Ravenfell Chronicles: Origins

by Brand J. Alexander

  Three mornings after his father’s death, the appearance of a bedraggled man and woman on the village edge sparked alarm among the people. Strangers weren’t welcome in these days. People mostly kept to their own, or lives were lost. Yet, the pair took great effort to appear harmless and unthreatening. They wore rags, barely deserving of being considered clothing. Their faces were gaunt and sunken in, a result of the two weeks of fasting they subjected themselves to in preparation.

  In such situations, the shaman or wiseman of the village was always called for the final decision if the intruders didn’t immediately require killing. It was rare when they didn’t. Any wiseman worthy of the name would always refuse such people. The chance of carried plagues or betrayal from within was too high, and such an unpredictable outcome was much too risky for them to bet their stature upon. Dorga fully intended to let this couple in. Their arrival was the beginning of a story he’d been concocting for months since his father’s blessed portent of death arrived.

  “My Lord Dorga,” the man and woman declared as rehearsed when the shaman appeared before them. There was an immediate gasp from the onlookers that these strangers knew of their newly risen wiseman, by name. “The spirits have sent us visions of your coming. Is your light among us at last?” They fell to their knees, groveling before him. Both of them were playing the whole thing up, way too much, but their overly dramatic voices only stirred the nearby villagers more thoroughly.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Dorga demanded. He knew full well what was going on, but his doubt and questioning would lead the villagers to believe these two even more. Modesty in the face of reverence had a strange way of reassuring people that you were clearly worthy of being revered.

  “We apologize, great lord,” the groveling man answered. “Death has stalked our people. Both our families are dead. But we were saved by good spirits, who bid us seek out Dorga the Great.”

  “For Dorga the Great is the only light that can hold back the shadow of death,” the female by his side added. “We’ve sought your light for a week. The spirits told us that when our savior was risen, at last, we’d feel the light calling us. At first, we didn’t believe.” They bowed their heads together in shame for their lack of faith. “Then, after days, we finally felt it. We believe in your light. We’ve come, my lord.”

  Dorga circled the two supplicants, measuring them with a stern assessment. He knew them, of course. He was the one who instructed them in what to say and how to act. His own actions were preplanned as well. And, at that moment, he needed to be witnessed weighing this decision. In fact, he needed to convince the villagers to support the strangers’ request before he ever gave away his own feelings on the matter.

  “You say these spirits spoke to you, but you didn’t feel my light right away? Is this correct?

  “Yes, my lord.” The man had been instructed to answer most of the questions.

  “And when did you begin to feel this light? How did you find me?”

  “My lord, it was glorious. Three days ago, we thought all hope was lost. A green light blazed forth in the sky like a fire. Both of us sensed the presence of death withdraw. The ravens which were plaguing us fled. We felt its protection. And we followed this feeling of your blessing, to you.” The two strangers dropped their faces to the ground in worship, then, and began chanting his name.

  The villagers gasped. Three days ago, Dorga banished the raven from his father’s corpse by setting it aflame. The fact the flames burned the same green as the blazing light, which supposedly guided these two here, was more than enough to awaken the religious craze within his people’s eyes. The seeds were planted.

  “I do not know how I feel about your story,” Dorga announced disapprovingly. “I must think it over. But I feel you are likely not a threat for now. I will leave you to the care of my people until I have decided. Until that time, you may stay.”

  There were several small cheers at this announcement, clues to reveal those completely taken by the tale. There were also a few grumbles, people who’d need to be convinced or be dealt with in the near future. For the majority, it would take a bit more to push them over into the point of unquestioning loyalty, where he wanted them. They stood there uncomfortably, uncertain how they felt about the drastic changes in their once-familiar world. Dorga expected as much, which is why a second group would arrive with a very similar story by dusk. The tale of Dorga the Great was only just beginning.

