Blood dribbled down into the snow once pure and pristine. Rivulets of crimson and black flown from the wide breaches carefully gashed from top to bottom of the beast’s abdomen and bosom – at least she thought of them as such as her hungry eyes stared at them. Each of the small hares and grown woodland mices, the pups of wolves and their parents, the foxes outmaneuvered by the handsome, dazzling dragons all dangled by the rhyme of the chilly wind that swept past the clearing in the Vesgeriath Woodland, ornamented by the lavish tents of the Nivesiunar Family. “How foul is their smell! Iranaea light the incenses please.”
The voice of her mistress a distant mumble drawn out by the drums of her pounding desires as he watched Aimaar and his equally dazzling little slice carefully through the belly of a beast, pulling the intestines into a basket, vile steam rising forth with the blood into the snow. “I can’t understand how they can stand this foul stench of death.” Iovien complained pinching her nose whilst pulling the cup of warm tea towards her lips, then faltering and placing it back as she felt the oncoming of bile within her slender, petite form encased in refined leather, silken and fur cloak fused from the pelts of wolves and bears.
The two brothers easily moved in their family panoply comprising enameled pieces of lunar steel found beneath the hill. Like the legion’s armor, these pieces were welted together plates with mostly smooth surfaces, golden trims to contrast the silver of night, and at the center and back of the cuirass, the crest of the Nivesiunar Family graven; a crescent moon with its tips pointing upwards, the right a dragon, the left an oulion – a cousin of gryphon, messengers of the Night who heralded the doom of the Dominion. Their helmets resting near the tree in the crimson light, fashioned more with avian contours except for the cheek guards which tips ended in sharp, curving points.
“They have dealt with death many a times. One gets used to it, even develop a certain… thirst for it.” Mircalla said as she wrought herself out from the trance as the two lovers’ eyes met for a moment. In that moment like a tide, sensuous memories flowed across them and they felt each other’s bodies, the clashing of warmth and cold, the taste of his neck, the silken softness of her lips and their passionate wrestling he often lost as he stared into her dark eyes from down.
“If I participate in the hunt, would that work?” Iovian asked quite innocently. Mircalla looked at her pensively, then answered ignoring the sour look of her fellow handmaiden. “Possibly, though both spent years walking amongst and against corpses.”
Noticing Iovian’s pondering, Iranaea interjected. “The last part is where the truth lies my lady. The death of a few beasts will not vanquish the foul scent, only beyond a hundred one gets used to it.”
“Then let’s just take a walk not far, but far enough from this stench I say.” Iovian rose as not even half a dozen incenses, each brought from the far-south could dampen the pervasive scent which burned her nostrils, and Mircalla nodded as she slowly stumbled into the bewitching embrace of blood and flesh.
“Where are you heading my dear?” Iovian’s wizened mother questioned upon noticing the three leaving the tent and turning towards the clearing between the dense bushes and low hanging branches.
Maxymina Nivesiunar, a former erudite magus – namely an anathemancer, ones dealing in curses – was a stern looking aevhe with a delicate form draped in sumptuous garments dyed a pristine white merging in with their surroundings. Like her eldest, she too had a fair pinkish complexion with her sharp, elegant cheek and tapering jaw a bit more intense whilst around the refined contours of her dim violet eyes, dark lines ran along the edges. Mircalla stayed furthest from the trio as her eyes fell surreptitiously on the necklace embedded with amber golden arkhstones, great enchantments woven into them amplifying her power and her draconic presence.
“A little walk to be away from this stench.” She answered. Seemingly, Maxymina turned her attention back onto his son whilst the two handmaidens bowed out of courtesy then followed after Iovian.
As they headed further into the woodland, following the light of Illius seeping in between the branches ornamented with ebony and purple leaves, Mircalla kept her attention on the nape of her mistress, her body tensed from the distant gaze of Maxymina who took one furtive look at the trio disappearing amongst the ominous trees and bushes. It was a bit vexing, all things considered she thought to herself whilst listening to refreshened aevhen girl who was free from the torment of the stench. Contrary to her mistress, Mircalla felt a longing, the stench of rotting carcasses brought back old memories.
“I wanted to ask, but when did you got used to the stench of death Mircalla?” Then came the sudden question that made her nearly tremble, but in time she collected her cool and met the gaze aimed at her by both.
