Homecoming
by Hallan Mirayas
Heartbeat. Falling. Joy. Rage.
I know you were waiting for something.
Heartbeat. Falling. Glee. Sorrow.
Hoping for something.
Heartbeat. Falling. Obstruction. Shattering.
Find it.
Heartbeat. Falling. Pain. Fire.
And when you find it...
Heartbeat. Falling.
Kill it.
Impact.
A beautiful way top open this chapter in the tale! It's like reading
a poem by e.e. cummings.
The day closed unspectacularly in the city of Lik, the sunset
obscured with a dull overcast and a clammy drizzle that set the
ground squishing underfoot. The hard-won flickers of late spring's
warmth washed into the gutters like the blood of killed
prey. Aside from an occasional grumble, no-one remarked on its
passing. This was the edge of the Giantdowns tundra, in the shadow
of the Great Barrier Range, and spring was always late in
arriving. This was normal, and there were more important things to
do than wish it were otherwise. The vampires emerged from their
crypts, attended by their retinue of skeletons and zombies. The
werewolves shrugged out of their human forms, preferring their
shaggy lupine coats. The moondogs prowled the forest edges,
keeping watch for prying eyes. The drakes and gargoyles patrolled
the skies for the same purpose. The lutins and men honed their
weapons and burnished their armor. The army prepared for war.
For that is what Lik had become since the collapse of Nasoj's
empire: the home camp for a growing army of invasion. Lilith,
daedra goddess of predation, had visions of succeeding where the
prince of the daedra had failed: the destruction of Metamor Keep,
and the army she'd gathered at Lik was her weapon. It was almost ready.
In another world, it might have struck hard and well. In this
one, it would not live to see the dawn.
A wonderful description of Lik here; the last line just ends the
scene perfectly. Very effective setting the mood.
The same evening ended in a clear, gentle twilight a few hours
later in Marigund. Lamplight glowed golden in the courtyard of the
World Bell as a productively busy day neared its successful
conclusion. Workers heaved on thick hempen lines attached to
pulleys hanging from an iron frame, straining to settle a silvery
statue of a toga-clad woman onto a tall ivory pedestal. "Blast,
this thing's heavy!" grunted one of the workers over the creaking
of the ropes. What's it made of, lead?"
Minor nitpick: I suspect the evening ends earlier in Marigund as it
is further to the east and south during a time of the year when the
days are getting very long up north.
"It's a temporary replacement for the World Bell. More
accurately, it's the predecessor to the World Bell, made during the
latter days of the Empire. Master Thadeus has studied the device
in detail and can tell you more than I. Thadeus?"
I really liked the device you crafted here to take the World Bell's
place. Very intricate and it has an elegance that suits it well to
the vagaries of wizards!
Melissa Marcus, a dark-furred cat-woman from distant Metamor
Keep, finished closing the largest dragon's claws around its pearl,
pausing in her reply only long enough to buff a spot of tarnish
from the old drake's face. "Yes, Master Thadeus." Her whiskers
arching into a faint, playful smirk, she brushed the drake's
articulated whiskers into place with the backs of her fingers and
then playfully kissed it on the cheek. "There, Grandfather. Now
you look properly dignified."
Metamorians are starting to get out and about I see.
"That is correct. It's a one-to-ten scale, each step ten times
stronger than the last."
Like the Richter scale for earthquakes. A nice parallel there,
intentional or not.
"Ten steps, Guildmaster? But there are... eleven..." The
workman trailed off as the statue's pointing hand swung round,
ignoring the blue flare rising in the northeast to lock steadfast
facing northwest. One by one, the dragons awoke. One, two, three,
four... Eyes began to widen. Five, six, seven... Was it
broken? Eight, nine... It had to be broken! A ninth-level event
occurring the moment the statue activated? Ten... Tenth level? A
breathless pause followed, and then the old drake roused himself
and lifted his head, casting his gaze to the northeast along with
the others. Alarmed gazes all across the courtyard turned as one
to Guildmaster Demarest. "What does it mean?" asked the workman.
Silly workman not understanding the laws of dramatic timing!
"That's the biggest problem with this in comparison to the
World Bell... all it tells is direction and strength. I only hope
the one we sent to Metamor is complete enough to
triangulate." Guildmaster Demarest turned. "Elizabeth? Contact
your brother. Thadeus, plot that line on the map. Even if Metamor
isn't ready, we might at least get some information from a direction."
