*** MOUNTAIN VIEW – THE LANDS OF DESPAIR ***
RETURN: DAY 301 - 307
The cave was deep beneath the surface. Invisible to a normal, mortal eye, thick flows of Elemental Power filled it. While there were more than a hundred variants of Elemental Power, more than three-quarters of that Power was of the Od, and nine-tenths of what remained was of the Four Prime Elements, Air, Earth, Fire, and Water, plus two more. The two more were Spirit and Void. Though recognized by virtually none as Prime Elements, they were just as much Prime Elements as the other four.
Seemingly tiny against the vast size of the cavern, a work area larger than a football field filled one corner of that cavern. It had all the necessary tools and equipment for a Transcendent Maker to carry out the tasks of any and all of the myriad variants of the Maker callings.
In that work area, Boran, the Second Father of the Dvergar, stared at the weapons lying on his workbench. The ruined sword made entirely of Elemental metal was the focus of his attention. With just the tips of his fingers, he caressed the rough surface of the ruined blade.
Is it chance that this weapon should fall into the hands of one with his bloodline, or is it the False Name calling herself Fate meddling yet again? Whether chance or interference, this blade was one made by me and used against those it should have protected. It is better that its pattern is shattered beyond repair; the corruption could never have been purified from it. I will not reforge this weapon, but should I leave it in Brand's hands?
Brand is nearly the last of that ancient bloodline, at least of those who are still of pure lineage. The others of pure lineage have all been corrupted. Since the War of Slaughter, the wormhole that connected Taereun to that Earth should have been closed. How did he wind up there, in that obscure universe? Which clan was that child born of?
In the eyes of the ancient Dvergar, nearly everyone and everything that lived, no matter how near or far from the time of its birth, was nothing more than a child.
Lady Life, is your hand in this?
After staring at the collection of weapons for several hours, Boran began to smelt down the two bastard swords from Earth in a single crucible. Pulling bars of other metals out of a pocket dimension, he added them to the swords and watched as they slowly melted.
Several hours later, when the metals combined into a molten mixture, Boran began to stir and manipulate the metals with flows of a dark grey Elemental Power. Under his careful control, the disparate metals formed into a liquid compound that satisfied him.
Using more Elemental Power, this time brownish-yellow, Boran drew the liquid metal from the crucible and molded it into two rough, over-sized swords. Each one was more than twice the thicknesses and a fifth longer and wider than the swords that Brand had given to him.
Frowning slightly, Boran left the rough swords hanging above the crucible and moved to a workbench against the wall. In bins under that workbench, there were dozens of different metals, stones, and woods, in a myriad of different hardnesses and flexibilities. While stroking his beard in thought, one by one, Boran stared at the raw materials.
While the rough swords cooled from molten to solid and Boran stood lost in his thoughts, more than two days passed. Finally, Boran turned his gaze upon the now solid but still sullenly red-glowing swords, and his frown deepened.
Seemingly, at random, Boran pulled materials from the bins, drawing them out with nothing more than a thought. In a matter of minutes, the raw metal, stone, and wood were fashioned into guards and furniture for a pair of swords. Despite the speed of Boran's work, each piece for one sword was an exact mirror of its opposite for the other sword.
Moving to a massive anvil, bigger than an ox, Boran gestured, and blue-white Fire sprang up in the forge, igniting a stone that was not coal and obviously not charcoal. Several hours passed as the stone burned before he appeared satisfied.
Summoning the two swords that had cooled to a dull red glow, Boran buried them in the burning stone. Under the direction of his will, Air flowed into the inlet, where a bellows would be on a mortal forge, and the Fire flared blindingly. Bathed by an intense heat, exceeding the surface temperature of a yellow star, the two swords slowly heated up to a yellow-white color.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
After placing the two swords on the anvil. Boran took out a large, non-reflective, black hammer and began working the metal. With each blow of the hammer, space seemed to warp and twist, as though on the verge of tearing. Alternating between the two swords, until they had cooled to an orange-yellow color, Boran continued to work the metal.
After placing the cooled swords back in his forge and starting another flow of Air into it, Boran looked around, seeming to look beyond the cavern to someplace no mortal eye can see.
Maybe, I should have reforged that metal. It might be a mistake to leave that broken blade into the hands of one of that child's blood, but if he is brought to ruin by it, he is simply too weak.
Time and again, Boran repeated the process of heating and hammering. Each time, the two swords become smaller. With the force of his strength and his Power, Boran compressed the alloy of the swords, increasing their density, hardness, and durability.
