Solitude

[Zadown]

The traces are already fading. I should have tried this back then.

 

Ahead, the empty Void shone in various faint colors to the magesight, the traces and tracks of mana still painting a picture of a fought battle, some of the brightest points etched so deep into the background they'd still be there a hundred years from now for those with the senses to see them. The faintest trails were already gone, however: Phacyra's footprints were disappearing one by one, only the stain of where Overlord Ghael had died left of the fledgling evil planewalker, the remains of Herald's bright spell dimming further by every passing moment.

 

Nearby, Phacyra's hideout was having a transformation to the different direction, it's spells of hiding and protection coming slowly and ponderously undone in a display that was almost cheerfully bright to the sixth sense, the energies stored and bent by the will of a planewalker discharging themselves to the emptiness beyond the demi-plane. The illusion that had hid the place had already broken, leaving behind a burning planar pearl, the mana flare surrounding it a funeral pyre of sorts.

 

The Dreamer stared into the depths of the Veil, towards the heart of one of the darkest, most dangerous places on the Lost Paths. His gaze was dark blue but lustreless, dim, his posture slack and lifeless.

 

He could still be alive, somewhere there. You can never know, with her.

 

Slowly, with mechanic imprecision, he sat down on the empty path and struck Pain down in front of him, leaving it floating spectral blade downwards. The planewalker breathed deeply, his useless lungs receiving a mouthful of dry vacuum. And then he breathed out, releasing his spirit, his eyes turning milky and dead. His face settled into a wry grin, a challenge to the predators that lurked even here at the outskirts of the Veil, a look that said: disturb me at your peril, wake me up and die.

 

To the spirit, the traces were slightly more clear, and he could still follow Phacyra's tracks beyond the point they vanished from his magesight. Here and there they had vanished, but the heavy tracks of the drow fortresses showed which way to go. The trail twisted towards the heart of Veil in a tightening spiral, at places almost managing to throw the tracking Dreamer off. He could sense things lurking around, see their shadowy shapes, feel those of them with the most acute senses try to locate his ethereal presence. Then nothing - the tracks ended as if to a wall in a place where the Path had no crossroads.

 

He blinked color back into his eyes, coughed and drew in a new breath of airless vacuum.

 

A folly, this, to entertain even a notion of trying to track her to her lair. We never were able to find her if she so wanted. At least I tried, Phacyra.

 

The Dreamer stood up and drew Pain, made a few experimental swings with the almost weightless weapon before sheating it. When he started running away from the decaying magics of the hideout, he had regained his usual rigid, unyielding bearing.

 

Fatespeed, brother.

[Zadown]

Heavy rain lashed down from the sky, reducing visibility to almost nothing, painting everything with a dreary shade of grey. Through the wet mist and falling raindrops indistinct shapes could be seen, some of those shapes being big square buildings with glass windows, warm lights burning inside. Some were twisting, short trees, their dead canopies the same hue of grey as the late afternoon itself, the rain striking down hard enough to tear some of the leaves down. The puddles of rain water were covered with them, the water barely showing from under the grey layer. Into this lousy weather a traveller appeared. Due to the bad visibility, it was hard to say if he had walked there or perhaps washed away from the heavens by the constant deluge of water, or if he had spontaneously been created there by some lazy god. His clothes seemed oddly dry, but the rain soon took care of that curious detail, soaking first the set he had appeared in, then the creamy white robe the first set of clothes was miraculously transformed to. He didn't seem to mind, though, showing consistency by not caring about the puddles either, wading right through. As tall as he was, the shallow puddles did not hinder him overmuch.

 

Nobody was there to see his slow progress past soggy trees and bulky houses, past small gardens and ornamental gazebos. He seemed determined past what preservance was necessary to fight against the early winter storm, walking in almost straight lines, holding his head high against the pelting rain and gusting wind. Eventually, inevitably, he reached the correct house, almost as odd in this neighborhood as the curious traveller. It was a squat tower, not much higher than the other buildings but so wide it seemed as a base for a taller structure rather than a finished house. On both sides of the front door narrow painted windows spilled out multicolored light, the friendly glow reaching only a few feet before being extinguished by the bad weather. Somewhere above a flapping sound proclaimed the presence of at least one banner, perhaps even two - unnatural number, that, but the house was already an anomaly to begin with.

