwards, heaving and gasping, and saw not the night sky any longer. No more stars, no more silver-tinted, drifting clouds under the serene moon. Only a moldy ceiling of bolted planks. The smell of flowers had given way to that of sweat, burning candles, and ale. The cold breezes had given way to the warm, sticky air of a tavern. And the sound of his daughter's voice had given way to the hasty chatter of a distressed crowd.

He gripped at his chest, and felt that he had been stripped of his armor, his upper body now bare and wrapped in bandage. He blinked, his mind in a disoriented discord, his eyes blurry with fatigue. He struggled to breathe, and it felt as if the bandage around his chest was keeping his lungs from expanding. With weary eyes, he looked around where he was, and found himself in the main hall of an inn, of sorts. It was hard to tell. There were so many people running in and out of the door in the very back of the hall, some carrying tools, others carrying people. There were painful cries here and there that broke through the monotonous blare of the crowd, and he saw that he was not the only one here who was hurt. But there were some here who were not fortunate enough to wake up again.

“Ramund? Hey! Hey! Look at me, big guy!” a voice called to him, and he saw fingers clicking in front of him. He twitched a little, his eyes slowly following the fingers, running up the arm and eventually resting upon a face that struck him as surprisingly familiar. The smooth, white skin; the sharp, intelligent eyes; the elven ears... he was almost certain his mind was playing tricks on him, but he had to ask.

“...Lex...?”

“Hahaa!” the man before him broke out in success, arms raised high-—this was when Ramund saw the white lab coat, stained with blood and other questionable substances of orange and green “I am a genius! Welcome back to the waking world, Ramund. How well can you understand me?” Lex asked, moving a little closer to peel open Ramund's left eye with his fingers, careless for if he felt it or not.

Ramund didn't resist, too weary to care at this point “I... I can. I understand you well.” he slowly sat up, peeling Lex's fingers out of his eyes, grunting at the pain in his chest.
“Whoa there, don't rush it.” Lex hurried to his side, a hand on his shoulder to have him lie down again, but Ramund brushed it away.

“Lex, I... Duncan. Where is Duncan?” he grumbled, having an even harder time speaking than breathing “Is he well?”

Lex ran a hand through his frizzy, spiky hair, looking about the place. He was wearing his bird mask, but it was pulled up unto his head to reveal his smooth, elven face. His lips squeezed together, eyes too, as he stared out over the crowd that filled up this surprisingly large inn—-it was almost as large as the mead halls Ramund remembered from his homeland.

“I can't see him right now.” Lex replied, looking back at Ramund and offering a little shrug “But I know he's well. The same goes for Rose, Duncan's mother, and... some other guy. He claims he knows you, but I don't recognize him.”

“That would be lieutenant Wolfe.” Ramund muttered tiredly. He looked down at his chest, and saw the bandage that wrapped him up like a gift—-a bloodstained one. Most of the bandage was deeply red, focused around two spots: one on his chest, and one on his stomach. It hurt badly, but the pain was a bargain, considering that he could have been dead. With his mouth ever so slightly agape, tired and panting, he looked back at Lex, and asked: “Lex... how am I alive?”

Lex seemed amused. It was strange to see him amused right now, Ramund usually far more acquainted with his serious, professional demeanor-—especially when people seemed to be dying around him. Still, his lips curled upwards in a little smile, and created a single wrinkle on his otherwise plain cheek.

“I could actually ask you the same, old friend.” Lex said, as he slumped down into the bed beside Ramund. His sharp eyes fixated upon Ramund's bloodied bandage, a tongue running across his lips, as if trying to smoothen the way for difficult words to come out “I actually don't know how you survived.” he said with a chuckle, looking into Ramund's eyes “I'll be blatantly honest there. I haven't the faintest clue of how you're not dead. That arrow went deadly close to your heart, and would easily have killed stronger men than you. Not to mention that you got one in the gut as well... yet here you are, alive and well. I'm not saying it is beyond science, but... it's damn well close.” he smiled, seeming almost ridiculing in face of his own words.

