Under the rhythmic cacophony of segmented, plated armor, the interminable land trembled. Hills vibrated unseen as the unseen tides of matching notes of utter discipline swept over them. The colorful, lustrous foliage bearing the cool shades of the first autumnal month of the year swung and danced jocosely thanks to the mingling effort of the tremors and the gentle cool wind heralding the approach of the dusk. And the performers of these disciplinary notes, ode of war were no other than the brave legionaries of the Empire’s Seventh. The Seprian Legion whose azure plates glistened in the dimming rays.
Yet their faces under their multifarious helmets bore no joys of the performers invoking the chaotic whims of Daemeiorvoth. Morose, grim expressions glared towards the south including young Aelfsigior’s who marched at the front.
Adorning his tall, fair form honed through decades of arduous training, an azure plate of seamlessly welted together vertical plates covered his chest, around its edges golden serpents slithered about whilst at the center of the chest, an owl’s head stared listlessly towards the horizon. Overlapping, broad pieces stretched on his shoulders and seemingly extended down his arms, ending in clawed gauntlets whilst the tassels of his breastplate beaten the greaves protecting his legs whilst the grass hushed as it glided across the sharply contoured boots. The angular helmet fitting around the lines of his head, yet vaguely elongated with wing like crested protrusions at the back, on the front the cheek guard melded and reaching forward, slanted like an owl’s beak whilst the arched visor stretched above.
His fingers still trembled as they wrapped around the smooth leather strap of his large, rectangular shield bearing the Hourglass of Fate upon its front. The face of the gobokh slave who parleyed for mercy, then attempted to slice his throat still lingered before his face. Aelfsigior saw once more before his eyes as the glinting silver blade with an azure undertone passed through and severed flesh and bone, the head rolling before the fur around its edges growing from the lush mane was swallowed by the flames.
Nearly he missed the tune whilst instinctively he felt the opposite. During those years, I was still a falling flake, still oblivious to certain matters. One such matter that broke my rhythm for a moment came from a battle two or three dusks before fighting against a horde of the Atoning. My thoughts wandered back to useless ones I had before, whether I should have just bereaved the gobokh of their arm bent on killing. A foolish endeavor as my friend, Sceparzara often reminded me, even then when he marched behind me.
The abrupt halt of the whole cohort of theirs dammed the usual flow of these thoughts, and at once he felt both indebted and ungracious. “Shields!” Came the short command from their pure-blooded dwarven Pilias-Tribuniar Dionysi repeating the same word echoing through the vast plain. The defensive rhythm broke the silence. “Look! In the sky.” At Sceparza’s hushed words, he glared up and his momentary unease strengthened when thick blackness descended from the darkening sky. And with them arrived a wind chilling even their souls.
Wraith like creatures appeared amidst the twirling masses of blackness – though he was sure these weren’t the accursed spirits of the dead. During his early years of adventuring, he faced off with a few haunting spirits, including wraiths whose cold presence was less suffocating, dreadfully distinct from these gliding creatures whose cloak appeared less tattered, more noble in a queer sense of the word. Beneath their large cloaks, there were no faint resemblance to one of the mortal kindred, instead horrid abominations of the Dusk, Twilight shrieked at them with their mocking hollow eyes and lipless mouths beset with fangs of a deep violet.
Several of his rank and the hastatiir lit up as if coated in the warm presence of Dawn, as the seemingly opaque creatures passed through them like the wind. His heart grew heavy with mild dread upon the bloodcurdling cry from behind, amongst their rank as brothers and sisters turned against each other as the creatures latched onto their souls and strewn them along like puppets. Yet he turned not until the order came, and when he did so, he swung his blade carefully, pouring a bit of his own essence of Dawn into it.
The fear lessened a bit when the creature, the spectral nekros shrieked out of pain upon its form severed in to large pairs before the flesh and cloak broke down into its wicked prima materia. Grass dewed then withered where the legless torso laid, whilst further away, the few fallen arose seeding chaos amongst the ranks of the square formations. Yet he remained stoically still, waiting for the next command. For an instant he feared the order would pass his ear, muffled by the ever-increasing amount of warped shrieks of the raised dead.
“Velitiusiir move ahead.” As the deep, resonant voice of Dionysi reached his ears, the lines before him opened, and for a moment he looked sympathetically at the distressed visages beneath the helmets. “Be safe brother!” With a nod, he acknowledged the caring words of his friend, and passed through the way, laden with the crumbled husks of undead. A few he recognized even after the malformation of Dusk inflicted upon their once hearty faces lit by the campfire the three nights before. Their hearty laughter rang in his head, and he could still recount their vows to survive and return home with hefty tales to tell in the company of their loved ones and full keg of the finest mead, beer, wine or even fruit or vegetable flavored drinks. Will I return or rest amongst them on this cool night? Doubt crept itself into him, its tendrils wrapping tenderly. I shall. Looking away, he banished it firmly.
