The Light of Gen
By Matt Brisby
Whip sat by the fire. In
her hands was the long stick on which she was roasting a pheasant she had
caught just outside their campsite. The fire licked the corpse of the bird as
she rotated her supper slowly as to avoid burning it. She looked up at the
stars shining through the opening created by the forest clearing. The bright
dots entranced her vision as she heard Dormund wake for his watch. Dormund
yawned deeply as he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The man stood and
noticing Whip’s attentions, also looked to the stars.
“Kekyl’s bard has crossed us.” He said, pointing up at
a constellation to the north of the sky.
“That’s good. We just might find what we’re looking
for.” Whip answered. “But isn’t Kekyl’s bard to our backs now? Doesn’t that
mean his blessing leaves us?” It was how she understood the stars. Her people
had called the constellation by another name, Y’ktlok, but it’s meaning
was the same. Dormund walked over and
laid his heavy, ringed hand on the young Drow’s shoulder.
“Aye. But it is not Kekyl’s blessing we seek, Y’Ishtari.”
Whip
relaxed. Dormund was wise. As a Knight of Eldridge, he had been schooled in the
teachings of the stars, gods, deamons and fey alike, and as a mentor, he had
always proven to be right about such things. The Knight spoke again, sitting
next to her as she began to eat her now thoroughly roasted game.
“The places where we venture forth to next will place
our intentions against the god Kekyl. Make no mistake about that. But there are
other gods for us to honor, other forces in this world that surpass even a
god’s power. We seek the key to the light of Gen. No one has ever been able to
find it before us. But it has been tasked to me to find it, and my order would
not have sent us here, should the mission be folly. The great ones have
knowledge I cannot ever hope to understand, and it is their work we do here.”
Whip knew well the
legend of Gen. The god who turned away all the others through his persuasion.
The god who convinced Malakain to slaughter his own wife. The God who made King
Deportan turn upon his own people whom he so loved. The God who remade the
world to his fiendish liking. Of course, the legend spoke of the manner in which
Gen was defeated, it usually told it one of two ways. The first is one where
Gen, having made the world to his own liking, attempts to transform himself
into an even more powerful god, which caused him to actually turn into a
mindless Gretch, forced to worship at his own altar for eternity. The second is
that he is stopped by the hero Bildgaurd who reflects the beam of Gen’s power
back at him with an enchanted mirror. Whip had only heard the second version.
Dormund had heard both, but preferred the first.
After
finishing her meal, during which Dormund had told her yet another tale of
Knight Nemonis the fabled hero of Dormund’s order who had, in this telling,
been able to capture a fleet of Orcish ships through mere slight of hand, Whip
fell asleep by the fire. She dreamt of hunting, and fishing. She dreamed also
of her own mother and woke next morning saddened and cold for a moment before
the feelings faded from her.
The
two were traveling along the coasts of the northern sea of Dalbach, where
forests were made of pine and fur trees battered by hurricanes and hard bedrock
visible wherever the forests refused to grow. It was the end of the fall
season, and some leaves were still clinging to the trees. The sun cut through
the morning air with a harsh brilliance, aided by a cloudless sky. As Whip and
Dormund rode their horses, which were a speckled brown and silvery grey
respectively, they noticed the ocean sparkle in the harsh sunlight like an
endless plain of small sharp rocks. Dormund sat upright in his saddle as they
went along, his bright silver armor gleaming in the light. He wore a mid-length
blue cape on his back, embroidered with the image of a six-fingered hand. At
his side was a longsword with a sapphire pommel. He had named the sword Truth
as was tradition for his order. Dormund’s face was pale and bearded, which
contrasted with his companion’s dark red skin. Whip rode her speckled brown
horse without a cape. She was smaller than Dormund, athletic and nimble. She
carried a crossbow (which she had called Oaten) slung across her back with a
quiver of arrows and wore light leather armor. Whip was a Blood Elf from the
western islands, her red skin, small rounded horns, pointed ears and stark white
hair made her stand out among the pale human people of Dalbach.
