Lyght
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- Posted: Sun, 05 Sep 2004 00:04:35 +0000
I'll bite. The following really sucks, but ah well.
Quote:
In the twenty-ninth day of the eighth month of the year, a mighty tempest swept from the seas into the borders of the principality called Antheia.
It was a rare occurrence, the arrival of the Wind -- anamos, it had been christened, the fabled storm of ancient legend -- in the wake of which would come an exceptionally hostile winter, whose bitter clutch would wreak havoc on barren ground. Only once had it been recorded in recent history, and that was more than two hundred years ago; now, as myth suddenly came to devastating life, the land's embattled people were left to batten shut their doors and brace for impending calamity.
***
Alaerios the Forgotten saw it as he sat by the hearth of a man sympathetic to the Cause, poring over a stack of papers marked with arcane symbols. Well, not actually paper -- the pages were made of vellum, depilated skin painted over with various pigments and dyes to preserve the memories of a bygone age. They were his most treasured possession, given to him by the priests of Eirin before he had made his flight from the capital; they had found by the Akyrtheia some hundred years ago, he'd been told, and within its pages were held the secrets of a civilization older than even the Empire itself. It was a gift he would protect with his life.
This was the Council's third foray over the Tears in a year's time -- and the last, for Erian would allow no more. It was only the Sages' collective insistence that convinced him to make this exception: They needed more information to plan out their next move, Rohilin had said, and the Watchers were bound to have garnered something in the months in between visits. And so the Tall One had agreed, and now they were here: A few miles away from the edge of the Waste, where Sih and his wife -- a fellow Tourki -- lived out their lives in a breathtakingly elaborate lie.
The others were in another room, doubtlessly getting on famously -- All of them except Lysse, he thought, a wry smile dancing on his expression. She'd likely slice Sih's head off if he even dares throw a glance in her direction. But he himself had long ago sworn off Antheia's rustic brews, potent and much too potable for one of his age, so here he was: Racking his brain for answers in the gloom of night.
It was the rattling of the door that told him the anamos had come, and a curious shiver of anticipation that fluttered across his mind before vanishing into the dusk. Placing his papers a safe distance away from the fire, he drew himself up from his chair to hobble over to the entrance -- Eirin scourge the man who took my cane; an ear was planted firmly against its wood to listen to the howling winds whose fury shook the house from rafter to rafter. The Sage allowed himself a small smile.
"It's coming," he murmured, sending a grateful prayer up to whoever in the Pantheon might be listening. "The Maj be thanked, it's coming..."
***
Tulak Radi'n saw it as he took a draw from his pipe, skilled lips pursed to blow oval smoke-rings into the air. He was garbed in the raiment of the Empire -- for Radi'n was a soldier sworn to the Primes, ordered to this forsaken place with his unit to enforce a semblance of order -- and had been only a few moments ago relieved from watch by one of his more keen-eyed comrades; now, having been given a light by his considerate fellow, he was heading back to the tavern, which had been commandeered just yesterday to serve as a staging ground in the search for elusive Erian of blasted Antheia.
"Damn this wind," he grumbled, as the flame at the end of his pipe sputtered and went out entirely. "Can't a man get himself a smoke for even a second in this place?" And raising his eyes to the skies to lend credence to an elaborate oath, he was justly surprised by the barbed arrow that grew from the back of his neck to poke out of his throat. What would have been the curse to end all curses instead turned into an inarticulate gurgle, his attempt at speech succeeding only in sending a fountain of blood spurting forth from his mouth.
And as he fell to his knees, two white-cloaked figures stepped out of the gathering blizzard, their features masked by strips of cloth tied tightly over their skin. One carried a well-crafted bow, its string still quivering from the force of his draw -- a truly impressive archer, Radi'n couldn't help but note, to fire an arrow with that sort of precision in these kinds of conditions; the other bore a drawn sword, its metal blade dulled by a craftsman's hand to minimize its reflection in the sun. The former smashed the tip of the bow into the soldier's head, sending him careening face-first to the ground.
"There. Make it quick." The words were quick and spoken with just a trace of an accent, one that Radi'n immediately recognized as belonging to an Antheian native -- and a woman! -- but his surprise was stilled as he heard the telltale sound of metal scraping against grindstone. His fingers loosened their grip on his pipe, which tumbled limply into the snow -- not like this not like this not like this --
"Patience, Wyn," said a man's voice, coming dangerously close to his ear. The soldier's eyes frantically strove to make out the speaker, but managed to catch only fleeting glimpses of thick white fabric. Seconds later, the pale skin of his back was exposed to the cold as a knife cut through his leather armor and the two layers of clothing he was wearing underneath.