With those horrors of Twilight, not only Dusk followed, but Chaos descended upon our ranks when our brothers and sisters in sweat and toil came for our lives. Before him, one of the wraith-like nekros flew into a faun cutting down an aevhen sister of his. Devoid of hesitation, Aelfsigior tightened his grip around the leathery handle with its diamond textured surface leaving its mark upon his soft palm and with a precise thrust, pierced the damned faun from behind just where the twisted, deep wine purple collar of his thick tunic sprawled, engulfed his neck. The sharp tip easily tore through the lustrous, soft textile, and met the graying, blackening flesh covered in a thick line of white fur. Though his lips were shut, he tasted the blood with slight emerald undertone on his serrated tongue.
“DUSKWALKER! VENEFICIIR, EVOKE THE PROTECTION OF OUR BLAZING FATHER’S BURNING BEARD!” Even amidst the battle, drowned in the shrieks of the undead and the nekrossos, he heard the loud yell and for a moment, he felt utter dread. Many a horrid tale traversed around the camp, lip from lip often involving the horrors remaining from the old realms and the War of the Siblings. Tales of the Mummus, a creature some referred as a nekros created with the intention to mimic Umvraothus, whilst others believed these were horrors born from the nightmares of The Almodo. Or about the horrific thousand children of the Black Goat who seemed to migrated from the astral wastes into the woodland north of Vonschneithar just a decade after the birth of the Crimson Praetor.
But what terrified him the most in recent memory was the creature forged from the greatest terror of most if not all mortal beings, the Duskwalker whose sole purpose of existence was to extinguish life within all things. The dream of the Grimm Sovereign manifested in the form of a ten-meter-high slender figure, bereft of any noticeable features beyond the pulsing darkness constituting its vessel, pure, suffocating nekrotic matter condensed so thickly that the grass blackened before its toeless feet. Even from the thickness of the battle, looking over the clashing legionaries and undead, he could see the approaching doom.
“Pay no heed to that Aelfsigior.” Yelled Dionysi drenched in the bile of the dead noticing him frozen from fear, a visible acceptance of his surrender to life written onto his handsome visage. A few notes laced in maghia aspect of mind proved enough to break the stupor. I shall not die on this night. He repeated the thought amidst prayers aimed towards the undead he cut down.
“Keep moving on! Dawn awaits the triumphant” In the corner of his gaze, he saw the much shorter superior swinging her large, twin-bladed axe as if it weighted no more than a piece of paper. Both its blade was tainted by gore and blackening blood, whilst her searing face glimmering with the heat of lava reflected mildly satiated bloodlust. Pondering whether he shall be as numbed one day, Aelfsigior followed the dwarf in to the eye of storm…
***
Two days passed since the attack, since their numbers dwindled from seven hundred to five. Aelfsigior’s legs trembled from exhaustion and the coldly burning bile in his stomach as he thought back to all the malformed faces, a sense of guilt looming over him. I could have done more; I could have expelled the wicked beings if I listened more to father’s teachings. He curled his fingers whilst sitting lone on a trunk not far from the others setting up camp whilst a thick, iridescent mist descended around them. And with it, drowsiness descended upon him, but he held on to the awakening world. Dangers lurked even in the shadows of the day.
Not far from their camp erected around a swiveling rivulet and congregations of reeds, the ground arose as if a giant blanketed its colossal foot in the grassy terrain and forest. At the highest point rigid, blocks of gloomy rocks uplifted from the rich earth, forming into a shape that reminded Aelfsigior of the slabs of stones the Virdr folk left for their dead folk dreaming eternally beneath the layers of earth. A grim sight it would have been if not for the dreamy village rising along the hill.
Buildings lined with roads, streets hewn and pebbled with white stone reminding him of the thick snow of his home village. The walls of the edifices all painted in withering colors of yellow, red, green and the grandest that must have been the home of the village head, purple. A grand mansion was it to him with oblong wings, gabbled roofs with at least four chimneys each, a languid line of smoke arising from their rectangular tops towards the descending mist.
