The Heart of Darkness: Book 1 of the Dreadborne Legacy

By Shawn Cady

The World of Aurora is a place of perils. War has wracked its empires, the Old Ones, both good and evil, have taken interest, and dark, sinister powers conspire in the shadows. And when Augdenguld finds one of its largest cities suddenly unresponsive, a small band of heroes finds an even greater enemy than the elves or the barbarians of the northern wastes. The Lich Lord has set his gaze upon their mortal world, and has readied an army to take it, piece by bloody piece. The Dreadborne has come! Lord Surthath, Old One of Fate and Knowledge, knows well the terrible forces that the Lich Lord serves, but how can one slay a foe that is already dead?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479771622

Shawn Cady

Epic, Dark Fantasy. Just those three words will just about sum it up. There are writers that don’t “Go There”. I go there. I find grittiness and wonder in equal portion. I plumb the darkest depths of the psyche but also submit to Tolkien clichés. To an extent…I don’t think the Djinn are anything standard fare…a bit more of a Lovecraft shout-out, really. As a writer, I have always loved fantasy novels, especially anything from DnD. If I had to trace any roots in my style, it would probably be Sara Douglas with a hint of Paul S. Kemp. When I’m not working on this or that book project, or working for a bakery (went to Baker College…there was no culinary arts degree to my knowledge), I’m rolling an Argonian Mage in Skyrim or reading comic books. Is it sad how much of a nerd I am? No, not really, since I also play Bass Guitar and blast Norwegian Black Metal in the small hours of the mid-afternoon. That being said, my official profession in Video Editing requires a good bit of storytelling, but I have to say, writing an eight-part-epic is more my forte.

Book preview

The Heart of

DARKNESS

Book 1 of the Dreadborne Legacy

Shawn Cady

Copyright © 2013 by Shawn Cady.

ISBN:      Softcover   978-1-4797-7161-5

                Ebook         978-1-4797-7162-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Prelude:   Upon the Horizons

Chapter 1:   The Splendors of the Night (15th of Harvest, the Seventh Year of Arucan Calvard)

Chapter 2:   The Correspondence (3rd of Last Picking, the Seventh Year of Arucan Calvard)

Chapter 3:   The Foreshadowing (10th of Last Picking, the Seventh Year of Arucan Calvard)

Chapter 4:   The Sorrow of Those Lost (11th of Last Picking, the Seventh Year of Arucan Calvard)

Chapter 5:   The Stand (11th of Last Picking, the Seventh Year of Arucan Calvard)

Chapter 6:   The Beaten Trail (11th of Last Picking, the Seventh Year of Arucan Calvard)

Chapter 7:   The Revelations (12th of Last Picking, the Seventh Year of Arucan Calvard)

Chapter 8:   The Shadow before the Darkness (14th of Last Picking, the Seventh Year of Arucan Calvard)

Chapter 9:   The Line in the Sand (19th of Last Picking, the Seventh Year of Arucan Calvard)

Chapter 10:   The Mist on the Horizon (27th of Last Picking, the Seventh Year of Arucan Calvard)

Chapter 11:   The Maw of the Depths (29th of Last Picking, the Seventh Year of Arucan Calvard)

Chapter 12:   The Weeping Wood (3rd of Icefall, the Seventh Year of Arucan Calvard)

Chapter 13:   The Darkest Dawn (4th of Icefall, the Seventh Year of Arucan Calvard)

Chapter 14:   The Defense of Augdenguld (17th of Icefall, the Seventh Year of Arucan Calvard)

Chapter 15:   The Call of the Reaver (23rd of Icefall, The Seventh Year of Arucan Calvard)

Chapter 16:   The Catalyst (21st of Icefall, the Seventh Year of Arucan Calvard)

Chapter 17:   The Fall of Legends (21st of Icefall, the Seventh Year of Arucan Calvard)

Chapter 18:   The Master’s Gift (22nd of Icefall)

Chapter 19:   The Morning After Comes Today (25th of Icefall, the Seventh Year of Arucan Calvard)

Chapter 20:   The Halls of the Great Old One (26th of Icefall, the Seventh year of Arucan Calvard)

Chapter 21:   The Threads of Chaos (6th of Frostreach, the Seventh year of Arucan Calvard)

Chapter 22:   The Road to Glory (19th of Frostreach, the Seventh Year of Arucan Calvard)

Chapter 23:   The New World (2nd of Chilblain, the Seventh Year of Arucan Calvard)

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Prelude

Upon the Horizons

This world is yet so young, yet the mortals within have all but forgotten the legends of the Djinn. The Djinn were ancient when even the universe was young, all things are known to the Djinn and their lords; The Old Ones, by the virtues of their own nature. They are of every world yet belong to no world. Among The Old Ones, Surthath; the second born and undisputed master of all untamed Arcanum, the sometimes cruel musings of fate, and creator of the Hidden Path, was one of the chief Old Ones responsible for the inadvertent creation of the mortal spheres, and in time he grew fascinated with the creatures he had inadvertently assisted in creating. When the creature known as man began to gather in groups and hunt the plains in packs, he came to their world through the skies in a great storm, heralding his presence upon the mortal sphere. As the mortals looked in awe, he strove down upon a great city from the skies, alight in his glorious radiance. And so man came to worship him as a titan, looking to him for all answers, and the paths to hidden treasures and power. Many things did he grant to this race; knowledge of the hidden veil of Magicka, and so too did he allow lesser Djinn to consort with these mortals. This carnal union created the first immortals known as the El’Dari; progenitor of the Elves.

