Die Ritter hielten ihre Fackeln hoch in der luft und beobachteten, wie ihre Knappen und Diener versuchten, das schwere steinerne Tor aufzubrechen. Was sie erwarteten waren grosse schätze, denn der Ort war magisch geschützt. Und nur schon hierher zu kommen war eine tortur. So hofften sie dass es die Reise wert war. Schliesslich, nahe Mitternacht, konnte ein loch in das Steintor geschlagen werden, gross genug um eintreten zu können. Die niedrigsten gingen voran, und auch sie hatten fackeln, doch brauchten sie keine. Alles war in einem zwielicht gehalten, und der erste anblick versetzte die ängstlichen Diener in panik, denn sie erkannten die umrisse eines gewaltigen drachen. Der drache, jedoch, war aus schwarzem stein geformt, und war keine bedrohung. Als schliesslich auch die Ritter das gebäude betraten, begannen siej eden winkel abzusuchen. Die Drachenstatue war aus stein geformt, und um ihn herumw aren drei statuen von unbekannten leuten, die dem Drachen zu huldigen schienen; ein dürrer Mann mit einem Bogen, eine kräftige FRau mit dem Schwert, und ein breiter Mann mit einer Axt. Hinte dem Drachen befand sich eine weitere statue, diese jedoch aus weissem stein. Es zeigte einen Harfenspieler. Zu füssen des Harfenspielers war eine Urne. In die grossen Wände waren szenen gemeisselt, und wahrlich viele Urnen lagen dort, alle gefüllt mit asche. Auch der boden war verziert, teils mit uraltem, getrocknetem blut, teils mit farben oder gemeisselten bildern. Das jedoch die Männer am meisten erstaunte waren die einzelnen waffen oder rüstungstiel die bei jedem der bilder lag. Ein gieriger Knappe griff nach einem verrosteten schwert, dessen griff udn knauf aus gold jedoch wertvoll erschien. Er war plötzlich anderswo, doch konnte er nicht erkennen wo. Er hatte auch keine Zeit. Jemand knallte seine waffe, eine axt, ständig gegen ihn. Er hob sein Schild, und wurde immer weiter zurückgedrängt. Er schrie. Sein arm wurde taub. doch noch immer kam der stete angriff. Schliesslich fühlte er wie seine linke ferse in der luft hing. Er war an einen Abgrund geraten. Ein letzter angriff drohte ihn nach hinten zu werfen, aber mit letzer kraft hielt er stand. Eine melodie ging ihm durch den kopf. Schliesslich verlagerte er sien gesamtes gewicht nach vorne udn rammte seinen angreifer als der ausholte. Ohne zu denken stach er zu, und traf den Hals seines gegners. Es schien ein ork zu sein, doch keienr der wilden, sondern ein gut gerüsteter. Und er war voller zorn. Der blick brannte sich in seine gedanken, udn selsbt als er sah dass jedes leben aus der bestie gewichen war, so sah er noch immer diese augen vor sich, die vor zorn beinah brannten. Er wandte sich ab von der leiche. Er liess seinen schild fallen und riss auch seinen Helm vom kopf. Dann lief er zurück, zurück zu seinen toten gefährten. Er kniete bei ihnen, und spührte erst jetzt seine verletzungen. Kurz sah er hoch zum himmel. "Garak-Dan ist tot." verkündete er mit rauher, müder stimme. "Auch wenn der Preis hoch war, Garak-Dan ist nun endlich tot." Er blickte zu seinen gefährten, prägte jedes gesicht sein. Sein blick blieb an einer jungen Frau hängen. Er sehnte sich nach ihr. Doch konnte er nicht mehr hier verweilen. Mühsam stand er wieder auf. Er konnte sich kaum auf den beinen halten, doch sein wille alleine reichte aus. Schliesslich