Post by Silent Echo on May 19, 2007 7:01:45 GMT -5
the May fiction can be found here: ac.turbine.com/?page_id=531
Asheron sat at his great white desk, staring into the flames of his candles. The desk was ancient, a relic of the Realaidain family. The white stone surface of the table had been well polished by use, its corners worn smooth from age, even when his father Lord Atlan had planned that fateful expedition to Daralet over 2500 years ago. Instead of his father’s maps and military dispatches, the table now bore a pile of reports from Queen Elysa and the great leather-bound book in which he kept his personal recollections. He was recording all he could remember of his ordeal on Bur, from the first reports of trouble that had inspired his journey, to the torture he had endured at the hands of the Falatacot and the disruption of the Matriarchs’ ritual. He had spent some time recuperating and recovering himself. After that he had re-established contact with Queen Elysa and his other friends in Dereth, and completed some obvious much-needed improvements to the security of his sanctuary. Only then had he devoted his attention to the recording of what he had been through, and to learning of what had happened in Dereth during his absence.
As he finished his last notes on the Bur ordeal, he set down his pen and rubbed his hands together. He could still feel phantom sensations all over – his body’s recollection of the tortures and bloodletting inflicted upon him by the Falatacot. He shuddered to think of what they could have done, had they actually made use of his heart’s blood for their ritual... Luckily, intrepid adventurers from Dereth, aided by certain of his friends, had decoded the clues he left behind, found their way to Bur, and prevented the Matriarchs from sacrificing him to their cruel gods. It was another debt he felt he owed to Queen Elysa and her resourceful subjects.
Putting the thoughts of Bur behind him, he glanced at the pile of reports next to his journal. He’d read through most of them already, but he was reviewing them again to be sure of his understanding. Much had occurred during his captivity, including the rise and fall of an ancient Kemeroi-spawned terror from the dawn of days, a strange demon with three bodies named Grael that had once stalked the same paths of madness and vengeance as the Hopeslayer...
He had been away from Dereth while the Viamontian King Varicci, whose people and lands had been concealed from him in ways he still did not understand, had launched a war on Elysa’s realm and slain Elysa’s noble consort Antius. The very fact that Antius had been slain and severed from his lifestone was something that concerned him greatly, but the King’s efforts to reproduce this terrible “Heartbreaker” sword had been halted by Elysa’s agents, the Whispering Blade. The young Prince Borelean had grown older, stronger, and curiously colder during his time away. Brooding over all this, he picked up the pile of reports dealing with the defeat of Grael and resolved himself to finish re-reading them before he’d allow himself a pause to rest.
When he finally finished his reading, the candles had burned down to stubs and their light flickered. He felt restless and his vision was swimming. He had been down here in the dark of his study for too long. He sighed to himself, flexed his fingers, and opened a pathway to the balcony of his castle. He stepped onto the warm sunlit stones and looked out over his island. The grounds were clear of the humans that had flocked to the sanctuary in the days after his return. He spoke softly to one of his golem attendants, which rumbled to life and trudged dutifully into the castle to carry out his commands.
While he awaited the golem’s return, he tried to relax, leaning against the balcony’s wall, basking in sunlight and breathing deeply of the fresh sea air. With his keen eyes, he could see the shore of Dereth’s mainland. Even now, to judge from the latest news, there were ominous tidings from the realm across the water. There were reports of a strange band of human assassins freshly arrived from Ispar. An ancient graveyard had arisen in the Direlands that bore the mark of the Dericostian Lord Rytheran’s twisted power. People had been disappearing around the realm, apparent victims of kidnapping. Unrest had been reported among the Mosswarts and Banderlings. The human town of Cragstone, dear to Queen Elysa’s heart, was under siege by the suddenly ambitious Drudges, who had previously been content to skulk in the shadows and steal food and wine and anything shiny that had been left unguarded. Were any of these events connected? He could not say for sure.
In time, the golem returned with a chair and a flagon of chilled wine. It also carried a fresh pile of reports from Queen Elysa’s agents, and a letter from one of his contacts in Ayan Baqur. He reclined on the chair, in the shade cast by his looming golem attendant, sipping cool wine and listening to the crash of waves as he read the latest dispatches. The more he read, the more he became convinced that there was a common thread running through these incidents with the Drudges, Mosswarts, and Banderlings. Someone or something was interfering with those three humanoid races.
Finally, when he read the letter from his agent in Ayan Baqur, he was convinced. He turned to the golem that stood at attention by his side. Sensing his attention, the automaton turned to face him.
Asheron looked up at the golem and said, “What is that crafty devil up to? Am I going to have to get involved, before his experiments threaten the realm again? It seems he is not content with being such a singular creature...” The golem didn’t respond to his idle question. Its eyes remained blank and passive, awaiting an order from its master.
Asheron sighed and sipped more wine. He looked away from the golem, out over the narrow stretch of sea that separated his island from Dereth, then glanced at the spidery writing on the paper in his hand. “Applesauce,” he muttered, and then he snorted in amusement. “The old crank may be right.”
