Private Tales Crib of Lies

A cry echoed in the night. To the North, a pale light flickered, dyeing the sky with a purple-blue hue. He felt drawn to it.

A lone figure stood against the raging tide, its body glowing with a fluorescent tint the same tone as the flickering lights.

“One year per life shed.” - He heard echo in his head.

The figure raised a hand, and at its command, a fortress rose from the waters. The stormy seas calmed and then started to glow, their waters shining in an otherworldly indigo against the black sand; the same tone as the flickering lights.

He felt himself moving, without actually making a movement. Distances extended and contracted, and like the wind, he felt himself speed past the contours of the land. Past the dark shore, and the broken cliffs. He found himself in a cave. Voices flooded his mind, whispering sweet nothings into his head, in a strange tongue.

Before him, what seemed like a subterranean lake unfurled. Its waters glowed as he approached. In hues of indigo, the colour of the flickering lights. He felt it distort as it grew, in turn, closer and more distant.

Suddenly, he realised he wasn’t alone.

He turned around to find the ethereal figure from the shore beside him. It towered over him, its flesh still glowing with its otherworldly glow.

- “The Heart of the Sea.” - Its voice rang, grave and cavernous. - “Find it. Find remembrance at the eye of the storm. Find me.” -​

His feet dangled off the broken hull of the ship, thudding softly against the rotten wood every time the leather heels swung back. In front of him, the sea unfurled beyond the black sands of the cove. It reflected the dreary sky that ensconced the shore, dyeing all his eyes could see in monochrome hues of gray and black. In the distance, still a fair bit away from the beach, a storm thundered on, coating the horizon with a thick curtain of ashen darkness.

Perched upon the mangled upper deck of the Wraith, Ivan admired the desolate sight of the coast with apparent indifference. A bottle rested in his hand, its glass of a dark ashen-gray that fit so well with the landscape one could have been forgiven for thinking it was a natural feature of the land. It stood nearly empty, though within glimpses of a dark liquid with a nondescript colouring were still visible through the cracks between his fingers.

His eyes though, lingered still on the far horizon. He couldn't precise exactly how long he'd been there, but what he did know for sure was that when he had arrived, the moonshine bottle had been full. Not that he could say he had noticed it emptying, however. Indeed, in this place, he couldn’t say he noticed much at all; not the nature raging around him, nor those long moments that seemed to slip past him as though water through his fingers. No, there, on that broken deck, on that rotten carcass of a ship, time seemed to stand still, as though the whole world beyond the cliffs of the bay had somehow stopped spinning, and would be exactly as he left it once he rejoined it again.

In the distance, the raging storm seemed just that: a grand overarching threat that - frozen in time - ultimately failed to materialize.

He took a deep breath.

His eyes fixated on the sea, his mind wandered instead to the events of last night; or better, the events of last night that had transpired in his subconscious.

He had never been one to linger on dreams, strange as though they might have been. This time, however, it had been a recurring one, and not only that - as he’d had plenty of recurring dreams throughout the years - but also it had been a dream he’d had for the first time only a few days ago, when he had first crossed the border into these lands.

He also recalled the dream very vividly, contrary to what usually happened. He remembered the Ethereal form, shining in azure hues, the black shore, as well as the tempestuous seas, the latter two - he could not fail to notice - seemed to be a staple of the realms he found himself in.

And then there was the cavern with the lake. Its glowing waters. That he had no idea of what it could be. He had no memory of such a place.

A forward wave crashed against the ruined hull of the Wraith, pulling his attention back to reality. Instinctively, he turned his head to the edge of the cove, to the cliffs that towered over the bay. He knew what lay beyond them; indeed, he knew that to be the whole reason he was here.

Perched upon a low cliff overlooking a beach of black sand, the fortress of Valdorren rose beyond his sight from those ridges of naked stone, standing against the unrelenting wrath of the seas before it.

It would be derelict by this point - he knew that well enough, even though he hadn’t set foot in the castle ever since being whisked away after his birth - but it was his derelict ruin. The castle was his property, but more than that, it was his right, his birthright, and the one inheritance he had to his name. It was his ultimate bind to those that had shared his blood - that very last thing which, in his mind, separated him from the common masses of the homeland, and made him something more.

It made him a noble of Vel Anir… though, what was that even worth anyways? His name - on its own - had never been enough to garner him any sort of special treatment growing up. Maybe it had been the lack of money of his family, or their diminished status and prestige at the time of his birth, but for one reason or the other, the Anirian nobility at large had always been content to leave him to rot in the gutter; to ignore him who had been - at least on paper - one of their own.

