Chapter Ten, At the Gods’ Threshold

17th of Sun’s Descent, 1328 CE

Turbulent waters running the great river’s course lapped at their vessel. The steady, raspy creak of the boat ached against the murky clutches. The tide’s ebb & push held to meditations, coarse then lull. Those aboard bit down any complaints, swallowed concerns and prayed the surf did not slap them into rougher patches. Drakkon’s entourage departed from the port of Stormgaard and braved the Ruun to Ty-Drasil, outrunning the first winter storms. Theirs was humble crew, at Azarra’s insistence. They must travel light as to appear confidently modest at that hallowed house. To dispel perception that their fledgling sect were but upstart mongrels bred of war.

Drakkon paced the deck as the protective chants of Azarra’s coven rose from the ship’s depths with the murmur of crooning appeals to enfolding nature. An impregnable gloom tumbled from the western bank concealing the waterway in a nebulous cloud. In its dense canopy the passengers’ doubts waxed, and determination sank with the waves beneath mist. Those sailors of Stormgaard, who Corinna once called sowed of heart, proved their merit through persistence. But what were a few witches, seafarers’ grit, and their Lord’s aegis against Elderath’s scornful cloud & her sister’s river squalls?

But their Lord believed in his few faithful and that his mother’s rites could sway the naiads to their shield. Inspiration infused him, to defy the unknown, standing above their cramped quarters to mark the water’s way as his own. Marching to the bow he came upon a lone figure silhouetted against the gray. He knew not whether this were apparition conjured from the breath of ill-water, or a sole soul gazing into aquatic abyss, in preparation to plunge and be swallowed thusly. He approached, readied with slight apprehension. Reaching the wraith, he found Corinna; head drooped in solemn silence with smirching stream let from her eyes. Tears drenched by tenuous droplets from the sky, mixing with mist.

Corinna offered a sad shine. Above, a pre-imminent lightning strike split & scarred the horizon with forked signature of emerald bolt. Golden-green trident thundered illumination across the towering peaks spanning the waterway and sparked glimmering glint in her pupils. Her eyes flashed impression of an abundant meadow, launched far from the fog.

Drakkon addressed her wearily. “Is there something amiss? If you’ve any doubts, I beseech you to let me answer and assuage them. At least verse them to me.”

“I do not fear these waters. I have foreseen your ascent to the Temple. Though they rattle my body these visions ring true. I know our ship will find safe shore soon enough. ‘Tis what awaits after that mummifies my mind in anxiety...” Corinna’s words rolled off her tongue like the splashing foam of rolling crests. “A storm of sacrifice will rain at the gods’ threshold. Perhaps my death?”

“I mourned Lavera. Celebrated her. Asked forgiveness & advice of her shade. Auguries of warning came. I do not wish to hurt you, but they will wish for death at the Temple. Mine, as apostate whose survival is not to be tolerated by sagely school. Or yours – which they shall never claim but cause strife in trying! If any decimation occurs on my behalf, then there is nothing redeemable in my path. I did not glimpse myself upon that peak of dream, after all. Perhaps I am not to see you crowned. Or my death could be approaching with the shoreline and those waiting to receive us. I worry most my sisters & your noble friends will suffer should I dampen our ideal.”

Drakkon offered his faith as hers in voice and look. “Listen, Corinna. I am grateful for your presence. Your bravery in facing such a treacherous precipice along with your wisdom & beauty to me makes you a beacon against all this brume. The Divine will return your light in kind and shine path for you soon. I will not allow you to suffer at the hands of the sages or anyone else. Blood-price of ‘apostasy’ be damned.”

He continued his outward assurance of his favored maiden of precarious caste. “Once I am affirmed as the Living Lord, pronounced a god before all people of this land, I will rewrite the accord of the Temple and our cousins to warmly welcome your sisters into the hearth. They will bow to tolerance. With your insight we shall prevail against the Magistrate of snakes. When that day comes, they shall sing the gift of the mercy. I understand your concerns and the burden of fate. I too share this gravity on my shoulders. Indeed, all peoples are tied with what is to happen at the Summit. Do not shut me out. I am here for you. I will not let you nor any of those you care for fall away. I promise that you will share the apotheosis of my confirmation, my Being.”

Corinna pulled away from the hazy river and dove into hazel eyes. At first, she regarded him suspiciously, searching for signs of deception or foolhardiness. Out of the morose bog she sank into, she slowly gave herself up to believing in him and grabbed rope of his oath. Her visage stained with sobs & rainwater suddenly shifted to a forced smile. Reluctantly she opened her soul to welcome his promise. They embraced, wrapping around each other as the damp did to them, while the tide buttressed their dusky advance to Ty-Drasil.

