Forums » Pantheon Fan Fiction

Faith & Family

    • 16 posts
    May 31, 2018 5:54 PM PDT

    Prologue:

    Twins of Power

    Violette leaned over and picked the rare flower she happened upon while searching for her brother. Tucking the flower into her side satchel, she thanked the Sanctum. She had his trail now. The flower was a good omen. Trailing the coast on her left, she walked southerly following boot prints in the long tail grass where her kin hastily strode toward the oceanfront.


    Progressing through the long tail grass approaching the hillcrest, the ocean presented to her an unnatural lavender glow from the Veil on the horizon beside her. Growing up southeast from the Pass and north of the Steppes, she realized this was as close the Veil as she had ever been. The careening hillside dropped vertically down towards the ocean, and as her awe from Terminus’ beauty passed, she saw the outline of a man.

    Approaching the figure, easily and quietly, she asked after him hesitantly.

    “Coban?”

    The figure’s shoulders tensed briefly, but then relaxed and began to roll its shoulder’s, feigning a lack of surprise.

    “Sister, you are impeccable.” Coban announced slowly into the ocean’s gale in front of him.

    He respectfully changed his posture and turned towards her, offering his back to the cliff. It was a welcoming gesture, and it made her smile.

    “May I ask your reasoning for interrupting my afternoon’s excursion in contemplation?” he bellowed towards his sister over the whipping winds.

    Taking in the entirety of the picture in front of her, Violette ventured forward closer to her brother, so they needn’t yell over the pending storm. Twilight began to creep against the last of the blues and purple that dominated the eastern sky.

    "Brother, you escape your duties and have wandered along the high edges of the coastline for days now. Uncle’s death should not burden you so. The Celestial’s have welcomed him into infinity. You let yourself be aimless since our kin has perished. We need you, your thought and wit, hands and shoulders.” Violette paused, “You think the harvest will uproot itself?”

    She chuckled, “I have told mother you have heard rumor of good fishing game in this country, insisting this is the only reason you abandon your commitments.”

    Finishing her banter and exposing her forearms palm up, revealing ignorance and asking clarity, Violette matched eyes with her brother. Throughout the reprimand, Coban had inflated his lungs with indignation. He slowly exhaled and regained a sense of certainty. He broke the stare with his sister and looked towards the Veil of Azeris.

    “Our house has prayed and trusted in the invisible benevolence of the Celestials. For generations we have prayed and devoted ourselves, idly regurgitating ancient words. We live in ecstasy of our strength,” Coban rounded his gaze back to his sister. “We live subservient to the whims of the Celestials, and sometimes…” Coban raised his hand. “Sometimes, we must endure alone.”

    With a quick prayer, he cast an aura of protection around himself and spoke the words of semi permanence, circulating the boon upon his body. When idle within the prayer’s focus, a form of bliss could be enjoyed. It was known that these blessings should not be given unless needed. Idle warding was frowned upon as it was a disrespect to the words and an unneeded abuse of Terminus’ gifts. Violette frowned at the display.

    His lips soundlessly began casting a spell of healing, but then continued in a foreign chant, in a continual hum. Coban’s wrist began to glow a golden white glitter. Pulsating from his veins, the golden glow began to coalesce into an ethereal gauntlet. It drew in light and repeatedly burst out excess as the makings of a gauntlet began to grow armor upwards towards his now raising arm

    Extending his arm forwards, he gestured, no longer with certainty, but now in fear of the burden wrapping him within his own heartbeat. Violette reached out and immediately began spitting out the words of mending. Pouring her love and ambition of life throughout her brother’s spell, she clutched his hand and embraced his forearm.

    Coban began to drift upwards away from the landscape. Up towards the cliff’s edge, balancing above the Cliffside, he became limply prone, pulled towards the moon as a golden glow surrounded him. Weaved with a brilliant blue hue, webbing all throughout his metallically golden silhouette, a form of armor arose upon himself. Threads of golden light were placed upon his body, a great warrior’s armor emerged, encompassing Coban.

    “Brother!” Violette screamed, watching the Celestials weave their spiritual armor around her brother with a blacksmith’s formidability. Pounding an eternity’s grace of a master smith’s capability against the agony of a mortal’s soul.

    In a wretched, wrenching howl, Coban burst with light as his armor was fully forged, and the Celestials quickly abandoned him with as much haste as he had used when originally speaking the unknown words of prayer.

    With a surge of azure light and murmuring words of faith, she clutched her brother’s limp body and brought it lightly towards her, collapsed in a defeated position upon the plain’s edge. His clothes were tattered as if burned by the blessed light, but he weighed as if he wore a full coat of armor.

    Tears in her eyes, she prayed for resuscitation upon her twin, watching as his eyes fluttered and locked upon hers, all while the words reverberated through him. She let her eyes hemorrhage her dammed sorrow, no longer upset but emanating pure joy, causing Violette to weep.

    Coban now stood, cradling his sister. She dampened the remaining strips of ruined cloth upon his left bicep. He walked northerly with his right shoulder towards the now darkened sky emanating an amethyst’s glow under a forgiving sun. The gale swept an easy breeze upon his sweat ridden brow.

    Feet heavily finding the same steps through the long tail grass, heels stomped their way through the clearing. Soothingly providing extended prayers to his sister, Coban walked towards his new future.

    No longer idly watching the corruption from the side and proving his faithful abilities afterwards.

    He now would use the Celestial’s words as a hammer. No, a sword! No… Not just a sword, he would use the Celestial’s words as a sword and shield… Not just that…

    As his sister sobbed, he sternly walked back home providing words of comfort and thoughts of protection.

    He was the newly needed defense to preserve their family’s livelihood. All the families of Terminus, not just his own. He would not budge in this duty’s need. Determinedly, Coban advanced forward.

     

     *Edited by a real writer :)


    This post was edited by techninja1337 at July 1, 2018 11:01 AM PDT
    • 3721 posts
    June 1, 2018 3:10 AM PDT

    Nicely done!

    • 16 posts
    June 1, 2018 6:00 AM PDT

    Bazgrim said:

    Nicely done!

    Thanks Baz! (Big fan of your vids by the way).  Planning to keep this story ongoing, fleshing it out more and more as we learn about the world.  It always intrigued me how Cleric's picked up the book and Paladin's picked up the hammer, both pulling from the same spiritual well of power. 

    I hope to be able to show the purpose and devotion both of those classes pursue (and others) as the lore around the world of Terminus begins to broaden.  Glad you liked it!


    This post was edited by techninja1337 at June 1, 2018 7:05 AM PDT
    • 3721 posts
    June 1, 2018 8:49 AM PDT

    techninja1337 said:

    Bazgrim said:

    Nicely done!

    Thanks Baz! (Big fan of your vids by the way).  Planning to keep this story ongoing, fleshing it out more and more as we learn about the world.  It always intrigued me how Cleric's picked up the book and Paladin's picked up the hammer, both pulling from the same spiritual well of power. 

    I hope to be able to show the purpose and devotion both of those classes pursue (and others) as the lore around the world of Terminus begins to broaden.  Glad you liked it!

    That's great, tech! I'm a big fan of both Clerics and the Veil of Azeris. Can't wait to see it in-game.