Ramund opened his mouth. He was about to say something, but he wasn't sure it would make any sense. Could it have something to do with what he dreamed about? This was something he could not explain. Instead, he looked to Lex once more, and spoke with a submissive voice “Lex, I have so many questions.” he decided to be outright “I thought you dead for certain.”

Lex looked over all the dying people around him, and at this point, didn't seem to mind his duties all that much-—there were other people tending to the wounded, for the time being. He did a little shrug “When that lurker got me, so did I, Ramund. I thought I was done for, but it seems Keyen had it in for me that day. I'm usually not a religious guy, but this time, I had to turn my head heavenwards and say thanks.” he smiled a little, amused “I think we both know how lurkers usually kill their prey by impaling them from behind, but I think this lurker wanted me for dinner, and wanted it as fresh as possible. So it dragged me away, probably thinking I was just some scrawny, defenseless piece of meat. Scrawny? Perhaps so. But defenseless?” he snorted, nose wrinkling “Not so much. I managed to concentrate long enough to make all the vines around me whip around the creature's neck and strangle it on the spot. Wizardry is funny like that-—while we might not have the same array of energies to pick from, like you shamans do, wizards like me do posses much greater control of our environments. It was a piece of cake to kill the lurker then and there.” his smile dwindled a little “What was not so much a piece of cake, was finding my way out. You obviously got quite the head start, since by the time I arrived in Westport, the town was practically turning itself inside out and preparing for a mass migration to Rimnoll. Hell, the mayor and I have made quite the pals, after I told him that I know you personally. He's here right now, as a matter of fact.”

Ramund's eyes widened, amazed “The Westport mayor? Truly?”

Lex gave a little nod “Very much so. He told me about how you came to him and rather forcefully convinced him that staying put would mean certain death. Something about hurling a dead demon unto his desk, if I recall correctly. Not really how I would have done it, but... hey. I can't argue with the results.” he said with a smile, a hand fanning out before him to present the hall full of people.

Ramund stared at the great crowd filling the drinking hall, tending to the wounded, reuniting children with their mothers-—if they were still alive. Looking at all these people, he saw only benevolence and care. Could these truly be the Westport people? Had he misjudged them, for the filth they lay in? He felt a guilt overcome him, but that guilt was washed away by a sense of joy revitalizing him. He thought all hope had been crushed when the Tu'Myaa began to plow down the Casserton people... and yet, there was still a fickle flame of it inside of him, warming him.
“Is he here? The mayor?” Ramund asked, turning to Lex.

“Of course.” Lex responded, raising a hand to point over the crowd “Somewhere over there. I'm certain you will easily recognize him.”

Ramund quickly scooted off the bed, ignoring the pain in his chest. With heavy breath, he left Lex to attend to his duties again, while slowly pushing through the crowd around him. He gripped his chest, feeling the stained blood on the bandage, feeling the sweat that coated him and gleamed in the light of lanterns. He shot a glance out the window, and saw that the sun was going down. Over green hills, the sun cast orange and red over the skies, and darkness was at bay. The last time he had his eyes open, it was only noon.

Before long, as he pushed through the crowd, he came to a stop at a little round table in the very back of the room. It was like breaking through the thick of a jungle and stumbling into a clearing, this one nought but a few meters wide. And in the middle of it, sitting by the table with a cup of tea in his hand, was the mayor indeed. With wrinkles littering his face and liver spots all over his frail hands, he was easy to recognize indeed. His thick eyebrows seemed to have fallen lower and lower with each number added to his age, and his hair could boast nothing more but a few pale and thin strands on his head. But what truly caught Ramund's attention, was who sat on the other side of the table, sharing a cup of tea with him. It was the Tu'Myaa chieftain, still puffing at his pipe.

“Ah, you live!” the chieftain said through the side of his muzzle, as he looked up to see Ramund in his rather haggard, bloodied figure-—it was still horribly unnerving to feel the gaze of a man who had a blindfold over his eyes “The spirits mean you well, I see.” his grey, fluffy tail slumped over the side of the chair, and was speckled with blood; he must have been up close and personal with the battle himself.

