Vlanin

[Script Wrecked]

Vlanin hit the sandy floor of the wrestling circle. For a moment he was winded. Hoondin loomed large over him.

Finally Vlanin breathed. "Tha's ut. Ay ha'e eno'."

Hoondin looked down on him, disapprovingly. "Ne'er give oop, Vlanin."

Vlanin stared back at him. For a moment, his frustration and anger burnt through, "Foin."

He rolled up and, forgetting his concern about hurting his opponent, barrelled into Hoondin hard. He caught Hoondin behind the knees, lifted him slightly off of his feet, and dropped him onto the floor, following down on top of him.

"Hey," Hoondin groaned, "tha's moo're loike ut."

Vlanin remembered himself, concerned that he may have caused his friend harm. He got up, and pulled Hoondin to his feet. "Yoo all roigh'?"

"Aye. Nowt an ale wull nay fix," Hoondin grinned as he clapped Vlanin around the shoulder.

...

Hoondin put his tankard down on the table top, "Yoo seem ta be a but preoccupied wid sumat, lad."

Vlanin shrugged meekly, annoyed with himself that he had let slip sign of his secret dilemna.

Hoondin continued, "Ay know oo'r paths dinna cross so often these days, but ifn thar uz anything ay can help yoo wid, yoo let me know, aye?"

"Och, yoo can help me by makin' sur'e yoo keep comin' oot o' those tunnels," Vlanin grinned.

Hoondin thoughtfully considered his ale.

They both chuckled at the reality of the situation.

[Script Wrecked]

Vlanin eyed the casket suspiciously. He had resolved to read through the entire book, despite its subject matter; it would be bitter irony if there was some useful reference but a few unread pages away.

But that was before his latest foray on Mistone. He had been travelling with a band that had rescued a small girl from some nearby caves when they had been confronted by group who looked like them in all respects. Vlanin had found it quite disconcerting to see himself standing across the divide, an unknown stranger. But this hadn't been the work of some miscreant wizard or fey shapechangers. No, when the imposters had been challenged, they came out fighting in their true forms. Daemons.

Vlanin paced up and down, not taking his eyes off the casket. Had a daemon found out what he was doing, and taken interest in him? Had the book betrayed him to some infernal power? Or perhaps the casket? Or was it coincidental? Had he brought about his own misfortune by daring to read the dread thing? What other fortune was he creating by his actions? Many questions raced through Vlanin's mind.

He stopped and pondered, but no answers came to him.

Things were much easier when you were just an apprentice, he thought. Someone to tell you the way things were, and what would happen if you did this or did that. Now, now things were uncertain. Actions could be taken and their consequences unrealised for days, for years, even life times.

[Script Wrecked]

Vlanin sat with his hand on the table, his chin resting on his hand, looking across the expanse of the table top, looking for answers. With his other hand he twiddled with a small wooden ornament. He had sat there for what felt like hours. He felt empty, bereft of any insight or understanding. What to do, what to do, echoed again and again in his mind.

It seemed there were always barriers. The closer you got to something, the harder the going got. And he didn't even know what he was getting close to.

Why were things always hard, not easy. Doing nothing was easy. It was easy and safe. Well, until the enemy came banging at your door, and then it was all over.

No, something had to be done. But was this it? What was he risking? "Yoo'll nay know untul yoo try," Master Agrim had said on numerous occasions. Well, maybe he would try now, and it would all break.

Maybe it wouldn't. Maybe this was the solution waiting to be found, but too many people had been afraid and skirted around it.

Well, there was only one way to find out. Vlanin sat up, and ran his hand over his aching head. "But ifn thus uz fer tha wur'se, ay swear by tha two gods tha' ut'll be only me tha' has ta suff'r any consequences."

For a moment he thought of all sorts of daemons extracting punishments for his transgression.

Vlanin sighed. He hoped he wasn't going to rue this choice.

[Script Wrecked]

Vlanin sat at the reading lecturn, shrouded in darkness apart from the small sphere of light that illuminated the open pages of the book. It was late, his eyes were beginning to close of their own accord.

