Elysian Fields IC

[Rtron]

It took Gregor some persuading and arguing to make the pages let him go into the waiting hall as he was. Bloodstained cloak and all. They refused at first, on grounds that he would ruin the furniture. Gregor eventually had to pull the 'royal decree, must go to the king as soon as possible' card. With that, they broke down. Grudgingly. Muttering all the time. He was allowed into the room, and he noticed two other people there. One, with the look of a soldier about him. The other,a dark skinned woman wearing a loose dress with the look of a healer. He gave a short nod in greeting, before finding his own seat, careful to not put the bloodiest parts of him, from his fight with the Iadellian, on the seat. Best not to antagonize the pages further. They were already near comatose from his even walking into the room.

As he sat in the seat, partially listening to the conversation around him, his mind returned to the fight outside of the city. The Iadellians face had looked familiar. It nagged at him. Try as he might, Gregor couldn't recall who, or what, the man had reminded him of. Finally, with a shrug of defeat, he dispelled the incident from his mind, and began to doze, waiting for either more people of his 'team' to arrive, or the King to announce what exactly they were supposed to do. And as he slept, he remembered.

Gregor marched through the heat of the day with the other Ashem troops of his company, heading towards a small Iadellian town under the General's orders, in hopes of resupplying there. With or without the towns folk cooperation. As they got closer to the town, it became clear which path the Iadellians were taking. A platoon of Iadellian swordsmen, the local militia, and all the men able to fight but who had no training previously. All armed with everything from swords to makeshift clubs. Roughly a force of a hundred. Gregor sighed, knowing more violence and death was to come, and hefted Yngvar, checking to make sure the repeating crossbow was ready for the coming battle.

The large, wildly bearded, dark haired, man next to him grinned, slapping Gregor on the back as he hefted his rather large and well used war hammer. "Cheer up Hans! One more battle, and we'll be able to eat something good for once!" Gregor managed a small grin, before turning his attention to the battle sight. Maybe there wouldn't be any archers today. Maybe he wouldn't be sent to hunt down and kill those archers. Maybe he wouldn't have to listen to their death cries of pain, or fear, or rage. Maybe he wouldn't have to listen to the cries of grief and rage of their family members when they shortly found the corpses of their loved ones. Gregor snorted at himself. Right. And my father will be alive when I return.

He thought bitterly. Shortly, his inevitable answer was found. Two archers began firing upon the company from opposite sides. They were quite accurate to. The right side more so than the left. Men began falling, arrows transfixing the weak points in their armor. Gregor already began moving towards the right side, the side most accurate and therefore most dangerous to the company, before his commander had time to bellow out orders at him. He stared at the right roof tops of the town ruling out hiding places for the archer quickly, a skill he had honed quite quickly during his time in the war, and located him. He was only a blur as he fired his long bow, before diving back into cover again.

Gregor cursed under his breath. He would have to eliminate this one by hand. Without further adue, he moved off to the side of the village, as the Ashem company prepared to meet the smaller and less well trained Iadel force. He clambered up a building near to where the archer was hidden, and made his way over the roofs to the archer until he was well within crossbow range and behind the man. He didn't even bother to really look at his target, just lifted Yngvar, and fired all the bolts he had into the poor bastard. The archer fell with a cry of pain and shock.

Gregor froze. "No..no... no.." He muttered to himself as he walked over. He removed his bolts from the corpse, and flipped it over. Hoping against hope that what he thought he had heard was just his imagination. The dead face that looked up at him couldn't have been more than 9. Blonde hair, blue eyes, slightly hooked nose. Gregor heard the other archer calling frantically over the sound of battle below. "Fredrick? Fredrick?! FREDRICK!" Gregor quickly disappeared back into the company. With out the only archers the town could muster harassing them, the Ashem troops quickly overran the Iadellian defenders. They brought much needed supplies back to camp. Gregor ate little, and retreated to his own tent, claiming exhaustion. Only then did he break down, sobbing and shaking. He had murdered a child.

Gregor awoke with a start, realizing he was shaking and gripping the seat he was in so tight his knuckles were white. With effort, he released the seat. He glanced at the two others in the room, hoping that they hadn't noticed. Unlikely at best.

