Private Tales The Void Looks Back Into You

[Volker]

Volker sat patiently in the garden of Witherhold. The underground estate was a strange sprawling construction of black granite, with a mother-in-law suite separated from the gargantuan main house by way of a garden. The garden was a chaotic gathering of subterranean plants and fungi, gathered into beds and spilling out over cobbled pathways. It gave the impression one was sitting in a forest that had once been tamed, but had since taken back its agency.

Volker’s hands worked through his mother’s long, coppery hair. Chaceledon was built in a decidedly different fashion than Volker; slightly built and far taller. His mother towered over him by at least a foot and a half, and had to sit on the ground while Volker stood.

“Hardy dear that does not feel like an Aristelian braid. Where is your mind today?” Chaceledon glanced back at him with pale lavender eyes.

“Did you ever feel like running? Fleeing this place?” Volker asked quietly.

“Don’t be nonsensical. It’s far too cold down here, and others have tried before you. Put it out of your mind.”

“You haven’t tried? Not once?”

Chaceledon sighed and reached back, tugging his hair out of Volker’s hands and shaking out the braid with a few skillful flicks of his clawed fingers. The look on those artistically feminine cheekbones was anything but approving. “Of course I tried. Lansom tried to help me...in his idiotic way I suppose. But what have I got once I leave? Seventeen thousand years later who remembers my name? I can’t just pop above ground and live in the woods. Penniless?” Chaceledon made a dismissive sound and stood, brushing imaginary dirt from his robes. He was a monolith of carefully constructed beauty; glass nails that were exquisitely tipped in seed pearls, kohl around his eyelids and deep purple pigment on the lids themselves. A splash of gold dust across his cheeks, to match the starry pattern of deep purple robes studded in quartz. No, Volker couldn’t imagine his mother living without a toothbrush for a week let alone camp.

“Off on your contract dear, I’ve kept you long enough. I’ve got to tend to your father. He’s been rather cross lately.”

Chaceledon fussed, fixing his shirt and cleaning imaginary dirt from Volker’s cheeks.

It was above ground into cold again. Bitter autumn cold that made the trees hiss spitefully and swirls of red leaves catch his boot heels. As Volker walked the forest road he thought. There had to be some way. An army. No man had tried an army. It was all desperate attempts to sneak out from the undead’s encampment, or kill him outright. Leveling the house was a decent idea...no Volker had gotten the guts. No Volker had hidden memories long enough to construct such a plan.

Perhaps, maybe, it was time to try.

 

[Mannelig]

His knee ached.

It was the unpleasant, hollow, dull ache of too many years in the saddle, too many battles fought, and too many poor decisions made during an eventful youth. It was the kind of ache that reminded him of injuries and losses, victories and long marches. Nowadays, though, it primarily heralded the cold. With a relatively frigid autumn upon them and winter not far off, Mannelig had hoped to head south towards warmer climates, but fate had yet again thought otherwise. Conflict to the north still rumbled and an unfortunate outbreak of peace time seemed to run rampant in the much warmer south, which meant the cold north was their home for the winter.

"Enjoying that balmy Elbion breeze, Cap?"

Mannelig opened one eye from his spot at the base of an old oak tree and looked to the speaker. Targhed the orc was one of the longest serving soldiers in his band of mercenaries. He remembered the humorless, angry, and more or less savage warrior that had demanded he be hired and compared that image briefly with what he saw. The orc was almost indistinguishable from his comrades aside from the short tusks jutting from his jaw and the large frame. Otherwise, he wore the same mix of plate, scale, and reinforced leather they all wore, although with more furs thrown on top. He'd also gained a dry sense of humor over the years, much to Mannelig's lament.

"Nah, figured we'd head up here, enjoy some snow, maybe make a snow fort. Besides, your mother asked me to visit and I just can't say no."

Targhed's face sat immobile, but he'd learned how to see the orc's mirth in his eyes. The orc's friends nearby laughed and traded insults with the greenskin for a few moments before settling in for the night, their rations for the day finally eaten and the night's pickets making their rounds. They'd set up camp near the road, though far enough away to be left alone for the most part. With luck, the dawn would bring a slightly warmer day and some sunshine to break the bone-chilling cold.