A small landform amidst the river cut through the miasma. Revealing a central island adrift the winding waters. A stone tower, jutting from the billowing smog, rose above dark tree line. From this watchtower a flare burned bright, setting alight the island lay and giving their ship a clearer course forward. Winter set its cold clutches on the life of forests. Drakkon regarded deadened husks with withered branches. Coppices deteriorated along the cliffside, bending against the wind. Some bushes there still clutched to what leaves remained; drained of color, autumn’s orange hue sheered by frosty fingertips.

A bounding clang rang across the water. Longboats, steered by Temple sentinels and devout sailors, emerged from the islet docks. They lit lanterns, brushing back streaks of dreary film. They worked to navigate the pilgrim ship around concealed island crags to safety.

The low drone of desperate, protective incantations ceased. As sailor chimes led their ship the High Mother materialized beside them. She met Corinna with a black look. The young woman relented with a meager bow. With coy eye to her host, she excused herself, hearing the voiceless threat in Azarra’s glare.

“I still cannot conceive why you brought that wandering witch aboard. There is no way her curse may aid the Drakoni cause. Her coming to the Temple will detract from our purpose through your distraction. She gives cause for more animosity against us. Why make private passions public knowledge?” She scolded him.

Drakkon resisted his mother’s antagonizing demeanor. “Personal passions aside, her testimony against the Magistrate will prove useful. Her story will remind the tribes that larger threat looms over our land. That the Serpent State already sends ‘heretic’ hunters deeper into our realm should instigate common enmity against Vizzari. Besides, Corinna possesses the great Sight, same as you. She gleaned in Visions my imminent apotheosis. Really there is no need to cast clouds & regret over her coming. She cannot much hinder the sages’ compliance to our whim, despite your anxiety.”

Azarra soured at her son’s claims. More so at his insistence on the value of some girl’s visions, when it was hers that had sown their fortunes; her thread entwined them to the sublime success still to be supped. Yet she gave temporary tactical retreat from the topic. “The circumstances of our lives led us to this crux by the Fates’ spindling gossamers. You were born to attain this greatness. Soon godly crown will belong to you and your Divine reign will begin. Perhaps you are right that one girl’s presence will not divert the strength of our current but still I pray you do not lose focus at this critical hour.”

He shrugged off her succor somewhat but started to concede her muse as she continued. “My auguries told of your success too,” she bluffed, “but prophecy is not sufficient without action. It is probable that the sages will demand a trial to test your claim, by gauntlet yet unknown until you arrive at it. Know that I will be with you through the tumult. There beside in your coronation.”

Drakkon grew a smile. My time comes! Reverie of fluxing images & feelings contorts time’s passage to drag his essence into the horizon, which he called to & for. Blinking, he readjusts to the current space around. His eyes dart back to the Now and to his mother, holding the horned crown of Bellieus, that once adorned Kassan’s brutal crest.

Azarra spotted his curiosity and gave quick answer to it. “I am to bear this crown as a gift to the Temple. Tis an honorable gesture in bringing back a treasured relic taken by that fiend. This will earn us good will & trust among the reclusive sages in their strange court. Show the manifold tribes that you have not come flaunting a desire to wield power or wear a crown of callow vanity. It will show that you come for the good of all. Since that is the sincerity of our stance, they must hear it as truth.”

A sly smirk crossed her face, hovering on her countenance before dissipating like lightning bolts in the darkened welkin. “When the time arrives for your crowning, I envision the perfect representation of the astral spark which burns within you. I will not discourse much on this matter though, for tis my work for you. The design shall work wonders, know that. Besides look ahead! The docks of Windirin cove show through this damnable mist. Know, my Light, that I am proud of you in way that transcends mortal expression.”

Drakkon returned her confidence with warm reception. “And soon enough, mother, I shall be able to gift you with my eternal thanks for all that you have given. Grace for all that you bled for me. Righteous truth shall shine through whatever screen the sages may shape. I know we have strength to overcome whatever palisades they put before us. All tribes will be watching us and yet I trust in your brilliance to handle tact of persuasion. I will not stray from your consultation.”

Their ship pulled into the harbor without any more adversity, aided by accompanying sentinels and those who stood ready by the dock. If it were not for the expertise of the sailors, the likelihood of safe passage would be incredibly slim. Their timing was just right too. Now that the fog behind completely engulfed the river, blinding the wider world to it.