 

The traveller paused at the door, glanced upwards at the direction of the sound, then lowered his gaze to the door itself. He stood there in the rain and strong wind for quite a while, perhaps thinking something over, perhaps afraid to knock. At last he shook his grey hair, made a few nonsensical gestures with his hands and then relaxed back to his old position, staring at the front door. If there had been an observer to all this, he or she might have seen an emerald green light pulse softly outwards from the tall traveller. Or he or she might have not, given the softness of the glow and the brief moment it flickered there in the midst of the all-encompassing greyness. A trick of the eye, most of us would have thought, even then.

 

The door opened, showing a beautiful if a little worn blonde woman wearing expensive clothes, black and scarlet, her jewelry made of jade and polished wood. There was hard to read look on her face, two or three emotions in conflict. Wariness, certainly, a certain guarded look, and possibly a trace of friendliness and welcome - a look tailored to the soaked, tall and thin figure waiting outside, for its careful balance did not change at all when she opened the door and saw the traveller.

 

"Evening, uncle Dreamer. I'm sorry, but this is a bad time for you to visit."

 

"Evenin', m'lady."

 

He bowed as one does to an equal, somehow managing to make the gesture look majestetical even when he was soaked to the skin, all his clothes throughly wet.

 

"I'll keep my visit brief, then, m'lady Jankiize Towikae Vangaijuua."

 

He shook his grey mane again, sending water to every direction, and made a move as if to move forward, but the young woman did not make way and looked apologetic, now.

 

"I am sorry, uncle, but I mean what I said. You'll have to come again later if you have important matters to discuss. It'd be easier if you would send a message before you come, instead of appearing at our doorsteps without warning."

 

The Dreamer nodded.

 

"Ah, as ye wish. 'Tis yer fortress, after all. Just one thing - could ye give him this, m'lady?"

 

He reached into the depths of his white, soaked robes and drew forth a small item, the unreal chain woven from raw mana that was connected to the object spilling out of his white hand. Jankiize frowned but reached towards the planewalker, accepted the item the Dreamer dropped into her waiting hands. It was a dim crystal adorned with countless intricate runes, the light coming through the door wakening up countless tiny rainbows inside it. She grasped the chain and let the crystal fall, examined it with a critical eye. Her voice was critical as well, uncertain, her look dubious.

 

"She, uncle. My little girl. This ... is a twin to the one I wear? It does nothing but protects, nothing else?"

 

"Ya, m'lady. That amulet's only purpose is t' protect th' wearer - these bindin' words I, Wodzan Xe Chanima o' th' Scales, speak of my own free will."

 

The Dreamer seemed sad or grave, speaking with slower cadence than normal, his eyes some dark hue that was indistinquishable from black in the gloom. An inquiring shout ringing from inside the tower made Jankiize glance over her shoulder.

 

"Um, thanks, uncle. Visit us later, then - I really have to go now."

 

He nodded as he turned around, saying nothing more.

 

The storm engulfed his thin figure almost instantly.

[Zadown]

Clang!

 

The heavy, cold sound reverberated through the room, dissipating slowly as it travelled further. The walls and the door absorbed it and it was silent again.

 

Clang!

 

The room was absolutely dark and bitterly frigid. Somebody with magesight could have seen gloomy, smothering currents swirl around the small space like pacing prisoners, and a thicker cloud of concentrated inky black that obscured whatever the middle of the room held. Something flickered there, lightning inside a thunderstorm.

 

Clang!

 

Having trouble seeing, the Dreamer adjusted his goggles, made for this single purpose only - to see through the essences of darkness. Before him was an anvil and on the anvil a sword blade, unfinished but near the final shape. The blade was straight and long with only one cutting edge, the shape angular and not round like a sabre. It exhaled cold and dark, the supernatural mist making it hard to see its exact shape constantly.

 

Clang!

 

He struck the blade with the sturdy hammer he held in his gauntlet-covered right hand, blue sparks flying to every direction as the blow landed. His left hand was occupied with keeping the blade in place with a pair of tongs. The Dreamer raised the hammer again but hesistated and turned towards the heavy steel door, locked and bolted from the inside.

 

"Ya!?"