Volker

 

[Volker]

Volker hated the bitter cold almost as much as his mother did. He looked around, and sighed as he continued down the road. If they ever got out of Witherhold, he could imagine the sheer volume of complaining that had since driven Oor to exile Chaceledon to the other end of the garden. Which, of course, was what the dragon had wanted all along. He was clever in that way. Autumn was a bad time, but winter would be worse. He looked up at the sky and inhaled. At least there was no scent of snow, even if the air was crisp.

He picked up the trail a few hours later headed north. A group of a few dozen strong. Not the sort of thing he wanted to encounter on the road. He knelt and examined the tracks, frowning. Deep imprints. They were armored, or large. Or both. Nothing he wanted to tangle with. He was well supplied, not hungry, and he had a job to do. Bandits were an annoyance but these didn't seem to be putting any emphasis on stealth.

He headed alongside the road, through the tree cover. Perhaps he could pass them as the light faded into evening.

 

[Mannelig]

The campfires crackling and the quiet nickering of horses nearby had started to lull him to sleep when he heard a picket call out. It didn't sound panicked, concerned, or otherwise hinting at a dangerous situation, nor did it come accompanied with war cries, buzzing arrows flying through the air, or the cacophony of the usual assortment of magic, which caught his attention. Perhaps more unusually, it caught his interest.

They weren't exactly on a particularly frequented road, especially during the winter and fall months. Caravans were semi frequent during warm weather, but now even the bandits had mostly buggered off to better pastures or sat in caves and hideouts to wait out the coming snow and ice. His pickets were armed with crossbows for the most part, but the lack of the telltale crack-hiss of bolts being launched was distinctively lacking. Who the hell would travel at night in the cold along a more or less abandoned road? Other than he and his men, that is.

Whatever it was, he knew his men would either scare it off or bring it to him. With luck, it wasn't one of the larger, more dangerous predators of the region. Sure, dire bears, wyverns, and trolls wandered the land on occasion, but he knew it had been years since they'd been sighted on this road.

He sat up and quietly checked his equipment. With luck it was a non-event, but if it just so happened to go sideways - or worse and they brought him someone wanting refuge and conversation - he wanted to be ready.

Volker

 

[Volker]

Volker camped quietly nearby. While he ultimately wanted to be left alone, the group nearby served as a bit of warning. They weren’t anything he couldn’t run from or take, and they seemed to be utterly wrapped up in getting their rations and bedding down for the night. Volker was hunting. Night was the best time for it, and plenty of animals like rabbits and squirrels were crepuscular. He circled the camp of the others, studying them with a passive sense of curiousity. Other people still interested him after all this time...a trait Chaceledon sniffed at and called “herd behavior”. He supposed he couldn’t blame the dragon for calling it that...Chaceledon hadn’t seen another of his own kind for millennia.

They were sharper than he had accounted for. He did hear something call out and snorted. They were bristling a bit, and that call had scared off anything he would have been carefully tracking. He stood up and folded his arms, letting the men in the camp see him.

Volker could still flee into the darkness of the trees if he needed to. But letting them see him was less threatening than skulking about. Besides...he counted the tents. He couldn’t dream of hoping he could hire them.

They would need to be tough to take down something that old and that powerful. Especially since Chaceledon was too cold to help.

 

[Mannelig]

One of the pickets had run back and found Mannelig awake and waiting.

"I'm guessing its not a bear and from the look on your face, its not some poor orphan looking for a crust of bread, either," he said tiredly as the man opened his mouth.

"No, sir," the picket said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. "Some strange old man skulking in the woods. Just... Standing there... Menacingly."

The older mercenary scoffed quietly and stood up, his knee letting him know it still hurt from the cold. He mentally brushed the minor pain off and walked with his picket in the direction of the trespasser.

"Iwan, it could be a newly orphaned fawn and you'd think it was menacingly standing there. Just like that baby wildcat you found last year."