For a moment she pondered on her answer. “Not on the battlefield or in dire circumstances, but a few years before I came to the north, I served in the temple of the Solemn Shepherd in Erassa. I aided in the passing of many, mostly though just halting the flow of time in the chapters chamber of farewells where the dying and their loved ones can spend a few good hours before the Solemn Shepherd would claim the souls and carry them to Her mate.”
“I see. Though I can’t imagine the vile stench of blood lingering in there.” Iovian commented as she leaned closer to a blooming flower on one of the bushes.
“Amongst those I tended to, there were a few with mortal wounds – either of those who wished simply to pass on, or were wounded by the ascended horrors of Dusk whose maghia even us could do little about, which emitted a scent three times worse than those critters.” She answered calmly and her companions seemed satisfied with the answers, though fear of uncertainty remained in her heart as they continued distancing themselves from the camp. Further and further, they followed a path and after a little more while, reached a branching leading towards westwards.
“We should head back milady.” Mircalla said as soon as Iovian stepped onto the path.
“We shall just take a little jaunt. I was always interested what lies in this lush land of ours.” Iovian said without looking at her, stepping into high snow and leaving her footmarks. “I agree with Mircalla, it should be better to at least return to the camp to ask for at least one blade or spear before we step into the realm of unabated nature.” Iranaea added herself, following in the steps of her mistress not fully out of her volition, but led by her duty.
“No need for worry Iranaea, Mircalla. I only plan to visit a small pond not too far from here. At least according to brother and father.” She said whilst continuing, now even Mircalla in their trails with a slightly defeated look. “At least I believe it was somewhere here… oh right there!” She stopped suddenly and exclaimed, her eyes brimming with mild excitement when she looked upon the small pond connected to a rivulet slithering forth primeval forest.
Whilst the two walked near the bank, kneeled on the shore to stare back at themselves Mircalla remained cautious near the edge, no longer sensing the aroma of dusk and death; instead, a new scent or odor reached her nose, one belonging to sprawling life, the brutality of nature and roughness of earth. The two were lost in their own beauty, Iovian even touching and disturbing the evenness of the pond, her gaze torn away only by the harsh rustling of the bushes on the opposite side. “We should leave now.” Iranaea voiced the same notion lingering in Mircalla whose eyes focused on the dancing dim leaves.
Amidst small tremors of the earth hidden beneath snow, a terrifying child of nature appeared in the dark foliage, walking on all fours with a large snout sniffing the air, emanating a white haze like torrents of dragon flame. “Do not make any sudden movements Iovian.” Mircalla said in a whisper audible enough to reach the two frozen with mild fear at the deep growling of the ursine beast, a Bodvarian Bear as she recognized it from its grayish brown hide harder than iron or galvanized steel.
A creature as large as an ogre or troll even as it stood on four, usually living in the vicinity of Nature leylines which altered their foremothers and fathers, leading to their sturdy and furtive fur appearing as soft and dense as legions of grass stretching across the southern vistas, flesh almost as thick and hard as dragon’s and the ability to bend nature by their quite primitive will as its roar strengthened the currents of winds, as the they found it hard to breathe whilst their stiffened collars flapped back and forth, their skirts sang strange lullabies as they scraped against the snow and earth and flora beneath.
“Nice and slow.” She whispered, forcing the words as the gust of wind forced itself into her throat and nostrils, yet unlike the two who could not speak, her words carried calmness in them. A queer calmness Iranaea noted amidst the tumultuous flow of her thoughts.
The bodvarian bear remained cautious on the other side of the pond, its eyes of a vivid umber remained focused on not the two closest, but on Mircalla who stood almost proudly at the route of their escape. It made small, careful movements, masquerading its efforts to position itself favorably betwixt Iranaea, Iovian and Mircalla, pretending to just simply be a curious, even thirsty beast who simply stumbled upon the pond in its long search and track through the vast woodland. A hardened focus which let to its doom.
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With both eyes and even mind engrossed by the frail, languid handmaiden, the creature failed to notice the leaping silver and the glinting of the spear’s tip aimed at the center of its body. Engulfed in a black haze, the spear of mithrium easily passed through the hardened fur and flesh and pierced its heart in the same breath. A tide of dark blood cascaded forth its mouth and tainted the snow, Mircalla’s eyes revealed her excitement for only a short moment, trained on the blood and not on the dazzling Aimaar delivering the killing blow, a white haze escaping the confines of his helmet.