[Marx]

The young men who were summoned by the king had been ushered into a room decorated heavily with rare metals and gemstones, where all that was made was assembled from scarcity, the cloth linings on seats being made from the pelts of animals going extinct. Two young men in elegant armour that was lined with gold rushed to a pair of large doors separating the band of young men from the holy king. The two men waited briefly a gentle knock coming from the opposite side, the two men immediately leaning forward to pull open the doors, revealing an aged man in fitted white robes trimmed with gold and a stole dyed purple with further gold trimmings. "My children," He smiled, walking into the room, offering his hand to the group. Morello, in his decrepit age, immediately removed himself from his seat, bowing before the emperor, kissing his hand. It was a gesture meant for one of the members of the party to take, though Morello would not give them the chance to offend the king. Hyparamei waved his hand at Morello, allowing him to return to his seat and waited where he stood. Several moments of uncomfortable silence passed by, the King who believed himself to be a God waiting with a fading smile as his two dogs fetched a large chair. They set it down behind him and took his hands as he sat back into it. Without word, the men dismissed themselves.

Hyparamei sat silently, watching the group, his smile slowly returning. Some time passed by before anyone dared to raise a voice. "Excu-" the foreign one started, immediately being shushed by Hyparamei's raised hand. The Divine King continued to be mute, patiently waiting for something beyond the group. "Well?" Myles attempted once more, this time being shut down by Morello who sharply spat out "Quiet, boy." Hyparamei was motionless, only his eyes occasionally looking around, looking beyond the people in his company at objects which were simply not among them. Myles had given up interrupting and it appeared that the others were not about to start, leaving them in the presence of a man who seemed to be going senile in their very presence. "Ah, yes, yes. Well, ta-ta." Hyparamei sang out, giving a slight wave to thin air. "He's mad," Myles groaned. "They weren't too fond of you either, Ragoran boy," The King shot back, a grin across his face, "In fact, they're a bit annoyed that you're accompanying my children. Morello has insisted you join my children in their quest though, against the wishes of the divines." Morello took this moment to chime in, "Hyparamei was listening to the Divines earlier. Their opinions always weigh heavily." Myles shook his head in disapproval, muttering "Only mad men are commanded by the wind."

Hyparamei adjusted himself in his lavish seat, leaning forward, defying the posture expected of nobility. "It is demanded," Hyparamei spoke softly, "That you, my children and Rogoran, must leave tonight to find the Medallion of Prayers. They whisper of death, of betrayal and struggle." Hyparamei waved slightly with his hands as he spoke, the two guards quickly rushing over to assist the aged king to his feet. Hyparamei took several small steps, his face solemn, "If you do not discover the Medallion first..." Hyparamei paused, looking back at his empty throne, "All... will be lost." He turned to face the party of young men once more, his face stoic. With hands together, he offered a bow to those that would soon hold the fate of Iadel in their hands, "To Serrell, my children. You are the heart of Iadel." The guards approached him from both sides and just as he entered, the Divine King left, doors made for giants slamming shut in his wake.

Morello removed himself from his seat once the doors were completely closed, politely coughing to summon the room's attention. "I am sure you have many questions, Cepheus, Darmethius, Myles, and Vanion. Allow me to answer what I can now. You have been charged with retrieving the Medallion of Prayers, the relic that parted the Ragoran Empire from Tyre eons ago. I've no doubt you've heard the stories from when you were children. The rumors you've heard are most likely true, though we truly do not know the extent of the Medallion's power. All that is known among the King, his closest advisers and myself is that the Medallion can be used to destroy the kingdom. After Ashem's defeat from the last war, it is without doubt that they intend to search for the Medallion themselves. If they're pursuing the medallion, you will encounter them on your travels. Your death would be preferable to their capturing of you." Morello released a tired sigh as if it pained him to say the last sentence. "Before you raise your questions and your concerns," The ancient mentor continued, "I will explain what you shall be doing. The Skala spawning season has began and unfortunately, you will not be able to sail from the ports of Cyclon, Miurenthal, Carin, or Hyan. You must travel to a port deep within in the Great Divide known as Jei'Swon that is considered a 'neutral' city. The locals will not be particularly neutral to anyone who is not of the Divide, so do not expect a warm reception. By your arrival, the spawning season should have began to settle, giving you a safe enough passage to Serrell. From there on, my knowledge comes to an end and returns the reigns to you boys... Any questions before you retire for the night?"

[All]

[Unter Reil - waiting room]

Heavy steps resounded in the corridor, approaching without rush. Clinking thuds of many weary feet drew nearer to the thick wooden door. The steps halted, and a muffled sound reached from the depths of the corridor. It sounded like a question, or rather a high-pitched squeak of surprise, to which an indistinct grunt replied. Then silence fell, and nothing more.

