Song of Shattered Blades

[Arcturion]

1.0 Darksail Argosy

“Aye, fair enough, as you say, my dear Cat,” was Rentiki’s somewhat sullen reply at the dark aelf’s polite refusal of the offered expertise of his ship’s surgeon. He continued his way down the wharves of the Ebontine with Eltera walking beside the large man as they talked. Rentiki only laughed again at the mention of Hashad’s loose tongue and equally loose morals, though the Captain assured her that his First Mate’s attributes far outweighed his detriments. Eltera was skeptical but made it a point not to argue too much over Rentiki’s confidence in the ill-mannered sailor.

Idle chatter gave way to more probing questions directed her way from the ever garrulous Captain. “What kind of Daoshan name is Cat?” he asked, sounding quite curious.

“It is short for Cataya,” Eltera had answered smoothly.

“From what part of Daosha do you hail?” the Captain inquired next.

“I was born and raised in a dark place, before I was captured by slavers and taken far from my homeland,” she replied in disquieted tones. “I apologize, but on that I would rather not speak of anymore. Sometimes the past is better left unsaid, my dear Rentiki, I hope you understand.” It was the half-truth, she knew, but buried within the shades of gray she wove were painful memories of Nyctalinth, a city of shadows webbed with the lies and cruelty of her people.

“Of course, of course,” the large man had only said in somber reflection, nodding his head in sympathy. “Slavers; a disreputable lot they are. Never a shortage of them when there’s war about, sad to say.”

Such grim conversation seemed rather unsuited to a man of genial tastes as Rentiki, and Eltera breathed a silent sigh of relief when he steered their talk back to his first love, the sea. “Why are Dracians such reluctant sailors, you ask?” Rentiki repeated thoughtfully, scratching at the stubble covering his broad chin. “Why, I had not known you could understand the language of the Akunduin, my dear Cat. You are full of surprises! That ought to make Hashad keep his tongue firmly behind his teeth where it belongs!

“Well, surely you’ve heard the tales of Auriel. Naught but smoke and ruin lie where the mountain range once stood four moons ago, and rumors whisper of a Great Rift there that leads down into the womb of the world itself! Though, seems to me that the Great Navel is more apt a name, in that regard. You don’t wish to know what the rest of my crew calls it, oh ho!” the Captain roared with mirth at his own bawdy jest.

“If the stories are true, they say the mountain was struck down by the gods and then raised up into the heavens under cover of storm and cloud. For what reason, who but the gods alone can say? I hear the Aera tried to send some of their fliers to investigate these claims but to no avail. Fierce winds and mists as thick as blood shroud the Great Chasm, and the mountain itself, thunder rages ceaselessly all around it. Lost some of their wyverns and riders for their trouble, they did, when the gods sent their bolts to smite any who dare approach. St. Serriel’s Fire; now that I’ve seen when storms are on the horizon, with flames the strangest color of blue, green, and purple you’ve ever laid eyes on leaping up around the masts and sails of a ship. The shades of mariners lost at sea come to warn us of tempest and maelstrom, that is. This talk of lightning the hue of twilight doesn’t surprise me in the least. A Titan stirs within its bowels, I wager. Why else would the gods unleash their righteous fury upon the mountain?

“As to the Dracians’ fear to put out to sea, well, they say what remains of Auriel drifts over the Abrisseen now, sending a hail of fire and ash wherever it roams. You’ve seen my Argus. The mountain took one of her masts, that it did, when a ball of flame came crashing down from the sky upon us, as if dealing with Fenrigar’s reavers wasn’t bad enough. Mind you, seafarers all across the north ply the waters at their peril, but what choice do I have? Besides, dear Cat, I’ll not let a glorified hunk of rock stop me from sailing, cursed or no! Most Dracians won’t dare to venture out past The Twins* now with the threat of their ships being dashed to splinters, much less being harried and boarded by Hrundic vikers. Some will say I’ve lost my mind going against the will of the gods and their hells-spawned mountain, but the sea calls to me, that it does. I won’t stop now, or ever, until the fates see fit to send me down to meet my makers. And when I do, I’ll have a bawdy tale or two to tell them, I promise you that!”

Just as Rentiki had finished his story, several passersby ran past as a crowd started to gather across the boardwalk. Longshoremen, teamsters, deckhands, and shopkeepers alike came streaming over the docks in their curiosity.

“Eh, what’s this about?” Rentiki pondered himself, coming to an abrupt stop as the throng grew in size and anxious excitement tinged with the unmistakable scent of fear.

A few unruly gawkers shoved roughly past Eltera and the Captain, caring not a bit if they offended anyone while jockeying to secure the best vantage point upon the wharves. Something had appeared in the harbor waters of Ebontine Bay, sparking the sudden rush of humanity, though what, Eltera couldn’t say from where she stood and as short as she was compared to the relatively taller Dracians around her.

“This way, dear Cat!” Rentiki bellowed, grasping Eltera’s wrist more firmly, taking care not to touch the bandaged wound at her hand. “See here, make way! That’s my foot, you clumsy lout! Clear a path, I say, or you’ll be eating the leathers of my boot, you will!” Shouting in the Common tradespeak, the Captain roared and shouldered his way through the crowd with the dark aelf in tow. The man’s formidable stature was a blessing indeed as the pair pushed across the rank press of bodies, and abruptly found themselves at the front of the gathered throng.

Narrowing her eyes, Eltera strained to see what had caused all the commotion in the first place. The waters of the Ebontine were a murky swirl of blue and gray, its frothy waves swelling and carrying with them the icy sting of the north. A heavy mist hung over the chill air, thick white tendrils reaching out past the distant cliffs and craggy fingers of rock that ringed the expansive natural harbor. Weak and hazy, the light of the morning sun tried to penetrate the clouds cast overhead with mixed success. Across the bay were dozens of ships, the tar-coated hulls of barrel-bellied cogs were black against the sea while the colorful sails of merchant caravels strained against the strong wind blowing from the frozen reaches of Haeslund and Hulmoraan. Though vastly outnumbered by other types of vessels, scattered here and there were huge war galleys whose sheer size and numerous oars dwarfed that of any ship Eltera had ever seen before. Traditional Dracian dromonds rubbed shoulders with them all, their pennons waving in the anemic sun. Smaller skiffs and fishing boats rowed past in their haste not to strike or get hit by the larger vessels, attempting to get out of their way. Just as Eltera and Rentiki had cleared a path through the crowd, the vessels were trying to do the same as well, the dark aelf realized.