"His friends may come anytime," rejoined the first -- "Hurry and make your mark, before they discover this filth's fate."
"They will not come." Her companion was brutally calm. "The tavern-keeper is our man. He will doubtlessly keep the Imperials occupied -- for that is his duty, just as we have ours. Now turn away; shoot anyone who draws near. You will not want to watch." And even as the archer's faint footsteps faded away into the distance, unspeakable pain shot through the soldier's nerves, the knife ripping through his skin to trace with its tip elaborate lines on his flesh.
His screams came as a feeble whisper. Snowflakes melted as they touched the steaming blood spilling ever so slowly from his wounds.
He would die slowly, but he would die, and when his comrades found him the markings on his back would tell them all they needed to know: The Keepers had come, and with them taken yet another from their ranks.
Radi'n felt the wind cutting into his newly-opened wounds as his spirit drifted away into the night.
* * *
Prince Deilus of Antheia saw it as he lounged in his lavish study, his oiled fingers picking hungrily at a succulent roast his servants had brought from the kitchens. "Lucky they put the windows in when they did," he rumbled, smooth bass punctuated by occasional rattles of cleariron -- the Empire's newest and most sought-after luxury, providing an unhindered view of the outside while shielding it from the elements. "I wouldn't want to have to sleep underground again like I did the last time a blizzard came through." Yellowing teeth clawed viciously at a particularly stubborn bit of meat.
"You eat too quickly, my liege." The disapproval of Arklat ges'Heit was voiced (as usual) in his mincing tenor, which the Prince had come to recognize as a dog would his master. "More of that, and you might ... choke. And that eventuality would certainly be a pity, wouldn't it?"
A fat hand dropped his half-eaten meal onto his bronzed plate. "How often have I told you not to sneak up on me like that?" Annoyance found its way into Deilus' words as he turned to face the Imperial ambassador. "It's unnerving."
"My apologies, sire." Even now, so far away from the eyes of the Court, the diplomat was obsequious as ever. Deilus was starting to think it had been born into his blood. "But I would remind you that you were the one who sent for me."
"Ah. Of course." Damn, why couldn't I have waited until after supper? "A letter came by post today. Apparently it's from the Primes themselves, their names be blessed by the gods -- I put it on my desk, next to my quills. You might be interested in its contents."
The ambassador's eyes drifted over to the table. "You opened it?"
"But certainly. I would remind you that it was addressed to me and not you -- though -- " The Prince sighed, eyeing his platter. He'd have to get another from the kitchens; the meat must be lukewarm by now, and he hated lukewarm meat. "Though I wish that it had been. Apparently the Empire is displeased with our lack of progress in catching the ... outcast."
Arklat had already snatched up the letter; his brows furrowed in anger as with deliberate precision he ripped it from end to end. "Fools," he spat: "Do they think we can simply snap our fingers and bring him to justice? He knows the wilderness better than all of our troops combined, that self-proclaimed princeling -- we've been on his heels for nineteen years and still haven't found a trace of him!"
"That," noted the Prince, "would be the lack of progress the letter refers to." He smacked his lips in appreciation, taking a sip from a goblet of wine. "And eager as we are to bring him to justice, it'll have to wait. Trained as our hunters may be, they're simply unequipped to operate in a storm of this intensity."
The ambassador turned slowly on one heel, its thick edge screeching loudly against the keep's polished stone floor. "You know, sire," Arklat began, and honey dripped from every word: "I'm starting to think you're not all that keen on finding this Scion." The flickering candles in the study cast a menacing shadow over his hollow face.
"You doubt my intentions? Then replace me and have someone else installed as Prince. But ware! for if you do, the Primes will without a doubt have you declared a failure as well." Deilus smiled broadly, leaning back against his brocaded divan. "We are ill-starred men, you and I, the b*****d children of unlucky days -- Oh, don't sulk like that, Arklat. Have some roast? It's good, if a little cold."
* * *
The gale sped over Vaie's Crown, covering the promontory that marked the end of the world in a blanket of powdery snow; over Raine's Tears, slowing and then stopping it altogether as it turned water to ice; over the Fthoran Waste, dimming evanescent lightbushes and plunging the wilderness into darkness. It barreled across plains and highlands and the leveled remains of primordial forests, over hills and ridges and the proud heights of solitary mountains, through hamlets and farms and the cramped streets of occupied Areyti -- and those that witnessed its passing were chilled to the bone.