“Thank the Deossos I arrived in time.” He exclaimed after being sure of the swift demise, turning his back to the carcass. “And we thank them and you my lord for the timely arrival.” Iranaea said, calmed and bowing in gratitude whilst a portentous feeling still lingering in her heart.
“But what do we owe your presence here?” Iovian asked, half-knowing the answer as she noticed the longing gaze in her brother’s eyes aimed at her handmaiden.
“When I noticed your absence, an ominous feeling came over me and I asked mother if she seen you. After that I simply followed the tracks with hurried steps as the feeling strengthened. I am glad I listened to my intuition and the deossos warning.” He said, then freed his spear from the carcass. “Now let me escort you back!”
**
“It is truly beautiful.” Khaetar’s voice broke the silence between the two brothers sedentary on the steps ascending towards the top of the hill. Even though, harsh and cold winds blew, the two sat with their bodies warmed by their waistcoats and thick breeches sewn from ursine, lupine beasts on top of hot springs converging beneath their bottoms, emanating a pleasant spring heat. “It is.” Aimaar answered in a low-voice, thinking of his sweet Mircalla who returned with his sister two days before the hunt came to an end.
“Were the stars different south?” Then came the question which stirred the horrors still lingering in his mind. The writhing creatures which sprouted forth the elderly citizens, the women and children before the prismatic flames of the dragons burned wood, stone and metal. Their screams still echoed in his mind, though he veiled it well with a brotherly smile.
“In a way yes. When looked upon first they appeared the same, they glittered and shimmered like the eyes of the Magnificent Mother, but the more I marched under them, the more I rested below them, the more… sinister, portentous they become.” He answered never taking his eyes off the stars where he sought escape from the memories.
“I wonder if the stars align to the land beneath them.” Khaetar pondered out loudly. “Possibly. To me after the fifth year into the conquest, they felt like eyes of a distant being watching. And they may have been the eyes of that wretched Pharaoh.” Aimaar trembled as if he was still beneath them, laying on the sloping dune of a bright violet, ailed by thirst, by the aching of his body after a long march and a battle against the warriors comprising living and dead, mundane and those lurking at the threshold invited by the enigmatic ruler who united the far-south with the aid of Outer Intelligences.
“What stars shine upon Dhaugruz?” Then he asked as unlike him, Aimaar never ventured through the Veinways, never experienced the lands where snow never melts, where golden eyed people rule with benevolence and where deep beneath the earth, their dark kin linger in the bowels of Dusk. “Portentous, bewitching.” Was all Khaetar uttered as his own gaze transcended time and space.
“Many a times, they felt the same as the glinting roofs of the Veinways, secreting secrets of one’s inevitability, but also hiding the unknowability of change that may bring either fortune or ill. Yet neither felt sapping, instead inspiring to better myself, to prove my worth to the great warriors of their locked kingdom.” He chuckled as he found his words foolish, though Aimaar thought so not, more so felt the same about the stars of the far-south tainted by an adversary who forced to better himself, who showed him to better his past, arrogant self who could never imagine harm come to him, contrary he believed he could cut a thousand enemies without breaking a sweat. A dragon’s arrogance he ailed him and his kind he thought.
“Do you long for them?” Khaetar asked suddenly. “Sometimes. I won’t lie brother, I may appear the same as I left, but I returned not unharmed. Yet even with these bleeding scars I long for the days when my blade tasted the blood of another, one not of beast or necessarily living.”
“I feel the same – but I believe that was enough somber talk for us youth don’t you think? Let’s return and rest before the stirring of the First Light!” With that the two got on their feet and took one look at the stars and the city bathed in the ethereal light before their road continued upwards with kegs in hand, swords dangling in the sheaths.
Their mood gradually sunken as they neared the top, sand in the same manner, they grew aware of the smothering silence. No soft clanking of armors as guards made their rounds; no whispers or murmurs of the small critters living in their gardens nor the few servants releasing their accumulated stress after a long day with some small talk in the company of tea and sweets. And there was the foul smell, worse than the hung animal carcasses they dealt with for the past two days. The only sound were their swords shrieking softly as they pulled them forth the sheaths and made steps without sounds.
Slowly they neared towards the eerily inviting gate left open, and with each step they recognized the foul smell belonging to death, to rotting carcasses. For a mere moment, Aimaar froze as a tide of haunting memories flooded his mind, but pulled himself out from it by evoking the image of his loved ones and pressed onwards behind Khaetar.
