“My Daughter, forgive me.”
The woman’s voice rang through her black and gold helmet. The helmet featured a prominent nose-guard between almond-shaped eye holes, flat pointed cheek covers and a truly impressive red crest taken from the mane of a Manticore. Its colours and texture gave it the impression of marble stone.
Her toned, muscular arms were bare from the shoulder down save for a golden bracer, and her body was covered in a black and gold cuirass, masterfully crafted to give the impression of extreme musculature, ending in a belt of blood red; in truth, a long and beloved companion, an adder of deadly poison. Red and gold tassets extended from the bottom of the cuirass over top of a white skirt, and clasped over her shoulders by a broach of silver depicting a flower, was a cloak of deepest black.
The woman looked down at her child, kneeling on one knee and head bowed. The younger woman was bereft of clothing, clad only in her white underthings. She bore a golden circlet in her short, immaculately managed brown hair, pointed upwards like the horns of a bull. Her bangs were swept from her forehead, and her hair parted down the middle, where its length was gathered in a small bundle at the back of her head.
Her face was sharp and somewhat masculine, with curious golden eyes and a mouth suited for wry, smug smiles. Her body was muscular, larger even than her mother, with broad shoulders and long, powerful legs. Her fair skin was accentuated with scars, predominantly on her arms, so numerous were they that they seemed like faint stripes.
“There is nothing to forgive, Mother,” the daughter said.
The mother’s eyes were grim nonetheless, and behind her noseguard, it wasn’t hard to see the unhappy twist of the woman’s lips. “I beg to differ, daughter. Were it only a moon ago, fierce Selene might have gone instead, or even a season from now, and fair Diana might have taken the mantle.”
“Yet they are not called upon for this task, but I. The will of fate is fickle but not ours to question, Mother.” The young woman’s voice was rough and husky, like she had been struck in the throat, and though she might not ever be the same, her voice was now returning to something akin to normalcy.
Her mother bowed her head in agreement before carrying on with the ceremony, such as it was. Ignoring the solemn looks of her advisors, the fraught but stoic demeanour of her warriors, and the intense gazes of her rivals, she raised her head and gazed unblinkingly at the crowd of citizens before her palace.
“My only daughter, the Princess Helen of Arsada, has been chosen by the fates for our most holy of tasks!” Helen’s mother, the Queen of Arsada’s voice, boomed over the white and red cityscape. “She will journey far into the jungles of Stenathon and seek out the temple of Damarus and further the secret war!”
The crowd cheered, and the soldiers called war cries into the air, slamming metal-studded fists against breastplates and shields.
Helen raised her head, watching as the sun shone on her mother and the clouds above the palace seemed to roil with energy. She wondered, not for the first time, why she was specifically chosen for this dubious honour. The secret war was just that, hidden from the eyes of mortal creatures such as she, yet still, the gods of her realm needed agents against their mysterious enemies. Some whisper that the gods war amongst themselves, and some say that gods of another reality make war against the gods of her people in the pursuit of conquest.
The truth of the fight is unknown, yet the clarion call of fate the gods give to their chosen agents is unmistakable. Heat in the heart, eyes of gold, and a virtuous song unreplicable by man’s meagre instruments. To refuse the call of the gods would be the height of foolishness, yet still heeding it may be worse.
“Though I must allow my daughter to battle in the war of gods alone, I will not allow her to go unaided!” Her mother spoke, and out from the palace trooped two teams of servants carrying two large, ornate chests. The crowd’s din simmered with curiosity as the first chest was opened with the telltale tang of metal on her tongue, that of a magical seal dissipating under her mother’s steely glare.
From the chest, the servants pulled a dress of orange and red, meant to be worn under armour. It was of good quality, laden with enchantments beyond Helen’s understanding. Its skirt went down to just above her knee, and as the servants placed the dress on her, it grew and shrank to fit her perfectly. Already, a kingly gift.
Her mother continued speaking to the crowd, but Helen only had eyes and ears for the gifts she would receive. Her mother was queen, and Helen was a champion of the gods, and while she tried not to be avaricious, she wanted the recognition and effort the gifts represented.
