Chapter Nine, Burning Crossroads

Last days of Duskcrest, 1328 CE

Drakkon and his retinue marched over rune-stone strewn path leading into the minor port town of Stormgaard. Winter had not yet arrived, but the foliage thinned at auguries of its frost. Wind whispered want for snow, but the forest denied it for now. Many pilgrims came along, bent on witnessing their Worship’s ascent to the temple. Including a Farrowkin priestess garbed in a thick cloak of feathers and the new Ferali harbinger, carrying with him the scepter of his clan, though Bear’s insignia had been stripped for fresh sigil of stormy sphere.

The ensemble’s bard, there to sing triumphs to any willing ear, rode up to speak with the procession’s head. “How fairs your great poetic rendition of recent events? Found the right words to describe the plaiting of a beard I never wore, to spice things up for the tale yet?” Said the leader, sardonically. Only half listening to the flow of conversations behind him. His face, a worn sheet, furled concentration on the road ahead.

“Ah, my lordly patron & friend! I do not alter events to that degree simply for dramatic luster. The truth is fearsome enough to enrapture the interests of the many. An account of Kassan’s death will spread like wildfire through the land. More so when such a tale is sold from my talent. A few more verses, some minor poetic permission and I will have an excellent composition to present on your behalf. And your-” Baron filtered his words through caution, “miracle will give song to impress generations. Afterall, miracles create believers, not your birthright or philosophy. And a miracle I will have them hear.”

“But my bardic curiosity compels me to ask, how in Your Living Name did you convince the rival spheres of Farrow and Ferali to adjoin for you? Surely, wondrous though it is, a strange girl’s resurrection did not bind their hearts to you alone?”

Cold airs outlined Drakkon’s sigh, given visible gust by wintry prescience. “In sooth, I denied their priests of their right to perform funeral rites. Both camps were warned. Gave fatal pause to those hounding for death over petty feuds. The kin of Farrow et Astralis are spiritual peoples and wished their fallen be allowed to rest properly. Lest the unlucky souls cross the veil in search of their slaughtered bodies. And though the Ferali posed as Malderathi harbingers, they too know that the veil is disturbed by so many souls shed. Foul fog congregates and the dead may well rise within it. They feared their friends coming back as real fiends of the night if their wraiths e’er discover their former bodies. Neither wanted their lines to be preyed on by true unearthly darkness. Turns out their customs barely differ there. Both agreed to share in ceremony.”

“With Heron at the Ferali reins, fealty sworn to me, any dissent will prove foolish and without organizing principle. I see your sidelong glances at the Bear’s cub, but his blood has merit. He feigned animosity for his new master in me only enough to draw out conspirators. But the ‘how’ does not make for good song, now does it? Better to praise the smoothing over. Sing for the lack of blood-feuds and idle contests between their clans by another miracle.”

“Forgive me, Lord. But a lack of duels is not such fertile ground for song as combat’s flare.” Baron caught a look that told him he impressed himself too far and diverted course. “Well, not usually. But yours is not normal circumstance and to sing for the peace you bring is an honor. That you let Heron live, to change into champion, could prove parable through the glory he will win for you. That even men of monstrous past may find redemption in your Light.”

The lead horse stirred a fright and halted. Startled steed sniffed at edge of their crossroads. A most peculiar intuition beckoned Drakkon off the beaten path that way. It would be difficult to communicate this directive to the moldy clay of corporeal brains. But why? What could be there? Still, he decided he should follow this signal which teemed with an uncanny familiarity despite never having traversed this region before. After signaling a stop, he dismounted and walked away from weathered path into packed woods.

Baron rushed to keep pace, flustered by this abrupt change in course and sullen silence. “If we dally long, we will not reach the village until nightfall... Mother Azarra would be perturbed by your wandering the wilderness, and for what purpose?” Clearly mystified, shards of fascination formed in his awe, perhaps Drakkon not being so predictable. A constant Muse was a fine one, but greater so one that cannot be confined.

“My purpose is my own. You do not have to join me if you are so concerned. You may move on and spread my word without me.” The lord stated flatly, boots scraping sodden path.

Sentinels, pilgrims & tribal heralds bubbled with indecision. Some wanted to follow but conceded their Lord’s half-solitude. A few remained on ready report or to watch for alarm for lurking predator, be it wolfpack or elder beast. Most continued on. Baron mulled this in his head, shrugged and ambled after his reluctant charge.