When the doors blasted open a large shadow appeared across the wooden frame. There was a man of unusually powerful build staring at the two with the look of death in his eyes and large iron-cast hands, a gift of uncanny gods to the heroes of forgotten battlefields. As the man walked past the frame with clinking steps, his sharp face finally reached the light of torches. First shone a long and thin mouth, dried by the scorching sun of the watch along the desert border, and cut by the biting of teeth during fistfights. Next wide and high cheekbones came into the light, sunburnt and tainted with scars.

Unter Reil had nothing pleasant or comforting about his look. Dusty and weary, the noseless warrior showed himself in clear light and slowly rose his chest and let his right raise with a clenched fist. At the sight of the other two chosen heroes, the ugly scar traversing his face from side to side bent in the shape of a long sad smile and. Unter Reil was no scholar and little he knew of courtesy or manners. All his life he fought, killed and destroyed. To find himself face to face with his allies far from the bloodied dust of the battlefield resulted in a deep involuntary grunt and a raised fist as salute.

The two looked pleasant, a different kind of people than the desert patrol. Their clothes were fresh, their steel was polished, their faces clean and tidy. Unter Reil, on the contrary, took no rest, no pause, and no time had been wasted washing his body or shining his armor. Dust covered him from the long journey and mud rested against his boots. A thick odor of travel and distant lands accompanied him, together with the damp smell of long worn armors and iron. He had not shaved, nor he thought of clipping his hair shorter. The King had called for him, and Unter Reil had come to perform his duty and fulfill his destiny.

[Fulsom]

The innkeeper raised his head above a container of dried nuts and carefully measured Akiel with an anxious gaze. The wounded man, complete with half-plate, jerkin, cloak, and sword slung underneath made a dangerous view for the concerned regulars. He stood there, calm and motionless, nursing his vodka between his swollen fingertips and staring vacantly into the scratched surface of the counter. His cold, hard eyes could only be matched by the vivid memories of a nearly distant past that still managed to trouble him.

His gaze found the innkeeper, who might have asked him a question in his deliberate daydream. The barman was of standard height, cheerfully wide, with strong arms, and looked as though he would suit a jovial nature. He was bald, pockmarked, with his most prominent feature being that of a thick, red mustache which possibly obscured his entire mouth from view. His face was coated with an expression of worry as he acknowledged the hurt man. “I’m fine.” Akiel’s voice was as bitter as the vodka he had been drinking. The barkeep wrestled with the fastenings of his leather apron and nodded briefly. “Well...if you need anything” he seemed relieved to not engage further with the wounded man and began wiping down the worn counter. Akiel drew the vodka past his lips and let it swill in his throat for a little while. He wasn’t keen on the taste, it tasted tepid and watered-down, and it certainly paled in comparison to his usual liking.

The vicious affair began when the outsider felt a hand rest on his shoulder, nails digging into him deeply. “There’s no room for you here, scum!” The outsider spoke quietly, not intimidated by the man’s livid snarl. “You would do well to let go of my shoulder, friend.” Akiel tightened his grip around his cup, and took another sip of his vodka. His vacant stare was now dignified, as if he were planning something. The still wounded man shrugged off the drunken man’s hand and moved away. He glanced at the innkeeper, who avoided his eyes. It did not occur to him to defend the outsider, after all, who would defend someone that they only knew from exchange of coin? “Don’t you hear me, you son of a cunt?” the troublemaker went on, his breath stinking of alcohol, fish and anger. “Leave or you’re dead,” only now did Akiel look at the man. “I’ll finish my drink.” The enemy cursed in frustration and withdrew his club. “We warned you!” the rest of the man’s buddies stood up, brandishing their weapons, bearing their teeth in anger. The drunkard knocked the cup from the vagabond’s hand and gripped him by the scruff of the neck. The man was taller than Akiel, a diagonal scar from forehead to cheek, blinded in one eye, with rough stubble lining his jaw. His hair was stringy and damp, teeth crooked and he held a threatening stare. Akiel didn’t flinch, holding position, and waiting.

