Lazy Orang's Short Stories - Last Voice of Reason

[Lazy Orang]

I've decided to post some of my short stories in my own thread - these will almost certainly be primarily my entries for the fan fiction contest. Just as a note - I am British, so several of the spellings/words may be different from what most people on here are used to.

Vydar’s Betrayal

Spoiler Alert!

Vydar’s Betrayal

Trent huddled behind a pile of rubble with Saul and Robin, her fellow Krav Maga Agents, as the Omnicron Snipers on the keep’s battlements mowed down hordes of advancing Blade Gruts with their pin-point accurate laser fire. She motioned to the Gladiatrons to keep back for now, seeing that there was no point advancing until the Omnicron barrage was silenced. Occasionally, she’d lean out from cover to fire at one of the twenty or so Sentinels holding the Blade Gruts off, but her bullets would simply ping harmlessly off the Jandar Kyrie’s shields.
They had come here with Utgar’s forces, as part of an ongoing campaign to carve deep into Jandar’s territory. Utgar had accepted their help gratefully after Vydar left the Alliance, at least on the face of it. Jandar’s forces had been completely unprepared for such a betrayal, and had fallen easily before the combined assault - they were unused, particularly, to Vydarian tactics, and had few methods of dealing with the devastating long-ranged firepower now coming their way. Now, they were assaulting Concan’s Castle, the last bastion of defence before the march on Idona Castle, where Jandar would make his last stand - or, at least, that was Utgar’s plan.
The outer walls of the fortress had fallen after a hard fight, and it had seemed the enemy was on the rout, the Knights of Weston and 4th Massachusetts linemen simply fleeing the field, cut down by hordes of Orcs, Marro and Soulborgs. Trent had thought the battle was basically won, but this keep was essentially impenetrable as long as the Omnicrons held it, and the Sentinels wouldn’t let anyone even close to the door before the Jandar Soulborgs had the chance to blow them away. It was an extremely effective defence - she couldn’t fault Concan on his tactical acumen.
She opened up a comm-link to Carr, her mentor and superior officer.
‘Sir, we’re pinned down out here! Something needs to be done about those Omnicrons or there’s no way in hell we’re getting out of this.’
‘Just hold on a bit longer - Taelord’s been monitoring the situation, reinforcements should be on their way.’
A moment after he said this Trent felt and heard a change in the air above her. Looking up, she saw a flight of Minions of Utgar and Phantom Knights soaring overhead, closing on the Omnicrons’ position. Trent gave a slight, sideways smile.
‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘Over and out.’
Waiting until she could tell that the barrage of lasers was relenting, Trent gestured to the Gladiatrons to advance, knowing that now, the Omnicrons that still lived would be far too busy to fire down upon their forces. The Gladiatrons charged forwards, meeting the Sentinels in melee and clamping them with their firm claws. A few fell to the hammers of Jandar’s finest, but more than enough remained to hold the Kyrie in place as Trent, her fellow Krav, and the many Blastatrons and Stingers - only just now making their way through the outer gate - began to open fire.
Though many shots were still deflected by the desperate Kyrie as they tried in vain to beat away the Soulborgs, the Sentinels began to fall swiftly. Trent gestured to the Blastatrons to focus on the Sentinels in the centre of their battle-line, and this they did - soon a hole was opened up in the Kyrie formation. Exploiting this swiftly, Trent and her fellow Krav dashed forwards through the hole, and finally to the door of the keep itself.
Knowing speed was of the essence, Trent got out her C-4 and planted it on the solid wooden door. Setting it to detonate in five seconds, she and the other two agents took cover to the sides of it, letting the stonework frame shield them from the blast. In a deafening explosion, the door blew apart, and Trent, Saul and Robin made their way through quickly, before the dust had time to settle.
As her sight began to clear, Trent saw a hallway which made her think of the medieval castles she had heard of back on Earth. The floor was wooden, but overlaid down the centre with a lush, purple velvet rug that Trent would have associated more with Einar than Jandar. The walls were of marble and mahogany, and lined with torches which imparted a slight, warm light to the hallway. Depictions of wings, swords, shields, warhammers and Kyrie warriors adorned the halls in the form of sculptures, paintings and frescoes, along with light blue drapes bearing, in white, the heraldry of Jandar.
‘Now remember,’ said Trent, sternly, in a tone not to be ignored, ‘our mission is to find Concan, and it is vital we do so before anyone else does, understood?’
‘Gotcha,’ replied Saul, while Robin, silent as usual, merely nodded.
‘And remember, don’t aim for wings or vitals, no matter what - and I mean it,’ she added darkly.
‘Yeah, yeah, we’ve been through this a thousand times already, Trent,’ replied Saul, once again grating on her nerves. ‘If we’ve got to find him so quickly, any ideas where this guy’s gonna be?’
Trent had to think for a moment. ‘We’ll try the armoury,’ she decided. ‘Concan’s no coward, and he knows the battle’s going badly for him.’
The agents began racing down the corridor, swiftly and silently killing the few guards they found. It wasn’t long before they reached a door to their left, adorned with the symbol of a crossed sword and hammer over a shield, forged in shining silver. Trent made the reasonable (and correct) deduction that this was the armoury.
Once again, she fitted C-4 against the door and, together with Saul and Robin, took cover on the other side of the corridor.
Boom!
In seconds, with dust and debris still flying through the air, the agents were in the room, guns blazing. Several shots later, and the four knights inside, as well as Concan’s Kyrie squire, were dead, their blood spattering the weapons and armour that littered the room. Concan stood there majestically, his breasplate covered in his comrades’ blood, holding his two handed blade to his side. He was fully armoured, save one gauntlet that his squire had lacked the time to afix before being shot down. Perfect.
‘Traitors!’ the Kyrie knight half-growled. ‘This battle may be lost, but you three murderers at least shall meet your end!’
Concan, thought Trent, sardonically, so arrogant and dramatic.
The Kyrie lunged forward, the jump assisted by the flapping of his mighty wings. The agents spread out, firing their guns as they did so. If killing him were a possibility, he would have been riddled with bullets by now, but since they had to be extremely careful to avoid hitting any of his vital organs, only one of Saul’s shots found its mark, burying deep into the Kyrie’s shoulder. Concan seemed to ignore the new hole in his armour leaking blood, however, and lunged once again at Saul, this time reaching him before the agent could escape, and slashed down, making a large gash in the agent’s chest, causing Saul to collapse to the ground.
Quick as a flash, knowing that time was of the essence, Trent took a large syringe out of her belt and lunged forwards, grasping the Kyrie’s ungloved hand. Swiftly, she injected the drug straight into Concan’s artery, and the Kyrie warrior collapsed, lifeless, to the floor.

*******************************

Trent watched from the castle courtyard, as Ornak and Laglor flew the Utgar and Vydar flags respectively, side by side, from the top of the keep. It wasn’t a comfortable sight to behold.
The battle was won, the dead and wounded were being accounted for, and the troops were resting. Neither Vydar nor Utgar were the most compassionate Generals, and the treatment of war prisoners was harsh. At least Vydar took care of his wounded, though - most injured Marro or Gruts were expendible, left to fend for themselves. If they could deal with or heal their own wounds, good, but if they couldn’t, bad luck for them. Utgar did provide medical assistance for his Minions, though, as did Vydar for his soldiers - probably more because they were too valuable to waste than out of any genuine sense of mercy.
Trent had visited Saul in the medical tent. He should pull through, but his injury hadn’t managed to make him any less irritating - she felt sure he was milking it for all it was worth when she spoke to him. Now, she was standing with Robin (who hadn’t said a word the whole time - no surprise there), and waiting for the next part of her mission.
She looked to her left. No need to wait any longer, it seems.
‘Trent!’ called Carr, who she’d seen walking towards her. ‘I need to talk to you.’
Trent walked right up to her superior officer. Let’s get this over with.
‘Did you speak with Taelord?’ she asked, making a conscious effort to keep her tone as normal as possible.
‘Yes, I did,’ replied Carr, at the same time surreptitiously slipping a small device into her hand, which Trent swiftly pocketed.
‘So, we know what the plan of action is now?’ she asked.
‘Indeed we do,’ came his reply, ‘you’ll be briefed later.’ Then, in a quick whisper, ‘You know what to do.’
Carr walked away.
Attempting to look as casual as possible, Trent walked up to the blown door of the keep. As she did so, she felt as though she could feel eyes following her, boring into her. She dismissed it as paranoia, but decided she should remain vigilant, nonetheless. Two Minions were guarding the door when she reached it - she’d need to get past them.
‘Hold it!’ demanded one of them in a gruff voice. ‘Who are you, and what is your business here?’
‘Agent Trent, Krav Maga Lieutenant, I’m on official business from Vydar.’
‘What kind of businessss,’ the second hissed, its voice close to being genuinely serpentine.
Trent couldn’t tell the truth, and as she hadn’t come up with a lie yet, decided that refuge in audacity would be her best plan of action.
‘Look, I don’t know what kind of mandate Taelord gives you, but over in the Vydar camp, we don’t let inferiors know things they don’t need to know, and I doubt Taelord would be very pleased to hear about you inconveniencing the business of his allies - so please, get out of my way.’
Looking slightly intimidated, the Minions hesitated, before stepping aside. Trent bestowed a cursory, and less than civil, ‘Thank you,’ before making her way down the corridor.
Eventually, she came to a door guarded by two gladiatrons. Should be easier than the last two idiots, Trent thought to herself.
She repeated her line: 'Agent Trent, Krav Maga Lieutenant, I’m on official business from Vydar.’
One of the Gladiatrons seemed to scan her face before saying, in a robotic voice, 'Continue, Miss Trent,’ and stepping aside. Trent opened the door, and entered the room.
It was dark, lit only by a single torch, and the window was closed. On the far side of the room, Concan sat in chains, divested of his armour and weaponry, but still very much alive.
'Come to gloat?’ he shot at her.
'Only slightly. Mind if I open the window?’
'Can I stop you?’
Trent strode confidently towards the bolted wooden hatch. 'It would appear not.’ She unbolted it and swung it open, letting light stream its way into the room.
'What do you want, traitor?’ Jandar’s champion demanded.
Trent said nothing - she merely took out a key from her belt, and undid the locks on his chains.
'Why did you do that?’ demanded Concan, stunned. 'What in Gerda’s name are you doing?’
'What does it look like I’m doing?’ asked Trent, rhetorically.
'You realise I could kill you where you stand?’
'With no weapons or armour, weakened by the drug, your chains, and the wound in your shoulder, while I’m healthy and fresh with two guns at my side? I think I’ll take my chances.’
'Why?’ He demanded. 'Why didn’t you kill me? And what did you inject me with?’
'Earth drug - you wouldn’t know about it, but it simulates death,’ was her reply. 'We needed to capture you, but we couldn’t let Utgar’s soldiers know that. As to why, well...’ Trent took out the device Carr had handed to her. 'This should explain fairly eloquently.’ She pressed a button.
'So,’ came a voice out of the device, 'now Concan’s Castle is ours, we march on Idona Keep in three days - I want your forces to hold the line behind us so that the siege can’t be relieved. Is that acceptable, Carr?’
'Agreed, Taelord - your plan has merit.’
Trent pressed the button again, and the playback stopped.
'You should be receiving a communiqué from Vydar soon about his plans - I expect we shall strike the enemy from the rear when they least expect treachery, allowing us to wipe out their force in one stroke.’
'So you do this with your General’s permission?’ asked Concan, more confused than ever.
'Of course,’ replied Trent.
'Does the traitor really think he can come crawling back?’
'Yes - because you need him,’ replied Trent. 'The Alliance is falling apart without us, and without our help, Idona will fall.’
'Because of you.’
'Don’t be so naïve,’ returned the agent. 'We were already losing the war, we needed an advantage - now we have one.’
'So this was Vydar’s master plan all along?’
'As long as I’ve known of it. Come on, you don’t really think we’d side with Utgar, do you? You may lack faith in our integrity, but please - don’t insult our intelligence. Utgar’s far too powerful, and he can’t be trusted.’
'So that’s the going price of treachery these days, is it?’ asked Concan. 'One piece of information?’
'If you think that’s all we’ve managed to squeeze out of Utgar, then you really are naïve,’ was Trent’s slightly mocking reply.
'How many have died for you to get your information? How many good men have you slaughtered?’ Concan was truly furious now.
'I don’t have time for your moralising,’ Trent shot back, 'and if you want to save Nastralund, neither do you. It’s your choice, Concan - you can go to Jandar now, say Vydar released you and tell him what I told you, or I can kill you where you stand.’
The Kyrie scowled at her.
'Jandar will not forget your actions, murderess,’ he threatened, 'nor those of your General.’ With that, he turned, and clambering to the edge of the open window, shook the dust from his wings and soared away.
'I’m sure he won’t.’ Trent turned around, opened the door again, and left the room.
Entering the hallway, the sight that met her stopped her dead in her tracks.
The Soulborgs were no longer operational - their chassis seemed to have been hacked at with some sharp weapon; wires were torn and their circuits crackled. Their metal bodies lay perfectly motionless on the floor.
Trent panicked and began to run. She had to inform Carr.

