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 Gavon Felarian: A Biography

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Gavon Felarian
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PostSubject: Re: Gavon Felarian: A Biography   Mon Apr 02, 2012 2:07 pm

Sir Comvent hacked and coughed. He was doubled over by a stump, vomit in a pool before him. He was ailed with some disease of the forest. It made his insides feel like they churned, twisted, and burned, all at once.
“Sir, are you alright? We have to keep going. Moonridge is not too far, there they can treat you.” Rav crouched beside him, laying a comforting hand on his wracking shoulder.
“No… I won’t be able to last until-“ He was interrupted by a bloody cough. “- Moonridge. I will only waste the little health potions we have left. I only slow you down, causing you to lose ground and lose more food.”
“Leave me a sword… And a health potion. Leave me. Carry on, my friends.” Sir Comvent sat up and leaned on the stump, bringing on another racking cough.
Gavon looked down to Sir Comvent, his hands held behind his back. He liked Sir Comvent. Down to business and smart. Gavon dropped the pack full of tools, since he was now carrying it, Sir Comvent being too weak. He pulled a machete out of it and held it out to Sir Comvent by the handle. Rav handed him a health potion.
Sir Comvent took them both and popped the cork out of the potion with the machete. He brought it to his lips and took a gulp.
He watched the two walk away.

Sir Comvent brought the back of his hand across his mouth, wiping the vomit from his lips. He chuckled. He was going insane, and he knew it. He dropped the empty potion bottle into his vomit.
“Oh, thirteen bottles of vomit on the wall, thirteen bottles of v-“ Sir Comvent went silent when the bushes rustled. It was only minutes after the boys had left, and already the wolves were picking off the wounded sheep from the herd.
“Come on, then!” Sir Comvent picked up the potion bottle, as it dripped with his vomit, and launched it into the bushes, bringing his machete up.
Bright, dark red eyes opened in the bushes.
“Hey, there, little man. You know that little heart o’ evil ther’?” The bushes asked him, in an obviously fake accent and with a chuckle.
“Which one?” Sir Comvent sounded genuinely curious. Of course, he didn’t know any “heart o’ evil” people, he thought. But Sir Comvent didn’t know that.
“That little man, with the armor, and the black haaaair, you know. That thar evil one. Ol’ green eyes? You know!” The bushes shouted.
“That ol’ Gavon?” The knight imitated his accent.
“M’yeah. That one! Smart man.” A wet nose poked out of the bushes, and slowly more began to appear from the leaves. The snout was furry with dark red fur, and white fangs poked out of its smiling lips. Its eyes where still only red lights. “You know ‘im?” As the beast spoke more sharp teeth came into view.
“Oooh, yeah, I know that boy. Good boy. Little crazy, you know?” Sir Comvent waved the machete around.
“Yeah, I know. I should me off now, ‘Vent. Goodbye, Mr. Wounded Sheep.” The beast rumbled, and its head fully emerged from the bush. It had long, pointed ears, which stretched down the length of his long neck, with the insides of his ears facing outward. Its cheekbones stood out in the blue-ish moonlight, and red fur covered his head. Its eyes shone bright dark red, even out in the light, and they were pupil less.
It pounced from the bush, bounding towards Sir Comvent, and it impaled itself on his machete, cackling and squealing in glee. It brought a long, black claw into his eyes, still cackling. It retreated its claw and slashed the other claw into the man’s throat.
“You would have made it to Moonridge, you know.” The beast laughed as Sir Comvent’s vision went black.

“Are you sure you aren’t sick, too?” Rav whispered to Gavon. He felt he had to whisper, as if he spoke any louder the trees would hear him and pull him into their dense, murky clusters. He felt he had to whisper, because he valued life.
Gavon placed a pale blue hand to his pale blue face. “I don’t feel sick.” He moved his hands to his forehead and chuckled. “I feel great!”
Rav put his own hand to Gavon’s forehead.
His flesh was cold.
It is pretty cold here.Rav thought, Perhaps he just needs a blanket? He dropped the provisions pack and took out a large blanket from it.
“Here.” Was all he said as he draped the blanket around Gavon’s shoulders. “You must be freezing. Did you not feel your foreheads coldness?” Gavon gave him a curious look and touched his forehead once more.
“Feels fine to me.” Gavon harrumphed, but grudgingly pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. Rav changed the subject and pointed south.
“Two miles that way, and we should be within throwing distance of Moonridge. Try to get that blue rash under control before then.” Rav stopped and dropped a sleeping bag. “Here, let’s set up camp.”
“I’ll take first watch.” Gavon offered. He then scratched his neck, roughly, even violently.
“Wake me up when the moon nears its set.” Rav saluted and laid down his sleeping bag. There would be no fire tonight. The smell of smoke might attract unwanted’s.
The last thing Rav heard before falling asleep was an unnatural, rumbling howl from the distance, and the sound of Gavon doing a mock howl along with it.

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PostSubject: Re: Gavon Felarian: A Biography   Mon Jun 04, 2012 5:32 pm

Rav awoke to the warmth of morning sunlight on his tan face. The smell of fresh dew on the leaves in front of his face. A small drop of water dropped from a leaf over head and splatted on his forehead, just below his brownish-blonde hairline.
His sleeping bag seemed uncomfortable, as if he was lying on top of a bar. He turned his head to the side and saw the ground, twenty feet below him.
With frightened eyes he realized that his sleeping bag was so tight, that he could not move his arms.
“Good morning, Sir Footed!” A high, squeaky voice piped.
Rav looked to the source of the voice. Gavon, sitting in a cluster of branches near him.
“Moonridge is in throwing distance, like you asked! Do you feel alright? Experiencing a little vertigo? Oh, I hope not. I experienced vertigo, once; I was falling down an elevator shaft. Down about… Hmmm, a few miles underground? It really isn’t a plea-“
“What have you done to me?!” Rav shouted, wiggling around in the sleeping bag, trying to get loose.
“I moved you. We are near Moonridge, like you wanted. Surprise! Isn’t that great? I put you in this tree so you wouldn’t get eaten by a natural predator while you slept. Unicougars, nasty animals. You wouldn’t think so, since they are like a unicorn, you know? But anyway, I woke up in the middle of the ni-“
“You were sleeping on your watch?!” Rav spouted, more of a exclamation than a question.
“No, who told you that? As I was saying, I woke in the middle of the night, thinking, ‘Hey, wouldn’t that ol’ Rav appreciate me helping him out?’ and I decided that you would! So here we are!” Gavon jumped up, landing on a higher branch, still crouched. “So, I’ll let you down, and we’ll get to that Pac Knight outpost, eh?”
As morning sunlight fell on Gavon’s face, Rav could see that his blue rash had gotten worse. It was even deeper a blue, now.
Before he could say anything about it, Gavon was already undoing the sleeping bag and helping him out of the tree.
“Then I took a run. A long run! I went around Moonridge, sprinting! When was that… Just before the sunrise?” Gavon babbled on and on.
Rav packed up his sleeping bag and set off into Moonridge with Gavon. As Gavon walked, he looked around and had a bounce in his step. He looked like an utter madman.
The citizens were terrified.
“Blue beast of Doomwood! Avatars help us all!” People went around screaming. As they did this, Gavon got distracted by a tailor shop.
“Sir Felarian, we don’t… have time for a… tailor shop.” Rav was stunned at how much Gavon didn’t care how the people ran and screamed. How nonchalant he was about being the ‘blue beast of Doomwood’
“Don’t… have time… for a tailor shop?! Sir Footed, everyone has time for a tailor shop.” Gavon chuckled as he tried on a magnificent top hat. “But I suppose we should be along, I’m sure there is an outpost of knights expecting us three days ago.”
Rav only wondered what has gotten in to Gavon. He could not imagine what has literally gotten in to Gavon.
As they walked down the street, people slowly becoming aware that the blue man has no intentions of killing all of them, or so they thought, a wide and low armory came into view.
Practice dummies, arrow targets made from hay, and men outfitted in blue-ish steel spinning and striking with longswords of odd crossguards filled the courtyard of this armory, and a large pactogonal flag flew above said armory.
Gavon strutted through the training field as knights stopped what they were doing and stared in open curiosity and fear of the blue man.
“It’s just a rash. Watch out! It might be contagious!” Gavon said to a knight he passed, motioning to his face and then jumping at the knight, chuckling. A tall man with a large mustache opened the front gates to the armory, a group of knights behind him.
“Greetings, Sir Felarian. We expected you three days ago.” The man said, taking a bow. “My name is Sir Eyra Occo.” Rav rushed to catch up with Gavon. “Sir Footed.” The man noted.
“Wait, let me guess,” Gavon begin, starting to laugh. “You are captain of this outpost because you have the fastest swing of a sword. Fast like the wind.”
“How’d you know…?” The captain began, but stopped short. “No matter, welcome to the Moonridge Pac Outpost. Where is Sir Comvent?”
Gavon began to respond, but Rav answered instead.
“He was recalled back to the Oaklore Keep. Right when we were almost here.” Rav waved it off. “I imagine personal business; we were almost here, anyway. I learned not to nose to much in other peoples business.” The last words Rav took care to sound like he didn’t mean them to carry a hidden meaning, but meaning they carried.
“Fair enough. I may have to file a report on him for an incomplete escort, but I shall not worry about that now. Nor should you. I am just glad you made it, I was looking forward to meeting you two!” Sir Occo clapped his hands together and motioned to a small man behind him. “This is my advisor, Sir Up.” Gavon almost sighed at that.
“Nizzze to meet jou, Zir Felarian, Zir Footed.” The man said in a thick Verterochian accent.

The next hour or so was spent with Sir Occo showing them the outpost. It was simple, basic, all the things an outpost and training ground should be.
“This is where you both shall train, with Sir Ean.” Sir Occo explained, motioning to a section of the yard outside.
“When shall we begin?” Rav asked.
“As soon as possible.” Sir Occo replied with a grin.

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PostSubject: Re: Gavon Felarian: A Biography   Wed Jul 25, 2012 3:49 pm

Gavon grunted and tried to keep his feet on the ground while Sir Ean, who was, misleadingly, absolutely a brute, maniac who never tired and had devised the craziest ways of training, pounded on the tower shield Gavon held with a large battle-hammer.
“Feeling a little weak? Wanna let go and get pounded?” Sir Ean taunted, laughing, as he spun and twirled, the battle-hammer smashing into both Rav’s and Gavon’s tower shields with brutal force. Each blow sent a ringing through their bones.
“Come on!” Sir Ean bellowed, his broad chest heaving as he focused all of his energy into one blow into Rav’s shield, a rending, sundering blow.
Gavon brought his shield up and bashed Sir Ean, while his back was turned.
“Sneaky mouse!” Sir Ean whipped around, bringing his hammer behind Gavon’s shield and into his rib cage. He laughed as Gavon flew off to the side, hitting the chain link fence.
“Let fly!” Sir Ean threw his hammer, and it swung through the air. It then hit a pad and loosed a volley of spears, javelins, arrows, any sharp projectiles he could find.
Sir Ean grabbed a hold of Rav’s shield and wretched it from his grip, covering his head with it and pushing Rav back.
Gavon rolled to the side, dodging a spear which planted itself into the earth where he was, then rolled backwards, putting his feet on the fence and doing a handstand, as another spear landed where his stomach was. Rav faced a similar situation.
Sir Ean liked to train in utter chaos. For hours on end, he and the boys would spar as he tossed variables in, and triggered traps that could kill them. Sir Ean, he was anything but.
Gavon jumped to his feet and jumped over the tower shield that flew at him at high speeds, running at their instructor.
But he was already rolling away towards his hammer.
Gavon tried to help Rav off the ground, but it seemed a spear had nailed his shirt to the earth, since they where stripped of their armor. Gavon pulled on the fabric as Sir Ean heaved his hammer into the air and, bellowing a war cry, charged at the boys.
Stitches tore and Rav rolled to the side as the great hammer of Sir Ean broke the earth where he was into shards. Gavon, however, was not so lucky, and was thrown from his footing.
Sir Ean brought his hammer down again, Gavon narrowly dodging it, and again, Gavon reacting the same, and again. Gavon rolled behind Sir Ean, jumping up and running towards a stray boulder in the training ground.
“Hey, that’s mine!” Sir Ean shouted and tore a few javelins from the earth, launching them like bolts of lightning at Gavon. He zigged and zagged, always only one step away from the javelins.
Sir Ean laughed as he threw more javelins. Laughed up until Rav hit him in the back of the head with a dented tower shield. Gavon was already there to help him, and he hit Sir Ean in the knee as hard as he could his fist, since he had no sword or weapon, just like Rav. He took up a spear and slapped it over Sir Ean’s back, breaking it.
Their instructor fell face-first into the ground.
They both laughed and celebrated their victory.

