anendlessdelirium

[anendlessdelirium]

Prophesy, pt. 1

There was prophesy written in the red of that winter morning sky. It rang in the screech of an eagle, echoing throughout the valley in a wordless song. It blew in the cold gusts of winds, rushing down from the mountains of the Spine of the World. It was the kind of wind that sent shivers through any living creature, even those of the hearty northern tribesman populating Icefang village.

Svella heard and saw all of this, but she could not see the signs for what they were. She saw only the valley she had known her whole, young life, a thin crescent of sun peeking over the horizon, bathing the valley in dim light and painting the sky in hues of orange and red. She took a moment to pause and admire the beauty of it, resting her heavy basket on her hip as she breathed in the crisp mountain air. The smoky scent of cooking fires drifted on the breeze, as sleepy tribesman waked from their beds to set about what work they could in the few hours of daylight the season allowed. Svella had volunteered to brave the bitter cold to bring supplies to the wise woman who lived on the outskirts of the village. The wise woman was quite old and could not fetch them herself, so Svella felt obliged to help her. Svella also admired the woman, whose knowledge of healing had helped many in the village and likely saved her brother’s life. She often volunteered to help her when she treated villagers, learning what she could. Svella felt a pang of sorrow bloom in her chest, knowing that the old woman’s end was coming fast. This winter had been harder than most, and the old woman’s days were likely numbered.

A loud laugh erupted inside the stone hut next to her, snapping Svella out of her trance. The girl sighed, pushing an unruly strand of auburn hair back up under her fur hat. She wore a heavy coat and hat, yet still the cold managed to slip its way through. The cold was inescapable in the dead of winter, yet still her people managed to scrape out an existence here, as they had for centuries. Svella’ s people were not easily cowed by adversity, and neither was she. After one last, lingering look out into the valley, Svella continued through the village to the wise woman’s hut.

When Svella knocked on the round wooden door of the hut, there was no answer. Svella could hear a faint rustling within, but no voice answered her calls. She opened the door tentatively, afraid she might be breeching some decorum of privacy but far more concerned for the old woman’s health. The door creaked open, spilling light inside the dark hut. It was full of faded wooden furniture, laden with dusty old books and small jars of liquid. Herbs and plants of all shapes and sizes hung drying from the rafters, assaulting the senses with a wide variety of scents.

Svella scanned the cramped hut for the wise woman, who she soon spotted laying on a bed at the far side of the room, surrounded by a heap of fur blankets. She seemed to be asleep, but it was undoubtedly a troubled one. She tossed and turned, mumbling something unintelligible. Svella took a tentative step toward her, unsure whether or not to wake her or simply drop off the basket of supplies and leave. But as her foot creaked upon the wooden floor, the woman suddenly reached upwards with a clawed hand and began to shout. Svella dropped the basket and gasped, scared by the abrupt shift. The old woman’s voice was like sandpaper, scrapping rough on Svella’ s mind. She covered her ears and cried out, dropping to the floor. Her vision began to blur and whirl, and she felt as though the whole building was being squeezed by some great, invisible fist.

The door to the hut slammed shut behind her, but the hut did not darken. Instead, it began to glow in dark red, emanating from the wise woman’s twisted body. She continued to shriek and moan, but Svella could hardly hear over her own terrified screams. Eventually words began to form out of the cacophony, harsh, savage words born of another plane entirely. They sounded alien and vile in the wise woman’s voice, and Svella could see the pain in her contorted face as she spoke.

The roof began to shake violently, buffeting by a sudden gale of wind, and the hut was filled with falling dust. Svella shrunk away from the woman, but dared not flee from the hut into the gusting winds outside. There was an undeniable power present in that hut, radiating from the old woman as she writhed in her bed, covered in a shining sheen of sweat. Svella felt the pressure emanating from her, and cowered in a corner as the old woman continued to croak on.

The wise woman sat up and stared at the trembling girl with wide, wild eyes. Svella could see that the woman was not herself. The kind, gentle blue eyes she had known were gone, replaced by fire-orange orbs beset with black wisps, descending in a spiral deep into an oblivion black. They stared at each other, locked in their respective poses, Svella losing herself within the puzzle of the woman’s change. Then, slowly, steadily, the wise woman uttered the last words of her vision. They were in a different tongue, but somehow Svella could understand in a deeper part of herself. As the old woman spoke, images swirled inside her head.

Thunder, a bright lightning flash, striking a great, ancient tree. A single branch is riven forth, scorched and burned, black and smoking. Torn asunder from that wince it came, cast off in a terrible fit of violence, it clatters down the cliffside into the unknowable darkness.

When the last word of prophesy escaped her lips, the wise woman slumped and fell limp upon the fur-covered plank of her bed. The wind died in an instant and the hut ceased its violent convulsions and it became all at once eerily still and silent. Svella still sense a trace of power still hung in the air like a thin trail of smoke from a blown out candle.

Svella heard nothing but the rhythmic pounding of her own heart, jumping in her chest like a caged rabbit. She sat paralyzed with fear, confused by the rapid changes, almost fearing the sudden stillness more than storm it followed. Slowly she gathered herself upon the floor, smoothing her hair and steadying her quivering hands. She took a deep breath and dared to close her eyes. When she opened them a second later, nothing had changed. The old woman continued to lay upon her bed, motionless. She appeared to be sleeping again, judging by the slow rise and fall of her chest.

Svella approached her cautiously and reached out to grasp her shoulder. The old woman’s body was hot to the touch, as if the power which had possessed her still lingered beneath her skin. Svella almost jumped when the wise woman stirred, but she managed to keep calm. The wise woman mumbled something under her breath, captured by what was surely a wholly less violent dream. Svella sighed with relief and began to gather up the supplies which had fallen out of the basket when she dropped it moments earlier. She decided not to wake the wise woman and left without disturbing her.  

Svella rushed home, adrenaline still coursing through her veins in electric bursts. She was completely unaware of the cold as she dashed between huts and up stone steps, desperate to tell someone what she had just witnessed.

[anendlessdelirium]

Voices of the Dead

Dyianne descended into the dark. She walked with an uneasy grace, sliding through space like a ghost, present but not, a slow-moving wind-up toy with remarkably smooth action. Passersby hardly noticed her, not even sparing a glance as she took step after step downward, further and further from civilization into the gloom underneath.

The great walking city of Alexandria had an easily understood hierarchy, as intuitive as the word itself: the higher the better. The deeper you went, the less there was to go around. It got steadily darker as well, for light itself was a resource controlled by those at the top. As she descended, the gloom gradually consumed her. The slight, lithe body of the drow was slowly overtaken by the black. Her red eyes strained, but failed to adjust to this new, sunless world.

Dyianne had not been down here for many years, thanks to a few lucky breaks and even more hard work. Her world had been too bright, too absurdly happy, for too long. Years spent bathed in the warm light of the sun had nearly driven from memory the black-gray world below. Time spend frolicking in meadows, taverns, theaters, pretending to be other people. But the show was over, the applause dying down, actors leaving the stage. What was left of her? She found a stranger, an unfamiliar life. A homeless, hopeless girl in the body of a woman, devoid of a place of her own. She had wandered for hours, aimless, head in a fog, feet guided by unseen forces. They steadily pulled her down, like gravity, to the center of her being, the place which had shaped her most.

Reaching a landing, she stopped. Something about this place pulled the strings of memory. Familiar smells, sounds, echoed from somewhere up ahead. She still could not discern much with her eyes, but she felt a change in the air that indicated a doorway up ahead. It was a portal to another world, one she had inhabited as a child. Perhaps what one might call home. Dyianne took a deep breath and stepped through the doorway.

Stumbling blind and groping along the cold steel walls, she made her way slowly through the makeshift tents and lean-tos, homes of the unfortunate souls who dwelt here. She tripped over piles of refuse, drawing the odd curse from unseen voices. Dark outlines began to emerge, subtle shades of black and gray which separated one obstacle from another. In search of a place to regain her bearings, she followed the dull outline of a pipe and managed to find a little alcove hidden beneath. She reached out, laying a hand on the large metal pipe, only to draw it back instantly when it burned her skin. She cursed silently, and took great care not to come in contact with it as she scrunched under it, pressing herself up against the wall in an uncomfortable bundle of bent limbs. She sat in silence, staring out into the darkness. Her eyes needed to time to adjust, and she needed to be alone. In the absence of visual stimulation, familiar sounds and smells evoked painful memories, slowly clouding her mind even as the world around her grew more distinct and recognizable. Dyianne lost herself in thought, lulled by the groaning machinery and the warm steam in the damp air.

