Randomly decided to check in after years and see talk of Doordie and Amel. Lots of fun memories! Arguably my first long time character, Narwyn, ended up closely aligned with Amel as his protege.
Doordie was one of the best RP's I ever played with. His stories, with his character Amel, were amazing. Rich, deep, complex. I hope Doordie is doing well! You have a really great Uncle!
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Risen
There was a time, when that which you consider, the Drakamyre, thrived and flourished with brighter days. Where the dead now walk, life prospered as any civilization would under keen minds and firm leadership. Much like that of the Iron City when put into perspective. Although devious and cunning, flowing through the city, a flame so hot to seer skin from bone with bartered deals, manipulations, and conquest, the Karistad of days long forgotten, was quite the opposite. Knights decorated in polished steel marched in unison. Nobility wandered the streets, mostly generous of mind, and heart. It thrived off the tidings of blessings that prospered in the eyes of Andarus.
The dead walked not but in dreams and secrecy. For necromancy was exiled, much like what the Bloodguard do today, in their pursuit of monsters, so to do the Karistad Knights of old rid the lands of dark works, that which they condemn as evil. And negative magic was indeed evil. There was no mercy, as they struck torch to flame, and burned wickedness from the lands.
Their efforts were fruitful, and the realm of Karistad was magnificent, glorious in splendour and prestige. They were called upon, across the island often, the brotherhood of steel, the Knights of old. To challenge and halt any corruption that dare bring harm.
But there was one who desired not such cherished peace. Who in fact, used the laziest moments, granted from idleness, to pursue that which was forbidden? In complete secrecy, darkness was called upon, that searing flame of cunning ruthlessness. So cynical, contemptuous, and seeking was he, the Count Farius At-Tura. That seeds of doubt began to sprout in the hearts of those he tainted in his pursuits. One such unfortunate soul, was Vartin, a wizard of uncalculated power. The Count Farius, gave to him a tower, so high did its tip puncture the clouds in the sky. And it was here, this tower with no entry, no doorway to see, that began the destruction of the At-Tura family from its path of goodness. For Darker deeds. Where darkness swelled and like an infection began to expand over the lands.
Do you hear it, feel it, or see it? As I do… the clattering skull has finally surfaced. The spell finally broken. Deep in the heart of Karistad old, shades awaken. They were called, travellers, adventurers, good folk and bad. They came to meet the awakening. Where the blood of the fallen, return soul and body. The spirits, emerging from the mountains, begin to take shape to old forms, as blood awakens them – collected over the centuries, as dark magic did syphon from the lands, a curse so vile.
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From her position near the bottom of the stairs, Vasillia scanned the ruined room that used to belong to her. With eyes drifting over the long-buried histories, she searched for something important, that she had to recover. The boisterous multitude of decay left a sense of loneliness within her. How many years had been forgotten and missed? Her steps brought her to a vacant space surrounding a long-destroyed armoire. Some time, of delicate sifting, she finally did find what she was looking for. A pendant in the shape of a dragon’s talon was retrieved from the mess now scattered along the dust covered ruins. It was in that moment of reunion to lost treasures did she hear the quake of steps echo through the fragile chambers. Her breathing stilled to a quiet tremble as it neared ever closer.
Vasillia intuitively knew exactly what was coming and she did not know if she was ready. The light was seen first, of flickers across the entry of her former room. Then it did form an encumbrance within the massive doorway, with muscles bulging, eyes burning hot fire. Words did not come forth from the monster before her. But her mind somehow knew exactly what it tried to say to her in that moment. It caused a tug within her stomach, and in that tug, she glanced down and spotted her own body. It had not yet fully recovered. Skeletal bones yet protruded through skin as it rejuvenated over her. Glancing back up, the blockade was gone, and all was still once more.
The pendant was gripped firm within her hands as she reluctantly brought it to life. Countless years had passed, and she desired above all to see one thing. The tall woman stepped inside the white light that was summoned before her, with casual, implacable strength. She stumbled at first, as her boots struck snow, barely managing to avoid falling flat on her face. The sensation of travel in such a manner was unpractised in this time. It was then, that she decided, to tread with care as she searched what now remained as strange lands. Everything looked soft and frilly, until she did extend hand to grasp the snow. It melted within her hot hand and fresh blood did course its way through her.