As
they rode, they saw in the distance a large grey spire, jutting out from the
rocky shore. Whip couldn’t tell much about what the shape was at first. Perhaps
a large rock or a tower of some kind? No, as it turns out the spire was in fact
a large statue, and as the two drew nearer to it, Whip began to make out more
of its details. The statue was of an old bearded king, and stood at least
twenty feet tall. His face may have once been fashioned as a kind one, but
years of storms and decay had given the old lord a frightfully distorted
visage. Barnacles and seaweed adorned the back and bottom of the statue, as it
jutted out from the sharp rocky beach of the ocean. They halted once they were
a few feet away from the statue. Dormund’s eyes narrowed, and he slid off of
his horse. He began to walk forward and fumbled with the contents of a small
pouch he had kept on his belt for occasions such as this.
“What is it?” Whip asked from atop her horse.
“I think…” Replied Dormund, preoccupied with the
pouch. “That we’ve found Gen’s first totem.”
Whip
became excited, and met Dormund on foot as he approached the statue’s base.
Dormund’s pouch had contained three brass rings and two small blue spheres. He
placed the first two rings on his index and pinky finger. The rings then began
to glow with a soft blue light and a sixth spectral blue finger appeared on
Dormund’s right hand, to the right of his ringed pinky finger. He placed the
third brass ring on the spectral finger. And placed the two blue spheres in
corresponding grooves in his right bracer. At this point all the lines and
ornamental grooves that adorned Dormund’s armor on his right side, glowed with
a faint blue light. The Knight of Eldridge then stretched out his hand and
began to mutter things in a language Whip had heard him use before, but
understood nothing of. She watched as tendrils of magical energy revealed
themselves around the statue, and were one at a time dismantled by some
incantation of Dormund’s. The statue itself was missing several parts to it,
the end of the king’s rod, the crown on his head and bits of his arms and legs
had been knocked off or eroded over time. As Dormund’s magic flowed from his
palm, a spectral version of the statue, also blue, began to form. The magic
completed the missing pieces of the statue and lay overtop the features of the
thing, detailing the king’s face, happy and playful looking once again.
“Hail King Deportan!” Spoke Dormund, with grave
conviction. “We call upon you now in this time of great need, to seek your
council, and provide you service.”
The spectral features that lay over the statue began
to stir, and the old king Deportan shook his head and rubbed his eyes with his
hand, yawning as if he had been asleep. He looked down on the two adventurers
with a bemused expression.
“Awfully strange to seek the council of a dead man,
young wizard.” Said the old King in a raspy voice that echoed like it came from
a great cavern. “Nor do I anymore have need of service. The time at which I
employed great heroes and gallant adventurers such as yourselves to defend my
kingdom’s people is long over. I stand here watching the world turn over,
cities, forests and rivers turn to dust. It is the way of the world young
wizard. We all meet an end, and what was before remains before.”
Whip glanced around, and looked at Dormund, whose hand
was outstretched before him. The blue glow of his spectral finger and armor
began to intensify, as sweat began to bead on his forehead. When he spoke
however, his voice gave no impression of the increased effort.
“Truly spoken great one. It is true that your council
would be of no use to mortal men, or those bound to the physical plain. But I
seek a greater knowledge.” He spoke his next words slowly, “I seek the path of
troubles and the Light of Gen.” The face of the spectral giant before them
hardened as if it were the very stone beneath it.
“That light is best left untouched.” He began to shake
his head violently, as if he were hearing voices arguing before him. “No! Not
again! That light has danger beyond all the works of men and gods. No!”
The ground began to tremble and the blue light that
comprised the astral body of the dead king, the light that matched that of
Dormund’s magic, began to turn a sickly green, and grow brighter. Sounds like
thunder and the gnashing jaws of a bear came from somewhere near the statue’s
base. Whip had already drawn Oaten from it’s loop on her back, and loaded a
bolt. She saw Dormund’s eyes glow a faint green before the giant’s voice
thundered from the top of the statue, without echo or rasp now, filled with
malice and venom.
“THERE IS NO LIFE FOR THOSE BELOW THE LIGHT OF
MALAKAIN’S BANE! NO LIFE FOR DEPORTAN’S DAMNED!”
At
that moment the spectral lines that had created the king’s shape seemed to
burst violently, and Dormund and Whip were both knocked down by a shockwave.
