Completed Help in Unlikely Places

[Alistair Wren]

The Bank of the River Wda

Perched on a stone beside a tumbling waterfall, Alistair revised a spell. He had been taking breaks between travel to practice his telekinesis and aerokinesis. Scratching the back of his head, he tossed the parchment aside when he couldn't make any more sense of it and leaped to his feet. Barren hills spanned for miles, split by the river Wda, which flowed between them. The air dropped to a chill, making Alistair shiver, so he grabbed the edges of his hood and pulled it up. Gripping the hems of his robes, he trudged through the grass, its blades brushing the tops of his felt boots.

The sky, undisturbed by the rays of a sun loomed behind the snow-capped mountains of the spine as they peeked out from behind the hills. As Alistair opened his mouth to recite the spell, something caught his eye.

Floating down the river was the body of a man.

Dark, blue eyes widening, Alistair almost tumbled straight over. His robes billowing around, he leaped to his feet and ran forward, when he saw blood in the water. He didn't know what had happened, but the man was hurt and he needed help! He wondered if there was a battle going on nearby. Robes in hand, he ran down the hill and scrambled to the bank of the river. Gasping, he stepped in, the water rising to the top of his felt boots and soaking his robes. Wading through, he knelt down on the bank and scanned the man for any injuries. There was a gash beneath his arm, but he was wearing plated armor, so luckily it wasn't deep, but it would need to be cleaned quickly before it got infected.

Sliding his hands beneath the man's side, Alistair turned him over and let the water ran out of his mouth. He saw him blinking. Wrapping his hand around his shoulder, he helped him to his feet.

"It's okay, I'm a mage," he cooed, "I can heal you," he said leaning down at the length of the man's ear. His arm around his shoulder, he let him lean against him and helped him to the bank of the river.

Trudging through the mud and water, Alistair walked the man to the shore. He set him on the grassy and bent down, then started to take off his armour. He had been trained to undo armour in his healing unit, and knew where every thing was. A strap in his hand, he untied it and removed one of the plates on the man's arm.

"Got a few nasty cuts, but it's nothing I can't fix, did you come from a battle?" Alistair asked.

Yves Oudin

 

[Gylfi Runarsson]

The first sensation that Yves was conscious of was his burning lungs, full of water. As he was turned over by the stranger, he was assaulted by a sudden coughing fit. After a moment of violent coughing, he felt the stranger lift his tall frame and assist him to a patch of grass.

The Dreadlord's face was caked with mud, as was the front of his normally shiny plate. His pale blue eyes seemed rather colorful as they contrasted against the layer of mud that graced the young man's face. His sun and earthen-colored tabard was dirtied. When the man, who introduced himself as a mage, began to undo straps of his armor, Yves instinctively reached for the dagger that he kept fastened on his belt. His fingers wrapped around nothingness. The small sheath was empty and after some musing, the Dreadlord decided to leave himself to the mercy of this mage.

He ran a gloved hand down his face, attempting to wipe the bulk of the mud from his face. He would thoroughly clean himself once his wound was healed. There was also the matter of his missing helmet, which he hoped he would find upriver.

"You have my thanks," His voice was strong and confident, yet far from friendly. It was cold, almost apathetic in tone.

A battle? Could he call the Anirian Knights which he led turning their swords unto him a battle? Muscles in his jaw danced as his molars ground together. Frustration set within him, not that he was seemingly betrayed, but instead that he wound up in such a situation.

The one upside was that now the advantage laid with him, for he would be the one to surprise the apparent traitors.

"A battle of sorts, yes. I led a party of soldiers upriver, yet they suddenly turned their blades on me." He replied with a partial truth, choosing not to disclose the details of his mission to a stranger.

Yves entertained the thought of killing this mage. Most Dreadlords certainly would. He was not most Dreadlords.

His young head twisted as he scanned his surroundings, "Strange place for a lone mage, far from the reaches of civilization."

 

[Alistair Wren]

Throwing a plate of armour aside, Alistair dried his wet hands on his robes, the rose gold embroidery fraying. He knelt down and got a better look of the man, who was handsome, but his features were weathered and exhausted from travel and his once preened hair caked with mud and reeds. As Alistair reached down to undo another strap, he saw the man's hand reach for his dagger and the mage immediately jumped back, his fighting instinct overcoming him.

"Hey, it's okay, I'm going to help you," hands held out, he spoke sternly.

"No need to stick me with your blade!" Navy eyes wide, Alistair shook his head and gripped the edges of his hood, pulling it over his head.

The man then thanked him and Alistair relaxed his shoulders, sighing with relief. Grabbing the hems of his long sleeves, he shoved them into the belt around his waist and walked up to the man. He gathered up sticks as he walked and set them by the bank where the man was sitting, where he continued to help him out of his armor.

"They turned their blades on you..." chin cupped, Alistair thought to himself. Walking to the water, he grabbed a cloth from the sash around his waist, soaked it and wrung it out, then pressed it gently against the man's wound to clean away any muck and grass. Pressing his hand gently against his side, he cleaned away the dirty, then shoved it in the water again and rinsed off the blood. He grabbed a disinfecting potion from his belt, pulled out the cork and soaked the rag in it's contents.

