Vlanin

[Script Wrecked]

A bright burning light appeared on the low horizon. Golden rays swept across the landscape, chasing away the languishing shadows of the night. As it ascended into the sky, the dwarves who had already started their day were transfixed. Soon, they could no longer bare to gaze upon its fiery majesty. They were left to marvel at the rich blue canopy vaulted high above them. Tears ran from their eyes. They cried and wept.

The clan bell rang across the valley. Soon the entire clan had assembled to view this new wonder.

The sky was clear. The sun shone again.

...

The clan bell rang throughout the clanhold. Not the call to assembly as had roused the clanfolk that morning, but the returning bell. A warhost had made its way back from the tunnels. Some of the clansfolk reluctantly tore themselves away from whatever they were doing under the new sun to gather at the Under Gate. Others rushed to greet the returning heroes with the good news or to meet their loved ones again.

Then the mourning bell sounded.

Their hearts dropped with the peal of the bell. The dread news rolled over the clanfolk like a second wave of despair. The high priest of Dorand and master crafter of the hold had fallen in battle with the enemy.

Those assembled at the Under Gate bore witness as his body was born out of the Under Passage and raised high on a litter of shields. He still wore the heavy armour he had spent so long crafting and recrafting.

To die in battle was an honor for the dwarves, yet the measure of the loss was the grief that took their hearts. Tears ran from their eyes. They cried and wept.

ooo

The body of the priest of Dorand had been burnt on a huge pyre in measure of the esteem that he had been held. Under the clear night sky, it seemed the stars themselves shone in new brilliance for the fallen hero. A dwarf was normally burnt in the armor they had fallen in. However, the crafters had petitioned for its return so that they could carry on the work of their fallen master.

The clansfolk had gathered in the great hall as the ossuary that now held his bones was interred in the Vault of Heroes.

Vlanin stood to the edge of the crowd, not far from the entrance to the Vault. He considered the pledge that he had made when the priest had questioned the value of wizardry. The words of a younger dwarf echoed in his ears.
[INDENT]"Ay wull do ma' duty, wheth'r yoo approve o' ut oo'r nay, Hamm'r'r. Ay wull learn ma madgicks, an' become a fell force fer ma kin."
[/INDENT]
Now, now he would never be able to show him. Too soon he had fallen, like so many warriors before him, and now forever lost, whatever the future outcome.

The clan leaders returned from the Vault. Final words of bravery and sacrifice were spoken. With a heavy heart, those assembled slowly left.

Vlanin caught up with Agrim as he departed the hall.

Agrim spoke his thoughts, "A foin warrior, priest, an' craft'r. A dwarf o' many talents. He died fer wot he believed un."

Vlanin spoke softly, "Ut seems sum ar' sacrificin' themselves fer a cause they believe un."

Agrim turned and looked at Vlanin.

Vlanin meet Agrim's gaze for as long as he dared, then looked away.

[Script Wrecked]

"But, unstead, they took tha gnoll pups ta raise." Vlanin looked at Agrim for his reaction.

Agrim snorted his incredulity. "Better to ha'e kull'd them. Thar only goin' ta become maraudin' gnolls. An' ifn they troi'd ta return them ta tha gnolls, loikely they woold ha'e kull'd them as unwant'd orphans."

Vlanin proceded to unveil his loaded question. "Aye, tha's wot tha conventional wisdom moight say. But wot if they coold be rais'd un a civilis'd mann'r, taugh' proper values, luft'd oot o' thar savag'ry."

Agrim narrowed his eyes, looking at Vlanin thoughfully. "Ay think yoo moight foind tha' fer every civilis'd orphan, thar's ten adopt'd paren's mur'd'r'd un thar sleep by a wee beastie conflict'd by uts learn'd behaviour an' ut's true nature."

"But..." Vlanin stammered.

Agrim continued with Vlanin's own allegory, "Hoo do such woold be, sum moight say int'rferin', paren's negotitate such a path when they ha'e nay dun ut a'fore?"

Vlanin shrunk.

[Script Wrecked]

Vlanin sat brooding in the corner of the drinking hall. It had been a bad time for human girl children.

Firstly, a little girl had been kidnapped by vampires. That expedition had gone well enough; the arch vampire had been vanquished, and the small girl had been saved, though they had suffered a casualty.

Then, whilst on a mission to retrieve a giant stone head, another human girl had been held for ransom by some half-orc Corathite priest demanding monies; lots of monies. Single handedly, he had rendered the entire group impotent. To make matters worse, in the attempted rescue, the half-orc had escaped and the little girl slain. It was only be intervention of their cleric that she had been called back.

