[The Age of Dragons] - Reflections

[squakhawk 14040]

 

The skies unfurled craggy violet hues, frisking stars and pummelling meteors showing into the midlands. An overstepping hill loomed over the region, known foremost as the Divide, a great landscape of pitted rockslides, sumptuous canopies, with rivers and streams traveling between as if a deep labyrinth. 

 

At the peak of this hill, where the grass was greenest, and the air was chaotic with hurling winds, an elderly wizard stood in meditative silence, his fingers cusping the indents of his graystaff. Thalandir squinted out towards the Divide’s biome, waiting in patience. His scraggly, unkempt robes billowed in the fierce breeze, the fringes of his silver beard swaying left to right.

 

From the flank, a small, dainty elf, adorned in regale garbs, of fair blonde hair and eyes as gold as jewels, approached from behind. With features alien and hardened, Eryndor halted directly behind the elder, speaking in a voice held by a charm bereft most descendants.

 

“I've made peace with the fact that many of them will probably die, but, is it worth solving our own curiosity to let them venture into the unknown with only our direction?”

 

✹ The elder glided an incurious hand across his soft, hanging beard, as silver as the dusk of nightfall. His attention did not veer from the biome. Unlike Eryndor, the wizard held a touting, fatherly voice, as if gravel trickled down his throat, like the clashing of steel upon stone. 

 

“Certainly, brother, many will die–however, I trust that those men and women are strong enough to face the challenges ahead. Well, some of them, anyways. I am filled with greed, oh brother, and I seek to learn of whatever is occurring in these lands. Is it wrong? Am I filled with avarice?”

 

❈ Eryndor shifted, his pale golden gaze looking over the distant horizon of The Divide with a somber distaste. Worry was behind his eyes, yet his carefully crafted guise of a visage only had shown discontent.

 

“I do not think there is greed in solving the danger that we know exists. I think there is, if not greed, cowardice, in putting others before ourselves. Tell me, brother, do you believe our purpose is to guide, or to protect, those unlike us?”

 

“I do not believe it is my duty to protect, or to guide. I wish to learn all that there is to know, and in my pursuit of this knowledge, I seek to find a remedy to the curse that toils with the realm. I am not bound by duty, for my master has fallen, now, I am driven by desire. I am not interested in being a hero. What of you, oh brother, do you seek to guide them, or protect them?”

 

❈ Eryndor turned to his brother, word silent for a moment as quiet clung to the air. His head turned back to watch the stars above dance and twinkle, the great purple light that hung over the rolling hills of the midlands like a midnight sun. An ominous herald of the calamity they so feared. He spoke again, as fleeting eyes came back to the earth.

 

“Beyond Enlightenment’s pact, I believe we walk among them for a purpose. One you and I shared from the mountains whence we came - if not to protect, then to guide. Else, do we exist for vanity? To live among one another? You know the better half of our kin have returned to dust and stone. If it were our purpose, it is one we failed long ago. You, I, the rest - we can exist once again with His rebirth. I would like to make the best of that, to never allow something of His like again. 

 

Eryndor firmed, a depth to his voice of a breadthful experience. A foreboding warning, as if he had spoken the phrase much in his own mind; put to words for the first time aloud.

 

I say again, in the case they survive - how do we uphold our end of their trust, putting their lives at stake?” 

 

✹ Thalandir’s brow creased, the wrinkles of his flesh sagging, draped by years of wisdom and age. The elder’s finger jutted out towards Eryndor, the elderly wizard’s lip thinning into an indifferent expression.

 

“It is because of Azdromoth’s ascension that, although we are free, the world is now a puddle of bubbling, frothing ruin. Those mutts, his children, the nephilim, are growing bolder by the day. Unfortunately, my fondness for the descendants has grown bitter, oh brother. They have done me wrong, and many have lost their appetite for knowledge. Instead, they pick up arms, and fight steel-in-blood, rather than with book-and-quill. 

 

Brother, there exists nothing beneath the heaven’s that may trample our might. Why do you speak with such frailty? You are no longer shackled as some hound, we owe them nothing. If the descendants survive, then they should feel proud, and if they do not, we should forget their names. We are not gift-bearers, they will never trust us, so why should we learn to trust them? 

 

Is this world not as it is, because their greed knows no bounds? So willing to kneel before the heaven’s, to be played as toys. And now look at it, the dire state of the realm.”

