Back in the Battle

Silence hung heavy over Seran’vine.  The very air itself tiptoed through the trees, the occasional tremble of a leaf the only reminder that time had not stopped.  It unsettled Fara’sin deeply.  She never thought she would long for the brutish war calls of the Orcs.  The quiet gave her mind too much room to wander.  Of course, it did not have too long to wander; the Pixie Queen saw to that.

“So where are they?” Glitterrose asked, flitting up to her ear.  “Do you know who it is?  I wonder who it is.  Are they really from LaSelle Island?  I’ve never met anyone from there.  Ooh ooh ooh – will they bring presents?”

“I don’t know, little one,” Fara’sin sighed, suddenly longing for the oppressive quiet to return.

“Mm, I love presents,” Glitterrose cooed, settling down on Fara’sin’s shoulder.  “I almost like it more when someone else gets presents, because then you get to watch how happy they are.  But seriously, I like getting presents so much…”

Mercifully, Syth’aren entered soon after, bounding up the limbs toward the throne with Ko, the Half-Elf, close behind. 

“Signs of the visitors in the distance, my lady,” Syth’aren said with his customary bow and flourish. 

“Any indications?”

“No, my lady,” Ko answered.  “They’re employing stealth – or something like it.”

He and Fara’sin shared a derisive snort.  Were her Maidenguards any less adept at concealment, they might have snorted as well.  As it was, they remained in the ideal positions for an ambush.  Whoever these mysterious islanders were, they would not be making any fast moves – at least, not without consequences.

“And our companions?” Fara’sin asked, fingering the shards of black stone dangling from her neck. 

“Nothing, my lady,” Ko answered.

“Has it really been a month since they were last spotted?  How time flies when destruction is in the making.  Thank goodness you were able to gather the others.”

“I have said it before, my lady – we should act now,” Syth’aren said.  “There’s no telling what Tigean is up to – for all we know, he has the other pieces…and the scepter.”

“The islanders have the scepter,” Ko interjected.  “Stedwick said so himself.  I wouldn’t have put my ass on the line to reach out to them if I wasn’t sure.”

“You really should put that ass to better use,” Syth’aren muttered with his customary smirk.

“Ha ha ha…ass,” Glitterrose chuckled.

Fara’sin was just rolling her eyes when a trumpet sounded in the distance.  She rose to her feet, her fingers tracing the hilt of her sword instinctively.  A ripple tension passed through the party as they positioned themselves around her.  They remained there, frozen in a mixture of dread and expectation.  Whatever the islanders had in store, it would tilt the fate of the Known Realm inexorably.  For a few brief minutes, all these mighty warriors had left to do was pray.

In time, an escort arrived: four guards flanking a trio of figures cloaked in coarse, off-white capes and hoods.  The visitors shifted uncomfortably on their feet.  Fara’sin could tell they were eyeing their surroundings, or trying to from behind their hoods; it pleased her to know that guests still shook with fear in Seran’vine.

“Welcome,” she said, her voice smooth but sharp.  “You may approach.”

The figures hesitated before trudging forward, Fara’sin’s guards carefully matching their pace.  At a few yards away, the center figure made a motion, and the three of them sank to their knees.  Fara’sin glided forward, her leafy train dragging gently against the branch.  Syth’aren and Ko made to fall in beside her, but she motioned for them to stand aside; she knew well enough that these three posed her no real threat.  Glitterrose, on the other hand, was all too keen to get close.

“Their cloaks seem really plain,” she whispered in Fara’sin’s ear.  “I want to add sparkles.”

“Please don – ” Fara’sin began, but it was too late.  Glitterrose waved a finger and the men’s garments were suddenly awash with gleaming magical sparkles.  To their credit, they hardly made a move.  This seemed to disappoint Glitterrose, and so she retreated. 

“What brings you before the Queen of Leaves?  And from LaSelle Island, no less.  I had thought the people of LaSelle Island were too good for the likes of us.”

“We do not represent the Emperor, your highness,” said the man on the left.  “We are…” he trailed off, glancing at the other two.

“We represent the people of the Island, your highness,” said the man on the right.

“And these people are…?” Fara’sin prodded.