Next came a milky white and gold cuirass from the same chest with the same marble texture and look as her mother’s armour. It was built in the same style as her mother’s, with defined muscles, leaving no indication of her femininity, yet still not hiding her frame enough to disguise her entirely. The metal was imprinted with the tale of Helen’s thirteenth year, in which she hunted and, in turn, was hunted by a tiger.
The outcome was never certain; she and the magnificent creature had clashed several times, driving one another away with mounting injuries until finally, Helen cornered the animal and landed a skillful strike through its heart with her spear. The story's weight gave weight to the armour, lending strength and savagery to her, as well as magnifying the enchantments on the inside of the cuirass. There could be none other meant for such a piece; this was Helen’s alone.
Again, the servants equipped her, and she immediately felt the armour adjust to her frame like a second skin, weightless, as if it wasn’t even there. There was no pressure on her chest, save for her chest bindings, and she could feel the coursing magic enhancing the power of her muscles and mind.
Already, Helen cut a striking figure, placed against the sun rays on her mother and the roiling clouds behind her. Then came the helmet, of the same milky white and gold metal as her cuirass and in the same style as her mother’s helm, with a crest of black Pegasus hair.
Her shins and thighs were then adorned in matching armoured plates, which stuck to her legs without the help of straps of any kind. If she had felt powerful before, once the armour was fully worn, Helen swore she wouldn’t have a problem catching lightning, so fast and strong did she feel.
Her mother watched on proudly and approached with a spear and shield in her arms. She held out the spear and said, “Helen, my pride, take this weapon, the spear you forged, and bring victory and honour to our people. Know that no matter what else, you can rely on this weapon always returning to you.”
Helen took the spear in hand, seven feet long and suitable for throwing. It was wrapped around the middle with soft leather, and at its head were tied gryphon feathers. Though previously untouched by magic, the blade of the weapon now sported the runes of her people’s ancient languages, and as her hand wrapped around its haft, she felt a sense of wholeness she hadn’t realized she had been missing.
Her mother nodded once Helen placed the weapon’s haft on the ground, pointing it upwards. She again stepped forward and held out the shield. It was comparatively mundane, save for its crystal-clear mirror on the face of it. “My love, my joy, let this shield defend you from all attackers and reflect all evil at itself so that you might find yourself on the path of goodness and justice. Defend yourself, defend the weak, be a stalwart figure, and let all foes break upon your shield. I hope you find new friends in your service to the gods and that this shield might keep them from harm. Know then that you hold ultimate responsibility; come back with this shield, or on it.”
The phrase was common among her people, and she took the shield with all the gravitas the moment required. The shield was half again as broad as her and more than enough to cover her whole body if she crouched behind its circular frame; it was light enough to travel with but heavy enough to use as a weapon, and its rim was already sharpened to an edge, save for one edge where it might meet her body most often.
The noise of the people was deafening, but she could still hear her mother’s powerful voice over the din. “Go now, my child, and bring victory to our people!” She cried for the benefit of the crowd before stepping close and embracing Helen as best as she could, awkward though it was due to the shield. “Come back to me safe, dear girl; come back as soon as you can.” She said privately, letting Helen see the tears in her mother’s eyes.
“I will, Mother; nothing can keep me away from my home for long!” Helen said with a confident smile, belying the fear in her gut. At her mother’s acknowledging smile, Helen spun to the crowd and marched down the steps of the palace into the city. Well-wishers showered her in flower petals and cheered her as she passed until she finally had enough privacy in the city's press to slip from the mob’s attention and make her way to the gates.
Her brother was waiting for her, clad in a dark cloak, scruffy and inconspicuous, near the stables.
“Alexandros!” Helen said, catching his attention.
“Helen, you look striking,” Alexandros said appraisingly. “The Armour suits you.”
“I still say it’s too much! I would not have the city beggared just for my benefit!” Helen groused, slipping into the stables along with her brother.
Alexandros laughed, “You are going to represent us in the court of the gods, sister; it wouldn’t do to be underdressed! Besides, you will put it all to good use, of that I have no doubt, and that makes the expense well worth it.”
Helen sighed and then smiled, appreciating her brother’s confidence. “I suppose I’ll just have to accept it. Do you have what I asked for?”
