Private Tales The Warrior and the Mage

[Alistair Wren]

In an inn on the bank of the river Wda, Alistair prepared to siphon the negative emotions of Yves, a dreadlord who had accompanied him on the trip. Wooden beams framed the room where they stayed, the light of the new morning seeping through window panes shaped like diamonds. A splint in hand, Alistair swished over to a table and lit a candle, waving his wrist to put out the flame. He muttered an empathetic chant, rubbing the charm in his hand as he did so. Placing the splint in the tinder box, he turned around to face Yves, who sat in the corner of the room in an armchair. His features shrouded by his hood, Alistair held out a hand, the charm in his other one.

"Light of the sun and the force by which the earth turns around it, withdraw the grief by which this vessel holds, relieve them of their moral burden," two fingers outstretched, Alistair sung the spell beautifully, his light and soothing voice drawing out Yves' mental torment. Retracting his hand, he curled it around, bringing the emotion to him.

"And give only serenity in it's wake," he sung. The emotions filtered through his voice, amplified by the charm in his hand, the sapphire at its center glowing blue. Tendrils of navy pulled from Yves, sucked by Alistair's hand and transferring the negative emotions to him.

Alistair's chest deflated. A layer of sweat rose on the back of his neck as all the stress, conflict and anger Yves had felt was transferred to him. He curled his hand into a fist and grasped the charm, slamming his eyes shut as he lowered his head. He rested his brow against his fist, groaning as he withstood the rising anger in his breast. It was immense, the torment of a soldier who had been forced to kill his comrades, but deathly cold, as though it were a bare necessity that had to be done. Breathing in, Alistair swallowed, his eyelids fluttering as he pulled his feet over to a bench and grabbed a cup of barley water, from which he took a long, much needed gulp.

Yves had protested Alistair using empathetic techniques to calm him. He said there was no need for it, but the young mage had insisted.

"That should put your mind at ease," Alistair said with a sigh, then set down the cup.

Wiping his face on the long sleeve of his robes, he turned around to see Yves preparing his weapons for the journey to come. On the bench behind him was the gauntlet they had recovered from his camp, still imbued with the curse that had turned Yves' men against him.

Drumming his fingers on the bench, Alistair craned his neck around and looked at the gauntlet, "now, I'll destroy the properties of the curse," he nodded assuredly. Her rubbed his hands and picked up a jug of freshly boiled water, which he poured into a basin.

"But first I must find out where it originally came from and who created it," he said, picking up he gauntlet. He would need to be crafty in reserving some of the properties in order to use them to locate the curse's creator, while still destroying it's effect. Warping it to create some sort of signal device crossed his mind, but he did not want to manipulate the curse itself, which would cross into the territory of dark magic, something Alistair avoided at all costs. Eyes wide, he placed it in the water, which immediately turned black upon contact with the gauntlet. As he worked, Alistair could feel Yves' presence looking over him as he twiddled his fingers above the basin.

"How do you feel about storming the tower of a dark mage?" He asked, the end of his mouth kinking upwards into a cheeky smile. There was a lilt in his tone, as though the deceptively soft was looking forward to the danger that no doubt lay ahead for Yves and himself.

 

[Gylfi Runarsson]

His wrath left him as water would through a cracked basin. He felt negative feelings swirl uncontrollably in his abdomen, then spread up through his chest. Slowly, uncomfortably, he could feel as his own emotions left him. It was as if something pulled at him, but it was not a physical sensation. If there were words to describe the uneasy sensation, Yves had no knowledge of them.

His chest slowly rose as he inhaled through his nose. Long and deep, the breathing relaxed him. Focused, controlled rage often drove his actions. It took many years to hone the unending well of wrath that pooled within him, and as a result, a ruthless killer was born in place of a once-confused adolescent. To be free of that rage, if even for a moment, was liberating.

Pale, almost lifeless eyes looked up at the young mage. Yves' cold outward appearance had no changes. Yet as words flowed forth, escaping his lips and laying themselves unto Alistair with softness uncharacteristic of a Dreadlord.