Instead, he had been raised like a commoner. Brought up in a filthy orphanage in Vel Anir, only to be carted off and disposed of to the Academy, as if he were some urchin that had been picked off the street. Throughout his life, he had been as helpless and as destitute as the lowliest of Anirian wretches, but always, ever since he could remember, he had felt a greater sense of purpose bubbling away under the surface; a sense of manifest destiny guiding him away from the squalor he had been raised in, and towards the aristocratic life he knew to be his rightful place.

And now, after years of wallowing through the mud he found himself here. As he turned his head, he knew full well that what he had once thought to be the key for him to take his place among the Anirian upper class - in other words, his ticket to fulfilling his lifelong dreams - lay just on the other side of those ridges.

He took the bottle to his lips and drained what remained of its contents.

”What rubbish.” - He knew that was what all those dreams would ever amount to. Though his younger self might once have fantasized that the derelict Skender fortress might’ve been enough to sway the upper echelons of Anirian society to his side, it had been a long time since he’d last held any such delusions. The Academy had taught him as much. Blood and the glories of yesteryears only meant so much as others wanted it to mean. If he wanted power, true power, that he could wield on his own, then he’d need to have something more than a noble lineage and a derelict fortress to get it.

Still.

The weight of days passed lingered heavily on his shoulders still. The violence at the Academy, the disdain from both peers and teachers, and the sheer brutality of everyday life that had caused him such distress, all of these had once been dimmed only by the distant memory of his lost home… as well as the promise such a memory had held for his future. Once, the idea of this place had been his only comfort in the sea of suffering that had been his existence, and for that alone it warranted his presence there.

For long his mentors had attempted to bar him from coming here, citing the threat of nature or of war in this distant dominion to thwart his resolve, but in the end he would not be denied. Ivan Skender was not known for taking ‘no’ for an answer, and he wouldn’t, especially not after all these years, and especially not on this day.

It was his birthday, after all.​

He let the bottle roll out of his hand. It hit the decayed wood of the stern castle with a dry sound, before rolling off a broken flight of steps and down the gaping opening that time and nature had carved upon the upper deck of the Wraith. As it fell into that dark abyss, he heard the sound of glass shattering against glass.

Curious.

He wondered why that had been. The old flagship had been moored on this beach for about 60 years, so the idea that the sound of shattering glass might have come from the smashing of ancient liquor bottles that others like him might have brought there to enjoy the sights with, was a rather amusing one for the blonde.

He also wondered, if this was the case, whether his mother had been among their number. Maybe Alisa had - very much like him - once sat on that very deck, a bottle of liquor in-hand, as she took in the bleak landscape of Valdorren.

He shook his head.

This was quite enough for idle contemplation. It was time to go.

He grabbed the scabbard that had been resting just beside him and took on the desolate scenery one last time…

Then he jumped off the rail.

He landed on the beach’s grounds with a thud, one knee buried in the soaked black sand that had softened his fall, while both of his hands had also come to rest on either side of his body for support.

He then tried to straighten himself up, only to find that maybe - just maybe - he was a little bit drunker than what he believed he was, a thought that ran through his mind after his unsteady feet wobbled and nearly caused him to trip over himself, after such a gracious landing.

But as with everything else in life, Ivan Skender always found his balance. He needed only a moment to correct his own heading. Once in firmer footing, he tied his scabbard to his waist belt and resumed his journey.

As he trekked through the dark cove, that nonsensical thought about his mother and the liquor he’d had on top of the Wraith crept back into his mind. In fact, the more he thought about it, the less ridiculous the idea seemed to him… or better, he didn’t actually know if it was ridiculous or not, and that seemed to be the actual question there: how little he seemed to know of Alisa, his mother, or of his father for that matter.

It was ironic really, that despite how much influence his heritage had had in crafting his psyche early on, how little he knew of either of his parents. He knew, of course, all about his more distinct ancestors; of Kasiodor Viteri and the Battle of the Waves, of the third Ivan Skender - the Red Crescent - as well as of the first Alisa Skender and how she had terrorized the seas from aboard the very vessel he’d been sitting on just moments prior, but of his mother and father - of them who, on paper, should’ve been the closest ones to him - he knew next to nothing about.

In a way though, it was easy to see why. As for his father, it was because - simply put - no one really knew who he was; Alisa had maintained his identity a close-kept secret, to her last breath. It ought to be said though, that about the man, Ivan had never nurtured much interest. Why, after all, should he have cared for someone that had clearly never cared for him? Someone who’d left his mother on her deathbed to die alone, and him an orphan, fated to rot in squalor?