Unfortunately, the trip proceeded in the Thunder Peaks, where all magics failed. Vlanin had felt as useful as a bump on a log.

It seemed wherever he went, action was desparately needed to be taken, but he was always rendered incapable.

Vlanin glowered and fumed.

Finally, he went to take a drink from his mug, but, to his annoyance, knocked it to the floor.

"Bah!"

In his temper, he deliberately bumped the table over as he stomped out of the hall.

[Script Wrecked]

Vlanin stomped into his master's hall. He almost ran into Agrim, who was apparently just leaving or just returning, with his cloak and staff.

"When ar' we goin' ta do sumat aboot tha troobles?" Vlanin demanded.

Agrim looked squarely at him.

"Hoo many kin ha'e ta die a'fore yoo'll try tha book?" he said accusingly.

"All o' them?" he shouted incredulously.

"Hoo dar' yoo," Agrim barked. "Wot do yoo know o' wot ay ha've dun, o' wot ay ha've bin doin', un tha defence o' oor kin?"

"Ay know wot yoo ha'e nay dun," Vlanin retorted. "Yoo ha'e nay tried tha book.

"Dud ut ev'r occur ta yoo tha' ut were deliv'r'd ta uz ta be us'd aginst tha enemy?" he accused.

"Yoo impudent pup." Agrim went to whack Vlanin on his shin with the toe of his staff.

Perhaps if Vlanin had accepted the reprimand for his poor behaviour, things might have transpired more calmly. But he didn't. Vlanin had been in the lands too long now. It was a reflex; he blocked Agrim's blow with his own staff, his face glowered in frustration and anger.

Perhaps if Agrim had been more understanding of his apprentice, things might have transpired more calmly. But Agrim wasn't about to accept his insolence. He should to be reprimanded for his rude behaviour. So Agrim struck low again.

Again Vlanin defended, this time parrying Agrim's staff high and away, as though he'd disarmed him, nullified his reprimand.

This fuelled Agrim's ire. He launched into a flurry of blows against his pupil.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, Vlanin's expertise had been honed by years in a hostile land; a good defence was a good defence. He blocked each blow that Agrim struck; flank, flank, center, counter lunge to push his assailant back, high, low. Agrim was unable to penetrate Vlanin's defence.

In this moment of passion, this served Vlanin as confirmation that he was correct, that he had the moral high ground. This was trial by ordeal, and he had the upper hand.

Then Agrim stopped. In a moment of clarity, he realised what was taking place. He stepped back from his apprentice, looking squarely at Vlanin, concerned where this might go next.

Vlanin stared back. He was pleased to have been able to finally hold his own ground; one small success after being continuously undermined. He was also pleased that he hadn't struck his master; his victory was on many levels.

Satisfied, he lowered his staff, nodded graciously as a victor might, and withdrew from the hall.

[Script Wrecked]

Vlanin walked across the drinking hall towards his usual corner.

"Ah, Mast'r Vlanin. Care ta share a tale oo'r two wid uz?"

Vlanin stopped and thought to himself of his latest venture, and how he might begin the tale, "Then thar were tha' toime we were swallow'd by a cat..." He considered for a moment, then shook his head.

"Sorry, lads, ay ha'e nay story ta tell. Things ha'e bin, err, uneventful." he said, apologetically.

[Script Wrecked]

Dealing with some undead abomination? What were they thinking?

The group Vlanin had been travelling with at the behest of an Aragenite scholar had found a lost tomb under the burning sands of the desert. The tomb held some long lost undead creature in a magical stasis. However, one of their number, for reasons only known to themselves, had thought it worthwhile to free the creature. They had proceeded to deal with the foul abomination for a reward it had offered. It turned out the gift the beast offered was death, and for them to take its place in the stasis.

Vlanin thought incredulously. Was there any doubt that this was going to be it's motivation, that it was going to be duplicitous? There was a long and documented history of undead and daemonic, and sometimes mortal, creatures having ulterior motives. They were always going to get more out of what transpired than they promised.

Fortunately, the group had been up to the task of stopping it from wreaking its vengence on the world.

[Script Wrecked]

Vlanin surveyed the scene at the Under Gate.  Like the aftermath on a battlefield, wounded dwarven warriors wrestled with their injuries. The clan clerics hurried to tend those they could. But worse was the number of warriors that laid still on the cold hard floor, beyond the reach of any pain.

And still the injured and the fallen came through the Gates.

Vlanin's blood boiled. An old anger choked at his throat, squeezed at his heart.

...

Vlanin marched into the librarium. "Ay'm takin' tha book."

Agrim looked up in concern at his apprentice's bold declaration. "Vlanin, yoo canna." He rushed to step between Vlanin and the book's hiding place.