"Had these men shown any signs of mutiny before, or was the attack totally random?" Alistair asked, dabbing the rag against the man's wound. Holding out a hand, he uttered a healing spell to enhance the effects of the potion.

"Covet what has been torn, sew it with new life," he sung, his voice gentle and soothing. Moving his hand around in a circular motion, he fed healthy, natural energy into the man's wound, cleansing it off possible infections.

Withdrawing his hand, Alistair rinsed the rag in the river, wrung it out and shoved it back in his belt. Extending a hand, he offered the man his arm. The air grew colder, so they would need to get a fire going soon.

"Had their behavior been getting stranger in the days leading up to the attack?" A straight eyebrow creased, Alistair tapped a finger against his chin as he mused on the possible cause for the man's comrades attacking him.

"My name's Alistair Wren, by the way, what's yours?" He asked, his cheeks denting with dimples as he smiled.

"I'll get a fire going and then we'll finish healing you up," he said.

Yves Oudin

 

[Gylfi Runarsson]

The mage’s method of healing was gentle, far from the rough manner of the Proctors from The Academy. The wound stung as he dabbed some disinfectant on it. It stung more as it was enhanced by magic. Yves however, showed no indication of feeling the stinging. Pain was like breathing to him. He was numb to it, especially to such an insignificant cut.

He closely watched the mage work, pale blue eyes focused on every movement the man made.

“No, it was spontaneous. Clearly, it was not a premeditated attack. They were unresponsive.” After a brief pause, he nodded. “I suspect a spell of sorts. Perhaps a hex, or curse. I am no expert, so I cannot speak with certainty.”

Then, the man offered his arm. Yves stared for a moment, then grabbed Alistair’s forearm. He stood, assisted by the mage. He now stood straight, and peered down on the mage. Alistair was tall. Yves often pictured scholarly men being short of stature. Incredibly tall and broad-shouldered, with muscles under his armor, appearing as if they were woven with metallic fiber, Yves was the ideal knight by appearance only.

“Yves Oudin,” He said. It was often unwise for a Dreadlord to reveal their identity to a stranger, but Yves did not care.

He approached the bank, knelt, and cupped water into his hands. He splashed it on his face, ran wet fingers through his hair, and then continued the cycle until his skin and hair were free of mud.

He then stood, and turned back to Alistair, who had began to collect firewood. Yves aided in this.

“You seemed... Speculative of the nature of my soldiers. Have you an idea?”

 

[Alistair Wren]

As Alistair dabbed the man's wound, he did not seem to notice the sting of the disinfecting potion against his exposed flesh. He was hard, like a Knight from Vel Anir who had trained in combat his whole life, Alistair could tell. Taking a clean rag from his robe, he soaked it in more disinfectant and held it against the wound, pressing down to apply pressure, while he waved his hand around the area in a circular motion.

"Roots of the world and the sun which grows them, bestow upon thee life," Alistair sung, the lyrics of the chant soothing.

Feeding the healing elements of the sun into the wound, he cleansed it of potential infection. Tendrils of blue dripped off his fingers, seeping into the cut. As it drank up the mage's power, the man's skin began to close. Eyelids lowering, Alistair pressed his hand against the cut, applying more pressure as it healed. As he worked, the man described the attack that had left him injured.

"Spontaneous, not a pre-determined attack and the soldiers did not respond to your commands," Alistair narrowed his eyes as he spoke, his voice gentle and contemplative, as though he was drifting off and losing himself in thought. Hand against the rag, he fed more of the healing energy of the sun into the wound. Once the bleeding had stopped, he removed the rag and rinsed it out in the river.

Wringing it out, he tucked it into the sash around his waist and continued to help the man walk. He grabbed his arm, quite fiercely and leaned against him with all his strength. Alistair was thin, but he was not small and helped him walk with only a little difficulty. The man, who had introduced himself as Yves, was by bound with muscle by a stark comparison to the skinny mage. The river Wda rushed behind them, hills spanning beyond its bank. Trudging through the grass, Alistair helped the man walk to a small clearing, where he had been gathering sticks to make a fire.

Once Yves had given himself a once over with the water from the river, he started to help Alistair collect sticks and wood.

The sleeves of his robes tucked into the small belt around his waist, Alistair bundled up twigs and held them in the upper layer of robes, holding it like a pouch. As he did so, Yves asked about his thoughts on the attack.

Sticks in his arm, Alistair carried them into the middle of the clearing and set them down, sighing in satisfaction as he did so. He brushed his hands and dove into the big, string bag he always carried with him. He grabbed a spellbook, decorated in filigree and bound with golden clasps. Splaying a hand in the air, Alistair levitated the book above his palm and flicked a finger, undoing the clasp. As the book floated down and rested in his palm, he waved a hand, throwing the pages into a flurry. They flew to a section on curses used to turn people and animals to commit acts of violence, even towards their own.

"Yes, as I suspected," chin cupped, he looked down and read the first line of the pages, muttering to himself as he translated the runic script in his mind, "your soldiers must have been affected by a curse which causes mutinous behavior in people towards their own comrades and family," he spoke sternly, like a Professor of the Elbion college far beyond his years.

"There's been trouble of evil magic in this area as of late," slamming the book shut, Alistair stroked his chin and spoke accusingly, his anger rising at the thought of mages who used their craft to hurt people.