           Hours earlier she had been handed her official certification as a graduate of the Bard’s College, the culmination of years of intense training and study. She had shaken hands with the College Masters wearing a perfunctory smile, accepting their congratulations and well-wishes one after the other. After the short ceremony, most of the students planned to head to the local tavern for a more intimate celebration. Dyianne, however, left immediately, exchanging words with no one. She wasn’t overly close with the other students anyway. Most were from the upper levels, born and raised with the sun shining down upon their heads; their bright, big dreams proportional to the ample opportunities afforded them. She had never really fit in among them. Dyianne, the low-born, orphaned drow seen by many as just the lucky beneficiary of one of the college alumni’s excess generosity in his twilight years. Many of her fellow students simply avoided her during their time there, not a difficult feat considering Dyianne didn’t afford herself much of a social life. She studied twice as hard and trained more diligently than any other student, aware that she didn’t have anything else to fall back on if she washed out. Eventually she earned a sort of begrudging respect among the students and faculty, but there would always be distance between them that simply couldn’t be bridged. Dyianne was from a deep, dark, and desperate place– forged in a gloom they would never see or understand. She knew of hunger and pain in ways they simply didn’t. The puckered scar that ran across on her face spoke of the suffering she and had endured and survived, reminding those around her of undesirable truths about the great city they called home. Dyianne was from a place they preferred to forget. Most did.            Dyianne blinked, catching the quick movement of a passing stranger out of the corner of her eye, and realized she could see again. What she saw was equally familiar and wholly alien to her. She spotted several landmarks that she recognized– tent cities, bent pipes, and the crumbling foundations of stone buildings where the gangs ruled over their forsaken flock. In the constantly changing landscape of the lower levels, these landmarks were the only constants by which a younger version of herself had navigated. She had travelled with small gangs of other parentless rabble, scampering through ruins and refuse looking for entertainment or begging for scraps. Sometimes you might stumble across a mushroom poking out from a puddle, or the hidden stash of someone long dead. When there was nothing else, anything would do.            Eventually her mind made its way back to Altus, and she shook her head roughly as if to dismiss the thought. Yet there he remained, ever present at the forefront of her mind. She had spent the last few months in a haze, busying herself with studying and training even more than usual in an attempt to ward off this very moment. Altus had been her mentor, benefactor, patron, and the closest thing to family she had. The aged Halfling had encouraged her to pursue a career as a bard, and sponsored her for the Bard’s College when she finally relented and applied. He had died just a few months ago, his frail hand hanging loose in Dyianne’s calloused, slender fingers. What remained of his family, an estranged son with no love for his father’s ward, had immediately cut off funding for her tuition and left her with a sizable debt to the Bard’s College. So close to finishing her education, Dyianne panicked, unthinkingly accepting a dubious loan from an underworld moneylender before throwing herself headlong into her studies.            She shivered despite the heat, and drew herself into a ball. All at once she felt the torrent of emotion break over the invisible barrier she had constructed, a vain attempt to prevent herself from dwelling on Altus’s death. Hot, wet tears flowed freely down her cheeks as she quietly sobbed, her whole body shuddering with each breath. Today she had finally fulfilled her promise to become a fully-fledged Bard, and had the papers and skills to prove it. Yet the one person who truly cared, the one who had pushed and poked her along the way, wasn’t there to see the result of his efforts. And so, alone in the dark place Altus had liberated her from with the promise of a better life, Dyianne finally let herself grieve the death of the best man she had ever known.            Dyianne stayed there for a long time, heaving with silent sobs, until her body grew tired and her tears dried in salty streaks down her cheeks. She moved to wipe her face with a sleeve and a distinct clunking sound from her side caught her attention. Somehow she had managed to knock over her travel pack, and some of its contents spilled out onto the ground. She reached out to gather her things, and found her fingers wrapped around the wooden neck of her second-hand lute. Dyianne paused, holding it lightly in her hands, before bringing it into her lap. Her fingers found familiar frets, drawn there by the muscle memory from countless hours of practice. She struck a few strings absent-mindedly, listening to the notes as they rang out. The metal walls, uneven terrain, damp air, and the loud background noise of machines all combined for a strange acoustic landscape, but still the notes emanated with a clear musical purity. She plucked a few more strings and savored the sound of each note as they echoed out into the darkness. They sounded innocent and free, bringing warm color to contrast against a background of sharp black, white, and gray. Dyianne emptied her mind, letting the sounds flow through her entire being, playing scales and twisting knobs to find the proper tuning. After a few run-throughs the tones became clear, finely shaped notes.

It was then that she noticed a small rustle of movement in her peripheral vision. She snapped her head and stared hard, instinctually searching for a possible threat. Her hand hovered over the sheathed dagger on her belt as she squinted out at the source of the disturbance.            “Whose there?” she barked, “I’m armed you know.”            There was no response.            “I know you’re out there, don’t play with me.” She hissed, her lips curling over bared teeth. She remembered the kind of creatures that prowled the dark places of the lower levels, evil creatures that wore the faces of elves, men, and dwarves, concealing the beasts within.            “Last warning…” Dyianne’s fingers wrapped around the handle of the dagger, ready to sink the blade into flesh.            “Please…” a squeaky voice whispered from behind a small pile of scrap, “I didn’t mean nuthin…” A young, thin drow child stepped out slowly, holding up a pair of small hands defensively. “I heard those weird sounds… I was jus’ lookin.”            Dyianne sighed, releasing her hand from the dagger. She waved the child over and patted to a spot on the ground in front of her. Slowly, the child stepped closer, naturally distrustful of the strange lady in front of her, who, moments before, had been ready for a fight.            “It’s okay little one, I won’t bite,” she cracked a big, friendly smile, “I promise.”            The child took a seat close to where Dyianne had indicated, but kept just out of arm’s reach. She was a tiny thing, wrapped in loose, oily rags tied around the middle with a length of frayed hemp robe. She was probably about nine years old or so, though her sunken cheeks and thin form made it difficult to tell precisely how old she was.

Dyianne reached into her pack, slowly as to not alarm the girl, and pulled out a piece of bread. She held it out for the girl, who only stared at it suspiciously. Dyianne shrugged and ripped the piece in half. She stuffed one half in her mouth and held out the other for the girl, who snatched it quickly before scampering back a few feet. They chewed in silence for a few seconds before Dyianne pulled her lute back into her lap.            “Have you never seen an instrument before?” Dyianne asked, holding up her lute for the girl to get a better view of it. She shook her head back and forth, mouth still full of bread. Of course she’d never seen one. Very few, if any, bards ventured down to these levels. Truly, Dyianne had never heard music until she was big enough to sneak up to the higher levels without getting chased off. It was no surprise the lute had drawn the girl here. The sounds of the musical notes must have stood out against the droning of machines and the moans of the sick she normally heard down here.            “This is a lute, it makes sounds when you pluck the strings, like this,” Dyianne played a few notes and let them ring in the air. The girl’s eyes grew wider and more interested as the sounds echoed into the depths.            Dyianne grinned and adjusted to get a better grip. She paused briefly, then started strumming out a few slow chords. They were thick and heavy, mournful minor chords that seemed to speak from within. She hummed softly in harmony, until her fingers remembered the words of a song. It was the sad, dreary tale of love lost and time forgotten, an old song from before the calamity forced what remained of the peoples of the world to cluster into the great walking city.

Dyianne began to sing, her voice clear and deep. She sang about people and places long forgot, wiped away by the relentless march of time. Of wars and heroes, victory and defeat, glory and regret. Time and space blended and swayed in the floating melody, bleeding together and getting lost along flowing waves. In each chord Dyianne poured the entirety of her being—her past, future, and present all coalesced into sounds which resonated outward into the vast, dirty chamber. For those few, precious minutes, the dwellers of the underground stopped and listened, forgetting for a moment their hunger, their misery, losing themselves on the unfamiliar sound of echoing music. Some shed silent tears, though likely they knew not why.            At last Dyianne strummed out a final chord, letting the note hang in the air until it faded into silence. She was trembling slightly, her body utterly exhausted from the outpouring of emotion. She steadied herself and looked back up at her audience. The little girl was leaning forward intently, her jaw hanging open and her eyes wide. Her stunned expression spoke volumes– she was entrapped by the indescribable beauty of music. Dyianne must have had the same expression her face all those years ago when Altus first noticed her, too enthralled by performances of singers and dancers to notice the guards scowling at her. The old Bard had saved her, whisking her away and introducing her to the band before the guards could kick her out. It was the start of a beautiful friendship, one that would live within her heart forever, crystalized in every note she ever played.            “What was that?” the girl asked, pointing at the lute, not understanding what she had just witnessed. “It was so pretty.”            “That was an old song from a long, long time ago.” Dyianne replied.

The girl looked confused, scrunching her face. “What’s a song?” She asked.

Dyianne paused for a moment, considering. It was difficult to explain music to those who had never heard it before. It was an elusive thing, music. It might consist of words and sounds but it was a wholly different, more complex, intrinsic thing.

“A song is like a story you sing, and music is the backbone- it carries the message and tells the story all at once.” Dyianne leaned back and searched for the words to express her thoughts. “A good song doesn’t just recount a story; it makes it real. It conveys emotion, thoughts, and paints a picture with sounds. Did you feel the sadness and the joy of the people in that song?”

The little girl nodded.

“In a good song, time and space don’t matter-- the past becomes present, and faraway lands become close enough to touch. Songs are a living history, and in them the young will never grow old, love will always blossom anew, and fallen kingdoms will reign into eternity. As long as there are voices to sing, the dead will forever speak.” The breath caught in her throat as she remembered Altus singing softly as she scribbled away intently, trying to capture the words as they floated from the Halfling’s lips.

“You know, my teacher once said that music is like magic anyone can do.” She whispered.

The girl crawled forward, finally coming close enough to touch. “Even me?” She asked softly.            Dyianne gently took her hand and smiled.            

“Of course.”

[anendlessdelirium]

The Green Engine

Reilly’s slumber was interrupted by the sudden wail of sirens. She sprang up, body moving on instinct even while her mind remained caught in the weighty cotton slowness of dreaming. Her bare feet hit the floor first, ready to dash in a rabbit panic. Though just as her eyes opened to a bleary darkness, the internal clouds began to clear. Her mind began to process information, rushing to catch up with her body like a neglected younger sibling. The long, droning wail outside meant something, she knew, she remembered. This sound signified the field was coming down, which means…

Reilly groaned and reached out, blindly groping the small table next to her bunk. Her fingers fumbled around until they wrapped around the thin metal frames of her glasses. She slipped them on and the blurry darkness became sharp darkness, enough to make out the little red digital display of her clock. It was a minute past eleven, which confirmed two things. The field was indeed coming down, and if she didn’t hurry she was going to miss it.

