Chapter Two, Divine Intervention

9th of Snowcrest, Temple holdings

Winter whispered through the chamber window. Outer wind infiltrated cracks in the foggy glass, lined by holding bars reminding the occupants of their state, as chronic chill. Compulsive creaking from Delphine’s chair added to the dreary hiss which invited itself. She sat, rocking between manic neurosis & catatonia. This distorted equilibrium had been hers these passing, aimless days in detention. Refined furnishings of their internment did naught to calm this. No traditional gaol was this, but as they could not leave it might as well be a hypogeal prison, ‘neath Elderath’s stiff mantle. For the Fates’ mantle folded over them without their accord.

Azarra, meanwhile, paced tirelessly across the chamber. The presence of her friend haunted her more than that prior emptiness of her solitary cell. Before she’d convinced the right sentinels to allow her to be held with her ‘co-conspirator’, exorcising what influence she retained. They’d been confined for what felt a timeless purgatory. Others deliberating in the dark on their fate. Her soles; rugged, worn and near bloodied from manic stress compelling her feet. Yet she persisted in this mindless waltz of repetition.

What possessed them to flight besides that anxiety which had its face in Delphine? Being closer to her disallowed Azarra from distancing herself from guilt. And her visions of what calamity could come to them from the congress hit crescendo. What wrath should befall the ‘murderers’ of Surrellieus according to the whim of his faithful?

Azarra’s forlorn sigh matches the cheerless groaning outside. Then the bedeviled woman lets her eyes fall finally upon her dear friend. Once rosy cheeks & bonny complexion vanished to smeared trace of her former grace. Those bright & curious eyes, glazed over by traumatic veil. Even some of her radiant red locks wilted to gray, as strands of stress. Meals brought by the servants were pushed aside, cluttering the corner. Ignored by Delphine, in denial of life’s material, she faded to yet thinner frame. All too reminiscent of her own harrowing shivers those twenty cycles ago, stripped of nourishment & joy.

To shatter dreary spell Azarra infolded Delphine with all the warmth left in her. They’d danced these steps before; pouring all persuasion into healing her friend’s sundered course, only for despair’s drought to drain those waters. But here, now, she flashed flood of compassion to sweep comatose dam. “I know this grief & fear that grips you. What it’s like to be one the brink... remember, sweet sun, that our flame needn’t be snuffed out by a passing shadow, especially when that flame is a soul as bright as yours.”

Azarra named her shame. “I am so bloody rueful that my idiocy led you to such a place. I swore to stay with you through this pit and I will atone in what ways I must. Only ask. I would give the world to see you smile once more, Delphi... You are strong as Astarte & Just as Astraea. The world is rid of yet another bestial monster who lurked beneath the skin of ‘man’. The mercy of the gods & better men will soon shine us a springtime sun.”

This time Delphine’s hand reached back for her friend’s. Held it firmly & stopped shifting on the legs of her seat. Accepting this resignation to a small hope. Between them unspoken bond flowered, their destiny mutually rooted to whatever future should come – be it bane or boon of forgiveness. They were as one in this struggle. And there was to be found a strange beauty in that winding fiber of shared fate.

There came a rapping at the door. As it opened Azarra jumped to face an abrupt, but not entirely unexpected, intrusion. Dahlia, her dutiful acolyte, crossed the threshold alongside a small retinue of sentinels, bearing grim faced countenance. In the presence of these cool (and indifferent) men, her loyal worshipper betrayed no hint of partiality in her address. “The white smoke rises from the sanctum. The congress of elders is ready to mark your trial.”

Azarra nods, then glanced shortly at Delphine. “Could you please avow us a mere moment to gather ourselves? Then we shall gladly away with you.” She stated in a composed, serious façade. Quickly she chose a modest gown and beckoned her friend. Under armed company they were led out. Solemn weight pressed upon their shoulders with every stride through the halls and exterior paths until they came to the chapel of their hearing.

In Azarra’s mind the place must be a hazy fortress formed of cruel fools’ idioms. Imagined as a lusterless, musty tomb devoid of presentation. Yet she found the shrine adorned in almost gaudy décor. Here the sages projected their lofty sense of self-importance unto the encircling walls where hung flashy designs of portraits, painting & statue-totems. It seemed there had been some renovations under Surrellius’s brief reign. Along ornate glass windows, elegantly etched figures cast odd illumination by way of the winter sun peeking through.