"That's the only thing that could explain the behavior of your men," he turned around and said, facing Yves, "they were very loyal to you, weren't they? Would never turn against you?" He asked, an eyebrow raised.

"The curse is most potent when the relationship between the curse and those they turn is strong," he nodded. Placing the book on the grass, Alistair continued to pick up sticks and place them in a little pile in the center of the clearing.

"I'll finish the healing process, then I'll cast a ward to protect us both from the curse," he said, throwing down a stick.

Yves Oudin

 

[Gylfi Runarsson]

Yves gathered firewood and prepared tinder for the pit in silence, listening while Alistair thunk aloud. He felt uneasy, with the thought of being indebted to the mage in the back of his mind. He heeded the way Alistair moved, how his actions were natural and smooth. The Dreadlord watched as Alistair handled the book, magically holding and navigating its pages. He continued observing as the mage appeared to have found the correct page, and began to read and mutter.

He listened as Alistair spoke his thoughts. At first, his tone was flat as he proposed his hypothesis. Yves noticed the subtle change in tone and body language as he proposed the presence of "evil magic". The book thud shut, and Yves thought that the frustration must have been quite deep for the mage to treat the book so roughly.

Then, the question was asked to Yves. Very loyal? Would never turn against him? Don't be ridiculous. If they were in their right minds, they would never presume to take such actions. It was merely impossible to best him, given the confrontation was relatively straight-forward. That aside, fear and respect kept the soldiers in line. Overwhelming fear of the Dreadlord's capabilities and deeds.

He nodded to Alistair and skillfully responded to the inquiry, "Of course. Given that their sanity is resolute, they would never normally turn on me."

He nodded again, "You're kind."

The healing was actually appreciated. The ward, while a noble gesture, was unnecessary as such a curse would most likely not affect Yves. Over a decade of training, which was more akin to torture, saw that magic of a psychological nature would do little harm to the Dreadlords. The ward, however, would make doubly sure that Yves' mind remained secure.

 

[Alistair Wren]

Delving into his string bag, Alistair grabbed a few pieces of parchment that he had been using to write spells that didn't work, then threw them on the fire. Yves said nothing as he prepared tinder, which made Alistair feel that he was uneasy. He couldn't blame him, a fearsome warrior such as himself would never leave himself to the guidance of a mage, but in this case, he had no choice.

Alistair found it somewhat empowering.

Picking up a rock, he struck it above the fire and set the tinder alight. The parchment caught fire and they soon had a nice, little fire going. Warming his hands above the flames, he pulled his robes out of the sash around his waist and took a stick, waving it in the flames.

Yves affirmed that is men were indeed loyal to no end, and sound of mind. Nodding, Alistair leaned out and waved a hand above his wound, preparing to complete the healing process.

"Then I believe a curse is at bay, we will need to uncover the source and break it," the young mage spoke assuredly, then paused, "I fear we may have to cut down any cursed swordsman who come our way," speaking regretfully, Alistair shook his head. If they were attacked by anybody who was cursed, they would have no choice but to cut down those who were affected, as they would stop at nothing to kill them until the curse was broken for good.

"Now, hold still," Alistair warned, holding the flame above Yves' wound. He sealed it shut and used the flames to purify the flesh. Hand held out, he fed the healing energy of the sun through the flames and began to sing.

"Fire of the sun and the heat by which it sears, purify what is marred," the words dripped off his tongue like a honey mead. Waving a hand, he sent the flames into a frenzy. They turned blue and green, cauterizing the wound with the healthy, renewing energy of Alistair's spell. Withdrawing his hand, he threw the stick into the fire and stood back, satisfied with a job well done. Brushing his hands, he walked around to the log, picked up his spellbook and sat down.

"Your wound is healed, now you would do well to rest to speed up the process," Alistair nodded, speaking sternly, "eat, and drink lots of water," he said.

When Yves said that Alistair was kind, he merely looked down and smiled. The gentle hand of a college mage was not something a warrior of Vel Anir was used to and Alistair imagined that Yves had not been treated with such kindness for a long while.

"Thank you, Yves, I'm glad I could help you," he smiled.

Yves Oudin

 

[Gylfi Runarsson]

The way Alistair so sternly advised Yves was entertaining. This seemingly meek man, speaking to him like that. It was clear he genuinely cared about aiding Yves, a stranger. "Keen advice," He said and began to fuss with his armor. He laid out each piece and even stripped himself of his shirt, for it had been soaked through. He hung the clothes he removed on a nearby branch.

His body was impressively muscular, so much so that his physique could be mistaken for a statue carved from marble. Tainting the Dreadlord's stunning anatomy were countless scars. Slashes from swords, burns... Almost every conceivable way of being damaged, he had experienced it. Many were a result of "lessons" taught at The Academy. Rarer were the scars Yves actually earned from battle. He turned his back to Alistair to adjust the clothes on the branch. His back was covered with long scars, clearly from lashes.

When Yves sat again, he did so close to the fire. He stared into the warmth with a contemplative expression.

"You intend on coming with me, then?" He looked up from the flame with a stoic expression, "You say we would have to fight my soldiers. Cut them down."

He thought of the young man he once was. Kind. Considerate of others. Perhaps he would have been a man like Alistair if his family hadn't handed him over to the Dreadlords.