  “I must retire to think this over. Grave matters indeed.” He peered at the earth momentarily, as if seeking some wisdom from deep below. “I will speak with the spirits and see how they guide me. Until that time, see to these two helpless mortals. Their souls may require our protection.” It was a grand announcement fit for Dorga the Great. And he added an extra flair to his strut as he made his way to his father’s old skull adorned hut and vanished inside.

  Just before the door flap fell into place, he thought he caught a glimpse of that peculiar raven in a distant tree. Surely it couldn’t be the same. He scared that one away. Yet too much of Dorga’s father’s work dealt with strange spiritual matters for him to write off the possibility. He’d have to be cautious. Although he always was. Otherwise, he never would have gotten this far with his plan, while everyone still believed him a fool.

  If there’s one certainty about any small town or village, it’s this, people talk. And when there is something especially new and exciting to talk about, people talk a lot. It was this age-old truth, which Dorga relied upon now to do the job of spreading his stories for him. He didn’t leave to think over the fate of the new arrivals. Dorga purposely left them alone in the care of the other villagers for the express purpose of subjecting them to the interrogations about to take place.

  The villagers were terrified, even more so now that these strangers appeared, bearing news of deadly forces at work. If there was any chance these two had answers, the people he left them with would dig it out, long before Dorga chose to reappear. And those two had plenty of answers prepared. All Dorga had to do was wait.

  As the afternoon wore on, Dorga could feel the tension in the air, even from within his hut. Although many of the muffled voices he heard through the walls were too low to understand clearly, he could tell the sound of one man warning another of something frightening or unbelievable he just heard. The story was growing. The legend of Dorga the Great was spreading.

  When the next part of Dorga’s performance began, there was no mistaking the sudden change. He’d taken careful consideration of how best to manipulate these people and their beliefs. And thankfully, he grew up knowing many of them. He knew secrets that could be used to his advantage, but more than that, he knew the sort of things that would get to them. The first arrivals were chosen for how well they could act the part and how precisely they could deliver the important pieces of the story. Group two and group three, however, were chosen specifically for how they would affect an already terrified and emotional populace.

  “Mercy to us all, they’re just children,” the cry went up as expected. The horrific sight of the group now approaching was crafted to tear at the hearts of every mother and father in the village.

  The mad priest, who taught Dorga this lesson, did so in death, after having just learned it himself. You can cut the heart out of anyone you want if you have the peoples’ hearts, but you better have their souls too, if you decide to start cutting up their children. Magthol was thrown to a pack of hyenas before he could teach Dorga anything further, unfortunately. That was the sad fate of charlatans who learned such lessons too late. As annoying as children were, people felt sympathy and affection for them, even ones not of their tribe or town. It was another weakness in humans that could be exploited.

  Everything was carefully prepared for the children’s arrival. During Dorga’s absence, the villagers would’ve dragged every detail of the atrocities the first two arrivals faced to reach them. The stories they were prepared to share were meant to horrify and sicken. So, when the b
edraggled orphan trio hobbled into view, at last, the people were primed to imagine the worst possible reasons for their artfully bruised faces and broken little bodies. The growing outcry of their arrival was the sign for Dorga the Great to appear, to guide the people with his wise decision at last.

  For so long, Dorga was nothing but a failure. He was ridiculed throughout life and shunned by the normal populace because of his oddities and inability to empathize with others. It wasn’t only the people of his village who judged and diminished him. It was everyone. No matter where Dorga went, he was an outsider, abhorred by society.

  It was only in others like himself Dorga was finally able to find acceptance. They were all failures like him, and they joined together, with the understanding that society as a whole would keep them as failures unless they did something to stop it. Dorga just so happened to have a birthright, which offered such a chance. And he used that promise to draw them to his side and gain their allegiance. It was true, the Dorga, who returned to his village after so many years, was still a failure. But he was more also. For he was a leader among many failures. And for once, Dorga had a chance to succeed, to shatter the very chains of society, which held his people down.