setzte er einen Fuss vor dem anderen, udn kämpfte sich nach vorne, gerade aus. Der Weg war steinig und mühsam. Doch er musste jemanden finden. Irgend jemanden... Hinter dem Pass sah er das Meer und das gegenüberliegende Land. Und nahe dem Meer sah er ein Dorf. Er wusste, er würde den weg dahin nicht überleben. Zuviel schmerz zuckte ununterbrochen durch sienen körper. Also sammelte er sich, um ein letztes mall kundzutun: "Garak-Dan ist tot! Bei der Hand von Rolan Skysong!" Er schrie es drei mal bevor er zur knie fiel. Einzig sien Schwert hielt, das ihm als stütze diente, hielt ihn davon ab, umzufallen. "So ist meine Pflicht getan." bemerkte er. Und schliesslich wurde alles kalt und dunkel, und da war nichts mehr... Der Junge starrte die Waffe in siener Hand ungläubig an. Er sah sich um, und noch nichts hatte sich geändert. Er wunderte sich was das gerade war, doch stellte er vorsichtshalber die Waffe wieder dahin, wo er sie gefunden hatte. Er blickte nahc rechts, wollte gerade aufschreien, doch es war zu spät. Ein weiterer, neugieriger Bursche hatte einen Helm vom boden genommen, um ihn genauer zu untersuchen. Er sah den helm an, der Helm aus geschwärztem Eisen. Er war schwer, stabil. Und vor allem war er einzigartig in seiner Form. Er setzte den Helm auf und sah ehrab zu der Karte von Nelos. Bevor er es sich genauer ansehen konnte, betrat jemand sein Zelt. "Herr, ein Bote ist gekommen." Hatte er nicht gesagt, dass keiner ihn stören sollte. Er drehte sich um, sah seinen Diener an, deutete dann mit einer Handbwewgung dass der bot ekommen soll. Dieser trat auch ein. Es war einer der Verbannten, der elten, die das Tageslicht eigentlich nicht mehr sehen durften. "Was ist?" sprach er hastig, ungeduldig sogar. Der Elf hielt ihm eine Schriftrolle hin. "Mein Herr kann nicht erscheinen, somit bleiben auch seine Soldaten aus." Er verengte die augen. Unnützes pack... Er nach die schriftrolle und schickte den Boten hinaus. Er wunderte sich immer wieder, warum er überhaupt kontekt mit denen aufnahm. Grummelnd öffnete er die Rolle. Zwar war das geschriebene nicht in seiner Muttersprache,d och waren seine Kentnisse gut genug um eine lausige entschudldigugn rauszulesen. Er zerknüllte den brief und warf es auf den boden. Er hatte keine Zeit für sowas... Er trat aus dem Zelt hinaus und blickte sich um. Lagerfeuer brannten. Der Überfall sollte aber bald stattfinden. Er hoffte, dass seine Leute sich bewusst waren, worum es hier ging. Immerhin sah er mehrere leute patroullieren. Er zog weiter, einfach um etwas zu tun in dieser gottlosen Nacht. Stunden grübelte er um den besten plan. Tagelang leistete er vorabeit. Und jetzt sowas. Er wollte etwas töten. Und die gelegenheit soltle nicht ausbleiben. Er blieb stehen als ein schmerz ihn durchfuhr. Er erkannte die federn eines Pfeils. Er wurde angegriffen, und siene Rüstung war sogar durchbohrt. Er sah sich um. Seine Leute waren auch shcon aufgescheucht durch mehrere Tote. Schnell war sien Schwert gezogen und die ersten befehle gegeben. Ein Kreis schloss sich um ihn, ein Kreis der immer kleiner wurde. Er konnte nichts sehen, und auch seine Leute nicht. Die gegner zeigten sich nicht, bis er nur noch alleine da stand. Am äuserten Rande seiner Sicht, um ihn herum, sah er gestalten. Keiner wagte es, ihm zu nahe zu treten, doch waren