Fable - Ask Darkest Night

[Zephyrine]

"Will you be alright, Zephyrine? You look pale and tired."

"I have been through worse." She smiled, but it wasn't to show any cheer. It was the same old story, the ones Dreadlords of old and new would know and understand. The reality of having to keep going, even if you cannot. Zephyrine had been exploited and used by the Academy for years, to push her boundaries and strengthen.

The full extent of what she had been taught prior to being introduced into the graduating class would never be spoken about. Not to anyone. She knew there would be people that would feel pity, would mourn a life for her...

Zephyrine didn't want their weakness... their concern. There was nothing against it, not really, but Zeph had no room to feel for the girl she could have been.

"I have my own ways of keeping focused and replenished. Pain still works wonders if we are after that enhancement in power." She reminded Kristen. Her palms were a map of scars, of previous times she had induced pain to bolster her reserves, and the momentary boost always felt like a rush for her.

In a low voice, words between the two young Dreadlords, Zephyrine murmured. "I will see to it that we get out of here alive. That we will not have letter sent... home." And the way she said it was convincing enough. For what home did Zephyrine have? What was left to her, she gave away to a family that needed it more than she did. She had hoped if she were to expire, a letter would not be sent to that home that was never her own. That a letter would not inform the family of Thraah of her death.

"Now, Lady of Vel Numera," Zephyrine's voice returned to normal volume, "are you ready?"

Kristen Pirian
Mortivore Urn

 

[Kristen Pirian]

With a quiet assurance Zephyrine mentioned escape, should the night come to it. Kristen feared that prayer and strength of arms might not be enough; but she feared more that her final moments would be unworthy of all the life that came before them. And so she resolved not to allow desperation to make a ruin of morality, to become as the Dreadlords whom she despised, who indeed savaged the notion of humanity even in far less dire times—and she resolved this even if it should cost her her life. But this she kept from Zephyrine, and only could she hope that Zephyrine's method of escape did not mirror Mortivore's earlier suggestion.

Are you ready?

Kristen gazed out over the plain beneath them, at those distant riders fanning out and covering the expanse and some wheeling around and riding back the way they had come.

"I must be—for the men, for my family. I intend not to deprive House Pirian of a daughter this night, if only I may draw breath to stave off such a cruel fate. And to what extent the gods allow, I wish not for any more Anirian families to suffer as such either.

She looked then to her fellow Dreadlord.

"But tell me, Zephyrine, and say true." A frown inevitably pulled at her expression. "Have you seen much victory in this war?"

Zephyrine Mortivore Urn

 

[Mortivore Urn]

Having secured a fallback plan, or some measure of one, Mortivore sought the company of his peers again, with the same inescapable tenacity as an umbral warden. His boots scythed through tall grass, gnashed earth and gravel, before grinding to a halt before them - just after Kristen had asked her question of Zephyrine.

His gaze aimed at the distant torchlight and banners of gathering Cortosi forces. Visual illusion, he thought, would be suitable in these conditions. The night would lend itself to optic obscurity.

Zephyrine
Kristen Pirian

 

[Zephyrine]

"Have you seen much victory in this war?"

Zephyrine heard the approach of the other Dreadlord, but her eyes stayed on the Lady of Numera.

A question that had been asked on both sides, and the answers always varied. She herself had fought where the battle was thickest, had seen the frontlines. Zephyrine had earned a place amongst the troops, showed exactly why the Academy trained her alone all those years, even after revolution. She saw it now, the potential the Academy and the Proctors saw in her. It made her glad to choose to remain in Vel Anir, to prove to herself she was the only one in control of her future.

She saw glimpses of her future right there on the front lines. Never had she been a dreamer, but she knew the future did not hold well for her.

"Vel Anir continues to move in towards Cortos each day, Kristen. I have fought in the battles that has brought us victory, but it is what I hear and do not see with my own that tells me that in equal measure have we lost positions and lives. If I have seen the worst of it and still remain alive, then I will ask you to put that faith in me to ensure I will get as many of us out of here alive."

Again, she held that promise.

It was the words unspoken that Zephyrine kept hidden behind that promise.

She intended to be the last one here, to ensure her magic still held up. Kress knew Zephyrine would do all she could to ensure as many of them survived this. Her tawny eyes flicked back to Mortivore, to whom she gave a nod.