There was the sound of rocks breaking and when Whip looked up she saw that
Deportan’s statue had begun to move of its own accord, a hulking mass of old
rock and barnacle, it began to stride towards the two friends. They scrambled
to their feet and began to run to the hill behind them on the opposite side of
the path. Whip fired a bolt from Oaten which struck a barnacle off the king’s
eyebrow before glancing harmlessly off its stone visage. Dormund shouted some
words in his own language and held out his right hand towards Deportan. A large
astral bird appeared from his palm and bloomed to the size of a bear almost
instantly. The bird let forth a cry and launched itself at Deportan’s face,
impacting the statue audibly and exploding in a blue cloud. This caused the
statue to stumble back as one does when they walk face first into a spider’s
web. Quickly, Dormund sent a second blast of blue energy, this time taking the
form of a harpy. However, Deportan was ready now, and slapped down the
projection with a stony swipe of his eroded fist.
“He must be powered by something nearby!” Shouted
Dormund to Whip, who nodded and began sprinting around to a flanking position,
giving a quick rebuke to another of Deportan’s barnacles from Oaten as she
went.
With
the stone giant focused on her friend, Whip began scanning the shoreline for
something that might be useful. She could hear Dormund’s shouts of ancient
language mixed with crashing and shrieking from the projections he was creating
to fight the monster. She knew he couldn’t hope to keep doing that forever. His
magic, as far as she understood it, drained her friend’s physical energy, and
he was only a mortal man. She hopped from the road down onto the rocky
shoreline and began to nimbly pick her way among the sharp points toward the
stone platform where the statue had originally stood. As she drew closer she
could make out a glowing green emerald on a thin stone pedestal in the center
of the stone base. It had been concealed somehow beneath the statue before he
had moved. She was about to move closer, but at that moment Dormund slammed
down onto the platform from out of nowhere. Deportan must have thrown him,
because he landed off on his side and slid back into the pedestal. When
Dormund’s form hit the Jewel’s stand, the gem shifted slightly, rocking back
and forth on it’s perch. As it did this, Whip saw the giant falter as it
advanced on Dormund. It looked as if her friend had managed to do little damage
to the old king, but whenever the jewel rocked to one side or another as he
advanced, he froze, before continuing again like nothing had happened.
Thinking
quickly, Whip took aim with her crossbow and fired at the gem. She missed. The
gem found it’s footing again, and the Stone giant continued towards her friend
unhindered. Fumbling with another bolt, Whip took a step closer, fitted steel
to Oaten, and took aim once more. The Giant was upon Dormund, and Raised up a
fist to strike down on the Knight, who had begun to stir. Whip fired at the
stone again. The bolt sailed through the air, and this time found it’s mark.
The emerald shattered once the connection was made, and the statue, which was
in the process of bringing its fist down on Dormund in a fatal blow, stopped as
if frozen in place. In fact, the statue stopped so suddenly that the seaweed
that had been hanging from the arm of the statue found a new home on Dormund
instead.
Whip
rushed forward to help her fallen friend, who slowly sat up as she approached
him. Groaning, he brushed off the seaweed and shards of emerald from his
shoulders. Whip helped him remove the rest and helped him to his feet. As he
brushed still more shards of emerald from his hair, they fell in front of his
eyes and to Whip, they almost seemed to reflect their colour back in the whites
of his eyes for an instant.
“I
knew we’d have to get him to move.” Said Dormund gesturing first at the statue
above him, and then at the pedestal next to them, “I did not think we’d have to
fight the last king of the Reach to do that.”
Whip looked up at the
statue’s face again. The impact of Dormund’s magic upon it was now more
noticeable, and the face seemed blanker and even more destroyed than it had
before. The old king was no longer recognizable.
“Now,” Said Dormund, looking about him. “There should
be a- yes. There we have it.”
He strode over to the
edge of the platform, and pulled at a small brass ring that was attached to the
ground. With
what seemed like great effort, Dormund pulled up on the ring which rose on
another stone pedestal beneath it. As it did so, the pedestal that housed the
green emerald began to sink into the ground. With the sound of grinding stone, an
area four feet wide where the gem’s pedestal had been, slowly lowered itself
down six or seven feet more. Once Dormund’s switch had been pulled to its
maximum extension, the stones clunked into place with a stony locking sound.