    • 16 posts
    June 1, 2018 4:44 PM PDT

    Chapter 1 –

    Kin

    It had been a hard winter, and the Breythine family had suffered many losses. The cattle herd had lost some of its young to the bitter cold. Winter cabbage, meant to be a stopgap between the harvest feasts and the spring plantings, was plagued with blight and had burdened the auxiliary field with destitution. They would need to ask the town council of any elixirs that could bring life back to the land.

    The eldest member of the family, Elanor turned away from the farmstead shaking her head. Thank the Celestials that the autumnal harvest was plentiful.  For the most part it had kept her family fed through the troublesome season. Although, she had to admit that her brother’s lack of appetite had contributed to the longevity of the foodstuffs they had in the root cellar.

    Elanor’s brother, Daniel, was the high lord.  Was.  He had dutifully upheld his obligation to the family lineage. Remembering his funeral, and reliving the grief of loss, the memory of his hands was forefront in her mind as she pictured herself beside Daniel’s casket. The hands of the patriarch of the family were calcified, chiseled with long years of work with a plow, and when needed, the sword. This loss was particularly difficult on everyone.

    She could clearly see the blackened fingernails, and the frailness of his corpse. He had died under duress from the diseases spread by the ravaging nomadic undead. Elanor recalled Daniel’s reluctance to admit he had contracted this horrible ailment fighting off an attack while he procured goods from the village center. His pride and prayers had been keeping the disease at bay since the celebration of the solstice. Almost two months his cough had gone unnoticed

    When Daniel finally collapsed returning from the market during the last full moon, it was apparent then that the man was in desperate need of a Shaman’s earthbound magic. However, the closest herbalist admitted the only known Shaman had beckoned the giant eagles to help him travel swiftly to Ru’Lun a week prior. There would be no purifying of the disease. Their fleeting hope was now put upon the Celestials’ guidance.

    The twins had torn through the tomes available, all the texts here at home and from the village chapel. Utilizing all their will and knowledge, Coban and Violette were unable to find the right words of blessing to keep Daniel’s soul bound to his body. No spells from any available treatise could mend the blight within their uncle’s blood.  No resurrection spell would bring life back to their kin.

    The death of Daniel left her son with a heavy burden of uncertainty. He now was the eldest male, and would be obligated to perform the functions of the patriarch under the Breythine roof. He was of purposeful thought on many subjects, but it was obvious he was not well versed on just quite how to be the man he was now supposed to be.  Her heart strained for her son.

    Elanor knew that a certain kind of strength was needed to lead a family. After her husband fell to Black Rose bandits many years ago, when the children were still babes, she struggled to find that strength herself. She knew her son had this potential in him, but was not sure that Coban was confident in his own skin. Releasing the visions of her brother’s passing she brought her attention back to the current day’s concern.

    Striding into the kitchen she stopped at the fireplace’s large cauldron. Stirring the contents, she hoped that her son would find the will to return home, to his familial obligations. If he did not, then she would have to abandon her land and livelihood, being unable to maintain this estate with just her efforts. She knew that Violette was destined to wear the cloth, praise the Celestials, but that would mean she would relinquish bonds outside of the holy order and focus on schooling in Thronefast as soon as she was fiscally able. Gold did not just turn into platinum on its own. Well, not without an artisan alchemist, anyways. Or maybe one of the arcane addicts knew of a way. Regardless, the Breythine family was not educated in such means.

    Upset with her erratic chain of thought, she pulled the serving ladle out from the thick stew and vigorously wrapped the edge of the iron with the elongated handle of the spoon. Flecks of pepper skin and beans dropped into the simmering dish, bubbling and sizzling as she returned the lid, leaving it ajar for the steam escape.

    Walking over to the oven, placing the ladle on the countertop, she had a clear view down towards the southern fields. Violette and she had planted the corn and wheat in that field a few days prior. Elanor voiced her annoyance with a ‘tsk’ from her tongue as she noticed a murder of crows perched upon the fencing. If they were not dispersed soon they could ravage the newly planted seeds. Foul vermin.

    Noticing movement upon the tree line, her eyes shifted focus into the distance. She saw her progeny walking arm and arm under the shade of the blossoming birch and various pine that paralleled the fields. With a breath of relief, she let herself smile. The Breythine would maintain honor, yet.

    Taking care to prepare the rest of the meal, Elanor opened the oven and pulled the slate filled with dinner rolls out, setting it upon the butchering block to cool. The heat from the open oven poured into the room and fogged the already dirty window. Wrapping a thick layer of toweling linen around her hand she removed the tin baking dish containing a cheese and broccoli casserole. Some of the exposed noodles were slightly blackened from being overcooked. She placed the tin tray next to the slate and carried on with her preparations.

    Hastily rounding the oval dinner table, she placed silverware and plates down for the expected attendees. None of the dishes nor the cutlery matched, but all served its purpose efficiently. Elanor fetched a wicker bowl and a dish towel from the cabinet under the butcher’s block. She used the dish towel to pluck each bun from the slate and tossed them into the bowl before letting the heat hit her hand. Once the slate was empty, she placed the bowl of buns upon the open space in the center of the dining table, draping the dish towel over the wicker to keep in the warmth.

    Hurriedly, she went back to the wash basin and opened a drawer to the left, finding a tarnished serving spoon and thrusting it into the casserole with a satisfyingly spongey sound. She carefully took the dish and added it to the array on the table, making sure not to accidentally touch her skin upon the still scolding tin.

    Elanor grabbed an empty serving pitcher from the shelving above the wash basin and walked out the main door towards the front porch. Using a free hand, she grabbed the dangling iron rod and rang the triangle bell, startling away the clutter of birds which were meandering on the path between the cottage and the fencing. She could see Coban and Violette clearly as they maintained a walking pace down the path. Some of the livestock were staring towards Elanor, curious about the alarming noise that just occurred. Most of them, however, were chewing away at the fresh green grass without care.

    Approaching the water pump she placed the pitcher under the dripping spigot. With a full body heave, she placed all of the weight of her torso down upon the rusty iron lever. Water gushed from the faucet as she methodically motioned the metal up and down, using both arms. Within a few moments the pitcher was filled almost to overflowing, and a scattering of water turned the dry dirt into puddles of mud.

    “I’ll carry that for you,” Rilliene said. He was a soft spoken man for one of his size “I’m eager to have supper, the scents have filled the barnyard all day!” He grinned in a way that matched his eagerness.

    Elanor smiled back, gratefully, at the farmhand. He was the only one that hadn’t left after the funeral. With her son still being despondent and reluctant, the seasonal help was persuaded to pursue work elsewhere. Rilliene placed a broad palm over the top of the pitcher, gripping it with his finger’s ends and pulling it upwards, allowing his other hand to grab the handle. After securing his grasp, he rapidly shook his now free hand in an attempt to dry his palm from the water he had splashed on himself.

    “Thank you, Rill” Elanor spoke, warmly, “Come, let us return to the kitchen and serve ourselves dinner.” motioning him to advance back towards the cottage.

    Arriving back at the forefront of the porch facing the fields, Elanor could now see that her son’s clothes were sliced in an unnatural way. The clothes hung as if the winds of Terminus themselves lashed out at him and cut away. She shook her head sternly and walked up the steps.

    “Boys” she murmured, letting the screen door clatter shut behind her steps. No matter how old a man was, he was still a messy boy at heart.

    A few moments later Coban and his sister Violette finally arrived at the cottage. It had been a long walk since the morning’s events. Violette released her brother’s arm and sagged into dejected stance. She tilted her head downwards and lowered her eyes as she walked towards the front door. Clearly she was distraught. Coban breathed heavily outward in a sigh, and followed her into the cottage.

