A year had passed since my encounter with the group of Reds turned deserters in the woods. Life had continued in its relentless struggle, and my wife and I had managed to survive, thanks in part to the supplies I had received from those Reds that strange day. But the war still raged on, and the Reds' grip on the city had become sloppy and violent.

I sat alone in the dimly lit corner of a small, out-of-the-way pub, nursing a cup of coffee to ward off the biting cold outside. The room felt alien, the walls had been untouched by the war. The patrons were a mix of weary souls seeking refuge from the never-ending conflict or the blistering cold. Their faces etched with exhaustion and resignation.

But what caught my attention, as I sipped my coffee, was the stranger who had entered the pub a few moments ago. He was dressed in a clean, tailored three-button suit, an outfit that seemed wildly out of place amidst the practical survival clothing worn by the rest of us. He exuded an air of confidence, his hair was clean and in place and he looked…. clean.

I had received a note in one of my stashes, offering to meet in this very pub. The note was cryptic, offering little explanation but promising a chance to change the course of the rebellion. I had little to lose, and curiosity got the better of me.

How did they find my stash and know to leave the note?

As he approached, the stranger didn't hesitate to light a cigarette and took a long drag, his eyes never leaving mine. The nearby patrons all turned at the sound of the lighter. Cigarettes were all but forgotten in this war torn land. I could almost fell their envy.He looked like a man who was accustomed to getting what he wanted.

"May I join you?" he asked flawlessly but accented in my native tongue, gesturing toward the empty seat across from me.

The note had directions how to proceed.

“I think my cows won’t survive the winter,” I said.

“At least the corn can resist the snow,” the man replied.

I nodded, my voice cautious but curious. "You're the one who wanted to meet?"

The stranger sat down, exhaling a plume of smoke as he did. "Indeed, I am. I've been following your efforts against the Reds for some time now, and I must say, I'm impressed with your resourcefulness. That bit with the blimp," he kissed his finger tips, “chefs kiss. You are clearly a man with training and resolve and we want to support it.”

I leaned forward, my curiosity piqued. "Who are you, and what do you want?"

He leaned back in his chair, taking another drag from his cigarette. "I am an agent from a country far from here, one that has no love for the Reds. Don’t bother asking wich one, I wont tell. We've been monitoring the situation in this city, and we believe it's time to offer support to your cause."

My eyebrows shot up in surprise. Foreign aid was something that the rebels had only dared to dream of. "Support? What kind of support are we talking about?"

The stranger's eyes bore into mine. "We can provide weapons, ammunition, medical supplies, and even training for your fighters. We have resources at our disposal that could turn the tide of this war."

My heart raced at the possibilities. The thought of finally having the means to stand up against the Reds was tantalizing. But I knew there had to be a catch. "What do you want in return?"

“What?” the man smiled. “Can’t we just care about the plight of the rebels?”

“If your country cared,” I replied. “You would have sent an army, not a man in a suit.”

He took a long sip of his coffee before answering. "I see. Well, we want your help with a mission. There's something we need, something that only someone with your skills can accomplish."

I leaned in, my curiosity growing. "What kind of mission?"

The stranger leaned forward, his voice low and intense. "There's a secret facility, a research lab hidden deep within the city. The Reds have been conducting experiments there, experiments that are a grave threat not only to your people but to the world. We need you to infiltrate this facility and retrieve the research data they've been hiding."

“Why not send your trained men in?” I ask.

“You are a local,” he replied. “Plus you already have knowledge of the city. And-”

“And,” I cut him off. “If I die, your country stays in the clear.”

“I see we are of a common understanding,” he said.

My mind raced as I considered the enormity of the task. The risk was immense, but so was the potential reward. "And what's in it for me?"

The stranger smiled, a hint of a sly grin playing on his lips. "In addition to our support for your cause, you will receive a new identity, a passport, and safe passage out of this city for you and your family once the mission is complete. You'll be free of the Reds forever."

It was a tempting offer, one that held the promise of freedom from the oppressive Reds and a chance to secure a better future for my wife and I. But I also knew that the path ahead would be perilous, and the secrets hidden within that facility could change everything.

“I am not interested in freedom,” I replied. “Only vengeance.”

“Ahh,” sighed the man. “An Idealist.” He leaned forward. “Let me sweeten the pot. I can give you a weapon to take in with you.”

“What sort of weapon?” I asked.

The man leaned back and raised quickly opened his hands and softly said, “poof”

“How much ‘poof’?” I asked.

The man thought, “half a mile.”

That is a lot of dead reds.

“I agree,” I said. “How do we start.”

Two weeks had crept by since the clandestine meeting in that dimly lit pub. The agent, in his crisp tailored suit, had handed me a waterproof package, containing the bomb and a sheaf of detailed instructions.

Under the next new moon, I ventured into the devastated streets. The city was a bleak canvas of destruction, where once vibrant neighborhoods now lay in ruins, and the air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and death.

I knew these streets as well as I knew my wife’s body. Each curve i could walk blind. I knew where to go to avoid the patrols and what ways gave the most cover. I was now a creature of the night, at home in darkness and silence. Distant gunfire punctuated the eerie silence, a constant reminder of the perilous world I navigated.

The research facility was in the old jail converted to house prisoners and hide the experiments they were running. I did not know of the more sinister design of the facility until I had read the briefing from the agent., The agent's guidance led me to a manhole cover, a dank and grimy entrance to the city's sewers. I removed the heavy lid, straining to remain silent, revealing a foul abyss below. The stench of decay and filth hit me like a physical blow as I descended into the subterranean underworld.

Crawling through the cramped, filthy tunnels, I could feel the muck and grime seeping into my clothing, clinging to my skin. The darkness was oppressive, and the echoes of dripping water and distant rumblings added to the disorienting atmosphere. Rats scurried away at my approach, and I tried not to think about the countless horrors that lurked in the shadows.

I finally reached the access point to the facility. It was a small, unassuming grate that led to a series of maintenance tunnels. Slipping inside, I found myself in a labyrinth of pipes and conduits. My heart pounded in my chest as I followed the agent's instructions, my senses on high alert. This was new territory for me. Unexplored area I had dared not come before.

I soon came upon a metal door and push it open slowly. It’s metal squealing in protest. Inside a chamber with rows of showers, the cold tiles glistening with moisture. It was here that I would need to execute the most delicate part of my mission. Inside one of the showers, a technician was showering, his back turned to me. I could hear the steady stream of water, the sound masking my approach. He was humming a song as he scrubbed

I crept closer, my heart pounding in my chest. As the technician shampooed his hair, I lunged forward, wrapping an arm around his throat and clamping my hand over his mouth. His muffled cry of surprise was drowned out by the cascading water.

Struggling to maintain control, I wrestled him to the ground, my training taking over. In a matter of moments, I had subdued him, rendering him unconscious. I dragged him back to the maintenance tunnel and tied and gagged him

I knew I couldn't linger in the filth of the sewer any longer. The scent of decay and muck clung to me, and it was a dead giveaway. I stripped and stepped into one of the showers, I turned the faucet and let the hot water wash over me. The dirt and grime of the sewer slowly washed away, and I couldn't help but feel a sense of renewal, both physically and mentally.

Ecstasy.

I had not had a hot shower in years. I cleaned my body and watched as the mud flowed down the drain. I had to fight to find the will to leave this luxury. Eventually my will and desire for vengeance won out.

Dressed in the stolen technician's uniform and clutching the access keys, I ventured further into the facility. The corridors grew narrower, and the air became denser with a sense of confinement.

Dimly lit hallways, adorned with chipped paint and echoing with the melancholic whispers of the past, seemed to converge endlessly. The occasional iron-barred door, remnants of its former life, served as a reminder of the facility's origins. I shuddered as I walked through one such door, picturing the countless souls who had suffered within these cold, unforgiving walls.

Following the map given by the agent I continued down a set of stars into the underbelly of the jail. I was unsure how the agent had such detailed layouts of this facility.

The scent of antiseptic and decay hung heavy in the air as I approached the section of the facility housing the research labs. The dull hum of machinery and the occasional murmur of scientists deep in their work formed a discordant symphony that resonated through the corridors.

As I slipped into the bustling laboratory area, I couldn't help but marvel at the stark contrast between the sterile environment and the dank mess of the floors above. Scientists, oblivious to my presence, darted from station to station.

I moved pass a set of double doors into the next chamber. The sight that greeted me inside the laboratory was a grotesque tableau of suffering and horror. Rows of beds, like macabre hospital wards, stretched out before me. In these makeshift beds, emaciated and pallid figures lay in various states of agony. Their sunken eyes bore the torment of endless torment, and their frail bodies were contorted with pain.

Blood-soaked sheets and curtains, stained with the remnants of unspeakable procedures, painted a grim picture of the inhumane experiments that had been conducted here. Some of the patients were missing limbs, others were devoid of eyes, and a few had had their tongues cruelly removed. The stench of illness, despair, and death hung heavy in the air, making each labored breath a testament to the cruelty that had transpired within these walls.

They were experimenting on the prisoners.

Stepping carefully through the chamber of horrors, I approached one of the patients, a frail and trembling figure who met my gaze with eyes filled with fear and despair. In my heart I vowed that an end to the pain was on the way, that their suffering would not be in vain.

As I continued to investigate the laboratory, my heart ached for these victims, and I vowed to do everything in my power to bring their tormentors to justice.

The next room was the data storage room. Filing cabinets lined the walls, each one holding a trove of classified information. The agent had been specific—the files I sought were labeled "Project Perseus." but in the foul language of the Reds.

I began rifling through the cabinets, pulling out files and scanning them for any mention of the elusive project. Time seemed to both crawl and race as I meticulously combed through the documents, my heart pounding with the knowledge that every passing second increased the chance of me being discovered and killed, or worse, used as a test subject.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I found it—a file marked "Project Perseus." I carefully extracted it and place it in my coat.

My objective found, my mission was far from complete. My thoughts turned back to the suffering souls in the makeshift prison. They deserved their freedom, and I couldn't leave them to perish in the impending explosion.

I retraced my steps, back to the chamber of horrors, my heart heavy with the sights and sounds of suffering that surrounded me. These souls were past saving, only death would be a relief. I needed to find those still whole.

Ascending the stairs, my heart pounded like a relentless drumbeat, each step echoing my urgency. I had to find the keys to free the captives, and time was slipping away. The lone guard patrolling the corridor ahead presented my best chance. As I approached, I kept my movements steady, just another staff member doing his job.

Drawing nearer, I could see the guard's weary expression, a testament to the horrors he had likely witnessed. My eyes darted to the keyring dangling from his belt, the salvation for my people.

I had to get close enough without arousing suspicion, and the moment came when he passed me by, close enough for me to act. In one fluid motion, I lashed out, connecting with his nose driving it into his brain, he is dead before his body hits the floor. I loosen the keys from his belt, my heart thundering in my chest.

I tried the keys on the nearest door, my trembling hands betraying the urgency of the situation. The locks resisted my first few attempts, but on the fourth try, a satisfying click echoed through the corridor. I pushed the door open slowly, revealing a gaunt figure huddled in the dimly lit cell.

The prisoner's eyes widened with a mix of hope and disbelief as he saw me. "You... you're not one of them," he whispered, his voice hoarse from despair.

"No," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'm here to help."

With trembling hands, the prisoner rose to his feet, he struggled to support his frail form. We pulled the guard into his cell and the prisoner quickly exchanged clothing.

Once dressed we raced cell to cell freeing prisoners. Our group grew and would draw attention soon.

We had to move quickly. The prison break would undoubtedly draw the attention of the facility's guards and personnel. I knew that my mission wasn't complete yet.

I turned to the prisoner now dressed as a guard and handed him the map from the agent, “take this and lead the rest down to the showers. Crawl out through the sewers. They headed off as I set to my last errand.

My journey through the maze-like facility led me deeper into the heart of darkness. My mind held the image of the map and the signs, still in my native tongue form before the occupation, led me to my goal. I arrived at the ominous entrance to the facility's boiler room.

The door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit chamber filled with monstrous machines, hissing pipes, and the rhythmic thud of the massive boilers. This was the pulsating heart of the facility, the source of its power.