Windirin port was rich, presenting prideful airs and architecture. As a hub for trade, it propped up the seats of local nobility. Excessive elegance outlined by contrast of the humble villages lining Moribond ridge and the Ruun’s western coast. Yet now the obscurity of the mountain mist held this silky sophistication in its dreadful clout. The waiting sentinels marched their entourage through the gilded streets padded by dreariness to the outskirts of the massive township.

A cautious silence gripped the tongues of all parties just as miasma trapped dreadful moisture. Occasionally towering pillars challenged the drenched expanse. Totems, intricately carved with icons, deities, and leaders of legend. After amaranthine tread along paved path, they stepped to another monument line with regal paint: a globe headed with gold orb to represent the great sun, the lord among stars. This, the insignia of Drakkon, sculpted as a faceless creator who held Solaris in his arms and contained the earth within his core. At the bottom, stone pedestal gave graven embodiment of the Dread Serpent Vizzarion, writhing in agony beneath Creation’s feet.

While Drakkon halted to study this icon of his essence and meditate on the energy it imposes, another group exorcised the mist with lanterns. At the front of the masse was Baron. Ceremonial drum looped around his shoulders and his lute, strung by special thread, hung at his waist. His cocksure presence lit by the lanterns & torches of the approaching posse. The others incoming wore stone faces without any personality. A few of these prominent men of upturned nose seemed sages of the Temple.

Each of these sages had faces lined with painted symbols, talismans of channeling intent that made their appearance ever more severe. One stood out from his fellows simply by way of his regal posture and unflinching expression, juxtaposed by his wild visage. His white hair matted in tangled dreads dragged to his waist alongside a beard, braided in a strange three-prong formation that gave the impression of a downward facing trident. Curiously, while the robes of his peers blew about wildly in the gusts riding out from adjacent mountains this man’s elegant threads stood still. Bound to him and not the pull of the air’s hefty breath.

Azarra gored into the wizened sage. Studying his unforgiving eyes, she knew him. It was Surrellius, one of the most revered members of his class and a man she knew to be all too concerned with (his high seat within) hierarchy and tradition. She had never truly interacted much with him during her former life as an oracle. Mostly because he only seemed willing to give time to the upper echelon among Temple castes. Rarely speaking to oracles over important sages, and only meeting with the highest paying pilgrims.

Surrellius regarded the company in reticent judgement. The floodlight of his focus set on Corinna, a prolonged stare seeking to place her. A black fire behind his pupils spelled recognition and desire to see her melted to pile of ash. She was in fact that apostate who abandoned her duties, fled from his stare. Sadistic sneer mangled his features. Then the sage turned towards Delphine. His leering caged her, with look resembling a hungry wolf in pursuit of a dazed doe. Feral fervor swelled in his ogling. A devious twitching at his mouth’s corners curled over his tongue to keep it from lunging at this object of famished lust.

With revulsion Azarra noticed this lascivious look. She marked too how the tribal markings atop his forehead were drawn in image of sacrosanct keyhole and swore. Primus. The First among Brothers. This sigil signified that which protected the gate of the gods and thereby showed the high authority to grant or deny passage. Anguish stirred in her. An unease which she could hardly stomach. But as it starts to smother her determination it lifts by Surrellius’s croaking. A horrid huff cleaving through the heavy hush.

When the sage spoke, the breath from his words bloated with bitter chill. “We expected your arrival, Azarra. Rather onerous claims reached us before you. Tales of the Bear’s breaking rippled to our holy hearth. So too do rumors as to the nature of your being, Drakkon. Upsetting claims to ‘godliness’ which my fellows and I aim to test thoroughly before giving any official response. Already several tribal harbingers and even some chieftains are settling in the valley for this meeting of minds.”

“There are those –mostly the small folk of various heath - who wish for this to be a time of revelry to celebrate the death of the warmonger. While surely his defeat is a welcome relief, I, and many others here have doubts as to your character, ‘Drakkon’. Truly I am surprised to see you arrive with so small a number... Hmm, perhaps this pose is adopted to appear as a bringer of peace, rather than a bearer of sword?” A bent smile accompanied his mocking tone. His rhetorical question left a stinging sensation, as though a scorpion skittered behind his teeth from where it lashed tail to strike.

Drakkon wasted no time deflecting the sage’s derisive intent. Stepping forth he faced the accuser. “I need bring no arms nor battalions for my presence to shine forth across the mountaintop. The hour draws near for the Thunder of my being to sound as beacon for the faithful who long waited to hear my call. When my day dawns, all people of all lands shall know and bathe in Living Light. Those who, with hubris, dare deny the truth once I demonstrate it need not be struck down by spears nor sword. Nay, for by my Will they shall be blinded, their hubris burnt by the radius of my sun.”