    The floorboard of the deck creaked loudly as he climbed the three small steps, as if Coban carried Kingsreach itself upon his back. A back which he straightened as he entered his home.

    Making his way through the door, he noticed that Rilliene was ungracefully mopping his stew bowl with the remains of a golden-brown bun in between his forefinger and thumb. His mother was pouring wine into a goblet that was next to a glass of water in front of Rilliene’s seat. Violette was serving herself some of their mother’s well known casserole, as Elanor placed two bowls full of steaming stew on the table. One near Violette, and one by her own empty seat.

    “Get yourself a bowl and come sit down,” Elanor directed towards Coban “then you can explain to me what in Festus’ folly happened to you and your clothes.”

    Reluctantly he followed his mother’s orders. The stew was hot and plentiful. Coban picked up a bowl and reached down into the cauldron with it. He absent-mindedly ladled three scoops of stew into his bowl and replaced the lid.

    Coban took two steps towards the table, and became aware that Rilliene was sitting in his normal seat. The only empty chair was at the head of the table. Where his uncle used to sit. He blinked, taking a hesitant moment before pulling out the chair and placing his bowl down on the table. The bottom had gotten hot from the contents of the stew.

    As he sat down the chair groaned heavily as if the weight of three men were upon it. His sister raised a worried eyebrow and his mother scowled at him. Coban adjusted himself, scraping the chair upon the floor as he sidled into a more comfortable position at the table. He began to eat.

    After a few idle moments of chewing and clatter of scrapping silverware on ceramics, Elanor raised her napkin and brushed away bread crumbs that were left on her lips from the roll she just finished.

    “So,” Elanor began, swallowing the rest of the bread. “Will you explain to me why you look as if you just collided with Terminus? The Boundary be praised you don’t seem to be in any pain, not at the moment anyways. Did your sister heal you when she found you? You realize you’ve been gone for the better part of the week, yes?”

    Coban clenched his jaw around the shredded pieces of pork and carrot in his mouth, letting out a sharp breath of air from his nostrils. His mother left him no choice but to sit at the head of the table She expected him to wear the mantle of the family’s name yet berated him like he was still a young child. Are all mothers like this?

    Preparing his words properly, taking a moment to think how to verbalize the delicate subject he was about to broach. As he opened his mouth and began to speak, his sister interjected.

    “He was tangled in a barren winter thorn patch when I found him. I believe he still heavily mourns uncle Daniel’s death, and wandered idly into a thick underbrush.” Violette shot him a look from the corner of her eyes as she stabbed stringy cheese covered green beans with her fork. “I assume he would have gotten himself out, had he brought his prayer book with him. Alas, he did not” She finished quickly, with a sad undertone.

    Elanor looked condemningly at Violette, and then turned her gaze towards Coban.

    “Winter thorn.” She said flatly. “You got caught up in a winter thorn patch.” Shaking her head, Elanor was less than pleased. “I commend you, daughter, your words of blessings seemed to launder his shirt at the same time as healing your brother. Not even a single drop of blood stains his tattered tunic. Pity, they couldn’t mend the threads as well.”

    Rilliene coughed into his hand, holding back a smirk. Coban’s eyes threw daggers at Violette from across the table. She knew better. His mother was much sharper than any winter thorn, quick of wit and highly observant.

    “Now,” Elanor sat slightly up in her chair to reach the wine bottle in front of Violette. “I’ll forgive your sister’s attempt to scorn The Keeper’s true history in order to protect you. Let that bond never break between you both.” She said, pouring the last of the fine elven wine into the depths of her goblet.

    “My Son; Will you grace me with your honesty and answer my questions?” her eyes met his from across the table.

    Coban let his grip on his fork lessen, letting out a quiet clang against the bowl. Honesty. His mother wanted and deserved honesty. Violette wanted to forget all of it, so it seems. He could not, not now, not after what had happened. Stretching his fingers and then clenching them into a fist, he felt the Celestials’ added might in his grip. She deserved honesty, and Coban began to explain.

    “I had taken the low path through the pinewood forest, edging towards the oceanfront, this was about two days ago.” Coban relaxed his fist and let a calm come over him. “I sought answers that I could not find in the words of our Ancestor’s Blessings. I read the family spell book all my life, memorizing prayers and reciting passages of truths collected by the Clerics of all eras. I spent days looking for clarity, the direction to take in order to provide for us.” Inclining his head and gesturing with his chin to everyone at the table.

    “When I could not find the guidance in the words and blessings of our forbearers, I was compelled to find meaning through peaceful meditation. As I said, I walked through the pinewood and approached the coastline. I spent the better part of middle week’s moon fasting and contemplating.” Coban stopped briefly to wet his palette and clear his throat with water.

    “On the fourth moon of the week I still had received no answer from the heavens. My thoughts were as sharp as the pangs in my stomach.” Coban continued, while all table’s members watched him with curiosity. “As they have been dominating my thoughts, I once again reviewed the days up until Uncle Daniel’s death. One moment in particular, fleeting, came to the forefront of memory.”

    “While Violette and I spent time in the chapel’s basement, reviewing old texts and manuscripts, I came upon an ancient scroll, ink faded on dry parchment. The scroll remarked a title of ‘The Time of Tomes and Swords’. A sigil and a marking of prayer was detailed. It was not an elaborate explanatory column of the truths of the Cleric’s faith, as normally seen in our study…” Coban glanced towards Violette, who frowned and poked at her stew with her fork.

    “This wasn’t so much of a prayer, so I understood it. It was more of an oath.” Unconsciously he flexed his hand again, and the outline of the gauntlet briefly shown. His mother gasped.

    “Uncle died at the actions of the darkness that torments our lands and people. We react as we can when these horrid creatures come into camp or village. We put up walls and pray, hoping the guardsmen and the Throne’s soldiers come to aid when they appear. As we know dearly, some attacks are unavoidably fatal”. Coban’s voice was grating and full of sorrow. He paused momentarily to sip again from his water.

    “While listening to the ocean and the winds, I made my decision, and the blessings of the Celestials approved. When this morning came, my dear sister startled me back to reality. Looking at her, and having her mention you, mother,” he began to choke up “my decision became concrete. I remembered the words I had read and prayed for the benevolence to guide my hand against those that would harm that which I love. In that moment, I swore an oath to become a protector. Not just of us here, but a righteous protector of all those that suffer on Terminus.” Coban stopped speaking as he remembered the challenging torment the gods placed upon him once speaking the words of righteous truth. It dared to rip him asunder. If it were not for his sister, he knew the pure ecstasy and trial of power would have ripped him from this world.

    Tears swelled in Violette’s eyes and she stood up, pushing her chair back. “You… You place too much burden on yourself, brother!” her tears leaking down her cheeks, “You mustn’t take this path. I.. I… I forbid it!” collapsing into her chair she brought her hands to her face and sobbed.

    Elanor spoke “Look at me, my son.” A tempest burned behind her eyes. “Look at me!”

    Coban did, a mason’s stone carving placed upon his face, devoid of the anxiety and fear his heart wore. He knew in his soul that he had done the right thing, that this was the right choice. The best way to protect his kin was to protect the world from the abominations within it. He would learn to wield the cleansing power of judgement, striking down the foes challenging the order and peace in this world.