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Nature itself sprawled on either side, a lush forest of greens, yellows and deep shades of blue like the night sky beckoning to sleep after the cessation of day. Birches spread their branches up against each other and their cousins, pine trees shot high with their needle-sharp foliage bearing the warm yellows whilst bushes throttled at their roots and barky abdomens, blossoming little berries for the savage residents. And amongst their shadow he spotted a pale figure, slender and dark storm of hair with shadowy mist emanating from each silken lock. The large eyes devoid of pupil was clearly visible even from where Aelfsigior sat on the cusp of dreams and as he stared mesmerized, he uttered the simple words. “A djinn.” Both corners of his lips curled at the prospect of seeing such an exotic thing in his cold home.
“Where?” Approaching him from behind, Sceparzara asked upon hearing his husky exclamation. “There, in the forest east of the village.” He pointed, yet the girl was no longer there. For a moment he pondered whether his mind simply manifested the girl. Or maybe she is a timid creature.
Sceparzara squinted hard across the forest, but stopped with a shrug of his firm, broad shoulders draped in the fine tunic. “Our tent is ready, come dine and drink. Maelia shall keep watch from now until the hour before afternoon.” Aelfsigior sighed, feeling a bit dejected at the disappearance of the meek Djinn, but arose with a bit of struggle. His muscles seemed too loosened, and he nearly tumbled over onto his sides in part of the armor. And in part because of a strange feeling, almost like invisible hands pulling him gently towards the ground to lay there till the One and the Eight know how long.
With the aid of his friend, he managed to regain his balance, and even the queer feeling faded in the same breath it came over him. “I’ll be fine from here. It would be a dire sight for the others to see me go like this.” He said half jestingly as they walked between two tents amongst swinging reed and grass.
“There is nothing dire about it, and you wouldn’t be the only one. A long road is behind us, and an even longer ahead.” Sceparzara said as the diffused light shone onto his golden face with warm, dusky red – like garnet – undertones. A face Aelfsigior envied, but also felt glad not to match. On one hand legions of maidens fell for it, their cheeks seared by the winds of passion, but many of them were already taken, so quite often he had to aid his old friend not to meet his maker early at the hands of angered spouses. A face probably sculpted by that Grinning Trickster. He often thought.
As his body sat down onto the stiff carpet covered floor within the tent’s spatially expanded interior, he felt a sudden weight as if another person about the same height and weight sat on his broad, firm shoulders. Their weight like a drowsiness beckoned him towards sleep, but with a bit of push managed to banish the urge and instead focused on the one that shall cease his hunger making itself known with a soft grumble.
“Here, to wait for a second as its boiling hot still.” Pariphaenas, a fellow velitius handed him a thick wooden bowl filled to the brim with the mushy stew, bits of goat and lamb meat floated in the thick reddish-brown broth gleaming not too dissimilarly to the surface of moors. Warm steam danced up towards and thawed his chilling face.
“Have you heard of this place Pariphaenas?” As he carefully sat down into one of the pillows arching around the cauldron, Aelfsigior voiced his question aware of the porcelain white niuvhe’s journey across the heart of Vhalleryon beforehand enlisting in the legion. Pondering, he straightened his posture, his long dark hair stumbling evenly onto his shoulders, Pariphaenas shrugged. “No, not really and if I am being honest, Noithrixil’s Province evaded my steps before I decided to join the architects of the Empire’s dreams.”
Looking at the others, they also shook their heads and mentioned not hearing of any settlement or even about this protrusion of the earth. Except for Dionysi who sat and looked ponderously, raking her mind fogged by years of drinking and physical trauma inflicted upon her earthly dark head with searing fissures. “I do remember a flock of Septurrion setting out from Nidumiath six or five decades before, led by two pious children of his. But many simply thought they were claimed by the beasts of the province or the savages camping out in the forests.”
A bit later before their departure to scout the woodland and its inhabitants in case their stay would extend beyond the kindness of the locales, Aelfsigior patrolled the outer rims of their vast encampment. A queer, irrepressible mingling of curiosity and fear swirled within him as he took measured steps around their tent. Towards his right, the Mist thickened, occasionally spewing out strange excrescences resembling tendrils, small infant hands all seemingly reaching out towards him.
After hours of dull back and forth behind the tents, Aelfsigior faced towards the wall of Mist. One hand remained on the wide and broad hilt of his sword resembling what his father once called a Crescent Moon, whilst the other slowly stirred and rose towards the small, eerie hands. Though it was not his intention, instinctively the materia of Dawn contained within his anima veins throttled into his palm and at once formed a simple spell of frugal radiance.
Upon the first light shining from the sleek, smooth surface of his clawed gauntlet, the hands retreated into nothingness as if scared away by the light of Dawn itself. The meaning of it filled Aelfsigior with first conscious wave of unease in regards of the Mist. I knew at that day and hour, the Mist wasn’t raised out of benevolence, protection of the settlement.