But the sage did not drop his cynical sneer. “Ah, you speak so assuredly of the hubris of others. Yet hold something akin to hubris in you, given your words. Lofty words, sworn to be empyrean, which yet have no verifiable weight and are thus but empty airs. Words asserted on volatile winds that may be blown back by stronger gale. Words that scrape against foundations of faith and might best be lost in the shadow of the great stones they scratch at... Alas, the council is poised to meet in the Great Hall. We shall confer as to what shall be done with you soon.”

“But as the housing of all these camps hath resulted in such excess of stress on our Temple grounds and our stores only those who are willing to pay sufficient tribute to our coffers shall be allowed to sit on the council.” He coughed deliberately to clear his throat and rather eerily, as he did, so the wind picked up icy breadth. “As you are not yet confirmed in our wise sight as anything more than a mortal man masquerading as a god, you cannot be excused from this fee either. I must insist on tribute, lest these meetings to decide your cause go on without your attendance.”

Drakkon clenched a fist of indignation at this presumptuous declaration. Every member of their party looked to one another for support, waiting on the ‘god’ on trial to respond to this insulting tax. Dahlia moved cautiously behind Azarra. Delphine glanced apprehensively at her too, seeing her plead all forces keep her son from any rash impulse. Then, after small sigh, he signaled payment to be given, in form of small chest of treasures. His sentinels presented the sages’ with this box, shifting its excess bulk, more than expected amount. A tribute had not been unexpected but under this ignoble, unceremonious circumstances the giving of it spoiled.

“Very well. Take this offering as a token of our good will. Let us show how we honor your accords.” Drakkon played the diplomat. “This payment shall include passage for my friends too,” he indicated the heralds of the clans, contingent through him, “my pilgrims. Among them: Elder Elisara ov Farrow; and christened harbinger ov Ferali, Heron.”

Surrellius grimaced at his thwarted challenge. Clearly, he’d hoped Drakkon would lash out at high toll for an event he was to play centerpiece. Such a reaction to his ruse would give just cause for forceful retribution or immediate exile at the least. The other sages hid how impressed they were at the young master’s reconciling of the two rival tribes. They whispered amongst themselves, praising lack of coercion, till the Primus raised staff to silence them.

“Your generosity is appreciated. You and your delegation will honor our codes while you walk on hallowed soil - even those apostates among you...” He stared down Corinna, who to his displeasure didn’t shrink at all.

Drakkon pressed his right first over heart to swear oath. The rest of his party mirrored the motion. Surrellius fingered one of the rings of his trident-beard and continued. “The Summit must not wait long. Our Keeper & the shamans believe in patience, but we sages & our oracles decree the time to test your Lordly claim comes upon us as you do. We must swiftly settle this tense wave your actions, your very existence, riles up.”

Azarra’s gut fluttered at the mention of Keeper. Could it be her Gaahl? If so, that he lived and still held influence over the Temple could be a deciding factor. He could perhaps provide a last latch to escape through, if necessary, should all this pomp & planning prove futile. But she shuddered that those grim prospects should dare touch her.

“I suggest you and your kin make haste. When the Summit conjoins, we permit you one turn of the dial to present your case. Do not present enmity to us, as this is the best we can offer of our halls, already rapt with so much confusion. Answers will convene soon after.”

By the gods he makes this troublesome for us! Disdain curled inside Azarra’s chest. He takes our funds and gives little time to present a single sound statement! That is assuming he and his ilk do not interrupt at every given chance! Still, this is a gambit worth risking everything on. Everything is balanced on this tightrope. One false move and we topple into the abyss. But – hold, my heart - cross to the other side and we gain more than ever imagined before...

Surrellius snuck another licentious look at Delphine who felt an icy shiver wind along her spine. The eye of his imagination tore through her layers of fur, angled about her bust inventing nakedness. The lecherous ravishing his impression captured prodded her vulnerability and sucked all charm from being. Azarra, meanwhile, caught this stare and made tally of it.

Drakkon projected steadfast voice. “I will not apologize for any trivial grievances our coming presents you. I know fully the true glory and righteous gravity of our cause will resound through the halls. I am confident that our words will transcend the confines of the time allotted to reveal the timeless essence of my Divinity. The council will make the right decision.”

Surrellius and the rest of the sages already turned their backs on this demigod and begun trek home. Despite the Primus being a timeworn fossil, his voice rolled down the path, cracking tremulous echo in the ears of those present. “Bold words indeed. But brashness alone will not move mountains. Shout aloud your impudence all you like but it will not avail the caprices of the Fates, proven supreme & immutable.” With that the eminent Sage and his herd disappeared behind the indomitable wall of fog ahead. Leaving a few sentries to light the rocky trail.

