"Feanl!" the young mage cried out, his form leaning perilously over the window's ledge, as a glimmering azure radiance burst forth from his outstretched hand, colliding with the plummeting figure below.
Brad sensed a gentle pressure within his mind, recognizing it as an innocuous intervention, and acquiesced to its influence. As if transmuted into a feathered artifact, his descent metamorphosed into a weightless descent, until the final two meters. Yet, his respite from impact proved fleeting, for his back inevitably met the unyielding embrace of the jagged terrain. Though the force of the collision had been notably mitigated, the knight's body reverberated with anguish as the serrated rocks etched their mark into his flesh.
Uttering the same arcane incantation, Caleb vaulted from the window, his descent a display of unparalleled control. With the grace of a seasoned falcon, he alighted upon both feet, even as his breaths seethed with incensed fury, defying the lateness of the hour. His words, a paradoxical blend of serenity and indignation, wafted through the air.
"What folly consumes you, avant-garde knight? Had the Featherfall spell not etched itself in my memory, what recourse would you have sought? Does madness commandeer thy senses?"
Brad didn’t reply. Gradually, he ascended from his prone position, his gaze sweeping the surroundings with a measured scrutiny.
They were amidst the castle's hidden rear haven, a sanctuary enshrouded by towering cherry and acacia arboreal sentinels, ensconced within verdant hedgerows. At its heart, a petite ornamental basin imbued the grove with an ethereal allure. Yet, an abyssal precipice emerged thirty meters distant, casting its ominous shadow upon the fortress wall. Unperturbed, the knight embarked on his path, with the young wizard trailing curiously.
"What plagues your mind?" Caleb inquired as they approached the precipice's edge. "Do you perchance seek to embrace the final abyss?" he added, casting a gaze downwards.
The mage, with a lineage from halflings, couldn't help but entertain, however fleetingly, the notion of the knight taking a leap from the precipice. The atmosphere cloaked them in impenetrable darkness, and only at the last moment did Caleb remember to summon a magical luminescence, illuminating their path ahead. Yet, Brad appeared to possess an innate sense of direction. He came to a halt a mere stride away.
"I caught the faint scent of Averan dust," Brad disclosed, his eyes fixed upon a remote point in the dark sky, invisible to Caleb.
"Can he truly perceive the enigma that lies beyond?" Caleb pondered, though the query remained unspoken.
"Listen, Brad. As I have conveyed afore, I am a maestro of mystical arts. Let it be etched in the annals that I am no charlatan akin to half-cooked Melbourne Townthroddle. And that purveyor of illusory is worshiped by the addled minds of Half-Town. Flames and lightning hold no sway over me. Combat incantations evade my repertoire. My ardor and scholarly pursuits extend to realms that transcend mortal boundaries. And to traverse those ethereal domains, the Averan dust becomes an imperative."
"You fail to grasp the gravity, wizard. This dust is an exceedingly perilous substance," Brad retorted, his gaze unwavering on a distant horizon.
"Indeed, it may hold perils for you. Yet, for me, it serves as a key. I strive to unlock mysteries that lie beyond the boundaries of your comprehension. These endeavors bear significance for those who shall follow in my footsteps," Caleb countered.
"You're placing us in jeopardy!" Brad exclaimed with fervor.
"The onus of risk does not fall solely on me. Both you and Ismeth are present here. Remember, the three of us bear the mark."
"I witnessed you, Caleb. When your elf companion engaged in the astral traversal."
"Yes, Asvelas took a daring leap for there is a pursuer in our wake. I can sense its presence, Brad. I do not expect you to fathom... yet, there are those who observe us, lurking within our proximity, ever so close... I suspect Ismeth feels it too, though he endeavors to conceal it."
Brad fell silent, lost in contemplation. Truth be told, he experienced the same sensations. Since his awakening, a burden weighed upon his mind and body. It felt as though something foreign, indefinable, had intermingled with his essence. He had shared this revelation with no one, but it remained his truth. The wound upon his back bore the semblance of an enigma, an enigma he could not unravel.
And amidst the veiled firmament, a faint, flickering entity seemed to dwell.
"Everything is but a haze of abstraction," Brad uttered, breaking the protracted silence.
"What happened after we parted ways, Brad Silverhilt? Unveil the events that unfold. Permit me to lend my aid," Caleb responded.
"Not at this moment. First, I must regain my composure," Brad declared, his voice devoid of emotion, as he tilted his head skyward.
"By the depths, knight! You persist in your obstinacy. I stand here to offer my assistance. Why can't you embrace it wholeheartedly?" Caleb rebelled.
Brad's fists clenched, as if primed to intercept a descending force from the heavens. The young wizard discerned the tautness in his posture. Instinctively, Caleb retreated a couple of steps, creating a gap beyond striking range.
"Dodge!" Brad warned, unsheathing the silver dagger. The enchanted medallion welded to the dagger's hilt ignited with a feeble luminosity in the abyssal darkness, akin to a lantern's faint glow on a moonless night.
"I cannot fathom," Caleb said, bewildered by the turn of events.