Under the tutelage of the Djinn, mortals built their dwellings high and proud, power in their hands and conquest in their minds. Soon too man did learn the art of war from the fire that dwelled in his heart, for no longer was anything but land and conquest desirable and neither loot nor holdings did man covet save the El’Dari groves and forests granted to them. Man came first and yet the elves were held in higher esteem in the eyes of the Old One, for it was ever his intent to bring about a new evolution of mortal kind; lesser than Djinn but more than flesh and blood. The immortals watched with horror as the fleeting lands were blackened in the fires of industry and warfare, and the rivers ran red with the blood of men and elves alike. In desperation, they set fire to the skies and earth until nary a few of either race remained alive. Upon his perch, the burden of guilt did weigh heavy upon Surthath, and so did he decree that the power of men and elves must be kept in check. Nullifying all High Magic in the realm; the primal stuff of greater sorcery, he retracted most of his ilk back to their pocket dimension of Moonshadow; the sphere under his dominion alone, and so did end the horrors of The First War.

Only once more did the immortals dare grant their gifts to mortals, as Surthath viewed the troubles of their lives. Ceaseless toil was the only reprieve as mortal built anew their cities and wonders from the barren rubble of the wastes. So did Surthath decree that some Djinn were to go to mortals and grant the mortals great wishes. Such a wish could be asked by any mortal, and so must the wish be granted lest it cause further harm to their sphere. The first named offspring of Surthath, Dur’Arteth, was the most powerful of the lesser Djinn and chief advisor to the old one himself, and so was he given the task to grant wishes to the most despair stricken and impoverished. So too did Arteth swear upon his power; that his blade and wits would only be used for the benefit of mortals, that he would be a champion of mercy and righteousness. And so did him to the best of his god-like abilities, but seeing the sphere in the wracked and barbaric state as it was soon fell into a somber depression. A man would wish his brother dead to take his brother’s land, a leper would wish to take the guise of her beautiful cousin and take her place, a child would wish death upon her cruel and abusive parents.

Seeing the selfishness and corruptibility of man he began to question the point of his mission, and eventually the existence of mortals as a whole. Upon one fateful night, the mortals dared to inappropriately call to him from his duties, and grant wishes only to them. Within the bowels of the Under-Verse; the implacable, uncaring stone of the Under-Verse, the humans tore him from his task and attempted to enslave him to their will. Seeing such a callous and selfish gesture from any creature no matter how wretched, broke what little faith in sapient non-Djinn life that Dur’Arteth currently held to. In his blind fury, he shifted himself and his would be slavers to a dark demesne from beyond the Veil; the multi-faceted verse form which all mortal spheres derived. Upon the pristine emptiness, where neither world nor sun nor stars existed, they begged for their insignificant lives, throwing themselves at the Djinn’s mercy. In darkness incumbent, and his soul filled with deeper darkness still, he turned upon his charges and devoured their souls, flaying their very essences to tatters before his unbridled hatred.

Knowing full well the terrible price of his actions, the Djinn did vow never to return to the court and grace of the Old One. In tears, he ventured further into the shadow realm until after what seemed and may very well have been an eternity, and at the very core of the shadow realm, Dur’Arteth beheld nothingness that had existed before the creation of the universe; the very core of the maelstrom. It was a gateway; a hole into nothing, and the inevitable end of all things within the Veil. He stood transfixed, in utter and supreme awe of its inconceivable beauty that put to rest his doubts, his sorrow, and his soul. With a shutter, a fragment of his own life force was drawn from his immortal soul and was devoured by the hole in the worlds. It grew ever so slightly; a growth so small and brief the Djinn could barely even register as having happened at all. He looked about him and saw energy from all corners of all hidden dimensions gravitating towards the Heart, drawn to its darkness to be devoured as slowly and as irreversibly as the shifting of a mountain. He realized the truth he had been too ashamed or terrified to admit prior; that the end of the mortal spheres was inevitable, and postponing it served no true purpose save the foolish whims of the meek. He resolved to bring about this end, to find perfection in all things… in nothing. Forsaking all vows to his race or any other, he looked upon himself for the first time since his arrival and beheld the horror he had become, for long had he beheld the wonders of the darkness, and centuries had he spent in the twisted verse. His flesh had long ago rotted away, revealing his bones; cruelly cracked and blackened from the hostile environment of negative energy. Shadows clung to them and writhed as twisted flesh, contorting and wriggling like a living thing. The darkness of the very verse clung to him, sheathing him in its cold embrace. And so he embraced the darkness eternal and became the very avatar of death; mind, matter, and time bent to his hatred, and his hands held entropy and suffering. All would now recognize him for what he was; for he was cruelty, petulance, and vengeance.

With a terrible cry, bellowed from the ends of existence, he shifted himself to Moonshadow, upon the floating city of his people. His evil could not destroy that which was immortal, but he walked among his former brethren and claimed his forgotten blade, Verlangen, and it too was corrupted by his touch. Its runes turned cold; the ties that bound it eternally to him, the honed edge turned to serrated razors, and the scarlet gem at its hilt that ran along to the center of the blade turned black as his soul. He renamed it Meeldauw, the word of blight in his native tongue, for with it he would sow blight and death throughout the multi-verse. None would endure him, and their souls would feed his beloved heart. Beneath the shadow of their floating mountain city, his Immortal brethren watched with fear as he proclaimed the mortal universe was to be unmade, and that all mortal life must perish to uphold the perfection of pre-creation, where only the Old Ones and their charges existed in harmony with the empty reaches of oblivion. The Djinn and the Old Ones were merely bystanders; they could not be corrupted unwillingly, for that which was immortal could never truly die. He gathered the cursed spirits of his would-be human captors to him, and forevermore were they bound to his terrible will; shapeless, soulless abominations destined to turn the mortal sphere to ruin, ruin that would feed the engine of the Heart. All would bow before him, and all would perish.

