The knight, narrowly escaping the clutches of the colossal deceased wolf, had held onto the hope of making a safe landing atop the crest. He'd made a daring leap from the towering battlements of the Black Crystal Keep in the very nick of time. However, fortune did not favor him; instead, he found himself tumbling down to the unforgiving earth below. The terrain of the incline was a severe adversary, its steepness and jagged features relentless. Even with Caleb's featherfall spell, intended to temper his descent, Brad alighted as gracefully as an airborne squirrel. Yet, as his boots touched the ground, equilibrium deserted him without delay. In this dire moment, the wizard's bag of tricks had been emptied. Solitude became his only companion.
His fall initiated an uncontrolled avalanche of events. Brad soon found himself helplessly enmeshed in an involuntary descent. He instinctively shielded his visage, curling into a fetal posture in a desperate endeavor to protect himself from free-falling boulders. Repeatedly, he endured harsh collisions with the unyielding rocks. Despite safeguards briefly in place for those fleeting heartbeats, his limbs bore the brunt of the assault, left battered and bruised.
The forceful impact of his last collision sent his feet soaring from the earth. In mid-air, he spun uncontrollably, trapped in a whirlwind of chaos. In the midst of this turmoil, an extraordinary sight caught his eye—a venerable and eccentric specimen of a maple tree, unlike any other, its trunk stretching almost parallel to the ground.
The branches of this tree, which typically grazed the earth below, now ascended into the air, as though swayed by an invisible breeze. They appeared to momentarily ensnare Brad, or at least that's how it seemed to the knight. As he observed clusters of snow and even small rocks wrenched from the ground whizzing past his feet, Brad had a tingling sensation that this elderly tree was stretching, akin to a trebuchet being readied for launch, its branches emitting ominous creaks.
This couldn't be possible. True, the slope's surface was perpetually subjected to savage winds, but it should not possess the power to uproot a tree adorned with such sturdy and thick branches.
In the midst of his bewilderment, the knight, instead of resisting and grappling with the peculiarity of the moment, experienced an overwhelming sense of tranquility and security, akin to an infant cradled in its mother's arms. It was reminiscent of the peculiar familiarity he had felt when confronting the gargantuan wolves. Faced with the bestowal of such extraordinary gifts by nature, what words could he summon...
The taut bough, in an almost choreographed fashion, relinquished its hold on Brad, lowering him with a gentle grace down the slope. This entire sequence of events unfolded in the mere span of a few heartbeats. The knight harbored no fear, even as he drew near a diminutive mound shrouded in a pristine blanket of snow. With his entire being, he welcomed the destiny that the sagacious tree had ordained for him.
His descent beneath the snowy shroud, while not as smooth as he had initially hoped, led him to a newfound abode within the heart of a stygian cavern. The crevice through which he had entered had already been securely sealed with layers of rock, earth, and a thick quilt of snow.
The searing agony from his recent ordeal gnawed at him relentlessly. Relying solely on his sense of touch, he fumbled for a piece of timber. Squeezing the last precious drops of lamp oil onto a handkerchief he'd thought to bring along, he swathed the cloth around the timber, saturating it with the oily residue. Retrieving his flint, he ignited a torch.
As the newfound light bathed the surroundings, he took stock of his predicament. The passage leading back the way he had come was now entirely sealed, a foreboding curtain of rock. The crevice ahead extended into an intricate, seemingly endless labyrinthine descent. Using his sword as a makeshift staff, he laboriously hoisted himself upright, fervently hoping that the cave didn't plunge him into even deeper and more convoluted depths. He trailed the natural subterranean course, trusting it might lead him to an escape.
With every step down, the air grew heavy with moisture, a stifling embrace. Distantly, he discerned the murmurs of underground springs. After a swift but grueling descent marked by impediments and injuries due to his haggard condition, he arrived at a vast chamber where stalactites clustered ominously above. His torch's flickering flame was fast waning.
