DRAGOMIRSSOGUR - [ 𝖨I ]

[M1919 2298]

[ Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ Oɴᴇ ]

 

 

[ x ]

 

 

 

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I

 

16th of  Svensmánaðr,

IAÁ 550, Age of Dragonfyre.

 

Blinded by majesty.

 

That is the best way to articulate how and what Dragomir felt when the Heavens tore apart, when the weavings of what he had brought to that cursed fortress-monastery showed themselves as bearing fruit, and when the clouds above warped, hissed and unfurled into a wicked inferno after those glyphs spelt out damnation in the forbidden tongues etched into the air.

 

Chaotic consistency. A prevailing maelstrom of steel and bodkin on the earth below.

 

It irritated him, piercing through that self-sustaining hatefulness that always simmered like an angry furnace, fuming and churning the coals of his heart and belly while keeping him warm in these climates. It had enraged him to be condemned to merely stand by and utilize a great piece of artillery rather than see the foe and move to charge and swing.

 

A task. An objective that demanded his focus, his unwavering vitality.

 

Dragomir felt an unusual cold. It wasn’t like the chill of stepping into wintry air and inhaling the frost still hung in the winds and sleet. It was a cold that sparked his resentment for the tundra for the first time in years. This cold made him feel solitary and exposed. Why?

 

Unsteady ground. A ferocious pull of the rock and frozen earth, buried under the snow piled so high.  

 

The warriors fought bravely, and it was in the moments following the striking of a necromancer and a few of his brood that he realized what had troubled him so profoundly. They had taken so much time to try to reach him. To try and stop the plans set into motion. To charge the battlements raised by his Oyashimen companions and that of one of the Brotherhood, to challenge the iron will of the Purifiers of his kingdom. To try and break the souls and corrupt those of Mulnaar. They had taken their time. Why?

 

Scorching leather. A burning sensation rippled along his right arm as the obelisk crumbled and clattered into dust, sending him crashing into the palisade.

 

He was fed up. Eager to charge, he summoned his horse and allies, advancing towards the portcullis, feeling the familiar thrill that usually accompanied facing an enemy’s attack. So many more warriors had finally revealed themselves at his door. So many had emerged from their holes to charge and challenge him. To teach him something new. 

 

 

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II

A scream. The scent of iron lingered in the air, mingling with the sweat and ash of the campsite where they’d committed to the siege.

 

So close to the gates, so near the foes—those same bastards who had slain his companions in the southern states, who had maimed, tortured, corrupted, and committed such grotesque acts in the name of their atheistic pursuits. A cold hatred consumed Dragomir before he realized the inevitability of Danzen’s truth. They were within the radius of the downpour; for all Dragomir wished to do was charge the fools ahead of him; he could not abandon the others and be damned as well. Someone waited for him, far away from here.

 

A shout. Hooves rumbled against snow, dirt, and frosted rock, kicking up and knocking loose the sturdy formations.

 

It was not a glorious withdrawal, at least not in his eyes. From where he stood, he and Tancred surged back into the camp to rally others and rescue them from harm’s way. Ghouls fled, skidding along the ice and slush that gathered around the moat and the rest of the walls from their brutal melee with the other warriors. He witnessed the filth of GRENDEL slither and writhe in opposite directions from him and his own. Some appeared determined to fight to the end; they would battle to their last breath. They grappled with one another in the snow and bitter mud that slid from the warm bodies as they moved forward with their soles, unleashing their alchemy, arrows, and weapons.

 

Strained muscles. The tearing of maille and plate and meshing of souls, as the last whispers of a dying amalgamation crumbled into the moat of Lumbridge.

 

He had acquired the master architect, seizing her by the collar and hoisting her over the saddle as Sweetpea trudged. She galloped, hooves snuffing out the life of a shambling skeleton that had begun to crawl from their pit. Another beast succumbed, cursed by Fate to be impaled on the spikes in the trap below. He heard cries, galloping hooves, and then nothing. The sound was gone – his ears had stopped working. His lungs, too, he noticed. He struggled to yell, as there was no air, and staying calm felt impossible when everything around him was so tense.

 

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III

 

An avalanche. A catastrophic collision of brawn and sorcery.

 

A particular beauty was ascribed to the horror that drew Dragomir’s gaze back from the ridge—a righteous, brutalist awe that thawed his coldness and nearly brought the furnace of his heart to a standstill. White and grey lightning crashed into the stronghold’s structure as the last survivors fled the tundra. The earth shook everywhere, a distant ridge appearing to split in tandem with the magma that spewed silver fire. Dragomir could not flee—he was frozen. A spell had been cast upon his senses, and he did not attempt to resist it. That fortress was gone, and all the homes and cursed stones that he and his tribe had toiled for decades to strike down were not merely obliterated—it was gone, utterly gone.