*****************************

'Thank you for the information, Isamu,’ uttered Taelord, darkly. 'It is most helpful.’
The red ninja smirked under his mask. 'My pleasure, sir,’ he said. 'My pleasure.’

Last Voice of Reason

Spoiler Alert!

Last Voice of Reason

Ekstrom, Valhalla, two-hundred years after the War of the Valkyries:

I woke up as the sun rose above the hills, bathing me in its light. The weather was getting colder, despite the bright sun. Harvest season had come - for those who were still settled enough to grow crops, at least.
I was not one of them. Always travelling, it was important that I awoke bright and early, as usual, to continue moving. No destination, just continuous movement - looking for food,shelter, whatever we could scavenge, and whatever work we could find.
‘Swift River! Come on, we need to get going!’
‘I’m coming, Rhangyll!’ I called back to my Elven companion - apparently dawn wasn’t early enough for him. He’d always been a somewhat uncompromising taskmaster.
I got up, quickly clothing myself in my tunic and leggings - all the clothes I had, the only ones I’ve ever had, since my home was destroyed. I left the shelter of the ruined farmhouse through the back way and went out to the small well, before washing my hands and face in the clear, spring water there. After returning to the farmhouse and putting on my jewellery and small, lightly feathered headdress, I strapped my bow to my back and my knife and quiver to my hips before slipping on my moccasin shoes and leaving out of what used to be the front door. I found my companions - the aforementioned Elf, and a seven foot tall pile of cobbled together, mismatching parts that passed for a Soulborg.
‘What took you so long?’ Rhangyll asked.
‘Washing, dressing - that’s pretty much it.’
‘No, before that - I was waiting ages before I called you.’
‘I’m not an elf, I need more than four hours - I can’t be on the move until one and get up again at five. If you’d wanted that, you should have chosen a different travelling companion.’
‘As I recall, I didn’t exactly choose you.’
‘You wanted to get going, didn’t you? So, shall we?’
He nodded. ‘Indeed we shall. Come on, Scrapheap.’
‘Mission acknowledged, sir,’ replied the robotic voice.
'It’s not exactly a mission...’
'Don’t even try,’ I interrupted. ‘So which way are we going?’
The Elf seemed to think for a moment. ‘North-west - with luck, we should make our way into Nastralund within a few days.’
I nodded ‘Good plan, let’s go.' I pointed ahead. ‘I suggest we head to that hilltop first, see how the land lies.’
He turned his head to look at me, and his eyes betrayed a touch of pride. 'You’re learning, Swift River.’
'Thank you - I guess it comes naturally to a Mohican.’
After about an hour of walking, and little in the way of talking (conversation tends to dry up quickly when you’re travelling on foot with the same person your whole life), we crested the top of the hill. I took a sharp intake of breath.
'River, are you seeing this?’ asked Rhangyll.
'Are you talking about the massive swarm of Gruts with the giant lizard at its heart?’
'That would be what I’m referring to.’
I couldn’t believe it - Orc bands were common place, but I didn’t realise ones this size still existed. I thought they were a thing of a past age, from a time during the war before the world had fallen apart, and I’d only heard stories of the giant lizards the Grut champions were said to ride.
'They’re in the east, and they’re heading west - towards us,’ stated Rhangyll.
'Should we keep heading to Nastralund?’
'No, I said they’re going west, we’ll cross paths if we do that - we should go north-east for now.’
'And run right into them? Are you insane?’
'They won’t retrace ground they’ve already covered - all we need to do is avoid them seeing us, and then we’ll be safe,’ he said with authority. 'Come on, we need to be moving.’


*********************************

'Remind me why we’re in this wheat-field?’ I asked, getting frustrated with having to push giant stalks of it aside for the umpteenth time.
'We’re in this wheat-field because it makes the Orcs far less likely to spot us, as you know very well, River,’ Rhangyll replied, in a lecturing tone.
'I don’t know how - with all the noise Scrapheap’s making, they’ll hear us before they see us anyway.’
It was true - the whirring of his rusted, worn down servos was loud and grating, and his large,ungainly frame was trampling the wheat in a way that would have made us depressingly easy to track.
'No they won’t - he isn’t that loud, though I’ll admit he’s a liability. I don’t know why you insist on keeping that useless pile of rust around anyway.’
'Don’t say that, you’ll hurt his feelings.’
'He doesn’t have feelings - he’s a robot with a damaged brain.’
'He’s more than that, and you know it.’
'I’m sorry, I forgot what a fascinating conversationalist he is - 'Mission accepted,’ 'Error: file not found,’ 'Failed to execute: rebooting internal systems’. Riveting.’
'That pun was beneath you.’
'It wasn’t one!’ he protested.
' Look, just because he can’t convey his thoughts properly doesn’t mean he doesn’t have them.’
Rhangyll shrugged. 'Whatever you say. Anyway, more light’s penetrating this field - I think we’re reaching the end.’
As the light began to strengthen, I heard the gutteral, growling speech of Grut language, and the protestations and cries of a woman in distress. I put a finger to my lips, gesturing to Rhangyll and Scrapheap to remain quiet - probably a meaningless endeavour, as Rhangyll seemed afronted that I, who was not charge, had felt it necessary to indicate something so obvious, and Scrapheap’s capacity for understanding things was less than stellar. As I approached the edge of the wheatfield, I carefully brushed the stalks aside, looking through the gap that I’d made while attempting to stay silent and hidden.
I watched as five Blade Gruts, presumably a raiding party that had split up from the rest of the mob, milled around while two of their bretheren were manhandling a young Kyrie woman. She was wearing simple, peasant clothes, and was trying with all her might to break free, but was quite simply overpowered by the much stronger Orcs. Their growls were not something I could understand with any sophistication, but it was clear they were attempting to capture her - perhaps to sell on as a slave, or maybe just to roast over a fire as their evening meal. On the ground two Kyrie men lay dead, their bodies slashed to ribbons alongside the corpse of an eighth Blade Grut, who had the point of a sickle buried deep into its skull.
I took the bow from my back, and began to string an arrow.
'What do you think you’re doing?’ demanded Rhangyll, in a forceful whisper.
'I’m helping that Kyrie woman, and I’d appreciate it if you’d help as well. Scrapheap, you start firing when I loose my bow - shoot only at the Orcs.’
'You don‘t make decisions like this!’
'I’m making one now, so start shooting before we’re too late.’
Heaving a somewhat disapproving sigh, he did as I said, grabbing his own bow from his back and stringing an arrow to it. Simultaneously, we both drew back our bow strings, held for a moment, and then loosed our arrows at the exact same time.
Both found their mark, and two Orcs lay dead. Within a second, the staccato bark of Scrapheap’s machine gun rent the air as I began fumbling for a new arrow, and concentrated on stringing it to my bow. As I drew the string back taught, I suddenly realised that Rhangyll had already let loose another shot and, between him and Scrapheap, the last five Orcs lay dead, sprawled on the ground and staining it a deep crimson. I let my grip on my bow slacken, and returned my arrow to its rightful place in my quiver as the roar of the machine gun ceased.
Rhangyll, Scrapheap and I stepped out of the wheat-field to meet the startled Kyrie who stood there. Her wings were white as snow, and her hair a jet, raven black. There was only one thing I could think to say.
‘Are you alright?’ I asked.
She looked up at us. Her eyes - wide in alarm but slowly settling into something resembling relief - were the most piercing green I’ve ever encountered. ‘T-thank you.’
‘Never mind that - who are you, what’s your name?’ demanded Rhangyll, his tone uncompromisingly business-like.
The Kyrie hesitated a moment before responding. ‘T-t-tyra. M-my name’s Tyra,’ she answered.
‘Good. I am Rhangyll, descendent of the great Elven warrior Syvarris. The young woman beside me is Swift River, daughter of the Mohican River Tribe.’
‘I’m not sure what you’re referring to.’ She spoke hesitantly, her expression confused.
‘Typical,’ scoffed my Elven companion. ‘Ill-educated peasant.’
‘Rhangyll!’ I interposed, furious. ‘How dare you speak to this woman that way! Besides, most of the records have been destroyed - memory of the past has faded.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ he replied, grudgingly. He turned to the woman again: ‘Why are you here?’
‘My parents sent me to check on... t-to check on...’ The hesitation and stutter had returned to her voice, as she looked down at the bodies. ‘To check on my brothers.’
Rhangyll looked down, before looking at the woman again. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you,’ replied the Kyrie, her tears plainly in her voice. ‘Now please, I need to get back to the farmhouse - my parents need to know.’
Before she could flap her wings to take off, Rhangyll reached forward to stop her. ‘Where is this farmhouse?’
‘Over there,’ she said - she was pointing to the west. My heart nearly broke for her in that moment.
‘I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,’ he said. ‘We saw a large group of Orcs moving in that direction - it’s right in their path.’
The alarm returned to her green eyes. ‘Then I need to go! I need to help them!’
‘You’ll be too late. I’m sorry.’
‘Then I can fight - I know how to fight!’
‘Really? I didn’t exactly see anything impressive earlier.’
‘They ambushed me, I didn’t have time to do anything!’ Tyra protested.
‘Whatever the case, this is no raiding party, but a small army - you’ll be cut to pieces.’
‘But...’
‘No.’ Rhangyll had given up on being gentle now. ‘Tyra, your parents are dead, and if you try to save them, you will be too.’
I watched as the last glimmer of light left Tyra’s eyes.
‘Rhangyll!’ I protested again.
‘River, she had to be told,’ he snapped back. He turned his eyes from me back to Tyra. ‘You’re welcome to travel with us for as long as you wish - Swift River will provide whatever medical attention you require.’

