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!

Arren Illiathan: I'm Sorry

My Dearest Alia,

Dornheim is colder than I had remembered, enough to chill my marrow were it not for the furs given to me by her people. As I walk the tundra and her vast ice fields, my feet tingle. You were not long from these cold shores before I took to them, by boots treading the soil of the same land which you graced not long before.

I am sorry. I'm sorry to have left you again, and I'm sorry that I couldn't be the brother you needed at the time you needed him. I wonder if he is dead. Who have I become? I have left on a quest to find a lost city, but for me, the quest is to find myself. I thought that I was righteous, and believed I was truly a hero, but what is a hero? I may have helped save the Ivors and Alk'Harans but in doing so, I feel I have lost those whom I love. Can you forgive me? I do not ask forgiveness for killing the man with whom you shared your heart. I cannot, to do so I should have lost myself, and forsaken your honor and the honor of our family. Can you forgive me for leaving when I should have stayed? Back when I fled the first time and now, for a second time. Can you forgive me for leaving the family in your hands, the work of our legacy while I seek myself? While I grasp for that intangible honor? What is honor if it has no legacy after I am dead, after our family line ends? I feel tied to it, and dearly wish to free myself from it. I only wish that there was some way to know that what I do is right.

I don't ask you to write back. I understand that silence is what I deserve, besides, I'm not sure whether post reaches where I shall go. However, please, please, convey my love to our family, at least what remains. You are all that I have. You are my honor and yours is the face I see when I lose my way. I love you with all of my heart,

Arren Illiathan, Brother

Arren blew into his hands, numb with cold. He could barely tell that he grasped the quill as he began replacing the contents of his letter box. He placed the quill back in the dark wood box with it's inks and sands, and then clumsily folded the paper with his blue tipped fingers. You can't write with gloves on. Not legibly at least, Arren lit the sealing wax from the box with one of his tinder twigs, they were precious and necessary to perform the ritual of transpondence, the one thing that kept him sane at times. Arren watched the flame spring to life on the small stick and let the fire burn the wax, dripping blue on the folded parchment. He let the fire burn until it scorched his fingertips, grateful for any warmth, in spite of the blisters it might cause. Quickly, before the wax hardened in the unearthly cold, he pressed his signet ring, the seal of the Illiathan family into the wax. A blue winged serpent wrapped about a bastard sword hissed at him, sealing the letter against all those who would wrongfully open it.

"Come on Arren, we've rested long enough." Korrick said, waking him from his reverie. It was usually Arren who reminded the others to be on their way. He was the one who pressed foreword. Now he lingered. He wondered if the others noticed how deeply he questioned himself.

"One moment," Arren tucked the box into his backpack and grasped the letter. There was no post out here in this godless steppe, looking about, all he could see was snow and rock for miles, with no sign of civilization. Dornheim felt like the end of the world. He tucked the parchment into his shirt, beneath his armor, which still didn't fit the way it should, and kept it warm with the beating of his heart.

Some day all this searching would end. Some day, the name Illiathan would taste sweet on his tongue. But for now, all was ash. Ash as white as snow as the world kept burning down.