“The common people, your highness.  The working man and woman.  All are under threat if Ganon the Wretched, our sworn and most hated enemy, is allowed to thrive in the Known Realm.”

“A well-rehearsed answer,” Fara’sin mused.  “You are not the first to curse the nobles and claim the banner of the common people, though.  Surely you represent particular interests.”

A brief silence followed, during which Fara’sin watched in bemusement as the two flanking figures shifted on their knees, clearly looking for a way out. 

“They have nothing, your highness,” Syth’aren whispered as he appeared at her shoulder.  “These are nothing but petty rebels.  We have better work to do.”

“Give them a chance, your highness” Ko said, appearing at her other shoulder.  “They are nervous in your presence and why shouldn’t they be?”

“Maybe some flowers would be good,” Glitterrose said, drifting toward them again.

“Enough,” Fara’sin hissed, waving them all away.  “We are short on time, men, so please, come to the point.  If you have what we need, then hand it over and we will discuss terms.”

“You are making demands of the rightful ruler of LaSelle Island, my lady,” the man on the right interjected, barely holding in his indignation.

“Do I now?” Fara’sin asked with a grin.  “Then have him show me his mark?”

“I have no mark,” the central figure said in a low, gravelly voice.  “They don’t put marks on my kind.”

A chill went up Fara’sin’s spine.  The timber of that voice: she knew its type.  She stepped forward slowly, her hand clenching the handle of her sword.  The central figure remained unmoved, which only raised her hackles further.

“Is that the husky growl of an abomination I hear?” she whispered menacingly.  “Surely you know I have bathed in the blood of your kind and yet here you are.  My, my, my, but you are bold.”

“I have no people, highness,” the figure answered.  “I say again, they do not mark my kind.  But they do leave trinkets.”

He extended a gloved hand and opened it to reveal a small, ivory pendant engraved with a golden flower.  She gave it a sidelong look and then snatched it up.  With both eyes on its owner, she dangled the pendant in front of Ko.  He took it from her gingerly and turned it over in his fingers. 

“It’s legitimate,” Ko said, handing it back to her.  Fara’sin held in her own hands and observed.  She knew nothing of jewelry; she could only hope for some sort of mystical sign.  Nothing came, and so she handed the trinket back.

“You could have stolen it,” she said simply.

“Not likely, highness,” the creature retorted.  “What would the likes of me be doing over there without good reason, anyway?”

“Your motivations are irrelevant to me, abomination,” she hissed.  “As are your politics,” she added to his followers.  “Give me what we need and we will allow you to leave with your lives.”

“We will not be intimidated!” the man on the right said as he started to his feet.  He had raised himself barely an inch when the air was filled with the flurry of shifting leaves and the sinister creak of bowstrings being drawn.  The man took one look at all seven Maidenguards as they appeared from the foliage, arrows aimed at him, and slowly lowered himself back down. 

While he and his companion writhed uncomfortably, the creature in the middle was still unmoved.  In fact, he seemed to only be growing in confidence.  Hot with indignation, Fara’sin reached down, seized him by the neck, and lifted him off his feet with one hand.  His hood fell back, revealing an angular, green, pointy-eared visage.  As her guards restrained his entourage, Fara’sin glared into his dark eyes, searching deep inside him for the first sign of weakness.

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t snap you like a stray twig and take what we need,” she sneered.  “I haven’t tasted foul blood in a while and I’m happy to settle for a diluted vintage.”

“I have what you need,” he said, reaching into his cloak.  “And I know who you need to give it to.  I know who the next great queen is.”  With that, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a long, thin, golden scepter with three crooked, sharp claws at one end.  He proffered it to her willingly, his eyes still locked on hers.  “Take it.  We both know you won’t get to wield it – but I know we can take it to her together.  We have to take it to her.  She needs us.”

Fara’sin observed the scepter and nodded to Ko, who took it and conducted his own examination.

“It’s legitimate,” he said, glancing smugly at Syth’aren for good measure. 

“Looks like you really are Stedwick’s favorite,” Syth’aren retorted, his voice tinged with disappointment.

Fara’sin looked back at the creature.  Their eyes met and stayed tight on each other for several long moments.  Perhaps it was age, or weariness, or desperation, but Fara’sin could find nothing in those eyes to hate.  There was truth there, much to her surprise and even dismay.  This filthy half-breed had more to offer than just a lust for blood and a bad attitude.  With the heat of her anger ebbing way, she slowly set him back down on his feet, and was surprised to see him return to her knees.