 

"A courier, Master. Two white flags, the lower bearing a mage sigil consisting of a triangle with a stylized river on the background, a pair of wings above both."

 

Herald's voice was barely audible through the door, but his clear pronounciation made it easy to understand his muffled words.

 

Faaye's mage sigil.

 

"Tell 'er t' go away, politely! I'm busy!"

 

"Yes, Master."

 

The planewalker re-adjusted his goggles, nudging their round lenses to cover his purple eyes better, and lifted his hammer anew. His motions got slower and slower as the hammer reached its apex, slowing to a complete halt in the point when the hammer should have crashed downwards to strike the blade. After a pause, he lowered the hammer, put it carefully on the floor so it leaned on the anvil and turned towards the door, sighing.

 

"I said busy, Herald! What more, then!?"

 

"Master, you still have not resolved the issue of missing troops. Our forces were significantly reduced in the last battle, especially the old guard. Fortress Tultuul is basically undefended at this point, Master."

 

He stared at the door, immobile and silent, frowning. Reaching a conclusion, he barked one more shout through the heavy door.

 

"I'll take care o' it, Herald! Go turn that courier away, already!"

 

"Yes, Master."

 

My first fortress has been stripped bare already? Nothing much there, true, except ...

 

The Dreamer paused once more, leaving the hammer to lean on the anvil. Instead of reaching down to lift it, he walked slowly, immersed in thoughts, to a crude metal cabinet in the corner of the room. He took a long, slender box out of the cabinet - it was dark green in color, smooth and gleaming with soft inner light everywhere except where a silvery rune of stasis had been engraved. It made a soft, hissing sound when he opened it, and another when he closed it, the unfinished blade inside the stasis container. The wild darkness and unbound cold, elements the blade had leaked, faded, the room returning to its normal warm, dimly lit state. With dreamy motions, the planewalker finally put the box back to the cabinet, pushed the goggles to his forehead revealing eyes the blue of Astral watching scenes beyond this time and place.

 

... memories of the past, perhaps.

[Zadown]

The Dreamer sidestepped in from the Void into empty air, stood suspended against the dark sky filled with embers and smoke. The fortress Tultuul was situated on a plane of elemental Fire, floating above and beyond the edge of the merciless inferno of the major planar plate. The fortress was carved out of black obsidian and grey basalt, encircled by an orchard of tall firetrees with canopies of flames and trunks of blackened coal. The small floating island it was on was brown and scorched stone, top flat, bottom a spikey cone pointing towards the black abyss of nothingness below. A roaring wind blew from the plains of fire over the fortress bringing clouds of sparks and flames and streams of ash, a choking smell of burnt stone, burnt flesh, burnt everything.

 

He started descending, walking towards the nearby fortress with slow, precise steps like he had been proceeding down stairs of flawless, transparent glass, the fortress growing bigger in his field of vision by every step. Tultuul had four towers, the two on each side of the main gate taller, the other two at the far corners of the structure short and squat, barely rising over the level of the main part's roof. The gate was made of reinforced firetree wood and was almost as black as the obsidian, the large runes carved on its uneven surface mostly covered in soot and grime. Above the battlements two flags fluttered in the strong wind, both displaying the mage sigil of the Dreamer. Despite the burning wind, the flags were intact, their edges undamaged.

 

A wretched place, barely protected by any enchantments or traps. I am fortunate it has not been raided so far.

 

The Dreamer landed softly on the ash-covered ground. He studied the tall gates with a dreamy wariness, partly submerged in old memories, partly hesistant. After a while they opened unbidden, a single figure standing in the square canvas of darkness framed by the open gates. A pulse of yellow flared in the Dreamer's eyes, a sudden tension nudging his muscles into a ready battlestance, but as suddenly as he had tensed he relaxed again, recognizing his servant. A faint smile appeared and vanished before he spoke, his words unusually subdued.

 

"Êzkhael Khâ, ya? How's th' fortress, caretaker?"

 

"Greetings, Master. The fortress is still standing albeit empty - Herald's orders stripped it from the last of your old guard a score days ago."