Baron considered his patron. Was this a madness or mystical insight which led his lord? In formative time, as apprentice among the druids he’d witnessed similar fierce flares in the wild eyes of the greater mystics. Navigators of their wandering clan, mysterious means let them herd Druidic migrations between their ancient groves, no matter season or terrain. But was this “Great God” true in his gift or just clever?

As Drakkon pursued eerie pulse a torrid pressure hoisted his forehead. Nostrils whiffed blackest smoke. In its midst, burning flesh. Stench to intensify the winching atop his brow. They came upon a glade where leaves withered away to wintry approach. There: denizens of the local village. Throng of onlookers encircled two women in tattered execution raiment. Their faces concealed by obsidian hoods with tiny slits. They were bound to dual stakes upon prepared kindling.

One human pyre, already lit, licked away the flesh & the covering of the woman on the left. The mouthless hood did little to stifle her shrieks. Wind oxygenated the heart limbs of the trees, lifting her death-vesper.

Before the fire, directing the ritual execution, two lanky figures hovered. Sporting crimson with threads of gold coiling the length of their robes, depicting malefic serpent. The first of the ungodly creatures shot sharp stare at the watchers. His short white hair and decrepit features showing him as an agent-inquisitor of Vizzarion. From that frown which bedecked his glee, he proudly served that desolation. They’d scavenger’s eyes. Vultures with balding heads, seared by the heat of their hatred. The younger of the pair, with no martial training of his own, gestured at their third, a spear bearer escort. This final finger of their trio looked an average man of middle age. But one could tell from his cold presentation that only death and pain spurred him to action.

This avatar of serpentine enmity grasped the other hooded woman’s neck. Puritan pleasure became him, forcibly turning her neck to observing the other’s offering to cleansing flame.

The younger taunted the hostage. “Behold the death of your sister! Witness the consequence for your sins! Know that you shall be delivered to the Dread Serpent’s maw for befouling sorcery!”

The elder of the priestly Vizzar held high his flambeau and stoked the crowd with hoarse gravel tones. “This be the fate of all who defy the Will of Vizzari! The Great Serpent’s coil spans the planet! The Magistrate’s laws hold dominion over all the earth! We will suffer no witch! Lo, how thy witchery is as empty as thy heads, setting thine against the inevitable!”

Onlookers gazed in pacified horror. Unwilling to move against any of it despite the crowd’s numbers. Baron wrenched an exhausted looking villager’s shoulder and posed harsh but whispering question. “Why is no one stopping this? My Lord, we must end this.”

The tired tiller did not look at his questioner. He stared on and spat somberly. “They threatened our village if we refused to give the witches to them. Tis their task to sniff out heresy. The witch finders already gutted the ones who gave these two shelter & bread.” The man’s wife finished his reasons, stabbing scorn more at these intruders than the inquisitors. “Should they leave our soil without cleansing it of a couple witches they’d purge the rest of us with real force. Let the flames take them over our homes!”

Drakkon heard these words, then shot his own assertion. His call thrashed the whispers, challenged pyre & cut through inquisitors’ spell. “I am Drakkon, the Living Lord & slayer of the Bear. The Flame I bring outshines this shadow of Vizzari. Snakes! I demand you release that girl! Under penalty of true deity’s wrath. I assert that woman as pilgrim, conscripted to come with me to the Temple of my ascent. Wiggle weakly in my way and I shall not hesitate to slaughter your demonic reptile. Strip it of another scale in you!”

The first man grunted while another scoffed. None shifted from their standing seats to stop the burnings. Before the stunned Vizzar could bring rebuke the Farrowkin priestesses tagging along chimed awful sentiment. “Ah, but the Sages & Shamans of the Temple would also determine this righteous punishment. They would not suffer apostates to live. These here cursed their vows and fled to witches’ coven.”

“I see Ty-Drasil’s mark upon her mold!” She jabbed curled finger at branded rune upon the condemned’s exposed flesh where her black garment was torn in protest.

Drakkon scowled. He had no patience for these primitive traditions for uncouth retributions. Especially when his mother had once been cast out for such trifles. “Tis not for these serpents to choose!” More heads turned as he pushed his way through. “The days of Vizzari wane fast! I am here to rewrite the law and remake the world free of their poison! Cease this unjust execution, return from whence you came, for the sun is setting on your wicked house! Free this woman! Desist murderous aim and keep your wretched skin to sink back to hollow pit. Resist, and know what it is to be burnt justly!”