The two women were directed to depression at the center. Surrounding the pair, an imposing colonnade with richly carved entresols from which the tribunal bore down upon them. Each of their judges uniformly garbed in purplish velour robes, over which some wore dangling amulets to signify their status. About the defendants’ indent, below the glowering mezzanines, censers of myrrh & sage fingered the domed sky.

As arraignment against her began, Azarra’s ears were deaf to the droning voices of judgement. Inner apprehension muffled the litany of diatribes & acrimonious squabbles. The world was but a spinning ball of confusion and she was at its writhing maelstrom center, her surroundings – those shadowed faces, harsh & considerate alike – all a blur in whirlwind. The first case railed on insistence upon sacred hierarchy; how the murder of Surrellius defiled that holiest of pedestals and the final whim of the prior Keeper. Yet, much to her muzzled shock, considerable rabble roused against this angle.

Others stood to proclaim raw truth of the deceased’s character, decrying him as a gluttonous villain who bought his way to power through suspicious funds & black letters. Fewer still made concessions, not to stern gaolers but, to acclaim Drakkon & his faithful; warning the more austere of their kin that the “Lord of Living Light” (and thereby his mother) was not to be prodded by petty penance, lest they face retribution.

“Pfft, not to be trifled you say, boy?” spat the raspy voice of a grayed sage towards his younger detractor. “Ty-Drasil thrived for millennia due to our strict adherence to the Code of Elders. To the old ways! We mustn’t cast aside all our virtues, nor the rule of Law, merely because of an upstart coven with demigod at its front. Drakkon hath proven his divinity before us all, we acknowledge. But his cause is not borne by the clay of this ancient sanctuary, just as the tribes do not meddle in our affairs but for spiritual guidance. Are we to let a pair of murderers run free without reprimand out of mortal fear – cowardice even – at the prospect of vengeance because of their proximity to this emerald Lord? I say: nay! Never!”

Once more came the ringing shouts overpowering one another. As the clamor & bustle swelled Azarra strained the grain of her being to reverberate a song of emboldening spirit, calling forth her strength against this foolish gaggle of stooges masquerading as men of wisdom and virtue. To cease the childish bickering, she threw her arms so swiftly that they jostled loose her bun and let gilt mane flow over her shoulders. Unleashing then a blood curdling shrill, half note & half scream. Banshee’ hark so sudden it succeeded in halting the violent quibble.

After steep exhale Azarra addressed her judges with bold charge. “The short-reigned Keeper was no paragon of virtue! If thou art so ignorant as to acclaim him the purity of what the Temple hails, then I say thou art worse than a snake – but a worm cowering beneath the shallows of filthy greed! What that lecherous tick of a man made to do... things that should ne’er be freely uttered in good company...He would’ve befouled any virtue thou might espouse & tarnish more than just reputation of a righteous woman who held to vows he sought to steal away. That fiend disguised in mockery as an upstanding sage preyed upon innocent flesh & spirit!”

“I will not betray what Gaahl spoke to me in confidence,” she persisted, “but I will state my unwavering belief that the only reason that manticore successor was uplifted to eminence was exclusively to avoid what that bitter barbarian would do in resentful defeat. How he would hath shaken the very foundation of this Temple! Surrellius whetted his corrupt influence over thee and thy peers to mire any action & progress! Divvied hostility in camps within these sacred walls! So, I beseech thee: consider more the character of the one ye would defend and the principles of this timeless sanctum, which are at this moment usurped by a few of thee for decadent pretensions.”

Tension stifled the chamber, lowering high heads. Some glared at Azarra with eyes as daggers, blaring unheard horns that called for skin to be peeled from her bones for such insolence. And yet her boldness resonated with more open minds among them. Moved their most youthful to raise address from tall podium. “Alas, she speaks true and deserves a fair hearing! After all, she did not flee from the very real possibility of fatal recompense for the Primus’ death but instead told truth of what occurred. Even agreed to be gaoled in her chambers while awaiting the judgement of this day.”

Arid spite of the other sage struck against this merit. “Her intentions are not so clear, my boy. There is case to be made that Azarra & her disciple chose to stay only to defame the man -made dead by their hands – as to wipe the bloodstains from them. Perhaps, she was more concerned with the hand of justice pursuing her than she was with ‘truth’. Those sentinels assigned to their stead of estate, discovered with noxious dose of nocturnal herb, could be victims of the Lady’s foul divining. For they cannot confirm her ‘truth’. She sows discord amongst us, so that her christened Lord of a son may expand his reign over our long-sworn standards.”