“So you do have manners,” she said, turning back toward her throne and taking a seat.  “You may stand.”

“I wasn’t raised among the foul, highness,” he chuckled as he got to his feet.  “I was raised by a human.”

“They have manners enough, I suppose.  And what do we call you now, friend of the next great queen?  Will you style yourself as Emperor?  King?  Chancellor, maybe?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, getting to his feet.  “There’s a lot to do before that comes to be.  So I guess until then you can just call me Krahl."

The Forsaken

Rock provided Braun some strange comfort.  While the cold, damp air waged war with his fever, the rock wall remained firm and unyielding – an oasis of predictability amidst the torture.  He would miss the rock should he ever leave; unlike his holy icon, the wall had been present in his time of need.

Sleep was just about to embrace him when the squeal of old iron pulled him back.  His muscles tightened of their own volition, his knees bending to his chest, hands tucked beneath his chin.  He turned his face into the corner, begging the stone to soften and swallow him up.  A blow was sure to come, or a slice of magic in the veins, or another old nightmare.  Yet there was only silence, a quiet so long and grave he wished for pain to break the tension.

In time he braved a sidelong glance, wary of what might befall him.  The Gnome stood in his usual spot, coated in shadow, a faint red glow coming from his eyes.  Braun eyed his stillness with mounting concern, and was nearly relieved when the dreaded voice rang in his cell.

“Did you feel that?” it asked in its horridly deep rumble.

Braun pretended to think, afraid of revealing his ignorance too quickly.  He settled for a simple shake of the head.

“You did not?” came the voice again, mocking.  “Your lord, touching down among the mortals?  My, my, my – you really are far from him.”

Braun felt a flicker of warmth in his chest.  Flashes of his lord striding toward the amassed Orcs, the one and only vision he had to cling to, filled his mind.  Was he near?

“Seems he intervened in Blackplane City.  Though only your voyeur god could possibly know why.  Perhaps your friends are there?”

Braun really did think that time.  Could they have made it through alive?  Even without the ghost in their company?  There was still so much haze around the whole endeavor.  What were they even doing there?

“I don’t know,” he croaked.

“I think you do,” the voice replied calmly.  “I think you know perfectly well that they are.  Why else would your flying knight see fit to touch his divine toes down in such a dreadful place?”

The Gnome was upon him in an instant, out of the shadows and nose to nose with his pathetic prisoner.  The hot, red eyes bored through Braun, resisting the efforts of his eyelids and keeping them pried mercilessly open.  Braun saw, with great regret, that there was more in those eyes than the usual malice.  There was glee.  Wretched, malevolent glee.

“I told you,” came the rumble.  “I told you, didn’t I?  He did not come for you.”

“He will,” Braun whispered, too weak to stop himself.  “You’ll see.”

“Why?  Why would he, really?  After all the peril, after all the suffering, after everything you’ve been through – he goes there.  Where the others are.”

“I…”

“You hate them,” the voice purred.  “I know you do.  I see you.  You cannot hide from me.  You hate them – her in particular.  She, who has thrice seen him in the face.  While you languish.  She, the youthful convert, the latecomer – favored by your fickle god.”

Braun flinched forward, intending to improvise some sort of attack, but again, he was too weak.  Even his spirit, until then so bold, even in the throes of astral battle, was gripped by fatigue.  The Gnome’s words struck deep, his armor too flimsy to protect him.

“I pity you,” the voice said – and for once, Braun believed him.  “I pity the way you’ve thrown your devotion away to one so selfish.  He is unworthy of you.”

The vision of Stedwick directing him away loomed large.  Seeing Mara’s face, struck by her holy encounter, swam in soon after.  Suddenly, he could see through time and space to Blackplane City, sparkling and resplendent, adorned with Helmian symbols.  In this paradise his lord and his rival frolicked, building a bright, new dominion.  While he watched from afar, behind bars, unseen.

“You are angry,” came the voice in his ear, soft and comforting.  “I understand.  I understand rejection more than even you can know.  I, too, have been forsaken.  I, too, have been weighed, measured, and found wanting by those who are themselves unworthy.”