After three days of hammering, when Boran placed the swords in his forge to heat, he moved to a quenching trough. With a gesture from Boran, a metal cask capable of holding around five hundred gallons of liquid appeared next to the trough.
For a time Boran did nothing with the cask, he simply stared at it. In his eyes, there seemed to be the shadows of a soul crushing pain. When the swords in the forge had reached a nearly pure white color, Boran finally took his eye off the cask and glanced at the forge.
"In life, you followed the One who betrayed us all, the One who betrayed everything He was born to, the One that betrayed everything He fought against. He turned traitor and sided with the enemies of His lifetime, and you followed him like a lickspittle. In death, you will be of service to one that Lady Life has smiled upon."
Boran opened the tap on the cask, and a silver-red liquid flowed into the quenching trough. Only when it was three-quarters full, did Boran close the tap and make the cask disappear with another gesture.
Carried by Boran's thoughts, the two swords, nearly pure white from the intense heat, float from the forge, to hover over the quenching trough.
"I know you can understand my words. I feel the remnants of your poisoned Soul still there, trapped within your blood. It was my will and my Power that imprisoned you. I will Purify you with Od and set right your warped betrayals."
Plop. HISS!
The two swords fell into the trough of silver-red blood, but none of it splattered anywhere. For a few moments, there was nothing but the roiling surface of the blood and rising steam, as the blades began to cool.
"RRRRAAAAAARRRRRR!"
At the sound of the roar of a True Dragon, an expression, which looked like a smile, but was something else entirely, turned up the corners of Boran's lips. His eyes filled with hate and rage so deep and cold that it would have killed any mortal being that looked upon him.
"So, you are angered? I will give you pain to go with it!"
His fist tightly clenched, Boran raised his right hand over his head. Power flowed outward from his Body and began to draw more Power from the world around him. There were two distinct natures to the Power. They were, at once, both different and the same. One was a black so dark it seemed to absorb all light, shot through with veins of malignant red and purple. The other was brilliant greenish-silver so bright it would outshine the sun, shot through with veins of rich forest green and brown. The Power coalesced into a ball that had the appearance of a taiji, a yin-yang symbol.
The roar of the True Dragon quieted to a growl and became filled with fear.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!"
A stream of twisted black and greenish-silver Power poured into the quenching trough, and the growl turned into a howl of agony. As the Power poured into the blood in the trough, its level fell, and the volume of the shriek waned.
With the disappearance of the last of the blood, silence fell in the cavern. As his not-smile turned into a frown, Boran took a step forward and looked into the quenching tank. As he stared for several moments, the frown only deepened.
"Lady, what inspiration did you fill me with? What exactly have I made? The child might wield these blades for a time, but they are not destined for his hand. You and the Lord chose not to have Avatars, but the Od refuses to forego its Chosen. That child walks a path of pain, whether past, present, or future. He will only be the catalyst to finalize the nature of these blades and consolidate their patterns through pain and suffering. Their true fate lies in the future, in the hands of another not yet born."
Boran shook his head sorrowfully. "The axe is the only weapon that suits that child, but I cannot yet see how to forge one that will be right for him. I only hope that I can find the way before time runs out.
"Lady, your love is too heavy a burden for a mortal child."
Laughing at himself, Boran looked around. "Talking to myself, again. I am too old. Soon, I will enter the long sleep again."
Boran looked to the side. Seeing things beyond his current plane, his eyes revealing shadows of animosity and pain, he frowned. "In his pain, that child is drawn to other pain. I did not place the burden on the child, but my actions only heighten it. I will do this to give him a temporary solace."
*** GOR'ACHEN CITADEL – THE BATTLEGROUND OF THE DAMNED ***
RETURN: DAY 307
The suite was in shambles. Once thick, rich carpeting had been torn up and haphazardly piled in the corners of the rooms. Most of the furniture was destroyed. Some of it had been broken into splinters, and some of it appeared chemically burned or melted. Even, the stone of the floor was discolored and etched as though a caustic substance had been dumped on it.
As she had been doing for most of the day for more than two weeks, Elan'fer'sha sat on the bare stone floor of her bedroom. While she rocked back and forth, her teeth were sunk in her lower lip to keep from screaming. Rising and receding, waves of agonizing, burning pain wracked her body. She felt as though her body was being both immolated and torn apart at the same time. Time and existence had turned into a roller coaster of enough pain to drive her insane and slightly less pain.