A good touch there by noting its limitations compared to the World
Bell. After all, why replace it with the World Bell those
generations ago if the dragons were just as good?
The dark stallion shook his head, his tousled mane still
rumpled from a recent and hasty waking. "This is an emergency," he
corrected. "Before you ask, your brother tells me that the
detector your Guild sent is not yet operational. However..." He
gestured, and a double door was opened in the side of the
room. Beyond lay an open balcony from which Madog and the Duchess
of Metamor watched a storm raging over the mountains to the
north-east. "Something tells me we won't have a problem suggesting
a direction." Cascading lightning exploded across the storm,
turning night into day for more than a quarter of the sky.
Good thing Carcarak's entrance reached the stratosphere, otherwise
the curvature of the earth would have defeated them!
Whimpering, Madog jumped down from the balcony ledge and tugged
on the Duchess' skirt with his teeth. "Inside! Inside,
hurry!" Almost dragging her off the balcony, the metal fox then
knocked the Duchess down and stood stiff-legged astride her as if
to shield her with his own body. All of the doors and windows
slammed shut, vanishing into solid stone as the Keep sealed the
room. A growing rumble began to shake the building. "Protect the
Duke!" Misha and George yelled at the same moment, and the lord of
Metamor found himself tackled under many bodies and shoved beneath
the heavy oak map table as the rumble outside became a roar.
Is this from the image of the storm brought closer or from the storm
itself? Either way, this visible light will be for Charles the sign
he needs to come straight for Metamor regardless of the hour.
"Not in the Hells, your Grace," replied a dark-clad figure who,
until now, had remained silent in a corner. The crescent moon
medallion of a priest of Nocturna gleaming silver on a chain of
gold around his neck, Malger Sutt picked himself up off the
floor. "Not in," he repeated as he tugged his disheveled waistcoat
back into place. "Out of. Doom has come, but for once not for
Metamor." Dark musteline eyes narrowed and fixed on Misha. "Not
unless you fail to get there first."
And Malger shows he knows how to make an entrance too. ;-)
"One answer will satisfy both questions, Misha, and it is this:
the War Wolf of Revonos is un-leashed, and has been ejected from
the Hells." Malger paused just long enough to let his very
deliberate phrasing sink in, and then stabbed a finger into Misha's
chest. "Prepare well. Know without question that you will not
overmatch him in a direct contest of strength, so choose your
companions wisely. And above all, do not be late."
And yeah, because prophecy is just so darn cryptic, I won't tell you
who you need to choose. ;-)
I make light, but i do quite enjoy the gravity you are giving this
and the power it conveys. Everything feels rushed because they truly
are in great haste!
What remained of the army at Lik stirred only slowly in the
sudden silence, deafened ears just beginning to register the moans
of the injured and dying. The werewolves and the vampires, gifted
by Lilith with supernatural strength and healing, were the first to
push free of the wreckage and even they, hardened killers through
they were, gaped in shock at the absolute devastation they
beheld. The city of Lik was, quite simply, gone. Its buildings
had been almost uniformly leveled into smoldering ruin. Of the
temple at its center, only a smoking crater remained. Still,
discipline under pressure and obedience to hierarchy remained
fundamental to Lilith's ethos, bred into the very marrow of her
servants and slaves, and a chain of command was soon salvaged and
put into action. The werewolves, with their sharp noses and
sharper claws, started searching for survivors. A pair of giants
who had survived the bludgeoning hail, the searing lightning, and
the rending shrapnel heaved themselves from the rubble and began
digging where the werewolves indicated. The vampires, in imminent
need of shelter from the coming dawn, investigated the smoking
crater where the temple had been. Perhaps somewhere amidst that
sulphurous haze, some remnant of the catacombs had survived.
Some remnant had, but that was not all to be found
there. Something stirred, hidden in the haze, battered by a long,
pain-filled fall, but blazing with power from back-to-back
victories over two hated foes. The pain was ignored. Ears pricked
in anticipation. Devastation incarnate waited for his third battle
with golden eyes alight.
I suspect Lilith is going to have even fewer survivors in a
moment. I suspect the next council of Daedra is going to be an unhappy one.
The cold wind of dragonflight stabbed through Misha's fur, and
he tugged the parka he wore tighter around him to block it. If
only he could protect himself from memories so easily.
"Stay down, Drift! You're not getting past me!"
"Whatever the price, whatever the cost, give me the strength to
destroy my enemies!"