No sooner did he resolve to bring death to all the lands, than did his new servants reach the world of men once more, and no sooner did they reach the hearts of men. Alas, for within the halls of the north eastern mountain kingdom of Drengrbjod, the proud warriors and craftsmen of the inner halls did watch with horror as the people’s beloved king, Hardaz the Implacable, fall into deep brooding, convinced by his dreams the mysterious elves and greedy Augerian imperials did conspire against him. Years of plotting amidst the silent whispers and confounding babble did cause his heart and mind to grow warped and cold as the merciless winter that hath ravaged his kingdom, as if summoned by his fevered contemplations. So did the homes turn to barracks and their forges churn red with the molten steel to forge a thousand-thousand tools of war. Under the king’s banner his nation did arm their homeland and venture forth to war with their envisioned enemies. Their hearths were hearty and their hearts hard as stone. None could challenge their might, and none would escape their wrath.

Upon the mountainside, countless battles did wage between the skirmishers and imperial cavalry. Carnage not seen since the first war between men and elves came to pass; soon enough both children and infirm were pushed into the fronts, crops were burned and the earth salted to prevent theft from the enemy, and family houses became crypts to entire clans. Death and destruction had met all, and none could escape that great black tide of suffering. With terror and desperation were the soldiers of the Heartlands driven back to their capital, poised to perish in the coming charge. Upon the corpses of their fallen did the mountain men sleep, assured of their victory, and so did they contract many plagues for their audacity. As their numbers dwindled and victory slipped from his hands, the king ordered the mass suicide of his people to prevent the shame of capture and bondage.

So then did the mountains become an empty and lifeless plane, purged of its life, and so did Dur’Arteth smile, for his will, and the purpose of the Heart, was wrought upon the filth of mortality. Sottarfar, was it named, the mountaineer’s word sickness. On so gruesome a note did the second war come to a close, and some whisper in hushed tones of the ghosts of the fallen that may yet remain, hungering for vengeance within the cavernous mountain halls, perhaps still in the court of the mad king. Some can still hear the mad ramblings of Hardaz and of the shadows that haunted him so. Some wonder what had driven the once noble people to such depravity, or if it may assail the kingdoms of the west. Woe to those who dare remain, to those who dare venture beyond their doors!

(A letter by the Arch-Magi, left at the desk of each new apprentice.)

Treatise on the Nature and Origin of Magicka, a Study by Arch-Magi Benatus and the Inner Circle of the Magi Imperium

Dearest readers, allow me to introduce myself. You may call me Benatus, as, for the moment, we are dispensing with the niceties of court, forcibly shoe-horned into our dealings thanks to the prominent influence of the Red Court. If you find this tenet to be unsatisfactory, return this notice along with a letter of departure, and you will be dismissed from our grounds at your convenience. Are you still there? Good… . When next we meet, you will be presented alongside all of the other promising apprentices to the Magi Imperium, the authority of all matters arcane within the borders of our home empire of Augur. For the moment, you may rightfully congratulate yourself. By your skill, desire, and relentless study, you have been approved for tutelage within this organization of like minded individuals and set upon a hopefully fruitful and meaningful life. In time, the powers you have developed at such an early age will be set to the test, and should you rise above, you will be a force to be reckoned by even the most powerful figures in all of Augur.

In addition to this notice, I have also created this document to serve as your first official lesson; a taste of understanding, specifically, to the nature and origin of your powers. Your skill and repertoire of spells, while invariably unique, will fall under one or more of the categories below. Now, in essence, I will define magicka in its purest state; it is that which connects all things, worlds, lives, and even the basest aspects of nature. Why do the birds migrate in winter, or the beasts slumber? Why does the tide rise and recede with the position of the moon? All of these things, indeed, all things in all creation, are based at least tangentially in the warp and weave of magicka, in its three dimensions and Six Elements…

The Three Dimensions

1. The Veil: The Veil is all things that we have ever known. It is our world, and all mortal worlds, as well as each star, celestial body, and all things that exist within the physical plane. The First Four Elements reside within the Veil, with the Fifth acting only as a reactive agent.

2. The Faded Veil: The Faded Veil is the intermediary, the in-between and that-which-is-not, and all variety of seemingly impossible contradictions. It exists as a shadow of our dimension, and thus, appears as a mirror to it. Those gifted in magicka can even trespass upon this pace via spell or within certain periods of deep slumber. If unaware of this, one may assumed that they exist in some manner of correspondence with the waking world. But do not believe this illusion, for the darkest lies are the most comforting. This land is a common treading ground for the Djinn, offspring of the many Old Ones, and generally, only the foul ones to be feared and loathed. Be ever wary should you find yourself within this place, and if entering voluntarily, do so only with an accomplice among the inner circle of your elders. All elements may reside here, but none are true in the sense that they only exist as mimicries.