Asheron sat at his great white desk, staring into the flames of his candles. The desk was ancient, a relic of the Realaidain family. The white stone surface of the table had been well polished by use, its corners worn smooth from age, even when his father Lord Atlan had planned that fateful expedition to Daralet over 2500 years ago. Instead of his father’s maps and military dispatches, the table now bore a pile of reports from Queen Elysa and the great leather-bound book in which he kept his personal recollections. He was recording all he could remember of his ordeal on Bur, from the first reports of trouble that had inspired his journey, to the torture he had endured at the hands of the Falatacot and the disruption of the Matriarchs’ ritual. He had spent some time recuperating and recovering himself. After that he had re-established contact with Queen Elysa and his other friends in Dereth, and completed some obvious much-needed improvements to the security of his sanctuary. Only then had he devoted his attention to the recording of what he had been through, and to learning of what had happened in Dereth during his absence.
As he finished his last notes on the Bur ordeal, he set down his pen and rubbed his hands together. He could still feel phantom sensations all over – his body’s recollection of the tortures and bloodletting inflicted upon him by the Falatacot. He shuddered to think of what they could have done, had they actually made use of his heart’s blood for their ritual... Luckily, intrepid adventurers from Dereth, aided by certain of his friends, had decoded the clues he left behind, found their way to Bur, and prevented the Matriarchs from sacrificing him to their cruel gods. It was another debt he felt he owed to Queen Elysa and her resourceful subjects.
Putting the thoughts of Bur behind him, he glanced at the pile of reports next to his journal. He’d read through most of them already, but he was reviewing them again to be sure of his understanding. Much had occurred during his captivity, including the rise and fall of an ancient Kemeroi-spawned terror from the dawn of days, a strange demon with three bodies named Grael that had once stalked the same paths of madness and vengeance as the Hopeslayer...
He had been away from Dereth while the Viamontian King Varicci, whose people and lands had been concealed from him in ways he still did not understand, had launched a war on Elysa’s realm and slain Elysa’s noble consort Antius. The very fact that Antius had been slain and severed from his lifestone was something that concerned him greatly, but the King’s efforts to reproduce this terrible “Heartbreaker” sword had been halted by Elysa’s agents, the Whispering Blade. The young Prince Borelean had grown older, stronger, and curiously colder during his time away. Brooding over all this, he picked up the pile of reports dealing with the defeat of Grael and resolved himself to finish re-reading them before he’d allow himself a pause to rest.
When he finally finished his reading, the candles had burned down to stubs and their light flickered. He felt restless and his vision was swimming. He had been down here in the dark of his study for too long. He sighed to himself, flexed his fingers, and opened a pathway to the balcony of his castle. He stepped onto the warm sunlit stones and looked out over his island. The grounds were clear of the humans that had flocked to the sanctuary in the days after his return. He spoke softly to one of his golem attendants, which rumbled to life and trudged dutifully into the castle to carry out his commands.
While he awaited the golem’s return, he tried to relax, leaning against the balcony’s wall, basking in sunlight and breathing deeply of the fresh sea air. With his keen eyes, he could see the shore of Dereth’s mainland. Even now, to judge from the latest news, there were ominous tidings from the realm across the water. There were reports of a strange band of human assassins freshly arrived from Ispar. An ancient graveyard had arisen in the Direlands that bore the mark of the Dericostian Lord Rytheran’s twisted power. People had been disappearing around the realm, apparent victims of kidnapping. Unrest had been reported among the Mosswarts and Banderlings. The human town of Cragstone, dear to Queen Elysa’s heart, was under siege by the suddenly ambitious Drudges, who had previously been content to skulk in the shadows and steal food and wine and anything shiny that had been left unguarded. Were any of these events connected? He could not say for sure.
In time, the golem returned with a chair and a flagon of chilled wine. It also carried a fresh pile of reports from Queen Elysa’s agents, and a letter from one of his contacts in Ayan Baqur. He reclined on the chair, in the shade cast by his looming golem attendant, sipping cool wine and listening to the crash of waves as he read the latest dispatches. The more he read, the more he became convinced that there was a common thread running through these incidents with the Drudges, Mosswarts, and Banderlings. Someone or something was interfering with those three humanoid races.
Finally, when he read the letter from his agent in Ayan Baqur, he was convinced. He turned to the golem that stood at attention by his side. Sensing his attention, the automaton turned to face him.
Asheron looked up at the golem and said, “What is that crafty devil up to? Am I going to have to get involved, before his experiments threaten the realm again? It seems he is not content with being such a singular creature...” The golem didn’t respond to his idle question. Its eyes remained blank and passive, awaiting an order from its master.
Asheron sighed and sipped more wine. He looked away from the golem, out over the narrow stretch of sea that separated his island from Dereth, then glanced at the spidery writing on the paper in his hand. “Applesauce,” he muttered, and then he snorted in amusement. “The old crank may be right.”