[INDENT]"...The immediate benefit of the Subtulation is the induration of the skin. The effect is such that the aspirant is benefitted of armor without the inconvenience of such impeding paraphernalia... The protection afforded improves with the aspirant's commitment to the path..."[/INDENT]

Vlanin perked up. He remembered the dwarf warrior Beli who accompanied a group of them into the Swamp of Lost Souls. He had fought without benefit of armor or axe, and yet he had lead the way, striking with hands like steel hammers, seemingly fending the enemies' blows with stone hard skin. Perhaps this was an answer. He read on.

[INDENT]"...Some have remarked of a similar induration in the aspirant's own humours. If this were to be so, it would be a small adjustment for such a boon..."[/INDENT]

And so Vlanin read on through the night and into the small hours of the morning.

[INDENT]...

"...The success of the aspirant's ability to initially establish a connection to the Malcairiam Degree of the Weave is revealed by a new acuity of the darkness. Henceforth, the aspirant can tranverse the lightless passages and crypts without need to disturb the tranquility of the pitch air... Sensitivity to the high sun, usually cited as one potential side effect, is often a result of residing in the dark places for extended periods of time..."

...

"...When the aspirant is able to sustain a continuous channel to the Weave Malcairia, his life force becomes intermingled with its energies... The aspirant is imbued with increasing vigor... The experience of these energies may supplicate the desire for base consumptions..."

...

"...As the strength of the channel increases, the essence of the Malcaire subsumes some of the aspirant's own nature... He becomes impervious to certain malafflictions that affect those of the Physicium... The aspirant's need of repose is moderated by some greater or lesser degree..."

...

"...When the aspirant consummates his connection to the Malcairiam, he is no longer vulnerable to the fatal blows of his enemies..."

...[/INDENT]

Vlanin sat bolt up right. He couldn't believe what he had just read. He read it again, slowly, more deliberately. "...he is no longer vulnerable to the fatal blows of his enemies." A faint light of glee lit in his heart.

Was this the answer? Had he found it? He chuckled to himself. He began laughing. He laughed harder. He laughed loudly as his anger and resentment and frustrations were swept away, swept away by hope.

[Script Wrecked]

Vlanin stepped outside into the cold air of the pre-dawn. Unseen birds called in anticipation of the new day. A faint blush of light illuminated the dark horizon.

He walked across the wet cobblestones to the edge of the flat ground and peered out into the diminishing gloom. The mist gently rolled in the valley below.

The faint orb of the sun lifted itself above the horizon, shrouded by the caustic cloak of dust. Yet it still glowed, it still struggled to bring its meager light to the land, in faint promise that one day this adversity would be overcome and it would burn brightly once again.

Vlanin looked at the risen sun, and smiled. He had found a way ahead.

[Script Wrecked]

A group of dwarves were sitting around the fireside in the great hall long after most of the clan had retired for the night. The comfort of a fire was sorely missed during long forays into the caverns, and the returned tunnel runners were quite content to sit in the warmth of its glow as they swapped stories with the remaining clan dwarves.

Vlanin had waited patiently to speak alone with Mischa since earlier that evening, but had been unable to disengage her from her comrades. He sat in a chair to the side, staring into the flames.

"Wot aboot yoo, Mast'r Vlanin? Wot tale o' yer lates' jour'ney ha'e yoo ta tell?"

Vlanin looked up, and smiled politely as if to decline. Telling tales in front of clan folk was one thing, but in front of hardened tunnel runners was quite another.

"Come on, Vlanin," Mischa called encouragingly. "Tell uz wot yoo ha'e bin oop to."

Reluctantly, Vlanin stood up in front of the hearth. He cleared his throat, and tried to project his voice as best he could.

"So, thar we whar, standin' on tha sea bed nay less, breathin' tha very wat'r loike we whar born tae ut. Tha' takes a but o' gettin' us'd tae, let me tell yoo.

"Tha little fush were swummin' all aroond uz," he made fish motions with his hands, "when, wush, they all dart'd off."

"Very strange, ay though'. But from oot o' tha gloom came tha largess' fush ay ha'e e'er seen. Bug as a small hoose, wid a gapin' maw full o' roos upon roos o' sharp, jagg'd teeth.