That bright new future began to burn in front of Braun’s eyes.  His hands clenched to fists in his lap as heat coursed from his collar to his cheeks, banishing the wet air.  A lifetime of disappointment suddenly pressed hard on his shoulders.  The Eye of Helm had never seemed so distant.

“There is a place for you yet,” said the voice, oddly muffled.  “Perhaps.”

With that, the Gnome was gone, leaving Braun to burn in his corner.  A part of him tried to fight off the flames, clinging to the holy symbols, clawing after Sir Finnian’s sage wisdom and comfort.  But the cold fire of reality was setting in.  None of them were with him.  He was alone, but for the Gnome with the glowing red eyes, and the unknown others who howled their agony through the tunnels.  They were his only friends.

Suddenly, the weight on his shoulders was lifted.  It came to him like a shaft of light through the clouds: there was no Eye watching him.  No loving god to guide and sustain him.  The world was like his cell: dark, small, riddled with pain.  Helm was a charlatan at best, a lie at worst.  It seemed a good cause for him to sink even deeper, yet instead he seemed lighter, freer, ready to fly at a moment’s notice.  All he needed to do was break out of his cell and spread his wings.

Perhaps the Gnome was right; perhaps there was a place for him after all.

Little Krahl

Salty air stung and tickled his face as he stood erect at the bow, reminding him with each twisting blow how strange and stupid he was acting.  He had been trained since youth to hold his head down as much as possible, to shield his visage behind a shoulder, a hood, a mask.  It was a matter of safety – wariness that warped his very body.  The earth was barren and the air full of razors, and that was just Nature; the mere sight of his green-stained flesh invited much greater rebuke from most mortals.  By grace or irony or both, at least one mortal had done otherwise and taught him to be safe in discretion.  He wondered what she would think of him now.

“Staring won’t make that horizon get here any faster,” said the captain, a man by the name of Amal, who bore a certain grace and strength despite sporting many signs of suffering.

“Don’t you have men whose job it is to stare at the horizon?” he countered, unable to hold back a sneer.

“Yeah, but I pay them.  You’re just doing it for free.  I find that odd.”

“I’ll bet you’ve had stranger passengers than me.”

“That I have.  Dragonborn.  They were much stranger than you.  But at least they had eyes on something better for them.  You, on the other hand…can’t imagine why you’d want to go where we’re going.”

He choked back another rebuttal before it fly out, thinking of how she had told him to hold his tongue around seafarers – they were not to be trusted.  It always amazed him how learned she was about the ways of the world.  One would think a human woman wandering around the Cliffs of Grumbar would have little in the ways of wisdom.  Yet she was there, and for what he never knew.  Not that it mattered: she had been there when she was needed.  When the clan had moved on and left their runt behind.  When his mother had finally faced enough shame.  In her he found a new mother: Ms. Krateky.  Warrior, sage, survivor.

Captain Amal lingered for a while at his side, expecting a response.  When none came, he busied himself with ship things, muttering bemusedly to himself.  The greenish passenger was unmoved.  He was finding practice in standing at the bow and facing the unknown – a rehearsal for resistance, for the reclamation of his right.  The pearl pendant felt particularly heavy against his chest.  Ms. Krateky had tried to rid him of it.  She denied knowing where it came from but she could not keep the truth from him.  It broke them apart, a wedge greater than age, race, gender, or temperament.  Her lie brought greater pain than any mere whisper or stare or strike could do.  So he left her, and went searching for more pearl.

The horizon remained flat a long time, promising nothing.  His fingers moved unnoticed to his chest and fiddled with the pendant.  Thoughts of his cohort grew of their own accord and threatened to drop anchor back on Stonebeach, pulling him back from the task at hand.  His attachment to them – or their attachment to him – was dangerously tight.  He had allowed himself only one attachment in life and that had only been a pantomime.  Pretending.  That’s all they were doing.  That’s all he was doing.  Pretending, in order to get by.

A smirk crossed his face.  What he was doing would serve them all.  It would serve everyone, or at least he hoped.  Pretending, it seemed, had propelled him toward doing what no other could do.  It had propelled him, so often on the outside, toward a new reality where his place inside would be beyond question.  There would be time enough for friends and lovers when his work was done and his rights reclaimed, half-blood or not.  Perhaps then they could matter more.