At once she darted across the room, palming a switch and setting the room ablaze in blue-white light. She squinted, her eyes not ready for the sudden brightness, and set about getting dressed. Her room was small, little bigger than a closet. It was a pretty standard student quarters, furnished with just a desk, bunk, chair, and a dresser. All four of which were covered in discarded clothes, wrappers, tablets, notebooks, empty bottles, and every sort of cast of thing imaginable. Reilly rooted about a heaping pile of clothes she hoped were clean and pulled free a few articles that appeared to be in good condition. She held each up to her face, giving them a cursory visual and nasal examination. Reilly scrunched her nose and made a different selection, tossing the rejects onto a smaller pile in the corner.

[anendlessdelirium]

First Song

It should have been the happiest day of her life. But, alone in the dark recesses of the lower levels, she couldn’t have felt worse. Dyianne didn’t know why she had come back here, considering she hadn’t been down this far since she was a teenager. But she felt a strange, powerful call drawing her back to the place she had been born. And before she knew it, her feet had carried her down countless steps until she could no longer make out her own feet in the inky black. Even with her drow eyes, naturally attuned for living underground, she could barely make out her surroundings. Her world had been too bright, bathed in the orange light of the sun for so long, she had almost forgotten the gray world below. Groping blindly along the cold steel walls, she made her way slowly through the makeshift homes of the unfortunate souls who dwelt here. She stumbled over piles of refuse, drawing the odd curse as she bumped into locals as she searched for a quiet place she could regain her bearings. She followed the dull outline of a pipe and managed to find a little alcove. She reached out, laying a hand on the large metal pipe, only to draw it back instantly. The thing was blazing hot. She cursed silently, and took great care not to come in contact with it again as she scrunched under it, pressing herself up against the wall in an uncomfortable bundle of bent limbs. She sat in silence, staring out into the darkness. Her eyes needed to time to adjust to the darkness, and she needed to be alone. In the absence of visual stimulation, familiar sounds and smells evoked painful memories, slowly clouding her mind even as the world around her grew more distinct and recognizable. Dyianne lost herself in thought, lulled by the groaning machinery around her and the warm steam in the damp air. Moments earlier she had been handed her official certification as a graduate of the Bard’s College, the culmination of years of intense training and study. She had shaken hands with the College Masters wearing a perfunctory smile, accepting their congratulations and well-wishes one after the other. After the short ceremony, most of the students planned to head to the local tavern for a more intimate celebration. Dyianne, however, had left immediately, exchanging words with no one. She wasn’t overly close with the other students anyway. Most were from the upper levels, born and raised with the sun shining down upon their heads, their bright, big dreams proportional to the ample opportunities afforded to them. She had never fit in among them, the low-born, orphaned drow seen by many as just the lucky beneficiary of one of the school’s alumni’s excess generosity in his twilight years. Many of her fellow students simply avoided her during their time there, which wasn’t difficult considering Dyianne didn’t afford herself much of a social life. She studied twice as hard and trained more diligently than any other student, aware that she didn’t have anything else to fall back on if she washed out. Eventually she earned a sort of begrudging respect among the students and faculty, but even then there was a distance that simply couldn’t be bridged. Dyianne was from a deep, dark, and desperate place-- forged in a gloom they would never see or understand. She knew of hunger and pain in ways they simply didn’t. The scar she wore plain on her face spoke of the suffering she and had endured and survived, reminding those around her of undesirable truths about the great city they called home. Dyianne was from a place they preferred to forget. Most did. Dyianne blinked, catching the quick movement of a passing stranger out of the corner of her eye, and realized she could see again. What she saw was equally familiar and wholly alien to her. She spotted several landmarks that she quickly recognized-- tent cities, bent pipes, and the crumbling foundations of stone buildings where the gangs ruled over their forsaken flocks. In the constantly changing landscape of the lower levels, these landmarks were the only constants by which a younger version of herself had navigated. She had travelled with small gangs of other parentless rabble, scampering through ruins and refuse looking for entertainment or begging for scraps. Sometimes you might stumble across a mushroom poking out from a puddle, or the hidden stash of someone long dead. When there was nothing else, anything would do. Eventually her mind made its way back to Altus, and she shook her head roughly as if to dismiss the thought. Yet there he remained, ever present at the forefront of her mind. She had spent the last few months in a fog, busying herself with studying and training even more than usual in an attempt to ward off this very moment. Altus had been her mentor, benefactor, patron, and the closest thing to family she had. The aged Halfling had encouraged her to pursue a career as a bard, and sponsored her for the Bard’s College when she finally relented and applied. He had died just a few months ago, his frail hand hanging loose in Dyianne’s calloused, slender fingers. What remained of his family, an estranged son with no love for his father’s ward, had immediately cut off funding for her tuition and left her with a sizable debt to the Bard’s College. So close to finishing her education, Dyianne had spent the last few months in a frenzy, unthinkingly accepting a dubious loan from an underworld moneylender before throwing herself headlong into her studies. She shivered despite the heat, and drew herself into a ball. All at once she felt the torrent of emotion break over the invisible barrier she had constructed to prevent herself from dwelling on Altus as she focused intently on seeing through the promise she had made him years earlier. Hot, wet tears flowed freely down her cheeks as she quietly sobbed, her whole body shuddering with each breath. Today she had finally fulfilled her promise to become a fully-fledged Bard, and had the papers and skills to prove it. And so, alone in the dark place Altus had liberated her from with the promise of a better life, Dyianne finally let herself grieve the death of the best man she ever knew. Dyianne stayed there for a long time, heaving with silent sobs, until her body grew tired and her tears began to dry in salty streaks down her cheeks. She moved to wipe her face with a sleeve, and a distinct clunking sound from her side caught her attention. Somehow she had managed to knock over her travel pack, and some of its contents spilled out onto the ground. She reached out to starting gathering her things, and found her fingers wrapped around the lithe neck of her second-hand lute. Dyianne paused, holding it lightly in her hands, before bringing it into her lap. Her fingers immediately found familiar frets, drawn there by the invisible threads of countless hours of practice. She picked a few strings absent-mindedly, listening to the notes as they rang out. The metal walls, uneven terrain, damp air, and the loud background noise of machines all combined for a strange acoustic landscape, but still the notes emanated with a clear musical purity. She plucked a few more strings and savored the sound of each note as they rang out into the darkness. They sounded innocent and free, bringing warm color to contrast against a background of sharp black, white, and gray. Dyianne emptied her mind, letting the sounds flow through her entire being, plucking out scales and twisting knobs to find the proper tuning. After a few run-throughs she smiled satisfactorily. It was then that she noticed a small rustle of movement in her peripheral vision. She snapped her head and stared, instinctually searching for a possible threat. Her hand hovered over the sheathed dagger on her belt as she squinted out at the source of the disturbance. “Whose there?” she barked, “I’m armed you know.” There was no response. “I know you’re out there, don’t play with me.” Her lips curled over her teeth as she hissed. She remembered the kind of creatures that prowled the dark places of the lower levels, evil creatures that wore the faces of elves, men, and dwarves, concealing the animal within. “Last warning…” Dyianne’s fingers wrapped around the handle of the dagger, ready to sink it into flesh. “Please…” a high voice whispered from behind a small pile of scrap, “I didn’t mean nuthin…” a young, thin drow child stepped out slowly, holding up a pair of small hands defensively. “I heard those weird sounds, so I was jus’ lookin.” Dyianne sighed, relaxing her posture and releasing the dagger. She waved the child over, and patted to a spot on the ground in front of her. Slowly, the child stepped closer, instinctually distrustful of the strange lady in front of her, who, moments before, had been ready for a fight. “Its okay little one, I won’t bite,” she exposed her teeth in a big, friendly smile, “I promise.” The child took a seat close to where Dyianne had indicated, but kept just out of arm’s reach. It was a little girl, wrapped in loose, oily rags tied around the middle with a length of frayed hemp robe. She was probably about nine years old or so, though it was hard to tell exactly. Her sunken cheeks and thin form made it difficult to gauge exactly how old she was. Dyianne reached into her pack, slowly as to not alarm the girl, and pulled out a piece of bread. She held it out for the girl, who hesitated to take it. Dyianne shrugged and ripped the piece in half. She stuffed one half in her mouth and held out the other for the girl, who snatched it quickly before scampering back a few feet. They chewed in silence for a few seconds, before Dyianne pulled her lute back into her lap. “Have you never seen an instrument before?” Dyianne asked, holding up her lute for the little girl to get a better view of it. She shook her head back and forth, her mouth still full of bread. It figured. Very few, if any, bards ventured down to these levels. Truly, Dyianne had never heard music until she snuck up to a higher level when she was big enough not to get chased off by the older kids. The sounds of the musical notes must have stood out against the droning of machines and the moans of the sick she normally heard down here. “This is a lute, it makes sounds when you pluck the strings, like this,” Dyianne played a few notes and let them ring in the air. The girl’s eyes grew wider and more interested as the sounds echoed into the depths. Dyianne grinned and adjusted herself to get a better grip. She paused briefly, then started strumming out a few slow chords. They were thick and heavy, mournful minor chords that seemed to speak from within. She hummed softly in harmony, until her fingers remembered the melody of a song. It was the sad, dreary tale of love lost and time forgotten, an old song from before the calamity forced what remained of the peoples of the world to cluster into the great walking city. Dyianne began to sing, her voice clear and deep. She sang about people and places long forgot, wiped away by the relentless march of time. Of wars and heroes, victory and defeat, glory and regret. Time and space blended and swayed in the floating melody, bleeding together and getting lost along flowing waves. In each chord Dyianne poured the entirety of her being—her past, future, and present all coalesced into sounds which resonated outward into the vast, dirty chamber. For those few, precious minutes, the dwellers of the underground stopped and listened, forgetting for a moment their hunger, losing themselves on the unfamiliar sound of echoing music. Some shed silent tears, though likely they knew not why. At last Dyianne strummed out a final chord, letting the note hang in the air until it faded into silence. She was trembling slightly, her body utterly exhausted from the outpouring of emotion. She steadied herself and looked back up at her audience. The little girl was leaning forward intently, her jaw hanging open and her eyes wide and bright. Her stunned expression spoke volumes-- she was entrapped by the indescribable beauty of music. Dyianne must have had the same expression her face all those years ago when Altus first noticed her, too enthralled by performances of singers and dancers to notice the guards heading straight for her. The old Bard had saved her, whisking her away and introducing her to the band before the guards could kick her out. It was the start of a beautiful friendship, one that would live within her heart forever, crystalized in every note she ever played. “What was that?” the girl asked, pointing at the lute, not understanding what she had just witnessed. “It was so pretty.” “That was an old song from a long, long time ago. A friend taught it to me. A very special friend.” The breath caught in her throat as she remembered Altus singing softly as she scribbled away intently, trying to capture the words as they floated smoothly from the Halfling’s mouth. The girl crawled forward, finally coming close enough to touch. “Can you teach me too?” She pleaded. Dyianne smiled and took her hand. “Of course.”