Brad, his tension mounting, roared, "Dodge and shield yourself, you damned sorcerer!"
The knight executed a nimble sideways leap, prompting Caleb to anxiously crouch to the ground while the knight launched the dagger skyward. Caleb, an astonished witness to the unseen entity impaled by the blade and assaulted by its abhorrent, piercing screech, could have sworn it transpired. However, when he directed his arcane radiance toward that very spot, he beheld an empty void.
"For the love of the Seven Gods, what abomination is this?" Caleb inquired.
"More approaches. Close your eyes, lest you be robbed of sight," Brad calmly commanded this time.
Caleb promptly complied, yet he still sensed an ominous luminosity briefly engulfing the enveloping darkness, akin to the brilliance of day. Although his eyelids were tightly shut, he hesitated, unsure whether to brave the potential glare by opening his eyes.
"You may unveil them now," Brad uttered.
With cautious trepidation, Caleb unveiled his eyes.
Three abominations greeted his sight. The sorcerer beheld their charred remains strewn across the ground, transformed into ebony relics. The acrid stench of singed wings assailed his nostrils. These were no poultry-like odors; they emitted a repugnant, putrid aroma. Summoning his resolve, Caleb ventured closer to scrutinize the lifeless forms of these beings. Wings adorned their frames, reminiscent of humanoid vultures, while their clawed appendages instilled an eerie sense of dread.
"They bear a striking resemblance to harpies," Caleb murmured, stealing a glance at Brad. "How were you able to perceive them?" he inquired.
"I sensed their presence," Brad replied.
Caleb's heart thudded in his chest. "They must have been concealed by an invisibility spell," he muttered under his breath.
"I believe they existed on a different plane," Brad stated.
"Now you're spouting nonsense," Caleb retorted, his skepticism evident.
"I have encountered similar creatures in the past, Caleb," Brad said, his eyes brimming with nostalgic recollections.
Determined to ascertain the truth and dispel any illusions, Caleb extended his hand and touched one of the creatures. In an instant, they vanished, as if they had never occupied space.
"This is nothing more than an illusion," Caleb asserted.
"No, it is not," Brad insisted.
"How can you be so certain?" Caleb queried.
"They are still present, but not within this plane of existence," Brad explained. "Focus your gaze as if you were traversing the astral realm and look once more."
Caleb followed Brad's instructions, a practice referred to as the "soul's eye" in mystical literature—a technique easily employed by gifted psychics but acquired through arduous training for practitioners of the arcane arts.
And there they were, yet not entirely. They shimmered faintly, resembling an ethereal enchantment, but they possessed a deeper essence. Caleb was resolute in his conviction this time.
"You possess a deftness with Averan dust, Caleb. It is due to this skill that when the medallion's magic struck them, you were granted a glimpse into their authentic essence. It appears that the divine enchantment woven into the medallion has the power to unveil their true nature," Brad continued, his voice laden with conviction. "Moreover, based on my conjecture, it is the consumption of Averan dust that draws these entities to you, sorcerer," he added, fixing Caleb with a grave and searching gaze.
"And how did you come by this knowledge, Brad?" Caleb inquired. "I mean, you were a knight who seemed entirely unversed in such matters. That was my impression, wasn't it?"
"I suppose during my training as a temple knight, I received some tutelage on metaphysical entities. However, back then, I did not grant these matters due credence," Brad elucidated.
"Indeed," a voice interjected from behind. It was Priest Centavius.
Startled, Caleb leaped from his position, directing his enchanted light towards the approaching figure.
"You sensed them, did you not, priest?" Brad remarked without even turning around.
"They exude waves of evil energy," the priest uttered, taking a deep draught from his flask. "You were an exemplary pupil, Brad. Alas, you erred on the side of skepticism. Even the existence of the gods failed to captivate your interest. Whenever I asserted the actuality of these entities, you would dismiss it with a laugh. Nonetheless, you did demonstrate attentiveness during our shared lessons," the priest uttered, intoning a prayer and kindling a feeble light suffused with a tranquil and sanctified aura.
"Astre Arghans. Predators hailing from the ethereal abyss of Hatt, elusive assailants of the mortal realm. Indeed, they possess the ability to detect the lingering essence of Averan dust. Nevertheless, ordinarily, they are confined to their own dimension," the priest elucidated, meticulously scrutinizing the lifeless bodies with a sanctified radiance. "Typically, they single out their prey from among the forsaken."
'The forsaken' was a phrase for individuals who had succumbed to the intoxicating allure of copious amounts of Averan dust, thereby relinquishing their grasp on reality. Caleb was well acquainted with this knowledge.
"Yet, something diverges from the norm here. Of course! The indelible marks upon our backs," the fledgling sorcerer interjected, as if unearthing a profound revelation, his elation swiftly eclipsed by the weightiness of their predicament.
Centavius nodded, granting him the necessary time for comprehension. "Your unnatural marks render you prime targets and tenuous threads within the tapestry of reality," he pronounced. "Journeying alongside three marked victims serves as a testament to the audacious nature unique to us pariahs," he appended, savoring a bitter sip from his chalice.