"Tha' were a tough foigh'," he paused dramatically, "an' wid no small effort by tha warriors, too."

He saw Mischa showing interest. Not content to let go of the limelight, he continued into his latest tale.

"Anoth'r toime, we foond oo'rselves shrunk small'r than ants by sum miscreant ulvish wiza'd. We ha'e ta traverse tha perils o' giant wur'ms an' kull'r sparrows, a'fore we coold undo hus treacherous madgicks."

"Och. Well done, lad. Ay guess yer jus' glad ta be home un wun piece sum toimes."

Vlanin smiled. He spotted a vacated chair next to Mischa, and surreptitiously slid into it.

"So, wot dud yoo think o' tha'?" he beamed as he sat.

"Och, Vlanin, yoo tell such fanciful tales," she smiled as though she shared secret. "Hoo woold ha'e though'."

Vlanin was stunned. He looked at her uncertainly, perhaps she didn't understand. "But lassie, ut were all true."

"Vlanin," Mischa gently chided. "Yer tale may umpress these regular folk. But yer talkin' to a season'd tunn'l runn'r har. Ay ha'e seen a thing oo'r two, yoo know. Ay think ay know a tall tale when ay har ut."

Vlanin sunk in his chair. He couldn't believe it.

"Perhaps yoo shoold come an' spend sum toime wid uz un tha tunn'ls. Then yoo moigh' learn a thing oo'r two."

"But," he spoke apologetically, "yoo know ay canna."

He paused thoughtfully, "Nay noo. But maybe, maybe lat'r."

He tried to put a thin edge of foreboding in his voice, while at the same time trying to avoid sounding like a complete twat, "Perhaps yoo may be surpris'd." He smiled knowingly as he sat back in his chair.

[Script Wrecked]

Agrim pushed open the heavy door to his hall. It was late and he was tired, but it was good to be home again. He wandered across the familiar room. From down the stairs, under the door to the librarium he could see a light.

Perhaps Vlanin was doing a bit of reading, he thought. Would wonders never cease. He would just say hello before turning in for the night.

...

"Wot ar' yoo doin' doon har, laddie, so late un tha noigh'?"

Startled, Vlanin looked up from the book.

"Mast'r," his voice trembled. He broke out in a cold sweat. This was it, the moment of truth. He had dared read the dread thing, and now his master had caught him red handed. Perhaps, perhaps if he told him what he had found.

"Mast'r, ay ha'e foond ut..."

Agrim's eyes skipped from his apprentice to the tome he was studying.

"... tha answ'r to oo'r problems..."

A feeling of dread washed over the old dwarf as he recognised the book's features. The dark vellum pages traced with faint words and glyphs, the singed leathern cover.

"... tha Pale path..."

Vlanin didn't get to complete what he was saying.

Agrim's dread had been quickly replaced by shock, and then anger at what Vlanin was doing. He flew at his apprentice, and threw him from the reading lecturn.

Vlanin fell hard on the cold stone floor, crashing into the other furnishings.

Fury in the old wizard swelled and the fell power of a wizard strong in his craft surged within him. For a moment, something perilious could have happened. But his anger peaked and then ebbed, slipping back under the mantle of self control.

He turned to the lecturn. There, like an old aquaintance waiting to be remembered, the book sat expectantly, laid open, ready to share its secrets with any who would dare peruse its pages.

The old dwarf carefully closed the book. The heavily embossed cover, bound in iron edging, looked back at him; the Necromilliom. His heart skipped a beat in dread.

He secured the tome's heavy clasp, and picked up the book. He turned, and saw Vlanin still seated on the floor, looking like a cowed dog.

His anger surged again.

"GET OOT!", his shouted, his rage barely contained.

Vlanin scurried past, and out of the librarium.

...

In the hall, Vlanin looked between the corridor leading to the living quarters, and the heavy door leading out. Panicked, unsure of how much trouble he was in, he thought, for the moment, avoidance was the better option. He slipped out of the great door, and into the night.

[Script Wrecked]

A figure in a dark hooded robe sat across the courtyard from the door to the hall, waiting. He had been there since the morning. He had waited through the noon of the day, and into the afternoon. It had become dark, and a chill wind now blew. He stood and looked up into the night sky, the stars twinkling faintly through the haze. He pulled his robe close around him, and resigned to this day's outcome, retreated to the warmth of the great hall.