Up ahead, Vasillia rounded a hill to spot what looked to be a tavern. The Trade and Tackle full within her view, she watched as travellers came to and from such a place, remaining away from the company of others, with so many questions to ask, until she finally returned to full form.
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Meandering aimlessly within his mouth, his tongue clicked, and swooshed back and forth as if to saturate a parched dehydration. It felt numb, as if to re-establish ones own soul to their former body. Each awkward step sent a tingling sensation rippling through his veins as he made his way to the arched balcony overlooking the desecrated lands of rotten dead and filth. The longer he focused and gazed out the clearer his vision did become. And what he seen was not expected in the slightest.
These lands that he had called home for thousands of years are now nothing more than a disgrace. He steadied himself upon one of the intricate columns. It consisted of glossy marbled designs spiraling up the grand balcony, as if to tell a story long forgotten, but such memories felt so distant, as if they never happened at all, and his eyes scanned further still, towards the inhuman city that perhaps allowed such a dishonor to transpire. It loomed from his vantage point, on the large mountain, the Iron City, like an eye sore that made his jaw flex into an unexpected crack that made him think better about flexing any muscles, until the blood had proper time to adjust.
It was the blood that brought him back. The agony, death, and pain of those that bled over these lands had finally awoken him. Yet, something was wrong. It was supposed to have occurred ages ago. Why then did they sleep so long and only now awaken? Something disrupted the spell cast. And he began to feel perturbed. He grasped his pendant within his hand as tight as he could manage and called upon the magic it syphoned. Blue fire erupted within his eyes. The oscillation of energy caused an exasperation to escape his lips with a profound laughter and before his eyes a white portal was formed. With purpose, he stepped through and emerged within a long corridor that led him towards extravagant rooms, that resembled now, as nothing more than tombs. In each he walked past, a bound mummified body hovered, with flickering blue flames burning eternally around them. His eyes burned with malice at what he found. Two of the bodies were missing and somehow awoken before their appointed time.
Once more, Vartin called upon that spellfire. Blue flames dancing around him as he started to remember and grow more comfortable with it. And he emerged this time, in a chamber. His elven eyes glared out towards a towering devil in the center of the room. Its flaming wings, a hot blue fire. Its skin stained and tortured but pulsing with an overwhelming heat that melted the stone around it. Everything seemed to be in order. The spellbinding circle ever intact as it should be. Confusion swelled in Vartin’s eyes and he smoothed out his eyebrow with a finger considering. There was much to discover, and he needed to find Vasillia as soon as possible.
Moving towards a pedestal, in which secured a looming crystal, Vartin stared deeply into it with a hand moving gingerly around. He scried over the island as if seeing it for the first time. Steinkries, a city never seen, the Dragons Watch, swarmed with Dragon Bloods and monstrous creatures, but what surprised him the most was the divided cities of the elven people. Scarred with war and creeping death.
“There is much to discover, indeed. Joron.” He said contemptuously
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Commander Pontia Runario stood staring out over the walls of the Iron City with perturbed thoughts. A swarm of imps surrounded her while flapping their wings energetically, flailing about with apathy, and awaiting their instruction. Her arms were folded, and her scowl was protruding almost as fiercely as the stressed vein along her temple. She stood watching as the last of the patrols were recalled and brought into the city. Many of them were wounded from recent battle. And it seemed the moment that the Hellknights started to fall on the field, the more spirits were stirred to wakefulness. She had to enact a contingency course of action immediately. Disrupted prematurely from her ruminations by the cackling of a jesting trio of imps nearby, her hand unbound from her chest, and snapped sidelong across the face of the nearest imp with a call to attention.
“Enough!” commander Runario ordered with a firm and direct emphasis. Her hands lowered to her sides with clenched fists as her seasoned gaze looked over the flock of devils. “You are to immediately keep an attentive watch over the Drakamyre and report anything of interest dir-“ her words came to a slow halt as she watched an imp already flying off before she could finish speaking, “Bloody idiots. Keep a look out! And direct anything of importance directly to me! Spread the word, on my own order, that no patrols shall leave unless directed from the inquisition, the senate, or myself until further notice.” She stood staring at them with an unamused look in her eyes as none even moved an inch.
