Start Of Volume Two: Lone Blood Born

He woke gasping, lost in darkness, and saw a vast shadow looming over him.

"Dead," he whispered, trembling in fear.

But then the shadow bellowed:

"You’re alive?"

Suddenly, Osias was fiercely pulled by a pale white hand. He whipped his head behind him weakly and found a storm of splintered shattered bark following.

He was being flown through the air, quickly falling at incredible speeds — with a turned head he found himself in tight clasps.

Then he landed atop flat land with a resounding crash but was protected from the impact.

‘What? Who… who is this man?’

His mind raced, but it was all muddled. He just died, didn’t he?

Where was this?

Suddenly his eyes focused slightly as he blinked through the heavy daze that clouded over him.

But when Osias weakly opened his eyes once more… the surroundings filled him with terror and shock.

Looking behind him was… the giant wooden beast, collapsed and motionless. The Fettered… Bournewood. His head pounded as he pulled the thoughts of its name from his memory, of his dream. The wooden beast was called the Fettered Bournewood. He knew. That’s right, he knew of course. Why wouldn’t he?

But it was dead. Felled by a massive spire that pierced its neck, reaching the depths of its warped body.

Like a tree. A big towering tree. An axe, right?

His view stretched beyond the corpse. What lay scattered behind it was dozens of hideous creatures of the damned — those shrouded by… mist.

‘Ah, that’s right, the mist. The mist and the river. I was marching down the river edge. The drinking tree too.’

Each of them were carcasses of titanic size, large as the mightiest of fortresses. Like the stone fortresses, he saw in the hollows of the Great Mountain.

Stone… it was like wet stones he was laying on top of. Thin lines cut and separated them like water — water between the stones.

Osias blinked once more and his distraught eyes caught what was on the Fettered Bournewood’s corpse.

Chains. Chains of wood clasped around the necks and ankles. Bounded by the cruel bindings of wood even in death… a desecrated death, feasted upon and ripped apart in gruesome ruptures of flesh and whatever else they could be possibly made of.

However… a grim realization dawned upon him before the feeling of it did.

He looked down at his hands.

Torn apart, ripped, and mangled all over. Ghastly and grey, weak and sunken as his skin stuck against bone. Broken bindings of bark clicked and shook along his wrists and ankles. He couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel a thing, but something battered in his head… he wanted to scream.

‘This… what is this.’

He died an old man after all. He died…

No — He awoke from a dream. An impossibly long dream.

It was a dream, but it felt as though he had awoken into another. After all, this… this cannot be reality. It can’t be.

Right, this must be a dream like it was before. He looked around once more and he found something that was in the dream. The mist!

Himself… All that surrounded him too. Everything was covered in mist.

All shrouded in mist, just like the river.

The river bank of black sand.

Black sand and stones, cut by thin streams of river water.

Many and plentiful, like the thirsty branches of the warrior. The warrior of the mist, he must’ve been thirsty and in pain after escaping battle, right?

Pain…

He stared sharply into his shaking hands. Why couldn’t he feel anything? They should hurt and he should be in agony.

But since they didn’t hurt, this… this had to be a dream.

That’s right, it must be.

He couldn’t feel anything at all, but that was fine. That was how all dreams should be.

He chuckled at first, then the laughter grew.

Howls spilled from his arid mouth and out his crack lips, stretched bloody in a grin. Dirty dry rasps followed. He was thirsty too now!

Hollow jeers echoed off the cold jagged stones of this dream as his ‘savior’ held him.

He was convinced. He’ll wake up again. He will…

It’ll all be over soon, he just needs to… to drink. That’s right, to drink icy water from a glorious river and close his eyes before a solemn warrior of wood. He will live — drink with the branches. Lay atop the stone! He’ll awake just like that, he just needs the icy river water.

So he closed his eyes, as the weakness took over until he’d awake from this sick dream.

—

“Father, how long do you think he’s been—” A girl’s voice asked.

“Chained by the beast?” Her father interjected.

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“Mm.” She hummed with a quick nod.