But Vlanin had prepared. He pushed Agrim away with his magical strength. Agrim toppled to the floor.

Vlanin released the ossuary from its hiding place and withdrew the lid. There it was. His heart skipped a beat in relief. Finally, he was going to have it. He reached in and took the shrouded book.

Vlanin felt the dweomer dissipate around him. "Nay, Vlanin," a stern voice resonated.

Agrim thrust his arms to take the book from Vlanin. Both held the book tightly, trying to wrest it from the other. Shove and push as they might, they were evenly matched physically.

"Yoo canna ha'e tha book, Vlanin," Agrim's voice rasped.

"Ay mus' save oor kin." Vlanin replied between breaths. "Ifn yoo're nay wullin' ta take tha risk, ay am," he spat.

"Ut wull devour you."

"So wot ifn ut does? Wot uz wun moor'e death amongst so many," he glowered at Agrim.

While they were matched in strength, Vlanin had the advantage of youth. It seemed Agrim was begining to tire, to lose his hold on the book.

Suddenly an explosion of flapping black feathered wings and cawing erupted around Vlanin's head. He released the book to protect his face. Agrim's crow chased Vlanin as he retreated from the librarium.

Agrim drew breath as he looked distainfully down at the book now in his hands. "Seems yer fell influence stull reaches oot aft'r all these yars."

[Script Wrecked]

The noise from the braying of the minotaurs filled the halls, punctuated by the clash of steel as the frontline fighters struggled to hold the line.

The heavy hoof falls of the charging minotaur shook the floor as it punched through the warriors' line.

Too late, the dark robed dwarven wizard looked up to see the minotaur bearing down on him. Too late, he tried to cast a enchantment to protect himself.

The first crushing blow from its axe left him dazed. Defenseless, he was easy prey for the hewing blows of the minotaur's axe.

As the wizard fell to the ground, the noise of battle was interrupted by the shriek of the Soul Mother.

...

Vlanin found himself looking up at the sky at the base of the bindstone. He breathed again. But this time was different. This time he had been cut as he came back.

However, there was no time for reflections on mortality. He struggled to get back to his beseiged comrades.

...

Vlanin found himself looking up at the sky at the base of the bindstone again. No new soul wound, but the previous one still fresh on his psyche. For a moment, he hovered on the edge, looking up at the night sky, at the pin pricks of light in the darkness.

Then he breathed again.

[Script Wrecked]

"So, thar were tha dilemna, see." Vlanin was explaining his latest tale to Hoondin in the drinking hall.

"Wun group had direct'd uz ta retrieve tha lett'r unopen'd. But tha folk tha' ha'e tha lett'r were sayin' tha' ut woold put thus bad fellow un gaol."

Hoondin drew a long draught from his tankard of ale.

"But yoo see, nieth'r o' them were bein' completely honest, only tellin' tha' par' o' tha truth tha' suit'd them. Tha folk wid tha lett'r want'd ta oost thus fellow ta improve thar position. Whar as tha furst group want'd ta keep ta poo'r tha' they had.

"Seems folk ar' always concern'd aboot wot oth'r folk ar' knowing'," Vlanin said thoughtfully.

"Yoo know wot, Vlanin. When ay'm un tha tunn'ls, ay hit things wid ma axe," Hoondin grinned cheekily.

Both of them burst out laughing.

"Och, matey. Ifn ut whar all only tha' simple." Vlanin sighed.

His spirits dipped briefly has he remembered the details of his own predicament. But in the company of his good friend, Vlanin couldn't help but be more cheerful.

[Script Wrecked]

An explosion of flapping feathered wings and cawing erupted around Vlanin's head. But it was no crow that pinned him to the grassy plain under its weight, nor raked at his back with its talons.

Unable to regain his feet, the griffon made short work of the dwarven wizard. Its territorial supremacy preserved, the leonine avian took to the air.

Vlanin lay crumpled in the crushed grass at the threshold of death, his life force slipping away as his blood pooled on the dirt.

Then something unexpected occurred. Something from within said no. Whether it was his body or spirit, or something else unnamed, it held on in defiance of his predicament. The blood stopped flowing. Under the gaze of the midday sun, his body stabilized.

A few moments later, Vlanin was conscious again, unaware of the rallying call. He clambered to his feet, cast his spell of concealment, and made all haste to leave.

For several hours, Vlanin staggered across the plain. Finally, the sanctuary of Fort Homestead came within sight. He could rest and recover from his wounds.

But the dwarven wizard was not alone. A predator had followed the scent of his blood across the plains. Whether his concealment magic now failed, or the lion was able to discern him through other means, didn't matter. It pounced on Vlanin, and brought him down. In his weakened state, the beast quickly slew him.

