They dragged her down the stone corridor, the toes of her boots scraping the floor. Ciaragan’s head hung limply from her shoulders, eyes faced down as she was transferred from her cell to her daily 'instruction'. Each jerk forward by the gargoyle creatures flanking her sides and gripping her arms with unnatural strength elicited a grunt from Ciaragan’s throat. She was doing everything she could to defy the will of her Venthyr wardens but found herself powerless in their clutches. Her magic was not responding to her call, either (of course the Light had not come to her in some time, even prior to their arrival in the Shadowlands- What troubled her more was the absence of the whispers of the Void she had grown so accustomed to hearing). Light and Darkness had abandoned her here. She was unarmed, vulnerable, and afraid; Not something the grandiose Bishop was used to feeling.
As they passed through the narrow, miserable corridor Ciaragan could hear the fate which shortly awaited her. Screams of terror ripped through the black and windowless dungeon. It made the lump in her throat stick and the dread in her belly churn, but she was determined not to crack under pressure. All she had to do was survive long enough to come up with an escape plan, find Faervell, and get back to the mission at hand (rescuing her trollop-in-law, Esme). Simple, but nowhere close to easy. As the hallway finally ended and the room before her engulfed them, she found herself met with an unfamiliar, smiling face. It was always unsettling when Venthyr smiled, but this one was even worse.
“Bael’nar…" The Venthyr sighed in a breathy voice, "The day has finally come.”
The smell of iron tickled her nose as Ciaragan wiped the blood from her dagger, catching a glimpse of fel-green eyes in the reflection of the blade. She wasn’t pleased with how this one had gone, not pleased one bit. Her brother was still working their victim over, though she was resigned to the fact that this husk of a creature had no more secrets to reveal. Still, a good Inquisitor’s work is never truly done. Ciaragan drifted around the room, watching her brother work with a loose smirk on her lips.
“Please,” the elf in bindings croaked, “no more. I know no more.”
“That’s what they all say, isn’t it, sister?”
“Indeed, but this one is telling the truth.”
“How can you be sure?” He crooned back at her.
Ciaragan circled back to join her twin, standing beside him as she scowled at the pitiful heap chained to the wall.
“When they’re this close to death, they have nothing to lose anyway, so what good is a lie?”
Using the tip of her dagger, Ciaragan tilted the other woman’s chin up from where it hung slack-jawed. The woman had lily white skin covered in splotches and smears of purple and red. Her eyes were sunken and bloodshot from lack of sleep. Her mouth was missing several teeth, which Ciaragan kept in a dish on the side table after extraction. She was barely more than bones after spending a week with the Bael’nar twins- a fate that all who dared defy Prince Kael’Thas feared would befall them. Defiant til the end, this particular victim met Ciaragan’s gaze head on.
“Any last statements you’d like to make before we dispatch you?
“I’ll….see you...in...hell.”
“No, I don’t think you will.”
A flash of the knife, a spray of hot blood, and it was over.
Realization dawned over her as the once mortal face of Nimena Goldstrider shone through the distorted, nightmarish features of the smiling Venthyr. Her black, insect-like eyes were wild with hunger as she studied every detail of Ciaragan’s helpless form, like a spider sizing up a particularly juicy fly. If any doubt persisted before, Ciaragan was now certain that what was about to happen would be far, far worse than whatever her brain had concocted. They say no one can know the measure of any other soul, save their own. Despite outward appearances, Ciaragan had a healthy fear of death for this very reason; that her cosmic justice would be served in the afterlife. Whatever awaited her under the ‘care’ of Nimena, she knew she had some sins to atone for.
26th: If your character could take the pen from your hands and tell their own story – write their own narrative, and create their own version of their “happy ending”, how would it look?
Faervell is widely accepted as the absolute best felmancer known to all the races of Azeroth and beyond. His skills are envied and worshiped by all. Demons fear him. Women and men love him.