I could hear the alarm claxons above. The prison beak had been discovered. I can only hope they made it out.

I carefully removed the bomb from the waterproof case. I pulled the instructions from the agent out. My hands trembled slightly as I began to set the timer. I gave myself twenty minutes, more then double what I needed to escape.

With the timer set, I stashed the bomb below the central boiler, where it would cause the most damage.

As I sprinted through the facility, my footsteps echoed through the labyrinth of corridors. The distant screams of alarms and the pounding boots of the Red guards grew louder as I ascended. My heart raced, and every breath felt like fire in my lungs.

Turning a corner, I came face to face with a Red guard, his rifle raised and yelled in his angry language. There was no time for negotiation, only action. I held up my stolen ID card and walked slowly to him, he turned at the sound of a yell.

I lunged at him, and a desperate struggle ensued. My years of survival in the war-torn city had honed my instincts, and with a burst of adrenaline-fueled strength, I managed to disarm the guard, sending his rifle clattering to the ground.

With no time to waste, I left the dazed guard behind and continued my frenzied dash through the facility.

As I neared the showers I stopped. The way back was blocked by a group of Red guards converging on my position. There was no turning back. I had to improvise, and my only option was to evacuate through the front door.

I calmed myself and slowed my breath. As I approached the front door, I could hear the distant sounds of chaos and sirens. The facility was in utter turmoil, and the guards were occupied with the prison break. This was my chance.

Guards were ushering out the civilians. I flowed into the crowd and out into the streets. I made my way to the sewer man-hole cover I had entered before.

Time stretched out. I ad no idea how powerful the bombe may be, but I know I needed to move ‘half-a-mile away.’ My internal clock had hit ten minutes. I need to start running now or risk being caught in the blast.

I could her their voices and I yelled down into the blackness, “run, there is a bomb. Run until you are a mile away.”

I hear them clamber up the ladder and I help them, one by one, up to the street.

“Run,” I yell. “Get away, don’t stop.”

With the last one up I run. An elderly prisoner has fallen. I pick her up and carry her in my arms. I run. Visions of my wife flash through my head.

Is this where I die? To a bomb I set in motion.

With the elderly woman in my arms, I continued to run through the war-ravaged streets, desperately seeking refuge from the impending explosion. The sounds of chaos and panic reverberated around us as the city reacted to the prison break.

As we turned a corner an idea sparked in my mind. There is a bank near here, the bank's vault, a place designed to withstand all manner of disasters, could potentially shield us from the blast. It was a risky gamble, but with time running out, it seemed like our best option.

I reached the bank's entrance, my heart pounding in my chest as I pushed open the heavy wooden door doors.

I pushed open the weathered doors of the abandoned bank. Inside, the atmosphere was eerie, with dust-covered furniture and shattered windows bearing witness to the passage of time and neglect.

I approached the heavy vault door, my heart pounding in my chest. I began to examine the complex locking mechanism. Dust and cobwebs clung to the dials and handles, but miraculously, the door still appeared functional.

I spun the wheel, revealing the entrance to the bank's vault. The vault was a cavernous space, its walls lined with countless open deposit boxes and ransacked shelves. The once valuable paper strewn to the floor.

With the elderly woman still in my arms, I rushed into the vault, followed by the few other former prisoners who stayed with me. The heavy vault door creaked shut behind us, sealing us in a world of concrete and steel.

Time seemed to slow as we huddled together in the dimly lit vault, waiting for the inevitable explosion. The sounds of the outside world were muffled now, and all we could do was hope that the vault's sturdy construction would hold true to its reputation.

In the suffocating darkness of the abandoned bank's vault we could feel the explosion.

As the vibrations reached out bodies, a collective gasp escaped our lips. The force of the blast reverberated through the walls of our shelter, a small sample of the destruction that had just taken place outside.

After the initial shock subsided, we huddled together in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. The elderly woman clutched my arm tightly, and I could feel her trembling with fear and exhaustion. The others, too, were in a state of shock, their faces illuminated only by the feeble glow of a flashlight.

The hours passed slowly, marked only by the soft sounds of whispered conversations and the occasional cough.

“We will stay here tonight and tomorrow,” I said. “We will go our separate ways in the cover of the following night.” I turned off my light to save the battery.

As the night wore on, fatigue and anxiety gnawed at us. The elderly woman, overcome by exhaustion, had drifted into a fitful sleep, her head resting on my shoulder. In that moment, I couldn't help but reflect on the incredible journey that had led us here, to this vault of despair and hope.

We had no sign of the passing time save for my watch. The whole world was darkness. When the day had passed and the new night had cast its cloak across the land I decided to open the door.

I turned the massive wheel of the vault door, the rusted mechanism protesting with a screech. With collective effort, we pushed the door open, revealing a cityscape that bore the scars of conflict.

The city we emerged into was unrecognizable, a nightmarish landscape of destruction and desolation.

The once-familiar streets, buildings, and landmarks had been reduced to rubble and ash, their former existence erased by the merciless force of the explosion. It was as if a malevolent hand had swept across the city, leaving behind only devastation in its wake.

We stood there, our faces pale in the dim light of the moon, surveying the grim tableau of destruction that stretched out before us. The blast radius, a mile in every direction from the prison facility, had turned the heart of the city into a wasteland of twisted metal, shattered concrete, and charred remains.

As we ventured further into the ruins, the full extent of the tragedy became apparent. The streets were littered with the remnants of Red bodies. The air was heavy with the acrid scent of burnt wood, concrete dust, and blood.

I had to fight to hide my smile.

In the distance, the prison facility itself was barely recognizable, a grotesque skeleton of its former self. The walls that had once held prisoners were now reduced to jagged fragments, and the guard towers lay in ruins. It was a grim testament to the havoc we had wrought in our bid for freedom.

Three days later I am sitting across from the well-dressed agent in the dimly lit pub, my frustration and anger simmered just beneath the surface. The events of the past days had left me weary and disillusioned, and I had little patience for half-truths and empty promises. The agent thumbed through the documents I had brought.

"You told me the blast radius would be one-half of a mile," I said, my voice edged with anger. "It was double that, and the devastation is beyond anything I could have imagined. People died, innocent people."

The agent, his expression unreadable behind his polished façade, leaned forward slightly, his fingers drumming thoughtfully on the table. He finally spoke, his voice low and measured.

"Sometimes, in the fog of war, the situation changes rapidly," he said, his words offering little consolation. "I assure you, our intentions were to minimize civilian casualties."

I clenched my fists beneath the table, struggling to keep my emotions in check. The agent continued, "But let's not dwell on the past. We have more pressing matters at hand."

I leaned in, my eyes locked onto his. "You promised aid to the rebels," I reminded him. "I held up my end of the bargain. Now it's your turn."

The agent nodded, acknowledging my demand. "Indeed," he said, exhaling a plume of cigarette smoke. "We are prepared to provide the rebels with the necessary supplies and support.”

“And my credentials?” I asked.

The agent slid a yellow envelope across the table, “two sets of papers to get you out of this country and into ours.”

With a nod of acknowledgment, I pushed the credentials into my pocket. "I'll be leaving then," I said, a sense of weariness settling over me.

The agent's response was curt but final. "Go. And remember, we may call upon you again in the future."

A surge of frustration welled up within me, but I knew better than to voice it. The agent represented a larger, shadowy force that moved in the shadows, indifferent to the individual lives it impacted. The rebels, like me, were but pawns in a greater game.

Chapter 1

The white raven perched on a grave marker. Its pale feathers, the color of bleached bone, ruffled as it stretched its wings and preened. Gaiur eyed the little beast with wary suspicion, glowering at it as she brushed stray strands of her blue-black hair away from her eyes. She’d been traveling Stenise’s southern trade roads for a few weeks now, ranging from its northernmost reaches down into its southernmost hills and valleys. A journey of hundreds of miles made difficult by the heavy snows at the end of winter and the heavy rains she encountered through the spring. But intermittent bad weather and the length of the journey were comparatively small hurdles against the culprit which chiefly delayed her - uncertainty.

Since she left Valdun a couple years ago, Gaiur hadn’t ever really been sure where she was going. There was no real destination in mind when she turned her back on that place which had spurned her, just a driving sense that the isolated far northern village wasn’t where she belonged. The wilds were more of a home to her than her tiny house, and they were more welcoming of a pariah like herself. So with her gray furred greatwolf Varro at her side, she eked out a living by hunting, trading, and on occasion offering her axe and Varro’s teeth to the rare caravan she did encounter along the way.

What changes occurred that suddenly drew her back to civilization, she couldn’t rightly say. Perhaps months upon months of living alone with naught but an animal to keep her company finally wore on her, and it was a desire for simple human interaction that finally made her stick to the roads. Or maybe it was driven by simple necessity and the rigors of living off the land had become just a bit too much. She didn’t have much confidence in either of these answers, though, especially considering where she’d finally ended up. Jötungatt was a considerably larger settlement than her ancestral home, Valdun, being a proper town of a couple hundred. There was little in the way of bustle, though, and while the people weren’t of the same standoffish and superstitious stock as she was, they weren’t warm and welcoming, either.

In truth, Jötungatt only had two things of significance to its name. The first was the graveyard, a sprawling field of the dead that stretched out along the road and surrounding hilly fields for nearly two miles from the town’s northeastern border. For reasons Gaiur couldn’t understand, this place of interment had been erected on either side of the main road leading into town. Why the people had built it this way was a mystery, but it was apparently so large that it alone nearly doubled Jötungatt’s border. At least, that’s what the traders she encountered a few days back at the last crossroads had said. From what she’d seen as she walked that main road, it seemed to be true. But how had this town produced a graveyard of such size?

The white raven cawed and Gaiur’s heart skipped a beat. She hadn’t realized she’d become lost in her thoughts, not until that damnable bird startled her out of them. It watched her with its head held low and tail raised, as if it planned to launch off the grave marker to try and pluck out her russet red eyes. She scowled at the thing as it regarded her with its own red eyes, bright like gemstones where hers were the earthy colors of rust. It hopped along the top of the wooden marker, an old plank of wood that had a name carved into it with runic letters decades ago. The wood was old, gray, and split in so many places that it made the name impossible to read.

Again the raven cawed, its beady eyes fixated on her as she passed. Gaiur shouted and flung her arms out at it in hopes of shooing it away. Even Varro joined in, giving a loud bark and growl as he bared his fangs at the bone white bird. But the raven simply tilted its head back and forth in that odd jittery manner birds are known for and cawed at them again before taking to the sky and gliding along in front of their path.

For three days now the raven had been following them, a thought which unsettled Gaiur’s mind. Ravens were often seen as omens or portents. They were believed to be animals which bore the words and wisdom of the Gods, or which bore their ill will. Gaiur admittedly hadn’t heard any tales regarding white ravens before, but that did little to ease her mind. To be followed by a raven like this was already considered a sign of ill fortune, but hers was the color of bones and bore eyes red like thinned blood. What’s more, the damnable thing had followed her through a graveyard and had stopped twice now to seemingly mock her for it. She had a hard time viewing that as anything but a bad sign.

After a couple minutes the raven descended again, this time perching on a fence post a ways down the road. Behind the bird stood a small and sturdy log house, followed by others behind that and a large arching stone structure behind them. That must’ve been the giant’s gate, the second thing of significance for which the town was known. The stone structure loomed nearly twice as tall as the houses which surrounded it and was the source of the town’s name. Triangular in shape, it seemed to be built from two massive pillars of rough hewn stone that were then leant against each other. Varro, her well traveled late husband and the man after whom she’d named her wolf companion, had told her stories of similar megalithic structures that he’d seen when adventuring with Esbern in the southlands. Most of them were found in the desertified lands that were scoured by the Bayelan Calamity some hundreds of years ago, or so he said anyway. Being a Valdunite who’d been far removed from much of Stenisian civilization at the time, a civilization which itself was sparse and spread across hundreds of miles of land spanning from the Great Northern Range that marked their southernmost border all the way to the arctic glaciers of the Glimmerfrost near to Valdun, Gaiur had no real concept of that empire or the sorcerous calamity which felled it.

“Hawr!” cawed the white raven as Gaiur finally passed through the cemetery gate into Jötungatt. Once more she shooed it off, and once more it took to a new perch to continue its spying.