"That is why you maintained your distance from us and regarded us with suspicion throughout our expedition," Caleb declared.
The priest nodded solemnly. "I beg your pardon, sorcerer. We were unable to divulge this knowledge to you. My understanding is acquired through keen observation. Furthermore, heightened trepidation and despondency would only sow needless panic, leading you closer to their clutches."
"Oh, how reassuring," Caleb retorted with dripping sarcasm. "If only you had cautioned me against the perils of Averan dust," he scolded the priest.
The priest's gaze turned flinty this time. "Caleb, you are ensnared in the grip of addiction. It appears rather fruitless to dissuade you."
"No, I am not. I have abstained for eight days," Caleb protested, his voice quivering and his hands trembling.
"Because Master David cautioned you," the priest replied.
Caleb couldn't refute that deduction.
"Yet, you ruminate on it day after day. And eventually, you succumbed, compelling your elven companion to partake," Centavius continued, his tone laced with harshness.
"I imperiled Asvelas as well," Caleb murmured, his shoulders hunched in shame.
"You jeopardized us all," Brad said in an impassive tone.
"Well, gentlemen, now that the gravity of the true menace has seized your understanding... I grant you a few days to gather your faculties. On the day we embark upon the vessel, we shall delve into this matter with greater profundity," the priest declared, his gait swaying as he ambled back toward the fortress. He continued to indulge in his libation.
"Why on the ship? Why not sooner?" Caleb inquired as the priest departed.
"The seas are relatively deserted, and ships provide relatively secure sanctuaries. Especially when they have been sanctified by a priest of my caliber," Centavius responded. "By someone with my exceptional skills," he added, chuckling intermittently with a voice tainted by drunkenness.
Brad and Caleb exchanged silent glances. They were both aware of the distinct mistakes that had led them to their current plight. However, recognizing that these were personal matters requiring introspection, they refrained from further conversation, avoiding unnecessary complications as they quietly made their way toward the fortress.
"I am grateful for saving my life," Caleb expressed simply as they neared the gate.
Brad nodded respectfully.
"A levitation spell?" Caleb pointed to the window, seeking confirmation.
"I prefer the use of stairs," Brad replied, making his way toward the back door. As Caleb ascended toward his own room's window, he cast another glance at the abyss behind him. It sent a chill down his spine, as if a lingering presence continued to watch them from there.
* * *
The sorceress abruptly sprung awake, her vision obscured by a hazy blur. She struggled to grasp her surroundings, unable to comprehend where she found herself. Save for the intense, fiery crimson radiance cast by the engulfing flames, the rest remained veiled in obscurity. A frigid gust of wind swept across her face and body, reawakening her senses from their dormant state. Her muscles constricted, and her bones and joints throbbed incessantly, tormenting her with every movement.
Yet, the searing agony that tormented her stomach surpassed all else, as if it were being devoured by relentless flames. Nausea gripped her, compelling her to lean to the side and violently expel the contents of her churning insides. Her throat, mouth, and every fiber of her being felt tainted, as though she had ingested a lethal poison. Bitter bile surged up her throat, threatening to overwhelm her.
Amidst her turmoil, she sensed the presence of someone offering support, a hand steadying her shoulder. She turned her face, struggling to focus her gaze on the figure attempting to aid her, while cautiously surveying her surroundings. Gradually, her vision began to regain clarity, albeit only to a slight degree.
"Melphin," Charlotta whispered, her gaze falling upon the curly, crimson locks and bearded countenance of the round-headed gnome.
"Yes, it is I, Charlotta," the man responded calmly.
"Pray tell, where have we found ourselves?" Charlotta inquired, her eyes sweeping the surroundings.
Before her loomed a dimly lit metal hearth, its somber glow casting an air of ominousness in the room. The walls, with their angular and gothic contours, ascended in triangular forms towards the ceiling, which boasted a dome-like structure. Charlotta recognized that she was within an unsettling chamber. Nestled within the space, she reclined upon a luxurious yet melancholic chair, its anthracite-hued silk fabric embellished with intricate embroidery, and its headrests meticulously carved from wood. A massive bear skin rug adorned the floor, its majestic head directed toward the fireplace. The wooden floorboards had taken on a darkened hue.
"Fear not, for the moment you are safe," Melphin assured her.
Charlotta detected the quiver in the gnome's voice, perceiving it as an embodiment of fear. She delved into her thoughts, scouring for any incantations, only to find her recollection void of any spells. It had been an extended slumber of more than a few days since she last emerged. Every fiber of her being throbbed, teetering on the precipice of collapse.
"Have I been poisoned?" Charlotta whispered, her words barely audible.
Melphin offered no response; instead, he retreated a few paces. In that fleeting moment, a stealthy footfall brushed against her ears—the deliberate tread upon weathered and creaking floorboards. Despite the agony, Charlotta managed to straighten herself somewhat, casting her gaze backward.