"To be fair, sir, it did almost take my hand off."

"It was playing and you decided the bright idea was to not wear gloves to play back. I hardly consider a dozen stitches qualifies for 'almost taking your hand off', especially since you really didn't even need stitches. Still, though, it did quite like you all the same. Followed you for a week before mama came back to get its baby."

Before Iwan could reply on the matter of giant wildcats retrieving human-adopted offspring and the cleaning of armor afterwards, Mannelig spotted the strange man mentioned initially out in the dim light.

"Hello, there," he called from a moderate distance away. It wouldn't be the first time someone tried to kill him in the dark on the edge of camp and it certainly wouldn't be the last, but considering how much he enjoyed breathing at the end of the day, the mercenary though distance was best for the moment. "Mind explaining why you're on a half-forgotten road in the middle of the night, old timer? Are you lost?"

Volker

 

[Volker]

Volker stood still. Making quick and threatening movements would trigger an onslaught, and he had little doubt these people were well armed. He watched the picket go and fetch the others, particularly a middle aged gentleman. Wisely, the other kept his distance and didn’t approach...despite calling him old timer.

Well, it was now or never. Either they succeeded and he and his mother were free...or they would fail, he would be forced to breed his replacement and his mother would be punished.

“I wish to hire you.” Volker began. “To kill a wraith and free a dragon.”

Hopefully that would be interesting enough to pique some interest. He dug around in his pockets and held up a single copper scale. Chaceledon had given it to him as a good luck present...and the dragon hadn’t done so lightly. It proved, at the very least, that Volker was telling the truth about the dragon. They hadn’t been seen for centuries.

 

[Mannelig]

Frowning, he was about to ask the old man if he'd gotten in to a batch of mushrooms in the woods when the man held up a copper scale. Things now took a distinctively different turn and he'd be damned if knew what way they'd go. The mercenary paused for a moment or two to think before speaking, though quietly.

"Iwan," he muttered to the man beside him, his tone changed from tired and friendly to terse and stern.

"Sir?"

"Go wake Arnim and bring him here. Now."

"Sir."

As Iwan turned and left for the campfires, Mannelig turned back to the old man. Dragon scales were hard to come by in general, but some colors were extremely rare, extinct, or outright myth and legend. The old mercenary had seen a total of one, singular dragon his entirely life that wasn't dead bones or stuffed taxidermy on display and that had been terrifying enough. He'd made it a point to avoid dragons in general for a multitude of reasons he didn't like to get into, though outwardly it was simply because they didn't turn a good profit. You either lost dozens of men for what amounted to one or two being able to live comfortably to the end of their days or you spent weeks or months hunting only to find a half starved wyvern holed up in a cave barely big enough to fit a full grown man, let alone fight in the space. But the biggest issue, and one that he was loathe to discuss, ran a bit deeper and into areas he'd spent decades ignoring, forgetting, and avoiding.

"Who are you and why do you have a scale?" he demanded.

Volker

 

[Volker]

Volker saw the reaction. A dragon was rare enough. A mature violet male like Chaceledon wasn’t just unheard of...Volker had only heard it mentioned one other time. Chaceledon could barely remember his life above ground, before slavery, but from what he’d told Rheinhard he’d been out of society for a very, very long time. Longer than any of Rheinhard’s family had been alive. Considering there was nearly seven hundred generations in his head, that was impressive.

He let them see the scale and then put it back in his pocket. Chaceledon would give him one of his trademark looks if he lost it. “My name is Rheinhard Volker. That dragon is my adoptive mother. Enslaved for almost seventeen thousand years. It is far too cold to escape; we will both need aid. Dragons cannot function if they are too cold.” Volker told him. “We are both enslaved by the same man. It would benefit us both to have him killed and I cannot do it alone.”

Gods help him, he was hiring men his mother wouldn’t be caught dead in the company of.

 

[Mannelig]

Gods help him, the man was serious.