He ventured closer to the stalactites and brushed his hand against the stone. Its surface felt frigid and rugged under his touch. On instinct, he started to scrape at it with his fingernails, revealing a transparent, crystalline structure underneath. He mused that it might be quartz stones. When the torch's light caressed it, the crystal erupted into a dazzling array of colors: rich greens, vibrant yellows, deep reds, and vivid blues. It was like a soothing salve to Brad's suffering. Each angle unveiled a different hue in the radiant reflection.
Fueled by curiosity, the knight continued his experiments. As the flames drew nearer, the earthy veneer on the stone began to peel and flake away, and the entire cluster of stalactites swiftly transformed into a singular, resplendent crystal, radiating even more brilliantly and adorned with its own distinct grandeur, as if anticipating a change in its surroundings that would draw attention to its splendor. Brad even entertained the notion that his very breaths seemed to breathe more life into the crystalline structure.
"Impossible, this can't be real," protested his ever-skeptical side.
Throughout his brief yet eventful existence, excluding this recent month, he had borne witness to supernatural, awe-inspiring occurrences on several occasions, more frequently than most could ever lay claim to. Nonetheless, he clung unwaveringly to the conviction that every phenomenon harbored a rational explanation, and the pursuit of these explanations was scarcely a worthwhile endeavor. He had, at least, subscribed to the belief that the deductions of an individual as unremarkable as himself would hardly contribute significantly to the grand tapestry of the world.
"Anomalies crop up from time to time; acclimate and move forward," he habitually admonished himself.
Nevertheless, within this cavern, he had discerned something tangible, something that bore the potential for menace. A swiftly gliding silhouette. The knight retreated with composure, seeking refuge in a crouch against the stalactites. A battle-weary and injured warrior understood the imperative of securing his rear.
Once more, the shadow stirred, emerging alongside the torch's flickering glow on the stone's surface. The torch itself had dwindled significantly. Brad pondered the idea of preparing another, but the lamp oil had run dry. The stalactites, it seemed, could only refract the meager existing light. Thus, once the torch succumbed to darkness, the crystal wonder would likely lose its brilliance, plunging them into obscurity anew. As the torch waned, an eerie sensation of unrest surged within the knight, and the shadow cast upon the stalactite deepened and expanded.
At that precise moment, Brad felt an unwavering resolve: darkness would not rule this place. What recourse did he have? His hand gravitated instinctively toward the dagger secured at his hip. He unsheathed it, eyeing the hilt adorned with the engraved Orion medallion.
He recalled the prayers of his dear friend Maleckhie, a young and devoted temple squire. Brad echoed Maleckhie's impassioned and steadfast demeanor, his voice infused with hope as he closed his eyes.
"Mighty Orion, I beseech you, heed my plea. Be my vision and my hearing in this benighted cavern. Illuminate this shadowed path, guide me with your light," he implored.
And lo, there came illumination.
As the torch's flicker waned, the medallion burst forth with radiance akin to a nocturnal beacon. Brad deftly adjusted the dagger, orienting the medallion's visage toward the crystalline depths. In the heart of the crystal, a figure materialized. He observed it with unwavering scrutiny.
An elf, yet unlike any he had ever beheld. This elf bore the visage of age, with locks of purest white cascading, brows pale as moonlight, and a countenance as pallid as ash. His attire bespoke regality, adorned in an embroidered white shirt, a dark ebony leather waistcoat, and a front-open frock coat, devoid of collar. Atop it all, a deep burgundy jacket, lapelless, graced his form. Ornate, pointed-toe leather boots, the hue of rich brown, graced his legs up to his knees.
"Reveal thy identity," Brad queried, veiled in skepticism.
The elf endeavored a smile, as though doing so after an interminable hiatus. A crooked grin graced his lips, followed by a graceful bow, akin to an actor taking the stage.
"It must have been centuries," he began, his voice as arid as ancient scrolls, "since my last discourse with any soul." The elf turned his gaze toward Brad, scrutinizing him with an almost innocent curiosity. He joined his fingers together, creating a frame through which he whimsically framed Brad.