Through the ajar doorway strode a figure, cloaked in obsidian black. A white silk shirt and a wine-hued waistcoat adorned his form. The source of the sound she had heard was his cane.
Charlotta softly intoned a modest incantation under her breath, exerting herself to summon a familiar spell. The man, unmistakably an elf by the enchantment bestowed upon his cane and cloak, exuded an aura of enigma. Rings and a necklace sparkled upon his fingers and throat. A chill coursed through Charlotta's spine. He was a Varylles elf, identifiable by the crimson locks adorned with ivory ribbons. Yet his countenance, it bore a deathly pallor, bereft of vitality.
"You're withering away, Charlotta, descendant of Attan," the man intoned with a frigid voice.
"Did you taint me, elf lord?" the sorceress challenged, undaunted.
"I administered a dose sufficient to plunge you into a coma," the man responded.
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Charlotta struggled to comprehend. Her gaze sought out the gnome concealed in the shadows. Melphin had distanced himself upon the elf's arrival. With a gloved hand raised, the elf lord granted permission for the gnome to speak.
"You carry the affliction of cancer, Charlotta. It ravages your body, spreading swiftly. As an adept healer, I can assert that I have never witnessed such a strain before. It must be infused with magic. Hence, I accepted Lord Eldarion's offer of aid," Melphin elucidated, his head bowed.
"I grasp nothing," Charlotta whispered. Yet the searing torment within her, the excruciating creak of her joints with every movement, had long been harbingers of an unsettling truth.
"To impede the relentless advance of your malignant cancer, we plunged you into a state of slumber, a coma. And we accomplished this feat by harnessing the venom of the elusive moriphis fungus," Eldarion elucidated, his smile etched with an icy demeanor that mirrored his haughtiness and self-importance.
Charlotta's eyes widened in sheer disbelief. The moriphis fungus was among the rarest and most precious flora known to exist. It possessed a potency that surpassed the capabilities of even the most revered priests—a flicker of hope to rekindle life in those teetering on the edge of oblivion.
"But how?" the sorceress implored, her voice steeped in desolation.
"We have scant time at our disposal. You must recount the events of that fateful day," the elf lord decreed, his tone indifferent. "We must plunge you back into the abyss of slumber," he added, unaffected by the weight of his words.
Charlotta endeavored to rise, a fervent desire to defy her affliction and deny the grim reality compelling her. Alas, her efforts proved futile as her feet remained rooted in stillness.
"I am sorry, Charly. You can't move. Your legs..." Melphin sympathetically tried to explain.
She was paralyzed.
"Even if by some miracle you were to survive, mobility would pose a formidable challenge. Your feet are in a grievous state that defies easy rectification," The pallid-faced elf spoke with disdain, his gaze fixed upon the sorceress.
"No, I cannot surrender to death," Charlotta objected, her voice laced with anguish.
"Silence!" Lord Eldarion hissed. "You squander our time. Commence your recollection. Yes, Charlotta, you found yourself amidst the towering twin peaks of Charlattan... Then?" He halted at his last sentence, allowing a pregnant pause to hang in the air.
Charlotta grappled to gather her thoughts. Melphin, with raised eyebrows, signaled her, but his message eluded her comprehension. A lingering silence permeated the chamber.
"Understood. We shall induce a state of conscious coma. You shall endure the torment—a manifestation of the enchanted cancer that ravages your very being. It shall unleash a protracted and excruciating demise, rest assured. For I possess the power to prolong it, to assuage your suffering," Eldarion paused, then continued, "or perhaps, I may elect not to intervene. Let us witness if your reluctance to speak persists." His gaze mirrored the cold, unyielding strength of forged iron.
"Please, my lord," Melphin implored, taking measured steps forward.
Eldarion turned away, lifting his right hand in a commanding gesture.
"Grant me leave to converse with Charlotta, my lord," Melphin pleaded once more, his tone carrying a sense of desperation.
At that very moment, the chamber's entrance welcomed the arrival of three figures, concealed behind masks and adorned in garments of black and purple. Their lithesome and nimble frames, accompanied by their elegant gait, left no doubt in Charlotta's mind—they were elves.
With disdainful force, one of the elves shoved the gnome, causing Melphin to stumble and collapse onto the ground. Charlotta yearned to voice her protest, yet her strength had forsaken her. Meanwhile, another elf ensnared the sorceress's feeble arms, firmly holding her in place.
The remaining elf clasped in hand a glass vessel, its slender tip adorned with a dart submerged in a bewitching purple elixir. Swiftly and purposefully, he pierced the woman's arm, deploying the mechanism at the dart's rear to facilitate the fluid's entrance into her bloodstream. Charlotta recognized this glass-encased instrument—it was a syringe, an ingenious creation of Melphin's. The skilled gnome healer employed it from time to time to conduct blood transfusions for his ailing patients.
"Should you refrain from inflicting harm upon Melphin, Lord Eldarion, I shall be willing to cooperate," declared the woman with fiery red tresses, just moments before experiencing the sting of the syringe.
"We shall see," uttered the departing elf lord as he exited the chamber, leaving an aura of uncertainty in his wake.