Gavon stood at the ready, left foot out and right hand on his hip, with his left hand extended outward holding the sword.
“Have at thee!” He shouted, and ducked under the huge battle-hammer that swung horizontally at him. He was getting very good at battling.
He side-stepped the swing from overhead, and lunged at Sir Ean, his sword landing in his ribcage. He laughed.
Unexpectedly, though Gavon expected it, a volley of spears landed all around him. But he simply danced among them.
“Only days in and you are already dancin’ among my traps like it’s a ballroom, by the Avatars!” Sir Ean laughed in glee. Battle was something both of them shared a love for, and so was their love for battle that they sparred even now, in the middle of the night, when all else slept.
But the complement was lost to Gavon’s ears, instead, for some reason, his rash had gotten worse, and his mind swirled with memories that were not his. He didn’t understand.
For a moment, when the volley ceased, and Sir Ean retreated to take a moment to breathe, Gavon looked to the side.
What was that that he saw?
It was sickly, tall, skeletal.
It made his skin crawl.
Almost like he could feel his rash get worse.
He could see it now.
It was a tree.
A gray tree, with no leaves, and a blue bush sitting idly by its base.
Gavon looked over to Sir Ean, the moon, at its zenith, casting pale light over everything.
He was gasping in horror.
“Gavon, your skin… Oh, golden cabit tails, your eyes! What is wrong with you? You freak!” But the man’s words did not match with his lips. His hateful tone did not match with his eyes; his eyes were only curious, concerned, caring. But that means nothing; look can be deceiving, what he heard, though, sounded so very real.
“You’re a monster. I despise you. Everyone does. You should hear what they say when you aren’t looking.” The man continued. Why would Sir Ean, his friend, say these things to him? It didn’t make sense, it didn’t add up. It hurt.
Sir Ean took a step toward him, his hammer put away and a hand reaching out, his concerned eyes remained. Looks can be so very deceiving.
Gavon whipped around his sword, and in a spray of blood, Sir Ean’s hand was gone.
“Bah! What have you done, you monster?!” Sir Ean shrieked. Like a little girl, Gavon thought.
And, in another spray of blood, and a brief moment of black, Sir Ean was dead before the blood-splattered Gavon.
“Sir Up knew ve shouldn’t have truzzzted jou, jou blue beazt!” Sir Up was in the opening in the chain link fence, pointing an accusing finger at Gavon. This time, the words did match up with his lips.
“It isn’t… He told me…” Gavon stuttered. An alarm peeled.
“Jou vill pay for jour crimezzz, blue monzter.” Sir Up told him, venom dripping from his words. His hateful glare all that registered in Gavon’s sickened mind.
In a tornado of red, Sir Up was disassembled.
In a moment, however, Gavon was surrounded, knights crawling over the fence.
The whole outpost was alive, and in an uproar.
There was no chance for Gavon.
Gavon’s vision went black.

The boards creaked, a ping as the metal boot hit a nail in the floor. The torches were lit; the windows were frosted over, in the middle of spring.
The entire building was cold with death.
A few more boards creaked. Doors to bedrooms stood, hanging off broken hinges, splattered with blood. Bodies were no where to be found.
Creak.
Ping.
A breeze passed through a broken window, the door to this room unbroken, as it was barricaded. The attacker had come in from the window, instead.
Creak.
One door, at the end of the hall, was untouched. Of all the rooms, broken and molested, splattered with blood and showing signs of immense struggle, one door, at the end of the hall, remained untouched.
The boots that so caused the creaks left tracks of blood. The tip of a spear was lodged in the side of the boot.
Creak.
He was at the door.
In a flash, a foot came up and kicked the door, splintering it. A second kick and the door fell off its broken hinges.
There stood Sir Occo.
“You’re a monster. You’re no hero. You’re a monster.” He said, open contempt showing in his eyes. He had no fear, he was ready for death.
The sword came at Sir Occo from his right, and he met it with a sword of his own. The man spun and brought his sword in low from Sir Occo’s left, to which Sir Occo stepped back away from, and lunged forward.
But he was met with only warm steel, warm with blood, and brutal vengeance. Vengeance against something all in his head. The mark of a madman.
As Sir Occo dropped his sword, he lowered his hands to the hilt that protruded from his stomach, the rest of the sword planted firmly in him.
The man took his hands from the hilt of the sword, and pushed Sir Occo over by his shoulder.
Gavon stepped over Sir Occo’s body, and scanned the room.
He was not here.
Gavon vaulted through a window at the far-side of the room, taking him into the courtyard. He was thoughtless, the taste of death hung fresh on his tongue, and fresh on his mind. He savored it. And, without a thought, he willed the pile of bodies, knights, to burst into flames. And so it did.
He walked out of Moonridge, out of the outpost, away from the death.
He went to the sickly tree he had seen, and followed a trail of them back into Doomwood.

“Why, hullo, thar, little heart o’ evil.” An obviously fake accent called from a group of bushes to Gavon’s side. Gavon froze. A set of shining, dark red eyes stared at him from his right.
“I saw ya kill that there knights back there! Quite a feat fer such a youngin’.” The voice continued. Now what kind of demented creature of Doomwood would talk to his prey in a fake accent before attacking?
A wet nose appeared from the bushes.
“Ya smell like blood and death, ya do.” The wet nose wiggled, and a snout followed it out. The snout was covered with dark red fur. “Too bad you black out when they take control, wouldn’t ya like to do it all yerself? Better yet, remember it all?”
Gavon raised his eyebrow. “What do you know about me?” He asked.
“I know you’d make a father proud, ya would.” The full head of the creature emerged from the bluish leaves.
Its cheek bones were prominent, and stood out in sharp contrast in the pale moonlight. Its eyes remained shining, even in the moonlight, and were pupil less. Its ears were pointed and elongated, and stretched down the length of its back, the insides of them facing outward. Gavon turned to it. His eye twitched.
“That so?” Gavon asked calmly, though the voices in his head screamed and shrieked.
“Verily.” It said. It continued to slowly emerge from the blue bush. Its neck was long and muscled, and, like its snout, covered in red fur. “Yeah, yeah.”
“And what do you know about my father?” Gavon took a step forward, cocking his head.
“Oh, nothing, I know nothing. I am simply a beast, maybe a slave, too. “ The creature said, further emerging from the bush. Its chest was huge and broad, with a large wound stretching across it, covered in short, red fur. Two grotesque holes were in its back.
“Fair enough.” Gavon chuckled. “Who did this to you? You weren’t born like this.”
Whack. Gavon was on the ground, looking up. A woman with vibrant red hair stepping into view. She wore a dress of maroon, and her eyes were red, also. She had pale skin, and long, black nails.
He heard the cackling of the wolf-type creature. A crooked grin distorted the beautiful face of the woman.
Gavon realized that he couldn’t breathe, once he stopped holding his breath as looking upon her face. His throat was in immense pain, and his legs felt as if they were being torn off.
He blacked out, and this time, it wasn’t to be followed by a massacre.

“Oh, 173 bottles o’ vomit on the wall, 173 bott- Damned be all, I got that tune stuck in my head from that armored guy… It doesn’t even sing right, vomit being a two syllable word…”
Gavon’s head ached, and it wasn’t comforting to come-to to the sound of a rumbling, disturbing tune. He tried to move, but then retching pain shot through his body. He was sore, he was covered in wounds, and his veins felt like they pumped fire.
“Aw, little heart o’ evil on the come-to?”
The pain wouldn’t go away. He tried to open his eyes, but then more pain pounded through his body, and his head felt like it was exploding.
“Ya feel it, little come-to? Ya feel the pain, little come-to? I feel that now. I feel that all the time. Look at me!”
Gavon tried to open his eyes again, but failed.
“I SAID LOOK AT ME!”
Gavon opened his eyes.
The creature grabbed his chin, with black, long, painful claws. Gavon felt the fur on his hand brush against his chin. The creature wretched his head over, to look at him. The snout was gone, but the ears, eyes, and fur remained on the creature.
“You are going to die. Or. You are going to die painfully. You hear me? Are you listening to me?!” The creature nodded. “Which one do you want?”
The creature back-handed him.
“Yes… End… The pain!” Gavon stuttered, his throat was on fire, and to get the air out was a marathon in itself. “Stop…”
“Not me that’s doin’ that to ya, my boy.” The creature released his grip on him.
Gavon’s eyes finally focused. The room he was in was made of dark grey stone, small, dim, and murky. Chains hung from the walls, and bones littered the floor. From the roof hung four chains, holding a skeleton in them.
“Shhh, ya hear that?” The creature said. “Oh, yeah, she’s a’ comin’. Probably to get you!” He began cackling.
The door was flung open.
A shadow stretched across the room, and pale red light flooded in the room.
“Here she comes!” The creature kept cackling. The woman turned to him. “No, I didn’t say a word, Mistress, I mean, I didn’t mean to, please,” The creature screeched, and was drug away by his feet, by invisible hands. The door closed behind them.
Immediately, screams came from beyond the door. Obviously, the person who made this place made sure to make it not soundproof.
This went on for near twelve hours, the screams, instead of getting quieter, got louder and more disturbing.

All of the sudden, Gavon opened his eyes and the creature was there.
“What did she do to you, Kack.” Gavon spoke softly, he still ached.
Kack was still on the floor, lying on his stomach.
“What she’ll do to you. But not as bad. Ready yourself, son. She’s a’ comin’.”
“What is she? What does she want?” Gavon sat up, with great difficulty and pain.
“She is a Doom Wizard. She… What? What does she want?!” Kack, his father, began to cackle, but it slowed to a bloody cough. “She wants to bring you pain. She wants to get in her masters, Sepulchure, good graces.
“But mostly she wants to bring you pain.” He finished. He would sit there until his bloody wounds scabbed over, and he could move.
The door flung open.

Gavon wished, oh, how he wished, that he would just pass out. That he could pass out. That he could scream. But he could not. She wouldn’t let him.
His throat was constricted, so that it took the all the ebbing strength he could muster just to draw breath, and that struggle was almost worse then the torture she put him through.
He didn’t understand, he was senseless, he was thoughtless.
“My name is Morthyst.” The voice was soft, caring, almost sir-ean* to him. “Call me by my name!” That was all gone in an instant.
“Morthyst…” He croaked. His throat was on fire. He wanted to die. Whack. The painful backhand brought him to his senses. The armor-backed glove felt like a volley of daggers on his face.
“Mistress Morthyst.” She hissed. Whack.
“Mistress Morthyst.” He repeated lamely. Whack. He just couldn’t do anything right, could he?
“I am going to break you, because Master Sepulchure told me to.” She looked him dead in the eyes. He hung from the ceiling by a chain, which wrapped around his neck. “No other reason.”
Another chain hung from the ceiling, which wrapped around his ankles, but only lifted him slightly. It took all the effort he had to keep pushing on those chains that bound his ankles, so he wouldn’t choke to death.
Another set of chains attached themselves to the chain that bound his ankles and bound his wrists behind his back; he was not able to push himself up on the chain that bound his wrists, however.
“Why?” He rasped, desperately trying to push himself up by the chain that bound his ankles. Whack, whack. He felt the warm blood run down his cheek, neck, and soak the sack cloth shirt he wore.
“Since you are new, I will answer your question just this once. Think, next time, Gavon.” She chuckled, the kind, caring aspect to her voice returning. “He wants you broken. Because. You are quite powerful. He has heard of your deeds, and he wants you to be a part of his army. A mindless slave, like the zombies and skeletons he leads. Don’t you want that to? How could you not. To serve Master Sepulchure is a great honor. Some, nay, many would envy you, Gavon.”
She answered his unanswered question, “And he knows your would not submit without a little motivation.” She drew out a dagger that glowed dark red.
“What… did you do to my father… Morthyst?” The dagger was in his stomach. The pain that wretched his insides was unbearable. It was like someone had loosed an angry wolverine in his stomach. Whack.
“Defiant, yes. We’ll see how long that lasts.” She chuckled. She enjoyed bringing him pain, just as Kack said she would. “The defiant ones are always more fun to break. And I told you, I would not answer anymore questions I don’t allow you to ask. Now, enough of the child’s play, let’s get down to business.” The grin that split her face truly diminished her beauty to Gavon, but, at the same time, the evilness in that grin attracted him.
What! Gavon thought, I am attracted to this woman? My captor, the one who would torture my mind away? I am just delusional. He decided.
The pain in his stomach did not diminish, in fact, it intensified with time.
The magical pain by Morthyst was worse, though. It did not end.
For hours, it did not end, he slowly choked to death.
The pain made his heart stop.
He stopped breathing.
He was dead.

Gavon woke up in the dungeon. He ached with pain. He was sore. He was scabbed over, head to foot, and his clothes, and hair, were caked with dried blood. He didn’t know he had that much blood in him.
I’m not dead… He repeated over and over in his head, he couldn’t believe it, he remembered dying, he remembered the emptiness of it.
“Well, no, of course not, I wouldn’t kill me new favorite, no, not yet.” The familiar, soft voice called from somewhere in the small dungeon. Gavon opened his eyes.
The red-haired Kack lay on his stomach next to him, passed out. The room was dim, and his eyes tried to sort through the darkness, taking care not to move his head, as to not cause himself more pain.
She was right next to him. Sitting in a plain wooden chair, with her legs crossed. In the torchlight, her robes reflected light. He could see now that her robes were soaked with his blood, but her robes were already the same color as the blood, so it did not show up.
She said something else that was lost on his ears. He just stared. “Don’t give me that dead stare. Aw, who am I kidding, I love seeing the pain in your eyes. You hurt all over, don’t you? Good. Soon I’ll hurt you again. It makes me so happy to see the defiance drain from you. The spirit of a madman like yourself deteriorate, or should I say spirits. Don’t you want to see your mistress happy?”
“I’d see you dead... Mistress.” Came Gavon’s reply, mocking, hateful.
“I bet you would, Gavon.” She laughed.

“Taking a nap, are we?” That dreadfully familiar voice called from above him. “And right on my doorstep, nonetheless, so I have to wake to the broken image of your pathetic form.” Gavon realized last night he must have tried to get into her room and kill her, but he did not remember it. Even the back of his mind harbors hate for her.
“You look like a lame baby wyvern that fell into a fire, which was then thrown off the roof.” She chuckled. “Odd that Master Sepulchure would want such a weak young boy.” She verbally probed, and poked.
He merely lied there.
“Do you miss your mother, Gavvy?” She smiled. He twitched. Triumph,she thought. “Who is your mother? She must have been a wretched old woman, to have birthed such a weak. Lame. Boy. Yes?” Gavon began to get up from his prone position.
“She’s dead, isn’t she? I bet some child bandits came in and killed her, and you couldn’t stop them. I would be sad, if I didn’t find your failure so… attractive.” She went on, and he froze for a moment. He continued to get up, and finally made it to his feet.
“Your failure, yes. Your hatred for me sustains me. Your unhappiness makes me happy. Don’t you want to see your mistress happy?” She repeated, again. He snatched his head up, so he was eye-to-eye with her. “Your green eyes tell more than you would wish them to. You should guard your emotions better.”
He has had enough. Only a few days, and he was already sick of this. He would not lose his defiance, and though his reason told him not to, he acted on his defiance.
Whack.
She licked the blood from her lip, the blood brought by the powerful back-hand Gavon dealt.
“Master Sepulchure will be here in two. Months. To collect you. I have two months to break you, and make you beseech my forgiveness of what you have just done.” She was serious. But the mocking tone returned soon. “Although I must admit, your complete and continuing failure is funny. You’re defiance and, at he same time, utter hopelessness.
Gavon launched a series of punches, all of which never made it to Morthyst, and made his knuckles bleed. It was like he was punching a brick wall.
But his powerful strikes broke down her magical shield quickly, but, before he knew what was happening, another one was up, and he was thrown back into a wall.
“I suppose you want to start today’s torture early today, hm?” She taunted. “I think that is a brilliant idea.”
“I’m quite a brilliant man.” He didn’t care anymore; he was without hope, just as she wanted him. Or at least, she thought he was without hope.
And so they commenced the torture.