A faint point emerged on the horizon, upsetting its oppressive flatness.  His eyes narrowed in strain and he watched as began to take shape slowly, almost with anguish.  It was several minutes before the call came from the crow’s nest – so much for a paid lookout.  His heart pounded inside his chest in time to the rhythms of the crew.  In time he could hear royal drums in his head, thumping along to the admonishments of Ms. Krateky.  “Little Krahl,” she would say over and over again, each syllable a hammer blow to keep low and open to her.  

Pretending, just pretending, even if it did save his life.  They would never have the chance for something real.

“Little Krahl,” he muttered to himself.  “Little Krahl no more.”

Shadows of the Past Take Flight

The clouds hung heavy in the air, dark with storm and pregnant with rain, rendering Blackplane dull and hardly to King Paug’s liking.  Even the wine, normally sweet and thick, tasted thin and bitter on his tongue, as if the atmosphere had tainted its pleasures.  Yet he sat and sipped at his window, as he always did at the end of the day.  A touch of rain was hardly reason to change up his routine; King’s do not bow to such trivial things as the weather.  In fact, there are precious few things a King will bow to, though Paug had reason to believe he would be on his knees soon.

As he stared into the haze, he wondered what had befallen his precious daughter.  The shape of her face was growing dim in his mind, yet her voice, always sharp and clear, remained.  He could hear her shrieking for her freedom when the men first whisked her out of the city in the dead of night; he could not bring himself to face her hatred and say goodbye.  Even the knowledge that he was doing the right thing was small comfort.  No wonder he spent so much time looking after himself: it felt better, which meant it had to be better.

Having lost faith in the wine, Paug turned to the small, ornate box on his end table in search of more immediate betterment.  He opened it to reveal a fine, pink powder, the best Rosedust in the Known Realm, or so he had been lead to believe.  A pinch and a quick sniff provided the desired effect, closing his body in airy fluff and soothing his nerves in warm, steady trickles. 

Feeling sleepy, he looked out the window once again to bid farewell to the gloom, and that’s when he saw it.  It was small at first, something that could quickly be ignored as a dark shade of cloud, a product of the Rosedust, or some other anomaly.  But it moved.  And grew larger.  And its long edges swept up and down in a slow, steady rhythm.  And the rain had suddenly started to fall, as if on cue.  Paug got to his feet and approached the window, steadying himself on the sill, the cold stone delightful against his skin while his guts were hot with fear.  He stared, transfixed, as the shape grew in clarity and stature.  He never imagined death could be so seductive.

A terrible roar that shattered the very drops of rain snapped him out of his stupor.  The winged malice had snuck up on him as he drifted in his stare.  The Rosedust slowed his reactions as the last of the day’s light disappeared behind the great beast as it swept over the tower, sending rain and dirt swirling in a mighty gust as its wings swept it forward.  He cowered in his chair too late, his body already dripping wet, his eyes stinging with dust.  A great, sour stink saturated the room, nearly choking him.  Panic gripped him so tightly he couldn’t move.  Even the sound of the door flying open and a frantic, familiar voice could not rouse him.

“Paug!” shrieked his wife, Phelee.  “He’s come!  Please, we have to go!”

Paug remained curled in his chair, even as Phelee shook him with both hands, her face contorted in fear, jewels rattling desperately.  He could get lost in her eyes, even in that moment; for all her faults and all their sins, those eyes could still save him.  He reached out to her and pulled her close, willing her to be still. 

“Paug!  Paug, no!  Paug!”

She fought with him but he would not budge.  Horns, meanwhile, blared in alarm, echoed by cries of terror.  Another roar shook the very foundations of the palace, silencing all other protests.  The heavy beat of wings sounded, rattling the windows and shingles in their wake.  The world was suddenly all noise and fury.  In time, even Phelee grew still and clutched him back.  Together they stayed in their chair and rocked as the world outside rocked in turn.