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Prices. I have always known that everything has a price. For more than two hundred years, I constantly overused the Umbra. I knew my time was short, but why must the price come due now? I should have more time. I want more time.
Tears of pain. Tears of regret. Tears of sorrow. Elan'fer'sha's cheeks were streaked with fallen tears, and more tears, as yet, unshed, pooled in the corners of her wider than human eyes. The whipcord muscles of her slender body were tensed to the point of tearing, as she tried to hold back the tears, to hold back the pain.
Along with the pain, her emotions were out of control. Without cause or warning, they would abruptly change. In the past weeks, she had shifted from manic highs to suicidal lows, from hate to lust, from rage to ennui. At that moment, she was mired in deep depression.
An image flashed through, her mind for the umpteenth time. A scarred human bound to an altar was beneath her. His hard human dick, more than thrice the thickness of an Alfar male's, was filling her dripping pussy, as she rode him. Dozens more images of that human, uglier than other humans but so compelling to her, flashed through her mind. Most of the memories were of her fucking and being fucked by that human. The rest were of the human fighting. Every time he fought, he won. No matter how strong or ferocious the enemy, every time, the human won.
Brand! Why did I have to meet you? Why am I obsessed with you? You destroyed my focus. You destroyed me. You set me free from my obsession with vengeance. I do not understand how you became more important than my quest for my clan's murderer. I do not understand why. I just want more time. I want to feel your hands on my body. I want to feel your cock inside me.
But I am out of time. The Umbra always destroys those who use it. Some are destroyed faster, and some are destroyed slower. Even though I overused it, I should still have centuries, if not millennia, left. Why am I out of time?!
Staggering to her feet, Elan'fer'sha unsteadily stumbled into her wardrobe. Most of the clothing had been torn to shreds, and even before being torn to shreds, most of the clothing could barely be considered clothing. An open chest lay on the floor, broken vials spilling out from it. A mix of different liquids of differing colors and consistencies formed a puddle around it.
Dropping to her knees, Elan'fer'sha shredded the skin on her knees. While cursing incoherently, she flipped the chest upright and began digging in it. With her hands cut by the broken crystal vials, she pulled out a vial filled with a red, viscous liquid and drank it. As the fluid entered her stomach, the cuts on her hands and knees began to heal at a visible rate, but the burning pain wracking her body only intensified.
"Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY?! WHY?! WHY?! WHY?!" Her whispers rose in volume to all-out shrieks. Staring at the stone ceiling of her wardrobe, she helplessly shook her fists, until a new wave of pain doubled her over again. With her body wracked by spasms, she fell face down on the floor. Time turned into a blur, as she lay sobbing.
"Alfar, you are dying." The deep bass voice filled the room with sounds like stones grinding one against another.
Twisting her neck to look at the source of the voice, Elan'fer'sha froze, as raw terror filled her mind. Standing in the middle of her bedroom, a massive Dvergar looked down at her. The naked hate and contempt in his eyes nearly caused Elan'fer'sha to lose control of her bladder.
Standing barely half a head shorter than a human does, this Dvergar was a giant among his kind. The massive bulk given by his extreme muscular development made a bull orc look scrawny. If not for his imposing physical presence, the long grey beard and eyes in which a color could not be determined would have made most any being viewing him think that he was a ghost. Even though his clothes were barely more than rags, they could not detract from the inborn majesty of that Dvergar.
That Dvergar was one whose image was captured in a set of secret recording crystals from the time of the Jotun-Dragon War. Wytches are raised to be weapons of the DokkAlfar Empires. In the Atran'ler Empire, after taking her oaths, a Wytch would be shown the secret records of the darkest time the history of the DokkAlfar race.
In the final major battle of the war, this Dvergar took the field. Dozens of Jotun and Dragon Lords fell by his hand. Gods from both sides fell to him in a matter of a few thousandths. Nothing on the battlefield could match the merciless, destructive Power of this Dvergar. After that battle was over, the Dvergar spread throughout Taereun and its sub-planes. They slaughtered Alfar, Jotun, and Dragons indiscriminately.
Elan'fer'sha only viewed the ancient records once, when she was barely into adolescence, but from then till that moment, she had never forgotten the face of the Dvergar in those recordings.
"Do you want to live?"
Elan'fer'sha's mind was blank. Expecting the Dvergar in front of her to kill her, the words did not register as anything other than meaningless noise.
