Slowly, the darkness parted over the horizon, a sinister mélange of crimson, mauve, amber and golden danced and writhed over the city of Aimirion – one of the oldest cities raised by the Nivesiunar House not long after they stepped through the Tear through which they escaped from the collapsing old realm to the new, promised land. For months the once ruling family of aevhe and their people of the frigid south wandered the familiar, sloping lands of the north in the shadow of Dhaugruz until they reached at last the winding river Anguiril they named after the founder of their House and the former Archon of the elder dominion of their kind which stretched across realms.
On the flatter, western bank they settled first and erected the homes of the people they sworn to protect until eternity ceases, a wall circling like the crescent moon that shone upon their founder and prompted him to build their ancestral city that thrived for aeons. During the construction of their own mansion on the eastern bank, where a rocky hill cast its shadow over the crystalline, effervescent water Aimaar came into the light of the world, the first of the Nivesiunar to be born on the promised lands’ soil, hence the House decided to name the city after the one who shall one day inherit it as the eldest of his generation.
Reaching atop after the arduous climb, Mircalla turned around, her breath shallow and her skin searing, clammy as the ominous rays shone on her petite form. Though she was in mild pain, her gaze still reflected the satisfaction beget from the view of the city stretching across the other side, the beautiful bridge bearing the same, sumptuous baoroqian style the mansion itself reflected in its oblong, crescent shape towering over not too far.
“Morning!” At the familiar deep voice Irenaea – a truscian handmaiden with a keen eye – she turned around and bowed elegantly whilst sweat dripped from her widening forehead. “It is a beautiful dawn, isn’t it?” She continued as Mircalla straightened her posture and fixed her long, leather coat stiffened neck enclosing on her own neck and silken tunics arc shaped collars.
“It is, though a bit sinister for my tastes.” The two walked on the front yards marble paved road, under the shadows of the trees bearing leaves of verdant green, crimson, purple and even a icy blue, their branches hanging over the lush hedges bearing dim violet blooms with a near etheric glow bewitching the two maidens who occasionally stopped thanks to their early arrival. “Pray that is only a fancy of Daemeiorvoth and not sign of divine trickery.” Irenaea said half-jesting as she stopped and stared up at the skies, her aging visage painted over by the soft glow of the dawn, masking the crow’s eye and the few wrinkles which showed up only a year or two before Aimaar’s return.
“Hope not.” Mircalla murmured to herself as she herself glared at snapdragons blooming their vibrant, snapped petals near the front gate of silver and gold. She kneeled and inhaled their saccharine fragrance before she continued on, following in the shadow of Irenaea as the Illius strengthened with the approach of the day.
**
“Still, I see no point in milady’s education of destruction.” Iraneae whispered to Mircalla as they stood like statues of the great Elhyrissiar in the small section of the arboretum. Betwixt them a small marble table held by a singular metallic shaft sprouting arachnid like legs with flat bottoms held the garish cups emanating a warm haze and a pleasant, saccharine aroma. Their gazes remained on the tall, petite aevhe who stretched her arms forth and held the flames of dawn between her palms before releasing it towards an immobile silhouette of earth and snow, though upon impact little to no dent formed upon its rough form of a masculine shape.
Iranea’s gaze bordered on horrified, disdained at the prospect of a frail, innocent Iovien, the youngest of the siblings was forced to learn the ways of destruction simply because the faint signs of shadow lengthening over their home. On the other hand, Mircalla watched with light amusement, pride matching with the joy of the aevhe formed by her draconic mentality passed down from her ancestors and the euphoria blossomed from the mingling of outer mana and her own inner. “I do hope myself she won’t need it, but it is not detrimental for one to be able to protect herself if worse comes to worse.”
“That I cannot contend with.” Iranaea replied, looking down solemnly at the creases of her polished, leather dress-coat, her chin pushing down the high neck of overlapping layers. “Still, it is unbecoming for a lady in my honest opinion to find joys in any form of annihilation.” She added turning slightly towards Mircalla who masked her emotions well.
After her head jerked back and her own mask of calmness fell upon the thunderous roar of the golem exploding. Though she quickly reapplied it as their young mistress approached brimming with joy. “How did I do Mirc?” She questioned the younger handmaiden of hers. “A bit brutish for my taste, but that fester can be shaved away with time and practice.” She faltered in her words suddenly, pondering for a while before continuing. “On a last note, I may also advise you to lessen the destructive output as here we have the benefit of protective enchantments, but if trouble may come outside the walls of the mansion, the common folk won’t be as lucky as us.”