[anendlessdelirium]

Lost

Wandering the city streets at night, Damien felt as if he could be the only person in the world. But the illusion was shattered when, on occasion, the dark form of a stranger would emerge in the distance, materializing from thin air within the sequential cones of light lining the road. The figures shuffled and hustled by, disappearing almost as quickly as they appeared. Damien stuffed both hands into the pockets of his hoody and pressed forward, wary but not worried about the other shady figures doing much the same. He had his headphones in anyway, willfully ignoring everyone else in traditional Pacific Northwest fashion. There weren’t many people out at this time of night anyway, and those that were shared a mutual appreciation for not thinking about what the others might be up to. It was well past midnight on a weeknight, and most of the city was asleep or at least faking it, tucked away in their homes and apartments, staring at glowing screens with droopy eyes or maybe just up at the ceiling, pondering the next day’s activities. Damien worked downtown, and had an apartment in a giant multilevel complex with an income cap that made it almost doable on his salary. Though he still found himself sharing a two bedroom with a roommate in order to have enough left over each month to not feel like he was drowning. Havenbrook didn’t have much of a downtown but it did have had the same kind of charm one might find in a bigger city, with small local business scrunched together in aging brick buildings, displaying various items in window displays, though this time of night most were dark. The same nostalgic, hipster ideals about supporting small local business had spread here a long time ago, especially since the epicenter of the cultural (de?)evolution came from other larger cities up and down the coast. Havenbrook was something of a mini-Portland, with a dirty but familiar vibe that permeated throughout the city. Damien didn’t have a particular reason for being out, considering there wasn’t much open even if he wanted to stop somewhere, but he felt an internal restlessness that compelled him to move. There was no particular destination in mind, no real reason for it, just a strong compulsion to be someplace else. The city wasn’t quite big enough to get hopelessly lost in, but he tried anyway. Damien had learned through the years that to truly discover a place you had to keep losing yourself in it- and somewhere in that process a deeper appreciation and understanding were built. Damien had plenty of practice. He’d lived in a lot of places in his relatively short life, a result of bad luck, good luck, and an otherwise eternally restless spirit. There was no particular place he called home. Just a default address on his amazon prime account. When the buildings started growing shorter, and the alleys wider, Damien figured he was reaching the outer edges of downtown Havenbrook. He was about to turn around when he noticed a lit window blaring in the night. It was a coming from a long, rectangular building at an intersection just across the street. The window stretched nearly the length of the wall, revealing a couple people still moving around inside, going about their business as if they were not visible to anyone on the street. Inside there was a long counter lined with a number of stools, and a few tables along the sides. It wasn’t a bar, but rather an old timey diner- styled like one you might find in the 50s. A nostalgia goldmine that could draw in hipsters and retirees in equal measure. Orange light blazed out from behind the glass, making it almost look like one of the electric bug traps that zapped the little bastards as they flew into that alluring glow. Damien stopped walking and stared. It reminded him of something else, an old pop-art painting you might see in a TGI Fridays or one of those other obnoxious Americana themed restaurants, the one with the dead celebrities sitting behind the counter. It was almost haunting, the way the pale orange lights reaching out into the hazy night air. But it was undoubtedly the only open establishment he had seen in several blocks. A neon sign near the door blazed “Always Open” with a gentle hum. Damien shrugged and made off across the street to see what the place had to offer. He wasn’t exactly hungry per se, but he could go for a snack and a coffee. He crossed the street and pushed open the door, feeling for a moment like the hapless insect before the inevitable jolt. Luckily the only surprise he got was the chiming of a bell as the door swung open. There were only about three other people there that he could see, including the waitress, spread out and silently mulling over their coffee. The waitress glanced up from her phone as he entered, and her eyes followed him as he took a seat in a booth in the corner with a nice view of the street. She sauntered over and took his order, not exactly enthusiastic but very professional and practiced. She wore one of those two tone waitress uniforms, this one with a mustard yellow base complimented with a white apron bearing the faint outlines of a couple of deep stains. Damien popped out an earbud for courtesies sake and asked for a cup of coffee before briefly thumbing through the menu. It was mostly standard diner food, including a couple of desserts that looked appealing. He made up his mind to try the pumpkin pie, which was proudly displayed in a glass case under the main counter. It was October after all. The waitress took his order and made her way back to behind the counter to the simmering pot of coffee. Damien closed the menu and slid it back into the condiment/napkin contraption at the center of the table. He took a deep sigh and leaned back in the booth, slipping his earbuds back in and trying to relax a little, enjoying the non-interaction with his fellow patrons. Surely his roommate would still be up at this hour, smoking a bowl with a friend or two, watching Star Trek reruns and merrily making nonsense conversation about some obscure topic or another. He was a fun enough guy and all, but after a long shift working in a call center pretending to be nice, sometimes all Damien wanted was a little quiet without the expectation of human interaction. This sleepy, florescent diner was doing the trick. The waitress brought him a slice of pie a few minutes later and it wasn’t bad at all, but he couldn’t help but wonder how long ago it had been baked. Damien set down his fork and slouched back into the booth, and peered out the window into the empty streets. It dawned on him that he had no idea what this place was called, and made a decision to get the name before he made his way home. He still had half a cup of coffee left and wasn’t in much of a hurry. He turned up the volume a little and looked for street signs to get his bearings. He was near the intersection of Fredrickson and Vineyard, which gave him a decent idea of how to get back to his apartment. Just then, a bus emerged from the gloom outside and pulled to a noisy stop at the corner. Damien hadn’t noticed the covered bus stop directly across the street before, given the streetlight above it was apparently busted. A single figure stepped off the bus into the darkness beyond, a slight, bent form scurrying away on short, thin legs. The bus took off, slow and steady and sputtering. The newer, better maintained buses probably ran during the daylight hours. After the cloud of exhaust dissipated, Damien could see the figure remained standing at the intersection looking a little lost. The person was wearing an oversize hoody, hood up, but judging by the thin, feminine leggings sticking out beneath it, it was probably a girl. A girl, alone at night with her elfin stature, Damien could understand her twitchy demeanor. Eventually she turned around, noticed the well-lit diner, and headed over. She disappeared out of sight, but Damien heard the bell ring as the door opened behind him. He didn’t want to give her any more cause for paranoia, so instead of turning around and staring at her, he took out his phone and started scrolling aimlessly. Damien was used to all the weirdos who wandered the streets at night, but even among that strange crowd this girl seemed out of place. He couldn’t help but feel like she was in some kind of trouble.

[anendlessdelirium]

Graduation

It should have been the happiest day of her life, but it wasn’t. It was the culmination of four years of intense study and practice with instruction from the most acclaimed experts in their fields, but it now felt hollow and almost meaningless. Was it because he wasn’t around to see it? Or was it because of the things she had been forced to do in his absence just to achieve it? In any case, after the graduation ceremony she tucked her certificate into her knapsack and disappeared. Her temporary travel papers were still good on an interim basis, so she made her way down the busy streets as discretely as possible, blending in with a crowd of merchants and laborers making their weekly supply run to the lower levels. The guards didn’t give her so much as a second glance as she flashed her papers, marked with the official city seal and still crisp enough not to draw suspicion. 

The level below was bustling as the residents emerged from their tents to head to market to barter and bicker from the freshly stocked shops. The people here didn’t have much, but such resupplies served as just about the pinnacle of excitement- aside from irregular stops and scav-ventures. But the stuffed shelves of merchants and grocers did not interest Dyianne today. She pushed through the multi-racial crowds with her gazed fixed on the outer wall, determined to head to an even lower level. 

Pushing past a distracted looking dwarf, Dyianne finally freed herself from the bustle of streets. She straightened herself up and checked her pockets, making sure nothing had been pilfered after being jostled among the countless bodies traversing market square. Satisfied that her possessions remained intact, she continued her journey into the darkened stairwell, this one unguarded and otherwise ignored by the powers that be. Once below the agricultural and merchant hub of that kept the city alive, each level down progressively got poorer, darker, and deadlier. But Dyianne was a child of those lower levels, and in that darkness and desperation she found something akin to home. Without Altus, it was the closest thing to home she had left. 

Dyianne emerged some time later, finding herself in what only a few years ago might have been considered familiar territory. It was dark, very dark. Few down here had much reason for lamplight, as most were among the races which, many generations prior, had dwelled far beneath the surface in caves not so different from the cities bowels. Drow, Drauhgar, and many other such peoples stalked these streets, making use of their darkvision to navigate and survive. Dyianne had been in the upper levels for a long time, and it took her eyes a while to adjust to shadowed realm into which she had descended. This level was not the lowest, but it might well as be. Any lower and one might find themselves hopelessly lost among the bowels of the cities, wandering among the eternally changing tunnels and contending with the twisted creatures which prowled that notorious labyrinth. 