When it seemed they might die of fear and bombardment, a heavy blow struck the tower.  As one, the royals looked up to the ceiling and were greeted by the sound of stone and plaster tearing like paper.  In one fail swoop, they were exposed to the elements, their shelter ripped away with lazy contempt.  Rain cascaded down, each dropped kissed with flashes of white as lightning snapped through the clouds.  The wretched stench invaded the tower, capturing them.  All had suddenly gone quiet. 

Then, the rain disappeared.  A great, horned head emerged into their vision, its outline lit up by the sparks in the sky.  Paug and Phelee stared up in terror, strangely desperate to make out features.  As if answering their silent request, it drew closer, the walls crumbling down around it.  Large, luminous white eyes swam out of the shadows, milky and unspoiled by pupils.  The horns swept forward and flanked its broad, angular jaw, itself bristling with teeth.  Its flesh was impossibly black, yet it seemed thin and cracked, as if it had been stretched too thin over the bones.  Vast, deep nostrils completed the picture of a demonic skull, and they nearly pulled the King and Queen out of their seat as the beast drew in a deep breath and opened its maw to speak.

“WHERE IS SHE?” it demanded, its voice ringing in their bones.

Paug and Phelee looked at each other.  Lies, apologies, guesses – everything except defiance crossed their minds.  In the end, there was only one answer.  They exchanged a look of resignation and Paug, ever the good royal, turned to speak on behalf of them both.

“We d-d-don’t know,” he stammered.

The dragon remained utterly still, yet its ghostly eyes, blank though they seemed, betrayed tremendous displeasure.  Then it drew closer, and the whole tower crumbled around them – only the beast’s horns stopped a hail of massive stones from crushing the pathetic captives.  In an act of childlike desperation, they pressed themselves further into the chair, willing it to swallow them up as the mighty snout drew nearer, bringing with it heat and the sting of toxic gas.  Just when it seemed the two would be crushed under the weight of its heavy chin, the dragon stopped and waited, letting the gravity of its presence sink in.

When it spoke next, it was strangely quiet, quieter than Paug and Phelee would have thought possible.  Yet that only made its command more chilling, for it was clear that softness from a beast of such magnitude was a sign not of gentleness, but of cool, solemn assurance that failure would not be tolerated.

“FIND HER.  AND BRING HER TO ME.”

With that, the dragon reared up, retracted itself from the tower, and set about savaging the rest of the palace, leaving Paug and Phelee sweltering, wet, and dreading what would come next.

Solemn Promise, Answered Prayer

The shoreline was alight with fire and blood as the Dragonborn forces cascaded into the city in all their ferocity.  The people of Stonebeach, soldier and commoner alike, met the invaders with all their might but were stopped, turned, and butchered all too easily.  Brother Maxwell watched it unfold through wide and fearful eyes as he stood at a window in the grand hall, his hands shaking as they gripped the windowsill.  His own home was in chaos as servants, friends, and family members ransacked the place and fled the scene, the bonds of blood and service proven all too frail.  Overcome with fear, Maxwell’s knees buckled, sending him to the ground in broken supplication, his hands clasped together.

“My Lord Helm,” he whispered shakily.  “Forgive me my transgressions, my greed, my lust.  As death comes to my door, know that I am sorry, and humbly ask for your mercy.  But if there is a way for me to live – if there is a reason for me to live – know that I will dedicate my every last day, every last moment to your service.  I will make your name great, my Lord Helm.  I will…”

A loud blast rang through the hall, breaking his concentration.  He looked up in terror to see the very ceiling trembling from a great blow, sending dust and bits of plaster raining down.  Instinct kicked in, sending him scrambling away from the window.  A servant careened in, her face pale with fear.

“Cannon fire!” she shrieked.  “They’re firing on the house!”

As if in confirmation, a great, flaming ball burst through the window at that moment, slamming straight into the servant and sending waves of flame pouring across the floor, spurred on by enchanted malice.  The sheer force of the heat sent Maxwell stumbling back against the wall, hands raised in a feeble effort to protect himself. 

“My Lord Helm!” he cried, his voice choked with despair.  “Hear my cry!”

Another blast rocked the house.  Cracks spread through the ceiling as quickly as the fire engulfed the floor.  Maxwell watched, transfixed, as everything began to tumble around him.  Destruction roared in his ears.  Danger rained from the sky.  His mind screamed for action, but his body would not obey.  Knowing that his time had drawn to a close, he shut his eyes tight and waited for the final blow.