The stone pit that was now before Whip revealed a darkened doorway on the wall
of the pit that faced away from the ocean.
The waves began to crash
more intently against the shore line, and ocean spray gave them an icy
greeting. Dormund released the switch and rubbed his right wrist, his sixth
finger flickering slightly. Whip peered down at the hole, and then looked up at
her friend.
“If we’re going down there, you better not wake up any
more dead kings.”
He smirked and hopped down into the pit, conjuring a
spectral blue torch with a pale flame as he did so. Whip slid down next to him
and, holding the torch before them, Dormund lead the pair down into the dark
corridor. The walls were stone, but the floor was a hard dirt one. There were
no designs on the walls, and the roof of the corridor was equally uninspiring.
It was a dull grey tunnel, with nothing but blackness before them.
“You’re sure this is the way?” Whip asked, as the
light outside began to fade.
Dormund did not reply at
first. Because he was walking ahead of her, she couldn’t see his face at all
unless he turned back. After they had walked about ten paces or so into the
tunnel, he replied that it had to be the right way. The Golem, as Dormund now
called Deportan’s statue, had been powered by an Algeritan Emerald. The same
kind that Gen used to power his own creations during the first age. No, he said,
this was the right place.
The
walk down the tunnel, which Whip assumed was called the Path of Troubles, was a
long one. It seemed like hours went by as they walked, always sloping slightly
down as they went. The tunnel never curved or cornered, widened or really
changed at all as they went. For a while, whenever Whip turned around she could
see a prick of light from the opening at the shoreline, but even that faded
from view after a while. The only source of light now was Dormund’s pale blue
torch, and the pale blue strings of magika that ran along his armor. The
temperature began to drop as they ventured still deeper into the ground, and
Whip began to hear, and sometimes feel, water droplets falling from the
ceiling.
“We’re beneath the great river Gach.” Said Dormund’s
voice, which sounded oddly chipper given the surroundings. “Some distance under
it, I might venture, but still. Best to send a prayer to the river goddess,
eh?” He turned his head and grinned at Whip.
“I think I’d rather drown.” She said. “So just how
much did the great ones tell you about what we might find at the end of this
tunnel? Assuming there is an end of course.”
Dormund chuckled lightly. “There’s an end alright.” He
stopped and turned to her, pointing at the flame on his torch. “See how it’s
drawn to the opening behind us? That means there’s airflow down here. There’s
something at the end of all this alright. Probably another way out as well.”
“The great ones tell you that?” She said, still
wanting to know more.
“They told me all I’d need to know Y’Ishtari.”
He turned and kept walking down the passage. She
lingered for a moment and then followed him saying under her breath, “I hate
that name.”
The
tunnel descended further and further into the Earth, and the temperature began
to drop as they went down. Before long the two were seeing their breath before
them, and the sound of dripping water stopped. After what felt like hours the
passage began to level out, and Dormund stopped walking. He stood sideways in
the narrow passage, so Whip could see what was in front of them. It was a dark
wooden door, carved with runes older than the statue above the tunnel’s
entrance had been. Dormund ran his ringed hand over the door, and the runes lit
up with a pale white light when he did so. It was as he did this that Whip
noticed his spectral finger was flickering and seemed to be on a delay with the
rest of his hand. Dormund handed the astral torch to Whip. As she took it, it
stung her fingers, and she swore loudly, dropping the torch.
“Oh. Yes. Sorry about that, my mistake.” Said Dormund,
who with a wave of his hand transformed the torch into a burning orb which he
made float above them.
“Why did it do that?” Hissed Whip. His projections had
never hurt her before.
In response, the Knight
held up his right hand, and Whip saw that the third ring, which usually
belonged to the astral finger was missing.
“My container band must have fallen off in the
fighting.” He said, almost sheepishly. “It’s not a big deal, my magic is just a
little more… unpredictable with out it.” He began examining the runed door
again. “If I had noticed earlier, I would have gone back for it, but it wasn’t
until we had gone, well, I guess now I can say it was about two thirds of the
way down, after we passed where the great river ran. That’s when I noticed it
was gone. Damned thing.”