"Don't follow me, Misha! I won't spare you twice!"
He closed his eyes against the wind, and immediately snow
swirled around him. A red glow pierced the night.
"Stop this madness!"
"No! This isn't what I wanted! She didn't deserve to
die! She wasn't supposed to-"
It is a testament to how well you managed the story of Drift's taking
that these mere lines are enough to evoke the image of snowswept
streets, carnage, a blood red sword, and Drift's undoing.
A strong gust of wind buffeted Saroth and the blue dragon
Tychicus, forcing them to swerve out of formation to avoid being
pushed into a cliff. {It is difficult enough cajoling the winds
into our favor without the screams in your mind to distract
me. No, I'm not intentionally reading, but please direct your
thoughts to another topic.} The buffeting lessened and the dragons
eased back into a streamlined offset, the larger Tychicus taking
the point. {The sky is in pain, Misha, and the winds off the
mountains are even wilder than usual. I wish Electra were here so
I could focus on flying.}
I'm delighted you used Saroth and made reference to Electra. Those
two are characters I cherish and wish more had been done with by Jetfire.
The snow-capped heights of the Great Barrier Range had always
served as a nigh-impenetrable guard to Metamor's
flanks. Torturously high passes, thin air, bitter cold, and
sudden, savage storms made crossing in large numbers, whether by
ground or by air, almost unthinkable. Only dragons flew this high,
and not without effort. But it was the safest way to get quickly
to the area where the storm had been, without the danger of running
into an air patrol from Nasojassa or Lik. The 'nobody goes here'
mystique of the Great Barrier Range worked both ways, and Misha's
reconnaissance didn't need large numbers. It just needed a
dedicated weather mage to cope with the maze of storms and shifting
winds that barred their path.
Charles, having been here once before, will be forced to admit its
worse than last time; last time he was stone and couldn't feel the cold!
Unfortunately, they didn't have one. The storm shield that
protected Metamor's southern reaches, still recovering from the
Marzac Shockwave of the winter before, had had its freshly recast
anchors damaged again by whatever had shaken the skies to the
north. Xavier Marcus had abruptly left Metamor for parts unknown
bare weeks after Drift's fall to the daedra, which left the Duke
caught between two fires with only one storm mage apiece. Thus,
Saroth had to pull double duty as flying transport and weather mage
in difficult terrain, and the strain was beginning to show. Even
threading their way through mountain valleys for much of the day,
they had not been able to avoid crossing any fewer than five high
passes, and each took a visible toll on the bronze-scaled
dragon. An overnight rest in the forested valley just behind them
had given both dragons a chance to recover before the final push,
but even so Misha fingered the teleport disk in his pocket, glad
that he would not have to ask for a repeat performance on the way home.
Had we heard that Xavier had left before? This is the first I recall
seeing it.
Tychicus, who had scouted this route before, promised that this
was the last high pass before the way out. It was also the highest
and the most dangerous: the snowscape buffeted and swirled under
the dragons' wings only a rooftop's height below, but the air was
too thin to climb any higher for safety. Too thin even for
dragons. Misha looked up, up at the mountain peaks looming still
higher above and felt something in him quail. Never in his life
had he felt so small. There was great beauty here: the snow
gleamed and glittered like a field of diamonds in the light of the
rising sun. Dark cliffs and crags lanced through the white cover,
carved by time and cold into razor-edged perfection. But it was a
hostile and deadly majesty, and the mountains guarded it
jealously. Outsiders trespassed at great peril. A mistake now
would mean a slow, cold, torturous death.
Too thin even for dragons means its probably already too thin for the
Keepers. They would be feeling some euphoria and dementia if they
stay in it too long.
Arms tightened around his waist as the dragons slewed around
another rocky outcropping. Behind him rode the rat Charles
Matthias, his face burrowed into the back of Misha's parka for
protection from the wind. The arrangement mirrored itself on
Tychicus' back with Wolfram and Merai, the other companions Misha
had chosen to bring with him. Wolfram had worried that pausing at
Glen Avery to pick up Charles would delay them too long, but the
rat had shown up at Metamor's gates that very dawn,
uncalled-for. "I had a dream, Misha," he explained when
asked. "Shattered manacles, dipped into a crystal pool. They
didn't come out as manacles, though. They came out as a brilliant
sword, gleaming like the sun. You know what I'm talking about, don't you?"
I hope you like the way I brought the image to Charles in my latest. :-)
May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,
Charles Matthias
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