Yves nodded as if confirming his own thoughts.

"You need not stain your hands," His pale blue eyes seemed to stare right through the mage. After a long silence, he looked back at the flame, "We should leave soon, venture upriver. We were breaking camp as my men turned on me. Perhaps there is still something there."

 

[Alistair Wren]

Throwing the stick back in the fire, Alistair's lips twitched, his eyelids lowering with fatigue. He had expended a good amount of energy healing Yves and now he needed rest. Trudging backwards, he yawned and lapped his lips, his throat parched from dehydration. By the time he turned around, Yves had stripped to the waist and hung his shirt on a tree.

Alistair's eyes widened, but he didn't protest.

Grabbing his water flask, he quickly ducked down the river, filled it and took a good, long gulp, the healing process having drained the fluid from him. The flask in hand, he walked back up the back and sat on the log, swaying slightly. He pulled his hood over his head and blinked, noticing the brutal amount of cuts and wounds from the lash covering Yves' body. He was humbled slightly. Mouth agape, he withdrew and took another gulp from the flask.

Yves sat down and and asked if Alistair would be coming with him, to which the young mage nodded.

"Certainly," he said, his voice broken slightly. Reciting the incantations had exhausted his vocal cords and he was struggling to speak.

When Yves asked if they would have to cut down his soldiers, Alistair sighed. Brow creased, he looked away with regret.

"If they attack us and the curse is not yet broken, I'm afraid so, as they would only kill us if we try to restrain them instead," Alistair shook his head, his voice sorrowful. He hated the idea of Yves having to cut down his own men, but knew they would only fall to their mercy at the will of the curse if they simply ran, or tried to restrain them. Slumping his shoulders, Alistair sighed, took a drink of water and wiped his face on his sleeve.

"Agreed," Alistair nodded, "but I must eat and drink first, as I may succumb to the effect of my spells if I cast again," rising to his feet, he poked the fire with a stick and turned around. While he may faint or convulse, the price wouldn't be fatal, but Alistair needed sustenance and rest to revive his strength before he was to cast again.

"Then I will cast a ward to protect us both from the curse and we will head upriver," he said, eyes bleary and threw the stick in the fire.

Yves Oudin

 

[Gylfi Runarsson]

Yves nodded, understanding the situation.

"My men are well-trained knights, each one a survivor of some battlefield," He informed Alistair, "It would be in our best interest to avoid a direct confrontation. However, should a battle occur, you need only rely on me."

There was no arrogance in his tone. His confidence was delivered in the same way a professor delivering a lecture; he spoke assuredly as if stating a mere fact.

He sat close to the fire and leaned back on his palms. It was chilly, but the sun broke through the canopy above and shone down on Yves. He closed his eyes, the warmth from the sun soothing his chilled body.

"If our supplies remained intact, there will be food at our camp." His eyes remained closed, and he let out a deep sigh. "How long would you need?"

 

[Alistair Wren]

Sitting with his feet apart, Alistair rested his wrists on his thighs and nodded in return. He raised the water flask to his lips, drank a few mouthfuls and flung it down, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his robe. Yves clearly knew his men better than Alistair did and would know best what to do if they were confronted by them. Blinking, Alistair and opened his mouth to speak.

"You have a..." his vocal cords seemed to cancel and his voice shortened out, releasing only a slur. Alistair closed his eyes, swallowed and took a breath, "you have a better understanding of your soldiers than me, if you feel that we should avoid them directly, that is what we shall do," he said, pouring effort into every word.

"But if a conflict is unavoidable, I trust in your skills, you just leave the curse to me," he nodded.

Hydrated and rested, he was ready to leave. Attaching his flask to his belt, he rose to his feet and warmed his hands against the fire, then turned to face Yves.

"I am ready to leave," he said, plainly, yet confidently, "I will cast the ward at the cost of my voice, but it should regather by the time we arrive at the camp," withdrawing his hands from the fire, he rubbed them, grabbed his charm from within his robes and kissed it.

"By the force which turns the earth, protect us," he began.

Yves Oudin

 

[Gylfi Runarsson]

Yves rose as Alistair did. As he warmed himself by the fire, the Dreadlord began to dress himself. The shirt was still quite wet. It did not take long for him to dress himself in the clothes he removed, and to don his armor.

As Alistair began to recite the incantation, Yves kicked the fire pit, scattering the charred wood. He then kicked loose dirt over the smoldering pit, effectively killing the fire.

After the ward was cast, the two began the walk upriver. Yves was silent, constantly scanning their surroundings. The soft dirt gave under his boots with each step he took. The chilling air seemed to bite at his skin. His cropped hair, usually styled in a neat manner, was a mess and strands loosely hung over his forehead. He occasionally looked over his shoulder at Alistair, who did well in keeping up with Yves' stride.

They continued on for a while, almost an hour of walking up a very minor incline.

"The river carried me quite far, eh?" He called out, though knew he would not receive an answer. Soon after, a ridge above the river came into sight. Yves casually raised his right arm, hand curled up in a fist, level with his shoulder. A signal to stop, commonly used by soldiers.

"Our camp was up the ridge," He said, quietly so only Alistair could hear, "We should circle around where it is not so steep, then make our way up."