Iovian nodded and seemed to drink in the words whilst her brilliant eyes focused on Mircalla. “Thank you!” She said her hands suddenly grasping Mircalla’s who maintained her cool, only allowing a minor slip of her lustrous lips curving mildly into a smile. “Now, shall we see if brother finished and ready for our jaunt?” The two nodded and slowly walked in the verdant green, cold shadows nearing towards the mansion towering a bit over, though turned from its guidance and towards the lush small woodland planted in the backyard where the trees bloomed the same mélange of colorful leaves as the ones in the front courtyard.
A little while later, the trio of maidens arrived at their destination, hidden not far into the eastern parcel, in a small clearing of dense bushes, trees bearing crimson and dark lavender leaves bathing the four man – three aevhe they knew well, and the vagrant who bore the rough features of man and the grace of dragons and aevhe of the far-south, the children of Promethean, the Breather of Life, The Great Golden Ruler whose roar awakened the first beasts and animals of the wild, primeval world.
Though he was of mixed blood, Mircalla and even Iovian found him quite striking, mysterious – though the former noticed a familiar darkness hidden in the golden gaze often gazing into the distant lands of imagination just like in this very moment, standing before his canvas of the half-finished portrait of Aimaar while his father and grandfather looked with approval to the piece.
“This piece may be half-finished, but I must commend your divine given skills my friend!” Vibian, Aimaar’s grandfather commented as his azure eyes glanced upon the canvas staged between the artist garbed thickly in bright golden and purple garments and Aimaar clad in his enameled plates and sword held before himself, its sharp tip pointing towards the sky.
Though now his hair was white as the snow falling from the sky, blanketing the vistas around them, Aimaar resembled greatly his grandfather before time decreed out its gentle changes upon the elderly aevhe. His once warm and fair skin now faded regally into an enchanting pale white; his hair once as black as the feathers of ravens turned similarly white with a hint of steel gray, still it remained soft as silk and lush as the foliage of birch trees blooming in the season of The Nurturing Mother.
And as the years passed, he grew onto his face a thick set of whiskers accentuating his accumulated wisdom and enhanced the austerity of his visage lined sharply and menacingly as a dragon’s muzzled head. On top of their natural luster and lushness, he also ornamented the whiskers with silver and golden beads engraved with runic symbols glowing in an etheric, azure blue light thanks to the enchantments that sharpened his mind, his words leaving his cowled lips.
For a moment, the artist faltered in the gentle and deliberate guiding of his brush, his golden eyes turned upwards at Aimaar, then towards the three approaching maidens whom he offered a mild and warm smile before turning to the elderly aevhe. “I am humbled by your words, though I feel and believe something is still amiss from the piece that is his present and future.” As the three neared behind the painting to gaze upon it, Mircalla quivered, feeling repulsed by the dishonest words honeyed by humility and even felt a little anger as she was deprived of her chance to glance into Aimaar’s eyes as he looked at her, yearning.
“That is a given my friend.” Vibier, son of Vibian added hastily and with a hearty yell as he was enamored by the half-finished piece of his own son. The three made their way around carefully, halted upon Iovien and Iranaea let out loud gasps filled with their dread. On the canvas stroked gently stood Aimaar amongst the oblique dunes beneath a dark sky, from the colorful sand dead things and horrors burst forth. Horrors with vaguely humanoid silhouettes, the flesh pale as fungi, creatures with shoulders of sprouting, hungering maws with globes of tendons dancing between the oily, meaty walls, nightmares wreathed in thick shadows with writhing tentacled heads and ivory growths along their primitive, tarnished forms. Each and every of these horrors, these dead things marched against Aimaar and his company of legionaries in golden and brass, their legs planted in the treacherous sand, shields before them, spears the last aegis against the horrors that lurk in the dark.
Iovien nearly fainted by just gazing upon these horrid beings, in her mind the canvas came to life in a vivid scenery, though like the legionaries, she planted her feet and mind, shackling herself to reality when she noticed Aimaar’s inquisitive gaze and came to realize, her reaction may show disrespect to the bravery of his brother and his fallen companions. Though she was not aware, even as Mircalla’s soft hand touched her shoulder, the handmaiden also eased her mind with a soft, inaudible hum.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“Even the prodigious Daemeiorvoth can guide your hand and fancy so much.” Vibier who inherited his father’s looks too – except for his now bulbous nose, a result of a not so adroit magusos failure to mend it properly – added after pondering a good while. Similarly, to his own father, he stood in angular, symmetrical waist-length coat, breeches and shoes sewn from a lustrous fabric, dyed black as the night with furred trims, a contrasting snow white. Its collars hugged his tapering jawline covered in silken stubbles. The whole piece had the illusion of appearing unified.
Finally, the two lovers’ gazes met, and in Aimaar’s a question lingered, a desire to elope from the bondage of this moment to just be with her. Mircalla’s gaze simply queried for patience, her pleased smile told him the piece was to her queer liking. He sighed and accepted the stillness imposed on him by simple, mundane words and her expression even evoked a sense of curiosity regarding the piece, he had no chance to look upon yet and form his own opinion. Though a part of him dreaded it.