Elaena looked at the body held in the tight, but caring grasp of her father. She was not a skittish girl, and she prided herself on that… but looking at the dangling body, even she felt frightened.

Her shoulders buckled a little as she recalled the moment they came upon the Path Beast made of wood. A party of scouts came upon the beast as they were returning to the main company, but a few runners achieved in alerting them. And so a pursuit battle followed for months to recover the clansmen who’ve been enchained.

That led them to today. Countless hunts and trails led them to the outskirts of the lands covered in the Longing Mist. All the miserable souls that the wooden beast enchained were here, and perhaps the wooden beast felt pressured under their pursuit and sought to settle it within its territory.

With a cold shiver, she dismissed the memory of the battle, simply recalling the elites of the clan together with her father prying the man out of his wooden bindings along with the others. They were all corpses by then, the pursuit stretched for too long. The Path Finders of the forward party all perished miserably in chains. The thick weaves of branches that encased them were their last embrace into death… she knew many of the faces and names even them.

Yet the last enchained… person. Even from the far rear, she didn’t think what her father held was nothing more than the rotted shreds of a Path Beast.

An open rotting stomach pecked and gnawed upon by black crows as though he was reduced to nothing but meat under his chains. The man was so unrecognizable as a human, that it was only later once he was healed did her father and fellow clansmen tried to distinguish the man if they recognized him. But they quickly found him to be a stranger — no one of their clansmen possessed such distinct ink markings all over their body.

He had a sunken and pale face, and his eyes… it reminded her of a rotted corpse. Bleak, flint black, and desolate. His limbs were long and deathly skinny, with sharp dirtied talons for nails. And the smell… just how long was he chained for? She could only imagine what had happened to the man and how he looked so feeble despite being healed.

Turning an expectant gaze to her father, she waited for an answer.

But her Lord Father, Aeron Grimm, the head of their clan paused for a long while, deep in thought, until he answered solemnly:

“I don’t know. We can only ask him… if he wakes up. But I fear he’s gone mad, do you recall those cackles before he fainted? We’ll be lucky to get proper words from him. There is also how long he’s been subject to the Mist of Longing…”

Aeron didn’t know what to make of the person he held. It was baffling, to find a person, much less an Ordinary of all people in their expedition to the Outer Valleys. So deep within as well…

His first thought was if the man was ancient, a person who miraculously survived by some stroke of luck from the Paths ever since the previous period of the Tailed Brother’s expansion outwards. But the man was an Ordinary! Besides, although he looked old, he wasn’t too old to be from that period even if his lifespan was miraculously extended far beyond the usual Ordinary’s.

So as they returned to their forward fortress, he wondered what could’ve happened to this man before they retrieved him…

Aeron exhaled a well of fretted air, then he slowly waved his gaze across the vast unit of Path Finders who, along with himself, made the expedition.

An entire company of Path Finders. Ten Second Ordeals. More than a hundred of the First. All headed by a himself, a Third Ordeal.

All of these valiant men and women, yet it took months to recover just corpses. They failed those who died such horrible deaths…

He sighed deeply again, and as his gaze lowered once more to the unconscious men he so carefully held.

‘Could this be a sign of change?’ He thought somberly.

“Elaena, which carriage should I leave him with?” Aeron called out to his daughter.

“The fifth from the rear. Along with the other wounded. Have you decided what to do with him?” Elaena responded as she reached for the unconscious man.

“Aye. We’ll care for him until he awakes. If not, we’ll bring him along in a few years time as we return to the inlands. There are no boundaries for compassion.” Aeron said. It was all Aeron could do for the person who kept his fallen clansmen company to death.

“Careful,” He added, placing the man into the hands of his daughter with enough care as he would handle an infant.

‘Father has such a way with words without knowing.’ Elaena flinched as she stifled a small hopeful laugh.

With both arms carrying the man, she turned and headed for the carriage of the wounded. Though as she did so, the many pleased faces of the clansman did not go unnoticed as she brushed past them with a small smile.