3. Beyond the Veil: I refer now not to a singular plane of existence, but with many that exist beyond the Faded Veil. The principalities of the Heathen Gods, the Old Ones, are the crown and most prominent force of this dimension. Darkmoor, Moonshadow, Everbloom, and many more that have long been forgotten. There are other places, hidden places that I have momentarily glimpsed, but without any tangible order, these places seem to collapse and reform with such instability that it is ill advised for anyone to make a voyage. If indeed there is an afterlife for our kind, it would likely be hidden somewhere within this chaos.

The Six Elements

1. Fire: Fire, more than the blaze illuminating your candle, represents also the power of change. Forests burn, Volcanoes erupt, and the world is invariably altered by its fury. But as a destructive element, it still bears the power to create just as expertly. Any spells that alter an item or thought without directly altering reality, hardening raw carbon to diamond or turning a mountain into a tower home, is equally an aspect of elemental fire as turning an enemy into ash. This, above the others, is the most common form of mortal magicka, and the spells most readily available to apprentices.

2. Wind: Perhaps, behind Fire, the most common application of Magicka, Elemental Wind runs second, being by far the easiest to comprehend. Wind does not alter, as fire, nor does it force, as water… it is a means for the caster to directly pit his will against the forces he combats. More even than controlling the forces around them, a Wind Spell is capable of allowing the Magi to combat the spells and minds of rival casters, as well as the willpower of advancing warriors (outlaws, I am sure, for none of my pupils bear enmity towards our own loyal soldiers…)

3. Water: A common misconception is that Water is Life. Arguments can be made of the parallel between these two elements; but it is unscholarly to give credence to cultural quirks and taboos. Elemental Water, simply put, is the manipulation of forces surrounding one’s self. Elements are not altered, but they are rearranged in such a way as to become helpful or deadly. Using telekinesis to collapse a dam, or collapse a foe into himself by breaking his bones, is a common use. Calling down storms to ravage ships is the most direct use of Elemental Water, and as such, Magi skilled in Water Spells are the most treasured in the military’s naval conquests in the Outer Coast. While dramatically underappreciated in its lack of utility, the base force of this element is by far the most tremendous.

4. Earth: An anomaly of sorts, Elemental Earth Magicka reveres stability, rather than alteration. Earth Magi are builders, sculptors, and often artisans, assisting in the fortifications and palaces of our jewel, Augdenguld. However, while Earth Magicka is defensively based, do not think it harmless, as where a Fire or Water specialized Magi might seek to kill you, an Earth Spell will make his own allies more powerful.

5. Life: Life is the most complex application of Magicka. Immensely powerful, but also divided. It would almost be feasible that there are in fact eight elements, but again, this nature is deceptive. I will list the varieties as best I can:

a. Holy: It is contested to this day exactly what the first Acolyte, Balgren, had wrought in order to wrest the art of clerical spell craft from the Old One Anima, but the fact remains. Whether or not the force or entity known as The Holy Light is responsible, Holy Magicka in and of itself is a product of Anima and Surthath in equal measure. The wicked elves, among others, often employed Holy Magicka against the Empire, but again, it is contested if the two powers are in fact synonymous.

b. Blood Magicka: A more foreign use of our power, Blood Magicka can replicate all the other elements, even Arcane; its uniqueness is from the way in which it is drawn. Be it from blood, flesh, or one’s own life force, a Magi can use Blood Magicka in any imaginable way. While the only known usage of the art is within the Weeping Wood of Melagoi, in which tribal leaders would assumed animal forms by manipulating the elements within their own bodies, such as flesh and organs, and we are always seeking new evidence elsewhere. Should you discover any talents, please inform a senior member of the Imperium. However, do not let its name fool you, for Blood Magicka is not the same as the next application…

c. The Black Arts: Again, the only definitive knowledge of this craft is within Melagoi, and though it appears similar as Blood Magicka, its means and purpose are always towards evil. The Black Arts were created by the Old One, Morag Toth, in mockery of Surthath and Anima’s efforts; the means to drain, siphon, and extinguish the life energies of others… the nature of what one might call the soul. Toth, ever desiring the ensnarement and enslavement of mortal souls, demands the offering of innocent souls before instructing a Black Magi in his unholy craft. All those that bear the Black Arts are outlaws, murderers, and should be reported directly to the Chapel for immediate trial, and if guilt is indeed found, execution.

6. Arcane: At last we come to perhaps the least understood application of Magicka, for indeed, the sixth element does not occur naturally within our world of even our dimension, Arcane Magicka exists only in realms and eons by the will of the Old One, Lord Surthath. It is the breaking down and restructuring of reality itself. While a Fire Spell would reform coal into diamond, and Arcane Spell would simply will a diamond to EXIST! This is by far the most alien, and most effective, field of study. Only the most experienced practitioners should attempt Arcane Magicka, for it was a tool meant not for us, but for the ages-old Djinn, for only after millennia could one truly comprehend it…

I hope that I have provided a valuable tool for you to use in the coming years. As aforementioned, most Magi bear skill in at least several if not all of these aspects (aside from The Black Arts, of course…), but there are cases of otherwise ordinary folk advancing in a singular study of magicka, even if they are not Magi. Paladins, for example, are ordinary men and woman born with the ability to wield Holy Magicka, as the shape-shifters of Melagoi are born with Blood Magicka. The Djinn, or at least the Agents of Surthath, are born with unprecedented and even God-Life abilities from Arcane, as I imagine whatever monsters conjured from Morag Toth’s nightmarish realm of Darkmoor are blessed and cursed with terrible powers of The Black Arts. Gods help us all… Keep to your studies, Magi, and you will find yourself at the highest echelon of Humanity. Fail, or fall into the seductive grip of The Black Arts, and it will be your undoing.