He marries Esme, who of course decided to take his name in favor of Sunshard and they become lord and lady of Embertree. They may or may not have children, but none of those children are little shits because who wants a kid that’s a complete little shit. All of said possible children become amazing people themselves, and go down far into the histories of whatever it is they’re good at.
Sometimes, Cynel comes over to praise how amazing his is and even they’re -very- close friends through all of their days. Tamurkhan also comes back into his life and even though Esme and Faer are very happy individuals, he gets to enjoy a nice evening or week in their bed with them and his great ass.
Ciaragan is happy and decides to stop being a priestess and goes back to felmancy. While faervell doesn’t need to rely on her, she is like the second best felmancer, and top notch demonologist which is far better than being a disgusting priestess or bishop or whatever she is. She doesn’t ever argue with Faer again about something stupid like his choices again and gets along very well with Esme.
The Bael’Nar Silk becomes the foremost in silk trades and they all become super wealthy off of it. It’s wonderful and everyone thinks they’re great which is true because they are the best.
Everyone grows really old and wealthy and happy. Faer gets to have sex all the time.
“Alright, Dredgers! And...tall Dredger? Let’s get this show on the road.”
Ciaragan felt the wind violently force its way out of her as a crate of slimy, bubbling dishwater was shoved into her arms. She rocked back on her heels as she struggled under the weight of the thing, and it was a wonder that her legs did not tangle up in the heavy layers of velvet and frilly silks of the “uniform” she was wearing. Steadily she calmed the soapy waters and made her way down the line, following a crew of Dredgers as they passed through a narrow, winding servants’ corridor inside the Iremoore Estate. It was a claustrophobic and stuffy place, never meant for the eyes of anyone important. Nevertheless, Ciaragan could scarcely believe she was here and was quietly thanking her lucky stars for the chance at something different. The former Bishop had known nothing but physical and psychological torture for as long as she could remember being in this accursed realm they called ‘Revendreth,’ and was still not fully convinced the scenario she found herself in was not some sort of elaborate trick.
She and her brother, Faervell, had been sold to the highest bidders as barely more than novelties- houses Iremoore and Redelav, respectively. She had slept 87 times since then, but Revendreth was not held to such feeble concepts as ‘night’ and ‘day’ so her measurements were hardly precise. Now the master of House Iremoore, Lord Andrei, was throwing some sort of banquet for the District’s most horrid bloodsuckers, and Ciaragan was expected to serve. She had been dragged from her cell in the estate’s dungeon, her skin scrubbed to the bone in an ice cold bath, and stuffed into this tacky garbage before she could muster a breath about what the hell was going on. The Dredgers were able to fill her in with the details, but it was still quite the culture shock. Why on Azeroth would they want me to pour their wine for them? I’ll poison the lot of them the first chance I can find…She thought to herself, eyes drilled into the floor as she marched along in time. This truly was her own personal brand of torment- a crowded ball where everyone is better than her. Feeling sorry for herself, Ciaragan released a shuddering sigh. It was going to be a long night. Still, she thought, better than the soul flayings.