As the woman's vision succumbed to an abyss of darkness, an inferno of searing sensations surged within her physique once more. Its intensity reached such levels that it seemed as if she were being devoured alive. Desperate screams tore from her throat, but they remained trapped within, unheard by any soul within the lofty chamber. To them, she was naught but a quivering figure, immersed in the realm of slumber.
* * *
It was the dawning of winter, with the air filled with a biting chill and the wind whispering through the noon hour. Along the meandering path of Mountainkeep, adorned with its nine sinuous bends, two figures strode with purpose. This path, renowned as the Lion's Road, owed its name to the majestic lion sculptures that adorned the apex of the railings on either side.
Those two figures were Illuen D'Harven, the sovereign of Illuthar, and Illaine De'Grace, the esteemed high priestess of the sacred Orion Temple. They were siblings who didn't see each other for a while.
The king, known among the knights as the High Commander, strode purposefully ahead, his hands clasped behind his back, paying no heed to his elder sister.
His once-golden hair and mustache, now partially tinged with gray, along with his slightly disheveled beard, complemented the intricately crafted matte gray chainmail armor that seemed more suited for a battle-hardened warrior than a mere king.
The ethereal melody of the armor's delicate links created a subtle jingling symphony in the wind as he continued his measured strides.
Fashioned from the rare and coveted paladium metal, this chainmail was a masterpiece handcrafted by the skilled Galanadel elves. It possessed a remarkable lightness, unlike traditional armors, producing minimal noise, while boasting an impenetrable weave and unrivaled durability. The metal plates, adorned with mystical runes, had been imbued with an array of enchantments.
After they paced aimlessly for a while, Illuen broke the silence, his voice laced with a sense of authority. "For the span of four years, we have toiled to forge unity among the denizens of this realm, Illaine. Yet, throughout this significant time, you have been absent from the gatherings of the esteemed Council of Nine. Both Chaz and Erk harbor resentment towards your absence."
"As our sovereign, you are well aware of my aversion to the intricacies of politics," Illaine replied, his lips curling into a smile.
"I am your brother, Illaine. No need for formalities between us. Now, pray tell, what has befallen you?" inquired Illuen, fixing his sibling with a resolute gaze.
"What tidings have reached your ears, dear brother?" Illaine queried.
Illuen halted his stride, drawing closer to the ornate railing. He extended his hand to brush against one of the lion sculptures adorning its pinnacle, his gaze fixed upon the sprawling cityscape that sprawled beyond.
"The mines nestled within the Charlotta Mountains hold great promise. Initially, they could serve as beacons during our expeditions. Admittedly, the presence of toxic dust poses certain challenges, but they can be overcome," Illuen began.
"I do not seek counsel on that matter, Illuen," Illaine interjected as he approached the king.
"I have bestowed rewards upon the valiant knight aspirants who discovered these mines, Illaine. You wished to dispatch them covertly on an expedition to the heart of the northern realm, accompanied by two unseasoned nobles. Without hesitation, I endorsed this decree. What more do you desire of me?" Illuen retorted.
"Why do you not inquire about the reasons behind my actions, my dear little brother?"
Illuen heaved a profound sigh, realizing it had been an eternity since Illaine addressed him as "my little brother." Such a term was reserved for weighty discussions.
"Why did you orchestrate this clandestine expedition, Illaine?" he reluctantly inquired, already bracing himself for the response.
"We have unearthed the trail of a lost deity," replied the high priestess, her voice brimming with fervor.
"According to our findings, Artisan vanished alongside the Pagancity three centuries ago, Illaine. Our duty was supposedly fulfilled," Illuen contended.
"No, it is far from over, Illuen." The aged woman's voice cut through the air with unexpected sharpness.
Furrowing his brow, the king turned his gaze upon her. Despite a mere fifteen-centimeter gap between them, his shadow seemed to envelop her entirely.
"As the high priestess of the Orion Temple, Illaine, you possess a unique vantage point to comprehend the grand tapestry. Embrace the truth, for I have severed the pact with Orion," the king's tone matched the forthrightness and gravity of his stare.
"The Supreme Orion did not sanction such an act. You still harbor power. With a mere touch, you can beseech his aid and stand with us," she implored.
"The very fate of the world hangs in the balance!" she cried out.
The king merely laughed. "The world's fate has forever teetered on the edge of peril. Share something novel with me."
"I dare say one of the knights might bear the mark of the Seven," Illaine murmured under her breath.
Illuen inclined his head, running his hand through his locks and sweeping back the cascading strands that gracefully framed his forehead.
"Our discourse concludes here, Illaine. I did not summon you to indulge in your fixation with the seven heralds," the king proclaimed, pivoting toward the fortress gate and striding away.
Illaine chased after him, clumsily gathering the billowing and fragmented folds of her trailing gown. "You were the chosen ones. The remaining four will soon embark on their quest to find you," she whispered.