sie da. Er drehte sich einmal im kreis und ihm war klar, er war dem Untergang geweiht. Vielleicht wurde er sogar verraten. Er knurrte. "Feiges Pack!" rief er. Die antwort darauf war ein weiterer Pfeil in seiner Brust. Er schanufte. Noch waren die schmerzen erträglich für ihn. Ein schweigen füllte den Ort, welches erst gebrochen wurde, als ein Regen einsetzte. Die Feuer im Lager kämpften um ihr Überleben. Die meisten jedoch erstickten, und liessen einige figuten vollkommen verschwinden, sodass er noch weniger als vorher sah. Er war ganz bestimmt verraten worden. Wahrscheinlich sogar von den Verbannten, schliesslich hatten sie sich geweigert zum vereinbarten Zeitpunkt zu erscheinen. Dann, endlch, trat einer der Angreifer zu ihm. Es war vermutlich ein elf, zumindest konnte man das aus der statur vermuten. Die kleider die er trug konnte man im halbdunkel nur erahnen, vilelicht grau, blau oder grün Rüstung schien er keine zu haben. Nur einen Speer. Aber sicher war er sich dabei nicht. "Endlich jemand der mutig ist!" Wieder war die antwort ein Pfeil, dieser jedoch in seinen Rücken. Kurz hustete er. Vermutlich auch blut, so wie es sich anfühlte. "Doch noch immer seid ihr feige." murmelte er. Es war schienbar zu leise um noch einen weiteren Pfeil zu kassieren. Sei ngegenüber senkte jedoch seinen speer und schien in angriffshaltung zu sein. Er wünschte sich in das gesicht sehen zu können. Es war ihm verwehrt. So konnte er nur sein grobes schwert halten. Kaum in haltung stach sein gegner zu. Durch die schmerzen geschwächt konnte er sich nur mühsam wehren. Seine Rüstung war gegen den Speer jedoch um einiges Praktischer als gegen die pfeile. So spührte er die überraschend grosse wucht der angriffe, doch kam er ohne grosse verletzugn davon. Von kontern konnte jedoch keine Rede sein. Sein gegner war verdammt flink. Frustriert versuchte er mit wachsender Frustration seinen Gegner zu erwischen. Schliesslich wurde er aber zur aufgabe gezwungen, all pfeile gezielt seine hände trafen, und er seine Waffe fallenlassen musste. Auch seine beine blieben nicht verschohnt, und er fiel auf die knie. "Thoriam aus der Familie Skysong. Thoriam der Dunkle. Thoriam der Gefallene." sprach eine junge stimme aus der richtung des speerkämpfers. Er war überrascht, eine so junge stimem zu hören, die sanft war, aber dennoch den regen übertönte. "Thoriam der Gerechte. Thoriam der Ungebrochene. Du hast viele namen. Aber jetzt wird endlich über 'dich' gerichtet." Er sah direkt in die speerspitze, wie das wasser davon tropfte. Er knurrte. "Dann schlachtet mich! Mein Name wird ewig währen!" versprach er. Sein antwort waren pfeile aus aller richtung. Er sah, wie sie auf ihn zuflogen. Er dachte, er wäre schon tot als der letzte der Pfeile ihn durchbohrte. Doch bevor er sein bewusstsein verlore sah er noch die spitze des speeres, wie es auf sein Gesicht zuraste. Er hatte nicht einmal die zeit für einen Schrei. Der Junge liess den alten, dunklen Helm fallen. Der Ton des scheppernden Helmes hallte durch den Raum, durch die gänge. Er starrte es an, war atemlos und voller furcht. Ein Ritter legte ihm die Hand auf die schulter udn fragte ob es ihm gut ginge. Der junge meinte nur, dass der Helm verflucht sei. Stuzig sah sich der Ritter um. Einer seiner Ordensmitglieder packte gerade einen verrosteten Schild.