Around her were the streets she remembered from childhood, lurking in the shadows with small bands of other orphaned children searching for a day’s meal. They had travelled in groups for safety, scattering in every direction when any adults got wind of their adventures. What passed for streets here were the clearings around the massive pipes which ran to and fro, their mechanical logic known only to the master engineers who had designed the great city, long dead. But what remained served as a kind of informal grid, separating the level into a workable city of sorts, and organizing the motely collections of hovels, shacks, tents, and trash piles in which everyone lived. There were few fixed structures left, and hardly any fresh supplies made it down this far. They had to make do with what they had, or, more often, with what they could take from others. Criminal enterprise ruled the lower levels, organizing the chaos into gangs which controlled people with fear but also offered as semblance of stability to the desperate. They recruited from the packs of orphans once they reached a certain age, often competing amongst themselves for the toughest kids. Luckily Dyianne had managed to find her way to a higher level where the city guard still had a presence before she reached an age to be recruited. Yet, ironically, she no found herself drawn back into the thrall of one of those gang, even after thinking she might escape after all. Education had not proved to be the saving grace it had touted itself to be. 

Standing in arch of the stairwell, Dyianne suddenly felt her knees buckle. She managed to put her back against the wall and slide down with some measure of grace, sitting on the cold metal floor. She felt her head swim and her heartrate spike as a whirlwind of emotions erupted from within, clouding her mind and blurring her vision. Everything seemed to be mixing together, attacking her senses as well as memory, and creating a maelstrom of anxiety and pain. So much had happened, yet she hadn’t once stopped to reflect. Instead, she had continued to bluster forward with her life, attempting to outrun her problems. Deep down she knew she was vulnerable, and that a reckoning was due. It had found her, alone in the dark, unable to face the reality of where she was, or where she had come from. 

The slim drow took a deep breath, holding the air in her lungs for a long time.

[anendlessdelirium]

Ballad of the Black Rose

One of the first rules of performance is an appropriately dramatic entrance. Oftentimes this rule is ignored or misplayed- too many cases of overly dramatic or far too casual entrances plagues the world of culture, for even experienced performers often misread a crowd. But reading the audience is what distinguishes a true master. So when Dyianne slipped in the back door, unnoticed by almost everyone (save the pianist, who gave her a subtle wink) as she disappeared into the crowd, a casual observer might think she was just your average patron. If she was truly the headliner of this little performance, wouldn’t it be more appropriate to make a grand entrance, perhaps after an over-the-top introduction? Of course not. This was Dyianne, and this was the “Black Rose,” not some glitzy corner club in the upper levels.

The slight, white-haired drow took a seat at the bar and raised one purplish-blue hand to the bartender. He smiled at her and brought over a fresh pint in a brown wooden mug, a traditional nod to simpler times. Dyianne grabbed it eagerly and took a mighty swig, a thin line of liquid leaking from the corner down her chin. She slammed the mug down and exhaled loudly, drawing a couple of the otherwise distracted patrons to notice her. It was her cue after all, Georgi had hit the right notes, her signal to make her presence known.

“Damnit man, that old tune again?” She stood up and glared at the pianist, who, to his credit, looked positively aghast at the interruption. “Cmon Georgi everyone’s sicka that old song, play something real.” She pointed at a sign on the wall with the bar’s name printed in slick calligraphy, scorched into a panel of dark mahogany. “This is the damned Black Rose, we’ve gotta reputation to uphold here. We got Standards, man.”

The bar grew quiet, as the patrons turned from the conversations to see what the fuss was all about. A couple regulars smiled knowingly, elbowing their friends and setting down their drinks in anticipation. Dyianne had positioned herself in front of the bar, and raised her arms take in eclectic members of the establishment.

“These fine people have come from all across the city for a drink in the legendary Black Rose, and all you can play is that stiff, haughty topper number? Bah,” She made a face of disgust, and a chorus of affirming grunts and nods erupted all around her. “This is a bar for workin’ people, not white-gloved toppers, let’s get some real music in here!”

The room was alive in an instant, as soot-covered faces booed and hissed, on cue, at the mention of the elite, upper class of the giant city-state. Dyianne put her hand on the shoulder of the nearest patron, a rough-looking dwarf who mumbled something undiscernible but unmistakably angry at the very mention of the upper class.

“Damnit Dye don’t you know anything about music? This here is a classic, a fine tune!” Georgi puffed himself up and stood from his pianist’s bench. He was taller and stronger than Dyianne, an auburn haired human from a decent family and a spotless linen shirt- a sharp contrast to the leather clad drow in her cobbled together outfit and street-gang fashion. He mustered up an incredulous rage and pointed an accusatory figure at the rabble-rouser. “You should shut yer damn trap and learn to appreciate true art.”

The crowd was getting into it now, and they “Ooooo’d” and “Awww’d” and stomped their feet and clattered their mugs against tabletops. Dyianne smirked and looked around at the patrons, nodding and taking in their shouts and jeers. “Well then Georgi-boy, you laced-up tart, I’ll take yer advice on art when you learn to play that piano proper! When I came in here I coulda sworn a cat were being clubbed in my dear ol’ Black Rose!” She flashed an evil grin and the room erupted with laughter, and Georgi flushed crimson.

“Why I outta..” He grabbed an empty mug off the top of the piano and started making a move as if he meant to jump off the stage and smack her over the head. Before he could move any further, a glint of metal flashed and the mug disappeared from his hand. The room fell silent as Georgi stood wide eyed and empty handed in the center of the stage. Behind him the mug swayed gently back and forth, hanging from a blade of knife sunk deep into the wall behind him. Georgi turned and looked at it stupidly, his mouth half open. Once the patrons processed what had happened they turned collectively to Dyianne, who stood with one hand extended, palm pointed upward. The room exploded, cheers and laughter and clatter of mugs filled the air. Hands clapped Dyianne’s back as she made her way up to the stage, slowly and deliberately, nodding as toasts were made in her honor. Eventually she pushed through the crowd and climbed up onto the small wooden stage in the corner of the room. Georgi was still standing behind his piano, slow and blinking, all the emotion of the earlier “argument” having been knocked out of him.

Dyianne grabbed a stool at sat on it, and took a lute that was hanging on the wall behind her. She finally acknowledged Georgi then, and she nodded her head toward the piano.

“Put those hands to better use wouldja?” She jeered, drawing few laughs from the audience. Georgi shrugged and sat back down, stretching his fingers over the keys as Dyianne plucked a few strings to test the tuning. After a few perfunctory notes, she cleared her throat.

“Feel free to join in if yer familiar,” she said, looking at Georgi but speaking to everyone.

As she played the first few bars of “Ballad of the Black Rose” the entire bar started singing.

[anendlessdelirium]

Saris grasped the sword’s hilt and slowly drew it from its scabbard. It wobbled in his hand and he lost the balance, the blade falling to the earth still half inside the sheath. He took it with both hands and freed it, managing to hold it horizontally out in front of him. The blade was a fine thing, well crafted steel and meticulously maintained by a knowlegable hand. It was heavy. Sari’s thin arms quivered with the effort of holding it aloft, but he held it there until his arms burned like fire. He remembered his father swinging it casually through the air in dramatic flourishes, winking at his son. The ease with which he slid it back in its sheath and strapped it to his belt. Saris remembered and hoped he could carry the weight of it as well as he could. The fire burned hot, and the blade sunk into the earth. One day.

[anendlessdelirium]

Severed, part 4 “Ruin”

They slept like the dead. There were no dreams, only the empty black nothing of unconscious. This time, it was Saris who woke first. 

He sat up slowly and disentangled himself from his cloak, his body protesting every inch of the way. He had been through more in the last day that he had his entire life, or so it felt. Riding for long spells was uncommon, and new aches and pains greeted him as he slowly returned to the land of the living. The living… 

Awareness caught up to him and the memories of the night before crashed through his mind like an errant wave. His heart raced and he jumped to his feet, eyes darting around him. A few moments of silence passed, and the initial panic slowly ebbed, the tide retreated and the sea calmed. Saris stood frozen, crouched as if ready to pounce, surrounded by the makeshift camp in the middle of the woods. He suddenly felt foolish, panicking like a scared child at nothing in particular. He mumbled and curse and stumbled away from the still sleeping form of Orik, who, if not for the slow rise and fall of his chest, could’ve been mistaken for a corpse himself. Saris stomach turned at the thought, and he turned away abruptly. 

The morning was quiet, quiet in the way only an ancient forest can be. Sound travelled differently in the densely wooded areas such as this, Saris knew. The closeness of the trees, and the seemingly impenetrable canopy that seemed to cover the whole of the sky created a strange, otherworldly effect. Here the faerie stories and wild ramblings of drunken bards seemed entirely possible. The tales his mother told him at night lived and breathed in the thick air beneath the trees, part of what constituted a wholly different realm- an alternative to the reality he knew. 

Saris found himself suddenly longing to get lost in the forest, to forget the events that had brought him here and live out a new life- like a hero from an old story. The events from the night before felt like a dream- a nightmare- irrevocably blurred in the delirious haze of an exhausted, overwhelmed child whose whole world had crumbled in the span of a sun’s setting and rising. Nothing appealed to him more than to pretend it had all been a dream, that the last eleven years had been make-believe, and that this forest was his true home. 

The urge to forget only made him remember. 

His mother’s pale face, her bright smile as she prepared supper. His father, and the approving nod as Saris showed him a particularly interesting rock he had found- laden with multicolored gems. The three of them, sitting around the fire during a cold winter night, kept warm by the fire and the company of one another. Then hoofs pounding, the wide eyes and dirt face of a courier who bore ill news, his mother loud gasp. 

Tears began to sting at his eyes, but he could not stop the torrent of memory that was beginning to overtake him. The shuffling feet as they carried her to her bed. Her face, eyes closed, mouth hanging loose. The color of her skin, from its usual porcelain to a sickly bluish pale. The waiting. Oh gods, the waiting. Saris fell to his knees wiped his face, smearing dirt across his tear-soaked cheeks. He heard a strange low moan, and nearly fled before he realized it was coming from his own lips. 