 

The lone demon stepped closer. He was wearing a spiked suit of black plate adorned with red runes, two of its three colors the same colors as his surroundings - the black of ash and obsidian, the red of fire. The spikes were bone-white, same color as his short, sharp horns. They pierced his full helm, the helm having a series of similiar horns of steel all along the middle of its back. His suit of armor covered everything except the horns and his dark red eyes, a peculiar primitive stone hammer hanging from his hip and a metal shield covering his back finishing his martial attire.

 

Something was not quite right with his appearance, some intanglible aspect, and the planewalker's eyes were set ablaze with renewed yellow fire, his stance shifting towards possible confrontation. To his magesight the demon seemed normal, the enchanted wargear giving out the expected spectrum of radiance, but still something nagged him.

 

His aura is not the same it was when I bound him, almost two millenia ago. It's not ... demonic.

 

"Master..."

 

Êzkhael Khâ got no further in whatever he had been about to say, got no second step closer. The Dreamer raised his right hand, the fire in his eyes blazing red, his mouth set into wordless snarl. A thick bundle of ethereal chains materialized in his grasp, their material more spectral and transparent the further they were from his clenched bone-white fingers and the closer they were to the demon. The Dreamer jerked the set of chains to the right and away from the demon in a downward motion, his face an enraged mask. The binding tore at the body and soul of the creature in front of him, jerked him downwards, and he crashed into a heap of metal and demonic flesh, wailing in agony.

 

"... Master?"

 

"Not one step closer, demon. Remember yer place."

 

Êzkhael dragged himself upright, thick blood seeping through the armor from various places. He swayed, the soul-tearing pain incapaciting even a warmongering planar creature as he was, staggered but remained upright. The demon's fiery eyes were dim and narrow inside hia helmet when it managed to raise his gaze to his master.

 

He is still bound, tight and secure chains hooked to every part of his soul. Whatever he is, I can let it be for now.

 

"Yes ... Master."

 

"Bett'r, slave. Now, give me yer report."

 

"Yes, Master."

[Zadown]

Toys. I used to be even worse artificer than I remembered.

 

He let the tray filled with flawed rings of power, weak amulets of elemental protection and other trinkets fall to the ground, the jewelry bouncing and rolling away from him joining the piles of discarded equipment already littering the floor. The Dreamer looked around the storage room, a disintrested look on his impassive face.

 

Somebody should have raided this place and saved me the trouble of coming here.

 

He grabbed a dusty, now empty shelf that blocked the corner and threw it aside, ignored the noise it made. Behind it stood a tall and wide shimmering green box the size of a large coffin, a rune of stasis engraved near the top. The dust that covered everything else had not managed to touch it for some reason - it looked pristine, new. The Dreamer's dull grey eyes were flooded with sparkling blue as he stared at his discovery, a smile tugging the lines of his scars to new positions. He reached forward with care and touched the cool, smooth surface of the box, stepped closer to examine it more throughly. Soon he found what he had been looking for, the mage sigil of the maker. A stylized spider standing on two of its eight limbs, the rest holding something: a scimitar, a chalice, an arrow, a pair of scales, a sceptre and a skull.

 

Melodramatic sigil, just like her. If this had been my younger self's work, whatever was inside would most likely be ruined by now, but since she made this ...

 

A muttered word and a small gesture made the planewalker's coruscating emerald green wards appear around him. He took a step backwards and examined the box critically again, then shrugged. Another small gesture made his active wards flicker off, the background hum only he could hear silenced for now. The Dreamer reached forward and opened the stasis container.

 

A short woman wearing dark blue and purple robes staggered out, blinked once and saw the Dreamer's scarred face looming above her. She raised her hand and a bright blue orb of hissing electricity appeared on it, but before she had time to aim the planewalker made a dismissive gesture and the spell vanished without a trace. He duplicated the gesture or made another similiar one without a visible effect. When she tried to shout something, words of a spell or a chant or rage, nothing happened. Not fazed by her failure, she reached for the heavy mace hanging from her belt. A yellow spark flared in the Dreamer's blue eyes.

 

What a tiresome creature.

 

He made a third gesture and countless chains of force akin to those that connected him to his bound slaves materialized, wrapping themselves around the woman's wrists with such a force she was thrown at the nearest wall, the blow stunning her. The Dreamer dispelled his silence spell with an unobtrusive motion, then blinked in confusion. When he opened his eyes, their color was flickering wildly. A pulse like the heartbeat of a giant or a god surged through him and he swallowed empty air, fighting to keep upright.