*********************************

Two days later, and Tyra was still travelling with us. I had tried to draw her out of her shell when tending to her wounds (some light bruising and lacerations easily dealt with using a simple poultice) and several times after that, but so far, nothing. She had completely retreated into herself - not that I could blame her.
On the second day, after we’d stopped to have lunch and before we started moving again, Tyra left the group without a word. While Rhangyll was in favour of heading off without her, saying that if she’d wanted to stay with us she wouldn’t have wandered off, I wasn’t so ready to abandon her. We were close to the border into Nastralund, and I found her sitting down, alone, wings folded, looking out across the Sigling Sea. I moved closer, trying to make just enough sound to let her know I was there without startling her, and sat down next to her.
‘It’s a beautiful view, isn’t it?’ I said, in attempt to draw her into conversation. She just took up a small stone from her side, and cast it into the waves.
‘What makes you want to disturb the water?’ I asked.
She said nothing for a moment - I thought I was having as little impact as usual - and then she spoke.
‘The whole world’s disturbed,’ she replied. ‘What’s one damn stone.’
I couldn’t disagree with her - Valhalla was a world out of balance for as long as I’d known it. With Marro swarming from the south, Grut raiders in the north, small groups of survivors forming the majority of the remaining population across the whole breadth of the world, nothing in the way of organisation anywhere anymore, very few people still being able to work the now devastated land (Tyra’s family having been some of the last subsistence farmers), and nature disrupted and crying out in pain from all these creatures desecrating it, the world had fallen apart.
‘I’m sorry about your family,’ I said. ‘I know how you feel.’
‘No you don’t,’ she shot back.
‘I do,’ I insisted. ‘I was born in Braunglayde - my tribe’s elders said we’d moved north there after the war, when the Marro took over Ticalla. I was fifteen when the swarms moved far enough north to enter Braunglayde.’ The memories were still painful to talk about, but I knew what Tyra was going through, and I didn’t want her to feel alone. ‘My whole tribe - everyone I knew - was slaughtered. If it hadn’t been for Rhangyll, I’d have died amongst them. He took me in.’
‘I thought the Marro merely legends,' Tyra remarked. ‘I hope he was more sympathetic with you than he was with me,’ she added, bitterly.
‘He was,’ I replied. ‘He was always strict and stubborn, but he’s grown harsher as the years have passed. He’s a kind man at heart, he just doesn’t show it.’
‘I’ll believe that when I see it.’
‘Keep travelling with us and you might.’
She seemed to think for a moment. ‘Why not? I have nowhere else to go.’ She turned to me. ‘I’m sorry about what happened to you as well. Thank you for your help.’
‘You’re welcome - I thank you, too.’
‘So, what are you and Rhangyll exactly?’
‘Survivors. We wander the world, finding food, scavenging, and sometimes taking mercenary jobs when they present themselves.’
‘And the robot?’
I smiled - thinking of Scrapheap always made me smile. ‘He was cobbled together by another group of survivors out of old Soulborg parts - they used him as a defensive weapon against Grut raids. They hired us as mercenaries to attack a camp of Orcs which had stolen their equipment, but when we were gone they were attacked and cut down by a group of wandering Death Knights. When we returned it was too late, but Scrapheap was still functional. Rhangyll thought we should leave him, but I felt sorry for him so I insisted he stay with us. You could say he’s become... something of a pet.’
I actually managed to get Tyra to smile at the final remark. ‘I can see that,’ she said, and I saw warmth in her green eyes for the first time. We just sat for a moment, looking out across the waters, before she spoke again.
‘What do you know about the war?’ she asked. ‘About how the world got this way?’
‘Very little,’ I replied. ‘All I know comes from the stories the elders of my tribe passed down, and none of them were old enough to remember the war themselves - we humans only have a lifespan of around sixty, sixty-five years, on average, and that’s if we’re lucky enough not to be killed. All I really know is that there were a number of powerful Kyrie who ruled these lands, and that by using some form of magic - my elders always said it was by some kind of pool called a Wellspring - they transported warriors from other worlds to this one, so that they could fight in their wars. My ancestors were apparently among those summoned.’
‘You mean the Kyrie - my people - were once this land’s rulers?’ she asked, showing what appeared to be utter astonishment.
‘You didn’t know that?’
‘No - the Gruts have always seemed most dominant to me. I never imagined...’ she stopped for a moment before continuing. ‘Do you know anything else?’ She seemed agitated, desperate for more information.
‘Snippets,’ I replied, ‘but mostly in the form of stories told around the campfire. I could tell you what I remember of some of them if you’d like, over time, but I don’t know how informative they’d be - I have no idea where to separate fact from legend.’
'Oh.’ She seemed disappointed, and gazed out to sea again, with a far off look in her eyes. 'Are there no records?’
'None that I know of,’ I replied. 'I don’t know how many were made, and those that did exist seem to have been destroyed.’
'I thought not.’ Tyra seemed lost again - the life I’d noticed in her the last few moments had left, and she seemed to have drifted away with her thoughts. Suddenly, I remembered something.
'There have been rumours...’ I began.
She turned to me at once, her green eyes keen with interest. 'What?’
'I’ve heard rumours of someone who can remember the war, who was alive for it.’
'Who is he? Where?’ Her eyes were blazing now, not only with interest, but with determination - with an intense, powerful green flame I have never seen in anyone else’s eyes before or since. It was intimidating, but undeniably engaging - I had to look away for a second, her gaze was so strong.
'I don’t know - I don’t know the species, temperament, anything. I don’t even know if it’s more than a rumour. All I’ve heard about him is that he’s a recluse, and he’s supposed to live in an abandoned fortress down in Anund.’
Tyra once again turned her gaze to the water, but this time, her eyes maintained their determined fire. 'I’m going to have to leave you,’ she said. 'I have to find him.’
This was definitely more than mere curiosity, and I was beginning to seriously question her motives for starting this conversation.
'You can’t!’ I said desperately. 'You’ll never survive the journey on your own - no one could. You’ll be slaughtered.’
She looked at me, and despite the burning in her eyes, her voice was calm and level. 'I have to speak to this person, Swift River - there’s nothing else for it.’
There was no way I could talk her out of this, I could tell, but I couldn’t just let this woman walk into her death, not now - and besides, she was becoming quite fascinating. 'Alright,’ I said, 'but you can’t go alone - we’ll go with you.’
The fire softened, and her look changed to one of gratitude, confusion, and even a slight amount of humour. 'We? Who’s we? I appreciate the offer, River, I do, and I would take you up on it, but if you mean to include Rhangyll, I doubt he’d be as sympathetic or as willing to go on this expedition as you are.’
'Maybe not,’ I replied, 'but he won’t let me go alone, and after years of travelling with him, I know how to twist him around my finger if I need to.’

********************************

'So, let me get this straight,’ said Rhangyll. 'Now we’re at the border into Nastralund, you want to turn around, traipse south all the way back through Ekstrom, back into Anund, and find some abandoned fortress in the south of that province so your new Kyrie friend can talk to someone who may not even exist?’
'In essence, yes,’ I replied.
'There is no way we are ever doing this, Swift River - I hope you understand that.’