  Despite all his careful planning, Dorga never expected to reach the point where he could walk among the people in the special robes he’d prepared. They were symbolic of his acceptance as a savior. After a lifetime of failing, it was almost unthinkable he could reach this point in his plan, but it was here. He marveled at the thought, even as he drew out the long black robes. His father never wore anything as fine as a shaman. But then, his father never truly claimed what was his by right. This was something about society Dorga fully intended to change. If he were to be the people’s protector from death, he expected to be revered and worshipped as such. And one who is worshipped should always look the part.

  By the time Dorga appeared from within his new quarters, adorned in grandeur, most of the villagers were already won over. Those who remained unconvinced were a silent minority. Dorga took note of each and every one for future assessment. They would worship him in the end, or he would feed them to the very force he was to protect them from.

  There were gasps as he presented his transformation. It was a look finer than anything the people of his village had ever seen. To them, such attire likely seemed strange and alien. His clean and brushed sleek black hair was something unheard of. Their first sight of Dorga the Great was a shock, to say the least. It all seemed just as astonishing to Dorga the first time as well. His primitive mind rebelled at it initially. However, like with everything else in his plan, he’d prepared for that factor as well.

  “Adorned as a true lord!” the male half of the stranger couple cried as he came into view. “Behold, Dorga the Great. Our savior.” Both fell to groveling, immediately. It was all Dorga could do not to chuckle uproariously as he strode through the village towards the orphans and the crowd gathered around them. His greatest dreams were coming true.

  The children cheered to see Dorga the Great. He’d saved them, of course, from the forces of death. Their frantic retelling of the trials they’d faced coming here would’ve already left the villagers wild-eyed with fright by now. A blazing green light appeared to rescue them. He heard the people muttering about the same sort of vision once again as he drew closer. The special powdered additive always seemed to have a lasting effect when he used it.

  Dorga had a watcher outside of the village prepared to announce to the others if he was successful at assuming his father’s place. The addition of the ravens to the story wasn’t of Dorga’s doing, but he fully approved and intended to reward his fellow failure when he arrived at the village as another feigned refugee.

  “Fear not,” Dorga announced loudly. It was the most confidence that he’d ever spoken with. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t a failure. It felt good. He reveled in the warm glow it gave him. More than that, he savored the power he could feel at his command. Those who’d wronged him were finally going to pay. “I have communed with the spirits. They have asked me to protect these newcomers. They are true of heart and purpose, and that is why the spirits guide them to us. We must gather against the darkness, for only those worthy and faithful will survive. Those who question. Those who lose faith must be given unto death, or we all will face its touch in the coming days.”

  His loyalists and those who so recently came to believe cheered the protective nature of his declaration. For those who still doubted, a chill settled over them. The not so subtle threat was made. Believe in me or die. So, as the chanting grew in response to Dorga’s preaching, it was louder than when he first appeared from his quarters. More voices felt compelled to join in this time. For whether they believed in Dorga the Great or not, they understood the new reality well enough. They would appear loyal because they wanted to live.

  Dorga relished the attention. But even more, he savored the looks in the eyes of those who once looked down upon him the most. They seemed to understand their future lot in life, now that Dorga the Great ruled. He enjoyed that the most, possibly more than he enjoyed the thought of the things he intended to do to them once his position was secured. It was perhaps the greatest moment in his life so far, and it was unlikely anything could wipe away the self-satisfied smirk he now wore.

  Then, he heard the haunting caw of the raven.

  All celebration and mirth ceased at once. It was more than a bird calling from the surrounding forest. It was targeted and purposeful. Whatever beast made this call, its statement was clear. “Behold, I am here.”

  The gasps grew in strength and frequency as the villagers’ eyes fell upon the raven perched within the branches of a large skeletal tree on the edges of the forest. There was no doubt its deathly eyes glared directly at the gathered humans. There was also no doubt it was the same raven as before. Almost immediately, Dorga’s newly faithful flock fell behind him, seeking the protection he promised.