For a good 24 hours Gavon did not emerge from Morthyst’s favorite torturing room, and when he did, he was back in the cell with his father.
“What did she do to you, Kack?” Gavon found himself asking.
Kack didn’t answer for a few minutes, but when it came, his response was very serious. “She made me an experiment. To add on to my werepyrism, she sold the inhabitance of my body to someone else.” He took his claw, with great effort, and laid it on his stomach, as if it hurt. “A spirit. A spirit of evil. She made me the subject of her fascination with doom.” Gavon enjoyed hearing Kack speak in a serious tone, as his other, joking way of speaking was mocking, and fake. But before long, it came back. “But on the upside we got rid o’ that burdensome sanity! Heheh…”
And just like that, their fine conversation was over.

…One month later.

Gavon and Kack hadn’t seen each other for weeks. Gavon finally decided it was so he could sit in his own desolate loneliness. Recently Gavon has been having these dreams, and they were so vivid when he slept. The same continuation of the same dream, every night. He is in a world of black. The distant sound of ticking and clicking seems to be an important part of every dream. Tick, tick, brrrr, tick. It was haunting.
And every night, Gavon would wake in a cold sweat, the wood-burning furnace across from him providing a cackling and popping.
One day, Gavon and Morthyst’s relationship grew stronger, and subsequently, more odd, Morthyst and Gavon sat in Gavon’s simply stone cell. They often did this, as more and more Morthyst and Gavon just sat, instead of torturing and being tortured.
“Do you miss the feel of a sword handle?” She imagined he did. Sometimes Gavon would tell her tales of his amazing swordplay.
Gavon raised an eyebrow. “I miss the taste of a fair meal, more, but yes. Why?”
“This place used to be a complex for Doom Assassins, Doom Wizards, such as I, and Doom Knights.” She seemed to ignore his question. “They have such fine blades in the Doom Knight Armory. I sometimes go down there just to admire the craftsmanship of their weapons.”
Morthyst seemed almost sad, lately. Later on Gavon would believe it was that his captivity spread to her. As if they were both in the same prison.
“Would you like to see?” She asked him, and he nodded his head enthusiastically. She got up and opened the door to his cell, with a key she pulled out of a pouch. Gavon didn’t get up.
“A moment, please.” Now he did stand up, but did not make any move toward the door. “Why do you trust me with a sword?”
“I don’t. But I do trust in one thing. “
“What’s that?”
“If you make a move at me with that sword you will be on the wall with a bolt of living lightning running up and down you in a moment.”
Gavon chuckled. “I trust in that, too. I just want to be free, mistress.”
“I know.”

Gavon and Morthyst were now deep underground. Or at least, Gavon’s ears popping indicated that they were. Either that, or very high up.
They were in a wide cave, and up ahead a rotting wooden board swung from rope. “Armory of DOOM” it said. Below that there were large, maroon doors, of undeterminable material.
As Morthyst approached, the doors swung open. Inside, the armory was spacious and made of the same material. There were racks all over the wall, and isles of more racks in the middle of the room. On those racks were thousands of swords. Some where maroon in color, some green, and some were made entirely out of bones.
One blade, though, caught Gavon’s eye.
Across the room from the gate, above the ground about 30 feet, and on a pedestal in a nook in the wall, sat an obsidian blade. It had no handle, but there was a strip of silver that clearly indicated the place where the handle was. The crossguard, also, was still intact, and made of silver. A spine of silver ran down the center of the blade. It was beautiful.
“Gavon, no,” Morthyst said. She could clearly see the want in his eyes as he looked to the black blade. “That blade is only for show. It is too old to use. An ancient artifact, once used by an evil warlord, but it’s long-since broken.” Upon further examination, Gavon saw that a long crack ran diagonally down the blade. The crack in the blade did not diminish his need for it. He walked forward, through the isles of racks, toward the ground below the blade.
“Your dreams are hopeless, Gavon. Just like wanting to get out of here, it is hopeless. Obsidian cannot be mended, that blade cannot be fixed.” Morthyst called, suddenly in a cold tone, but he did not hear her.
Gavon reached the part of the armory below the alcove that held the sword. Morthyst sighed, but then her eyes went wide as Gavon began to float into the air.
“When did you learn to do that? I’ve been in your mind; I didn’t see any potential for magic.”
Gavon shrugged and just looked upwards at the sword as he levitated towards it, until; finally, he reached the alcove. He released the spell of levitation and landed lightly on the maroon stone. The obsidian sword shone brightly in front of him, an ever-burning red fire above him illuminating the glassy black surface of the blade.
He put his finger to the blade, and, in a green flash of light, Gavon remembered.
The Warlord Vichem, outfitted in his black platemail, looked over the field of dead, a sadistic smirk on his face. His face, as it were, was pale and had multiple scars on it. The one that stuck out the most was a gaping red gash from his right temple to his mouth, going across his eye, or, lack thereof, for he only had his left eye. His hair was pitch black, with a creeping silver, that came prematurely for him. He stood on a plateau, overlooking a great plain, which was blood soaked and strewn with bodies.
“I wrought this. I brought about these hundreds of deaths.” He seemed to contemplate this for a moment, before the smirk returned and he chuckled.
Behind him, among another pile of bodies, a burly man rose, picking up a battle-axe that had been thrown there by a fleeing man. The man had a permanent grimace on his face, and the entire left side of his head and hair was caked with dried blood, which, in its liquid state, had mixed with the dust of the plains to make the final result near black.
He seemed to catch Warlord Vichem unawares, for he only stood with his back turned, admiring his work. As the axe came down, Vichem spun about, his obsidian sword whipping up to block. He was about to smile at the thought of taking yet another life, when their weapons met, and his sword broke in two. The axe cleaved into his chest, where the man released it and stepped back.
“For my home, for my God, and for my family; Vichem Felarian, I condemn you.” The man grinned, his vengeance sated, as blood poured from the wound in Vichem’s chest.
“’M not goin’ down without you.” And, with his last breath, Vichem shoved the half of his sword he was holding into the stomach of the man.
They both fell beside each other, their life-blood pouring from them, mingling into one, single pool beneath them. One remembered as a hero for killing a villain, the other forced to be forgotten.
The life finally, and completely, faded from Vichem’s last, glowing green eye.
Gavon, temporarily blinded, stroked the blade, finding the crack in the obsidian gone, and the blade whole once more.
“What did you do?!” Morthyst levitated towards him, her eyes holding a confused anger. Confused, because Gavon could not use magic, and angry, because she was confused.
“I… don’t know.” He took the blade from the pedestal and held it up for her to see it, whole. He decided against telling her the vision, she was his captor she need not know. Plus, keeping things from her made him feel he still had some control.
“I want answers, Gavon.” She demanded, finally landing on the alcove with him, then standing over him. “Now.”
“I don’t know what happened!”
“I don’t believe that. Don’t make me have to make you have answers.” The sharp venom in her voice made him wince.
“I don’t know…” She sensed that he was truthful, but she decided he needed to by humbled, anyway.
She took his hand and teleported them back to the torture room, and they began again.

“Not today, bone-head.” Nesanel swung his blade at a skeleton with a bow. He had already cleared a small group of them, and this archer was the last. The skull of the undead archer flew up into the air, its mouth opened into what seemed like a silent roar. The rest of his body fell to the side, without a mind to control it.
“Not today.” Nesanel repeated with a chuckle. He looked down and removed a bony, detached, hand from his forearm, then paused to admire the white and gold arm greaves he had, then the rest of his Dragonlord armor.
Behind him, his dragon, Neo, tore apart other undead monstrosities. When he finished, he picked up a undead and chewed him up with a single crunch. Nesanel gave him a wide smile, his blue eyes twinkling. He loved Neo, they had formed a strong bond over the last few months, and Neo had grown from his former stage of a hatchling, and was now the size of a small house.
Another wave of undead came at them, their weapons raised above their heads, and a cluster of sounds assailing him.
To his right, previously escaping his notice, a skeleton in thick gray robes began to conjure up a fireball. Nesanel raised his sword, the Blade of Twilight, in an attempt to block, not having time to make a spell of his own.
The fireball, roaring, hit him dead on. His blade broke into three pieces, and he was thrown back. His mental connection to the sentient blade snapped like a cable under to much pressure, and his horrible burns prevented physical recoil. He lay on the ground as the undead overwhelmed him, placing their bony hands on him.
Then, between the bobbing and swaying skulls and hands, he saw the dark maroon armor of a Doom Knight standing over him. Not just a Doom Knight, but, by the style of the dragon-shaped helmet, thee Doom Knight.
Above him, Sepulchure stood, with a smirk on his face.

Gavon listened to the water, dripping somewhere far off. Rhythmic, he thought. The sound that some others would have thought annoying comforted him, it did not change pace, it always dripped at exactly the same interval. It was the only stability in his life. No matter how much he hurt, the water, or blood, perhaps, hitting the stone somewhere was always there, to drop right when he expected it too.
He sat on the cold stone, in one of the four corners, simply staring at the red-with-blood floor.
“Felarian.” He said, as if the one word was all that need be said, never removing his eyes from the stone. He noticed small patterns in the dried gore, as if it flowed into some sort of grotesque art. The bad things almost seemed beautiful to him, which made no sense, upon further though. Finally, he looked up into the face of his father, who sat across from him, his elbows on his knees, and his hands hanging in the air carelessly.
“What about ‘em?” Kack asked.
“I don’t know… Tell me about them.”
Kack smiled. “Where to begin…
“The Felarian family is a large, old one, to start with. We have been of all professions, all races, all colors, and all sizes. The very first Felarian… He was of the same name as you. Which is why I was surprised when that wretch of a woman you call your mother chose that name at random. The very first Felarian, Gavon Felarian, was a sorcerer. A powerful one, at that. He was an elf, or rather, half-elf, as his father was that of a dragon, this being so, Gavon lived to be around three hundred years old, much to the dismay of the rest of the world, for his heart was as black as pitch, and as cold as… well… cold pitch. He dedicated his life to power, and at around the age of seventy, he went on a journey for a powerful artifact, but exactly what artifact it was escapes me, no matter, though, the destination wasn’t important, only the journey.
Now, Gavon gathered a group of 3. The warrior, a horrible Dwarf Doom Knight by the name of Warren, the rogue, a pure, but mislead, human girl named Naylin, and himself, accompanied by a number of gnomes. The gnomes were there because, to get to the place that would take him to where this artifact was, the Void, he needed an airship, at least, if he wanted to get there in the next century. Gavon invented the first airship, and, through his silver tongue, talked the gnomes into not only building it, but lending him a group of gnomes to sustain it and keep it flying.
When they reached the abandoned castle of Gray Spire, where it sat the vertical side of a huge mountain. In this castle, Gavon and his entourage found the gate made of obsidian they were looking for. With a few words, Gavon lit the portal in blue flames, and, when the flames subsided, in the hole of the portal, a clear, unbroken, blue door remained.
With the ambitious vigor that was Gavon Felarian, he stepped through the blue portal, and all followed. Then the gate into the Void closed, and there was no turning back.
Inside the Void, all was black, except for the purple bridge Gavon and his group stood upon. Before them materialized Gavon father, the great black dragon, the size of a mountain, and his mother, the lithe, alchemist elf. Both of which Gavon mercilessly killed, or rather, made disappear. Then, finally, after days of searching through the Void, and at the lives of 3 of the 10 gnomes, Gavon found that which he was looking for.
Rising out of the purple and black nothingness, a dais rose. Upon it was the great artifact of magic that had tempted Gavon into the Void. He rose to the dais, and with reverent hands, picked up the great magical thing. He stared into its blue and purple surface, as if searching its foggy depths for its power. He was about to scream in frustration that the artifact had not worked, when a low humming emitted from it. It glowed blue, and soon, as the magic spread through his body, his very veins glowing blue, also.
As the laughter of a madman lifted from the mouth of Gavon, Naylin glanced frantically to Warren, who just stared on with delight, and realized what she had helped accomplish. With desperate need, Naylin ran to the dais, one of her two silver daggers tight in her grip. Rising on a great, powerful leap, she lunged at him, dagger gleaming and a roar on her lips. Gavon turned and held up his hand, without says a word or so much as blinking, the humming of the orb stopped, his laughter ceased, though his mouth did not close, and Naylin hung suspended in the air, unable to move, unable to fall as gravity intended.
Gavon’s lips closed and spread into a sadistic smirk. He gently removed the silver dagger that was in his ribs, though Naylin was still ten feet away, and with a flick of his wrist, threw it away. The orb rose from his hand and reverently floated above his shoulder. Gavon raised his other hand and winced as the blood in his veins pumped hard, the amount of unearthly magic inside of him pulsing and threatening to destroy him from the inside. Instead, from his other hand, he released a bolt of lightning into the closest gnome. The creature shrieked, a large hole burning through its chest, as the lightning continued on from him, into his comrades. He then threw Naylin into the abyss, believing beyond any doubt she had died.
Warren only cackled with joy, a magical elation filling him and taking over his emotions. It was from there Gavon challenged the gods themselves, nearly killing the god of darkness and taking her place, if not for Naylin, who had lived, through Gavon’s arrogance and overlookitiveness. Just as Gavon had the Queen of Darkness dethroned, and had become a god himself, Naylin appeared from no-where and slew him, once and for all.”
There was a long silence between them.
“Why did you tell me all of that?” Gavon finally asked.
“Because, if you wish to know about the Felarian family, you have to start from the very beginning. The first Gavon was the very beginning; he was the foundation of Felarian.”
“But wait, what gods? There are only Avatars and Elemental Lords. Not gods.”
“Well observed, the reason for that is because none of what I just said happened in this universe.”
“What?!” Gavon’s confusion clear displayed on his face.
“Yes, none of that happened here.”
“Then where did it happen?”
“I’m not sure; I just know that the very first Felarian, Gavon, like I said, wasn’t born in this universe. Did I not mention that among the wide variety of professions, many Felarian-born were dimension hoppers? No, I must not have. Well, they were.”
Another long silence.
“Who is Vichem?” Gavon looked back up at Kack.
“Vichem, you say?” A very interested look crossed his face as he leaned forward, then he grinned. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”
A look of sheer madness crossed Gavon’s eyes, and his face became a visage of unbroken anger. He lunged forward and wrapped his hands around Kack’s throat, throttling him, and drove his knee into his chest.
“I’ve had enough of your games, you miserable wretch!” Gavon growled loudly, his lips curled up into a snarl and his teeth bared and gritted. Kack clawed at Gavon forearms futilely, but his face did not show the desperate fight he was fighting. Instead, the toothy smile remained splayed on his face.
“I’ll… tell you… g-go.” A few of Kack’s words didn’t come out, and the ones that did sounded like air escaping a balloon, which Gavon realized was probably a good comparison as to what was happening. Gavon loosened his grip on his fathers’ throat, allowing him to talk. The smile remained on Kack’s face, as if he had news that he knew would tear Gavon down mentally, and he just couldn’t wait to release it on him. He did.
“Vichem was your real father.”

