Fog enveloped the shoreline, so thick that although he could hear the hissing of the waves through the pebbles of the beach he could not see much beyond that. The air was still, as though the natural world held it’s breath in fear or anticipation. He looked out, staring into the swirling fog as though reading messages in the eddying whorls, making no move, his eyes like chips of icy sapphire glimmering in a seamed, weather beaten face. Despite his scant clothing he seemed untroubled by the chill air and after a time he stripped off his light cloak and loin cloth, removing both of his armlets and his triskele talisman. Laying his staff across the small bundle of his possessions he moved towards the edge of the sea, remaining just out of reach of the gently lapping waves.
Across the bay almost directly in front of him due to the curving shoreline, the walls and towers of an imposing looking castle were now visible. Limned in a bright light, an eerie flickering of purple and black, and bright enough to be seen despite the fog. Now he too stood without breath as though gripped by the same anticipation that the world around him felt. Even distant as he was he could feel the enormity of the power being wielded up at the castle by a wicked creature of darkness. A vile being, a perversion of the natural order, but old and wise in the ways of power, she might even be older than he himself. Perhaps…. but not likely.
Taking a deep breath he checked the Wellspring of his Potential, and Centred his Strengths with the practiced ease and precision that came from centuries of wielding power and ordering the Mortal Realms to his will. Slowly he moved forward, stepping carefully as though avoiding sharp stones, moving with a slight sideways tendency. Speed increasing, placing his feet with such care and unerring exactitude that an observer may have been fooled into thinking they were witnessing the beginning of an ancient regal dance as he moved in a wide spiral, turning inwards, rotating around a moving point that only he could discern. His steps took him away from the shore, yet somehow he remained above the surface of the waves.
Faintly carrying on the still air he could hear the sound of distant battle, the clashing of blades and the despairing cries of mortals meeting their end. His pace increased in urgency, around and around, twisting, turning, spiralling *IN* to a point that was and yet was not, within the Mortal Realms.
***
Hjrolf was transfixed with pain, with the ice-cold burn of the vampiress’ blade ripping through him so that he could barely pant out a short laugh.
“No. Not f’you…” Hjrolf managed in reply to her, his teeth gritted around the pain of the knife in his back. He made a small gesture, the weapon hindering his movements, to where his thrown scythe had embedded itself blade first in the arcane focus that Lady Emmanuelle had been stoking with her powers in an effort to weaponise.
Her normally pale face was flushed, suffused with the rage that surged through her. The temerity of the duardin who had attacked her and drawn blood! Admittedly he had barely scored a line across her flesh but her fury over that dimmed as she realised that he had outwitted her. He had enraged her to the point where she could think of nought but to kill him with her own hands, the fool had sacrificed himself to open up the way to strike at her prized arcane weapon.
Realising the enormity of her error she paled again, eyes narrowing in consternation, fear flickering across her features as unfathomably large arcane pressures within the weapon began to break loose, webs of magical energies arcing free from the crystalline focus where the scythe blade had pierced both its material and thaumaturgic boundaries.
With a rising, ear-piercing shriek arcane energies detonated outwards, searing bright light, blazing like the heart of a star and then a silent explosion, a supernova burning in a garden courtyard.
The shockwave blasted walls apart and scattered all the combatants away from the towering, cyclonic energies. Hjrolf was lifted from his feet and thrown by the concussive force, the shockwave blasting him across the courtyard, punching the air from his lungs and lofting him over the shattered remains of a low wall facing out over the Strangleweed Sea. He clutched instinctively at the stonework as he was flung past hoping to prevent his fall over the cliff, failing to halt his fall and painfully tearing all the nails from his hand in the process.
He soared through the air with a wry smile at the fate that had saved him from drowning in the Bittertwang Sea of Rodrigos all those years ago only to deliver him up to another drowning in a realm far from his home and people. The smile slipped as he realised that the cliff extended further out than he had thought and his weighty armour was not designed to fly through the air. To be fair, neither were duardin. He crashed into the black basalt rockface, his bones snapping like twigs, screaming hoarsely as he cartwheeled down the cliff face breaking more bones with each landing. Once, twice, the intense agony.. Thrice!
