V'lfer Fortress was created roughly four-thousand years ago. It stands at the top of a low mountain with little else than forest and rivers surrounding it for miles. Originally, it had been used to house the treasures of a long-dead king before eventually becoming his own prison and tomb after a betrayal by his council.
Of course, the king in question having been of a rather vicious sort and more prideful than any of his time, his name and legacy during life were wiped from history as a way to mock him.
V'lfer, in the original tongue of it's people, means 'forgotten'.
After the imprisonment of the king, the fortress was ransacked and any non-precious metals found were melted down and used to create a large sarcaphogus that he was later sealed into. History debates on whether he was still alive at the time of his burial, but the notion having been brought up at all suggests at least a possibility of truth.
The sarcaphogus currently resides buried under the grand-hall of V'lfer, the top of it slightly peeking up before the throne to be used as a footrest. Again, history debates whether this was done to further shame the dishonored king, or to serve as a warning to any that dare follow in his footsteps.
Sitting in this room, gazing upon the granite throne, I often wonder why anyone would want to.
Looking up at the ceiling, I notice several candles of the chandelier are almost burned out. The wax of centuries of their predecessors hanging precariously from it's metal framework.
The walls are adorned with tapestries of battles and conquests, my personal favorite depicting an army of goblin-kind fighting their way up a mountain to save their kin from slavery in Orchish iron mines.
I come here in the first few hours of downtime of the day to soak in the artistry. Today though, I came to reflect on Alfos' words about my own drawings.
Kneeling in the middle of the hall, I trace my fingertips across the decoratively engraved panels of stone and once again my mind hangs on a single word. Shit.
It makes the prickling sensation that's become ever present in the back of my mind pulse, ever so slightly. It makes me feel as though someone is constantly looking over my shoulder, judging my every action.
Alfos says it a lot. Shit. More than most of the adults and teenagers sent here to train. However, he has never called my art shit before. Nobody had. Aside from Ophelia and Teacher S'viel, most people just ignored my little hobby if they knew of it at all.
I'm used to the Teachers reprimands, most of the servants tend to treat me a slight bit differently due to my subdued personality, and the other Champions point out how unlike them in temperament at least once a day.
This feeling though, is new. It's...icky, in a way. Most of the things that people have said simply slid off. I understood, in the end, that each of us is far different than most children our age. Champions learn and mature faster than their species as a whole so they may sooner be of service to their patron.
Standing and turning towards the large doors of the entrance hall, I take a moment to appreciate the embossed surface of the door. A maze had been carved into the lacquered wood, and a small ball had been embedded within the grooves of the maze at the bottom, able to glide through the tracks and only able to be removed once the maze had been completed.
I often wonder if the small stone ball is still there because nobody has been able to complete the maze, or due to nobody caring enough to try.
Stepping through it's threshold, constantly left open due to the massive weight of the twenty-foot doors, I take in the main courtyard of V'lfer. Some two-thousand feet across and half as much wide, it had been used as a parade-ground and tourney plot when the fallen king visited to...do whatever kings do in their treasure fortresses.
Over time, various training grounds and arenas had been constructed and destroyed. In a far corner is the only remaining original structure; a raised gazebo the Teachers use to oversee the training of both the Champions and normal soldiers. Granted, even the 'normal' soldiers are considered the elite's of their species, brought here to be sculpted into generals and strategists before returning to their homes to take vital roles in their nation's military and government.
The continent we currently reside in has no official name, other than it's moniker The Land of Monsters. Here is where the more... well, monstrous of the sentient races first came to being.
Ogres, goblins, vampires, the dark elves, the watchers, the mind-flayers, ildregath, selkies, basically the gamut of all things the more civilized races tell their children to fear raids from. Over two-thousand separate sentient species came to being here.
Looking up, the heavy cloud cover is obscuring the sun, giving a slight relief from the near-constant haze of heat over the grounds.
