Arren Illiathan: The Coward

"Bastard!"

Alia slammed her fist into the desk, sending paper flying in all directions whilst spilling a bottle of tarlike ink.

"That selfish piece of---"

What was he?

 

A piece of what? Goblin shit? Troll bugger? She had no words left to describe him. He'd been gone for over a month now, but her return voyage had been long delayed as excursions at sea often are. A few weeks ago she had discovered his absence from Andmar, from their family home. However, today she finally took it upon herself to do the job she'd been neglecting. She gathered up the scattered papers from about the floor and reorganized them. He had left everything so neat, with notes on wehere to pick up. Such a strange man...could they possibly be related? Everybody in the family acted on impulse, with pride and passion for their family, but Arren...coward. That was the word that came to mind when she thought of her brother now. Unable to face his own sister. Unable to face his family, or what was left, unable to face who he was and who he had become. 

He was hands down the greatest hero she'd ever met in her entire life. When she was blind to the world and under the throws of love, he had killed the man who had intended to murder them and destroy their family. He had avenged Brennet's death in the face of a far superior opponent. He helped save Alk'Hara and Lionne when they were on the brink of destruction. Coward. Coward because he took no name, because he saw not what he had done, because she was sure that when he looked in the mirror he saw nothing. A shadow of a man. 

Arren had come back here to do his family's accounts, to arrange business and allow his parents peace while affording  Alia the opportunity to pursue her dreams of captaining the Couatl. Were it not for her, their parent's would have scarcely had any idea the dangers their son had faced to return home; to ensure that there was a home to return to. Now of course, he had fled it once again.  

She should have known better than to think he would be happy here. Perhaps he just needed time to reflect on what his life had become, but Alia had the feeling that he had avoided any thinking by burying his head in the ledgers of the family business. What an intolerably stubborn man. He was perhaps the most stubborn Illiathan since their line had begun. Perhaps that was what made him a great man. 

Whatever called him, it had to be greater than this. Greater than what she undertook when she accepted the title as captain of the Couatl. Time had numbed, at first, the hole in her heart, made when Arren had killed Meldin. She felt as though her brother were a murderer. A lie. The winter of Dornheim had changed her. That dagger wound in her chest had widened and deepened, and filled with something else. Wisdom perhaps. Perhaps love. Perhaps a void where romance had once dwelled. 

She knew one thing. When Arren returned, the world would have changed. She only hoped that if he needed her, she would have the strength to help him like he'd helped her, to stab his heart in order to save his life. For what is a hero without a shadow, what is a man without pride in his own name.

Illiathan.

Dawn of Discovery: Chapter 2 Intro - Leap of Faith

There are, in fact, despite some confusion, two kinds of darkness.

One is simple. The common association is the absence of light. Simple shadows, everywhere. Darkness as the deepest and most complete form of color. This term can be used in other ways, for example: to describe the soul of a wicked person. Or to represent a period of unconsciousness. Most scholars and professors of language will agree that darkness is a playful word, and in many ways poetic. But there is another kind of darkness, less objective.

Nothingness is the closest comparison. An absences of any visual or kinetic stimulants, as well as the absence of knowing what those things are, and what it is like to experience them. There are no emotions, matter, or memory. There is simply the endless probability of absolute inexperiencable emptiness. To step foot into this kind place (despite not being any place at all, in fact a total lack of borders and movement are part of the package), is forever. There is no coming back, since there is no time, it will never end.

There are only a few ways to "experience" this lack of experiences.

One is to be born. The moment a spirit and body become one, there is darkness.

One is to die. When your spirit leaves your body, there is darkness.

The last is to move your spirit from one body to another. To force it to travel into darkness.

Traveling between planes of existence is true darkness. Your body does not come with you. Some don't realize that part of dimensional travel. You see, you already exist in the plane you are traveling to. To have two identical souls on one plane of existence would shatter the foundation of that world. So souls travel, and your extra planar body is there waiting for you. No one is sure what happens to your original planar body while you leave, but it is "gone." Perhaps in a darkness of its own.

Where'd my beard go?

As he stepped into the mirror Korick lost all sense of himself. He felt as if he was being pulled through a thick pudding. As the thick liquid of the mirror enveloped him his body gave way to his consciousnesses.Korick felt a                strange sense of strength being stripped of his earthly flesh. To be pure consciousnesses was a heady feeling, like being one big beard. The realm he traveled through was impossible to comprehend. The most he could see was a color, witch was strange having no eyes to see with. It was so intense that he couldn't focus on it simply let it flood through him. If he had to put a name to it he would have called it blurple... no greange, blaed? It was impossible to categorize. Just as he was coming to fully utilize his new "form" he came hurtling back to his body. He attempted to stand and instead a torrent of vomit came bursting from his very core. This is why dwarves didn't become mages.