Whip was unsure of what to make of this. She had heard
Dormund say before how his magic requires all three rings and those two blue
spheres he called Heart Stones, to work “the way it should.” But she trusted
Dormund. She was not a mage or a sorcerer, and knew truly very little about
magic. It was usually the realm of those who could take the time to study it,
learn it’s many different intricacies and methodologies. Whip had never had
time for that. It had been her and Oaten against the world for about as long as
she could remember. Every day, a new threat or challenge, no rest, no true
sleep. It was not until she had fallen in with Dormund that she had gotten any
sense of normalcy or routine. After their first adventure together, Dormund had
provided Whip with a room in the dormitories of Wrighthouse, the abbey of the
Knights of Eldredge, defenders of the hand. While not a part of the order in
any official capacity, Whip earned her keep with the Knights by training the
initiates to shoot, as well as Rekinsis,
the language of her native land, which few in the central kingdoms knew any of.
These pursuits kept her mind and body busy, but of course, she also aided
Dormund on most of his errands that took him outside the city. She found that,
while routine was nice, she in fact got quite bored of it given the chance.
Still, it was nice to have the chance.
Dormund
finally managed to get the door to open, through some spell or another, and the
mighty oak patrician swung open to reveal a large hall. The hall was as large
as any that Whip had seen, with pillars lining the walls, and supporting the
beams of silvery metal that ran across the roof which arched upwards to a peak.
On the roof were murals of ancient battles of gods and deamons, each one
depicting a figure clad in pale green which Whip recognized as Gen himself,
grinning or laughing at the misfortune he had managed to cause. At the pinnacle
of the roof was a small opening, out of which spilled the cold harsh light
sunlight the two had left behind at the entrance to the tunnel. It shone down
in a beam in the centre of the room and was reflected off the floor which was
made of polished gold, so that what little light there was made the whole room
visible. At the far end of the hallway there was a pool of pale green liquid,
and lining the sides of the hall were six great statues, carved from marble.
As
the two entered the room in earnest. Dormund snuffed out the orb of light,
which was no longer necessary, and seemed to relax his shoulders. He strode in
confidently and began to look at the pool at the far end. Whip, not one to be
caught off guard, began to examine the statues. The first was of a man with
long hair, simple armor and a longsword held at his side. The next was of a
young dwarf, with no beard to speak of. Whip was unsure if it was a male or
female, but this dwarf had a concerned expression upon its face, had a thin
rapier on its belt and appeared to be taking notes on a small pad of paper.
Next to the dwarf there was a tall elf, with long hair and a bow trained upon
an unknown target. Across from the elf, on the other side stood a single piece
of marble that was carved into a statue of two men, farmers by the looks of
them, one with a large pitchfork, the other a small club, each wearing a small
crown and bearing dazed expressions. To their left, across from the dwarf with
the notepad, stood a tall broad-shouldered Orc statue. The Orc held no weapon,
and appeared to wear long robes and a hood. He had his head bowed and appeared
to be in a state of prayer. Lastly, Whip regarded the statue of a stout dwarf,
this one was male, and considerably older looking than the others. This one
wore heavy looking armor, and brandished a dwarven Warhammer before him. A
hammer which bore a small symbol upon it. Whip stepped forward and examined it
closely. It was of a bolt of lightning, laid over a mountain. She knew this
symbol… She was sure of it! Some book she had read in the Abbey…
“They’re the Heroes of Phandalin.” Came a voice from
behind her. Dormund had returned from his examination of the pool. “That’s
Togan Stormwatch, across from him is Sildar of The Lord’s Alliance, next to
him, Craig Cragstone the famed interrogator, then Malagash the ranger of the
foothills, then of course Garthur, or rather Garth and Arthur Vakaran, the
twins, and lastly, Clock Bragadoon, the only Half Orc to learn the ways of
meditation from the monks of the Silver Island.” Dormund paused, and looked
about the room again. “They saved the town of Phandalin from the dark Wizard
Glass Staff more than 200 years ago. They then became the first mortals to
successfully Pillage the mines of Phandelver, bringing its treasure back to the
people of Phandalin, making that small town the sprawling metropolis it is
today.”
There
was silence in the chamber now. As Dormund looked around, wondering to himself,
Whip stared at the face of Cragstone the dwarf. It seemed… odd. Too smooth to
be made with any tool she knew of.