One of the man’s buddies curled his fist and went for a strike. The vagrant quickly snapped to the left, dodging the blow and gripped his hands around the scarred man’s wrists. He went for the nose, cracking it open instantly with the force from his head. He didn’t stop there; he twisted the scarred man’s hands forcing him to release the grip from himself and kicked him in the bollocks. The troublemaker retreated in pain, cursing and piling on insults as the rest of his buddies surrounded Akiel. The sword hissed in its sheath and glistened briefly in the dim light, bathing the walls in blood. The place seethed as the patrons looked on in shock. There was a scream, one of the men was cut down instantly, and one of the few remaining customers scampered towards the exit. A table tipped with a crack and earthenware shattered against the floor. The innkeeper still present, his ‘stache trembling, looked at the newly disfigured man as he clutched to the bar counter, his fingers shaking as he slowly faded from sight. The other two men who opposed Akiel were found on the floor, one motionless, whilst the other writhed and convulsed into a dismal pool of darkening liquid. The only one left was the first, the scarred man who was now crouched into a darkened corner of the room. Akiel sheathed his blade, and the trouble causer sighed relief. “I’m not done with you just yet,” Akiel smiled, picking up the man’s own club, striking it menacingly against the palm of his free hand. He slowly approached his target, a deliberate and agonizing stroll which seemed to suit his own imposing structure. The stench of urine crossed Akiel’s nostrils, and it only served to make him smirk. “You were right. There is no room for me in this village, so I made some.” The scarred man broke into a sob as Akiel stood dauntingly over him, looking down in detest. He threw down the club, “Take your weapon and get out of fucking sight.”

The man hurriedly left the tavern, breeches soaked in urine, and leaving his weapon behind. “I’m sorry for the trouble barkeep; I’ll reimburse you.” Akiel walked towards the barman who had witnessed the whole debacle. “Self defense,” Akiel winked as he pressed a hefty pouch into the innkeeper’s palm. “There should be enough there to repair the damage, and perhaps even enough for a week’s wages of hard work.” Akiel spun on his heel, stepping over corpses and left the tavern briskly with a faint smile spread across his lips. He felt lightheaded once again, his wounds opened more when he exerted himself, and it was about time he had properly seen to them. He knew a small amount of alchemy and basic healing processes thanks to his mother, and he thought that he would be able to create a simple painkiller to alleviate some of the pain until he knitted the wounds closed manually.

He walked across the village towards the direction of a convenient herbal shop which sold various plants and ingredients for creating such concoctions. Each step grew harder to take as he clutched his gut which seeped a crimson fluid. The smell of burned hay and manure made him irritable as he quickly passed the settlement and finally found the front of the shop. He barged in and spoke without finding his manners, “You there, I need rosemary and Aloe Vera, and be quick about it!” He called out a number of different ingredients which he required to make the paste which he could chew to relax himself. “Have you sutures? Bring a basin of water also.” The world around him seemed to be getting darker and heavier as he stumbled to find support. His vision dimmed, and his head felt as if it had been submerged in freezing water when it happened. He didn’t feel it, and it could only be described as a feeling of silence as he fell into that darkened hole. It was the single most blissful moment he had felt in a long time.

When he came to, Akiel was numb and drained. It had been a while since he last closed his eyes, and the welcoming embrace of sleep found him in both arms. Aromas infused the air, gentle wisps of smoke carried from the nearby torch that burned the relaxing smells of lavender with comfort and warmth. The evening moonlight spilled through the cracked window in the far corner of the room, and the soft sounds of the breeze calmed Akiel into a lullaby.

When he woke again it was morning.

He didn’t hear her come in. She entered very carefully, moving elegantly, floating through the room like a lost ribbon caught in a gentle breeze; the only sound was that of her cloak brushing against her soft skin. Yet this faint sound was sufficient to rouse Akiel – or perhaps tear him from the half-sleep in which he relaxed peacefully, as though buoyantly being swept along the calm surface of the ocean which carried him ever towards his ultimatum. He did not move, nor did he stir. The girl flittered closer, until she was by his bedside. Her warm breath touched the nape of his neck, and it made him shudder. He chose not to betray his wakefulness, and allowed the girl to touch his forehead, and inspect his wounds closely. Stubborn, and as if impatient, the woman cupped his face between her fingers, and his unshaven shadow felt like electric. “Are you awake, sir?” He investigated through his lowered lashes, she was beautiful, and he couldn’t contain his smile. “I am,” he responded by opening an eye, fully drinking in her beauty for the first time.

She was divine. She held a sincere look, and her smile was warming to his wounded heart. “My name is Alia,” even her voice was soothing, like the softest silk dancing over delicate skin. “Akiel,” he raised himself and leaned against the bed board with a grunt. “I’m in gratitude for your kindness,” he smiled pertinently, but it broke against his hardened exterior. “I passed out?” Alia nodded, and revealed a basin of water and sponge to soak him down. “May I ask what happened to you, Akiel?” He stared off into the distance and shrugged, “Bar fight.” It was only a half truth and Alia knew, but she chose not to pry further. She silently wiped him down for a while; he pouted and raised an eyebrow.