Violins and other strings wailed out waltz after waltz as the guests of House Iremoore danced the night away. Ciaragan could barely make a single turn about the ballroom before having to refill every cup once more. She had managed to trade her dishwater basin for a silver and glass pitcher nearly sloshing over the edge with Anima-infused wine. Andrei and his friends guzzled Anima like men dying from thirst in the hot Uldum sun, with no concern for running out of stock. Dredgers buzzed along a logistical superhighway just out of sight of the party guests to keep the Anima flowing. Meanwhile, Ciaragan was lingering in the shadows of the waiter’s station, beyond the main ballroom and outside the kitchen doors. Her patience was being tested as she waited for a fresh pitcher, tapping her foot anxiously. The Dredgers had mentioned to her that the master did not like to see the bottom of his chalice, and she feared she might not make it in time before he noticed. Finally the runner handed off her prize and she snatched up the pitcher, her feet already in motion. She hurried down the hallways, careful not to spill a drop. Emerging into the ballroom through a hidden door cloaked in velvet curtains, she found herself surrounded by Venthyr on all sides. They barely noticed her, already drunk on the essence of living souls they had since consumed that evening. Lord Andrei’s gold and crimson doublet sparkled in the crystal candlelight, allowing Ciaragan to spot him across the crowd. She tried to make her way around the perimeter of the room, but even that path was blocked with the heavy presence of the hedonistic gentry. Forcing her way through, Ciaragan could see her goal in sight. Just a few more steps, and-
-CRASH-
All of a sudden, her pewter pitcher and matching tray smashed into the back of a dark, brooding figure. The Venthyr all drew back as the tray clattered to the ground, the raucous soundtrack of party noise cut short by the loud clang of impact and the sizzling cymbal of a tray rattling to a stop. Ciaragan was knocked back onto her rump, but scrambled for her pitcher as it lay empty on its side and its precious contents spilled across the ballroom floor. The looming one she had bumped into slowly turned to face the disturbance, his face screwed up into an outraged snarl.
“You little urchin. I’ll wring your neck. How dare you!”
Ciaragan felt a claw grip cut into her arm and jerk her from the floor, nearly pulling the whole limb out of place. The offended Venthyr held her aloft like a ragdoll, crushing her arm in his uncaring grasp. She could not stop a whimper from escaping her tight-lipped mouth, her teeth gritted in pain. Others were beginning to take notice of the unusual scene now, and a small crowd gathered. Ciaragan felt the burn of strange eyes upon her and wondered if she would die by humiliation or bludgeoning first. As she pondered this pleasant thought, she was interrupted by the dark baritone of a new voice stepping into the circle.
“Why do you abuse this soul, Count Dvorok?”
“This is no soul, this is Andrei’s mortal pet! She doesn’t seem to be fully trained yet…Ruined my new coat!” He growled with ire in his tone.
“A living mortal?” Came the stranger’s reply. It seemed he had yet to encounter one of the Shadowlands newest arrivals. His eyes fell on where a left hand should be, but found a buttoned-up empty cuff in its place. Reaching out to examine her closer, he hummed “How bizarre…” under his breath as he took the sleeve between his fingers. Ciaragan ripped her arm back and away from his prodding. Her eyes were wide with fear, but her expression was more reminiscent of a trapped tiger than a scruffed housecat. It made the stranger take a step back himself. Before another sound could escape his lips, a familiar voice broke the tension with bone-chilling authority.
“What’s going on here? Dvorok, what are you doing to my mortal? Release her immediately.”
Dvorok’s ashen gray face paled to a ghostly white sheet. “M-My Lord Andrei, I was-” He glanced over at the dangling Ciaragan before releasing his grip and letting her topple to the floor with a dull thud. Nursing her sore shoulder, she dared not raise her head to them unless commanded to. The stranger had been smart enough to break into a bow at the sight of his Lord Master, and was safe from his wrath, for now anyways. Andrei leaned casually on his bronze and ruby walking cane, his sights set on the unfortunate Count, who was trying (and slipping) at keeping his composure under pressure.
“My Lord,” he continued, “this creature clumsily walked into me, spilling your Anima all over my new coat and ruining my conversation! I was simply-”
“You were simply distributing punishment you had no right to give to a soul that doesn’t belong to you. Tsk tsk.” He shook his head slowly, drawing out the moment.
“Your coat, was it? And what do I owe you for the damage?”
“This coat cost me ten thousand rubies.” Count Dvorok replied in a small but determined tone.
That number was large enough to give Lord Andrei pause… he looked between the offended Venthyr and his offensive mortal, pondering what judgement was most befitting a Lord of his standing. “What to do, indeed…” With a sweeping flourish of his ember orange cape, Andrei extended a clawed, gray hand to his fellow Venthyr. He presented his signature emblem ring of House Iremoore for the other to kiss, which Dvorok did willingly and with barely contained desperation. Andrei sneered down at him, ignoring Ciaragan for the time being.