Before they stepped through the second gate, the two brothers ceased their steps to a slow halt before the grand and lifelike statue of the Elhyrissiar whose polychromatic scales glinted even in the silvery light of the Lunarius whilst staring towards the sprawling city. “Give us the power to vanquish the evil that may have befallen our house, O’Greatest of the mortal dragons!” They prayed in unison, their words hastened as their eyes noticed the dark spots on the pavement and the slush and snow.
“Brother!” Khaetar whispered, his hand placed on Aimaar’s left shoulder, his gaze revealed despair upon pointing down at the dark liquid flowing forth and beneath the golden trim of the ornated door. His heart hopped a beat as the dark liquid was a horrid mélange of crimson, silver with an iridescent glow. He swallowed audibly and turned to meet his little brother’s gaze. “Stay near behind me.”
With a loud bang, he broke through the door with his shoulder, blade ready to strike down any horror that may be the culprit behind the macabre vista of mangled, eviscerated corpses of the servants. His eyes desperately searched through the bits and pieces, the torn torsos gushed open with intestines hanging from the chandeliers, the sloping torches of conjured flames extinguished by an unnatural coldness that seeped into their bodies and souls. Aimaar search for her corpse, sorrow wrapping its cold hands around his throat whilst tears welled in the corners of his beautiful eyes.
Yet he found none as he stepped further into the hall, into the blackened lake of blood. His gaze swept through the gory artwork searching for anything that may resemble her. But he found none amongst the blood soaked and torn rags, the limbs damaged by claw and time, no bosom had the curvature of her shapely bosom which served as healing pillows many a night, nor he noticed her bewitching pale face always so calm and lovely, though as many were torn, devoid of eyes or jaws or cheeks he could not be fully sure still.
“By the Searing Beard of the Dawn Father!” Khaetar’s exclamation brought his attention further in where the light had not reached yet fully, but enough to reveal the hanging carcasses; their torsos sliced upon, their bones broken and their intestines, organs torn out yet blood still flown from their swinging bodies onto the veiled, horrid creature whose oblong eyes opened, revealing the blackness of the night and the vitae of forms in all four perpendicular and oval frames. Eyes which shown sorrow and pain, yet also joy and thrill as they met Aimaar’s gaze. And they felt familiar, beckoning.
Upon the revelation of the creature’s horrid form, an old fear he was well versed with reared its head, the very same dread he felt whilst navigating through the maze of the Black Palace of Khadrath. An abhorrent frame draped in pallid, desiccated skin of pinkish corpses burnt by the cold lightly covered in translucent fur; a grotesque head, a fusion of a mangled lions and a bats with a dark mane reaching down onto its degenerate, hanging shoulders with large four ears, almost aevhen protruding forth the lush mana of night overlapping each other, an almost flat and sloping nose with slits apertures long and slender, swelling with each false breath the creature took; from its sides long arms numbering four, withered and delicate hung down, claws washed by the blood swirling and rising into the bony waist, flowing upwards and filling the six bulbous sacks of strange, webbed and translucent epidermis, dangling and lapping onto each other.
“Come to me my beloved!” A strange wind carried Mircalla’s voice as she raised her right arms invitingly towards Aimaar whose tears streamed down his cheeks as he watched the blood dribble down onto the mane, forth the dangling corpse of his sister whose eyes told of a brief torment. “Do not listen to it brother! It stole her voice.” Khaetar yelled, passing besides him, blinded partially by his own tears, his voice smothered by sorrow. His blade glinted in the dark as it struck at the creature, bounced with the same breath upon the short impact.
“Do not falter again my love! Join me in the eternity of the night.” His grip tightened around the hard leathery handle of his blade, slowly he approached blood dripping from his soles. For a moment he dipped his blade in the blood of his family and stroke forward, piercing the back of his brother whilst murmuring empty apologies. Khaetar turned back with horror before the light faded from his eyes and collapsed beneath the feet of his father and mother whilst Aimaar dropped his sword and raised his arms for the embrace of death.
From the blood of his kin, Aimaar rose, his eyes filled with affection towards Mircalla whose wide mouth opened into a hideous smile. “Good my child, my love. The night shall be ours when our Father in the Dark stirs at last.” Her deep, echoing voice a sweet symphony to his ears and mind as he neared towards one of the blood sacks.
“Now drink and embrace the end of your line and the birth of ours and our Father in Blood!” His lips closed on, and as the two melted together, he drank and drank the vile yet sweet liquid until none remained and he fell into the dark pits of ascension.