The Knight's eyes widened as he looked down the valley. Hundreds, if not thousands of armed men and beasts stood ready, waiting only for a single command. He was horrified, wished to scream and run, but he couldn't. He took a vow, and that was all that stopped him from falling in to panic. Slowly he crawled away from the ledge. In safe distance, he stopped, standing, and first trying to focus on his job. After a few deep breaths and muttered prayers to Light, he began rushing his way back, the same way that he'd gotten here. The message was urgent. His home's fate depended on this. He vowed to be brave this one time. He vowed to do everything to sevre his friends, his family, his masters. So his feet were light and he was like a wind. By nightfall, he looked down the grand hill, looking over the forest that surrounded his home. He was breathless, his strengths nearly gone, but so close to his goal, there was no way he was willing to give up. Setting tired foot upon tired foot, he walked down the hill upon the trading-road. At last, he stood at the forest's entrance, like a guardian before his home. His senses failed him, here. He could barely see, barely here. All he heard was his heavy breath, and all he felt was his fiercely pounding heart. His steps only found their way onward because he knew the road, tne entire forest, even, since childhood. He was familiar with it, in tune with it, but now he coudln't focus, couldn't listen. He couldn't tell the trees that there was a threat. He couldn't hope for silent whispers of the leaves. Some sort of sense came through to him. He stopped, but he couldn't quite tell what it was. He looked around, but saw nothing but the dark. He was blind, and it frightened him terribly. Reciting a child's poem, he focused, shiveting, then continued his way upon the ever-darkening road. His lugns suddenly lost all air with the soudning of a THUD upon his back. His shield barely saved his life. He fell flat on to the ground, and for an instant, he wished himself dead. He was so terribly afraid. But then he remembered his promise, his vow. And with that, he scrambled to his feet. Just an instant later, he felt a terribl pain in his left leg. He collapsed again, screaming in the immense pain he felt. Tears flowing from his eyes, he crawled onward, barely muttering. He recited his vow, word for word. He saw vague shapes moving around him. But he cared little for it. He knew, for certain, he was to die, but for once in his life, he would be of use, and for everything he cared for, it was worth giving his life. He bade the forest to finish the task. He bid, until he could only scream in agony.
The Knight screamed until the pain stopped, until the fear, the terror, fled from his heart. He shivered, staring down at the shield, not knowing quite what to make of it. "Accursed..." what the only word that managed to escape his mouth. Several others stared at him. All he could do though was stare at the ancient shield. Weary, no one quite dare to move at all. Not until a page returned with news. "I... found something." he said, barely more than a whisper. But in the silence that had followd the scream, it could have been heard everywhere. One knight, one clad in golden armor, he followed the boy, stepping past rusty junk and extremely well preserved relics of ancient times. One particular place did make him feel wary, as he sensed around a stone grave powerful spells to keep whatever was buried in the stone inside forever. But the sense of threat faded as he looked through a door of iron bars, more like ornamented spears, in to a magically lit hall of great power. And in the middle of the room he saw a spear, boudn in place by magic that even he could feel strongly. "By Kjervon's Might..." he muttered. "Go, get the Mages." he ordered the page, not even looking at the boy. Nodding, the child began runninig. But he tripped halfway down the hall, falling on to an urn and a gauntlet...
She rose her Fist high above her head, the gold ornaments on her gauntlet shining brightly as the sunlight shone upon it. "Victory, Kazzazz! You see it?" She looked to the large draconic beast beside her, but the blue Dragon did not seem as pleased as she was. "No, little Lady, I do not see it." She shok her head, lowering her arm agin, and gave him a slightly upset look. "What's wrong with you, Kaz?" There was a long silence, then the dragon looked down to her. "There is no victory in this war, Lady Enaiah. The Dracoids are driven back, but their hatred, fear and madness will never cease until they die. But by Law, there is no harm to be doen to them if possible." She snorted. "Oh come on, Kaz, by Law there 'are' no Dracoids. And now they are driven back and sealed, every one of them." Though she was optimistic, the Dragon still gave her that scaptical look. She growled. "So you share the opinion of Queen Daros?!" There was silence, and frustrated, she moved away from the Dragon, away from the ledge and back down to the pass that led back to the city. Halfway, she paused though. She heard something, soft rocks falling nearby. She looked around. "Kaz? Loriel?" There was no answer. But all her senses said someone was there. She pouted. Then continued to walk on. Maybe she just imagined it. Maybe she was just paranoid. But then she heard something again. And again, she stopped and looked around. "All right, whoever's there, please come out." Nothing happened. She drew her short sword and cursed for leaving her spear at the encampment. There was a low hiss behind her. She spun, pointing her weapon, and stared in to the eyes of a blue-scaled dracoid. "N-no... No. All of you are sealed away!" The hideous thing, mis-formed, unproportioned, one arm humanoid, the other draconic, stepped closer to her, snapping his fanged teeth at her. Whatever words it spat, she couldn't understand. She backed away. "KAZ!" she shouted, again and again, until her back was pressed against a stone wall. "Stay away, Dracoid!" she said, though terror rose in her. The Dracoid rose it's dracoic claws, hissing a curse at her. She didn't think. She stabbed at the beast, piercing its scales, pushing her blade deep in to the ceature's chest. But it didn't move, didn't grunt, didn't hiss. She was shaking, her entire seight pressed against her blade. Her eyes were wide. "But you're all.. locked away..." She was knocked back on to the wall just before the claws came down, tearing her face apart.