He boomed with authority, enriched by fanatical intent. The robed men stepped back, unsettled. Shaken with being dealt such defiance. The elder spoke, mustering the virtues of his pride & position to assert retort for both him and his shaky companion. “Strike at us and you attack Vizzari itself! Incur our vengeance and we shall suffocate the last breath of your people! Defy not our Magister’s command!”

The wary peer of the magistrate inquisitor, encouraged by his brethren, warned the strange heathen. “Profaner of Vizzarion! We will have your tongue for waggling! Face us and suffer fate far worse than these petty witches earned!”

Drakkon marched down the accuser. “It is you who are profane. Witness the death of your comrades here today wrought by your transgressions against these good people. Know that their deaths shall be an augury for your kingdom. All Vizzari will be trampled by my coming. Thy ilk cast into the abyss ne’er to know warmth.”

As the terrified Vizzar trembled beneath these ardent threats their guard lunged to impale the brash speaker. But the heretical lord’s impudence had teeth. He evades the spear, making the thrust look like a child’s playing with stick. He seizes the shaft, splinters poking through his gloves, and severs the tip from the wood. The emasculated bearer did not long remain in his morose disbelief. Drakkon stabs point through eye socket. Broken spear protrudes from the back of his skull as his body crashes.

The bold challenger commands the release of the young woman. Then bids the other agent be tied to the post. Petrified, they obey. The fool tries to retain silent animosity, some dignity, but as the blazing pit eats his body like feral dogs devouring a roadside corpse, he screams a pitch to rival those of the woman he’d torched minutes earlier.

Drakkon turned to the last remaining foe held by his sentinels and spat in his face. “Know that this be the fate of all who defy the Drakoni! I curse thee to remain, craven half-corpse, until the day the pillars of Vizzari topple upon thee! Go now and tell thy master, whichever portly Magister that be, that there is a new dominion over the land! Know that from thy state’s ashes a new Aeon rises, untouched by thy filth”

The sentinels eased their grip and shoved the agent off. Incoherently mumbling terrors, he scrambled away. Drakkon went to the sniffling young woman whose face was smothered by charcoal soot. He brushed her shoulder benevolently. Casts aside black hood for the remnants of the pyre, revealing her face. Freeing her from ignoble role of victim.

Though her face was blackened by ash and her expression tearful, her gray-green eyes washed over him with a deep recognition. Corinna? Truly tis you?! His gaze projected the chord of his thoughts. She returned the look with shared flicker of recognition. For a moment she gleamed brightly before the tears swamped the light.

Concealing this familiarity, he turned to the stunned throng as a flash of insight bent his actions to suit. He bid Baron and his delegates return to the camp to inform Azarra that he would stay with this stray. To discover where the rest of her coven hid and make apostles of them.

Corinna quivered from the bittersweet brush of brisk breeze. Wafting through bones with her raiment in tatters and death’s fires hushed. Her rescuer demanded the cloak of that Farrowkin crone who lingered beside, only to be met with stern refusal.

“No sanctified shawl shall be dress for apostate. Her fate hangs by Ty-Drasil.”

The coals of Drakkon’s iris burned a hole through hers. He reached out with his hand in firm command of her to give the mantle to him. “I saved this soul from the flame not to deliver her to cold! Would ye deny your children a blanket in a frost? Or abstain soup & feverfew when sick? Nay! Not all is black and white when the brush strokes of circumstance paint a different portrait of each of our lives & actions. Learn to forgive your neighbors, as ye are yet all children under my empyrean roof.”

She obeyed, handing the coat over. He draped the cloak of feathers over Corinna. But she continued her tremulous stint. Not from autumn’s dying breath, but one within stirred shivers still. “Poor Lavera... the fates are cruel that the thread of her life should be cut while mine remains to linger as such...” She bemoaned in shock.

Drakkon lit guiding torch. The faint crimson hue of the sun’s flame indicated that night would soon cover them in its keen blanket. He gave his woeful friend a moment to regain her grounding. For her friend, this Lavera, there would be no rites of resurrection. Only wicked words would catch tears when they needed to fall for those they mourned.

The glow of his torch spread about the ground as nocturnal sounds of bugs and scurrying things yawned. “Let us walk together. Do you know a safe way through these woods?”

She nodded, wiped wet stains from her cheeks and took his hand.

Evening Stroll

Dusk, outer woods of Stormgaard

Corinna clung to Drakkon as the beacon in his hand did lux the evening’s tide. Hers was a touch of security, more than affection, to avoid stumbling over mangled roots and steep puddles. Yet he found her closeness soothing even so. His heart’s rapid pace reeled to a steadier rate through her hold. His eyes darted about the luminescent wisps which glimmered slightly before fading into nocturne. Amongst faint orbs and light-bugs he searched for his words. What to say to this woman, a ghost of the past yet living.