"Thank you," His brows furrowed at the sound of his own voice. The beating of his heart boomed in his chest. Emotions swirled about within him. The softness in his tone gave Yves a peek into what life could have been for him if he had not been shepherded away as a child to be forged into a weapon of Vel Anir. Sadness and longing quickly took the place of his absent anger.

But, he was grateful to Alistair. At that moment he was able to feel like more than a tool of war, more than a machination of the vile nobility that plagued Vel Anir. The anger of killing his own soldiers, men he trusted, was taken. In its place, new anger swelled. Anger towards those that took his future from him.

He would never forget the kindness that Alistair gave him.

Yves rose and gave his gear a once-over. Before they left the camp, the Dreadlord had gathered some of his belongings. Weapons, clothes, and anything else that may have been useful for their task ahead. He listened to Alistair and acknowledged him with grunts of affirmation. Then, Alistair said something that warranted Yves turning around.

Invading the tower of a dark mage? Alistair flashed a boyish smile at the Dreadlord, who responded with a winsome smile of his own.

"Why, I long for it."

 

[Alistair Wren]

Alistair's eyelids lowered, the rage he had siphoned from Yves' swelling up in his chest. He repressed it and looked down with a smirk, unable to accept his gratitude. He had only done what he thought would be the right thing to do and thought nothing of his gesture to Yves, still it must have been more gentle than how Yves and his fellow dreadlords had been treated back in Vel Anir. As he raised his head, Alistair brushed back a lock of pin-straight, chocolate hair that fell around his forehead.

"No need to thank me, I just did what I thought was right," he shrugged.

The rag in his hands, he swished over to the bench, where the gauntlet was sitting by a basin and a jug. When Alistair explained what he would have to do to destroy the curse, he received only a grunt from Yves in response. Back turned, he smirked, having expected nothing more. He tucked the long sleeves of his robes into his belt and stood over the basin, where he lay the gauntlet, before filling it with water.

Arching his neck over, he took a few steps back, all the while rubbing the sapphire of his ring. He held a hand over the basin and swallowed, then coughed to clear his throat.

"Light of the sun and the force by which the earth turns around it, penetrate the token by which the hex holds, seek out the place from whence thee came," a hand held out, Alistair sung the spell, arching one finger upwards while keeping the others pointed down. The sapphire on his finger glowed as he disassembled the mechanics of the curse to locate the source which had produced it. Eyelids lowering, he craned his neck back and coiled his fingers, tendrils of blue energy falling from the tips and into the water.

The water turned black as the gauntlet revealed the source of the hex which held it, singing to Alistair a rune written by it's creator. Pulling the rune from the item, Alistair spread his hand out, inserting his will into the gauntlet and wrapping it around the curse.

He thrust his hand forward, "expel thee!" He sung, dismantling the curse and destroying it's bond.

Eyes wide, he strode forward, reached into the water and took the gauntlet, the water having soaked up the negative magic which was once inside it. Alistair's dark eyes flashed sapphire and he turned the gauntlet around in his hands. He spread one out, coughed and cleared his throat.

"Grant a vision unto the wrist that wears thee," he sung, imbuing the gauntlet with a spell that would lead them to the source of the curse.

The gauntlet in hand, Alistair turned around to face Yves, "the curse has been destroyed, but I've imbued the gauntlet with a spell that will lead the wearer to it's source," he nodded. Alistair stared at Yves plainly, knowing the dreadlord knew what he was inferring. While the curse had been destroyed, there was no telling that it could not regather if somebody put the gauntlet on again.

"If you put this on, it will grant you with a vision of the dark mage's tower, which will become stronger the closer we are to it," a tilt of his head, and Alistair offered the gauntlet to Yves.

"There is a chance the curse could regroup if the gauntlet has a wearer, in which I'll have to keep my empathetic senses heightened," he said apprehensively, his eyes shifting. While Yves would have to wear the gauntlet and lead them to the tower, Alistair would be responsible for keeping any mutinous instinct that arose from it at bay.