“You did quite a job in stitching my wounds, where did you learn?” Akiel instead chose to ask the questions, he always preferred to hold all the cards. “My grandmother, she helped people, but her hands have grown frail over the years and so she taught me her practices.” Akiel swung both legs out of the bed; his bare feet touched the cold stonework underneath him and he shook. “Where are my belongings?” She extended an arm towards the closet which stood solemnly against the far wall of the room. “Akiel, why do you carry a sword?” he smirked and let the words roll off his tongue “I’m a dangerous man.” She shook her head in reply, “I don’t believe that, your face is honest, even though you try to hide it. You carry that sword with a great burden.”

He didn’t speak for a while, they just sat together in silence, and when it was time he finally got up and took his equipment. “Again, I thank you for your kindness; here’s what you’re owed Alia.” She shook her head, “Keep it; I can’t accept coin for saving a man’s life.” He tilted his head sideways. “I’ll be leaving soon; I never stay in one place for long.” The girl looked melancholy, and opened her mouth to speak, but the words escaped her and she let out a stifled whimper. He silently left the herbal shop and disappeared amongst the many crowds in the village. The previously gentle waves of the ocean now pushed against Akiel violently, eager to take him to the next point in his journey. The waves became agitated and roared at recent events until he finally came across the tsunami which would change his course forever.

“You there, murderer!” Akiel turned and was faced with eight soldiers on horseback. The royal emblem of the Ashem King was emblazoned upon their chests, and they were elegantly dressed for battle. They each held polearms capable of reaching several meters beyond them, and it was safe to say that Akiel was outmatched. “King’s guard?” was all he muttered, withdrawing his blade. “You refused the summons of the King, and not only that, killed four men in a tavern three nights ago.” It had only occurred to Akiel how much time had passed. When he rested at the herbal shop it only felt like a night, but it was now clear to him that it had been longer. “As far as we see it,” the captain leading the soldiers spoke confidently, and without remorse.

“You come with us, or you die.”

[tirgesfu]

Iadel

Dart

Dart tired not to show amazement but his eyes kept opening wide and his jaw kept dropping. The room he was finally being guided through was so much more than he had ever seen. It was bigger. It had more gold and glitter than the poor Ranger ever knew existed. He kept looking up to the ceiling, over to the armor that flashed with gold trim, even to the seat he was offered lined with the softest strangest furs. Dart was reluctant to touch anything. But as this strange group sat, he put his hands on the seat and then slowly lowered himself into the fineness. He sat as still as he could sure this was all some mistake.

Then the god came. He looked like a fancy old man to Dart. But he was in this place being severed by these overdressed minions and he had an aura. All this richness made sure of that. In the silence Dart could feel the emperor. He wasn’t sure of how power worked but he could not deny he was in awe. It was the first time a slice of fear cut through him. Dart had no desire to be among gods. He was not the real servant type. He swallowed hard wondering if he would have any chance to say no thank you. It was pretty clear to him he was in over his head. Dart waited. There was no way he was going to break the silence but he leaned forward and looked to the man who did. The man looked odd, slightly different, and Dart let his eyes stay on the guy as the silence hung heavy longer. The stranger was scolded and for that Dart liked him already. Dart wondered about him, but then he looked back to the others: different all of them. He respectfully turned back to the god.

Hyparamei finally started speaking but Dart did not really like what he had to say. Tonight? Death? Betrayal? No, no, there must be a mistake, Dart thought, because he was not the heart of anything.

But before he could find any way to respond the god was gone and the other old man was speaking. Destroying Kingdoms, death preferable to capture, Ashem , a port in the Deep Divide, neutral city, hostile locals, on their own, any questions? Dart’s jaw dropped again.

He looked quickly to the others his body leaning forward and his head spinning quickly from one to the other. “Yes, yes, I have a question.” He leaned even further over his knees, “Are you sure you got the names right? I mean no disrespect but once a very long time ago someone thought I was Karthmethius instead of Darmethius, easy mistake. Or maybe Dueran was meant to be Dran? Because I,” He looked again at the other men, “I am not sure I am worthy of the heart of all of Iadel.” Dart circled his hand just a bit and added, “Could you just check?”