Abruptly, Illuen halted and turned back, his frustration palpable as he confronted his sister. "Malore has perished. I witnessed it with my own eyes. That cursed Laneth has vanished for four long years. Rumor has it he offended one of the Ancients, and in retribution, the man banished Laneth from this realm or perhaps eradicated him, paying the price of being branded a rebel by his people. Which triumvirate do you speak of, Illaine?"
With each uttered word, the woman's stature seemed to dwindle beneath the weight she carried. The burden upon her was so immense that the high priestess ultimately succumbed to her knees. The White Shadow loomed nearby, still and silent. It had unveiled itself when her brother's grasp faltered, manifesting its raw might.
Illuen fell into silence, observing his sister's descent to the ground. For a fleeting moment, he contemplated extending a helping hand to aid her rise. But he swiftly dismissed the notion. He turned his back and resumed his determined stride toward the castle gate.
"The gods shattered the pact ere I did, Illaine. Never let that escape your memory," he reminded his sister, as though anticipating her comprehension.
"Then why does the White Shadow persist, standing beside you?" Illaine pondered.
Truly, she had relentlessly sought the answer to this question throughout the past four years. All she could do was clutch onto hope, believing that she drew closer to its revelation.
* * *
The vessel, bedecked with inert azure oyster shells, surged through the waters with unyielding momentum, its destination set for the fabled Dead Elf Bay—known amongst the elves as Vahlcos Albnatr—in the far north of the Athellas Inland Sea. Aloft, a scarlet flag, adorned with the emblem of a fiery boar, danced proudly atop the mast, while its sails swelled and billowed in response to the playful gusts.
"So, the vessel bears the name Blue Oyster?" Ismeth inquired, his steps ascending towards the ship's deck.
"Aye," came the response from Captain Barbarossa, a colossal figure boasting the most luxuriant ebon beard and a broad countenance that Ismeth had ever laid eyes upon. This strapping mariner, possessed of sun-kissed skin and an air of command, further expounded, "Yet we, in all our glory, are the valiant War Pigs."
"Indeed," the captain intoned with his resonant baritone.
"The War Pigs aboard the Blue Oyster. How intriguing," Ismeth mused, a playful glint illuminating his eyes.
Captain and crew hailed from the illustrious Illinthia Island, the grandest of all known isles within the Aerkha Realm, ensconced in the southeastern expanse of the sprawling Illuthar Continent.
"Should not you Illinthians be meandering amidst the ethereal Mist Sea on the south or along the western shores of the Infinite Sea?" Elphered queried as their voyage commenced.
"Weary did I grow of the Mist Sea, thus into the Inland Sea we ventured," expounded the captain, elucidating his choice.
"Ah, indeed, the true excitement always awaits here, in the inner seas," Ismeth quipped, his mirthful gaze accompanied by a sly wink.
On the tenth day of their arduous journey, the company finally arrived in Smyrnia, as dusk cast its enchanting hues upon the horizon. There, nestled within the Smyrna Harbors, they beheld the unique vessel known as the Blue Oyster, destined to carry them toward the Varylles Region—a mysterious and dangerous elf land, nestled in the mid-north of the realm. The weight of exhaustion hung heavy upon them all, sapping their vitality and resolve.
They had sought respite within the comfortable confines of Bournavia Castle on the eighth eve. But Brad, Caleb, and Priest Centavius shared a moment during the attack of ethereal creatures. Though they remained tight-lipped about the events that unfolded beneath the shroud of night, the rest of the group had also endured restless nights, plagued by an array of restless spirits that eluded their comprehension.
In truth, the threads of their experiences were interwoven, creating a tangle of enigmas that confounded all but Priest Centavius, who possessed a discerning eye for the arcane. Yet, he chose to withhold his intuitions until certainty embraced his convictions.
As the night of the tenth day unfurled its tranquil wings, each weary soul retreated to their designated quarters, seeking refuge in the sanctuary of dreams. Slumber claimed them with greater serenity than the preceding days, save for Brad.
In the depths of his restless slumber, the sleepless knight became ensnared in a haunting vision of Charlotta—his heart intertwined with her anguish, tethered to her plight. When dawn graced the sky, they treaded lightly, abstaining from any significant undertakings and cloaking themselves in solitude.
And as the eleventh night descended, Brad stirred once more from his tormented reverie, bewitched by haunting images of Charlotta's suffering. Driven by an insatiable urge, he ascended to the deck, seeking solace in the embrace of the nocturnal breeze.
Brad, Ismeth, Dylan, and Elphered took up residence in the crew's quarters, sharing the space with the ship's mariners. Caleb and Asvelas found solace in a guest chamber, while Shae, Christine, and Priest Centavius occupied another chamber nearby.
Leaning against the railing on the deck, Priest Centavius cast his gaze upon the boundless sea, his hands perpetually lifting the goblet to his lips.
"When did sleep forsake you too?" the priest inquired upon noticing Brad's presence.
Brad shook his head restlessly and couldn't help but ask, "Why do you partake in such copious drinking, Father?"
With a gesture, the priest revealed the bottle and replied, "It aids me in enduring."