The end of Alistair's mouth kinked upward and he smiled mischievously, reaching around to scratch the back of his head, "especially if whoever created it is controlling it from afar," he raised both eyebrows.

 

[Gylfi Runarsson]

Yves had grown to be quite impressed regarding Alistair's usage of magic. Yves' proficiency with his magic was akin to training the body. As a young man, his body and mind were stretched to its limits in order to force progress. It was a dangerous, unorthodox method that the Academy utilized. It would not be wrong to say that Apprentices were quite literally forged into weapons.

Then, there was Alistair. A man that mended. Fixed things. Dispelled evil. The antithesis to Dreadlords. Yves was far from being a good man, and he knew it. Despite that, he respected Alistair. The man he had thought several hours ago to be weak had instead proved to be quite commendable.

Yves was not keen to don the gauntlet, but his pride kept him silent. Begrudgingly, he reached out and took it from Alistair. He grumbled slightly, an obvious sign of his apprehension to be subject to the curse and emphatic influence from Alistair.

"So be it," He said as he slid his hand into the gauntlet and began to tightly lace it up, "I'm in your hands, now."

He could feel something dark from it. As if something were prying at his mind. Yves himself would be able to withstand it for some time, yet he knew that the longer the gauntlet stayed on, the weaker his mind would be to it. Coupled with the feeling of great unease, the vague image of a tall, crumbling tower deep in the woods came to him.

His head, as if being grasped by something ethereal, turned to the general direction of the tower. There was a throbbing behind his eyes as he looked in the tower's direction as if staring in the direction of the source had begun to affect him already.

"It's far."

 

[Alistair Wren]

Alistair could tell that Yves was hesitant to wear the gauntlet. As he held it out, a feeling in the back of his mind tingled, telling him that the dreadlord was genuinely unsure of putting on the volatile artifact. He gave a nod of his head, and Yves took the gauntlet, then strapped it around his wrist, but not without a grumble. Alistair understood his fear, but made no comment on it for fear of wounding the dreadlord's pride. As Yves laced the gauntlet on, Alistair shuddered, feeling the dark energy stifle within it, desperate to get out and spread its' influence.

"Don't worry, my empathetic senses are keen, I'll make sure to keep the effects of the spell tempered," Alistair said, his tone compassionate and calm.

Yves' head turned, as though it was being pulled towards the tower like the arrow on a compass. Standing in the middle of the room, Alistair nodded in acknowledgement.

"Lead the way," he said.

- - -
​

Alistair and Yves had traveled north of the river Wda for three days. Wrapping a fur pelt around his shoulders, Alistair pulled his feet up the side of a mountain, his senses keen and peeled for shifts in Yves' resolute. The gauntlet seethed, the properties of the curse regrouping the closer they traveled towards its' creator. Turning around, Alistair raised his hand to his brow and squinted, surveying the vast plain they had spent the past few days trekking across.

There was a tingle in the back of his mind, and he turned around to see Yves staring him down, his hand on his blade. While Alistair had stopped the curse from spreading, he had not succeeded in destroying it completely.

Navy eyes wide, Alistair breathed in and out. He raised a gloved hand and fed his will through Yves' emotional resolute, drawing the violent urges of the curse to him. Streaks of black left Yves' form as Alistair siphoned them, drawing the urge to kill to him, and impressing the emotions on his own being. He jerked back, abruptly lowering his hand, his breast suddenly aflame with fury. He breathed in and out, sweat dripping off his brow, as he fought back the urge to slay Yves where he stood.

"How much further?" Was all he could manage to say.

A hand on his heart, Alistair shook his head, shaking off the emotions that did not belong to him. Grasping his robes, he pulled his feet up the mountain and took a gulp of water from his flask.

"Every time I siphon the curse's urges from you, they get transferred to me," brow creased, he spoke regretfully, "as is the cost of empathetic magic."