*********************************

'I still can’t believe you talked me into doing this.’
I flashed Rhangyll a sardonic smile. ‘I have my methods.’
The journey had taken around three weeks, and had been a hard slog - Grut raiding parties, hostile survivalists, groups of undead and Deathstalker packs had been ever present dangers that we often had to fight or avoid, and Rhangyll’s sour mood over the entire expedition had done nothing to make matters any easier. Tyra acted as a scout, her ability to fly being invaluable when it came to spotting and avoiding the aforementioned dangers.
After our talk overlooking the Sigling Sea, she began to open up to me more - she even talked a little about her now-deceased family, and while the pain was still clear in her eyes, discussing them seemed to help ease it to a degree. She asked me about my own life, and in the evenings she would often request that I share with her the stories my tribe’s elders had told me of the war - she seemed nigh obsessed with it. Her determination to reach her destination was absolute and unshifting, and her eyes often blazed with the same fire I had seen when I had first mentioned this rumour to her. I began to realise that she was using this as a new purpose in life - whether as a simple distraction from her pain or to help her come to terms with it, I was never sure. I wasn’t sure, either, what would happen to her when we had reached our journey’s end. I hoped that she would be able to speak to this person about how the world had reached this state and use that as some form of closure - but this person may not even exist, and whether he did or not, what her reaction would be was not something I could predict, no matter how hard I tried to unravel the mysteries of her mind.
We were at the gates of the fortress. The stone walls were overgrown and crumbling, clearly neglected for at least a century - the gate had been blown apart long ago, and its wood was slowly rotting away. Tattered grey banners depicting parallel swirls forming from inside hexagons flew from the ramparts. A number of broken Soulborg frames, skeletons and rotting Marro husks littered the ground.
'Well, we’re here,’ said Tyra, somewhat impatiently. 'What are you two waiting for?’ Turning away, she ignored the open gate and simply soared over the large stone walls.
'Showoff,’ I quipped, before Rhangyll, Scrapheap and I walked through the ruined gate and into the huge, walled courtyard. The ground was strewn with yet more decayed corpses and damaged soulborgs - a truly staggering number, far greater even than the carnage that lay outside the walls.
'Whatever happened here, it was a bloodbath,’ commented Rhangyll.
'Impessive deduction,’ I replied sarcastically. I crouched, and looked down at one of the robot frames. 'So many broken Soulborgs - don’t suppose you have any memory of this, eh Scrapheap?’
The Soulborg emitted a low whirr for about ten seconds, and then, in a monotone, robotic voice, replied 'Error: 506, file not found.’
'Thought not.’
'Alright, Swift River, we’re here,’ said Tyra. 'Now where is this recluse you were mentioning? Any thoughts?’
'The rumours seemed to imply that he’s somewhere in a tunnel network underneath this fortress,’ I replied, looking torwards the overgrown keep. 'We need to find an entrance.’
'Are you certain these tunnels exist?’ asked Rhangyll.
'No,’ I answered honestly.
'Digging around in thorns to find an entrance to a tunnel network that may only be imaginary, in an attempt to find someone who’s probably only a myth. Wonderful.’
'Stop complaining, Rhangyll, and start looking,’ Tyra shot back.
'Don’t get brusque with me, peasant - remember I’m already helping you under protest.’
'My apologies if my tone was echoing your usual level of diplomacy,’ replied Tyra, with an edge to her voice. ‘Believe me, it’s not a mistake I’ll make again.’
After several minutes of patient searching, I found a short drop leading to a large door in the keep, both hidden under a truly ridiculous quantity of brambles.
'Well,’ I called out, 'the good news is I’ve found it - the bad news is we’re never getting through all this foliage.’
Rhangyll, Tyra and - with a little prodding - Scrapheap, all rushed to my side.
'We have to get through,’ said Tyra, and I could tell by now from her voice alone that her eyes held the same fire as before. 'Anyone have any ideas?’
Five seconds of whirring preceded Scrapheap incinerating the entire thicket with his wrist-mounted flamethrower.
'I’d rather you didn’t do that to plants in future, Scrapheap,’ I remarked.
'You have to admit, it worked well,’ was Tyra’s response.
One by one, we made the small drop, landing on the now scorched stonework and burned plantlife. Rhangyll pushed open the door and we all hurried through before it slammed shut behind us, the heavy crash sending echoes through the tunnel.
Disoriented both by the sudden, pitch blackness and by the overwhelming smells of rust and rotting flesh, I stumbled. Reaching out in the darkness to catch myself, my hand found a flat, hard and smooth surface sticking out from the wall, and I accidentally flipped what must have been some sort of switch. In a moment, a long row of glass disks framed in metal running down the whole length of the tunnel’s ceiling began to glow, bathing us in an unnatural, electric blue light. I disliked it immensely, but at least it allowed us to see.
'It worked out this time, River,’ began Rhangyll, 'but a word of advice - in the future, try not to set off things when you don’t know what they do.’
'Shut up, Rhangyll,’ I shot back - not my most sparkling retort, but I lacked the inclination at the time to come up with a better one.
The tunnel’s walls were merely uneven, carved rock, but the floor was overlaid with a fine metal grate - the whole setup was utilitarian in the extreme. The remains of yet more corpses and Soulborgs littered the ground. The tunnel stretched out in front of us so far I could barely see the end of it, and I could make out many branching paths - it seemed a vast network.
'How are we supposed to find the recluse in here?’ asked Tyra, sounding genuinely lost and baffled.
'The rumours said he spent most of his time near a wellspring somewhere in these tunnels,’ I began, 'but that’s of little use to us if we can’t find it.’ I crouched to the ground again. 'I’m going to have to look to see if I can make out the most recent tracks - they’ll lead us to him if I can identify them in this mess. If that doesn’t work, we’ll just have to think of something else.’
'Or,’ suggested Rhangyll, 'we could just use this map.’
I looked up at him, confused. 'What are you talking about? What map?’
'This one, here,’ he said, pointing at a spot on the wall. 'You must have missed it. It is rust-stained, but it looks usable enough.’
I got up, moved closer, and looked where he was pointing. Another flat, hard surface, much larger this time, seemed to have been placed upon the walls by this fortress’s former inhabitants. Once again it was smooth and white, but there were no switches this time. Instead, just as Rhangyll had said, a map appeared to be printed on it. It was not like any map I was used to, being nothing but harsh, straight lines printed in black, with numbered annotations on it, but it seemed clear enough to use.
'Yes,’ I answered. 'That... should work.’
Rhangyll placed his hand on my shoulder. 'Always look for the easiest route in future,’ he said, in a strangely softer tone of voice than usual.
'Don’t patronise me.’
'Alright, if that’s what you really want, then I won’t.’
'I think the way you just said that counts as being patronising....’
'Yes, it does. Shall we get going?’
'Wait,’ I began. 'How are we supposed to remember the way through all these twisting tunnels?’
'Don’t worry,’ replied Tyra, 'I have a nigh perfect visual memory.’
I shrugged. 'Of course you do.’
We wandered the passageways for what couldn’t have been more than ten minutes, but it felt like an hour. As it turned out, Tyra’s perfect memory had been unneeded, as at every tunnel entrance there was a copy of the same map, with a red dot to designate where we were. The deeper we got, the fewer fallen warriors we found, though this strangely failed to make me feel any less uncomfortable. I had lived my life in the open, in touch with nature from my earliest days, and in the claustrophobic tunnels I felt entirely cut off. I knew in my gut that this was the last place I belonged.
My discomfort finally began to clear when we saw sunlight streaming in from the end of the last tunnel. I practically ran to reach it, much to the chagrin of Rhangyll, though Tyra seemed just as impatient as I.
We were greeted by a large open cavern, the walls natural and craggy rather than artificially hewn - there were even a number of stalagtites protruding from the ceiling. Above, there was a hole in the cave roof, where pure, golden sunlight shone down onto the beautiful, clear, sparkling pool in the centre of the room. Here, I felt not only connected to nature once more, but I could tell that this place was magical - its presence was palpable, and I could feel its power surging through my entire body.
'Great Spirit,’ I muttered.
Standing in front of the pool was a tall, heavy set figure, with deep red skin and small, golden horns protruding from its forehead. Its body type was male, as best as I could tell, considering that this species was completely alien to me. It had white hair and a white goatee, wore heavy robes of red and gold, and bore in its hand a large, silver staff which resembled some sort of bizarre, arcane key.
'I have waited for someone to come,’ he said methodically, but with a quiet sense of joy I could just pick up. The voice was plainly male, and carried the weight of many, many years.
'Who are you?’ asked Tyra. I decided to let her speak - she was the one who had wanted to come, after all.
'Ah - but who are you?’ replied the creature, ' You are, after all, in my domain.’
'My name is Tyra,’ she said. 'The human woman beside me is named Swift River, and the Elf is called Rhangyll.’
'And the soulborg?’
'Scrapheap,’ I chimed in, briefly.
The creature smiled slightly. 'How original. My name is Rygarn. I am a Tempovar, and a Chrono-Mage of my species. I am the only one of my race presently alive on this planet.’
'I wished to speak to you, Rygarn,’ said Tyra - she was certainly bold. Her gaze still burned as she spoke.
'Of what?’
'I wish to know more of the war - of how Valhalla reached its present state. You remember, yes? You were alive for the war?’
Rygarn looked entirely unsurpised. 'I expected you to ask that. I was around for much of it, but not all - I was only summoned several years in, by the Archkyrie Vydar who ruled from this place. Montfre Manor, it was called then. You are certain you wish to know?’
'Absolutely,’ replied Tyra.
‘Very well,' said Rygarn. ‘I shall explain. A little over two hundred years ago, a number of Kyrie discovered - or, more likely, rediscovered - the Wellsprings, and used their power to summon armies to them - there were five Kyrie Generals to begin with, but as the war carried on there became more. War ravaged Valhalla for years, but no one’s army would conclusively break - they had an endless supply of reinforcements after all. Eventually, loyalties cracked, the Valkyrie Generals began to die on and off the battlefield, and the old goals of the conflict became forgotten. The alliances and the armies broke down, and the world became an every-man-for-himself nightmare. Some were ambitious enough to try to form their own civilisations, but in such an unstable environment, none could last for long. The whole world broke down into what it is today, and now all who are left are survivors, raiders, and the growing plague of Marro in the south. It is a world of naught but death and destruction - as you have seen, I can tell.’
His entire speech sounded rehearsed, as though he had been planning to enter into exactly this conversation with someone for an extremely long time now - all but the last few words of it, that is.
Tyra appeared greatly taken aback by that last comment, but she stood her ground, and attempted not to let it show. 'Is it redeemable?’ she asked.
'In its present state, no,’ he replied. 'The chaos will only grow, that is until the Marro consume all left in their path - it’s only a matter of time until they do. There is, however, one possibility - probably hopeless, but it’s all we have.’
Tyra’s eyes blazed ever brighter. 'Tell me.’
'As I said, I’m a Chrono-Mage - use your imagination.’
'Time travel?’ interjected Rhangyll. 'Really? Aren’t there serious problems with something like that?’
'If you’re worrying about the the temporal repurcussions, I shouldn’t,’ replied Rygarn. 'The Valkyrie Generals pulled warriors throughout the whole of space and time - have you any idea what that’s already done to the timestream? Anything we do would be inconsequencial - you may even heal it if you can prevent the massive recruitment drive that occurred during the last stages of the war.’
'Us?’ responded Rhangyll. 'Us? You really expect me to just piggy back on your ridiculous scheme, head back in time and save the world? Anyway, if you think this is so important, why don’t you do it yourself?’
'I cannot,’ was Rygarn’s rebuttle. 'You may think me negligent with the consequences of time travel, but I will not risk what could happen if I met myself.’
I could hardly believe this conversation was actually taking place. Suddenly, a voice - clear and determined - cut through the air.
'I’m going.’
It was Tyra. I found it even harder to believe that I’d really heard those two words - but they had been spoken, and the fire of her eyes grew ever stronger. Rygarn smiled. ‘I thought you would.’
‘How does this work?’ she asked.
‘I am not powerful enough to manipulate time in such a way myself,’ Rygarn explained. ‘Fortunately, I have discovered a way to overcome such difficulties.’ He indicated fifteen small chambers around the Wellspring, along with the amulets which had been placed inside each one. ‘Each amulet comes from a different Wellspring. When all are gathered at one, it allows the one who uses the Wellspring to control their visions, and, as such, I can home in on Valhalla’s past and allow you to go there through the portal I can create. I spent one and a half centuries searching for these, and lost many friends along the way - they sacrificed their lives, so that this may be done. It is fortunate you arrived when you did - we Tempovars may be long-lived, but we are not immortal, and my days are coming to an end. Had I died before these could be used, their sacrifices would have been in vain.’
‘What do I have to do?’ asked Tyra.
‘On your own, you’re nothing - on their own, everyone’s nothing. You have to be a voice, an idea, an inspiration - the last voice of reason in a world gone mad. Then, maybe, someone will hear you, and you can turn something around.’ He paused for a moment. ‘You have to understand, there is no coming back.’
‘I have no reason to wish to.’
‘Good,’ said Rygarn, looking relieved to know that his life’s work might actually mean something. ‘Then it is settled.’
Tyra turned to the rest of us. ‘You’re welcome to join me, if you wish. I would like you to.’ She spoke to all three of us, but she was looking directly at me, and addressed me first and foremost. The green fire was just as bright now, but it no longer seemed intimidating - I could even describe it as comforting, and while the first time I’d had to look away, this time I found I could not. I understood as I looked into her eyes that she felt she had to do this, that this would give her a purpose that had been missing from her life after the death of her family, and that this was something she truly believed in. What’s more, I trusted her. I found myself believing in it too - I found myself thinking that this could work, that we could do something to save Valhalla from this fate. I knew that I would stand by her in this, and, as such, promised to go with her.
'Thank you,’ she replied, and smiled.
‘Are you out of your mind, Swift River?’
‘I suppose that’s a no from you then, Rhangyll,’ said Tyra.
'You’re really going to go to another time?’ he continued. 'What the hell has got into you!’
'Rhangyll, think about it,’ I began. 'What do we gain from staying here - a life of constant travel, desperation and an endless search for food and shelter. This may not work, but we might be able to change things - and wherever we end up, surely it can’t be worse than this.’
He fell silent for a moment, looking thoughtful. I had never expected my words to get through to him, but they did. 'You’re right,’ he said at length. 'We have no reason to stay here. I may as well go.’
'You’re coming?’ I couldn’t believe it as I said that.
'Someone needs to make sure you don’t screw things up.’
I was glad to hear this - Rhangyll may constantly irritate me, but he was the only family I’d had since my home had been destroyed. I didn’t want to leave him behind.
'What about you, Scrapheap?’ I asked.
'Oh yes, ask the mind last,’ commented Rhangyll.
'Affirmative,’ said the machine, after several seconds of whirring.
'Excellent,’ said the Tempovar. 'Now, let me partake of the waters, and you can be going.’
'Wait a minute, we’re doing this now?’ queried Rhangyll.
'Any reason to wait?’ asked the Chrono-Mage.
'Well... no, I suppose not,’ replied the Elf.'Wait, though, can we just work out something resembling a plan?’
'Impossible, unfortunately,’ replied Rygarn. 'There is no one turning point or event you have to change, rather a gradual deterioration - much trickier to deal with. All you can do is spread your message through word of mouth, and hope that you end up with enough followers to make a difference.’
'Oh, yes, this is foolproof,’ Rhangyll complained.
'I do have one question first, Rygarn,’ I added. 'When we’re in the past, should we seek you out?’
The Tempovar smiled sardonically. 'No - I was a different person then. Vydar rarely recruited the wise, he summoned those he could control and manipulate. I was young, foolish and arrogant - I never considered the consequences of my power over time, I simply revelled in it. It was a stage most young Tempovars with the powers of a Chrono-Mage went through. Most of us were coached by one who was older and wiser than we were, but I was snatched up by Vydar before this could happen, and he merely encouraged my arrogance for his own ends. So no - you will receive no help from me, I’m afraid.’
He turned towards the Wellspring. 'The moment of truth,’ he said. I could feel my stomach churning over what was about to happen, but I did my best to centre, and to remind myself to trust my instincts here, rather than my fears.
The Tempovar cupped some of the Wellspring’s water in his hands, and drank of it. He then placed his hands on two raised, runed panels beside the Wellspring, which each depicted a large star encircled by swirling rocks. His concentration was plainly intense, as he closed his eyes and the tension built in the cavern. Suddenly, a portal emanating a brilliant blue light opened, as a spiral of rocks and crystals rose ever higher in a circular pattern from the Wellspring.
'Go through,’ commanded Rygarn, his voice strained and weary. 'Quickly.’
Tyra, Rhangyll, Scrapheap and I entered the portal as swiftly as we could, before it closed behind us. We found ourselves in a green, open field, with tall trees growing all around us.
'It worked?’ asked Rhangyll.
'It did,’ I replied - and I did know. From the air that I breathed to the grass underneath my feet and to the wind in my hair, it was clear that we were in another time - one that felt, to me at least, inherently more hopeful than the one we’d left. It felt exciting, beautiful and terrifying all at once. I hesitated before speaking, unwilling, for a while at least, to break the spell, but eventually I found my voice.
'What do we do now?’
Tyra looked at me with the same green flame that I’d first seen in her eyes as we sat together beside the Sigling Sea. 'We spread the word,’ she said quietly. ‘We spread the word.’