As for Alisa herself, well… There was not too much anyone knew about her either. She had ascended to Margravine young; when she had been around the age he was now in fact, and had died a short time later. Of those who knew her, and that he’d encountered so far, they all described her as reserved, yet intelligent, with a keen, sharp mind. She had never attended the Academy; the Skender of old seldom did, so far removed had they become from the mainland that neither did they care about Anirian traditions, nor could Vel Anir be bothered to enforce its rule on this distant dominion.

All in all, Alisa had been an elusive figure, both for him and everyone else around her; distant and aloof, seemingly too caught up in her own doings, and with no close friends left behind that could’ve shed some light on what she had been like.

Ivan wondered if this was something common for the Skender.

His family had always had an individualistic streak to itself, even within its own ranks. The Skenders of old had mistrusted each other as much as they had everyone else. Could it have been then, that this had carved Alisa into such an introvert? It was certainly a feeling he could relate to. At the Academy, he had learned from an early age not to trust anyone utterly. The other students there were his comrades, yes; others with whom to share a drink - or a bed - at the end of the day, and with whom he’d lived through traumas unfathomable for most others in the world at large, but that, if it came to it, he would never have trusted, not truly anyways.

And so he wondered. He pondered on whether Skender ruthlessness had - in its own way - gotten in the way of him getting to know his mother. Did she like it here? Might she once really have taken strolls through the desolate shores of this land like he had this day? What had she thought about the state of her home, and what had she intended to do with it? Had she been aware of her disease? Had she been scared, in the end, or even seen him draw his first breath?

He would never get an answer to any of these questions, something he knew well enough. Indeed, he had always found it better, when it came to these idle thoughts, to move forward, instead of dwelling on the past.

“Come what may.” - The words rang in his head. The Skender motto, it felt somehow appropriate for the moment.

He had now come onto the promontory that overlooked the bay. Behind, he could still see the Wraith in all its rotten glory, while in front and rightwards the small land bridge that was Cape Skender unfurled.

From this point, he knew Valdorren lay ahead, just beyond a few rocky ridges, though what really caught his attention was the storm he’d seen earlier. It was larger, and much broader, than what he’d realized. Not only a distant whiff of cloud opposite the bay, but rather a full-blown typhoon that seemed poised to engulf him, as well as the fortress he was headed to. Already to his side, the far end of the Cape had slipped from his field of sight, immersed as it was in a curtain of dark ashen tempest.

He resumed his march, through barren plateaus of dark rock, and narrow crags whitened by centuries of salt-water-infused erosion. The sky seemed to darken with every step he took, a foreboding aura of dread hanging over his head, as if cursing his journey. In the distance, he could hear the sound of the waves crashing against the shore, their unrelenting wrath growing as time soldiered on. Eventually, he crossed the last few rocky hurdles that lay in his path and came out into a beach of black sand.

The castle was the first thing he saw.

It was small, by Anirian standards at least, and of a bleak-grey rock which time and sea had begun to erode here and there. It wasn’t much, that was for sure, but as he stood there, gazing at the castle against the backdrop of the oncoming storm, he couldn’t help but to realize:

It was his, and that was enough.​

The strong wind blew against him, whipping his face with black sand and frigid sea water alike as he cut through the beach. It was a conspicuous place, though he could not help but notice how familiar it looked.

The jagged rock of the dark cliffs, the sharp edges and rugged shapes of the stone were the same as those in his dream. He now stood where he had then. Further afield, where the fortress proper rose, he recalled it to be the place with the flickering lights; the place where the ethereal figure had risen its castle from the waves.

He kept moving, utter confusion taking over his mind as he pondered about just how on Arethil he could’ve dreamed with a place he’d never seen before. Could it have been a memory? Something buried so deep within his subconscious, that only a feverish dream could have awoken it?

Somehow, his presence here felt pertinent to the dream. At once, he recalled the tale of the Battle of the Waves fought on these very shores. More specifically, he recalled the eye witness for Kasiodor Skender’s otherworldly display:

“His halberd glowing with arcane might, and his flesh turned to aether.”

Could it be that he had conjured a scene about that battle from so long ago? It was possible, without a doubt. He had read those stories over and over again, especially when he’d been younger. It was possible that the anticipation of visiting Valdorren had awoken them within him.

Eventually, the main gate of the stronghold came to stand before him. It rose at the end of a narrow causeway that led over the shallows from the beach. The gatehouse was of a simple, rustic design, and yet, also of a sturdy making that seemed designed to funnel, and then slaughter, anything that came up the causeway.

It looked to him just like the kind of architecture the Skender would have built in the past: small, lacklustre, lacking in any sort of grandeur, and yet, absolutely lethal to any who would try their luck at assaulting the fortress. Not far from the gate, and the main keep, a few, fortified towers stood watch over the cliffs in front of the castle, no doubt aiming to make any invader regret taking the mountainous path, instead of that by the sea. Beyond these, another tower stood over what seemed to be a ruined collection of piers, perched against the cliffs, to the right of the causeway. That would’ve been the harbours, from where, once upon a time, the Skender fleets had set sail from.

