Normally, he would go straight home to his wife and two daughters, but today was particularly difficult. When the captain had visited and found two inferior swords among those he was picking up, he admonished the forgemaster by threatening to take away the business and hand it over to his competitor. The forgemaster instantly passed that admonishment to his understudy resulting in a physical as well as verbal reprimand. Never mind that the inferior items were forged by the master himself, that did not matter. All that mattered was the reputation of the forge. If it was ever publicized that the weapons, armors, and other trinkets were being forged by the complete independence of anyone other than the forgemaster, business would certainly decline to a halt. Indeed, today was a difficult day and though he vowed never again to visit the tavern after the birth of his second daughter, he thought that one drink would not hurt anything.
Life was life, lacking, homeless and without merit. Since being wrongfully prosecuted for crimes he did not commit, at least in his estimation he did not commit them, he had been unsuccessful at securing employment. As such, he turned to the only profession requiring no ability of securing – thievery. Had he been better, maybe he would have been invited to join The Thieves’ Guild, but admittedly, thieving was not his most suited skill. He was big, clumsy, and all other things deemed unsubtle. And while he adapted to his life of lack, one thing he still enjoyed was a peaceful sleep. That is why he slept alone most of the nights. On the streets, his anger when he was prematurely roused from his slumber had produced a reputation as nefarious as The Guild. As such, during the night, he was actively avoided by everyone who had any amount of sense. And that is what he preferred. So, when the incessant sobbing of a boy interrupted his rest, he reacted. At first, he did not recognize this boy; therefore, he offered him a few different warnings. But when his words were not headed, he did what he always did, he silenced the noise his own way, with his heavy hands and large boots. One thing was for sure, that boy would not wake up for a while.
“You should not have fallen in class,” she heard a voice say as she exited Grand Wizard Intellos’s first seminar. The voice startled her. Had it not, she might have walked right into him. “Nor should you walk with your head down.”
“I am sorry Wizard Esthinor,” she answered sheepishly.
“Do not be sorry. Be convicted to grow and correct your faults,” he said staring down at her small frame.
“Yes, Wizard Esthinor. I am sorry,” she said again, her eyes falling to the ground.
“It appears you have more to learn that I thought. Do you remember when I first visited you? Before Grand Wizard Intellos?” he asked.
“Yes. I remember my parents talking with you for a long time,” she answered.
“Yet you did not even recognize me upon your arrival,” he said harshly. “Why do you think that is?”
“I do not know, Wizard Esthinor,” she answered, never raising her eyes to meet his.
Gently, he reached down and raised her head by her chin, “It is because, child, you have forgotten what it means to look up. How would you like to never lower your head again?”
“I would like that very much,” she said, staring into his eyes.
“Very well. Follow me. I have much to teach you,” he said as he turned briskly around and strode purposefully down the hallway.
Each of these precious moments, a turning point of confidence and promise, if properly manipulate with the waters of deception and illusion, could be used to produce the fertile grounds allowing his subsequent plans to grow. Hope would turn to doubt, and doubt to isolation. Disappointment would lead to envy, and envy would produce jealousy. Entitlement would produce allowance, and allowance would spiral into need. Circumstance would lead to delusion, and delusion would eliminate choice. Insecurity would lessen value, and that would lead to misplaced hope. With all these things, further manipulations would be required; however, in these moments, these precious, inconsequential moments, his systematic subversions would begin.
Dra’alin
(Awaken)
When they saw their wolf companions completely subdued, tied around the neck and limbs with thick ropes, and hung from wooded poles, heads hanging upside down and nearly scraping the ground like some wild boar being brought home for a feast, they flew into a rage and charged. Had their bonds to their wolves not been impeded, they might have been warned about the Dwarven wizards. But as it was, they received no warning, and in their rage, ran headlong into the mental trap set by the dwarven magic users.
Liana was the first to collide with the mental barrier, dropping to her knees. Rony held up his combative charge rushing to her side, Zyndalia doing the same. However, before either could comfort their fallen companion, they too ran into the mental barrier, and much like Liani before them, ended in a head clenching heap on the ground. Had they been able to ease the piercing noise within their minds, they might have been able to wrestle free of the two dwarves holding each of them, but dwarves were not just known for their great endurance, but their great strength as well. Some of the strongest were capable of rivaling even the orcs. However enhanced the three of them had become, with the splitting headaches the dwarven magic had induced, they could do nothing to prevent the dwarves from replicating what had been done to their wolves from being done to them. Much like their wolf companions, they were subdued, drugged, and hogtied; left laying like limp pigs suspended on long poles between the broad shoulders of yet another set of capturers.
During their journey into the dwarven lands, lands as hard and unforgiving as the huge hammers and axes the dwarven warriors wielded, the effect of the drugs would periodically wear off leaving all three of them some opportunity, however small, to observe their surroundings. Rony had the chance to see they had crossed a large river over a very high bridge spanning a great chasm. Zyndalia smelled more than saw their passage through a moderately sized bog. Though she could not tell how large it was, it must have been smaller than a day’s travel because once they entered, they did not make camp until they exited the other side. Liani was able to catch a glimpse of a huge mountain, a mountain larger than she had expected them to be. However much they were able to observe their surroundings, none of the three of them were able to catch sight of their wolves, nor were they able to sense any part of their bonds, the absence of which was noticeably weighing on their anxieties, when they were not under the effects of the potent drug, that is.