"Are you not going to kill me Dvergar? I am helpless. Come! Kill me! End this misery!" As unsteady as a newborn foal, while screaming at the Dvergar, Elan'fer'sha fumbled her way to her feet.
Swaying like a drunk, Elan'fer'sha pointed at the Dvergar in front of her. "What is the matter? Do you lack the balls to finish off a dying woman?"
The Dvergar looked at Elan'fer'sha with a strange expression on his face. "What Alfar female calls herself a woman?"
Elan'fer'sha stared blankly at the Dvergar, her mouth hanging part way open.
"You're my woman now. I came to take you back. I'm not letting some fucking dyke have you."
"You fucking bastard! I'm not your woman! I'm a DokkAlfar female, not some lowly human slut!"
"You're my woman. Until the day you die, you're mine."
"Who would want an ugly bastard like you?"
"Who else doesn't give a fuck that you're a Wytch? I know you're a twisted bitch, but I'm just as fucked up as you are. I want you with me."
Elan'fer'sha did not believe Brand, but even after she unleashed one of the darkest, most horrifying spells in her arsenal, Brand did not look at her any different. When she looked into his eyes, the only thing she could find was the same lust for her body that was there before. She did not believe in love. At best, love was a form of insanity, but lust was something she was well acquainted with. After she had unleashed the tumor spell in Vardne'tar Castle, all the other males looked at her with fear. Even, Mahkah had the ghost of fear in his eyes. Only, Brand was different. If anything, Brand's lust for her was stronger than before.
Then and there, she had wanted nothing more than to feel Brand's hands and mouth exploring her body. She had wanted him to thrust into her with maddened passion.
Caught up in her memories of only a couple weeks past, more tears fell from Elan'fer'sha's golden eyes, as she collapsed into a kneeling position. "Brand."
"Do you want to see the human child, Brand, again?"
Elan'fer'sha's lips quivered, looking as if they were trying to frown and smile at the same time, while more tears fell from her eyes. "It's too late. Brand has left Gor'achen, and none know where he went or how he left."
"Do you want to live? Do you want to see the human child, Brand, again?"
"YES! YES, DAMN YOU! I WANT TO LIVE! I WANT TO SEE TOMORROW AND THE MANY MORE TOMORROWS AFTER THAT! I WANT TO SEE BRAND! I WANT TO BE HIS WOMAN! HIS WOMAN! LIKE SOME LOWLY HUMAN SLUT! I WANT HIM TO FUCK ME TILL MY BODY GOES NUMB! I WANT TO FIGHT AT HIS SIDE! I WANT TO CRUSH ANYONE WHO TRIES TO THWART US BENEATH OUR FEET!" As she screamed, Elan'fer'sha surged to her feet, charging the Dvergar. Consumed by pain and rage, she violently lashed out, punctuating each word with a punch.
The Dvergar's body was hard, harder than the hardest stone or metal Elan'fer'sha had ever encountered, and he did not give in the slightest under her blows. With her body already wracked by pain from the backlash of overusing the Umbra, she did not feel the skin on her hands split, her flesh tear, or her bones shatter. Seeing blood spattering from her ruined hands, she began to laugh insanely.
"Like you, the human child Brand is warped by his pain. He only knows how to hurt and be hurt. If he is not being hurt, subconsciously, he seeks out something new to hurt him and then, seeks to destroy it. He will be hurt carrying out my will, probably worse than ever before. For him, I will give you a respite. I will remove the deliberately mislaid Power channels from your Body. I will block the Umbral Corrosion. You will have ten years to Coalesce your Power to the next Circle. If you are lucky, you might have thirty. If you ever touch the Umbra again, all my Power will leave you, and if you have not become strong enough, you will be destroyed by your own Umbral Corrosion."
The Dvergar raised his hand, and a beam of black Power shot through with malignant veins of purple and red, plunged into Elan'fer'sha's forehead. As the pain disappeared, the world around her turned black, and she lapsed into unconsciousness.
*** BOGWATER (SWAMP OF THE LOST) – THE BATTLEGROUND OF THE DAMNED ***
RETURN: DAY 307
Slan'laad stared at the bloody corpse of a twelve or thirteen-year-old human girl on its pleasure couch.
Slan'laad sighed. "When they are young, they are so nice, but they are just too fragile for words."