“Now!” she demanded! Pontia’s voice rose like thunder across the flock and they all went into a frantic trail in every direction like a buzzing swarm.
With a long stride, Pontia made way off the postern walls, with a path directed towards her office. The city was busy, and she made no attempt to falter her stride, as the inhabitants scrambled out of the way. It did not take her long to reach the barracks when an imp descended right behind her, entering the chambers. She instantly recalled and recognized which one it was too. The one that flown off prematurely. Her eyes narrowed towards it with expectancy. Its own eyes dared not investigate the hellish gaze of the commander but instead produced something in offering. A tabard of red and black with the appearance of a dragon. As her hand grasped the tabard, she remembered an old tome deep within the archives within the senate’s offices.
“Puarl-arsh, you have been must invaluable. And here I was considering flaying you for all to see. Go on then, I know exactly what you desire. You will find the wretches recently captured in the holding cells by the gates. And I prompt you only take one, or there will be hell, to pay.” She said with a sense of coaxing. Puarl-arsh, hurried off not tempting to repeat the mistake of the earlier devils. And did exactly as instructed, making a straight soaring path, towards the gates with exuberance.
Commander Pontia Runario turned to leave out the barracks once more herself. From one task interrupted into another. The day was starting to become tedious and her other tasks would have to wait. Melphaecto requested information regarding a pact from ages past, and Pontia knew exactly where to find it. She would soon have it on her desk and surmise a way to approach this new threat that has arisen.
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A Living History
Aeryth paced among the reserve archives; the room within the Great Library that was home to all the ancient texts and records relating to the great civilizations of Thain’s distant past, including Karistad. If Aeryth were to discover answers to the riddle the strange woman had put to her, those answers would be found here. And, if Vasillia were to be trusted, the fate of the island hung on discovering them.
Vasillia had spoken of a devotion to the Eternal Light, with Andarus’ name seemingly enough to wake her memory. She had told of an ancient relic, imbued with Andarus’ power that had been lost, and was now being sought by those who would put it to ill-purpose, of an honor-bound family, and the mystery of a legion, disappearing into the mists of the mountains never to be heard from again.
A few paces took the Loremistress to where a myriad of tomes and records lay across a pair of desks… all that she had found within the archives that could possibly relate to the tale Vasillia had shared. And none of it---nothing save possibly a listing of Vasillia and her siblings---shed any further light on the mystery. How long had she poured over these records: two days? Nearly three now? And nothing aside from five names: Joron, Adrian, Tristan, Helea, and Vasillia.
It was not enough. Not nearly enough.
Aeryth exhaled, nodding to herself. It was time. Time to call on the Weave to aid her in her search. The Loremistress’ hands moved through graceful and well-practiced gestures as she spoke words of power in her quiet tones: Acta, unita, uploritus.
Aeryth placed a hand on the back of the chair near the desk where she had stood. She then took a seat. While the magics she had called on could prove invaluable in one’s search for knowledge, the visions the magics brought on could be… disorienting.
She breathed steadily, intentionally, searching for a deep calm as the Weave-power took hold. It was not long before the first of the visions washed through her.
In a stone chamber, at some distant time based on what little Aeryth could discern, blue fire pulsed within an amulet, its power immense; nearly overwhelming.
Vasillia’s amulet…, Aeryth recognized its shape and power immediately. Wrought into the form of a dragon’s talon, the amulet had been both spectacular and haunting. It flared with power, imbued with fire born of the Weave… But it also belied much of what Vasilllia had claimed.
The fires that infused the amulet, they were not dragonfire as one might expect from Karistad and House At-Tura with all their open homage to ancient Wyrms. No. Its might was drawn from Hellfire. Infernal forces fueled the amulet’s magics. Aeryth had sensed it when she spoke to Vasillia. None who worshipped Andarus as Vassillia had claimed would adorn themselves with such an abomination, no matter the powers that it may grant.
And Vasillia herself, Aeryth thought, glancing back to the family tree, the one ancient tome of value she had uncovered thus far in her search. The second daughter; the last in the line of five At-Tura siblings to inherit the House’s power. If she had been given such an amulet, a symbol of the House itself, imbued with such extraordinary and infernal magics, what then of the others? And what would that say of the House At-Tura?