“Corinna?” He hesitated to determine his words but let desire lead him. “I remember you from my youthful stay in Erosian Heath...You were the best memory that place had to offer, for all its heathen beauty. Were you not the first I shared my true thoughts with?”

Her eyes lift from her footwork about the forest floor to walk inside his. Ash & tears made her appear older, her gray-emerald ocular tint colored the veil. Greenery beyond that of any near branch dwelt inside, even clouded. “My memory never forsook you. Every day was brighter by your presence. Shame that humble haven could not keep us.”

“Alas, the Fates tore our course from one another’s. We are both changed... There is little of that innocence left of us. I do wish our reunion could come with happier circumstance though.” She stated bleakly. “And yet you are not so tarnished yourself. Formed formidable figure, at least.”

“But I don’t understand?” He blurted. “Azarra reported – they told me – that you, so gifted with the gods’ touch, had been sent to the Temple... I heard – such horrid tales... But you live! I am not ungrateful for this, just baffled, truly.”

“I am touched by the gods, true. Given portion of the Great Sight, though ‘tis more curse than blessing. It was so that I trained at the temple for many years after Delphine escorted me from the Heath. My flight from my family’s hearth was inevitable, given the nature of my – Nature... But the spells – the Sight - are different for me.” Corinna’s dissociation fluttered with her voice. “When it happens something uncontrollable shakes my core. Seizes entirety of my mortal frame. As an influx of oncoming waves from t that space between this world and the spirits’. The Muses borrow my body, reap my eyes, to show me distant places and imminent happenings.

“How fascinating you keep yourself together when these spells try shaking you apart!” Drakkon commented. He aimed well-meaning joke, inspired by that bard whose wit he feigned. “I wonder if I even saved you from those priests. For it seems the stuff you are made of could survive any furnace without cracking.”

“Even the toughest submit to fire, or to the cold’s kiss. Lavera was stronger than I, yet alas...” She drifted off and he felt sorry for making light of her loss. “I lived only through the grace of Elder Gaahl and that gift of Sight which had me shuddering before shadows could covet me. When I was bereft of that grace, Lavera’s welcome saved me from the wilds and the harshness of men. I did not See that flame coming down on us. But when it gaped at me such visions did flare. Fates’ purposes stream still, even as their kindest actors are blown as grave dust. Yet freedom lives on without her.”

He gawked at her inner glamour, unblemished by her grief. Marveled at every freckle peeking through soot which he wiped away with spare cloth. A luminescence careered through her. Yet it was a strange, unconventional one; with flaws he found only enhanced elegance – such as an odd curvature about her nose and her eyes’ uniquely wide-set seat - beaming enchantment. Basking in the small security of watching her chest rise and fall with fluidity. “That you live streams greater purpose, itself.”

Corinna let out a smile and the wraith of woe fled shortly from her. “What I saw upon the altar of my half-death I cannot yet fully fathom. But when remembrance filters through this fresh horror I know that those Sights shall serve you. I see, shared by you, a worship of Nature’s harmony so pure. Riper than what may be taught in dusty tomes. I find freedom to trust in your face, Drakkon.”

Her cloak’s feathers ruffled against his side as they tread through evening’s ether. When they arrived at the last house of her coven her breast surged with sorrow. Drakkon was unsure how to proceed with her. Normally straightforward approach worked but he did not want to encroach upon her privacy indelicately.

He inhaled deeply & exhaled, pushing out nervous rust from his lungs that hung out in the air against the thick coat of cold. “Would you take solace in my bearing witness to passage of their soul’s? Will you have your next hearth be as mine, wherever we may? ‘Twas the most peculiar feeling led me to you. It must be divine thread I followed to your side, though not swiftly enough. But I swear that soul which left us flies to the heavens. Will you let me honor her? Know of that woman you knew as protector? Let us pour wine for her passing if you might part with sorrow's sip?”

Grave roots curled about Corinna’s garden. “Lavera...” Doldrums would not have her, she swore. Her strength curtailed whimper. “She was my Sister. Yet more like a mother. Not by blood but by a deeper bond. The sort of binding connection that many of those who are born into this world will never even know exists before they pass through the gates of the grave.”