Mannelig pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed quietly to himself for a moment. He'd spent over twenty odd years traveling the world, fighting wars for other people, wandering into the horizon chasing gold and this fell into his lap. He had almost reached the point of retiring, living a nice, quiet existence in his twilight years only for this to happen. It seemed fate had a sense of humor and Mannelig found he wasn't laughing after all.

"I need a drink and a sit down," he said after a moment, his eyes closed as he took a deep breath. "You'll probably need one, too. Come on."

With that, he gestured vaguely for the man to follow. The mercenary knew he was being cryptic, but if he was going to deal with this situation, it was going to be at a warm fire with strong drink.

And his knee still ached.

Volker

 

[Volker]

Volker tentatively approached the camp, watching the mercenary closely. He settled next to Mannelig by the fire, though he chose a position with a tent at his back. It wasn’t the best defendable position but it was something. He settled his longest blade in his lap as a deterrent. It was more of a short sword than a knife, with a long hilt crafted from a human femur. Volker was still non-threatening, but he was not a man raised around people. He found other people uncomfortable, other men especially since there was always the temptation to drop his guard.

Especially around tall orcs who knew their way around rearranging a man’s spine. He kept his eyes on the fire and his ears open. “We are forbidden alcohol.” He told Mannelig. “It only gets more complex from here. The dragon Chaceledon and I are not the only captives. There are nearly seven hundred others. This is not a small task.”

Volker took a deep breath. “It is my belief a small contingent of experienced men could catch the wraith unaware. Do you accept?”

 

[Mannelig]

He poured himself a mug of ale and noted the man's comment on refraining alcohol before pulling a waterskin from the supplies and tossing it to the man; Volker, if he remembered correctly. The mercenary took a healthy slug from his mug and sat down, mulling over what the stranger had said.

Knowing dragons and wraiths and magic, little to nothing could be considered what it seemed. He might need to rescue a full scale, full grown, four hundred foot tall dragon from a literal prison or some sort of magical construct or even a miniaturized metal cage. Toss in hundreds of other prisoners that could either be figurative or literal, each in their own cell or cage, or not, and it was more confusing than complex, or possibly more complex than confusing. Either way, it paled in comparison to the rest.

"Pretty sure you started complex," Mannelig stated blandly, sipping again from his mug and wondering where the hell Arnim was. "Y'know, I've been avoiding you for almost thirty years? Give or take a few, mind.

Volker

 

[Volker]

Volker set the waterskin down next to him. He didn’t trust anything he hadn’t personally gathered, especially since these men were reluctant to help him. “Avoiding me for thirty years?” He questioned. “All I want, and all I want for my mother, is freedom. We have both been enslaved our entire lives. Both of us have given enough in flesh and blood and pain. It is time to end it. Chaceledon may well be the last amethyst dragon there is. He does not remember much, only that the last time he was above ground dragons were celebrated and worshipped.”

Volker studied the man in front of him. Mannelig looked tired, and reluctant. Did he want a man who looked like he had to be dragged into it? He frowned and shook his head. “I will find men with the bravery.” He told him, and stood. If this lot refused, he would break the memory of it and move on. He had to try something. Chaceledon would take the reins of the Well; the Well had to have a master. But the dragon deserved to fly again.

 

[Mannelig]

He listened to the man's retort and watched him as he stood to leave. Sighing, Mannelig dredged up a dusty remnant of his memory of his past.

"Lock and key and magic ward
Buries not a dragon's hoard.
Scales of iris, hair of brass
Chains unseen, bars of glass.
Man of iron, steel of soul
Born and tested, hides his role.
Smoke and fire, steel and ire
Break the chains, loose the fire.
Spectral master's true desire
Drowned in truth and golden briar.
Take up the sword, free the wyrm
Rise against, let evil squirm.
Death will take you, claws of ice
Become the man to perish twice."

The ancient poem recited, Mannelig sat back and sipped quietly at his drink, mulling over his own memories that he'd tried to forget years before.