Azarra’s pet minstrel & aspiring infiltrator split from the sages’ pageantry to rejoin his true host. “Well played. And this, coming from a commonly praised, unashamedly gifted weaver of voice.” Baron shuffled over to Drakkon and the others who huddled in to listen in to his report. “I hath spun a few performances these past days. Presented them the tale of your triumph against Kassan. Likewise, I passed poems & recited sonnets that illustrate your divinity to the less literate. A fair number of the camps proved receptive to these songs and listened eagerly to the telling of your feats. But others were enraged that I should support an ‘upstart whelp’ and threatened to hang me on the spot if I did not leave them, mouth muzzled. Among the banners filling the valley favor towards us seems split between malice and grateful acceptance.”

“Well, that was the case the first couple days at least.” He chuckled; charcoal roasted by ire. “Also, that sodding sage, Surrellius, offered me a pretty penny to rewrite my tunes into unflattering ballads. When I refused to mock you on principle, he barred me from the assembly. Then threatened that should you fail to impress the council then I too will hang like a common bandit, a lark of ‘false prophet’. While that is a risk I hath taken upon myself”

Azarra butted in. “We may find allies among the shamans who, while fewer in number, have greater jurisdiction. You heard how little time we have! Perhaps we can divide these camps favor further enough to crutch a plea for more time to persuade those harder marks. We will have less resistance if we leave behind that apostate girl of yours, Drakkon. She is only going to drive more away from seeing our reason, simply by offending their taste for tradition.”

Corinna, walking steadily behind the main group, heard clearly Azarra’s insistence. She was stunned by the stern admonishment, even having expected exclusion. But Drakkon loudly refuted these concerns. “No. She comes along. We need her testimony to amplify the Truth that Vizarri is the real threat. That is a fact that even the sages will see once they hear how their witchfinders dare penetrate our borders. Acknowledge this as my will.”

Azarra exhaled reluctant acceptance as Drakkon turned back to the bard. “Baron, if you are willing to risk your tongue to speak truth again, please spread word of my arrival. And, if you can, coat the colour of our ‘apostate’ as a necessary witness.”

Baron thought carefully before responding. “Lucky for you I am nearly finished with fresh rendition of your rescuing damsel from venomous flames of the Vizzar. Not the most exciting ballad for crowds to get behind, compared to the ‘Battle with the Bear’. While there are a few lines I am unsure of and a few stanzas left to go, I can certainly wing it and do just that. Knowing the stakes... Should it come to pass that you fail to earn more time to convince the council and they conclude that we are all heretics – I pray it won’t be as such - I will try to rally those willing to bolster our forces.” The last thread unfolded as hushed whisper that no other ears could pick up.

“No,” Drakkon stated firmly, “we must earn the trust of all and use temperance at Temple rightly to ensure a chance of uniting the tribes. Lest we fall into disarray and be seen as blood thirsty usurpers, repeating the steps of the horned one. That is, even if we could manage to escape the avalanche which would befall violence as our declaration. We cannot beat people into worship. I know we can woo them with truth. We may have only a few small hours to succeed but they will know me as the Living Flame.”

Baron’s eyes shuddered sly doubt. He cast a timid, knowing squint at Azarra. She knew he did not fully believe in her son’s divinity, even if she had bought & persuaded his loyalty. For a vagabond minstrel, raised in occult sphere of Druidry, he was one of the most skeptical minds she’d ever encountered. Yet for him, it wasn’t so much the draw of coin but the just nature of their cause to create a better world for all peoples that moved him to affirmation.

“Spoken as a Lord. Aye, you are right about not tainting the purity of our cause. I shall not worry.” He said, more to convince himself than anyone else. Shrugging off his ever-growing sense of misgiving, Baron took up his drum and pitter-pattered to its beat, making for the valley encampment.

Azarra showed no feeling. She looked inward instead, searching for any possible manners by which to create a dazzling spectacle that could enhance her son’s aura. What glimmer could she cast to glamourize his godly effect? Alas, she was dry of ideas and on turf that was no longer home to her, thereby denying her a way to weave any clever illusions as she once would. She had no reserves to rely on and was at the mercy of circumstance with only wit as her weapon. Whetting it, she stole away from the rest to steel herself.

As she clambered up along path of tortuous stone the fog tides thinned. That opaque net fell, lessened to show more of these grounds that had felt so intertwined with her being. But the scenery around the sole dulling steps was now distant echo of a life barely recognizable as once her own. She passed beneath the mammoth archways. Shadow crossed over faintly under each stone & tusk, traveling further and further from the domain of the familiar into a strange & peculiar realm of possibilities both wondrous and dreadful.