There were three things which stood out to Gaiur as she made her way into the town proper. Firstly, the gate wasn’t standing on the other end of the town it had appeared. Instead it stood directly at its center, reaching up a good five or six times her own height. Secondly, she saw the surrounding structures formed a ring around the gate, and that the closest eight had tall, narrow runestones standing in the ground before them. Each of these was as thick as her thigh and stood about waist height. Runes were carved into them as she would expect of most standing stones, but they were alien to her, made up of a mix of dots and long, sweeping curved lines where the Stenisian runic alphabet was more angular and rigid. But it was the third detail which stood out to her most of all, because it was impossible not to notice. Despite it being early afternoon with the sun still high in the cloud spotted sky, Gaiur couldn’t see or hear any people.

Someone must be living here, clearly. A sizable herd of long haired Stenisian aurochs still grazed the fields outside the town’s borders. Their bulky and shaggy forms were visible from the graveyard as she came in and she could still see them now between the widely spaced houses and workshops. And it wasn’t just cattle, either. Goats and fowl wandered the town and broke the silence with their occasional bleats and clucks and honks. No Stenisian would abandon healthy livestock like this, even if they were being raided. The milk, meat, eggs, and furs they provided were simply too valuable to give up. They’d either stand and fight or bring as many of their animals as they could when they fled. Besides that, there were no recent signs of battle to be seen. No blood or bodies, be they animal or human. No arrows sticking out of the dirt or buildings where they’d missed their mark. No dropped or broken weapons and shields, no abandoned tools, no damage to be seen whatsoever. Just an empty town that had no reason to be empty.

“Hawr, hawr!”

The white raven again. It cawed from above her, its hoarse cry equal parts annoying and unsettling. Why had it followed her to an empty town? She would’ve thought after three days of trying to chase it off the bird would realize she wanted it gone. Was it desperate for some scraps of food? Did it just want to harangue her purely for its own entertainment?

Gaiur realized her irritation with that damned bird was quickly turning to anger, and with that she also realized she’d been asking herself the wrong questions and making the wrong assumptions. She’d pondered the purpose of the white raven’s coming for a long time, wondered why the bird would follow her so insistently despite gaining nothing from it. She knew full well what a persistent solitary raven meant among her people, her culture. Messengers from the Gods bearing omens ill and fair, they carried fate in their little black talons. Up until now she’d assumed it’d been following her. It didn’t cross her mind to consider that perhaps she was being led by it. But if that was the case, why? For what purpose did the white raven lead her to Jötungatt? What fate did it carry for her, what purpose?

Maybe she was overthinking this. Gaiur’s entire reason for traveling the trade roads was for the sake of finding a place to stay and work, at least for a time. Jötungatt just so happened to be the first she learned of, back when she encountered those traders at the crossroads. But Jötungatt wasn’t an especially large community. Larger than Valdun, yes, but that wasn’t difficult to achieve considering Gaiur’s birthplace lay two days walk away from the glaciers and ice floes of the Glimmerfrost. The region was simply too harsh to support a village larger than the thirty or so people who lived there. Continuing south would’ve been the better option where work was concerned, no matter the form it took. Larger settlements like Høyfjord which was well known for its fishing and dairy trades or Stenbeck with its steel and ironworks would’ve been smarter choices, though she’d have to find something to do about Varro. Even the ancient mountain fortress Isenhalle, the closest thing the loosely unified people of Stenise had to a capitol in their pseudo nation, would’ve offered better opportunities for coin or hacksilver than this small farming community with its unusually large graveyard.

A few days since she met those northbound traders. A few days since she’d taken that westward turn at the crossroads. She lingered on those thoughts for a little while, mulled over them. How many days? The raven had been with her for the last three. She didn’t recall exactly when she’d noticed it, only that at some point on that first day she’d realized its shadow had been keeping pace with her and Varro. But was that before or after the crossroads and if it was after, by how much? Moving over by one of the runestones Gaiur took her broad bladed axe from the sling across her back and sat down in the grass near to it, moving her plain cloak of tawny wool out of the way. Then, with the axe resting across her lap, she tried to recall just how many nights had passed since she saw that family of traders.

It’d been morning when she found them, and she remembered how many there were. Four in total: the father who drove the solitary aurochs which drew his wagon; his two sons, one coming into manhood and the other still in his youth; and their grandfather who minded them and the wares. They’d been startled to see her on the road, though that was much more Varro’s doing than her own, and then had been equally amazed to see that she’d tamed such a magnificent and sizable animal as he. Varro still wasn’t fully grown yet. She’d only had him under her care for a couple years, and when she found him he was a pup of little more than a few months, but already he stood at the height of her shoulder and she wasn’t more than half a head shorter than the men. By the end of this year Varro would overtake her in height.

Superfluous details, she silently chided. How many days since she met them? They talked for a short while, offered some food in exchange for a little hacksilver, and when she asked them of nearby settlements they told her of Jötungatt. At first she’d assumed they were from there, but in actuality they’d come from Stenbeck with a shipment of picks, shovels, and hammers for a mine in one of the canyons further to the north.

“We’ve traded with them before, though, mostly tar for waterproofing their homes. They make excellent yoghurt and grow sweet gooseberries, but it’s the graveyard and that strange stone gate they’re most known for,” the father had said. He’d then gone on to explain that the townsfolk were friendly enough with traders like themselves even though having to pass through the graveyard to get into the town was more than a little eerie. Like Gaiur, he and his kin also couldn’t figure out just why that graveyard was so big, either. But what else? She began to tap the head of her axe with a finger. Closing her eyes, her nose scrunched up and her lips pursed into a thin, crooked line as she tried to remember.

“I don’t know how much work you’ll find there. They always seem to have plenty of hands.”

By Luthmor, how could she forget? The man told her expressly that there wasn’t much work to find! Then for what reason did she bother to come?

“Hawr!” called the raven, and Gaiur nearly jumped out of her skin!

“Little bastard!” she spat. It perched on the runestone and she swiped at it with a backhand she knew wouldn’t connect. Sure enough, in a flurry of fluttering feathers the raven took to the air again, only to circle around and land on the stone once more, eyeing her with those jewel-like red eyes.

“Why did you lead me here?” she asked, finally deciding to accept the notion. It cawed again, then hopped around to face west. Peeking back at her, it cawed for a final time then took to the air, circling overhead until she stood, slung her axe back over her shoulder, and started to follow it.

The white raven guided her to the far end of the town, flying from roof to roof and fence post to fence post until it stopped at the rear fence of Jötungatt’s furthest removed home. At least, furthest removed among those that surrounded the stone gate. When she came near the bird took off again, flying out over the fields of grass, over the bushes of gooseberries and currants, and over the grazing cattle towards a single structure that lay atop a hill some short ways off in the distance.

“Come, Varro!” she said, and together they hurried after the raven. After a couple minutes she could see that the structure was made from rough hewn stone, similar to the gate. After five she could see the ring of runestones that surrounded it, and after seven she could hear the murmurs of ritual chanting.

Gaiur ducked low as she approached, obscuring herself behind a nearby gooseberry bush. Peering between its leaves and the still ripening fruits she saw the townsfolk gathered around what appeared to be some kind of stone altar. Most of them were down on their knees, their heads bowed in supplication, but a few in the middle were standing. The town’s leaders, most likely. Whatever they were doing seemed similar to the ritual sacrifices she and the other Valdunites would offer Gods like Luthmor, Craich, and Sheyla, or to the spirits of the wind and wood which past experience taught her were very much real things. Usually these sacrifices were of a small animal in its prime. They’d select a healthy young hen or goat or sheep to slaughter, paint the necessary runes upon its body, then spill its blood and prepare the meat for feasting while the bones would be arranged by the Ealdorman and the other village leaders into an effigy that would stand until the next sacrifice needed to be made. Sometimes the sacrifices were greater, though, and would involve burning the carcass so that all that the animal was would be offered instead of just its blood and bones.

Try as she might, though, Gaiur couldn’t see an animal on that altar. She’d counted out the people standing there, six in total. Most were older folk, their skin leathery and wrinkled from age and decades of laborious work, but there was one girl among them who couldn’t possibly be more than Gaiur’s own age of nineteen summers. Fair skinned and beautiful, she had lustrous blonde hair and was dressed in finery that appeared regal next to the sturdy woolen and leather clothing of her fellow townsfolk. A robe of flowing green silks was draped over her slender but shapely body, her figure betrayed by the gentle breeze that tugged at the lightweight fabric. She was naked beneath it and the breeze might’ve accidentally exposed her breasts had it not been for the necklace of gold pendants that weighed down the loose garment at her chest.

Gaiur found her attention and curiosity drawn by that necklace. Nearly a dozen heavy pendants of gold hung from its chain. At its center, the largest pendant was inlaid with red and green gemstones. It was incredible, a single item which contained within it more wealth than Gaiur had ever seen before. But where or how did these people get hold of such a thing? They were farmers, stable in their livelihoods, yes, but that was a king’s treasure! It wasn’t the sort of thing that simply fell into the hands of simple townsfolk.

The murmuring in the crowd grew louder, the muttered words fading into humming that didn’t quite have the tenor of song. The people raised up their heads and hands, humming in unison as they stared up at the sky. Gaiur shifted a little so she could see between their raised hands. A seventh emerged from the crowd, an old woman who’s hunched body was draped in a heavy black robe. She doddered along a path up to the altar, leaning heavily on a gnarled staff of birchwood. As she approached the oldest man, whom Gaiur assumed was the town Ealdorman, and the young woman both moved to help her up to the platform. A bench was brought out and placed in the middle of the altar. Then the old woman removed her robe, revealing a woolen tunic and slacks of pale blue and tan and a necklace, armlets, and bracelets made from woven finger bones.

She was a Völva, one of the old seers, a reader of bones who interpreted fate and the will of the Gods. She handed off her staff to the young woman and with the Ealdorman’s help, she sat on the bench. Then she started unlacing a pouch at her waist. Likely the bones the woman would use to read the Gods’ will. What did they hope to interpret, though? Maybe the sacrifice they’d need to make? Gaiur watched intently as the woman reached two of her thin, bony fingers into the pouch, but as she did so Varro began to whine with impatience.

Gaiur cursed under her breath. As soon as the greatwolf made that sound, the people nearest to them looked back over their shoulders in surprise. Naturally, the moment they realized a wolf bigger than a man was hiding in the bushes just outside their ritual circle, they panicked.

“Wolf!” they screamed, and the cry was soon echoed by the rest of the crowd! Varro’s hackles raised. He started to growl, then bark, then snarl as the panicked crowd realized the apparent danger that slipped in under their noses. Gaiur tried to calm him, placing one hand on his shoulder and the other under his jaw. She scratched and whispered and shushed him, but the panicked crowd had panicked him, too. His haunches were tightening. He was ready to strike!

“Hawr!” The call of the raven cut through the air and suddenly all eyes, even Varro’s, were upon it. It circled over the altar, slowly descending in a mesmeric spiral until it perched on the bench alongside the Völva.

“We have nothing to fear from those two,” she said. Her voice was reedy and paper thin, but she spoke the words with utmost confidence. The people seemed to believe her, though they kept their distance from Gaiur and Varro both. Then the Völva finally drew her thin fingers out from the pouch she’d been keeping them in until now. They were stained with red, almost as bright as the raven’s eyes. She lifted her hand, first motioning for Gaiur to approach, then the young blonde in the silks.

Reluctantly, Gaiur did as she was bade, keeping Varro close at her side while she approached and watched the other young woman kneel before the Völva. Realization finally struck her as the old seer raised her red fingered hand and started painting the young woman’s face in the dots and sweeping lines of the runestones. Young, nubile, and in the prime of her life, this young woman was the oblation these people had prepared.

“Very good,” the Völva said. Wordlessly, the young blonde rose and took her original spot near the edge of the altar. As she did, the Völva’s eyes, made milky by cataracts, fell on Gaiur. “Now you.”

Gaiur stopped in her tracks, her russet eyes narrowed. In a single swift motion her axe was out of the sling in her back and firmly gripped in both hands. “My wolf and axe will carve through the whole of you before I let myself become another’s sacrifice,” she growled, as did Varro with bared fangs beside her.