Chapter 1

The Splendors of the Night

(15th of Harvest,

the Seventh Year of Arucan Calvard)

One would behold the glorious heart of the Empire of Auger; the glorious city of Augdenguld, and as the name would imply, one would see a shining edifice representing the greatest aspirations of the greatest philosophers, sorcerers, and artisans. One would assume it to be a paradise; for it to be a gleaming light of truth, justice, and incorruptibility in an otherwise corrupt world. True enough; the capital has hosted some of the finest works of art and science in the realm. Books adorned every shelf, money lined every coffer, and fine cuisine adorned every table, from noble to commoner. The Royal Guard policed the streets and the Skirmishers kept charge over the empire’s borders, ensuring the nation’s continued survival from any threat imaginable. One would assume Prosperity… . Sadly, one place is the same as another, as the dungeons of the fabled City of Gold are hardly as bright as the towering palaces and elaborate stone and marble houses one can find aboveground. That entire self-righteous dribble of peace and enlightenment only spread as far as where the sun may shine through the shadows and reveal the true nature of mankind in its folly. Down in the bowels of the capital, the true nature of men was revealed in all defining clarity. The dark and cavernous sewers held countless murder victims and beggar thieves, and the catacombs held long forgotten accounts and vestments of dark Mysticism; whispers of a fallen god could yet be heard through the stone and filth and echo madness in its wake, like a single stain that never quite washed off of an otherwise or at least comparably clean hand. And of course may we not forget the imperial dungeon, where unwanted vagabonds and political rivals toiled away their final days in darkness and servitude…

Below the paved roadways of Augdenguld, Vilaseth pondered this irony within the abyssal dwellings of his prison cell. Lying on the hay-filled sack that served as his cot, he observed the cool water dripping from the stalactites on the ceiling, leaving little marks where the putrid fluids had struck the floor and evaporated by the heat emanating from the specially designed kiln somewhere in the twisting maze, as well as the shackles on the walls, and the various instruments of torture from beyond the bars, and smiled to himself. He supposed that irony was his preferred venue of humor, as he was one that society had deemed evil, therefore it was only appropriate he lavished in an evil place. Every now and then, a few of the guards would pass by carrying a ruined body of one of the other wretches, twisted and misshapen through years of torture and misuse. They made a note of passing by every cell in the miniature hell, as if to tease the other prisoners with a prelude of what was to inevitably come. He however did not mind his surroundings of course… after all, they were quite preferable to other places he found himself… and at least the walls served to hold out the winds… Damn… he thought… the memories of those bitter arctic winds still chilled him right to the bone… The Honor Guard’s methods of torture belied their supposed beatific virtues of protecting the weak and forgiving the wicked, yet were pitifully inferior to his own methods of interrogation and chastisement.

After all, one who had spent his entire life killing and thieving for hire rarely quarreled over dalmatic moral implications, nor did he shirk from doing what either needed to be done or seemed appropriate doing, but it was all done out of a sense of practicality, whereas the guards found a almost semi-sexual sort of gratification at their sport with the damned, almost like the demonic tormentors preached to an agonizing degree in the Augerian Dogma of the Chapel of Light. You are not doing my friend there justice… Vilaseth exclaimed to the nearby guard, He is obviously in more agony if you apply pressure to his left leg than his right… it seems to have been partially fractured, perhaps when he was captured…, motioning to the hapless wretched prisoner chained to the wall in the opposite cell. The guard promptly spat on Vilaseth’s rag-wrapped foot, yet nonetheless did as instructed, eliciting newfound screams of torment from the miserable whelp he was amusing himself upon with a hammer and rusted iron stake, pounding then into the prisoner’s thigh and seeping out the bone marrow in short gushes to mix with the pooling blood and excrement.

Vilaseth smirked, not only because he delighted somewhat in the symphony of that crescendo, but more so because the noise and activity had distracted the guard long enough to not take note that the Assassin had crept over to the barred iron door and the periodic clicking noises as Vilaseth worked on the locking mechanism that held the aforementioned door to his cell closed, the file curved nearly three quarters along its length; its entirety about as long as the Assassin’s finger. The bent section slid in between the hole of the lock, and the slightest prodding forced the tumblers into their desired positions, much as the prongs of a key would do. It was a cheap lock… why would it not be? No one escaped from Augerin prisons, guarded by the very sickest of all the elite military! He gazed upon his tormentor with heightening glee as the lock was undone and the door inched open. He was eventuality fully realized and the purest expression of fate; he was Destiny, cold and merciless. He inched his way towards the nameless guard with a second steel nail file he had pick pocketed from one of his compatriots and sharpened to a razors edge to serve as a makeshift weapon. Vilaseth could practically hear the blood coursing though his prey, the slight palpitations of his heartbeat, and the echoes of his labored breathing echo across the endless underground, the slightest breeze passed through him and he thought he heard a whisper.