To either side of the main gate hang a couple of banners. They looked as a wrangled battle standard would, their cloth mangled, while their colours had long been washed out by the relentless battering of both sea and storm.

Though their form had long turned twisted and rugged, Ivan could still make out what they had been meant to depict.

The double eclipse on indigo of House Skender.

These were banners one would not be able to find anywhere else in the world. Indeed, while he had seen his family’s sigil and colours in either heraldry documents or history books before, this was the first time he saw his House’s banners live. Though by this point the standards were but pale shadows of what they had once been, with their deep purple-blue long given way to a washed out, salt-stained, dry purple, and the crescent of the eclipse barely visible on the cloth, it did seem to awaken a tinge of pride in his heart.

They were his banners after all.

He looked at the gate. Sturdy steel, even if somewhat rusty here and there, stood between him and the rest of the castle. According to what was said, the Margravine had given orders so that, after her death, the gate and the fortress beyond be locked under charm and spell, so that only one of her blood could claim the castle for their own.

He took his sword out of his scabbard, and slashed a cut across his right-hand. He then smeared his blood on the cold, grey stone.

For a moment nothing happened and the gate stood still, the only movement that of the waves crashing against the rock below. But then came a shimmer. A faint, distorted glow materialised over the old iron wall, as though an invisible curtain was at last coming to light, and then being pulled from over the gate.

With a loud, screeching sound the gate rolled on its hinges, and folded itself open for him.

For a moment, he just stared blankly forth. Beyond, naught but pitch-darkness seemed to await him. A strong scent of moist and mold rose from within, as a current of fetid air hit his nostrils.

He looked around before entering, as if he expected someone might follow him inside. The old habits from the military stayed with him, it would appear, even here. There was no one. Indeed, the only thing he did notice was how close the storm seemed to have come. Already it had ensconced the horizon, and the first wind-carried raindrops fell, cold and unfriendly, on his face.

It was time to get inside.

He looked at the darkness ahead of him, and then marched in.​

The gate shut behind, leaving him to be enveloped by the gloom. Aimlessly, he groped around in the dark until he found the beginning of a narrow staircase. Judging it to lead further into the castle, he started his ascent over it.

The scent of dampness now hung heavily over him. A rhythmic, rather unnerving, sound of water droplets falling upon naked stone was broken only by the occasional echo of tidal waves crashing against the cliffs beneath the castle on the outside.

Eventually, as he reached the end of the staircase, the steps led him into a wide, open space.

A large hall - at least for the standards of Valdorren he’d seen so far - unfurled before his eyes, laying almost entirely immersed in darkness. To one side of the room, a sliver of light from the outside came in through a semi-open shutter. The occasional swinging to and fro of the wood, invariably accompanied by the clanking of broken metal, suggested that rather than neglect, the heavy shutter had been forced open instead by years of battering from the storms of the coast.

Though only a sliver of dark dusk came in, it was enough to allow him to see further ahead, his eyes already used to the pitch-darkness the whole fortress seemed engulfed in.

Before him, the great hall lay almost bare, with any furniture or decor that might have once stood there long gone. The broken, rotten remnants of what looked like stools and other objects carved out of wood were scattered through the floor, while in front, on either side of a passage that led further into the castle, hang the tattered remains of a couple of banners. Though this time he couldn’t precise exactly what they depicted, Ivan felt fairly confident that the double-eclipse of the Skender would have once graced their cloth.

He walked over to the window. Through the semi-open shutter, he gazed outside. By this point, all he could see was a great ashen wall hovering before the castle. Already, the cliffs beyond the walls had been engulfed. The storm inched ever closer to the castle, encircling it as it took a shape like a great maw, readying itself to devour the fortress.

For now though, a few hundred meters of dark-gray water still stood between the two, and outside all was quiet. The strong winds, the crashing tidal waves, as well as the intermittent rain had stopped, giving way to total and utter silence.

The calm before the storm.

Ivan stared at the torment, gazing into those dark clouds that heralded its arrival. It felt ominous, strange. In that moment, time felt as though it had frozen again as he faced the storm; the heavy, gloomy curtain hovering timelessly just off the coast. He felt strange as he gazed into it, restless and anxious. His instincts seemed to tell him to run, that this storm was unnatural, that it held within terrors even he was not ready to face. He did not budge though, but merely stared intently at the low, dark clouds, as if he expected to be able to discern something from the thick, ashen curtain.

It was foolish to give into such irrational impulses, to such frights. Fear was a mind-killer, and he would not succumb to its sting.​