    Steadily, Elanor and Coban met each other’s gaze. Rilliene fidgeted uncomfortably, the leather elbow coverings on his coat sleeves making irregular squeaking noises on the arms of his chair. He looked as if he was going to excuse himself and run towards the goat pen!

    Elanor shook her head, still meeting her son’s eyes. Then, she began to nod. She understood, and she agreed silently to herself, knowing it was the best thing for her family. She also knew, it meant that this part of her life was over.

    “You, Coban Breythine, high seat of House Breythine, have taken a single step towards a golden path.” She kept her voice steady, “Knowing that your devotion will lead you away from that which you hold as truths now, answer me this; With the Cleric’s faith that still resides inside of your soul, will you continue down a golden path full of pain, blood and anguish? No longer relieving pain, but inflicting it?”

    The young man scowled, and spared a glance again at his sister, who cried for this very reason. If he were to commit to this, Coban would forsake the Celestials’ cleric’s prayers and take up the battle cry of an ever enduring fight on behalf of Terminus’ inhabitants.

    “I do not doubt your conviction, nor do I doubt your ability to succeed in this,” Elanor paused, “But, do you believe in your abilities. Do you stand true to your convictions?”

    Words settling upon him like a boulder, the boon from the words spoken on the cliff side dissipated. Hunger emaciated him while fatigue drained his body. He found himself clutching the tables end, a cold sweat emanating from his forehead. He breathed in and out, heavily.

    “My son,” Elanor said, standing “are you alri…” her words trailed as his sister Violette all but yelled the prayers of healing at him. A blue ocean of ethereal light enveloped him, like a crashing wave of love and compassion. He released his grip on the table and sagged back into his chair, moaning quietly.

    “I am fine” he muttered through is teeth. “Sister, you shouldn’t strain your mana like this, you waste words of blessing on someone who is able bodied themselves to do so.” Attempting a tone of scorn and scolding, Coban’s heart wasn’t in his speech.

    “You, younger brother,” She said, grinning behind a tear soaked face “Have no idea of the well of power I hold, that you could hold! If only you stayed true to the faith.” With that she began a low chant honoring the memory of Havensong and raised both her hands in offering to the Celestials.

    A brilliant blue bars of light shot straight up from the Violette’s palms. She stretched her arms outwards as far as her wingspan could reach. The light was blinding, Rilliene covered his face with his jacket to avoid permanent damage to his eyesight. Suddenly, she abruptly swung her arms above her head and clapped her hands.

    The incandescent bars of light broke apart into trillions upon trillions of tiny blue orbs, scattering outwards upon the epicenter of the clasped hands. Rilliene removed the coat from his face and sat slack jawed, staring at the caretaker’s daughter.

    “Keeper’s truths be told, what did you do to us?” Rilliene asked, awe pouring from his words, “I feel I could run a league, hundreds of leagues without becoming short of breath. Ravaging Lord be damned, I could carry the whole herd on my back and run to the village!”

    With a surge of self-satisfaction Violette ignored the farmhand and turned towards her brother.

    “You see, brother. You look for a strength you could already wield.” She clutched her skirt pleats, “It seems that if you are to take this path, I must, as always, be there to make sure you do not harm yourself.”

    Elanor knew that Coban’s decision would drive her daughter to exactly this. Recalling the various entries into the historical lineage, although few and far between, moments like this had been mentioned. Their family were not always rich tradesman and merchants. At times, they were great warriors, or tricksters. Other times, they spoke to the wild and trained the beasts themselves to listen to reason. Some centuries ago their surname even held the obscure powers of magic that aided the War Wizards themselves. Lifting the goblet, she emptied it into her gullet, gulping only once.

    “Children,” Elanor said, wiping the excess wine from her lips with her wrist, “I feel you both would benefit from a discussion with the Eldest at the chapel.”

    Coban and Violette looked at her expectantly, but Elanor said nothing more.

    “You going to eat that?” Rilliene asked Coban, pointing towards the dinner roll on his plate.

    For the first time in months, Coban laughed.

     

    *edited


    This post was edited by techninja1337 at July 1, 2018 11:03 AM PDT
    • 16 posts
    June 8, 2018 6:39 PM PDT

    Chapter 2 -

    Heart of the Steppes

    Ramin swat at the cloud of gnats which were swarming around his head. His gauntleted hand made a rattling noise as it swung about. Reestablishing decorum and pushing away annoyance, he adjusted his stance. Straightening his back, he felt the dampness of his smallclothes under his chainmail. Twisting the halberd tucked in between his right elbow, he tried to maintain calm and focus back on his duties. He was on watch, after all.

    Eyes peering over the rolling hill lands, Ramin sighed. This was not his favorite place to be. It certainly wasn’t where he expected to be, for sure. When he had joined the Earl Savingail’s men, and enlisted three winters ago, the Lord spouted promises of glory while encouraging the townsfolk to join.

    For the good of the country, and all that.

    Fantasies led Ramin to thoughts of polished armor and victorious battle cries, participating in grand campaigns against the Orcs that sent their hordes through the Pass and threatened Thronefast itself. He would fight passionately and prevail! It seemed that Ramin would gain titles and rewards from the Royal Family, the way the good Lord spoke.

    The fate of Ramin Foresyth, apparently, was to stand guard at this humble village, if it could be called that. He felt as far away from the centers of population as possible. Ramin grimaced. Hundreds of leagues south of the capitol city, and hundreds north from the Port of Ru’Lun, he stood smack dab in the middle of the Steppes. This place was nowhere close to Avendyr’s Tears, which was what the locals named the river in the west. Those waters, at least, maintained a steady trade route that brought certain luxuries a man could enjoy off duty. This town was growing, true, but it was not well known nor well-travelled by the more established merchants, yet.

    His Lordship, Earl Savingail, Keeper of the Realm, Liegeman to the Throne, had grand thoughts of this miniscule village along the trading trail to Wild’s End peninsula. The Earl anticipated greater trade as the Halflings began to journey more and more into the Silent Plains. To encourage this trade, he had ordered this town be built up, among other projects. New watch towers, reinforced entryways, proper sanitation infrastructure, all the things that would be necessary to provide a strong foundation for the local peoples to settle roots of their own.

    By nature’s influence, the majority of these hill people were nomadic. Some following the grazing patterns of the long haired steer that wandered the hill country. The majority of the folk here raised the most sought after horses in the known world, thoroughbreds of the highest pedigree. To maintain this champion lineage, the ancestors of this land chose not to pen these animals, but to provide them with the freedom of the land, harbored by the protection of the Throne, Kingsreach itself. The people and herd, in unison with the land, packed up their yurts and followed the beasts with the seasons as needed.

    It would be hard to persuade the people to settle in one specific spot without the accommodations the Earl was facilitating. To make this specific spot attractive, the Earl set attainable goals, although difficult. The problem, mostly, was the need for the simple masonry supplies to build up such a foundation. The farmsteads near the coastline trailed the closest forested areas, a day’s journey at best without a burden. Carrying a supply of lumber, the quest could take multiple days, sometimes a week or more depending on the rains during this time of the year.

    Besides those within the infantrymen, there weren’t many skilled crafters in this town, either. Yes, there were blacksmiths and tailors native to the lands, those which provided for the settlers here, however, not in numbers great enough to supplement the needs of this project.