The wheels of fate had been set into motion at last.
It was a rare occurrence, the arrival of the Wind -- anamos, it had been christened, the fabled storm of ancient legend -- in the wake of which would come an exceptionally hostile winter, whose bitter clutch would wreak havoc on barren ground. Only once had it been recorded in recent history, and that was more than two hundred years ago; now, as myth suddenly came to devastating life, the land's embattled people were left to batten shut their doors and brace for impending calamity.
***
Alaerios the Forgotten saw it as he sat by the hearth of a man sympathetic to the Cause, poring over a stack of papers marked with arcane symbols. Well, not actually paper -- the pages were made of vellum, depilated skin painted over with various pigments and dyes to preserve the memories of a bygone age. They were his most treasured possession, given to him by the priests of Eirin before he had made his flight from the capital; they had found by the Akyrtheia some hundred years ago, he'd been told, and within its pages were held the secrets of a civilization older than even the Empire itself. It was a gift he would protect with his life.
This was the Council's third foray over the Tears in a year's time -- and the last, for Erian would allow no more. It was only the Sages' collective insistence that convinced him to make this exception: They needed more information to plan out their next move, Rohilin had said, and the Watchers were bound to have garnered something in the months in between visits. And so the Tall One had agreed, and now they were here: A few miles away from the edge of the Waste, where Sih and his wife -- a fellow Tourki -- lived out their lives in a breathtakingly elaborate lie.
The others were in another room, doubtlessly getting on famously -- All of them except Lysse, he thought, a wry smile dancing on his expression. She'd likely slice Sih's head off if he even dares throw a glance in her direction. But he himself had long ago sworn off Antheia's rustic brews, potent and much too potable for one of his age, so here he was: Racking his brain for answers in the gloom of night.
It was the rattling of the door that told him the anamos had come, and a curious shiver of anticipation that fluttered across his mind before vanishing into the dusk. Placing his papers a safe distance away from the fire, he drew himself up from his chair to hobble over to the entrance -- Eirin scourge the man who took my cane; an ear was planted firmly against its wood to listen to the howling winds whose fury shook the house from rafter to rafter. The Sage allowed himself a small smile.
"It's coming," he murmured, sending a grateful prayer up to whoever in the Pantheon might be listening. "The Maj be thanked, it's coming..."
***
Tulak Radi'n saw it as he took a draw from his pipe, skilled lips pursed to blow oval smoke-rings into the air. He was garbed in the raiment of the Empire -- for Radi'n was a soldier sworn to the Primes, ordered to this forsaken place with his unit to enforce a semblance of order -- and had been only a few moments ago relieved from watch by one of his more keen-eyed comrades; now, having been given a light by his considerate fellow, he was heading back to the tavern, which had been commandeered just yesterday to serve as a staging ground in the search for elusive Erian of blasted Antheia.
"Damn this wind," he grumbled, as the flame at the end of his pipe sputtered and went out entirely. "Can't a man get himself a smoke for even a second in this place?" And raising his eyes to the skies to lend credence to an elaborate oath, he was justly surprised by the barbed arrow that grew from the back of his neck to poke out of his throat. What would have been the curse to end all curses instead turned into an inarticulate gurgle, his attempt at speech succeeding only in sending a fountain of blood spurting forth from his mouth.
And as he fell to his knees, two white-cloaked figures stepped out of the gathering blizzard, their features masked by strips of cloth tied tightly over their skin. One carried a well-crafted bow, its string still quivering from the force of his draw -- a truly impressive archer, Radi'n couldn't help but note, to fire an arrow with that sort of precision in these kinds of conditions; the other bore a drawn sword, its metal blade dulled by a craftsman's hand to minimize its reflection in the sun. The former smashed the tip of the bow into the soldier's head, sending him careening face-first to the ground.
"There. Make it quick." The words were quick and spoken with just a trace of an accent, one that Radi'n immediately recognized as belonging to an Antheian native -- and a woman! -- but his surprise was stilled as he heard the telltale sound of metal scraping against grindstone. His fingers loosened their grip on his pipe, which tumbled limply into the snow -- not like this not like this not like this --
"Patience, Wyn," said a man's voice, coming dangerously close to his ear. The soldier's eyes frantically strove to make out the speaker, but managed to catch only fleeting glimpses of thick white fabric. Seconds later, the pale skin of his back was exposed to the cold as a knife cut through his leather armor and the two layers of clothing he was wearing underneath.