[Script Wrecked]

"Och, Mast'r Vlanin. Coold nay foind yer way to yer bed agin?"

Vlanin stirred from the uneven rest he had taken. It might seem idyllic or romantic to fall asleep in a sitting chair in front of an open fire, but to actually spent the night there extracted a toll of aching body and sullen disposition.

Vlanin only grunted in acknowledgement.

"Come noo, Mast'r Vlanin. Shake yerself oop. We've got sum foin viddles fer breakfast. An', ifn yoo dinna moind, we've got tha hall ta be cleanin'."

...

From the far side of the courtyard, Vlanin saw Agrim leave the hall. He carefully hurried to catch up, but maintained a respectful distance.

Agrim headed out across the hills, marching at quite a pace.

Gradually Vlanin approached closer and closer, until he was but two or three paces behind. Surely Agrim must hear him. Maybe Agrim was waiting for him to speak first. Eventually he could wait any longer, "Mast'r, ay..."

"SO," Agrim interrupted, without stopping, without looking back, "ay'm still yer mast'r then." He continued marching along the path. "Hoo woold ha'e though'," he said facetiously.

Vlanin dropped back a few paces.

...

Agrim stopped suddenly, and turned to face Vlanin. Vlanin hastily came to a halt.

He spoke severely, "When ay told yoo aboot thus dread thing, ay lef' nay doobt tha' ut were a bad thing?"

Vlanin nodded in agreement.

Agrim turned and marched off again.

...

Agrim stopped again. His tone increased in severity, "When ay told yoo aboot thus dread thing, ay dud say aboot hoo ay were tryin' ta destroy ut?"

Again, Vlanin nodded.

Agrim set off, his pace increased.

...

Agrim threw down his staff in temper. "Dam ut, Vlanin, yoo were meant ta guard ut," his anger plainly evident in his voice, "nay read ut." His voice boiled and rattled on the last words.

Vlanin cast his eyes down at the ground.

"Wot were yoo thinkin'?" Agrim spluttered in his exasperation, "Whar yoo thinkin'?" He continued his tirade to himself, "O' all tha things he coold ha'e dun..."

Vlanin started to speak, but Agrim had stormed off, still expressing his vitriol, "...ifn he ha'e burnt doon tha bloody hall..."

Vlanin watched him go, then realised Agrim's staff lay on the ground. He picked it up, and followed after him.

...

The two figures made their way back to the clan hold, one following several steps behind the other.

Agrim opened the hall door and stepped inside. Vlanin looked hesitantly.

"Well, ifn yoo wan' ta return tha great hall..." There was more than a bit of annoyance in his tone.

Vlanin hastily stepped past Agrim.

As Agrim closed the door, Vlanin presented his staff to him, with half a hopeful smile on his face.

"An' ay'll be havin' yer key, too," Agrim spoke gruffly.

For a moment Vlanin thought, "Key, what key?" But then he realised, his key to the librarium. He felt as though the floor had dropped out from underneath him.

Reluctantly, he handed his key over. Agrim took it without making eye contact, and left the room.

Vlanin sat down, empty, uncertain. Suddenly there was a gulf between him and this person whom he had known for so long. Something that was as certain as night following day had changed, and maybe would never be the same again.

[Script Wrecked]

Vlanin sat slouched at the table, one arm propping up his head. He considered the remaining portion of his steaming drink.

A few days prior, he had been in the company of a group of adventurers who had been trying to impress a barbarian chieftan with tales of daring-do. Eventually, Vlanin had stood before the assembled gathering and recounted the fall of the berserkers. He had mildly embellished some of the descriptions to give it the feel of an epic tale. Unfortunately he had not anticipated the emotional impact the ending still had an for him, so it had been rushed and not well delivered.

He hoped they had understood his story.

And now it seemed everything he had been working towards had taken a turn for the worse. He had persevered through the dark and sometimes vile treatises in the dread book, and had found the hidden gem within its pages. But now it was forbiddened to him. With it, his access to the librarium had been curtailed, and, even worse, he had estranged his master.

