Gray clouds spread a misty drizzle through the thick evergreen forest. A blanket of fog draped over the ground, enshrouding the tree trunks and slowing the passage of the only individual venturous enough to stray a dozen miles north off the guiding bends of Oakenhaven’s thoroughfare. Mud sloshed against hooves as the lone rider coaxed his mount forward at a cautious, yet steady pace. Exhausted nigh to the point of collapse, he rubbed his stinging eyes and squinted in a vain attempt to see more than a few feet in front of him. Not too much further now, he thought to himself, unaware that he was mouthing the words as well.
Twenty more minutes passed as the weary rider pressed on to the crest of the grassy slope. From there, the massive stretch of Oakenhaven’s northern border mountains spanned his entire view. A translucent mist drifted across their peaks; The fog had otherwise deflated into a swirling haze across the ground. The last determined ray of the setting sun penetrated the overcast sky, casting a beam upon a narrow opening in the mountainside. Gravel crunched underfoot as grass faded into rock and dirt the further he proceeded.
He wasn’t sure what he hated more – the cold which ached his joints and pained his bones, or the perpetual dampness which lingered in the air and swelled his skin. Those detestations only grew in intensity as he traveled into the cave. For a few dozen yards he kept his slow pace, ensuring that setting his foot on a slicked rock wouldn’t end his trek.
After minutes of drudgery, the cave widened into a massive cavern. It stretched for hundreds of yards, forming a circle around a gaping hole in the ceiling. From the skylight, a waterfall flowed into a shallow pond, whose shores were lined with cave pearls immeasurable in size and quantity. Helictite formations grew away from the opening in spindly, wiry patterns.
Around the pond, where the twilight’s glow managed to reach, grew conifer and birch trees. The music of birds paired well with the waterfall’s droning static. Discarded pinecones fell from a branch where a squirrel was busy eating its meal, and minnows darted away as the man passed by the pool of water. Despite being underneath the mountains of Oakenhaven, the cave was still teeming with life.
This wondrous display of nature’s persistence, fighting to survive in a remote sanctuary, was an interesting parallel to the cavern’s true residents who lived beyond the gate. Far from the prying eyes of civilization, the entire refuge was wrapped in the warm embrace of safety, where the cavernous walls echoed promises of survival.
A stone gate blocked the path forward. Situated on pedestals at either side were two gargoyles, each the size of a well-fed troll. As the man approached, their heads snapped to attention, and they centered their glowing eyes on him. He neither moved nor flinched. He was told what to expect before coming and was prepared for the unique reception. The first one’s mouth moved, and from it came forth a gravely voice.
“You who seeketh entry, state your intent or turn back.” The eyes of both gargoyles turned red as the one finished speaking. From their positions kneeling on their pedestals, they stood and stepped forward, towering over the intruder to their home.
“I am Maestus, seeking audience with Lord Cedric. I was to be expected,” he said in a calm, deep voice. Upon receipt of the lord’s name, the animated statues halted in place. Their eyes shifted from red to blue, and the light pulsed thrice. The opposing statue opened its mouth.
“Hail, Maestus. You are earlier than expected.” A curious twitch pulled at the corner of Maestus’ brow. He had arrived on time, no more and no less, but thought better of correcting the stone-crafted servant.
“Take pity on him, Lanowyn,” said the other. “He knows not the customs of our lord and his coven.” Moss green flickered and faded to red once more as the two statues fixed on him, unmoving once more. Sweat beaded along Maestus’ forehead, his visage growing paler with each second of their scrutiny.
“You exude the fear of death, even as a necromancer,” Lanowyn said, stone crackling as he flitted his demonic wings. “Such cowardice in the presence of Lord Cedric is unthinkable. What is your judgment, Franowyn?”
“I surmise his feeble spirit will only spell trouble. Surely we must dispose of such a craven necrophiliac,” Lanowyn’s opposite concluded, raising a claw to his chin in mock contemplation. After suffering their volley long enough, Maestus broke in.
“Necromancer.” What traces remained of lively color in his face vanished. The red of Franowyn’s eyes intensified to blinding beams as he stared down at the sullen man.
“You would dare to correct me?”
“Yes, I would.”
“Perhaps the mortal has some fighting spirit after all,” Lanowyn chimed in. “Do let him have this one, Franowyn, as there is a distinction between the two. I believe his apprentice is the one who is the... Necrophiliac.”
“And what, pray tell, is the difference?”
“Well, you see, a necromancer raises the dead.”
“Of course.”
“And the other... Gets raised by the dead, if you will.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Aroused.”
“Oh, my.”
Upon giving his response, Franowyn’s eyes dulled. Piercing red beams faded to a deep, glowing amber. From the same mouth spoke a different voice, one much smoother, more affable.