Slan'laad stood only an inch or two under seven feet tall, with legs disproportionately long in relation to its arms and torso. It had a frog-like head, with knobby protrusions and small horns behind its eyes. A slimy sheen coated its black-spotted golden skin, and its erect, blood dripping penis was a solid sixteen inches long and six inches in diameter.
Chained to rings on the wall of Slan'laad's pleasure room, fifteen more female human slaves were staring at him with a mix of fear and horror. Their ears were still ringing from the agony filled shrieks of the dead girl. Hanging unconscious in her shackles, the youngest slave chained to the wall was about the same age as the dead girl on the couch. The oldest was in her mid-thirties. Except for the unconscious girl, all of the other slaves had scars from being whipped. Mostly on their breasts and thighs, they had other scars that looked like they had been gnawed on by wild animals.
Stroking its jaw with one finger, Slan'laad opened its mouth in what was probably meant to pass for a smile. Ridges of serrated white bone in black wet gums gleamed, as he ran his long tongue over them.
Walking over to the oldest of the slaves, Slan'laad brutally squeezed and twisted her full, heavy breasts. "Human females are so nice and tight, but breasts like these are a work of art. Allowing you to give birth was the right choice. Plump breasts like these were meant for the tasting."
Shivering from terror, the slave lost control of herself, and a stream of urine formed a puddle around her feet.
"Slan'laad." The deep voice sounded like words formed by grinding one stone against another.
Slan'laad spun around, spraying a stream of urine across everything in an arc.
Plop! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!
His limbs trembling, Slan'laad fell to his hands and knees, and he began beating his head on the ground.
"This little Daemon is not worthy to be in the presence of the Great Dvergar Father! Forgive this little Daemon its pathetic existence! This little Daemon exists only to serve the Mighty Dvergar Second Father!"
For several minutes, Slan'laad continued to pound his head and face on the ground. Blood mixed with the urine on the ground, but he did not dare to stop.
"Cease."
Fearfully, Slan'laad looked up. The Dvergar standing in front him was clad in clothing so ragged that Slan'laad would be shamed by having his scullery maids use them for cleaning rags, but that did not diminish the Dvergar's presence in the slightest. Slan'laad did not need to look to know that the female slaves were all unconscious. They would be lucky to not suffer permanent damage from the oppressive Power emanating from the Dvergar.
"What has been happening on the plateau?" Boran's tone did not conceal the animosity he felt toward the Daemon kneeling before him.
Trembling, Slan'laad pounded his head on the ground a few more times. "Mighty Dvergar Second Father, this little Daemon is having trouble scrying on the plateau. The DokkAlfar built a massive Gate to the new world in the Upper Sea. This little Daemon cannot see through the Gate, nor can he observe the new world. The little Daemon has no excuse for his incompetence! This little Daemon pleads for mercy!"
"Have you used CHAOS in your scrying?"
The boundaries of reality seemed to twist and warp as Boran spoke the word CHAOS, but Slan'laad felt no discomfort. Rather, as Boran spoke the word, the Daemon felt the pain from the self-inflicted wounds on his head lessen. "Yes, Mighty Lord. The little bit of Chaos that this one can still draw upon was used, but it was to no effect. This little one cannot see through the gate, but the DokkAlfar have brought some things through the gate, large metal ships. These ships have been inscribed with sigils that prevent this little one from scrying on the internals, and this little one is completely unfamiliar with ships like these."
Boran frowned, and Slan'laad shivered in fear.
"Show me!"
After banging his head on the floor for several moments, Slan'laad removed a crystal based projector from his dimensional storage ring.
The images projected in midair showed Earth warships built for the United States Navy in the twentieth century and early twenty-first century.
"Continue your efforts to scry into the new pocket plane. If you succeed before my agents arrive, I will be pleased."
"Yes, Mighty Dver . . ." Before Slan'laad could finish his toadying, Boran has already disappeared.
Slan'laad's faced turned ugly, and hate filled his eyes. As he stared at the unconscious human female slaves shackled to the wall, Slan’laad was nearly overwhelmed by rage.
"No, Slan'laad. You are a cultured being. Rage is counterproductive. These human sluts saw something that they should not, but that is no reason to ruin an afternoon's relaxation."
Removing a grill from his ring, Slan'laad lit a fire and adjusted the height of the grate over the flames. A dish was set out on a table, with a fork and knife next to it on a napkin.
"First, fuck them to death, and then, enjoy a good meal." Despite the hate still lurking in his eyes, Slan'laad opened his mouth in a smile and ran his long tongue over his lips.