On the mist-shrouded horizon appeared three dots, barely visible against the water. They soon grew in size and clarity as they approached, bearing the distinctive sleek and slender shapes of drakkars, the longships of the northmen. Their white canvas sails bore the images of axes wreathed in thunder and lightning, their prows terrible to behold as the figureheads bore the likeness of fierce dragons, the very symbol of Mordrake used against its people to strike fear throughout the populace. Numerous round wooden shields banded with iron adorned the hulls, while the oars at the sides of each of the three vessels flicked back and forth in a rhythmic dance. The booming rumble of drums met Eltera’s ears, beating a cadence in time to the stroke of the oars. The drakkar at the center was nearly a half times larger than the other two that flanked it, marking it as a vessel bearing persons of some importance. Drace’s harbor quickly emptied on all sides, save for a few Dracian dromonds and war galleys to serve as escort under threat of arms, most daring not to steer in the path of the approaching seaborne dragons.

“Hrundir!” someone in the crowd shouted in Dracian. “The northmen are coming!”

“Barbarians!” bellowed another. “Savages!” roared others. “Raise the alarm! Summon the Aera! Where are the Istari when you need them? Blast them out of the water!”

All the while, Rentiki’s face darkened and appeared quite grim, very unlike his usually amiable self. “Aye, just what we needed. Wolves in dragon’s clothing.”

 

[Arcturion]

1.0 Darksail Argosy

Eltera tried her best to enjoy the walk and the day. It wasn't often that she could actually find some semblance of freedom to move openly through a city, even if under the guise of her hood. Her hair was not free to the wind, but it was still a beautiful day and she tried her best to smile with it.

Rentiki's company surprisingly helped. While she was often questionable of new people, the Daoshan possessed a natural charm. Perhaps it was wrong and perhaps he would backstab her at an appropriate opportunity . . .

The Svari forced the thoughts away. The memories of Nyctalinth and her Svari brethren often brought her back to thoughts and judgments she did not wish to revisit. The surface world held no small amount of violence, lies, and evil, but it also possessed light and laughter. And, sometimes, Eltera even managed to find a friend.

She had not had someone to speak with since parting with Tanius and Dusduana. Ivar had rebuked and belittled her, even if 'politely', at every chance he garnered. Rentiki was not Tanius and she certainly would not yet share her truth, but someone who took a person at their word and did not pry into every detail and was a welcome acquaintance. For seemingly no reason in relation to the talk of the moment, Eltera gave Rentiki's arm a friendly squeeze. The Svari smiled beneath her hood, though she did not know of Rentiki could see it. She felt certain, though, that the man knew it was there.

Talk of her surprising understanding of Akunduin, whatever language that might be, forced her to silently curse herself. This new ability was unnerving at best and mind numbing at worst. Above everything, it would take some time to grow accustomed to it.

The Svari again lied, trying to feign some mediocre of a painful memory, "I spent some time as a chamber girl. I had a lice infested blanket by a fire, a brush, and a piss pot that needed cleaning. The man to whom I was charged spoke that tongue. I learnt some of it, including numerous derogatory terms for women." Quickly, Eltera tried to bring some joy back into the conversation, giving him no time for a reply, "But that was then and this is now. Today, I spend my time trying to save one life a day. Usually it's my own, though."

Memories of Mt. Auriel were almost as painful as her homeland and they tasted even more bitter since she could only recall bits and pieces of her time there. It was like trying to look at the sky while looking down at a shattered mirror that was spread over the floor. Not only was the view broken but the clouds kept moving. There was no continuity or true sense to her memories there, as if they belonged to someone else. She was only certain that she had been there near when the catastrophe had occurred.

But she still forced herself to listen, hoping that something in Rentiki's words might open the dam that was blocking her memories. As painful as it might be to know the truth, she felt certain it was worse than not knowing. With knowledge, she might be able to make right some of her wrongs.

They continued to the crowd. The throng of people along the dock was a sight of itself and Rentiki's bulk was a welcome advantage to her small stature. The lithe Svari would have found a vantage point in another manner, but took the escort through the crowd. She made certain to keep her free hand near her purse as she brushed along people. Getting to their view, she was thankful her hood and hair had stayed in place.

The vessels cut through the water as anger howled from the crowd. A shadow even passed over Rentiki's usually bright features. As much as the crowd worried and her Daoshan escort frowned, Eltera felt curious beyond any stretch. She could remember the Hrundi in some relation to Auriel. There were a few names on the tip of her tongue that still eluded her, like trying to find scoop a drink of water with a fork

She spoke lightly, her voiced tinged with curiosity and hope, "Let us go see these new visitors. Do you know where they might put to dock? You will find another tale to tell the gods when you drink alongside them - you witness the first time the Hrundi stepped in Drace in peace."

The words of their first peaceful visit was a bluff. She kew almost nothing of the Hrundi, but hoped it might prod him into action. Basing her words against the crowd's reaction, there might be arms drawn yet. Nonetheless, she wished to see these Hrundi being brought in under armed escort.

 

[Arcturion]

1.0 Darksail Argosy

“Peace,” the Captain repeated, as if hearing the sound of it for the very first time. “My Hrundic is a bit rusty, but I don’t believe the northmen even have a word for peace in their language, not that they would know the meaning to begin with. They war with each other in as much as they do other peoples. The Hultaan, the Dracians, why I even heard they dared to raid against the Thorazuin and Thalasians in the dark days following the Harrowing, the dwarves for the secret of whorl-patterned steel and the elves for timber to build their longships so they could make war upon all the land.