“But… But that doesn’t make sense. I turned into a wolf, I remember, that night I rose from the grave, and you were there!” Gavon slumped back in disbelief and Kack rose to his feet to loom over Gavon.
“Do you? Do you remember that? Or did you want to remember that?”
“I don’t want to remember that, I want to forget!”
“Or do you want to want to forget, eh?”
Gavon screamed through his teeth in frustration. “When I get my sword I’m going to cut your limbs off and wear your head like a helmet.”
“Your empty threats don’t mean a thing to me, boy.” Kack leaned back, the light finally shining on him enough to reveal that he was in his full beast form. His lip curled up into a snarl, and his eyes reflecting an unbarred hatred Gavon had not seen in him before.
Kack continued, “Because I know, that at any moment, if I so had a mind to, I could tear you apart and feast on your insides.” He held his hands up, covered in fur, with claws as big around as Gavon’s wrist, and as long as his hand. The claws seemed much too large for his hand, but the ill-proportionality the dagger-like things only seemed to heighten the intimidation.
He then barred his fangs, horrible weapons almost the size of his claws. Two particularly large ones extended out over his bottom jaw into the open air. A glint of amusement flickered across Kack’s eye.
Gavon realized just then, that Kack’s entire ruse of insanity was just that, a ruse, and he truly was in control of his own mind. He also realized Kack was probably going to kill him soon.
Gavon leaned back into the shadows, never taking his eyes from his would-be father.

Morthyst burst open the single door to the right of Gavon, floating by her side a black sword. She strode into the room, the door magically closing behind her. An obsidian sword dropped to the ground in front of Gavon, and he picked it up. The new handle was made of wood, wrapped in fine black leather. She smiled down at him.
“That sword is magic. You know of the Doom Weapons, those that contain the spirits of evil that fuel their power?” She asked him. He nodded. “That sword is of their kin, but without a spirit to inhabit it. It is… unsettling. The vast emptiness one can feel when they extend their consciousness to it is enormous, but this suggests that with the proper spell, one could summon a spirit into the blade itself, possibly the spirit of a fallen enemy, if you were so inclined. This would greatly increase its power.” She finished, and, without waiting for him to respond, flung the door open, exited the room, and closed the door with a mighty crash. Locks slid into place.
Once again, Gavon leaned back, the blade in his lap, and Kack sat across from him. Gavon briefly considered killing him and taking his spirit, just because Kack himself was so powerful, but then reminded himself that when the sword became inhabited, he may never be able to vacate it, and he would have to spend the rest of the blades, or his, with Kack. The thought made him shudder. He also noted that he did not know the required spell, so the sword would remain empty, no matter how much he wanted otherwise.
However, the thought of finally running through the monster that was his… What was he…
“Uncle.” Kack reminded him, and Gavon took no note of him reading his thoughts.
Yes, he liked the thought of killing his uncle, for all he had ever done for him was bring him grief and unrest. Grief for helping to bring him to this god forsaken place, and for tormenting him otherwise, and unrest for letting him believe he was his true father, then suddenly coming out with the fact that a mighty warlord by the name of Vichem was in fact his father.
Then the thought struck him that he would be murdering this imposter to his father, with his fathers blade. The irony brought a flicker of a smile to Gavon’s lips.
“Perhaps.” Kack said out of nowhere. “Perhaps you could kill me. But perhaps not. I have claws the size of your hands, teeth the size of your forearms… Perhaps you could kill me. But perhaps I’d just tear you apart, leaving the Gavi-shreds strewn about all over this cell. Yes, perhaps you could kill me. But then Morthyst, beautiful Morthyst, would come in here and torture you for the next month for killing her experiment, for a month until Sepulchure arrived and whisked you away.”
“Perhaps I’ll just kill both of you.”
“Somehow, sure. All of that pent up magic in your mind, begging to be released, just might be enough to kill of Morthyst, and that fancy sword might be enough for me.” He cocked his head to the side, the corners of his lips twitching, ever so slightly. “Perhaps.” He finished.
The concern and self-doubt that flooded Gavon’s mind was almost enough to tear him apart, before he finally set himself at ease. This was exactly what Kack wanted. To tear him down, and hurt him. Failing in that way, Kack continued another.
“Perhaps your magic is enough to kill Morthyst, but then again, perhaps you’ll be killed by her. Then all that work your mother was put through to finally birth such a wretch as yourself was for nothing. Perhaps when Vichem the Cruel came through town and took her, and left her broken, his effort was wasted. No, not wasted, it was worth it for him.” The sadistic grin once again returned to Kack’s face. “You never wondered about that? Children aren’t born in three months, and what I told you about the order of events, you should have realized that all of that was far too little to happen in nine. No, your mother was long pregnant before I came along.” He chuckled. He then leaned close and whispered. “I just took advantage of her weak state.”
Gavon roared and thrust the obsidian blade deep into Kack’s chest. Gavon whispered back a single word, “Vengeance.”
Gavon twisted the blade as huge leathery wings sprouted from his back. Gavon had had enough, the sick game was over. Gavon kicked Kack off of his sword, and rushed over to him, slashing and hacking at Kack’s chest and arms. Within an inch of his life, Gavon stomped on Kack’s chest, which set him to coughing up blood and trying to crawl away.
Gavon felt barriers in his mind fall away as his physical release took effect, and a ancient, powerful thing flooded into his mind. Many things, he realized, consciousnesses. They chattered and filled him with power, mental and physical. His mind was racing, when he remembered something vital to his escape.
Gavon raised his hand towards the only door in the cell, and, counting to three in his mind, released a great many tendrils of darkness that seeped into the door itself, then wretched it free from its hinges, throwing it behind him, Gavon strode out of the cell and into a hallway. He looked left, finding the hall that way only extended a few feet before abruptly coming to a dead end, then to the right, the only other direction besides back into the cell, where the hall went for another twenty feet.
Gavon reached the end of the right hall, and yet again to his right was a hole that fell off into nothingness. To his left was yet another hall, of ten feet and yet the last door, which Gavon assumed to be Morthyst’s. Whenever Gavon reached the door, he hesitated for a moment, though he knew he had to kill Morthyst to release him of his bonds to this place, then, after what seemed like forever, lifted his foot and kicked the door down with one mighty blow. He was surprised by what he saw.
The room he entered was just like his own cell. Made of gray stone, with blood splattered on the floor, and a great many chains hanging from the ceiling. He soon recognized this as the room he was often tortured in, the only difference being that in the center of the floor was a large bed with maroon covers, black pillows, and black sheets. On the bed, Morthyst lay. She was in her plain red robes, but her hands were folded over her stomach, and her eyes were peacefully closed, as she already lay there, dead. Gavon wished he could have just turned back, her look of serenity discouraging him. But he and her both knew the bonds that she couldn’t remove kept him here, and that there was only one way to sever those bonds. Only one way out.
Gavon walked to the side where she lay, then stopped while he was above her. She was asleep, and he was thankful for that. But his thankfulness soon ended when her red eyes flared open, and she looked him in the glistening eye. The look of love her eye held was unfathomable, and he realized he loved her, too.
Gavon raised his sword high, gently setting the tip of which just above her bosom. Despite his gentle care, the razor sharp point of his sword drew a drop of blood. She did not fight back, as he thought she would. A single tear dropped from Gavon’s eye, landing on his blade and then sliding down to the point to mingle with the blood.
“Goodbye, Gavon.” She said softly.
“Goodbye, my love.” He replied though the painful lump in his throat.
Gavon thrust the obsidian sword through the chest of his Morthyst.
He leaned down and kissed her, her last breath escaping into his lungs as he breathed it in. He, holding his breath as if to hold on to the last thing of Morthyst he had, stood up and straightened out, suppressing a tearful sob, and, accidentally, muttered the first words that popped into his mind. Morthyst’s wounds began to glow an unearthly green, as did the letters that he had not noticed carved into his sword until now. She must have engraved them in while putting a handle on the sword. The letters carved into his sword, in perfect Arachnen, said, Forma I Passus. Respice Delicatus, mi Mina.
Another tear fell onto the blade.
This translated into…
…Beauty in Suffering. Look Nice, my Dear.

Gavon stormed back into the cell, his blade, which he had just a moment ago appropriately named after Morthyst, under his belt.
“Kack, you miserable wretch, get up.” The red-furred beast still was writhing on the floor, though Gavon’s visit to Morthyst seemed like it lasted forever.
Kack turned to look at him. “Come to finish me off, eh?” He stood up and puffed his chest out. “Very well, nephew, get it over. Unless you don’t have the guts, eh?”
Gavon sneered, and with a quick motion, took his sword from his belt, and smashed the pommel into Kack’s nose. As the were-beast tried to recover, Gavon put a iron grip on Kack’s shoulder, then swung onto his back, carefully making sure the two holes in his back that he had first noticed when they met were below him.
“What are you doing?!” Kack roared, enraged.
“I know why you are still alive, Uncle. Morthyst did, too.” Gavon lightly rapped Kack on the side of his head with his fist. “Let’s see those wings!”
Once more Kack roared, filling the cell with the almost ear-piercing screech, and once more Gavon rapped him upon the head. Kack bucked this way and that, but Gavon held his firm grip. With a low growl that rumbled deep in his chest, Kack seemed to finally submit.
Huge, red leathery, bat-like, wings finally shot from the two holes in his back. They ended with a single, pure, white claw.
“Now how do you expect to get out of here, smart guy?” Kack said over his shoulder. Gavon hadn’t thought of that part, but he thought it would come to him in the heat of the moment. He had to get out of here, that was all he knew. He felt as if a horrible claustrophobia was setting in, all of the sudden.
A soft vibration came from his hip, and he noticed the letters on his blade were once more glowing green. He gave into the urge to remove it from his belt, and held it with his hand. The urge continued to guide him, as the letters continued to glow, and a soft humming accompanied by a vibration continued to confuse him. Gavon pointed his sword toward the ceiling, where the sword seemed to move of his own accord. The tip of the blade finally seemed to find what is was looking for. A small nook in the roof, one that would have easily escaped notice, had it been pointed out to him.
Gavon pushed the sword further into the indent, using all of his strength. Somewhere far off he heard the howl of a wolf, though he could not understand how anything of the sort was down here.
The roof gave away, or so it seemed, as the indent he had his sword on opened into a large tunnel. Light streamed from it, nearly blinding him and Kack.
“I would thank you to take back your mocking tone, good sir.” Gavon said with a chuckle as Kack stared in wonder up the tunnel, his astonishment overriding the fact that the sun burnt his eyes.
“How’d you know that was up there?”
Gavon shrugged. “Sometimes you just know what you should to next.”
The humming and vibrating of his sword reduced to a low purr in satisfaction as he replaced the sword at his belt.
Kack stretched out his wings a final time, then, with a great leap, jumped into the tunnel. It seemed to Gavon that the tunnel was just wide enough to accommodate Kack’s wing-span, which was a little more than coincidental.
“Sepulchure will be furious.” Kack commented.
“Let him do his worst.” Gavon once again shrugged.
The same words ran through his mind over and over, as if he was trying and failing to unravel its secrets.
Beauty in suffering. Look nice, my dear. Gavon repeated to himself again. Then, as if as an after thought, he looked back to where he knew Morthyst’s room was, and where her corpse lay. Tears began to form in his eyes. “Look nice, my dear.”
Then the sun overhead came into sight.