Brad merely shrugged, choosing not to delve deeper into the matter. The air had turned bitterly cold, and intermittent showers of rain mingled with snow descended upon them. With every step taken toward the north, the frigid bite of the northern cold penetrated their very souls.
"Do you continue to experience the same dream, Brad?" the priest asked, his gaze unwavering, fixed upon the undulating waves.
Brad nodded. "Have I spoken of the sorceress before?"
"Charlotta?" Centavius queried.
Again, Brad nodded. "She is dying. I can sense it, somehow."
"So, you have formed a connection with her," Centavius remarked.
Brad shrugged his shoulders. "I don’t know why," he whispered softly.
"Nor do I, my friend," Centavius said.
"I know little about her, only fragments of her life, a mere glimpse into her existence. But I perceive her fading away, slowly surrendering to the depths of agony. It defies all reason," Brad continued.
"Sometimes, the world reveals its senselessness until meaning unveils itself," Centavius replied.
Once again, Brad shrugged, finding solace in his indifference.
They sat in silence, their eyes fixed upon the ever-changing vista before them. After a while, Brad sought refuge in slumber once more. He slept for a brief respite, only to awaken and immerse himself in the rituals of training and the demands of their daily tasks.
The thirteenth night started serenely, mirroring the peacefulness of its predecessors. Assisted by the crew, Priest Centavius prepared the ship's largest chamber, nestled aft just beneath the watchful eye of the navigation bridge, for the upcoming gathering. He had already dispatched invitations to those who were to be in attendance.
As Brad entered the chamber, his gaze immediately fell upon the dangling dreamcatchers scattered about the room. His attention then shifted to the tightly covered windows, adorned with cloths intricately inscribed with ancient runes. The sole source of illumination within the room emanated from the ship-shaped metal candlestick, casting a gentle radiance upon the elliptical birchwood table. No other light permeated the chamber.
Facing Priest Centavius, Brad inquired, "For what reason have you made all these preparations?"
After taking a deep swig from his flask, the priest replied, "I sought to fashion a clandestine yet welcoming atmosphere for our gathering."
On the table rested three bottles of Illinthia wine, untouched by the priest's hand. Ismeth had already settled in, savoring the taste of the exquisite libation. Elphered and Dylan occupied seats beside him, while Shae positioned herself across from the priest. Asvelas and Caleb stood by their side, with Christine being the sole absentee.
"Very well, esteemed lady and gentlemen. Let us commence," Priest Centavius greeted the assembly once they had assumed their positions.
"On this eve, I beseech each of you to reveal the stones concealed beneath your garbs," he continued. "Who shall volunteer as the first?" he inquired, sweeping his gaze across the assembled faces.
Caleb naturally raised his hand, and with the priest's approval, he cleared his throat and commenced his speech.
"Now, where shall I embark?" he mused aloud. "Ah, yes. We all embarked upon this voyage upon the summons of Knight Silverhilt. But I implore you, does anyone truly possess knowledge of our destination and our purpose?" he posed the question, fixing his gaze upon Brad.
Brad maintained his silence, while Caleb wore a frustrated smirk on his face.
"Come now, Brad. Everyone is eager for an explanation from you," Ismeth urged, prodding him.
Brad's jaw clenched tightly as he assessed the assembled group.
"We embark on a quest to locate the guardian of Taneras Forest," he declared calmly, his gaze shifting between Asvelas and Caleb.
The furrowed brow of the half-elf interrupted, "This forest of which you speak lies to the east of Lathvaryl, within my homeland. It serves as a sanctuary for elves and half-elves seeking refuge from enslavement. However, Taneras does not possess a guardian. Your information is erroneous. 'Ursa' signifies the spirit of the forest—a concealed force, a wellspring of spirituality."
"I suspected as much," the priest remarked, his smile unwavering.
"In that case, our first course of action shall be to locate the forest and then uncover its source," Brad declared.
"But why?" Caleb questioned. "These words, Larthvaryl and Ursa, branded onto our backs. One compels us towards that place, yet we may be stepping into a snare."
"Trap or not, this clue is all we possess," Brad replied.
"Speaking of clues, or rather, the opportune moment to address it, what symbol adorns your back, Silverhilt? Why do you keep it veiled from us?" the wizard inquired with a stern countenance.
"That information shall remain mine," Brad asserted.
"See, he repeats the same pattern. He denies us the chance to aid him. We always forge ahead with fragmented knowledge," Caleb lamented, this time directing his complaint to the priest.
"Wizard Caleb, I cannot compel Sir Brad to disclose that information. However, I propose a solution that involves shared efforts," Priest Centavius stated, his gaze sweeping across the faces before him.
"An astral travel. But it shall be a meticulously orchestrated odyssey of exploration," the priest continued, extracting a violet fungus from his pocket.
"Moriphis mushroom," Asvelas hissed in recognition.
Caleb nodded in agreement, while the neophyte knights observed with puzzled expressions.
Brad rose from his seat. "No," he declared firmly. "I shall have no part in yet another derivative of Averan dust," he added.