Kristen Pirian
Mortivore Urn

 

[Kristen Pirian]

The slow downward glide of Kristen's eyes gave testimony to her pondering on Zephyrine's answer. Victory, though hard-won, but victory nonetheless—and rumor of loss elsewhere in the war. And indeed it was Zephyrine's own personal experience which Kristen sought to compare, and in this a worry—mild for it was ethereal and not yet fully grounded—flowered and took hold in her heart. It could all be the mere fickleness of fortune's dispensing of gifts and woes, or, as she feared, it could be rather Garron's pernicious influence, seeing to it that all war long Kristen was sent on the deadliest missions with the least hope.

She did not know.

But what she could do was exactly as Zephyrine asked. "Then my faith you shall have." And she glanced to Mortivore and included him with her eyes and said, "Though we have failed in our mission, we shall see the sun rise, and our boots will press again upon Anirian soil."

* * * * *​

All the preparatory work was done, and the beleaguered Anirians had naught else to do then but wait. No fires were made, and what rations and water could be pooled together were given out with the tacit air of a final meal. They rested, and some found calm, some nursed anxiety, and some in that old Anirian way took on a grim acceptance of their consignment. Kristen watched as all the Cortosi riders eventually disappeared from view, and the plain was empty, and no sign at all issued forth even from the eastern forest, from where the Cortosi ought to be coming. One could have believed in deliverance, that perhaps the Cortosi had gone back, or went by some other route toward Maguilla, and that they would not come by the Hilltop at all.

The moons and stars wheeled overhead, and some two hours passed, before there came anything to still that fragile peace upon the Hilltop.

"Lieutenant!" called Flower Girl from the makeshift rampart. Her eyes were wide, not with fear but with uncertainty, and she beckoned Kristen and the Dreadlords over. The other Guardsmen if they were sitting stood, and if they were already standing looked, but none moved from their places just yet.

Kristen went to the rampart and looked over. A small delegation of mounted Cortosi, seven of them, was at the bottom of the hill's sole path.

"Anirians!" called the delegation's leader in the Common Tongue. "We have come to offer you terms for your surrender! Though you hold no god nor gods sacred, for us it is not so, and we are bound to our accords by the Sunfather who watches us, and watches all. If this means nothing to you, then we implore you to instead heed reason! It will profit your country nothing to die on a worthless hill. What say you, Anirians? Shall we parley?"

Kristen shifted her gaze then to Zephyrine, to Mortivore.

Mortivore Urn Zephyrine

 

[Mortivore Urn]

Mortivore's face twisted below his beard. A barely perceptible scowl, the distaste dripping like acid from his tone:

"Cortosi lies. They scheme against us, no doubt. Same as the capture of Cliff Keep, when terms of surrender were offered - and every unarmed Anirian that poured out were butchered." He adjusted the iron spheres in his belt, then unhooked one attached to a rod, fashioned like some strange flail without spikes or the weight of a heavy ball to inflict physical damage. No doubt its implements geared towards other forms of injury. "But, if nothing else, speaking to them might buy us time. It might even garner us information. If you ask it, lieutenant, I shall go. With proximity, I may even be able to hear the thoughts behind their deceptive tongues."

Zephyrine
Kristen Pirian

 

[Zephyrine]

She cut a look to Kristen. "Getting more intel is not a bad idea. It may even give us those few seconds we need to ensure the tides turn to our favour."

Zephyrine looked down the hill, narrowed her eyes to keep their small presences perceptible in her vision. "The moment they mean to do us harm, I will cut down some of their numbers."

All they needed now was Kristen's command.

Kristen Pirian
Mortivore Urn

 

[Kristen Pirian]

Kristen didn't have the best information on the incident at Cliff Keep, but doubtless such a betrayal was possible; and here at this Hilltop no word might ever reach Anirian ears of horrific conduct. Regardless, Kristen was loath to place herself and everyone else into the mercy of the enemy.

Both Mortivore and Zephyrine made great points, however. Time was on their side, and if the Cortosi wished to waste it, then by all means should their enemy be allowed to make a mistake.

"Then let us go together, the three of us," she said. She looked back over her shoulder and called to Cold Blood, and he hurried up to her, and she instructed him, "Post the lookouts at the places we discussed. Give the signal if these Cortosi attempt anything dishonorable."

"Yes, ma'am," said Cold Blood, and he hurried off, his orders clear.

"Mortivore, entertain them as much as you are able, but if you detect that their intentions are ill, and that they are a danger to us..." she glanced over, "...let Zephyrine know." Cut down some of their numbers, indeed.

Up over the rampart. Down the twists and turns of the hillside path, bits of scree tumbling with every other step. And at the base of the path the delegation of seven riders patiently awaited, until at last the Dreadlords came within polite speaking distance of them, but no closer.