The boy trembled on the ground, eyes wide, seeing in a loop the last images of the woman's life, of the creature, whatever it was. Only as a Knight picked up the boy, slapped him a few times for good, did he come back to his senses, somewhat. "Boy, what're you doing sleeping on the ground! Get to work!" The knight shoved th eboy along, but could hear him mutter about 'demons'. He snorted, moving on to find his Lord. Thinking about it, he looked around, a few moments later at a specific block of stone, etched with runed and symbols. He approached it, wanting to take a good look at hte symbols, but as he came close, his sight began to fail him, and he couldnt' focus. He touched the stone, wanting to lean against it.
Shock filled his body. He was stunned and couldn't move no longer. He became blind, deaf, numb. He could barely think. Anf after what seemed like a trip to the abyss, he heard a voice, male, soft, but not too young, experienced, but not too old. "So, someone enters my family's Tomb." the voice said, sounding amused. "Someone that is ignorant of the charms, spells, seals and all those fun things. And you are..." The Knight's mind seemed to be opened, shoved around for a while, then toughly slammed shut again, resulting in a very, very uncomfortable feeling. "Sir Theorandrios of the Lorenhaim. Fancy. Does your King know that you steal from the dead? Back in my day, that'd be unthinkable." There was somethign like a laugh added to that sentance, then a pause that might just as well have taken years. "Well, let me, for all that it's worth, do as the tradition of this tomb does. I will show you who and what I was before I was meant to rest here for eternity. No? Well, you have no choice, Sir Knight." Another laugh chilled the Man's very Soul, and then he was teared in to a different place. It was no longer empty. No longer dark. He was, atlast, freed from oblivion. But instead, he felt cold. Alone. Abandoned. It was Dusk, or Dawn. It was hard to tell. He was tied to a tree and wore little more than a simple shirt and pants, both in rather horrible condition. He looked around, seeing the encampment of the men that probably had captured him and tied him here. But he didn't recognize any of them. They all had stern looks, a fair amount had tattoos on their faces. Each and every one of the men was heavily armed and looked well-trained. And not one even gave him a glance. "Those people.", a familiar voice spoke, sounding as if it came from all directions at once - or from inside him. "They are known as the Zephim. As to the relation between them and I, let us say they hold quite a grudge against me." He looked aorund, as if in hoping to find the source of the voice, but there was none. He shivered slightly as a breeze came up. He was lost. "Ahh, you know, when I was tied here, I was not surprised. I had no fear, and no worries. I had foreseen my capture. I even had made a plan of escape, but there had been a factor I did not foresee. Watch." Following moments after the words were spoken, a battle begun somewhere at the far end of the encampment. More and more of the men rushed to the battlesite, but none returned to him, not even after the battlecries ceased. He struggled, trying to somehow free himself from the ropes, but failed miserably. He shivered more. Twilight slowly turned in to dark Night. And he was alone. "You see, I would have expected anything, Sir Knight. Anything. Bandits, peacekeepers, adventurers, enemies of both mine and the Zephim. But one thign I did not expect." A figure drenched in blood came from the camp at last. The figure seemed female and bore a spear, though it was hard to make out anything else. By the time she stood before him, it was night, lookign down at him. "Brother." she spoke. She stared down at him for long moments. "You know what I told her? I said:" "Of all the Horrors of this world, you were the last I expected to come to my rescue, dearest Lenarah." he spoke, though it was not his voice, and not his will. He wanted to undo his words, but before he was able to, he choked, being impaled and pinned to the tree by the spear. He had known many pains in his life, but this exceeded everyhting he had known so far. "It is not your rescue, brother. You will not be sold away, not killed by any hand but my own. I will not end you here, but by Vescinde, by Jhyraea, by all gods witness to your foul existance, you will also not live." The woman stepped back several steps. The Moon began to rise in the horizon, but he was too blinded by the pain that endlessly shot through his body. "Despite the condition, I had a spirit that surprised her. Because you know, with what seemed to be my dying breath, I still could speak." "Dearest Lenarah... I am proud of you. Of what has become of you... The Pride... of the Skysong." He choked heavily, nearly suffocating. He was dying... Dying. By Kjervon's holy might. Dying in a dream. An Illusion. Witchery. Demon-craft... "Almost, Sir Knight." The woman pressed something cold upon his forehead. He tried to focus his sight, but failed mierably. Then his existence