His last landing on a spur of protruding rock was but a temporary reprieve, his momentum carried him forward over one last edge and dashing him into the salt waters of the Strangleweed Sea. The numbing cold of the sea eased some of his pain but he could feel the damage done to his body, only the notorious hard-headedness of the duardin had kept him alive this far. But he knew, even if he could muster the strength to slip off his armour and swim to safety he would not make it. Something essential within him was torn. He sank down into the cold, dark depths of the bay, his mind dimming rapidly, his last thought, a strange regret that he would never get to see the warrior woman Lady Tilea ever again.
***
The thunderous explosion of powerful magics gone awry, slipping from control into devastating noise, heat and light occurred just as the dancer’s steps caused him to be facing the castle. The sapphire eyes turning in time to see the limp limbed duardin’s body thrown clear over the walls.
Spinning so quickly now that he seemed almost to be pirouetting in place he tracked the duardin’s descent as the dwarf’s momentum crashed him into the rocky cliff face with bone shattering force. Once, twice, a third time and then a gentle roll over the last edge and finally into the cold embrace of the grey waters.
Letting loose a wild ululating cry of triumph the dancer plunged his hand down into the waters at his feet and *REACHED* through, across the length of the bay and deep below the waves, the distance holding no meaning for him, catching ahold of the dwarf’s trailing braids he hauled Hjrolf bodily out from the dark depths seeking to claim him and stepped carefully back to the shore, carrying the limp form.
Unskilled in the arcane arts of healing the dancer pushed the encroaching darkness back from the dwarf as best he could, buying the duardin more time.
“Lady White Hawk,” He muttered urgently. “My debt to you is now paid, but see what fate thinks of your prophecies. Your servant is not long for this world and beyond my powers to heal.”
The lesser Gods move with care in the affairs of the Realms, and Lady White Hawk had more cause than most to avoid attention and risk, but the dancer could feel the desperate need of She Who Is Merciful. The thin web of his healing spell that had barely managed to hold back Hjrolf Strike-Shank’s death swelled and spread as he felt the goddess reach through him in a manner that left him reeling, off balance and puking up the contents of his stomach. Then She was gone, and Strike-Shank’s agonised screams at the enspelled healing, the forcing of broken bones and torn flesh re-knitting, ruptured organs restored to health, slowly dwindled away into laboured breathing.
The dancer was not sure how long he knelt waiting for the dwarf to speak. Eventually Strike-Shank whispered hoarsely, “She is Merciful.” Tears brimming in his eyes with joy at just the mere echo of Her presence.
“She’s rash, rude and unnecessarily rough!” The dancer shot back his normally dignified poise having been undone in an instant by the fledgling goddess. He strode quickly to the waterline and washed himself clean, rinsing his mouth several times to get rid of the taste of his own vomit. He picked up his clothes and returned to the duardin’s side. “Can you walk Rodrigan?”
“Aye lad, I can walk.”
“Lad?!” The dancer laughed sharply. “Look again Rodrigan, carefully mind.”
Hjrolf Strike-Shank looked up at the lean umgi dressing unselfconsciously before him, breath catching as he saw the dancer slip his triskele talisman over his head. “By Grungni’s Holy Hammer! Vampires, goddesses and now legends! You’re the Last Truthsayer? The Druid of Rodrigos? Aaiee! What terrible fate awaits me on the path ahead?”
The Druid gave him a pitying look that sent a chill to the duardin’s heart. “Death, Rodrigan. If we’re lucky, it’s always just death.” He walked away, up to where the beach gave way to thick forest. “Come, we need to walk the Spiral Paths away from here. Your part in the War of the Woods is over, the Lady White Hawk has called in my debt and demanded I transport you to where you will serve Her best.”