On the back of a Mountain God

It was good to be out again, the chill mountain air flowing through his beard. A few weeks of this and he should be back at full strength again. Korrick glanced over at Arren pore boy looked as bad as he did and he probably hadn't done time in prison. Why a fine warrior like Arren would punish himself so was beyond him. Perhaps he and Arren would have to speak when they were next in town, some mead would do the bow good anyway. Idwel and Geldezar are just as he remembered them, in fact Geldezar seemed stronger. Not in body but in spirit, their was fire in his soul.

Dornhiem was a harsh land, almost as harsh as Remitex. The wind cut deep and the snow was hard as granite. He was glad to be hear again, the time they spent hear on the caravan was far to short. This land made a strong people and stronger mead! The rest of the Human lands could learn from these fine people. What other land could host creature as terrifying as the face worm or as pure as this mountain ape. No it was not an ape, this shaggy behemoth had a touch of the divine to him. Korrick could tell by them way Geldezar snuggled in its fur, like a babe with it's mum.

Korrick shook himself from his thoughts. Soon they would be entering the bastion of an ancient warrior order. Now was not the time for such day dreaming, their was bound to be killing to do and the proper mindset was necessary to keep ones self alive.

Geldazar: Cold and loving it

This was a strange place to Geldazar. The windswept peaks and and glacial crevasses of Dornheim were more unforgiving and deadly than any mountain lands the he had seen before. The needling climate threatened to bleed all life of its warmth. Compared with the enduring Alk'Haran desert of extremes and the lush verdant gallery of life that was the Free Isles, these mountains were the dreams of dead warlords, desolate and soulless. Geldazar could feel his spirits dropping as each passing minute of warmth was leached from his aching bones.

Yet, something still remained. Geldazar's heart continued to beat with the spark of some distant storm, rumbling in lands unknown. Geldeneir's mystery still riddled this land, filling each lurching snowbound step with wonder. Looking up from sore crusted bandages frozen to his face, Geldazar could see his companions trudging up the path ahead of him. Billowing steam clouds sprayed through a frozen waterfall beard glued to Korrick's face, his thick Dwarven leg trunks pumping through the heavy snow. Arren's armor creaked with each heavy breath taken through his chiseled nose, upon which his frost covered glasses perched stoicly, though rendered useless. And the enigmatic Idwel followed in the cleared trail, his mutable form now graced with the wizened features of old age. His strange powers did not die with the cold here, nor did the melancholy bravery of Arren, nor the indomitable guile of Korrick.

This gave Geldazar hope. Geldenier would not let him fall here. With her hope he would breath and continue on, blood unconquered from all that it faced, life pulsing beneath his skin. He would help his friends until the day the world was bathed in fire and all returned to nothing. Nothing would stop them, not drow nor dragons nor Dornish piles of frozen rock and snow.

Je suis la jeune fille

What is this huge beast. It reeked of nature's Od, and displayed that power so steadily and naturally around it as though the thing were a manifestation of nature itself. Idwel's mind was drawn back to the Free Isles, when they had chanced upon what could have been nothing less than a god of this world. That encounter had been much less personal and a great deal more distant though. Perhaps they were related in a way, or maybe it was nothing more than a shallow comparison of their bestial appearance and passive demeanor.

On a more immediate note, why did this thing decide to help us. Did it have a purpose? Or is this just some random benevolent urge it couldn't suppress? And what's in this place? And why do I have a horrible feeling gnawing at the back of mind? And why am I asking myself so many questions?

Idwel stopped to take a breath and hobble his wildly running mind. He remembered that the best way to answer his questions was usually through action...

At The Heart of it All

 Somewhere at the heart of it all there has been a throne. It was built right after the old man died. Hah. Old man. No one else would dare refer to him as such. Then again, none would call him a backstabbing power monger either. No one would wish to see him bled dry for his betrayal. Everyone loved him.

Everything that was once golden here has been caked in decay. All the treasures, lush lands, and strength of spirit was killed. Stolen from him. He was getting quite old now, and it seemed revenge was all that was left in his heart. It could well be the one spark still keeping him alive. Funny how a long burning flame seemed to sum it all up.

His once golden gauntlet, now dark and tarnished, scraped against the arm of his high backed throne. His chamber was near empty, save for a few armed warriors. Their long beards hung to the floor. Long had their vigil been in guarding their master. There near lifeless formed turned in shock to see their King moving in his seat of power. How long had it been? Six hundred? Seven hundred years since last he spoke?

The sounds of his armor creaking reverberated through the high vaulted hall. Tattered rotting banners seemed to flap in an impossible breeze. The lines of near dead templars fell to their knees. They could hear the mountain come to life. Soon it would again shoot forth geysers of the earths blood. Red hot liquid fire would be seen in the sky for hundreds of miles in all directions. All would know the king was awake, and those who still feared him would come to his service. They would all come to his service.

For six hundred and forty years a plan had been forming. Powers had been gathered. This was his last chance at revenge. Ancient and unyielding, he rose to his feet, and spoke in the tongue of ancient men, fifteen words that would change history forever.

“If not can we have all that once ours was, take shall we all that isn't.”

Praises to Chimaus!

 All hail Chimaus the Eldest !

All glory to the Dragon King!