“A Hrundic drakkar puts to anchor wherever it has a mind to, and any thought of protest almost always ends in bloodshed,” Rentiki observed with some distaste. “Vikers and reavers, the whole lot of them. Would that the gods see fit to drop the accursed mountain atop their sails!”

A bell began to toll in the distance, ringing a mournful dirge throughout the capital. Eltera strained her ears to see where it was coming from and spied a lone watchtower across the bay upon the western shores, its ramparts breaking through the veil of thick morning fog. Other bells in other towers took up the call, and soon it seemed that all of Drace was abuzz with the chime of warning at the Hrundir’s inevitable approach. The northmen are coming. The northmen are coming. The northmen are coming.

Wyverns appeared in the skies overhead, circling the harbor with dark wings that cast broad shadows upon the churning slate-gray waters. The scaled armor of their mounted riders glistened in the weak sunlight, while the lances they bore flashed with the promise of sharpened steel. A horn blew a thunderous note from the dragon-headed prow of the lead Hrundic longship, echoing across Dracian Bay. The sound was mirrored by a blast that came from behind the crowd of onlookers, startling the various cityfolk that had gathered to watch the arrival of the northmen.

“Make way for the Contari*!” barked a man’s gruff voice in the Dracian tongue. “Move aside and clear a path, lest you want to be trampled underfoot!” The mob began to shuffle toward either side as the bright tips of lances peeked over their heads. Rentiki pulled Eltera gently along with him, the dark aelf’s lithe form dwarfed by the large man’s bulk. She didn’t bother to resist and simply stepped lightly around to his right, partially hidden by a muscular arm and shoulder.

A triple column of two-legged dragon-like creatures strode into view, the long, wickedly curved claws at their feet clicking first against the cobblestones of the main thoroughfare and then the wooden planks of the boardwalk leading to the piers. Their slight, spindly arms also bore grasping talons, some sheathed in man-made steel claws to augment their shearing ability. Dark scales of mottled blue and black covered their thick hides, while the long, ridged horns atop their heads gave the creatures the appearance of regal crowns, albeit deadly ones capable of impaling a man clean through upon a goring charge. Tooled leather saddles were strapped to their backs from which grim men clad in banded mail and polished breastplates sat. Each mounted warrior bore a lance of ebony wood tipped with unforgiving steel braced against the stirrup in one lobster-gauntleted hand, the other bearing a large kite shields emblazoned with a crest of a two-headed gold dragon upon a field of the deepest purple, the colors of royalty. Pennons bearing the same sigil flew from the top of their spearheads. Plainly decorated but practical longswords were sheathed at their sides to serve as secondary weapons. Dark eyes scanned the crowd from underneath half-helms adorned with ivory dragon horn that seemed to match those of the soldiers’ mounts, the long tails of the draconic creatures swishing back and forth from behind them lazily. A few onlookers who didn’t manage to get out of the way in time were rewarded with a snapping of jaws as the drakes hissed their displeasure, sharp fangs bared in a snarl.

Armed with short swords sheathed at their right sides as well as spears and kite shields in hand, a small contingent of footmen followed the cavalry from close behind before fanning out toward either side. With a shouted command, they quickly formed lines between them and the crowd, locking their shields as one and bracing the butts of their spears upon the dock to create a formidable wall. Gasps and muttered oaths passed among the throng of curious spectators as they were pushed back and held at bay. Several of the footmen grasped thick chains that held the leather collars of smaller dragon-like creatures. Like the larger beasts, they walked upon two-legs though they could easily go upon all fours if need be. The size of large dogs, the smaller drakes had scales the color of dull jade and lacked horns. Instead, finned crests adorned the top of their heads and backs all the way to the tips of their long tails. The bright yellow frills opened and closed depending upon the mood of the creatures, flaring up to their full span when agitated to make them appear larger and more formidable than they actually were. Though small, their teeth and claws seemed no less sharp as they sniffed at the salt-heavy air and snapped at those that ventured too close. Curiously, the creatures chirped noisily amongst themselves, hinting at some pack mentality when they hunted. A cunning spark of intelligence glinted behind their yellow cat-like eyes, matching those of the larger two-legged drakes but was missing from most wyverns, which are generally considered dumb beasts by most of Mordrake’s populace, however fearsome they are.

Once the impressive host had stopped, Eltera counted at least fifty of the larger draconic creatures and mounted knights each, with twice altogether as many men on foot and a handful of the smaller drakes to keep the crowd from surging any closer toward the wharves ahead. Peering from behind Rentiki, she saw that a man as large as the ebon-skinned Captain rode at the head of the column alongside a woman. Widening her eyes, the dark aelf recognized the man as Ivar Wolfgarsson, the proud Hrundic warrior who had shown her nothing but disdain and open threats upon discovering her true nature. He was mounted atop a large destrier, the lone horse the color of black smoke. Whinnying and shaking its mane, his steed looked quite out of place and nervous amidst a pack of drakes that were all no doubt carnivores. A thick gray and white mottled wolf’s pelt was draped over the northman’s broad shoulders, while a fur-lined steel half-helm adorned his head. Bright flaxen locks peeked through from under the fur, framing a face chiseled seemingly from the ice and stone of his people’s homeland. Eyes the color of the gray overcast sky stared straight ahead, fixed upon the approaching longships, while his powerful frame was clad in a silvery mail shirt of fine mithral links complete with tough leather gloves and boots likewise trimmed with fur. Belted at the man’s side was his prized warhammer, its iron head tipped with a long, jagged spike. Holding the reins with a large, powerful hand, Ivar raised a horn to his lips with the other and again blew a long, rumbling note that reverberated across the sea.