Alexandros snickered, “Just given the most expensive gifts in the land, and she’s still asking for more! How greedy!” Helen gently shoved him into a stable wall, unable to muster the same humour, still feeling like a thief.
There was no guarantee of her returning home after all, most champions didn’t, and that would lose her people some of their greatest treasures. It wasn’t underselling it to say that her armour could potentially buy kingdoms.
It was good then that her people could recover well enough, thanks to the blessings of the gods.
Alexandros sobered, “Of course I brought it; I couldn’t leave you without a parting gift, at least.” He said, reaching into a vacant stall and retrieving a small satchel of supplies wrapped in her tiger skin cloak. In it were rations for several days and survival equipment, including her knife. She searched through it, found everything in order and returned her attention to her brother.
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They looked at one another silently for several moments. Helen was suddenly struck with the weight of the fact that this might very well be the last time she ever saw her brother alive. He was not ill; in fact, he was hearty and healthy, yet she might die out there in the world, or he might fall victim to some assassin’s blade before she could return to him. He seemed to realize the same, and while they both knew intellectually that this would happen, it hadn’t sunk in until this moment.
They each rushed forward, embracing in a tight hug that lasted a little over a minute. Finally, reluctantly, they pulled away. “Keep mother company for me, ok? Let her know she has my love, as do you.” Helen said with a sad smile.
Alexandros cleared his throat, “I will, and you need to let Phoebe know how great a guy I am, ok?” Phoebe, the goddess of love and beauty. Helen choked out a laugh; her brother had such gall! “I have a gift for you before you leave.” Alexandros sniffed and absently wiped his eyes. He reached into a pocket and withdrew a silver broach, it beheld the image of lightning, and the inside of the lightning bolt was carefully worked fulgurite. It was beautiful.
“Gods, Alexandros,” Helen said admiringly. “It’s amazing, and what does it do?”
Alexandros laughed, “Nothing! It’s just jewelry. I saw something similar in the markets and thought of you, so I commissioned this.” He smiled, “Not everything has to be enchanted, you know.”
Helen had the grace to blush, but still, she smiled. She unfolded her cloak and cast it about her shoulders. Gently, she removed the plain clasp keeping the cloak over her, and in its place, she affixed the broach and its chain to the mantle.
Alexandros had a soft smile on his face once she was done, and he sighed before leading her further into the stables. In the second to last stall was her steed, a fine warhorse. He was chestnut brown and bore a long golden horn on his head, better to gore her enemies. He was saddled and prepped already, excitedly tapping his hooves at the prospect of freedom.
Helen gently stroked his muzzle and fed him an apple, which he chewed happily. She turned back to her brother and sadly hugged him one last time. “I suppose this is goodbye…” She mused.
Her brother just smirked, “It’s goodbye, for now, dearest sister. I have every confidence that I will see you again; now, be safe, and be quick. The gods are not renowned for their patience.” Helen smiled, she had delayed her departure only long enough for her armour to be created at her mother’s insistence, and the heat in her heart had grown greater day by day. The urge to action had never been stronger than it was right this moment, and it only grew worse as the minutes ticked by.
Helen nodded and turned to lead her steed from his stable. It was a brisk walk to the outside, and once the sun shone on her again, she effortlessly swung herself into the saddle, resplendent in her glow. “Be well, brother,” She cast over her shoulder, not looking back.
“Be well, sister,” Alexandros said, looking for all the world like he was crushed by grief.
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Henri Drangvale was alone.
He considered this as he prayed, sword in hand as was proper. The blade was old but immaculate; no rust touched its steel, no scratches marred its mirror polish, and no faults lined its razor-sharp edge. It was not magical, its naked steel bore no markings of runes or the glow of sorcery, yet he mused that care, prayer, and time tend to lend their own form of enchantment and power to anything.
The moon was full and bright, high in the night sky beyond the stained-glass window before him. There was no wind, the boughs of the trees in the forest around his castle home were still, and the night was silent, even the crickets and frogs. The only sound came from the hearth to Henri’s left, losing intensity until little but simmering coals lit the dark room.
Henri knelt for hours, watching as the moon twirled slowly on its axis, mouthing prayers until midnight. The clocks of his home – a passion of his eldest brother – rang in perfect unison throughout the castle and into the night, sending murders of crows fluttering startled into the sky.