 

[Alistair Wren]

"Encase us within the breadth of the sun's rays and expel the urge to slay kin or comrade," the charm in hand, Alistair spoke through it, casting a protective barrier around Yves and himself. Two fingers outstretched, he melded the barrier from the positive energy of the sun, preventing any ill-will from either, "drive it out," he splayed his hand and threw it down. Blue and green erupted from his palm, erecting the ward around Yves and himself.

Throat parched, Alistair coughed, his voice having been spent at the cost of his spell.

"L..." he began, his vocal cords cutting out, "let's go," he swallowed, took a breath and said. Nodding, took a gulp from his water flask and slung it around his shoulder. He attached his spellbook to his belt and shoved his charm into his robes, then followed Yves along the bank of the river.

Clutching his robes, Alistair picked up his pace as Yves strode along, already a few meters in front. He puffed and panted as he darted up beside him, the foot of the hill in sight. The river tumbled over into a waterfall, gushing and bubbling as it split the plains on either side, their grassy faces spanning for miles. Spellbook hanging off his belt, the young mage walked briskly, keen, alert and ready for another adventure. Few words were exchanged between Yves and himself for the first hour or so, until they reached the waterfall, which Yves could have fallen down had Alistair not seen him.

Alistair opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. His throat clammed up, his vocal seeming to shut down. Breathing in, he exhaled, regretting that he would have to rest his voice.

Yves stopped all of a sudden, a hand raised. Almost tumbling over the incline, Alistair stopped beside, eyes wide and alert, fixed on the plain below. The smoke of Yves' camp teared from between the hills. When Yves said that they should turn around the ridge, where it wasn't as steep, Alistair simply nodded. The cries of soldiers sounded in the distance, accompanied by the clash of blades. Alistair recoiled into his capelet, crouched down and crept silently around the ridge.

Yves Oudin

 

[Gylfi Runarsson]

The two made their way up the ridge where the gradient wasn't so steep. Yves was hunched over, hands placed on the soft dirt to help maintain balance as his first few steps up the slope were unstable. He could hear the commotion and looked over his shoulder at Alistair with a blank expression.

They arrived at the top of the hill and were able to look down on the camp. It was an absolute mess. Corpses rested in the grass, and supplies were strewn about the camp. Some tents stood untouched, while others were either partially or completely broken. Most of the horses they brought had scattered, yet some laid dead. The wagons had remained mostly untouched.

He let out a contemplative sigh as he watched the remnants of his men clash. Some wore plate, while others donned lighter armor. Yves knelt down and counted seven men and thirteen corpses.

"That's all of them. We could wait for the fighting to conclude?" He mused out loud, then turned to the mage and gave him a shrug. "Seven men is a trifle. If you need the camp clear to begin searching for the curse's source, I could go."

Curses were briefly taught at The Academy, but Yves was far from the scholarly type. He never pursued the subject and was therefore quite ignorant regarding it. Truly, he was a born combatant, caring little about anything aside from improving his own strength.

 

[Alistair Wren]

Clutching his robes, Alistair pulled his feet forward as he followed Yves up the ridge. Once he reached the top, Alistair crouched down beside him and raised a hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun. Squinting, he beheld the devastated camp. The bodies of Yves' men littered the grass, its blades soaked in blood. From his perch behind the ridge, Alistair heard the enraged cries of soldiers and their blades as they clashed together.

The young mage gulped. Reaching around, he grabbed his water flask and downed what remained inside. At Yves' question, he creased his brow and breathed in, regretting that he needed to decide between Yves' slaughtering his comrades, or letting them kill each other. Alistair didn't like decisions like these, especially when none of the outcomes for the parties involved were pleasant. If they let the fighting cease before going, there would be a chance of survivors, who would then go looking for anybody outside the camp.

They had a better chance of getting to the source of the curse swiftly and breaking it, if the camp was clear.

Swallowing, Alistair took a breathed and coughed, clearing his throat. He tried to speak, but couldn't, although this time it wasn't because of the price he had paid he had paid for his magic.

"Go," he uttered, "I'll cast a spell to locate the source of the curse," hands folded on the grass, he shuffled backwards and stood.

"But it will only detect it once there are no victims within the spell's range," brushing down the front of his robes, he walked past Yves and turned to face him, his sapphire eyes creased with regret. Breathing in, he huffed, shaking slightly with anger at the thought of the dark mage who had done this. Detaching his spellbook from his belt, he flicked through to the section of the curse and ran his finger down the page, muttering as he read the spell for detecting the source of such a curse.

"I need you to clear the camp, Yves," closing the book, Alistair looked up and spoke, his tone sad, "I'm sorry," the book closed on his fingers, he hung his head. With two many sources within the spell's range, it couldn't detect the primary source until all the affected victims were dead.

"Some mages..." angry, Alistair creased his brow and hissed beneath his breath.

Yves Oudin

 

[Gylfi Runarsson]

Yves was aware of how making Alistair decide the fate of living men could be difficult. However, he was the one with a knowledge of curses. Yves would merely act with the mage's convenience in mind. The Dreadlord sought to quickly resolve this situation. He noticed how the choices bothered the astute younger man, how his face reflected his emotions.

Yves felt nothing as he watched the mage suffer the decision.

Alistair attempted to locate the source of the curse with the attempt having no effect. Having no other choice than to take the lives of those seven men, Yves gave the mage an understanding nod.