Volker

 

[Volker]

Volker stopped and looked at him. “Men need your help and you stop because of a poem? If you are the type to run squirming into the night, fleeing curses, then you are not the men I thought you were. I came to seek brave men. Men who, I thought, wanted to be well compensated.” He said stiffly. “I do not put stock in rhymes or poems, no matter how forbidding they may be. And my mother is anything but the fiery wyrm from the tales. He is, at his core, a gentle person.”

Volker snorted. “Perhaps it is only weak milksops traveling these days. Too old and their fires guttered. Just waiting for death himself to take them.”

 

[Mannelig]

"Sit down and put your anger elsewhere for a moment," the mercenary shot back, his free hand waving aside the other man's anger. "Its an ancient poem of my people from centuries ago, possibly even older. The thing drags on about morality and nobility and the dozen signs for the chosen one of the prophecy, if you believe such a thing. My family was so caught up in the fortune that when every sign lined up for their child, I wound up with the whole thing on my shoulders."

Mannelig stood up and dusted off his breeches, but before he could speak more the man he'd sent for approached.

"Sorry, sir, was, uh..." the man glanced at his captain's guest before continuing. "... Inspecting a tree...?"

"Not sure why you need to inform me of your bodily functions, but I need you to get something for me," Mannelig stated bluntly, his tone sending Arnim's spine rigid as the other man picked up on the seriousness.

"Sir."

"Go get me that box I gave you for safekeeping."

The mercenary captain didn't wait for a response before turning back to the older man at his campfire. His eyes were steel and there was a weariness to his presence, though his movements spoke otherwise.

"You've got your mercenaries hired, but I don't think you realize what precisely is going on. At least not in totality. There's more than rescuing your mother at stake, but I think we need to swap information. I need to know exactly what my men and I are walking in to and you need to know exactly what you've set in motion. Agreed?"

Volker

 

[Volker]

Volker looked at Mannelig, harshly and without emotion, like a judgmental statue in a crypt. He came back closer to the campfire, arms across his chest. The man was accepting the deal, but he wanted more information? Information was something Volker could provide in spades...and his master was occupied. More than trusting that his faithful dog was off on the task he’d been set rather than following up with him.

“It would be easier to show you,” Volker admitted, approaching Mannelig. “I will not harm you, but there is magic here. More than that. A deep and cold curse affecting all of us, not just my mother.”

Volker leaned forward and covered Mannelig’s eyes with his mouth. He closed his eyes, and both of them felt a pull, like falling from a great height, down into blackness.

They both landed, in a strange central hub of sorts. Several doors were open; one made of fluttering pages that led to a labyrinth of books. Another that led to a wide expanse of sand; an Arena. A third led to baths, bubbling merrily.

Volker looked over at Mannelig. “This is the Well. All of my male ancestors are chained here. This is what has made me an effective killer and tool for my master, and these are the men you must aid in freeing.” He said, and nodded up above them. A myriad of broken mirror pieces spun lazily on a circle above them, twisting. Occasionally a new one blinked into existence. “My memories.” Volker explained.

A ten year old burst from the Arena with a wide grin. He resembled Volker, with the same frighteningly blue eyes, but had a tousled mop of black hair. “Well look at you.” Aluid grinned, stopping just short of Mannelig.

“My grandfather.” Volker nodded to Aluid by way of explanation.

“Aluid Volker.” Aluid smirked. “Nestor’s refusing to come meet him. He thinks they’ll all be dead in a fortnight.”

“That remains to be seen. Five are awake. Aluid, my father Klaus, Ferenzi, Nestor, and Yarel. The other six hundred and sixty are asleep.” Volker explained.

“Complex sorcery, this. But when you kill Oor the master of the Well will be dead.” Aluid grinned. “Mind fuck isn’t it?”

 

[Mannelig]

"You've no idea," Mannelig grumbled, doing his best to remember, yet not remember exactly what had just happened.

He wasn't a fan of magic in most forms, least of all this kind, whatever it was. He quietly told himself he was hallucinating, that some strange man hadn't just stuck a mouth over his eyes, and that he just had to ride through whatever the hell this prophecy was doing to be done with it and get back to selling his sword somewhere far, far away. The problem was, he was terrible at lying to himself. Maybe Elbion was on the vacation docket after this afterall.