    These particular small town tradesmen were also limited in talent. They weren’t well versed, nor did they have the molds necessary, to build up this territory to the demands required by the Earl. The lack of immediately available physical resources in this geography matched the lack of native manpower for this type of campaign, it seemed. A minor inconvenience, overall, as these talents could be learned. What one didn’t have in one thing, it made up for in a surplus of others for trade.

    Commanding Officer, Knight Esquire, Senior Chief Edmond Whitehead, was well aware of the circumstances surrounding the challenges of this landscape. A Master Engineer, he had helped plan and build out a large majority of the fortifications that hobbled the encroaching forces of Northtusk Orcs. Those Orcs that would challenge Thronefast with reckless abandon. Whitehead’s well-established legacy was due to the kill zones his ingenuity in maintaining in Avendyr’s Pass. His ability in mathematics and other physical sciences made his commissioned creations and fortifications designs for the ages.

    Senior Chief Whitehead had thought extensively as to how to fortify this land. Savingail had opened his coffers full in order to fulfill the desires of the Throne. The Earl had commissioned Edmond to secure the trade route and enhance the strength of the midlands remaining stagnant between the spheres of influence to the north and south.

    To advance towards this goal, the Senior Chief needed to secure essential resources like grain and iron. The grain was easy enough to come by in these lands, thankfully. This mining operation helped provide the iron that would feed the forges. Those forges, in turn, would supply the steel to arm his men. More importantly, they would provide tools for his laborers. No pickaxe nor shovel would last forever. Unless, of course, it was enchanted. The talentless crafters of this area had probably never met a Gnome, let alone maintained a needed understanding of the Arcane.

    For this reason, the Knight Esquire had originally only assigned the specific ambitious under Officers that would eventually reach Knighthood in his eyes.  Various Cadets of all ranks were watched, if they could achieve the privilege of Knighthood, of course. If all went to plan, his ranks would fill with those who saw the opportunity in this endeavor. His current staff would then be promoted to maintain the growing numbers. All going according to plan, of course.

    Regarding recruitment, this part of the country wasn’t stricken with battle. Men wishing to join as soldiers should be persuaded by the fact that most sword swinging would not be against an enemy. Instead it would be with a sparring partner. A small comfort, but steady pay and small comforts kept soldiers satisfied. That, and his Knighthood’s legacy of operations in the north usually ensured that imaginations of a full battalion under Whitehead’s command would contain laborers first, and militants second. Just the type of men he wanted for this campaign. Calculating, yet capable arms men.

    Upon arrival, Edmond had focused his efforts with curating the refurbishment of the mining operation in this village. Chains providing motion to the lift that carried the heavier ores from within the core of the mine had seized from lack of use and rust, decades ago. Shovels and wheel barrows would not provide the capacity nor speed his Lordship’s aspiration required. It had taken the better part of the winter months to clear the two mines, sever the chains, melt the metal, rebuilding the cast iron links.

    The Master Engineer perfected the lift and pulley system that was originally implemented. As the miners lifted out ore and stone, an empty lift carriage dropped down in an adjacent mineshaft. The secondary shaft contained coal and the occasional diamond. There was plenty of excess chain and gear works. When needed, each could be pulled independently. Well-oiled and maintained, prosperity stood apparent.

    Coal was more precious to the townsfolk than the diamonds ever could be, a more than welcomed gift in this treeless area. That didn’t make the diamonds useless, per say, but without a proper jeweler to work the gems; They were just stones in storage waiting for the highest bidder to come along. Edmond had parchment hanging at all the trade posts this side of the Veil asking for artisan jewel crafters. Nobody had come.

    However, now that the mine was operational again, many others travelled into town for work. Just as the Knight Esquire had assumed. Most were content to work the mines and receive pay, others were more ambitious and enlisted under his banner in full. Those ambitions would cause them to be as capable when applying pavestones as they would be using a weapon. The Senior Chief did not maintain an army full of lay-abouts. If you joined, you “Worked toward a goal, and you fought when told!”. Simple as that.

    Cold weather having passed and the ground now softer and malleable, Edmond focused his men on the palisades and other more enduring protections, in addition to the wooden watchtowers that were originally constructed generations ago. About three quarters of a league from the mine shafts was the beginnings of an unforgiving wooden palisade. The completed portions of the wall were jutting out towards the blue sky, with men patrolling interior catwalks.

    Eight spans deep, a trench of earth was being dug, soon to be surrounding the would-be town encompassing the stone hillside. The silhouette it created insinuated the garrison that would be needed, once the was completed.

    At forty handbreadths long, the logs were shaved to points on one side. Logs were placed close to the trench in stacks and men worked to tether the top most log. Once attached to the repurposed trebuchet, the logs were dropped into the bottom of the trenches, suspended by ropes from the long neck of the offensive machinery.

    Bare-chested infantryman sweated as they pulled on crank wheel handles, bringing each log up with clanks and clinks of the metal gear shaft. Foot soldiers hurriedly shoveled in a securing a slurry of clay and dirt to gird the base of the wall. Time and again, they repeated the process, and the wall was built.    

    All in all, the landscape was being transformed into the Senior Chief’s plans. Plans that thought forward enough to envision a larger, prosperous and boisterous town. As it stood now, the remnants of the town were nothing more than bones. Good bones, but just like these rolling hills, they were sparse of a larger variety of vegetation. This town, if it could be called that yet, was still under construction. The workers and soldiers busying themselves about the land proved it to be so.

    The largest building in this aged place was an old chapel, as old as Terminus itself, it seemed. The Elder Cleric that lived there welcomed religious pilgrims who were studying and interpreting ancient texts. An elaborate library laced the catacombs, carved from the former mining tunnels directly under the chapel. Those searching for meaning among the scripts, found themselves studying beside the crypts of fallen miners, former nobles and other common folk alike. All lit by the Forever Light of enchanted candles wrought from ages passed.

    Thick ivy crept up the stonework of the chapel’s bell tower. Unkempt shrubbery grew higher too high for a properly maintained landscaped. The undergrowth was also unmaintained and the high tops of the bushes now blocked the stained glass windows that looked out from where services were held. The front doors, once elaborately carved and gilded, were worn with weather stains and substantial rot. Cornerstones of the front steps of the small steeple were worn down. Some of those stone block steps were missing completely.

    Old may it be, the chapel was the centerpiece of the small village. All things considered, it was a rather impressive sight. Now being re-forged, this village was tucked into a valley ridge that provided natural protection.

    Before the regiment was deployed to this land, there was nothing more than small mining operations. When Edmond Whitehead was done, it would be a landmark.

    This refuge of a town had an inn and a few homes that belonged to the more affluent among those that handled the administration of needed tasks. In days past, most of the miners would have lived in the multiple barracks near the rocky edges of the tallest hill by the mine’s entrance. Most of these medium sized barracks were mostly housing the soldiers of this Group. The others were homes to those under contract to mine ore and cut stone. More accommodations would be needed, soon.

    Although the ore that came from these shafts was plentiful centuries ago, this mine hadn’t been under successful employ in ages. All of the buildings were mostly left abandoned and in disrepair, matching the decrepit look of the chapel. The old foreman building had been re-appropriated as Chief Esquire Whitehead’s dwelling, his blue banner rippled against the wind upon the iron flag post in front. There he planned the development of this territory in relative solace and comfort.

