At the Edge of Tommorrow
[i]Many chat rooms throughout YGGDRASIL, once rife with activity, were victims of solemn silence. The emotional turmoil had come and gone for most players. Even the trolls and griefers had already migrated to other games with easier targets.
The servers were scheduled to shutdown at midnight. Everyone had known it. The tide of automated messages made it very clear about what was going to happen. Only a sentimental few remained behind to witness the lights go out. But was it really so surprising? Thousands of people dedicated countless hours of their lives to YGGDRASIL. They fought, cried, made friends, and precious memories. It seemed a crime to lose it all.
But seconds ticked by with the slow and steady precession of time.
There were no warnings. No sudden darkness after being forcibly logged out.
When midnight arrived, the world moved. And, miraculously, a rare few moved with it.
Then silently, inevitably time crept forward.
...
A thick morning fog drifted along the slopes of the mountains. There were no storms, but the air smelled like a crack of lightning had burnt it. Pale smudges of light brightened and dimmed all round. A wild aurora ripped across the sky overhead, twisting into a column as the light ascended ever upwards. If one looked closely they could see the reflection of a familiar blue planet behind the curtain of shifting hues. But just as quickly as the reflection appeared, it vanished.
With time, the fog slowly began to thin, revealing snow-capped peaks and the black abyss between them. The aurora did little to illuminate the darkness between the mountains. It made every shadow a sharp, sinister thing which writhed every time the eddy of lights ventured too close. They were like black daggers lining the jaw of some cthonic beast.
Keen eyes might spot movement along the snowy slopes. Appearing first as dark stains on the snow which melted away into a blurry mirage as it moved closer. Silhouettes darted between the plumes of monochromatic mist clinging to sheets of ice.
The dull swath of crimson on the distant horizon indicated the dawn's slow approach. The sun would rise soon, but in the fading twilight something stirred.
Distant Beacon
Like a prodigious white fang excrescent from the jaw of the world, Godsfall’s greatest peak tore through the clouds and towered into the sky. The pristine white of its glacial sheets blanketed its northern slopes and shelves of ice formed stepped terraces along its southern base. The treacherous range was cold and windy. Few people would ever travel here willingly, hoping to avoid the blizzard-ravaged mountains.
However, some were forced to eke out a living in this unforgiving winter landscape.
The cool waters of a running stream snaking down the mountain slopes cut a shallow trench through a narrow gulley. Nestled between two steep crags was a small village marked by the frost-covered wooden bridges that spanned the gap. Behind it, the Godsfall summit loomed above the horizon like a foreboding monolith. Rickety abodes seem precariously settled on natural ledges while others seem to make homes in the stone itself. A warm orange glow filtered through several of the shuttered windows. The largest of these structures, a hunting cabin, straddled the modest river. The wind smelled rich and earthy as a warm, resinous scent pervaded the air. Drifts of dark smoke forms tapered columns above the cabin’s chimney.
Dawn was approaching, but the sun was still nowhere in sight. A tired watchmen stood at his post, high on the ledges above. A wooden frame outlined the fire that kept him warm and the rabbit stew that would soon fill his belly. His languid eyes followed a rider on horseback racing away from the quiet stables at a furious pace. White plumes erupted from the steed’s snout every time it thrusts its powerful legs forward. Even at a distance, the rider seems to be in a hurry. He took the downward slope at a breakneck speed, then cut eastward along a well-kept mountain trail. His fur-trimmed coat billowed in the wind.
Just as the watchmen was about to turn his attention back to the watery soup in his pot, the rider stopped abruptly. His horse bucked wildly, obviously spooked by something. Beyond the horizon, a column of light suddenly spiraled into the night sky. Threads of radiance coiled around the pillar like ethereal serpents. The watchmen gaped in blank astonishment. The rider did too.
Neither of them would have guessed that somewhere on the other side of Norden, the wheels of Fate had begun to turn.
Advent of Light
The ground was a troublesome mixture of half-thawed ice and loose dirt. It crunched and slid under Astrid's boots. With an exasperated sigh, she unsteadily pressed onward towards the cabin on the hill. The war between Huscarl Asbjorn and the elves of Black Fenn, lead by the infamous Ssaelit, was progressing well. So well, in fact, that everyone in Agnarr had fled for safety of the heartlands. The last two souls to leave Agnarr by the main road were a grizzled old man with the stature of a lumberjack and a young girl with a fair, but dirty face. The girl was either his daughter or his wife, she thought. Age had always been difficult to guess. It wasn't uncommon for older wives and tired soldiers to commission a draught of youth from the local witch.