“What am I?” Gavon hesitantly asked. Kack sat across from him, on the other side of the campfire. He added, “I mean, the spirits, inside of me. They’ve… been there as long as I can remember.” He knew there was something before he woke up in the grave, his mind buzzing with other consciousnesses, but he just couldn’t remember what had happened. Kack waited for a moment.
“No. You’re what’s called a Revenant. Revenants are monsters that died, but were resurrected, by the power of spirits. Sometimes this is intended; sometimes a Necromancer had done it. When the Great War took place, sometimes the Necromancers would run rampant through graveyards, creating many Revenants to do their bidding. Revenants used to be revered creatures, hated and feared, but revered. The strength, speed, and intelligence of the spirits inside of them joined with theirs, resulting in a true reckoning.” Kack seemed solemn, but the smirk on his face showed his general amusement. At what, Gavon was not sure. “Hm… It was a while since the Age of the Undead, but I’ll see what I remember.” Kack took another long moment.
“Most Revenants went mad from the voices in their head talking away. It’s a wonder you’re not babbling nonsense to yourself even now. Half of the time the initial throes of madness begin when the Revenant first lets his spirits take over.” Gavon raised an eyebrow at that. Kack explained, “When the man ceases to resist the spirits grabs at domination over him. He lets them take over, not sure how I can really explain it more than that. Anyway, whenever the man does this, the strength of the spirits becomes much stronger, and the man is much more powerful. This is a desperate move, for though the man does become very strong during this, he can also lose a grasp on his identity forever, and become a ravenous being with no control whatsoever, during this time the amount of raw energy tears are the physical body, slowly removing it from existence, until all is left is a cluster of wandering consciousnesses, and yours, for all eternity, until a kind mage might put you our of your misery. This is what is known as a Phantom. There have been almost as many Phantoms as there have Revenants, which you may find disconcerting, but don’t worry, I’d imagine someone will permanently put you down before that happens. Anyway. When you let your spirits take over, your skin turns blue. A deep blue, and all of your senses heighten. This only lasts for a while, however, for if you go about an hour with the spirits in control, you begin to permanently lose your senses. Don’t worry, though, the spirits should completely take over, forever, long before an hour. Only the most skilled of your kind can keep them in check for that long.” Kack finished with a gasp and then a sigh.
“Comforting. Currently, are there any others like me?” Gavon asked.
“Currently? I don’t think so.” He continued before Gavon had a chance to reply, “However, Revenants have a brother-type thing. They’re creatures much like Revenants, but Revenants have to die before becoming as they are, and these monsters have to become that way through sorcery. Sorcery is the art of magic that uses spirits as its mana supply. Sometimes failed sorcery can make one of their kind, losing control of the very spirits they use to fuel their magic, and the spirits taking control of them, sometimes the transformation is on purpose. These things are called Wraiths. Wraiths are more powerful in magic, and of mind, than Revenants, but Revenants are much more powerful of arms than Wraiths. They are two sides of the same coin, really, like I said, they might as well be brothers.” Kack paused for effect. “And as of late, I have sensed a new Wraith in the land. The first one in a decade.”
Gavon remained expressionless, taking the news in. “Could a Wraith overpower me?” He asked.
“In a battle of magicians, yes, in a battle of minds, possibly, but in a battle of strength, most certainly no. So really, it comes down to strategy. In a battle of Revenants and Wraiths, one must put himself in a situation where the others skills are useless, and his are gold. For instance, if you’re a Wraith, you might want to try taking the weapons from the Revenant, perhaps taking off a hand.”
“And if you’re a Revenant?”
“Well, if you can keep attacking furiously, vigorously, then the Wraith won’t have time to cast a spell, or try to invade your mind. On the Revenants part, it is about speed, mostly. Or, put him in a position where he can’t focus. Perhaps in a crumbling castle, or on a dragon over the sea.”
“Both of those sound like examples I couldn’t achieve.”
“Perhaps not. But they were just that, examples, any situation like that where the Wraith wouldn’t be able to focus, depending on the Wraiths mental discipline, would be good for you.”
Gavon nodded absent mindedly, staring into the fire.

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Gavon Felarian
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Posts : 363
Join date : 2011-07-17
Location : UP YOUR ASS

PostSubject: Re: Gavon Felarian: A Biography   Wed Jul 25, 2012 3:49 pm

Why are you talking with this imposter? Surely you wish to taste
his blood, but yet here you are, having a nice conversation
. A voice
not his own rang out in his mind. The voice small and obviously
feminine, and the smoothness of her tone and the coolness of his
composure made Gavon begin to question if he was not in his mind at all,
but hers. He finally recovered enough to protect himself from any
mental attacks, though none were forthcoming.
[iWho are you?[/i] Gavon asked warily, more protective of his stray thoughts and memories than before.
I
am Xarcm, of course, and you are my Revenant.
Xarcm spoke casually.
Gavon began to further question her, but the brush of Xarcm’s
consciousness passed, and he could sense her no longer.
“Where are
we?” Gavon finally asked. He did not recognize the landscape, but, then
again, he had only lived above ground for a short while. A slow clicking
sounded in Gavon’s mind, then his thoughts seemed to whirl.
“I
gather somewhere near Falconreach. Just above the border of Doomwood,
rather. I reckon Falconreach is a day or two’s travel from here. And we
do, after all, want to go there.”
Gavon stood, not of his own accord,
and the fire cast shadows over his face. “We?!” He shouted in an
abnormally deep voice. “I don’t want to go anywhere with you, Uncle.
You’ve served your purpose: getting me out of that prison, but now your
purpose is at its end. And I’ve decided to finally put you to an end.”
Gavon realized it was not his voice that spoke, but whatever was
happening, Kack believed he was doing it. Gavon drew his sword.
“Pity, O Revenant, mercy!” Kack cried in mock horror, but the look of terror soon was replaced by a smirk.
Gavon
acted as if he didn’t know Kack was making fun of him. “Men with limps
get pity, and perhaps mercy,” Gavon looked Kack up and down, regarding
his snout and fur, “Dogs with limps get put down.”
Kack snarled and
lunged at Gavon, claws and fangs gleaming orange in the light of the
fire. Gavon sidestepped the lunge and snatched up Kack’s wrist, breaking
his momentum, then put his other hand on Kack’s legs and flipped him
onto his back, still holding his wrist. Several bones and joints in
Kack’s arm and shoulder cracked and popped out of place. Gavon severed
Kack’s forearm with his sword in a spray of blood.
Gavon frantically tried to fight what was happening when he once again felt Xarcm.
What are you doing?! He screamed in his mind at her, for it was her who was controlling his body to do such things.
I
would be remiss if I did not tell you that he was going to try to kill
you, anyway. Except this time, we have the upper hand, and I have taken
away his element of surprise for you. You weren’t going to kill him, so I
have to, now, for he is a menace.
She paused for a moment, as if
considering something. You should also lock up control of your body
tighter, young Revenant. If word got loose that anyone could come up and
take control of a real unlive human, then the lesser spirits would be
all over you.
A chilling chuckle filled his consciousness, and he
suppressed the urge to shudder.
Just give me my body back. I know what I have to do now, and I will. She sensed his sincerity, and returned him control.
Kack
rolled up into a crouch, the snarl still plastered on his face. His
teeth bared and shining in the light like polished steel. No matter how
horrible he was, he and Kack and spent a lot of time together, and had
helped him in many ways. He’s also hurt him, horribly.
“You know, Morthyst had just given birth a month before you came along.” Kack said through upturned lips and gritted fangs.
The statement shocked Gavon.
“Yes,
yes she did. And you know whose baby it was? Whose child your love had
delivered?” He cackled with delight. “Mine!” Gavon gasped.
The words on his sword began to glow with violent intent.
“All mine. Before you came along, your love was mine!” He continued to laugh until flecks of blood came from his mouth.
Gavon
could not fathom it. He knew Kack was not lying, somehow, he knew. His
mind began to come up with objections, with reasons for why it wasn’t
true. His love had been dirtied by him, and he was not sure how he could
love a woman who was such.
Gavon. Xarcm cautioned. He was
losing sight of the situation at hand, and his mental state was quickly
spiraling into mayhem. I declare you unfit to lead. She said
simply as he felt control over his body ebb away, and he became nothing
but a roaming consciousness floating around in his own mind, which now
seemed alien.
As Gavon was returned his body, he saw Kack had been
brutally killed. Not murdered, he thought, murder reminded him of the
death of an innocent, no, Kack had not been murdered, he’d been killed.
Thank you… Gavon thought, though he no longer felt any other presences in his mind but his own. To Falconreach.

When
he strode in through one of the heavy oaken gates that bordered
Falconreach, Gavon was quite astounded by the small town. Knights in
armor almost in resemblance to that of the Pactogonal Knights patrolled
the walls, and some stood by the buildings, keeping peace and order. To
his right was a small wooden building with straw on the roof, and in the
straw, Gavon noticed, were birds. Outside of the building, hanging from
two ropes, was a wooden sign with a paw print on it. No other defining
features, although it was plain to see that the structure was some sort
of pet shop.
Next was a long stone building, with a great red and
gold door, and a man wrapped in green out front. His hair was ruffled
and came down just below his eyes, so they were concealed. His left
elbow rested on his waist, and his forearm, which was also wrapped in
green, but had steel forearm greaves on them with a ‘C’ engraved in
them, turned straight up, ending in his hand, which was, as the rest of
him, wrapped in green. A single finger turned up toward the sky. A smile
was plastered on his face, and his entire body seemed frozen in that
one, confusing pose. Gavon tried to ignore him as he rushed by.
Next
was a building with a base of stone, and the rest wooden. The roof
resembled that of the pet shop, and an unearthly blue glow came through
the single window to the left of the door. A sign hung outside this shop
that simply depicted a blue axe-type weapon. Curious, indeed. Gavon
thought.
Now he reached what he assumed to be the center of the town,
as there was many signs and boards whereupon he saw varying events and
such. The road here was dirt, and incredibly well traveled. Even now,
Gavon saw a caravan resting on the far side of the square. One man sat
in the front of the caravan, with the reins held loosely in his hands,
and two others unloaded boxes into a shop with a sign depicting a blue
potion hanging in front of it.
But the most interesting of all of
what he saw was that another dirt road split off to his right, and
continued over a blue sea, coming to meet with a large pillar of earth
that it spiraled up around, finally ending in the platform of grass that
was the very top of the pillar. On top of this was a tall, gray and
gold tower, with a great, stone falcon at the very top, its wings spread
in an intimidating manner, its petrified beak opened in a silent caw.
It was quite astounding, especially the loving detail that was put into
it. Every feather stood out in shocking relief, and it truly seemed as
if the stone claws were holding onto the edge of the tower as if it were
not it would fall. Gavon almost waited to see the falcon close its
mouth, flap its wings a few times, and fly away, but it did not.
“You
act as if you ain’t never seen a Guardian Tower before.” The caravan
driver across the way observed. Gavon strode over to him, glancing back
at the amazing tower a few times. Once he reached the side of the
caravan he stopped.
“I haven’t.” Gavon replied, looking up into the
drivers face. He had short brown hair, and more, deeper lines on his
face than Gavon would expect, for the way he carried himself led him to
believe he was only in his thirties. Still, though, Gavon noticed silver
strands of hair on his head, and that they were dominant in the short,
scraggly beard he bore.
“I’d reckon you’re not from around there,
then.” The man also observed. “The Guardian Towers can be found most
anywhere in Lore you go. In most every major city, really. Or rather, in
this case, a town. They are constructed to protect an orb, you know,
one of the Elemental Orbs?”
“No, I don’t think I do.”
“Oh, well,
the Elemental Orbs where these things of power the Avatars made, to help
their followers battle the followers of the other elements. Anyway, the
Guardian Towers were made to protect those orbs, and it is filled with
Guardians, who live to protect the orbs.” He finished.
“What orb does that tower hold?”
“I am not really sure. I imagine it’d be Light, or Nature.” The driver shrugged. Gavon thanked him and began to look around.
Classic ignorant Falconreachian. Xarcm chimed in.
Excuse me?
The
orbs weren’t created by the Avatars, they were created by the Elemental
Lords, which most people don’t know, and the Avatars just delivered
them to the people. The Avatars are the hands of the Elemental Lords
reaching into the material plane, but most people think the Avatars
themselves are the gods, whereas that is incorrect. And the orbs weren’t
made to give the followers of their element more power; they were made
to balance out the scales of the elements in the material plane. Thus,
classic ignorant Falconreachian.
She retracted from his mind, as she
often did after making comments. He pondered what she had told him,
until he noticed an inn to his left. This was the first building he had
seen with a sign with words on it, and it said “Serenity’s Inn.” The
name, Serenity, struck a distant cord within him, though he couldn’t
place why. Nonetheless, he approached the inn and pushed open the door.
Directly across from him stood the tall woman, dressed in a white dress,
with golden hair he assumed was called Serenity.
“Welcome!” She called with a smile.
“Thank
you.” Gavon mumbled as he inspected the inn. It was quite plan, wooden
floors, white walls, tables and chairs. Most of the chairs were empty
except for a few people hunched over their drinks or food.
“How may I help you?” Serenity continued.
Gavon turned his gaze to her. “I just need a room, thank you.”
“Yes, of course, that will be ten gold pieces for one night.”
It was then Gavon realized that he didn’t have any money.
He
dug around in his pockets and pouches for something that might be of
value, until his left hand plunged into a pouch and he heard the
satisfying clink of gold against gold.
The gold he had earned for blowing up the gate in the Chaos Weaver Nation.
He
quickly fished out all the gold in the pouch and counted it, finding he
had exactly ten pieces. He thrust his hands out, holding the gold, and
she took it with a smile and placed a single steel key in his hand. He
was about to head up the stairs at the far end of the room when Serenity
called out behind him.
“Watch out for the ghosts!” Gavon continued to and up the stairs, unperturbed.
Still
on the first floor, a man dressed in black and brown garment slumped
against a wall across from the stairs, his hands thrust in his pockets,
and his hood drawn up to conceal his face. Gavon did not notice he was
watching him the entire time. The man took his hands out of his pockets,
revealing his silver, dark blue and black gauntlets, with a single red
gem on both.
When Gavon reached the top of the stairs, he turned and
tried every door down the hallway with his key, until one finally
clicked. He opened the door and walked inside; an icy feeling overcoming
him, then closed the door and locked it back. He fell onto the bed, not
even bothering to remove his sword, and was fast asleep.