“Thank you both for entertaining our guest while I made the final preparations for his visit. Maestus, I do apologize for the delay. I try my best to be punctual in my meetings with mortals, especially after the twenty-year nap incident. Please, let these two lead you through the gate. Emeric will take your horse.”
The amber glow faded to moss green again. Both gargoyles regarded each other with their gaze and made a quarter-turn in perfect unison. They reached out toward the stone gate, which was much heavier than any human could hope to move. Four deep recessions, two on each side, housed inserts of colored marble at the front which were carved into intricate scenes of vampiric rituals. Behind them, panels of stained glass filled the background space.
Lanowyn and Franowyn laid their palms flat against the stone doors. Light effloresced around their clawed hands, and soon the gate itself was imbued with it as well. Shafts of every color cast themselves upon the marble figures, breathing life into the stories of the undead. The moment fled when the light dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. A twinge of disappointment dropped in Maestus’ stomach. Heavy, sluggish scrapes groaned from the begrudging doors as the two stone servants pushed the gate open.
The sharp, towering points of a grand castle overlooked a lush courtyard in its shadow. Flying buttresses held fast to its walls, flaunting intricate carvings along every edge, point, and arc. Rose panels crowned the pointed arch windows, blackened to prohibit the entry of light; a striking opposite, Maestus noted, of the objective toward which similar structures aimed. Smaller, inanimate gargoyles sat perched beside each window.
Paving stones of black slate traced the way from the gate lined with rose bushes. Although it was early in the season, the flowers revealed their deep burgundy petals in full bloom. Having been consumed by the breathtaking magnificence around him, Maestus did not immediately notice the young man who had approached him. His face was shadowed under the protection of a thick woolen hood.
“Greetings, sir,” said the presumed Emeric, strands of platinum blond hair falling over his shoulders as he gave a full bow. Holding out a slender, gloved hand, he met Maestus’ tired gaze with a glint of expectancy in his blood red eyes. “I will bring your horse to the stable.” Mesmerized by the haunting presence of this creature – quite like any young man, yet far from human – Maestus hesitated before handing over the lead. The young man bowed again, gesturing for him to continue.
As Maestus followed the paving stones on foot, he took in the sights and colors of the garden. Trees and flowers flourished all around, scents both sweet and earthy wafting from them, and it was apparent that every leaf and petal was cared for with great diligence. At its center, the path split four ways around a massive tiered fountain more than twice his height. The dribbling of water delighted his ears, but he only stopped for a moment before moving forward.
Minutes later, he approached a set of stairs leading up to the arched, overhanging doorway. Marble figures stood inlaid into thin recesses on each side, their gestures cast downward onto the onlooker. Maestus looked up at them – stalwart men with commanding, confident expressions, beautiful women with welcoming, seductive presence, and to his curiosity, some grotesque, ghoulish creatures, bald and emaciated – and their presence enraptured him. Before they could close in on him, the wooden door whined on its hinges as it opened. A fair, hooded woman welcomed him in the threshold, her skin smooth and white. Her lip rouge matched her eyes, the same scarlet as Emeric’s, and her raven hair matched her silken maid’s robes, which revealed nothing of her figure just as her face revealed no emotion.
“Greetings,” she said, a subdued sultriness in her voice, “Lord Cedric will see you in his study. Please, follow me.” She held the door open for Maestus. An eerie silence accompanied their footsteps as the woman guided him through the foyer and into a narrow hallway with lofty, vaulted ceilings. Bright, warm torchlight drew Maestus’ eyes to paintings of named figures unrecognizable in any well-known Nelthrin history. They continued down a spiral staircase until they reached a door, and the woman gave a polite knock. Maestus recognized the once-Nelthrin man who answered, just as young as he appeared when they first met twenty years ago.
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“You’ve made it,” said Cedric, his smile revealing his fangs as he fiddled with the ruffled cuff of his black and blue brocade doublet. “Do come in.” Maestus stepped forward, and Cedric closed the door behind them. Inside the vast, open library, stuffed bookcases climbed the impressive height of the walls and left none bare, save for one small section on the furthest one where three paintings were hung in a vertical arrangement. The ceiling began its arc above them, peaking at the center of the room from which a chandelier hung, boasting its floral wisps and abundant candlelight.
Beneath the chandelier sat Cedric’s desk, stacked high with books among figurines both upright and toppled over. A cushioned chair peeked over the mess. Marble statues, larger than life, watched with hollow eyes from the furthest corners at the back of the room.
Beckoning his friend to follow him, Cedric wandered to the bookcase nearest his desk and selected a tome. Swirls of dust arose with a musty odor as he flipped through the pages.
“Maestus, my friend,” he began. Shadows danced across his face in the glow of a wrought iron brazier, drawing Maestus’ eye to a small cut in his cheek. “I do hope my servants have been accommodating thus far.”
“Of course,” answered Maestus.