***
Anent the thick vegetation of the forest, a softly aggressive humming reverberated on the trembling, tired leaves. An old song of a forgotten language, yet even as the meaning of it evaded Aelfsigior, he found himself meandering towards nature’s thickness. He knew not why, but he was well aware – or may have just wished deeply for it to belong to the distant maiden whose gaze he felt upon himself. His passage through the bushes, flattening a few crumbling roots diving up from the earth, the mesmerizing song ceased suddenly. A void seemed to form upon this revelation in his heart, and he regretted the thoughtless approach.
“Who is there?” Came the dreamy voice, soft and lovely to his ears, renewing his vigor and almost blurted loudly, in an accidental threatening cadence. He coughed once, followed by a meager gulp and a deep inhale as he mustered his strength. An awkward motion as he noted to himself in the passing seconds. “I came with no intention to harm. My name is Aelfsigior, a proud son of the north and a brother in Septurrion’s Legion.” He introduced himself upon leaving the embrace of the drowsy nature.
His hands held out, further accentuating his intentions whilst a faint smile on his face, the fair, angular and protruding cheeks of his reddened at the etheric beauty in such mundane garments. A slick deep azure dress adorned the petite, milk white form, a hint of emerald and lavender travelling across the lustrous surface adorned by the symbols of Septurrion – namely owls sitting on the flowing threads of fate – as seeping light braced the djinn maiden. Flared bottom swung languidly towards the left as the fatigued wind swept across the sequined piece.
Her eyes large and deep as the abyss, yet the emptiness soothed, emanated a relaxing warmth whilst a tired smile adorned the seemingly lipless mouth. Though on a better look, he noticed the soft flesh and skin simply furled impeccably inwards. Her jet-black hair swirled and thronged down her shoulders, curling along the way whilst swallowing the light shining upon the quasi-etheric forms. From beneath them, four unequally long, twisting black-gray horns sprouted, almost like the branching antlers of eloquent fawns.
“Tanitha, the Chronicler of Lianassian’s Rest.” She introduced herself after a bit of silence, with a countenance reflecting an abrupt revelation. Upon further look around the clearing, Aelfsigior noticed a few critters – a few pups of foxes and small woodland mouses – gathering in the shadows of her dress and fur edged cloak. Was she singing to them? A druid of Septurrion, what a peculiar choice. The thought ran through his head, but was swept away by the name of the settlement near their camp, trapped in the same eerie mist.
“Does the…” For a moment he felt as if a suffocating wind swept through him, stealing away the initial intention lurking behind the words it smothered in tandem. “…village had been here a long time?” Tanitha’s right, thin brow with sharp angles and defined peaks rose questioningly.
“It has been here since I first gazed upon the light of day and the blackness of night.” She answered after a bit of hesitation, her tired smiled faded in a seeming dejection. Dejection which spread onto Aelfsigior confused and pondering whether he should have voiced a different question.
Tanitha turned around and as she waved her hands towards the critters, a gentle wave of a spell conjured a draught. They all scattered, trembling swallowed by the forest and the mist laying not far ahead, creeping in betwixt the trunks and foliage ornamenting the hanging branches like faded jewels. “It was erected a good four or five decades ago to be more precise.”
Slowly Aelfsigior neared towards the young djinn girl, a bit aloofly as he felt less and less assured of himself – or at least in the image he projected to her. “Was it really?” He questioned stepping a meter or two closer, then halting as he noticed rivulet that evaded his attention. Once more the djinn girl raised her left brow.
“Yes, though since its birth, a mist protected us from the dangers prowling these lands. And seeing all you warriors, those threats still lurk beyond our boundary.” Though her voice was full of certainty, Tanitha’s face showed hints of confusion – and a frugal amount of dread and bewilderment as if her true intention was taken away.
“Such a great magus lives in this village? Could we speak with them? These are dire times and any help could help swing the pendulum towards a future of prosperity and peace.” Paying no heed to the warning expression, enthralled by the prospect of such an erudite magus, he questioned. Then feeling a bit forceful whilst at the same time processing the reasoning for the mist, he opted for a bit of parley. “Of course, I am sure we would leave a Centuriai behind, enough to ensure the safety of the residents and ensure the flow of their daily lives.”
Before she could have answered or questioned the deep, resonant voice of woman called out her name eastwards. She replied, but halted beside him. Her warm, cinnamon like odor further filled his heart with passion. “It is something I can’t answer. All I can tell, beware of the Mist and its residents of the Gap.” He watched stupefied as the forest swallowed her petite form. Chilling fear crippled around his spine as he repeated the Mist and the Gap, yet as he turned the curiosity to stumble on the answer waned gradually.