Aeryth reached for the desk to brace herself as she was overcome with another vision…
“Helea.” It was a name spoken by a thousand voices, and accompanied by a vision of a woman on horseback---her posture certain… powerful---with dragon symbology adorning her arms and armor.
Vasillia’s sister, Helea, commander of Karistad’s armies.
Aeryth weighed and considered what Vasillia had told her of her sister. She had marched at the head of Karistad’s most experienced and formidable troops, carrying with them an ancient relic, imbued---if Vasillia was to be believed---through the Eternal Light’s own blessings and power. And they had vanished; Helea, the troops she commanded, the relic. All. But nowhere was any of it mentioned in the histories Aeryth had discovered.
A noble house, among the most dominant of a great civilization. The commander of one of the most powerful armies of its time. A relic imbued with divine powers. A mystery such as the disappearance of the latter two. These all leave their footprint in the histories, Aeryth knew from her experience. Yet… nothing.
Aeryth looked again to the collection of tomes she had arrayed across the desks in the Great Library’s archives. The collection included every record and tome within the library from that time or written by the hand of scholars noted for their mastery of the subject… And little to nothing on anything that Aeryth sought.
Had it all be lost in the ruin of Karistad? That seemed unlikely, Aeryth thought. Rarely, if ever, was a civilization’s destruction so complete.
Had another come either days or ages ago, to purge the records she now sought? It was possible, but who? Why?
And what among all she had been told was truth? And what was misdirection? The amulet suggested that Vasillia was an unreliable source, and one Sol’edrial had cautioned her on.
Aeryth exhaled deeply, resting more heavily in her chair, uncertain how to continue. It seemed an impossible task. But then, a third and final vision swept over her. Unlike the other visions, however, she was familiar its time; its place.
A young elven woman, hardly more than a girl, drew a bowstring back. She took aim at a target twenty paces distant when, by chance, a dandelion seed borne by the wind floated into her eye. The eye watered incessantly, making it impossible for her to see her mark.
The girl’s father rested a hand on her shoulder, whispering guidance. “When you cannot see clearly through one eye,” he said. “Place your trust in the other.”
The girl, her nod so small as to be nearly imperceptible, leaned a little further so that her left eye stared along the length of the shaft, rather than her right.
The bowstring sang as the arrow was loosed.
Father, Aeryth thought, feeling a bittersweet pang in her heart; a fondness over his memory, and a pain over his loss. As much as her thoughts flitted across that time, ages ago it seemed, it was out of place. What could that lesson possibly have to do with Karistad?
And then it struck her; a realization like a lightning bolt flaring hope within her.
Whether Karistad’s ruin had been so complete as to destroy all record of what she sought, or if some other had taken or buried all those records, it was the histories of Karistad that had been spoiled.
“When you cannot see clearly through one eye,” her father had said. “Place your trust in the other.”
Karistad’s histories were the eye that could no longer see clearly. But the other… the other… Aeryth sat up in her chair, the hope she felt solidifying within her. Vongottstein’s histories were the other. The eye that could still see.
Vongottstein and Karistad were rivals, open adversaries at times. Certainty Vongottstein would have taken interest in and kept record of Karistad’s most powerful figures and relics. And what better place to see clearly what lay in Vongottstein’s records than in the Great Library built atop its ruins?
With her energy and hope renewed, the Loremistress and Knight of the Eternal Light returned to her work.
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Vasillia investigated the radiant tower carefully as to not draw any undesirable attention to herself. Multiple times, she had to come to a hasty stop, to turn and admire one the many splendors on display. Swords mantled, polished, and gleaming with the care of a perfectionist’s touch. Painting that were dusted, with scenes of historical events, of honor, fearlessness, and gallant memories that were etched in time. But most appealing to her, was the glance out the tower windows, towards the blessed grounds below. The four aspects of the elements seemed to stare right back towards her as she considered them.
Down the corridor, the raucous of steel and chain rustling together brought her mind once more to the present. Her cheeks strained into a palatable smile for the approaching crusader knight. “Good morning, Sir. Your countenance is a breath of fresh morning dew air if I may be so bold.”