“Excellent. I wanted to return the favor, with this being your first time visiting my home.” Cedric paused, flipping through a few pages before moving on to switch topics. “I’ve read your letters, and I must admit – that you’ve come to me for help after all these years is nothing short of alarming. Surely someone of your skill would have acquired resources less indicative of… Desperation.” A tuft of black hair had strayed from his clean, slicked-back style. He puffed at it before tucking his book back onto the shelf.
“I have exhausted them,” said Maestus, his confidence unthreatened by the vampire’s words. A sudden tautness in the golden-trimmed collar of his robe nagged him, and he hooked it away from his throat. “In the past year, I have contacted hundreds of individuals and groups across Nelthemar and beyond who have offered me nothing of use. Falderal their words and rubbish their trinkets – and those who possess anything of value have ways beyond my means to protect it.”
“I see. That is most unfortunate.” Cedric furrowed his brows, causing wrinkles to appear in waves across his pallid forehead. “But I’m not so certain you know what it is you seek.”
“What do you mean?” Maestus ruffled his mustache with his upper lip, eyes wandering to a painting which depicted a woman in a translucent white drape spattered with crimson stains.
“Entertain my history lesson for a moment, if you will.”
“Of course,” said Maestus, snapping his gaze back to Cedric.
“Clearly you know of The Sinking, wherein ten families tried to harness the power of the Charox-Val monolith, but it instead shattered into pieces, resulting in their capital Ux-Kurux plunging into the lake and their land being purged with desolate gray.”
“I know of it, though not their reason for the ritual.”
“And that reason is a story for another day; a climax of impetuous Dronvari hubris that amassed over centuries. It is telling that even after destroying their own land, each of the ten families went on to claim a piece of Ghol’s gift that they had desecrated.” The soles of his shoes echoed slowly and rhythmically as he paced the red oak floor, hands clasped behind his back. “Do you know of Girin Salanval, who led the exodus from the Gray to the still-fertile peninsula?”
“Yes. I have also heard that he disappeared shortly after establishing three cities and flourishing farmlands.”
“Indeed.” Pleasantly surprised by his knowledge, Cedric pursed his lips and nodded. “But he disappeared with the piece his family claimed, leaving his wife and children forgotten, their nobility defunct. What I believe you may not comprehend, Maestus, is where he was said to have gone.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Many accounts exist which suggest he had a fascination with the Caelvar. Some evidence also suggests that he set after their skies. It is said that a few paths still remain.”
“Caelinor?” Through a hearty laugh, all tension of anticipation fled from Maestus’ body in an instant. “I thought you of anyone might know better than to believe in fairies.”
“Is that where you draw the line of absurdity?” Cedric’s deadpan objection quashed Maestus’ laughter, his sharp amber eyes narrowing with scrutiny as he ceased his pacing. “I would hardly call them fairies, but that is beside the point. Whether or not the Caelvar exist, Girin must have sought a way to find them that is at least partially traceable. Besides – that time still flows on our terrestrial dwelling is a testament to their presence.”
“So you believe in them.”
“Of course. I find any debate on their existence to be foolish and rooted in mortal conceit. But I am not going to lecture you on what you should or should not believe in. I will only suggest that you may end up following Girin’s lead beyond our plane if you are committed to finding what you’re looking for. I believe the Charox-Val piece will serve your aims, if you thoroughly comprehend the magnitude of the task of retrieving it. Understand that it is not some lost jewelry in a shipwreck.”
“Very well,” Maestus relented following a long pause. “Where am I to begin?”
“That is the question.” Not inclined to return to pacing, Cedric moved to his desk at the room’s center and toyed with a marble figurine of a raven while contemplating. “Dronvari secrets are the most closely guarded of any, and that is only if it’s a secret and not truly unknown. Do let me ask – has your influence won you any favor among the Noth Dozrin here in Nelthemar?”
“I’ve pursued many attempts to seek their favor, but I have only sustained begrudging neutrality,” admitted Maestus. “I simply try not to step on their toes, with the goal of avoiding all unnecessary interaction.”
“What is neutrality but favor waiting to be won?” asked Cedric. “Perhaps you can leverage your apprentice to ease any skepticism, seeing as they may be inclined towards him.”
“What of his exiled status?”
“Such trivialities are no matter to them. Their utmost duty is to serve their people. If you wish to tread carefully, seek Pendula, their Veltürina. Though high in rank, she is comparatively soft of heart.” The ever-fidgeting vampire perched himself atop his desk with one leg dangling over the edge as their conversation fell to an abrupt end. In its place stirred contemplation as his words turned in Maestus’ head. Before letting him settle too deep into his thoughts, Cedric continued. “There is another matter. One of yours came seeking to be changed, as you instructed me to anticipate.”
“You mean—” Maestus said, his pitch heightened with surprise. “She had declined shortly after I wrote you.”