seemed to tear and shred, his very most inner self ripped away from what held it in place. His very Soul began to detach form his body, and if the spera had been endless pain, this had no words to describe how terrible it was. All he saw, in the end, was a bright flash of an orb that had been placed upon his forehead. And then he was returned to darkness, oblivion. "My name is lost, but I still roam. And as eternal punishment, I am here, locked away, but my sister underestimated my powers, my preparations. She died the moment she set the final seal upon my grave. I tore her apart, as she tried to tear me apart. It seems, somehow, that every significant member of this bloodline dies a horrible and painful death. Tradition I suppose. But now, Sir Knight, it is time you return to your realm, your body. Tell them what you wish. But if you hang on to your life, never again step close to me. I had my fun. I might consider becomming serious the next time."
He was blasted away, being knocked against the opposing wall. The Lord spun around to the noise and hastiyl stepped over to the Brother-Knight. He looked to the sealed stone, then back to his Knight. "What is it?" he asked, going down to one knee. The knight stared at the thing, breathless, numb, barely grasping what has happened. "Accursed... Draemor! Beast! Darkness and Suffer! Oblivion! Damnation!" he went on, shouting and shouting until he panted and somewhat recovered from the shock. Then he looked up to the Lord. "Forgive me." The Lord-Knight stood, shaking his head, and looked again to the sealed stone. "I assume we stay away from it. Or better, destroy it." "No! Do not approach it! He will.. He said... He..." The Knight silenced as he felt the critical looks of his superior. "We will see..."
A day passed, no one allowed to touch 'anything' until the Mages were here. But hte following day, a young knight couldn't help but touch an item, a small, shining orb. He lifted it, and felt an illness going through his body. “Do you have it.” The unknown voice was impatient, and those words were not meant to be a question. “Yes.” She answered, sounding relaxed as always, her face hidden under a dark hood. She had no trust for him, and she knew, he had none for her either. “Show me.” It should have been a command, but his voice failed to be such. It made her more unsure than she was. Her stomach was ill and she was full of fear, and, so it seemed, so was he. “No.” She had no trust, afraid that he would just nab it and run away with it. He growled. But she cared little. The situtation was plainly tense, she had known before she came here how this would be. “First, your Promise.” She spoke calmly. He tensed, and seemed to be... insulted? He pulled a leather pouch from under his cloak, offering it to her. She took a look at it, but nodded. “Good.” She gave him the clothen bag, taking the pouch in a swift nab. She knew she was in immense danger, but there was no need to worry now, if she stayed calm. He turned away from her. She knew that if he had the feeling that she hadn't held up her part of the bargain, he would have her killed immediately. Her glance followed him, at first, followed him still even after he had disappeared out of the alley in to the dark streets. Only then she turned to her prize. She opened the Pouch and pulled out a little ball of crystal, watching it. She teook a deep breath. It would do good. Sliding the orb back where it belonged for now, she made her way to sneak out of the alley. Oh, how long had she hunted for that artefact? Far too long, and it had been almost too late. But she was aware, now she was in grave danger, for not only she wanted the ball of clear crystal. And she did not know how many people knew already that it was in her possession. With swift steps she was past the first set of lit windows, nothing more than an uncertain wind to whoever had seen her. With a set of steps more, she silently snuk past the next window, not to make a noise and be heard if she stepped in to a puddle of mud that had gathered from the day’s rain. Following her steps, she got closer to her goal, a small house near the city’s walls, and to her surprise, there was little trouble all along. At last, with a few scares as she feared to have been seen, but figured it was her imagination, she arrived home, her heart relieved of all weight it had carried. “Jurian!” she called, pulling off the long cloak and hanging it beside the door. She received no answer, thinking him asleep. Smiling, she pulled the orb out of the pouch, stepping in to one of the few rooms in the house. Her smile faded quickly. Three others were here, three, whose faces she could not see, but whose intention was clear. They wanted the orb, for themselves or whoever they worked for. The orb in her hand began to glow. “Give us the Orb of Karan….. or your beloved brother dies.” Now she needed to decide... Pains. Horrors. Terror. Suffering. The Knight suddenly had a knife at his throat. He was asked questions, but was by far too disorientated to answer. He shouted for help and then there was darkness.