Argosaxx… it called to him. Vilaseth shook it away. Ramblings… he thought… or constructs of his own imagination… Soon all will be silent forevermore. The Assassin lunged upon his quarry and planted the file into his throat, and the Assassin heard the wet sinewy ripple as it danced into the man’s artery and released the guard’s precious lifeblood upon the floor. The fool’s body twisted spasmodically across the chamber, a vital artery severed and draining, and soon he was nothing but another corpse, another number in the books. Vilaseth silenced his fellow prisoner with equal ease, amidst his wails and pleads for mercy, and donned the ornamental armor of the jailor. Comprised of thick iron plates over a leather jerkin and pair of trousers, such a crude and heavy attire, but it was unfortunately necessary to make his escape. He needed only to collect his personal effects and perhaps even pay a little visit to the warden and he would be on his way. All too easy he whispered to the shadows.

It took a few minutes of clumsily plodding along the corridors, but with some effort, the Assassin managed to put on a respectable imitation of human footsteps; the ankle first and forefeet second when it struck the ground. He sighed inwardly, and wondered how the clumsy creatures managed not to stumble over themselves, and likewise how they could stand the noise that they made. Every impact of his mail boots upon the stone was like a hammer blow to the Assassin’s sensitive eardrums. The helm seemed unconscionably inappropriate for the safe surroundings of the dungeons… it was not like any of the half-dead imbeciles in the cells were going to put up much of a fight, but fools like to prance about with at least the illusion of strength, and being unable to see the eyes of the enemy made him strong indeed… Vilaseth had learned from the slave masters of his childhood the means to work around the thick plating to find the sensitive joints that would maximize bodily damage on an unarmed enemy, and quite a few had died by his hand while wearing such helms… they were generally not that strong. He remembered them shouting to him in brutal instruction upon the other slaves; armpits, neck joints, interior thighs, ankles, and if you were really desperate, the eye holes, the last being extremely difficult to pull off since the enemy would see it coming a mile away. He had practiced each point until his arms had filled with lead and became virtually unusable, but the motions were now methodical, almost mechanical, just as they needed to be.

At least four guards passed him on his journey, and none had even spared a second glance. He had learned that humans rarely actually focused on their task, so long as the task was repetitive. The most they would ever see of him is the livery, and he was otherwise invisible. Such a pain it seemed to them to make just a few seconds extra effort… too bad for them. Vilaseth thought that he might have been able to stalk them one by one, cutting throats whenever the other’s eyes were turned, and they would take no notice even if there was blood on his armor. Sadly, he was a professional, and a professional left little in his wake save a desired target. Such was what separated him from a common enforcer or sell-sword…

Daring to whistle a jaunty tune that he had heard in Nassam long ago, the Assassin treaded the familiar path that he had been lead, blindfolded, to face his trial. Recalling backwards, the path was exacting; thirty seven flat-footed paces left of the cell, twenty four paces around a corner to the right, and seven paces through a door with a badly oiled hinge that made a peculiar sound like two planks of wood sliding along one another while being doused with sand. Beyond that door, it was three paces forward, four to the left, and seventeen onward through a small tunnel leading through the quartermaster’s vault; his target. The Justiscar; the warden of Augdenguld, was yet awake, and while Vilaseth did not know the hour, it was evident that it was in the very early hours before dawn. The human worked with quill and paper; odd implements of a masochist through and through, and did not hear his approach, or at least did not notice. Allowing a few moments to savor the Justiscar’s last night in this world, and likewise to assess the contents of the room; an oaken desk lined with parchment, likely execution notices and warrants for any undesirable beggars and political deviants, and a pitcher of liquid on the floor; ale or piss, he did not know for sure, as the smell of Augerian booze hardly contrasted… . Likewise, there was a weapon rack four paces from the human; much too far to be of any use, even with the Assassin hampered by the suffocating heavy armor.

Vilaseth readied the file, and approached… The Justiscar took note of him, but did not react; feigning ignorance, but the slightest knotting of his neck cords told the Assassin all of this, and he smiled. His mark was good, but he was better. In these hours, the men were sluggish, and for a good twelve count, the room was theirs even if the human shouted out for help. Two paces and Vilaserth was upon him. On the first pace of his advance, the Justiscar had begun to unsheathe his long sword and utter a call, but managed only a wet gurgle as the Assassin’s file punctured his windpipe and sealed it closed before it could gorge itself in blood. Holding the human almost in a loving embrace, Vilaseth pinned him to his seat, disallowing even the slightest spasms or seizures that the first night’s victim had been allowed. Stuck, and likewise stuck through the neck, the Justiscar struggled for a few moments, wide eyed in panic as wound shock began to overcome him. The thrashing became weaker, and Vilaseth waited until it stopped entirely to lessen his vice-like hold. His eyes glazed over and shot with blood, the light behind them faded, and the Justiscar was no longer a part of the world… Dragging the human into his nearby bunk, Vilaseth turned him on his side while binding the death-wound in a scarf, and left the file in place, ensuring that there would be no blood drained to alert the guards. Until closer inspection, it would appear that the Justiscar was merely in deep slumber, and as he worked exclusively at night, it would be the whole of eight of nine hours before he would be missed…

His pack was luckily still in one of the drawers of the thick table, and he claimed them as he slipped outside, hiding them under the watchman’s cloak. Four paces to the right, around a second corner, and forty paces straight to a staircase led him to freedom. There were two guards on either side armed with polished steel halberds and closed iron helms, and neither so much as moved as the Assassin walked by. At that late hour, a guardsman returning home was hardly surprising, and again Vilaseth had to clench his teeth to keep the laughter from spilling wildly from his gullet. Damned fools! So confident were they, that the gate attendants did not even inspect him for contraband… perhaps claiming possession of incarcerates was allowed and not even shirked upon… Oh well… as he passed through a second series of doors, the cloudy night skies seemed painfully bright to him, due to the fact of his previous surroundings. The Assassin slipped into an alleyway, and began to shrug off the petulant armor that suffocated him…