“After considering the matter, I have decided to be merciful towards Count Dvorok for his indiscretion. Stoneborn, please escort the good Count to his carriage. This encounter and his ruined wardrobe has left him tired and… inappropriately dressed.”
Two burly gargoyle-like creatures looped their stone arms through Count Dvorok’s, dragging him stumbling backwards out of Andrei’s sight. The crowd chuckled and applauded the scene before growing bored and returning to the night’s more interesting fare. It was just Ciaragan and Andrei now, and by the look on his face, an empty cup should be the least of her worries.
“You’re starting to become more trouble than you were worth, pet.”
“Lord Andrei, I must confess something to you.”
A familiar voice broke the violent tension. It was the same Venthyr who had come to inspect her before, only much more sheepish at the foot of his master. He knew the rules of the game, and that Andrei did not like them broken. Respect was everything to House Iremoore’s Lord. Lowering himself before Andrei was enough to take the fire off of Ciaragan, if only for another moment's delay.
Andrei sighed, audibly voicing his displeasure at being interrupted yet again. “Well? Spit it out, Cazimir.”
The one called Cazimir took a knee before his master, hands raised to him as if in prayer.
“My Lord, it is I who is to blame for this mess. I caused your mortal servant to offend Count Dvorok by pushing her into him. A simple misunderstanding! Lest I lose my good name as a member of your court, I must confess this truth to you, sir. I cannot allow such a pitiful creature to take punishment for me, for there are those who would say I am without honor for doing so. I beg your mercy, Lord Andrei, and offer my humblest apology,” he finished by rising to his feet and bending into a deep bow. The air stood still around them, as Andrei seemed a bit stunned by this sudden confession. The master of the house stroked his chin in contemplation, taking the time to formulate his reply as all other eyes were upon the three of them. The party could not, or would not continue without Andrei’s lead, and the room waited on baited breath to see what his next move was.
“Pet, look this way.”
Ciaragan had hoped he might have forgotten her by now, but alas he had not. Steadying herself, she raised her chin towards Lord Andrei with that same stubborn ferocity Cazimir had witnessed before. Ciaragan had never made prolonged eye-contact with her captor until this moment. They were inky pools of darkness, with no luminosity or whites to be found within. In contrast, her glowing golden orbs shone all the brighter with her restrained fury. She hated him, and she wanted him to know that. Andrei’s lips curled slightly at each corner as he studied her face. He knew the extent of her hatred, and reveled in it.
What happened next occurred with such swift motion and genuine gracefulness, even the gathered crowd could scarcely catch a glimpse of it. Andrei tossed his gilded cane into the air, caught it by the heel, then proceeded to swing the rounded set-ruby handle right into the side of Ciaragan’s cheek with a resounding crack. The blow sent her tumbling to the floor once again. Hot blood splattered on Cazimir’s doublet and white lace collar, but the majority poured from Ciaragan’s ruined mouth. Many of the Venthyr looked on with wild-eyed, giddy fascination (who can resist dinner and a show?), but there were still few like Cazimir who seemed disturbed, if not at least put out by what they had just witnessed. Lord Andrei drew an ebony silk handkerchief from his pocket to coolly wipe the blood from the handle, unmoved by the violence he had just inflicted.
“Better that a servant take the beating over one of House Iremoore’s honored guests. The matter is settled then! A Lord must keep his House in order, you know, or people start to talk…” Stuffing the hankie back in his pocket, Andrei resumed his leisurely stance. Ciaragan was still trying to clear her vision- the world was a blurry puddle of blood and teeth- she could barely make out much at all. Cazimir just stood in silence, arms at his sides, head bowed. He dared not make things any worse.
Andrei yawned as he checked his pocket watch. As an afterthought, with a flick of his wrist, the damage done to Ciaragan was erased. Her vision steadied, and the heavy drip of blood that had been pouring from her lips was gone. He had healed her just as quickly as he had struck her down, but the pain lingered on like a bad toothache.