[Lazy Orang]

Hmm... no posts. Interesting.

Anyway, here's the other one I've already done - significantly longer, and the one I like most so far. This one is slightly edited from the original version I posted for the contest.

Just some notes, seeing as I included other people's custom materials in this story. Please read this after the story rather than before, as I have attempted to write the story so that prior knowledge of the custom ideas it is based on is not required for it to work as a narrative:

Spoiler Alert!

The main idea of this story is based on one of the Custom Generals created by @Soundwarp SG-1 , and while I have little doubt that this story veered a fairly significant way from Soundwarp's original vision of where she came from, I have attempted to keep the basis and soul of this General intact. Rygarn is simply a character designed by C3V who I thought would be a good fit for this story.

Without further ado:

Last Voice of Reason

Spoiler Alert!

Last Voice of Reason

Ekstrom, Valhalla, two-hundred years after the War of the Valkyries:

I woke up as the sun rose above the hills, bathing me in its light. The weather was getting colder, despite the bright sun. Harvest season had come - for those who were still settled enough to grow crops, at least.
I was not one of them. Always travelling, it was important that I awoke bright and early, as usual, to continue moving. No destination, just continuous movement - looking for food,shelter, whatever we could scavenge, and whatever work we could find.
‘Swift River! Come on, we need to get going!’
‘I’m coming, Rhangyll!’ I called back to my Elven companion - apparently dawn wasn’t early enough for him. He’d always been a somewhat uncompromising taskmaster.
I got up, quickly clothing myself in my tunic and leggings - all the clothes I had, the only ones I’ve ever had, since my home was destroyed. I left the shelter of the ruined farmhouse through the back way and went out to the small well, before washing my hands and face in the clear, spring water there. After returning to the farmhouse and putting on my jewellery and small, lightly feathered headdress, I strapped my bow to my back and my knife and quiver to my hips before slipping on my moccasin shoes and leaving out of what used to be the front door. I found my companions - the aforementioned Elf, and a seven foot tall pile of cobbled together, mismatching parts that passed for a Soulborg.
‘What took you so long?’ Rhangyll asked.
‘Washing, dressing - that’s pretty much it.’
‘No, before that - I was waiting ages before I called you.’
‘I’m not an elf, I need more than four hours - I can’t be on the move until one and get up again at five. If you’d wanted that, you should have chosen a different travelling companion.’
‘As I recall, I didn’t exactly choose you.’
‘You wanted to get going, didn’t you? So, shall we?’
He nodded. ‘Indeed we shall. Come on, Scrapheap.’
‘Mission acknowledged, sir,’ replied the robotic voice.
'It’s not exactly a mission...’
'Don’t even try,’ I interrupted. ‘So which way are we going?’
The Elf seemed to think for a moment. ‘North-west - with luck, we should make our way into Nastralund within a few days.’
I nodded ‘Good plan, let’s go.' I pointed ahead. ‘I suggest we head to that hilltop first, see how the land lies.’
He turned his head to look at me, and his eyes betrayed a touch of pride. 'You’re learning, Swift River.’
'Thank you - I guess it comes naturally to a Mohican.’
After about an hour of walking, and little in the way of talking (conversation tends to dry up quickly when you’re travelling on foot with the same person your whole life), we crested the top of the hill. I took a sharp intake of breath.
'River, are you seeing this?’ asked Rhangyll.
'Are you talking about the massive swarm of Gruts with the giant lizard at its heart?’
'That would be what I’m referring to.’
I couldn’t believe it - Orc bands were common place, but I didn’t realise ones this size still existed. I thought they were a thing of a past age, from a time during the war before the world had fallen apart, and I’d only heard stories of the giant lizards the Grut champions were said to ride.
'They’re in the east, and they’re heading west - towards us,’ stated Rhangyll.
'Should we keep heading to Nastralund?’
'No, I said they’re going west, we’ll cross paths if we do that - we should go north-east for now.’
'And run right into them? Are you insane?’
'They won’t retrace ground they’ve already covered - all we need to do is avoid them seeing us, and then we’ll be safe,’ he said with authority. 'Come on, we need to be moving.’