I'm sorry. The words repeated in the Dreadlord's head. He opened his mouth to speak, yet refrained from doing so. What he had to say would certainly fall upon disapproving ears.

"So be it," He said casually, rising to tower above the crouching mage, "It shan't last long."

He strode down the slope of the hill towards the camp. The woodland was sparse, and the camp had been erected in a large clearing and on fairly even ground. Yves' armor loudly clacked as he took each step, creating a sense of foreboding as each subtle movement of his body was deliberate. As he reached the base of the hill and began to approach the camp's perimeter, he thought how no matter where he was at, it always seemed as if one person or another was directing him to take the lives of others.

Not that he had qualms in regards to killing. The reluctance to kill was quite literally beaten out of young Apprentices very early in The Academy.

As the battling became louder, Yves pushed any unnecessary thoughts out of his mind. He could feel as with each step, his foot would slightly sink into the earth. The breeze nipped at his exposed skin. The sounds of metal clashing rang in his ears.

His confident saunter became a light jog as he approached the center of the camp, where the majority of the fighting took place. As he approached, the soldiers stopped the fighting, and all turned their heads towards Yves as if all at once they identified their actual target. He jogged with his weight on his toes, somewhat bouncing with every step as the first soldier mindlessly charged forward, arms raised overhead preparing for a large strike with his sword. As the blade came down, Yves reached up to seize the soldier's wrists and caught the swing well before it had come down on him. Swiftly, he unsheathed the dagger from the man's belt and drove it under the soldier's chin. He dragged the knife down from under the man's chin and down the front of his neck, and twisted his wrist mid-way only to swing the knife out sideways, severing the carotid and jugular as the knife exited.

A brilliant spray of blood coated the side of Yves' face and chest, and the body limply crumpled to the earth. With the knife held backward in his hand, he faced up three soldiers as they charged. The rest were close behind. Thin wisps of countless sparkling particles seemed to form above Yves' shoulders. In a flash of silvery-blue light, the particles formed into spectral swords, one for each of the three men that faced the Dreadlord. Yves' posture straightened, and he casually strode towards them. He gauged the distance.

Ten paces, nine paces, eight, seven- The swords flew outwards, appearing simply as bright silver streaks, and impaled each of the men through the center of their chests. As if the men were immaterial, the swords effortlessly passed through them, flesh and bone offering no resistance to the impressive conjuration of blades that Yves created. They dropped to the earth, dead before they even entered striking range.

Yves felt no remorse in killing the men, he only felt a pang of regret that such useful soldiers went to such a waste. If they had been in their right minds, he knew that the task he faced would have been no mere trifle. He approached the remaining three men, stepping over the corpses of those he felled without so much as a batted eye. Two wore heavy plate, covered in head to toe with impressively forged Anirian steel. The last was protected by boiled leather.

The lightly armored one was the first to charge. With a mere wave of his hand, three incorporeal swords drove into the man's torso, leaving gaping holes in his midsection. As they passed through him, they dissolved away, glowing particles spreading and disappearing in the air.

He faced down the two armored knights, lowering his posture and bringing his hands up close to his chest. They charged him simultaneously, and Yves dashed in to meet them. One swung overhead to meet Yves, but his low posture allowed him to catch the swing and turn his body, pulling the knight over his back and flipping the soldier onto the blood-soaked dirt. Hearing the clacking of the plate behind him, he swiftly turned to face the other knight. As he turned, reflexes seized him as the flash of a blade invaded the periphery of his vision. He ducked and swayed his torso under the horizontal slash. When he rose, his left palm rose upwards, grasping the front of the knight's helmet. Yves pushed the knight forward and slipped his left leg behind the knight's, tripping him. As his back hit, Yves collapsed on the man and drove the point of the knife through the narrow slit on the helmet's visor. He felt as razor-sharp iron met the resistance of the man's eye, and felt the blade scrape along the eye socket. His body ceased all movement, and Yves sharply rose. He turned on his heel to face the other knight who was rising from a kneeling position. With a great bound, Yves closed the distance between the two and planted a foot against the man's chest, sending him back down. In a similar fashion, Yves again threw himself onto the solider, but this time cranked his arms many times against the knight's neck, each stab sending a spurt of blood into the air.

After killing the last soldier, he left the knife buried completely in the corpse's neck. He laid a palm on the body's chest and used it to push himself to his feet. Strands of hair hung down above his brows, and he took a moment to catch his breath. His face possessed a healthy glow from the sweat he worked up.

He then faced the hilltop where Alistair waited, and beckoned him down.

 

[Alistair Wren]

Alistair watched from afar. Crouched behind the ridge, he clutched his spellbook to his chest and stared, mouth agape at Yves' brutal display of magic. The young now knew he wasn't an ordinary knight, but a dreadlord of Vel Anir, the rivals to Alistair's kin back at the Elbion college. Hugging the book, he breathed up and down, but dared not look away, the ends of mouth pulled down as watched the bodies of the soldiers fall.

Breathing in, Alistair shook his head and regained his focus. Sputtering, he flicked through the spellbook for the page on the curse. He found it, ran his hand down the mage and coughed, clearing his throat. There were a few spells in the book that were designed to detect such a curse, but he decided to apply his own runes. Closing the book, he shut its clasps and attached it to his belt, then whipped out his charm from his robes and held it to his lips, kissing it.