On one of the last nights, if not the last night they made camp outside of the dwarven city, Rony was pulled from his drug induced slumber by two shouting Dwarves. Though he could not understand the center of their discussion, he could see they were having an argument, and one that was quickly heating up to boil the waters of their angers over and onto their fists.
“Grennen uthdo mok ko!” shouted one of the dwarves.
“Grennen dontini uth thinin!” shouted the other as he stood up, pointing toward Rony, Zyn, and Liani.
“Akonok trecka mok ko!” returned the first, squaring his shoulders preparing for a confrontation.
“Ugho nagil uth nagili,” said the second dwarf again, but this time, he grew very quiet. Silence ensued, for a moment, and then exploded into a fist driven brawl.
While he was watching them fight, Rony heard a voice thick with a dwarven accent from behind him say, “They were arguing over what to do with you.”
“What have you done to the wolves?” he asked.
“The same thing we have done to you,” he answered. Rony could not see him clearly in the dark, but what he could see told him he was not a member of the warriors. He was wearing a form of plate-fashioned armor, but while the other warriors’ metal plates covered most of their bodies, this one’s covered only the vital areas of his upper arms and chest. Underneath, he wore a smooth robe, possibly made of thick cotton. In this low of light, illuminated by only the thinnest of slivers of the moons, it was all but impossible to correctly identify.
“Why?” he asked boldly. “We meant you no
harm, neither did our wolves.”
“They are not wolves,” said the dwarf.
“Then what are they?”
“Unhelic,” replied the dwarf, taking a word from his own language.
“What does that mean?”
“You will see. Now, it is time for you to sleep again,” he said as he made a few short motions in the air with his hands ending in a short of pushing movement toward Rony. He felt a slight breeze and then his eyes grew heavy, so heavy he could not keep them opened. Seconds later, he was resting in the same magic induced slumber as his companions.
“Brathein,” said a loud voice from somewhere above her. Had she been awake, she would have seen a dwarf dressed in partial plate armor wave his hands in small circles and then push them toward her. Had she been awake, she would have felt the slight breeze his magic created. And had she been awake, she would have known she stood in the Council Room of the Dwarven Kings deep within the Dwarven nation of Kronock. However, not until the moment when his magic landed on her mind, did she possess the consciousness needed for meaningful observation. As it was, when her eyes opened, and her mind focused, she was understandably disoriented. After a moment of looking around, she saw they were standing in the center of what appeared to be a circular pit, but one not dug in the ground and left unfinished with dirt walls and floors. No. This pit was lined with rock and stones, polished rocks and stones pale in color, but dense in strength. Likewise, its size did not resemble a simple pit either as its diameter easily exceeded one hundred paces.
“Who are you!” shouted a voice from behind them, thick with accent.
As she turned, she saw, on top of the walls, five elder dwarves, each of them sitting in ornate, stone carved chairs, and each wearing extravagant clothes of partial plate mail and heavy fabrics. Each of their heads bore a crown, however, each crown was different. The ones worn by the dwarves in the stone chairs on the far left and right were smaller and thinner than the two to their interiors which were smaller still than the central dwarf’s.
Judging the moment between the asking and subsequent answering of the first questioned had passed acceptability, the same dwarf, the one in the middle, shouted, “Answer!”
Rony stepped forward and said, “My Lords,” but was interrupted before he could continue by the dwarf to the far right.
“You cannot speak here!” said the dwarven lord. “She will answer,” he continued, pointing to Zyndalia, in a calmer voice but no less resolute.
“Who are you?” asked the central dwarf again.
Indeed, that was the question, perhaps the greatest and simplest of questions of them all, and yet, one she could not answer. Though she was young, she had seen much more of the world, much more of its darkness and much more of its possibilities than someone of her age. So, had she been asked this question a time ago, she would have responded with her name out of a natural and simplistic view of life. But life as she had once known it, simplistic in all of its definitions, was not so simple anymore.
Who was she?
She was Zyndalia Derius. She was a fatherless girl defined by the raising of her mother. She was sister to Ronialdin and friend to Liani. She was a former member of The Mercenaries. She was companion to Inglorca. She was all of those, or at least, had been all of those and could be defined by any or all of them had her view of life been as simplistic as it had been before. But that was not the case now.
Who was she?
Could she be defined by the deeds she has done, the demons she has killed, or was there a greater definition to which her identity could be attached? There was a power rising within her, within each of them. Was that the defining essence of what she was becoming? And if so, what was she becoming? Was she a demon hunter as suggested by her dream? Did the angel Michael hold the key unlocking the closed tumblers around the answers to her questions?
Who was she?
“I do not know,” she answered as honestly as she could in a true moment of authentic reflection.