Before he knew it, a set of arms was around him. He panicked, and strained under the bulk, shrieking and kicking with all his might. 

“Shhhh…” Saris slowed his struggling, recognizing the low baritone of Sir Orik the Black. The old soldier held the boy in strong arms, supporting him as he heaved and sobbed and writhed and wailed.  

“Shh…” 

They stayed like that for a long while before Saris finally tired, relaxing his muscles and falling limp in Orik’s arms. The old man picked him up, and carried him back to camp, placing him gently back down at the base of a fallen log. He grabbed his travel pack and brought it over, pulling out a waterskin as he moved. He plopped down on the log, and held the skin out for the boy to take it. Saris stared, his puffy eyes regarding it as if trying to identify and an alien object. Slowly he brought up his hands and grasped it, more out of instinct that understanding. He drank a few deep gulps and wiped his mouth, recoiling as he tasted the dirt on his hands. 

Orik took back the waterskin and took a drink of his own as Saris rubbed his dirty hands on his pants in a vain effort to clean them. They sat for a while in companionable silence, casually peering into the trees.

“I want to show you something, if you’re up for it.” Orik said, breaking the silence. 

Saris looked up at him, seeing him for what felt like the first time. The old man sagged on the log, his hands resting on his knees. He didn’t look anything like the deadly shadow the night before, which had glided through the dark with inhuman ease. Here sat an old man, slouched over and tired, lean body crisscrossed with pale scars over loose, sun seared skin. His face was creased from constant frowning and gray stubble outlined the sharp edges of his face. The bandage he had applied the night before was still tightly wrapped around his head, covering his left, the linen soaked through with a dark rust color which meant it needed changing. His remaining eye shot through him like an arrow, its dark brown barely discernable from the black of the pupil. Saris should have been afraid of him, but he knew that this rough body housed a warm man, who had sat at their table and taught his father everything he knew. 

Saris pursed his lips and nodded, following Orik as he made his way into the woods. It began to dawn on him after a short time that they were not lost in some random forest after all, that Orik knew exactly where he was going. The pair hiked through the trees for some time, saying very little and focusing intently on each step, wary of unseen obstacles within the thick underbrush. At last, Orik reached large rock and perked up, quickening his pace. He disappeared around it and Saris raced after him, nearly careening into his backside as he found the much larger man standing still as the rock behind them. 

They had reached a clearing, with dozens of rocky outcrops. A break in the canopy brought rays of sunlight down through the leaves, spotting the ground in warm pools of pale light. It took a second for Saris to realize that the piles of rocks were arranged purposefully, in straight lines and unnatural curves. They stood in the remains of what had surely been a great stone building, but had crumbled with time and neglect. Saris walked through the clearing slowly, examining the ruined structure in more detail. The stone was clearly quarried, but time and weather had smoothed the corners so that many appeared round as natural rocks. 

“You are standing in what remains of Castle Harkannin,” Orik said, spreading his arms wide to account for the whole clearing. Saris followed his gesture and realized just how big the castle had been. Signs of a crumbling wall could be seen for many dozens of yards, stretching into the thick woods beyond. 

The two continued to explore the ruins, until they reached an area without any stones and barely any grass, save for the odd patch of mushrooms. It was in the rough shape of square, like a large patch one might use for gardening.

“This was the courtyard, where master swordsman trained under the tutelage of Harkannin elders.”

[anendlessdelirium]

Severed, part 3

The small contingent of soldiers stepped forward warily, holding their shields out in front of them. They spread out, slowly surrounding their foe, forming an impassable crescent wall of steel. Orik was enraged, but he was too experienced to act rashly. Instead, he backed up, taking slow, measured steps to match the advance of the Rothbayn troops. There were about a dozen of them in the square, with far more still scouring the city for any additional invaders.

Saris watched from the alley as his family friend faced certain death. Orik was unarmored, having shed it in favor of speed and stealth, against an entire squad of fully armored, shielded opponents. Saris consider his predicament for but a moment. He had no desire to lose anyone else tonight.

“Orik, here!” he cried out.

The knight raised his eyebrows in surprise, and turned over his shoulder. The sudden loss of attention drew one of the more eager soldiers to charge, stabbing out at the distracted knight. Orik whipped his head back around and twisted his body, bringing his sword down in a single motion. He knocked the incoming to the ground, and used the guard’s momentum against him, elbowing him in the face. The guard recoiled, dazed from the blow, blood spurting from a surely broken nose. Orik didn’t waste any time. He spun around and sprinted toward the alleyway.

Saris took his cue and ran in front of him, backtracking through the streets the way he had come. As they neared the gate, the shouts grew closer and closer. The guards knew exactly where they were headed.

The gate was guarded by three men, not the heavily armored troops that had accompanied the Baron, but the more typical spear-carrying levies that kept the peace. Orik charged them immediately, screaming and swinging his sword like a wild man. The guards looked shocked, and backed up to a more defensive position. The hesitation cost them, and the advantage of their numbers and reach was completely nullified. Orik cut through their leather armor like butter, knocking away their spears with ease at such a close range. Saris couldn’t help but admire the veteran knight. He could size up a situation almost instantly, and act without pause. The old knight finally motioned for Saris to follow him as he ripped his blade from the moaning body of their last remaining obstacle. Saris bolted forward, nearly tripping on his cloak as he exited the relatively safety of the alleyway. To his left, he could just make out the shapes of the Baron’s personal retinue, clattering down the main road in their heavy armor. He couldn’t see the Baron, but he knew he couldn’t be far behind.

“Crossbowmen! Fire!” a voice called out from the awkward jumble of troops. Something smacked into the wall beside him, and Saris turned to head to see a bolt sticking out of the palisade. More missiles fell around him, hitting dirt and wood with loud clunks. He hesitated, staring at the quivering bolt that had landed right beside his head. Orik reappeared in a flash, grabbing his arm and pulling him forward.

“Run, boy!” he yelled, and gave him a forceful push. Saris scampered out the gate and up the hill, dropping to his hands and knees as it grew steeper. He heard Orik curse behind him, but soon he was next to him, tearing fistfuls of dirt from the ground as they made their frenzied climb. Orik crested the hill first, and rushed to the horse. He chopped at tree, cutting the robe that secured their horse. The horse flaired its nostrils and stomped in confusion as Orik leaped onto its back, sheathing his sword. He grasped the reins and brought the beast to bare, then helped Saris mount.

Orik gave the horse a good kick, spurring it to a gallop. The beast obeyed, and soon they were off, tearing down through the woods.

The next few hours would be a blur, as the adrenaline and emotion of the night finally caught up with young half-elf. Saris swayed gently in the saddle, one hand clinging to Orik while the other hung limp against his side. He was utterly spent, but somehow managed to keep from falling off the horse through sheer instinct. He existed in state of sleepless exhaustion, his drooping eyelids fluttering open with each bump or shift in their pace only to sag immediately after the danger had passed.

Orik had brought the horse from a full gallop some time ago, as the beast had used up much of its own stamina in the trip to Rothford and was almost out of steam. They were at a solid trot now, a steady pace that the horse could keep up for some time. They had avoided the main roads out of fear of pursuit, so the desperate speed of their exit was impossible to maintain in the thickening forest. If he had been more conscious, Saris might have had a better idea where they were heading based on the changing terrain, but as it was he merely trusted Orik to lead the way.

It had reached midmorning before they finally stopped to make camp. They had found a small clearing that seemed like a good spot, tucked behind a rock formation which obscured them from any prying eyes.

Both Orik and Saris were completely spent, in more way than one, and the horse needed a break even more. Orik tied up the horse and rubbed its head, soothing the panting beast as best he could. He reached inside his saddlebags and removed some oats while Saris removed his cloak and spread it out along the ground.

[anendlessdelirium]

Severed, part 2

The priestess and the warrior argued inside the cabin for a long time. The door was closed but Saris could still see their animated forms through the window from his spot on the porch. The fire had burned to embers, filling the house inside with a dim orange glow. Saris watched as they gestured aggressively back and forth, creating exaggerated shadow puppets on the wall behind. Their conversation was hard to follow but the dynamics made a strange spectacle- Orik’s deep growls and grunting speech contrasted sharply with the elvish priestess’s stately, calm elocution. Saris couldn’t make out many details, but it was clear he was the main subject. At long last, the debate seemed to settle down, punctuated by a commanding bark from the grizzled old master-at-arms.

Orik pushed open the door, and over his shoulder Saris could see the priestess’s face plastered with worry.

“We leave immediately. Gather your things,” he grunted.

Saris stood motionless, not understanding.

“Quickly!” he shouted, motioning for him to come inside. Saris sprung to action, scurrying inside the cabin toward his room. Orik encouraged him with a swift kick to the rear as he passed. “We haven’t time to stand around, boy.”

Saris stuffed some spare clothes into his leather satchel, one he often took with him when he traveled to town with his father. He scanned his room one last time, looking for anything else he might need. His frantic eyes fell on a dagger, lying on the dresser, and he froze. His father had given it to him for his eleventh birthday earlier this year, under the condition that he exercise extreme caution.

“Take it, you might need it,” Orik said, drawing a startled yelp. The old knight stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He nodded toward a cloak Saris had dumped on the floor in his frenzy. “And wear that, cover your face as much as you can.”

He eased himself to standing, and adjusted his armor. “We may not be welcome, where we’re going.”

Saris nodded and finished packing as quick as his thin arms would allow. He threw the cloak around his shoulders with a flourish, and strapped on his pack before he dashed after Orik’s lumbering shape.