Vlanin sighed a heartfelt sigh. He had tasted hope. He had believed it. But where was it now.

He swirled his mug, and drank the last of the bitter drink.

[Script Wrecked]

Vlanin stood at the table, idly perusing a manuscript he had retrieved from the bookshelf. Agrim had permitted him to enter the librarium with him. Although Vlanin had been keen to be admitted once again, now that he had a book in from of him, he found his heart wasn't in it. He was also trying not make any intimation to where the book was kept hidden.

Agrim stepped down from the reading lecturn and the parchment he was studying. "Noo thus uz umportan'. When yoo took tha book oot o' tha ossuary, wot dud yoo do wid ut?"

Vlanin started when he realised his master was refering to the dread book. He was actually talking about the unmentionable thing that was a chasm between them. Perhaps things were going to improve.

"Ay, err... Ay only e'er read ut from tha lecturn," Vlanin half stammered.

Agrim seemed to consider for a moment. "Hoo long were ut oot o' tha box?"

Vlanin considered, "While ay were readin' ut." He blushed with shame at his admission. "Three, foo'r 'oo'rs at a toime," he half shrugged.

Again Agrim was lost in thought. Then, without addressing Vlanin directly, he spoke, "Tha ossuary keeps tha book hidd'n, un case any wun shoold be scryin' fer it. Thar roons on tha unside ar' ta ward off pryin' eyes."

Then he looked directly at Vlanin. "While uts oot o' tha ossuary, ut may be foond..." he paused, changing the tilt of his head, allowing what he had just said to sink in, "ifn anywun were lookin' fer ut."

"O' course, noo they dinna need tha book any moo're, do they?" Agrim asked pointedly, snapping the last of the words. "Ifn they noo tha' yoo noo, all they need... uz yoo." Vlanin looked away from his burning glare. "Well, fer start'rs, least ways."

Vlanin smarted. His master was right. A potential consequence that he had not considered. He wondered what other flaws of his action were going to be revealed.

[Script Wrecked]

// Entry reserved for A Distant Beauty bubble. //

[Script Wrecked]

Vlanin sat in the library in a sitting chair, reading a tome. As he turned over the pages, he became aware of his master's gaze burrowing down on him, becoming ever more intense.

"Alroigh' then, oot wid ut. Why dud yoo read tha blast'd book?" Agrim barked.

Vlanin started at Agrim's tone. Uncertain, he spoke cautiously, trying not to antagonize, trying to get through his explanation. "Ay though' ut moight ha'e an answ'r."

He looked at Agrim for his response. "Ay ha'e spent so much toime goin' through all tha oth'r tomes an' librams an' foond nowt."

Vlanin paused again for any tell-tale indication that he should stop. "When ay foond thus book, ay though' tha' ut moigh' ha'e sum answ'r, bein' such an poo'rful thing."

"An' yoo foond tha Pale path," Agrim sounded incredulous.

"Necromancy, Vlanin?" he snapped, "Wot do yoo think yoo'd be doin', raisin' an army o' tha dead an' take them unto tha caverns agins' tha enemy?"

Vlanin shook his head.

Agrim was getting more angry with each sentence he uttered, "'Hose bodies were yoo goin' ta violate? Tha bones o' tha prood warriors tha' ha'e fall'n ta thus conflict?"

Stung by his master's accusation, again Vlanin shook his head.

"By tha two gods, Vlanin, 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."

"Mast'r, ay woold nay do such a thing."

"Then wot?" Agrim shouted.

Vlanin stood there sullenly, looking down at the ground, unable to risk his hope before Agrim.

[Script Wrecked]

Vlanin sat sunk in his chair, holding the small wooden ornament tightly in the palm of his hand. Another barrier, he signed. This one far more daunting than the last. Agrim's disapproval and reproof of his actions. What to say to dissuade him, to show him what might be possible. Unconsciously, he was tightly squeezing the ornament, as though it might reveal the answer if he just listened keenly enough.

Agrim's opinion was so strong he wasn't so sure of his own course of action anymore. And yet the need had graciously provided a personnal reminder of the fragility of life, his own life.