The horn was answered by a like blast that thundered across the sky, sending swarms of dragonets shrieking into the air to mingle with the much larger wyverns in an aerial dance. Without a word, Ivar withdrew his leg from over the saddle and dismounted, landing heavily upon the wooden planks of the boardwalk. A Dracian soldier went to seize the reins of his horse, the animal stamping its hooves and nearly bucking in fright at his touch. The Hrundic warrior paid neither the destrier nor footman any heed, with one hand bracing the long bronze-capped horn at his side while the other coming to rest atop the handle of his warhammer.

Mounted atop one of the drakes, the woman that rode at Ivar’s side watched the powerful northmen with eyes the color that matched his own, her expression a barely controlled mask of warring emotions. Long hair of reddish-gold flame was drawn up and over her head in an elaborately braided weave, held in place with ivory combs and golden pins. She wore an elegant gown of fine blue satin trimmed with golden thread along its pleated hem while a fur-lined cloak was draped over her shoulders to help ward off the cold, held in place with a brooch wrought of gold in the shape of an entwining serpent. Handsome and statuesque rather than beautiful in the classic sense, the woman’s skin was also as pale as Ivar’s. It took only a single glance to know that she was no Dracian, but instead having the blood of the Hrundir flowing within her veins. Tall in the saddle and possessed of a warrior’s graceful familiarity as if born to ride, the woman’s features and bearing spoke of one who was used to being in command and brooked no nonsense. Despite her noble lady’s array, she appeared ill at ease with the extravagance of it all, as if more comfortable with mail and plate against her skin rather than silk and satin. Her left hand in particular appeared to grasp at the gown’s fabric at her side, as if instinctively searching for the hilt of a sword that should have been there but strangely wasn’t.

The lead male Dracian, a captain judging by the deep purple of his cape and complexity of his dragon-shaped helm, likewise dismounted, shooting Ivar an unmasked look of mistrust before moving toward the woman’s side. He appeared younger than a captain had any right to be though the way he carried himself spoke of experience that belied his years. The captain offered a gauntleted hand up to the woman, but she merely waved it away with no small measure of annoyance. Sliding easily from the saddle herself, the woman touched down upon the boardwalk upon slippered feet and moved to stand by Ivar’s right side, if grudgingly. Appearing slightly abashed but resigned, the young captain stood opposite of the large northman’s left, his own hand resting against the pommel of the longsword sheathed at his belt while giving Ivar cautious sidelong glances from the corner of his eyes. Eltera noted the woman, though not nearly matching Ivar’s considerable height, stood a few inches taller than many of the Dracian men around her, and was eye to eye with the young captain. Grim but composed, elder looking men with neatly trimmed beards and clad in ornate robes and flowing mantles draped over their left shoulders, in the popular Dracian style of aristocracy, moved to flank them, most likely royal advisors and councilors.

By now, the crowds on either side of the host had swelled to near bursting, drawing citizens from all corners of the Dracian capital. Nobles peered out from the curtains of palanquins and carriages, surrounded by their own armed entourages amidst commonfolk that included shopkeepers, laborers, artisans, dock workers, and even ragged beggars and refugees huddled together against the chill. These last stared hungrily with vacant eyes upon the gold finery and weapons of the assembled host and nobility alike. Such things could buy months’ worth of food and warm clothing. Only the fear of tasting that very same cold steel and being torn limb from limb by the drakes kept them from swarming as a mob.

The tolling of the alarm bells had receded from the watchtowers, though the soldiers gave neither inch nor quarter to anyone trying to pass through their lines. A few unruly onlookers received clouts to the head with mailed fists or the butt of spears if they pressed in too closely, and one unfortunately loud-mouthed longshoreman, stinking of grog, had his nose broken by the sudden bash of a kite shield when he made a crude remark upon the noble lady’s honor, having something to do with Hrundir and goats. The woman, to her credit, paid the drunkard no mind but instead kept her eyes transfixed upon the looming dragon-headed vessels.

Accompanied by the grunting shouts of hardened sailors working the oars and ropes, the beating of the Hrundic drums slowed in their cadence as the drakkars finally made their berth upon Drace’s shore. Looking closer upon the ships’ sails, she could see that each one bore a different animal sigil along with the common crossed axes wreathed in storm and lightning bolts. One of the smaller drakkars was marked with the head of a great boar, its fearsome tusks lowered in a charge. The other had the image of a dark brown grizzly bear, its fanged maw gaping wide in a bellowing challenge. The lead drakkar’s single mast and sails bore the crest of a grey wolf, its eyes holding profound mysteries in their liquid depths. As the sails were hoisted, the oars took over for the rest of the way toward the jetties. Dull splashes met Eltera’s ears when the longships dropped anchor into the bay’s waters, signaling a finality of their arrival.

Dock workers were called upon by several soldiers to move wooden planks into place upon the hulls of the longships. Unintelligible shouts rang out from the open rows of the drakkars, as they lacked definitive decks in the sense of caravels and galleys. The lead vessel had a wooden pavilion-like structure, held together by canvas and ropes, built over the middle, providing shelter to its esteemed occupants in the face of gale and rain. A hush had fallen over the crowd, with only the lapping of waves and the calls of dragonets mixed with the metallic sigh of steel being the only sounds to be heard. It was as if all of Drace was holding its collective breath with the arrival of the Hrundir.

Ivar’s chest seemed to swell up, his chin raised high for all to see. Given the northman’s muscular build and tall stature, it was hard to miss the look of arrogance and pride in his bold-faced expression. The young woman and captain had donned stone-faced masks for their expressions, appearing not to relish the moment nearly as much as Ivar did but willing to do what must be done for the good of the kingdom. A wizened maester at the woman’s side spoke in low tones to her though she appeared to be only half-listening. Eltera stood closest to her amidst the crowd beside Rentiki, and she managed to catch a few smattering of Dracian words from their conversation.

“. . . there, Lady Sharis. Jarl Wolfgarsson brings his hersir, his bannermen, the boar and the bear with him, so we must . . .”