This was too much. Whatever had held on now lost its grip in the tide of ordeal, and with it another soul strand tore away.

[Script Wrecked]

What a journey it had been. Of endless swamps and thundering trollocs. Of the largest bears that surely had ever been. And at the end, a huge blue dragon the likes of which the skies had not seen in an age.

And yet this was no tale fit for the epic sagas. The dragon, not dreadful nor majestic, displayed the worst traits of vanity and avarice. It seemed interested only in the baubles and trinkets they had brought, and of gaining more.

The group that he had travelled with, not one party in unity against the enemy, but rather arguing amongst itself; not fighting against the odds, but fighting each other. Vlanin had hoped that he might have been able to steer them towards their goal, that they might at least move in the same direction. But alas, the skill of leadership eluded him, and they did not respond to him personally.

Then the capricous nature of these humans revealed itself. In turn, one seeing fit to deal death to another. How Vlanin had longed to be in a group of his own kin.

On their return, their benefactor had shown the nature of his own scruples. It seemed he had never intended to make retribution, having knowingly set an impossible task.

Kin were kin. Everyone else, you had to be on your guard with. To think, he had considered trying to gain favor with this benefactor, to enlist his aid in his kin's struggle.

"Och, ut woold ha'e bin loike tryin' ta lie doon in a bed o' snakes," he muttered to himself.

But good fortune had intervened, and another of their group had sought the benefactor's favor before him. Sometimes, sometimes things worked out for the better, even when they seemed to be working against you at the time.

[Script Wrecked]

Whilst Vlanin had been sitting in an inn in Mariners' Hold whilst returning from Taur'en, a halfling lass had told those gathered her tale of the Unchosen of the Griffon Scouts. Of the hapless halfling who returned year after year to call his steed and none came, even while those around him received theirs. As the years past, this halfling served his kin to the best of his abilities, and yet still he was denied the opportunity to realise his dream to fly and his potential to serve. Finally, as the halfling was coming to the end of his years, he had called one more time, and this time a griffon had come. It seemed that cruel fate had worked to keep the two apart.

An innocent tale, whose simple words landed softly on the ears. It had slipped past the gruff and practised exteriors of many of those present, to soak through years of harsh experience to touch their hearts.

Vlanin had never been so moved by the words of another in many years of fireside stories. He had be undone by his empathy for the unfortunate halfling. It had been all he could do to maintain his dwarven decorum.

In the end, the griffon had born the halfling aloft, and in the style of halfling tales, the two were never seen again.

[Script Wrecked]

"An' so, thar ut were, thus hole punch'd unto tha soide o' tha cluff." Vlanin was telling his latest tale in the drinking hall.

A figure appeared in the doorway to the drinking hall wearing the cloak and hood of the tunnel runners. He beckoned to Vlanin.

Vlanin stood, uncertain. He made apologies to those who had been listening.

As he approached the figure, Vlanin could see he was battered by recent fighting.

"Yoo need ta come wid me to tha unfirmary."

Vlanin looked squarely at the dwarf. His eyes betrayed his pain and loss. The cold wave of dread washed over Vlanin.

He started walking after the dwarf, then marched past him, and finally broke out into a run for the infirmary.

The infirmary was crowded with wounded tunnel runners being tended by the clan clerics. Pieces of armor and equipment that had be hastily removed lay discarded about the floor. Vlanin scanned the faces has he hurried through the room. People were speaking, but he heard no words.

Vlanin  got to part of the room where no-one stood. A figure was laid out but no-one tended it. He rushed over, and yet it seemed an age between each footfall. With each step, the figure came more into view. Hoondin.

Vlanin's heart stopped.

He looked upon Hoondin's still face, his closed eyes, his unbreathing lips. His friend, still, lifeless. Vlanin's hand touched Hoondin's, but it was cold; Hoondin was gone.

Tears ran from Vlanin's eyes. He doubled over as he cried his grief.

[Script Wrecked]

"Ay've come fer tha book."

Vlanin didn't care any more. Not a day ago, he had buried his friend, fallen in the latest battle.

"Yoo'll nay be turnin' me away thus toime," he fairly seethed.

"Too many gude dwarves ha'e..."

His sentence was cut short as he was thrown back against the stone wall by a spell bolt.

Any physically pain was lost beneath the tearing pain of his recent loss. He got up off the ground.

"Foin," he glowered, the magical energies crackled omninously around his hand.

...

Vlanin stood over the crumpled body of his master, stunned in disbelief. Full of rage and remorse, the weight of what he had done was unbearable. He stood there for minutes, for hours, he could not tell, waiting, waiting for his master to move.