Hood drawn over his features, Alistair stood on the top of the hill and held out a hand. Palm splayed in the air, he extended his arm over the camp, the charm dangling in his other hand as he held it to the side.

"Scripture of thy mutinous hex, hollow out thy breadth and direct me," he chanted, tendrils of blue and green dripping off his fingers. Deducing the runic script that made up the curse, he fed energy through the transcriptions which weaved it, sending a signal out to the source. The energy from his fingers turned black once it had detected it's presence and surged forward, spiraling through the bodies at Yves' feet. As they died, the black energy regathered, to abandon the bodies and seek out the primary source.

"Unveil the bed in which this wicked form wallows," thrusting out a hand, Alistair belted the verse, his clear and smooth voice carrying over the hills. The energy surged, forming a spear which pierced the camp, directing towards the source of the soldier's mutinous rage, "lead us," Alistair sung, gradually lowering his hand.

The glow of the charm dulled, growing darker as the source of the curse drew near. Snatching it up, Alistair shoved it back into his robe and darted forward. He raced down the hill, almost tumbling over his own feet as he ran to where Yves was standing.

Puffing and panting, he stopped at the foot of the hill when he beheld the bodies. Recoiling, he swallowed, held back and stepped over them. Grabbing the edges of his hood, he pulled it over his head and strode up to Yves, a look of forlorn regret on his features. A hand held over his heart, he lowered his head at the sight of the men, his brow creasing as he looked at Yves. He had not expected him to use magic to kill the men, even if it had been necessary. Head rising, Alistair glared, his straight eyebrows furrowed as he beheld Yves with scorn.

"You're a Dreadlord," he stated.

A pause followed. Turning back around, Alistair slumped his shoulders and sighed, mopping a layer of sweat from his forehead as he did so.

"I knew you had to kill them, I just..." His voice trailed off, "didn't expect you to use magic," rubbing his arm, Alistair looked up and glared, his chest heaving up and down. He had expended a good amount of energy detecting the curse.

Reaching into his robe, Alistair grabbed his charm, which was still glowing. The sapphire at its' center darkened, turning black the closer they got to the curse's source. It lay in his palm, glowing a similar colour to his eyes.

 

[Gylfi Runarsson]

Alistair was an honest, innocent man. The way he fearlessly glared at the Dreadlord was impressive, as most were fearful of the simple mentioning of one. Yved gave the mage an affirmatory nod, "I am."

He produced a handkerchief from a pouch on his belt. It was damp, but he wiped the blood from his face with it despite that. He watched Alistair with cold, unfeeling eyes as the younger man voiced... Regret? Disapproval? Regardless of the emotion behind the words, Yves had no desire to respond.

"The source," He was now wiping his hands with the handkerchief, the white fabric now stained red, "Have you discovered it?"

 

[Alistair Wren]

Alistair glared. Hands curled into fists, his nails dug into his palms as Yves confirmed his statement. Magic should never be used for combative purposes. That's what swords were for. To fashion the complicated and intricate art of magic into a weapon of war was sacrilege, a bastardization of an academic discipline. There was no more response from Yves' beyond a cold stare, one which bore a hole in the mage's fair complexion.

Yves wiped the blood off his face. Unfurling his fist, Alistair released a breath, his shoulders slumping as he sighed. As much as he detested Yves' practice and everything he stood for, he remained a person who needed his help.

"The mages at the college are going to kill me," brow creased, Alistair sputtered, "I helped a dreadlord!" Raising his hands, he clasped his hair and shook his head, revealing that he was indeed, a mage of the Elbion college.

Standing at his full height, Alistair sighed. There was a pause and Yves asked if Alistair had located the source of the curse.

"Yes," was all he said.

Reaching into his robe, he procured the charm. Hand splayed, it lay in his palm, the sapphire at the centre turning black. Waggling a hand, he pointed to the camp behind Yves and strode forward, his feet moving quickly and intently.

"This way," Alistair said, the charm in his hand. His features shrouded by his hood, he lead Yves through the camp, the gem in the charm growing darker as the spell honed in on the curse's source. He stepped over bodies, a hand outstretched as he combed the air for its' presence. The light of sun unveiled it, leading him to the body of a soldier on the outskirts of the camp, one which Yves' had killed when they had first attacked him.

The charm was black now. Hand spread out, Alistair lapped up the air, tasting the foul sensation of the curse in the breeze by which it spoke.

Picking up his stride, he ran over to the soldier, the charm in his hand. He darted across the grass and landed beside him, knelt down and felt the air surrounding his body. Eyes closed, he spoke to the wind, which lead his hand to the soldier's wrist guard. He was only wearing one, and it was a black metal, carved with runes. Muttering aloud to himself, Alistair detached the wrist guard and stood, turning it over in his hands. The charm then turned back to it's usual colour of brilliant, dark blue.

"This wrist guard is imbued with the curse, your comrade here must have bought it from a dark mage," eyes brightening as he looked at inner side of the wrist guard, Alistair read the runes.