The wait seemed to last for ages. 

“My Lord Helm, end it quickly,” he stammered pathetically.

Only then, after speaking those words, did he realize that all had gone quiet.  Certain that the roaring chaos had simply made him deaf, Maxwell cracked an eye open to take in the progress of his demise.  Sure enough, the fire raged and the debris rained down, but nothing drew near to him.  Even the heat seemed to have abated.  The only thing he could feel was a strange and heavy presence hovering above him.

Stunned and still very much afraid, Maxwell turned to look up, and his eyes met a most glorious and terrifying sight.  There, hovering above him, was a tall, imposing figure in brilliant armor.  It had broad, white wings that seemed to spread across the whole room, yet remained unsinged even as the flames licked at the feathers.  Its head was laden with a long, black hood, its face shrouded in impenetrable shadow.  The aura that surrounded it was at once comforting and chilling, as if nothing could overcome this magnificent figure, yet it could also punish even the slightest false move.  In any case, Maxwell understood in the very core of his being that the figure was there for him.

“Run,” came its firm, echoing command.

Maxwell turned toward the main door, which seemed miles away, and found that the flames had been parted.  With one last look at his guardian celestial, he took off running through the pathway.  The fires swept aside as he approached, debris bounced off an invisible shield above his head – even large obstructions seemed to break apart or roll away of their own volition.  In time, he emerged from the house to find the rest of his world in the throes of pandelerium: people running to and fro in search of shelter, some screaming to the skies, some on fire.  He wanted to stop and help but their bodies were too ghostly, their voices too dim, and his guardian only spurred him on.  He ran for what seemed an age, his feet endowed with untold speed, his lungs with otherworldly capacity.  The city became a blur and was gone.  The green woods greeted him but he could not stop to return the favor.  Only when the sky had disappeared under a thick, green canopy did his feet and chest begin to feel the strain.  Fatigue overwhelmed him suddenly, instantly sapping his strength and sending him tumbling into darkness.

Maxwell’s respite was brief, yet still long enough for him to wonder if he was dead all over again.  The smell of dank soil and the tickle of dry leaves on his cheek informed him otherwise.  He picked himself up slowly, his aching muscles urging begging him to be gentle, and took in his surroundings: a small gorge of sorts, littered with plant life, surrounding by large walls of soil threaded with the roots of trees.  Atop one of the walls stood his guardian, wings folded at his side, his hood down to reveal a face of startling masculine beauty, all chiseled features and dark, lustrous hair.  The guardian looked down upon his charge with something approaching affection, as if he had stumbled across a helpless babe in the woods.  Maxwell, in turn, looked up at his savior with reverence, still far too stunned to speak.

“Remember your promise,” the guardian said in that same vast yet intimate voice. 

With that, the wings spread again, and in one great swoop they sent the great celestial soaring into the sky, vanished as suddenly as he had appeared.  Maxwell stared up at the patches of sunlight in the canopy, happy to see the sky and know that someone up there had been looking out for him.  Too exhausted to move or think, he laid his head back down on the soft ground to sleep, departing the waking word with three simple words:

“Thank you, Lord.”

Doubt, Dare, Web

The blade sang a clear, crisp song as it cleft the Orcs in two one by one.  The fools had summoned enough courage – or lost enough sense – to engage the winged intruder and were now being parted from themselves like grain from a stalk.  The intruder, meanwhile, remained utterly passive, each mighty blow barely registering on his stern yet beautiful face.  In old life an Orc, never mind a troop of them, had been a worthy challenge.  In new life, they were just a nuisance.

The survivors, seeing the divinity of the blade and the unmoving face of their vanquisher, soon turned to make their escape.  The rest of the camp was stirring.  Others would soon pour forth from amidst the tents to join their comrades.  But the celestial’s blade was still thirsty.  He continued his solemn march, his wings spread wide in menacing welcome, his eyes set hard toward combat.  He could already sense the ripple of terror sweeping through the rest of the camp; they knew what was coming, and it advanced until the voice came.

“STOP.”

Time slowed to stillness.  The celestial felt his form heat with heavenly presence.  The voice of Helm echoed in his head.

“LET THEM BE.”