Before she
could bring this up, Dormund continued. “Truly, these Heroes are great legends
of the last age. But… Why here?” He sounded genuinely confused. For the first
time since the two had adventured together, the Knight seemed genuinely
confused. Whip didn’t like that one bit, and went to examine the pool herself
while Dormund continued. “From the readings the great ones have conducted, this
cavern appears in all the expected places. This beam of light makes sense, the
golden floor, the murals, even the pool of Thok
is here. These Statues appeared nowhere in the scrying of the elders.”
Whip got to the edge of the pool. She didn’t know what
a Thok was supposed to be, but to her
it looked as if it were a dark green liquid, thicker than water, but not as
thick as blood. The pool appeared deep. Very deep in fact. The walls of the
pool where made of golden bricks, and bands of silver. At the bottom of the
pool, there was… what was that?
“After Phandalin, the Heroes set out for Highborn
Peak, Togan’s homeland. They were searching for the remnants of Togan’s people.
You see, Y’Ishtari, the Stormwatch clan was once the most powerful of the
dwarven families, before the Eldredge Hand moved in. We had to of course, they
were hoarding masses of Heken, the
stuff they make these Heart Stones out of. It’s a powerful substance. The
Stormwatches knew nothing of it’s worth, and… well negotiations turned hostile
I assume.”
The pool’s bottom seemed to be patterned in some way,
patterned like- like circles. She tested the Thok with the tip of her finger and it seemed to be fine enough.
There was something down there.
“Of course, this was a long time ago, before me to be
sure, or you for that matter, Y’Ishtari. But anyway, the heroes went searching
for, well the texts say the rest of Stormwatch clan, but we’re pretty sure
Togan was after the Heken. They made
it as far north as Neverwinter, we know that much, it’s where Garthur and
Sildar parted from the group. After that… well it becomes hard to say. Did they
do it? Did they find it? The Heken Gen?
We never did find where that vein ended…”
Whip wasn’t listening to Dormud’s ramblings anymore. She
reached her hand down into the Thok,
it was thick, and her arm began to tingle in a delightful manner. As if it were
finding new ways to feel strong and capable. The thing at the bottom was hard
for her to make out from above the surface, she felt sure that if she just put
her head under, she would be able to see what it was.
“Could that be it?
Heken Gen…Gen. Oh! Oh of course. Gen, Gen Gen Gen. You were a clever one.
So very clever.”
If Whip’s head had been above the surface of the Thok, she would have heard this last
part. But she had put her head under the Thok.
It felt wonderful. Like she was thinking and seeing clearly for the first time
in a long time. She opened her eyes and peered down and saw clearly the thing
she had been searching for. Her stomach began to tie itself in knots.
The
bottom of the pit was not covered with a pattern. It was covered with rings.
Corroded by the Thok from generations
of time spent beneath it’s surface the rings looked to Whip to be the same kind
that Dormund wore. The rings of what must have been dozens of Eldredge Knights
before him, and on top, still glowing a faint blue colour, an uncorroded
container ring.
Dormund’s Ring.
As she pulled her head back above the surface, she
noticed that the room was now bathed in green light. The pool of Thok had begun to bubble and from its
surface shot tendrils of the liquid, manipulated by some magical force the
tendrils shot to the centre of the room, to meet the outstretched hand of
Dormund. His eyes blazed pure emerald, without a speck of white in them, as the
tendrils of Thok engrained themselves
in every crevice of his ornate armor. As the grooves began to fill and shine a
bright sickly green, Dormund spoke in a high-pitched tone. He was giddy from
excitement.
“Don’t you see Whip? Gen’s Light? Heken, Thok? It’s all one in the same. The Mad God used this stuff
to do whatever he wanted!”
The pool of Thok was
draining quickly as the liquid was absorbed by the armor and then started to
flow into Dormund’s nose, filling him up as well. His spectral finger became
encased in Thok and looked suddenly
organic and clawed, longer than it had been and more terrible. As the pool was
fully drained, the last thing to change were Dormund’s Heart Stones, which
burst from their housing and rolled away across the floor, replaced by the Thok. His very skin seemed to be a pale
green, and liquid Thock dripped
soundlessly from his tear ducts.
“Dormund?” Asked Whip, tentatively. “Are you alright?”