    There were only a few permanent residents of this of the town. One lived in a large, square, three story building that sat across from what could only be called a village green, as pathetic as the village was at the moment. The manor belonged to Her Lady Breythine, formerly the Lady Koren Eristal of House Eristal. Their lineage, at one point, were overseers of the last successful attempt at taming these lands. Prior to the Throne’s involvement, Lady Breythine administered the operations here.

    With the lack of able bodied men staying within the confines of the mining camp, the more recent generations of House Eristal had focused their efforts on becoming horse traders, with admirable success. With that business, the efforts of the various nobles of the estate were spent outside the confines of this aging tomb.

    Eristal’s current Baron, Stuart Eristal, focused his time and accomplishments bartering with the hill folk or trading with more established Houses nearer to the Tears’ shore. During the idle winter months, Chief Esquire Whitehead had established a good relationship with the Widow Breythine. He hadn’t yet had time to make an impression on her son, the young Baron Eristal.

    House Eristal maintained a façade of noble title and influence. The estate hadn’t provided much for the kingdom in generations. As soon as the Knight Esquire and his Company arrived, it was obvious that the Innkeeper of the Rusty Pick was truly the leader of this community.

    Thomas Brows was one of the very few innkeepers living deep within the Steppes. There were only meager portions when you were this deep, but this man made sure you were always satisfied when you left his Inn. Any supply item you required was always gatherable, as long as you were patient enough while staying under his roof. If anything else, he kept his inn stocked with smoking leaves, so it put him above par within consideration of the rest of the regional innkeepers.

    Despite the traveling merchants’ levy, the previous caretakers of this territory were unable to provide steady taxable revenue. Without this, there was no way to sanction a workforce on behalf of the Throne. Not in a way sufficient to bring the Earl’s plans to fruition, that was for sure. They were nobles, however, and due the respect of their station, no matter how minor that station was.

    The Lady Widow, supported by the Baron, agreed to provide the House’s horses in training to Senior Chief Edmond and his men. This would bolster his ranks to include cavalrymen alongside his ranks of limited foot soldiers.

    Even if the Earl gave up plans to build out this Province, he would at least supply new warhorses for the Throne before personally being done there. Senior Chief Whitehead trusted Earl Savingail, but random gusts of wind can turn the greatest marksman’s arrow downward to earth. One didn’t become a great commander without planning for all eventual outcomes and adjusting accordingly.

    Ramin didn’t know much about the lineages or the townsfolk around there, nor did he care. The place smelled as old as it looked. The tasks here bored and disappointed him. He cared not for those that chanted holy words, or for traded horses, for that matter. He especially didn’t care for the miners that often tapped the ale kegs dry, before his shift was even over. Reminding himself of the scolding that he received from Cadet Major Bronsen for starting a squabble with the local ruffians, Ramin shook his head.

    “We are stationed here to be the resurrection spell to this territory, Cadet Page Foresyth” He remembered the grizzled officer explaining to him, patiently. “We are to bring this land to yield upon the will of the Throne. The Steppes are the heartland of Kingsreach, and we stand in the Heart of the Steppes. The Throne’s subjects aren’t to be bothered by your insolent tone just because your mug is dry!” Ramin frowned at the memory. The privies were especially clean the two weeks following that… conversation.

    Cadet Page Ramin Forsythe stood at the front of a gateway with no gate, under a blazing sun. On guard with Ramin, leaning heavily on the stave of his halberd while scanning the horizon, was Cadet Recruit Kervi Brandowin. He was a good soldier, but had less ambition than a summer snail. Disciplined but lazy, he was the type of man that slept above the bed linens so he wouldn’t have to organize the coverings before the morning’s inspection. This type of man worked extra hours so he could spend the surplus coin on more ale.

    Today, in the dead heat of the midday’s still air, sweat poured off of Kervi. Ramin heard a gurgling noise come from Kervi’s direction, and realized that soon they both would be relieved briefly for the afternoon’s rations. They would be returning for the third watch in an hours’ time.

    Ramin reached at the lambskin pouch at his side and poured himself a mouthful of water to quench his thirst. This heat, these bugs, this land. It all wore on Ramin. He wanted much more out of life. He gave a pleading prayer to the Celestials to provide him a path.

    The Cadet Captain stationed at the top of the palisade’s watch tower bellowed alert. An image of a white canvased caravan peaked over the far hillside to the northeast, appearing insubstantial within the haze of the heat. A small dust cloud followed the path behind the traveling folk. Raising his hand to shade his eyes, Ramin could identify three riders and two pack mules that crested the hilltop following the caravan.

    There weren’t many travelers that came that way. Most of the clergymen who studied here came from the northwest. Before the Knight Esquire claimed this land, it had been subject to many bandit raids and a most unusual sporadic incursion of undead. The Throne’s Lord Knight Paladin, in charge of this campaign from afar, gave clear instructions that the Earl conveyed to the Knight Esquire.

    “Support the people. Reinforce their defenses. Enforce the law. Protect the Kingdom.”

    Most of the locals thought the ill tidings were a result of their new found ‘friends’ from the land near the Veil. Only recently have the Halflings been traveling more frequently into the world, and passing through this backwards horse country.

    Spry and friendly though they may be, trouble always seemed to follow the Maidyn clansmen, as they called themselves. A handful of them often brought news of ill tidings to the inn as they rested their feet before adventuring again. It was overly eerie how the Halflings could smile and laugh over the dread of the undead they told stories about. Humans had a hard time trusting a creature that smiled in the face of both pain and pleasure.

    As the caravan and parade drew nearer, Ramin relaxed his guard as he was able to identify the familiar faces. These were the Widow’s kin. He let his mind wander to what Thomas the innkeeper had supplied for today’s rations. The lentil stew he had made during the last full moon was delightful. He also remembered that the Breythine household prided themselves on their stores of apple brandy.

    Watching the caravan get closer, both Kervi and Ramin held a more relaxed and vigilant stance. The Celestials had blessed them for their strength and courage. Those souls, the ones that he protected within the realm, said prayers that gifted him with good tidings.

    Ramin found his thoughts wandering, thinking about how he could get Kervi to play some cards with him in the leisure time they would have this afternoon.

     

    *edited grammar / tense

     


    This post was edited by techninja1337 at July 1, 2018 11:04 AM PDT
    • 16 posts
    June 16, 2018 12:15 PM PDT

    Chapter 3:

    A Worthy Sacrifice

    In a cavern deep below the all but abandoned mining town, three ratkin cooed erratically with anxiety. The three had been mutilated, their eyes had been gouged out. The fur around the sockets was stained with blood. They chittered and wrinkled their noses, swinging their heads to and fro, awaiting command.

    At the other end of the rocky hollow, a woman stood in a flowing silk dress as black as midnight. The shadows of the cave making almost camouflaging her if it weren’t for the pale white of her skin. The thin fabric clinging to her was cut immodestly low, and she glanced suggestively over her exposed left shoulder. In absent minded attention, she brought a black rose up to her nose and breathed in deeply.

    Fryen smirked with pleasure. Turning, she brought a bleeding finger up to her mouth and tasted the mercurial blood seeping from her small wound. The colors of the cursed boons spiraled around her and flashes of silver emanated a sickly halo of light around her. The woman let out an alluring sigh in satisfaction.

    With rose in hand, she stretched her arm towards a sobbing figure restrained by chains. She brushed the petals of the rose upon her subject’s cheek. Black ink seeped off the petals and sank into the veins of his dirty, gaunt, tear stricken, face. Fryen released the rose she was holding, the wilting remains of a blood red flower fell silently to the cavern floor.