Touring the city was one of Vilaseth’s favorite pastimes, for of all the cities in the realm this was his favorite. The roofs were high, and the alleyways forever shrouded in shadows. Tonight was an especially perfect night, as the fog had crept up from the River of Gold and held the city in its gloomy incorporeal sway. None would bother him if he had strode right up to the guards, announced his arrival, and demanded songs and merriment. Nevertheless, he kept his face concealed behind the thick hood of his black linen cloak, as his Elven features were still quite distinct to onlookers in a human city. To all others he was a tall, tanned, and gaunt figure; his long, angular face, yellowy almond eyes, and pointed ears roughly the dimensions of long-grass blades denoting his heritage. His tattoo resembled a bandits mask that clung evermore to eyes, which themselves held within them a gaze bearing the bitter chill of the frozen north he had spend his childhood within; that affectation alone the mark of a killer. In most situations he would stand out more than a leper with his trousers around his knees, but the Assassin knew how to avoid detection even in broad daylight should the need arise.

Vilaseth never had really bothered to learn who his sire was, but the Salbic warlord that took his mother as a slave was always the likely candidate in his eyes… Such fond memories did he recall from his days of opening stolen lockboxes for food, winter nights chained to a post, and sometimes being forced into the ever present wolves den to find precious stones for the masters. After a while, he had known the growls well enough to differentiate male and female, young, old, sickly, agitated and annoyed; all the differing aspects that made a wolf dangerous. Enough Reminiscing the Assassin whispered to himself, checking his bag which held his daggers, garrote, flash bombs fashioned from a palm-sized thick-shelled nut imported from the east, and his bladed buckler; the trademark of his killing tools, similar in spirit to a Katar. Fashioned from polished steel, the implement almost fully enclosed his hand and featured three blades that folded into one; the central double edged blade that was affixed to the handle, and two additional blades that were curved and together formed a C-shape. With this work of death, he could puncture a man’s kidneys while simultaneously breaking his spine; a most distinctive mark that would show all who saw the corpse a calling card, a hint of the perfect killer behind the deed. He kept individual plated of his ornamented leather armor in a satchel, only wearing the vest and leggings, the prisoner foot rags still keeping his feet warm, and his short sword was concealed in a thin wooden tube he motioned with as if a cane. None would suspect him to be anything but a common traveler among the scores of others that poured into the capital’s gates daily.

He strode over to an inconspicuous looking fountain his employers often used as a dead drop location; a spot where he would receive his next orders. It was a delicate thing, really, depicting two swans with their necks wrapping around each other, their mouths opened to release two jets of clear water that arced over one another to splash into the still pond below. He tossed in one of the guard’s silver coins while subtly reaching into a hidden compartment at its base, containing a thick leather envelope. He peeled it open with the curved nail file and unrolled a sheet of parchment. It read; To our most trusted employee, if you read upon this you have no doubt eluded the unfortunate situation that befell you, and while we apologize for having no part in your daring escape, we wish you the best of luck in your next task; travelling east to the farm country, specifically, Fareen. Take the rank of a guard and impress upon the local Magistrate for information of the recent outbreak of disease in the city. We desire very much to learn more about this strange illness, as the disease appears to thrive primarily in the winter months; a rather bizarre affliction all in all.

Vilaseth had, in his long and illustrious career, worked for many employers with many endgames, often being their own profit at all costs. Little did they know that the Assassin was also an agent of chaos as much as a blade for hire; that he only perpetuated to serve an end to create disorder and anarchy. In his youth Vilaseth had learned that all semblances of order and virtue were lies; a cheap joke the powerful used to enslave the powerless. The only sane way to exist was without rules and masters, without morals to weaken your own desires. There was no reason to exist save to serve the I, and any force imposing that all consuming need demanded the cleansing fires. He supposed the Shadow Court understood that, as they were defined by civilized society as Terror mongers seeking to undo the Empire and sow dissent among the populace. Every manner of wrong imaginable was perpetrated by the Shadow Court, lurking at the edges of the more well known Augerian Red Court; there was no warlord or mob leader that did not pay tribute to them, all feared them, and none uttered their name in anything louder than a whisper. The task given to the Assassin appeared to any happenstance observant to be the work of the chapels of some such to combat plague, but the words behind the words were clear; travel to Fareen, the only real farming based city to the east, impersonate a guard, probe the Magistrate for information, either through blackmail, bribery, or torture. Boring fare, really… He read the remaining details of his assignment with a growing sense of distaste.