“Sacrifice?” said the Völva. “You misunderstand, girl. You are to be the witness.”

Gaiur didn’t lower her axe, but a click of her tongue saw Varro’s demeanor calm. “Witness?”

The Völva rose, and though the Ealdorman protested and rushed to her side with her gnarled staff in hand, the old woman ignored him and stood as straight and proud as Gaiur herself. Then she held her hands out wide, and Gaiur swore she saw the old seer’s wrinkles fade and saw rich, dark brown returned to her age-whitened eyes and hair.

“I saw you in the bones,” she said, approaching the still armed Gaiur without the slightest hint of fear. “The woman who rears a wolf as her son shall be guided into the shade of the boughs, where she shall bear witness to new birth.”

Then she paused. Dipping her first two fingers in the pouch of red again, she held them out just above Gaiur’s forehead. “You are that woman. That is why Hunin brought you here.”

The raven cawed behind her, but Gaiur resisted the urge to glare at it again. “Why me?”

“I don’t know,” the Völva said as she started to draw the rune. Gaiur realized suddenly that she looked just as old and feeble as she had when she first climbed up onto the altar. She was even holding the birchwood staff again, though the young, dark-haired woman had no memory of the old seer fetching it. “It’s not for me to know. I only see what the Gods show me through the bones, and they showed me you.”

A second later, and the Völva was finished. Stepping back, she turned and rejoined the other elders on the altar. Gaiur lowered her axe, watching them all with a mix of confusion, trepidation, and powerful curiosity. What had she just agreed to by staying her hand? What, exactly, was she going to witness? As the Völva turned to address the people of Jötungatt, she supposed she’d soon find out.

---

Chapter 2

Gaiur followed the Völva and the other elders back to Jötungatt. She walked alongside Varro and the other young woman, the blonde who appeared simultaneously as her like and her opposite. Both were young and shapely. Each was beautiful in her way, too, though Gaiur knew the hardness which formed in her features thanks to the rugged and largely solitary life she’d led these past two years wasn’t so appealing as the smooth skin, fair features, and high cheekbones of the young lady beside her. Next to her slender and nubile form, Gaiur’s lean muscled and scarred body would certainly have appeared positively beastly in comparison, had it not been hidden beneath weathered clothing and a chain hauberk. It was funny. She wasn’t used to feeling self conscious like this. Appearances weren’t the sort of thing she cared about in many years. Yet, she couldn’t help but compare herself. Just to her right walked an idyllic beauty, blessed with hair of gold, eyes blue as the sky, and lips as soft and pink as some of Spring’s earliest blossoms. With her own nearly black hair, reddish brown eyes, and travel roughened features, it was hard not to feel a little jealous.

Did she really care this much, though? Or was she simply focusing on this feeling to distract herself from how utterly strange it was to be dragged into a ritual for which she had little concept in a town she’d never visited before. Strange might’ve even been too soft a word for it. She was given a position of importance in all of this, whatever this truly was. A position important enough that she was all but heading this procession into the town’s center. She was to bear witness to new birth after being guided to the shade of the boughs, that’s what the Völva had said. But what would that entail? Gaiur couldn’t even begin to guess.

What birth? What boughs? There weren’t any trees growing near the town. The closest she’d seen were miles and miles off, beginning near the crest of the taller hills that eventually grew into the next range of mountains to the south. Would they be marching that far? She doubted it. More likely, this had something to do with the monolith in the town’s center, that gate, as everyone kept calling it.

Her confusion must’ve been plain to see as they neared the homes at the town’s edge. The other girl, who one of the elders said was named Agnete, drew closer and spoke. “Are you afraid?” she asked, her tone hushed.

“Should I be?” Gaiur replied, her tone equally low.

Agnete shrugged slightly. Gaiur could just see the motion in her periphery. More than that, she could see the other woman’s fear, too. With increasing intensity it painted her features and soon it stood more stark than the red runes that lined her face. She wasn’t sure at first if she should be afraid, but as they drew closer to the gate at the town’s center she started to wonder if her axe might’ve been put to good use earlier after all. Agnete tried hard to hide the disquiet she felt. She stood a little more upright and put on airs of pride and grace as she walked. But as soon as the circular town center was in sight those plush red lips were pressed into a thin line meant to hide how they started to tremble. She wasn’t just scared, she was terrified.

“What’s all this about?” Gaiur demanded, careful to keep her voice as low as possible as they started on those last few steps toward the gate and its runestone ring.

“New birth,” Agnete said, the tremor in her voice impossible to mask.

“The new birth of what? What does that mean?” The procession was slowing, starting with the Völva and the Ealdorman as they stepped into the ring of runestones. Then would be the other three elders, and finally Gaiur and Agnete.

“Quickly,” Gaiur hissed as the Völva and the Ealdorman knelt before the gate and the three remaining elders filed in behind them.

“After the last time, they told me I’d be next,” Agnete muttered. She almost choked on the words as her panic rose. “An honor for me and my family, but I don’t want this honor!”

Gaiur glanced around. The elders within the ring bowed before the gate, as did the people surrounding them. She leaned in close and whispered, “Sacrifice? You’re to be offered to the gods?”

Agnete shook her head and Gaiur got the impression that something worse than ritual death awaited her. She sorely started to regret staying her hand earlier, though she still wasn’t sure why she had. Then the girl turned to her, grabbed her by the arms, opened her mouth to speak, but words never came. A hollow clack echoed through the silent town. The Völva’s birchwood staff, Gaiur realized. With that sound Agnete’s eyes grew dim and empty. The small, soft hands which clasped at Gaiur’s arms fell away and the other woman stood upright and proud, turning to face the gate. It was alarming, but not as alarming as the fact that despite her own mind telling her otherwise, Gaiur felt herself doing the same.

“The Vessel and the Witness have been gathered,” the Völva said. Once again, much like she seemed to do when she spoke to Gaiur at the altar, the shriveled old woman stood upright with arms held wide. Then she held her hands out to them, like a mother beckoning her children in for a loving hug or the boughs of a tree inviting rest and respite beneath their shade. "It’s time. The sun reaches its peak. Now come and join us.”

Despite the fears she showed mere moments before, Agnete approached without hesitation or a single word of protest. Gaiur felt her body trying to do the same. The muscles in her thighs flexed and tensed as they tried to move against her will, but she wouldn’t let them! With a great thrust of will she stilled herself, though her body tried fiercely to resist her. Swiftly the tension in her muscles moved down to her calves and up into her glutes, abdomen, and lower back as well. They ached, then they burned. All over her body she felt as if she’d been stood too close to a roaring bonfire, its heat pricking at her skin. Then the heat gave way to piercing cold. It lanced all the way down to the bone, made her want to clasp her arms around her torso to help fight the chill off, but somehow she knew if she moved at all that her will would be broken.

“Come along,” the Völva said, beckoning to Gaiur with a little wave of her fingers. “There’s no reason to be afraid, we simply need you to bear witness.”

Gaiur clenched her teeth, felt her fury boil her blood! She hadn’t felt a rage like this since the days before she left Valdun, since her encounter with that monster in the Glimmerfrost and the Wolfwood. Right now she wished for nothing more than the chance to draw her axe and charge into slaughter with Varro at her side, to punish this seer for trying to compel her and steal her will away! And Varro seemed to be of the same mind. She saw him move along the edges of her vision. Lean muscles rippled beneath his gray fur as he stepped forward, ready to pounce and sink his teeth into the five elders and anyone else who dared come at them!

But he didn’t pounce. He hadn’t even lowered his head. The hackles on his back weren’t raised, his ears weren’t bent back, and his teeth weren’t bared. He didn’t even so much as growl, just whimpered as he looked back at Gaiur with a curious tilt of the head, as if he asked why she was stood there like that? That’s when Gaiur’s will faltered. That’s when, against her own will, her body walked alongside her greatwolf, then sank to both knees in front of the gate with Agnete to her left and Varro laying down at her right.

The Völva and the other elders formed a half circle behind them. Again the old woman clacked her staff against the ground. She started to speak then, to tell of lofty things like service and honor and how Jötungatt would always remember and be grateful for their deeds this day. It made Gaiur sick to her stomach, especially as the people began to sing praises to them. Did they know she and Agnete had been compelled? Did they understand what was being done wasn’t by their choice? Agnete had mentioned the last time this happened. How many times, how many others were put up for sacrifice in such a way? These people, did they truly believe the Gods so bloodthirsty as to demand they sacrifice their kith and kin?

Were they right?

Gaiur didn’t believe that. There were monsters enough in this world without the Gods demanding such horrid tribute. The blood and bones of beasts were always enough to sate them save for times of war, of which these weren’t.

The jubilant praises of the people of Jötungatt soon shifted into sibilant chanting. It matched with their chants from the altar and as they spoke the indiscernible words Gaiur felt a strange crawling sensation upon her skin, as though thousands of insects were crawling over her bare flesh. The feeling shifted soon after, turning into tingly pinpricks which poked at her all over her body. Then the elders started chanting, too, and the Völva along with them. The old woman crossed in front of her, stepping gently over Varro’s snout. The wolf didn’t so much as stir even as the sole of one shoe brushed against his paw.

She stopped in front of Agnete. Holding both hands out, she urged the girl to her feet and led her by the hand to stand before the gate. Then the runes upon her face moved. First they undulated, then squirmed and writhed like earthworms trying to escape drowning as they burst up out of waterlogged soil. Then the red markings seemed to slither across her skin, before finally they grew out. They grew from her face, curling and branching down her neck and collar to eventually sprout from underneath the sleeves of her robe to mark the backs of her hands. Probably every other part of her, too. Then she sank to her knees again and with both hands raised high into the air, threw her head back to stare with mouth agape at the pointed crest of that rough hewn monolith.

High in the sky the sun sat above the gate, its golden brilliance nestled in the space between where the gate’s twin stone pillars leaned against each other. Gaiur found herself looking up at it, watching as it began to slowly darken. It was a sliver at first, just a tiny little curve of shadow creeping up along the sun’s edge. But as the minutes passed it further darkened, and as it darkened Gaiur felt that feeling of crawling pinpricks return to her skin. The Völva stood before her now. She leant forward and took both of Gaiur’s hands in her own. They were cold to the touch. The wrinkled skin felt like old parchment and she could feel every knob of the slender bones that skin covered. But it was her own hands which stole her attention. As the Völva raised them up, and herself up with them, Gaiur could see the very same markings which had branched across Agnete’s skin did the same on her own, albeit in differing forms that were more jagged and angular.

“The way opens!” the old woman said, her weak and reedy voice now powerful and full of vigor. She turned to look up at the eclipsing sun, her hands raised up to match Gaiur and Agnete. “Day gives way so that the womb of night may once more receive!”

The darkness from the eclipse deepened as she spoke. What light from the sun could be seen formed a ring of white fire around the shrouded moon, and all around it the blue sky dimmed to starless black. In the span of just a few short minutes, midday had turned to the eerie darkness of midnight.

Gaiur willed herself to move again. Inside her mind, she screamed for her body to answer, to follow her urgings! Draw your axe and swing! Drive the spike into the fell seer’s heart! Stir Varro from his lethargic slumber and with blade and tooth bring bloody death to these lunatic fools! But her body would not listen. She stood where the Völva had stood her. Looked where she was urged to look. Watched through eyes she knew were hers, but which felt like the eyes of another.

The white fire which ringed the eclipsing moon started to move. Swaying and swirling, it flowed to the bottom of the ring, where it then trickled down onto the monolithic gate. Drops of golden white light rolled along the stone’s surface. They slipped into cracks and flowed along and around its many rough edges. One drop fit its way perfectly into a crack between the place where the pillars touched. When it did its light vanished, then the dark of the ring lit night undulated and billowed in the space between the stones.

The chanting grew frenetic. One by one the eight runestones that surrounded the gate illuminated and the undulating, smoky darkness churned with growing ferocity.

“Let her bear witness!” sang the Völva’s voice. Gaiur wasn’t sure when she’d moved behind her, nor when she came near. She was immediately at her back, and once more her mind screamed for movement! This time her muscles nearly answered, spurred into tension by the cold, withered hand that gripped beneath her chin.