*********************************

'Remind me why we’re in this wheat-field?’ I asked, getting frustrated with having to push giant stalks of it aside for the umpteenth time.
'We’re in this wheat-field because it makes the Orcs far less likely to spot us, as you know very well, River,’ Rhangyll replied, in a lecturing tone.
'I don’t know how - with all the noise Scrapheap’s making, they’ll hear us before they see us anyway.’
It was true - the whirring of his rusted, worn down servos was loud and grating, and his large,ungainly frame was trampling the wheat in a way that would have made us depressingly easy to track.
'No they won’t - he isn’t that loud, though I’ll admit he’s a liability. I don’t know why you insist on keeping that useless pile of rust around anyway.’
'Don’t say that, you’ll hurt his feelings.’
'He doesn’t have feelings - he’s a robot with a damaged brain.’
'He’s more than that, and you know it.’
'I’m sorry, I forgot what a fascinating conversationalist he is - 'Mission accepted,’ 'Error: file not found,’ 'Failed to execute: rebooting internal systems’. Riveting.’
'That pun was beneath you.’
'It wasn’t one!’ he protested.
' Look, just because he can’t convey his thoughts properly doesn’t mean he doesn’t have them.’
Rhangyll shrugged. 'Whatever you say. Anyway, more light’s penetrating this field - I think we’re reaching the end.’
As the light began to strengthen, I heard the gutteral, growling speech of Grut language, and the protestations and cries of a woman in distress. I put a finger to my lips, gesturing to Rhangyll and Scrapheap to remain quiet - probably a meaningless endeavour, as Rhangyll seemed afronted that I, who was not charge, had felt it necessary to indicate something so obvious, and Scrapheap’s capacity for understanding things was less than stellar. As I approached the edge of the wheatfield, I carefully brushed the stalks aside, looking through the gap that I’d made while attempting to stay silent and hidden.
I watched as five Blade Gruts, presumably a raiding party that had split up from the rest of the mob, milled around while two of their bretheren were manhandling a young Kyrie woman. She was wearing simple, peasant clothes, and was trying with all her might to break free, but was quite simply overpowered by the much stronger Orcs. Their growls were not something I could understand with any sophistication, but it was clear they were attempting to capture her - perhaps to sell on as a slave, or maybe just to roast over a fire as their evening meal. On the ground two Kyrie men lay dead, their bodies slashed to ribbons alongside the corpse of an eighth Blade Grut, who had the point of a sickle buried deep into its skull.
I took the bow from my back, and began to string an arrow.
'What do you think you’re doing?’ demanded Rhangyll, in a forceful whisper.
'I’m helping that Kyrie woman, and I’d appreciate it if you’d help as well. Scrapheap, you start firing when I loose my bow - shoot only at the Orcs.’
'You don‘t make decisions like this!’
'I’m making one now, so start shooting before we’re too late.’
Heaving a somewhat disapproving sigh, he did as I said, grabbing his own bow from his back and stringing an arrow to it. Simultaneously, we both drew back our bow strings, held for a moment, and then loosed our arrows at the exact same time.
Both found their mark, and two Orcs lay dead. Within a second, the staccato bark of Scrapheap’s machine gun rent the air as I began fumbling for a new arrow, and concentrated on stringing it to my bow. As I drew the string back taught, I suddenly realised that Rhangyll had already let loose another shot and, between him and Scrapheap, the last five Orcs lay dead, sprawled on the ground and staining it a deep crimson. I let my grip on my bow slacken, and returned my arrow to its rightful place in my quiver as the roar of the machine gun ceased.
Rhangyll, Scrapheap and I stepped out of the wheat-field to meet the startled Kyrie who stood there. Her wings were white as snow, and her hair a jet, raven black. There was only one thing I could think to say.
‘Are you alright?’ I asked.
She looked up at us. Her eyes - wide in alarm but slowly settling into something resembling relief - were the most piercing green I’ve ever encountered. ‘T-thank you.’
‘Never mind that - who are you, what’s your name?’ demanded Rhangyll, his tone uncompromisingly business-like.
The Kyrie hesitated a moment before responding. ‘T-t-tyra. M-my name’s Tyra,’ she answered.
‘Good. I am Rhangyll, descendent of the great Elven warrior Syvarris. The young woman beside me is Swift River, daughter of the Mohican River Tribe.’
‘I’m not sure what you’re referring to.’ She spoke hesitantly, her expression confused.
‘Typical,’ scoffed my Elven companion. ‘Ill-educated peasant.’
‘Rhangyll!’ I interposed, furious. ‘How dare you speak to this woman that way! Besides, most of the records have been destroyed - memory of the past has faded.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ he replied, grudgingly. He turned to the woman again: ‘Why are you here?’
‘My parents sent me to check on... t-to check on...’ The hesitation and stutter had returned to her voice, as she looked down at the bodies. ‘To check on my brothers.’
Rhangyll looked down, before looking at the woman again. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you,’ replied the Kyrie, her tears plainly in her voice. ‘Now please, I need to get back to the farmhouse - my parents need to know.’
Before she could flap her wings to take off, Rhangyll reached forward to stop her. ‘Where is this farmhouse?’
‘Over there,’ she said - she was pointing to the west. My heart nearly broke for her in that moment.
‘I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,’ he said. ‘We saw a large group of Orcs moving in that direction - it’s right in their path.’
The alarm returned to her green eyes. ‘Then I need to go! I need to help them!’
‘You’ll be too late. I’m sorry.’
‘Then I can fight - I know how to fight!’
‘Really? I didn’t exactly see anything impressive earlier.’
‘They ambushed me, I didn’t have time to do anything!’ Tyra protested.
‘Whatever the case, this is no raiding party, but a small army - you’ll be cut to pieces.’
‘But...’
‘No.’ Rhangyll had given up on being gentle now. ‘Tyra, your parents are dead, and if you try to save them, you will be too.’
I watched as the last glimmer of light left Tyra’s eyes.
‘Rhangyll!’ I protested again.
‘River, she had to be told,’ he snapped back. He turned his eyes from me back to Tyra. ‘You’re welcome to travel with us for as long as you wish - Swift River will provide whatever medical attention you require.’

*********************************

Two days later, and Tyra was still travelling with us. I had tried to draw her out of her shell when tending to her wounds (some light bruising and lacerations easily dealt with using a simple poultice) and several times after that, but so far, nothing. She had completely retreated into herself - not that I could blame her.
On the second day, after we’d stopped to have lunch and before we started moving again, Tyra left the group without a word. While Rhangyll was in favour of heading off without her, saying that if she’d wanted to stay with us she wouldn’t have wandered off, I wasn’t so ready to abandon her. We were close to the border into Nastralund, and I found her sitting down, alone, wings folded, looking out across the Sigling Sea. I moved closer, trying to make just enough sound to let her know I was there without startling her, and sat down next to her.
‘It’s a beautiful view, isn’t it?’ I said, in attempt to draw her into conversation. She just took up a small stone from her side, and cast it into the waves.
‘What makes you want to disturb the water?’ I asked.
She said nothing for a moment - I thought I was having as little impact as usual - and then she spoke.
‘The whole world’s disturbed,’ she replied. ‘What’s one damn stone.’
I couldn’t disagree with her - Valhalla was a world out of balance for as long as I’d known it. With Marro swarming from the south, Grut raiders in the north, small groups of survivors forming the majority of the remaining population across the whole breadth of the world, nothing in the way of organisation anywhere anymore, very few people still being able to work the now devastated land (Tyra’s family having been some of the last subsistence farmers), and nature disrupted and crying out in pain from all these creatures desecrating it, the world had fallen apart.
‘I’m sorry about your family,’ I said. ‘I know how you feel.’
‘No you don’t,’ she shot back.
‘I do,’ I insisted. ‘I was born in Braunglayde - my tribe’s elders said we’d moved north there after the war, when the Marro took over Ticalla. I was fifteen when the swarms moved far enough north to enter Braunglayde.’ The memories were still painful to talk about, but I knew what Tyra was going through, and I didn’t want her to feel alone. ‘My whole tribe - everyone I knew - was slaughtered. If it hadn’t been for Rhangyll, I’d have died amongst them. He took me in.’
‘I thought the Marro merely legends,' Tyra remarked. ‘I hope he was more sympathetic with you than he was with me,’ she added, bitterly.
‘He was,’ I replied. ‘He was always strict and stubborn, but he’s grown harsher as the years have passed. He’s a kind man at heart, he just doesn’t show it.’
‘I’ll believe that when I see it.’
‘Keep travelling with us and you might.’
She seemed to think for a moment. ‘Why not? I have nowhere else to go.’ She turned to me. ‘I’m sorry about what happened to you as well. Thank you for your help.’
‘You’re welcome - I thank you, too.’
‘So, what are you and Rhangyll exactly?’
‘Survivors. We wander the world, finding food, scavenging, and sometimes taking mercenary jobs when they present themselves.’
‘And the robot?’
I smiled - thinking of Scrapheap always made me smile. ‘He was cobbled together by another group of survivors out of old Soulborg parts - they used him as a defensive weapon against Grut raids. They hired us as mercenaries to attack a camp of Orcs which had stolen their equipment, but when we were gone they were attacked and cut down by a group of wandering Death Knights. When we returned it was too late, but Scrapheap was still functional. Rhangyll thought we should leave him, but I felt sorry for him so I insisted he stay with us. You could say he’s become... something of a pet.’
I actually managed to get Tyra to smile at the final remark. ‘I can see that,’ she said, and I saw warmth in her green eyes for the first time. We just sat for a moment, looking out across the waters, before she spoke again.
‘What do you know about the war?’ she asked. ‘About how the world got this way?’
‘Very little,’ I replied. ‘All I know comes from the stories the elders of my tribe passed down, and none of them were old enough to remember the war themselves - we humans only have a lifespan of around sixty, sixty-five years, on average, and that’s if we’re lucky enough not to be killed. All I really know is that there were a number of powerful Kyrie who ruled these lands, and that by using some form of magic - my elders always said it was by some kind of pool called a Wellspring - they transported warriors from other worlds to this one, so that they could fight in their wars. My ancestors were apparently among those summoned.’
‘You mean the Kyrie - my people - were once this land’s rulers?’ she asked, showing what appeared to be utter astonishment.
‘You didn’t know that?’
‘No - the Gruts have always seemed most dominant to me. I never imagined...’ she stopped for a moment before continuing. ‘Do you know anything else?’ She seemed agitated, desperate for more information.
‘Snippets,’ I replied, ‘but mostly in the form of stories told around the campfire. I could tell you what I remember of some of them if you’d like, over time, but I don’t know how informative they’d be - I have no idea where to separate fact from legend.’
'Oh.’ She seemed disappointed, and gazed out to sea again, with a far off look in her eyes. 'Are there no records?’
'None that I know of,’ I replied. 'I don’t know how many were made, and those that did exist seem to have been destroyed.’
'I thought not.’ Tyra seemed lost again - the life I’d noticed in her the last few moments had left, and she seemed to have drifted away with her thoughts. Suddenly, I remembered something.
'There have been rumours...’ I began.
She turned to me at once, her green eyes keen with interest. 'What?’
'I’ve heard rumours of someone who can remember the war, who was alive for it.’
'Who is he? Where?’ Her eyes were blazing now, not only with interest, but with determination - with an intense, powerful green flame I have never seen in anyone else’s eyes before or since. It was intimidating, but undeniably engaging - I had to look away for a second, her gaze was so strong.
'I don’t know - I don’t know the species, temperament, anything. I don’t even know if it’s more than a rumour. All I’ve heard about him is that he’s a recluse, and he’s supposed to live in an abandoned fortress down in Anund.’
Tyra once again turned her gaze to the water, but this time, her eyes maintained their determined fire. 'I’m going to have to leave you,’ she said. 'I have to find him.’
This was definitely more than mere curiosity, and I was beginning to seriously question her motives for starting this conversation.
'You can’t!’ I said desperately. 'You’ll never survive the journey on your own - no one could. You’ll be slaughtered.’
She looked at me, and despite the burning in her eyes, her voice was calm and level. 'I have to speak to this person, Swift River - there’s nothing else for it.’
There was no way I could talk her out of this, I could tell, but I couldn’t just let this woman walk into her death, not now - and besides, she was becoming quite fascinating. 'Alright,’ I said, 'but you can’t go alone - we’ll go with you.’
The fire softened, and her look changed to one of gratitude, confusion, and even a slight amount of humour. 'We? Who’s we? I appreciate the offer, River, I do, and I would take you up on it, but if you mean to include Rhangyll, I doubt he’d be as sympathetic or as willing to go on this expedition as you are.’
'Maybe not,’ I replied, 'but he won’t let me go alone, and after years of travelling with him, I know how to twist him around my finger if I need to.’