“Our coven had no arbitrary hierarchy; all were equal as children of the earth & as apostate sisters gifted by the gods. Yet Lavera was our strongest spirit, ever the teacher. She steered our safety when we were at our wits end – as happens when you live on the fringes and must remain unknown even to those who share the basic tenants of magick faith. ‘Twas my ‘gift’ that brought about her death.” Despondency followed her words, sticking stalactite pause.

“We entered Stormgaard seeking rumors, news, information along with any aid we could find for food and supplies. While we kept to small groves such as this, we were always running by bare skins. In the village we met with couple who were hospitable enough to allow us to stay a few weeks. But then one day I went to the market square alone. Strolling for the simple – selfish – joy of idle exercise I was struck down by a bolt of the Sight. The spirits stole me away in public...I awoke from my spell to the sight of stunned masses walling around me. They pointed fingers, accused me in fear. Lavera came to my aid and walked me out of that terrible place, still convulsing from vision. Vizzari witch-finders soon gave chase. They had already passed over this seat when whispers of me drew their ire back. It was my fault, from my indiscretion!”

Drakkon draped his free hand across Corinna’s shoulder and gently pulled her chin up. “Do not blame yourself. You were given magick you cannot control. The timing is not your own but by accord of the stars. Rarely do the Fates grant even the gods a glimpse of their tableaus.”

“If it is any consolation the fates also summoned me to rescue you from the mouth of the flames... You are meant for more in this life, spared for a reason. Do not let this sadness confine you to its shape.”

She deflected his intent, swinging arm aside. Marching briskly ahead, Corinna braved the night’s coming along trails forgotten to all others, leading passage to safer spot. “Let us be silent for the while... I-I do not wish to speak much of such things now when her funeral pyre still burns behind us. But come, we are near.”

Drakkon silenced himself, unable to assuage her pain. Following Corinna beneath a stalked canopy that steered to labyrinth of trees melting into each other, differentiated only by chalk scratched across the trunks. Eventually the path widened to reveal a glade brimming with bioluminescent lichen. This blooming brilliance struck him with awe. So much so that he did not even move to help Corinna as she struck alight flint & tinder. Her campfire sparked, brought more blossoming majesty to this secret place. Obviously, she was well versed in woodland ways.

Corinna, a change undergone, waltzed towards the beach of a strange pool rippling in concentric circles. Glow-bugs dashed along the surface and algae nourished them with further bioluminescence. Plucking several mushrooms and greens growing along the warm spring she tossed them into a tiny pan to roast over the fire. She noticed her companion’s amazed expression and giggled. “Do not fret. These aren’t THOSE sorts of mushrooms! The shamanic ones grow on the other side, just next to the poisonous breeds!” Her chuckle thawed both their chests. “Now if you will excuse me for a moment and attend to our meal. Even sad souls need sustenance. & baths!”

Corinna swore off the garb gripping her and stood, unabashedly bare, as dreamy effigy, on the bank before plunging into the waters. Modestly, Drakkon tended to broiling mushrooms and leaf as she cleansed herself of the dirt that clung to her like moths to candlelight. When she arose from the pool her body was bathed & re-clothed in beautiful moonlight streaking through gaps in the overhanging tarpaulin.

With the grime of that wretched day washed away he saw her clearly. Hers was a pagan beauty. By most means she was not a thing of revulsion, nor a siren of such stunning buxomness that would garner contests of stares. But she struck grace unfound in some of those comelier lasses and the humility of the heath. Her face did indeed fold with many an awkward angle. Corinna’s wide, partially hooded eyes, with queer crease, paddled pool’s cover to skim her appraiser. Her cheeks seemed almost gaunt in places, starved somewhat by the malnutrition which comes of Vizzari hospitality. This, and ablution of her witchy white skin, had her seeming younger, as though shed a few cycles in seconds.

Drakkon saw her as immaculate prism through which all the world’s most favorable sheen lived; sculpted as pristine encompassment of earthly aesthetic which transcends itself, her delicate frame a microcosm of a good day’s surf. Her ascension from the spring ordained her to him as love’s radiance. This dryad of Erosia wrapped furs and forest curtains about her virtues.

While Corinna progressed cooking their meal her companion noted how a few adjoining trees sheltered whittled beds. He beheld this passing haven of her former coven with reticent wonderment, as further sign of her clay matching Elderath’s, effused of prime accord. Much of her woe drowned in the silver pool. She slid to Drakkon’s side and, humming, presented some steaming vegetables. She carved a shrewd wink, as though come to reassuring realization.