The priest reclined in his chair, fixing a piercing gaze upon Brad, yet remaining silent.
"This sojourn may lead you to the enigmatic sorceress Charlotta, allowing you to unveil her whereabouts. It would bestow upon us a distinct advantage," Caleb elucidated.
Brad hesitated, then sank back into his seat, lost in contemplation.
"I shall accompany you," Ismeth whispered.
Brad shook his head, signaling a resolute "no."
"Given their marked destinies, Caleb and Ismeth should venture forth with you," Priest Centavius proposed.
"I cannot expose them to peril," Brad objected.
"They already face grave perils," Priest Centavius asserted. "However, with the amulet, you possess a chance to shield them. Once a day, you may repel those creatures. Hopefully, that shall suffice."
"I possess incantations to safeguard myself against ethereal entities," Caleb declared.
"I am willing to accompany and protect Caleb," Asvelas added.
Brad offered no objection to the half-elf's zealous offer.
"Am I to be the sole defenseless one then?" Ismeth jested, releasing a chuckle.
Shae approached him, adorned with a necklace bearing a pointed pendant that resembled a pilgrim's staff, gracefully entwined within a loop. It was but one of her many cherished necklaces. She delicately removed it and bestowed it upon Ismeth, whispering, her voice a mere breath in the dark-skinned knight's ear, "This shall grant you a measure of protection." With that, she gracefully stepped back.
Ismeth leaped to his feet, a surge of exhilaration coursing through his veins. "Let chaos reign! I stand prepared," he proclaimed with fervor.
"Compose yourself, valiant knight. This endeavor shall merely be a modest foray of exploration," Priest Centavius reassured, his voice steady and calming.
He then proceeded to elucidate the manner in which the mushroom should be employed.
"Press the cap of the mushroom gently, allowing the spores to gracefully emerge. Inhale them just once, should the need for a hasty awakening arise. We possess but a solitary mushroom, thereby entrusting you, Brad, with its vigilant guardianship."
The mushroom, in a state of decay and desiccation, emitted a repugnant odor that assailed Brad's nostrils, causing them to twitch involuntarily. Even Ismeth, as the scent wafted closer, caught a whiff, prompting him to scrunch up his face in distaste.
"It smells like...," Ismeth commented, his tone tinged with unease.
"Death," Brad concluded, his voice carrying the weight of solemnity.
After completing their preparations, the quartet assembled in unison. The remaining occupants of the chamber had departed, concealing their mouths behind cloth masks.
Brad exerted pressure on the mushroom, unleashing its spores into the surrounding air. Still tightly gripped within his palm, the mushroom retained its form.
The four men stood in an eerie stillness, intermittently experiencing involuntary spasms.
"Is this to be expected?" Dylan inquired, his voice tinged with apprehension.
The priest wore a knowing smile upon his lips.
They discerned the piercing shrieks emanating from beyond the chamber, relentlessly assaulting the fortified windows, desperately seeking ingress. The vessel they inhabited commenced an unsettling sway akin to that of a tempestuous sea.
"This deviates greatly from the norm," Dylan commented, instinctively retreating towards the corner.
"In the event that these abominations assail the crew..." Elphered fretted, inching closer to the exit.
Shae, the monk, interposed herself before the aspiring knight, effectively impeding his advance.
"Remain composed, valiant knight. I have already alerted the captain, and the deck shall remain untrodden for a time. Nonetheless, these creatures have already embarked on the trail of our comrades," the priest expounded, gesturing towards the quartet ensconced at the table, their forms resembling motionless sculptures.
Their rigid forms convulsed with heightened intensity, seized by erratic spasms. The windows splintered, their frames callously torn asunder. Within, the occupants bore witness to the seared imprints of claws and smoldering runes, etched upon the very fabric they sought to rend apart. Assisted by Elphered and Shae, the priest labored to swathe the surfaces with renewed protective veils. Yet, the relentless assault surged with growing vigor, leaving no choice but to maintain a safe distance. The undulating waves that buffeted the ship surged in tandem, their force amplified.
"Steel yourself, Shae," the priest whispered.
The monk gracefully assumed a cross-legged position atop the table, delving into the depths of her being through meditation, harnessing her inner power. Elphered unsheathed his sword, positioning himself steadfastly at her side. Dylan, trembling in a corner, summoned his waning courage and unsheathed his blade, commencing his fervent prayers to Orion.
"A prudent decision," the priest remarked, a smile gracing his lips. He indulged in another sip of his drink. And then another.
In the very moment they awaited the cataclysmic blow that would shatter the ethereal garments ablaze with divine enchantment, the cacophony and chaos abruptly ceased.
The priest's gaze fixated upon the quartet seated at the table. He blinked his eyes only once. Then the scenery changed. The mushroom had tumbled onto the surface of the table, but the four men had vanished into thin air. In the span of a fleeting heartbeat, they had been utterly erased from existence.
"Well, this was not within my foresight," the priest muttered, wiping spilled liquor from his chin. Then, with resolve, he tilted the entire bottle and drained its contents in one final draught.