The other Path Finders of the clan all seemed to simultaneously throw a glance at their clan head, beaming in high spirits as they silently acknowledged Aeron. He was their cherished leader, both strong and honorable. For those who live in the far northwestern reaches of the inlands only know one true lord, whose name was Grimm. Not the Tailed Brothers, despite being vassals of them by name.

Aeron Grimm’s words held true weight, and his decisions were rarely questioned. They were a proud folk, isolated as they were from the rest of the inland factions.

As they marched through the dense mist-covered forest, the towering trees cast long shadows over their ranks. The air was thick with the scent of earth and pine, and the distant caws of a night singer echoed through the canopy.

Elaena returned beside her father as finished delivering the unconscious man to the other healers.

As they neared the fortress, its massive stone walls rising from the earth like a sentinel, the clansmen quickened their pace. The sight of their stronghold brought a sense of relief, a promise of safety and rest right along the borders of the misty expanse.

High walls and triangular merlons that look like sharp stone teeth. It has thick stone walls and massive towers. The gates creaked open, and they filed inside, greeted by the warm glow of torches and the familiar smells of home. However, not before they passed the inspection of the Grand Elder who was posted above the main gate — the only other Third Ordeal that hailed from the clan.

Elaena turned and looked above. From behind the towers and defenses lay more familiar faces whom she waved at.

Aeron directed his men to take the unconscious man to the healer’s quarter, ensuring he received the best care they could offer. He watched as they carried the unconscious man away, his thoughts lingering on the stranger’s fate. Compassion had guided his decision, but in his heart, Aeron knew that the man would likely breathe his last as he slept.

Elaena stayed by her father's side in the courtyard, her gaze still fixed on the path the healers had taken. "Do you think he'll wake, father?"

Aeron sighed, his eyes clouded with concern. "Only time will tell."

“Go on, join the Ordinaries, and ask them if they need more help to prepare the meals.”

With a nod, Elaena left her father alone.

Aeron continued to his chambers, unaccompanied by the others. The Path Finders who returned with him are all scattered about, following their own duties and concerns.

‘They’ll be a hungry bunch. This outing was a little longer than the last.’ Aeron thought. Soon he’ll join his clansmen for dinner.

He sighed heavily as he entered his personal chambers.

His chambers, despite being an outward fortress meant to station the clan as they ventured into the Outer Valleys were overly extravagant for his liking. The stone walls were etched with intricate details, making even the air within feel elegant. It was beautiful and spacious, the beauty his wife once adored, even though she had never stepped foot in the Outer Valleys.

Aeron found a faint smile tugging at the ends of his mouth as his memories flowed.

He peeled off the heavy armor he donned, gently setting it atop a long table made of pale polished wood. Looking at the spotless furnishings, he frowned slightly. He didn’t care for such things. Sadly, it wasn’t up to him to keep up appearances.

Eventually, he dressed himself in a loose threadbare robe, something regal enough to befit a lord, but old and worn enough to feel comfortable in. From within his chambers, he could already hear the clansman, loud and rowdy upon return to the rest of their comrades.

Hundreds of Ordinaries trained and helped maintain the fortress, they too will join the returning company for dinner. Aeron could hear them hastily moving, rashly brushing sides with people and walls alike. He smiled to himself as he made his way to the great hall.

He untroubledly greeted some on his walk there, even halting a few from needless displays of praise. Bows… Aeron always disliked the custom.

Then, he came upon the hall and met with the thick spirits of his clansmen in the air. It brightened the hall despite it being dim and smoky, with rows of torches grasped by wooden mountings that jutted along the walls. The grand hall was headed with a vaulted ceiling and wooden rafters turned black from years of smoke. Long tables packed to the brim, perhaps even more than they could fit, stand before a dais with a high table — something Aeron conceded to his clansman after years of raising them calling for the display.

He sighed with a dampened smile and shook his head. As he came upon his seating he did something familiar with each return from the expeditions — raising a toast for his valiantly and cherished clan, both for those alive and for those who’ve fallen.