“Lady At-Tura, you humble me with appreciative words. Gratitude for the compliment, though I have no time to dawdle with formalities or pleasantries. I have an urgent letter to deliver. If you will excuse me, M’lady.” With a hasty and respectful salute, the Crusader echoed his march down the corridor, and up the stairs, until she could hear him no longer.
Continuously humming a tune her mother once sang to her, Vasillia stared out her window, waiting patiently until the Knight returned the way he had come before making her way into the scribes nesting ground. She was quick to find the letter on top of the busy desk, of parchments and books, and broke the seal, reading over the missive with haste.
Aeryth Elowyn,
Disruptions amongst the Drakamyre Mountains have us worried. The skies swell with an alarming storm that we can see here from Hamley. At first, we believed the Iron City was up to something treacherous. But that does not seem to be the case. Reports have come to our attention of a strange magic bleeding down the mountain that are awakening dormant spirits.
Under my direct order, I have sent a contingent force to investigate further. At the head of them, I sent along Crusader Knight Maranda, with the purpose of uncovering further insights. Although, I fear something terrible has become of these soldiers. Not one templar, not one Knight, and not even Maranda herself have returned from the mountains. Maranda must be found, whatever her fate may be. It is imperative.
Colonel Darienne
Vasillia’s lips parted into a self-effacing grin as she tucked the letter away securely within her bags. Until Helea was found, she could not have this colonel distracting Aeryth. She would ensure that these letters did not find way to her, for as long as she could, at least. Helea was a loose end that needed to be dealt with swiftly. It was time to report back to her father what she discovered. She slit her palm open with a dagger from her thigh and pressed it over the talon pendant hanging from her neck. Her mind focused on the estate, the tower, and soon she found her footsteps walking through a portal that led her directly to him. Moments later, the wound across her hand started to regenerate. The wound closing as quickly as the portal behind her.
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Teron had seen the strange lights from the mountain during his many vigils near the riftgolem. The monstrosity and the price that might have to be paid to eliminate it weighed heavily on his mind, but this new development needed to be looked into. Word had reached Teron of some sort of visitors who had claimed to be of Karistad, and the combination of these two made it necessary to attempt a small fact-finding trip up the hill.
Honestly, he was lucky to have been able to walk away from what he found. The odd lights did indeed seem to be emanating from the top, and sprinkled about were spirits crawling their way out of the very rock. His lightning availed him little, and he had not prepared sufficient spells to penetrate the place's new residents, so he retreated beyond their reach to gather his thoughts. His search for intelligence on the matter was not in vain, though, as an apparently elven being of dangerous arcane bearing appeared and made his an offer; Bring him someone name Helea At-Tura and he would be put in the mage's "good graces", then he left and Teron was subjected to a demonstration of his power that displaced him several feet backwards but thankfully did not cost him his footing.
Names. Now we have some names. The mage who seems to be either orchestrating or facilitating this mess calls himself Vartin. He wants someone named Helea. This we can work with. Perhaps the other Keepers or associates of the School might know more. As he returned to Hamley from the site of the encounter he took a quick left into the Hall and put pen to parchment for two letters, one addressed to the School and one to be posted in the Hall in Hamley for his fellow Keepers.
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Friends,
After a brief and hazardous bit of reconnaissance on Drakamyre mountain I have encountered a powerful mage calling himself Vartin who seems to be orchestrating or enabling the odd lights and aggressive undead infestation on top of the mountain. He is seeking for someone called Helea At-Tura, for what I do not know, but it seems important enough to him to offer a significant reward. Do any of you have additional insight into this situation?
Teron Dian
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"Let us see what our combined wisdom can accomplish."
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His hand glided over the polished coffin with a slow and tender touch of his finger tips. It felt smooth and brought a sense of self reflection. His fingers stopped over the engraved markings of his family Crest within the center of the overly exquisite tomb that had sheltered him for what felt an eternity.
The smug creases of his cheeks formed a smile of satisfaction. The spell had worked and he was here, through time, as if life was born anew. The age of the magnificent, frightening, and dreadful red dragon was no longer a worry for his family. Yet, there were complications that had to be dealt with from the reports Vasillia and Vartin shared. There was time enough to concern about such worries. Instead, he decided to relish this opportunity of rebirth and brought the warmed glass of fresh blood to his lips with his other hand.