The high-walls are covered in motiffs and decorations, though many of them have been vandalized.
The single lookout tower on the north end, positioned towards the 'Civilized' land of humans, stands nearly three-hundred feet tall and holds the only flag present in the fort. The banner is nearly a hundred feet long itself, the simple jet black cloth signifying a simple message. "If you see me, I see you. You are not where you belong."
Starting from the tower, the complex of the fortress functions in a grid-like pattern. Each 'square' of the walls halls contain barracks, armories, medical bays, etcetera until eventually reaching the 'castle' portion that has been carved into the side of the mountain, roughly another seven-hundred feet of granite hanging over it all, supposedly done to be able to collapse the peak of the mountain through controlled explosions via gnomish bombs should V'lfer ever be over-run.
Personally, I had little hope that all of the devices had been found and removed. The gnomish people, Garbik's people, are often crafty and misleading as they come. Considering the fortress was built using slave labor, most scholars are sure they left quite a few 'charge-booms' as they called them in locations most other races can't physically find or search. There are several very, very large craters that attest to why the gnomes are considered non-viable slaves in modern times.
"Felli!" I hear in the distance, before turning to see Ophelia jogging towards me from the direction of the building that houses the kennels.
Raising my hand and giving a slight wave, I begin walking towards her and push the thoughts of Alfos' words and V'lfer's history from my mind. A small part of me feels chagrined that even with other thoughts in my mind, the word 'shit' had kept replaying each time I took in another part of the fort's artistry.
As she approaches, she winds down and takes a few calming breathes before grabbing the hand I had just lowered. "Felli, I...I have something for you. Come on!"
She begins pulling me without actually waiting for an answer as usual, and I let myself be dragged along just the same. We pass a group of soldiers going through a basic weapons training regiment, whom Ophelia cheerily encourages only to be ignored.
It's par for the course though, even though the varied men and women certainly heard her, acknowledgment of her calls would constitute distraction from training. There would likely be several of them that thanked her later anyway.
She ends up pulling me to one of the doors originally meant for servants, but is now a simple thoroughfare used to access the portions of the castle embedded into the mountain. For all the size above ground, there is almost four-times as many tunnels and re-purposed caverns sprawling into and down the body of the mountain.
Past many winding hallways, I soon realize we're simply heading to the room assigned to us as a dorm. As she pushes aside the heavy curtain used as a door, I see a bundle of something held in a large burlap sack.
Ophelia releases her grip on my hand, then takes a few steps back to her side of our room and holds them behind herself. She rocks slightly on her heels, and her near-constant grin becomes a beaming smile.
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"I've noticed you've been down the last few days, and realized it was probably about what me and Alfos said that night at dinner. I know you mostly make due with charcoal from the kitchen, so I just thought...well, open it."
I had already walked up to the bundle as she spoke, and am currently kneeling before it, wondering how exactly she managed to get...well, anything. The Teachers are rather strict as to what we are allowed to have, even denying us food or water outside of scheduled times and allotted amounts.
The bag itself is of rough material, and is swollen to roughly the height of my knees standing. Maneuvering it slightly so the opening faces me, I unbind the twine chord holding it closed and as soon as I part it, my breath catches slightly.
Within are various wooden boxes, but each is marked with a separate color. A smear of chalky paste, the color of the stencils held within.
Pulling out the top box, I slowly open it to see purple sticks, roughly twice the size of my fingers each, with at least twenty to thirty of the drawing instruments lined up neatly in the box.
I simply stare, the corners of my mouth twitching up ever so slightly.
Ophelia, never the patient sort, fidgets and begins to speak, "These are called Gilvet Sticks. The stone dwarves made them to mark out tunnels for their mines when they were in the height of their power. Over time, the miners began using them to create murals or graffiti and they became pretty popular during a lot of their festivals. We have a whole lot of them in the storage building lower in the mountain apparently.