Sharis. Eltera knew that name. It came to her suddenly. That was what the Aera knight-commander had called herself the day her wyvern had been driven mad and set to attack anything in its path, including the dark aelf, at the time. Eltera also recalled the woman’s brusque manner and acid tongue. The dark aelf had a hard time imagining that this woman, clothed as a lady of highborn nobility, was the same fierce warrior as from before. It had been nearly a year, after all, and despite sharing a common enemy with the H’jenn-Ra, Sharis had been no friend of hers in the end, taking wing and parting ways at the first opportunity. Still, she had stayed her sword hand enough not to run Eltera through with her blade upon sight then.

The dark aelf’s wounds upon her hands began to tingle slightly. The sensation was a mere annoyance at first, but the tingling soon gave way to an uncomfortable throbbing as she rubbed at the bandaged palms. Rentiki must have noticed Eltera’s discomfort for he bent down lower to her level and whispered in concerned tones, “Are you well, dear Cat? You seem troubled by something. Well, aside from what little comfort the arrival of northmen can afford, at any rate. What is wrong?”



OOC: * Contari means heavy lance or lancer.

 

[Arcturion]

1.0 Darksail Argosy

The dark aelf watched the gathering parade in silence. There was certainly no small number of soldiers and guards for the arrival of the Hrundic envoys. Despite the armed guards and hungry dragon-like creatures of every sort, the enegry of the crowd was near fevered with anger. The day seemed more than a little heavy with the feeling of hate in the air.

There had been no small amount of whisperings about a possible alliance with the barbarians. For every whisper of an alliance, two people had spit at the prospect, one damned the gods, and another would mention Drace being the next Ilvern for their sins. Now, that possible alliance seemed like a true reality as the Hrundic vessels dropped anchor in Drace's port with no hostilities exchanged.

Eltera regarded the Dracian envoys. Ivar was certainly no friend and was barely better than an enemy. Only his sense of honor and Bel's words held his hammer from trying to open her skull. There seemed no lack of advisors and perhaps even a few wizards within the heavy jumble behind the two towering bearers of the King.

And the lady seemed familiar as well. Her knowledge of and familiarity with Mordrake was poor, but she still found it difficult to place the face. She was near to asking Rentiki if he had any knowledge of the lady when she managed to overhear the name.

Sharis . . .

Knowing the second emissary of Mordrake did little to endear her anymore to the entourage. Both seemed to have barely restrained emotions about killing her, but that was generally the way with most in regards to her. If it was not fear and hatred, it was anger and hatred. She only lightly shook her head as she brushed a bandaged hand through her hair again, ensuring that strand of hair was still well tucked away.

Pulling her hand away, she rubbed at her bandages again before placing her delicate hand to Amurisil's hilt. The touch of the blade felt cool and helped relieve the pain slightly, but it still troubled her. She failed to hide it well enough to deter Rentiki's questions.

She attempted her best to again evade his promptings, working well to keep her voice low, "Nothing at all. Just an itch in the bandages. Wounds itch as they heal." She purposefully turned her attention back to the Hrundir from both Drace and the north, hoping that Rentiki might do the same.

 

[Arcturion]

1.0 Darksail Argosy

Rentiki raised a hand to his chin, idly scratching at the stubble growing there. “Aye, if you say so, dear Cat,” the Captain softly conceded, sounding rather unconvinced. Mirroring Eltera, he turned his attention back to the Dracian host and their Hrundic guests.

Gritting her teeth, the dark aelf tried to ignore the ache of the wounds at her bandaged hands. She felt as if the flesh there were being singed from some unseen flame, spreading out from the stigmata and putting to the torch the surrounding skin. She crossed her arms over her chest, her fingers balled into fists in an effort to dull the edge of her growing discomfort.

By now, the planks between the longships and the docks had been secured. As the first Hrundir warriors began to disembark, their fur-trimmed boots trod upon the wooden boardwalk with heavy steps. Their garb matched Ivar’s for the most part, with studded leather and chain shirts being favored over heavier armor. The majority bore axes at their belts and backs, both of the hand and long varieties, rather than warhammers. Many also had daggers and longswords sheathed in tooled leather scabbards, their ornate hilts contrasting with the relatively simple designs of their Dracian counterparts, while others held round wooden shields banded with iron. Unlike the soldiers of the Contari, the Hrundic half-helms bore no horns, dragon or otherwise, being lined with fur and adorned with nose guards. The well weathered faces of the northmen were fierce and grim, with most covered by thick, long braids and wild, shaggy beards the color of flax, wheat, and summer fox fur. Several of the combat hardened warriors proudly wore intricate tattoos inscribed in deep blue ink as well as the vicious scars of battle plain upon their faces, and more than a few had missing eyes, broad noses crooked from being broken at least once in their lifetimes, and ears adorned by rings that flashed in the weak morning light.

Eltera counted nearly a total of fifty and three hundred northmen, with half of them disembarked upon the wharves and the rest choosing to remain behind upon their drakkars. Each of the two smaller longships had a hundred oars and the lead drakkar nearly one and a half times as many, so it had not been hard to guess their numbers. Destriers were brought off the ships as well, though there were only enough horses for about a tenth of the total Hrundir present. The rest were content as footmen, as the horses no doubt took up a lot of space onboard a ship whose hold was best reserved for loot and plunder. The animals were as large and shaggy as their riders, and just as foul tempered it seemed as the drakes further back in the Contari columns began to hiss their displeasure, prompting the horses to stamp their hooves and bray wildly in response. Muttering oaths, the northmen fought to bring their mounts under control before having them form a line between their longships and the Dracian soldiers.

Finally, ringed by a retinue of at least six personal guards each, the leaders of each vessel came ashore to join their men-at-arms.