“That’s quite enough sitting on the job for one evening, pet. Get back to work. And as for you, Cazimir…” Andrei crooned towards him. Cazimir’s head shot up to attention. He was several hands shorter than his Lord Master, whose dark figure loomed over him like the shadow of the sublime.
“You should watch where you’re going at my court. Those who don’t tend not to last very long.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
Andrei turned without another word. He had spent enough breath and energy on interacting with people far below him for far too long. It was time to return to the guests he actually cared to converse with.
The crowd left at Andrei’s discretion and only Cazimir and Ciaragan remained together. She wasted no time following Andrei’s orders, returning to pick up her battered tray and pitcher. Everything in her mind and body wanted to be gone from this place, this scene, this party as fast as her legs could carry her. She felt Cazimir’s gaze on her back as she tried to keep her distance from him. As she crossed his path to return to the estate’s dark hallways, a split-second turn of the head caused her vision to fall upon his, their eyes meeting for the second time that night. His face was an ashen canvas of sharp Venthyr features and a look of pained sadness that betrayed his inner thoughts. The mistake was corrected as soon as she noticed, and Ciaragan did not give him the chance to say anything to her before she disappeared in a wave of heavy, burgundy, velvet curtains.
Ciaragan found herself sat at the table in the dark dining room of the Bael’Nar estate. Across from her was Faervell. The candelabras were flickering softly, but their light was not enough to fill the space completely. She could just see his blank expression illuminated in a dim spotlight as he cut into his plate. She looked down at her own- not having remembered cooking a meal like this- but reached for her knife and fork anyways to mirror his image. They sat in a groggy, gray silence. Her lips parted and took a bite, but it was tasteless. She continued to eat without thinking, cutting small pieces and moving them towards her mouth in habitual motion. Faervell did not speak. He seemed preoccupied by his own meal, which he ate with a fervor that she did not understand, considering the blandness of the meat. Was it meat? She couldn’t really tell. She just ate it, bite after bite.
When she moved to set her fork down and free up her hands to take a drink, the fork raised off the table and began to float away. Her eyes followed it up, up, up as it disappeared into the blackness that their ceiling had become. Plates, goblets, napkins- all began to follow the fork’s lead and defy the laws of gravity. Floating in weightlessness. She looked at her brother, but he was still eating. He did not seem to notice or care that their dining set was literally disappearing before their eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but was met with a flood of bubbles where words and sound should have been. She then realized that the dining room was submerged in water, and where this normally would have been a cause for much panic on Ciaragan’s part, she could not muster up a reaction. It was as if the dining room was always underwater, and she had just forgotten this obvious fact. Faervell was still unfazed. He ate his meal until the last scrap was gone, then released his fork and plate to let them float away, not even bothering to watch their ascent.
Clerics, medics, and various Dawnmender staff bustled around the busy and, as of late, always much-too-full medical tent. Kelach sat by Ciaragan’s cot, keeping watch over her unmoving body as he had been for weeks. He spoke briefly with nurses and menders as they came by to check on her condition, but she had been comatose since being crushed in her last battle- one that had gone so awry it would fairly be labeled as a disaster. After the initial emergency surgery to remove what was left of her right hand and stabilize the internal damage done to her organs, there was nothing left to do but wait. He hadn’t tried speaking to her in this state. He found it pointless. What was there to say? Whether she could hear him or not was indecipherable. It was like staring at a corpse that refused out of sheer spite to decay. There was something unnatural about being forced to bear witness to a place between life and death, but his task was to protect her. He would not be free of it until he or she joined the legions beneath the earth, whoever went first. So he waited patiently by her bedside for his next order, whenever that order may come.
A Mender unknown to him approached and began unwrapping the bandages around her mangled arm. They didn’t greet each other- by this point Kelach’s presence was a constant that was overlooked by most. As the Mender inspected the injury and began cleaning the wound with some strong smelling liquid, Kelach cleared his throat.
“Any news from Dawnward Bael’Nar?”