As she came upon the cabin, she noticed a placard posted on the wall outside. It was covered in a thin sheet of rime.
"An inn?" Astrid arched an eyebrow. The cabin indeed had a second floor, but it was too small to be anything other than a modest homestead. She briefly wondered if the nicer inns littering Steinngrim would feel insulted.
"Stop lazing about and open up." She glared at the door sternly. The door, knowing better, opened.
Astrid stepped inside. She knew no one was here, but half-heartedly scanned the room and slowly let her magic seep out. It had been pent up inside her all day, impatiently nagging to be set loose. Her magic was a wild and impetuous beast. It did her bidding on occasion and annoyed her at every other moment of the day. If it was a dog, she imagined it would make a mess on the rug and whine at her innocently. Or, more likely, bite off a giant's leg and bring it to her as a gift. Today her magic was obedient and well-behaved. She thanked her ancestors for that small favor.
Not moving, the wooden rack in the corner took her coat, and the fireplace lit itself for her convenience. Simple tricks for any witch. Having made herself at home, she took the opportunity to explore the cabin with bored curiosity. After rummaging through all the rooms, drawers, and closets, she realized someone had already pilfered all the interesting trinkets.
She found a nice dress with masterful stitching and several patches. It was made for a girl much younger and smaller than her--a barmaid probably. She held it in her arms and gave it a disapproving look. Feeling intimidated, the seams and fabric shifted to suit her taste. Magic.
After a few minutes of wandering, she found herself standing behind the bar, staring at two wooden casks. The tap had been broken on one and the other had an obvious hole through the side. Both were empty and smelled of faintly of vinegar and things she didn't care to name. Astrid frowned.
The thundering of hooves rumbled in the distance.
Six riders? No. Seven. She nodded thoughtfully.
The hurried gallops slowed into a tired trod. Gruff male voices barked at one another. There was some shuffling and then one of them shouldered the door open. Astrid turned quickly and feigned a look of shock and terror. It must of been convincing too because a smug grin spread across the bastard's face. Two more stepped in behind him. The first had broad shoulders and might have been handsome once, but something decided to claw half of his face off, then set it on fire. He looked wretched.
The other two appeared much younger. One carried a bearded axe with a shoddy blade; it was notched with heavy use. She noticed a nervous twitch in his plump cheeks which undermined his rigid expression.
The third one had the same stony facade. He was thin, lanky, and his coat and furs were obviously made for someone much larger. Astrid wondered if the boy had stolen it from a dead man.
It took her awhile to realize the scar-faced one was talking in her general direction.
"-listening? Hey, I'm talking to you!" He growled. His voice sounded like it had been dragged through gravel. "Where are they hiding? We know a band of elves passed through here not an hour ago. Speak woman!"
Her stunned expression flawlessly tightened into one of mild apprehension and obvious concern. "There're no elves here. Everyone left early this morning, and I've been hiding until now. Honest!" She lied.
"So everyone else fled the town, and you stayed behind to take your chances with those mud-eating knife ears?" The skinny one stepped up and looked accusingly at her. "Strange, isn't it?"
This one had some wits. Astrid hadn't expected that. "After my father died, all I have left is the inn. I can't just leave it." Another lie, but she delivered it with such a strong sense of longing and mild defiance that she almost believed it herself.
The scarred one approached her triumphantly, as if he had won a fight that hadn't even started. He swaggered to bar and leaned toward her. "Then maybe you could pour us some drinks and offer us a nice room, while we wait for our friends?" The man's hand quietly moved to the knife on his belt. "Maybe if you're lucky, you can keep us company."
Ew. She stifled a disgusted shudder.
Given the angle, Astrid couldn't possibly have noticed it, but the smug look in his eyes betrayed him. Her hand moved too, drifting silently downward until she found the barmaid's best friend. Every bar had one and this one was particularly heavy. She gripped the handle and smiled warmly.
The realization that something was off about Astrid slowly distilled in the man's mind, and when he started to draw his knife, she clubbed him over the head with a cudgel. Her swing was lightning quick and her aim was true. The first one fell to floor with a satisfying thud. The other two drew their swords and shouted angrily.