Ramund was stifled for a few seconds, and it seemed the Westport mayor was as well, as the two met gazes. The mayor swallowed, his wrinkly pale lips silent for tediously, uncomfortably long, before he gave a little nod in greeting “...Good evening.” was all he had to say. Ramund took the liberty to sit down with the two leaders, feeling quite entitled to an explanation. He looked between the two, his eyes bouncing from one pair of eyes to another, not quite certain what to say. But soon enough, he spat out.

“The spirits seem to be in a mirthful mood.” he said, trying a smile “To bring me back from the brink of death... but I am assuming they were not alone in doing so. Were they?”

“That they were not.” the Westport mayor said, as he put down his cup of tea and ran a sleeve across his lips “But I suppose it could be said that it was they who lead us to you. That, or this is one heck of a... yes, 'mirthful' coincidence.” he looked up into Ramund's eyes; he was significantly shorter, and had to bend his neck slightly backwards to get a good look at the big man before him “My people and I were on our way north to Rimnoll, when we saw the fires. Big, billowing capes of smoke caught our attention, and we decided to intervene. We came to see the massacre that had unfolded on the hillside... so many dead. So much blood.” he shook his head, looking back into the ripples of his tea “The death count was innumerable. I've never seen The Fairlands like this; and I who thought Westport was a horror to look upon. Man and Myaani alike have suffered great losses, but we as the third party, decided to help them both. I had met your friend, Lex, some time ago, and he was fortunate enough to be with us when we stumbled across the aftermath of the battle. If it wasn't for him, the death count would have been even greater... your death included.”

“And now we, the Tu'Myaa, are banished to nomad's life.” the chieftain spoke with a dire tone, his blind eyes staring forward from behind the fold, the cup of tea resting in his lap “There have been no winners today. This was all a horrible accident that should never have taken place. I have been so blind not to see what a bloodlusting fool my commander is. His order to rain death upon the Casserton people was an ungodly one, a disgraceful sin for which hundreds have had to let their lives. And for his crimes, he has been stripped of his rank, his honor, and his acceptance in the Tu'Myaa pack. While he may have suffered a great punishment, it can never compare to what horrors he has wrought. Our home, now nought but ashes. The hills run red with blood, and the ravens gorge themselves upon hundreds of bodies that should never have paid this price.” he let out a long breath “But in the ashes of our own home, we shall rise like a phoenix, and set aside our differences. With the help of our good friend here, we shall see to it that peace does reign over man and Myaani, and that we all shall find safe harborage behind the walls of Moonby Sanctuary. It is the least we can do, to undo the sins that have befallen us this day.”

Ramund gave a slow nod, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees “The Casserton people may not be so accepting about this new-found alliance, though. They came to your gates because they found the slain body of a woman, and blamed it upon you, the Tu'Myaa. But I know the truth of it.” he swallowed, trying to quench his hesitation “It was my captain, see. He has always been a great man and a strong leader, but as dark spirits would have it, I fear that the war has finally begun to take its toll upon him, despite that we are no longer deployed. But it seems that war is not so easily left behind. My captain mistakenly took a woman for a demon, and slew her on the spot.” his head lowered slightly “I know nothing more.”

“Dark spirits indeed...” the chieftain breathed out, darkness in his voice “Your captain is ill, my friend. Ill with the touch of darker things; ill with the confusion of friend and foe. If he were a soldier of mine, he would not be allowed near a weapon, for the safety of all-—himself alike. Tell me, friend... how attached are you to your captain?”

Ramund knew what the chieftain was about to suggest, but it was not an option-—not while he still drew breath. He gave a nod again “Very much so, chieftain. My captain has fought by my side for years, and I consider him as much a brother, as I would one by blood.”

“Then he is of your responsibility.” the chieftain declared, doing a little twirl of his tail.

“Now now, let us not be hasty.” the mayor said, putting his tea cup down and raising his chin “I realize that this man may be a danger, even to himself, but as you said yourself, chieftain: he is ill. And illnesses can be treated. In the right hands, I'm sure he'll realize that he is safe, and has no demons to fear.”

Ramund hoped that the mayor was right. It seemed almost impossible to fathom that Duncan had killed a fellow human-—an innocent woman, at that-—but there was no denying it. Duncan had fallen much deeper than he had imagined, and he feared that there could be little chance of pulling him from the dark, cold hole that he was in.