But the ‘boy’ refuses to back down. Before Azarra could speak her defense, the young man pounces with point to claw sinews of his fellows’ minds. “Let us address these blasphemous substances found in the supposed victim’s place. The sentinels who investigated his chambers found residue of things outright forbidden for sages & shamans alike. The kind that would produce such a stupor as stole the guards. Why would a sworn Keeper of the gods’ ears be so curious for carnal mixtures and devilish works?”

“I declare that Azarra acted fairly in coming to the loyal defense of her friend & disciple! Let them flourish in their light instead of waning ‘neath stagnant shadow. The creature we are now rid of was no shaman such as Gaahl but a shade of torpor!”

The previous speaker scoffed at this exclamation and the wave of sympathetic sages who cheered this. He slammed his staff against the terrace and bellowed indignant retort. “No matter the sins of Surrellius, we cannot abide the horror of murder on hallowed ground to go unpunished! The witch would run home with our heads if she were granted ‘forgiveness’! Her character could be disputed for countless days, but what mustn’t be refuted is the lawful retribution for this act! Death reaped must be returned by Malderath’s hand!”

The ardor of this proclamation disrupted any remnant of civil discourse. Enflamed spiteful shouts & waggling curses of the tribunal. These anarchic waves of senselessness peaked the sanctum with tumult. In this shouting match none were the wiser to the banging & slamming occurring at the door of their ivory court. But as the madness escalated to cusp of fisticuffs there came an unforeseen intrusion as the bulk of the gilded doors swung. Slamming against the adjacent walls toppling some of the lavish decorations with piping arrival.

With stern force & posture Drakkon entered the sanctum followed by a herd of courtiers & sentinels. Among this retinue was a surprising companion, Corinna. She who’d been cast in irons and condemned to impending burning or quartering, yet now strode alongside the Living Lord with gutsy, resolute, manner. This astonishing arrival was to the shock & awe of all. His divine presence quieted the squabbling sages who, in their dumbfounded bewilderment, fixated on to this imposing figure whose aura simmered, barely suppressing a burning wrath.

“I say unto thee, thou who art guilty of plotting this fraudulent and unfounded ‘tribunal’ against she who brought my form into this breathing world: thou art cast now before a light from which thou cannot hide from! The Light of true justice & penance for thy bedeviled sins of working in the dark against thy Lord and the good of this mortal plane. Any who dare fling menace against the High Mother are e’er worse than the foulest plague bearing rodent. For thou doth evoke a blight steeper than flesh! An affliction borne of diseased spirit & grievous avarice that denies all good graces - of God and man! I call thee out as betrayers – warlocks!”

Drakkon’s call bounded across the walls, granted an ethereal quality in the echo of the raging acoustics. “Lightning shall strike those who are blind to truth and reveal the terribleness of thy secrets. Cease thy snipping, dogs! Hear now the truth from the mouth of the young woman ye were too quick & glad to tear from life as ‘apostate’! Hear Corinna’s truth and face now the bare veracity of what she suffered and what all too many blindly endorse!”

The gallant apostate-witch bounded forward, driven by resurrected basis of personal vigor, which was not hateful, but as honest as tenacious. Drakkon lifted Corinna atop mezzanine stage. As the withered sage whose tongue was enslaved audaciously against Azarra made to move his forked idiom to defame this witness as ‘maleficarum’ Drakkon, with mere glance, shrank the man to a beaten pup.

“I confess to thy congress here that the man in question was the preeminent reason for my departure from this House. Surrellius respected not the barriers, nor rituals, nor space of the oracles. He didst lurk about our flock like some starved beast searching for a vulnerable meal.” None would meet her eyeline.

“All too many times,” Corinna continued, “he didst encroach upon us, keep us from sleep. Something foul in his intent shirked me away. Nowhere did I feel safe within these halls. Always I felt the skulking of the sage; knew his longing to take my virtue for his sake. He cornered me once and offered me a ‘drink’ reeking fetid stench of delirium. When I declined, the Primus pursued me through corridors, spewing putrid threats. Stating he could ensure my immurement with a single word. I followed river of sorrows to the foot of a secret brook along Moribond.”

Corinna verged on tears, visibly pained in retelling her torment to hostile audience. But she resisted slipping to despondent puddle and instead, invigorated by unseen vapor, announced her ordeal. “In the silence of the mountain woods whispers beckoned me unto a path then inconceivable. For the spirits of the wilds came into me, telling of freedom & faith which could be found only in their embrace far from the haven which had become an asylum of dread.”