 

... What?

 

The unsettling feeling of lack of control over himself subsided as quick as it had invaded him. Nearby, the robed woman was recovering from the blow she had received when she struck the wall. She opened her eyes and glared at the Dreamer. Another pulse struck the planewalker from inside as if the world had turned first bigger and then smaller, but this time he had been ready and showed no outside signs of weakness. He growled his words through gritted teeth.

 

"An' who are ye, then?"

 

"High priestess Tawlyn. Let me go at this instant!"

 

She was obviously used to being obeyed, her command containing traces of the heavy voice planewalkers used to overwrite the weaker wills of the mortals. It had no effect on the Dreamer, of course, and resisting the feeble attempt to control him made him return to his equilibrium. A slanted smile appeared on his face and his eyes turned light blue as he lazily walked closer to the chained woman.

 

"High priestess ... of which god, ya?"

 

"Melyme, the god of dreams."

 

The name crashed into him like a True Name, bypassed all his defenses and knocked him to his knee. World pulsed again, fainter this time but continuously, the heartbeat of a dead god. He struggled upright, ignored the triumphant look in the eyes of the mortal and exhaled or vomited, couldn't help himself. His vision dimmed as one last pulse shook his frame, then it was as if a burden had left his shoulders, a sickness that he had carried a long time suddenly cured. In front of him, between the planewalker gathering anger and the helpless mortal, was a transparent ghost of the god of dreams he had killed, whose core he had drained and absorbed.

 

The Dreamer growled and Pain appeared in his empty hands.

[Zadown]

A moment of stillness descended on the scene, the three actors frozen in their places, immobile and silent. The Dreamer in his cream-white robes, holding his spectral blade upright, the hilt near his face - a posture of reserved aggression, ready to slash or parry, fight or flee. A scowl was etched on the scarred, ruined skin of his face, twin stars of yellow-black fire as his eyes. The high priestess, Tawlyn, chains of force keeping her robed form pinned against the wall. A short and stern woman in deep blue and purple, heavy mace hanging from her belt, mouth half-open in astonishment or surprise. And the wavering image of Melyme between them, only slightly taller than his high priestess, clad in similiar colors but his clothes opulent and majestetic. His skin seemed dark brown as if he had a deep tan, a thick black moustache and beard covering most of his face, his lustrous hair reaching halfway towards his hips. On his right hand was the Glove of Slumber, a leather harness studded with precious gems covering most of the hand and part of the arm.

 

"Yer but a spectre of what I once already manag'd t' kill, Lord Melyme."

 

"What!? B..."

 

The planewalker renewed his spell of silence on the mortal, the god not even acknowledging his follower with as much as a glance. Instead he bowed deeply to his killer with the slow grace of a fallen monarch.

 

"That much is true, Lord Wodzan. What holds your blade, then?"

 

"I dislike pointless killin'."

 

The Dreamer let the point of his blade fall towards the floor, his eyes calming into blue pools of wisdom.

 

"Ah, so there was a point to the previous time."

 

"Ya, there was."

 

Air almost rippled between the two immortals, their gazes locked into a contest of wills, the few words they said each laden with keen edges and dripping poison. They both knew how a fight would go - it would be lion versus rabbit, a short and simple affair where a slash Pain would vanquish what little was left of the god. That little consisting mostly of pride, of course.

 

"And what, pray tell me, do you plan to do next, Lord Dreamer?"

 

The last word was underlined by the careful scorn Melyme pronounced it with. It broke some reservation the Dreamer had had, small bright stars of white appearing in his deep Astral blue eyes as he laughed aloud, much to the dismay of the god.

 

"Yer th' dreamer o' us two, m'lord. An' so, t' be th' only dreamin' lord present, I was plannin' to either leave ye 'ere ... or offer ye an' yer priestess a portal back to Anvil, whichever ye choose."

 

Melyme frowned.

 

"A portal? You do realize what madness using one of those for travelling is?"

 

"Aye, I do."

 

The planewalker grinned, an unabashed look of malicious pleasure on his face.

 

"Th' other option, alas, 's even more suicidal, considerin' I will destroy this unnecessary fortress before I leave, an' I doubt ye 'ave recovered yer powers enough t' make yer way out o' this infernal plane without aid."