Vital dust leaving her breath takes shape in the briskness. Sighs summon portends of ghosts; bygone effigies outlined by living warmth. Nostalgia, too, fled on every exhale, too deathly to purview. She let longings pass, forget themselves and disperse as evening vapors. Better not to dwell on the dead grounds of buried possibilities far from the real circumstance by which she stepped. Yet even so visible phantoms of this past appeared before her cynical sight. Several oracles lined up along the ridge granted passage to her. Sifting through them, their white veils flapped about, showing equally pale faces. While some she’d known when among them, they did not shower her with welcoming reminiscent glint. Instead averting their eyes as though avoiding looking upon the corpse of one too painful to recognize as dead.

Then a sudden sound nearby burst her eardrums. Wolves howled from the ridge just above. Strangely enough though this roaring wilderness did not startle her but instead brought rejuvenating rush of familiarity. For the cry of wolves carried the song of her spirit’s ascent up the mountainside with uncanny understanding. Friendly familiars were they.

Another mammoth archway not far ahead indicated the entrance to the Great Hall. Azarra could see large blurry, blocks of people moving into & past her range, passing betwixt the ever-burning braziers that signified the procession into the realm of the gods. Acting on deep compulsion, she followed the call. Taking a separate way winding up the ridge the wolfpack hailed the night from. With every step forward ethereal howling beckoned her. Theirs was a friendly fanfare sounding across the steps. An encouraging intimacy came cascading as waterfall over her spotting the shaman’s hounds. They adopted poise of overgrown pups as they panted at her, nestled near the rim. She saw then Gaahl centered in their circle. He hummed amidst them in meditation. Gently guiding their song which led her.

Azarra, overwhelmed with joy’s impulse, leapt to greet him. The shaman’s lively totemic wolves sniffed her palms, happy to have her. Their master not only survived the years but retained his near mythic mastery over creatures once wild. Her excitement waned however once his eyes opened – or eye rather, for one lid was sealed permanently – and she observed how feeble the shaman’s frame appeared.

Gaahl had never been young but now he looked as if he’d cracked open death’s door to stare beyond. Sunken craters ate his cheeks. A head of molted wisps, once impressive locks, wilted to a few awkward tufts. His jawline drooped as though ready to fall, and his hands twitched erratically in a constant swirl. Shamefully she wondered if age scourged his mind with mist until the smartness of his stare affixed her. What lived within his eye was far from decrepit. A bright & living wisdom flowed from his iris into her. Such flare of recognition and glare of manifold emotion proved him far from senescent.

She plopped beside him; legs swung over the precipice. Basking in the mountainous atmosphere to surpass all others. The firmament peeled the mists, gave clear view. Stars blinked back at her fawning. Poised in the center of the skyline she marked the glint of the planet Saathar. Its orbit drawn in, seeming so close that she swore she could see its circling rings with her naked eye. A red sheen splintered the stars, their stares no longer so assuring...

Gaahl watched Azarra set upon the planet and as was his nature began in cryptic fashion. “Quite the omen wouldn’t you say? Saathar taking ascendant position in the Great Course? Glaring upon our Elderath from saturnine seat, the throne of its red envy. Tell me, dear child, do you recall what that orb embodies?” His voice sounded as though most of his soul had already taken flight to the astral plane and left thinned threads still puppeteering his vocal cords. But perhaps there was more wind in the old bag he was yet to unleash, she mused.

Azarra answered promptly in the fashion of an eager pupil. “Saathar’s dominion is that of tumult & transformation. Often that of a chaotic and bloody sort. Saatharian sway is the throes of old age, the mad woes of deception, degeneracy & the dearth before the change. It spins by occult rings, symbolic of the confusion the Grim King, that Cosmic Fool, weaves. He reaps of the strangeness emanating of his rub but guards his mysteries well. Its position so close in the night sky is an omen. A herald of change? But his revolutions come with immense and unpredictable sacrifice indebted.”

Pride swelled within her as she spotted a slight smile curve along Gaahl’s weary lips. For just a second tragedy’s trail faded to backdrop of her subconscious. Then awoke an uneasy déjà vu, the reminiscence of conversation twenty cycles ago, before she was made a mother. “Indeed, tis the trickster’s dominion. Yes, his appearance oft spells intrigue and deceit. Those caught in its stare, as the whole of our shrine is beset by, become affixed by realm where mischievous imps dance & flute tune of discord. Winged daemons come through by rings the annul our prayers, weaken the more innocuous spirits’ influence.”