Titling to Drakkon, her gray orbs flashed curious affection. “’Twas not until this beauteous savior rescued me from the doldrums that I regained my faith in greater future for all peoples & realms. When all of you were all too willing to see me slaughtered beneath the cruel axe of misunderstanding, your Lord came to free me of sickly bonds and redeem my chance, my heart. I learned through his trust that not all is a bleak torrent of unending suffering. For he taught me that there is Light to shine in the darkest night.”

Azarra became aware of confounding feelings churning in her gut upon sensing the shift in the atmosphere. She could feel how Corrinna mystified those who were to be her judges & jury. Caught in a self-spun web of inward bound contempt at being forced to spectate this witch take up the role of her redeemer. She glanced over at her son while Corinna’s diatribe went on.

“And now,” Corinna swayed, “thou wouldst call into question the integrity of this maternal saint & wise matriarch only to preserve false narrative of purity within thy ranks! And so, by the courage endowed by my Lord, I appeal to what purity remains within thee: reject these shackles of hubris to rise with the grace of forgiveness. Only then may ye inherit the world Drakkon & Azarra offer freely to us all!”

Jitters curled over the chapel floors. Sages struggle to relent to indomitable pressure (and the audacity) brought forth by one only freshly given seraphic crown, who stood now in judgement of them. Uncertainty sat stiffly, following the apostate’s admission, with scorn and discomfort simmering in quiet unrest of being shamed by the young woman appearing by the side of her Lord, whose rumble then shook the lull. “Will thee open thine hearts to absolution for this Seer? Let her redemption free thee from shame of courting such foul affiliates as Surrellius!”

After tense beat, a rotund sage with balding head and sonorous voice spoke up to his peers. “We do not wish to evoke the ire of our Living Lord. Nor do we seek to erode the foundations of the Temple which hath stood high through ages. We, great Drakkon, are not all one masse of mindless conformity, nor are we without mercy & reason in ourselves.” His belly jiggled about, supping on the suspense before his conclusion. “But alas, the case of Azarra and Corinna proves enlightening as to a level of malevolence infecting our judgement. Thereby I say we temper our misconceptions of these wise women. All in favor of exonerating the accused stand with me!”

A wave of adamant support rose in accord. There were several stolid members of the assembly who stayed seated & un-swayed, hurling disdain. Overwhelmingly the vote stood to vindicate Delphine & Azarra and turn a blind eye to Corinna’s release. The redeemed mother nodded in grateful relief as Delphine bowed, the red wool of her hair a towel to dry sobs. Corinna’s pale cheeks flushed sanguine mercy. She looked at Drakkon with awesome glint.

Despite this toasty alleviation for the would-be condemned, the crispness beyond the door drafted in. Cold clutches snuffed opulent candles and encumbered even the brilliant braziers. Winter’s hand reached in to halt the discussion. Its apparent finality matched Drakkon’s tone as he withdrew his cortege, Corinna slumped on his shoulders. “This session is adjourned. Who shall succeed as pontiff remains moot. Alas, I wish for thou all to invoke a little wisdom and contemplate a suitable choice, perhaps one of the shamanic castes, after some much-deserved rest. Until then I bid thee a good & virtuous day.”

The Serpent’s Head

Vintersfal 4th, 1329 CE, Moribond Mountains

Glazed column of winter’s sun set upon the stone bed and the nearby mountain basin. The warmthless film from above burnished the obsidian blade laid upon the shrine, reflecting it’s ordained owner’s face sublimely. "Such surreal beauty this sword wields,” he said, softly tracing the heel of this celestial blade, “what talent & art infused in its craft. Truly astonishing work. I would wager you were divinely inspired.”

With a radiant, mad grin Drakkon grips the hilt and points to the heavens with pride. Ebony edge lifts, as the wind’s harbinger, blowing motion through wielder’s raven mane. Breeze tosse the feathered cowls of the relic’s bearers, encircled. Unique heat beheld him to hold it, as if the sword siphoned the fire of solar sphere though it was forged of abyssal shards begotten of alien worlds.