“Is there any chance I can see to him?” Ramund asked, his eyes moving between the two leaders.

“You can, but he shall not answer you.” The chieftain responded, as he took a sip of his tea “In truth, only one of your companions shall: the man that calls himself 'Wolfe'. My warg riders were bound by the orders of my former commander, and saw only bloodshed before them; they wounded your friends badly, but slew none. Even the woman of age will live, with the aid of Westport's barber surgeons and my healers.”

Ramund was glad to hear this; Duncan was ruined enough as it was, and if his mother didn't survive, surely it would drive him into insanity. He let out a long breath, and smiled slightly.

“This is good. We may just yet recover from this travesty. These have been some dark hours, but in the fires of war, perhaps a true alliance can be forged... a rebellion, as you mentioned.” he said, turning his gaze to the chieftain. He looked out a nearby window briefly, and saw how the sun was already half-way down the horizon, over green hills and greener groves. A question came to mind.
“I've been meaning to ask...” he began, looking between the two before him “...where are we?”

The mayor chuckled a little “I almost forgot that you've been out for so long. Hours on end, in fact. While you were not an easy man to carry, my people and I have actually brought you several leagues north of the battlefield... we are but an hour or two's walk from Rimnoll, by now. Some say they can already smell the rain.”

Ramund noticed how the chieftain's foxy nose whiffed at the air as if to test that theory, but didn't seem to come to any conclusion. Ramund looked back at the mayor, and smiled “You've been quite effective, mayor. I am impressed. I must admit: I had feared that you would not heed my warnings, and simply stay put to meet your end at the coming storm.”

“Yeah, well...” the mayor leaned back in his chair, peering into the murky color of his tea “...when you burst in my door, you did give me a pretty convincing argument. When I was cleaning up all that demon blood, the smell made me realize that maybe you weren't just another pet of Lucius Deum. I thought it over, and... well. Here we are.” he looked over all the people in the great hall, watching them sit beside the wounded, lay piece of cloth over the faces of the dead, or try to give back children hope, despite that they had just seen the bodies of their parents be taken away.

“My people aren't really so sure about it all, though. Most of them are frightened and confused, but telling them about what is really happening would only frighten them even further. Some think that I've finally succumb to the pressure of Deum's crusade, while others are just happy to be away from the stink of Westport. I must confess... I hadn't thought that the Fairlandish highlands could be this beautiful. I was born and raised in Westport, and the beauty of it all was mostly just something I read about in books, and heard about in taverns.” he sipped at his tea, and gave a sigh. He shook his head “But I digress. My people are well aware that going back to Westport is not an option-—the guards have been telling them so over and over again. Even so... they could do with a little motivation.”

“What I think your people truly need, is someone to comfort them.” Ramund mused, peering over the great crowd of humans and Myaani “Someone to reassure them, that what they are doing is the right thing.”

The chieftain perked his large, greying ears towards Ramund, and cocked his head “Perhaps you are suggesting something, friend?” he asked, but Ramund knew he didn't need to answer. He only smiled.

“Perhaps I am.” he rose from his chair and gave a little nod to each of the two before him “Gentlemen. If you do not mind...”

First then, the mayor realized. His wrinkly eyebrows rose “Oh! Oh, no, not at all—go ahead. I could never, but... yeah. Maybe you could.”

Ramund did not hesitate. With a chin raised and a smile growing on him, the already tall and strong man made himself even taller as he stood upon one of the bench-chairs, in the back of the room. He gazed out over the masses before him, at all the broken souls, all the weeping faces and children bereaved over their mothers and fathers. He saw slain spirits and feeble hearts; dwindled courage and thriving fear. It was with a voice of authority, that he called out to the crowd.

“All of you, stop what you are doing!” he said, and with lungs like his, his booming voice was easily heard by every and all. He saw as all the men and women and Myaani turned their gazes to him, wondering. A silence fell over the crowd, washing over it like a stifling wave. And in that silence, he spoke again.