Something moved in front of her eyes then. In the midst of the darkness that spilled out from the gate it was impossible to tell what it was from sight alone. However, the horrible agony that pierced into her left eye told her enough. Knife or needle, it didn’t matter. Gaiur screamed in pain and rage and finally her body responded! She threw an elbow back and caught the Völva in her ribs! The old woman wheezed and fell away, but when Gaiur clasped the haft of her axe and tried to draw it from its sling she felt the weight of the four remaining elders fall upon her. Old men or not, it was impossible to throw all four of them off quickly with her eye stabbed out and her body still recovering from the alien compulsion that’d overtaken it.

“Varro!” she shouted.

The wolf looked up at her lazily, his eyes half lidded and only barely visible in the billowing dark. Then she felt the Völva’s cold hands upon her again, faster and more forceful this time. She threw her body back and forth, tried with all she had to extricate herself from the grip of the five elders, but too late. With agony to match, that same sharp tool plunged into her right eye, too. Blind and screaming, she flailed as she was let go and stumbled into the dirt and darkness. And yet, despite both eyes having been stabbed out, she somehow saw through a blood red haze. She saw Agnete, still kneeling on the ground with her head thrown back and both hands held high. She saw Varro, suddenly spurred to action at the sounds of Gaiur’s screaming, with teeth locked around the throat of an elder as the townsfolk bound him in chains.

And she saw the darkness. Pulsating, undulating, it seemed to take on vaguely recognizable form. Two legs, two arms, a torso, all formed of that black cloud. It stepped out from under the gate, bent forward to pick up Agnete. Then Gaiur fell, and that bloody red finally turned black.

---

Paladin Draco glared up at the southern face of the Triones Mountain range. The mountains were in the northern reaches of the Aurelian Empire, though they were a part of the empire in name only. They lay far beyond the center of Aurelian power, and the population was sparse.

Draco had traveled far to reach this place. His current home was in the Solar Cathedral, the center of worship for the Lord of the Sun. The cathedral was located in the world capitol on an island far to the south of the Aurelian southern coast. The capitol was outside the jurisdiction of the six great empires and served as a neutral location for inter-empire politics to take place.

It had taken Draco a full month just to arrive at his current destination. That had included sailing the fastest ship in possession of the Church of the Sun and a trip on the new rail carriage that had brought him to the northern reaches of the civilized land. Now, here he was in the Aurelian wilds. That was his first irritation.

The second was his apprentice, Paladin Squire Khepri. She was from the southern continent, the Iteru Empire. Her skin was a dark bronze color, hair black and curly. She had a delicate face that seemed at odds with her strong, athletic body. She wore a uniform similar to his own, white with golden-yellow and crimson trim. Over the clothing, both wore a breastplate, gauntlets, and greaves, each lightly enchanted to resist damage. This standard issue gear was kept pristine via the use of magic, one of the first uses of magic any apprentice learned after learning to mask their presence from voidlings.

Khepri, being from the much warmer Iteru Empire, had been whining about the cold since they had departed the rail carriage a week and a half ago. Despite his best efforts to tune her griping out, the incessant buzzing in his ear was grating on his nerves.

And, that brought him to the third annoyance. Arrayed behind him was a century of soldiers. Led by Centurion Otis, they were stationed in the north, and it was clear by their uncouth attitude. They were a foul-mouthed, unsanitary lot, with barely more discipline than an untrained mob. His own days as part of a century in his youth screamed at their lack of order.

His final irritation, and the ultimate reason he was here, was the object of his glare. High in the mountain, above the snowline was a jagged black hole. It appeared to have been formed explosively, in a fiery blast. The rock around the newly formed cave was bare of snow, and appeared to be scorched.

A month ago, before setting out, Draco had been informed of the report leading to his current assignment. Centurion Otis had picked up rumors of a creature that had been raiding farms along the southern border of the Triones Mountains. Intrigued by the rumors, Otis choose to investigate, despite the affected region lying outside the normal patrol of the Aurelian Empire. He had concluded that the creature in question was a drake, a lesser type of dragon, and called for backup from a Paladin.

And so, Paladin Drake had traveled north to this backwater part of his homeland. Despite his irritation at his apprentice's whining, he did agree that it was cold. And it would get colder if he wanted to investigate the blast zone more closely. Sighing, he began calling upon ether, the energy readily available for use in magic, and channeled it to decrease the heat leaving his body for the surrounding environment.

Satisfied with the warmth, he turned to Centurion Otis. Speaking in Low Aurelian, he addressed the man. “I am taking my apprentice to investigate the blast more closely.” Draco scanned the chaotic century arrayed before him. “While I am working, I want you to get these men in shape. This camp is a mess, and if we are to use this location for a base, it needs addressing immediately.”

The centurion cocked an eyebrow, but did not argue. He turned and began summoning his octs, the leaders of the squads of eight. Turning from the centurion, Draco summoned his apprentice with a twitch of his finger.

“Sir!” she rushed to his side, snapping briefly to attention. Her posture was broken before he had a chance to comment, as she huddled back into herself, tucking her hands under her arms.

“We are going up the mountain to investigate the blast. I have not yet shared my opinion with the centurion, but I suspect this was not, in fact, a drake.”

Khepri's eyes widened. “What could have done that then, sir?”

Draco turned to face the jagged hole again. “I fear this may be more than any drake. We could well find ourselves against a true dragon.”

“But...” Khepri began, before shivering harshly. “Sorry...” she said between chattering teeth. “It's so... cold.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I had thought that perhaps the cold would be a good teacher for you. You are good at using the tools you already possess. However I have yet to see you extrapolate from your tools, or use any of them in any way you haven't been explicitly taught.”

Khepri bowed her head. She had heard this lecture before. “Sorry sir,” she mumbled.

“Read my ether.”

She looked at him, her dark brown eyes lightening in color slightly as she channeled ether to them. “Ohhh!” she cried. “Its so obvious now.”

Draco sighed. His apprentice was quite clever, and had proven adept at learning anything new. But, she was not innovative. She would likely never push the boundaries of magic.

Leaving that thought behind, Draco began channeling a small stream of ether to his legs. When he felt they were sufficiently strengthened, he bounded up the mountainside, each jump calculated to land on a stable position further up.

Behind him, his apprentice followed. One thing Draco did give her credit for was her strength and endurance. She was able to use ether as well as any full fledged paladin, and that was on top of her already tremendous physical ability. She followed Drake exactly, landing in his footsteps a mere moment behind.

Drake landed before the edge of the snow drifts and came to a stop. Khepri stopped beside him, pausing for a moment before leaning down to pick up a scoop of snow. She mashed the handful in her fist before letting it trickle to the ground. “Fascinating,” she whispered, attention fixed on the trailing flakes.

“Yes, the snow is all well and good. We can stop to play after the assignment is complete.”

“Spoilsport,” Khepri moaned in mock sadness.

Draco snorted and began marching through the snow. Fortunately, the hole was only a short distance from the snow line, they wouldn't need to enter deep drifts for this investigation.

Stopping where the snow ended once more, Draco was surprised to find the air temperature had gone up, rising until he no longer required his warming magic. Channeling ether, he began looking upon the scene with his magic sight. His breath stopped when he saw the rocks surrounding the hole. There was a massive amount of ether pooled in them that was slowly bleeding off as heat.

“Master,” Khepri began before her words caught. She took a deep breath. “Are you seeing what I'm seeing?”

“Yes.” Whatever had caused this explosion had enough ether to cause the nearby mountainside to store more energy than Draco could use in a day. And that was after a month of radiating the energy off. “Let's move. We don't have the luxury of time.” Draco strode across the blast zone.

Khepri hurried to catch up to him. “Can we beat this thing?”

Draco stopped, peering into the cave that had been unveiled in the blast. “I told you, there is a chance this is a true dragon. Nobody has seen one, let alone fought one, in generations. We can assume, based on remaining evidence, that it can use powerful fire magic. Other than that, we're in the dark. The myths have enough variety that we should be prepared for a dragon to be capable of literally anything.”

“Light of the Sun protect us...” Khepri breathed.

“Indeed. I fear we have little chance otherwise.” Draco knelt to examine the rock at the edge of the cave. His eyebrows rose involuntarily at what he saw. The rock looked to have been melted near to the cave. “Khepri, look.” He gestured for his apprentice to join him.

Khepri moved to squat next to him. “How...?”

Draco snorted. “Better question. Where did the rest of the rock go?”

“What do you mean?” Khepri cocked her head to one side.

“Did you see any rock that looked melted on the way up? How about rock with more ether than you could channel in a day?”

Khepri's eyes widened. “What did happen to it then?”

“That is the best question. If you were a dragon who had just woken from a long slumber, would you bother tampering with evidence? You're the most powerful being around, you don't care if you are followed, and you likely have better things to do than move rocks.”

“No...” Khepri bit her lower lip. “So, if the dragon didn't move the rock, where is it?”

“Right,” Draco said, standing. “Based on the ether remaining in the surrounding mountain, I suspect that the rock directly in the blast zone was vaporized.”

Khepri's eyes widened further and she fell backwards onto her butt. “What!? Could you vaporize stone? What about one of the Arch Paladins?”

“I cannot. There are some of my status that could probably melt stone. As for the Arch Paladins, I cannot say. They generally stick to political matters. Let's see if we can learn anything else inside the cave.”

Draco moved into the cave, channeling a trickle of ether into his breastplate until it glowed with a soft, white light. The cave itself was fairly small, about the size of a small home. In the back, there was a section of floor that glowed with ether to his magic vision. However, it was not radiating warmth as the rock outside had been.

“Sir, look at this!” Draco turned to see Khepri, breastplate glowing like his own, gazing into a small alcove. He crossed the cave to stand beside her, and saw immediately what she had been looking at. The alcove had several open chests piled with valuables, gold, silver, gemstones, and the like.

“Good find. Seems more and more like that this is, in fact, a dragon. Search through this stash and see if you can find anything that might be useful in a fight.”

Khepri gave Draco a nod and turned to sifting through the chests. Draco crossed back to the spot that glowed with ether and sat on the floor to examine it closer. After several minutes of considering, he decided that the most likely cause was from the dragon itself. Best he could figure, the dragon leaked excess ether as it slept, and enough had built up in the stone floor to be noticeable. That was problematic. Everybody had heard stories about how dragons were unstoppable killing machines, when they wanted to be, but the evidence he was seeing painted a clear picture of just how strong that meant.

“Sir, I think this might be what you are looking for.” Draco wheeled at Khepri's voice. She held an arrow, tipped with a black metal. He had crossed back to his apprentice and taken hold of the arrow before he realized he was in motion.

“Adamantine...” he whispered, examining the arrowhead. “And it's enchanted...” Draco focused closer, trying to discern the magic signature that would tell him what the enchantment was exactly. “Wait, is this a dragon slaying arrow?”

“That was the conclusion I came to!” Khepri said, excitedly. “Why would a dragon keep an arrow designed to do maximal harm to it though?”

“If someone made a weapon that would instantly kill you, where would you want it?”

Khepri considered for a moment. “On my weapon belt, I suppose. I can keep a close eye on it that way.”

“Exactly. Lucky for us, this dragon must have forgotten about this in its haste to do... whatever it decided to do when it woke.”

“What now? We have a chance of killing it, right?”

“Yes, probably. Let's reconvene with Centurion Otis and see if we can put together a plan to hunt this thing down.” Draco crossed back to the mouth of the cave and peered down the mountain to the century camped below. He sighed heavily. “I don't like our odds. If things look iffy, I want you to flee. Someone has to inform The Council that we have a true dragon awake once more.”

Khepri nodded, eyes wide and teary.

“Now now, I'm not dead yet, so don't go killing me off just because.”

“Yes....” Khepri's reply was cut off by a piercing roar that shook the stones near their feet.

Draco realized a moment later that he was on one knee, hands clamped over his ears. He channeled ether to his ears, dampening the sound to free up his hands. He signaled to Khepri who nodded. They both grasped their holy symbol, a stylized sun, in hand and felt the power of the Lord of the Sun fill them. This was a special power granted by the god to those who followed and used the power to advance his aims. In this case, slaying a dragon that threatened one of the empires.