********************************

'So, let me get this straight,’ said Rhangyll. 'Now we’re at the border into Nastralund, you want to turn around, traipse south all the way back through Ekstrom, back into Anund, and find some abandoned fortress in the south of that province so your new Kyrie friend can talk to someone who may not even exist?’
'In essence, yes,’ I replied.
'There is no way we are ever doing this, Swift River - I hope you understand that.’

*********************************

'I still can’t believe you talked me into doing this.’
I flashed Rhangyll a sardonic smile. ‘I have my methods.’
The journey had taken around three weeks, and had been a hard slog - Grut raiding parties, hostile survivalists, groups of undead and Deathstalker packs had been ever present dangers that we often had to fight or avoid, and Rhangyll’s sour mood over the entire expedition had done nothing to make matters any easier. Tyra acted as a scout, her ability to fly being invaluable when it came to spotting and avoiding the aforementioned dangers.
After our talk overlooking the Sigling Sea, she began to open up to me more - she even talked a little about her now-deceased family, and while the pain was still clear in her eyes, discussing them seemed to help ease it to a degree. She asked me about my own life, and in the evenings she would often request that I share with her the stories my tribe’s elders had told me of the war - she seemed nigh obsessed with it. Her determination to reach her destination was absolute and unshifting, and her eyes often blazed with the same fire I had seen when I had first mentioned this rumour to her. I began to realise that she was using this as a new purpose in life - whether as a simple distraction from her pain or to help her come to terms with it, I was never sure. I wasn’t sure, either, what would happen to her when we had reached our journey’s end. I hoped that she would be able to speak to this person about how the world had reached this state and use that as some form of closure - but this person may not even exist, and whether he did or not, what her reaction would be was not something I could predict, no matter how hard I tried to unravel the mysteries of her mind.
We were at the gates of the fortress. The stone walls were overgrown and crumbling, clearly neglected for at least a century - the gate had been blown apart long ago, and its wood was slowly rotting away. Tattered grey banners depicting parallel swirls forming from inside hexagons flew from the ramparts. A number of broken Soulborg frames, skeletons and rotting Marro husks littered the ground.
'Well, we’re here,’ said Tyra, somewhat impatiently. 'What are you two waiting for?’ Turning away, she ignored the open gate and simply soared over the large stone walls.
'Showoff,’ I quipped, before Rhangyll, Scrapheap and I walked through the ruined gate and into the huge, walled courtyard. The ground was strewn with yet more decayed corpses and damaged soulborgs - a truly staggering number, far greater even than the carnage that lay outside the walls.
'Whatever happened here, it was a bloodbath,’ commented Rhangyll.
'Impessive deduction,’ I replied sarcastically. I crouched, and looked down at one of the robot frames. 'So many broken Soulborgs - don’t suppose you have any memory of this, eh Scrapheap?’
The Soulborg emitted a low whirr for about ten seconds, and then, in a monotone, robotic voice, replied 'Error: 506, file not found.’
'Thought not.’
'Alright, Swift River, we’re here,’ said Tyra. 'Now where is this recluse you were mentioning? Any thoughts?’
'The rumours seemed to imply that he’s somewhere in a tunnel network underneath this fortress,’ I replied, looking torwards the overgrown keep. 'We need to find an entrance.’
'Are you certain these tunnels exist?’ asked Rhangyll.
'No,’ I answered honestly.
'Digging around in thorns to find an entrance to a tunnel network that may only be imaginary, in an attempt to find someone who’s probably only a myth. Wonderful.’
'Stop complaining, Rhangyll, and start looking,’ Tyra shot back.
'Don’t get brusque with me, peasant - remember I’m already helping you under protest.’
'My apologies if my tone was echoing your usual level of diplomacy,’ replied Tyra, with an edge to her voice. ‘Believe me, it’s not a mistake I’ll make again.’
After several minutes of patient searching, I found a short drop leading to a large door in the keep, both hidden under a truly ridiculous quantity of brambles.
'Well,’ I called out, 'the good news is I’ve found it - the bad news is we’re never getting through all this foliage.’
Rhangyll, Tyra and - with a little prodding - Scrapheap, all rushed to my side.
'We have to get through,’ said Tyra, and I could tell by now from her voice alone that her eyes held the same fire as before. 'Anyone have any ideas?’
Five seconds of whirring preceded Scrapheap incinerating the entire thicket with his wrist-mounted flamethrower.
'I’d rather you didn’t do that to plants in future, Scrapheap,’ I remarked.
'You have to admit, it worked well,’ was Tyra’s response.
One by one, we made the small drop, landing on the now scorched stonework and burned plantlife. Rhangyll pushed open the door and we all hurried through before it slammed shut behind us, the heavy crash sending echoes through the tunnel.
Disoriented both by the sudden, pitch blackness and by the overwhelming smells of rust and rotting flesh, I stumbled. Reaching out in the darkness to catch myself, my hand found a flat, hard and smooth surface sticking out from the wall, and I accidentally flipped what must have been some sort of switch. In a moment, a long row of glass disks framed in metal running down the whole length of the tunnel’s ceiling began to glow, bathing us in an unnatural, electric blue light. I disliked it immensely, but at least it allowed us to see.
'It worked out this time, River,’ began Rhangyll, 'but a word of advice - in the future, try not to set off things when you don’t know what they do.’
'Shut up, Rhangyll,’ I shot back - not my most sparkling retort, but I lacked the inclination at the time to come up with a better one.
The tunnel’s walls were merely uneven, carved rock, but the floor was overlaid with a fine metal grate - the whole setup was utilitarian in the extreme. The remains of yet more corpses and Soulborgs littered the ground. The tunnel stretched out in front of us so far I could barely see the end of it, and I could make out many branching paths - it seemed a vast network.
'How are we supposed to find the recluse in here?’ asked Tyra, sounding genuinely lost and baffled.
'The rumours said he spent most of his time near a wellspring somewhere in these tunnels,’ I began, 'but that’s of little use to us if we can’t find it.’ I crouched to the ground again. 'I’m going to have to look to see if I can make out the most recent tracks - they’ll lead us to him if I can identify them in this mess. If that doesn’t work, we’ll just have to think of something else.’
'Or,’ suggested Rhangyll, 'we could just use this map.’
I looked up at him, confused. 'What are you talking about? What map?’
'This one, here,’ he said, pointing at a spot on the wall. 'You must have missed it. It is rust-stained, but it looks usable enough.’
I got up, moved closer, and looked where he was pointing. Another flat, hard surface, much larger this time, seemed to have been placed upon the walls by this fortress’s former inhabitants. Once again it was smooth and white, but there were no switches this time. Instead, just as Rhangyll had said, a map appeared to be printed on it. It was not like any map I was used to, being nothing but harsh, straight lines printed in black, with numbered annotations on it, but it seemed clear enough to use.
'Yes,’ I answered. 'That... should work.’
Rhangyll placed his hand on my shoulder. 'Always look for the easiest route in future,’ he said, in a strangely softer tone of voice than usual.
'Don’t patronise me.’
'Alright, if that’s what you really want, then I won’t.’
'I think the way you just said that counts as being patronising....’
'Yes, it does. Shall we get going?’
'Wait,’ I began. 'How are we supposed to remember the way through all these twisting tunnels?’
'Don’t worry,’ replied Tyra, 'I have a nigh perfect visual memory.’
I shrugged. 'Of course you do.’
We wandered the passageways for what couldn’t have been more than ten minutes, but it felt like an hour. As it turned out, Tyra’s perfect memory had been unneeded, as at every tunnel entrance there was a copy of the same map, with a red dot to designate where we were. The deeper we got, the fewer fallen warriors we found, though this strangely failed to make me feel any less uncomfortable. I had lived my life in the open, in touch with nature from my earliest days, and in the claustrophobic tunnels I felt entirely cut off. I knew in my gut that this was the last place I belonged.
My discomfort finally began to clear when we saw sunlight streaming in from the end of the last tunnel. I practically ran to reach it, much to the chagrin of Rhangyll, though Tyra seemed just as impatient as I.
We were greeted by a large open cavern, the walls natural and craggy rather than artificially hewn - there were even a number of stalagtites protruding from the ceiling. Above, there was a hole in the cave roof, where pure, golden sunlight shone down onto the beautiful, clear, sparkling pool in the centre of the room. Here, I felt not only connected to nature once more, but I could tell that this place was magical - its presence was palpable, and I could feel its power surging through my entire body.
'Great Spirit,’ I muttered.
Standing in front of the pool was a tall, heavy set figure, with deep red skin and small, golden horns protruding from its forehead. Its body type was male, as best as I could tell, considering that this species was completely alien to me. It had white hair and a white goatee, wore heavy robes of red and gold, and bore in its hand a large, silver staff which resembled some sort of bizarre, arcane key.
'I have waited for someone to come,’ he said methodically, but with a quiet sense of joy I could just pick up. The voice was plainly male, and carried the weight of many, many years.
'Who are you?’ asked Tyra. I decided to let her speak - she was the one who had wanted to come, after all.
'Ah - but who are you?’ replied the creature, ' You are, after all, in my domain.’
'My name is Tyra,’ she said. 'The human woman beside me is named Swift River, and the Elf is called Rhangyll.’