"Would you have been a genuine hero, your likeness might have been worthy of capturing," the elf quipped with a playful glint in his eye.
Brad nonchalantly shrugged. "I'm naught but a wounded knight. If your intention is hostility, I would advise waiting until slumber claims me."
With a sweeping gesture, the elf extended his arms wide. "You're that knight, the one who accompanied the sorceress through the mountain's labyrinthine passages. You lay unconscious upon the earth. I recollected you."
Brad, arching an eyebrow, inquired, "And what of yourself?"
"Me? I was once content dwelling within a scrap of parchment. There was a certain satisfaction in adeptly ensnaring someone within. But here I find myself, and those someones are now unshackled," he replied with an air of resignation.
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"Of whom do you speak?" Brad inquired with a curious brow.
"Perhaps this part of the narrative eludes your memory. Non-recollection is a natural course, after all. The possessor of your corporeal vessel forged an accord with their chieftain. The chieftain of those perfidious souls."
"Your words weave an unecessary cryptic tapestry, elf. Let's commence with more straightforward matters. I am Brad Silverhilt, an illustrious member of the Illuthar Knights. Pray, reveal your name, and enlighten me on the elven tribe whence you originate."
"Very well, Sir Silverhilt. As you wish. Let us embark at the inception." The elf meandered through the crystalline lattice, his right hand thoughtfully cradling his chin. "I am Artisan of the Gallaford House. In your dialect, it roughly translates to 'Long, Luminous, Gilded Plumage,' one of the elven clans," he declared, punctuating his statement with a graceful bow.
"You are of the Galanadel lineage."
"One could assert that. At least, I once belonged to such lineage. Then, the confines of my homeland expelled me due to my affliction."
"Because your paintings transmuted into life," Brad calmly deduced.
Artisan was taken aback. "So, you are acquainted with my endeavors. I scarcely anticipated my renown to endure to these times, truth be told."
"I may acknowledge that I've heard a few tales about you, and to be honest, my concern is rather limited. However, the knowledge of your involvement in birthing abominations like Romdaht hardly puts my conscience at ease," Brad stated with an unwavering demeanor.
"Alas," the elf lamented with a touch of despondency. "There was a time when I thought humanity comprehended my pursuits. I was merely amassing narratives I gleaned from diverse sources, meticulously transposing them onto the canvas. This was my life's calling: to convert the figments of the psyche into art. It resembled the habits of an avid collector accumulating curiosities. I made no distinctions; whether they were dread-inducing or uproariously amusing, it mattered not. All manners of beings, without discrimination, were treated equivalently. Their tales were my muse, and I rendered them in their unadulterated form. Is it my culpability that these paintings birthed life?"
Brad nonchalantly shrugged. "So, how do you address the allegations of employing the skins of sentient beings, be they human, elf, or dwarf, as your canvases?" he inquired.
In actuality, the elf's justifications didn't trouble him deeply, but he had recently heard the same narrative from Lady Illaine, who warned it might be intertwined with his present predicament. Consequently, he endeavored to fathom the intricacies of the situation.
"What is it you expect me to utter, noble knight? A symphony of remorse? A daily lament for redemption? Those ominous bards, weaving tales through the annals of generations, may find it incomprehensible, but my penance has been repaid manifold. Centuries have draped over my existence, their weight a heavy shroud. Freedom eluded me for most of this interminable stretch, an unwilling brush in a ceaseless cycle of torment. I painted upon canvases that cried in protest, my strokes depicting loathsome subjects. A marionette, I danced in a grander, crueler theater, my strings pulled by masters coveting power and prestige. Then, when fate decreed I become an Archaic, I fulfilled my ordained duty. The Most High Aerkha, the celestial witness, can attest to this. Yet, here I stand, ensnared anew within this crystalline cage."
Brad observed the elf in wordless contemplation. Within the confines of the crystal, the elf prowled with an agitated grace. His visage remained unblemished, a stark contrast to the tarnished nature of his being. Astonishingly, the elf confronted his own flaws with candid candor, a departure from the anticipated arrogance and pride.