The dragon swooped into sight, a great serpentine beast with dark red scales that darkened to black. It was diving towards the century below. “Khepri, go! Aid the century. I will fire the arrow. If I miss, or if you feel there is no chance, then run!” She nodded, handing Draco the dragon slaying arrow before sprinting down the mountain, the power of the Lord of the Sun causing her to glow brightly and allowing her to plow through the short snow drifts with ease.

Draco drew his bow, and felt the power he was borrowing flood the weapon. He nocked the arrow, and turned his sight to the dragon. It had completed its dive, blasting the men below with a mighty stream of fire. Even from the height, Draco could hear their screams. But not all the men were hit. Most of the men had split, forming groups of eight, their squads. They had pulled bows and were firing arrows even as the dragon was pulling out of its dive. Most glanced off of the dragon's scales, but some managed to find purchase in the gaps.

The dragon flew back up, following the slope of the mountain. As it passed Khepri on her descent, it made to snatch her with a claw. Draco grinned as he watched her quickly slide under the dragon's claw and connect a slash with her sword. Where the mundane arrows of the century had been largely ineffective, a sword backed by the power of the Lord of the Sun managed to slice a serious gash. Khepri recovered from her slide and attempted a second attack, but the dragon had sailed past her before she was able.

And now, the dragon was eye level with Draco. It snarled when it saw him standing in its cave. “You. What are you doing in my home? Why have you stolen one of my possessions?”

“I could ask why you decided the first thing to do upon waking was terrorizing the citizens of my empire.” Draco retorted, watching the dragon warily.

The dragon snorted. “Your pathetic people haven't advanced one iota since I began my hibernation. I have long believed that humans should be culled to a manageable level. You would be better off led by beings truly greater than you, rather than allowed to writhe in your squalor. If you had seen the world as I have, you would beg for our rule.”

“Yet I'm the one holding a weapon of slaying.”

The dragon snorted in laughter, coming to a slow landing on the mountain outside the cave. “So you have one way to kill me. You must think yourself mighty. Know that I have dozens of ways to kill you, each more painful than the last. Shall we see how long you can last under my handiwork, Paladin of the Sun?”

The dragon breathed in and Draco threw himself to the side. A powerful stream of fire blasted through the air where he had been standing. Turning his dive into a roll, Draco landed in a crouch, bow ready. He drew and fired with only a moment to sight. The arrow flew true, on target to strike the dragon under its foreleg. It would certainly hit a lung, if not the heart.

Draco's hopes were dashed as the dragon unleashed another jet of flames. He barely had time to watch the arrow swallowed in the blaze before the flames reached him. The agony! Even through the enchantments from channeling ether, and the power granted him by the Lord of the Sun, the fire seared his flesh. His entire body turned bright red instantly, and his skin began to peel away.

Gritting his teeth, eyes closed, Draco dropped his bow, which turned instantly to ash. He drew his longsword, the might of his god allowing him to wield the sword in one hand, and a shield. With the shield interposed between him and the dragon, and a substantial flow of ether reinforcing it, the stream of flames finally became manageable.

It was not a permanent solution. Draco could already see the edges of the shield start to glow a dull red. His best hope now was that Khepri would be running. He could delay the dragon long enough to make it inconvenient for it to chase her down, giving her an opportunity to report to The Council. He could feel his breaths passing over a dry, ragged throat.

Closing his eyes again, Draco wondered how long the dragon could keep breathing fire, when all of a sudden, the flames ceased. They were replaced with a pained roar. Confused by the turn of events, Draco peered out from behind his shield to see the worst possible sight. Khepri had disobeyed his orders and attacked the dragon from behind, leaving it with another great gash in its hind leg, opposite its already bleeding fore leg.

Before Draco could react, the dragon whirled on Khepri, pinning her down with its uninjured fore leg. Its massive head swiveled to look back at Draco. “Your apprentice? You can watch her die first.”

He began to snort a jet of flame, when he was interrupted by a hail of arrows striking his flank. Like before, most of the arrows skittered off the dragon's scales, but it was enough to distract it. Both the dragon and Draco turned to see the remainder of the century, formed up and advancing. The front ranks held shields to cover the back ranks of archers. Draco noticed that the century mage had erected a spell to protect against fire. It overlapped with the shields, and so would hopefully provide some measure of real defense.

“I see you didn't have enough the first time,” the dragon gloated. You cannot harm me. I on the other hand...” the dragon exhaled a blast of fire that exploded against the shield wall. The center of the front line buckled, and several men were sent flying over the rear ranks. “I can harm you.”

Centurion Otis strode out of the ranks, his century mage at his side, clearly using every bit of ether at his disposal to empower his commander. Shrugging off the shock at seeing the men marching up the mountain, Draco made a coordinated charge with Otis, aiming at the dragon's opposite side.

The dragon did not hesitate, striking Otis with its tail, sending him flying over his men. Draco used the opening to slash at the claw holding down Khepri. The dragon recoiled and sent Khepri rolling out of his grasp. It snarled as it turned, glaring at Draco. As it did, another volley of arrows rained into its backside. Draco found himself feeling both gratitude and awe at the soldiers' bravery.

“Enough distractions. I kill you and this whole charade falls apart,” the dragon said, ignoring the soldiers behind him.

'He's right,' Draco thought. 'What options do I have? If I fall, not only does my apprentice fall behind me, so do several dozen men far braver than I gave them credit for.' Striking on a last, desperate idea, Draco called out, “Lord of the Sun! You who hear all that is spoken by your faithful servants! Give me the strength to overcome this obstacle! I desire only to protect your people, but I cannot do it as I am!”

The dragon gave a roaring laugh. “You think that old fool give one whit what happens to you? I was there when he ascended the throne, and he is as much a pretender today as he was then.”

Draco felt anger begin to boil. The attacks on his comrades, he could understand, but to scorn the Lord of the Sun? Unforgivable. He took a step forward, and as his foot hit the ground, he felt a blaze light within him. The pain! It burned like even the dragon's flames had not. The power was too much for him to contain.

He looked up to see shock in the dragon's eyes. “Yes, that's the sort of face you should be making. You insulted my lord, and he will smite you for it. I am his vessel!” Draco leapt forward, sword held point out in front of him. The dragon swatted at him with a claw, and Draco couldn't dodge. He didn't need to. As he hit the ground, head rebounding from the shock, he saw that his sword had pierced the dragon's claw. It roared in agony, before focusing a narrow beam of fire onto Draco.

Draco felt the fire bathe over him, splashing around his armor, no warmer than ocean water in the summer. The stream of fire cut off, the dragon's face contorted in agony. “It burns!? How do you have a fire that burns me?” It pulled its claw back, letting Draco free.

Draco jumped to his feet, feeling stronger and more awake than he had in years. The heat that suffused him was still a bother, but it was distant. No, the real issue was that this dragon was threatening those under his protection. This ended now.

The dragon struck first, lashing at Draco with its mighty tail. Draco held his ground, meeting the tail with a slash of his own. Several feet of the dragon's tail went flying and it bellowed in agony. Dimly, Draco could see the others around him holding their ears, but he was more focused on the task at hand. He leapt forward again, and this time, the dragon was unable to stop him.

Draco felt his sword plunge into the dragon's neck, and he immediately pulled to the side, leaving the dragon half decapitated. Not one to leave a job unfinished, Draco followed up with another slash, and the dragon's head rolled from its corpse in a tide of crimson blood.

As the head hit the ground, Draco felt the fire leave his body. He slumped to his knees, and only then realized that his sense had tuned out everything in the world apart from the dragon itself. He could now hear Khepri as she called his name.

“Draco! Draco!” She was rushing over to him. “Are you okay?”

Draco took stock of himself. He was exhausted, to a degree he had never felt before. Worse, everything ached, as though he had truly been on fire mere moments ago. He felt as though he had been consumed from the inside, leaving him no more than a husk.

“I... I don't think so,” Draco whispered. He could see the century mage rushing towards him, a couple of soldiers with mundane first aid trailing him.

“You were amazing,” Khepri whispered to him. “You were blazing like the sun itself. White fire everywhere.”

“I think... I think the Lord of the Sun lent me power... It came at a cost though...” Draco murmured, his thoughts beginning to go hazy.

“What! No!” Khepri exclaimed. “You can't mean...”

“I am dying, Khepri. No amount of cajoling will help.” The century mage slid to the ground beside him and began probing with his magic. Draco didn't bother to warn him off. Khepri could explain later. “Listen. You are strong.”

“No, no,” Khepri moaned. “Not without you...”

“Listen girl!” Draco said as forcefully as he could. “You need to learn to be decisive... Don't hold back, pick your path and take it...”

“And be more creative?” Khepri asked, eyes now welling with tears.

Draco smiled. “And be more creative... I believe in you... You have what it takes to go as far as you want...”

Khepri pulled Draco into a hug, tears flowing freely now.

“And Khepri, I loved you as I would a daughter...”

“I love you too!” Khepri wailed. “Watch me, from wherever you are. I will make you proud!”

Draco smiled as he passed. The century mage and soldiers backed off as Khepri sobbed over her master.

Later, after Khepri had cried until she couldn't anymore, she met with Centurion Otis, who had broken both legs in his fall. “Girl, your master is a certified hero, you know it?” Khepri nodded, not trusting herself to speak. “Nobody has even seen a dragon in centuries... millennia even, and now he's gone a slain one. You'll have whatever support you need to make it back home.”

“Thank you, centurion,” Khepri whispered.

The man talked a while longer, while Khepri half listened. Soon enough, the time to depart had come. Khepri faced her journey home. She was alone for the first time, but as she looked west, the setting sun just peering over the trees, she could feel Draco there, watching. Just in case, she gave a salute. She would make him proud.

The deeds of Siravyn and his Bagmen changed the world in ways no one expected. On the cusp of an industrial era, and sweeping into a time of prosperity, Siravyn lived as most gnomes of the time – which is to say, he was largely grumpy and unimpressed with the world. On the eve of this momentous occasion, he gathered his Bagmen and put them to task. To the five assembled gnomes, he postulated a grave concern. Wrinkles deepened into dour canyons upon his stern features, and he addressed them with a finger raised.

“We six are undoubtedly about to undertake the greatest hunt in the known history of the world.”

Siravyn was not a gnome for speeches. He lacked the flair and the charisma to drive his followers through flowery, inspirational talk. On the strength of his name – for had he not in his time slain vampires and dragons? – the five Bagmen listened and nodded. To them, he spoke the truth, even if the truth burned with wild conjecture.

“Is it not a beast that troubles all? Do we not look up to the skies and feel a cold shiver in our spines? It is there, my friends. It is there.”

“Aye.” came five unsynchronized replies.

“So we hunt this most elusive of beasts. You have brought the things I have requested?”

The five gnomes held their bags aloft, and each bag clinked or clonked with metallic thuds and the jingle of their hidden trinkets.

The gnomes set about work. Every gnome had a large study carved out of his underground home, and Siravyn was no different. They drew up plans and sat at the drafting tables, weighed and took measurements. This work went on for hours and carried with it much grumbling, disagreement, and dissatisfaction. Such was the mark of the gnomish masters. Without the intermittent mutterings of “bloody nuisance” to interrupt the candlelit quiet of Siravyn's study, things just wouldn't feel right.

The instrumentation seemed adequate. The measurements for the dark constructs nearing completion... Well, much was based on assumption. What the Bagmen dealt with had too many unknown variables, and no hunt of this kind had ever been attempted.

“They call it prattle, and in a thousand years, long after even the gnomes have forgotten how the skies once filled with our quarry, gnome and man will laugh it off as superstition. We know better. We have seen it over the mountain skies, and in the deep night, above the fields afar, where none tread. They are out there. Tomorrow night, we six will bring this beast down from the heavens. Drink well, friends. Make my home your own for the night. We have much to do in the morning, and we will need our rest.”

The hours of the night stirred down into black silence when the last gnome finally took to his inebriated rest. The thought of what was to come held sleep at bay without the soothing ale's secret shortcuts to slumber. A groggy morning followed, and there was much groaning and dragging of palms upon hungover faces. Siravyn was at his chair, still working, for he had taken on this responsibility, and thus must be the first one awake.