"He became affected once he put it on and brought the curse into your camp," Alistair observed aloud, analyzing the runes as he spoke. Chin cupped, he turned the wrist guard over in his hands. Yves and himself were lucky for the ward he had cast, or else they could have been cursed as well. Features shrouded by his hood, he turned around to face Yves, the wrist guard in his hand.

"I will need to perform a rite to destroy the properties of the curse, but we should find an inn, it's getting late," he nodded.

The sun sank over the hills, it's rays disappearing behind the banks of the river Wda. The rays reflected in the blood of the soldiers, it's surface glassy. Exhausted from casting, Alistair yawned. His robes billowed beneath the breeze, its' voice whistling through the grass.

 

[Gylfi Runarsson]

Yves wryly smiled at the young mage, “It is not often I come across an individual that fears scholars more than a Dreadlord.”

Their reputations certainly preceded them. Yves had no choice when the Proctors carried him from his family’s estate. And what is a hammer to do when it’s told to view the world as a nail? The older of the pair was a well-honed human weapon, far from the likes of the innocent, caring mage in front of him.

He followed as Alistair guided him to the source. It was the quickest that Yves recalled the scholar ever moving, but expended little effort in keeping up with his brisk movements.

His lips thinned as Alistair explained the gauntlet and the effect it had on the soldiers. The corpse laid flat on his chest. What a fool. Most likely swayed by honeyed words, the type that promised benefits of an enchanted piece of gear.

Yves let out a sigh, “Can you not dispel it here? I’d rather not bring this around others, with the risk that strangers will attack us. I may be a Dreadlord, but even I find murdering patrons of an inn distasteful.”

 

[Alistair Wren]

At Yves' remark, Alistair lowered his head and smirked, the wrist guard in his hand. It wasn't that he feared Yves himself less than the mages at the college, it was more that he feared education possibly being affected by helping a dreadlord.

"I don't fear the mages at the academy, I fear them penalizing my grades if they find out I helped a dreadlord," he rolled his eyes slightly.

"Oh bugger, I'll probably have to take an extra unit of elemental magic! Oh fuck," throwing down his hands, he kicked the dirt and cursed.

It was nothing compared to what Yves' would face when the Archon found out that he had to rely on an Elbion mage for help. The thought pressed Alistair and he recoiled, his features softening. The wrist guard in hand, he turned around to face Yves, who expressed his concern about taking the gauntlet into an inn. The ends of his mouth rising, Alistair batted the air with his hand in dismissal.

"Don't worry, the curse only takes affect once somebody puts the gauntlet on, then they're the first one to be cursed, from there, it spreads," he explained, splaying his hand against the air to convey the properties of the curse spreading from one person to the other.

It was perfectly safe to take it into an inn. Slumping his shoulders, Alistair sighed. He was spent, his connection to the sun and the world dulled with the energy he had conjured for them. He needed to rest, and replenish himself. Wrapping the gauntlet in a cloth, he attached it to his belt and walked past Yves, his features shrouded by his hood.

"We can take into an inn without anybody being affected, don't worry," he shook his head, speaking reassuringly.

"But I must rest, I have expended much energy today and need to replenish my connection to the sun and the world if I am to cast again," he sighed, nodding with emphasis.

"The gauntlet will be safe with us, and I will dispel the curse from it tomorrow," an assuring nod and Alistair closed his eyes, sighing with exhaustion.

 

[Gylfi Runarsson]

"Extra unit of elemental magic..." Yves echoes, his voice lacking emotion, "That would be awful."

Yves quickly understood the workings of the curse from Alistair's explanation, though the concept was simple enough. Nor was the Dreadlord a fool. He also noticed how tired the young mage looked, though he did not remark on it.

"Good," He said, quietly, "It's best to avoid any unnecessary conflicts."

He was constantly scanning the surroundings, all while thinking he'd like to wring the neck of the fool that compromised his mission. The Dreadlord had no choice but to continue alone after separating from the mage.

"You may lead this time."

 

[Alistair Wren]

When Yves remarked about how awful having to take another unit of elemental magic would be, Alistair laughed. The gauntlet in hands, he wrapped it up in a cloth and attached it to his belt, smirking as he walked past Yves.

"I only hope Maho Sparhawk is my professor, then it may at least be tolerable," he said, the ends of his mouth kinking upwards as he smiled, his cheeks dented with dimples.

Still, it was better than anything Yves might face from the Archon when he found out he had relied on an Elbion mage for help. Brow creased, Alistair swallowed the thought, a pang of guilt weighing on his chest. Now that they had discovered where the curse was coming from, Alistair could destroy the source and use the gauntlet to trace its creator, but the sun was sinking and both of them needed to rest, especially Alistair, who had used up a good deal of magical energy.

Weary and parched, he yawned, the tips of his fingers numb. He could feel his connection to the sun and earth fading, the grass feeling sharp and the sun looking grey.

He would need to perform a rite to replenish his connection to them, or else what he conjured would be drawn from himself. At Yves' mention of avoiding conflict, Alistair nodded in agreement.

"Don't worry, I would not have you bloody your hand again if I can help it, I would never put the lives of innocents at stake," Alistair shook his head, walking back up the hill where they had come from.

Another nod to Yves, and the mage walked on. They piled the corpses and burnt them, then left the camp and headed in the direction of an inn along the bank of the river. The sun set and by the time they arrived, the night had birthed a young moon.

The End​