“Alright?” Replied the Knight. “I’m more than alright!
We did it Whip! We found the light of Gen! It’s here, in me now!” He moved
towards her and clapped his hands on her shoulders, pulling her in for an
embrace that had never been given before. He held her tightly, laughed and
began to almost swing her back and forth, crying out, “We did it! Oh! Whip I
feel so good!” He released her but still stood closely in front of her. His eyes.
They were green and swirling, sickening and intoxicating. His face was twisted
into and fanatic excitement she had never seen on his face before. Dormund
kissed her fiercely and without invitation. His lips were colder than ice, they
were the lips of a corpse. She recoiled, pushing Dormund away violently.
“What?” Asked Thok Dormund. Looking concerned, and hurt,
yet still smiling with half his mouth. “Is this not what you wanted, Y’Ishtari?”
The smile extended to the rest of his face and he advanced upon her again,
grabbing her by the wrist. She pulled back again.
“You are not yourself Dormund, you… you are not-”
“What? Your precious mentor?” Thok Dormund responded,
mockingly. “I never wanted to teach you anything Y’Ishtari. I wanted you. I
wanted you from the minute we met. It’s why I never let you learn magic. You
wouldn’t be able to use it anyway. You’re just a blood elf, you’re not even a
real fey, you’re a half breed, and a half wit, and I took you as my trophy.”
As he said these things,
he advanced on her again, casually flicking off his cape and drawing Truth from
its sheath. Whip moved, and scrambled around the empty pool and darted across
the room. As she ran around him, Thok Dormund took a swing at her legs, but
missed narrowly. Whip Reached the middle of the room, and had already fitted
Oaten with a steel bolt. She pulled back the leaver and pointed it at her
friend’s head, her fingers trembling.
“Don’t you come near me, you fiend!” She Cried.
“You’re not Dormund! He was my friend! He was a good man, not… this! Not
whatever you are now!”
Thok Dormund advanced slowly, smiling a sick and
sinister smile, dragging the tip of Truth along the golden floor, scratching it
as he walked along.
“Oh, but I am Dormund. I am his inner thoughts and his
darkest wishes.” Said the figure. “I am Dormund free from rule, and law, and
free from the judgement of others.”
He continued walking, and Whip backed away.
“Stop!” She pleaded.
“I am Dormund
free man at last, not beholden to those pompous oafs who call themselves ‘great
ones.’ I am Dormund, no longer a slave to crude magic and false friends.” Said
the green Knight. “I am Dormund, and I will always be him. I always have. I am
Gen. And you cannot save yourself, you cannot save your realm, and you cannot
save your friend, Whip.”
Gen
was getting closer. Whip backed up again, finding her back against the statue
of Cragstone the interrogator.
“It is over she-elf.” Spoke Gen. As he said this,
green tendrils of Thok slithered out
from him and began to ensnare the marble statues of Togan, Garthur, and Clock
behind him. The statues began to walk forward now too coming to flank their
fell master.
“Please.” Said Whip. “Let Him go.”
The fiend laughed and
began to send tendrils of Thok towards
Sildar and Malagash now as a respnce to the plea. Whip knew nothing of magic.
She did not know how to break a spell or fight a god. Whip was a hunter, she
knew forests and animals. She knew not what a Thok was or a Heken did. She
did not see how the ways of magic are weaved through the world. She had seen
that day the old king driven mad, old heroes usurped, and she had seen her
friend taken over. She knew not how to save him, she knew how to survive. She
had done it all her life.
“Dormund!” She said, shaking now. Tears running down
her face.
“Dormund is dead now elfling.”
Whip pulled Oaten’s trigger like she had done a
thousand times before. She pulled it as a cornered animal will lash out at its
handler when afraid. She pulled it because it was what she knew.
The bolt found it’s mark, and sliced through
Dormund-Gen’s head which exploded in a green and red burst as his body crumpled
to the ground, and the statues stopped moving. The Thok oozed it’s way back to the pool, and was replaced on the floor
around Dormund by redness, thicker than water and Thok alike.
Y’Ishtari fell to her knees. She wept like she had
never done before in her life. Y’Ishtari wept for her friend. She wept alone in
the tomb of heroes, where no one could see her.
The end.