'And the soulborg?’
'Scrapheap,’ I chimed in, briefly.
The creature smiled slightly. 'How original. My name is Rygarn. I am a Tempovar, and a Chrono-Mage of my species. I am the only one of my race presently alive on this planet.’
'I wished to speak to you, Rygarn,’ said Tyra - she was certainly bold. Her gaze still burned as she spoke.
'Of what?’
'I wish to know more of the war - of how Valhalla reached its present state. You remember, yes? You were alive for the war?’
Rygarn looked entirely unsurpised. 'I expected you to ask that. I was around for much of it, but not all - I was only summoned several years in, by the Archkyrie Vydar who ruled from this place. Montfre Manor, it was called then. You are certain you wish to know?’
'Absolutely,’ replied Tyra.
‘Very well,' said Rygarn. ‘I shall explain. A little over two hundred years ago, a number of Kyrie discovered - or, more likely, rediscovered - the Wellsprings, and used their power to summon armies to them - there were five Kyrie Generals to begin with, but as the war carried on there became more. War ravaged Valhalla for years, but no one’s army would conclusively break - they had an endless supply of reinforcements after all. Eventually, loyalties cracked, the Valkyrie Generals began to die on and off the battlefield, and the old goals of the conflict became forgotten. The alliances and the armies broke down, and the world became an every-man-for-himself nightmare. Some were ambitious enough to try to form their own civilisations, but in such an unstable environment, none could last for long. The whole world broke down into what it is today, and now all who are left are survivors, raiders, and the growing plague of Marro in the south. It is a world of naught but death and destruction - as you have seen, I can tell.’
His entire speech sounded rehearsed, as though he had been planning to enter into exactly this conversation with someone for an extremely long time now - all but the last few words of it, that is.
Tyra appeared greatly taken aback by that last comment, but she stood her ground, and attempted not to let it show. 'Is it redeemable?’ she asked.
'In its present state, no,’ he replied. 'The chaos will only grow, that is until the Marro consume all left in their path - it’s only a matter of time until they do. There is, however, one possibility - probably hopeless, but it’s all we have.’
Tyra’s eyes blazed ever brighter. 'Tell me.’
'As I said, I’m a Chrono-Mage - use your imagination.’
'Time travel?’ interjected Rhangyll. 'Really? Aren’t there serious problems with something like that?’
'If you’re worrying about the the temporal repurcussions, I shouldn’t,’ replied Rygarn. 'The Valkyrie Generals pulled warriors throughout the whole of space and time - have you any idea what that’s already done to the timestream? Anything we do would be inconsequencial - you may even heal it if you can prevent the massive recruitment drive that occurred during the last stages of the war.’
'Us?’ responded Rhangyll. 'Us? You really expect me to just piggy back on your ridiculous scheme, head back in time and save the world? Anyway, if you think this is so important, why don’t you do it yourself?’
'I cannot,’ was Rygarn’s rebuttle. 'You may think me negligent with the consequences of time travel, but I will not risk what could happen if I met myself.’
I could hardly believe this conversation was actually taking place. Suddenly, a voice - clear and determined - cut through the air.
'I’m going.’
It was Tyra. I found it even harder to believe that I’d really heard those two words - but they had been spoken, and the fire of her eyes grew ever stronger. Rygarn smiled. ‘I thought you would.’
‘How does this work?’ she asked.
‘I am not powerful enough to manipulate time in such a way myself,’ Rygarn explained. ‘Fortunately, I have discovered a way to overcome such difficulties.’ He indicated fifteen small chambers around the Wellspring, along with the amulets which had been placed inside each one. ‘Each amulet comes from a different Wellspring. When all are gathered at one, it allows the one who uses the Wellspring to control their visions, and, as such, I can home in on Valhalla’s past and allow you to go there through the portal I can create. I spent one and a half centuries searching for these, and lost many friends along the way - they sacrificed their lives, so that this may be done. It is fortunate you arrived when you did - we Tempovars may be long-lived, but we are not immortal, and my days are coming to an end. Had I died before these could be used, their sacrifices would have been in vain.’
‘What do I have to do?’ asked Tyra.
‘On your own, you’re nothing - on their own, everyone’s nothing. You have to be a voice, an idea, an inspiration - the last voice of reason in a world gone mad. Then, maybe, someone will hear you, and you can turn something around.’ He paused for a moment. ‘You have to understand, there is no coming back.’
‘I have no reason to wish to.’
‘Good,’ said Rygarn, looking relieved to know that his life’s work might actually mean something. ‘Then it is settled.’
Tyra turned to the rest of us. ‘You’re welcome to join me, if you wish. I would like you to.’ She spoke to all three of us, but she was looking directly at me, and addressed me first and foremost. The green fire was just as bright now, but it no longer seemed intimidating - I could even describe it as comforting, and while the first time I’d had to look away, this time I found I could not. I understood as I looked into her eyes that she felt she had to do this, that this would give her a purpose that had been missing from her life after the death of her family, and that this was something she truly believed in. What’s more, I trusted her. I found myself believing in it too - I found myself thinking that this could work, that we could do something to save Valhalla from this fate. I knew that I would stand by her in this, and, as such, promised to go with her.
'Thank you,’ she replied, and smiled.
‘Are you out of your mind, Swift River?’
‘I suppose that’s a no from you then, Rhangyll,’ said Tyra.
'You’re really going to go to another time?’ he continued. 'What the hell has got into you!’
'Rhangyll, think about it,’ I began. 'What do we gain from staying here - a life of constant travel, desperation and an endless search for food and shelter. This may not work, but we might be able to change things - and wherever we end up, surely it can’t be worse than this.’
He fell silent for a moment, looking thoughtful. I had never expected my words to get through to him, but they did. 'You’re right,’ he said at length. 'We have no reason to stay here. I may as well go.’
'You’re coming?’ I couldn’t believe it as I said that.
'Someone needs to make sure you don’t screw things up.’
I was glad to hear this - Rhangyll may constantly irritate me, but he was the only family I’d had since my home had been destroyed. I didn’t want to leave him behind.
'What about you, Scrapheap?’ I asked.
'Oh yes, ask the mind last,’ commented Rhangyll.
'Affirmative,’ said the machine, after several seconds of whirring.
'Excellent,’ said the Tempovar. 'Now, let me partake of the waters, and you can be going.’
'Wait a minute, we’re doing this now?’ queried Rhangyll.
'Any reason to wait?’ asked the Chrono-Mage.
'Well... no, I suppose not,’ replied the Elf.'Wait, though, can we just work out something resembling a plan?’
'Impossible, unfortunately,’ replied Rygarn. 'There is no one turning point or event you have to change, rather a gradual deterioration - much trickier to deal with. All you can do is spread your message through word of mouth, and hope that you end up with enough followers to make a difference.’
'Oh, yes, this is foolproof,’ Rhangyll complained.
'I do have one question first, Rygarn,’ I added. 'When we’re in the past, should we seek you out?’
The Tempovar smiled sardonically. 'No - I was a different person then. Vydar rarely recruited the wise, he summoned those he could control and manipulate. I was young, foolish and arrogant - I never considered the consequences of my power over time, I simply revelled in it. It was a stage most young Tempovars with the powers of a Chrono-Mage went through. Most of us were coached by one who was older and wiser than we were, but I was snatched up by Vydar before this could happen, and he merely encouraged my arrogance for his own ends. So no - you will receive no help from me, I’m afraid.’
He turned towards the Wellspring. 'The moment of truth,’ he said. I could feel my stomach churning over what was about to happen, but I did my best to centre, and to remind myself to trust my instincts here, rather than my fears.
The Tempovar cupped some of the Wellspring’s water in his hands, and drank of it. He then placed his hands on two raised, runed panels beside the Wellspring, which each depicted a large star encircled by swirling rocks. His concentration was plainly intense, as he closed his eyes and the tension built in the cavern. Suddenly, a portal emanating a brilliant blue light opened, as a spiral of rocks and crystals rose ever higher in a circular pattern from the Wellspring.
'Go through,’ commanded Rygarn, his voice strained and weary. 'Quickly.’
Tyra, Rhangyll, Scrapheap and I entered the portal as swiftly as we could, before it closed behind us. We found ourselves in a green, open field, with tall trees growing all around us.
'It worked?’ asked Rhangyll.
'It did,’ I replied - and I did know. From the air that I breathed to the grass underneath my feet and to the wind in my hair, it was clear that we were in another time - one that felt, to me at least, inherently more hopeful than the one we’d left. It felt exciting, beautiful and terrifying all at once. I hesitated before speaking, unwilling, for a while at least, to break the spell, but eventually I found my voice.
'What do we do now?’
Tyra looked at me with the same green flame that I’d first seen in her eyes as we sat together beside the Sigling Sea. 'We spread the word,’ she said quietly. ‘We spread the word.’

[TheAverageFan]

Hmm, yes, a collection of all one's work isn't a bad idea, especially if most of that is from the Contest. I might have to do one for myself too one of these days.

~TAF

[hose]

I liked them both. I hope to have time to go into more detail later, but just wanted to let you know people are reading.

[Lazy Orang]

Originally Posted by hose

I liked them both. I hope to have time to go into more detail later, but just wanted to let you know people are reading.

Thank you!