    The man screamed with all the air he had left in his lungs, eyes bulging. He began to convulse, becoming ridged. The chains rattled as the veins within his body solidified with this ethereal poison. Each pump of the doomed man’s heart furthered the tainted spell’s effect, like a pulsating web upon his skin.

    Fryen’s eyes refocused on the scrolls of the Corrupted Cleric. Although the script was in an ancient writ, she had been taught how to speak the glyphs. She read the words upon the faded parchment. Her determination and effort showed as sweat began to pour from her forehead. Wiping the damp hair that was draping across her face, Fryen began to chant in the unknown language, beginning the incantation.

    “Sacrificium corporis sanguinem.” Fryen began, the words thread an evil spell upon the bound man.

    A gurgling gasp coming from the moribund man. The humanoid like rats began to scream in an unnatural noise, the gleeful sound echoing in the cavern. Fryen’s voice was melodic at first, but an insidious bellow began to spew from her mouth.

    “In vitae viribus ingentibus precibus inuitae,” she continued. The subject arched his back unnaturally, his abdomen pulling upwards against the restraint of his chains by an unseen force. “quondam multo vivificat mortuos vita!”

    The Necromancer threw her hands out before her, the silver streaks spiraling down her arms. The subject’s skin seemingly boiled as the black ink like substance was drawn out if his pores. The dark magic pulling from Fryen and the dead man intertwined, flowing towards the dais.

    On the center of the platform were bones. Ancient bones preserved by the holy prayers upon the coffers that once held them. As old as the conscript in front of Fryen. Bones from the days of the Remnant. The days when blood soaked the land.

    In a pulsating sizzle that hissed and steamed, the tendrils of magic braided themselves around the bleached bones. The substance coalescing in a disgusting evil sinew upon the heap, climbed through the marrow holes. Slowly, the bones latched together with the sound of snapping tendons.

    A sickly noise, like cracking joints, began reverberating through the cavern. A foul wind spiraled around the mound of oily viscous and bones, extinguishing the nearby candle flames. The calcified remains began to situate themselves in the form of a foul cadaver. Fryen continued to manipulate her forbidden magic, a snide smirk exposing her teeth as she watched the undead creature come to life.

    Despite what seemed like hours of efforts, it was plain when looking at the candles which were still lit that only a few minutes had passed. Fryen was exhausted, the energy she spent on her task had drained her. She glanced towards the lifeless body next to her.  A small smiled appeared on her lips.  Perhaps she wasn’t as spent as her subject had been. Fryen beamed with humor and self-satisfaction.

    “Come to me, soldier.” She beckoned.

    The creature lumbered unsteadily, black sludge animating its limbs forward rigidly. It got near enough and collapsed to one knee, bone knuckles supporting its weight on the other side. It waited for command, as if it could understand proper chivalry.

    Fryen took small steps into the center of the makeshift altar. She inspected the undead, auditing the consistency of her own work. She stopped circling after a third pass, standing directly in front of her new creation.

    “Will one of you vermin please provide our newest family member with a weapon?” Fryen said, idly returning a fallen dress strap into place over her shoulder blade.

    She did not turn to watch the pest’s small contest to quickly find and deliver her request. After a brief moments pass, one of the ratkin presented itself head down next to Fryen. The humanoid rat shivered in fear and concern, teeth clamped around the hilt.

    “Drop it, worthless wretch.” She demanded of the murine. It complied, letting the bastard sword fall to the floor in a clang, dirt and dust pluming upon impact.

    “Take this gift and use it well, my pet.” Fryen said to the undead skeleton. “Now, go join your brothers. You will know your tasks soon enough.”

    Turning and walking back towards her podium, the creature struggled to its feet. She could hear the rusty sword scrape on the slate floor as the skeleton began to rise. It did not wait for further order. It meandered towards the exit of the cavern in a fashion that could unnerve those of the strongest will.

    Fryen took a small handkerchief from her purse that was draped over the corner of her podium. She carefully tucked loose strands of sweat dampened hair behind her ears parting her hair.  She would have to meditate soon, as this ritual had taken most of her mana.  She patted down her forehead and neck which was thick with sweat. The red blotchy flush of effort began to fade from her face.

    Her arsenal was beginning to grow, just as was commanded. She never would have thought that the Throne would send more people to this deserted part of the land. Before then, it was getting harder and harder to raid the smaller farms and to pin down travelers. The lack of worthy sacrifices in the area was beginning to worry her.

    Now she had new bodies ripe for the pickings just outside her doorstep. Stealing a scout or causing a cave in, she now had a plethora of fresh blood for the taking.

    “Go!” She rounded on the ratkin “Go, and continue your work as commanded. Send your children to bite at the heels of the humans. Do not let them reclaim our home. Continue to bring me those that survive your onslaught”

    The three squealed in delight, satisfied with their command and with being able to leave this cursed place. They dropped themselves to all fours and scurried into the cavern out coves, scratching and digging their way away from the Necromancer.

    Leaning down upon the altar, Fryen picked up a lone, lit candle stick. She followed the path her newest creation had stumbled down. holding up a single hand, she suddenly clenched her fist. A swift wind flew through the cavern, whistling through the stone spears jutting from the ceiling and floor behind her.

    The air snapped at the candles still alight, and the cavern became dark and silent. Squeals of ecstasy could still be heard, faint within the echoes of the caverns above. Fryen smiled as she walked towards her growing army. She would be greatly rewarded for her efforts here.

     

    Squire Mishrila Setella jerked his head to the side. An unusual breeze cooled the air around him, and a faint screech could be heard behind the rocky alcove. The area he supervised was responsible for removing rubble from the interior chambers. This work was done by laborers. He was here to make sure that the ratkin infesting the bowels of this mine didn’t win any more attacks against the men that were reclaiming this part of the country.

    Mishrila hated the things in this place. It made his hair stand on end. Centipedes as large and long as his forearm often could be seen clutching to the ceiling, methodically moving along the crevasses. Deadly spiders that melded within the wall's shadows had venomous bites. Fluttering moths could shake the strongest soldiers standing absently, just by the unexpectedness of their appearance. Most men stood on edge just because they feared the ceilings would come down or thought the walls might collapse at any given moment.

    A few weeks ago this area was already operational. They lost two pages and a handful of laborers to the depths influence. The wall pillars and ceiling reinforcements were doubled since that time. Only now were the workers getting back to clearing rock. The Knight Esquire knew his way around operations like this.

    Hopefully, the fallen were crushed instantly in the rubble surrounding Mishrila as the cave-in occurred. They had only found two bodies so far. If not, the rest were to have suffered from suffocation and starvation as they slowly rotted in darkness. The Page beside him fidgeted with anxiety.

    “Page Alimier Bryant, have you something on your mind?” Mishrila asked, impatiently. “Is there something that bothers you about your post?”

    The private rolled his shoulders and placed both hands behind his back, clasping his right wrist in his left hand. Alamier was a good soldier. He was solid, dependable and smart. He was, unfortunately, completely unsure of himself and his surroundings. This gave roots to fear, and a fearful warrior died when in contest.

    The Senior Chief had asked Mishrila to school the fear out of his camp’s soldiers. That is what caused this aspiring under officer and himself to be placed in the deepest part of the mine. The Knight Esquire wanted this to be a spawning point for new Knights. Mishrila would be happy to oblige, himself almost eligible for Knighthood. If his efforts bore fruit, of course.