“It has vexed me for so long. But to succeed in this...”

He left the thought dangling in the thick air. A grim fog seeped into his home from the fields beyond the hills. The gnomes, too, looked bleak and none-too-hopeful in the vanishing safeguards of the ale. What transpired in this gloomy, hillside abode had been so otherworldly in scope, and so reliant on a fortuitous state of modern technology, it hardly seemed believable. Yet the air was stymied by a sense of inadequacy, and a feeling of ill-preparedness.

Now the gnomes gathered their tools and instruments into their bags. They set about preparing for the journey. Siravyn supplied jerky and potatoes, and each gnome took one of the wrapped portions, placing them in satchels adorning their hips. After a final check of everything, and a few grim nods and half-hearted “bloody nuisance” mutterings, they set out.

The journey was not a tricky or dangerous one. Despite their burdens, the gnomes managed with some ease. To the place they were heading, it would be many hours, and they would arrive past nightfall

. One of the Bagmen carried with him their twin tents. Yet another had gear for the hunting of small game – small being the only game suited to gnomish tastes. The other three gnomes shouldered the dark instruments needed for this expedition's ultimate purpose. They were led by Siravyn, who carried no bag, but wore a harness with extra flares, torches, and several dozen prepared cigarettes for the occasion, to be distributed when they made camp. This was a smoking hunt, and no mistake, for there'd been no time to ready a barrel of wine.

Each gnome had a small lantern, but only Siravyn's was lit. The Bagmen kept theirs on their belts. They entered the deep woods, and here, at least, the only dangers were wolves and bears. Wolves rarely pestered gnomes, and would have found the going rough for any encounter with these seasoned roamers of the hills. Gnomes knew the soft spots of all creatures. They always found the soft spots.

They were too short for bears to notice.

“Don't jostle the lightning bottles.” reminded Siravyn, when a heavy clonk rang out.

“Weren't the lightning bottles.”

The gnomes hushed their voices and moved swiftly. They spoke little. The forest by night would always seek to draw within its brambles the luckless traveler. Being nigh a foot tall, the gnomes weaved through all that nonsense on paths that no human would discover, much less be able to follow.

“Pah! Humans...” muttered one gnome. The rest either repeated the objection or spat. Gnomes did not particularly dislike humans, but this was almost a built-in reaction from a race that often looked down – metaphorically, of course – on the other races. Those silly humans and their farms and...and...and their taxes, and things.

While no one had the time or patience to wonder what thoughts had brought that particular gnome to the subject of humans, the general agreement stood. Pah was right.

So the time passed. The moon rose in the sky, and the gnomes broke the forest edge and arrived at the flatlands. Siravyn stood just inside the treeline, his Bagmen close behind. They all took a moment for a cigarette.

Job time. Time for the bags.

Clonk.

“Don't jostle the lightning bottles.”

“Weren't jostlin'.”

They dared not step beyond the trees. Siravyn had chosen this place for its remoteness. Gnome and man alike did not oft tread this way. Siravyn knew where the beasts roamed the skies. If they be about tonight, they would be here.

The group backtracked and set up the first tent. Two Bagmen, one with lantern and one sticking close, so as to reduce light, scouted the area for a good clearing. It did not take long to find a spot in the lower valley, ideal with hills and trees on all sides. The other gnomes did not make any fire, but readied blankets for warmth. In the event that they had to abandon camp, the other tent and two large blankets would be enough to survive a hasty retreat. Once the two scouts returned, the Bagmen joined them for the short trip to the clearing, and the work began.

What they had in mind was difficult to understand, and would be even harder for the gnomes to explain. Though all the technology was current, what the gnomes had done with these base components, and what they had built on such short notice, could be nothing short of a marvel. Gnomes had a certain elegance to their ingenuity, peppered with the total lack of elegance in design. The many tubes and taut windings that they slowly worked through the trees made for a macabre feature in the moonlight.

But when they were finished, none could see their fortress for the trees.

They returned to their camp, gathering their nerves. Siravyn, especially, steadied himself with another cigarette. The reason he did not carry a bag lie in what came next. The six gnomes moved silently to the edge of the flatlands one more time.

They waited. It might have ended up that nothing happened that first night. It was so unlikely, the gnomes were shocked when the red fire rose over the horizon, moving in a zipalong fashion to the backdrop of the night sky. This most elusive of game darted one way, then another, moving over the flatlands with no clear objective. As it approached, it slowed, and suddenly it moved at a slow and even pace, a hovering light pressed into the world as if it belonged to some other dimension.

“Haven't seen one since I was a child.” Said one of the Bagmen.

“Aye.”

“My first time.”

Siravyn said nothing. He was judging distance, for the thing moved so evenly, so perfectly, that it was difficult to tell just how far out it was. The time came when Siravyn saw fit to trust his senses, and he stepped out from the trees, walked a few paces onto the flatlands, casually reached into his pocket, and produced another cigarette. He placed it loosely in his dry lips, took his eyes off the soaring best just long enough to flick a match and light the cigarette, then he shook the match out, tossed it to the ground, and looked up.

He took the cigarette from his mouth, and with a voice like a gnome whose time would not be wasted, he growled, “Well?”

The hovering light ignored him. Siravyn waited. Gnomes were often like this as well; they would see, but they were largely unimpressed, or too busy to be bothered. But Siravyn bored those grumpy eyes right into the fires of the sky beast, demanding attention.

The fire paused in midair. It had no wings and made no sound. It merely stayed in place, like something stuck in the fabric of the universe. It didn't wiggle or vibrate or shake an ounce. It was just there, unsettling and wrong.

A bright light settled over Siravyn. He covered his eyes a moment, and his cigarette fell to the ground. He wouldn't need it now. After a moment to make sure he'd really drawn in his quarry, he turned and ran, giving a shout to the Bagmen, who took the lead. Two of the gnomes slowed to a trot, allowing Siravyn to catch up. It would not do if the beast thought him alone. They would all run, and it would chase, perhaps to no end, but the stories said they always chased for a time, if one were to run.

The light moved swiftly toward them, but it could not break the dense canopy. It moved in line with them, following easily from above as the gnomes ran at break-neck speed toward the clearing. Dread filled all six, though they knew that if they stayed in the forest it would not attack them. But if they came to the clearing...

It was said that it stole folk away to its nest. Stories were just stories, of course, but this story was often told by those who had come back.

“Don't jostle the lightning bottles!”

“Weren't jostlin'!”

Siravyn bolted ahead of the other gnomes. Danger time. He, alone, broke into the clearing, the intense ball of light just above. It dashed ahead of him, and came to hover just a few feet above ground, so swiftly moving in his path that Siravyn had to nearly fall over to keep from running right into the creature.

Siravyn hefted one of his flares in his hand. He tossed it up and caught it a few times, testing the weight. There was no telling if the beast before him had any expression, because it had no discernable face. It was just a giant ball of orange-red light, hovering menacingly.

Siravyn hurled the flare, end over end, right into the light, and it burst into brilliant flame.

“Get 'im, boys!”

Most of the Bagmen didn't hear his yell over the noise of the wind. They were just very, very well prepared. There would be no second chance at this. A dozen, two dozen, fifty loud thwonks sounded. Wound cables, tethered to punctured discs, flew into the sky. The spring contraptions had all worked flawlessly, and the air over the clearing filled with a crisscross pattern of wire. The Bagman with the lightning bottles already had one in hand. He thrust it into a small wooden box, itself having cables that snaked away in every direction. The Bagman pulled a lever, and the bottle discharged its lightning, which traveled every wire, so distraught from being caged that it split fifty ways.

Much of the wire net had landed over the beast, and the lightning hammered into it from every direction. There were sputters and sparks and stutters, and for a moment, the glow flickered on and off. Something gray and smooth appeared, only briefly, but it terrified the onlookers, who now saw a beast with skin like bright iron.

The glow intensified. Siravyn came to a skidding halt next to the Bagman and said, “Another!”

The Bagman slammed another bottle into the box and pulled the lever.

ZZT-ZZT-ZRT!!!

The beast shook and wobbled, trying to rise. It should have easily torn through the net, but the lightning battered it from above and held it from rising too high. Again it flickered, and again that gray skin appeared, ominous to all who lay eyes upon it.

“Another!”

Once more, the Bagman sacrificed a bottle and pulled the lever.

The beast shook with a silent rage, thrashing about to escape. The light vanished completely, and now a strange half-disc stood in the darkness, wobbling like a spinning coin coming to rest. Finally, the beast would be tamed! Finally, centuries of mystery were going to come to a close! Siravyn bit his lip and watched, nervous, but hopeful.

Then, the brilliant light sparked to life again, and the monster from every ancient nightmare of this world began to rise, to rise...

Siravyn watched in something like despair. Gnomes didn't think much in terms of despair. His mind raced. Three bottles left, and the first three had only somewhat slowed the inevitable. This was a creature that could shake off the lightning. No matter if they coursed a hundred bottles into the thing, it would come right back to life.

Siravyn shook the Bagman's shoulder.

“Jostle 'em.”

The Bagman raised an eyebrow in confusion, but a smile suddenly crossed his face, and he snatched up the bag with the remaining bottles, taking off at a run.

Moments later, there was a distant thwok. The gnomes all watched as the bag spun through the air, rising to the ascending beast's underbelly. The half-disc had risen nearly clear of the canopy, but those springs had the tension to launch their discs from one end of the clearing to the other. The bag burned away in the heat of the orange light that made up the skin of the beast, but the glass bottles broke through and shattered against the hard surface. There was an explosion, and smoke, and the great ball of light suddenly went dead.

Then, with a groan, the metallic beast slid to the earth, and crumpled in the dirt.

How did all of this change the very course of the world, you might wonder? To the great surprise of the gnomes, their prized trophy was more than some mere beast of legend. They found charred metal in a heap, of a kind that none of their tools could pierce. There were creatures as well, which at first the gnomes assumed were some kind of elf that the beast had devoured. Closer examination proved them to be nothing of this world. Where the disc had cracked and the gnomes could enter, they encountered not so much the remains of a monster as that of a craft. Unfathomable instrumentation covered the central interior, and the whole thing had this surreal, minimalist design that existed nowhere else.

And they had been in the skies for centuries.

Siravyn, being wiser to the situation than his companions, came to several conclusions, and found himself in dread of the future.

The gnomes picked apart the debris. They hastened to their camp and packed up everything, staying up for five days and nights, back and forth from the crash site to Siravyn's home as they carried away all evidence of their work on that night. Siravyn knew that such beings as had kept themselves hidden for so long could not possibly be creatures of good intent. Something about the stories of their nests worried him intensely.

It would be five hundred years later, when the ships came down from the night sky, and mankind stood on the brink of destruction, that the gnomes would suddenly return, and the war would come to an abrupt end. The great science of the gnomes, reverse-engineering the spoils of Siravyn's hunt, would burn every last ship right out of the sky.

This was the legacy of Siravyn and the Bagmen.

CHIEF RESEARCHER’S LOG, 12.2.3045

We’ve never encountered anything like this xenomorph before.

The xenomorph was discovered aboard a damaged vessel of unknown design, found derelict at approximately 67.43299, 32.67142 (SG). Though damaged, the vessel was maintaining emergency power when discovered, which is how the xenomorph was found alive.

The xenomorph was sealed in some sort of stasis-chamber within anescape pod. A mechanical failure had prevented the pod from launching, resulting in the xenomorph being sustained by the main ship’s emergency power until we found it.

We do not know how long this was the case prior to our stumbling upon this find.

We transported the xenomorph to our own ship, RS-143, long-range research vessel. We are two years into our 10-year research mission into uncharted space. Dr. Campbell, from the first, objected to transporting the xenomorph aboard our own ship, citing the myriad dangers. 

I overruled him.

CHIEF RESEARCHER’S LOG, 12. 4. 3045

The xenomorph is phenomenal, and I mean that literally.
We have complete information on over a hundred sapient, space-faring species, most of them allied with ourselves, and this xenomorph exceeds them all. If one wanted to design the absolute perfect physical specimen, one could do little better than the xenomorph.
Vivisection is impossible given our current facilities; the restricted-labs are rated for Level-3, yet the research staff feels that is inadequate. We have to limit ourselves to constrained sample recovery, physical observation, non-invasive scans and algorithmic extrapolations. 