“I am no expert, and I may have little understanding of man’s fancies – but brother seems paler on this piece, isn’t he? It’s almost like a corpse’s.” Iovien’s comment brought them out from their honey sweet stupor, acted as invasive, heated needles pushed under her skin, stirring the sleeping beast of dread.
“He does seem to be paler.” Vibier agreed in a softer tone as he tensed his gaze and leaned a bit closer. “Though I must say it fits him a bit better. He is almost like grandfather.” Vibian himself added as the young man of his own blood evoked the image of their founder, a divine sign that their family is on the right path he thought to himself.
“My works often divine the subject’s future – either as a reassurance from the Deossos or… a warning.” The Artist spoke up in a whisper, blowing the mist towards Mircalla – his eyes veiled in the strange fancies of artists, but she could see hints of a surreptitious predator’s gaze playing with its prey.
“Not wanting to be rude, but is my dear brother still needed? Could we take him for our little jaunt?” Asked Iovien breaking the silence that followed, and with a bit abruptness and little tact which prompted a faint sigh from her father who furrowed his thin brows and massaged his smooth, unblemished forehead.
“He is free to go. The piece only requires my talent to deepen the tones.” The half-aevhe artist answered genially and in a low voice – almost sinister.
“Then – shall we?” The petite lady held out her arm and the four left quite mirthfully, though Mircalla peered back once as she felt a distant gaze on her back.
As the four gradually began to disappear in the distance, Vibier excused himself and rushed after them. “Aimaar, go fetch Titus – just in case.” He whispered into his son’s ears, and for a short moment, Mircalla’s heart skipped a beat.
**
“Should we take a break here? There is a fine bakery just at the turn!” Iranaea noticed first Mircalla struggling to keep up with the pace of the siblings. The two handmaidens and Titus followed in tow on the snow blanketed cobblestone road nestled between the buildings. They were not far from the gate leading to the outer district where the farmlands cultivated the imported and native vegetables including the cabbages blooming soft, veiny white leaves; the tasteless white carrots and there even were a few rows of onion plant blossoming on top of the various animals awaiting their fates obliviously.
“I’ll be fine.” Mircalla said as she inhaled the air, swallowing the rising bile beckoned forth by the lingering caustic scent of onions reaching over the walls. Then her stomach churned and her cheeks reddened as all three of them looked at her whilst the folk passed them, greeting the two siblings as courteously as they could. “Though, maybe we should stop at the bakery. As shameful it is, I must admit I forgot my breakfast this morning.” Mircalla added as she and Aimaar avoided each other’s gaze amidst Iovian’s chuckling.
The two’s affair was no secret for the petite aevhe whose hair trickled down elegantly on her silken soft leather dress which followed her curvaceous form, with the waist pushing against hers with a curious pattern of streaks vaguely resembling rinsing snow, emanating a refined, metallic glimmer as the daylight shone on it while the shoulder and the collar had widely sloping trims – the former resembling the contours of a crescent moon resting on her frail shoulders, the latter a fountain spitting out water. Iranaea herself remained oblivious to the two’s relation, though had minor suspicions but voiced them not wishing not to force away her adroit successor on top of knowing that the two possibly had no delusions of wedding. Every aevhen lord and lady needed a paramour as a possible eternity had as much negatives as positives when it came to relationships.
“Nonsense my lady. Better to take a bit of rest than to push on.” Titus said in his usual fashion, kindness shrouded by his austere tone and expression.
The five of them entered the small bakery, one of the few structures erected from hardened wood similarly to the farm houses and the few headquarters of the legion beyond the wall, pressed on both sides by marble edifices. Its confines were not too big, not too small either with a homely feel and warmth permeating forth the hearth protruding along the opposing wall to the entrance. On the floor a great carpet of far-southern style of many vibrant colors and strange patterns and motifs including ibises, sphinxes and writhing worms at the trims embroidered into the rough fabric.
Feeling refreshed by the warm beverages distilled with milk and a bit of sugar; the still steaming and easily crumbling bakeries with melted sugar and sour and sweet jam filling; and by the warm shadows dancing along the walls and the ceiling as the curtains kept the daylight at bay. Although, even with their bellies filled with warmth, Mircalla could not dissipate the shadows stretching over her mind as they passed under the arched gate, greeted by the guards on both sides in their stalwart, enameled armor.
Stepping out, there was a great shift in the mood, both in the two noble siblings, and the surrounding folk whose eyes were dark from fear and lack of sleep borne from it. The few custodians in the outermost parcels evaded the darkest alleys and stayed near the paddocks encroaching the cows, auruchs and the smaller beasts cultivated for their meat and eggs. “We shall be back soon here.” As they neared the market, Aimaar and Titus bid the ladies farewell whilst the latter signaled for the custodians to keep watch on the three.
