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.