The realisation slowly soaked in, and with it, a bitter gall clawed at his throat. With resignation he remembered what he had come for. He reached down, but stopped himself, searching the robes worn by his now dead master with his eyes.

There, amongst the crumpled robes, at the end of a chain on his belt, a large darkened key.

...

Vlanin descended the stone stairs with heavy steps, leaning heavily against the wall, more than he might have cause to.

The door unlocked to the key, but seemed to resist his efforts to open until it finally pushed ajar. He stepped into the darkness, unwilling to disturb the gloom.

Vlanin released the ossuary from its hiding place and withdrew the lid, but to his dismay, only found an empty space. Frustrated rage welled up inside him.

He threw the room into light, and was about to start searching the shelves, when he noticed the reading lecturn, and upon it, a familiar heavy cloth shrouding a book.

Slowly he approached, unsure of what was about to unfold. He delicately drew back the cloth of the shroud, when a folded parchment fell to the floor.

He bent down to pick it up. Hesitantly, with trembling hands, he opened the folded parchment, and read the familiar runes of his master's hand.

[INDENT]"Ut seems yoo ha'e strength o' yer convictions, then. Yoo wull need tha strength, an' moo'er, fer wot yoo ha'e chosen ta do. Yoo see, poo'r mus' be taken, ma apprentuce. Nay wun can guv' ut to tha roighteous, them waitin' ta be foond worthy. Fer jus' as easily, ut wull be taken away. Poo'r knows nowt o' roight an' wrong, ut jus' uz. Roight an' wrong uz dun by tha wun tha' wields ut.

"But bewar' tha' tha wield'r dinna foind tha' they ar' tha wield'd, consoom'd by tha thing they though' they had mast'r'd.

"An' damm'd be yer soul ifn yoo fail."[/INDENT]

Vlanin's grief overwhelmed him, and he wept.

...

Vlanin returned to the hall. His eyes reluctantly looked at the body of his master.

He turned, and was startled when his master's crow lurched suddenly into view. It was perched in the low rafters, looking down malignly with its one good eye.

Momentarily, he heard the noise of armored dwarves marching across the courtyard. Shouts came up from outside.

He looked from his master's body, then to the crow. The bird only looked back, knowingly.

The footfalls got louder.

Quickly, he grabbed the shrouded book, and fled.

[Script Wrecked]

What had he done? What had he done? Vlanin's mind reeled.

Vlanin ran and ran and ran. He ran into the night, into the hills of Taur'en. He ran until his chest felt like it was burning, until his legs were laden like stone.

He finally missed a step on the uneven ground, and his aching legs swept away from underneath him. Vlanin crashed heavily into the rock strewn ground. The gravel tore at the palms of his hands and his face.

He lay on the sharp stones in the darkness, desparately trying to breath, the physical pain refuge from the agony of his actions.

[Script Wrecked]

In a dank cave under the Hills of Taur'en...

The red glow from a pentagram marked on the floor illuminates the stone, punctuated by a small light hovering above the vellum pages of a opened book. It is the dread Necromilliom.

The black sillouette of a hooded and robed dwarf steps into the center of the circle. His voice deep, he intones the arcane words. The manipulation of the weave that he feels this time is... different... darker... Threads of magic he has never taken in his hands before. Endeavouring to keep his voice steady, he recites the words of the ritual.

His eyes flick to his fingers. Are they red in the glow of the weave? Is it his own blood? Someone else's? A trick of his mind?

As he voices the last of the words, his whole body tenses with expectation. The cavern around him begins to darken.

Is it the cavern or is it his vision? Or... is it his soul?

...

When his vision clears, he is in his master's hall. The body of his master lies on the ground before him.

A dark figure, indistinct, it's form barely able to be comprehended by mortal mind appears in the room. It speaks to the hooded and robed dwarf, as much in his mind as in his ears.

"Vlanin, it is not too late... Your deeds can yet be undone... What's done is not yet written in the book of fate. Your master lies dead at your feet... This much is true... Yet... it is within my power to return his spirit to this realm. No things are beyond me... I can do this for you... for your kinsmen."

A feeling of hope and relief briefly washed over Vlanin, that he might yet escape the circumstance of his actions. But this is quickly quenched by the figure's next words.

"Yet... all things have a price. The book, Vlanin... the book... never again shall your eyes gaze upon it's secrets... never again can you explore it's... depths. Never again can you summon the power that you... desire."

Vlanin tried to speak, but his voice is bearly a soft rasp.

The dark figure bent down, it strokes Agrim's hair back from his brow, almost tenderly.

"I can return him to you... if you but let go of this... foolish dream, Vlanin."