He resolved to finish his task swiftly within the city limits, so he might be able to seek out and deal with a more personal matter, the person who had determined his true identity, his true self. The barracks of Augerian Empire had always whispered the name of the Seer and Paladin, the prodigy of a wealthy landowner within the city limits of Fareen. With his gift of foresight and all penetrating gaze, the do-gooder had exposed and captured Vilaseth along with several co-conspirators after a botched attempt to Assassinate Arucan Calvard, the de-facto ruler of Augur, ending in his rather embarrassing bout in the Augerian dungeons. It was something that had irked him to no end, not because of his capture, but that a prying eye had seen him and judged him, invading the private corners of his mind and comprehended. Who was that fool to judge him, to dare to even look upon him?! The Assassin resolved to find the cretin at some point in his task, and stab out those all seeing eyes… In all likelihood, the Shadow Court with offer a bonus for the incidental death of someone that had so tampered with their schemes… but money was not Vilaseth’s concern. The matter was personal…

*     *     *

The night called to those who could hear; those who reveled in things most would not even consider, at least not until they were right before them. Elurra was the type who sought out these things and enjoyed them to the fullest, reveling in debauchery and sin like a gourmet in a room filled with lavish trappings and fine wine. The nightclub and brothel known as The Whisper House served as the epiphany of pleasure and the culmination of those carnal delights, and she had taken a liking to it the moment her eyes had settled upon the deceptively plain exterior. Elurra had often sneaked from her family’s manse in the heart of the capital of Augdenguld to enjoy the wonders here at the docks of Nassam, to add her voice to the faint giggles and paroxysms of ecstasy safely hidden away within the treated wooden walls of the manor. Elurra rose from the fine cushions to properly appraise her mark, now slumbering jovially after having his way with her. Now that the Moon Dust had subsided, she found that the customer, (was his name Corth?), was hardly as attractive as she remembered. His body was tanned and muscled, true, as much of the sailors that departed in the spring to the isles of the Outer Coast… but there was flab hanging over that hardness, and the unshaven beard was unseemly and ill-tended. Still, what was done was done, and he had paid quite nicely for her soft, warm graces, the twenty silver pieces oddly fitting snuggly in her bodice. She generally never refused a healthy client with desire in his heart and coins in his pocket, and he had been no different. True, some of the less amenable ones tried to taunt, insult, or injure her in their almost ritualistic passions, but such things displeased her, and they learned of it rather quickly, much to her Madame’s displeasure.

Elurra finished redressing silently, and left the fire lit room, intending to locate her Madame, Purinatia, in the lobby for payment. The Madame; dressed in a fine, dark blue corseted long dress fit for a duchess, sat on her practical center of the universe; a wooden monolith somewhere between a desk and a throne, no doubt working through the list of potential customers who request a particular girl for their needs. The Madame looked to be only in her fourth decade, but from her mannerisms Elurra suspected she was a little older. Elurra cleared her throat to get her attention. Ah yes Cinthy, here for your payment I take it? she said quietly, not to disturb the client in the corner divan receiving attention from a new girl fresh from initiations, who was even suckling his… unmentionables. Yes, mistress Elurra whispered in kind. You realize you could make so much more if you stayed here full time, and I could offer you a room for next to nothing, so long as you are willing for a higher workload. her Madame offered, clearly a recommendation. Elurra was somewhat tempted at the thought of abandoning her place in the capital for a much easier lifestyle, but kindly declined. No? Very well then, four clients tonight is one gold sun and seven silvers, she said while proffering the payment without ceremony. Will you be attending the Celebrations next month? Purinatia asked, clearly phrasing the statement as another recommendation… The time of the Last Picking brought in transient framers from all throughout the empire, and most would have a lump sum of coins burning through their pocketbooks to spill on their desired assorted vices. This time of the year would see the most revelry and the Madame no doubt wished to keep the rooms fully stocked. I cannot say for sure, Mistress, but I will try to be in attendance Elurra assured her, stuffing the payment in her bodice as well, a less likely target for pickpockets that the silken satchel that dangled from a string over her shoulder. Very well then, have a good night dear, and to you, milady. Purinatia always fancied the working girls as her children, and Elurra was one of her best, if most infrequent children, generally only when she had time between her studies to slip away from her parent’s manse. She bid the Madame goodbye and passed a glance at a couple across the way, after the slight shriek of the girl on all fours being ravaged through expensive silk and lace.

As she solemnly departed from her personal funhouse, the faint starlight shone unhindered by the torches, casting the world in soft light. Elurra had enjoyed the finest spiced rum, drugs, music… and flesh that would always be offered in the Whisper House, even sometimes procuring a modest wage as a whore in the process. While her family was wealthy enough to get whatever she desired, she much preferred to earn it on her own, and after agonizing attendances with client meetings in her parent’s frequent mercantile endeavors, and suffering the attempts at courting by the well of but almost always weak and unattractive sons, there was no better way to relive the stress. She had no quarrels with the profession so long as it was consensual, and she could easily defend herself if a client was not buying what she happened to be selling. She had developed a natural affinity to arcane power as a child and had been promptly educated as Magi, at a considerable cost, of course. Her soft, elegant features and slight figure failed to denote a nearly unending supply of destructive force that flowed in her very blood, and though she detested the time in her study, the field was admittedly fascinating, and she had found herself quite adapt in imagining new ways to channel raw Magicka. With but a thought, she could chain a score of wild-men in a tomb of ice, create a barrier of energy repelling direct fire from arrows, and shroud herself in a minor invisibility spell if the enemy was not adequately hampered by the former options. No… she had no man to fear on this night or any, and she knew the night as well as the predators. Wait… she wondered, Where did the thought come from? What did I need to protect myself from?

Elurra strutted along the street, her soft, shoulder-length raven black hair billowing in the wind. Hey eyes, the deep blue of the ocean, studied her surroundings, taking in the thick wooden houses on the side, their darkened windows likely offering some of the best seaside views in the entire city. The Magi noted that she was likely quite a sight as well… She wore her favorite attire, a scandalously light dress reminiscent of a wench hostess; a soft white silk gown and a purple doublet, tight enough to show off