The chieftain of the drakkar that bore the sigil of the boar upon its sail was a broad-figured, squat man with a bristly black beard that poked out in all directions and bushy eyebrows that looked like hairy caterpillars to match. A tanned hide of like appearance rested upon his thickly muscled shoulders, while the tusked head of a fierce boar adorned the top of his steel half-helm. The northman’s rather ugly, pockmarked face was red and splotchy, as if from too much sun or drink, or perhaps both. A great iron mace with a multi-spiked head was slung across his back, creaking against the thick layers of his wine-stained hide armor. His expression was balefully dour and more than a little bleary-eyed as he shielded his face from the morning light with a thick, meaty hand covered with coarse black hair, the other clutching at a drinking horn that sloshed as he walked with a slight stumbling gait in his heavy steps.

“The Lord Tuskegrin of Ostegard, sworn Hersir of Haeslund!” yelled a Hrundic herald among the boar chieftain’s men, his accented words spoken in the Common tongue.

The chieftain of the longship that displayed the crest of the bear upon its lone sail was an impossibly tall, broad-shouldered man with a long beard woven into a neat row of braids, his dark brown hair equally trimmed and ordered. A thick furred bearskin flowed out from behind him, framing the huge two-handed greatsword sheathed at his back, its wire-wrapped hilt longer than a man’s forearm. The fanged maw of a grizzly’s head adorned the top of the northman’s half-helm, looking every bit as fierce in death as it did in life. His armor was that of brigandine, its layers of leather and lamellar as thick as he was powerfully muscled. Intricate knot-work of blue ink flowed across his face just underneath his dark eyes and over his cheeks and broad nose. Handsome if imposing, this chieftain’s expression seemed more at ease than the other as he smiled crookedly at some whispered jest made by one of his guardsmen.

“The Lord Ursodrik of Vestegard, sworn Hersir of Haeslund!” bellowed a different herald, this one from the bear chieftain’s entourage.

The chieftain of the vessel that flew the symbol of the grey wolf upon its white sail appeared similar to Ivar Wolfgarsson in his stature and bearing. However, his half-helm not only bore the head of a slain wolf, its gray and white mottled fur hide draped across his powerful shoulders, but was also crowned with large, curved horns of some great beast, a ram or possibly even a dragon. A steel-gray greataxe, the twin crossed symbols common among all three of the longships, was strapped across the northman’s back, while numerous throwing handaxes adorned his broad leather belt. The noble chieftain’s face was hewn in the same image of his son Ivar, his eyes the unyielding sky gray color that bespoke of storms upon the horizon. The northman wore no braids of any sort, nor did his hair appear very long at all if there was even any beneath his majestically horned half-helm to begin with. He also bore no beard save for long, white whiskers that framed his stone-chiseled features on either side of his strong jaw, the pale skin marred by four long scars that crossed diagonally from the top left side of his temple down to the bottom right of his chin. The hideous marks had long since healed, but carved their way over brow and nose and lips alike in a terrible, ruinous path.

“All hail Bulwygar Wolfgarrson of Sodergard, Slayer of the Jotunbrud, Jarl of the Seven Tribes!” three heralds boomed concurrently, one amidst the wolf chieftain’s retinue and the other two the same heralds who had spoken up before.

“And Konnungr of all Haeslund,” Ivar added with more than a touch of pride in his words as he bent down to one knee before his father, speaking in the Hrundic language, while Sharis and the young Contari captain remained where they stood, their expressions neutral.

At this, Bulwygar seemed to approve and gave a slight nod, raising a large, calloused hand to beckon his son to arise. The two men clasped each at other at the wrists in the traditional greeting of warriors before they embraced as father and son, the mail links of their chain shirt armors sighing as they shone brightly.

“To be King,” Bulwygar replied pensively in their native tongue after breaking away from their embrace, his voice as deep and gravelly as stone itself. “Were it to be true.”

“And so it shall be,” intoned a female voice in the same language, sounding supremely confident. Strangely, Eltera had not noted her presence among the men before but there stood behind Bulwygar a tall Hrundic female warrior clad in chainmail and a breastplate molded to fit every curve of her lithe form perfectly. Her long, raven-black hair was unbound and hung well past her waist, the dark tresses stirring not in the least despite the stiff breeze blowing off from the waters of the Ebontine. Her flawless, pale skin seemingly sculpted from the ice of her homeland, the woman’s eyes was a disconcertingly clear shade of blue. When she raked her steely gaze over the gathered host of Hrundir and Dracians alike, it appeared to strip away the flesh of mortal men to peer straight into the darkest corners of their desires. Eltera supposed that most humans would find the female warrior beautiful in a coldly haunting way. She bore no weapons at all upon her person, save for a round shield forged from some dull black metal strapped at her left forearm. Its inky surface reflected no light while its unfathomable depths appeared to greedily drink in the warmth of the sun itself. The sable-trimmed cloak around her slender shoulders was midnight in color as well, billowing out from behind.

“It is known,” echoed another female voice, this one belonging to a second Hrundic woman who was an exact mirror image of the first only her hair was the color of spun gold woven into twin elaborate braids that framed her face. She was likewise unarmed except for the round shield clutched in her hand, its metallic surface a shimmering gold polished to a mirror finish. The golden fur-trimmed cloak she wore was the color of the sun. Stepping past a guard, the shield maiden seemed to tower over the squat Lord Tuskegrin as she walked by him to stand at Bulwygar’s side.

“It is known,” answered yet another woman’s voice, this third one also an uncanny replica of the other two, though her hair shone like silver and was bound into a single braid that hung down her back. The shield she bore was brushed silver, and no less bright than her blonde sister’s while her white fur-trimmed cloak flashed silver as well. The woman edged past Lord Ursodrik and his men to stand opposite of Bulwygar with the other shield maidens.

The Lord Tuskegrin harrumphed slightly, muttering under his breath before taking a long pull from his drinking horn. Ale ran from the corners of his mouth to trickle down the thick, black bristles that was his beard. The Lord Ursodrik gave his fellow hersir a cursory sidelong glance, his expression one of bemusement, or so Eltera thought.

Rentiki’s breath seemed to catch in his throat as a murmur began to rise through the crowd on both sides of the boardwalk, a sound that tasted of anxiety and fear. “I didn’t think the rumors were true,” the Daoshan Captain whispered in disbelief in his own native tongue. “The Nornir.”