The Mender’s eyes flicked up briefly, then returned to task.
“Not that I’m aware of.”
Kelach grunted a neutral response.
“I heard he was there at the battle for the Dawnspire, though.”
Kelach lifted his head, his interest piqued. Perhaps the Dawnward had received his letter after all.
“They obliterated the Alliance that were occupying the city. Something happened, I’m not sure what, but they say it was ugly. That’s all I know, though.”
“Fair enough.”
Ciaragan moved through the halls of her home, steady feet keeping her from floating away like everything around her. She pushed books and furniture out of her path as they levitated in the water engulfing the house. It was dark, but the candles were still lit- their inexplicable existence casting a golden glow like lantern fish in the depths of the sea. There was something very calm in the chaos that was her sunken house. No sound, no cold, no warm, just the familiar mixed with the abnormal. She explored every room, and found each a mess of all their treasures in various states of freefall. As she rounded the balcony, looking down to the staircase and lower floor, she pushed herself off the top step and floated down gracefully. She couldn’t help but crack a smile at the feeling of being weightless in the water, and swam through the long hallways until she returned to the dining room, where Faervell was still sat at the table. He looked up at her as she too floated around the room like the dining set which had dispersed after their meal. His expression was still unreadable.
Ciaragan wondered why he wasn’t also enjoying the alien circumstances they found themselves in, but the more she tried to make sense of it the less she was able to hold onto her thread of thought. She started grabbing the cutlery and china, swimming up and down again until the table was reset properly in front of him. She sat down in her chair across from her brother, where she always sat. He picked up his fork, and there was food on his plate again. She looked down, and her own was the same. Looking back up again, she saw him holding out his goblet, smiling. His smile always made her smile. She lifted her cup, and the goblets touched in a muted clink of glass on glass. She could stay like this forever, as odd as it seemed. Just she and he, at home, alone and away from the troubles of the outside world, sunk.
She had kicked and screamed and wailed at those unlucky nurses who witnessed the awakening, insults spat in the faces of who she claimed “stole her hand,” and “dismembered her in her sleep.” It took five people to restrain her before a sedative could be delivered, sending her spiraling back into unconsciousness from whence she had only just arrived. When she finally awoke again, only Kelach sat by her bedside. He was emotionless, as always, and unfazed by her foggy panic.
“Where is my brother? I demand to see him.”
“He’s not here, ma’am. I sent him the letter per your request.”
“Did he come?”
“Not that I am aware.”
Releasing a small sob, she cradled her bandaged arm to her chest. “How could you let them do this to me?”
Kelach’s mask cracked only slightly, letting the tiniest bit of sympathy leak out. “They said it was the only way to save your life, ma’am. The hand was completely crushed, and if not removed infection would have set in. I couldn’t stop them.”
“My hand,” she cried, “my hand...”
“Ma’am... there is something else I must tell you.”
She looked up in horror, wondering what else had happened to her while she slept. How long had it even been? She was afraid to know.
Kelach reached for her bedside table, handing her a silver mirror. “Your eye, ma’am, it’s...changed.”
Ciaragan lifted the mirror with all the courage she could muster. Two glowing orbs, one golden and one violet, stared back at her. She reached up to touch it, but no hand was able to meet flesh. It took her a moment to notice, as the phantom fingers seemed to still feel the warmth of her skin. When she saw the stub at the end of her arm in the reflection, she threw the mirror aside, letting it smash into the cold stone floor.
“The medics said that since you were attacked by the void creature on this side, some of its magic must have influenced your own body, now manifesting in your eye.”
A memory consumed her mind. In the last moments before everything went dark, she remembered calling out to the void; Inviting in its power to put down the bastard of shadow and death that had risen in the Bleeding Eye stronghold. It came to her, but the power was unstable. She struggled to contain it, and her final shot against the monstrosity missed. That is when it came barreling towards her and crushed her under its weight. She knew what she had done, but it was to protect her comrades. Otherwise she would have never used such dark magics in their presence. She was a beacon of the Light- a champion of its cause. Now she wore her shame on her face, for everyone to see. There was no hiding the void’s influence in her.