He gripped a tiny t-shaped pendant, that of a man impaled through the back and through the stomach by a wooden stake, with his arms and legs extended out, making the ends of the t. Once the clocks finished ringing their thirteen tolls, Henri stood and sheathed the family blade, placing it back upon the wall where it had sat for hundreds of years and, spirits willing, for hundreds of years more.
He left the prayer hall, letting his unseen servants douse the hearth embers, and passed by a broom and dustpan sweeping their way through the corridors ceaselessly. The way to his bedroom was dimly lit by magical candles, smokeless, heatless bulbs of light powered by the runes embedded in their candle holders attached to the walls and chandeliers along the roof.
His bedroom was dark, remedied with a dismissive wave of the hand, sending the room’s hearth roaring into a bright, warm blaze. Henri seated himself before the desk beside his luxurious crimson and gold bedecked four-poster bed. The red drapes were closed, and little psychic lights came into existence with no source, yet the desk was lit all the same.
Henri arranged a sheaf of paper before him and picked up a feather quill before dipping it into an endless inkwell. He placed the quill tip at the top left corner of the page and stopped, still and unsure how to articulate himself. Ink dripped onto the page, and he scowled, standing and sweeping dramatically with long furious strides across the room to the opposite wall. The quill remained in its position, floating at its master’s command.
Henri stopped at the opposite side of the room, spun smartly, and began pacing back and forth along the floor, enjoying the change in the depth of the noise of his stride as he crossed from rich hardwood to heavy, intricate rug and back again.
“Quill! Dictate.” Henri commanded unnecessarily. The quill bobbed in the air as if in recognition of its task. A result of Henri’s will telling it to acknowledge him? Or perhaps a more mysterious intelligence bestowed upon it.
“Page eighty-nine.” The sound of a quill scratching against the page followed his every word. “Again, the spirits of my line refuse to speak to me; this silence frightens me. I know not what has been done to anger them, whether it is a mistake on the part of the family or, more frighteningly, my own offence.”
The man’s hands gripped into fists nervously. “I fear something might have happened, some meta-physical destruction unknown to me. Though it might sound terrible, in my darkest heart, I prefer the thought of such destruction to the idea that I have caused this silence, as it seems likely. The spirits still feed magic into the castle from the crypts and to myself, in turn as acting Margrave, yet they do not speak to me as they do my family, as they once did for me.”
Henri rubbed his eyes, “Yet they will not tell me what I have done so wrong, so I cannot fix my mistake if it even is my fault. I miss the voice of my grandfather and his before him, and on and on; I miss their advice and their company. I miss the sounds of my grandmother and her sisters laughing in the parlour, with their secret plots and endless gossip.”
“I find that I jump at every sound, the work of my line replaced by my own simulacra servants, a weak magic easily powered by the recursive energies of the castle. They are poor replacements for good company,” The quill dipped in the air slightly. “They cannot talk, they cannot laugh, they are slaves to my will, expressive only because I wish them to be so. It is maddening.”
Henri sighed and paced back and forth across the room thrice before resuming speaking. “There was a death in the town the other day; I officiated the funeral as acting crypt lord, I performed all the duties and rituals required, and still, the spirits would not rise to tell their story or to give their loved ones their last words before they are lain to rest. I had to give platitudes to the grieving people, and I felt nothing but accusations and hate from them. They wish my father would return, that any of my family might be regent save for me. I shall not bother the townsfolk again lest they come to me. It will be better for us all, at least till the war is done.”
“The lack of word from the front is also worrying. The crow-speak of my sisters has not reached the castle in months, and I fear something terrible has happened to my family. All women of my line know the crow-speak, yet none can bother to send word? Am I such a nuisance-“ Henri growled, screwing his eyes shut. “Quill, scratch that out.”
Quickly he reversed, opening his eyes and scowling, pointing downwards to nowhere. “Stop, it’s my journal, and I’ll write whatever the hell I want!” The scratching of the quill continued. “Am I such a nuisance to my family that they don’t even deign to let me know what’s happening? First, they stop me from joining them in the fight, then this silence! I wish to know how my family fares! I wish to know if any have died! But I get nothing!”