I spoke with Teacher S'viel and...well, he convinced The Mentor that your art can should used in other ways than just art. You can keep these here, but you're going to have an extra class about car-toe-graphy and portrait making so the materials are used for training. I know we don't have that much free-time aside from a few hours before dinner, but I thought-"
Normally I'm not one to interrupt, but seeing that Ophelia is beginning to ramble I gently cut in, "Thank you. I'm looking forward to learning more...I never thought...I...thank you."
Looking over at my friend, she just waves her hands front of her and somehow manages to smile even wider. "You convinced them to let me have Millie, I've wanted to find a way to repay you since then. You should thank Teacher S'viel, he's the one that suggested this after I talked to him about what Alfos said. He said that maybe it you had a color other than black, your drawings could be more...well, not eldritch."
My smile grows a bit, and I pull out the other boxes in the sack. The basic primary colors, some earthy tones and a few pastel variants of more flashy colors. A dozen boxes total.
Turning to my side of the room, I look upon the sprawling mess of black shaped that cover the wall as high as I can reach. The 'centerpiece' is a black void, with the outline of a humanoid set in it's center, though small enough to seem a distance away. Around it and circling my side of the room are dozens of small drawings, though near all of them are little more than silhouettes with minimal detail.
All of it was rough-looking and amateur, most of the pale stone dyed a slightly darker tint of gray from the many smears and residue of charcoal left behind from previous drawings. Now though, I could actually try some of the things I had seen in the few pieces of art still left after all this time.
First thing's first...a tree. On the less misty days, Ophelia often climbs the ramparts of the fortress in order to look out over the forest surrounding the mountain.
.......
"As we've discussed previously, the primary difference between most individuals and yourselves can be brought to a simple yet contradictory statement; Fate has both more and less influence on your lives than most," says Teacher S'viel.
Currently, all of our group is attending a joint-class after our individual and paired studies. We normally have one a week, a general knowledge lesson that is applicable to all of our roles in the 'party' we shall one day form.
"Each of you likely vaguely remembers the ritual conducted by your respective people's after you were brought to your patron's temple. Each species, and oftentimes culture, has a variance of this event. Whilst the exact details of each is a jealously guarded secret, each was developed as a way to imbue your bodies and souls with remnant strands of 'significance' or 'intent' in one way or another."
At this point, Teacher S'viel writes each of our names across the polished stone of the wall he used as a writing board.
"Because of the numerous differences between each ritual, I shan't bore you with the smaller details. However, this influence is only possible due to the unique aspects of your souls after being marked as Champions. Each mortal soul has a certain amount of...capability, for lack of a better word. An upper-limit, a constraint, a highly specific biology that invalidates most attempts at magic, etcetera etcetera.
As Champions, in the cycle of reincarnation each of you were seen as exceptionally capable, and the marks of your gods exponentially increased this capability.
For the average mortal, the mind is oftentimes ill-equipped to understand the more esoteric or abstract functions of magic in any form. This is why ArchMagi, Immortal Cultivators, and Grandmeisters are so very rare.
I, myself, am considered an exceptional talent in the bodily-based magic that Alfos' trait has granted him access to. However, what took me several years of dedicated practice and study to achieve, Alfos' body has become acclimated to use almost over-night."
Seeing the smug look on the grey-haired human, Teacher S'viel gives him a slightly harsh look before continuing. "Which brings us to why each of you were brought here as toddlers. Because of your increased capability, and continuous growth and propensity for new variations of traits to evolve, each of you has been placed in both a very dangerous and powerful position.
You will all be far above most of your peers, but learning to control new or volatile traits can and have killed many Champions within moments of manifestation.
The most publicly known example is of Princess Ilviditra of the wood elven empire," at this point, Ophelia perks up slightly," who burst into flames in her crib after only five days after her first trait manifested. She was eight days old at the time of her death, and had ignited after an insect landed on her crib, frightening her."