“Saathar was also the god infamous within the pantheon for leading Drakkon, whose seed was the world and the gods themselves, into that dark trap. Through ruse sent him on impossible voyage beyond the stars. That our Founding Flame crossed to the void, convinced of a false threat laying ‘cross yonder threshold, and was sealed out of this world after venturing forth from his thunderin’ forge...It is worth mentioning given how your son has taken up the mantle of the Living Lord and may well be His incarnation. That there may be foul play afoot in this council’s politic.”

The shaman paused, catching scattered breath. “But before my idle rambling rolls on, I must admit, my bright star, how incredibly proud I am of you. You hath not simply come this far on your own but also gave life to & proper sculpting of the mind - the child - who slew the despot who sought to defile our sanctified grounds to gratify himself. A page of destiny’s ever enfolding tome now has your hand as author. Know this, even if some soiled sages might dare to deny you any role in history besides ‘apostate’.”

Azarra blushed. That the one man she’d looked up to would validate her life when she’d doubted her reason for existing. “I-I am deeply grateful. I must admit that much of my success is owed to the insight you shared with me. Your guidance kept me from being lost...” Her hue faded fast.

Why did she not feel fully gorged on gratitude and justice despite this? The flattery of extolment only went so far when now, something else stirred from slumber under notch of her consciousness. A lurking aspect of disappointment and the darkness of her inescapable shadow shifted in that space her next words made to block. Avowal of confidence concealed her sleeping beast and painted over her emptiness. “Kassan’s death is a deep relief. Worthy of a celebration to last longer than his perverse reign did. Alas, the world must move on and patch itself from the rift he tore through our land. I know you thought it better to be a united land, even if the tribes were to be gathered under such a singular monster, but I believe we come to a point by which your dream – our dream – of a cohesive front against Vizzari, one preserved & emboldened by mutual traditions, can well be achieved. Union through the coronation of my son if you are willing to bless him.” She thought she could sound more assured, convincing, but slipped into nervous fluctuation nearing the bow of her pitch.

Gaahl thought for a long wind, stroking the fur of the nearest pet-beast with trembling palm. The wolf looked as exhausted of this world as his master. “Perhaps? See, I keep blood pumping because my spirit still seeks the sustenance of some final act to justify departure. That I do not leave this world to untended degradation. That the seeds my passing plants are not those of knavish strife. Maybe the reason I cling beyond my natural hour is to crown such dream?”

“Peaceful union is not as easy to see realized as it is to dream of, but tis worthy task for a wise - or foolish - man. Would you say ‘tis so?” Azarra’s heart raving pulse punctured on its cage, racing thrice for every word of his. “I must admit also, dear oracle, that I do doubt the nature of Drakkon. I will not scratch at wounds just sealed, if scabbed & healed at all, by pressing the why of this feeling in me. Surely, he is a great man despite his age, but I cannot claim to know him as Divine. Not in noble conscience when so much uncertainty – and unfortunate curiosity - surrounds his birth.”

“Then present him with fair case to prove his essence True!” Azarra sieved defense. “’Tis natural that you should harbor doubts, for one does not climb to the peak as Elder Shaman by believing every fetching rumor and inventive story entering his grove. But my son is truly the bearer of that deliverance promised in the Eddas! Surely there must be some sort of... favorable yet worthy trial that could reveal this to your understanding and the sages’?”

“I will not promise to blindly aide your cause, Azarra, simply because I know and care for you. We are all of us suspended in unknowing. My sight dwindles, and I take to first symptoms of a fever – a final fever if it keeps hold. The only certainty I am assured is that I will die soon. I shall try not to leave you before this Summit concludes proper. I cannot keep you from the dark for long when she already creeps upon my hermit’s shell.”

“But as Saathar takes up his foreboding throne and circles the air in rings of time-twisting delusion, I know not whether the deception pertaining to this celestial occurrence will come from the sages, in their scrambling to retain order, or as unintentional consequence of allowing your son to lead... I cannot in my dying declaration claim him as a god when I am unsure. What blasphemy that would be, even if to achieve so lovely a dream. I cannot make the same mistake as I did with that brutish ‘Bear’. Still, your motion to test the mettle of his matter is not at all ridiculous. That may superbly present a middle path to this conundrum. A hatch by which the truth can climb through. Hmm. But so much to consider when urgency convenes of us.”

His thoughts trailed into the nether. The silence left by the absence of his voice assailed Azarra as though a mighty wall toppled down upon her. “I hear whispers that Kassan’s cub yet lives?”