With veneration & dignity the makers of the blade bowed low. Together the four masters of blacksmithing, masonry, alchemy & preservation of relics had bound their work to this great edge of stellar substance from that fyre-rock which tumbled to earth and split new fissures in the grand base of Moribond. Such honor shined from their expressions. Even these artists blushed at their patron (deity, even), hearing how pleased the Living Lord was at this creation they enthralled themselves for. The lustrous polish of the black blade tilted up bolstered the already imposing aura of the man - or God, rather -who claimed it as an omen of revolution. His weapon blazing prospect of a dreaming world. That they could take part in its brining form was greater prize than any treasure. Their mutual service found thanks in the genuine joy of their Lord’s beam.

Then the rugged Lord looked on beyond the shrine to the base of the Temple grounds across the frigid lake which split the vast valley. Scrying sign of wonder from that frozen surface. “My gratitude is immeasurable, all ye masters. Truly this is fit for a god. With it I shall carve out a greater destiny for all our people. Anything thou should ask for in return for this grand work shall be given unto thee.”

The coarse howling of the hilly winds retired their volume and the sparse clouds above drifted out of field. “But my mind still ponders something regarding the material. When I underwent the trial and ventured into the netherworld beneath the mountains, I discovered traces of the ancient ones and their astonishing structures. Their Chimerian legacy remains available under the earth, lacking disrepair despite their absent architects. So, I ask you each for further investment & experimentation within thy reach to search the leagues for more fallen or buried shards. What wonders we might build of our legacy from them. Be they sharpest of spearheads or strongest walls. I dismiss you for now, with honors & blessings.”

The circle of masters slowly separated. Each artisan made their way from the place to conduct their accords. Drakkon remained there, deciding it a perfect hour for meditation. But it was not long until his ruminations on the future, on his ambitions, were impeded by an impromptu awareness of a presence nearing. One given up by bounding steps crashing against stone path between snowy mounds.

He awakened from his manifestations to see Baron dashing towards him. The bard’s normally acutely tamed brunette locks were matted & twisted as he approached. Sweat speckled the man’s face, and his brown tunic was made damn near black from the soils of running with drastic haste. Given how shallow his breathing, the bard’s lungs were more suited for song than marathon sprint. Baron hurried up the shrine where his friend & master crouched and hailed him with such ardor that it would be comical were it not for the expression which drew long his countenance. His knees almost buckled with ache as he saluted his Lord and addressed him in serious timbre through sparse gasps.

“Hail to you, Lord! I-I bring grim tidings which require your c-concern...” the beat bard ruffled through his tethered satchel to snatch scroll for Drakkon. “Th-these are reports from my contacts to the East. Disclosing glum facts regarding V-Vizzari. Some of these senders were forced to flee back across the Ruun and fear the presence of those serpents pursues them even there.”

Drakkon gave his whole attention to the contents. His visage sharply shifted from high optimism to true concern. While he continued to read the horrors written there, Baron gave voice to the contents of the scroll. “My canaries across the river carry tides of severance. Some silenced, others take flight on wings of atrocities against those few clans who heard your heralds of unity there. Villages burnt to ash or else clad in Vizzari irons. So swiftly they shattered renewing spirits, and it seems even among the Temple they possess unscrupulous spies – no doubt a disgruntled sage or two. They come with force un-paralleled in our clans. I k-know not the number, but the scouts & skalds speak of two or three thousand readied along the shores, with perhaps thrice that count on the eastern beaches. The Serpent’s Head comes.”

“I thought we would be granted the time for a proper assemblage of force to defend against these invaders but alas,” Baron harped panic, “a dozen or more ships are bound for Windirin. And frightful fishermen tell of others tailing behind, propped to assault ports along near banks. Who knows how many more chase their dogged lead?! By the gods - and by the devils hounding us - the Vizzar are bent on a lightning war of annihilation! Their vanguard could be here in weeks, with but a month or less till wider legions reach Elderath Valley to Ty-Drasil! And from there they could not only assault us here but spread out to destroy all our peoples; toss those tribes linked by Moribond’s great shelter to pits of extermination!”

Drakkon resisted the compulsion to crumple these scrolls & tear these portends of wicked war. Instead, he swallowed his anger, if but for a blink, and clamped down on Baron’s shivering shoulders. “Come, my friend, let us not give into defeat but ready our swords, axes and bows against the threat. They underestimate winter ‘cross the other side of the Ruun, and our combined might. They expect to beat both the snowstorms and us swiftly enough to race the season’s end. Yet they run headlong to so sudden an end by our hand. Now, what say you we make our way back up to attend Keeper Ligeia’s feast? These will not be bad odds once we muster all our allies, friend. Not once we rally a trident of Thunder against Vizzarion’s slaves!”