“I do not think you heard me. I said 'stop what you are doing!'.” he repeated, and now he saw confusion make its way over their faces-—exactly as he had predicted. They had all stopped in their tracks the first time he said it. His face grew stern “And yet you continue doing it. I see that you are doing it right now... trembling. Fearing. Dreading. I see it clear upon your faces, your every action speaks words louder than words, and they scream 'we are afraid!'.” his eyes rolled over each of their faces, looking them in the eyes, looking through them.

“Do you know what you are afraid of? Do you know why your eyes cry out in dread, why your arms feel heavy, why your skin goes sweaty, and why every beat of your heart feels like a nail is being pushed into your chest? Because that is what evil wants. That is what darker spirits smile upon--every time you think to yourself that fear is the only way, darkness laughs at you. It laughs at you, and its grip around you only grows stronger.” he raised his chin slightly “In my homeland, we have a very clear understanding of what fear is. In this world, there are two opposing forces that determine the outcome of nearly everything: courage, and fear. Courage is the light that guides our way to brighter days, and the light that illuminates the path forward. But fear... fear is the darkness that will shroud the truth, and leave you confused, disoriented, and doubtful. It will hamper all attempts to move forward, and in worst cases, you will begin moving backwards.” the room had gone fully silent now, as his powerful voice rose to ring off the walls.

“Take a moment to look at yourself right now. You are on your knees, grieving for those slain today, convinced that the world is nothing but blood and darkness. And I will not lie to you: blood and darkness makes up a great part of it. But is that a reason to sit down on your backsides, wrap your arms around your knees, and begin feeling sorry for yourselves? No!” he said, and stomped his sabaton unto the table so hard he heard a crack in it. He rose a pointing hand, and let it soar over the crowd “You are all better than that. I have witnessed it myself. You are not cowards. You are heroes, each and every one of you! If you were cowards, you would not have come to the aid of those fallen at the battlefield. If you were cowards, you would not be here, caring for lost children and mending the wounded. If you were cowards... I would not have been alive to speak with you this moment.” he glanced to his left, and saw Wolfe amongst the crowd, smiling.

“Cowards are slaves of fear. They are slaves of the darker forces, bound by the manacles of reluctance. But you carry no manacles. You are not slaves! There is not a single man or Myaani in this room that cannot call themselves a hero, for I have seen the courage in your eyes! I have felt the warmth chase away the cold, and I have seen the light ward the darkness! The darkness will continue to lurk, and the fear will continue to bite at your hearts, but who are you, the heroes of today, to succumb to it?” he showed his teeth in a glorious smile, as he saw the spirits return to eyes here and there, like candles being lit one by one.

“Let me tell you something about courage. My dearest daughter, Freyja, once came to me one dark night. She had experienced a nightmare, and she had told me that she was afraid. So she asked me: 'Father. How can I find the candle of courage, if it is too dark to see?', and I told her: 'That candle has never left you, my dear. It is only a matter of lighting it.', and I shall say the same to you. You all carry the candles of courage, and while a candle may only give a fickle glow, a thousand candles will become the sun that gives sight to the blind, warmth to the cold, and hope to the hopeless! For let me tell you, and let it never be doubted upon, that the night is only as dark as you let it. Light those candles, and let me see your fire! Prove to me, to us, and to yourselves, that no matter how much blood has been spilled, we will never succumb to fear! And by five gods almighty, I swear to you now, this is one flame that shall never die!” he shouted, and in the wake of his voice, hundreds came to follow it with mighty cries of vigor, fists raised and eyes ablaze with hope, courage, and strength. He let out his arms like wings, raised high in glory.

“Onward to a brighter age, my friends! Beyond this border, a new land lies, and new hope to be found at the end of the road! Though the days are dark, though you have been forced from your homes, we will find light and safe harbor in a new world! And by all spirits, we will bring about the dawn!” his voice was aflame with vigor, one he had not had the chance to show in so long. The hall was ringing with a hundred roaring voices, each and every person inside singing their praises to honor this new dawn. Ramund smiled widely and bowed deeply, as the people, this newly forged rebellion, hooted and cried out in excitement. Ramund stepped down from from the table, and found Wolfe standing before him, arms folded, lips smiling. With a voice that he could only barely hear over the vigorous shouting of the people, he said “Nice speech, Mjaln... I'm beginning to think that the historians need to get their pencils out, and begin writing a new chapter.”