The priestess waited for them outside, holding the reins of Orik’s horse. She held out her other hand like a cup, and the horse nuzzled at something inside, flashing its teeth as he lapped it up. She gently whispered as he ate, stroking his main. The horse flared its nostrils and snorted, thrusting its head back and forth as if waking from a long sleep. The priestess smiled joylessly, and turned to face the pair.

“I still think it far too dangerous, Sir Knight,” she said.

“I owe it to him to try, we both know it.” He growled back. He had a gruff manner, but Saris had known him long enough to know that he wasn’t angry. What he did detect was the weight of responsibility he had come to recognize from his own father’s measured speech.

The priestess nodded. She handed the knight the reins, and let out a deep sigh.

“Then I wish you luck, for all our sakes.”

Orik mumbled something indecipherable and took hold of the reins. He mounted with some difficulty, obviously still suffered from his wounds, and extended a hand to Saris. The boy took it and let himself be pulled onto the horse, astounded by the ease with which Orik moved him. The man might be old, but under his armor was the corded muscle of an elite fighter, tempered in the flame of innumerable battles. Saris took a seat behind the much bigger knight, and felt small. He held on to Oriks armor, his grip tight and desperate.

“You should let me heal you, Sir Orik.” The priestess looked up at the mounted pair, offering her final plea. “I may be able to save your eye, if we act now.”

Orik paused, steadying the horse. After a few seconds of consideration, he frowned and shook his head. “No time, need to get there before dawn if any chance exists.”

Saris had nearly forgotten about the grisly wound under Orik’s bandage, and was opening his mouth to appeal when the horse suddenly jumped forward. He almost bit his tongue off in that sudden motion, and decided he’d rather not risk it. He held on tighter as the pair raced down the dirt road toward- where exactly? Saris cursed to himself as he realized he had neglected to ask where they were going. But the by the way the wind rushed past it was clear the time for talk had ended. Saris tucked his head against Orik’s back and tried hard not to think about where they were going, or where they had come from.

They rode for hours, not stopping or slowing down, even when they passed through the village at the end of the road. It was the largest settlement on the Harkannin land, and Saris and his father had visited it often. His mother’s poor health did not allow her to travel for long distances, so it was usually just the pair of Harkannin men that made the frequent trips for supplies. Saris always enjoyed visiting the village, and loved playing with some of the other kids his age. At first, there was some awkwardness due to his status, but after a few games they would all be running and joking without worry. Titles and nobility meant very little to them, especially with the way Knight-Commander Harkannin casually conducted his affairs. Saris often asked about what it was like to be in charge, but the elder Harkannin downplayed his role. “These people live simple lives, far away from the bustling centers of activity in the heartland. I like it that way, and so do they. I want them to live their own lives, free from worry, in safety. One day, you’ll understand what I mean. But for now, just know that it’s a Lord’s duty to defend his people.” 

The Harkannin lands were small and unimportant, easily overlooked when considering the more densely populated and resource rich lands to the east. Yet still the elder Harkannin had answered every call to arms issued by the capital. The council was worried about the near constant incursions of orc warbands, threatening the borderlands with each passing season. Even though Harkannin lands were far away, the Knight-Commander insisted that fighting there ultimately protected his people. With every new summons, Saris and his mother were forced to watch his father’s lone horse slowly disappear down the dirt road into the unknown. For some reason it always felt like he’d never return.

The memories drew stinging pin-pricks at the back of the boy’s eyes, and he forced them shut. He pushed the thoughts from his mind, until finally he began to doze off, lulled to sleep by the rhythmic pace of the horse’s stride.

He awoke sometime later, startled. Somehow he was on the ground, the horse tied up to a tree beside him. He looked around in a panic, and saw Orik beside him, removing pieces of his armor. They were in a low-lying area at the base of a small hill, surrounded by sparse trees, but nothing gave him any hint as to where they were. Saris opened his mouth to speak but Orik put a finger to his lips, motioning for him to keep quiet. It was still dark out, but the moon hung much lower in the sky, and it was likely approaching dawn.

Orik pointed down, as if to say “stay here.” He pulled a black hood over his head and turned, walking carefully out into the night. Saris sat motionless, watching the dark silhouette disappear over the crest of the hill. He waited a few minutes, eyes glued to the spot he had lost sight of his protector. It was deafeningly silent, and the pounding of his heart grew louder in his ears. He tried to slow his heart rate with deep breaths, in and out, as his mother had shown an old man who struggled with coughing fits. After a few seconds he could hear the sounds of the night again- the chirps of crickets and rustling of leaves in the cool night air.

Saris shook his head and tried to concentrate. Orik had been gone for too long, he decided. He pulled the dagger from his pack and crept out from his little hiding spot.

He reached the top of the hill and peaked over it, moving as slow as he could manage with his growing anxiety. He peeked over the crest and had to resist a gasp. A long wall lay below, stretching out across a grassy plain. It was a simple but effective wood palisade, and Saris could make out some taller buildings which rose above it. He had seen it before, a few times. It was the famous merchant town at the crossroads that led to the capital, the largest city in the west, Rothford.

Saris felt his heartbeat quicken as he remembered Orik’s tale, that somewhere in that city his father was held prisoner. He took squinted his eyes, searching for signs of Orik. There were a few points of light in the distance, moving slowly along the base of the wall. Torches, he thought. Suddenly, one of the points of light vanished. Several moments later, so did another. This time, Saris caught the subtle flash of activity before the light was extinguished. It was Orik. There was a faint outline pressed tightly against the wall, moving closer to the gate with each passing second.

Saris swallowed, realizing with some discomfort that his throat had gone completely dry. He had known about fighting and killing all his life, but he had never see it done before. Orik worked with practiced efficiency, moving on as soon as the deed was done. The dagger felt heavy in his grip, but strangely comforting. They have my father and killed his men, he thought, gnashing his teeth, they deserve what they get. It frightened and excited him.

Orik reached the gate after a few nerve-racking minutes. There were only two guards that Saris could make out, one on each side of the gate, which was closed but otherwise didn’t look entirely secure. He wasn’t going to be able to take both out by surprise like the ones on patrol, Saris considered. Orik seemed to share his concerns, and he stayed put for a second, seeming to contemplate his predicament. Both guards were looking out at the road, shifting from one foot to the other in boredom, but definitely alert. There was a glint of steel being drawn, and Orik flashed into action. He moved like a mountain-cat, pouncing at the closest form with a flying slash.

The first guard died in an instant, falling with a thud onto the dirt. His armored form made a cloud clanking noise as he fell, and Orik’s cover was blown. Immediately the second guard whirled around, bringing his spear down in a wide arch. For some reason he didn’t think to shout, and had reacted purely out of combat instinct. Saris got the feeling that this guard had experience too. But Orik wasted no time, and dove to the side. The spear’s tip hit earth, but before the guard could bring it back around Orik had thrust his blade into his gut. The guard fell to his knees and dropped his spear, clutching at his wound with both hands. It wasn’t long before he found his voice.

“Help!” he shouted. It was the last thing he ever said.

The gate opened a crack as another guard’s head poked out to investigate.

“What is it?” He was answered with another thrust of steel.

Orik vanished into the city as distant voices erupted deeper in the city. Little motes of light began to pop up, and the shouts escalated quickly.

Deciding he couldn’t just watch anymore, Saris tucked the dagger into his belt and rushed down the hill at as fast as he could. He made a mad dash toward the gate, his black cloak flapping around his wildly. His body was moving on his own, and Saris almost felt like a passenger, observing but having no control over the journey. He tried not to look at the crumpled bodies as he passed through the gate, but failed. Their faces were twisted into strange expressions, as if they were puzzling over a difficult riddle as deep black pools slowly spread from their bellies. He forced himself to look away, swallowing hard to fight his rising stomach.

There was a lot of activity in the city now, and a few heads poked out from open windows, looking around in sleepy confusion. Saris pulled his hood over his head and popped into an alley out of sight of the main street. He concentrated hard, listening for the closest voices and trying to path around them. He pushed himself up against the wall as he had seen Orik do, lowering his profile when seen from the side. Luckily he was small and quick, and even when he heard the spatter of boots pass by, no one seemed to notice him. Eventually he made his way toward what he thought was the main square.

He poked his head out, and froze. There Orik stood, back facing him, standing perfectly still. He was staring at something.

Saris crept out from the alley and approached him, looking around to make sure they were alone. He got about halfway to him before he realized what he was looking at.

There, in the main square, three bodies hung from a makeshift gallows. Saris recognized them all, but it was the shape in the middle that stopped the beating of his heart. It was his father, the once proud warrior of the Harkannin line, strung up like piece of meat in a butcher’s window. Around his neck was a wooden sign that read simply, “Traitor.”

Saris clutched at his chest, grasping at the cloth of his shirt with manic strengh. He wanted to tear it from him, rip into his very chest and remove the heart which caused him so much hurt. The feeling from earlier that night had been slow and insidious, but this pain was fierce. It burned through him like an oil fire, fast and without mercy. He wanted to cry out, scream and curse and shout, but could not. Instead his throat tightened until it seemed he could no longer draw breath.

“I thought it might be you, old man,” a voice called out from the other side of the square. Both Orik and Saris turned to look, eyes bulging. There was a small group of soldiers, heavily armed, led by a sneering man of middle age. He wore fine clothes but seemed to have dressed quickly, as his shirt hung open and trousers were somewhat askew. The man’s hair was wild, and at first Saris hadn’t recognized him. When he did finally remember he darted back into the alley, crouching behind large wooden crate. It was Baron Rothbayn, the man who betrayed his father.  

“Rothbayn you prickless fuck, I’ll gut you like the swine you are!” Orik snarled and brought up his sword.

The Baron laughed, seemingly unperturbed by the lone warrior’s threats. The guards flanking him began to move toward the knight but Baron raised a ringed hand to stay them.