Boom.
The
noise startled Gavon to consciousness. It had come from his door. The
door came off its hinges and flew a few feet before falling onto the
wooden floor with a loud crash. Three men dressed exactly the same as
the one who had been watching him downstairs entered the room.
It took Gavon’s sleepy mind a moment to notice that protruding from their gauntlets was red and yellow Spirit blades.
“The
Chaos Weaver Nation never forgives and never forgets!” The lead man of
the trio shouted, rushing at Gavon who was now on his feet. Gavon
unsheathed his sword and, in one graceful motion, slashed the man from
hip to shoulder, then brought his foot up and kicked the man through the
door, into the hall. The other two were more cautious, now knowing that
that was the only way they wouldn’t end up like their apparent leader.
The one on the left summoned up light blue chains which shot out at
Gavon, then wrapped him in their ethereal grip. The man on the right
bounded towards him. Gavon, with a spell he didn’t know he knew,
dispelled the chains.
The Chaos Weaver realized he couldn’t stop in
time, so he tried to turn and redirect his momentum. Instead, though, he
slipped and hit his head on the floor. He slid right to Gavon’s feet,
where he placed his sword on his chest and pushed it through him. He
stepped onto the fallen mans chest and jumped off of him, just barely
dodging an orb of light launched by the last remaining Chaos Weaver.
Gavon landed, turned, and flung at the last man, who was now attempting
to flee through the doorway. The sword buried itself in the man’s leg,
and he fell.
Gavon quickly ran over to where he fell, removed his
sword from his thigh, and put him out of his misery. He then inspected
the corpses, and, satisfied that none of them were Vae’njaece himself,
stood and straightened out.
Gavon, there is trouble. Big
trouble.
Xarcm said to him, her voice carrying an edge of panic that
almost made Gavon want to jump up and run.
I know, I just killed the trouble. He responded.
No, no, much bigger trouble. I think you better go outside.
Gavon
ran outside his room, through the hall, down the stairs and outside.
The sky was black, and he turned left, seeing flying creatures composed
of bones in the distance. They carried great crates.
How long did I sleep? Gavon asked.
Two
days.
Xarcm responded. He was quite surprised, as it felt to him as
he had only slept a few hours, and he was still quite exhausted from
his travel.
And what are those things? He imagined a picture of the undead creatures carrying crates in his mind.
I
would imagine they are undead wyverns, cousins of the dragons, but they
themselves might be dragons. I doubt it, however, since dragons are not
as plentiful as their arm-less cousins
.
Gavon started as, to
his right, fifty feet away and on the other side of the western gate, an
undead wyvern dropped one of the huge crates. The flying creatures
itself then seemed to freeze once the chains binding the crate to it
were gone, and then it dropped from the air. Gavon noticed it
disassemble from its whole form, and instead only bones rained down.
Then
Gavon directed his attention to the gate, on the other side of which he
knew was the large black crate the creature had dropped. It seemed like
forever until there was a loud crash on the gate. Then yet another, and
another, and another, until finally, the battering rams burst open the
heavy oaken gates, and skeletons and zombies rushed through the door,
like water if the gates were floodgates.
This is not good.
Gavon thought, turned in the opposite direction of the gates and
running. His flee only lasted a moment, however, before he saw, on the
far side of the town, the eastern gates break open, more undead pouring
through.
Then Gavon looked south, toward one of the last two exits,
and saw yet another flying undead drop a crate, this one directly in the
mists of the homes and shops. A chorus of human screams and undead
noises rose up from that direction. It seemed the only escape was up the
path to the Guardian Tower, so Gavon sprinted towards it. He slid to a
stop, however, when yet another crate landed on the narrow path leading
over the sea to the tower. Luckily, the path broke away, though,
carrying most of the undead creatures the crate held into the sea with
it.
At least the monsters aren’t very intelligent, though. He
acknowledged, and then continued his sprint towards the broken bridge.
Broken or not, it was his only chance of escape. He jumped when he
reached the point where the path broke off, and, when he felt himself
falling, enacted yet another spell he didn’t know he knew, then found
himself levitating. He floated safely to the portion of the bridge not
broken, and continued his sprint.
Every now and then, he had to cut
down an undead, but finally, unscathed, he made it to the top of the
pillar of earth, the courtyard in front of the Guardian Tower. A crate
of undead dropped just to the right of him, near the edge of the
platform. The dirt underneath the crate gave away, slipping into the sea
as had the pathway before, but many of the undead the crate held
escaped the crate as it fell into the blue, rolling waters. They climbed
back up onto the platform.
It was only then Gavon saw the gleaming
silver and gold Guardians that lived in the Tower rush towards the
undead. They held barbed swords, and their armor was quite plain.
Overall, they all looked exactly the same. They defeated the undead,
though, cutting them down with ease and pushing the pile of bones they
left behind into the sea.
One of the Guardians strode towards him,
shouting something Gavon did not understand, then took his arm and
hurried him inside the tower. Once the gates to the tower shut behind
them, closing out all the noises of battle and the unearthly roar of
undead out, Gavon could hear him.
“Are you alright? How did you get
up here, we just saw the path collapse! Did one of them hit you?” The
Guardian kept asking him questions, but eventually Gavon stopped
listening. Finally, he cut in.
“Yes, I am fine. And I was on the trail here before the path collapsed. What is happening here?” Gavon wiped his brow.
“Sepulchure,
the Doom Knight. He must have been amassing this undead army for ages,
probably just for this purpose, taking over Falconreach.” Then, as if an
afterthought, he roared: “But we will not let him take our beloved
town! We shall guard it with our lives!”
A mighty “Hoorah!” filled
the air, and the determination and strength he found there almost made
him want to grab his sword and join them in their fight.
The
Guardian seemed to have read his thoughts. “But I’m afraid we can’t just
let any civilian fight. This is a Guardians fight, and guard we shall.
Don’t worry; we have the situation under control. The wards we’ve placed
around the tower itself should keep it safe from any of those undead
flying things, and their crates full of skeletons. This is the safest
place in Falconreach right now; you were smart to come here. I’m afraid
we’ll have to have you taken up to the roof, for now, though, for if the
undead break our walls, which I find unlikely, we want you as far from
the battle as possible.” The Guardian snapped his fingers and pointed to
Gavon, who almost felt insulted they thought he cannot fight for
himself. He understood their motives, though. Guardians must guard, and
that is what they will do.
Yet another steel and gold Guardian ran
up to him, identifying himself as Gavon’s escort, and telling him to
follow. Together they hurried up flight after flight of stairs, until
finally; they reached an oak door. The Guardian shoved it open, showed
Gavon through to the stone roof, and closed it behind him.
Gavon slowed walked over to the edge of the roof, the great stone eagle to his left, and looked out over Falconreach.
Thousands
of undead wyverns, or dragons, were coming in from all directions. Some
over the sea, even. Some dropped the huge, black crates they carried
directly in Falconreach, then disassembled and fell from the sky, some
in the forest surrounding, and yet some others miles away from the town
itself. No matter the location, though, the land below was filled with
undead, and they all rushed in one location, Falconreach. Once within
the city, they had no general direction. They merely cut down everyone
they found, and destroyed or burned every house they crossed.
The grim situation and the hopelessness of the Guardians cause brought a smirk to Gavon’s lips.
“Hmph.”
A voice grumbled behind him, someone he had not noticed on his entering
the roof, as he was so entranced by the horde of undead.
Gavon
whirled about and saw Rav leaned on the edge of the roof across from
him. Except this was not the Rav Gavon was familiar with. This Rav had
pale skin, and a mad look to his features, especially to his eyes.
This
is that big trouble I was talking about.
Xarcm warned. This
isn’t the Rav you know. This is the Rav vengeance has overcome. Tread
lightly, Gavon, for I sense more than one consciousness in this ones
mind.