"Would you entertain the notion of liberation from this prison?" Brad asked, his query emerging with an unexpected note of astonishment, echoing the musings within his own mind.
Artisan came to a halt, his eyes locking onto Brad's with a sincere smile. "Can you truly accomplish this?" He ran a hand through his hair and let out a deep sigh. "I can't endure another moment in here with that creature. Please, free me," he pleaded, sinking to his knees before the towering knight, desperation tainting his words.
Brad found himself growing more and more bewildered by the minute. "What creature?" he questioned, scrutinizing the crystalline surface with care.
"Listen, I get it. The creature shielded me from the Adjudicator. I can't deny that. But it fills me with terror," Artisan admitted.
"I'm still in the dark, Artisan. Who is this Adjudicator? And which creature are you speaking of?"
"The Adjudicator is the leader of the Divine Justice Triad, the very beings I was once enslaved to. They are profoundly perilous Archaics, perhaps the most treacherous of them all. Even though they are no more, the memory of them still sends chills down my spine... Who was more savage, the creature or the Adjudicator? I still can't decide."
Brad reclined, weariness etched into his posture. He pressed on with the conversation, his gaze shifting to the ceiling. "Who are the Archaics? And how did you become one later on?" he inquired, idly chewing on a piece of wood.
"Archaics, formidable warriors of the ancient world, each mastering their own domains. Most of them bore the semblance of demonic entities. The virtuous among them were rare, and then there were those like me, indifferent, neutral souls. Our transformation into Archaics seemed improbable. I, for instance, excelled in my craft, a prerequisite for such ascension, yet my bestowed power was limited, a mere conduit to bring mortal dreams to life."
"And you consider this a straightforward task?" Brad inquired.
"No, that's not what I intended to convey. My power lacked the boundlessness of Ja'ok Er's, who can craft entire realms. I, on the other hand, simply translated the visions of mortals."
"And I presume these visions often turned nightmarish?" Brad queried, a smirk playing on his lips.
"It's the nature of humanity, you see. The very essence of existence," Artisan replied, a wry grin forming. "You're genuinely attuned to my words, comprehending them. That's splendid."
"I may not fully grasp your words, elf, and I'm fairly indifferent, but I discern that you've woven a rationale to render your deeds defensible and palatable," Brad stated.
"Had you endured as many years as I, your choices might mirror mine."
"Perhaps, or perhaps I'd have slain you," Brad retorted, turning his head with a fierce glare that compelled Artisan to retreat a few steps.
"I believe I grasp now why you were selected," Artisan muttered, his voice barely audible as he swallowed hard.
"Selected for what?" Brad inquired.
"It's of little consequence," Artisan replied in a restless tone, swiftly changing the subject by asking, "Will you free me from this prison?"
"Perhaps. First, I must discern my purpose, or rather, understand what drives me."
"I can aid you in that, noble knight. The specifics matter little, but when I ensnared the Divine Justice Triad within enchanted parchments, it wasn't just them I captured; there were others as well. To be precise, it was a collective endeavor. I shan't withhold credit from my comrades. Bard Vaisel, Sculptor Ardronin, Narrator Chesaphare, Actor Pharabel, Architect Shaonan, and Poet Nehasimi stood with me. Together, we achieved this formidable feat. They were times of both beauty and challenge. The world teetered on the brink, and we were its champions."
"So, it's the archetypal tale of seven heroes, is it?" Brad chortled heartily. "Such tales are practically bedtime stories in orphanages. Usually, they revolve around orphans, you see, heroes chosen by the Seven Gods for a grand quest. I've heard my share of such fairy tales."
Artisan's response bore an expression tinged with sorrow and disillusionment. "Your childhood appears to have been quite challenging, Sir Knight."
Brad simply shrugged, his demeanor nonchalant. "The better part of my youth was spent as a fugitive, a slave, and even a galley prisoner, but that's of little consequence. The orphanage, for me, was a haven. Regardless, please, continue with your narrative."