He muttered to himself, "Stomp'd on by treants, suck'd unto tha earth, freed agin by satyrs." Vlanin snorted in ironic incredulity, paraphrasing someone else's opinion given, "Anoth'r fanciful tale, undeed."

[Script Wrecked]

"Mast'r..."

Agrim looked up from the reading lecturn.

"...ay believe tha Pale path has tha arts ta make a warrior ummune ta tha deadly blows o' oo'r enemy." Vlanin took a breath. There, he had said it.

Agrim kept eye contact with his apprentice as he straightened himself up to his full height. For a moment, there was only silence. Then he spoke, not shouting, but projecting himself. The room almost resonated with his voice.

"Pow'r comes wid a proice, Vlanin. Thus sort o' poo'r ev'n moo're so. Those tha' pursue poo'r fer uts oon sake ar' easy prey fer such promises. Oth'rs, hoo think they can manipulate such poo'r, negotiate wid such poo'r, ar' foolin' themselves. Thar motives soon become tarnish'd by uts corrosive unfluence.

"Wot makes yoo think tha' yoo can navigate such a treacherous path an' come oot unscath'd, unchang'd?"

Vlanin tried to formulate his reply, but Agrim continued.

"Pow'r corrupts, Vlanin. Nay un an obvious mann'r, nay so tha' yoo ha'e a chance ta make tha roight choice. But slowly, unsidiously, while yer nay lookin'. Small decisions, small compromises tha' ar' tha furst steps towards a slippery slope."

Agrim stepped down from the lecturn in an almost threatening manner.

"An' ay can tell yoo thus. Wun thing we dinna need roight noo uz oo'r problems compound'd by a blast'd necromans'r on tha loose." His eyes flashed menacingly. "Oo'r worse, joinin' wid oth'r dark forces."

Again Vlanin stood in silence, unable to get past the words of his master. He could only think to himself, "But, ay woold loike ta try."

[Script Wrecked]

"Och, matey. Ifn yoo were any loo'r, yoo'd be un tha Und'r Passage."

Vlanin looked up from his melancholy to see Hoondin grinning at him. "Hey, Hoondin," he half sighed.

"Why so troobled?" Hoondin pulled up a nearby chair.

Vlanin could think of half a dozen things that were contributing to his mood, but he wasn't willing to mention the difficulties that had arisen from him reading the book. He was keen to avoid further recriminations.

"Och, ay got clobb'r'd agin," he grumbled.

"Thus toime by yetis," Vlanin sat up, "an' all fer a color'd stoon.

"Ay were keepin' ta tha rear, stayin' oot o' harm's reach, when all o' a sudd'n, thus huge yeti appear'd oot o' tha whiteness an' gave me a gude whack." Vlanin put his hand to his head, remembering the blow.

"Ahh..." Hoondin considered thoughtfully, "Wot yoo need ta do uz take a leaf oot o' tha tunn'l runn'r's manual, an' keep oot o' harm's soight." He put emphasis on the last word.

Hoondin stood up, "Well, come on, an' ay'll show yoo a thing oo'r two."

"Whar ar' we going?"

"Tha tunn'ls," Hoondin beamed.

Vlanin grumbled as he stirred from his chair.

[Script Wrecked]

Vlanin watched from the back of the great hall as a mother and a small lass made their way to the entrance to the Vault of Heroes. The little girl carried a small pose of flowers.

No doubt to be laid in tribute at the resting place of a fallen relative, Vlanin considered. Perhaps, perhaps that of her father.

She skipped along innocently, blissfully ignorant of the weight of the situation.

Vlanin scowled. A child should not know of such things.

...

"Wot oth'r options do we ha'e?"

Agrim looked up at Vlanin.

"Ifn thus book wasn't deliv'r'd ta us ta be us'd aginst tha enemy, then wot uz ut fer?"

Agrim looked hard at Vlanin, "Perhaps ut were ta create division between a wiza'd an' huz apprentuce." He raised an eyebrow meaningfully at Vlanin.

"But," Vlanin spoke tentatively, "ifn yoo were ta supervise me..."