Vlanin looked down on Agrim, choked full of remorse.

"Ay canna... Ay canna do tha', fer tha terms yoo name. Almost fer anything else, ay woold ha'e Agrim back. But so many oth'rs ha'e fallen... lain upon tha groond un thar own blood."

"You would not cease your... path for the sake of the one you called Master?"

"Ay dinna mean ta kull hum. Ay woold nay ha'e chosen tha'." Vlanin trembled as he spoke the words. "Ay mus' ha'e tha book... Ta save ma kin."

"And yet... now... when you can return him to life... still you would not... indeed you have killed him twice, Vlanin," the truth of the words pierced Vlanin like a lance, "... the first time was an accident... the second?"

Vlanin looked down with longing at Agrim. If only there could have been another way. Tears began to stream from his eyes.

"Come... come with me, kinslayer... I have more to show you."


// Taken from the log of Vlanin's CDQ, the words are largely Shadow's (excepting Vlanin's responses), with a little massaging into journal form. //

[Script Wrecked]

The vision of the hooded and robed dwarf cleared again. He is standing in a cavern like so many others, but strewn around the floor like broken dolls, bodies of berserkers lie freshly slain. The brutal memory of events past returned to him.

He looked down. The Necromilliom rested heavily in his bandaged hands. With a certainty, the darkness that had taken the life of so many of his kinsmen would return in moments. Yet, the person that stood there now was a different dwarf to he who stood in these halls and was struck down so many years ago. He had not dreamed that one day he might possess a means of... striking back.

"Vlanin?" a gentle female voice chirped.

Vlanin turned in shock. Mischa.

"So, wot ar' yoo doin' oot har all by yerself? Uts nay safe."

Vlanin's feelings of being glad to see her were quickly replaced by dread of someone accusing him of what he'd done.

"Mischa, ay..."

"Come wid me, Vlanin. Let us head back ta home, aye? Thus uz nay place fer yoo."

"Home?" Vlanin panicked. The last place he wanted to go back to with someone was the clanhold. "Err..."

"Thar be back any momen', Vlanin... We ha'e ta go."

Vlanin's mind was racing, trying to figure out what to say when the dread book began to thrum in his hands. A single thought pushed all others away. Somehow, he knew that to open the book was the means to achieve the revenge that has lain within his heart these long years.

"Aye. Aye," he stammered. "Bes' leave..."

For a moment, he meet her gaze, looked upon her Mischa longingly.

"But Vlanin... ifn ay go noo... ay go alone..."

"Mischa, bes' yoo go noo."

"Come wid me... my love," her eyes brim with tears.

Vlanin's heart almost melted at her words.

"Ay... Ay wull be foin," he smiled weakly.

"Thar be a home fer yoo, Vlanin..."

For a long moment he gazed upon her.

"Leave behin' thus... vengeance... Come wid me."

"Ay ha'e work ta do." He wiped his eye, "Ay canna come..."

The book verily throbbed in his hands, demanding that he open it. Vlanin held the book tightly, annoyed by its interruption.

"Bes' yoo leave noo, lass," he tried smiling at her again.

"Vlanin..." Mischa looked back, her eyes brimming with tears.

Vlanin watched as she moved away, wiping his eyes again.

In a soft echo of her voice, "Ay always wush'd ut were yoo tha' held me un hus arms at tha dance... Ay wush'd ut were yoo..."

Vlanin's heart almost dropped out of his chest.

The book became warm in Vlanin's hands. Scowl faced, he looked down and opened it. Before him, where the fallen berserkers had lain, now rose undead skeletons. One of the skeletal warriors stepped forward, its voice the grate of bone upon bone.

"Master... What would be your bidding?"

"Mast'r? Err... Ay..."

From the distance, Vlanin was distracted by Mischa's footsteps. Perhaps it was not too late to catch her?

"Command us, Master."

Vlanin looked to where Mischa had disappeared, then back to the warrior. This was it, the threshold. One final time he looked back, then to the skeletal warriors.

Grimly he addressed them, "Ay ha'e work fer yoo."

"Your will be done... Master."

"Yoo wull foight agin. Bring tha death tha' tha enemy brought to yoo."

No sooner were these words spoken when Vlanin's vision is clouded again.


// Taken from the log of Vlanin's CDQ, the words are largely Shadow's (excepting Vlanin's responses), with a little massaging into journal form. //

[Script Wrecked]

The vision of the hooded and robed dwarf was hazy and indistinct. He found himself in a dark clearing amidst thick and twirling vapors. From within the mists, ghostly figments twisted and writhed all around. The dark figure had returned. Barely distinct from its surrounds, it occupied the center of the dwarf's view.