    “No, Squire Setella, I just…” Alimier hesitated, “I, I thought I heard something” he said, finishing in a rush.

    “What exactly,” Mishrila asked “did you hear?”

    Alamier frowned. “It was nothing, fancies of the mind in this dark place. That’s all.”

    “I doubt that’s true, Page Alamier.” Mishrila said as he turned to face the Page. “You do understand, we are on guard, yes?” He bent over to gain access to his leather pack.

    “Yes, but…” Alamier put his eyes to the ground, tilting his head.

    “I heard it, too.” Mishrila cut the Page off. Fumbling with gauntleted fingers to bring a tobacco pouch out from his travel pack. “The ratkin grow restless, their hovel is being cleared by more civilized people.”

    Alamier turned his head slightly and gave a glanced eye towards the Squire. Mishrila felt the eyes upon him, and offered out his open tobacco pouch. The Page shook his head.

    “Suit yourself.” Mishrila said, as he pulled a worn cob stemmed pipe out from his bag. The mouthpiece was gilded in copper and lead, with small interworking patterns linked together like a weaver’s work. He thumbed a portion of tobacco into the pipe and cinched the pouch closed, returning it to his leather pack.

    The laborers working in this mine were on the other end of the shaft standing around empty barrows. They were all standing in a small break under the lift. Above them the lift brought carts full of iron laden stone to the surface. They enjoyed banter and bites of jerky as the open air from the shaft cooled them. Two had even taken the moment to dice for coin.

    ‘Peasants’, Mishrila thought.

    Mishrila stepped to an adjacent alcove where a few candles flickered above a stash of miner’s tools and plan papers. He leaned over, tilting the stem slightly so he could breathe in the flame towards his pipe, puffing consistently.

    He let out a blue-grey cloud and coughed slightly, followed by a spit of the excess saliva and leaf grain to his side.

    “I asked you,” he brought the pipe away from his mouth and motioned to the rubble wall beside them, “What exactly did you hear?”

    The Page released his clench on his wrist behind him and relaxed slightly. If Squire Setella were to adopt an informal tone and smoke a pipe, there was nothing that he had done wrong. Alamier looked with concern at his officer.

    “The squeals, like before. The…” Page Bryant paused, “the monsters. It reminded me of what happened last time I was this deep, when the cave-in happened. The sounds were much further away this time, but the sick sound of joy they give. It, it puts me on edge, my Squire.” Alamier released in a rush.

    “Yes.” Squire Setella said. “It puts me on edge too, Page Alamier.” Mishrila pulled another breath of smoke from the pipe, a bloom of smoke emanating from each nostril a moment later. The cavern began to fill with the scent of burnt tobacco. The Page’s eyes watered and he let out a small cough as the oxygen began to dwindle.

    “Come, let us walk closer to the air shaft.” Mishrila said, as he realized the young Page didn’t smoke or enjoy being in closed quarters with one who did. “Let us encourage these miners to spend less time with their vices and more time working.”

    They took calm short steps in silence towards the laborers. The two soldiers could see that the lift chain was now being brought back up, letting the emptied carts return down into the depths of the mine shaft. They men were not eager to return to work, so they attempted to feign notice that the chains were working.

    “Clean up that game and stand ready to work. You have hours of light yet. If I have to stand and sweat in this ill begotten tomb of a landscape,” Mishrila barked, “then you shall sweat as well, making it a mine rather than a tomb for us all.”

    Some of the men reacted quickly, picking up pickaxes and other tools, heaving the barrows and making their swift way back towards the innards of the mine. The two who were dicing, stood up, but argued over their game. Mishrila leaned over to the Page and lifted an eyebrow.

    “Discipline these men, Page Alamier.” He whispered under his breath.

    The Page’s eye grew stern and focused. He was a good soldier.

    “You two, settle your dispute while working your duties.” Alamier said sternly. “Hand me those dice and return to the ore work, or I’ll instruct Master Brows to refrain from letting you enjoy an evening ale until the next new moon.”

    Mishrila smirked in satisfaction, his jaw clenching on his pipe's mouthpiece, exposing teeth. The two laborers glanced at the under officer, back at the Squire, and scooped up the dice. They bowed their heads in diffidence and returned the dice to a shake container, handing it to Page Bryant.

    “I will leave these with the Innkeeper after today’s shift has ended. You may enjoy your drink and your dice game as long as it is not during hours where you are under obligation of the Throne itself. Do we understand each other?” Alamier said, fervently in control.

    The two nodded and murmured acceptance as they watched the returning lift swaying erratically as it dropped nearer to the ground before them. One took a position behind the mine cart which was on the platform that just landed.  The other clasped the handle of a nearby lever.  The miner pulled the lever and the cart dropped from the platform.  Following the iron bound cart, the two laborers began heading towards the portion of the mine that was being cleared.

    “That,” Mishrila said to Alamier, “was well done.” He took another strong pull from his pipe and exhaled, letting the billowing smoke flow towards the opening, up into the midday light.

    Mishrila focused his thoughts and continued, taking another slow step, now towards the workers that were deeper into the mind.

    “Alamier, I asked you what you heard after both you and I heard the same thing. Do you know the difference between you and I, in that moment?” he asked the young Page.

    “You were the commanding Officer on duty, my lord?” Alamier asked.

    Mishrila blinked, and chuckled to himself, “No.” he said. “I simply remained calm, Page Bryant.”

    The Page looked expectantly at the senior Squire.

    “There isn’t anything more than that, Alamier.” Mishrila said, “You heard the foe, and the foe was far away. You reacted defensively for no good reason, and let your emotions rise and be seen by those around you.” A rasping cough overtook him, and he spit a dark phlegm to the floor behind them.

    The Squire wiped his mouth with his arm sleeve and continued. “Trust your instincts, Page Bryant, and you will make strides under the Knight Esquire’s banner. Trust yourself as much as he trusts you. As much as I trust you.”

    Mishrila let the words sink in as they took up position around the clangs and clinks the laborers made. Their shift was half over. He began to wonder what mess would be made for dinner tonight. Celestials be praised it was something other than the same slurry they had been eating.

    *edited - clarity / grammar / tense

     


    This post was edited by techninja1337 at July 1, 2018 11:05 AM PDT
    • 16 posts
    July 1, 2018 11:10 AM PDT

    Hi all - hope you've been enjoying my work. 

    I recently received help from somebody who actually writes for a living. They’re helping me with tense, grammar, and better story boarding. I’m an IT guy at heart, so most of my writing is email format and not so much story telling.  I hope it isn't too obvious that creative writing isn't my day trade.  :)

    As I want to make sure I’m delivering good content, I have been taking more time in fleshing out ideas when writing the next chapters. That, and personal life stuff has kept me from being able to dedicate the proper time to writing the next chapter in full – but it is coming soon!

    Cheers - Ninja

    • 309 posts
    July 15, 2018 1:20 PM PDT

    I enjoyed your stories Techninja. They show that you enjoy telling them and have a passion for writing. Keep it up.

    I am far from perfect when it comes to the craft, but have found that practice does produce a desired result.

    Don't quit, even if the only reason you write is for personal enjoyment. But I think that is not the case, as I am certain that you have many more stories to tell.

     

    Thanks for the good read.