It was then that his attention fell onto the woman seated on the armed chair near the hearth fire. Her lavishing velvet black hair was parted to hang loosely down her right shoulder. Flowing freely along her right side however, was two trails of crimson streaks, that goose bumped their stream down her neck. Into the fabrics of her silken, ruffled, and elegant victorian dress. The sapphire necklace that once complimented her seductive deep blue eyes was torn off her neck to rest along her upper bosom, rising to fall, with each struggled breath. The fight had long escaped her as she moved not an inch while she stared in horror at the man who would decide her fate.
“What are we to do with you now?” Count Farius asked with a rumbling coaxing and delicate stride towards her. He seated himself along the arm of the chair with his wine glass pressing under her wound. “Soon you shall quench not my hunger. What use shall you be to me, then?”
Her voice trembled into a tormented whimper as she opened her ruby lips to speak. Yet no words came as she found she had nothing left to offer. Count Farius finished off the glass and set it down onto the table beside.
“It seems you have nothing but your soul.” Whispered Farius into her ear with a purring, “Though, you are already marked and belong to Azuul. How exciting.”
Count Farius eyes began to erupt like an inferno. Stronger than a shot of adrenaline and the quenching thirst of a fresh nobles blood, he started to channel the Spellfire from the vast reaches of his estate. It was like swimming through a tide of wild magic that cradled the world. More and more did he syphon from the collected souls of long ages past that his body began to pulse a blue hue as blue flames lashed around him.
The magic threaded over the impressive form of the elegant count until trails of flashing bolts of blue fire snapped towards the woman who had begun to rise from her seat. Fatigue washed over her drained and gaunt face as her knees gave out. And she found herself on all fours before the terrifying display that would become her certain demise. The fire was blinding with such an intensity, she suddenly could see nothing at all. She could only hear the clattering of her extravagant necklace against the laminate wooden floor boards.
Her scream lasted for only an instant that left a deafening ringing as the Spellfire shredded through her, wrapping itself around her very soul tugging, as if prying free the rewards of a walnut. Her shell broke, melted, and crumbled into a heap as the soul was taken. Another prize to fuel his power.
Subsided after a fleeting moment, Count Farius At-tura stood with his hands clasped behind his back. He was watching out the window with a calm and smooth expression. As if what he just did was as natural as drinking the blood of mortals.
“Who was she?” asked the gingered voice lurking in the shadows nearby. Thick with the accent of the posh society that was once Karistad.
“The noble of an esteemed house within the Iron City. Thought she would extract some information for favor.” He replied calmly while beckoning the woman forward with a fluid gesture of his right hand. She did not even skip a beat. Moving forward with a long legged stride, her heels echoing off the floorboards. “Helea was foolish enough to entrap herself for those mortals below. If she knows something, she will not share it easily. Find where her legion are hiding. I feel they will be our only path to loosening her tongue. Kill them if you must. Do make haste. Our opposition have proven to be a nuisance.”
Vasillia turned to leave, her slender frame moving with cat like reflexes. She was excited by the thrill of hunting. And eager to earn more prestige with her father. She smiled over her shoulder, with white pointed teeth peaking out her lips. “With haste, father.” She said sweetly before leaping off the balcony into the foggy darkness below.
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Vasillia wanted to be anywhere else that did not involve running errands for the Count. Recently awoken, she simply wanted to, dance. In fact, she wanted to dance with wine and extravagant attire to adorn her cherished figure. She liked to imagine that her outfits often looked good because she was in them. And if to compare it to her sister? Not even a competition.
She reflected further into the thought which brought her to think about Adrian. He was the one who taught her how. Her eyes flared with an anger not felt since her other life. He did not deserve his horrible fate. Mauled and brutalized. He was left to die within the forest, alone. The cherished son had it all. Virtues. Reputation. Admiration and respect. It was disgusting. It caused a swelling seed of wrath to fester and grow within the count. It started with Cassandra. The first to have ever been called away into Vartin's laboratory, to never return.