“Your master is dead, Sir Orik, and the Harkannin line is ended. Luckily for the Count, I am more than capable of running his former lands and collecting the Council’s taxes.” His lips twisted into a mocking smile that sent cold fire through Saris’s veins. “He will be remembered as a dishonorable traitor, whose plot to seize my city failed miserably.”

The Baron began to walk forward, eying the gently swaying corpses. “They were always such big-headed fools, the Harkannins.” He reached the base of the gallows and frowned. “He should have died in the rebellion like he supposed to, saved me all this trouble. What a self-righteous pain in my ass!” The Baron spit into the dirt at the base of the gallows, glaring at the corpse of the Knight-Commander. He turned to look at Orik, and smiled again.

“Now, let us end this farce once and for all, shall we?” He brought his hand down and pointed at Orik.

“Kill him.”

[anendlessdelirium]

Severed, part 1

He knew it was over without even turning to see. It began with an uneasy feeling, one that slowly enveloped him as the night wore on. But a moment ago, something changed. It came as a strange sensation in his chest, a certain snap unlike anything he had ever felt before. It seemed as if something inside, something indefinable but undeniable, had ceased to exist. He suddenly felt disconnected from the world around, one which at once became alien and unfamiliar. This was no longer the home he had known all his life. It had become something entirely different. 

A few moments later came the sounds of feet shuffling over wooden floorboards and muted voices obscured by the walls behind. He knew what the rustling inside the cabin meant, yet still he could not bear to move, let alone turn and peer inside. Instead his eyes remained fixed, unblinking, on the darkness beyond. 

A lantern burned above him on the porch, its dim light casting long shadows out over the field. The flickering of the flame inside caused the shadows to move and twist, creating a bizarre and unpredictable dance of shadows. He found himself helplessly drawn into the hypnotic spectacle. Inside, the feeling he experienced earlier continued to spread. He felt unmoored, a boat adrift on a restless ocean, slowly losing sight of the shore. The ties binding him to this world had been severed, and he let himself become lost in the fog. 

A hand on his shoulder broke his trance. He nearly jumped out his skin as he spun his head to identify its origin. Towering above him was the slender silhouette of the Elven priestess who had arrived hours before. Her face was pained, scrunched up in a way that made him twist under her grip. The hand loosened but did not let go. 

“Saris…” she said, peering down at the boy. She hesitated, noticing the orange flame sparkle in the bulging eyes of the young half-elf, almost as if the fire burned within him. It was just a trick of light, but it had still given her pause. With her other hand she reached for the lantern and twisted the knob until the flow of oil had been stopped. The flames and the dancing shadows disappeared into darkness.

“You don’t need that,” she said, breaking the silence again. She made a slow, sweeping gesture over her head, “The moon is nearly full. Trust its light, little one.” 

Indeed, the moon sat high in the night sky, casting a pure silver glow onto the land below. The haunting shadows had disappeared, and now Saris could see the full shape of the landscape surrounding him. The canopy of the forest drew an uneven black line across the horizon. Far in the distance he could even make out a mountain’s distinctive jagged peak. There was an otherworldliness to it he had never noticed before- like a bizarre mirror image to the waking world of the sun.

The two stood in silence for a while, quietly gazing out at the land beyond.

At long last, the priestess told him what he already knew. His mother was dead. 

                                                  *          *          *

He should have been prepared; been expecting it, but truth be told he didn’t even think it possible. True, she had been sickly for most of his life, but she had always radiated a special kind of unflappable strength. It seemed she was unfazed by her condition, and when Saris would look at her with concern, she was always the one to comfort and reassure. So until the courier had arrived two days ago, Saris thought his mother was invincible.  

The courier had come at dawn, thundering down the dirt road as if chased by an army of demons. He brought ill news- His father, Knight-Commander Harkannin, had been imprisoned by a former ally, and lay chained in the regional lord’s dungeon, awaiting judgement. Upon hearing the news, his mother had outright fainted. The courier and Saris helped her into bed, where she had rested, in and out of unconsciousness, ever since. 

Later, after the courier departed to continue his mission, another man arrived. It was Orik, his father’s master-of-arms. Orik was a trusted family friend and the closest thing to a grandfather Saris had. The old knight was so exhausted he nearly fallen off his horse when Saris ran out to greet him. There was a crude bandage on his head, covering a wound which had likely taken an eye. Saris replaced the dressings the best he could, the way he had seen his mother do many times to injured villagers. As he worked, Orik recounted the night of his father’s capture, and his own narrow escape. 

Baron Rothbayn had offered his father’s band of knights accommodation in his walled city, Rothford, in preparation for their travels. But it appeared the Baron had more devious motivations for sheltering the men. Under cover of darkness, Rothbayn’s men systematically cut the throats of as many as possible, and capturing those important enough to let live. The Harkannin force, a modest contingent of about a two dozen loyal knights, had been decimated. Saris had managed to hold his own for a while, but was eventually overwhelmed and taken prisoner. The commotion had stirred a few Harkannin men from their beds in time for them to turn their own swords on the attackers, but it was far too late to turn the tide. Only a handful of knights, including Orik, had escaped, and they had scattered, hoping to spread word of the betrayal to their remaining allies. Once he had finished his story, Orik looked around the property.

“Where is your mother, boy?” he asked, looking worried. Saris took him to her room and told him about her condition. 

“There is only one person who might be able to help her now,” he said, re-saddling his horse. “See to your mother, boy. I will return as soon as I can.”

He returned at nightfall with a mysterious elven priestess, an ancient slender woman with simple gray robes and a stern expression. She had gone directly to his mother’s room and locked the door without a word, leaving the young boy in a daze. 

“She is the head of your mother’s order boy, an ancient and wise elf.” There’s not much the two of us can do, but if she can be saved, she will know what to do.” Orik said, standing in the doorway behind Saris. He walked slowly into the living room, removing his armor as he went. 

“What order?” Saris asked, he knew very little of his mother’s past other than that she knew the healing arts. 

“Followers of Naralis Analor, an elven god of healing.” Orik replied. He had his armor off now, and was tossing a few logs into the fireplace. “Your mother left the order when she married your father. Devotees aren’t supposed to marry, so they didn’t approve. Luckily for us your mother still has a few friends among them.”

Orik sighed with relief as the fire roared to life. The grizzled old knight stretched out in a wooden chair and closed his eyes, his sword cradled in his arms. After no more than a few breaths, he was fast asleep.

Saris stared at the door to his mother’s room, and listened. The soft sound of the priestess’s voice could be heard through the thick wooden door. He recognized the words as elvish but couldn’t make them out. After a while of anxious pacing, he wandered onto the porch, and waited the rest of the night in silence.

It hardly seemed real, the events of the past few days. Most of Saris’s life was spent on this very land, happily wasting away an afternoon while his mother cooked some fragrant elvish recipe in the kitchen. His father was often gone, seeing to matters in the village or campaigning on behalf of the king. The Knight-Commander took his responsibilities seriously, but Saris couldn’t help but feel forgotten. Each time his father left, he made Saris promise to protect his mother. Saris took his responsibilities seriously too. He fought off countless imaginary goblins and orcs, slashing through the woods with wooden sword, always managing landing the decisive blow just before dinner was served.

So when he considered the words of the elven priestess, his mind simply couldn't understand her words. She couldn’t possibly be gone. He couldn’t imagine not seeing his mother’s smiling face or hearing her chide him for tracking dirt into the house, a stretched across her face. It just couldn’t happen. 

“Don’t worry my son, she walks with Naralis now. He looks after us in life and in death.” She spoke to comfort, but Saris only grew more confused. If this god protected her, how could he let her die? She had been fine only days before. Questions began to spring from every chasm of his head, bouncing around until he could not help but cry out.

“I thought Naralis was a god of healing? How can he let her die?” he barked, suddenly flaring with anger. “She never did anything bad, she only helped people!”

The priestess opened her mouth to reply, but stopped herself. After a moment of thought she bent down to face him, one hand lightly stroking his pointed ears. She looked over his shoulder, as if focusing on something far behind him. Finally, she spoke.

“Some time before you were born, your mother was a devoted member of our order. She was a talented healer, but had been shunned by some of our people because she was not a full-blooded elf.” She traced a finger over his ears, which were noticeably shorter than her own. 

“But I saw she was talented, and Naralis saw it too. She served him well, and together we healed many sick and wounded. But one day, your mother came upon an injury she did not have the skill to heal. There had been a great battle, and one knight had taken a fatal blow. Yet he clung to life, against all odds, and refused to pass on. Your mother admired that tenacity, and vowed to save him. She came to me, asking for any ancient techniques I might know. There was only one thing I could think which might save him. An ancient ritual to commune with Naralis himself, to channel his power directly. But I was not thinking clearly, and I forgot she was half-human. The ritual taps into one’s life-force itself, and is very costly for non-elves. She carried out the ritual and the knight was able to recover, but her body was permanently weakened as a result.”

By the time the story was finished, Saris’s rage had subsided. 

“The Knight was my father, wasn’t he?” he asked softly. 

She nodded, and stood up to her full height. Saris took the time to really look at her now, the moon enveloping her body in silver. Her long hair was pure white, held in a disciplined single braid which hung behind the way his mother sometimes wore it. Her pale skin reminded him of his mother too, but the priestesses eyes were what stood her apart. They were bright, and shone with an unmistakable power that seemed to warm the very air. Saris could not help but be in awe for a moment, feeling the power radiate from her as she stood before him. There was an air of authority he hadn’t noticed before, and suddenly he felt shame for not showing her the deference she deserved. 

As he stood with mouth agape, she stepped past him back into the house.

“I will see she is readied for burial, and perform the rituals.” She said, looking back at the stunned boy. “Wake up the knight, I need to speak with him.”

[anendlessdelirium]

Cinamon Hadley, who inspired the look of The Sandman’s Death.