The Evrathan man that had snuk up upon the Knight was sent away, taking the Orb for himself. He wanted to still examine it. In the grand hall, though, he saw a sword that was to his liking. He went to lift it. He examined the sword in the failing light of sunfall, wondeirng if it's balde ever ceased to be sharp, or if it ever could rust. He held it up against the light, looking at the blinding reflection of the sun. "Irulian Carad." he said, turning aroudn to look to his friend. "He made this blade. And he gave it to me, because he said it was destined to be in my hands." Lunon shrugged, stepping up beside him. "It's a weapon like any other." he argued. "It's a beautiful weapon and seems to resist what other weapons can not, but it remains a tool." He sighed, shaking his head at his friend. "You are frustrating, Lunon." He looked at the horizon, the Sun that was falling beyond the mountains in the distance. "It'll be dark soon." he figured, hearing an ironic 'Really?' form his friend. He turned away from the sun and began to march on toward the woods ahead. "Really." he answered. He knew that it was his fault that they were far from any city or town, but that weapon wouldn't get out of his mind. At Darkness, past the last rays of the sun, they arrived in the forest. He made camp and had Lunon find firewood, using the time in peace to examine his weapon again. He had a choice of following a possible destiny, completely unknown to him, or to live as he had before. It was.. hard. He looked up at the Stars of Korravah. "Great Star-Mother, have you set the math for the mortal Kin as well?" The question remained without unanswered. He closed his eyes. "And Vaerie, Dream-Lady, can sleep give me the answers I see?" He waited for a long moment, disturbed only yb the sounds of the woods of night. He opened his eyes as he heard something, standing, looking around. "Lunon, I think I-" A pain went through his entire body as something horrible hit him form behind, damaging his entire self. Or so it felt. He dropped to the ground, eyes wide in shock and pain. It took him a moment until he gathered his senses enough to stand again. "Who's-?" He spun around, looking in to the remains of his friend. He looked as if he shoudl have been dead. He looked as if- No! "Your Friend had a strong will Juric Skysong." an unknown voice said. He looked to the voice in horror, seeing ntohing but a black shape in midst of darkness. "Who-?" "I survived the dread of this land, and I will turn it to my liking. You are not home yet. And You will never reach it." The unknown man moved his arm, doing some sort of gesutre. Lunon began to move, drawing his weapons. So he needed to draw his sword, the weapon he admired, the tool he had no clue what to do with. Now he needed to use it against his.. best friend? "Lunon, this is mad!" There was only laughter as the torn body of his friend began to assault him. He attempted to avoid, but the strength his friend one had was not his own, especially not in his state. He saw bones crack and splinter, then even cut off a hand without even hearing a shout of pain. "What in the grace of Jhyraea's name...?" Eluna's moon stood high above his head, shining light upon the encampment, even after the untended fire died. He couldn't kill his friend, no matter what he did, and suffered wound after wound. By the dead of night, he was covered in his own blood and brutally eradicated the remains of his best friend, turning in furious rage to the man that had put this upon him. But he was not there. So he hunted. He hunted through the forest, arrived at the foot of the mountains of his home, and rushed onward. He felt no pain, only fury, endless fury. His eyesight faded. At some point, he collapsed, but still was concious, still gripping his sword tightly, as if it were his only means of living. Someone spoke to him, mockign him, but he didn't understand the exact wording. He tried to move, but was unable to, and slowly, slowly he was torn apart, his entire self, his body, his mind, his soul, and even his very heart... The sword was dropped, abandoned by the Evrathan man who relaized he had been abandoned. He disappeared.