“She is nothing!” accused the dwarf on the far left.
“How dare you!” challenged Rony.
“Konick tho!” shouted the central dwarf standing up, eyes filled with rage. With the completion of his words, Rony was doubled over by the swift and heavy hammer strike from a dwarf that had remained out of sight behind them. Liani tried to tend to him, but she too was hit in the gut by the blunt end of the hammer, doubling her over as well. “Who. Are. You!” shouted the dwarf.
“I. Do. Not. Know!” yelled Zyndalia in return, “I do not know,” she continued quietly to herself.
Rony was picked up by rough hands and forced to stand only to be leveled by another punishing hammer thrust to his stomach. He doubled over, clutching his gut and vomiting on the ground.
“Please, stop this!” she pleaded, “we mean you no harm,” she said weekly. After a suspended moment wherein the two of them exchanged stares, neither wavering, Zyndalia continued, “Please, we have done nothing to you. All we want is to go to Pretago Cor.”
“Not until we know who you are,” he said sitting back down. “Not until we know what they are,” he continued emphasizing the word “they”.
She understood his implication immediately. Though they had spent many months with their lupine companions and knew they were much more than common wolves, she had to admit, they did not fully understand what they were, or what they had become, and certainly not what they were becoming. “Please, we just need to get to Pretago Cor,” she said defeatedly.
The central dwarf hesitated for a moment, pausing long enough for him to ascertain the validity of her plea. When he was satisfied with his deduction, he said, “Konick tho.”
Immediately, the guarding dwarf raised his heavy hammer in the air preparing to strike Rony, who was still kneeling and struggling to stand up between bouts of coughing and wheezing.
“No! Please, no!” shouted Zyndalia.
The hammer raised higher. Before it dropped, Zyndalia grabbed the dwarf’s arms. She was struck in the stomach by another dwarf who then pushed her to the ground. “No,” she said weekly.
“Ecklor mortum!” shouted a raised dwarven voice from behind them. Zyn turned her head to see three female dwarves, each wearing full plate armor as they entered the stone pit. “Tolin Kastoc ry kastor.”
“Donin kastoc ry kastor,” said the main dwarf standing up again.
“Tolin Kastoc ry kastor,” said the woman dwarf again stepping in front of Zyndalia and her two struggling companions. The other two women helped Rony and Liani to stand again. There was a thick moment of silence between them, the male dwarf upon his raised seat and the female dwarf standing in apparent defense of Zyndalia, Ronialdin and Liani, as they measured each other’s resolve.
Finally, the male dwarf spoke, “Ectoth din kastor.”
The dwarf woman turned to Zyndalia and said, “You are to be judged.”
“Judged? How? Why?” she asked.
“Because you are rock and stone,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
“You will see. Follow me.”
“I cannot leave them,” she said.
“They will be watched over by my Stone Maidens. No harm will come to them.
“Where are we going?” asked Zyn.
“To prepare.”
Zyndalia was led out of the circular room and down several large hallways ending in a series of rooms connected by heavy stone doors. Each of the hallways had been lined with the same stone material as the room she was first in. She did not notice any windows though which light and air could circulate, but that is not to say the air was stale from stagnation, nor was the interior poorly lit. Hanging periodically from ropes in the ceiling were small globes of light. When she examined the walls more closely, she saw several small holes, each about the width of a sword pommel.
True to the rumors she had heard, dwarves were short and broad of shoulder. Each of the male dwarves’ faces were covered with a thick beard. Some were longer, some
were shorter and some were intricately woven. Regardless of their differences, each of the beards were well cared for, not one of them looking scraggly and unkept. Their arms and thighs were powerfully built, even the women’s. They stood nearly a foot shorter than Zyndalia, but outmatched her weight easily. That is not to say they were out of shape or thick of belly, quite the opposite in fact, as the majority of their mass was made from strength. Having observed them for the short amount of time she had, she was still able to understand why the other nations avoided outright war with them. It is a good thing they were a generally peaceful people, preferring to stay within the boundaries of their mountain kingdoms. She hated to think what might happen if something provoked the dwarves to attack.
“What is your name?” Zyndalia finally asked.
“Grothca,” she answered.
“Thank you, Grothca, for intervening. I do not know,” continued Zyndalia, but was cut short by Grothca’s interruption.
“We prepare for the Judgement of Rock and Stone in silence,” said the woman dwarf.
“Yes, about that. Should I not at least know what I am going to be judged upon before I am actually judged?” she asked.
“You will be judged on the only merit you can be judged on?” answered Grothca in her thick, dwarven accent.
“And what, exactly, is that?” Zyndalia asked again.
“Who you are?”
“Why me? Why not the others?”
“Silence. Now is not the time. Now is the time to prepare,” said Grothca, ignoring Zyndalia’s several questions. When they approached a large stone door intricately etched with several markings, Grothca said, “Inside you will find more of my Stone Maidens. They will help you prepare physically what you must prepare in here,” while she places her finger on the center of Zyndalia’s chest.
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