Ramund smiled, and put a hand on Wolfe's shoulder “Do not worry, my friend...” he said, his heart alight with the hope he had spoken so proudly about “...We will not need historians, for the world to remember this day.”
Vanguard, Final Chapter of Book 1 (2/2)
Ahh, here it is: the final chapter of book 1. It is officially called 'Unto A New Dawn', but it was too long to fit in the deviation title. Anyway, it has been one hell (pun unintended) of a journey, and one I am glad that you, dear readers, have followed me upon. We have explored the disillusion of soldiers, the darkness of war, the rigors of insanity, and what great power can do to a man. And we are only half-way! I have great plans for book 2, and ones I hope you will explore together with me. See you then!
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SteenBelhage
Steen Engel Belhage
Artist | Professional | Literature
Denmark
My name is Steen, and I am a writer. I believe that title will stick with me for many years to come, as it is one of the few productive passions I have ever had. I've picked up many hobbies and free-time activities, but many of them have somehow faded into the vast depths of boredom. However, my writing has never suffered that fate. I am determined and passionate in my work and I do my very best to train myself to be disciplined about it as well. If I wish to make a living of it, I'll need to be able to write even when I don't want to. But let me tell you... it isn't easy.
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:iconthat1personyouforgot:
That1PersonYouForgot Featured By Owner May 8, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Happy birthday! :cake: I hope you have a wonderful day! :boogie:
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:iconsteenbelhage:
SteenBelhage Featured By Owner May 8, 2014  Professional Writer
Why thank you! I should hope so too! :D
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:iconrollingtomorrow:
RollingTomorrow Featured By Owner Jan 27, 2014   General Artist

Hello! :iconexcitedhiplz:

 

La la la la Welcome to :iconwriters--club:! La la la la

 

We're glad to have you as a member and look forward to seeing your contributions! OMG MOAR POEMS!

 

We also hold a lot of contests with great prizes, so keep your eye out for them! We are currently holding our Fourth Annual Writing Tournament, with subscriptions, points, art, features, and many other prizes to win. The full details are in our group blog!

 

Additionally, we also hold monthly features for published authors. If you have published any of your writing in a manner in which it can be purchased online, please send a note to the group so we can arrange to feature you!

 

We also have a Critique Program for our members to submit to and receive detailed feedback on their work from our admin team. :D (Big Grin)

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:iconsteenbelhage:
SteenBelhage Featured By Owner Jan 27, 2014  Professional Writer
Thank you! I'm quite glad to be part of the pack, and am very much looking forward to reading and writing for/to this group! :D
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:iconfatalicunav:
FatalicUnav Featured By Owner Oct 21, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Mange tak for Watchen, Stenn ^^ Jeg håber at du må få det sjovt i mit gallery ^w^ Forhåbentligt er der noget der behager dig ^^
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:iconsteenbelhage:
SteenBelhage Featured By Owner Oct 21, 2013  Professional Writer
Jeg er faktisk dybt overrasket og imponeret over dine tegninger der. De er da utroligt flotte, og jeg må indrømme, at jeg ikke havde forventet det. Colour me surprised and amazed!
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:iconfatalicunav:
FatalicUnav Featured By Owner Oct 21, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Mange tak! ^^ Det sætter jeg stor pris på ^w^ Min inspirration fejler for det meste, men når jeg bliver fanget, kan jeg blive færdig inden for, ca. 4-5 timer lol ^^ Men mange tak for komplementerne! ^^
Hvis du på et tidspunkt får tid, vil jeg rigtig gerne have dig til måske at læse mine historier, hvis det kan lade sig gøre
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:iconbman2095:
bman2095 Featured By Owner Jun 1, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
A gamer and a writer?
:)
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:iconsteenbelhage:
SteenBelhage Featured By Owner Jun 2, 2013  Professional Writer
I am. And judging from your profile info, I see that you are too.
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:iconbman2095:
bman2095 Featured By Owner Jun 2, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
:thumbsup:
I really like Innocence so far by the way, keep up the great work.
So out of Guild wars 2, Kingdoms of Amalur, and Dishonored, which ones your favorite?
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