Private Tales Scions & Sinners

[Valkanthrandilax]

Few would-be burglars survived the bitterly cold Eretejva, much less managed to scale the frozen crags and mountains that held one of the hidden entrances to the dragon’s lair. Fewer still would have been able to see through the veils carefully placed over each possible entrance, delicate enchantments weaved by an archmage over many long weeks. The thief—or thieves—evaded every trap, magical and mundane, and took from the dragon a single piece from his collection of artifacts and treasures. An unusual choice after all the effort it must have taken to reach Valkanthrandilax’s home, but the intrusion and theft were enough to send the dragon into a murderous rage when he discovered it.

And he was so hellbent on slaughtering them and taking back what was his that he crossed half of Arethil to find them. Following traces of magical residue, where portal stones couldn’t take him, his wings did. The drake followed the lofty mountains of the Spine, nearly as familiar to him as those of the freezing Eretejva, and found himself approaching Campania from the north under the cover of night, with only moonlight and starlight illuminating his ashen black scales and wings. His form, however, was not his natural one, but shrunk and contorted into the shape of a draconian.

Sunlight bathed the horizon in pink, orange, and purple as Valkanthrandilax landed in front of the gate of some backwater village. That he chose to do so instead of simply swooping over the meager wall was, he hoped, a clear signal that he was no threat. Obsidian talons crunched frosted grass underfoot, and his breath turned to mist in the chilly air. His wings draped around him like a cloak. He sent a letter ahead of time, alluding to his scant findings on an enigmatic cult, one that may have already been of interest to a quaint little kingdom called Gild.

Though he was a spindly thing, all long legs and tail and neck, Valkan still towered over any ordinary human. Even the native Gildan ogres were not much taller than him in this form, though they would’ve been able to overpower him in a contest of strength. However, if he had to guess, it wasn’t the form he took that would potentially draw the ire of the Gildans, but the runes aglow with magic. Valkanthrandilax and Gild had a mutual enemy, though, and he gambled on them recognizing that.

The draconian raised his head, and a sharp whistle pierced the still morning air. If guards hadn’t already seen his arrival, they would have heard it.

Marta Maisal

 

[Marta Maisal]

GILD
THE TEMPLE OF THE EVERBURNING FLAME​

"What is it?" said Priest Madrissal.

"A trap," said Priest Farajal.

"No," said Marta Maisal, "I do not believe it to be so."

The three clergy of the Church of Jura stood in the office chambers of Priest Madrissal. He had been the one to receive the mysterious letter, dutifully turned in to the Church by a city gate guard. The three of them had read over it together, each coming to their own conclusion: Madrissal being puzzled, though intrigued; Farajal being the more pessimistic and cautious of the trio; and Marta, seeing in the arrival of the letter an echo of the Westlurch Pass incident, the most open to the straightforward validity of the message.

Confidently, she said, "It is no mere accident that this letter has come at this particular time, that it contains within it the same baleful name encountered by our Regulators only weeks ago."

"Monolith," Priest Madrissal said, this with no small amount of apprehension.

Priest Farajal was hardly convinced. "And who has even sent this letter? Are we to take it at face value? It may well be these 'Monolith' fanatics themselves who have done so. Or some gullible kujar who has been persuaded by their madness to do their bidding."

"Did our ancestors find salvation from the menace of Cura by hiding within the city walls? No. With boldness and courage did they venture out to meet the threat."

"Boldness and courage are ill-fitting armors to guard against sinister deceptions, Priestess."

"Faith, therefore, is the aegis in which I place my trust."

"Marta, Demir, please," said Priest Madrissal in a conciliatory manner. "Should we not take this to the Sanctum? Let the Church's Regulators, they who are suited for this manner of inquiry, handle the task?"

"If the actions of Boesarius Terral are any measure, then I believe throwing the letter to an open flame would produce the same result."

Priest Farajal of course sided with the Regulator. "Mayhap Boesarius has good reason to dismiss Monolith as being worthy of any serious attention. Perhaps they are no more a threat than your average band of Curites." He slid a suspicious gaze Marta's way. "Mayhap there is no providence in this letter, and you, Marta, wish only to prove him wrong? The animosity between you two is well known."

"What unpleasantness exists between myself and Boesarius has no bearing on the present matter, Demir," Marta said, with just the tiniest tinge of hot-blooded indignation in her reply.

Again, Priest Madrissal stepped in as mediator. "Enough." And then to Marta specifically he said, "You seem resolved in this, and neither Demir nor I can stop you. Would you at the very least consult with the Bakire Priestesses? See from them if the auspices from the Flame are favorable?"

Marta nodded. "This I shall do, and of favor I have no doubt. Regel watches over me, such that I may in turn watch over the faithful. As Priestess and Praetor, that is my solemn duty."

* * * * *

THE VILLAGE OF BJARNGHAST​

Such was the meeting place mentioned in the letter, this small village bordering the Kingdom of Gild and the territory of an adjacent city-state. The Bjarnghasters thought it odd that a Priestess of Jura had any business in their village, but nevertheless welcomed Marta with hospitality. She had told them the purpose of her visit, and they were willing enough to entertain her (the local innkeep and shop owners, of course, happy to accommodate her needs and thus take her coin for services rendered).

It came as something of a surprise when the fateful morning arrived, and a being whose very form inspired awe, draconic and adorned with radiant runes, came swooping down from the low light of the pre-dawn sun like a figure of myth emerging from the twilight. The humble village watchmen at the gate, seeing Valkanthrandilax and hearing his sharp whistle, were at first taken aback.

But then, with all possible speed, they sent for Marta. The expected "guest" had arrived.

Marta, though bundled up in her thicker winter robes, still felt the chill of the morning, and her nose was a red beacon in a sea of fair skin. She rode on horseback up to the gates of Bjarnghast, stood astride the watchmen, and looked out from the village.

There he was, standing before the gate.

"My name is Marta Maisal, of Clan Maisal, Priestess of Jura and Praetor of Gild," she called out to him. She produced the letter and held it up. "Are you Valkanthrandilax, author of this missive?"

Valkanthrandilax