Artisan resumed, "One of the enchanted scrolls fell into the hands of a sorcerer by the name of Charlattan."
"Wait a moment," Brad interjected with recognition. "I'm familiar with that name. He served as a sorcerer in that place before Pagancity fell under its curse."
"Pagancity?" Artisan inquired.
"Are you not acquainted with Phalazzar?" Brad responded.
"Yes, indeed, we were situated in Phalazzar. We managed to dismantle the higher echelons there before events spiraled out of control. Or, at least, we believed we had. But cursed Charlatt pilfered one of the scrolls, one that contained the tormented souls, including the very one I gave myself to create. Subsequently, I existed as a trapped spirit ensnared within intricate arcane sigils for an extended period. Then, one fateful day, I found myself in a cavern. Littered about were the lifeless forms of orcs and an ogre. I beheld you, followed by the woman, and then the others. Alas, on that day, the seal was shattered by a formidable force."
Brad plunged into deep contemplation. How could this be? Had Charlotta intentionally unsealed the chest? Did he possess knowledge of its contents, or was he simply an audacious sorcerer? A multitude of enigmas lingered, still awaiting resolution.
The silence was eventually broken by Artisan. "Aren't you going to inquire about the remainder of the narrative?"
"Yes," Brad responded wearily, his voice tinged with exhaustion. "How did you gain entry into this crystalline enclosure?"
Artisan burst into laughter.
"Do you still believe I'm ensconced within this crystal structure before you, Knight? I was held in the same place with the Adjudicator and the Creature."
Brad stiffened, rising from his seated position. He surveyed the vicinity, his gaze ultimately returning to the radiant crystal construct. It radiated an eerie, untainted luminance. At length, he regarded his dagger, from whence the illumination emanated.
"Your visage is being reflected by the medallion," Brad pronounced, his tone bordering on incredulity.
"Yes, it appears so. Resembling a potent medallion, indeed."
"In that case, if I manage to deliver the medallion to an Orion Priest, they might unravel this enigma. Therein lies your solution."
Artisan cast an uncertain gaze upon the medallion and then back to Brad. "That may be feasible, I suppose. I earnestly hope it proves the solution. However, my perspective diverges."
"How so?" Brad inquired, skepticism permeating his voice.
"To be candid, I have accompanied you for approximately four months, albeit reluctantly. During the past three months, I have grown intimately acquainted with your thoughts, Sir Silverhilt."
"The sorceress and I crossed paths in the Charlattan Mountains just about a month ago," Brad asserted with unwavering resolve. "You're in error, elf."
"My comprehension of time and space remains rather precise, Knight. To be blunt, there must be some cause for your mental chronometer's disruption."
"What cause?" Brad probed.
"While you indeed have no recollection, though the terminology may seem inelegant, the scenario unfolds thus: your corporeal vessel was leased. I endeavored to convey this to you at the outset of our discourse. My surmise is that a pact was forged. The possessor of your form and the Adjudicator came to an accord, and the Adjudicator departed three months past."
Brad vehemently repudiated the revelation, gesticulating with raised hands and bellowing, "No!"
A potent scream echoed through the cavern, causing the crystal structure to resonate like a bell, its hue fading. The radiance of the medallion diminished. The visage of the elf quivered and became indistinct.
The elf, marked by desperation, pressed his hands against the crystalline wall. "Time dwindles, Knight. A unique wave of transformation approaches. It is gradual but relentless. I can perceive its proximity. You must act ere the Creature spirals beyond control. Abandoning me in its company is untenable..." His voice rapidly dwindled, reverberating in his final moments before vanishing entirely into the abyss.
As shadows enveloped everything, the image slowly dissipated. Brad collapsed to the ground, his legs no longer able to bear the weight of his despair. Acceptance had transcended the realm of anger. This was to be the most arduous phase, a tempest of fury churning within him, capable of upheaving mountains.