"Anirians. My name is Enkardo," the leader said genially. "Let me say that I am aware of the...unkind ways of your country. That those who rule over you force men, women, even children, to bear arms and partake in wars, whether they wish it or no."

His eyes cut from Mortivore, to Kristen, to Zephyrine, making a study of each of them.

"Tell me. Who has chosen to be here? Who wishes this life?"

Mortivore Urn Zephyrine

 

[Mortivore Urn]

Spoiler: Music

Mortivore met Encado's studying gaze with an appraising look of his own, sizing him and his horse up as one might with a slab of meat at a slaughterhouse, inspecting it for rot or wriggling maggots.

The leader of this delegation held that loathsome vanity of Cortosi commanders, who decorated their plate and surcoats with decadent paraphernelia more suited for a foppish court than the battlefield. Feathers, a thick necklace of gold squares inset with rubies, a crimson half-cape and golden, sun-shaped spurs all but screamed out loud his priorities. A peacock prancing as a partisan of war.

A long inhalation through Mortivore's nose preceded his reply. The strange flail with no spikes hung by his side, its latticework ball hovering near the ground.

"Choice is an illusion, Master Encardo. More often than not, others lead us by the nose. And if not them, the Gods or our own ignorance will direct us." His eyes burned into Encardo, luring him to debate - while concentrating on sensing their minds, without betraying so much as a twitch of movement. "You may think you chose honourable diplomacy, tonight. But in sooth, you are but a pawn; dancing to the tunes of promotion, no doubt."

Leather creaked softly, as a glove tightened around the haft of a lance. Horses snorted and grunted, sensing the growing agitation of their riders. Encado stared for a beat, then broke into a mighty laughter, all buoyant and uplifting glee.

"Sun's grace, we have a philosopher among us. Such dour and," he swiped out a gauntleted hand with a smirking sneer, "melancholic company. I trust Anir hasn't snuffed out all the life and vigour from you as well, ladies in steel? Or are we all to be pawns of Anirian courtesy tonight?"

Kristen Pirian
Zephyrine

 

[Zephyrine]

Zephyrine stared.

Not a muscle moved to speak, to entertain the Cortosi. She wasn't trained to talk. Not here face before their foes.

She watched them. Her eyes darted from one to the other and began to count just how many were present. A good few were in amongst her traps along the incline of the hill, and her fingers curled into a fist as if tightening her hold on her magic.

It was too quiet. They expected her to speak, and a muscle feathered in her jaw.

Zephyrine refrained. Her silence was the same answer speaking would have told, that she had been giving over to the Academy. Her magic was too strong to be left unchecked. Zephyrine had been adopted by a Proctor who nurtured her magic to expand into what it was now, had isolated her to keep her focused.

To keep her dangerous.

If Kristen had allowed using the Cortosi's live to bolster their own mana... Zephyrine had her target. Instead, her fingers plucked the small piece of steel she had kept in her sleeve. She pressed it to her palm, steeling herself against the sharp pain. It emboldened her, made her stand straighter, and that under great pain could power and strength be heightened. Most Anirians were taught to withstand, but Zephyrine knew how to weaponise such an action.

Kristen Pirian
Mortivore Urn

 

[Kristen Pirian]

Zephyrine's silence was cue enough for Kristen to speak. "I have chosen to be here," she said, answering Enkardo's query directly. "And neither my life nor my vigor has been snuffed, by my homeland or otherwise."

"Then I pray you not to be deceived by your dour commander, young soldier," he said, taking Mortivore to be the figure of authority among the three Anirians. "We all have choice. Even you," he said directly to Mortivore, "though you do not think so."

"So have you, then, come in good faith, in the pursuit of honorable diplomacy?"

"I would not be here if I had not so chosen."

"You are part of a military command."

"As are you, and we all as soldiers know hierarchy, it is true, but those who make their obedience blind willingly choose to close their eyes. But enough of my own philosophizing," he said, taking a glance to Mortivore and then to the silent Zephyrine, wondering of her, before returning to Kristen. "Let me speak plainly: the task of this diplomacy was put forth to men of my rank, and it was I who volunteered."

"I commend your courage."

"All the more, I suppose, since...let us be candid, Anirian unkindness extends to all peoples, not merely your own. But mayhap these atrocities of war none of you are kin to, nor condone? Do you, personally, wish the Cortosi ill?" He swept his eyes over the three Dreadlords. "How have we aggrieved you, if at all?"

Mortivore Urn Zephyrine

 

[Mortivore Urn]

Mortivore didn't miss a beat. This was as good an opportunity as any to let out his bile when it came to Cortos, accummulated over almost half a century fighting them.