“Quite the morose atmosphere here. I truly hope this menace shall be taken care of by father and brothers.” Iovian whispered to the two as they looked around, their eyes surveying the strangely still thriving stalls and kiosks including even a few manned by hulking bears of a men, including the four surrounding the corpulently honed merchant with dark brownish hair and beard, four in gleaming armor which cuirass and broad epaulets bore the heraldry of Virdr nobility, hewn and crafted by erudite hands from opaque ice merged, transfused with the metals in the bowels of Dhaugruz. A quiet contrasting look though both Iranaea and Mircalla, whilst Iovian herself was drawn towards the ivory kiosk by the four blonde warriors.
“My lady, we should check out another stall.” Iranaea murmured leaning closer to the tip of her long, sharp ear after they were led by the youth towards the strangers from beyond the gloomy mountain.
“We have time Iranaea my dear. And small, good gesture towards our northern neighbors goes a long way in furthering the prosperity of our lands.” She said as they faltered amongst the flock of people – tall and handsome aevhe, rough and rustic man of the north in colorful garments, the animalistic demikin uplifted similarly by the grace of the empire, dwarves whose sweat was drunk by their clothes as they carried heavy baskets on their broad shoulders and even changed folk with multifarious, bestial augmentations greeted the three of elevated standing.
Mircalla nodded, though her thoughts and feelings were still gloomed by the painting and its creator, and she sought aversion, escape in surveying the corpulent Virdrian merchant and his peculiar entourage of Bjornlings – proud warriors of the Dhaugruz Basin and its sprawling kingdom with armor resembling a fusion of opaque ice and steel, ornamented with the fur of bears, except for the helmet and epaulets fashioned with the faces of ursine beasts, the clawed greaves and gauntlets and the large round shields.
“Ah! What a basket of lovely ladies! Ask and I shall answer and provide!” The man’s deep voice boomed through the market’s cacophony itself, reaching their ears clearly as they stopped, their eyes focused on him than the variety of goods laid before betwixt him and them.
Iovian looked excited and straightened her posture to meet his inquisitive gaze. “Say good man, I heard your people wrestle with the children of Dusk whilst taking the horrid and arduous journey through the veins of Dhaugruz.” The man nodded heartily whilst stroking his lush beard adorned with dawn golden baubles. “I seek one of your fabled baubles I heard of – an amulet or ring it matters not that much – that keeps these horrors and their ascended ilk at bay whilst also offering the Caress of Dawn itself.”
“By the Dawn Beard of Fox Father, why would ladies like yourselves need such a thing if you all don’t mind the question. Neither of you look particularly the kind seeking fame and glory in the accursed bowels of Dhaugruz.” The man said as he weighted his softly hulking arms onto the kiosk’s table, his greasy stench hit Mircalla in that moment, though she managed to cease her smelling just as the bone and oak creaked under his weight.
“It is not for us per say. More for my brother.” Iovian answered whilst she stared at the amulet resembling a bat’s screaming head, his maw filled with a dawn golden crystal. “The handsome dragon that was with you? I see, I see, it seems the you at last begin the hunt for the Upiorok.”
Mircalla stared at him calmly whilst the other two looked confused as the word’s meaning passed them. “Upiorok?” The man stroked his chin once more and stared past them pensively for a moment. “I believe in the Empire’s tongue they are called Vupiir – little bloodsucking children of Krovavhiyr, suck even better than our courtesans back at home.” The man laughed heartily whilst Mircalla clutched her fist.
“But foregoing jesting, what need the pale dragon has for such a bauble milady? Wouldn’t one of our blades serve him better in such possible endeavors?” Iovian met his greedy gaze faintly pointing at the hanging blades and axes, marvels of Virdrian craftmanship.
“Not to question the quality of your people’s craftsmanship, but my dear brother already inherited the blade forged by none other than Easthus, Son of Mineirvia and Septurrion.” Iovian said innocuously as her eyes diverted from the weapons. “I simply wish for fallen leaf that guides one’s path when lost.” She added after a bit of pondering.
The man furrowed his brows and stroked his bearded chin once more. “None were taken, and if that is the case let me show you this.” He hunched down and procured a small box. Opening it, Mircalla strained her eyes a little as the golden pearl attached to a chain burned her eyes for a moment. Iranaea noticing the mild pain written conspicuously on her face reached out to her. “I am fine, thank you. Just too much mana lingering and lashing out.” She murmured, stepping a bit away as a mild nausea washed over her like a gentle tide hitting the shore.
“Will you be fine if brother wears it?” Iovian noticing the ailment of her friend and handmaiden questioned. “I will be my lady.” She took a deep breath and said with her lips and low voice trembling.
“I shall take it. How much does it cost?” Iovian turned back and asked reaching into her inner pocket.