At this point, he writes 'Kinetic/Wind/Metal Manipulation- Magic" under Alfos' name and 'Horns-Physical trait' under my own.
"Felidrus is an example of another type of trait that Champions often experience. Normal individuals can as well, but both the process and requirements for such a metamorphosis to take place is much rarer and more challenging.
The colloquial name for this process is 'evolution', referencing the long process of genetic variance and growth of a species over centuries. Obviously, this is a misnomer, but roughly encapsulates the process.
Whilst these Traits often develop over extended periods of time, rather than quick alterations such as Alfos' scales; in exchange they often grant the individual a broader range of abilities or alter the body to be more conductive to specific types of magic."
Here he quickly sketches a scaled arm and a featureless head with the beginnings of horns at the temple.
"I am sure that there is some confusion on why Alfos' trait isn't considered a 'physical' change, but the simplest way to explain is that his scales are considered additive, while the growth of Felidrus' horns causes a fundamental change to the makeup of his physiology. Moreover, the ability for these scales to grow in places they don't 'normally' appear before falling off suggests they are more of a magically influenced phenomenon rather than a base-level change to his body."
As he speaks, he makes several small notes around the two drawings, simpler versions of his words condensed to snippets.
Garbik raises his hand, enthusiastically waving and shuffling his feet in their sprawled out position.
To Teacher S'viel's credit, he only releases a slight sigh before landing his gaze on the gnome. "Yes?"
"What's the chance of a trait making me taller? I'm tired of smelling butts!"
A slight twitch is all he receives in response.
......
Three weeks later, during morning training, Leila collapses in the middle of a spar. Admittedly, this is far from a rare occurrence even amongst the more common soldiers training here. Both the thinner air and short rest periods take a rather drastic toll on the body. Each of us has collapsed many times over the few years we've been here.
Even the Teachers weren't overly concerned until a dome of earth covered her and pulled her into the ground.
She had been roughly twenty feet away from me at the time, and I was rewarded by suddenly being ankle-deep in rapidly solidifying ground.
Within five seconds, Leila was gone and everybody within thirty yards was suddenly a few inches shorter.
Teacher Og-Thar was the first to recover, simply ripping her feet from the ground and leaving holes twice the size of dinner plates. As she began walking forward it was almost comically how the rings of solid dirt ground against each other.
"Bring the mages! We have a Meister! Someone find the elf and tell him to bring a bag of seed! We need to pull her out before the stupid elemental suffocates her!"
By this point she had reached directly over where Leila had vanished, and struck her hands into the ground nearly elbow-deep before ripping out a chunk of earth almost the size of me.
In return, the ground rumbled and suddenly the dirt around my ankles becomes a vice before rapidly shifting and slamming me on my back. Behind me and towards the right, I hear Ophelia cry out in pain. Judging by the chorus of similar noises around me, I can only assume quite a few people have just had their ankles broken, or sprained at best for the more durable soldiers.
As Og-Thar scoops out another chunk of ground, there is an audible scrrrreeeeeaaaach as her nails scrape against what I assume is the dome holding Leila.
From Teacher S'viel's lessons, a fuzzy memory forces itself to the front of my mind.
Elementals are essentially concentrated magical energies that have gained a form of consciousness. Meisters, in turn, are individuals that make pacts with these beings. In exchange for power and service, they provide small amounts of their soul to the elemental in order for it's individuality and sentience to grow.
Normally this is an extended process of binding the two together either through submission or negotiation between the parties involved. Very rarely though, an Elemental will simply bind itself to an individual of it's own volition.
All of this flashed through my head in but a moment, as that was all I had before the ground beneath me exploded in a cloud of dust. After that, I took a page from Alfos' book and thought "Oh shit!" as the expelled mass came crashing back down on me.
A moment of panic, a flash of fear, an overwhelming pressure, a desperate fight to breathe, feeling a vice-like constriction around my chest....darkness.