"You must be lacking in either historical knowledge or common sense, Cortosi. Perhaps both. Your Radiant Church is a fine study in heresy. Your borders and lands are plagued with corruption and bandits, unable to keep a leash on either your flow of coin or blades. Your assault on the 44th western regiment was a prime example of cowardly ambush. But you must know all this." His voice was as unyielding as his fixed gaze, turning his one side to Encardo and his entourage, hiding his left hand drawing a faint reserve of energy from a nearly depleted metal sphere. "So either you must think us gullible as sheep. Or else you enjoy wasting our time with pointless questions."

Beyond satisfying his own resentment, there was method to his provocation. If he triggered some pronounced emotion from Encardo - anger or disgust, most likely - he could lower the mental barriers of the man. Once again, Mortivore opened his mind to the psychic movements of those around him, tuning his senses to their thoughts rather than their words.

Zephyrine
Kristen Pirian

 

[Zephyrine]

Again, Zephyrine wielded silence.

She kept a hold on her magic, felt it latch onto all the materials she and the others laid across the hillside. If the Cortosi made a move, Zeph was not going to risk a second in retaliating.

In truth, she was not as gifted with speech the way Urn or Pirian could. Zephyrine had been trained to be quiet, to kill and get out.

Her mind did not offer up any words to counter, anything to further damage the Cortosi. She was a soldier, not a diplomat.

"We all do nasty things under the veil of war, do we not?" The Common Tongue spoken was the only way Zephyrine was able to keep up. Her Cortosi was passable, but not well enough to keep up with a conversation. "None of you need to die beyond your numbers now... and so..."

Zephyrine did not like his smile. His attempt at throwing charm into his words was a desperate ploy to hide something. It made her wary, and she shifted her weight to her other foot as her eyes trained on the spokesman.

"And so? What sort of negotiation are you hoping for here? The way I see it, it is kill or be killed." They were but a few, not a legion descending upon the Cortosi. "I will not go as a prisoner either." If the Radiant Church got hold of them...

Kristen Pirian
Mortivore Urn

 

[Kristen Pirian]

The rider immediately to Enkardo's right bristled in his saddle, on the verge of whipping out a terse and impassioned response to the string of Mortivore's provocations, but Enkardo raised his right hand and the rider kept his peace, and slowly Enkardo let his hand descend to rest as Mortivore continued and finished. Peculiar, Enkardo thought, that a godless Anirian might wield the accusation of heresy as an insult.

He looked from Mortivore to Zephyrine, the latter now entering into the parley.

"As I said, none of you need to die; and nor is our negotiation here pointless. You must know our true objective."

"Maguilla, yes."

"Very much so. A prudent decision by your higher command, of course, to attempt to delay our advance for the relief of the city. But now we have broken through. Maguilla will remain in Cortosi hands, no matter how our talk here ends. But I speak to you, now, as individuals, as men and women, who have lives to live yet." He looked then to Kristen specifically. "Do you agree with your companion? Must it be kill or be killed? Can there be no other way? No civility among us, despite this time of war?"

"Speak, then," said Kristen after a moment of silence appearing as deliberate consideration, but in truth was stalling for time. "We cannot consider that which has not yet been offered. But know, Cortosi, that your terms must seem to us better than our present circumstance. You may think it woeful, that our lives without your mercy are forfeit, but I know not a man nor woman here who would not take solace, even joy, in making you bleed all the more, such that our army near Maguilla will have strength enough to finish what we here have started."

"Bold words!" said Enkardo, smiling and seeming impressed. "A philosopher, a poet, and a warrior, the three of you! I'm delighted to have made your acquaintances here tonight. If only our grim business did not press us on."

Enkardo inclined his chin, and gave his terms.

"You wish not to go as prisoners? Very well, you need not. Merely lay your armaments at the base of this hill, and take flight, since you deem it better to chance fate on foot. Now surely you know that our peace, if agreed to here, cannot possibly extend to other Cortosi armies and companies elsewhere; but this is your hazard to endure, since standard imprisonment is intolerable to you. Mayhap the chance to stumble first upon fellow Anirians is enticing enough? Better, I would say, than being trapped and entombed upon some nameless Hilltop. But such say is not mine, but rather yours, Anirians."

Mortivore Urn Zephyrine

 

[Mortivore Urn]

Spoiler: Music

Mortivore gripped his private symbol of Jura below his robe, a silver pendant which aided his concentration, his secret token of worship; an incongruence in the otherwise stalwart Dreadlord that Enkardo had rightly sniffed. .

But instead of addressing Enkardo or his subtle challenges, Mortivore's psyche expanded its sphere beyond himself, poking and prodding at the minds present below gilded visors and beavers, their voices tunnelling away like he was falling through a cave.