I must admit, I share their reticence.

The xenomorph itself is deadly to life as we know it. It evolved, if it evolved, in an environment that current science says no life could have possibly evolved in.  For point of fact, the xenomorph sheds dander that would cause anaphylaxis in any species known.

I must maintain my scientific distance.

In size the xenomorph is roughly galactic-standard (abbreviated as GS for the rest of this log) for sapient-life, -5% in length but, surprisingly, 50% over for mass.  This disparity is due to unusual hypertrophy of its muscular tissue and the extreme density of its skeletal structure, with a full-body average of 4.1g/m2. These data-points and observed structural physiognomy indicate that the planet this xenomorph evolved on was a planet possessing gravity far above GS, perhaps as much as much as 30-50% higher. 

The xenomorph is bilaterally symmetrical, with a nervous system centered upon a singular node in its singular bilateral extremity. Unless one were to destroy said node, algorithms say the xenomorph could continue to function for minutes, perhaps even hours, after what would otherwise be a debilitating blow to another sentient species.

At this point, I must remind myself that I must maintain scientific distance.

The xenomorph’s reproductive system, from what we can identify, is particularly robust. The xenomorph has what we have identified as external genitalia, and to say such was over-developed would be an understatement. Its external genitalia are twelve standard deviations beyond GS. I’d say it was grotesque, but I fear that would be a value judgment unbecoming of a scientist..

Scientific distance.

The xenomorph shows clear signs of predatory descent, possessing two eyes capable of binocular focus, distinct canines and incisors, opposable digits on its upper-limbs, and a brain-body mass ratio over 1.4.  The latter suggest at least the possibility of tool-use and higher cognizance. 

The xenomorph’s ability to maintain homeostasis is five standard deviations from GS.  From what we can ascertain from computer simulations, it should be able to operate in temperatures from -10C to 50C for moderate periods of time with no protective equipment.  It must be stated that the xenomorph’s tolerance for heat is higher than its tolerance for cold.  Given adequate water intake, the xenomorph could likely operate in temperatures up to 37C for extended periods, or even indefinitely.  This is owed to the xenomorph’s extremely efficient heat-dissipation system, as it dissipates heat across the entirety of its surface area through a system of liquid excretion, a system unique in galactic biology.  This heat-dissipation system also allows the xenomorph to exert itself to lengths that no other known species, sapient or not, can match.

And that only scratches the surface of the xenomorph’s resilience. 

Cells harvested from the xenomorph’s dermis can withstand radiation in excess of 200 rads with only superficial damage, the LD50 for practically every known species.  Thicker sections composed of the dermis and subcutaneous tissue can absorb almost 300 rads before deterioration; extrapolating from this information we can conclude that the xenomorph’s LD50 is approximately 400 rads, with the LD100 measuring at least 1 krad.

From what we can see the xenomorph is superbly adapted to survive extreme environmental conditions, radiation,and circulatory shock far beyond anything else we’ve ever encountered.

The xenomorph is, without exaggeration, the perfect physical specimen.

It is the opinion of the research staff that, given everything we’ve been able to ascertain about the xenomorph’s biology, this specimen is part of a species genetically-engineered or biologically-enhanced for either combat or extreme environmental work.  It must have been uplifted by some yet unknown civilization as a servitor species.  In galactic history no planet with such an extreme environmental profile has ever given rise to sapient life.  Dr. Campbell is the lone dissenting voice, arguing that there is no evidence of extrinsic genetic manipulation or biological enhancement, and that this xenomorph is entirely the result of natural selection for the singularly harsh environment of its homeworld.

I shudder to think of an entire planet of these monsters. 

CHIEF RESEARCHER’S LOG: 12.16.3045  

We can no longer keep the xenomorph restrained by chemical means.

We’ve used the entirety of our stores of sedatives, but the xenomorph has multiple organs specifically designed to filter toxins out of the bloodstream, plus its very cells demonstrate a remarkable propensity to narcotic resistance.Our stores were planned for for the entirety of our 10-year mission, but they were only capable of sedating the xenomorph for a total of 12 days.  We’ve been reduced to forcing the xenomorph to ingest, via feeding tube, massive quantities of ethanol, as that is the only chemical we can synthesize faster than the xenomorph’s body can metabolize and excrete.

CHIEF RESEARCHER’S LOG: 12. 24. 3045

Disaster has struck. 

At 1543 today, the xenomorph escaped containment. The details of the incident are as follows:

At 1530, Drs. Smith and Gold suited up and entered the restricted-lab through the airlock to perform approved tests on the xenomorph. Observing from the attached outer-lab were Drs. Miller, Tailor, Campbell, and Gold.

That proved to be a fatal mistake.

At 1534 testing commenced. The first two tests were completed successfully, and results were transmitted back to the outer-lab for recording and further review.

The third test began at 1539.

The third test was to be a recovery of a small amount of the xenomorph’s dermis and subcutaneous tissue for further experimentation. We had not performed such a specimen recovery since we had switched from narcotic to ethanol restraint of the xenomorph. This required one of the Drs. performing these tests to make physical contact with the xenomorph, and it was decided that Dr. Smith, being the older and more experienced, was to do so. As Chief Researcher, I will admit the fact that he was also the physically larger and stronger of the two played a part in the decision. 

 The proper decision would have been to not perform the test.

First incision was attempted, as previously stated, at 1539. The xenomorph responded violently. Either the xenomorph had only been feigning unconsciousness, or the pain of the incision roused it to consciousness. I cannot be sure from reviewing recordings of the incident.

There is, however, no doubt as to the results.

The xenomorph seized Dr. Smith with a single appendage, lifted him off the floor, and hurled him backwards with such force that, likely, Dr. Smith’s spinal-cord was crushed when he struck the wall. 

Regardless of the cause, Dr. Smith was dead before he hit the ground. 

The xenomorph then took several seconds removing the feeding tube we had inserted and all the monitoring leads. During all of this Dr. Gold stood paralyzed with fear. Had she immediately ran for the airlock and removed herself from the restricted-lab, the situation could have yet been salvaged.

She did not.

Meanwhile, in the outer-lab, chaos also reigned. Dr. Campbell immediately tried to enact sterilization procedures as soon as the xenomorph had seized Dr. Smith, as per protocol: the restricted-lab would be sealed and external shutters would be opened, exposing it to the vacuum of space. After the designated period of vacuum had been achieved the lab would be re-sealed, re-atmosphered, and the temperature raised to 121*C for a period of one hour. Until the sterilization procedure had been completed, there would be no way to access the restricted lab from the outer lab. 

It was the proper thing to do, but also the wrong thing.

As soon as Dr. Campbell made his intentions clear Dr. Gold attacked him, preventing him from doing so. It took Drs. Miller and Tailor several moments to restrain Dr. Gold. As a husband myself, I cannot in good faith blame Dr. Gold.

His wife was still inside. 

And that was all the time the xenomorph needed.

In the time it took Drs. Miller and Tailor to restrain Dr. Gold, the xenomorph had moved from the restricted-lab to the air-lock, impossibly fast for what we had thought was a largely incapacitated subject. After several moments of confusion the xenomorph attacked the clean-side door, succeeding in finding purchase and ripping it off its runners, exposing the outer lab to contamination. Dr. Campbell ran for the door separating the outer lab from the ship proper, Drs. Miller and Tailor released Dr. Gold, and Dr. Gold attacked the xenomorph.

All three died.

Dr. Gold attempted to wrestle the xenomorph, but such was folly; it halted him by his neck with a single appendage and crushed his windpipe with seeming disinterest. Drs. Miller and Tailor tried to flee for the door, but they were not properly suited against contamination. 

Dr. Miller died far from the door, Dr. Tailor almost made it before he succumbed to anaphylaxis. Meanwhile, Dr. Campbell had not properly sealed the outer-lab. He had run for his own life and no one else’s

In doing so he had doomed the ship.

What was most surprising was the xenomorph’s interaction with the surviving Dr. Gold, which I must, for posterity, record. Our first conjecture had been that the xenomorph must have been a servitor species, a warrior species, bereft of intelligence (Dr. Campbell excepted, of course), but for several minutes it seemed to attempt to communicate with Dr. Gold within the restricted-lab. After a time the xenomorph forced Dr. Gold into the outer-lab.

It was then that she saw her husband.

Dr. Gold screamed and immediately tried to remove her helmet. The xenomorph attempted to stop her, for the record, but the very act sealed her fate. She died, same as Dr. Miller and Dr. Tailor.

The xenomorph was loose on the ship.

CHIEF RESEARCHER’S LOG: 12.24.3045

There was a discussion as to what was to be done.

Those in discussion were myself, Dr. Campbell, Dr.Walker, Captain Burgess, Chief Officer Grey, and Chief Engineer Light. Dr. Campbell advocated for the immediate destruction of the ship, either through intentionally overloading the engines or through scuttling. His argument was that the xenomorph’s interaction with Dr. Gold had proven it to be a sapient species, an exceedingly deadly one, and the only way to ensure the xenomorph did not gain control of the ship was its destruction. The deaths of all those aboard, including himself, was, in Dr. Campbell’s opinion, a necessary sacrifice.

Others disagreed.

Chief Officer Grey and Chief Engineer Light proposed using teams of armed crewmembers to sweep and clear the ship from navigation aft to engineering, welding all bulkheads shut. The hope was that the xenomorph could be constrained and finally contained by these efforts.

Captain Burgess and myself sided with Chief Officer Grey and Chief Engineer Light.

CHIEF RESEARCHER’S LOG: 12.24.3045

The xenomorph is far smarter than we gave it credit for.

It is not some dumb brute, barely sapient, as we had hoped. The xenomorph possesses an actual mind and cunning. After escaping the lab the xenomorph, perhaps realizing that Navigation would be stern and a far harder target, made its way aft towards Engineering. It must be noted that the derelict ship was laid out in the same way as our own.

The xenomorph made it to engineering within the one minute contamination alarm.

It was a slaughter.

Most died from exposure, but those that tried to fight fared little better. Few had military training, but the xenomorph tore through them. All told, the death toll stands at thirty-eight..

The xenomorph is a monster.

CHIEF RESEARCHER’S LOG: 12.25.3045

The xenomorph has somehow disabled the engines. 

We are adrift in uncharted space.  The only man who can perhaps fix this is Chief Engineer Light.

I do not relish Chief Engineer Light the decision before him.

CHIEF RESEARCHER’S LOG: 12.27.3045

Chief Engineer Light is dead.

He attempted to access engineering through the air-ducts, aided by Chief Officer Grey and eight crew with military experience armed with SP-5s from the armory.

I saw it on the video, and I will record it for posterity.

The xenomorph was a monster. It shrugged off shots that would have killed any being in Galactic knowledge. It killed Chief Engineer Light with its bare-hands, crushing his skull.

The other nine fared little better.

They may have been panicked, but they were trained. They fell back, they covered each other, they fought the xenomorph to their last breaths.

It mattered not.

Nothing they did could stop it, and the last chance for the ship died with Chief Engineer Light.

Dr. Campbell, who’s mental state has become unstable since the events in the outer-laborator, clawed at the walls in navigation, saying one thing over-and-over-again.

“It is our death.”

CHIEF RESEARCHER’S LOG: 12.29.3045.

For the last two days the xenomorph has tried to gain entry to Navigation. The door has been welded shut but the xenomorph is employing what means it has at its disposal. At this point it seems the xenomorph has repurposed a core drill in attempts to drill through the door. Captain Burgess has overseen the destruction of all navigation equipment on the bridge, in hopes that if (when) the xenomorph gains entry it will find itself with an unsteerable ship. 

I fear that we should have heeded Dr. Campbell at the very start.

THE PRECEDING WAS TRANSLATED FROM DATA FILES RETURNED TO THE CONFEDERATE TERRAN ALLIANCE BY STAFF SERGEANT JACOB KOWALSKI, MARINE CORP, PILOTING A SHIP OF UNKNOWN ORIGIN.