She wanted to scream again. She wanted to cry until her tears drowned her. This was not supposed to happen to her.
Kelach just sat quietly beside her, as he had done since his mistress fell in battle. His silence infuriated and calmed Ciaragan somehow at the same time. Her fury was not truly for him, though. It was for some nameless, faceless entity that caused her suffering. It was for fate.
Three soldiers readied their steeds for a nightly patrol of camp. One muttered and kicked the dirt as he pulled a heavy woolen blanket off his horse. The makeshift stables were illuminated by a single lantern, which swung slightly in the night air.
“What’s the matter with you?” Another soldier asked.
“Someone stole my rations.”
The other two men rolled their eyes.
“Well, where’d you leave them last?”
“I had them hanging in a knapsack outside the tent, and I was only gone for a moment. When I came back out, nothing!” He cursed a foul string of profanities which only a soldier can muster.
“Serves you right, idiot.” One man chuckled. “You know anything left lying about is fair game.”
“It wasn’t lying about! I knew exactly where it was.”
“I’ll bet it was that rotten sixteenth company when they marched out earlier. Buncha’ cutthroats if I ever seen ‘em.”
The rationless man perked up at the idea of a culprit. “I bet you’re right! Low down, thieving bastards.”
“Bring it up with a commander if you’re so pissy about it. I’m tired of hearing you whinge on. Let’s get going.”
The men, now saddled up, started at a slow trot to the edge of camp.
As they rode the perimeter, they chatted about the battles coming in the nearby future. Mere days from then, they would face the Amani horde in defense of the motherland. Their company had been rapidly declining in numbers. Many friends were long gone, resting beneath the frozen earth- their long lives merely a blink in the eternity they were experiencing now. The men tried not to think about it, but Death surrounded the camp constantly. It encroached upon them from all sides, taking the faces of different foes. Soon, Death would wear the Amani war mask, and the trio would face him down again, like so many times before. If they would make it out alive was as much a mystery to them as what would happen if they did not.
They passed several scenes as they patrolled- men and women drinking and enjoying camp cooking by firelight, important persons strolling by with lieutenants in tow, a bard strumming a tune to a crowd of enraptured ladies... All looked much more interesting than their current job. The hungry man sighed aloud.
“Look at them. I bet commanders don’t get their rations stolen.”
“Will you shut up about the damned food?”
“I can’t! I’m starving. That was my dinner and breakfast!”
“S’not like you need any extra pounds. Might do you good to skip a meal or two.”
The hungry man frowned. “Oh, fuck off. How am I supposed to be up to strength in the battle if I’m wasting away?”
The other two let out a hearty chuckle. One wiped his eyes on his sleeve and said with a grin, “You’ve made it this far with less in your belly. I think you’ll be alright.”
“I will not.”
“You will too.”
This bickering back and forth went on for some time. As they rounded the edge of camp, a strange light came into view. A violet glow seeped out of the nearby woods, dancing along the treeline in flashes made more visible by the surrounding darkness. The patrol’s horses continued at their slow trot, edging the trio ever closer as they watched in silence. Finally, one spoke up.
“Think we should go check it out?”
“It’s our job, stupid. Of course we should check it out.”
“You don’t have to call me stupid, I was only saying...”
“Be quiet! Both of you! Let’s get this over with.” One of the men rode ahead, causing his companions to chase after him in a hurry.
As they approached a clearing in the woods, they noticed a trail of footprints leading deeper into the columns of bare trees. The men pressed on, with camp’s warm glow becoming dimmer in the distance and the cold, purple light growing stronger. The hungry soldier’s stomach growled, gaining nasty looks from both his comrades. He shrugged a sheepish apology, and they continued on. Up ahead they spotted her. A woman, cloaked in red, stood alone on the shoreline. Several books floated around her, forming a crescent moon of violet light as they drifted in mid air. Her back was turned to the men, as she faced the open ocean. The trio studied the scene for a moment before approaching, hands at their hilts just in case.