Gavon was almost taken aback by her last words. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of them.
“What’ve you gone and done to yourself, Gavon?” Rav asked, solemn. “Revenancy is a cruel mistress, I say.”
Gavon
was even more taken aback. How had he known what he was? He knew that
Rav and he were going to fight, and he had hoped that Rav not knowing
his secret power would give him an advantage. A shocking realization hit
Gavon.
“Perhaps. But what have you done to yourself, Rav?”
Gavon questioned back. He smirked again. “You must be the one Wraith I
heard about.”
“That would be me.” He bowed. “And with my powers, I will destroy you. I knew you were evil since the day we met.”
“I’m
evil? You’re even, too. Do you think that any good spirits would be
interested in the prospect of taking over a human’s body?” He chuckled.
“No. Only evil spirits would do that. So, despite what you may believe,
you are evil, as well.”
Rav, after a long hesitation, said. “I’m not
going to let your lies try to corrupt me! I know what I’m doing is
right, and the world will be better without you.”
“Oh, no, of course, I wouldn’t corrupt you,” Gavon smiled. “You’ve already been corrupted.”
Rav
drew his sword, a long, slim blade made from white gold and silver. It
had to have been magically reinforced, as the metals it was crafted of
were quite weak, and, at the same time, a great, piercing shriek filled
Gavon’s mind. Rav smiled with delight as he saw that his mental attack
was working on him.
As soon as the screech had begun, it subsided,
and Gavon felt the begrudging acknowledgment from Xarcm, and two other
presences he was not familiar with.
Rav’s teeth gritted and he once
more raised his sword and charged at him. They met in the center of the
tower, swords clanging and the ring of metal on metal sounding like a
clear silver bell in the air.
Gavon pulled back from the embrace and
swung his sword low, from the right, at Rav’s legs. He easily blocked,
and, quick as lightning, brought the flat of his blade against Gavon’s
head.
He reeled back, quickly retreating, and looked up. He was
shocked to see Rav’s hair was now a pale red, and his eyes began to glow
orange.
“Vengeance!” Rav cried and charged once more at Gavon.
Gavon raised his blade in a petty attempt to block the powerful blow Rav
dealt him from the left, but, despite his best efforts, was thrown to
the side. Rav swept his foot underneath Gavon, taking advantage of his
lack of balance, and tripped him. Rav laughed.
For twenty minutes
they battled, Gavon being the only one receiving wounds, and who soon
found himself near exhaustion from his attempts to block and dodge, most
of which failed.
Not today, you red haired freak! A
high-pitched voice in his mind shrieked, and then filled his head with a
maddened cackle.
As Gavon recoiled from yet another blow to the head
Rav delivered, he began to feel the control of his body ebb away. He
fell to one knee and clutched his head, as it was throbbing and aching.
Not today! The thing repeated.
Gavon
looked up into Rav’s face, whose eyebrow was raised underneath his hair
of red. Rav then raised his sword for a third time, and prepared to
take the head from Gavon’s shoulder.
Gavon raised his sword and
blocked the blow easily, then propelled himself up with one leg, and
with the other kicked Rav in the knee, bending it backwards with a
almighty crack. Rav fell onto his knee, and Gavon stood straight
with a smirk. Gavon brought his boot up into Rav’s chest, throwing him
backwards onto his back.
“I hope it was worth it.” He said as he prepared to pounce on Rav and run him through.
Red
and yellow lights flashed in Gavon’s eyes, and he found himself
sprawling on his back. Once his head stopped ringing, he looked up and
saw Vae’njaece himself helping Rav up.
A sudden urge to just stay down assailed Gavon.
But it did not last, for he regained his footing and readied himself, sword in hand, once more.
“So we meet again, Vae’njaece.” Gavon observed dryly.
“It
would seem so, Felarian. Except this time, you don’t have Nesanel to
protect you.” Vae’njaece chuckled. He looked just like he had last time
he had seen him. In a ragged, dark gray shirt, black pants, thick,
sturdy black boots, and a thin brown overcoat that fell down to his
thighs. The coat had a hood on it, but it seemed Vae’n had chosen not to
wear it. His face was still pale and scarred, though Gavon thought he
may have spotted a few more lines than before, his hair still long and
black. And, as always, Vae’n wore his Weaving Gauntlets. Black with gold
trim, flowing, elegant, intricate, gold trim, with spirit looms planted
firmly in the center of the outside of the gauntlet. The spirit looms
seemed to be changing colors, ever so slightly, and perhaps even…
moving.
Gavon tore his eyes from Vae’n’s gauntlets and focused them
on Vae’n’s eyes. “Why have you come here? Surely there is a better time
than now to take me out. Surely you wouldn’t take advantage of the
Falconreachian troubles just to sate your twisted thoughts of…
Vengeance.”
Vae’n snarled. Gavon always use his condescending, and
perhaps mocking, if in the right mood, tone. What advantage this gave
him, Vae’n had no idea. Perhaps it is only a way of enraging the enemy,
or buying time to think.
“I’ve come here the do what I do best in the
midst of chaos. Whether it be their chaos,” -Vae’n swept his hand
vaguely toward the rest of Falconreach- “Or otherwise. No matter whose,
someone still needs to put you out of your misery.” It now seemed that
this was the first time Vae’n truly took him into regard.
“What you do best… You mean murder innocent young’ns?” Gavon flashed a smile.
Vae’n
was attacking in a moment’s notice, his Soul Claws extended and
slashing. Gavon noted their color, which was unlike any he had ever
seen. They seemed a very dark orange, and when Gavon took the color into
regard it instilled a deep sense of longing in him. Not the innocent
longing, the longing a young boy feels for his lover, no, the violent,
fervent longing a madman feels when someone has taking something from
him. A longing for blood. A longing for vengeance.
He didn’t have
much more time to think about though, for now Vae’n’s enraged blows were
close enough to hit him, and he was forced to defend himself. When he
blocked the orange claws from the right, a great fan-fare of sparks went
up, thousands of sparks that didn’t go away after a moment, but instead
remained on the ground or in the air for a few seconds.
Vae’njaece
swung with his right hand at Gavon’s head, and when Gavon ducked,
Vae’n’s swing only revealed an opening. Gavon stabbed out at his side
with his sword, sure that this was the final blow. It was not. His
sword, instead of piercing Vae’n’s ribs, went straight through him, when
a great impact on the side of his head sent him soaring through the
air, into the far end of the tower roof stone railing. A few bricks fell
from the tower and plummeted down a hundred feet of air into the ground
as Gavon hit the wall shoulder first. His right shoulder, to be
specify, his sword arm, to be exact. His vision flashed yellow and red,
and dimmed. The pain in his shoulder was unbearable. The wall he was on
teetered and more bricks fell away.
Gavon tried to pull away from
the wall in time, before the wall finally collapsed outward, and he went
with it. Too late, though, for he felt the wall finally give and he
fell into open air. He jerked to a stop though, and he felt another hand
holding onto his left.
He looked up into the undead, rotting face of
Nesanel, who was the one grasping his hand, holding him up so he
wouldn’t fall to certain death.
After Gavon got over the initial
shock of seeing his friend turned into an undead thing, he said, “Even
in death, my friend.” And he smiled at Nesanel. He groaned in response.
Nesanel
hoisted Gavon up, setting him back on his feet on the roof of the
tower. Gavon, despite his fear of what he might see, looked over to his
right shoulder. He found it dislocated, hanging limp by his side, a
little longer than normal, and that his upper arm there was torn and
mangled, revealing muscles and a little bone.
Now Gavon looked to
Nesanel. Dressed in his once gleaming steel and gold Dragonlord armor,
which was now muddy and dented. His face, which was visible since he had
no helmet, was a pale green color. Deep depressions were under his
sunken eyes, and part of his left cheek was torn to some of his teeth
were visible. Other than that, he looked almost like he had in life. A
sick replica of the once proud Nesanel Wolfblade.
Now Gavon looked
to Nesanel’s eyes themselves. They were pale blue, like always, but they
now held a torrent of emotions, rather than the usual joy they once
held. Gavon scanned these new emotions in his eyes. Hate, hopeless rage,
despair, none of those addressed at Gavon, but seemingly at the world
itself. All the emotions of captivity, Gavon noted.
Finally, when
Gavon was able to tear himself from Nesanel’s sad eyes, he regarded all
three people on the roof top, aside from himself. It would seem it is a
reunion of all the people who hate him, and probably hated him in the
end, the latter referring to Nesanel.
Gavon felt something being
placed in his left hand, and Gavon looked to see Nesanel had given him
his sword, which he must have dropped.
“I can’t fight with my left
arm. I haven’t trained for that.” Gavon told Nesanel. Nesanel shrugged
as if to say “You can’t fight with your right, either, so you best give
it a shot.”
Gavon turned to Rav and Vae’njaece, who simply glared at him and Nesanel.
“It
would seem I was wrong. You do have Nesanel here to protect you. What’d
you do, turn him into your undead minion?” Vae’n accused. Gavon was
about to snap back something when a roar from the opposite side of the
roof from Gavon. Everyone was silent. Another roar.
A huge, white
dragon, with rotting flesh, came barreling over the side of the tower,
grabbed Vae’njaece in his claws, flew over Gavon’s head, and went down
the opposite side of the tower. Another roar.
“Neo.” Nesanel grunted
in a guttural, discordant, growl. It seemed like it took a lot of strain
to get the words out. Gavon did have time to dwell on the recent
happenings, for Rav was upon him once more. Their swords clashed once,
twice, and then there was a thunk. The sound made when metal meets
flesh. But Gavon did not hit Rav, nor Rav him. It took a moment to
realize that Rav had hit Nesanel. It took a moment for Nesanel himself,
as well, for he had not been paying attention while Rav and Gavon
fought, his mind was somewhere else entirely. But now Gavon looked and
saw Rav’s silver and gold blade buried in Nesanel’s chest, straight
through his armor as if it were paper. Gavon thought he saw a hint of a
smile on Rav’s lips when he pulled his sword back, danced backwards, and
spun, blade outward and at neck level.
Nesanel’s head rolled to
Gavon’s feet, where it laid, one eye staring directly into his. It
blinked once, and then moved no more. Before Nesanel was just gone to
Gavon, dead, alive, there was no way of knowing, but now, he is dead.
Dead and died right in front of his eyes.
“Golden cabit tails…” Gavon
said without thought. He looked up and thought he saw a proud smirk on
Rav’s face, as if the exclamation satisfying him.
“And you don’t
think this is evil?” Gavon gestured down to Nesanel’s decapitated head
with his hand, never taking his eyes from Rav. Rav seemed confused for a
moment, and was about to respond, but Gavon took the opportunity to
attack.
His sword came down, carrying all his rage and anguish, again
and again, and Rav barely blocked each blow. He seemed taken aback by
the ferocity of attack.
We cannot hold back his attack much longer. Xarcm said.
Hold back his attack? What do you mean?
I mean his mental attack. Eventually he is going to break through and wreak havoc throughout your mind.
You
mean he’s been attacking this whole time?
It was really more of a
statement than a question, and she must have sensed that, for she did
not respond.
Gavon began to look at Rav in a new light. Powerful,
especially mentally, ruthless, and enraged by the thought of vengeance,
which it seemed everyone wanted from Gavon these days.
But perhaps he
was confused. Gavon surely saw it in his eyes. He was confused about
his new powers, and what they meant to him. Gavon was also sure he was
confused by the spirits. Kack had said Wraith’s have a closer connection
to their spirits than Revenants, but perhaps that was a disadvantage,
since he could probably hear all of his spirits more often.
It hit
Gavon then that Rav shouldn’t be able to walk. He looked down to what
should have been Rav’s mangled knee, when he kicked it and broke it, but
instead found it completely normal. To heal such a grievous wound would
have taken a lot of strength.
Gavon jumped backwards and dodged an
attack, then kicked at Rav’s legs once more. While he was distracted,
Gavon gathered up all of his strength, along with Xarcm and, through
her, the rest of his spirits, lowered his mental defences, and launched a
heavy attack at Rav’s mind.
Kack would have scowled, saying
something about how a Revenant is no match for a Wraith in mind, but he
is dead now, what does he know?
Rav finally realized what Gavon was
doing, and disengaged from the physical battle. He through up a mental
shield and stabbed out with his own attack, slipping through Gavon’s
lowered defences.
Gavon cringed and felt Rav slowly begin to destroy his mind.
What did you do?! Xarcm exclaimed, but Gavon was too focused on defending himself he did not respond.
But he then remembered what Kack had told him. Put the Wraith in a position where he can’t focus.
Gavon
jumped forward, fast as lightning, and stomped on Rav’s foot. He then
pushed Rav backwards, who then struggled to stay on his feet. Gavon kept
him off balance, slowly moving him backwards, to the edge of the roof.
Rav’s mental assault faltered, and Gavon jabbed out at his mind, then,
physically, pushed him again. And then again, and again, all the while
keeping him off balance with kicks and jabs. Finally, they were at the
end of the roof, and Rav teetered on the edge precariously, his arms
flailing about in a panic. The mental assault ended completely.
“So
this is how the first Wraith in a century dies,” Gavon growled
mockingly. He raised the tip of his obsidian blade to Rav’s throat, and
since the man could not back away without falling from the tower
entirely, it drew blood.
A roar sounded over the edge of the tower Rav balanced on.
Another roar.
Neo
rushed up over the edge, his belly nearly scraping against the tower.
His huge wings blotted out the sun-light as he rose higher and higher of
the tower. Enormous drops of thick, black blood fell from the sky and
landed all about the Wraith and Revenant.
Finally, Gavon saw the
dragon begin to come down, gaining speed as it went. Its wings folded to
its sides, contributing to its fall.
The dragon, Neo, went straight
through the center of the tower, crashing through levels below until it
landed on the ground. Now Gavon stood on the precipice between the roof
and the hole that he might fall through.
A unearthly shriek came from down below, and it was recognizable as Neo. It was heavily disturbing.
“It
would seem we are both on the edge, now.” Rav observed. More shrieking
came from below, as well as a great heat and light. The dragon must be
trying to breathe fire to save itself.
Finally, thankfully, the
shrieks stopped and the fire stopped. The silence was unsettling. The
sound of scraping filled the air, and Gavon recognized it was the sound
of stone on stone.
What are you doing?! Xarcm shouted. Push him off! You’re running out of time.
Gavon
remembered where he was, and that Rav was still struggling to maintain
balance. Too late, though, for Vae’njaece rose from the hole in the
roof, below him the tower reformed, brick after brick sliding into
place, and the end result was an unscathed tower, looking just as it had
before. Vae’njaece snatched the back of Gavon’s hair and threw him to
the opposite end of the tower, then grasped Rav’s hand and pulled him
forward, back onto solid ground.
Vae’njaece returned his attention to Gavon, and his eyes were smoldering with a deep hate that Gavon could not fathom.
Forgive
me, but necessity calls for this.
Xarcm said quietly in the
recesses of his mind. Something clicked in his head and it felt as if a
flood gate was opened. And flood it released, for memories, emotions,
and thoughts poured into Gavon’s mind. Most of the memories were
horrible; memories that made him shudder and almost sob. The emotions
were that of pain, sadness, and, at the same time, a great joy, an
unexplainable joy, a sadistic joy.
But the thoughts were the most surprising and frightening.
All the thoughts were of one thing: Murder Vae’njaece, murder Rav, take over and destroy everything.
Gavon
felt his skin tingle and looked down to see his hand was a pale blue.
He looked up to Vae’njaece and felt the foreign presences of his mind
snarl and snort, like wild animals. Gavon raised his hand and blue
lightning snaked out of it and struck Rav directly in the chest, but
Gavon never took his eyes off Vae’njaece.
“Have your vengeance if you
can, cave mouse.” Gavon said in a voice not his own, but deeper and
more confident. Vae’n roared and disappeared in a purple flash. Gavon
spun and swung his sword just as Vae’n materialized behind him. The
blade caught Vae’n in the forearm, but the gauntlet cushioned most of
the blow. Vae’n jumped forward and stabbed out with his Soul Claws, but
it seemed to Gavon as if more than two claws were attacking him, as if
there was a hundred.
Gavon, to his own surprised, blocked most of the
blows. He was hit by a few though, but instead of pain he felt a sort
of pleasure that unsettled him.
After a few minutes of blocking,
Gavon spotted a hole in Vae’njaece’s attack. Vae’n pulled his arm back a
little too far when preparing to strike again, and left himself open on
the right side of his stomach. Gavon struck out like a snake and
slashed Vae’n right where his defences faltered. The gray shirt he wore
was split open near his stomach from the blow, but the pale flesh in
view was soon blotted out as dark red blood poured from the wound. Vae’n
didn’t stop his attack when he received the gash, but instead attacked
with a renewed vigor. It was at least ten minutes before a hole in his
defences opened again, and by this time Gavon bore many cuts and burns,
as the Soul Claws almost had a heat-like effect to them. Vae’njaece was
slightly thrown to the side when Gavon blocked a blow with a
particularly powerful slash of his own. Gavon took advantage of Vae’n’s
loss of balance, and stabbed out at his stomach, again.
The blade
pierced through his shirt, his skin, then out his backside. Blood soaked
Vae’njaece’s shirt, then ran down, and soaked the very top of his
pants, as well. His Soul Claws went out, and Gavon stepped back to
admire his work. Vaen’s hands went to the wound, and then grasped
futilely at the blade, as if to pull it out, but the sword remained
planted in his stomach firmly.
Vae’n finally tore his eyes from the blade imbedded in his stomach and looked up into the eyes of his killer.
Gavon
leaned close and whispered into Vae’n’s ear, “All those days spent
planning your vengeance; wasted. The Chaos Weaver Nation will fall apart
without you to rule it. You’re a fool, Vae’njaece, and I have put you
out of your misery.” Gavon straightened and looked down on Vae’njaece.
“Sleep well knowing there is no such thing as justice.” The blade in
Vae’n’s stomach hissed with delight when the life of him seeped away,
forever.
Vae’njaece’s body slowly faded away in a purple mist, until
Gavon’s sword clattered to the ground. The mist dissipated. Gone
forever.
When the body of Vae’n was gone, Rav was visible. His mouth was gaping, and his shock was evident on his face.
“How did you…” Rav drifted off. Gavon bent down and picked up his sword. It was unscathed from the battle, not a scratch.
“It
is a well known fact that Revenant beats everything. Revenant beats
Chaos Weaver, Revenant beats Doom Wizard, and Revenant beats Wraith.” A
satisfied look crossed Gavon’s face.
“Your name… It’s not Rav, is
it?” Gavon asked, well, Gavon himself didn’t ask, but his body did. He
remembered Rav’s dark brown hair, the same color Kack’s had once been,
and his green eyes. That is, before he went into full Wraith-mode, and
let the spirits take over. His hair and eyes would come back. But,
besides that, he remembered Kack had told him about the signature green
eyes. Every Felarian-born had green eyes.
“I don’t… I don’t remember…” Rav seemed so confused all of the sudden, like a memory that wasn’t there was returning to him.
“How old are you?” Gavon asked for the first time.
“I
am seventeen years of age.” Gavon was nineteen. Two years seemed long
enough to come into the service of a Doom Wizard. Rage boiled up within
him as realization hit.
“What is your name?” Gavon shouted, taking long strides toward Rav.
“I don’t know!” He responded desperately. “I don’t remember!”
Gavon
used his mind to reach into Rav’s, who was too slow to throw up
barriers. His unexplainable confusion and sadness made him weak and
defenceless. Gavon sorted through his memories, but they began when he
was given to the guards at the gate of Oaklore. After that Gavon saw
when two particularly successful people in Oaklore took him in. Before
that there are only muddled sights and thoughts. Gavon projected
memories of his own on Rav’s mind, memories of Kack, memories of
Morthyst, thoughts and feelings. Suddenly the sights before his arrival
at Oaklore, as but a babe, became clearer. He saw Kack, he saw Morthyst.
Gavon dug at those memories, though he had already confirmed his fear.
”We should name him Dimitri.” Kack said. He looked up lovingly unto the eyes of Morthyst.
“I like that name.” She spoke softly.
“Dimitri it is, then!” Kack exclaimed happily. He seemed no to notice the deep sadness in Morthyst’s face until now.
“Why
are you sad, my dear?” Kack asked and he moved to hold Morthyst close. I
begin to drift to sleep, as I don’t understand the words around me.
“I
can’t let Master Sepulchure see, Kack. He will see me as weak in his
eyes. I can’t keep Dimitri.” She looked down at me. “Take him somewhere
else.”
“But… But I don’t…” Kack stuttered, but Morthyst pointed to a
hole that was opening above them in the roof. Sunlight poured inside
the room. Kack reluctantly took me in his arms, and climbed out of the
room, into the sunlight.
Days and days of traveling. The sights all look the same.
Until
finally my father and I arrive at Oaklore. He says a few words with the
guard at the gate, and then the guard takes me into his arms. He calls
for the gates to be opened. The gates do open, and he takes me inside.
Suddenly I can’t remember anything up until this point.
Everything before now is blackness.
Gavon staggered a step back and retreated from Rav, or rather, Dimitri’s mind.
The
look upon previously Rav’s, now Dimitri’s, face was that of conflicting
emotions. Gavon felt his own thoughts tampered with, his thoughts of
Kack, and his realization that Kack is merely his uncle.
“…Cousin?” Dimitri haltingly said.
“No.
I am not related to you. You are the child of that wretch and my love…
You are a stain.” Gavon growled and slowly moved forward, toward
Dimitri. “You stain something beautiful, and I’d have you removed.”
A
roar to Gavon’s right caught his attention. Not a mile away a huge
dragon made solely of bones appeared. He had not seen it before now, nor
could he feel the great wind its boney wings produced. It must be magic
keeping it flying. Atop its back was a large mound of earth and atop
that a huge black fortress.
“By the avatars...” Gavon uttered under his breath.
“Sepulchure is coming.” Dimitri acknowledged.
“Then we don’t have much time.”
Gavon
swung his obsidian blade at Dimitri, who deftly brought up his own
steel one and blocked. Gavon quickly spun away and swung yet again, this
time at his back. Dimitri jumped to the side and stabbed out at Gavon.
This
went on for nearly ten minutes, when the undead dragon, or rather,
dracolich, was close enough to smell. To smell the sulfuric scent that
came off of it. But Gavon could only smell it for a moment, for the
smell faded slowly until it was gone. He noticed he couldn’t smell
anything, anymore.
[i]It happens when you are in like this for too
long.
Xarcm said, referring to his blue skin. And usually at this
stage the spirits take over… Forever. I’d recommend hurrying up this
battle. I can’t hold back the rest of them from fully taking your body
for themselves for much longer. You’re lucky you have one so kind as I
in your corner.
He felt her withdraw from the contact and he thought
he really was lucky for her. Dimitri and Gavon separated from the
battle for a moment, and then stood back away from the other, panting.
They were at the same level of exhaustion, but Gavon had been fighting
much more, what with Vae’njaece.
He kept a close eye on the
dracolich fast approaching. It was huge. The size of its head alone is
the size of the long stone store in Falconreach, the one with the
unusual green man out front.
That dragon thing is coming in a
little fast. I hope he doesn’t intend to…
Gavon trailed off as he
put the pieces together. If Sepulchure sent a huge dracolich to crash
into the Guardian Tower of Falconreach, which stood like a beacon of
hope to the civilians, and the dragon succeeded in crashing into it and
taking it down… The morale of the citizens would plummet…
“Sepulchure is going to crash that thing into the tower.” Gavon said through heavy breaths. Dimitri looked up and gasped.
“You’re right.” He acknowledged, then looked back down and continued to pant. “What are we going to do about it?”
“We could run, but I’m not letting either of us leave before one of us is dead.”
“Then
I suppose we don’t have much of a choice.” Dimitri straightened out and
held his sword out in front of himself in a trembling hand, assuming a
battle-stance. Gavon did the same.
Quick as a snake, Gavon slapped
the flat of his blade against that of Dimitri’s effectively knocking his
sword away. It slid with a steely scraping sound until it teetered on
the edge of the tower, then fell.
Dimitri tried to invade Gavon’s
mind, but his assault was quickly stifled and defences were thrown up.
Gavon lowered his sword to his side, ran forward, and with a great
heave, kicked Dimitri over the edge of the tower, as well. A scream
filled the air, but it fell with Dimitri, and it eventually stopped
abruptly.
Gavon again survives yet another battle. The stain was
removed. Satisfaction etches itself into his features. The satisfaction
is short lived, however, when the dracolich barrels into the tower.
Gavon felt every stone, every brick in the tower move. He heard things
crash on lower levels, and the center of the roof once again caved
inwards. The side of the wall where the dracolich crashed into, the side
opposite of Gavon, collapsed into the tower, and then the side he stood
on collapsed outward. As he fell down, he saw his flesh fade back to
its normal pale pink.
A piece of stone fell onto Gavon’s head, and all went black.