 

❈ That odd feeling stirred again within the ‘elf’. His right clutched to his chest where a beating heart lay, a detail unnecessary to his disguise, yet one he found meaningful. Something he had, but seemed alien in comparison to such a small and fleeting thing. He knew there was goodness within him, and such, there must be in man. Afterall, was he not made up of similar components? He had seen acts of good, he had seen what the first cleric had been capable of. If he was a mortal with a good heart and soul, were there not more? Many more?

 

He ceased the thoughts before he had delved too deep into something he was not capable of resolving. Not yet.

 

“I have seen those connected to the land. Those who were gifted on the mountain’s peak - they seem … wrong. There is something they share with this mystery we seek to solve. An interconnection. I have yet to establish true rapport with them, but I have given those that sought me to the expeditions. I suppose their use or disuse will be made apparent.”

 

“I had warned those who committed to the great expedition up the mountain–to be cautious of accepting powers unknowingly, whatever they find at the summit. Unfortunately, many ignored this warning. I am unsure of what this gift they have received is, but surely, it must be wicked, oh brother? 

 

There was one man in particular, a foolish soldier, who unchained himself from the blessings of Malchadiel, and in turn, accepted this mountain’s gift.  Perhaps, it would be in our interests to research what the source of their mysterious sorcery is. Some of those I impeached in regards to the matter spoke of hearing a voice at the peak, offering them strength!”

 

❈ Eryndor looked westward to the peak of Stormswatch, a peak just beside the mountain that he knew as a basement of death and decay. Where many of his former allies, and few friends, had ventured to never return.

 

“Certainly not one of us. Though the stench of our fallen kin lays pungent over this land, I do not think it one of our own. Whatever it is - I believe it is the cure to the ails of this land and the descendants on it.

 

What do you believe they will encounter, these expeditions?”

 

✹ With the stump of his scripture-laden graystaff piercing the earth, for a brief moment, the grass halted in its sway, the air chilled, and Thalandir’s mind revolved around the question. The hem of his robes escaped with plumes of smoke, wisping out towards the clouds. Bound by facts and logic, it seemed difficult for the elder to provide an assumption to his question.

 

“Grhmh – I could only speculate. From the research I have conducted, it appears to be some sort of phenomena related to an outburst of mana, or voidal energy. And this does not seem to be far-and-few in quantity, enough that I fear a catastrophe.

 

I am unsure if this is the meddling of those foul, pestilent horrors that trib at the cosm, or if it is caused by an artifact left placated by the years. I am certain there is no man or woman who is capable of overpowering my strength in the arcane, but I would be mirthless to find that this could also be the meddling of a sorcerer. Maybe, a covenant of sorcerers?

 

I am not fond of guesses, so these are all uncharted speculations. To be honest, I am of the opinion that the descendants may be lacking in strength to resolve this matter. Oh brother, you were in search of heroes. Did you find any? Or are heroes marred only to story-books?”

 

❈ The great stone walls of Numenost, and wooden palisades of Nevehlen, and the many faces he had met in and between so. The words of but a couple stung him as lives completely separate from one another resounded in his head once again.

 

“Most were not worth the time of day, those that I spoke two. But I posed a parable; that of the blind man. A blind man, a hundred years old, given sight - if it were an act of evil, or of good. A heroic act. While most spoke of it as heroic, I found two that stated that in that moment, there is no heroism. Heroism is how we recall the event. 

 

I am uncertain if there are heroes anymore. After the massacre I had witnessed. But perhaps they still exist - or rather, the potential does. That there is a hero within the many, and through trial, it is brought out when one’s worth is truly tested. Whether these groups hold such potential… I cannot say.”

 

“I do not believe in heroes, it is simply a motivator for men and women who seek to do good. A noble goal, but I believe in unity and fellowships, and that heroes are not named for individuals, but to collectives. Unfortunately, my time has been wasted, I have been entombed behind my study due to the foolishness of one disgraceful templar, who sought to reveal my nature to all those around him. Now, I am hunted by evil forces like a rabid dog, they froth at the mouth with viscid saliva. 

 

As I landed first to this realm, I have only seen terrors and heard foulness. Yes, it is so, that I have also bade the news of our fallen brother Mordring, he meddles with this land also. 