  This was the third time that damnable raven had interfered with Dorga’s plot, and he found himself, at that moment, frozen between fury and terror. He was enraged anything would dare challenge him now, when he was so close to not being a failure. But the reality of the raven and its peculiar nature was lodged within his chest like an icy shard, its presence a perpetual shiver down his spine. Who or what was this beast, and why did it taunt him so?

  “Begone, foul spirit. These people are protected from your evil.” Dorga held up a shiny bauble he carried, which looked enough like a sacred talisman to convince the villagers, but he doubted the spirit-raven would be as easily fooled.

  The return cry of the raven felt as if it pierced his soul. This was the face of death he’d feared for so long. Every fiber of his body wished to flee, but he was so close to ending a life of constant failure he couldn’t let himself back down. He stood there silently, between his people and the demon bird, thankful they couldn’t see the terror on his face. He raised the talisman higher, drawing a cheer from behind, but knowing even as he did it, it would do him no good.

  The raven dove from its perch and came gliding directly for them. Dorga remembered the last time the bird attacked this way. It hadn’t been after him. He held on to that thought as he solidified his stance. He was about to wet his new robes, but if he didn’t hold firm, everything he worked for would be lost.

  The shadow of the raven swooped just above his head and dropped something directly in front of his face, which struck the ground with a wet plop. Dorga almost collapsed as the tension of the moment released, the bird’s impending attack averted. Somehow, he managed to steady himself. Those behind him had thrown themselves to the ground, their trust in his capabilities clearly not up to where he would prefer. He needed their unquestioning faith. That could be hard, however, with this damn bird haunting him like this.

  Dorga glanced down at the object left by the raven. A severed eyeball stared back. What did it mean? His mind searched desperately for an answer, while terror worked at every other part o
f him. The bird stole his father’s eye, of course, but this wasn’t the same one. The colors were different. Before he could question more, Dorga the Great heard the growing cries of a nightmarish sound rising from the forest. Even as the haunting cacophony grew, a louder, shriller, human scream intruded.

  “My eye! They stole my eye!” It was the man who Dorga left to watch from the forest edge. Several others ran at the maimed man’s side, likely the third group meant to arrive that day. They were all torn up pretty badly. Blood ran freely down the one-eyed man’s face. The wound was recent. He clutched the now-empty socket, trying to maintain his footing as they stumbled and tripped towards the clearing and the village beyond. But it was clear their intent wasn’t so much to run to the village as run from something.

  The cries of the raven flock rising from the line of trees left no doubt what they ran from.

  “Great Dorga, protect us, please,” his people pleaded. All Dorga could think about was how he was going to save himself from those terrifying black beaks as the flock rose across the horizon like a thunderhead.

  He was prepared to run, to leave his people there to the hunger of death’s messengers, and accept failure as his eternal fate. If the birds had drawn any closer, he would’ve, but something stayed their advance. It was peculiar and unnerving, to say the least. The black mass of the gathered birds split to circle the village in a ring of cawing chaos, then settled into the branches of the surrounding forest to roost.

  The people cried in terror. They pleaded for Dorga the Great to do something, to send these fiends away. Dorga, for the moment, was paralyzed. His stomach churned with an uncertainty that kept his legs clenched together in desperation. He must maintain his composure. That was key to this entire thing.

  So far, no one had seen his face. No one knew he was frightened almost beyond functioning, where he stood, guarding them against the ravens’ attack. At least, that’s how it appeared to the eyes of his people. But was he really guarding them? Why hadn’t they attacked? How long would these demons remain? And more importantly, how could he turn this all to his advantage? His mind worked desperately for a charlatan’s rule that could account for when real magic called you to task. He could think of none. Although, he wondered whether that was because no one had ever encountered such a situation or because, like Magthol, no one ever survived the learning of these lessons.