Eltera turned to look at Rentiki. “Nornir?” she asked curiously, taking note of the way the nervous tension hung in the air over the gathered throng of people. It suddenly occurred to the dark aelf that she was starting to grow dizzy and lightheaded, her vision blurring at the edges. She shook her head, trying to banish the ill sensation she was feeling.

“Witches,” the man replied softly in disquieted tones. “Immortals that appear every few centuries to guide the fates of mortal men whether they wish it or not. It is said that whomever they favor is destined to become King of All the North, and that all others shall bend the knee to the one so chosen. If the stories are to be believed, then the Dracians have much to worry. Why, I even heard . . .”

Rentiki stopped suddenly as he regarded Eltera with wide eyes. “Dear Cat, your hands . . .”

Alarmed, the dark aelf looked down at her hands and saw that the linen bandages were soaked through with dark red, her life’s blood weeping from the wounds down slick fingers onto the wooden planks at her feet. No one else in the crowd seemed to notice save for Rentiki, their rapt attention focused squarely on the northmen and the three sisters of the Nornir. The wounds burned and throbbed with remembered pain as if the H’jenn-Ra’s black sickle blade had once again pierced through her flesh as it did before the winter snows appeared.

 

[Arcturion]

1.0 Darksail Argosy

Eltera grimaced as her jaw tightened in an effort to fight through the pain in her hands. She had learnt to live with the occasional dullness of discomfort from the wicked wounds. At most, she usually experienced a shock of pain at some odd moment. Now, though, the pain was more than a minor annoyance, but boarding on agony as the fire ate at her skin. She told herself that it was in her mind.

There was something in this moment though and she fought through the pain, attempting to brush it aside. Beyond the Hrundi, she felt something oddly different and distinct about this moment. This very crowd had been turned to a near feverish pitch to kill the barbarians, but was not quieted in awe and fear. Her skin was almost tingling and she would not be denied it.

Ignoring the pain as she balled her wrapped hands beneath her arms, she watched the parade of warriors and leaders. They all seemed proud, standing tall with broad shoulders and chests. Even the shortest of them was as tall as most of the Dracians present. The scent of horses and furs mingled in the crisp salt air of the day. The horses brayed in anxiety of the reptile beasts as the latter drooled in hunger. The crowd hung in silence.

Three barbarian lords and three ladies of unearthly presence. Rentiki called them witches and somehow the Svari felt that the word lacked the truth. They cared only for the Hrundic King though. Or perhaps it was Ivar they now turned their attentions toward. They seemed to have come from the three different ships of the . . .

Her head lulled slightly as stars began to flash across her vision, blurring the witches with the throngs of guards and Dracians. Her head started to spin as she tried to balance herself. Rentiki's warning brought her gaze to her blood-stained hands. The Svari's tunic and cloak were stained with her life, she noted, as she watched for a moment in disbelief. Blood flowed as freely as a fountain, staining her clothing and the wooden planks.

Eltera's gaze snapped back up to the gathered trio of women. She ignored Bulwygar and Ivar, instead looking to the three ladies. She closed her eyes, fighting back the feeling to pass out and the cool throb at her hip as Amurisil asked her to come to it for help. Instead, the Svari fell into the gift of Green that Tanius had bestowed upon her. She felt that green feeling of warmth and life flowing within her. The Green contrasted with the cooling soothe of Amurisil, instead, promising something similar, but entirely different.

As she opened her eyes, her once hazel eyes were as green as the first leaf of spring as she looked to the trio.

 

[Arcturion]

1.0 Darksail Argosy

Drawing upon the power of the greensight, Eltera’s thoughts drifted back momentarily to the white cloth headband that once belonged to her father, Saulekanis. The former weaponmaster of House Trellust was once among the greatest warriors in all of Nyctalinth, that is, until her mother the Matron Trellust unmasked what she considered Saul’s heresy against Illotha and gouged out his eyes herself with a white hot knife as punishment. The simple garment was all Eltera had left of her father, that and her memory of him when he willingly gave his life without hesitation to save hers in the lightless depths of the Underealm.

Before he had departed, Tanius spoke briefly of the greenseers, those with the gift of true vision and foresight obtained through waking dreams and spirits of the natural world. It was said that they could see truths hidden from the eyes of normal men and reveal all for what it truly is rather than how it was to be perceived. Eltera hoped that whatever small ability they could afford would help her see with clarity now.

Opening her eyes, the dark aelf saw the world as a hazy shade of swirling gray upon green as if all the colors and lines of reality were blurred together by some great, unseen wind. Her gaze drifted over the crowd, and she could almost see their palpable fear hanging in the air above the gathered mass. The soldiers of the Contari host revealed nothing and were as others saw them; mere mortal men armed with steel and expected to protect the realm which they served. The drakes they rode were descended from dragons, this was so, but compared to the true dragons of old they were relatively simple-minded and animalistic creatures, their dragonblood heavily diluted through the ages.

The proud Hrundir, including Ivar, were mortal as well, and no doubt were born, lived, and died as other men did. The greensight revealed nothing special of note when Eltera trained her eyes upon their battle hardened faces. The Lady Sharis was the same, as were the northmen’s horses.

She stopped as her gaze came upon the two Hersir Lords and their Jarl, Bulwygar. At Tuskegrin’s side stood a giant wild boar, its hulking shape unmistakable as it was covered with coarse, bristly hair the color of coal. Its ugly, reddish-pink face was swarthy and marked by warts both great and small, framing the wickedly curved tusks that jutted out from its lower jaw. The porcine animal’s form was hazy and indistinct, and nearly as transparent as a ghostly spirit would be. Turning to Ursodrik, Eltera saw that the chieftain was also accompanied by a dire-sized animal of his own, this one being a giant brown grizzly bear. The creature would have easily towered over every man present at the quays, including Ursodrik himself, were it to stand upon its hind legs. Its talons and fangs seemed capable of shearing flesh and bone if it wished, while its ursine face bore the same intricate tattoos of deep blue-inked knots of the Hersir it meant to represent. Like the boar that stood at Tuskegrin’s side, the bear’s form appeared almost ethereal and translucent, as if it was a mirage and wasn’t really there to begin with.