 

"That does sound even worse, Godslayer. I'll accept your offer of a portal for me and my priestess, then."

 

The Dreamer sheathed Pain, relaxed now. He did every motion with timeless tranquility, lost in his thoughts. Finished with tucking away the spectral blade he focused his gaze on the god again, his amiable mood dissipating, converted into the cold, exact air of a judge or a careful merchant.

 

"One thing before I allow ye t' leave, Lord Melyme. Yer guarantee ye are wiser than most o' th' gods I've clash'd with, wise enough not t' try to revenge whatever 'appened, ya?"

 

Somehow the planewalker had shifted into a battle stance, a hand reaching towards the blade he had just sheated.

 

"This question, I assume, has two answers very much like the earlier two of going or staying."

 

"Aye."

 

"What was it you planewalkers say ... I, Melyme the God of Dreams and Nightmares, Watcher over Ethereal Bodies, abandon all thoughts of revenge against Lord Wodzan Xe Chanima of the Scales - these binding words I speak of my own free will. Satisfied, now?"

 

"Aye, I am. Fatespeed, m'lord."

 

A series of fast but subtle gestures dispelled the chains and the silence, raised a faint, shimmering portal from the stone floor. Tawlyn rubbed her wrists but looked subdued and said nothing in the short period of time it took for the portal to open and show a nightly view of some town near a jungle, most of the buildings entirely dark, some dimly lit by candles and lanterns.

 

"Zanadin, Red Theocracy. I trust it suits ya two, neh?"

 

The god and his servant both nodded, then the ghostly Melyme slid towards Tawlyn, briefly flickering superimposed over her. She shuddered as the god entered her body, her posture changing slightly but perceptibly. The possessed high priestess stretched once before walking towards the open portal, did not turn or hesistate at the treshold. After she had passed through the portal collapsed neatly.

 

This should be the end of new shards. Peace, at last.

 

The emptiness he felt with that thought drained the blue from his eyes, left them dim grey.

[Zadown]

Beheld through the magesight, fortress Tultuul was even sadder, cruder sight it was for plain eyes. The spells used power where finesse would have worked better, had holes that would have made dispelling them almost easy for any Master of the Art. For him, a Master and the original caster, taking apart the enchantments that kept the fortress floating was a trivial task. He tugged and nudged, created a chain reaction that unravelled first the protective magics that shielded the levitation spells. A few more gentle touches created the first visible result: Tultuul started to list towards the inferno below, then slide downwards diagonally. Last pulses of dispelling magic aimed at just at the right places brought that to a momentary halt. Then Tultuul fell downwards at quickly accelerating speed, vanished quickly into the same black abyss that devoured the lava that poured over the edge of the inferno, the embers and ash the wind brought.

 

He stood in the hot midair watching at the point the fortress had last been visible, the fiery wind making his robes billow and flutter, ambers floating past his scarred visage. Pain was in its scabbard on his back, his pale, delicate hands hanging freely by his sides. His eyes were dark blue, darker than the hues of Astral, half-closed so he seemed almost sleepy.

 

Another batch of old memories irrevocably destroyed. Not much left of those days, now ... unless Phacyra lives. Unlikely but possible.

 

Next to him flew Êzkhael Khâ with wings of ash and shadows, the large stasis container strapped to his back horizontally with an ad hoc contraption of blackened leather and tarnished metal, the healthy green color of it clashing against the colors of corruption its carrier was painted with. He kept his respectful distance from his master, staying below and to the left, a traditional bodyguard's place.

 

The Dreamer turned to look at his servant. There was something so distant and threatening in that impaling gaze Êzkhael could not help but shiver and lower his head, expecting the sharp blades and barbed chains of the binding tear at his soul next.

 

"Êzkhael Khâ?"

 

"Yes, Master?"

 

"Proceed t' th' Fortress Syvkiv an' ask th' caretaker there t' store that container well. I don't want it to 'ave any scratches when I next examine it, ya?"

 

"Yes, Master."

 

"At yer best speed, then."

 

Êzkhael Khâ's wings grew wider and thinner, barely perceptible in the smoky air. He beat them once, leaping upwards, before he managed to pass through the planar crystal to the Void beyond.