The body moved to obey, but the mind was not ready.  It felt uncomfortable, which in turn summoned greater discomfort, for beings such as him should feel no such sensations.  He was not to think, but to obey.  Yet suddenly there was no reflex, no tamed will – only difference.  It was something he had not felt in one hundred and fifty years of divine service: Doubt.

He waited, the world still suspended in a daze.  He expected his head to crack with the roar of holy, unfettered indignation.  The audacity.  To doubt in the service of such goodness and might.  But the roar did not come.  He felt instead a tranquility, an awareness – perhaps even an acceptance.  Total attunement to the will and power of his god had given him access to a vast array of senses, flows, and states, but this one was quite different.

“YOU SEE ANOTHER PATH.”

He didn’t have to answer.

“I SEE.  LET THEM BE THIS TIME.  SOON, YOU WILL ACT ON YOUR OWN.”

Time began again in a rush.  With the most base, human impulsiveness Stedwick stared up at the heavens.  There was not a cloud in the sky, nor was there a symbol, or shaft of light.  Yet he felt it.  A shift had happened – was happening – would be happening.  The order was changing.  The world above and the world below would rearrange once again.  And once again, he would have a different place.

He looked out again at the camp of Orcs now swelling with outrage.  They seemed smaller than ever before.  Even less worth his time.  So he took the skies again, and went on about his higher business.

*          *          *

Grago watched through narrow eyes as the celestial sprang into the sky and vanished into nothing.  He gripped his war axe tight with both hands, feeling his battle-earned callouses scrape against the rough leather of the handle.  He did not care for intruders, for celestials, for lesser gods meddling in his work.  His lord Bragorok would not care for that at all. 

As he waded through the grunting and growling masses, looming down to silence complainers with a menacing glare, he could not help but wonder if it was time to halt proceedings for the future.  Their expansion to the West had been easy enough, with the nefarious Wood Elves the last thing keeping him from marching North.  Perhaps the East could wait a little longer.  It contained older, stranger magic.  Rumors persisted of a great presence building strength in the depths of the Oasis – a fallen power looking to reclaim its place.  On the other side of the Oasis: the Spice Aisle, with its many crime lords.  Petty thieves all of them, but well-armed nonetheless.

He stopped at the edge of camp, staring past the scattered bodies of his kin to the wall of trees beyond.  They were so many – dense, broad, and tall.  The shadows they cast were deep.  Their bark glistened with a strange light.  His people preferred the plains for good reason; too many horrible legends came from the woods.  But it was so close, and his axe was already with him.  He could feel the magic wafting across the grassy peninsula between the woods and his dominion.  He had no care for magic but this was different.  Something called to him with cheeky defiance, daring him to enter.  He gripped the axe harder – a mix of Orc and Giant blood could not willfully resist a dare.

“Bragorok guide my blade,” he muttered, before turning to someone his attendants.

*          *          *

She felt it.  Those beings again, making ripples on her magic web.

She wondered if another sculpture was needed.  The area around the pool looked sparse.

Where they vandals?  Warriors?  Thieves?  What would they mean for her new Elven realm?

Perhaps a growth of some kind would be better.  A tree.  Or large flower.

She could use some guests.  Company would not go amiss.  Magic would only do so much.

Maybe she could make a new friend for the spot by the pool.

She stared off into space for ages.

Perhaps the visitors were Elves.  Come to find her.  Come to welcome her back.

Water dripped from the ceiling into the pool.  Drip.  Drip.  Drip.  Drip.

Perhaps the visitors were Elves.  Come to listen to her.  Come to talk to her.

Drip.  Drip.  Drip.  Drip.

Perhaps the visitors were Elves.  Come to thrash her.  Come to kill her.

Drip.  Drip.  Drip.  Drip.

With a flick of her finger she shifted the earth to one side.  Then another.  Back and forth, left and right.  She began to mold, turning the air between her hands, watching the earth stretch, grow, stoop into a shape.  An Elven child emerged, knelt at the pool.  She stared into the water, frozen in wonder, the water from above dripping steadily on the back of her neck.  The Queen traced the features delicately into the dark soil.  There was life in her – precious, pulsing life – just like the others.  Another addition to the rejuvenated Elven race.

Drip.  Drip.  Drip.  Drip.