His rage quickly dimmed, replaced by nervous fear. “Wars are dangerous and never-ending; though it has only been some months, it feels like years since I have spoken to my friends, brothers and sisters, or even my parents.” He sighed, looking resigned. “I’ve resolved to find out the source of this malaise myself; my last theory was incorrect; I could find no foe in the crypts, no insidious fairy or foul necromancer stealing the souls of my family. I could not find anything that might have caused this silence. My next theory is some bodily matter, a curse lain upon my people that silences their spirits.”
Henri swallowed, “I will… exhume,” the words seemed choked, “The man who died just yesterday, and dissect his corpse. The spirit should have left its shell by now, and though detestable, it would not be out of my rights as crypt-lord to study the husk.” He rubbed his arms absently, “I’ll write again tomorrow with my findings tonight; I need to move the corpse from the village graveyard to the castle mortuary. Quill, cease dictation.”
The quill dried its ink and sat back in its little nook on the desk, and the page it had been writing on floated gently into the air before waving up and down gently, letting the ink of the page dry before inserting itself in its position amongst the sheaf of unbound paper as Henri’s most recent journal entry.
Meanwhile, Henri dressed in rugged leather, dark browns and blacks to blend in with the night better. His sword belt flew on without prompting, with excited rattling from the estoc safely sheathed in the belt’s scabbard. Henri placed his left hand on the hilt of the sword, stilling its motion and enjoying the warmth of the blade flowing through him for a moment. The estoc had been a good companion since he had been old enough to learn its use.
Finally, he wrapped a hooded cloak around his shoulders and clasped it tightly, pulling the hood down over his head, obscuring his face from view.
His rich boots trod through the halls of his home until he had left its haunting warmth, striding towards the mortuary. It was a smaller building bedecked with holy symbols, and in its toolshed was a simple shovel, good for gravedigging. He grasped it by the worn wooden handle and unceremoniously left.
A whistle blew sharply from his lips, and the creaking sounds of wheels turning came out from the woods. A carriage upon which an ornamental stone coffin sat. It was driverless and pulled by nothing, driven by some unseen force. It was richly decorated, with spikes and wings extending from the wooden wheels, as well as silver filigree bordering the dark brown wood of the walls.
Henri pulled open the door to the carriage, lit by a small lantern above the doorway, and stepped into the carriage, pulling the door shut behind him. “Drang Lake Lichyard,” Henri ordered, and the carriage sped off into the dark and gloomy forest.
The only sound in the forest was the turning of the wheels and the rattling of the frame, broken once only by the curious hooting of an owl. The Journey was short; the Drangvales directly administered the town of Drang Lake from their keep, but it was far enough to make walking a chore. The Lichyard was on the outskirts of the beautiful town but not far enough away that Henri could count on not being noticed.
He commanded the carriage to stop just inside the forest border and made the rest of the journey on foot, shovel in hand. He could not spot any wayward wanderer walking amongst the tombs and tombstones, yet he kept a watchful eye for the grave keepers, stoic and sleepy though they tended to be.
The Lichyard was surrounded by a cast iron fence, upon which wickedly twirling spikes sat. In between the bars were depictions of the people lying within and the stories of their lives, changing shape and form by day.
He passed under the gate of the dead, an entrance to the Lichyard reserved for the departing spirits, though Henri remained unworried, for crypt lords always had good relations with restless souls, and he felt they would forgive him.
Henri didn’t have to search long for the tombstone he was looking for, as he had buried the man in just these last days and knew the way well after completing the final death rituals. The name ‘Robert Fletcher’ was upon the stone, and below it read ‘Beloved Husband, father, and son.’
Henri started at the grave for a while, contemplating. He looked up to the spinning moon and pondered the course he had chosen to take. Nothing was stopping him from turning around and going home; none would know his intent tonight. It was not evil to do this, so he thought, but was it necessary to do it this way?
Yes, he decided. The townsfolk would not part with the body of Robert Fletcher, nor any of their beloved friends and family. Henri didn’t blame them; he would kill any man who would try and mar the crypts of his family, but was he willing to make himself a hypocrite?
Henri put the tip of the shovel into the dirt and began to dig.