A Page looked aorudn the corner, seeing that the strange looking person had left. He knew the Holy Lord Knight had said not to touch anything until the Mages were here, but he was endlessly curious. He stepped in to the grand hall and, for the dozenth time or so, looked a tthe grand statues and the trails of red paint at their feet, circlign aroudn the dragon. He even dared touch thm, because he knew he wouldn't be posessed by an unhoyl spirit if he did so. Even though he looked at this place so often, fascinated by the detail, he always foudn something new. Be walked behind the statue of the drgaon, and saw there a statue of a musician, half-covered by webs and other filth. The statue held a harp of gold in his hands, and the boy wanted to take a closer look, fighting off the spider webs. The musician was a man, apparently one of the elven people, though he wasn't quite sure, since he hadn't ever seen any of those before. He looked at the harp, and toched a string, wanting to make it sound.
He plucked the harp strings, letting a beautiful song fill the grand hall. He smiled, but he wasn't happy. He played because he needed to, yet the song soothed his heart. He played a song he had learned long ago from a man that had no name, but whose songs had immense power. The people around him, listening in great awe, barely dared to breathe. They feared that the song would be impure if they were too loud. His song was a long one, as were all his songs. But when it fully ended, the people breathed and cheered. He didn't look at them, instead only kept his sorrowful smile and looked at the ground beside his harp. He wasn't touched by the cheers. He was aware of his gift and stopped being flattered by applause a long, long time ago. The cheers ceased after a bit, and only then he dared look up to his audience. They didn't care for him any longer. They had all broken in to senseless brabble. So he bowed his head again and set his hands to the harp stings. He looked up to the ceiling, proudly painted in brilliant colors. He closed his eyes, lowered his head and started to play. It was a new song, a quiet song, one that showed his sorrow. This one, too, he had learned from his nameless teacher. And this song was his vengeance. Several people began to weep. Those that weren't listening or couldn't hear the song were confused. And then the armed men came. But he didn't care. He continued to play the song of brutal sorrow. "Luthien!" He opened his eyes and paused at the shout. The song still echoed in ear and heart, but it would stop soon. He looked to the shout, saw, at the far end of the grand hall, a man whose sword was drawn. The man approached him, his expression furious. He was followed by six others, armed and armored, bearing long spears, more like lances, really. He braced himself, quite sure that he knew what was to come. The man climbed the stage, slapping him hard. He looked away, a sharp pain moving through his cheek. He had the slight feeling his skin had been ripped open, but he didn't dare touch his wound. He didn't look up to the man. But the man forced him. He made a face of pain, but it was clear that he needed to pay attention. "Luthien, you stepped over your borders again." the man's sharp voice spat at him. "Isn't it enough that we needed to rip out your tongue? Slit your throat?" The man let go of his jaw and instead grabbed his neck. The scar was still healing, making it rather painful. He was let go, roughly. "The Master ordered you to be killed if you betray him again. I don't want to kill you, Luthien, but you're pressing it!" He looked away from the man, and this time, it was allowed. They had taken so much. His freedom, his song, then his voice. He had his hands and his harp, but taking that was just as good as taking his life. "Play!" the man commanded, and so he did. The song he played he learned when he was a child, practicing it until he fully understood the complexity of it. It was a beautiful song, and it gave him much time to think. He thought of what he had, what he had lost, and how his life would be. And in the end, just before the song was at it's end, he started another, with ethereal beauty. With the beauty came also immense power. Before his captors figured what was happening, all weapons splintered, all armor shattered, and there was great confusion. Yet, the song didn't last long. A broken sword impaled his beating heart, and he breathed his last breath. He closed his eyes and with his soul's own voice, he spoke a prayer to the gods that would take him in.
The boy collapsed, crying. He couldn't understand how the Holy Lord Kjervon could allow such injustice happen...