 

Smoldering snow. A blistering patchwork of malice and cosmic correction.

 Clouds loomed and swirled around the peaks, obscuring the path of those who had gone before. Dragomir stood alone, gazing at what was left of that dreadful place. One scar upon the soil had now been replaced by an even deeper one, with the crumbling slopes serving as a testament to the Xionist filth that once cultivated their cancerous grip along the edge. It was beautiful, even with the volcanic pulse that unravelled against the terrain. He could ignore the lingering burns of his arm and the cold that looked like it was trying to freeze him in retaliation for what sorcery the snow now suffered because of him. He grinned at this, and let the arrogance pour into his throat. He made a chuckle that never once sounded off. A sigh and a heave of his chest fell with such tremendous and utter disbelief.

 

Dawn had been wrought unto Lumbridge, and he was its herald.

 

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IV

 

Dragomir hadn’t realized he was speaking to a black and grey pile of rubble when all that truly settled in. He had been forging as his arms and hands burned with the sparks of his furnace that danced against his flesh, sizzling into the ripped sleeves of his shirt, and fought so fiercely against the leather to reach him. He wasn’t even looking at the hot metal to which the prongs were connected, and he realized this when the throbbing pain of the GODSHAMMER’s aftermath reached his wrist and ached along those fresh scars shaped like lightning.

Dragomir realized he had shared this story with a severed helmet at the top of that mound; the dark metal was devoid of the head and spirit that once gave it life. It emitted an eerie odor that annoyed his nose. Which one had this foe been? Thirteen? No, that had been the half-rotten Uruk who clawed at his helmet earlier.

His hand was trembling. Why?

It constantly trembled slightly whenever he swung a hammer. Whether it was his beloved Sefa that he crashed against countless foes, or the plain and comely Vala, the Narvaukiaan Bronze hammer he now wielded in his smithy, the effect was the same. A muscle shook wrongly, and he felt one of the nerves shudder against him as though he was suddenly feeling the aftermath of using his high-density warhammer. 

But he wasn’t. He had been forging, he had been alone, and he had been cold. No, worse than that. He was vulnerable, and every insecurity mixed with their maddening sensations reminded him. 

A sense of weakness, his mind told him as he set down the prongs and the star-shaped ingot of steel against his anvil. The metal steamed out, its warmth slowly dying as it was strangled by the cold air wafting in from the smithy’s open door. 

The left hand reached for that trembling limb, wrapping around the wrist and gliding the thumb along the side of his thumb. This happened in moments, with the odd little fidgeting drifting away like some phantom that had grown bored with its host. The fingers flexed before curling in once more to crack the knuckles, and he stepped away from the anvil to fetch a cloth to wipe at the sweat of his arms, hands, cheeks and brow. 

Dragomir was unaware of the metallic trophy of the fallen warrior. He grasped it in his right hand and brought it along as though it had been a companion for the road. Fingers drummed against it anxiously, matching the beat of his heels and feeding his brain a sense of calm. 

 Upon entering the village square, he paused, feeling the biting cold against his skin. Blue eyes stung as sweat and soot combined with the chill of his Hearth, prompting him to reflect on his choices. He envied the great, bearded elders whose woollen braids enveloped their throats and extended down to their chests during such frigid moments. They would have known how to handle this. They would have been able to endure this and so much more.

They wouldn’t have felt so fragile and bitter like me, he lied to himself.

Boots grind against cold earth and gravel calmly while a tempest of thoughts rolls thunder along the inside of Dragomir’s skull. Each rumble brings up another muffled voice to tell him something he can’t comprehend. But he believes he might be able to outmanoeuvre his vulnerability by travelling. 

 

 

ᛐᚱᛅᚾᚴᛦ

 

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[wolfdwg 2677]

Cladden in maille and wyvernscale, Faenor, would ride alongside Dragomir in the northern woods of Numenost. He remembers the day in which the Godhammer smitten Lumbridge from the face of Aevos, leaving naught but ruin and destruction in its wake. Gazing to his uncovered hand he noticed the darkness that had grown from his finger tips to nearly engulf his palm and overhand in inky black tendrils.

 

"Faenor, your eyes broedr, they seem changed?" came the voice of Aethelwulf, the time around his warped and he was in the Nordengrad capital's Flaming Tankard. It was true, his irsis and sclera in both had faded into a forest green, occasionally wafting in ink splotches flickering in and out with blinks. 

Then the scene played again how he stood on the walls of the siege camp outside of Lumbridge, feathers and mist surrounding his form. The fateweaver that day saved man from the clutches of Mordrings minions, but something had changed.

 

"There's always a cost."