"The more information I have, the lower the risk of failure. I need to know who this Oor person is, how many march under his flag, his location, defenses, habits, that sort of thing. Anything you deem relevant, I need to know in detail. From my understanding and guess, he's a powerful mage of some sort which means a frontal attack probably won't work. There a back door, magical or mundane. Preferably mundane, if possible. Teleporting doesn't agree with me."

Volker

 

[Volker]

“Banner?” Aluid giggled. “What banner?”

“Oor is not a member of the nobility. He operates but a single estate in the underground.” Volker explained. “A wraith is a powerful opponent, however. It is not as simple as running him through, or removing his head from his shoulders. His soul is pinned to his body by a seal, and we do not know where that seal is.”

“Even me, and I’m one of the few to see him nude.” Aluid pointed out.

“Spare everyone the tales of why you survived so long.” A white haired man came out of the Arena, plucking elegant-looking brass and bone claws from his fingers. He was tall and willowy, possessing the same blue eyes they all had. Unlike both Volker and Aluid, he was dressed in fine robes that recalled nobility. He extended a properly disarmed hand to Mannelig. “Wraiths are creatures of shadow. We’ve seen him kill before, sinking into the shadows and emerging to pluck some poor bastard’s arm off.”

“Thus the underground. No light, no barriers.” Volker clarified. “Witherhold is larger than most human estates, and is solid granite. The walls are sheer, and there is only one gate. The easiest way to get in would be over the garden wall, but there are dangers even there. Gnathi were released there. Small creatures that swarm.”

“Unfortunately, sneaking in is going to be difficult, but not impossible.” Ferenzi shrugged. “Yarel has attempted speaking with the walls and they aren’t moving for anything. If you’ve got a way to teleport, it may be wise to take that route.”

“There is another way. If we are able to provide my mother with warmth enough to shift, a fully grown dragon with a seventeen thousand year grudge would flatten the estate.” Volker said.

“You sure he’d muss his hair?” Aluid snickered.

Mannelig

 

[Mannelig]

"Banner is a relative term," he stated with a dismissive wave after shaking the newcomer's hand. "Nobility is not required to have one, but that's not important. What is important is getting in."

"Teleportation isn't something I'd prefer, but if its necessary, then its necessary. That said, I have no way to do that, so we'd need to either find an item or a person to do that for us. Unless someone has the answer to either side of that question, I'm going to call that Plan B."

Mannelig scratched at the short beard that had grown in over the last few weeks. It was mostly there, but was just coming out of the itchy stages and despite how badly he desired a shave, he knew it helped with the wind and cold.

"Getting something with enough warmth to your mother I would say is Plan A. I'm going to assume that a torch or campfire isn't exactly enough to do the trick. We'd need something with a far higher temperature. Something a forge or maybe a volcano could produce. The problem there is getting that kind of material from point A to point B while maintaining temperature."

Volker

 

[Volker]

"Well then, I suppose we should get thinking on what would warm Chaceledon enough to warrant a shift." Ferenzi agreed with Mannelig. "Something that would burn hotter than a conventional flame, but also something portable."

"We were taught to make campfires. Even a bonfire isn't nearly enough heat." Volker pointed out. "There is a memory here of Chaceledon attempting this soon after his capture. He burned all the furniture in the house only to find the heat wasn't strong enough. A forge would do, but how to transport one?"

"You can't move a forge." Aluid snickered. "What about sulfur? Sulfur burns hot."

"The smell. We'd be caught a mile away." Volker replied.

"The best idea I can think of is finding something that burns hot, and igniting it when we arrive." Ferenzi sighed. "I wish Nestor wasn't such a pain in the rear, he thinks we're going to fail fantastically and he wants to avoid being punished."

"An alchemist is not a bad idea." Volker looked to Mannelig. "If we can convince him you will not fail. That is my task. Yours will be getting into the underground. If we meet at Witherhold, there is less likelihood of getting caught. I may also be able to let you in, depending."

Mannelig