The dwarf drew his cloak close, as though it might offer some protection from the spirits.

"Welcome, Vlanin," the dark figure spoke, its voice the cry of the orphan, the scream of the widow, the shriek of the dying.

"Step forward... We have words to exchange, you and I."

Vlanin pulled his cloak tighter.

The indistinct figure beckoned with one massive arm-like limb.

"So, you are the one that calls? You are the one that has opened the door?"

Vlanin realised this was the first step past the threshold along a dark and twisting path. Grim with the weight of what he was about to do, he replied, "Aye."

"Do you know what it means to walk the Pale path? Do you really wish this? Walk away now puny mortal... while you still can." The dark figure swirled as it turned in the vapors, and became even less distinct.

With some despise, Vlanin made his admission, "Ay ha'e need o' ut."

The figure swirled free of the mists. "You look upon me with such disdain, kinslayer. Yet I have never slain one who called me... son."

Vlanin hardened against the sting of its words, but was betrayed as a wave of remorse and guilt washed over him.

"This is not the path for children, mortal."

"Ay dinna think ay'm a child any moo're," Vlanin sneered at the figure, in his own acknowledgement of what he had done.

"This is not the path for remorse, regret, guilt, sadness... These things are meaningless."

"Fer yoo, maybe..." Vlanin countered; he still had a conscience of what he had done.

"We shall see, mortal... For you have placed one foot upon the path... but you are yet to place the other."

As if to answer to its accusation, Vlanin stepped towards the amorphous thing.

But it seemed the dark figure was unimpressed. It turned its massive head to look behind, "You see my children?"

From within the mists, the forms of the skeletal berserkers revealed themselves, flanking the dark figure on either side.

"You would have the means of calling upon my children?" The figure motioned to the tome in Vlanin's hands.

"Tha book says ut uz on tha path. But ut uz nay an army o' tha undead tha' ay seek." Vlanin obtained some small relief from his moral stand.

"You have the key to the path, mortal... Yet, I am the path. The gifts of the path... Where do you think they come from? You think they come from yourself? The Gods? No mortal... I am the path and if you wish to walk it... an offering you must make."

"Offerin'?" Vlanin said incredulously. What duplicity was this? What was he going to have to exchange to get past this obstacle? He had already sacrificed so much.

Vlanin stepped back, uncertain. "Tha book dinna say anything aboot..."

"You waver? I told you the path is not for children. Leave my presence." The amorphous thing disappeared in the mists.


// Taken from the log of Vlanin's CDQ, the words are largely Shadow's (excepting Vlanin's responses), with a little massaging into journal form, and some extra prose added for clarity. //

[Script Wrecked]

Vlanin stood alone in the shifting vapors, the vague ghostly forms twisting and writhing endlessly, the skeletal berserkers deathly still in the mists. He recalled the trials to get here, the prices paid. Now, he was going to have to make some deal will this thing.

"Foin," he barked.

The dark figure swirled free of the mists. "You're still here?"

"Wot uz thus off'rin'?"

The amorphous thing bent down, its massive form almost completely engulfing Vlanin's diminuative frame, and whispered into his ear.

"Every life that you take, Vlanin... you dedicate it to me... Every soul that departs the realm of Layonara by your hand... you dedicate to me... Every life that is prematurely ended... you take in my name... Every drop of blood you spill... you spill to satiate my thirst."

Vlanin couldn't believe his ears. "Ev'ry life?" he asked incredulously. This was beyond anything he was expecting, or prepared for.

"Oo'r ev'ry life o' tha enemy?" Hopefully, pathetically, he tried to bargain with the dark figure.

"Every life, mortal. Every soul you rend from it's mortal shell you send to me."

Vlanin looked grimly.

"And in return... you shall have my power at your bidding. My children will be your children."

The anger of frustration and betrayal began to rise in Vlanin.

"Your revenge will be made possible. Your kinsmen avenged."

Vlanin's voice broiled, in the manner similar to his former master. "Tha book dinna say anything aboot dealin' wid nay devil!"

This was beyond belief. This was not where he was meant to be. Desparately, he tried to justify his actions, and his expectations. He recounted the lessons he had learned.

"Tha book guves knowledge."

Effortlessly, the dark figure countered, "The book is merely the path to the path."

Vlanin continued hopefully, vainly, "An' tha knowledge uz poo'r."

"Without it... you wouldn't be here, mortal."

"All ay wan' uz ta learn tha knowledge, ta ha'e tha poo'r ta stan' oop ta ma enemy," Vlanin pleaded, desparately.

The dark figure took Vlanin's wrist, its touch icey cold. It whispered, its voice soft and seductive as a lover, "And you shall have it... Nothing will be able to stand against us."