The Jarl Bulwygar Wolfgarsson was not alone in this for he too had the ghostly apparition of a dire animal by his side. This one was a giant wolf with grey and white mottled fur and eyes of the deepest amber-yellow. The lupine creature stood as large as any horse Eltera had ever seen, and its presence along with the other insubstantial animal spirits appeared to go unnoticed by everyone else, including the Hrundic lords themselves. Even now, various parts of several northmen’s bodies were inside and easily passed through the great incorporeal beasts where they stood, each creature watching the procession silently with vigilant eyes.

When Eltera turned her gaze toward the direction of the Nornir sisters, her eyes went wide. Where each woman currently stood was merely her silhouette, its shape black and inky as midnight and seeming to hungrily draw in what little surrounding light and warmth there was to be had. The depths of every Norn’s form were endless, and the dark aelf had the eerie sense of staring into some wide, bottomless void from which there was no escape. The only things about them that appeared solid and substantial were their shields, and even they had strange undulating shapes flittering about their metallic surfaces. The polished golden shield of the supposedly blonde-haired sister was adorned with the numerous forms of pulsating hearts reflected upon the metal, each terrible organ beating as if still alive. Even now, Eltera could see the gold veins pumping and throbbing in a sick, quivering mass. She half expected to hear them drumming a macabre cadence over the words of the gathered host. The brushed silver shield belonging to the silver-haired woman was equally disturbing for its surface bore the labyrinthine, organic mass of what appeared to be coral-like brains embossed into the metal, their tremulous shapes thrumming as if still capable of processing thought with some unseen, malevolent intelligence.

The dark ebony shield borne by the raven-haired Norn was the most horrifying of all. In its deep midnight-black surface were the misshapen forms of what appeared to be countless ghostly visages trapped within the dull metal, each straining against one another and screaming in silence as if trying to break free. The unnatural terror and agony were plain upon their wraithlike faces as their gnashing mouths gaped open, shrieking wordlessly and begging for release from their eternal torment.

As quickly as the unsettling images over the shields appeared in Eltera’s vision, they faded away, leaving naught but men and horses and drakes reflected upon their metallic surfaces.

Blinking, the dark aelf suddenly realized she had been holding her breath and it seemed to take all of her willpower to remind her lungs to continue their duty once again, as if her body refused to obey her unconscious thoughts. The sharp intake of air alerted Eltera to the fact that she was once again breathing, the sound drawing Rentiki’s attention for he gave her a troubled sidelong glance.

It was too crowded and the people around her stood too tightly packed for her to kneel down without brushing or pressing against someone else. It was just as well, Eltera thought. No doubt such an action would have drawn unwanted attention no matter how deft her movements were, considering the surrounding press of onlookers. With practiced ease, the dark aelf’s bandaged hand drifted down toward Amurisil’s silver wire-wrapped ivory hilt, the cool touch of it somehow reassuring in light of the disturbing things she had just witnessed. Slowly she loosened the sword in its scabbard and drew the blade several inches to clear it from the sheath. The silvery sheen of the ultra-hard eog from which the weapon was forged seemed to take on a life of its own. Carefully, Eltera moved her bloodied fingers down over the soothing metal and wordlessly beckoned Amurisil to work its healing magic over her wounds.

The dark aelf’s eyes never left the void-like silhouettes of the three Nornir, watching for any sign of movement or recognition of her divination on their part. Abruptly, Eltera gasped as her slick fingers curled around Amurisil’s blade tightly, the pain of her wounds shooting renewed fire through her hands and up into her arms to clutch at her heart in a vice-like grip. The sword at her side seemed to tremble and scream silently along with her as she lost her breath. Twisting where she stood, Eltera’s eyes grew wide and her mouth hung open in a soundless scream as sheer agony took hold of her entire being.

Vaguely she heard Rentiki’s shout of dismay as the world seemed to spin all around her. The dark aelf’s eyes swam and swirled like a maelstrom, the edges of her vision darkened by ever deepening shadows. It was then that Eltera took note of the three Nornir for something had stirred within their midnight forms. A single, large bulbous eye opened in the center of where the raven-haired woman’s face should have been, its baleful glare twisting this way and that over the crowd before it turned within the unseen socket to look squarely in her direction. That hideous black-pupiled, green-rimmed orb has unmistakably found me, Eltera realized too late, just as similar eyes appeared in the featureless visages of the other two Norn sisters, one rimmed with gold and the other silver. Before long, countless eyes both large and small had erupted all over the women’s shapeless silhouettes, each and every one staring straight at and through the dark aelf, it seemed, ripping away the layers of her armor, clothing, skin, flesh and bone, laying bare her heart, her mind, her soul.

Oaths filled the air around her, their echoes ringing hollow in her ears as the world gave way beneath her feet. Eltera felt like she had been falling for an eternity and with nothing waiting below at all save for a bottomless void. Those eyes, those terrible watchful eyes that saw everything. That saw her. The last thing she glimpsed before the darkness claimed her was Rentiki’s ebon-skinned face, worry and alarm etched across his normally jovial features, shouting for her to hang on when all she ever wanted to do at that moment in time was let go and be swallowed up by nothingness.

 

[Arcturion]

1.1 A Timely Welcome

1.1 A Timely Welcome

This space is reserved for a future post. I had planned on each chapter alternating between the two characters, Eltera first, then Fharis, then Eltera again. Fharis's chapters are still in the editing phase, so apologies to all. Check back later for an update here.

 

[Arcturion]

1.1 A Timely Welcome

This space is reserved for a future post. Check back later for an update here.

 

[Arcturion]

1.1 A Timely Welcome

This space is reserved for a future post. Check back later for an update here.