“I was granted vision was of you when at the gate… You stood upon colossal mountaintop before an assembly of immense import. You had a crown of blue orbs and a sword of silvery bone, with sheen of Selene. I heard them chanting assent of the ancient maker, hailing supernal throne of your person.” She hummed a section of secret hymn, his ear nibbling on nourishment of the Sight she thus spoke. “The revelry rose, as did the magick in air of the spell woven. Made an Aegis of the mountain, a shield that broke the advance of a serpentine spirit that slithered up the base to burrow with venom. But the serpent’s fangs shattered as it lunged. The beast twitched at poison bite which turned on itself. Writhing wyrm turned to limp rope in the hand of Living god reborn. With a wave of that hand the peak became cloud-borne temple, a mount of misted sun meant for the gods.”

Drakkon’s eyes sparkled with the gloss of heightened encouragement. “So...” He searched carefully for the next spindle of words, pushing his doubts as to his nature aside. “Do you believe that I am Divine? That is, do you believe I am as my namesake and have come from the stars beyond this realm to remake the world for the better?” He hoped his uncertainty didn’t attach to his tone. But his thoughts quivered with questions towards his mother’s tale.

“I had little of a childhood, save that small bliss of knowing you and the Heath. Birth burdened me with the mantle of godhead; canopied by prayers for me to where their struggles, and sneers & eyes that served as spies or else coveted what flame I might contain. How could I prove myself the dragon from the North of heaven without holy flame? Yet little warmth else have I known. & mother can be so…cold.”

“We shared some warmth together, I hope. & what kindles within you sees you to our second meeting.” Corinna adapted a far more inviting posture and clasped his chest. Clever patina padded her pupils. “I see the Divine in you, yes. My visions speak so that others shall know it too and have thus far never been proven faulty. I do not say that out of hubris but honest admittance. Even when we were young, and you but a boy caught in the embrace of wanderlust, rare glint within you caused my thoughts to gravitate towards you. Now you fell Kassan and stand up to Vizzari. That reveals the courage of no ordinary soul...”

She trailed off, staring into campfire’s spit. “But I did not see myself in the vision. Nowhere was I to be found in that dream of rising mountain. I thought that meant I would die by the flame of the Vizzar but I yet live. Because of you.”

Enkindled by her careful praise and confession of her vision he offered a path. “Come with me to Ty-Drasil. I am to attest my claim to our tribes there. Your Sight implies the success of my mission thereof. Though you cannot glean image of yourself there I wish you to accompany me. Impression apprehends me: that our paths converge for this very reason. Once I am confirmed in the light, I shall guarantee the safety of you and your surviving sisters.”

Her attention narrowed into the glaze of flames. “You travel northward, towards the Temple and out of this village – of which I want no part of any longer, oh damn those sowed souls! – so I shall accompany you for a time. I cannot promise that I will stay by your side the whole procession. Your priestess from before, who parted with this cape, spoke fair point in warning of those sages’ tolerance for apostasy. I hope you wish not to endanger me so. Is this fair?”

Drakkon smiled between chewing stems, picking his words as fingers did his food. “Very well. If the fates plan a different path for you from me, I shall not refute them. Your company is blessing enough. Though know I do hope you will choose to follow me fully into the future.”

The couple absorbed the crackling ambience. Both invited each other to share memories and hopes. Time passed till they regained sense of responsibility, acknowledging the hours gone, given over to pink hue of dawn’s early rise. They made for camp, no great trouble from fauna or flora to thwart their trail.

Arriving, they were greeted by his mother’s worried scowl. Azarra, jittery from her son’s reckless decision, had not slept at all. Evident by dark circles under drained sockets. She hid no frown from Corinna, dismissing her with shooing enmity. “While you pranced about with that eccentric stray, I sent our singer and other heralds ahead to pave way for us at Temple. We must be serious in our preparations before we meet with Gaahl and give council. Every single tribe of these lands will have delegates, witnesses, judges of our procession at this Summit. Do you understand?”

His mother ignored his childish and sleepy eyeroll. “Can you not see this is foolishness, wasting time with some strange apostate? Whatever link you feel to her, be it fondness or unlordly, desire, there is more to consider. Care you only for the safety and love of a few? Gird yourself, my son, soon we will regain what is rightful-”

But Drakkon, incensed at her derision, scolded her for the first time in his twenty years which she could recall. “On this matter, mother, I prithee keep your thoughts from me! I wish no lecture on the arts of love. I know destiny’s heralds. The flux of choice stretches for me who proudly knows the course. No matter how ‘low’ her caste in others’ view, Corinna is of a celestial caliber.”

Azarra gaped at her son. Then gulped the rest of her disdain down for later.