...
Marik approached the cabin with in a tired march and noticed a pack of unattended horses leashed to a post outside. He arched an eyebrow at them. One of the horses turned and flicked its ears at him as a challenge. He shook his head and walked up the steps, dragging behind him the bloodied corpse of a Grendel. He found it sucking on the bones a some poor villager who had been turned inside out. He thought it fitting punishment to turn the Grendel inside out too. Entrails dragged along the ground behind it, leaving dark red lines in the icy mud.
He swung open the door and saw Astrid sitting at the bar, casually sipping wine from a broken bottle. Despite the container missing the bottom half, the wine still kept stayed within the confines of where the glass used to be. He rolled his eyes. Show off. Something roughly-leg shaped blocked the threshold and he almost tripped over it. He looked down to see three strong men laid out on the floor. Each of them were covered in sickening bruises and had at least one twisted limb. Luckily for them, everything but their pride appeared to be in one piece.
Astrid beamed a warm smile at him. "Glad you could join us." She gestured broadly at the broken men and then glanced at the eviscerated creature sagging against the doorway behind him. "So what did tall, dark, and furry do to deserve having its chest excavated?"
Marik nodded without saying anything, as if solemn silence was its own answer. He had a solid face, hardened to the point it only seemed capable of brooding. He was shorter than the average warrior, but his body was strapped with chords of muscle, and he had the smooth and effortless grace of a skilled swordsman.
The rugged scar on his neck wasn't some badge of honor he wanted to flaunt. It actually made it difficult for him to speak. Women often mistook his battle scars and surly disposition for "the strong, silent type". He hated it.
Astrid often joked that he should have the words "Fuck off" tattooed on his forehead. It was a compliment. He put great effort into radiating enough menace that everyone would leave him alone. Astrid was, unfortunately, immune to his misanthropic charms and also paid his wages.
He pointed his chin at the men on the floor. "So what did they do to deserve... that?"
Astrid took another drag on the wine bottle. "They patronized me." She said defiantly.
His response was a flat, impassive stare. "...Right."
Mild tremors snaked through the floor and caused one of the badly balanced stools to fall over.
Marik looked at his companion quizzically. Her expression was slack and her gaze was fixated on something behind him. He turned and saw the entire night sky was a awash with a strange scintillating light. He'd seen the seasonal auroras in the northern territories before, but this was something else entirely.
Strands of dark blue, sharp green, bright orange and crimson all flowed together and seethed in the sky. The veil of crystalline color pulsed with an eerie rhythm mimicking the ocean tides. Watching it set off every instinctual alarm inside Marik's mind. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
He turned back to Astrid, whose eyes were no longer human. The wisteria-colored irises and reptilian slits belonged to whatever spectre or demon the girl kept chained inside.
"Hey Astrid!" He shouted.
Astrid still seemed entranced by the lights. Marik grew more concerned as the whites of her eye began to fade into a pitch-black canvas reflecting the starlight of some alien sky. If this went on for much longer elves and grendels would be the least of his problems. He glanced at the broken wine bottle in Astrid's hand and cursed. With a tight squeeze, the bottle shattered. Glass shards dug into his palm and sliced Astrid's fingers. "Wake up, damnit!"
As the sharp, searing pain lanced through Astrid hand, the world around her, which had seemed distant and twisted, reoriented itself, stretching and contracting back to the normal reality she was familiar with. She winced and recovered her hand from Marik's iron grip. Drops of her black blood sizzled atop the wooden counter.
"Better?" he ventured.
Astrid nodded silently. Neat strips of puckered skin replaced her cuts as the flesh knit itself back together. The dark trails of blood quickly dried and evaporated, leaving behind modest white lines. "What is it?" Her voice quivered.
"Frankly, I don't know. But..." Marik shook his injured hand, as if slinging off water, and his seeping wounds disappeared. He stood in the doorway and squinted at the bright aurora and then at the mist-laden peaks beneath it. "...We are near the Devil's Spine. It's better for us that we don't find out." He tilted his head as if the angle would somehow give him a better view, and let out annoyed harumph. "I don't like the look of it. We should head back."
"No." Astrid muttered, strangely quiet. "Not until we find it. We'll keep moving."