Cassandra was engaged to Adrian. And it was on the very day of their union, that he was slain. That was when the strangers showed up. Their attire was outlandish and of a styled custom very much unfamiliar. Vasillia remembered spying on them from a vantage point on the balcony. They were oblivious to her presence, even from the winged creature that lurked the skies above. They were hiding something. And it became the rumor and gossip of the estate, that soon spread around the villages and city proper. That they were the caused reason of death.
Hours later, the same group had somehow made it into the building after she lost track of them in the woods. It was mind boggling how they did it. It had to be magic. But something far more concerning, was the fact that there was more of them. And the guards did not even see them enter the building. She never forgot that day and neither did Vartin when they had somehow entered his portal never to be seen again. Perhaps it was the Fey playing tricks?
At last, she arrived upon her destination within the snow encumbered mountains, spotting exactly what she was looking for. Tracks. There was rumors of a troop of soldiers on the Hammersong Mountain. A traveler with a stubble and tanned olive skin told her. He was rather pleasant, and it was a shame she had been hungry after the exchange of information. It seemed those rumors were correct. She would report back to the estate and gather that which would be required to bring them to justice. Alive or dead.
(( Seeking to run an event on Wednesday to anyone who would potentially want to interfere or take part in this! Probably in the evening, Around 7-10pm Mountain time. ))
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Tristan
Tristan’s lungs twisted in his chest as he surveyed the butchery across the blood-stained snow of the Hammersong Mountain. Men and women were flung around with a brute force that was inhuman. Silhouettes of soldiers were imprinted into the buildings. Limbs were torn off and discarded. Necks were torn open and drained of blood.
The battle was surreal and could not have happened at a worst time. Tristan perched on the slopes above with hawkish eyes scanning below. There was no way for them to spot him with their attentions fixated on the rummaging of the dead. They were searching for survivors. Stabbing swords into the hearts of the fallen to ensure death was final. And at the heart of the camp, stood strong, the magnificent form of Vasillia At-Tura. Her blades coated in the all-consuming power that did not belong to her. Trickles of blood coated and frozen onto the creases of her lips.
Every part of Tristan desired to help them. But he was no warrior and would only suffer the same fate as his sister, Helea. The commander of Karlstad’s elite, captured. Her army all but cut asunder. And no one seemed to be able to stop them. Not with their spellfire fueling them to certain victories.
Adrian would know what to do. But he was gone, slain from the treacherous interjections of the very group that thought they were doing the right thing. He had sent them back twice now. Under the guise of the Old Storyteller. Each moment changing something. But it was not enough and his connection to the source of Spellfire was only dwindling with each passing day. If he did not go home soon, it would not be long, until the Storyteller was nothing more than the bastard he remained by birth.
There was only one more soul left – that might help these travelers. And he hoped the spirit that spoke to the Celestial Knight was enough to put them on the right course. It was their last opportunity.
His thoughts were intruded with a sharp glance from his sister. His breath caught in his throat as the coaxing smile rose over the misty darkness to pierce his very core. He turned to leave, a portal forming before him with the offering of his blood upon his pendant. Yet, within a blink, she was there – blocking his path.
Vasillia’s weapons burned much hotter up close. The flickering blue-hellfire, augmenting her blades, lashed around with murderous hunger. Her white pointed teeth peaking out her lips with a subtle and tantalizing smile. “I was wondering when I would see you.” she said with a slow cant of her head to the left. Her eyes inspecting him carefully.
“You have not changed in the slightest.” Replied Tristan with a furrowed brow.
Vasillia’s hand extended towards him expectantly, her eyes turning jaded. “Give it to me and save us both the time of your screaming.” She ordered while taking a quick fluid step forward.
Tristan was not about to waste his time conversing with his sister. Instead, he simply acted off reflex and instinct. His wrist snapped upwards shaking the earth around them. The echo up the mountain was enough to form an avalanche that began to fall with an alarming speed towards the camp. He felt the hot and wet sensation of steel enter his gut a moment later. A small twist and yank pulled free entrails to bloom the snow around them.
Tristan’s eyes took on a blue fire, channeling the last of his connection to the source, that he could. His pores began to leak a raw aether magic that sent the woman flying towards the camp. And with one fluid motion he stepped inside the portal and fell unconscious on top of the table in the Tin and Tankard within Steinkries.
[ The Island of Thain ]
Shades of Karistad