To his good fortune, these Cortosi had not expected a psychemancer among their enemies' ranks. He could tell from their lack of mental defences. Most of the magic he had displayed on the battlefield would be fairly attributed to an elementalist manipulating base matter, rather than picking at the fine and sensitive components of mentality.

Touching upon Encardo yielded him an intuitive notion. Nothing formed in the structural syntax of words or the evocation of vivid imagery, though one might think Encardo's internal world capable of generating such thoughts aplenty. Instead, he found an unnamed stillness, a carefully guarded apprehension, ready at a moment's notice, highly attentive to the three of them, curious as to see how long he could engage barbaric Dreadlords in civil conversation.

This feeling and mental energy mirrored the Dreadlords' own disposition to this encounter. And then it hit him.

This Cortosi delegation was pursuing the same strategy as them. Stalling for time. Letting them waste their breaths for as long as possible. But why?

Mortivore's brow winced, ignoring the gentle prodding for peace and faux sentimentality, pushing past these masqueraded notions, seeking beyond the tense guards on horseback, to find one shrouded by their armoured forms. A woman in a heavy robe, wearing a gold collar imitating jagged rays of the sun, a thick shroud thrown over her face, muttering repeated psalms below her breath:

"In nomine Patris Solis et Sanctus Elianus, peccatores percute et carnes eorum e costis in fulgore tuo fulgente combures, noctem perfora. In nomine Patris Solis et Sanctus Elianus, peccatores percute et carnes eorum e costis in fulgore tuo fulgente combures, noctem perfora. In nomine . . ."

Like magnetism, his own demure piety connected with her glowing devotion, interlocking like links in a chain. But he soon fell through an endless drop, plummeting into the gulf between their differing worship. And it was there he discovered the eerie candlelight of her mind, the vision of the Sunfather's hand bursting through the nocturnal heavens to immolate the Dreadlords, scorching their bones clean of both sin and flesh.

Not psalms, he realised, in growing alarm. An incantation. Repeated for growing emphasis and strength.

"We have been deceived," Mortivore whispered slowly, still trapped in the mental realm. His hands slackened from his symbol and dropped instead near the sphere of his flail, gathering what residues of power remained. "A priest is among them, invoking . . ."

His words dropped as his eyes snapped open, spearing through armoured shoulders to locate the hidden eyes of his target, their gazes uniting. There. The psychic chain between them grew taught when she wrested away. Mortivore's clawed his iron sphere, his hissing breath escaping into faint mist, merging with the night:

"Oblivisci cantui tuo."

His irises flared like metallic shards, mirrored for a fraction of a moment in the priestess' eyes.

Words that she had memorised in a lifetime of studious repetition, honed over decades of prayer, drilled into the very muscle-memory of her lips, the tripping of her tongue and the measured breath in her throat so that they required no conscious thought, failed her. Her words stumbled, fumbling to grasp for meaning or rhythm, anything to jog her suddenly failing memory, and a hand raised to her own shroud, wild disbelief flooding her mind just as his psyche disentangled itself from her.

Zephyrine
Kristen Pirian

 

[Zephyrine]

Her gaze cut from Mortivore to Kristen, before facing their foes once more.

She needed to strike.

Zephyrine had followed the gaze Mortivore held with the hidden priestess, could see with her own eyes how differently they stood against the rest of the Cortosi. A game of dangerous attention was afoot, and Zephyrine herself had cards of discreet at play.

She turned the shavings of iron by the priestess' foot into sharp spikes, growing like thorns from between the longs blades of grass. The woman gasped, broken from her reverie of keeping up whatever prayer she uttered.

Zephyrine did not stop there. Every piece of metal that was broken and chipped, broken down to pieces, now rose to the symphony of Cadell's weaving song. She started at the back, with those that thought themselves safe due to the distance, being nearer to safety if they were to retreat. Spikes and bars, the steel and iron and pieces of wood all sprung upwards and began to divide their numbers. This at first was all a distraction, for those in the front lines of their foe's group turned at the sounds of shrieks and shouts, some of Zephyrine's work piercing through limbs, boot, or nearly missing the target.

They were being surrounded in small bursts, forced to break whatever defensive stances they took.

"I won't kill them unless they retaliate." She snarled with the effort of keeping her magic up. The pain she made herself was easily fed into bolstering, but Zephyrine only could contain them long enough to allow the Anirians to retreat some distance away. If their enemies pursue... then Zephyrine will stay behind and buy more time with her own steel and blade.

Kristen Pirian
Mortivore Urn