Vlanin briefly saw stars as his head suddenly snapped to the side, his face stung keenly from a blow. He looked back at Agrim; he couldn't tell whether Agrim had slapped him, struck him, or used a spell.

"Dinna ev'r think ay'm going ta pursue any such path o' vile dereliction," Agrim's voice broiled in anger, infuriated at his apprentice's inference.

Vlanin smarted both physically and emotionally. Straightening himself up, he withdrew from the room.

[Script Wrecked]

Vlanin sat in a quiet corner of the drinking hall, quietly observing the occupants. He considered the fate of the four orphans that had been delivered on the road from the Ire Mountains. The group he had been travelling with had successfully driven off the attacking orcs, but the mother had died in child birth. It seemed the father had already perished.

He watched a group of young dwarven males carousing in the halls. He wondered how many of them had been touched by the conflict, lost a father or perhaps a mother. He sighed deeply in resignation.

A young dwarven male raced across the drinking hall towards the group. "Ha'e yoo hear'd, ha'e yoo hear'd?"

"Hear'd wot?"

"Tha kung ha'e bin restor'd to tha throne o' Erilyn."

"Aye. Gude news, hey."

"Maybe thar rememb'r thar allies an' send uz sum help?"

In unison, the dwarves burst out laughing. "Aye, roigh'. An' maybe tha skies wull clear."

More laughing erupted from the group.

"But," the young male continued, "dud yoo knoo, ut were wun o' those half human, half orcs tha' lead those tha' restor'd tha croon?" He nodded knowingly.

"Nay."

"Hoo woold ha'e though'."

Who would have thought indeed, Vlanin considered from his corner seat. Such a simple thing to say, the crown was restored. But what untold efforts had made it happen? What had been fought and lost and won?

Vlanin touched his finger tips together and grimly considered the trials of his own circumstance.

[Script Wrecked]

The drinking hall was more lively than usual this night. The clanfolk were in particular high spirits this evening as there was to be folk dancing. The noise of the musicians filled the hall, and most of the conversation was reduced to in-ear exchanges.

Vlanin squeezed his way through the crowd. More of an observer than a participant, he, none the less, enjoyed such occasions.

"Dinna be shy, lad. Un yoo go."

Shoved by an unseen hand, Vlanin found himself into the midst of the dwarves reeling in their folk dance. He gathered himself and was about to withdraw from the dance floor when a dwarven lass passed from her current partner almost spun into Vlanin.

Mischa. Bright and giddy, exuberant from the dance, she beamed at Vlanin.

Meeting her gaze, he gave his hand for the dance.

Vlanin was immediately aware of the sensation as her hand touched his. A hand like any other, but at the same time her gentle caress. Nervously he grinned at her, but she was already in position for the next part of the dance.

They followed the dancing couples before them and cantered down the aisle. With another pair, they raised their hands to the middle and skipped around the center.

For the return step, the lassies were drawn close, the male's hand on the female's waist, leading her with the other hand. Vlanin was almost solely aware of Mischa's physical proximity to him, his hand on her waist, her movement against him as they capered back down the aisle.

After four more progressions, the dance can to a end. Mischa smiled as she spoke to him, but Vlanin did not hear. He was high on what he had just experienced.

Vlanin gazed back upon her, looking longer than he might normally, looking longer that she might know. Gradually she was drawn back into the dance by the other dancers.

Amid the hubbub and noise of the hall, Vlanin was left floating free in his euphoria, like a cloud in a warm summer's breeze.

[Script Wrecked]

Such an unexpected thing.

A group of them had gone in search of a missing townsfolk. They had found him, deep in the swamps, but were proved to be too late. He had been changed, changed for the worse. Some dark force had worked their dread power on him, and now he was a vampire.

Vlanin had encountered vampires before, but this one was obviously different. Perhaps it was because he was only recently changed, still had his old memories. But he still had his humanity. He wrestled with his conscience, haunted by the memories of his daughter. Even after he had attacked them, he was gripped by this struggle, the last visages of his former self fighting to be heard.

Vlanin considered grimly. If this Pale path was so dark, if he was corrupted by it, then, by the two gods, he would destroy himself, like the vampire had, as it had allowed their swords to bite into him.