As the leader among them began to speak up, the woman’s head whipped around. She seemed surprised to have been found, but not startled. The men, however, jumped slightly at the quick movement. She couldn’t help but grin.
“Ah-hrm... Ma’am? Identify yourself, please.”
The lady flicked her wrist, causing all the books to fade away in a shimmer of violet light, as if they had only been illusions. She sauntered over to them, speaking in a melodic but deep voice as she moved.
“Lightward Bael’Nar, of the Sunguard. Steady yourselves, men. No need for weapons.”
The two at the back relaxed somewhat, but the front man did not move his hand. She approached slowly until she was face to face with his horse, whom she gave an affectionate brush on the neck.
“Lightward, what are you doing out here? This is far beyond the camp boundaries.”
“That’s really of no concern to you, my dear. Trust me.”
“It is my concern, ma’am. Please return to camp at once. We will escort you, if you wish.”
Ciaragan paused in thought for a moment, then nodded with a serpentine smile. “Of course. Shall I ride with you, then?”
He returned the nod and extended his hand to hoist her up onto the animal. She slithered her arms around his midsection a little too tightly. The group made their way out of the now completely dark forest in silence.
Until the unmistakable grumble of a hungry belly broke the tension in the air.
“Hungry, are we?” Laughed Ciaragan.
“No, ma’am- erm, well, I mean yes, ma’am. But it’s no worry.”
“Our fine soldiers should not be working on an empty stomach. I have some food at my tent you can have if the three of you would be so kind as to drop me off there.”
The hungry man looked at the others hopefully, nearly begging like a child. The leader sighed.
“Thank you, ma’am. Much obliged.”
“It’s no trouble at all, my dear. Consider it payment for sparing me the trouble of walking back alone.”
While the other two men felt excitement at the prospects of a meal, the third man only felt more uneasy at Ciaragan’s cold arms pressed against his body. The party arrived at the Lightward’s tent, and her escort helped her down off the horse with gentle ease. She dusted off her red robes and pulled back the tent’s door to slip inside, leaving the trio to wait outside in the slush while she shuffled around unseen. The men exchanged nervous glances. They were not sure what this strange woman they’d found in the woods would keep in her pantry. When she finally reemerged, a basket of bread hanging from her elbow, they shared an internal sigh of relief.
She handed out the bread one by one. The last soldier, who had initially offered the ride home, had chestnut brown hair that fell in stringy pieces around his face. He was plain, just like her, but had enough sense to have not let his guard down since he first spotted those dancing lights in the treetops. She eyed him over one last time before extending the piece of bread. When he went to accept his portion, she laid a delicate hand on his forearm and pulled him in close. She leaned forward to whisper in his ear.
“Your friends will die in the upcoming battle. You cannot save them. Only you will live, and when you do, come find me. I will show you the truth.”
He recoiled from her grasp, and she was still smiling that awful smile. She bid the trio farewell without another word, and disappeared back into her dwelling. The man’s face was gray, drained of all blood, and his eyes stared blankly at the food she had given him. The others began to scarf down their portions, grinning at their companion slyly. They didn’t speak until they were out of earshot of the tent, back on patrol.
“Did the Lightward invite you back to hers for a little late night romp, Kelach?”
“I’m sure she’s got another meal for you later, eh?”
The two soldiers burst into laughter, elbowing each other as pieces of half-chewed bread fell from their mouths. Kelach did not laugh. His mind was troubled by what Ciaragan had said to him, and for some reason he knew she wasn’t joking. He felt eyes upon him as the faces of his two comrades stared back at him from ahead.
“You alright, Kelach? We were only teasing.”
He snapped back to reality and forced a small smile.
“What? Oh, um, yeah. It’s okay. Let’s just finish the route.”
@thesunguardmg for general camp characters and scenes