"His friends may come anytime," rejoined the first -- "Hurry and make your mark, before they discover this filth's fate."
"They will not come." Her companion was brutally calm. "The tavern-keeper is our man. He will doubtlessly keep the Imperials occupied -- for that is his duty, just as we have ours. Now turn away; shoot anyone who draws near. You will not want to watch." And even as the archer's faint footsteps faded away into the distance, unspeakable pain shot through the soldier's nerves, the knife ripping through his skin to trace with its tip elaborate lines on his flesh.
His screams came as a feeble whisper. Snowflakes melted as they touched the steaming blood spilling ever so slowly from his wounds.
He would die slowly, but he would die, and when his comrades found him the markings on his back would tell them all they needed to know: The Keepers had come, and with them taken yet another from their ranks.
Radi'n felt the wind cutting into his newly-opened wounds as his spirit drifted away into the night.
* * *
Prince Deilus of Antheia saw it as he lounged in his lavish study, his oiled fingers picking hungrily at a succulent roast his servants had brought from the kitchens. "Lucky they put the windows in when they did," he rumbled, smooth bass punctuated by occasional rattles of cleariron -- the Empire's newest and most sought-after luxury, providing an unhindered view of the outside while shielding it from the elements. "I wouldn't want to have to sleep underground again like I did the last time a blizzard came through." Yellowing teeth clawed viciously at a particularly stubborn bit of meat.
"You eat too quickly, my liege." The disapproval of Arklat ges'Heit was voiced (as usual) in his mincing tenor, which the Prince had come to recognize as a dog would his master. "More of that, and you might ... choke. And that eventuality would certainly be a pity, wouldn't it?"
A fat hand dropped his half-eaten meal onto his bronzed plate. "How often have I told you not to sneak up on me like that?" Annoyance found its way into Deilus' words as he turned to face the Imperial ambassador. "It's unnerving."
"My apologies, sire." Even now, so far away from the eyes of the Court, the diplomat was obsequious as ever. Deilus was starting to think it had been born into his blood. "But I would remind you that you were the one who sent for me."
"Ah. Of course." Damn, why couldn't I have waited until after supper? "A letter came by post today. Apparently it's from the Primes themselves, their names be blessed by the gods -- I put it on my desk, next to my quills. You might be interested in its contents."
The ambassador's eyes drifted over to the table. "You opened it?"
"But certainly. I would remind you that it was addressed to me and not you -- though -- " The Prince sighed, eyeing his platter. He'd have to get another from the kitchens; the meat must be lukewarm by now, and he hated lukewarm meat. "Though I wish that it had been. Apparently the Empire is displeased with our lack of progress in catching the ... outcast."
Arklat had already snatched up the letter; his brows furrowed in anger as with deliberate precision he ripped it from end to end. "Fools," he spat: "Do they think we can simply snap our fingers and bring him to justice? He knows the wilderness better than all of our troops combined, that self-proclaimed princeling -- we've been on his heels for nineteen years and still haven't found a trace of him!"
"That," noted the Prince, "would be the lack of progress the letter refers to." He smacked his lips in appreciation, taking a sip from a goblet of wine. "And eager as we are to bring him to justice, it'll have to wait. Trained as our hunters may be, they're simply unequipped to operate in a storm of this intensity."
The ambassador turned slowly on one heel, its thick edge screeching loudly against the keep's polished stone floor. "You know, sire," Arklat began, and honey dripped from every word: "I'm starting to think you're not all that keen on finding this Scion." The flickering candles in the study cast a menacing shadow over his hollow face.
"You doubt my intentions? Then replace me and have someone else installed as Prince. But ware! for if you do, the Primes will without a doubt have you declared a failure as well." Deilus smiled broadly, leaning back against his brocaded divan. "We are ill-starred men, you and I, the b*****d children of unlucky days -- Oh, don't sulk like that, Arklat. Have some roast? It's good, if a little cold."
* * *
The gale sped over Vaie's Crown, covering the promontory that marked the end of the world in a blanket of powdery snow; over Raine's Tears, slowing and then stopping it altogether as it turned water to ice; over the Fthoran Waste, dimming evanescent lightbushes and plunging the wilderness into darkness. It barreled across plains and highlands and the leveled remains of primordial forests, over hills and ridges and the proud heights of solitary mountains, through hamlets and farms and the cramped streets of occupied Areyti -- and those that witnessed its passing were chilled to the bone.
The wheels of fate had been set into motion at last.