 

I hope that Man has the fortitude to overcome the challenges that precede them. Though, I am still filled with distrust. You spoke earlier, oh brother, that we should uphold our end of trust, as they stake their lives for our research. Let us gamble, then. 

 

If the descendants succeed on this gruesome expedition, I will alleviate my ire, and try to trust them. If they do not succeed, you must learn to never trust them, and to be cautious of their aid.”

 

❈ Eryndor stirred once again. He knew it was not a promise he could upkeep. His nature prohibited it - he could try, as much as he had been, but likely to little avail. A conflict within that had long been pushed without, the ‘elf’ huffed lowly as he looked upon the medallion of dull grey and crimson that decorated his belt. The metal which depicted a dragon lighting the torch of man, that which he had hoped would bring fellowship and brotherhood between his kind and others. A small kindling of hope stirred within his beating heart again, quickly doused by the shadows of doubt and distrust. 

 

“As much as I have tried to hold myself higher and careless of their being, it is difficult with my nature. But I will uphold this bargain; should they succeed, it should be a promising beginning to the twinflame. That we establish our pact in this new age, and solve whatever greater evil meddles with these descendants. Mordring, or otherwise.” 

 

“I shall depart. Good fortunes to you, and to the descendants who undergo this loathsome task.”

 

 

Thalandir swiveled on his rubicund leather boots, and with a slow, elderly gait, he departed from the hill, crunching blades of grass. The air was thick, it was filled by whimsy, an unsettled desire to find out the occurrences of the midlands, and those of the Divide, and in the end, Eryndor was left to stand upon the hill by himself, left to the mettle of his thoughts. 

 

[Jentos 9425]

Deep under the earth, the Nephilim sang their chants before raised icons of stone.

 

Their hearts were filled with fire, their eyes lit as lamps, their skin like obsidian carved.

 

”There is only existence in this World.” Declared the Prince among them.

 

”Else, there is Nothing.” He went on, a third eye burning on his brow like a red flamed candle. 
 

“And you will suffer for it, until only stone remains of you, for this is why you burn yet still.” 

 

And they sang and they prayed to the mountain, lit incense before Nephilim of stone, and read litanies before unsheathed dark-steeled swords with fire on their edges. 
 

They were the children of Azdromoth, they were the blasphemy of a new god who himself was the blasphemy of an old one. And though they had valiance in their hearts and bravery in their arms, their lips spoke murder. 
 

Who could ever love children such as these? 
 

It is no wonder they felt so alone. 

[kuebiko 686]

Did heroes truly exist?

 

Heroes of fairytales, the upstanding knights who just glowed with endless kindness and virtue. Pure of heart and uplifting symbol of the future. Those who granted hope when there was none. The same question had long plagued the self-declared hero Iolas, hero to one, maybe two. A scholar of sorts whenever he wasn't trying to leave cowardice behind, someone who studied the world itself, who had just barely tasted the reality of that dream. Was that spite to a cruel reality not what fueled the greatest act of foolishness?

 

Hope is such a blinding thing. That deal hardly a deal. It wasn't even a bargain, closer to some sort of IOU. The pendant from so long ago given away in the name of kindness and bravery rather than for power. Everyone deserved a tomorrow. Now not much more than a lingering memory and a book read when the darkest nights came. A kinder future could unfold somewhere, a brighter tomorrow in the face of wars and arguments.

 

So, he continues to wait for it surrounded by towers of books. Little acts of heroism like rescuing the cats of Dunwen scattered throughout, or sowing the seeds of friendship when he could.

[KidKrinkles 2044]

11 hours ago, squakhawk said:

...There was one man in particular, a foolish soldier, who unchained himself from the blessings of Malchadiel, and in turn, accepted this mountain’s gift...

 

Victor did keep his thumb in his book as a rudimentary bookmark as he paced in the basement of his camp. The sound of a crackling cozy fire carried through the room as the flickering of lantern light moved shadows with the dancing flame. The cover of the book read, "What is Goodness, anymore?", seeming to be a draft of a series.

 

His eye did flicker to a letter hanging upon the wall though, as a ringing settled into his ears; the static whine of tinnitus, simply flaring up briefly, and disappearing. Though his eyes did linger on the words.

 

 

揺らぐ者は弱い。

"Those who waver are weak."

Yasu-Tori Danzen

 

 

Despite gaining his mentor's ire-- he did always find the letter just a bit funny. A moment of silence as that sound faded, returning to his drafts.