"But yoo wan' sools," Vlanin replied pitiously, knowing that it was something he could not do. "All sools. Nay jus' tha sools o' tha enemy."

"It is my price, son. It is the price of your revenge. The price of your clan's safety. Will you call me... father?"

Vlanin looked horrified at the thing of evil. How could he? This was beyond anything that was within his ability to stretch to, to accomodate, to adapt to, even to save his kin. This beast had the thing that he wanted, but he had to give everything that he was.

In a moment of clarity, he withdrew from the calamity of the current situation to a place of stillness. Truth that had become hidden by needs, desires, and fears became clear again. Quietly, serrenely, he spoke the words of another.

"Th'ar sum things tha' ar' nay worth wunnin'. Th'ar sum choices nay worth takin'."

Vlanin paused as he listened to the words he now spoke. Then he spoke another truth.

"Ay am nay sool reav'r. Ta be givin' sools to a dread thing loike yoo."

He continued the speaking the words of his master.

"Bett'r ta die wid tha honor an' pride tha' yoo were born wid than ta stoop ta such means," he fondly recalled Agrim's words.

"You speak the words of another... Where is he now? He avenges your fallen kinsmen... How? Make your choice here and now."

The beast had lost.

"Ay nay be feedin' a creature tha loikes o' yoo. Wid those sools, yoo coold be makin' things much worse than tha enemy. Much worse. An' ut woold be me tha' helped yoo."

"What did you think the path was that you sought to walk mortal? Did not your Master warn you?" It struck once more at Vlanin's hope and aspirations.

In his anger, Vlanin threw the book to the ground. "Tha path un tha book. Nowt were said aboot sools." Pleading one last time, justifying himself, his actions in pursuit of his goal.

"A little late for honour now... Your hands stained red with the blood of your kinsmen."

Vlanin shrunk from his anger, from his moral high ground, full of regret and remorse. "Ay know."

The dark figure once again swirled into the vapors, and was gone.

Vlanin could hear the words spoken by his master again,

[INDENT]"Th'ar sum things tha' ar' nay worth wunnin'. Th'ar sum choices nay worth takin'. Bett'r ta die wid tha honor an' pride tha' yoo were born wid than ta stoop ta such means."[/INDENT]

Once more, his vision blurred.

...

Vlanin stood briefly in the pentagram in the cave once more before falling to the ground. Desparately he had pursued the path that he thought would provide salvation for his kin. He had fought so long and so hard for it, given everything he had. In the end, he had even sacrificed someone who he had known and loved for it because he believed he was right. Now he had the truth. The final obstacle had been too high; he had been asked for something he could not give.

He had made the moral choice, withheld the last shred of his integrity, but he had spent everything else. It was all gone. There was nothing left. He was derelict.


// Taken from the log of Vlanin's CDQ, the words are largely Shadow's (excepting Vlanin's responses), with a little massaging into journal form, and some extra prose added for clarity. //

[Script Wrecked]

The dwarven wizard awoke in the cave. For a brief moment, as his eyes opened, he was Vlanin, complete, full of hope and promise. Then the weight of what he had done fell down on him and he was bereft again.

...

Vlanin looked down malignly at the book held in his bandaged hands. It had to be destroyed, to prevent that fell thing of darkness from coming out, or anyone using to book to reach it. And yet the book had resisted all such attempts. There was only one place where it would be safe. He would have to return it to its hiding place in the hall.

...

Under the cover of darkness and his concealment spell, Vlanin had slipped into the clanhold. The hallways had been quite empty of his kin, but he had not stopped to find out why. In the gloom, he slipped through the hall, and into the librarium to secrete the dread thing once more. He had not tarried to pause or remember, only gird himself to what he must do and leave.

Vlanin startled as voices echoed from outside the hall door.

"Did yoo har that?"

"Ut whar comin' from tha hall."

"Ay'm nay goin' un thar."

"Ut coold be anythin'."

Vlanin sighed in relief.

...

Under the dark canopy of the night sky, Vlanin looked down from the stony rise above the valley. He could see now why the clanhold had been largely empty. The clanfolk had gathered around an unlit pyre; they were burning Agrim's body.

The weight of remorse took Vlanin again. He fell to his knees, barely supporting himself.

...

In the valley below, it was with a heavy heart that the clan chief took a torch and laid it to the base of the pyre of yet another clan elder and friend. Like so many times before, the flames took the pyre, a brief beacon to the life of fallen hero.

Most of the clanfolk watched the flames, captivated as they released the spirit of another of their kin. Only those who had looked about the night sky as they reflected on the recent losses witnessed the ball of fire erupt on the stony rise above the valley.