There was a pause. A few of the dark mage's minions had come after them, but Yves had quickly shown them his blade. More were showing up the closer they got to his tower, and their senses had been on high alert. Groaning, Alistair scanned the mountains, his eyes peeled for any servants of the curse's creator. There was a shout in the distance, but it was very far away and he couldn't make out where it had come from.

Turning around, he pulled his feet up the side of the mountain and walked past Yves, "Yves, when I pulled you from the river and healed you..." He began to ask a question, but his words trailed off.

"Did you think about killing me?" He turned around and asked, an eyebrow raised.

The question had been on his mind since they had left the inn.

 

[Gylfi Runarsson]

Alistair had eased Yves' burden several times over the days, but what he had just dispelled... It was particularly strong. As expected, though. He did say that the closer they were, the stronger the effects would be. Still- the emphatic magic and effect of the gauntlet were sources of discourse for the Dreadlord. His mental fortitude was forged to an acceptable shape since he was a young child. To suffer three days of the gauntlet's effects and Alistair's assistive magic took its toll on Yves. Mentally, he was tired.

"An hour more, possibly less depending on the terrain." It was quite hilly. Even despite three days of constant walking on uneven surfaces, Yves' condition was still optimal. A fight would be a trifle for the battlemage.

Yves cast a glance over his shoulder. An expression almost like that of a smile flashed at Alistair, "Don't fret. Should the urge to kill become too strong, I'm perfectly capable of tying you to a tree without harm coming to myself."

When a few underlings had shown themselves, Yves did well to deter them. A single cold glare, with pale eyes swirling with bloodthirst was more than enough to send them away.

"Hm?" He watched as Alistair walked ahead, the question ringing in his ears.

"Of course I did," His manner of speaking was much too casual, "The reputation that Dreadlords have precedes us. When I washed up on the bank, you did not know I was a Dreadlord. Many would have killed you and moved on, protecting their identity."

He paused, considering his next words.

"Did you know that all children that show the slightest sign of magical ability are taken from their homes? Most are taken at the age of six. It's uncommon, but sometimes they are found a year earlier or later. But the age of six. Normally, the children of Noble families are protected. But, in rare cases, the Noble families may volunteer the children that show promise to the Dreadlords. I was one such case. A lot of Dreadlords come from Vel Anir itself, but you'd be surprised how many come from outside the walls, from the families of peasants."

He went silent again, and his expression soured.

"I said I was taken at five. I graduated from the Academy at the age of nineteen. I'm in the twenty-fourth year of my life now. My class was rather large. We started with thirty. Four graduated."

He stopped, and blue eyes, almost colorless from being so pale, looked straight at Alistair.

"From the age of five, all I have known is struggle. I first killed a man at the age of seven. It's good to start when we're young- the killing, I mean. It desensitizes it for us. Normalizes it. I slept on a stone floor for eight years, then they gave me a thin cot. Even now, I find normal beds hard to sleep in."

He began to walk again, passing Alistair, "I thought of killing you because killing is all I know. But, you showed me kindness. You still do, even knowing that I belong to the most infamous group of killers on this continent."

For several steps, only the sound of shifting dirt and crunching leaves could be heard, "I have respect for you. When I look at you, I fantasize. I wonder how I would have been."

The tower was in sight now, and the appearance of it silenced the vulnerability that Yves had been showing. Yves stopped and did not look at Alistair.

"To graduate the Academy, the final lesson is a duel. It is a duel to the death between you and one other classmate. Sometimes both die," He suddenly shifted topics, "You know, they don't like friendship. They often exploit the relationships people form. I, for one, fell in love with a girl. It lasted several years. We thought nobody knew. But, they did. So, they made me kill her."

He began to loosen the straps of his gauntlet, and let it fall onto the dirt. If Alistair desired, he would feel the wrath and anger permeate from Yves. The pure bloodlust, sadness, and fury that the Dreadlord felt was like a heavy stench.

"I died when she did. When I look at my bare hands, I only see her blood." His open hands curled into fists as he marched straight towards the tower.