Darkness. Black. Stone.
He
was buried under a mountain of stone. It was like being buried in the
soil when he finally managed to escape the underground. But now he was
back. Buried.
A large oak crossbeam rested on two huge stone blocks
long ways, parallel to Gavon’s body. Also instead of a great many small
tiny bricks, Gavon was buried in large pieces of stone. This made it so
not so many rocks came in from the side, under the crossbeam. It was
like a coffin, Gavon thought. Enough room to move your arms, but not sit
or stand. Gavon raised his hand to his forehead. He felt thick, sticky
liquid, from when the brick hit him. Blood mixed with dust. It had not
dried yet, which told him he had not been out for that long.
Gavon
was thankful for the dust, however, because it mixed with the blood and
made it so not so much would pour from the wound, and he would not have
bled to death while he was unconscious.
He briefly remembered what had happened, and where he was.
Gavon
felt around his coffin for his sword, but could not find it. He felt an
empty despair without it. It had become a part of him.
He raised his
hand and placed it on the crossbeam above him. He said a silent spell,
and a spear of air ran through it, and the stone above it. He looked
through the small tunnel the spear created, and saw only bricks and
stones ahead until he couldn’t see any farther.
So this is how it ends, Gavon thought. Trapped under a mile of stone.
He
sat there for nigh upon an hour, when he heard voices. Not the usual
voices in his head, but real voices. A gleaming spike protruded from the
wall to his right, and Gavon recognized it as a pickaxe, though he’s
never actually seen a pickaxe in his lifetime. The pickaxe disappeared,
and light poured into the small coffin he was in. In came back again,
this time taking part of the wall with it. The voices turned to excited
shouts. The pickaxe left, and came back, again and again, until he could
see the three men with pickaxes to his right.
“Are you alright?”
The lead man crouched down and offered his hand to Gavon. The hole was
now big enough for Gavon to fit through.
“Yes, thank you, I am fine.”
Gavon took the hand of the man and he pulled him out of the rubble.
“Have any of you seen a sword around here? Longsword, obsidian?” The
three all shared glances and shook there heads.
“You shouldn’t be
worrying about a sword, you’re lucky you’re alive,” The leader of the
group said, “Most of the ones we found weren’t,” The other two visibly
cringed.
“I suppose you’re right,” Gavon admitted, “Is the battle still raging?”
Another cringe.
“Yes,
but the town is already… It’s in horrible disrepair. I’d rather still
be fighting then have to dig out the people trapped under the fallen
tower. But never mind that, we need to get you off the platform. We’re
fortunate the entire thing hasn’t collapsed into the sea yet.”
The
man nodded to a woman far to the right that Gavon hadn’t noticed before.
She dropped her shovel and took Gavon by the arm, then led him to the
pathway down to Falconreach, which was part way collapsed, but was being
repaired.
The woman left him in the town square then returned up the
pathway. Once again, Gavon was surrounded by the strange shop that
glowed blue, Serenity’s Inn, and a pathway leading into the housing
district of Falconreach. Between the buildings, a thousand villagers,
militia, and the scattered knight fought off undead. They wouldn’t let
them take the square, as if it was their heart, and the undead forces
were a poison. A sudden thought struck Gavon, and it brought him
despair. All of his ties to his past severed.
Vae’njaece is dead, so
is Rav, er, Dimitri, Kack, and even Nesanel. Nesanel, the one who he
had spent the most of his life with, and perhaps ones of his only real
friends. The one thing that kept him holding on to his past, though how
horrible the past had been, was his sword, and he couldn’t even keep a
hold on that.
What was next? Gavon thought. Possibly nothing. Life
may be over, and what comes next is the long descent into retirement
and, eventually, death. No, that is not the fate of a Revenant, one so
cursed, and blessed.
Perhaps what comes next is domination. You
could take over the Dragonlords, the Necropolis, everything. You’re life
will at least be a couple hundred years long. I think you could
accomplish such great goals as those,
Xarcm suggested.
Perhaps…
I would be particularly interested in the Necropolis,
Though he’d
never seen never seen the Necropolis himself, he had memories of it.
Memories spawned from somewhere else, But I don’t think I can do
things like that alone… I intend to live out my hundreds of years and
die naturally. Not by the hands of a million petty Necromancers.

Reasonable enough, Was all Xarcm replied with before retreating from his mind.
Gavon briefly thought about joining the battle, fending off undead, but then determined his chances were slim without a sword.
Until he looked down.
The
obsidian longsword was planted firmly in the earth in front of him. He
had not noticed it before, though he was standing right next to it. It
was almost like it had materialized out of the dust the defenders kicked
up.
Gavon reverently bent down and pulled the sword out of the
ground. The letters engraved in the blade began to glow green, as if it
sensed the presence of its wielder.
Forma I Passus. Respice Delicatus, mi Mina. Beauty in Suffering. Look Nice, my Dear.
Gavon
closed his eyes and lightly, gently, gripped the handle of the sword.
He felt bumps rise in the handle itself, they pushed into his hand, not
in an uncomfortable way, but in a way that reminded him they were there.
He held the blade with his other hand, then released his grip on the
handle and instead held the very bottom of the hilt.
The bumps on
the handle were bumps at all, but words, or rather, a single word.
Morthyst. The name of his blade, he realized. Its name would be
Morthyst.
As if an afterthought, Gavon checked to see if the sword
remained uninhabited by spirits, as it was when he first got it. It was
not empty. Gavon further probed the spirit he found inhabiting his
sword. At first it resisted his efforts to identify it, then it ceased.
Gavon examined it.
It was Morthyst, the person.
Gavon wept.
She
did not make any effort to contact him, only acknowledged his presence.
He sensed a great pain coming from her, and he received only a single
thought from her: The sword must torture me to keep me here.
Then I must set you free!
Gavon
received only denial, and then a deep love. Love for him, he realized.
She wanted to be there. But then she didn’t say another word, despite
his questions. Whenever he left, the last thought he received from her
was one of peace. Serene peace. The thought confused him.
Rage
boiled up inside Gavon, rage and bloodlust. All of his ties to his past
were not severed, no, he still had the sword his love was trapped in,
his love who was resigned to live in torture forever only to be with
him. And he had to let her. It made him furious there was nothing he
could do to lessen her pain. Gavon spotted a pure white kerchief
floating in the wind to his left. He snatched it from the air and also
picked up a spear. He tied two corners of the kerchief to the spear,
right below the sharp head, making a flag-like thing.
Gavon tied the
shaft of the flag to his back with a piece of rope, making sure it was
secure, and then let loose a mighty roar. The roar carried across the
battlefield with unnatural strength and loudness. It caused several
people, human and undead alike, to look towards him. Gavon hefted his
sword up into the air and charged toward the solid wall of defenders.
There was no break in the militia to move through to get to the undead,
so he cut his own way through. Dark red blood stained his flag.
Finally,
he had slashed his way to the undead forces. Most of the blows he
landed on the skeletons and zombies were that of on the head, slicing
their skulls in half. The blood of the undead stained parts of the now
red flag black. Those who looked upon it could almost see the
resemblance between it and a black sky with red lightning striking
across it. The villagers backed away from Gavon, his fury striking out
everywhere, and on everyone, but a few brave men in armor gathered
behind him, bent on following this man who was single-handedly
destroying undead by the dozens.
Gavon’s rage was so strong, in
infected the men behind him, those that followed him, with a bloodlust
all their own. They gathered formed a wall, Gavon at the center, and
repelled the undead down the street they were attacking from, past
burning homes, through of the oak gates that were now blasted open, and
outside of Falconreach.
Gavon drew upon the strength of the men
following him, and cast a single, powerful spell that repulsed the
invading undead far back, killing many from the impact. They retreated.
Gavon
and his battalion of soldiers repeated this process with the others
main streets, until all that remained was a few undead that shuffled
about, which the unarmored militia dealt with.
Gavon, his fury
finally sated, turned and regarded the men following him. Most armored,
around twenty in all. Their clothing and armor was painted black and
gray from the soot of the burning buildings, and the black blood of the
undead. The all looked at him, a hopeful gleam in their eyes. The battle
seemed to have excited the men, rather than despair them, as it would
have with others. It only fueled their joy rather than lessen it.
Gavon
tightened his grip on Morthyst, his sword, and felt the word upon its
handle. It filled him with a desolate, alone feeling, but also made him
feel unexplainably content.
“Today we defend Falconreach… Tomorrow
we own it!” Gavon didn’t know what made him say that, but the men seemed
to be happy with it, for they cheered. A thought struck him.
“We are the Dark Knights!” He roared.
“We are the Dark Knights!” They all repeated back to him.
Unity, strength, brotherhood…
This is what comes next.


- Gavon Felarian

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