Curse

Balan Makki · Mar 03, 2008, 02:05 PM // 14:05

Staggering back under the enormous pressure of the bone-splitting howl, Tal can only do what instinct dictates—he runs. Panic can manifest itself in many ways, the most common manifestation being stupidity. The boy runs the wrong way; away from home; away from safety, away from the blood curdling wail.

As insignificant as a lost whisper caught upon a winter wind, Tal feels small and alone. His stride through the underbrush is strong and desperate, though uncertainty and fear are his only guide. Many a time has he run these woods—days of play and boyish challenge—foot races against other boys, sometimes following a soaring eagle or hawk up the valley to their hidden nest upon some tall cliff. Tonight he runs for his life, away from the chilling presence at his back. He runs into the darkest depths of the forest, having left the ice stormed bog behind. He is now completely lost. He begins to fear where he is headed, as much as what he runs from; for every turn in the grasping woods, from every misstep grows a sense of hopelessness. Tonight nothing lives in the forest; no creature dare make a sound, or venture from borough or high perch. The ghostly demon from the Mists now echoes in the soul-deep silence of a nightmare revealed; a hidden dream awakened like déjà vu.

Tal stops for only a moment to catch his breath, looking for signs to guide his next step. Nothing is familiar, and nowhere within this nightmare does he feel safe, no direction dare he hazard. His heartbeat knocks against a warm glowing weight upon his chest; the heartstone about his neck is still warm as if just plucked from his mother’s breast. He holds it in his palm and a shard of light pierces the woodland depths. The compass stone shows him the way. A glimmer points beyond, uphill, perhaps up the valley, most certainly towards some unknown destination. Then a crackled hardening sound grows from silence and behind he sees . . .

If shadows could cast light, they would appear such as this, the sight of a blossoming ice storm grown from a void of ether black. The wolf steps with a trotting gate, it’s thick flowing fur snowing a trail of frost; the forest, and all that lays about in shadow, becomes transformed by winter’s grasp, starlight and moonbeam swirling in the crystal brilliance, this way comes a creature who rides the winter wind, a spirit-kin to Volfen of Northern Norm legend.

Balan Makki · Mar 03, 2008, 03:55 PM // 15:55

Tal follows the guiding light cast by the heartstone, running harder than he has ever run. The warmth and certainty of his father’s last vestige held tight in his hand giving him new strength. A glowing beam hovers ahead and he follows it—blind faith leads him on. Never had he really know his father, only a few snatched memories. Sometimes his farther, Talrend, would return from the campaign to visit. He remembers bouncing on his father’s knee, he remembers many year past a ballad sung of war and: Tal remembers. He begins to sing and runs ever harder.

“Here we stand, where none fear the truth.
Here we fight, though none fall in vain.
Here we die, never a love forgotten,
Your daring sacrifice commands the day,
Always enduring; courageous and bold.

“Tomorrow brings new hope and wonder,
Tomorrow blesses the meek and kind,
Tomorrow bares forth leaders anew,
Thy wholesome soul forever thrives;
Always enduring; fearless and bold.

Tal finds a familiar path and now knows a short distance hence will reveal the notch of Trefort jutting from the valley side—a refuge and sanctuary—a place to make a final stand.

“Now is your time, take hold and thrive,
Now touch your love, for they that you climb,
Now see your fate for which you are . . .

Tal stops at the foot of the hill, a lonely howl wallows in the chill night air, echoing down the valley. He looks up to sees a mysterious fire glow from within Trefort. He whispers,

“Now see your fate for which you . . .

Rather than climb upwards to Trefort to discover the source of the strange fire, Tal turns and stands. Though having run harder than he can ever remember, his breath is now steady and slow. The howl echoing on the autumn wind diminishes. Slowly the massive frost wolf materializes from thin air, reality peeling back as its maul, head and neck push through an unseen portal, the furred mass attracting air and night like static, turning all to frost while taking complete form. Tal releases the heartstone, and it dangles at his neck, brighter than ever.

“Now see your fate . . .

Balan Makki · Mar 03, 2008, 03:56 PM // 15:56

The eyes again penetrate deep into the hidden dreams of Tal’s being, something familiar, yet unseen—the eyes will not let go and a deep low growl boils forth in challenge. Tal is defenseless having nothing to fight with, nothing but— His hand brushes at his side and he feels something solid in his pocket. The rock Uncle Jebtha had handed him—Jebtha’s sniping pebble. Tal draws it out slowly and cocks his arm. The wolf stops growling and sets front paws apart, lowering its head, readying to pounce. Tal digs his toes to leverage the earth. The wolf feints like a dog at play, Tal reacts by lunging forward snapping his hips and whipping the stone. The pebble flies fast and true, directly at the wolf’s head, a split second before impact the wolf snatches the pebble, as easily as catching a bothersome fly in mouth. A smear of white streaks at Tal knocking him flat on his back, a paw the size of a digging spade pins him. Sparkles of frost drip from the wolf, but its paw is surprisingly supple and warm. Its muzzle, now in Tal’s face, exhales a breath even warmer still, and it drops the sniping pebble on Tal’s chest. Though it smells of musky fur and fishy skale breath, something seems even more tangible, real and non-magical about the beast. Pressing the breath out of Tal, the wolf suddenly leaps away. A mule brays a harkening call to arms in the far off distance; the wolf’s ears prick high at attention. As suddenly as it had appeared it is now gone, in a blizzard gale, gusting through the dark woods.

Tal scrambles to his feet, shocked, shivering and confused by the unreal encounter; he watches the forest frost thaw to dew as the spell wanes. Wasting no time he makes his way up onto the ledge of Trefort. Looking out he sees a trail of frost-white streak down the valley towards Ten Brooks Bog. Then, further still, he hears the distant bray of Belle the mule. He turns and tentatively steps into the strange green glow emanating from within.

Balan Makki · Mar 03, 2008, 04:02 PM // 16:02

A fire burns in the decommissioned fire pit, but no sight or sound of anyone within, though someone has been here. Someone has tossed wood-ears and other bark upon the fire. An old stump seat that lay by, someone has now split apart into kindling, most of which fuels the glowing embers. The quartz and copper ore used by Munks and Tal to model Tyria’s Hope still stands erect in the center of the fire pit, but is now aglow in green flame. Much of their map is now changed, the coastline has been brushed away, and there are rivers and mountains in places they had never suspected. At the fare corner of the map, upon the granite spires of Slaines castle, drapes a small bristling rabbit pelt, white and newly skinned; upon that sits the box turtle shell and riding atop is the shriveled mouse of a necromancer.

But most strange of all, is a spear of ebon shaft and bronze head, standing beyond the green fire, struck deep into a stump seat. Tal steps over and touches the smooth varnish of the polished shaft. He wrenches it from the stump and turns the blade upward. Set in base of the spearhead is a glowing jewel that pulses with inner radiance. Tal lifts his father’s heartstone in comparison—they are identical, and they beat as one. Above the inset twin-heartstone, thus fretworked into the tarnished blade, is an inscription, worn and old:

“For Talrend my love,
Always enduring; peerless and bold.”

The two heartstones are held together, and within the pulsing whorls appear eyes of sunset blue fraught with an edge of fire.

Balan Makki · Mar 03, 2008, 04:20 PM // 16:20

Chapter Two

Royal Pains . . .