“It seems she changed her mind. She mentioned she had sent you a letter explaining such.”
“I received no correspondence.”
“Well, she did only arrive a day ago – perhaps you were already traveling when the courier came.”
“Perhaps. Where is she now?”
“Safe within these walls, for the time being,” Cedric answered, holding his eyes closed as he blinked. “She is recovering and being fed.”
“May I pay her a visit?” Before he could finish his question, Cedric had already begun shaking his head.
“If you are looking to speak with her, then such a visit would be unavailing. She will not recognize you in her current stage.”
“I would still request to observe her condition.”
“If you insist.” A soft tap resounded as Cedric hopped down from his desk, catching himself on his dangling foot. He walked past Maestus and led him to the door. The same girl who had seen Maestus to their meeting waited in the hallway, carrying a torch and, still, an expressionless manner.
“To the nursery, if you will, Miss Sylvestra,” he ordered. “My friend wishes to see the one you’ve been raising.”
“Of course, my lord,” She obliged, a prideful lilt in her voice as she nodded to each of them. Her lips puckered, resisting a smile. “Follow me, please.” With a spring in her step, she started forward, leading them further down the hall to another door with a staircase behind it. They descended into another corridor which narrowed and darkened as they progressed, offering a comfortable space for dust to settle and spiders to build their webs.
“Please excuse the unsightly surroundings,” said Sylvestra. “This passage is not frequented by those who would care for its appearance.” These were the only words spoken as they continued, guided only by the refuge of her light in the ever-darkening space. Maestus’ eyes darted this way and that, following whirls of agitated dust and tracing cracks in the mortar.
Though he was no stranger to crypts and tombs, this place shook him with uncertainty. A curiosity which tugged at the back of his mind since his arrival now begged his full attention in the empty silence. The dead thrived here, convened here, raised young – still wont to enjoy the blessings of the living. While this was common and well-known of their kind, never before had he walked through their halls to witness any piece of it firsthand.
A reinforced wooden door came into view, and Sylvestra reached into the pouch on her sash to retrieve the key. Maestus focused in on a dried, rust-brown stain which oozed from beneath as the maid opened the lock and lifted the bar. The hinges grated as a dim flicker welcomed them to the castle’s most candid chamber. Sylvestra stepped in first. Her torch’s light outlined the arches of cells cut into the walls of the dungeon’s narrow corridor, each one with its own door of iron bars.
“We’ve a few others, do not mind them,” Cedric said as Sylvestra guided them past pairs of cells. Creatures, humanlike yet bony and pale, resided solitarily in each one, their curled spines too frail to hold them upright. Their eyes – dull shades of red and yellow – followed the three as they passed by. The floor of each cell was caked in blood from an unknown source. Soaked with similar stains were the rags which hung limp on their cadaverous bodies, as well as what meager and bedraggled strands of hair they had. These creatures spoke no words, made no sounds, and hardly moved, save for a slight hypnotic swaying.
“Our fledglings are quite feeble,” Cedric explained, a sonorous echo following him. “Few survive the first night unless domesticated. In their natural state, they are afforded just enough energy to secure prey if they are clever. Here, we nurture them, and while they stay helpless for much longer, their capacity for power grows much more than it would without such care.” At the end of the hall, Sylvestra stopped and turned to face them.
“Here she is,” she said, gesturing to the cell beside her. As Maestus approached, he looked inside at the girl wedged in the corner. None of the others had presented in quite as lowly a state – were it not for the blinking of her vacant eyes, he would have assumed the worst. Although she had always been quite slender, her ribs now protruded as if trying to emerge from her skin. Not a single hair remained on her head, and her face was left haggard with sunken-in cheeks that revealed far too much of the shape of her skull. The wall supported her head as it hung back, her mouth stretched agape and frothing with crimson foam. Her limbs dangled limp and atrophied.
“Is this… Normal?” asked Maestus, his voice quieted with disbelief. Sylvestra leaned back on the wall and exchanged a glance with her master.
“No,” said Cedric. “It is beyond me that she managed to pull through. I have never witnessed such a disastrous transformation, but she is stable for now, though it may appear otherwise.”
“I see,” said Maestus. “What happened?”
“Frivolous details. Do not concern yourself with them,” Cedric replied, touching the scratch on his cheek without thought. “But you should know that I will need to keep her here well beyond my original estimate of time.”
“If her condition is unusual, I can very well understand that. How long do you expect?”
“I do not know,” Cedric answered. Something chafed his voice, annoyance or perhaps impatience. Maestus had never heard him express either one. “But when the time comes for her to go with you, you must promise me one thing.”
“What do you ask?” Maestus’ voice rang clear and purposeful. Cedric’s glare sent a chill through his body, and he swallowed to keep from shivering.
“Do not let this be in vain.”