Azarra felt every inch of her being struck by shiver, bolted to the cold ground. She did not have time to formulate response beyond perplexed stifles, something which Gaahl marked before proceeding. “Heron, is he not called? Did not your son ensure him leader of the Ferali following the death of his father? The bard you bid come to our Temple assails us with grand tales of Drakkon as merciful and cunning alike in his treatment of that clan, humbled by their Jotun jarl’s execution. Does he sing true or is this merely another case of the poets lying too much?”

Letting out a relieved spasm, she steered herself back to shore. “Aye, tis so that Heron is named successor to Ferali clanship. But fear not, that he is the progeny of Kassan does not coincide with his being wicked of spirit. In truth the boy is just that: a boy. One who was taken in by the environment around him and trained to war to satisfy his father’s pride and desires. A boy whose spirit stood strong through all that, not becoming stony and unbending before justice. He will be stronger still with the tutorship of a true Lord in my son.”

“His father’s image does not claim him. His mind is his own, honest in its faith in us.” She felt then that she could discuss Heron for hours. Though she could just as easily seek to shift topic to anything but that of her own son. “Having spoken with him and seen how he is at meetings, this new Ferali leader is one who rightly wishes to steer his people away from the chasm of destruction they were plummeting to by way of endless warfare and the hatred generated in doing so. He is loyal to the Drakoni – that is to say, he is loyal to our Lord - and to me. He serves the aim of a unified land just as we do.”

“Ah, your child managed to leash the most fearsome clans of warriors with such nimble precision while reconciling their longtime rivals, in Sylvani et Farrowkin. All find fresh accord beneath your banners. It may be that your son shall unify the tribes as needed. There is merit in gently pushing forward such resolve... But still, I cannot pledge my aid until you prove his demigod aspect whole. I will, however, do my best to keep the field even by keeping the less chivalrous sages at bay. You shall be granted fair case.”

“Thank you! That still is more than I would dare ask for, great Gaahl!” Azarra mimed complacence. “Never would I ask you to betray your code. Your honor bound oaths hold. I respect your decision and praise your grace. I will not disappoint nor deceive you, Elder. Soon he will show his nature to your truth. Before time steals you from us you will see the Ever-Living Light of what we are doing.”

The Keeper nodded. Propped himself slowly with tamed wolf as a counterbalance. Then switched over to his graven stave, a crutch as much as shamanic relic. His gargantuan pup nuzzled his guest. “Brace yourself. You must climb quite a rail to reach your goal. Take heart that I, along with my fur-clad friends here, do believe in the burning power of your inner torch. Through your determination, you accomplish what many dared not dream, not even humor. But, by the Fates entwined, it was foolish to bring back that girl, Corinna.”

Gaahl’s guest withheld the darting dance her eyebrow tensed to perform. She withdrew clumped hand from his familiar to her chest. “Ah, yes, I saw her near the archway into Hall just a beat ago. With your son in tow. I admit to being partial to her and would wish to honor her prowess with the Sight, but most schools here shut their hearts to any such as she. I should warn you that Surrellius despises that poor girl beyond reason. The loathing he will spew upon any association with her may tarnish wise argument. He abhors her, allegedly for speaking unwarranted vision relaying his death in unflattering way.” The Elder chuckled, a giant oak creaking in a hurricane. “At least that is his claim.”

“Regardless of my other suspicions of our Primus sage, it amuses me when one faces revelations of mortality with anger and irrationality. Death is the one inevitable fate promised to all things that come into life. Besides, never have I known or imagined a death that could be labeled flattering. So often the fates choose to sever our ephemeral cord to earth without concern for mortals’ convenience. No matter when or how, when the threads of our mortal lives are cut at an inopportune moment there is no grace to come in the mask it leaves us with. Our clay corrodes and we are all asked to shuffle off eventually.” Gaahl ended his philosophical phrase with a series of pained coughs that disturbed Azarra. A couple of wolves nudged his shaking side to preserve him.

Azarra placed the back of her palm to the shaman’s forehead. Nurturing touch trembled to register his temperature. The poor man is practically ready to combust within! She regarded apprehensively of his withered skin, deep set by fever that would surely take him. Then forced a reassuring smile.

“That Death has a will of its own does not mean you can leave at an inopportune moment. At its mercy.” A half-wink and a hand-squeeze. “You may be impressed by my penchant for survival, but I am more amazed at the heroism of your flesh & blood. You miraculously endure the elements enough. Sure, soon you will be of them, but I beseech you to hold on to this mythic strength a little longer. No favoritism for me, save that you glimpse the dawn succeeding your last morrow. My favor, my prayers for you asks you witness the dawning hour of our people’s rebirth.”